Malibu California 2013: A voluptuous, nerdy coed attempts to seduce a reclusive older writer with an already complicated love life which includes a sexy, hard assed editor, an eager agent, a sultry Russian house maid, two ex-wives, three ex-stepdaughters, and a relentless stalker with literary ambitions of her own.
Chapter One: Scharza
Jack:
She first appeared in mid-September, not long after the school year began. Pale skinned, raven-haired and young, she always came in the late morning, on a weekday, when the beach in front of my house was almost deserted. She was delightfully awkward, and seemed unaware of her natural voluptuousness, even as she tried very hard to be sexy.
Always alone, she would frolic absurdly in front of my balcony, trying hard not to stare in my direction. She wasn't athletic looking, or even particularly fit; this was not a girl who ran marathons or did yoga, yet her appearance was singularly striking.
The halter-top of her bathing suit barely covered her large breasts and was tied so tightly that the narrow strings bit into her soft skin. The bottoms were two small pieces of cloth jammed so far up the crack of her ass that both her round butt cheeks were fully exposed. It was fastened together by gold chains slung low across her ample hips giving her the appearance of a ship wrecked harem girl that Neptune had cast upon the shore at my feet.
She moved about restlessly, trying out a repertoire of different poses no doubt copied from the Internet or a magazine, without any idea of which ones worked best. She frequently got down on all fours, turned sideways to me and went about alternately raising her shoulders and arching her back. The wind would tug the errant strands of her inevitably unraveling ponytail tugging them towards the light blue sea.
Once she had my attention, she would settle down on her beach mat and ostentatiously take out a thick, hardcover book. She would read, enraptured, while twisting her body this way and that on the ground for a good hour or so, stopping only to apply sunscreen to her vulnerable skin with broad, theatrical strokes.
She was obviously shy, but persistent, and tried some ludicrous ploys to drift my way. I mean, who plays Frisbee by themselves? The little pop-ball thing at least made more sense, but it didn't have enough strength to make it up to the level of my deck, although it did get her close to my fence. She waved a couple of times, and I waved back in a polite and neutral manner.
I considered talking to her, but I wanted to see what she would do next, so I remained silent, sunglasses on, doing my daily writing. No doubt she'd read about my strict writing habits (which she was interfering with), and knew that I wasn't going to wander away. I enjoyed the show, letting it become distracting to the point that Rikki started getting on my ass about missed deadlines, and Mila began grumbling spiteful things in unintelligible Russian as she cleaned the kitchen.
Finally, she hit upon using a kite. On a day of sufficiently unruly windiness, she managed to get it tangled around my deck light.
"I'm terribly sorry," she called up to me in an earnest voice with a mild, middle class Southern California accent.
I stood up and looked down at her moon face and miles of heaving, glistening cleavage.
"The wind," she shrugged as she gently and ineffectually tugged at the string.
"Well, you'd better come up and untangle it," I replied sternly. "
I'm
not going to do it."
"Oh yes, of course...sir," she replied.
I started down the stairs to unlock the gate, but she vaulted recklessly over the fence, landing squarely on her well-padded rump. She recovered quickly and was halfway up the stairs, before I was halfway down.
"Oh," she said, almost bumping into me.
Up close, she fulfilled every promise she'd offered from a distance. She was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her skin was immaculate, and looked as soft as a baby's bottom. She was white, but not Christy white. In fact, she had a slightly caramel-tinged tan with only a little burning. Her skin, her hair, her brown eyes, and her curves suggested some sort of Mediterranean heritage.
"Oh," I replied removing my sunglasses and raising an eyebrow, blocking her way.
At once, she began to hop from foot to foot. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but can I use your washroom first?" she asked.
"Of course," I replied. I turned and led her up to my balcony. I opened the screen door and stood to one side. "Through the kitchen and to the left," I said. Fortunately, perhaps, it was Mila's day off and the house was uncharacteristically empty.
She said something inaudible, as she ducked her head and brushed me with her hot, naked shoulder as she passed. I didn't follow her, but I did check my watch as I sat down at my table, wondering how long she would take. How bold she would be in her snooping? Not very bold it turned out; she was back in less than five minutes.
"Thank you," she said making no move towards the flapping, dangling kite. "Oh, you're Jack Harrowsmith!" she exclaimed in poorly feigned surprise.
"Yes, I am," I replied, unable to repress a smile. "And who are you?"
"Lexi Duncan. I'm a student at Cal Tech," she replied. "I'm a big fan of yours Mr Harrowsmith. I love your work. I've read everything you've written."
"Everything I've written, even the most recent stuff?" I asked skeptically.
"Oh, especially the most recent stuff -
"White Hot"
was soooo fast paced and exciting, and yet still...literary."
