Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories: Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories

Cover design by Steven Novak

Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories

Jenny’s Blue Velvet

Still Nights

The Woman in Black Lace

Mathilde, A Woman of Circumstance

by A.C. Davis

Copyright 2015 A.C. Davis

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All rights reserved.

This book or any part of this book may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

The characters and events in these stories are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, names, places or incidents are coincidental and not intended by the author.

1st Edition: January, 2015

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Jenny's Blue Velvet

A Velvet Nights and Black Lace Stories novella

by A.C. Davis

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Edited by: Jenn Sommersby

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for fred and morgan

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Jenny’s Blue Velvet

a novella

by A.C. Davis

***

graceful

adjective

characterized by elegance or beauty of form, manner, movement, or speech; elegant

I can’t breathe.

My lungs collapse into the size of peas and are having a fit in my chest. I’m panting. Sweat drips from my face, probably the color of a beet. And the pain burns from deep within parts of my body I only learned about in cadaver lab while in college—part of my eight years of higher education, even though I never received a degree in anything. I’m still paying off student loans and have nothing to show for it. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I did get a certificate in the dental assistant profession, which was only a ten-month course. But after working that gig for a few years, my back protested from bending over patients all day and I couldn’t do it anymore.

A victim of an indecisive personality. One minute I want to be a nurse, the next a paralegal, a dental assistant and so on. And now? A runner. I must be crazy.

You’re doing great, honey! My always-looks-hot-especially-while-running husband, Jason, turns around for a brief break in his jog. I smile. What does he know? He’s not even out of breath. I’m dying here. This is a piece of cake for him. He’s so sweet to stick it out with me for my first ever 5K. What was I thinking? I wasn’t ready for this stupid race, and why the hell did I pick the Starlight Parade of all the runs in Portland to choose from? I’m sure there are plenty of races that don’t include an audience waiting for a parade to start along the entire route.

A group of skinny girls in tutus giggle by me. Jason’s head follows as they pass. I can’t blame him. Their skin isn’t purple and sweaty.

Did I mention my lungs are burning? And my legs? My thighs are probably chaffed from rubbing together.

I slow my pace on this hill. The crowd cheers the runners on. Tall buildings loom high above the narrow streets. The sun is setting, reflecting a mellow orange onto the runners ahead. A stuffed giraffe head bounces up and down along with all kinds of costumed people, celebrating the joy of running or something like that. I find no joy in this.

Two kids stick their hands out in front of me. I unenthusiastically tap them with my sweaty palm. Gross. Right on! Keep it up! they say. Whatever. I growl.

Step. Step. Step. My feet tap the concrete. Gentle. Keep my steps small. Just don’t stop. This pain will end soon. Deep breaths. Oh, crap, I can’t. Is that the finish line up there?

Jason gives me a thumbs up. Look at him, all supportive and gorgeous. His ass, bopping in front of me, is totally squeezable if only I could catch up with him. Strong shoulders and legs. With each lunge forward, his calves contract. His entire body is one lean bundle of muscle. How I ever got so lucky, I’ll never know.

We met when I was twenty-two and taking classes at the community college. That’s back when I wanted to be a nurse and took my prerequisites to get into the RN program. We were partners in a CPR class. Yeah, the instructor who paired us knew what he was doing. Six feet of raw athleticism paired with the short, chubby-luscious chick in the hippie skirt and Birkenstocks. The past is always a little fuzzy, but that’s how I remember it. Needless to say, it worked out well for me. Eighteen years, several careers—twenty-seven to be precise—and two kids later, here we are. More like, here I am. He’s way up there, trying to keep within reach to make sure I don’t stop.

You may be asking yourself why the hell I’m running in a 5K if I don’t enjoy running. Well, to answer that very good question, I shall shrug. I’m almost forty years old, and deep inside of me, I know there is a runner waiting to burst out. I’ve suppressed her my entire life and it’s time for her to emerge. To break through, bringing her vibrant, young, in-shape body with her.

My name is Jenny. J-E-N-N-Y. Plain and simple. Not Genevieve or Jennifer, but Jenny. When I was in high school, I played with various spellings to appear more eccentric, but only ended up confusing my teachers. Genni, Djeni, Zhenny. None of them worked very well, so I went back to my mother-given name. Jenny. It fits me. There’s nothing special about me. In my head, I’m tall and thin and have flowing, sunshine-blond hair and porcelain skin. In the mirror, which I try to avoid, I’m about five feet tall. Five feet and three-quarters of an inch, to be precise. Not thin, but not fat, either. My hair is graying, but was once dirty blond. I’ve never really completed much that I’ve started. Well, to be precise, I’ve completed one thing. I wrote and published a novella. An erotic horror titled Still Nights. I was so utterly embarrassed that I used a pen name that I pulled from a hat, A.C. Davis. It’s sold one copy. To one Jenny Arthur’s Kindle. Mrs. Arthur liked it. That’s me, in case you didn’t catch the reference.

