Sweet Dreams

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: drag, mumble, penetrate



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Sweet Dreams

She raced down a dark alley; mile-high walls of concrete speared up on either side. Behind her, heavy footsteps followed, unhurried, knowing there was no escape. There never was.

Over and over she ran down this narrow lane, came upon the same door that was always locked. As she struggled with the handle, willing it to open, the footsteps came closer until they were right behind her. Arms—dozens of them, it seemed—wrapped around her, groping and probing. Stale rum and cheap cigars filled her nostrils. Her stomach lurched.

“Miranda.” Craig’s voice penetrated the terror that suffocated her. “Miranda. It’s just a dream, baby. Open your eyes. That’s it.”

When she pushed away, he pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her. He rocked her and crooned, as he would a frightened child, until she stopped trembling.

As the fog lifted and the nightmare faded away, Miranda was aware that she was being held, that Craig stroked her hair.

“I’m ok now,” she said, and rolled away from him. Embarrassed and ashamed, she sat on the edge of the bed. “I should go home.”

“What? No way.” Craig hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her back, coaxed her to lie down. He propped himself up on one arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Miranda closed her eyes. “No.”

“You need to.”

“No I don’t. And certainly not to you.”

“Why not me?”

Because, thought Miranda, I’m falling for you and I don’t want you to walk away like Gregg did. I can’t survive that again.

“Miranda, I probably understand a lot more than you give me credit for.” Her eyes shifted to his. He brushed the short fringe across her forehead. “He’ll keep winning if you keep it locked up inside of you.”

She crumbled then, covered her face with both hands and let the tears flow. It was too good to be real, she thought. He was setting her up so he could kick her down, she was certain of it. Once he knew how fucked up she was, he’d walk away, never looking back.

Craig said nothing. He simply wrapped himself around her, pulled her close and spooned behind her. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

That small promise, the certainty of it, made her turn and face him.

“I should have told you this before.”

“So tell me now.” He pressed his lips on her forehead.

And she did.

Craig listened in silence, his only reaction was to close his eyes at times. When he did, Miranda could see his jaw working as he struggled with his anger, but he let her finish. She waited for him to leap out of bed, tell her it was all her fault, say he couldn’t be with someone who had so much baggage.

“I have never met anyone as strong as you.”

“What?”

“Most people would crawl into a dark cave and never come out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I know. That’s what makes you strong.” He cupped her face, thumbed away the last tear. “Feel better?”

“Um. Yeah, actually, I do.” She felt light, like she was floating.

“Good. Think you can sleep now?”

Exhaustion hit her then. “Yeah.” She mumbled something incoherent as she snuggled into him.

He smiled as her eyes drooped. “Sweet dreams, Miranda.”

Craig was next to her when she woke, a protective arm around her. Miranda leaned into him. She was finally safe.



This is the end of Miranda's story...at least here. Stories, such as these, never really end. The nightmares never go away, they just become bearable.

Dreams and Nightmares

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: grin, jumble, naked



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Dreams and Nightmares

Craig stood in the doorway wearing loose jeans and a snug, white t-shirt. One hand rested on his hip, the other held the door open. His face held no expression and he made no move to let her in. Miranda began to think this was a bad idea. Maybe she’d read the cues wrong.

“Are you…are you going to ask me in?”

“What? Oh. Sure.” Craig stepped aside.

She brushed by him, dropped her shoes inside the door that opened into the living space of the small, tidy apartment. Craig inhaled her scent; the woodsy, vanilla aroma he’d come to associate with her. Chocolate chip cookies baking on a campfire. Somehow, it was both comforting and erotic.

Miranda set the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Should I have called first?”

“No. This is fine. How was the wedding?” He needed to make small talk. If he didn’t, he’d devour her.

“It was beautiful. Really beautiful.” Miranda wandered around the apartment, picking up photographs of his family. The fresh faces of his daughters smiled back at her.

“Were there a lot of people?”

“Too many.”

Craig shoved his hands in his pockets. “What happened when you saw him?”

Miranda turned to him, wrapped her arms around her waist. “Not what I expected.”

Craig pursed his lips, nodded, cursed himself for waiting. It was too late. He blew it.

“I was surprised, actually.” Miranda took a step toward him. “Maybe the marriage didn’t work, but there was all the time before that. When things were good. You know what I mean?”

He didn’t know where the pain came from, but he ached so much he could hardly breathe. “Yeah. I know.”

She was a whisper away from him now, peering up with those innocent eyes that teased, her fragrance swirling around him.

“And when I realized it, you were the first person I wanted to tell.”

He actually groaned. Why was she torturing him like this? “You wanted to tell me?”

Miranda nodded, a wicked grin playing on her lips. She moved in, pressed against him. “I wanted to tell you…” her lips moved against his as she spoke “…when I saw him, I only thought of you.” She traced her tongue across his jaw. The evening stubble was rough and made her skin hum. “I only thought of being with you. Like this.”

It took only a moment for those words to register, for Craig to realize she’d come here to seduce him and not to tell him she was going back with that idiot. He spun her around and pressed her against the wall. Words jumbled as they devoured, promised, pleaded, cursed.

In a practiced move, he lowered the zipper of her dress and let the fabric fall to the floor. Beneath was a lacy strapless bra and a tiny swatch of red lace at her crotch.

The thrill of power shot through Miranda when he sucked in his breath. She ran a manicured thumb across his lips. “You’re drooling,” she teased. “Let me get that.” She flicked her tongue at the corner of his mouth.

When he pulled her up, she wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to his bedroom, lay her down on the bed. As she scooted up towards the pillows, he crawled on all fours above her, his eyes following every movement, every curve.

It wasn’t the need ripping through her that made her heart stop. It was the look in his eyes; desire that promised and threatened. She couldn’t say which excited her more.

She reached for him, pulled him down so he stretched out on top of her. Miranda tried to flip him over so they would reverse positions, so she could take control—it was how she felt most comfortable. But Craig resisted. He pressed her back into the bed, cupped her face with his hands.

“Let me.”

His hands explored, softly, tenderly; his mouth teased. The roaring in her ears masked the mewling sounds she made as his tongue danced. Miranda floated higher and higher, her hips bucking, pleading, as she soared over the edge.

Craig skimmed his hands over her hips, trailed wet kisses up her belly, cupped his hands around her breasts, nuzzled her neck. He breathed promises into her ear, suckled on her lobe. Her breathing was heavy now, and the needy mewling sounds she made drove him wild. He skimmed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and linked his fingers with hers, pulled them up over her head.

He felt her stiffen, saw her eyes go wide as saucers and the terror snap through them like lightening. Anger warred inside him as he fought against the need to maim the bastard who’d made a passionate woman cringe like a beaten child.

He held both of her hands in one of his, her fists angry bunches beneath his palm. She bucked her hips, not in passion as before, but in anger and fear.

“Please don’t do this, Craig.” Her voice broke as she pleaded. It tore him apart.

He cupped her face with his free hand. “I won’t hurt you.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Look at me, Miranda.” He held her, waited until her eyes locked onto his. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m not him, baby.”

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Nodded. A singled tear leaked down her cheek and he kissed it away, flicked his tongue over the salty wetness. It pained him when she shuddered, but he pushed through it.

He brushed his lips along the softness below her ear, nipped at the delicate skin on her neck, one hand still restraining hers. As he nuzzled her throat, whispered her name over and over, her fingers unclenched, clasped with his. To test, he trailed his hands down her arms, over her breasts, then back up. It pleased him when she clutched them and pulled her arms higher with his, arched up in need. The climb was achingly sweet, and he dove with her when she plunged off the wall she’d begun to break down.

Afterwards, her head rose and fell with his breathing as it lay on his chest.

“Thank you for that.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

Miranda giggled. “That’s not what I meant.”

