The Convertible - Iss From a Rose

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the eighth Convertible story. Thanks as always to my Muse RiverMaya for her sage advice, and to Verbalinians for his editing. As always, I keep revising right up to the last minute so any errors are mine alone.

•This is an OW/YM story - All sexual activity in this story is between people 18 years and older.

•If this story had a mood song, it would be Seal's 'Kiss From A Rose'.

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"You boys can keep your virgins. Give me hot old women in high heels with asses that forgot to get old."

- Charles Bukowski

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Part 1 - Squad Goals

Unbelievable. Married to my husband Bill, busted my ass to be a supportive wife and mother for 30 damned years, and all the thanks I got for it was the old bastard telling me was leaving me for a 31-year-old nurse named Brooke.

He'd met the tramp when he'd been hospitalized a couple of days for observation because of some heart rate abnormalities. He told me she was his night nurse and "sparks just flew'; I think that was bullshit-speak for him getting a midnight blowjob.

He swore it wasn't me, said I was a good woman, but he realized Brooke was his 'soul-mate'. I swear to God, if anybody ever uses that phrase around me ever again, I'll punch them in the mouth.

I understand women being attracted to my husband. Hell, even after being married all these years, him taking his shirt off still got my motor running.

A construction company supervisor, even at 52 with streaks of gray running through his black hair and neatly trimmed beard he was one handsome man. He didn't have six-pack abdominals anymore, but he exercised regularly. It was enough, believe me.

His 6'1" 230-pound body was plenty firm, and that hefty flesh pistol between his legs was more than adequate to satisfy me. For 30 years I'd happily spread my legs for him whenever he so much as wiggled his eyebrows at me, even when I was pregnant. I really enjoyed sex with Bill, but now Nurse Brooke shared my enthusiasm. Last time I checked, that's not how being married was supposed to work.

As for me, after 30 years and one baby, at 49 I thought was in good shape. I would have been happy to have more kids, but Bill was adamant that one was enough for us, so after Bella was born, I'd had my tubes tied.

I'm tall and relatively slim, 5'9", 140 pounds. (I'd recently had my long silver-white hair cut into a shoulder-length bob. Thanks to my family's DNA, my hair had prematurely turned white when I was 36, and I refused to dye it, I was who I was.)

My ass isn't as tight as it used to be but giving birth will do that to you. For many years before having my daughter, I was a women's barrel racer who competed at county and state rodeos, and still had the trophies to prove it, but gave it up for motherhood. I still occasionally rode horses on my uncle's ranch, so my legs are in fantastic shape, even if I do say so myself.

As much as I tried to keep myself up, Bill's surprise announcement made it painfully clear I was no longer good enough to meet his standards. Those 30 years of being a loving and faithful wife suddenly meant nothing. The 360 months I'd spent devoted to him, all gone in an instant; my beloved and adored husband had crumpled my heart like a 1986 Ford Taurus in an auto crusher.

My heart may have been devastated, but my brain worked just fine. I swallowed the pain, and the next day I was in a lawyer's office getting divorce papers drawn up. I was in a full fury. Bill had stolen three decades of my life, so I was going to make this hurt.

The divorce petition I was filing demanded 90% share of our joint possessions, only allowing him to keep his pension. I knew I wouldn't get everything I was demanding, but I wanted the satisfaction of pissing him off when his cheating ass was served.

I'd called my daughter Bella and told her what was happening. She was 26, not a child, and I gave it to her straight, no holding back. Her reaction left me numb. "Maybe Daddy got confused and made some bad decisions. Give him some time, I'm sure he'll come around and see what a huge mistake he's made."

Come around? It was too late for that the moment he'd stuck his big sausage into that slut's vagina. I'd been betrayed by my own daughter! She'd been my little angel until she turned 13, then something changed, and she had become a Daddy's girl. She was still my flesh and blood and I loved her, but not much right now.

I suspect it was because Bill had spoiled her rotten and was always putting money in her hand when she'd become a teen. The few fights we'd had in 30 years were mostly about him spoiling her. Now the fruit of my loins, the little bitch that I'd carried in me for 9 months and wiped her ass for more than 2 years had turned on me.

All those crazy adolescent years in high school when one boy or other had devastated her, it was always me who consoled her, hugged her, and baked her cookies to make her feel better. All of that was apparently forgotten. The little bitch was solidly in her father's camp. I hung up.