I’m going to write a romance novel. I’ve never really read one, but they seem to be selling like bonbons to housewives on a hot summer day. My romance novel is going to be a bestseller. Once I figure out what it’s going to be about.

Elvis passes me. Elvis! I’m slower than a dead dude. He’s lit up with small Christmas lights. I will finish this. I’m not going to quit. This time it’s all me.

The air is so sultry that if all these people weren’t here, I’d start tearing off my clothes. This sweatshirt tied around my waist would be the first to go. I’d be graceful about it too, like those girls in the tutus. A runner so good at what she does, it’s like she’s a dancer instead of a runner.

Something zips into my mouth, smashing against my tongue. I spit. I gag. I wipe the nasty from my tongue onto the back of my hand. I cough, my dry lungs wanting no more of the torture.

An old man sitting in a fold-up chair on the sidewalk smirks at me. I jog the two steps it takes to reach him and wipe the back of my hand on his white shorts, bug guts galore. He jerks away and says, Hey! but I’m already on my way toward the finish line, so I don’t see what he does next. It’s not like he can catch up with me; he’s old. Well, maybe he can.

Jason looks back at me with those gray eyes of his. Almost there! He points.

There it is. The finish line! It’s not what I pictured it should look like. Runners clog beneath the metal frame built over the road. There’s an electric clock ticking away overhead. We aren’t close enough to read the time, though. Just blurry, red numbers.

I turn up my iPod. Pitbull says, Bon, bon, bon, bon, and then some words I can’t understand. It puts a fire into my step. I catch up with Jason. He gives me a side glance and a half grin. How people can have articulate facial expressions and run at the same time is beyond me. I’m sure my expression is only a scowl, giving the impression that everyone should get the heck out of my way or else.

I wipe the sweat from my brow. I have to pee. I’m so freaking thirsty. A few more steps ... and we’re stopped. Move! I say to the halted runners in front of me. We slowly cross the finish line: 36:40.

Great job! Jason pats my back.

I’m trying to catch my breath. I whisper, Thanks. You too. My angry veil disappears as I realize I just ran three-point-one miles in a row! I’ve never done that before. I look up at Jason. We just did that.

We did. Together. He kisses my forehead and grabs my hand. I’m so proud of you.

We make our way through the tutus and the people of Elvis and the superheroes into the stadium to the portable potties. The line isn’t nearly as long as before the race.

I’ll wait here. Jason stands under a tree across from the tiny green houses.

I’m able to find an open one fairly quick. Upon walking in, I immediately understand why it’s still vacant. Oh, holy crap. I stick my head out, grab some clean air, and hold it in. I peel down my shorts, which is not an easy task as they are glued to my thighs. The fabric brushes against the raw portion where my legs rubbed together while running. I suck air through my teeth as it stings like hell.

I hover over the hole and start my tinkle. My iPod slips from the pocket of my sweatshirt. It lands on the disgusting plastic floor.

Crap.

I lean forward to reach it. My forehead bonks the door, pushing me backward to land on the toilet seat. Gross! I jump up. The backs of my legs are wet. Sigh.

When I’m finished, I use toilet paper to wipe all the wetness away from my legs and my iPod.

Lucky for my hands that I’m able to squeeze a tiny bit of sanitizer out of the dispenser before exiting the nasty box.

I zigzag through the crowd. A few steps away from the tree where I left Jason, I notice he’s not alone.

I freeze. My chest constricts.

He laughs, which is a rare thing to see unless he’s watching Anchorman or is torturing an unsuspecting soul with flatulence.

She laughs. A pretty laugh too. Her long, thin legs shuffle. Platinum blond hair falls off her shoulder. Then they both look at me stopped in the middle of human traffic, all purple from running and swollen from running and parched from running.

Jason’s eyebrows come together.

Go.

I walk forward. Hi, I say and smile my fake-bitch smile.

Jason points out Superman and Batman wrestling a few feet away. Isn’t that hysterical? He laughs.

I don’t say anything because I can’t figure out why this woman is standing here. She eyes me.

I’m gonna whiz. I’ll be right back. Jason heads for the green houses.

I hold my hand out to the woman. I’m Jason’s wife, Jenny. And you are?

Cassandra. Some people call me Candy. Of course they do. That doesn’t even make sense. She shakes my hand with blue fingertips, and then wipes them on her nonexistent shorty-short-shorts. I blush, remembering the sanitizer still moist on my hands. Urine and sanitizer, to be precise. Her blue velvet sports bra covers her C cups and that’s about it. She’s got like a four-pack or something. Not a six, though. Like I’ve ever seen an any-pack in real life.

She looks down at my stubby legs. You’ve got, uh ... She points.

Oh, crap. I grab the toilet paper trailing from my shorts and drop it onto the ground. I look around.