Craig brushed his hand across her hair. “I know what you meant.” He pressed a kiss on her head. “Will you stay?”

She lifted her head and tried to read the meaning behind the question. Just tonight, or longer? Forever, crossed her mind. She hesitated only a moment before she broke her own rule.

“I’ll stay.”

Later, when she woke naked and kicking, shoving at the terror that chased her each night in her dreams, she wondered if Craig regretted asking her.

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Killing Time

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: grace, jitter, thin



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Killing Time

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Craig cupped some nut mix from the bowl on the counter, popped a few in his mouth. The crowded bar flowed around them as though they were in a cocoon.

“It’s been almost a year. But, lucky me, I get to see him again in a few weeks.” Miranda gestured with her cocktail sword of impaled olives as she spoke. “A friend is getting married and I’m one of the bridesmaids. He’s invited. Friend of the groom.”

“And you’re still going?”

“She’s my friend. I can’t let her down. Besides,” Miranda smiled, her lips curling in a slow, wicked grin, “I’ve been working out with my trainer and I look fucking hot! He’s going to be sorry.”

Craig laughed, raised his glass in a toast. “To looking fucking hot.”

He felt sorry for her ex. She’d be all dolled up for the wedding—professional hair and makeup—and wearing that dress she’d showed him last week. She had picked it up from the salon and brought it back to the office to show the girls. He’d walked into the staff lounge as she held it up to show it off. Small, black and low cut, his mouth watered at its limp form on the hanger. Miranda may only be a friend, but he’d spent several nights imagining what she’d look like in it.

The poor bastard was going to be sorry he let her go, Craig thought. Then again, he didn’t deserve her. Miranda hadn’t told him everything, but Craig could tell there was a lot more to it than she let on. It pained him the way she cringed when he made a sudden move, as though she expected him to hit her. Jesus, what had that bastard done to her?

“If you feel like talking after, give me a call. No matter how late it is.”

Miranda set down her martini. “You’d let me wake you up just to talk?”

Craig shrugged. “I’ll probably be awake anyway. It’s what friends do, right?”

Miranda looked away while he signalled the server for another round of drinks. Right. Friends. That is all they were. It didn’t matter that she wanted more. It couldn’t. He was still married, technically. And he had kids. She wouldn’t be the deciding factor on whether his marriage flourished or failed.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer.”

“The offer stands. Any time.”

* * *

Miranda shook hands and air kissed more than a hundred people in the receiving line; her cheeks were numb from smiling. She wondered how politicians did it. While chatting with Wendy’s Great Aunt Olivia, Miranda heard a hiss next to her.

“He’s here!”

Her smile didn’t falter as she nudged the elderly woman down the line. But when Miranda’s eyes moved toward the hall entrance, the thin smile wavered. Gregg was handsome in a tailored suit, his hair, just a little too long, curled around his neck. She tried to gauge her feelings, whether she still cared for him, as the other bridesmaids had predicted.

“All those old feelings might come back,” they’d said.

It wasn’t a concept that Miranda dismissed. She admitted it was possible. So with an open mind, she watched Gregg greet the groomsmen, shake hands and clap shoulders. She waited while he had a shot of cognac with the groom, smiled when he hugged Wendy. He kissed the bridesmaid, Wendy’s sister, then shared a private joke with Sandra. When he took Miranda’s hand, she was the epitome of grace and poise, smiling as though she were greeting royalty. He kissed both cheeks, mumbled something incoherent, and moved on to the junior bridesmaid beside her.

That’s it? He’d walked by her as though she were a stranger. It was a moment before she realized that’s exactly what he’d thought. He turned back to her, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he took her hand.

“Miranda?”

She laughed. “Who did you think it was?”

“I didn’t recognize you. You look…” Gregg’s eyes raked up and down, took in the minimalist dress, her new cropped hair style, the toned body. “You look great.”

Yeah, I do, she thought. “Thanks.” The person next to Gregg cleared his throat. “You’re holding up the line,” said Miranda, and she withdrew her hand from his.

Something flickered in his eyes. Regret, shame, remorse. She didn’t know. And she didn’t care. In that moment, she had her answer. There was absolutely nothing left in her for Gregg.

When he’d moved on, and walked into the main hall away from the reception table, three heads turned to her.

“Well?”

Miranda smiled. “Not one little jitter.”

* * *

Elated, Miranda could think of only one person she wanted to share this news with. It was late when she arrived at Craig’s apartment unannounced. He had said he’d be up anyway. And wasn’t a visit better than a phone call?

Craig glanced at his watch when he heard the soft tap on the door. He expected to see Mrs. Fischer from 24D asking for help with something in her unit, though it occurred to him that it was a little late for handy work.

When he opened the door, the air rushed out of him and he was instantly hard.

Miranda stood in the doorway in the little black number. He wondered how she’d poured herself into it. Her short, spiky hair was teased with gold glitter and her eyes, painted up like a gypsy, still managed to have an air of innocence. Spiked heels dangled in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

“Busy?”

All Craig could think was, “Melissa was right. Miranda is going to kill me.”



* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Kittens

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Alright. I'm late. I mean REALLY late! This is from last week's prompt and ThomG has already posted this week's words. Ack!

Today's Last week's words: foolish, mercy, relish.



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Kittens

The days were long, the work load stressful and she only seemed to socialize with co-workers—coffee in the café and late take-out dinners in the staff lounge.

Miranda was in heaven and relished every moment.

The Hamerston team was a close family, sharing their personal highs and lows, revelling in joyous occasions and grieving in others. She understood how tight the group was when she spent her first weekend at the office.

Armed with a lengthy agenda, and a loaded briefcase, Miranda walked into her office and settled in for the day. Her face void of makeup (except for a swipe of mascara), comfortable in a pair of snug yoga pants and a fitted T, she sat at her desk and pulled her hair back in a long tail. She spent the morning keying in numbers to the database she’d created, flipping through files to confirm the status of furniture orders, and reviewing resumes—flagging the few she thought Rob McBride should interview.

Needing a break, Miranda pushed back from her desk and stood up to pace her office, rolling her shoulders to work out the kinks. She did a few stretches, lunged into a warrior pose. More relaxed, she tossed her empty take-out coffee cup in the garbage and grabbed her Hamerston mug from her desk, made her way to the café. Her hips swayed to the dance tune stuck in her head, her long, dark ponytail swinging with the beat.

Her face reddened the moment she walked into the café.

“Hey, Miranda! Sit down. Join us. Have a bite.”

The oval table was littered with coffee cups, containers of apple and orange juice, and enormous platters of bagels, croissants, donuts and fresh fruit. Sitting around the feast were Steven Abrahms, Melissa Wilkinson, and Craig Matthews. Steve and Craig wore suits. Melissa was more casual in dark trousers and a crisp white blouse that still managed to look couture. No one was dressed like Miranda.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here today. It is Saturday, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure,” said Steve, around a mouthful of bagel.

Melissa handed him a napkin as she rolled her eyes at Miranda. “Jim and Steve have a meeting today. Jim’s upstairs,” she explained when Miranda scanned the room. “Eva—she’s upstairs as well—thought she’d drop in to see if they needed any help. Me, I don’t live far from here, so I came in for brunch. And Craig…” Eva looked over at him.

Craig shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else to do.”

Truth was, he’d overheard Miranda tell McBride that she was coming in and he’d hoped to have the chance to talk with her. Maybe finish the conversation they were having yesterday. It wasn’t about anything, really. Just general life matters: his kids, her parents, his ex, and hers. There was something about the way she danced around his questions that made him want to find out more. It wasn’t that she avoided answering, it was more that she managed to change the subject, deflect the queries like a boomerang. He wanted to know more. And why. Why those chocolate eyes went dark when she was flustered and why she wouldn’t open up to him.

