Cascade Nights

By J L Kaye

Hard-nosed Freya Barthelme follows her editor’s Rules for Probity while on assignments as a travel writer. When the attractive 30-year-old meets quiet and almost unassuming Edward Brightman at an upscale Pacific Northwest resort, Freya sets those rules aside, puts her budding career on the line and takes a big chance by initiating a steamy two-day relationship with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J L Kaye
• Release date: Nov 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452312019

J L Kaye

Hot steamy stuff is the forte of JL Kaye, author of “Cascade Nights”, "Friendly Fire" and the short story "Nanoelf of the Roses". Kaye also has published another erotic novel “Haunting Experiences” and Free Radicals is nearly ready for publishing as an eBook in 2011. Other than the fractured fairy tale about the nanoelf, Kaye’s erotica centers on the sometimes private lifestyles of professionals who want more from romances than kiss-and-not-tell. In 2011, JL Kaye expects a fourth work consisting of a broad collection of sci-fi, western and romantic short stories to be published as an eBook.J. L. Kaye lives north of San Diego.

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Cascade Nights

By

J. L. Kaye

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 J. L. Kaye

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prolog

Edward Brightman brushed pine needles and dust from the back of Freya Barthelme’s borrowed bright blue warm-up suit. She took a deep breath, let her eyes wander across the ridges and hills that marched up the slopes of Mount Rainier, and basked in the afterglow of two spectacular orgasms.

It’s like I just rode the ninth wave surfers dream about; well I think that’s what they call it, Freya thought, maybe it was a tsunami. Who knows? Who cares? It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Admittedly, she never surfed; but based her impression about riding a perfect wave on what the rich and famous surfers told her during interviews for stories she wrote about surfing vacation spots. Tsunami. Waves upon waves. Apt metaphor!

Standing on the edge of a cliff 3000 miles from her Manhattan home and office, she felt Olympian, like a goddess, detached from her career as an up and coming travel writer and perhaps even an associate editor at Travel in Style.

Lust. High above the madding crowd, as they say. This beats the other Mile-high Club, I would guess; and it’s infinitely more private, too.

She turned and faced the man she’d met barely a handful of hours before, unsure of what to say. I can’t thank him any more than he should thank me. Besides, for what? A spontaneous hook-up while both of us are on our separate jobs, company time, reporter and subject?

She saw him about to say something, so she reached out with a finger and put it to his lips. Save it for later, Edward. I want to savor what happened. Let’s not trivialize the moment with words. He nodded to tacitly agree with her.

A day earlier, after finishing a feature about the opening of the upper end of the Havana market to well-heeled American tourists, Freya flew from New York to Seattle in business class, upgrading at her expense to celebrate filing the first cover story of her journalistic career. A mere two hours after landing at SEATAC, an unexpected event shook Freya out of her reverie. She thwarted an unwarranted come-on from the photographer assigned by her editor to illustrate the story that brought her west.

Then, in the wake of those two triumphs, there on that remote promontory in Washington’s Cascade Mountains, Freya Barthelme opened her own Pandora’s Box of emotions and, in doing so, violated one of Regina’s Rules for Probity.

Heady stuff for this hard-working woman of 30. One thing remains constant for me, she thought, turning away from Edward to look down into a long verdant valley below them, raising her face to take the sun more fully, when I initiate intimacy, wherever it is, I always, yes, Freya, always, have more than one orgasm and they’re deeper and infinitely more satisfying. So, Edward Brightman, you and I just proved for the record Freya’s Personal Theorem on Sexuality, which states that when my partner leads and dominates in one way or another and initiates sex, invariably he gets off and I get hornier. Now, I must determine whether it was so good because it was forbidden and neither of us were in dominant positions, or just so good because it was, well, so good. Hmm. In the name of personal journalism I gotta explore this more.

Edward finished dusting her off and patted her tenderly on the shoulder, a signal to turn to face him, which she did and passionately kissed the man she met a little more than five hours earlier and whose skill at foreplay brought on her sexual tsunami.

Freya, girl, what’s up with you? You’ve never tumbled into sex so fast with anyone, and now you’re thinking of the next time with this same guy.

