I've sat on this one for quite some time. I've tweaked it over a dozen times and decided it was either time to publish or can. It's a little over the top, and my female protagonist is... well... not cool.
Initially, when I started HOME INVASION, I began with the full intention of writing about a heartless bitch, but as I wrote, it seemed my consciousness wouldn't let me go full bitch mode. Instead, they come across as a woman who made a series of bad decisions. I also struggle with the full wrath of a proper burn the bitch. I've honestly tried, but my head won't let me go there (not yet, anyway). As I've stated in my profile and numerous story intros, I try to find the humanity in people... even those who perhaps don't deserve it.
So... if you're looking for the revenge factor, I may not be an author you will enjoy. That's not to say that consequences are absent, just not the over-the-top kind. So many great authors do that genre well, and I respect and enjoy their abilities.
It seems that writing has been very good for me and my therapy. I don't think I'm as error-riddled as I was in the beginning, but you can always expect a spelling mistake or 12. Along with grammatical inaccuracies... hell, even the odd name changes mid-story. I honestly hate it when I do that!
I hope you enjoy my twist on some old tropes. Sick of big dicks? You may want to skip this one. It's not a major part of the plot, but it has its small place. (see what I did there?)
It's not real. Just a fictional story of fallible people. I'm sure I've said enough to already make this predictable... my bad.
Yeah... it's far-fetched.
Cheers,
C_T
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"Oh, my God! Doug. You... you had no idea, did you?" My therapist could barely keep her voice straight. "Of course, you wouldn't. This... this changes so much." She came from behind me and reached for the phone on her desk. "I must make a call, Doug. Just give me a minute."
I could vaguely hear her conversation, as I sat staring at the now paused video in front of me. Despite the painful outcomes of reliving that evening, my therapist was hoping it would be a step forward in dealing with my anxiety and depression. I hated the man I had become, and it was ultimately destroying my marriage. My poor wife was hanging on dearly, hoping I could break through the walls of insecurity, fear, and hopelessness.
It was a last resort, and I only agreed to it because I wanted to be the man my wife needed me to be. The confident, loving man I was just six months ago. As much as I could remember from that night, it all played back in real-time, on the recording. The helplessness weighed heavily on me like it had that night. The night that changed our lives.
However, the one thing I had hoped would move me forward turned out to be the final blow to my marriage. The part I never even knew about...
A look back
I took a fair amount of grief when I married Jazz. There was the age gap, of course. I was 43 and she was 27. People looked at me as a cradle robber, and she was the rumored gold digger. In fairness, I had accumulated considerable wealth. It wasn't all my money; some was from my first wife.
Patricia and I got married right out of med school. I discovered my love for hospital administration and quickly moved through the ranks. I was currently the Deputy CEO, overseeing all hospital budgets within our state. Patricia was an up-and-coming cosmetic surgeon who had partnered with two highly renowned surgeons in their field. We were rolling in money and did very little to spend it, as we were saving for our future family.
After 8 months of no success in the family department, we made ourselves available for testing to make sure there was no underlying cause, like low sperm count or ovulation anomalies. It turned out that neither of those was the issue. It was the massive cancerous tumors throughout her reproductive organs.
Like the fighter she was, we did everything we could to beat this. Children were no longer our concern, we just wanted to live our lives together as long as we could. But cancer is a bitch, and she took my Patricia 9 months later. Yes, I found the timeline ironic too. Devastation wouldn't hold a candle to what I felt. It took many years for me to come to terms with the loss of Patricia. I figured I was one and done. Patricia was my one.
I met Jazz at the gym I go to regularly. I promised myself I would live my life as Patricia wanted. Instead of turning to booze or drugs to deal with my loneliness, I went the other way and became the classic health nut. I was a healthy 6ft man with a low body fat percentage. My build was lean but strong, and I could run and box with the best of them. I used the gym to work away my anxieties, anger, and depression. Going as often as I did, I began to make acquaintances from the routines of seeing each other. Jazz was one of them, and what started as polite hellos turned a little more invested the day I helped spot for her on the bench press. She knew several guys there, but that day it seemed that none of them were around, so she asked me.
