*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
*Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*.*.*
"You, I thought, aren't all of y'all going to Red's? To celebrate your divorce?" Holly Tannenbaum asked, sticking her head into Marc Trahan's office.
The beautiful blonde gasped as Marc looked up, eyes red. He nudged the thick sheaf of papers with his hand and attempted a smile.
"Honestly? They just needed a reason to get some wings and beer. My failure as a husband is hardly worth celebrating, is it?" The handsome man smiled sadly.
I uh, I don't know enough of the details to know if you failed as a husband, or Becky failed as a wife," Holly said, her beautiful hazel eyes peering into Marc's warm brown eyes.
"Wow, that, that is the perfect HR response," he smiled.
"What can I say?" Holly smiled tightly. "I'm good at my job."
"Know what? Staring at this," Marc again nudged his decree of divorce. "Isn't going make this any better.
Even though her whitish blonde hair was in a large bun, a small hank of blonde hair had fallen forward. Holly pushed the hank of blonde hair out of her eyes. When she did so, the maneuver thrust her 32D breasts against her snug blouse. She nodded her head in agreement.
"True, true. When I divorced Mattie, sitting around feeling sorry for myself didn't make me any less divorced," Holly agreed.
"Know what? Casa Ole's got a pretty decent margarita and I like their steak fajitas," Marc said, standing. "Want to join me?"
Holly was on the verge of refusing, then looked into his hopeful eyes. She held up one finger.
"Give me one minute; need to make a phone call," she agreed and turned around.
Marc picked up his vinyl briefcase and dropped the thick sheaf of legalese mumbo-jumbo that declared that he and Rebecca Trahan were no longer husband and wife into the cheap piece of luggage. Becky Trahan could go back to Stepping Stone, Louisiana. Becky could return to being Becky Wright. Becky could go anywhere, do anything she wanted to do; she was no longer Marc Trahan's problem.
Stepping outside of his office, Marc looked at the nameplate affixed to the wall next to his door. 'Marcus S. Trahan' and underneath his name, the brass plaque read 'Manager of Marketing.'
"Manager of marketing, Mom," Marc thought. "Not bad for someone too God damned stupid tie his own shoes. But uh, how's your precious Irwin doing these days?"
The rustle of clothes told him someone was approaching and Marc turned. His jaw slammed onto the floor and bounced a few times as Holly approached. She'd taken the time to release her thigh length white blonde tresses from her severe bun and had changed out of her bland, nondescript pantsuit into a slinky, clingy red top with spaghetti straps and knee length black skirt. In her five inch heels, she was close to Marc's height.
Ready?" Holly smiled, gripping his right arm in her two arms.
"Oh dear God; I, I bet she doesn't even have a bra on underneath that thing," Marc thought as Holly's impressive chest pressed against his bicep. "Don't get hard. Don't get hard."
"Listen, hope you don't mind, but I would just feel so much better if we took my car," Holly admitted as they stepped out of the Boyd Building onto the attached parking deck.
"Hmm? No, no, that makes perfect sense," Marc agreed as she led him past his F150 pickup truck.
"I, this? This is yours?" Marc gawked at the 1965 ragtop Ford Mustang.
"Mm hmm," Holly agreed, unlocking the passenger door. "Well, really, it was my dad's, but..."
"And how'd you manage to pry the keys out of his hand?" Marc asked when Holly started to walk around the car.
Marc got in and reached over and unlocked her door. She got in, flashing a good expanse of stocking clad thigh as she did so.
"Wasn't easy," Holly smiled sadly.
Marc was astute enough to see that Holly didn't care to elaborate on how she came to be in possession of the classic automobile, so did not push the issue. She drove them to the trendy Mexican restaurant and they joined the small line of people waiting to be seated. Most of the patrons were just like them; the business professionals of St. Elizabeth Parish, looking to start their weekend with some spicy food and frozen alcoholic beverages.
The line moved quickly and within ten minutes, they were seated, menus in hand. Marc already knew what he wanted, but took a moment to see if they'd added anything new to the menu.
"Hmm, Margarita Fridays," Marc read from a small insert in his menu. "Blue, you ever had a blue margarita?"
"No, you?" Holly smiled as an attractive red headed waitress placed the basket of chips and small bowl of salsa in front of them.
Marc ordered a twelve ounce blue margarita and winced when Holly ordered an iced tea, unsweetened. The waitress scurried away to place their drink orders.
"Great, now I'm going feel like a lush, drinking a margarita while you drink iced tea," Marc complained.
"Hey, I wasn't driving? I'd ordered the twenty ounce," Holly assured him. "Maybe next time, okay?"