“There’s also a few people over in marketing who took their food to go. There’s plenty still. Why don’t you sit down?” Craig pulled out a chair next to him. “Fill up your mug and join us.”

She didn’t get it. It was Saturday, for chrissake. What the hell were they all doing here? And most of them didn’t even need to be. She didn’t want to sit down with them. She just wanted to go back to her office and maybe crawl into the hole that she hoped would miraculously swallow her up when she got there. What had possessed her to dress like a bum? If she’d known Craig would be here, she would have taken a little more care in her wardrobe, put on some makeup. Did her hair for god’s sake!

As much as she wanted to slink out of the kitchen, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head lecturing that it was rude to decline such a thoughtful invitation. Resigned, Miranda filled her mug and sat next to Craig. Her stomach was jumpy and she was sure she wouldn’t keep any food down.

That was soon set aside by Steve’s question. “So, what colour was your first bicycle, Miranda?”

She stared at him, certain he was making fun of her. But when he met her gaze with honest, questioning eyes, she knew he wasn’t.

“Red.” Miranda took a sip of her coffee, let herself fall back to that birthday. “Red tricycle, white seat. And white streamers that fluttered in the wind when I pedalled really fast.”

Melissa nodded, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, closed her eyes. “Mine was blue. With red and white streamers. Very patriotic.”

“My dad decorated mine with camouflage decals. I was going to war with my tryke.” Steve laughed at the memory.

Everyone shared childhood stories, besting each other with tales of broken bones and punishments meted out by strict parents. Miranda now understood the familial bond that held the team together. As voices talked over one another, she realized the tension she’d felt when she first joined the firm had lifted. She was accepted, considered part of the family.

“I hate to break up the party,” Miranda said, glancing at her watch, “but I really have to get some reports out for Rob.”

“We’re going out for drinks later. Want to join us?” Melissa began stacking plates and cups.

“Oh. Um, sure. Who’s going?” God, could she sound more high school?

“All of us. Eva bought a new outfit and she wants to show it off. And the gang from Finance is meeting us there.”

Despite willing them not to, Miranda’s eyes slid over to Craig’s. His stare was intense and she felt her cheeks burn. She pictured sitting next to him in a cramped bar, music pounding in the background, the smell of stale beer in the air mixed with the woodsy scent of his cologne.

“I’ll think about it. Thanks for inviting me.” She picked up her coffee mug and backed away from the table. “I gotta…” She made a vague gesture towards the door, spun around and walked out, cursing herself all the way to her office.



“Think she’ll come?” Melissa wrung out a dish cloth and wiped down the table.

“Who knows.” Steve pushed back from the table. “She keeps to herself a lot.”

“Not really. You just have to get her talking.” Craig regretted saying it before the sentence was complete.

Melissa stopped wiping the table. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing.” Craig sipped his coffee to avoid their stares. “Nothing!”

“Son,” said Steve, “if you don’t put the moves on that girl, you’re more foolish than I thought.”

“She’ll kill him under thirty minutes,” said Melissa.

“Probably.”

“Hey!” Craig threw his arms out. “Sitting right here!”

“You have to be blind not to see her.”

“I see her,” Craig mumbled.

“Well? Why aren’t you hitting on that? You get her under the sheets and you’ll be begging for mercy, I guarantee it. It’s always the quiet ones.” Steve nodded sagely, took a sip of his coffee.

Craig shot out of his chair. “Don’t talk about Miranda like that.”

Melissa reached out her hand, palm up. “Told ya.”

“Shit.” Steve reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and slapped it into Melissa’s open hand.

“Fuck you guys.” It was said with heat, but Craig was smiling. “I don’t know what it is about her.”

Melissa sank into a chair, cupped her chin in her hands. “She does have that abandoned kitten thing going.”

“That’s why I don’t get it.” Craig walked over to the sink, dumped his cold coffee. He flipped open the dishwasher and set his mug on the top rack. “Normally, I hate cats.”

“But this one,” he thought as he wandered out of the cafe, “this one, I want to follow me home.”


* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Patience is a Virtue

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

This is an old prompt from TWW. The words then were: feign, imply, virtue


Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Patience is a Virtue

“When you have a moment, Miranda, come into my office.” Rob McBride flicked his head toward the door. Miranda knew he meant now, not when she actually had a moment.

He had already turned away before she nodded her consent. Miranda eyed the reports waiting to be typed out. “I guess I’m working late. Again.”

She walked into Rob’s office.

“Close the door.”

This was serious. Rob seldom closed his door.

“Sit.”

Miranda dropped into the leather chair across from his desk, crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve had several meetings with Hamerston.”

Miranda nodded. Hamerston was the competition. She assumed Rob was just telling them to stop poaching.

“They made me a pretty sweet offer. The hire bonus is more than enticing and I’m guaranteed a retirement package. I’m not getting any younger, Miranda, I have to think about the future.”

Miranda felt sick. Rob was leaving. One of the few men she could trust, and he was leaving her.

“I gave notice a few weeks ago, so head office could find a temporary replacement. No one at this branch knows yet. Management is sending out a notice on Monday. I’ll be at Hamerston when you come back from vacation.”

Miranda departed tomorrow to spend two weeks with her girlfriends in Mexico. Wendy had called on Monday to announce that Sarah could get last-minute tickets for Manzanillo at a good price. Despite the short notice, Rob had insisted she go. Now she knew why.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She wouldn’t cry. And to be sure, she clamped the inside of her bottom lip until she tasted rust. “Were you just going to leave without saying goodbye?”

“I’m telling you now, Miranda.”

She couldn’t look at him. She was angry and hurt. It was like being abandoned.

“It’s not going to be the same without you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“What else would I say? You taught me everything, took me into your home, treated me like family. Am I ever going to see you again?”

Rob cocked his lips in a crooked grin. “I prepared something for you.”

He pulled an envelope from his top drawer, slipped out a folded page. Miranda took it and read through the three short paragraphs, glanced down below the closing line.

“What the hell is this?”

“I need your signature.”

“This is a letter of resignation, Rob. My letter of resignation, to be specific.”

“Don’t make me fire you, Miranda.”

What the hell was going on? She was just finding her balance and now her world was being snatched out from under her.

“I thought you were happy with my work.”

Rob threw his head back and laughed his baritone bark.

“I’m taking you with me. Your vacation is your notice. I already talked to HR about it. They owe you at least three weeks—plus what you didn’t take last year—so I negotiated for you and they’re giving you your two weeks as vacation and paying you out the other weeks.”

Miranda stared at him, unaware her mouth had dropped open.

“And a good severance package, of course. The deposit will be in your account by the time you come back. Hamerston has agreed on your salary.” He named a figure that was much higher than her current salary. “Plus six weeks’ vacation.”

“Rob…”

He waved his hand, cutting her off.

“Hamerston is opening a new division, under a different name. They want me to be President. I need my wing man.” Rob grinned as he corrected himself. “Wing girl . I was thinking VP.”

“Jesus, Rob.”

“You deserve it. You do all the reports now, it’ll mean you’ll have more control over what gets approved and not. I want you to decorate the new offices, too.”

Miranda’s smile was slow and wide as she chewed over the concept. The possibilities were endless. She knew at once it was the right choice.

“This is gonna be fun.” She jumped up and crossed his office, bent down and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Rob. I won’t let you down.”

Rob blushed, waved his hand toward the door. “Get out of here. Go get tanned. I’ll see you when you get back.”

* * *

Miranda arrived at Hamerston on her first day wearing a wrap-around dress that snugged in at her waist; the dark Jersey clung, showing off more than her tan. When she'd glanced in the full-length mirror at home, she sent thanks to her trainer. Steve was a tyrant, but he was good. Oh, yeah, damn good.

