Let Me Count The Ways

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2007, PG Forte. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Mike

I guess you could say I fell for Claire Calhoun the first time I saw her up there on the big silver screen. I don’t know what it was about her that affected me so strongly. Maybe it was the Titian hair. The sultry shimmer in those hazel, hellcat eyes. The curve of her lips when she turned and smiled right at the camera--right at
me
. Whatever it was, it was simply... stunning. Literally. It hit me hard and low and just wouldn’t quit.

She looked like an angel with all that California sunshine spilling down around her; like sweet, lust-inducing innocence dipped in honey. A vision straight from some Garden of Earthly Delights.

But if her face was made for heaven, everything south of that had been built with a far different destination in mind. Her body was sinful enough to tempt even a saint into straying. Happily. Right through the gates of Hell. And I’m far from being a saint.

Despite my on-going fascination with the woman, I’d just like to state for the record that I never deluded myself into believing we had a relationship. Claire could have been as fictional as any of the characters she played for all the good I figured it was ever going to do me. There had to be at least a million other guys in the world who wanted her as badly as I did and I knew any number of them were more likely than I to even meet her. Not that it stopped me from dreaming, of course. But dreaming, fantasizing, collecting memorabilia--along with copies of every one of her films I could get my hands on--that’s as far as it went.

For a while, Claire’s name was box office magic. Everything she touched turned golden. But then a string of unsuccessful movies and even less successful relationships caused her star to plummet. These days, her screen appearances are mostly limited to round-ups subtitled ‘
Where Are They Now?
’

To me, however, Claire would always be a major star, a full blown fantasy, a lush and lovely dream come true. Which is why I could scarcely believe my eyes the day she walked into my office hoping to secure my services as accountant to her new exercise studio, The Body Electric.

To say I was star-struck in her presence is to understate the case by a very, very wide margin. I was hopelessly tongue-tied, socially inept, and all but physically impaired by the kind of hard-on most men my age have given up expecting to achieve without pharmaceutical assistance. It still surprises me that we both made it through that first meeting; that I didn’t embarrass myself any worse than I had; that she didn’t bolt for the door after spending less than five minutes in my bumbling presence.

Luckily for me, I had come highly recommended by Claire’s attorney, Dave Gillen. Dave, who’d recently extricated Claire from marriage number six and brokered the deal that allowed her to walk away with enough money to start her business in the first place, was also one of my oldest clients.

Claire trusted Dave, Dave trusted me, and the rest, as they say, is history...

Claire

Yoga is not easy,
so the Bhagavad Gita warns,
for those whose minds are not subdued
. But I can tell you, it’s pretty damn hard for any of us. Especially after forty.

I suppose I shouldn’t say such things. After all, Yoga did save my life. I turned to it in much the same way Tina turned to Buddhism after Ike. Married to a cruel, emotionally distant man, my career, my health, my looks, my self esteem had all hit the skids. Yoga offered me a way out, a way back. It offered sanity, peace of mind, discipline, and the courage I needed to pick myself up and turn my life around.

That’s why I used the money I got in my divorce settlement to open The Body Electric. I wanted to give something back, to share the blessings I’d received, to support myself by working at something I could still believe in. Still, as the Gita says, it’s not easy. Of course, the same can be said of pretty much anything; business, relationships, life itself. There are days, and today was definitely one of them, when it all seems damn near impossible.

Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling smoked glass that lined one entire wall of my second-floor office, I watched the class working out in the studio below me. A dozen and a half youthful beauties--mostly female--twisted their bodies into pretzels. Willingly. Eagerly. Effortlessly.

The first two were something I could completely understand and totally empathize with, given that their instructor was Derek Novello. Derek has some of the most beautiful musculature I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot. What woman wouldn’t be eager to give her all for a piece of that? But the effortless part--now, that’s where they had me beat. That’s what had me feeling every last year of my age today.

How many years, you wonder? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but there are some things I just don’t share. Age is nothing but a number, you know, and a girl’s entitled to keep a few secrets.

Derek is the most popular teacher we have here, which is saying rather a lot. Especially when you consider that his classes are also among the hardest we offer. He’s tough enough to challenge the men to push themselves to their limits, charming enough to make the women want to melt--into those same willing pretzels I’ve mentioned.

Tireless, talented, passionate, intense. Derek brings everything he has to his teaching. For almost five months, he brought most of it to our lovemaking, too. All but his heart. That, I suppose, was par for the course, and frankly I wasn’t expecting anything more. These older woman/younger man things rarely last long and are almost never about love. I knew the moment it was over. Probably before he did. I could tell right away that Derek’s heart had been lost to a pretty blonde pretzel.

