Fighting for Arielle (18 page)

I put my hand on her thigh under the table and pat it lightly and playfully.
 

“Only you would think so much about that and have the most specific and off-the-wall demands.”

She pulls away and sits up, looking toward me with widened pupils in which I think I can see my reflection.  Or my soul. 

“That is not even close to off-the-wall, but I’ll take it as a compliment.
 I’ve made a commitment to live my life to the fullest and appreciate everything it has to offer.  When my body stops working, and I leave this realm, I want to be remembered for that, and not in some serious, somber way.  Memorials and funerals are to remember and celebrate a person’s life, who they were, and what you loved about them.  I’m a loud person, so why would I want a reverent remembrance?  I don’t know where we go after this life, but I hope it’s some place with a giant dance floor so I can keep doing what I love.”

“Just one more thing to love abou
t you, Arielle Abbott.”  I take my index finger and tap the end of her nose.

“You don’t think about those things?”

“No.  Why would I?  The thought of anyone’s death, especially yours, is not something I want to think about.  The thought makes me sick with heartache, so no, I don’t try to feel that.”

Arielle begins playing with her fingers in her
lap while she looks at them.  “I think feelings, good or bad, are wonderful to experience.  As humans, we have the privilege to not only feel an entire spectrum of emotions, but we have the ability to emote, empath, and verbalize them.  I think experiencing emotions of all kinds is not only a privilege, but beautiful.”  

She looks up at me
with the most undiluted gaze.  “Think about art in its purest form; art is an expression of emotion.  There’s something so pure and perfect about expressing, experiencing, and understanding raw, unadulterated emotion.  I think it’s the most honest a person can be with oneself, and its expression is a gift.”

I look into her pure face and think how she is a gift.
 I can’t remember what life was like before her, but I don’t want to remember, nor do I care to try.

“My turn to draw,” I say
, lifting the hat.  

I dig my hand in,
pull up a piece of paper, and unfold it.  

“
If you were any type of worm, what would you be?
”  

I shake my head and wonder where
she comes up with things like this.

She closes her eyes, as if she hasn’t already thought of her answer to this question bef
ore I drew it out of the hat.  “If I were a worm, I'd be a silkworm.  They are awesome.  They attach to one another and build beautiful tapestries and fabrics that leave a long lasting beauty and mark on this planet, and they don't even know it.”

I want to give an answe
r as poignant as hers, so I am pensive, but then the perfect answer comes to me.  

“If I were a worm, I would be a glow worm.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes.  “Because you think you're so bright?”

“No, Ms. Know-it-all,” I say, returning the same attitude.

“Do tell.”  She raises an eyebrow of interest.

I smile compassionately, but don’t look at her directly.
 

“S
o I could light the way for you- illuminate your path out of the darkness.  I want to show you the way to love and adoration and everything else you so deserve.  You deserve to be cherished, worshipped, caressed, and never to be taken for granted.”

Arielle takes in a breath.
 

“Wow.
 I didn't expect that.”  

I didn’t either, if I’m honest with myself.
 

“I guess you could say I
enlightened
you.”

I am on a roll with perfect responses right now.

“Oh my good llama!  You are such a dork!!  But, you’re the most adorable dork ever.”  

Arielle, reaches over to me and gently massages my ear as sh
e searches my face- for what, I’m not certain.  Then, she leans into me and kisses me delicately.  I love all of her kisses.  They all speak different words and sometimes even different languages, but I understand each and every one.

We hold hands as we get up from the table and walk into the grass, which is cool and soft.
 We sit next to one another, she lays her head on my shoulder, and we look out onto the moon reflecting off the water.  I hear Arielle taking in controlled and deliberate breaths as if she’s gearing up to say something.  I wait patiently for her to say what she needs to say.  

Upon completion of a few more deep breathing exercises, she keeps her head on my shoulder, looking out onto the water, and says hesitantly, “Show me the way.”

Not sure that I heard her correctly, I ask to clarify.  “What?”

She keeps staring at the water, but grips my hand tighter.
 

“Show me the way.
 I trust you to light the way.  Lead the way, and I am right there behind you.”

I think my heart may swell out of my chest, much like the Grinch’s did in the original Christmas cartoon, which is a ludicrous visualization at the moment.
 She lifts her head, searching my face in the darkness.  

“I'd rather you be beside me,” I say as I take in her soft and lovely features.

 Her eyes show a degree of uncertainty.  I smile in response and brush her wavy hair behind her ear.  

“I will hold your hand the entire way.”

