I want to thank my editor SlaveGirl70 for her edits. I appreciate everyone's comments and suggestions. Please note that I have recently rewritten my past stories with the help of editors like SlaveGirl70. If you liked them before, I think you will like them even more now, and if you like this story, I think you might enjoy reading my others as well.
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I got lucky. My prospective client was an investment management company located in Palm Beach Florida, it is February 1
st
and freezing in my hometown. Given my recent luck, it could have been in Juneau. Sometimes you win.
My meeting was scheduled for the next morning, a Friday, at 10 am. I got a flight into West Palm Beach that arrived at 5 pm and took an Uber to my hotel on the island. I was able to get a pretty good deal at the Chesterfield Hotel. Usually the rooms are $400 a night, but I again got lucky, and via a discount hotel room site found a room with a king-size bed for only $225. That is a steal on Palm Beach Island, the home of 35 billionaires and uncountable millionaires. Howard Stern, James Patterson, Rush Limbaugh, and Jimmy Buffet all have homes in this exclusive community. I would only be here one night and was looking forward to a nice dinner and some good wine.
The Chesterfield Hotel is in the Mediterranean style, built in 1928 and is located two blocks from Worth Ave., the Rodeo Drive of the east coast. The rooms are well appointed and reasonable in size for a hotel of that era. I checked into my room and took a quick shower to wash the 'travel' from my body and put on fresh clothes. Once that was done, feeling better and cleaner, I went down to the lobby to get recommendations for dinner. There appeared to be no concierge working, so I decided to ask the front desk for a restaurant suggestion.
The handsome blond Russian at the front desk suggested the Leopard Lounge, the hotel restaurant.
"I don't eat where I sleep," I indicated with a smile.
He looked over at the older gentleman at the edge of the lobby involved in a conversation with a couple. I assumed this was the manager on duty. The blond man then leaned over the desk to say in a soft voice, "I understand. Our restaurant normally attracts a more..." he stumbled for the word and continued, "mature crowd."
I nodded and he continued, "If I were you, I would try Buccan. Not inexpensive, but a good restaurant with a younger crowd."
I thanked him, and he gave me directions to Buccan, just a short walk away on South Country Road.
Buccan seemed like a smart choice. The restaurant specialized in inventive American cuisine. I picked a seat at the bar next to an attractive woman about my age, which is 35. I'm no dummy.
"Mind if I sit here?" I asked politely to the attractive brunette.
She looked at me, smiled and nodded yes. I made myself comfortable on the bar chair, and struggled to get the female bartender's attention. When I did, it was not a particularly friendly interaction, but I finally ordered a glass of Clyde May's bourbon on the rocks. Clyde May's is an Alabama style bourbon that I had discovered and started to drink a few months earlier. My drink perfunctorily delivered (no smile), I thanked the bartender and asked to see a menu. She grunted and turned back to the bar.
The attractive woman that sat next to me turned and said, "don't take it personally, she's a bitch and she treats everyone like that. Lucky you're not a woman. She is even worse to us."
"Strange way to do business," I replied and added, "my name is Steve."
"Sally," she added as she shook my extended hand. "Fortunately, the food here is good. The service..." she paused, "not so much." She indicated with a head nod at the bartender.
Several minutes later our server finally provided me the menu I requested. The dinner prices were more reasonable than I had expected. I ordered the roasted ½ chicken with mole invierno, zucchini, almonds, radish, and chayote.
I chatted with Sally while we were eating. She was recently divorced and a realtor in Palm Beach. Her ex-husband was a local attorney. I explained that I was from Chicago and had just ended a long-term relationship a few of months before. I was consulting for a Palm Beach investment company as a forensic accountant.
"Funny, you are too cute and seem too interesting to be an accountant," she teased.
"Hey, don't believe everything you hear about accountants. Do you know how you can identify an extroverted accountant?" I asked.
Sally shrugged while slightly shaking her head.
"He looks at your shoes instead of his own," I continued.
Sally groaned, and I noticed her shoes. "Christian Louboutin?" I asked and pointed to her very sexy pumps.
"Very good," she said with surprise, "Steve, I see you have been well trained."
I laughed, "It was EXPENSIVE training." I toasted to thin air and drained the remainder of the white wine that I ordered with dinner.
"I don't suppose you have any plans on moving to the area. I know a great realtor," she added with a wink and shy smile.
"I wish," I added with a shake of the head.
She took a drink of her wine and said, "Too bad. The only guys I meet seem to be old enough to be my grandfather, married, gay, or," pausing, "all the above."
"No, no, no," and with a pause, "no," I replied. Sally laughed.
We continued to chat for quite a while, and discovered we shared quite a bit in common, from cooking to bridge. It turned out that Sally and her ex-husband were master level bridge players. While I have not achieved that distinction, I was a pretty good recreational player.
