Aren & Alexa

Disclaimer:

All characters are 18 years of age or older while actively engaging in sexual activity. This story is an offshoot of my running story, Mike & Karen. While not completely necessary, being familiar with that story (and Alex & Alexa) will no doubt help mightily. Reviews are welcome; flames will be snickered at and deleted with extreme prejudice by my webmaster. Enjoy!

***

Chapter II -- First Impressions Are Everything!

The people in the boardroom watched quietly as the silhouette from the hall strode in among them, the

click

of her smart boots echoing succinctly on the marble floor. Alexa came through the door and walked up to the table, containing her excitement at the astonishment she could see she was causing. Karen just watched quietly.

She'd worn her golden-blonde hair long, in sensuous waves that fell past her shoulders. Her makeup subtly enhanced the sparkling sapphire of her eyes, as opposed to the pale blue of most of her kin. Her lipstick was red, although not garishly so, but it made clear what her expression was at any given moment, such as the smirk she was wearing currently.

She was wearing a magnificent long jacket, with two rows of gleaming gold buttons and black embroidery between them. The coat itself was a vibrant red colour, reminiscent of the jackets worn by British soldiers in the 18

th

and 19

th

centuries, and this indeed seemed to be what had inspired the design. The sleeves flared slightly at her wrists, accented once again by golden buttons, and white lace decorated the trim. Dainty black leather gloves covered her hands.

The redcoat-inspired jacket trailed down with a flare at the back, while remaining shorter at the front. She wore black leggings that showed off her sleek figure and terminated in short black boots with gold trim that sported a thin heel. She put her hand on her hip and gave them all a sassy smile.

"Well, don't everyone say hello at once," she said, looking around the room. "It's only been, what, twenty years?"

"Alexandra, it is good to see you," her uncle Alistair said, nodding as he turned fully to face her. "You are as beautiful as we all hoped you would be."

"Typical male of your generation, complimenting a woman's aesthetics before anything else," she replied, walking up to him and taking his hands in hers. "But thank you all the same; I know how important first impressions are. You cut a dignified figure yourself."

He smiled and nodded, accepting her gentle chiding. She walked by him slowly, looking at everyone as she passed them by, nodding politely and having memorized everyone's names and their faces from pictures Karen had showed her.

"Aunt Florence, it is good to meet you."

"Cousin Aaron, a pleasure."

"Cousin Ainsley, you look just like Aunt Marian. Please give her my regards, I am sorry she could not be here."

While everyone was watching Alexa, almost rapt, Karen was studying them all. Clearly most of the family members were blown away by the sight of her, although she could see

a

trace of irritation or aggression in a few of them. Not surprisingly, they were most prominent in her cousin Roddy, and his son Ripley. Something in the way the younger man looked at Alexa put Karen's teeth on edge, despite her younger sister's relationship with her own son. What she saw in Ripley wasn't pretty.

As Alexa came around the table and walked by her, she smoothly pulled out a white envelope from her pocket and put it in Karen's hand, keeping on walking. There was nothing of note in the envelope; it was just meant to keep the Blackwells guessing as to what she'd been up to. The sisters nodded to one another and she turned the corner at the head of the table.

Ripley leaned back in his seat and put his feet up on the table, blocking her passage. He looked at her smugly. Alexa paused, staring down at him. A few of the older people around the table seemed aghast at his discourteous display, but no one said anything. Karen watched silently. This was something she

hadn't

planned for.

"Move yourself, Ripley," Alexa said quietly but firmly.

"I don't think so," he replied, still wearing that insufferable, smug expression he'd inherited from his father. "Maybe you should ask po-"

Eyes widened and Florence Blackwell gasped as Alex struck Ripley across the cheek with the back of her hand. Ripley shuddered in shock, holding his cheek, his eyes wider than dinner plates. Rodney looked on in astonishment but did nothing. He was either too in shock, or simply knew better.

"Get up," Alexa said tersely, her brilliant sapphire eyes flashing.

Ripley rose to his feet hastily, getting out of his chair, but his eyes never left Alexa's, as if worried she'd hit him again.

"Clearly you're not mature enough for a place at this table," she said, her normally lyrical voice like iron. "How dare you? Your seat is mine. Go stand against the wall and wait silently. You may apologize after the meeting."