I was willing to concede the first bit, but doubted the latter - I had no desire to be "literary" any more. She was cute, and her body was so achingly ripe that I decided to make it easy on both of us by not toying with her.
"Well then," I said, "would you like a drink, Lexi Duncan?"
"Oh yes, sir. I'm very hot," she replied.
"Well, I'm drinking tequila sunrises; how's that?"
"That would be great."
"How old are you?" I asked very directly.
"Twenty-one," she replied quickly.
I figured twenty,
maybe
. Not old enough to drink, but certainly she was over eighteen which was all that really mattered. At any rate, I wasn't about to ask her for an I.D. With those knockers, she could have been forty-four, or forty-two, at least.
"While I'm making the drinks, why don't you go down and collect your things. Bring them into the yard, so they don't go astray," I suggested.
"Yes. Yes, great," she replied. She turned at once on her bare heels and headed down the stairs, ignoring the still tangled kite.
"And, you can use the gate this time," I called after her.
"Okay," she replied earnestly, and I began to wonder just how bright she really was, but then I heard her giggle as she undid the latch.
Good, she had a sense of humor. Imagine that; intelligent, young, eager and beautiful, and it wasn't even my birthday.
Lexi:
I fought with the gate latch before it swung open. I dashed through, then stopped and went back to shut it. Then thought it might lock again, so I left it ajar after dithering for another minute. I ran across the sand to my beach mat, and scooped up everything - lotion, book, and towels, into my big beach bag, along with about a ton of sand. I forgot my flip-flops, and ran back for them.
I dropped his precious book, which I hoped to get autographed, in the sand, retrieved it, brushed it off, and then ran back to the house. I looked up at the deck, but thankfully, he wasn't watching as I tripped over my own feet and practically
crawled
back through the gate.
I stopped myself and stood still for a moment. Then with great effort, slowed my breathing. "Get a grip, Lexi," I said to myself. "You're acting like an eight year old. God, I hope he doesn't think of me as a
child
or some slobbering, empty-headed
groupie
."
Unable to decide if I should leave my bag at the bottom of the stairs, or take it with me, I literally hopped from foot to foot in tortured indecision before calming myself again. Remembering that his book was in the bag, I risked being presumptuous, and took the bag up the steps with me.
He was seated at his writing table, his famous writing table, with his chair turned to the side. He looked very masculine and cool under his sunglasses with a tall frosted glass in his hand while I stood there panting and dripping with sweat.
"I brought my bag," I said stupidly. I was getting sand all over everything.
"I see that," he said.
He handed me the drink, which I awkwardly took with my free hand. Nervous and very thirsty, I downed it all in one long gulp. I'd lied to him about being twenty-one. I was really only eighteen, but it wasn't like I'd never had alcohol before. I'd had a few sips that my sister, Brianna, forced on me, and at a meet and greet in my dorm last week, I'd had a large plastic cup full of beer. It had tasted unpleasant, and it made me a little tipsy.
This drink was entirely different. It was cold and refreshing. It tasted almost like sweet orange juice, and I could hardly taste any alcohol at all. Besides, it was a smaller glass than the plastic cup of beer. For the first time in my life, I understood what people meant when they said they
needed
a drink. I needed that one.
"Thanks," I said as I handed the glass back to him. "I was really thirsty." I brushed my forehead with the back of my hand. I was still sweating, and suddenly, I felt a little faint.
He smiled sympathetically at me. "It gets brutally hot out here this time of day. Why don't you bring your bag and we'll go down to the pool? There's some nice shade down there, and a bar," he said.
"The pool? You're a pool? You have a pool?"
"Yes, my pool," he chuckled. He seemed very good-natured. "Come on," he said.
"Great! Super," I replied.
I cast a regretful look at his table as he straightened the pages and tucked them into file folders. I was dying to get a look at what he was writing.
"You write in longhand," I said. It was a statement. I'd read that about him - no annoying laptops or pretentious little typewriters to interfere with the creative process.
"These days," he replied, "for first drafts anyway."
I wanted to ask him about his writing, but he said, "Follow me," and set off into the wonderful coolness of his house. I tried hard to take it all in, after all, I had no idea if I'd ever be back again. The place was casual, but not a mess. I noticed there was no carpet in the living room, which made me realize I was tracking sand on his floor. He didn't seem to mind - he was barefoot, too.
He dropped the file folder onto a big coffee table and kept moving. I followed him through the room, down a flight of stairs, and then through a garage. We exited another door that led to the pool, which was surprisingly large for a Malibu beach house. It was sunken; on the far side was a high wall, topped by canvas awnings that shaded that side of the deck and the entire pool.
On the sunny side, the concrete was blistering and we "hot-footed" it quickly into the shade. I noticed that the pool area was completely private and couldn't be observed from any direction.