As Miranda toured her new workplace, her smile was wide and easy, implying she was well-rested after vacation. Truth was, coming back from two glorious weeks of sun was not easy. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day without several fruity drinks and a couple of siestas.

Alone in her office, cheeks numb, hands sore from shaking so many palms, she dropped into her chair. Congratulating herself for not passing out from exhaustion and withdrawal, she allowed a small air punch.

This was it. She could feel it.

Miranda tapped away on her computer, making notes on the ideas that had come to her while she’d wandered the building: protocol she wanted to implement, concepts she thought she’d like to change. She’d have to set up some time to sit down with Rob, show him her proposal.

Out of habit, Miranda reached out, but felt nothing but empty air.

“Right. No coffee.” She pushed back from her desk and wandered down the hall to where she thought she saw the café, the aroma of brewed beans guiding her.

She opened cupboards until she found the mugs; each one stamped with the gold Hamerston logo. She pulled the carafe from the coffee machine and sniffed.

“It’s fresh. I just made it.”

Miranda froze. She recognized that voice. The deep timber shot right through her.

“It smells fresh. And strong.” She didn’t turn around while she poured, needing the time to regroup.

He came up behind her, just to her left and leaned up to open the cupboard, pulled down a mug.

“Pardon me.” His voice rumbled in her ear. God he smelled good.

He bumped his shoulder against hers and coffee sloshed over Miranda’s cup. She snatched a cloth from the sink to mop up the spill. His hand covered hers, immobilizing it.

“It’s my fault. Let me do it.”

Miranda met the dark eyes that had haunted her dreams for months. They crinkled as he smiled.

“Remember me? Craig Matthews.”

Miranda feigned indifference as she pulled her hand away. If she left it there, it would incinerate.

“Oh sure. You met with McBride once.” You wore a dark blazer and tan pants and you made my mouth water.

“You remember.” Craig did, too. The sight of her wearing that snug skirt, swinging that tight ass, would be forever burned in his mind. And when she’d bent over to dial the phone, her blouse had hung open revealing lavender lace.

Craig rinsed the cloth, folded it neatly over the tap. He turned back and held those chocolate orbs, wide like a doe and just as skittish. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, never releasing her gaze. He reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, reminding himself that patience was not only a virtue, but also a reward. Somehow, he knew this one would be worth the wait.

“Welcome to the team, Miranda. It’s good to have you on board.”

Miranda stood alone in the café, gripping the counter for balance. Blood pounded in her ears as she wandered back to her office, trailing her hand on the wall for support.

She sat in her chair for ten minutes before she realized she’d left her coffee back in the café.

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

The White Knight

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: breeze, mellow, tickle



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

The White Knight

Miranda’s desk was always tidy. Beside the telephone sat a notepad stamped with the company logo, a Mont Blanc perched on top, angled corner to corner. Reference books along one side of the desk were lined up with military precision. A computer was centered on the desk return, the monitor angled at the perfect eye level to reduce neck strain.

The hectic week had put filing at a low priority. Three—very neat, very organized—piles of reports and correspondence were arranged in front of the row of books.

At the end of the day, Miranda logged off her computer, adjusted the notepad a fraction of an inch and removed her suit jacket, hanging it neatly on the back of her chair.

“It’s Friday, Miranda. Go home.” Robert McBride strolled down the hall toward his office, a coffee in one hand, a manila folder in the other. His peppered hair stuck out at odd angles which, Miranda knew, meant he’d been running his fingers through it all day.

“I want to tackle the filing. If I stay and do it now, I know I’ll sleep better tonight.”

Rob shook his head. Miranda was the first person in the office each morning and the last to leave at night. She had joined the team more than a year ago and Rob had forged an immediate bond with her. They worked in tandem, seldom needing more than a few words to express ideas, somehow anticipating the other’s needs. His own grown sons were long gone from home and he’d taken Miranda under his wing, like a surrogate daughter. Several times a month, she joined him and his wife for Sunday dinner.

“Go home and enjoy the weekend. Forget about the filing. It’ll be here on Monday.”

“That’s why I want to do it now.” Miranda turned up the cuffs of her silk blouse and eyed the filing. “The paper seems to breed overnight. There’s always twice as much in the morning.”

It wouldn’t take long; she estimated thirty minutes—forty, tops—to breeze through it. If she stayed late and got it done now, it wouldn’t be nagging at her the entire weekend and she could enjoy herself.

Rob knew it was futile to argue. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee if you want some.” He wandered back into his office, already absorbed in the contents of the folder.

Miranda played with the dial on the portable radio until she found a station playing mellow tunes. Her hips swayed with the music and she hummed off-key as she tackled the first pile. Each stack was organized according to client, making quick work of the filing. As she addressed the second pile, the front door of the office chirped, announcing a visitor. She glanced at her watch. It was well past closing and she knew, with the exception of Rob, everyone was gone for the day. By habit, she set a smile on her face and turned to greet the arrival. It was only ingrained professionalism that kept her lips turned up.

He wore a dark chocolate blazer, paired with a butter yellow shirt, the starched collar undone. Tan pants accentuated narrow hips and a trim waist. Dark, penetrating eyes smiled at her, even if his mouth didn’t.

“I’m here to see Rob McBride.”

She’d never seen him before, yet he looked familiar. No, it was more that he felt familiar.

“Do you have an appointment?” There was nothing noted in her calendar.

He nodded. “He’s expecting me. My name is Craig Matthews.”

“Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward a pair of wing chairs as she reached for the telephone. “I’ll let Mr. McBride know you’re here.”

Before she lifted the receiver, Rob came out of his office.

“Craig! How are you?”

Hands clasped in greeting, shoulders were clapped. Though Rob was much older, the mutual respect between the two was obvious.

“Come into my cell.” The two men disappeared into Rob’s office and the door closed with a soft click.

Miranda’s legs were shaking and there was an odd tickle in her stomach. She sank into her chair, dropped her head into her hands. Jesus, Rand, get a grip. He’s just a guy. And a stranger at that. OK, he was a cute stranger with an intense stare that seemed to look right into your soul, but she still didn’t know him. And yet, he felt familiar. She couldn’t remember meeting him, but somehow she knew she had.

The office door swung open and Rob strolled out. “Help me bring some coffee and cookies in.”

Miranda sprang out of her chair and followed him down the hall to the staff room. Rob poured coffee into an ornate carafe and set two cups with saucers on a silver tray while Miranda arranged cookies on a china plate.

“You didn’t tell me you had an appointment.” She hoped her voice sounded casual.

“Craig? I thought you’d be gone by now, so I didn’t mention it.” Rob arranged a sugar bowl and creamer on the tray, pulled napkins from a drawer and handed them to Miranda. “He’s interviewing me for his thesis.”

“Oh.” Miranda fanned the napkins on the tray, set spoons on the saucers.

“Why don’t you just ask?” Rob wasn’t quite successful at hiding his smirk.

Miranda fixed an expression of innocence on her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rob laughed, a loud baritone bark that always made her smile. As was his habit, he ruffled the top of her head as though she were a toddler. She made an annoyed face, but the gesture always thrilled her.

“Forget it, kiddo. He’s married.”

Miranda’s heart sank. Figures.

Rob picked up the tray and pushed open the café door with his hip.

“But rumour has it that the marriage is on the rocks.” With an exaggerated look of disinterest, Rob swung out of the room with the coffee and cookies.

Well, thought Miranda, wasn’t that interesting.



* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Exorcising Ghosts

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: dainty, haunting, tantalize


Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...

* * *

Exorcising Ghosts

“You need to get back out there. Go out on same dates. Have fun.”

This sage advice was doled out in large quantities on a daily basis. Miranda knew her friends meant well, but it was irritating. She didn’t want to have a relationship. She just needed to scratch an itch that she couldn’t seem to reach on her own, no matter how often she tried.