It was obvious that Ripley wanted to look for his father for guidance, but Alexa leaned in subtly, her eyes still locked with his. Ripley's nerves failed him, and he quickly shuffled over to the wall, some distance away from his clearly violent cousin. Karen could hear a couple of subtle grunts of approval at Alexa's actions, from Alistair and the other senior members of the family. Ripley's behaviour no doubt offended them greatly.

Alexa reached down, smoothed the seat out and sat in it, looking first to her sister and then down the table. "I am sorry that I cannot come down this side to greet you all, but I would hate for my seat to be stolen again."

There were some sounds of amusement from various people at her statement, but then Alexa simply rested her hands on the table, folded them together and nodded to her sister. Karen knew it was time to begin.

It was now or never for the future of her family.

***

1979: Toronto ...

Karen refrained from panting as she danced, keeping her movements precisely in tune with the music playing on the ancient Victrola in the corner. Her mother sat in a chair and watched quietly, while her dance teacher stood nearby, observing her. Karen ignored their eyes and focused solely on her exercise.

The pace of the music itself was decidedly upbeat and fast, something her mom had called 'The Crazy Otto,' performed by a man named Johnny Maddox. Her mom had said that he'd performed it in the mid-fifties, but the music itself sounded ragtime or vaudeville, from the turn of the century. Whatever the case, it was certainly a challenge for a nine-year-old girl to keep up with. Ballet was easier than this.

"Arms higher on the through-swing,

Liebchen

," old Miss Weirmier said, tapping her foot in time with the music. "You do not want your body trained to do the dances of simply one time or era, if you are to excel in dance."

"Thank you, Miss ..." Karen replied breathlessly, looking straight ahead at the far wall, past all distractions and watching her body in her mind's eye, feeling where everything was, and where it should have been. Millimeters off might have been misconstrued as a mistake! Casual dance followed only after perfection was attained.

Then

one could be lazy with one's style.

Karen knew this dance would lead to another one called 'The Charleston' and another called 'The Black Bottom,' but that wouldn't be for at least another decade, a period her mom called the Roaring Twenties. All Karen really knew about it as yet was that it had followed the Great War, and was a response to it, when people celebrated and made merry as if their lives might end the following day.

With these dances, maybe that was a fair assumption.

The music finally ended, and Karen stopped the dance with the flourish she'd been taught. She held her final pose in complete stillness for several seconds, until her teacher began clapping in approval. She resisted the urge to simply collapse and curtsied as her instructor approached while her mother went over to the record player to lift the tonearm.

"

Wunderbar, meine kleine

," Miss Weirmier said, standing in front of Karen now, who was still trying to not breathe heavily. It was unseemly. "By next week, I have no doubt you will have mastered all the ragtime dances!"

"Thank you, Miss," Karen repeated as her teacher handed her a glass of water, which she drank readily. She resisted the urge to guzzle it, once again because that would be unseemly. "I appreciate the time you have taken to teach me."

"So polite," she older woman said, cupping Karen's cheek for a moment before turning to speak to her mother. "At least thirty minutes a day practicing, except Sundays, of course. If she does this faithfully, I am certain she will indeed master these dances. After she demonstrates next week, we will move on, yes?"

"Thank you, Frau Weirmier, for your time," Miranda Gordon said, walking from the Victrola over to her daughter and the dance teacher. "We will see you next Friday."

The German woman nodded and headed out of the room, escorted by Jordan the butler. Karen relaxed a little, now that there was only her mother around. Miranda placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder gently and smiled at her.

"You were magnificent, Karen," she stated, giving the shoulder a squeeze. "Your attention to detail is flawless, but even more, you have a gift, so in tandem, it is sublime to watch."

"Thank you, mother," Karen said, pausing in drinking. She didn't want to give herself a cramp.

"Relax, my angel, class is over," Miranda cooed, kneeling down now in front of her beloved child. "It's just me now. Be lazy, girl."

Karen exhaled loudly and flopped down on the sprung wood floor, sitting with her legs crossed. She felt a weariness in her muscles, even though the lesson had only been an hour. "These dances are hard, mother."

"Maybe, but that's why they're worth learning, my heart," Miranda pointed out gently, caressing Karen's cheek. "If it were easy, it wouldn't be worth doing, would it?"

