Summers Warmth A Winter Reunion

DISCLAIMERS:

1). All sexual participants in this story are of legal age.

2). This is a direct sequel to "Summer's Warmth: A Winter Encounter," the first story I wrote for this site. This installment stands on its own, but check out the original for Leon's first encounter.

3). There is a larger abundance of 'story' here than sex, but stick around!

Whoever's in charge of cleaning this street should find new work. The wind creates a hell of a mess out from the trash littering the gravel. Every step lands my foot in discarded paper.

I don't know how I got here or why; I just accept it. Closed storefronts are on either side of me. There's no moonlight; the path is lit by dim streetlamps.

The wind rises to hurricane levels. A sheet of copy paper slaps my face. I pry it off and get a moment's glimpse before it tears away. There were notes scribbled on it. I couldn't tell for sure, but I think they were in my handwriting.

Further down, the town...ends. Not

only

does it end, it transitions into a completely different place. The road becomes a two-lane blacktop instead of this one lane path, flanked by scattered pine trees on either side.

And there is snow, thick snow. It doesn't cover any of these buildings, but down there thick white blankets everything.

The wind continues its ferocity; I fight against it, inching closer to the snow. The air chills. I'm not dressed for a bitter winter, but thirty feet ago I didn't need to be.

I reach the snowy road. My eyes have adjusted enough to see the dividing line. To my right, the roadside dips into an embankment.

I'm drawn toward a shimmering object in the snow.

Another paper smacks me in the face. There's a single message, written in a carefree, artsy, spattered kind of font:

I can do anything I want. And so can you.

Before I can remember where I heard that, the sound of a banshee's piercing wail flies in from the opposite direction.

****

I rub my eyes and check my clock radio: 3:41 AM.

Great.

Of course

it was a dream. And that sound isn't a banshee, though it may as well be.

This is tonight's fourth wakeup call. Jen responded to the first and left me to handle the second and third. Kara isn't just a crier. She's a

screamer

and a

shaker

, and one of these days she'll destroy her crib.

Her wailing is incorporeal. It travels through walls, vents and closed doors, reaching us no matter where we are. This is especially true when we're sleeping.

I press a pillow over my face. "For Christ's sake, she's two now.

Why

does she have to cry like that!?"

"Hmm. Everybody cries like that," a half-asleep Jen replies.

The screaming and rattling continues. I keep the pillow in place, determined to wait this out and let Jen handle it. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Jen's cold foot nudges my side. Nope. I'll wait it out. That's what the books say.

The foot jabs into thigh, my harder, hurting. I jump up, still clutching my pillow.

"Alright, I

get it

!

Fuck!

"

I toss the pillow on the bed for emphasis.

Jen stirs and returns to sleep.

****

Kara's eyes fill with tears.

"No! Not

you

! Want mama! Want

mama

!" She punctuates her points by slamming the bars with the impact of a goddamned tanker truck.

Hurt strikes my heart. This is typical whenever I'm put on Kara Patrol. It's typical in

every

situation. Kara never wants

me

to fix her food, read her stories, or take her to the park. It always has to be Jen.

I'd once asked Jen about it over breakfast.

"Why does she hate me so much, Jen? I don't get it."

Jen shoved a spoonful of Coca Puffs in her mouth. "She doesn't hate you, Leon. Come on, that's ridiculous."

"Then explain to me why it's the end of the world when it's

me

and not

you

?"

"You're really upset about this, aren't you?"

I gave her a funny look. "

Yes

! Wouldn't you be if she treated you the same way?"

Jen smiled. "Sit down Leon."

I pulled up a chair at my kitchen table.

"She acts that way because you're a big, tall man," Jen explained. "Think of how big you are in contrast to a small person. Honestly, your voice probably scares her."

"My...voice?"

Jen deepened her own voice to that of some low-pitched space overlord's. "

Yes. Your voice. You are a man and your speech makes children cower in the bleak night

."

I chuckled. "I

do not

sound like that."

"Maybe not to you or me, but to a small person..."

"So what, do I talk like you?"

"How do

I

sound?"

"Softer, I suppose," I replied with confusion. "Like a woman?"

Jen went back to her cereal. "Well, there's one thing you can try. Seems to quiet her when I do it."

"What's that?"

Through a mouthful of Coca Puffs Jen said, "sing."

I was baffled. "I'm sorry, your mouth's full. Did you say

sing

?"

Jen swallowed her food and drank a swig of orange juice. "Yep."