After speaking to my traitorous daughter, I called my younger sister, Marla Emerson. Growing up, we used to joke that we were half-sisters; I was the leg and ass half, and she was the tits half. I was tall with 32B boobs, Marla was shorter with 42D boobs. Contrary to my attitude about the family silver hair, she'd gone ahead and died her hair a deep blonde. If you didn't know we were sisters, you'd have a hard time believing it.

After hearing my tale of woe, she cracked, "Fuck Bill, that fucking fuck, I know just what you need, darlin', I'm going to gather up the girls and we're all going to the casino for a few nights."

My sister and her two friends loved going to the new Warrior Spirit Casino that had opened on the Osage reservation. It was modern and shiny, the slots and video poker machines paid out generously, and the entertainment that played there was top-notch. Before I knew it, Marla pulled up in front of the house with her 24-foot Winnebago motorhome, and we were off to the Casino.

At 42 years old, my sister Marla was younger than me by 7 years. She'd been widowed two years ago when her husband Devon, a physician, was killed by a drunk driver. Although she hadn't dated since her husband was killed, she was still a hottie; a brunette with her pixie cut, she was shorter and rounder than me and cute as hell.

Riding with her in the RV was her bestie Carlene Lake. Carlene was 47, divorced, and as tall as me. She was cowgirled up in a tight pair of jeans, a clingy silk blouse that showed off her figure, and an expensive-looking pair of $400 hand-made boots.

Carlene was the whole package with long blonde hair, a full figure and glamorous as hell. I don't know how she managed it, but her makeup was always perfect. Carlene dated a lot of men, but I'll bet none of them ever saw her with smeared eyeshadow or bed hair. I'm sure she wouldn't allow it, for fear of ruining that glam aura of hers.

The third friend was a plainly dressed in jeans and a blue button-down blouse, with decidedly unglamourous sensible flat shoes. This tiny brown-haired and bespectacled woman was Meredith Palmer, but we all called her Mouse. A data scientist at an insurance company with headquarters in OKC, she had a figure that resembled an ironing board.

An inch or two under 5 feet tall and maybe 60 pounds soaking wet, at 39 she was our group's version of 'Baby Spice', so petite she looked like she could have been in high school. At bars and liquor stores she was constantly having her ID checked.

Although Mouse had never married, she certainly attracted a lot of men, as many or more than Carlene. "I can always find a man," she once complained, "I just never can find the right one." When Carlene and Mouse went out to the bars together, I swear between the two of them they never had to buy a single drink because of the steady flow of men sending them beverages.

When I climbed in the RV my sister started giving me shit, in a loving sisterly way. "Rosie, you look like hell. I bought you some new clothes, they're hanging in the bathroom. Go change, then Carlene will do your makeup. You're going to have fun over the next few days, and old Bill can fuck right off, right girls?"

Carlene and Mouse chanted in unison, "FUCK BILL! FUCK BILL! FUCK BILL!"

In the bathroom of the motorhome, I found a beautiful robin's-egg-blue cowgirl blouse with off-the shoulder sleeves and lots of fringe, a new pair of low-rise boot-cut jeans that made my legs look really great, and a pair of gray leather square-toed boots with a beautiful floral design stitched on the upright part of the boot.

Marla and I had been buying clothes for each other for years, so we knew each other's measurements intimately. These clothes were no exception, everything fit perfectly, and when I stepped out of the bathroom the ladies cheered and it boosted my spirits immensely. Our sisterhood was indeed powerful.

Carlene sat me down at the RV's table, opened up a makeup toolkit the size of a large fishing tackle box, and went to work. I was being worked on by the best; Carlene was a professional stylist and cosmetologist who ran her own shop with seven other stylists. Her clientele included many upper-crust society women of Oklahoma City. If there was an upcoming museum opening or high-profile charity event, the eight chairs in her shop would be booked for days.

Carlene finished up just as we pulled into the parking lot. I barely recognized the beauty in the mirror looking back at me. The door opened and our fearsome foursome of femininity stepped out. Looking at the members of our gorgeous squad, like the Sirens that tempted brave Ulysses and his crew, if any man dared cross our path, we'd kill him and use his bones for our amusement.++++++++++

Part 2 - A Kiss For Luck

As we walked into the casino, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass door. Damn, I was hot. That's when the little voice of anxiety in my head I'd been ignoring spoke up, "If you're so hot, why did your husband dump you? If you're such a great mom, why did your daughter turn on you?" My confidence began to wither, along with my good mood. Shit. There was only one thing to do. As Marla checked in to the hotel I stepped up to a craps table and asked a cocktail server to bring me a double vodka tonic.