I admit that I watch people at the gym all the time, more out of curiosity than anything else. I watch people's forms and execution, especially women. I know what you're thinking, but if you want to know how a certain machine works or what proper form is... watch a woman. They don't lift for vanity or bragging rights. They research how to do things right. More than a few times, I've altered my use of a machine based on my observations.
Obviously, I'd seen Jazz around and was impressed with her routines. She never did the same circuit, but each one had a purpose. Today she did a combination of back and chest stuff, hence the ask for a spot. Jazz wasn't tall by any means, but she was athletically proportional, and her gym gear was always very complimentary. She settled on the bench and looked up at me as she prepared herself.
"I'm Jazz, by the way." She said in a cute voice.
"Doug." I smiled in return.
"Thanks, Doug. I'm shooting for 12 reps. I suspect the last 3 will be my toughest. I nodded and prepared to assist if she needed it.
Turns out, she was correct in her assumption. Her tenth rep stalled before she could complete her full extension. As she came back down, I put my hands under the bar and followed her ascent. When she stalled again, I lightly contacted the bar, just in case. Her breath was still coming out, and the determination was clear.
"All you," I encouraged her, "All you." She finally got the full extension and came down for her last rep.
She wasn't far off her chest when her progression faltered. I carefully applied as little pressure as possible to encourage her progression. Inch by inch, she made the full range, and I helped her place the bar back on the holders.
"Nice job, Jazz. Impressive." No, I wasn't flirting. I was impressed.
She popped up from her back and spun her butt, so she was sitting sideways on the bench. "Thanks for the assist." She smiled.
"Honestly, I didn't do much more than support the bar. That was 97% you at the end." She smiled.
"Most guys just lift it the rest of the way for me. I think they think they're being my hero." She gave me a sweet giggle. "Thank you for making me push myself."
That was the beginning of a gym friendship. When we were there at the same time, we often took our breaks to share some pleasantries. As the months went on, the pleasantries became more personal, as we talked about work and families. When she wasn't at the gym or hanging out with her friends, Jazz worked as an advertising consultant for a national firm. Most of her work involved sitting at a computer, and that was when she decided she needed to date the gym (as she put it).
I told her about my job, and she seemed thoroughly impressed. She also noticed I spoke very little about my private life. One day, she decided to be blunt about my evasiveness.
"So, what's your story, Doug? I feel you know almost everything about me, but you, sir, are like a locked-up filing cabinet."
I laughed. "Well, technically, I never asked you anything. You were happy to share, and I was interested in listening."
She put her hand on her hip and gave me a mock glare. "C'mon! You gotta give me something. Is there a Mrs.?" I guess my mood change was obvious. "Oh shit! I'm sorry, Doug. I didn't mean to bring up bad feelings." She touched my arm, and I realized how nice it felt.
I pondered my thoughts for a second. "Ther... there was a Mrs.," I started, "I lost Patricia a few years back to cancer." I looked at her face and thought I saw a tear in the corner of her eye.
"I'm so sorry, Doug. I didn't mean to be so insensitive." She pulled me in for a hug and apologized a few more times. She released me and stepped back. "Maybe we could grab a coffee one day. I'd love to hear everything about her."
That was the beginning of our relationship. It started as two friends and eventually blossomed through mutual attraction and interests. Despite our age difference, we had many things in common and never ran out of things to experience or share. The physical part came much later, mostly due to my reluctance to pursue another relationship, but Jazz was patient, yet persistent. It turned out that her persistence was a blessing. Sex with her was so different than with Patricia. Not better, just different. Maybe it was her age or enthusiasm, but it made me feel 20 years younger when we had sex. Jazz was the recipient of the oral skills Patricia had coached me to perfection, and I loved making her squirm with pleasure. I don't think she ever experienced a man who thoroughly enjoyed eating pussy. One time, she actually passed out.
The longer we dated, the less concerned we were with looks or comments, feeling comfortable and confident in what we were developing. I had legitimate conversations with friends and coworkers, but most were happy if I was happy... and by gosh, I was happy again.