"What do I...sing?"

Jen shrugged. "Anything you can think of." She wagged a finger. "As long as it's language appropriate, mister."

So here we are again.

"Mama! Want

mama

!

Maaama

!"

I struggle to restrain tears.

"

Kara

!" I monitor my tone. I don't want to yell at a child, my

own

child at that.

"Mama's...resting," I say more carefully.

And damn you for it, Jen.

Kara sniffs. "Want mama."

I open my mouth. Words don't come out. I think a minute.

And then:

"

You can't, always get, what you want...

"

It's nowhere close to Mick Jagger, but I doubt Kara understands tone deafness, and my put-on singing voice is softer and higher-pitched. Kara looks at me, puzzled, still teary eyed.

"

You can't, always get, what you want...

"

She twists her head, reminding me of a puppy.

"

You can't always get, what you want...but if you try sometimes...

"

I cautiously move toward the crib on eggshells.

"

You just might find...

"

I stand over the crib now. Kara is silent, no longer crying, just curious.

"

You get what you need.

"

I hoist Kara over the bars and pick her up. Her head rests on my shoulder.

I sway back and forth. "

New boy in the neighborhood, lives downstairs and it's understood, he's there just to—

"

"—daddy?" Kara interrupts.

"Mmm?"

She points at something I can't see. "What that?"

"What's what, K?"

"

That

."

I turn to look.

My mouth drops.

Kara is looking at the window.

It's snowing.

****

Half an hour later, Kara finally lets me put her down. I'm long past exhaustion.

I climb back in bed and aim a resentful glance at the mother of my child.

"Kara okay?" Jen mumbles.

I roll over, my back to her. "Fine."

Jen shifts. "Good."

"She wanted you again," I say bitterly.

"Nmmph."

I close my eyes, and then reopen them. "You know it's snowing hard right now."

"Cool."

I decide to try a test, see what reaction I'll get. Call me unfair, but I didn't appoint

myself

the Unappreciated Night Lackey.

"It snowed hard that night I met Summer."

"Mmkay."

Frustrated, I drift off to sleep.

The snow patters against the window.

****

Of course I told Jen about Summer. It was crucial information in an obligatory discussion about past sexual encounters.

Since Summer, since that night so far away and long ago, there have been three more partners; well, two are

technical

. The first gave me a handjob at a party Senior year. The second went down on me in a Wendy's stall on our second date, a year after college. She spat in the toilet instead of swallowing, which in retrospect was hot in a filthy sort of way. The third was of course Jen, and our sex life led to a pregnancy in a rather short amount of time.

I met Jen at an Asian buffet. She sat at my table while I was working toward my chopped steak. We started a conversation, and it occurred to me that she was acting familiar. I didn't recognize her at first.

Then it hit me. I had met Jen Junior year, but our encounter had been brief, fleeting and ultimately disappointing. I'd referred to her by another name back then: Bathrobe Girl.

"I was such a

bitch

back then," Jen said regretfully. "I can't justify what I did to you. I had just gotten out of a bad relationship. I was so pissed that week that I got lazy with my laundry. I was out for blood, I guess. And in the laundry room, there was this boy who said he'd watch my clothes if I flashed my tits. But his only reward was an old number I'd changed to cut off my ex."

I smiled. That wound had long since healed. "And you really had no shame?"

She returned the gesture slyly. "That part was true, I'm afraid."

She gave me her number—a real one—and the dating began. Then came the sex.

Jen, a practicing psychologist, must have known that there was a part of me, deep down, that harbored feelings for Summer. Jen never grilled me beyond a few questions.

"Did you ever run into Summer again?"

"Nope."

"Did you ever look for her, like on Facebook or Twitter?"

A reluctant "

yes

, but nothing aside from searching for her name a few times or just looking around me every now and then."

"So you didn't use a condom."

"We did at first."

"But she took it off of you."

"Yeah."

"Did you ever get tested for STDs, Leon?"

I have, twice. Both tests were negative. Nothing from Summer or Blowjob Girl or even Handjob Girl. I'm clean, and so is Jen, who has me bruised and beaten in the partner department by nothing less than

group sex

at a college party that included a few girls.

That was the end of it. Jen never brought up Summer, and neither did I.

Five months into our relationship, despite our habitual condom use, Jen skipped a period and a pregnancy test revealed the truth. We discussed termination; I left it entirely up to her. She decided that since we both had decent jobs with health plans, we could support one little bundle of

oops

.