Sally finally glanced at her watch, and she apologized for having to leave so soon, as she'd enjoyed our conversation. She explained that she had promised to pick up a girlfriend at the airport.
After she paid her bill, she took out one of her business cards and wrote something on the back.
"Steve, I enjoyed our conversation," she said and left her card face up on the bar in front of me. "Let me know if you get back to Palm Beach. Maybe we can have dinner again."
She gave me a peck on the cheek and left the restaurant.
As Sally was walking out the door, I turned over Sally's business card to see what she had written on the back.
There, in her elegant script, "Prove to me you are not gay."
Damn
, I thought.
That one got away
.
Oh well, I have not had much luck lately with women. I have been traveling non-stop for well over a year, and that was one of the reasons for my breakup with Heidi, my ex-girlfriend.
I paid my bill, and tossed back the last of my scotch. It was now about 9:30 pm, so I took a slow walk back to my hotel, playing voyeur as I walked past enormous gates hiding fantastic houses. I knew that I could not afford to pay the annual taxes on these small mansions, and they were not even the most expensive homes on the island. Those were located on the beach and ranged to well over 100 million dollars.
I got back to the Chesterfield, feeling a bit horny after my encounter with Sally. I realized how much I missed my girlfriend Heidi. She was uninhibited and an incredible sex partner. Heidi was bi-sexual and ultimately left me for a female friend, Paula. I understood why—we had both enjoyed Paula several times. She was a beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, and most importantly sweet, woman.
Instead of heading directly up to my room and bed, I decided to have a nightcap. I went into the Leopard Lounge, a large dark room with a dark wood bar. The waiters, waitress, and bartenders were all in their 40s or 50s, while the clientele was much closer to their late-60s.
I moved to the bar and ordered a bourbon. A three-piece group played dance music. "Fly me to the moon," was the current song. I remembered my father sang it to me on trips in the car. There were four couples on the dance floor. Most looked like they were holding each other up, but there was one couple where the woman was stunning. Apparently older than I, with short silver hair, a tight-fitting blue dress, great legs and blue eyes.
She noticed me staring at her and she winked at me as she danced gracefully with a partner that must have been in his 80s.
The song stopped, and to my surprise, she walked straight over to the bar where I stood. She ordered a glass of Champagne and said, "Hello, my name is Gale." She held out her hand to shake mine.
Her directness surprised me, and it took me a second to move my glass from my right hand to my left so I could shake her outstretched hand and I said, "Steve. Nice to meet you."
"Have we met before?" she asked me, and stared into my eyes with her bright blue ones.
I now noticed her chest. Her breasts strained in her clingy dress. I guessed that they were enhanced at some point, but they were not out of proportion with rest of her figure. I looked over at the man that had just danced with Gale. He gave me the evil eye.
I then realized I hadn't answered Gale's question. "I don't think so," I smiled.
"Do you live on the Island?" she asked.
"No. I'm from Chicago," I replied.
She noticed me glancing over at her last dance partner, laughed and said, "That's Paul. He's harmless. Trust me, totally harmless. Well, unless he gets you in the back seat of his Rolls."
It was my turn to laugh, "I don't think there is any chance he will be getting me in his back seat. Rolls or no Rolls."
Gale laughed and raised her glass, and we toasted on that thought.
"How long are you in town for?" she asked as she sipped her drink.
"I leave tomorrow night," I responded, thinking about Sally and wished I had another evening and the chance to prove to her that I was not gay.
"Oh, too bad. The group playing tomorrow is much better than this one. Do you dance?" Gale asked and pointed to the dance floor.
"Only under duress," I chuckled. The band began their next song.
"Consider this duress," she said as she took the glass from my hand and placed it on the bar along with hers. She then took my hand and led me to the tiny dance floor.
The song was "The Nearest of You" written by Hoagy Carmichael. I knew this song as well. I played piano for years and learned his piece by heart. Gale held me close, with her hand on my shoulder. She was about 5'4" and about 110 lbs. Her 4-inch heels brought her closer to my 6' height. I could smell her perfume and felt her head rest on my shoulder, and of course, I could feel her large breasts against my chest. I figured Gail was about 45 with premature grey hair.
I noticed that she began to lead me.
Well, that had to stop,
I thought. I had lied about my dancing expertise. In college, I had learned west coast swing dancing, and I was quite good at it back then. I now exerted control putting pressure on the middle of Gale's back, led her on several quick turns and back steps. They were similar to west coast swing steps.
She pulled her head off my shoulder and looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes, said "Duress my ass. You are a wonderful dancer."
"Well you know the old saying, the man does all the work, and the woman makes the man look good," I said into her ear as we spun around in a tight circle.