“Just come up to the cottage for the long weekend. There’ll be a bunch of people there, it’ll be really casual.”

Beneath the shade of a blue, white and gold Corona umbrella, Sherry sat across from Miranda, taking dainty sips from her margarita. One tanned leg swung over the other, a pink flip flop dangled from fuchsia toes.

Miranda gulped her Guinness, flicked her tongue across the foam on her lip. She didn’t think she could muster the energy to wear a happy face for three days straight. However, the thought of a weekend of sun and surf was more than a little appealing. She hadn’t had a vacation in almost a year. She’d thrown herself into a new job after the separation and was enjoying the hard work, but she knew it was time for a break.

“Who’s going?”

Sherry grinned. “Matt will be there.”

“I already told you I don’t want you to set me up.” Miranda had heard enough about Matt to know he’d be a tantalizing diversion, but she didn’t want the complication.

“I know,” said Sherry, “but there’ll be other people there. You don’t even have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

Miranda sipped her beer. “Fine. I’ll go, but I’m not bunking with your brother-in-law. I don’t even know him.”

Sherry’s gaze was intent on something behind Miranda. “That’s about to change.”

“Ladies!” Sherry’s husband, Walter, grinned at them. He turned to Miranda. “This is my brother Matt.”

Miranda glowered at Sherry, mouthed bitch, before she turned to Matt.

“Hey.”

Matt smiled and dropped into the seat next to her.

“Are you as pissed at Sherry as I am?”

Miranda’s lips curled up. “Probably more.”

Matt nodded. “I hear ya.” He signalled the server. “Two pints of Guinness. Want another one?” He pointed at Miranda’s empty glass. When she shook her head, he raised two fingers. The server nodded and walked away.

Matt twisted in his chair to face Miranda, threw an arm over the back rest. “I say we just tell her to piss off.”

Miranda laughed. She was starting to like this guy. His chocolate eyes pulled her in, closed off everything around them. Her body hummed and she was certain he’d scratch very well.

That was seven weeks ago. Seven weeks of movies, dinner, dancing and sex. Pretty good sex, too. God she felt limber.

Matt sat in the passenger seat and played with the stereo, while Miranda drove. They agreed her car was more practical to drive than his pickup. Not to mention, much more comfortable. Walter and Sherry followed behind them. After spending every weekend at the cottage this summer, locking down for the winter was disheartening. Thick steaks and a couple of cases of beer were nestled in the trunk; an end-of-season celebration to dispel the gloom.

Matt reached into the back seat and came back with a joint.

“Don’t light that in my car.”

“Come on, babe. It never bothered you before.”

“I don’t care that you smoke, just don’t do it in my car.”

Matt shrugged and tucked the stick behind his ear. “We’re almost there anyway.”

When they arrived, they made quick work of unloading the cars. After dumping the suitcases in the assigned bedrooms, Matt and Walter were sent out to the veranda to start the barbeque.

The night sky was clear and the full moon glowed like a beacon. Beer flowed and the sweet smell of cannabis hung in the air. It was well past midnight when everyone said goodnight.

Miranda turned down the bed and changed into an oversized t-shirt. Matt stripped down to nothing and crawled under the covers. He reached over and pulled Miranda close.

“Pot always makes me horny.”

“I know it does, but Sherry and Walt are in the next room and these walls are paper thin.”

Matt nuzzled into her neck. “Then you’ll have to be quiet.”

Miranda chuckled. “No. We’ll have to wait until we’re home.”

“I don’t think so.”

Matt pulled her against him, his erection stabbing her leg. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him back.

“I’m serious. I can’t. Not tonight.”

Matt leered. “Come on babe.” His words slurred as he spoke. “Just a quickie. I promise it won’t take long.”

“Oh, that’s charming.”

“Come on, you know what I mean. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Forget it, Matt. I can’t do it when I know they can hear us next door. They can probably hear us right now.”

“Who cares.” He rolled over on top of her, kneed her legs apart. “Just let me slip it in for a minute.”

Panic washed over her. She knew he was much stronger couldn’t fight him off for long.

“Please, Matt. Don’t do this.”

“Try and stop me.” He pinned her down, yanked her shirt up and cupped her breast, squeezed until she cried out in pain.

Miranda stilled. Her mind flew back to that haunting moment with Darryl and, for half a second, she contemplated laying still. Just let him use me and get it over with.

As quickly as she thought it, something surged through her. She couldn’t say if it was anger or fear. Perhaps it was pride. Power coursed through her and she shoved at him, throwing him off. She leapt off the bed, shoved down the t-shirt to cover her bare bottom.

“Don’t ever do that again.” She was surprised her voice didn’t waver.

Miranda pulled on her discarded jeans, slipped on her shoes. She tossed her bra and panties into her duffel bag, thankful she hadn’t unpacked.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.” She knew this was her chance to break the cycle. She wasn’t going to let someone else dominate her. Never again.

“Come on, babe. Don’t be like that.” Matt rolled off the bed and came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and cupped her breasts. He pressed himself against her, rubbed his cock against her ass. She shivered, repulsed by his hardness.

Miranda whirled around, pulled her arm back and let her fist fly into his cheek. Matt staggered back, his hands on his face. She ignored the pain that radiated through her hand and up her arm.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

“You haven’t seen crazy yet.”

Miranda hoisted the bag over her shoulder, snatched her keys from the dresser and stormed out of the cottage, not bothering to close the door behind her. She yanked open the car door, tossed the bag onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel.

Clutch. Key. First gear. Her tires spit gravel as she peeled out of the driveway.


* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Null and Void

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: affinity, fidget, mention.



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.

And now, it continues...


* * *

Null and Void

The one-bedroom apartment wasn’t large, particularly when you compared it to the sprawling four-bedroom house she had with Gregg. But the cozy unit was hers.

Hers and Pedro’s.

As Miranda sat at the kitchen table, piecing together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, Pedro wound his lean body around her legs, pawing at her knee on every third rotation.

“You want to come up, don’t you?”

As though he understood, Pedro plopped his bottom down and sat very proper, raising one paw in a gesture of friendship. Or perhaps it was pleading.

“Now how can I resist that?”

Miranda picked up the grey tabby and set him on her lap. He immediately settled in, resting a paw on the table. Pedro moved his head back and forth, analyzing the puzzle, assessing all the pieces. After a moment, he reached up and swatted at a piece.

“This one?” Miranda picked up the piece, squinted at the grey, red and purple kaleidoscope of colour stamped on it. She looked over at the box cover, her eyes scanning the picture—a country cottage front porch, with wicker chairs, baskets of flowers and a tea set.

The tea set. It had a floral pattern on it and—would you look at that—Pedro’s piece fit.

“Good eye, buddy. Why don’t you stay up here and help me.”

The shrill cry of the portable phone sent Pedro leaping from her lap. Miranda was smiling as she answered.

Her lips turned down a moment later.

“This is Anna Giuseppe from the Archdiocese. I have an application for marital annulment from your husband, Gregg.”

Miranda fidgeted on the padded dining room chair that had suddenly become as unforgiving as a church pew. “And what do you want from me?”

“The Archdiocese wants to hear your side.”

“I see.”

“You were married on…” Miranda heard pages flipping. “Oh my. Less than a year.”

“Yes.”

Miranda heard the challenge in her own voice, but couldn’t stop it. Anna Giuseppe could be as smug as she wanted, but that shrivelled up old bat had no idea the difference a marriage certificate made, how much that flimsy piece of paper had changed everything. Miranda’s signature had barely dried before Gregg’s affinity for psychological torture rose to the surface like foul pond scum.

Anna gave a small, fake cough. “Your husband has cited grounds for the request.”

Miranda hated that Gregg was still called her husband. He wasn’t her husband anymore. Was he ever? Did a ten-month marriage even qualify him for that title?