Still, I really can’t complain. I’ve been dumped before, but never so discreetly. To the casual observer I’m sure it appeared that I’d tired of him, rather than the other way around. I think even the pretzel was confused. And, in the months since our affair ended, I’d discovered another reason to be thankful. I no longer have to take even one of his classes. I can’t tell you what a relief that’s been!

At least I still look fit,
I thought, taking a step back so that I could see my reflection in the glass. I sucked in my tummy, tucked in my buns, pivoted from side to side. “Not bad,” I murmured as I thrust back my shoulders and studied my breasts, wondering how much longer I could get away without having them lifted. “But you’re not what you used to be, that’s for sure.”
Still, things could be worse, and no doubt they will be, in time.

“Nonsense,” a male voice insisted from somewhere behind me. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

I spun around, startled to find Mike Sherman watching from the doorway--which just goes to show you the kind of funk I’d been in all day. I’d totally forgotten his standing, bi-monthly appointment to go over the books, three p.m. every other Thursday.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his face flaming. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Don’t be silly.” Calling on all my training to hide my own embarrassment, I rolled my eyes and grimaced slightly. “Actors, you know.” I waved my hand in a negligent gesture as I seated myself--not in my chair but on the edge of my desk--where my crossed legs would appear to their best advantage. “We’re always so focused on appearances.”
And ain’t that the truth?

“Well, you have to be, don’t you? The same way singers have to take care of their voices.” He looked so sincere as he said it too. As if he really might mean it.

“What a nice way of putting it.” I beamed at him as he crossed the room to his own desk. “How are things with you, Mike? How’s your day going?”

He didn’t answer right away. A small smile played over his lips as he slid his briefcase beneath the desk and seated himself. Then he glanced up at me, his eyes twinkling. “It’s always a good day when I know I’m going to see you, Claire. Don’t you know that?”

“Flatterer.” Laughing, I leaned forward a little, just enough to flash some cleavage in his direction. Call it a reward, if you will. “You have all the right answers today, don’t you?”

If they ever make a movie of my life, no doubt they’ll get someone like Danny DeVito to play the part of Mike, which will be a shame. Don’t get me wrong, I think Danny is a fine actor and he’s got the bald head, the soulful brown eyes and the teddy bear physique the part calls for. He’ll do a fine job of catching the nervous, slightly awkward exuberance Mike exhibited when we first met. But there’s so much more to the role than that.

For starters, Mike is big. Brian Denehy big. With Denehy’s surprising gracefulness--when he’s not acting all nervous. Mike, I mean. Then there’s his impeccably trimmed beard, the wicked twinkle in his eye and his rare and wondrous smile, all of which bring Sean Connery to mind.

But, even though Sean would be a dream to work with, if I were casting for the part I’d go for something different. I’d pick someone like a young James Earl Jones, for example. For his eyes and his smile and his size. For his astonishing ability to shift from fearful to fierce, from stern to boyish, from gentle to regal to commanding to jovial--or back again, or all at once. But, more than anything else, for his voice. For that deep, dark, delicious river of sound that could never be anything but male and can’t help but leave you wondering,
why all the fuss about Tenors?

“It doesn’t count as flattery if it’s fact,” Mike replied in that lovely, low rumble of his.

“Oh, fact, is it?” I couldn’t help but smile as I recalled my recent conversation with Dave, my lawyer, over tapas and drinks. Dave had been pleased I’d taken his advice and gone to see Mike, but he’d seemed shocked by the deal we’d worked out...

“He’s handling it himself?” Dave asked, looking up from his seared tuna, clearly having trouble coming to grips with the idea. “Didn’t he assign you to one of the people who works for him? You don’t have to bring your paperwork there? He just shows up at your office--himself--every month?”

“No, twice a month,” I corrected, nibbling at the celery stalk that had come in my michelada. “Why? Isn’t that what you told me to do--to hire someone reputable? Someone I could trust? You said he was the best.”

“I know I did, but, damn it, Claire, he doesn’t even do that for me anymore, and I was one of his very first clients! How much is he charging you, anyway?”

Surprised, I told him.

“Oh, hell, no,” Dave replied, sounding almost insulted. “That’s nothing!”

I sipped my drink and refrained from pointing out that, in my current financial state, it hadn’t seemed quite like nothing to me. Then again, neither had Dave’s fees. You get what you pay for, I suppose.

Dave’s gaze had turned speculative. If he were anyone else, I know exactly what he’d have been thinking--that I must be giving Mike some additional form of compensation. Entirely too many people still confuse the terms ‘actress’ and ‘prostitute’.

“He’s a fan, Dave,” I tried to explain. “It’s not that uncommon.” Although, these days, I’m afraid it really is.