Arielle’s face is illuminated by the moonlight, and I can see signs of both worry and hope in it.  Her expression is earnest as she asks, “Promise?”

“Scout’s honor.”
 

I kiss her knuckles one by one as she nestles her head closer in my shoulder.
 

I am both thrilled and fearful of her trusting me so unconditionally.
 The gift of holding someone’s heart is a monumental responsibility with the potential for very grave and detrimental consequences.  It is not a decision to be taken lightly, but Arielle trusts me enough to give it to me, and I will prove to her that I am worthy of her tribute.  I need to show her what she means to me and how seriously I feel about her.  I need her to know, without a doubt, that she too holds my heart, and together we are complete.  I will protect her and devote myself to her happiness, because from this moment forward, my life and future is no longer I or me- only us.

I run my hand over her soft hair and inhale her.
 I brush my thumb behind her ear and move it down her cheek, across her jaw, and to her chin.  I gently pull away, leaving her chin resting in my hand, and lower my head so that my eyes are level with hers.  

I look into her uncertain, yet trusting eyes.
 

“Let’s wrap the moon around us and feel what it is for me to worship you.”

Arielle

L
ast Sunday, McCrary said he would worship me and that is certainly what he did.  Over and over again.  My body is still reeling in gratification from the bliss that he thrust me into multiple times over the course of that night as I think about it.  I hope more of that is on our agenda for today’s Day of Rest, but first, we are supposed to visit the Navy Exchange and Commissary to pick up some things so I can introduce McCrary to some authentic Mexican food.  I allow a reprieve from Shells and Cheese for the week because I am really craving food like my grandmother made for us when I was growing up.

Before we set out on our foray into public together for the first time since we officially crossed the relation
ship boundary from professional to personal to intimate, we devise a plan to split up and each gather some specific items so we are not seen together.  The longer I work on base, the more I’m beginning to see what a small and tightly-knit community the military is.  With Brody being in the fleet and stationed on Pearl Harbor, he’s part of an even smaller subset of that community.  Unfortunately, I’ve been subjected to being around more of his fellow sailors than I would have liked.  Not that they are necessarily bad people, I was just never myself and always a target of ridicule from Brody in their company.  I have seen some of them in my morning PT sessions, as well as here and there in the gym.  I’m usually surprised they even remember or recognize me, but somehow I manage to leave some sort of lasting impression on them.  

We exit McCrary’s Jeep in the large parking lot of the Exchange mall and Commissary
, and I’m singing the
Mission Impossible
theme in my head.  If I’m going to have to be secretive, I’m going to pretend that I have to be incognito.  I playfully duck between cars and peek around the corners as if I’m looking out for bad guys or fellow spies.  McCrary tries to stifle his laughter, but he can’t.  He walks into the large, automatic doors first, shaking his head and laughing at seemingly nothing, and I decide he looks just as curious to passersby as I.  

I head into the Exchange and make a beeline to the Bath a
nd Body Works/Victoria’s Secret/smelly stuff section.  I am drawn to good smelling things like a moth to a flame.  They get me hook, line, and sinker, every time.  Plus, when they’re on sale, who am I to turn my nose up at them?  Literally?  They’re just asking for me to take at least four new bottles home.  Granted, this is not what I actually came here for, but I can’t seem to remember what I came here for because I catch a glimpse of lots of shiny baubles in the fine jewelry cabinets to my left.  

I am the equivalent of the proverbial kid in a candy store when it comes to accessories, jewelry, and all things shiny.
 If it were socially acceptable to
ooo
and
ahh
as well as drool at shiny things, I totally would.  I am primarily drawn to green stones and gems, particularly peridot.  I spy a very large, light green stone set on a delicate gold band, and I could swear a single beacon of light is shining down on it from above, calling me to it.  I have to try it on.  I have tiny fingers, so I know it will be too big, but I don’t care; it’s calling to me.

As I predicted, the band is too big.
 It’s a size 6, which fits my index finger.  Too big or not, it looks fantastic on my finger.  At least, I think so.  The sales clerk marvels at my fingers that she agrees are tiny and asks what size my ring finger is.  I inform her my ring finger is a size 4.  She doesn’t seem to believe me, so she measures it with the ring sizers.  I purse my lips in an “I told you so” look as she looks back at me incredulously.

I walk away from the gems and sparkling jewelry, but continu
e to gawk at them as I move.  Not looking in front of me, I slam into something solid, which I initially think is a wall, but it’s too warm and familiar to be a wall.  I recognize what, or rather who, I’ve crashed into.  Instinct makes me want to hug him and linger at his chest, but I remember my surroundings and quickly jump back, a little unsure of how to react.