“And what are the grounds?” It surprised her that he’d confessed. Then again, she imagined he’d be quite proud at how he’d tamed the little missus, beating her into submission with demeaning words.

“It says here…” more flipping of pages “…that you were emotionally unprepared for marriage.”

“Excuse me?” Not his abuse, she realized, but rather her own tormented life was grounds for pardon by the church.

“Your husband stated that due to childhood trauma, you were unprepared for a marital commitment.”

Miranda fought against the ringing in her ears, the pressure in her lungs. That fucking asshole had taken her words of confession, words that tore her soul apart, and hurled them back at her like daggers.

“Did he describe my childhood?”

“He did.” Anna Giuseppe flipped more pages and read, her voice cold and mechanical. “Incest. Rape. Abuse.” Her voice was so matter-of-fact that Miranda was surprised she didn’t end the list with ‘blah, blah, blah’.

With an odd feeling of calm, Miranda leaned back against the wooden chair, her eyes wandering over the half-made puzzle. “It sounds like you have all the evidence you need. Why are you calling me?”

“The Archdiocese would like confirmation of these allegations.”

Miranda was willing to bet the old crone only wanted some juicy gossip to share with her friends over coffee.

“Will the annulment be completed without my testimony?”

“Yes it will. But the Archdiocese still needs…”

“I don’t think the Archdiocese needs anything from me.” Miranda leaned forward as she spied a puzzle piece she’d been searching for. She picked it up and set it in place with a few taps. She’d been looking for that one for a while.

“You and I both know,” Miranda continued, “that the Archdiocese has already determined who is at fault in this matter and since it’s an old boys’ club, I’m guessing it’s me.”

“Well,” sputtered Anna, “I don’t know that…”

“That’s just it, isn’t it, Mrs. Giuseppe? You don’t know. And if you’re lucky, you never will. When you gossip about this to all your friends after Mass on Sunday, be sure to tell them how lucky they are as well.”

Anna Giuseppe had the grace to sound chastised. “The Church can help you, Miranda.”

“The Church’s meddling is why we’re having this conversation, Mrs. Giuseppe. You have already pointed out that the annulment will be processed without my testimony. Gregg can have the Church’s blessing. He doesn’t need mine.”

“In order for you to marry in the Catholic Church again, you must consent to the annulment.”

Miranda laughed at that. Laughed until she cried. “I can assure you, Mrs. Giuseppe, that I won’t be getting married in the Catholic Church again.”

There was an audible gasp on the other end of the line. “Well, then, I thank you for your time.”

At the sound of the dial tone, Miranda pressed the end-of-call button.

“Don’t mention it.”


* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Full Disclosure

Today's muse:

Miranda's story continues. If you haven't been following along, you may want to start at the beginning.

* * *

Full Disclosure

The marriage classes were a joke. They’d been living together for over two years. Did the church really think they were still virgins? It was all Miranda could do to keep from laughing at some of the questions the other couples asked. How does someone reach their mid-twenties and still remain so naive?

She had to remind herself that just because she’d never enjoyed the luxury of innocence, didn’t mean that others hadn’t.

At the back of the small room, she fidgeted on the hard plastic chair, her arms folded across her chest. She didn’t want to take the stupid classes, but Gregg insisted they marry in the Catholic church, so she played along. She drew the line at going to confession the week before the wedding. She’d already been down that path and wasn’t about to travel it again. Besides, as far as she was concerned, she could confess directly to the source.

Whispered conversations halted as the guest speaker entered the cramped room. A bald, paunched man stood before them and announced his lecture.

“We’ll be talking about divorce today.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. She’d spent the last four weeks listening to discussions on communication between spouses, insight on raising children within the parameters of the church and—the best one, she thought—a lecture on the Rhythm Method of birth control with a distinct undercurrent of abstinence. And now they wanted to tell us how to pack it all in, she thought. Fucking hypocrites.

Gregg took her hand as they walked back to the car after class. He cupped her ass as he reached around to open the door. She grinned, knowing the outcome of that subtle gesture. For some obscure reason, the marriage classes were the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Gregg had barely set the lock on the front door of the house before Miranda was pawing at him, tugging off his shirt, undoing his jeans. He spun her around, pressed her against the door, trailed moist kisses across her throat. Heat shot through her and she clung to him.

“Upstairs. Now.” The words panted out, barely audible.

They raced up the stairs, tugging at clothing, and stumbled into the bedroom. She fell back on the bed, her hair splayed out, skirt hiked up her thighs. He hovered over her, the gleam in his eyes a mixture of love and desire.

“I can’t get enough of you.”

He bent down, pressed his lips against hers. Soft, at first, then more urgent, demanding. He clasped her hands, their fingers interlocked, and pulled her arms over her head, pressed her into the mattress.

He nuzzled her neck. “I want you.”

She wasn’t with him anymore. In that instant, when he thrust her hands up and stole the power from her, she snapped back to fifteen, with Darryl, who forced, took and broke. She couldn’t see Gregg at all, she could only see Darryl, whose face then morphed into her grandfather’s, his wrinkled face leering and laughing, alcohol-sodden breath washing over her.

“Off!” She shoved at Gregg. “Get off me!”

“What the fuck?!” Gregg rolled off the bed, hiked up his jeans, leaving them undone. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, Rand!”

Miranda pushed her skirt down, wrapped her open blouse across her chest and curled up on the bed. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her face into the duvet, fought for composure but it wouldn’t come. She’d never had a flashback before, at least not during sex.

“You’re sorry? Sorry?! You can’t just stop it like that.”

No, she thought, she couldn’t stop it. Never could. Never would. She was a fool to think otherwise.

“I have to tell you something.” Curled into a tight ball, staring at the pile of decorative pillows at the head of the bed, she told Gregg everything. Drained of all emotion, her voice raspy, she was surprised to feel better having let it all out. She remembered one of the guest speakers at the marriage class had said communication was paramount, that it would be their salvation. He was right. She could move forward now, knowing she had someone to lean on.

After a long silence, Gregg finally spoke. “I can’t deal with this right now.” Miranda closed her eyes as the bedroom door clicked shut.

Later, she’d wonder whether she would have bared her soul if she knew he’d twist it against her.


Miranda's story continues...

Just a Kiss

Today's muse:

Miranda's story continues. If you haven't been following along, you may want to start at the beginning.

* * *

Just a Kiss

The coffee table was littered with cashews, potato chips and two bottles of wine—one empty. An oblong ceramic platter displayed three different cheeses and an assortment of crackers. Actors mimed their scenes on the muted television.

Gathered with her two best friends for one last bash as a single woman, Miranda sat cross-legged on the floor in Wendy’s apartment, her hands cupped around a glass of chardonnay. Her long dark curls were pulled back with an elastic, away from the green masque now smeared over her face.

“A week today,” said Wendy, sprawled on the sofa, her own face smothered in an oatmeal paste, cucumber slices on her eyelids. She balanced a bowl on her stomach from which she selected Cheezies, popping them blindly in her mouth with unerring accuracy.

“Then it’s all over.” Sandra blew on her wet nails, waved them to dry. Having opted for the Camomile facial, they all agreed she looked like a cheery sunburst.

Miranda laughed at her friends. “Marriage doesn’t mean it’s over.” She sipped her wine, let it dance over her tongue.

“I hear that love-making is non-existent after.” Wendy popped another Cheezie into her mouth.

Sandra made an affirmative noise as she sipped her wine. “It’s true. Love-making goes out the window.”

“Well then,” said Miranda, “I guess we’re safe. We don’t make love.”

Sandra choked back her wine. Wendy sat up, sending cucumber slices to the floor.

“What?!”

Miranda shrugged. “We don’t make love.”

“You’re twenty-three years old. You’ve been living with Gregg for over two years. And you’ve never made love?” Wendy looked over at Sandra who only shrugged.

