Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) Read Free Page B

with myself — a penance for my sins.  I would focus on being a good mother for Max.  I’d work hard.  And then someday, I would dip my toe back into the waters of having my own life.  Of being not just a mom, but being a woman.
    And now it’s too late.
    Dr. Martell squints at me in concern.
    “Claire, I know this is difficult.  But the important thing is your cancer is treatable, and you’re able to take preventive measures to keep it from returning in a much more onerous form.  Carol Ann has great information on support groups.  I think you should consider trying one.  I hear they work wonders.”
     
    *** ***
     
    “His cock is a live wire in my hand.  I feel powerful as I stroke it, knowing we are both going to get what we want.  And I stroke, and I stroke, my thumb brushing over the bulbous tip.”
    Dylan is reading.  She was introduced as a “writer and stripper — not necessarily in that order.” I shift in my seat.  The more she reads, the more I imagine that the man in her tawdry scenario is the guy I met last week from AA.  It’s been that way for the entire hour, during every reading.  He takes center stage.  Each time a reader speaks of a muscular body, of an “engorged” cock, it’s him.
    “He moans, his head back, his breathing heavy,” Dylan says.  “I touch my tongue to his shaft, licking it — just a tease.  I don’t know if I’m going to let him fuck me.  I don’t know if I’m going to suck him off.  All I know is that I am going to empty his cock, and he is going to empty his wallet.”
    Dylan finishes her piece with a flip of long dark hair so thick and lustrous it almost looks like a wig.  She smiles at us, the audience, makes a loud crack of her gum, and returns to her seat, two away from mine.  She brushes past, and a whiff of perfume smells like cherries.
    The host, whose name I’ve learned is Suzanne, takes the mic.
    “Thank you, ladies — oh, yes, and you, Roger.  Didn’t forget.  Another great week of brilliant and ballsy, no pun intended, writing and sharing.  Before we move upstairs for coffee, let me read off the names for next week.  And remember, if you’ve signed up to read but know you won’t be able to make it, email me so I can tell someone on the waiting list.  No-shows will be suspended from reading for a month.”
    Suzanne runs a tight ship.  Each person gets five minutes, and Suzanne holds strictly to five minutes, and after the first hour there’s a break for trivia and a raffle —usually for a novel that a romance author donated through the salon’s website.  Then another hour of five-minute readings.
    When Suzanne’s housekeeping is finished, we file upstairs.
    I’m trying to be casual as I look around, scanning the room for Him.  I drift over to the donut table, where Suzanne intercepts me.
    “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?  I’m Suzanne.”
    “Claire,” I say, and we shake hands.  Her handshake is firm, her eye-contact steady.  Something is comforting about this woman, something no-nonsense, yet incredibly warm.  I would guess she’s in her late fifties.  Her ash-blond hair is threaded with gray, and cut in a blunt, chin-length bob.  She wears ropes of clunky turquoise around her neck.
    “So happy to have you joining us.  I’m wondering if you want to sign up for a reading slot.  The salon is booked next week but I could put you on the twenty-third?”
    “Oh, no.  Thanks.  I prefer to just listen.  I mean, if that’s okay.”
    “Of course!  The more audience, the merrier.  I just don’t want you to be shy about getting up there yourself.”
    “I’m not shy.  I’m just…I’m not a writer.”
    “Well, perhaps a few more nights with us will change that.” She winks and moves to the spread of coffee and pastries.
    “Ah ha,” someone says behind me.  I know without looking that it’s Him.
    “Mystery solved,” he says.
    I turn around.  He’s grinning, all dimpled cheeks and bright