Thanks, Edward. Please understand that what we just did is not like me. Even though that sounds like a cheap cliché, I mean it. I don’t know what got into me. I know what I’d like in me, though. But I’ll bet you hear that from all the girls who fall for your good looks and manly charms.

Freya looked for a sympathetic reaction from the tall, handsome and athletic man of roughly the same age, she guessed. His boyish demeanor made him seem more embarrassed than remorseful or, what would have been worse, accepting as if the intimacy they shared was an obligation on her part. He’s not that type, I don’t think. But I started it and now I don’t want to turn it off, not yet, anyway. But, good God, girl, are you putting something ahead of work, ahead of the profession, ahead of propriety, ahead of your narrow better judgment? Or …?

1

Five hours earlier, at 10:30 that morning, Freya Barthelme, slender, well-endowed and proportioned with full breasts and narrow waist, pulled into a turnout off State Highway 410 scraped from the fringe of towering old growth firs to retrieve driving directions the resort’s marketing director sent her. Travel In Style confirmed the magazine wanted to do a story on the Cascade Lodge. After writing a series of edgy reports on travel to once closed countries, her editor thought Freya needed something soft and cushy and dispatched the ace reporter to an upscale resort and spa tucked in the forests on the slopes of Mount Rainier in Washington. Freya’s editor told her to consider the lodge a cushy assignment, the perfect type of story for you to use to cruise back to more traditional travel reporting.

Every time Freya thought back about that suggestion to do an easy one she winced, wanting to tell the editor: That’s not like me, anymore! I don’t need a marshmallow story about a rustic resort in the backwoods. I want something with meat! But the moment and the words never coincided.

As Freya rotated in the front seat to open a leather briefcase on the passenger side, her knee collided with the row of bruises on her right leg and the dull pain reminded her of what happened the night before. Roald Jardin, the freelance photographer hired by the magazine, brutishly tried to pry his way between her thighs, and his clumsy attempt at sex left her with two perfectly matched rows of fingerprints that turned yellow before going purple on the inside of each leg.

For the first time in 30 years, Freya had a chance to do successfully what she often dreamed about: using a knee to fend off an unwanted sexual advance. She liked the sensation, and smiled at how automatic and easy she protected herself from the assault by jamming one knee hard into Roald’s groin while using her nubby little finger nails to scratch his face and neck. As she replayed those moments over and over, she suspected she probably mashed Roald’s testicles against the hard stretch of male anatomy that separated his anus from his mangled manhood.

Looking off into the lush green Cascade forest, Freya reveled in her moment of mastery over one male’s attempt at domination. The smile broadened as she replayed in her mind his howl of pain. For good measure, Freya imagined the sound echoing throughout the forest that surrounded her on the highway into Mount Rainier National Park. The aural fantasy faded in the woods as she heard again his gasping simpers of apology when she pushed him out of her room into the hotel corridor, intending that to be the last time she’d ever see him.

Though six feet tall and trim, Freya took many steps to appear less appealing than her friends. Intentionally, she kept herself plain, using minimal make-up and wearing loose clothing to hide her attractive figure. She also stayed away from gyms, disdaining the hard-body fitness levels many of her friends worked so hard to maintain. Too self-indulgent, she replied when asked why she didn’t join a fitness club near the office. I prefer my body to be soft and tender like a good steak, not lean and tough. You can be that way if you want.

She also passed on taking self-protection courses designed to acquaint women with the rudiments of martial arts; she thought herself so plain, mousy as Freya overheard a colleague describe her, that she considered it unlikely she’d get any sexual advances from anyone she couldn’t handle. Besides, who wants to take on an Amazon? The episode in her Seattle hotel room confused her and made her challenge that thesis.

Similarly, Freya translated her perceived and studied lack of sex-appeal into a reason to ignore other personal safety measures the more attractive staffers took when in the field. On assignment, which happened often because she wrote destination stories for the travel magazine catering to well-heeled travelers, Freya went out of her way to skirt situations that might require defending herself.