Kara swelled Jen's belly over the ensuing months, to the chagrin of both our families. They insisted that we get married, that was the proper thing to do, a child needed a mother and a father in the confines of monogamous and holy bla bla bla.

We gave into their pressure, and decided we were in love enough to take that final step: we married. A year after Kara was born, Jen and I divorced. We were granted joint custody of Kara.

But the status of my relationship with Jen has confused me ever since. She dates. She breaks up. She gives her man of the month a call back or she doesn't.

In-between, Jen comes over and sleeps with me.

****

I bring my car to a stop outside The Town Report, Archton's local newspaper. The cold air is in sharp contrast to my heated vehicle.

The sun beams brightly on me as I trudge through melting slush. The snow struck without warning—not even the weather service was clairvoyant enough to inform us about it—but now it's halted, leaving a blanket for the daylight to turn into a gross mess.

I've been a writer for The Report three years running, and for three years I've been fluff piece guy. Personally, I prefer fluff news over politics, crime or the economy, the three things that depress me the most when I read the news. I figure I'll be assigned to cover the sudden snowfall and get sent out to drum up quotes from a few yokels.

As I sit at my newsroom desk, my heavyset boss Randy hands out assignments to the usual people.

"Lauren, a GPS was lifted from another car last night. That's the third one this week. See what you can get on it. Terry, Stevenson's back to his guns on refusing to fill birth control prescriptions. I'm expecting a state-wide blowup. Cameron, the governor just took a 'job research' overseas trip on the state's dime. Go for it."

Finally, Randy reaches me. "Leon. Looking a little bleary-eyed today."

I shrug. "Kids run you ragged."

He nods. "Well, Leon, we got us some snowfall."

"We sure did, sir."

He nods again. "See what you can get on it. Have it ready for the Sunday edition."

Randy shuffles off.

The Town Report

has no Saturday edition. Less people reading newspapers means less sales revenue, so we skip Saturday, my only day off.

I don't consider unexpected snow days 'fluff.' Snow's a very big deal in this state. Our entire infrastructure and way of life shuts down as everyone scratches their heads over this strange, cold substance they'll see maybe three or four times in their lives. Plenty of people will want to talk about it.

Tired as hell, I grab the energy drink I've been keeping on hand for Jen Nights, and down the whole concoction. The caffeine shakes my system harder than Kara does her crib bars. I go find Lewis, my friend and favorite

Report

photographer.

He's in the conference room, shuffling through some digital camera shots.

"No. No. Oh,

hell no

. Maybe?"

He looks up. "Rabbit! Somebody put a battery up your butt?"

Rabbit. Fluff. Get it? I

hate

that nickname, even when people I like call me that. I repress my frustration and frantic state as I shake Lewis' hand. I've gone from dead tired to dangerously hyper in a matter of seconds.

"Not quite. But I just got a special assignment," I explain. "You know that stuff that's all over the ground outside?"

"Cigarettes and used condoms?"

"No, on top of that. Randy wants me to interview the locals about the snow problem. I was wondering if you wanted to come with me? Snap some scared faces?"

"Sure," Lewis agrees. "Let me just pick some good stuff out of here and run it to Terry." He disappears.

"Maybe you could interview me too," Lewis says when he returns. "I don't know

what

the hell brought all this on."

He follows me to my car.

****

"Craziest thing. I woke up to the kids all crazy about it being cold and snowy."

"I guess the best way I'd sum it up is to say 'I'm not used to this.' It's good to have a White Christmas—that is, if the snow's even here next Wednesday—but the last thing I expected when I woke up this morning was snow."

"Move. I'm busy."

By 11:00, I've got enough quotes to build a story around. The rest I can embellish in that special Leon Rollins way, capping it with a good catcher for the opening paragraph.

I'm brainstorming ideas when Lewis puts a hand out to stop me."Hey Rabbit, think you got room for one more?"

He's pointing at the Old Archton Coffee House, more specifically at an 18-year-old brunette who's leaning against the window.

I shake my head. "I dunno, man. That's Cammi Marshall."

Lewis looks at me funny. "What's your problem with Cammi Marshall?"

"I wouldn't call it a

problem

. It's just, I don't think she's looking to give

quotes

if you know what I mean."

"And why's

that

a problem?"

"Oh, for God's sake Lewis, she's..."

I'm about to say "

young

," but Lewis is already walking over. I trudge behind like his absentminded sidekick.

