Gemini(3)

I locked the door and sat on the toilet with my head in my hands.

Silly girl…you really need to get some.

Every day in life, people we will likely never encounter a second time, pass us by. For some unknown reason, I just couldn’t accept that he was one of them.

For the rest of that afternoon, I fantasized about the beautiful generous stranger and what it would have been like to thank him properly…with my lips.





CHAPTER 2

CEDRIC





Oh fuck…oh fuck.

Sweating profusely, I ran down Main Street as far away from the diner as I could get.

Where the fuck did I park my car?

I need to think. It’s over there.

I got in and slammed the door. Silence.

She was so fucking beautiful.

My God.

I had an idea of what she would look like, but never could have imagined her to look as amazing as that. I was imagining a girl…but so much time had passed, I should have known that clearly, she would be a beautiful woman.

Those gigantic green eyes…

God, I hope my staring wasn’t that obvious. I just couldn’t look away.

Will do…WILL DO? That was the best I thing I could think of to say to her?

And why the hell did I leave a fifty-dollar bill? Way to slip under the radar. I was so flustered and it was all I had in my wallet; I just couldn’t stay for change and risk saying something stupid or unintelligible while I waited for that. I could tell by how fast my heart was beating in there, that if I had stayed, I would have fucked it all up.

My heart rate has yet to slow down.

I had to get out of there. It’s bad enough I have a forty-minute drive back to the agency in the city. Who travels forty minutes for a bagel? Crazy stalker men, that’s who.

I must have been doing eighty-five miles per hour down I-93 when I thought about her name: Allison. It’s pretty just like her. But of course, I knew she would be more than pretty. And she smelled like green apples.

She seemed nervous. Her hand trembled and her cheeks turned rosy when she approached me and that made me want to rub her sweet face with my hand.

I wonder what her story is, why a girl that looks like that is waiting tables in a diner in the suburbs. Surely, she at least could do better at one of the trendy bars in Boston. She could have anything she wants with a face and eyes like that.

Not to mention her slamming body…the way that tight uniform hugged her ass.

Fuck!

She’s the last woman I should be thinking like this about. Yet, all I can focus on now is whether she tastes as good as she smells.

Snap out of it, Callahan. She’s the one woman you can’t have.

Which is why I want her.

I need to control my thoughts, but I didn’t expect to be so fucking captivated liked this.

I have to see her again when I can calm the fuck down. I just don’t know how I am going to manage it. The next two weeks are jam packed with client meetings.







I get back to the office in record time, passing my assistant Julie who immediately points to my office.

“Karyn is waiting for you,” she said.

Karyn.

I had been in a relationship for six months with Karyn Keller, an attractive blonde television reporter I began representing after she walked into the agency and demanded to be added to my client roster. We were immediately attracted to each other and decided to ignore the agency’s non-fraternization policy.

D.N. Westock represents some of the biggest names in broadcast news and I was their highest grossing agent and rising star after nabbing one of the hosts of a national morning show as a client. Not bad for a kid from Dorchester.

To say I had humble beginnings is putting it lightly. I grew up on the third level of a triple-decker apartment house in one of the highest crime sections of Boston, the middle child of an Italian mother and Irish father. My parents, older brother Caleb and I and my sister, Callie, who’s ten years younger, shared the two small bedrooms in the apartment. My parents, Paul and Bettina, went with the whole ‘C’ name thing for the kids, which went even further because our last name is Callahan.

Money was tight, but our parents did the best they could to provide for us. My father worked as a steelworker and my mother was a maid. Even so, no one was surprised when I, the boy who survived an accidental drive-by shooting on my fifteenth birthday right outside our front door, left home as soon as I graduated from high school. Marked with a bullet hole on my left arm, I managed to get into Northwestern on a merit-based scholarship because studying and school came easy to me, plain and simple.

Northwestern was known for its Communications program and I knew that I wanted to major in something where I would be able to use my innate ability to write and speak publicly. Mostly, I was good at mouthing off and could have taught an AP class in Bullshitting 101.