"Okay," Marc smiled at the thought of there being a 'next time' with the blonde beauty.
He nodded with satisfaction as the waitress placed the drink in front of him, along with a glass of iced water. He picked up his glass and took a sip.
"May I?" Holly asked after Marc swallowed his sip and nodded in satisfaction.
Marc studied Holly's beautiful face as she took a dainty sip of his drink. As she tilted her head, lips pursed in concentration, he admired her square face, large hazel eyes underneath two perfectly shaped slashes of light eyebrows, her slim nose and her full, pouting lips.
When she shrugged and smiled, her teeth were perfectly white, perfectly straight. Her face, her throat, her shoulders were lightly tanned. Her breasts strained against the slinky material of her camisole top and Marc swore that he could see the outline of her hard nipples and crinkled areolae poking holes into the stretchy blood red material.
"I kind of like that," Holly agreed, then looked up as their waitress appeared. "Three enchilada plate, please. The chicken."
"Gracias," said their red headed waitress. "Senor?"
"Steak fajita," Marc ordered, smirking at the red headed woman's use of Spanish.
"So, Marc, why do you say you failed as a husband," Holly asked quietly as their waitress walked away.
Marc told Holly about meeting Becky Wright on the campus of the University of Louisiana at DeGarde. In truth, they had little in common. She was a mediocre student that had grown up as the oldest child out of three daughters, grown up in a trailer in Stepping Stone, Louisiana. He had grown up as the baby of the family; three girls and one older brother. The girls had doted on him and the brother had bullied and tormented him mercilessly. Since he couldn't fight back physically, Marc fought back by getting straight A's throughout school.
Even though Trudy, Sacha and Helena had doted on him, Marc's mother liked to joke, after three girls and Irwin, she was just too worn out to pay any attention to Marcus. Friends and family would laugh or nod knowingly, but to Marc, being ignored or passed over by his mother was nothing to laugh about.
Edmund, their father was a good and loving man, when he was home. When Marc was six, his mother and father divorced and Ed Trahan simply stopped coming around.
"And?" Holly prompted after a long moment of silence.
"Straight A's. Got all straight A's," Marc affirmed. "Anyway, my roommate drags me to this kegger, we're there ten minutes and this cute girl runs right into me, spilling her beer all over me."
"Works every time," Holly giggled. "Know how many cute guys I met doing that at Connelly?"
Marc laughed out loud at Holly's admission. Their food arrived and Marc told Holly about Becky's big push for a diamond engagement ring.
"You know, something she can show her Mom and her sisters and all her friends back in Stepping Stone," Marc said and groaned in pleasure as the tasted his succulent steak fajita.
"Were you at the engagement ring status at that time?" Holly asked.
"I guess," Marc shrugged. "I mean, she was the first girl that didn't want to know all about Irwin, didn't spend all her time staring at Irwin, following Irwin's every move."
"No, Marc. Were you ready to be engaged? It is a simple 'yes' or 'no' question," Holly said, hazel eyes studying him.
"No, not really," Marc admitted. "But she got her nineteen thousand dollar ring, I got my degree; she'd already flunked out by that time, and we're living in Camelot Apartments."
"Which one? Mattie and I lived in apartment three oh two," Holly disclosed.
"No kidding? We were in two oh seven, facing the pool. Anyway, remember? Martin sent three of us to that conference in Santa Rosa?" Marc said.
"Mm hmm," Holly agreed, scraping some beans and rice onto her fork.
"But this big forest fire cancelled the convention. So Derek and I got on the next plane out; Finnegan had family out there so he stayed," Marc continued. "We get back, Derek gave me a ride from the Lafayette airport home."
Holly watched as Marc told of stepping into his apartment, entering his bedroom, and discovering his wife in bed with not one, but two African-American men. She studied his eyes as he described the horrific beating the two men delivered and of his wife calmly sitting in bed, watching the savage pummeling the two men delivered to him.
"Thank God for Mrs. Knudsen next door," Marc said. "I'm pretty sure they would have killed me had the cops not shown up."
Holly remembered Marc showing up for work a few days after the ill-fated convention, eyes blackened and nose covered by thick adhesive bandages. She looked at his nose; Marc's surgeon had done a masterful job of repairing the damage.
"Room for dessert? We've got a chocolate flan that's out of this world," their waitress suggested.
"Maybe if I hadn't eaten all of those chips," Holly smiled at the waitress.
Marc paid the bill, left a generous tip, and assisted Holly from her seat. She pointed out that he'd left half of his blue margarita and he shrugged.
"Oh, my ex-husband? He would have been asking you what's wrong with you." Holly tittered, taking his right arm in her two arms.