“We fuck like rabbits, we just don’t make love.”

Sandra hooted with laughter. Wendy fell back onto the sofa, threw a Cheezie at Miranda. “You had me going there for a minute. I mean, how can you sleep in the same bed with Gregg and not make love.”

“I told you,” said Miranda, topping up her glass of wine. “We don’t make love.”

Sandra blew at her nails, waved off this minor detail. “Making love. Screwing. Same thing.”

“No it’s not.”

Maybe the wine was getting to her, but there was one thing Miranda knew: sex had absolutely nothing to do with love. After everything she’d suffered through, struggling with the darkness to reach the light, she’d been shoved back into the vortex by the first man she’d trusted. Her grandfather may not have crossed that line, but Darryl made sure he broke through it, shattered it beyond repair. It took ages to breach the surface, to breath again. Oxygen manifested in the form of Gregg. And because she could trust him, she would marry him.

Wendy sensed something in her friend’s voice. Setting aside the bowl, she sat up and picked the cucumber slices off the floor, stacked them neatly on a cocktail napkin.

“How can you say that? You’re getting married. You can’t have sex without love.”

Miranda shrugged. “The two are mutually exclusive for me. I can’t—won’t—have sex with someone I don’t trust. I mean, you’re naked for god’s sake. You’re pretty vulnerable. But the act itself? It’s purely physical. A way to release pressure. There’s no love involved.”

She popped a cashew in her mouth. An awkward silence filled the room. Wendy sipped her wine.

“Is it good? I mean, are you satisfied?”

Miranda grinned. “Honey, there are days I can’t wipe the smile off my face.”

They laughed then, talking over one another, the fallout of Miranda’s bomb drifting away; though the mushroom cloud hovered around her.

As her friends chatted about the wedding and exchanged Hollywood gossip, Miranda sipped her wine and wondered if Gregg could feel the gap between them, the distance she maintained. Did he even notice she couldn’t kiss him when they fucked?

* * *

Miranda's story continues...

The Assignment

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: dare, essence, practical.



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.
And now, it continues...

* * *

The Assignment

At the front of the classroom, wearing his practical Mr.-Rogers-cardigan-with-the-corduroy-elbow-patches, Deacon Phillips lectured the class.

“Senior year,” he promised, “will be different.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. Notorious for questioning just about everything her religion teacher preached, she was already convinced that the Catholic curriculum in this final year of high school would be the same as the last four: propaganda meant to put the fear of God in the hearts and loins of young adults.

Thing was, once the devil took you, your loins never quivered again—in fear, or otherwise.

Deacon Phillips turned to the chalk board and scrawled one word in his looping penmanship.

Explore.

A hum rippled through the classroom. A few heads turned, eyebrows raised in silent question. No one spoke.

“Explore.” Deacon Phillips waved his hand at the board. “Explore what?"

He walked to the front of his desk and leaned back, tucked his hands in his trouser pockets.

“What do you want to explore, Angela?”

In the front row, Angela Giovanni twitched in her seat, blushed a deep crimson. “Sir?”

“What do you want to know? What do you need to know to make it in the real world?”

In the back row, in the farthest corner, Miranda uncrossed her arms and leaned forward on her desk. This was getting interesting.

“You’re all of age now,” said Deacon Phillips. “You’re adults. You need to be treated like adults, not kids. Adults have grown-up conversations about grown-up things. In-depth discussions that explore opinions and feelings. So this year, in this class, we’re going to explore.” He underlined the word on the board with three violent slashes. “In essence, we’re going to talk about whatever you want.”

A few students snickered. Dean Phillips stared them down, then pointed at John Walsh.

“What do you want to talk about, John?”

John had the good grace to hang his head and stare at his desk in silence.

“Come on, people. I know you talk. You talk all the time. I hear what you say. You may not think I do, but I hear everything. I don’t judge. You’re entitled to think and feel what you want.”

He paced across the front of the class, met each and every pair of eyes. He seemed to hold Miranda’s for an eternity, daring her to speak. It was as though he could read her thoughts. No one wanted to talk about the same thing as her, she was pretty damn sure about that.

Walking back towards his desk, the Deacon stopped in the centre of the front row.

“What about you, Angela? What do you want to talk about?”

Angela was dumbstruck and only shook her head.

“What about sex? Do you want to talk about sex?” He waved his arms to encompass the group. “Does anyone in the class want to talk about sex?”

It didn’t seem possible, but Angela’s blush deepened three shades and she let out a high-pitched squeak. At the back of the class, Miranda dug her nails into her clenched hands with such force, it wouldn’t have surprised her to see blood ooze between her fingers.

Despite Deacon Phillip’s astounding question, the classroom was silent; except for the quiet humming of the fluorescent lights.

“How many of you use condoms?”

Not surprising, no one moved. Who the hell was going to admit that in a Catholic high school, and to a deacon, no less?

The Deacon sighed, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Alright. Let me start over.” He sat back against his desk, crossed his ankles. “We’re going to be talking about really personal things this year. Important stuff. You have to trust each other to keep it confidential. You’ll also be learning a lot. You can share what you learn with others, but no one repeats information using names.” He paused a moment. “We agree—every single one of us, including me—that we don’t repeat anything personal.”

A few heads nodded.

“When we talk about how to use condoms, how to put them on, you don’t go and laugh about how so-and-so didn’t know how to. You didn’t always know how to either.”

There was absolute silence in the classroom. Even the lights seemed to stop humming.

“There is no grade given for religion in your final year, but you’re required to take it and we’re required to teach it. So we try to make it interesting.” Deacon Phillips glanced at the black and white wall clock. “This class will have but one assignment this year. Over the next two weeks, I want you to pick a topic you want to explore. You will have all year to work on this. If you want to present it to the class, you will be given that opportunity. If you want to hand it in to me to review, I’m happy to look at it. In theory, you don’t even need to complete this assignment.” He shrugged. “I won’t know if you’ve done it. But you will.”

He paused, allowed everyone to digest that.

“Explore who you are, ladies and gentlemen. Explore who you once were, who you are now and who you want to be. Hopefully, you’ll figure out a way to get there.”

The bell rang then. There was a moment’s pause before everyone gathered their books and filed out of the room. There wasn’t the usual cacophony of voices or the mad exodus. It was a sombre group leaving church after a funeral service, everyone absorbed in their private thoughts.

Deacon Phillips scribbled a few notes in his ledger, tucked folders into his briefcase. When he glanced up, he saw Miranda sitting at her desk, in the far corner of the room.

“Miranda? Did you want to speak with me?”

Nodding, she threw her bag over her shoulder, and wound her way through the desks to the front of the class.

“I know what I want to explore.” As soon as he announced the assignment, she knew. Somehow she knew it would help with the nightmares.

“You don’t have to decide for another two weeks.”

Miranda nodded again. “But I already know. I need…I want to explore this.”

Deacon Phillips sat back and waited. Miranda hugged her bag against her like a life preserver, took a deep breath.

“Incest.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move a muscle. His pupils didn’t even dilate.

“Good choice. Let me know if you need any help.”

His tone was dismissive, almost indifferent. Perhaps that’s what Miranda needed. Not the pitying look or the empty platitudes, but acceptance, plain and simple. She turned to leave the classroom, her mind already pondering French class.

“Miranda.”

She stopped at the door, her hand on the chrome handle. She didn’t turn, but waited for him to speak.

“I hope it helps.”

Yeah, she thought, me too.


* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Not Forgotten

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: conniption, janky, scooch.

I know that ThomG meant to challenge us, and I struggled with 'janky' (gave him grief for it on Twitter), but I hope that my use of his prompts doesn't sound forced.



Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here.
And now, it continues, with a flashback to the beginning...

