Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

York,

gallery openings, the she-she sect. You know what I mean?”

Sonja nodded. “So, when I decided to make a career shift, well,

she wasn’t in complete agreement with me. Even though in 8 years

she had never sold one single piece of art, she was convinced, by

her socialite pals, that her work was extraordinarily original

and would become, without any doubt, the next Pet Rock of the

elite.”

“So?”

“So, she gets the bug to go to the Coast and make her mark. I

think some of her Park Avenue pals went to Beverly Hills and

wanted her to come out to be their entertainment. She expected me

to follow her hallucinations, but I just couldn’t play that part.

She’s a little left of the Milky Way for me.”

“How long has it been?” Sonja asked with warmth.

“Three years now.”

“So, what have these years been like?”

“Oh, fine,” he said. Sonja gave him a disbelieving dirty look.

“O.K., kinda lonely. I’m not complaining, mind you, but when she

was there, no matter how inane our conversations were, not matter

how far out in the stratosphere her mind was, at least she was

someone to talk to, someone to come home to. She’s a sweet girl,

I loved her, but she had needs that . . .well. It wasn’t all

bad, we had a great few years. I just couldn’t let her madness,

harmless though it was, run my life. We’re still friends, we

talk fairly often. I hope she becomes the next Dali.”

“That’s very gracious of you,” Sonja said sincerely.

“Not really. I really feel that way. It’s her life, and, she

never wanted or tried to hurt me. She was just following her

star.”

“Has she sold any of her art?” Sonja asked.

“It’s on perpetual display, she says,” Scott said.

“Why don’t you buy one? To make her feel good?”

“Ha! She feels fine. Beverly Hills is not the worst place in

the world to be accepted.” He lost himself in thought for a

moment. “I think it has worked out for both of us.”

“Except, you’re lonely,” she came back.

“I got into my work. A career shift at my age, you know, I had a

lot to learn. So, I’ve really put myself into the job, and I’ve

been getting a lot out of it.” He stared at the gorgeous woman

to whom he had been telling his personal feelings. “But, yes, I

do miss the companionship,” he hinted.

The clock over the bar announced it was quarter to ten. “Hey.”

Scott turned to face Sonja squarely. “I gotta go, you don’t know

how much I don’t want to, but I gotta.” He spoke with a pained

sincerity.

“No you don’t,” she said exuberantly.

“Huh?”

Sonja’s entire face glowed . “Have you ever done anything

crazy?”

“Sure, of course,” Scott nonchalantly said.

“No, I mean really crazy. Totally off the wall. Spontaneous.”

She grabbed Scott’s shoulders. “Haven’t you ever wanted to go

off the deep end and not care what anybody thinks?” Scott felt

himself getting captured by her exuberance. This absolutely

stunning blonde bombshell exuded enough sexual enthusiasm for the

entire NFL, and yet, he was playing it cool. He wondered why.

“I was a real hell raiser as a kid . . .”

“Listen, Scott.” Her demeanor turned serious. “Are you willing to

do something outrageous right now? And go through with it?”

Here was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen asking

him to make a borderline insane promise. Her painted lips broke

into a lush smile. Ten minutes to the last flight.

“I’m game. What is it?” Scott played along. He could always say

no. Right?

“Wait here a minute.” Sonja grabbed her purse and dashed out of

the bar. Scott’s eyes followed her in stunned amazement.

Scott finished his beer and the clock indicated that the last

flight to New York had left. He wondered what was keeping Sonja

so long, and then she suddenly whisked back into the bar.

“C’mon, we have to hurry.” Sonja shuffled papers in and out of

her purse. She threw enough money on the bar to cover their

drinks.

Scott scooted off of his bar stool laughing. “Hurry? Where’re we

going?”

“Shhhh, get your bags,” Sonja said urgently. “You do have a

passport don’t you?” She asked with concern.

“I just came from Europe, yeah.” His bewilderment was clear

while he retrieved his luggage.

“Good. Follow me.”