Um, you didn’t get it all.

I try to turn to see what she’s talking about, but can’t.

Here, Jason says, jogging across from the green houses. I’ll get it. He bends over to peel the small pieces stuck to my leg. He drops them and grinds them into the dirt.

Cassandra gives Jason a big white toothy smile and then glances at me. Well, it was nice to meet you. Her smile vanishes, but then she winks at me. She waves and skips away. Really?

I look up at Jason and feel smaller than ever. Who was that?

Who? He looks around.

I sigh. The blond who was just standing here.

I don’t know. He takes the edge of his T-shirt and rubs my forehead. You’ve got some dirt or something here.

Oh! I push his shirt away. Don’t. Crap. Precisely.

What is wrong with you?

Nothing.

And then an idea for my shiny new novel pops into my head.

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Candy’s Obsession

A Romance

A Thriller

A Paranormal Romance

A Romantic Psychological Thriller (maybe)

by A.C. Davis

Chapter One

Wooded Mountain Estate sat on the eastern waterfront edge of Lake Washington. When the sun set in the summer months at this magnificent home, the floor-to-ceiling windows blazed to life with shades of tangerine and poppy, only the most luxurious of colors for a house of this stature. The scents of cedar and pine and sea wafted into the vast living room when the windows were retracted, creating open-air living as was often the case in summer.

It wasn’t summer, though, and Candy sat on the partly enclosed veranda, wrapped in her favorite blue velvet blanket and watched the fog roll onshore. As it enveloped the estate, the dock was nearly covered. Soon, the fog would caress the rolling green grassy hill that led to the private beach.

The estate had been a part of Candy’s family for three generations, but she would soon have to say goodbye to it and everything she knew, unless she found a way to fix what was broken.

A seagull flapped overhead, toward the monster of mist. He slowly faded away. Candy pulled her blanket tight around her shoulders. She looked at her watch. Leo would be there any minute.

She grew up with Leo; he was her first love. He was the son of Leonardo Huntington II, the owner of the estate. They had their first kiss right on the edge of that dock. She was twelve and he fourteen, ten years ago, but it felt like yesterday.

It was an innocent thing, really. The heat of the afternoon chased them to the dock, both in their swim attire. Candy wore her first two-piece, a yellow number her mother had purchased from the secondhand store. Leo wore fire engine red trunks from Nordstrom, the short ones that were popular those days.

They jumped off the edge of the dock and swam for hours. Exhausted and saturated to the bone, they lay on the damp wooden planks, drying in the sun.

Leo’s hand somehow found Candy’s. His fingers entwined with hers. A shiver of warmth crawled up her arm. She turned to look at him.

His sand-colored hair, cut short so his cowlick in the front pushed little hairs upward, was completely dry. Blond peach fuzz wisped his cheeks and chin. His blue eyes, squinted shut, facing the sky, didn’t return the look.

They remained entangled like this, small parts physically and large parts emotionally, for several minutes, just long enough for Candy to find the courage she needed, her heart in her ears.

She sat up, casting a shadow on Leo. He opened his eyes. The adrenaline raced through Candy. She leaned forward, slowly, lips puckered, and pecked Leonardo Huntington III on the lips. Before he could reciprocate or reject, she laughed and bolted off into the forest to hide her love for him behind the trees and with the butterflies and birds.

Every year Candy waited, anticipating Leo’s return from school for summer break. But that was a different time. A time when love only lived during the warm months and died away at the end of the season, like the golden flowers outlining the estate, when Leo went back to school once again.

Winter was a lonely time at Wooded Mountain. Candy and her mother lived in the apartment off the pool near the west border of the ten acres. A lush forest separated the apartment from the main building.

When the Huntingtons packed for winter, Candy and her mother closed the house down for them by covering the furnishings and windows and turning off the gas and electric. Their services of cleaning and cooking were not needed then, but they were always encouraged to stay in the apartment free of charge, of course. They had been, after all, part of the estate since Candy’s grandmother served as Wooded Mountain’s first housekeeper when the home was built in the 1950s.

The mist reached the back of the house. Candy took a breath of moist air; the hint of rosemary from the stew simmering in the slow cooker caused her stomach to growl. She stood, wrapped her blue velvet closer to her before taking one last look at the past, and entered the home through the glass entryway.

Candles created a warm glow throughout the living area and into the kitchen. Tonight was her only opportunity to make things better with Leo. She had everything planned, down to the minute details of her plea. He couldn’t sell this house, no matter what his reasons. This house meant the world to her. She’d seduce him if she had to. In fact, that’s what she hoped would happen.

In her gut, she knew that there was probably a girlfriend behind his decision. Perhaps she would persuade him otherwise.

She took two table settings out from the cabinet, along with wine and water glasses. A northern Rhone sat in the chiller. She brought it up from the cellar earlier today after she pulled the sheets from and polished the furniture—just before prepping for the simple meal of