* * *

Not Forgotten

In a darkened classroom of St. Phillip’s Elementary School, Miranda crouched on the cold terrazzo floor, her arms wrapped around her knees.

The other teenagers participating in the church-sponsored retreat, all of them strangers, were off in other classrooms, now designated as living room, dining room and den—their makeshift home for the duration of the weekend. Laughing voices carried through the halls as everyone exchanged tales of their recent outing: a visit to the local nursing home to bring cheer to the elderly.

For Miranda, it was something of a breakthrough.

Pressed into the darkest corner, she let the tears stream down her face. She couldn’t fight them, didn’t have the energy. The memories she’d somehow suppressed all these years pummelled her, swirled in a Technicolor strobe effect. She slammed her back into the classroom wall, over and over, as though she could jar the memories out of her, make them stop. God, she just wanted to make them stop.

That’s how Jason found her. Huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth.

At first, he thought she was having some sort of conniption, perhaps an epilepsy attack. Then he heard the crooning, a sort of soft keening.

“Stop. Stop. Stop.”

She just kept chanting it over and over, her voice janky as she slammed into the wall with each word.

Moving on instinct, he slipped into the room and slid down to the floor beside her. He would have put his arm around her to soothe, but she scooched away from him, seemed to withdraw even more. So, he sat with her in the dark. In silence. Mirroring her pose, Jason hooked his arms around his legs, pressed his head into his knees and rocked in sync with her.

First, the crooning subsided, then the rocking stopped. Soon, the only sound from her was the occasional sniffle and grunt as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Miranda rested her cheek against her knees, her large brown eyes staring.

“I hadn’t remembered any of that…any of it…until now.” She squeezed her eyes shut. A tear leaked down her cheek.

He had no clue what she was talking about, only knew she needed to get it out. “The mind is a powerful thing. Sometimes it shuts out what you can’t process until you’re ready.” He’d read that somewhere in his psych class.

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’re probably a lot stronger than you think. Wanna tell me what happened?”

He took it as a good sign that she unfolded herself then, stretched out her legs, though she kept her arms hugged around her body. She gazed up at the ceiling.

“He grabbed my ass.”

“Who?”

“One of the old guys at the nursing home. He was going to play cards with some of the other folks and I helped him put on his sweater. He thanked me by grabbing my ass.” Her voice caught. “He squeezed it and gave it a little shake.”

Jason was silent. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he knew there was more. Somehow, he knew there was more.

“It’s what my grandfather did to me. Until I was twelve. I don’t know how, but I’d forgotten all of that, all these years. I’m fifteen and I buried it somewhere deep inside all this time. Kept it locked away until…until that old man put his hands on me.”

She let out a huff, allowed the vignette of horrors to simply wash over her. “It started when I was four. We were alone. He took my hand and rubbed it against his…”

She made a vague gesture and Jason nodded his understanding. He wouldn’t make her say it.

“It was warm and hard and wet. I ran away, hid in my room and cried. But I never told my mom.” She shook her head in wonder, amazed by that. “I think I thought she wouldn’t believe me.”

Miranda took in a shaky breath. Jason sat beside her in silence, never touching her. His presence seemed to comfort, give her strength to purge.

“Every time my grandparents visited, or we’d visit them, he’d arrange it somehow so that we’d be alone. It was worse every time. My entire childhood was shredded. And I’d forgotten that. All of it.”

Her moist, sad eyes slid over to his and held him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget again.”


* * *

Miranda's story continues...

Eternity

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's muse: Eternity.

Some stories need to be told. Miranda's begins here. And now, it continues...

* * *

Eternity

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

It wasn’t her sin, but Miranda didn’t know what else to do. She knew God had all the answers; faith was not something she lacked.

“What is it, my child?” Father Andrew prompted her when she hesitated.

Even her parents didn’t know. She couldn’t tell them. Wouldn’t. It would destroy the family. She could live with the memories that haunted her dreams, but there was a small matter that pulled at her.

“Father.” Miranda closed her eyes, prayed for strength. “Father, when bad people die, are they forgiven no matter what they did?”

“If a person repents—is truly sorry for their sins—then, yes, they are forgiven and will join our Lord in Heaven.”

Miranda nodded in the darkness of the confessional. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“What if they did something that is unforgiveable?”

“Miranda, what have you done that is so unforgiveable?”

She wasn’t surprised when Father Andrew addressed her by name. There were no secrets in a small town. Well, very few.

“It’s not me, Father. It’s…someone I know. He made me…he did bad things. Very bad things.”

Father Andrew was silent, his silhouette a blur behind the mesh partition. The thin padding on the kneeler offered little support and Miranda’s knees began to ache.

Father Andrew coughed. “Forgiveness must come, not only from God, Miranda, but must come from us.”

“I don’t understand, Father.”

“You must forgive as well.”

She must forgive? She must forgive the sins of the one who destroyed her childhood, who forever changed how she viewed relationships, shattered her ability to trust a man—be with a man?

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Fingers of ice crept over her heart, the pulsing beat slowed, life-giving fluid all but stopped.

“God will forgive if He is asked for forgiveness. It is those who cannot forgive who will face eternal damnation.”

“What?!” Miranda was outraged. “Are you telling me that because I cannot forgive my grandfather for destroying my life, that I’m the one who’s going to hell? And that slime is going to be welcomed into Heaven with open arms?”

“Miranda, the church teaches us that forgiveness is most blessed. In forgiving, we receive the Holy Spirit.”

“The church teaches this?! The church!” Miranda’s voice was shrill. “Fuck the church, Father. The God I believe in would not treat me like that.”

To his credit, Father Andrew didn’t flinch at the vulgarity. He merely shrugged his indifference.

“That is how it is, Miranda. If you do not forgive, it is you who will be damned for eternity. No one else. Only you.”

She opened her mouth, clamped it shut again. The tiny cubicle smelled like wet hay. She stared through the partition at Father Andrew’s blurred profile, his head bowed in prayer. Or was it shame? He should be shamed, she thought. How could he believe that bullshit?

“I want you to pass on a message, Father.” Miranda’s voice was soft.

Father Andrew’s silhouette leaned closer.

“Tell your god I’m leaving his church. The God I know wouldn’t try to sell this crap.”

Without looking back, she left the confessional and walked out of the church.

* * *

Miranda's story continues.

Good Ol' Reg

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's Words: descent, kill, surreal

* * *

Good Ol' Reg

The soft scent of carnations and roses tangled with the antiseptic stench that clung to his body. Miranda stared down at her grandfather, his hands casually folded, as though he waited for an elevator. The undertaker had arranged Reginald Porter’s left hand over the right, concealing the stubs of two fingers hacked off by a lawnmower blade back in seventy-two.

Miranda’s mother, Laura, dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “He looks good, doesn’t he?”

Yeah, Miranda thought, he sure does. He looks damn good dead.

Reg wore the only decent suit he owned: shit-brown polyester, paired with a wide-collar peach shirt and a paisley salmon tie. It smelled like mothballs.

The whole thing was surreal, Miranda thought. She’d prayed for this day since she was four—killed him many times over in her fantasies—and it was finally here. Family and friends mingled in the visitation suite, laughed and swapped stories about Good Ol’ Reg. What the fuck was so good about him? They talked about him like he was a goddamned hero. She knew the truth, though. Reg was no hero. He was a villain; a sociopath who fed on stolen innocence.

“It just won’t be the same without him.” Laura squeezed her daughter’s arm and wandered away, sniffing delicately into a balled up tissue.

No it won’t, thought Miranda. There’d be no more empty bottles hidden in the garage. She wouldn’t feel his breath against her ear, smell the stench of alcohol and chewing tobacco, shudder as his calloused hands groped and prodded.

It was all over now. Except for her nightly descent into the black abyss of memories.

That, she knew, would never end.


* * *

Miranda's story continues...