Sonja dashed through the terminal to the security check with

Scott struggling to keep up. The view of her exquisite figure

was noticed by more than just Scott, but she left him little time

to relish the view. She tossed her purse on the conveyor belt as

a dazed Scott struggled with his own two bags. She darted from

the security station leaving Mason to reorganize himself. His

ability to run was encumbered by his luggage so he watched care-

fully to see into which gate she was headed.

Gate, gate? Where am I going? And why? He would have laughed if

he wasn’t out of breath from wind sprinting through the airport.

He followed Sonja into Gate 3.

She handed a couple of tickets to the attendant. “We’re the last

ones, hurry up, Mason,” Sonja giggled.

“Where are we going . . .where did the tickets . . .how are you?”

Scott stumbled through his thoughts.

“Just get on the plane. We’ll talk.” She held out her hand,

beckoning him seductively.

The attractive flight attendant stared at Scott. His hesitancy

was holding up the flight. He looked at Sonja. “This is insane,”

he said quietly.

“So it is.”

“Where? I mean where is this plane headed?”

“Jamaica,” she beamed.

“Oh, Sonja, come on, this isn’t real.” Why the hell was he

trying to talk himself out of a fantasy in the making.

“I’m getting on. I need a weekend to cool out, and I know you

do. After what happened.” Sonja took the separated boarding

pass and looked back once before she left. Scott stood still. He

stared as Sonja disappeared down the tunnel to the plane.

The flight attendant appeared quite annoyed. “Well, are you or

aren’t you?”

Scott reasoned that if he reasoned out the pros and the cons the

plane would be gone regardless of his decision. “Fuck it,” he

said and he walked briskly down the ramp.

He entered the Airbus behind the cockpit and turned right to find

Sonja. It didn’t take long. She was the only person sitting in

first class. “Fancy running into you here,” she said waving

from the plush leather seat.

“Quite,” he said in his well practiced West London accent. “Dare

I guess how long it’s been?” He placed his bags in the empty

first class storage compartment.

“Too long. Much too long. You had me worried,” Sonja said melo-

dramatically.

“I still have me worried.”

“I thought you might chicken out,” she said.

“I still might.”

The three hour flight was replete with champagne, brie and simi-

lar delicacies. They munched and sipped to their heart’s con-

tent. One flight attendant, two passengers. Light talk, innocu-

ous flirtations, not so innocuous flirtations, more chatting –

time passed, hours disguised as seconds.

Half Moon Bay is a one hour cab ride from the airport and, true

to Jamaican hospitality, the hotel staff expected them. They

were led to two adjoining rooms after being served the obligatory

white rum punch with a yellow umbrella. It was nearly 3 AM.

Scott was working on 60 hours with little or no sleep.

“Scott?” Sonja asked as they prepared to go into their respective

rooms.

“Yes,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For tomorrow night.”

After four hours sleep, Sonja knocked on Scott’s door. “Rise and

shine! Beach time!”

Scott swore to himself, looked at the clock on the night stand,

and then swore again. Ugh! Scott forced himself out of bed and

opened the door. The vision of Sonja Lindstrom in a bathing suit

that used no more than 4 square inches of material was instantly

arousing. Despite 39 plus years of morning aversions, Scott

readied himself at breakneck speed, thinking that reality and

fantasy were often inseparable. The question was, what was this?

Was he really in the Caribbean? No!, he thought. This is real!

Holy shit, this is real. I wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Intoxi-

cation takes many forms, and this appears to be a delicious wine.

During breakfast she managed to talk him into going to the nude

beach, about a half mile down Half Moon Bay.

“God, you’re uptight,” she said as she shed her g-string on the

isolated pristine coastline. She was a natural blond with a

dancer’s body where the legs and buttocks merge into one.

“I am not!” He defended.

“I bet you can’t take them off. For personal reasons,” she

laughed out loud pointing at the baggy swim suit he borrowed from

the resort. She lay down on her back, perfectly formed breasts

pointing at the sky. Scott noticed only the faintest of tan

lines several inches below her belly button. She patted the huge

towel, inviting Scott to join her. There was room enough for

three,