I watched the game in progress. The shooter was an average-looking guy, somewhat cute, about 5'10", maybe 160 pounds. He was wearing a suit, but his tie was pulled down loosely and the top two buttons on his shirt were undone. I'd never played craps and had no idea what the rules were, but I heard the dealer say, "The table point is now 9," and the shooter's toss was 9, sure enough.

The people standing around the table cheered, so I guess he did well. The server brought me my drink. I quickly tossed it back, then ordered another. That little voice harping on my insecurities wasn't so loud now.

The shooter's next roll was a 4, but the one after was 9 again, followed by more cheering. The man standing next to the shooter threw up his hands in disgust and walked away. I moved in closer, occupying the vacated space to watch the action. That's when the shooter turned to me. Holding up the dice to my face, he said, "Hey, pretty lady, I need another 9. Give the dice a kiss for luck. If I roll it, you get to pick our honeymoon destination."

That made me laugh, and I kissed the dice for him. The shooter threw and it came up 9 again! The table went nuts. The shooter threw his arm around me and kissed my cheek. "Looks like I need to book some flights! Let me know where you want to go!" The negative voice in my head had checked out, I was focused on the here and now.

The shooter turned back to the table, just as I felt Marla's hand pulling on my arm. "Come on, sis, let's get our bags squared away in our room, we'll have plenty of time for fun!" Reluctantly, I let my sister drag me to the elevators to go unpack.

A half an hour later I was back on the casino floor, looking for my gambler friend. I saw him seated by himself at a table in a bar just off the casino floor. Throwing caution to the winds, I walked in and sat down next to him. His face, which had been gloomy, brightened considerably. "Jackson Hole, Wyoming," I said with a straight face.

His cheerful expression was now replaced by a confused look, "I'm sorry, what?"

"When I kissed those dice, you promised if you rolled a 9, I got to pick our honeymoon destination. You rolled a 9, so I want to honeymoon in Jackson Hole. I hear they have horseback riding and private hot air balloon rides at sunrise. It'll be perfect, don't you agree?"

Most people use the phrase 'deer in the headlights' without ever having seen one, so they don't really understand what they're describing. Too bad they weren't here because Mr. Roller was demonstrating a textbook example.

This was just too funny; it was the first genuine laugh I'd had since before Bill dropped his bomb on me. Caught up in the moment, I leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the lips, then giggled like a schoolgirl. "Gotcha!"

He sat back for a second, then laughed too. "Yeah, you did. And I deserved it. What are you drinking, miss...?"

"Rose McLean. I'm having a vodka tonic." Up close, my gambler friend was a lot cuter than I'd originally thought.

We shook hands, "I'm Russel Evans. Call me Russ. It's genuinely nice to meet you. I wish you hadn't left the craps table. Once you took off, my hot streak went ice cold, I ended up about $200 down at the end." I decided I liked the sound of his voice; it had a nice baritone quality to it.

"I'm sorry, Russ, my sister and I were checking in and I had to go upstairs and unpack. We're here with two other women on a little getaway."

"What a coincidence, my brother Gary and I are here on a getaway as well. Where are you from?"

"My sister and I both live in Midwest City, about 90 minutes from here. You?"

"Oh, we're neighbors, Gary and I live just down the road in Nicoma Park! Our condos are about 10 blocks away from each other."

"My uncle Norman has a ranch outside of Nicoma Park! I ride horses there sometimes!"

This seemed to be going nicely. I had to admit, right away I felt there was something special about Russ. Maybe it was the sound of his voice, or maybe it was the fact I'd boldly stolen a kiss and he didn't run away screaming, but my anger and self-doubt definitely weakened while I was talking to him.

I hadn't dated anyone for over 30 years, so I figured I had nothing to lose, and asked the obvious question, "So, Russ, are you married, or seeing anyone?"

That gloomy look that had been on his face when I first sat down returned back with a vengeance. His voice became a little strained. "No, I'm not seeing anyone. I'm divorced going on 11 months now," he answered, "I'm a Contracts Specialist for a freight logistics company in Oklahoma City. I was married for 8 years. Got two great kids, my daughter Rian is 7 and my son Tyler is 5. My wife was young when we married, 18, and I was 26.