Eighteen is fair game. I'm aware of that. Call me crazy, but maybe age deluded my hunter/gatherer sex drive. I'm 27 years old, and the idea of hooking up with a girl as young as Cammi just feels wrong.

Cammi breaks out into a big, wicked smile. She tosses her hair back and pushes out her generous gifts as far as they'll go.

"Hi, Cammi," I reluctantly greet her.

Her eyes narrow and she bites her lip. Cammi's not dressed for a random December snowfall, with her tight top cut low enough to expose her cleavage and a little miniskirt that barely covers her crotch. Her protection against the cold is a jean jacket she's thrown over her exposed midriff and naval piercing.

"Well hey there, Mr. Rollins," she says in a Southern accent. "How can I help ya'll?"

"I'm doing a piece on the snow," I explain as fast as possible. "Do you have any thoughts on that?"

"Mmm, well it sure is cold, ain't it?"

She shivers as a fake reaction. Lewis grins. I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, it sure is nippley," Lewis comments. I want to hit him.

"Yeah," I agree with disdain. "It's cold. What do you think? Do you mind if I use my tape recorder?"

"Oh, you can record me any way you

want to

, Mr. Rollins," Cammi replies, tasting her finger. "But how about we go someplace nice and warm to talk about it more?"

"Hey, she's got a point," Lewis says. "I wouldn't mind—

"—the coffee shop," I interrupt.

Cammi looks disappointed. The 'warm place' she wants to go is her parents' house.

"Alright," she says. "I'm gonna order me something to warm me up!"

We go inside. She orders a mocha, making sure to throw in a "gosh, I sure do love

hot stuff

in me" before I get some goddamned quotes out of her.

Cammi makes sure to brush against Lewis as she leaves. His expression tells me she has his approval in a way I'd rather not know.

Lewis

tsks-tsks

. "You see the way she did that?"

"Oh I did."

"Between you and me, I think Cammi's got a thing for dark meat."

I smile in spite of myself. "Did you see the way she looked at

me

? I don't want to disappoint you, but I don't think she's picky about her 'meat,' Lewis."

He grins. "Why would I be disappointed?"

****

Nobody's at home. There's an unspoken agreement between Jen and I that she call or text before visiting. Although I rarely have plans, she always gives me prior notice. That way there's no misunderstandings or disappointments before she drops a toddler on my floor.

I've got the story worked out, and common sense tells me to finish it up; it won't take long. Instead, I fall in my favorite chair and relax. I'll start work after I stop being cold.

Cold, hungry and thirsty, that is. I wonder if one of those flavored waters are still in the fridge. Those energy shots don't live up to their promise of 'no caffeine crash.' I'm so woozy that one could call me drunk.

I could soak in a hot bath. Or zap a frozen mini-pizza. Or...

I check my phone, just to ensure there's no text from Jen. Then it's off to my room to rummage through the 'special box.'

I had this same 'special box' in college. Its contents have dwindled over the years. Jen's anti-porn stance forced me to eBay out most of my stash. But I held onto a few DVDs and magazines that Jen wasn't aware of.

One in particular catches my attention:

Forbidden Sorority Initiations 3

.

There's a barely-legal blonde on the cover, her hair done up in pigtails. She has a finger in her mouth and a look on her face halfway between innocent and naughty. She's surrounded by other equally aged women who are either scantily-clad or topless.

The case is heavy in my hand.

This is the same DVD I watched with Summer.

I tend to avoid delving into anything that reminds me of that night. It brings up too many memories and unanswered questions. Plus, this 'naïve college freshman' theme reminds me of my run-in with Cammi, and how getting pleasure from an 18-year-old in any way would violate my scruples.

Should I? Should I not?

A short time later, I'm watching the barely-legal blonde being given a tour of a sorority house. Her guide is an attractive redhead.

"This is such a nice house!" the blonde comments.

"I know," the redhead replies. "You'll love pledging Et Mi Pi."

Her eyes narrow. Her voice drops. "But there's...an initiation involved."

The blonde is all too eager to join. "What kind of initiation? Oh, I'll do anything!"

"Really?" the redhead replies, her voice growing husky, hunger overtaking her. "

Anything

?"

A taller, dark-haired girl enters the frame.

The others double-team the blonde. One slips a hand up the blonde's white blouse. The other plants kisses along the blonde's neck.

My phone vibrates.

I check it. It's not Jen calling, but Randy. Randy calling me on a Friday night means "kiss your Saturday goodbye, Leon."