"Maybe not, but it would be a pleasant change," Karen admitted, making her mother laugh. Karen could be so unintentionally funny sometimes.

"Kids your age, they don't know the old dances anymore," her mother said, shaking her head. "All they want to do now is that disco dancing and wiggling around like that Shaun Cassidy boy. And there's nothing wrong with knowing those dances, but when it's

all

you know, well... what good is it? Somebody needs to preserve the past. Always. Meet and embrace the future, Karen, but always embrace the past as well."

Karen looked up and smiled now. "I will, mother."

Moments later, Jonathon Blackwell entered the room, reading some kind of financial report. He stopped and looked up, noticing the girls as if he hadn't expected to see them in the studio he'd wandered into.

"Father," Karen said, getting to her feet. "I just finished my dance class."

"Hm," he mused, assessing her. "And what were we learning today?"

Karen considered: "They were ragtime dances."

Jonathon looked at looked at Miranda, his eyebrow raised. "Not the cakewalk, one would hope. She has no business learning that."

His wife smiled and shook her head. "No, Jonathon."

"Good," he said nodding and returning to the papers in his hand. "Keep up the good work, Karen."

He exited without another word. Karen sighed inwardly, knowing that was all her father would have to say about her dancing. She turned to other matters and looked at her mom. "Mother, why does he not want me to do that cakewalk dance? Is it a lewd dance?"

Miranda stifled a laugh. "No, my dear, but he thinks it would not be appropriate for you to learn. And I think I agree with him."

"But why? I thought it was important to learn them all."

Her mother considered how to explain. "After the black people were emancipated from their slavery in the States, they had dances they did, one of which was called a cakewalk, which supposedly mimicked the movements of their former white masters. Remember... remember when we watched 'Meet Me In St Louis' and Judy Garland did that dance song and dance with the younger girl?"

Karen nodded. "Under The Bamboo Tree, yes."

"Remember near the end, when they had the hats and canes and did that elongated strut and little kick dance?"

Karen nodded again.

"That is a small part of a cakewalk. Black people did it, and then minstrels often did. It shows up in odd places in popular culture over the years, but you should not do it, even if it's fun."

The daughter frowned. "Father doesn't want me to do a dance because it is a black person dance?"

Miranda smiled again. "Yes and no, my dear. It isn't prejudice, no. What he is saying is that white people, especially affluent white people, have no business appropriating a dance from another people's culture, especially their travails, if that makes sense. Would you dance like native people do, when we visit those demonstrations and powwows at the Exhibition?"

Karen shook her head almost vehemently. "No, no, not without being invited by them. That would be disrespectful."

Miranda smiled and nodded, putting her hand on Karen's shoulder. "Then let this one dance slip by, sweetheart. If you happen to have a black friend who teaches it to you, by all means, oblige them. But I think you can safely let the cakewalk alone."

Karen sighed and shook her head while looking at the floor. "So many rules and niceties."

Her mother giggled. "Big words for a little girl. Come, since your father is clearly occupied with numbers, why don't we go have some fun? Gelato, maybe?"

Karen smiled and nodded, rising and taking her mother's hand.

***

The meeting had been an intense one so far, as Karen and Alexa exited the boardroom, sighing as if in exhaustion. Alexa dealing with Ripley so harshly had certainly set the tone for a dynamic discussion, but Karen understood and approved of her younger sister's actions all the same. Everyone else had already left for the planned break, so they were alone as they headed to the lounge.

"How are you holding up?" Karen asked, looking at her little sister. "So far, so good?"

"Oh, yeah," Alexa replied, shaking the tension out of her arms. "Total cakewalk."

Karen allowed herself a private smile as they continued walking. "I'm willing to bet most of them are already off in private rooms, talking on their cellphones, but there will be a few of them in the lounge, refreshing themselves, no doubt. Uncle Alistair and such, maybe Aunt Florence."

"I think they're genuinely interested and eager to see me," mused the blonde. "Whatever their motives might be in the meetings, they seem to want to know me."

"Of course they do," Karen chided, nudging her sister and smirking. "We're not

all

ravening wolves, you know."

The elevator was taking them down to the second floor, where the lounge was. Alexa looked around the elegant space they were in.

"There cameras in here?" she asked.

"No," Karen replied. "And the trip to the second floor is about sixteen seconds."