We were in love and at first things were great, but after Tyler was born Kayla started thinking she'd missed out on her glory days. She said she loved me but didn't want to be a housewife and mom for the rest of her life. She wanted to experience being single.

At my insistence we tried couples counseling, but the longer it drug out, the angrier she got. By the time I was forced to admit staying together was a hopeless cause, any good feelings between us had vanished; all that remained in her was resentment.

Once the dust settled, we split the assets pretty evenly and ended up sharing custody of the kids. I'm grateful that she didn't hate me enough to fight me on that, it would kill me if I couldn't see them. Once a year my brother and I take a road trip on what used to be my wedding anniversary to distract me from remembering. I still do, of course, but I don't tell Gary. He's my fraternal twin and I love him, doing this makes him feel like he's doing something positive for me. I don't want to ruin it for him.

Oh, and full disclosure, I'm 35 now, and one hundred percent done with robbing cradles. I want my next relationship to be with a full-grown mature woman who doesn't have to figure out who she is. Does that make sense?"

I nodded, "Absolutely perfect sense."

He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked, "So, How about you, Rose? What's your deal, my good luck charm?" Showtime. Russ had given me the full story, I felt like I owed him the same.

I swallowed my drink, ordered another, and took a deep breath. Here we go. "I was married to what I thought was the most perfect husband and father on the face of the earth. I was crazy in love with him, but it turned out after 30 years, he didn't see me the same way. He humiliated me and dropped me like a moldy potato, which is exactly what I felt like after three decades of what I thought was a fairy tale marriage." I could feel the effects of the vodka now.

"Bill's now living with his a 31-year-old homewrecking whore, a woman 21 years younger than him. I'm filing divorce papers, and it's going to be ugly." My drink arrived, and I knocked it back in a single motion, ordering another. Telling Russ my story was starting to hurt, and I needed the anesthetic.

I continued, "What really kills me is my 26-year-old daughter Bella siding with her father. The little bitch has been Daddy's girl since her hormones kicked in. She keeps making excuses for him, saying he made a bad decision and he'll come back. Well, I got news for her. I wouldn't forgive Bill even if he came crawling back on his hands and knees over broken glass."

I looked Russ in the eye, "At least Kayla didn't betray you and fuck someone else. Let me tell you, Russ, after 30 years, the betrayal hurts way worse than childbirth ever did. I did my best to be a good wife, I really did, and that son of a bitch took my life and just shit all over it. I'm never EVER taking that bastard back. Do I make myself clear?"

Russ smiled and ran his hand across my shoulder blades in a comforting gesture; holy shit did it feel good! "Perfectly clear, Rose." My drink arrived, and I popped that one down the hatch in quick order as well.

"One other thing," I added, 'you said you were done robbing cradles. Well, I'm 49 years old, Russ. Yeah, surprise, I'm a bona fide museum piece. I don't have 30 more years to waste on a piece of shit who doesn't value me. I want my next relationship to be with a man who can commit to me for life."

Russ stood up and pulled me to my feet, then wrapped his arms around me. I'd just hammered down three vodka tonics on an empty stomach and was feeling no pain, so I wrapped my arms around him as well. Damn, I don't know if it was aftershave or just natural man, but Russ smelled really good.

He smiled and whispered, "Well, ain't we a pair, Miss Rosalita?" WOW! A half an hour into whatever this was, Russ had just given me a pet name. This man was irresistible!

I took him by the chin and looked straight into his eyes. "Russell Evans, in the 30 minutes I've known you, you've been sweet and charming and honest. I swear by all that's holy, you're a man who could make any woman in the world swoon."

As I stopped to take a breath, he snuck in a kiss, then whispered, "Are you swooning yet?"

Standing there in his arms, I could feel my body temperature climbing. All the noises - people talking, gambling machines ringing, the TV in the bar - disappeared. I was completely focused on this man.

"Yes, Russ, I'm definitely swooning. But I'm also afraid. I'm fragile inside right now, and if this is just a temporary thing, it will destroy me. Can you promise me you're not just going to use me?"

He kissed me again, and his kiss was warm and wonderful and absolutely addictive. I wanted more. Lots more. "Rose McLean," he murmured into my neck, "it's been over a year since I've been with anyone. I never cheated on my wife, even when the divorce papers were being processed. I've stayed away from women completely because, like you, I was afraid. Now here you are in my arms, and you're wonderful. And you know what?"