Page 77 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwenty-Seven
MORGAN
It’s a beautiful morning,waking up to a tongue licking my face.
If only it belonged to Vandana.
“Yes, yes,” I mumble, scratching Asterix behind his ears. “I’m getting up.”
From the slant of light pouring through the window, I'm guessing it’s 7 a.m. or just past. I forgot to roll down the blinds last night. Forgot to brush my teeth. I stumbled into bed on cloud nine and have woken up a glorious ruin of a man. Vandana blew my mind yesterday and I pet Asterix absently, trying to make sense of it all.
The paradox of Vandana is more than the unholy combination of angel and devil, sinner and saint. She is a woman I can make love to, truly make love to, not just satisfy some animal urge. She wants and gives it all, unafraid to fly high and far. Lost in her sweet warmth, I feel like I can do anything, be anything. Impossible not to feel like a god with her heart raging against mine.
And speaking of raging…
Lust is addictive, nonsensical, and most of all, uncontrollable. Asterix headbutts my chin again, nagging and hungry, but I have other priorities. He watches the rhythmic pump of my hand beneath the sheets with a bored, superior expression.
Can your manhandling possibly wait until after breakfast is served?
I push him farther away. “Get a move on, you dirty old man. What are you going to do when Vandana comes over? Sit and watch?”
With a flick of his tail, he jumps off the bed, padding across the floor to join the rest of the troops sunning themselves on the rug. I power on to the finish line in degenerate beast mode, not nearly as satisfying without the heat of Vandana pushing me to the outer limits while ocean waves pound in my ears.Freshly emptied, my thoughts refuse to organize in the thick, muggy cavern of my mind. I need a second opinion. I shush the meowing masses, grab my phone from the nightstand and plug in my earbuds.
“Good morning,” Olivier answers.
“It is indeed, my friend.”
“Do I dare ask?”
I plump up my pillow and rest against it. “I need your advice. I’m falling for her, Olivier. Hard.”
After a heavy pause, he says, “Surely you jest. It’s been what, six days?”
“God created the world and man in a week,” I remind him.
He spits out a laugh. “It was only a matter of time before you compared yourself to the creator. My advice? Back off from the wine.”
I kick at the sheet, the old frustration rising quickly with his snark. Can he relate? Feel the magnitude? Operate outside his normal range of lampooning? All the emotional equity I’ve put into our relationship feels like it’s come to this moment. “I’m confiding in you. You’re my oldest friend. She’s set me off the deep end. Our connection is … powerful.”
“This power,” he says, skeptically. “What does it translate into? Is she moving here? Are you moving to LA?”
I ignore Asterix and his death stare. “We haven’t gotten that far.”
“Not to rain on your parade, but she’s in Monaco, all caught up in the glamour. You’re a rich boy toy. If what you said about her husband is true, maybe you’re an easy out for her. Have you substantiated her situation?”
“She’s successful in her own right,” I argue. “Not some backwoods Estonian hooker on the prowl.” Olivier and his continuous pessimism. He belongs in the Medieval Ages, when no one trusted anything but the man in the sky.
“Morgan,” he says, in a tone of numbing truth. “I’ve known you since we were fifteen. You’ve never spoken about a woman like this, aside from Tatiana. And we both know she scarred you. You were in a funk for months. Years. I don’t think you’ve ever recovered. You’ve shut yourself in a room, emotionally speaking. Plundering into your first whiff of romance feels perilous. Don’t get so easily attached.”
Of all times for Olivier to bring her up. We don’t talk about Tatiana for a variety of reasons. Hearing her name, my heart pinches, long-suppressed memories balled tight and unwilling to loosen.
I ran into her two years ago, in Paris.
She’s married, with two little ones, exact replicas of her with unruly red hair and milky skin, running around with endless energy. Her lawyer husband barely cracked a smile. Tatiana spoke formally, keeping her distance, content now to live with a tired-eyed man who doesn’t carry the taste of salt in his skin and hair. It’s funny seeing someone after so long with not a glimmer of what fired between us evident.
“I don’t love the sea, Morgan. Not the way you do.”
That’s how she ended it.