"Then

please

kiss me, Kar," Alexa breathed, the stress in her voice showing. "We don't need to make out, ju-"

The word stopped in her mouth as her older sister pressed her lips to Alexa's and kissed her lovingly. Alexa sighed as if in relief and they held one another by the upper arms, enjoying their intimacy. They felt the elevator come to a smooth stop all too quickly and they separated, facing the front again, with their hands folded in front of them.

"Wah ..." Alexa said quietly, her voice tinged with regret.

"I know," Karen agreed. "We'll pick it up later. God knows, I'll need to."

The door opened and they walked into a small foyer. In front of them

stood

two large, heavy oak doors studded with old black iron nails. The handles were brass, and the small brass sign indicated it was indeed the lounge.

"The doors and a lot of the furniture were brought over from England when the family moved in various waves," Karen explained. "If you understand the concept of the 'Old Boys Club,' then you understand the visual I'm painting for you."

Alexa nodded: "So I'm drinking Scotch and smoking cigars?"

"Scotch, yes, but no cigars in the lounge, I'm glad to report," Karen smirked

.

"Thank God," Alexa breathed. "I can barely handle the smell of Freja's weed, but cigars are just death. Okay, let's do this ..."

"Remember," said the older sister, "keep the negotiations in the boardroom; they might try to put you off your game down here."

The younger sister nodded, stepped forward, and dutifully opened the heavy, ancient door for her elder sibling, gesturing for her to enter. Karen smiled and caressed her cheek as she went through, and Alexa followed. There were maybe half a dozen family members in the lounge, sitting around in various cushioned chairs at low tables. Their Uncle Alistair saw them enter and rose, coming to greet them courteously, a nearly empty tumbler in his hand.

"Good to see you both," he said, nodding to them. "You'll be happy to know, Karen, that your mother's family recently acquired and sent us a supply of the good stuff, via their connections in Islay."

"Do we still have that bottle of the 25

th

anniversary Lagavulin?" the elder sister queried.

"Hm, I do like Lagavulin," Alexa remarked. "Go single malt or go home."

Alastair looked at her in mild surprise. "You know your Scotches, Alexandra?"

"I'm every bit as Gordon as my sister, uncle," Alexa laughed prettily. "Not to mention I spent a good deal of my life close to Scotland with mom; trips there were not uncommon."

Alistair smiled: "I may be in the minority in the family, but I personally miss Miranda. Let's have a drink in her memory, shall we?"

Alistair turned and headed toward the bar that dominated one wall, with Karen and Alexa following. Alexa gave her sister a subtle look, and Karen nodded. It indicated that her Uncle Alistair's gesture was genuine, and not a ploy. Stepping up to the bar, they were greeted by an elderly man of stern aspect. But for his lack of hair, he could have been a Blackwell.

"I'm back, Lloyd," Alistair remarked, leaning forward. "And I have the two prettiest women in Quebec with me."

"That you do, sir," the man answered, nodding to the sisters. "Mrs. Gordon, always a pleasure to see the CEO. And this must be Alexandra."

"Nice to meet you, Lloyd," Alexa said back, smiling.

"Oh, we've met before, miss," the bartender said, holding up a finger. "But you'd only just been born. You're as remarkable as promised to be."

Alexa felt a slight sting of loss inside, but ignored it. "Thank you. And I dated a boy named Lloyd when I lived in Cardiff. He was a very nice young man, I'll expect no less of his namesake."

"Oh, I like her," Lloyd said, allowing himself a laugh. "So what'll we be having?"

Alistair looked at Karen, who considered. "Save the anniversary Scotch for now, we'll need it soon enough. I'll have a Balvenie, Lloyd. Rocks, please."

"Lagavulin for me, please," Alexa said. "Eighteen years if you have it, with water."

Alistair ordered the same as Alexa, and the three toasted Miranda, allowing Lloyd to join them. Once he'd shuffled off to look after his bar, Karen and Alexa went with their uncle to sit in large, comfortable chairs around a low table that looked out a window. The vista beyond showed the riot of colours that was Quebec in the middle of fall.

Alexa gazed around the room, noting that Karen had indeed been correct about the atmosphere of the lounge. The walls were painted a faded, dark rose, and dark wood panelling that looked very old dominated the décor. Paintings of family members from generations past were arranged around the walls, and with Karen's help, she'd memorized them all.