“Whoa there.
 You ought to watch where you’re going, young lady,” McCrary’s oh so familiar voice rings out.

I look up and take in the bemusement in his face.
 

“Do I know you?”
 I ask in as questioning of a voice as I can make.  “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.  I volunteer at a retirement in home not far from here…”

McCrary’s eyes light up as if I’ve just challenged him.
 

“Hmmm...
  I haven’t visited any retirement homes lately.”  He places his finger thoughtfully to his chin.  “Do you subscribe to any magazines with models in them?  You may have seen me in one of those.”

Two can play at this game.
 

“No...
  I can’t say that I do.  In fact, I don’t subscribe to any real form of media, so that’s definitely not it.”  

I look around me, trying to think of a witty comeback.
 

“Oh!
 Perhaps it’s the Taco Bell I visit on an almost daily basis.  Do you work there?”

I wonder if anyone aside from the two of us can hear or even cares about our conversation.
 

McCrary fires back.
 “Taco Bell?  Seeing as how I am an attorney, and I am not 16, no, I don’t work there. No offense to the lovely people who do.”  I watch as his eyes move down my body.  “Have I maybe seen you in a gentlemen’s club or something?”

I see what he’s getting at, so I decide to up the ante.
 

“No, I don’t work at one of those places, but I do dance professionally as a burlesque dancer.”
 I shift my weight to one foot so that I’m leaning toward him.  “Most well-educated people can tell the difference between a trained burlesque dancer and a stripper.  Not that strippers don’t have skills and talent, but it’s not even close to the same.”

Before he can retort, I continue.
 “That must be where I know you from.  I meet so many people at my shows and have so many fans, it’s hard to remember each and every face I see, but it’s so sweet that you recognize me.”  

I lean in more,
lowering my voice to a purr.  “In fact, I’m here shopping for cheap drugstore red lipstick to go with my royal blue thigh-high hooker boots I’m wearing in a private gig tonight.”   

I flash him an innocent smile as I see him processing my words and trying to keep his arousal at bay.
 

“Anyway,” I say louder, “I better get going so I can finish getting my supplies for my next show.
 It’s always fun unexpectedly bumping into a fan.  You enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”

I strut away feeling so proud of myself
, until I realize I just told him I was going to wear blue hooker boots for him when we get back.  I don’t fret over it for long, though.  I did actually pack them with the intention of wearing them, but I didn’t intend to tell him about it ahead of time.  I shrug and wander over to the lipstick with a little more bounce in my step.

W
e have a fun time shopping and pretending not to know one another.  I dart around the corners of aisles and sneak eye contact with him, and he mouths things to me when no one is paying attention.  

After our shopping, we return to his house
, and I do my best impression of my grandmother’s cooking.  I introduce McCrary to fideo and homemade tortillas.  We eat and clean up the mess we made cooking, then I take a shower alone.  When I get out, I adorn myself in my usual smoky eye makeup and deep red lipstick I wear for shows, as well as a black bra, waist cincher, and lacy panties.  Having the wardrobe of a burlesque dancer does have its perks.  I pull what I lovingly refer to as my blue hooker boots over my knees to my thighs and look myself over in the mirror before I head back out into the living room. 

I
expect to find McCrary doing what he’s normally doing any time I leave the room, which is reading legal journals, studying case law, or looking off into space as he taps his pen on his yellow legal pad.  The sound from my heels echos down the hallway, and I hear the tapping of his pen stop as I come into view.  McCrary’s lips part some, and he looks at me in awe.  

“Wow.
 You look so hot. Stunning.  I thought you were just teasing me earlier, but boy am I glad I was wrong.  You look...amazing.”

I flash him a devious smile.
 “Like I always say, I don’t start what I can’t finish.”               

I amaze myself with my boldness sometimes, but
with McCrary, it feels less brazen because it seems so natural.  I’ve found the only person I truly desire to dance for and wear sexy clothes in front of.  Before him, I danced on stage as an outlet to keep a part of myself alive and retain some semblance of control over my sexuality.  Now that I’m coming back into my own on a regular basis, I see that I don’t need or want anyone but him.  

I pour more sensuality into my private dance than I’ve put into all of my other performances combined.
 Oddly enough, standing here in my sluttiest clothes, giving the performance of a lifetime, I come to the realization that I love this man sitting in front of me.  Maybe it’s not so much that I suddenly realize it now as opposed to allowing myself to admit it, but regardless, I am certain I am in love with McCrary.  He is my one.  My only.  

I am prepared to show him how much he means to me, and show him is exactly what I do.