And, for good measure, Freya Barthelme held to that sense of security because she rarely received unsolicited attention from tour operators or staff members at properties who feared reprisals for uninvited flirtations, aware of professional risks from an angry or offended journalist. What few problems she did encounter on the job always came from free-lance photographers or guests of the venues she visited. Gays on the magazine’s staff said that photographers represented the worst of all threats.

Consequently, a late-night cross-country flight after 24 hours of non-stop work to beat a deadline followed by several glasses of champagne aloft dulled Freya’s defensive stance and, left her without a customary wariness over late night meetings with men, especially photographers. After the incident, Freya tossed about in bed, rebuking herself for dropping her guard. At the crack of dawn, she vented her anger and put the incident away by having Roald Jardin terminated from the project and future photo-shoots for the magazine.

Regina Stein, the editor, ran Travel in Style magazine with an iron fist and required absolute probity from the staff and the free-lancers they used. Freya’s first-thing-in-the-morning account of what happened convinced Regina that Roald should be blacklisted from future assignments. I’ll take care of formally cutting him loose; however, you’ll probably have to cover the story at the Cascade Lodge without a photographer. Maybe I’ll find another one in the area; but, it’s unlikely at this late date so you’ll need to wing it and possibly take pictures on your own. It’s not that important of a story that we need A-grade shots, anyway.

Before she got clarification on Stein’s photo requirements, the editor hung up and left Freya seething in anger as she set out on the network of roads that took her to the resort.

Shit, I hate to split my efforts. That’s one of the reasons this gig’s getting old, she thought, staring at the lush green forest that surrounded the roadway. She looked to the backseat of the rented car and saw again Roald’s silver Halliburton camera case. She suspected Jardin left it when she flushed him from her room and the bellhop then loaded it in the car while she checked out. Freya didn’t see it until well away from the airport hotel. Because of the way he attacked her as well as what Stein said about blacklisting him from future assignments at Travel In Style, Freya only foresaw problems if she tried to return it to him. Embarrassment should make him abandon the gear, anyway, she reasoned. However, each time Freya saw the case she felt uneasy, like a thief who stole someone’s professional tools.

To dispel the guilt, she swept the case out of sight onto the floor, wincing at the sound of impact. Stepping out of the compact white automobile, handwritten directions at her side, Freya scanned the dense and silent forest and smelled the rich loamy soil and pungent foliage that sloped down toward the turn-out. She thought back to a solo assignment a decade earlier and chuckled at her success all those years at avoiding a split of attention between reporting and taking pictures. If worst comes to worst, you can always get the property to give you stock photos, Martin Bourdon, her editor, assured the then rookie reporter on that first project.

The more cost-conscious Regina Stein encouraged her staff to be versatile, rewarding them with bonuses when they filled both roles on stories. Freya never collected those bonuses.

The sameness of stories about pretentious hotels with snooty staffs and over-cooked food bores me, now, she told the forest. These new assignments in former Iron Curtain countries are a blast. When I get back I’ll crank out a new resume and see what’s happening out there at some of the more serious pubs. Besides, under Regina the book seems to be going after advertisers more than readers, which is probably one reason why I’m here covering a fairly pedestrian location. I mean, how often can we write about pristine lodges set in national parks? And this is my third this year. Yuck!

A tour bus with Asian characters on the sides swept by and the paper flapped against Freya’s thigh. She lifted the note and studied her carefully penned directions. Thirteen miles after the national park boundary marker, between markers 44 and 45, turn right at resort sign and follow the four-lane paved road to the lodge. Contact information and your itinerary will be in a press kit at registration. She just passed the green and white numbered 44-mile indicator before the last bend of the road.

Even their press kits look alike, she announced to no one. Most properties she visited frowned on checking guests in early in the morning; however, as a travel writer, she expected to receive deferential treatment. If there early, I leave early.

With her chin thrust high, the corners of her mouth turned into a mock frown and a quick glance over her cheekbones at the note and then the Rolex she picked up in Hong Kong, she haughtily announced to the ancient trees across the road: Robotic reporting and writing here I come. Crumpling the note, she slipped back in the car, winked at her image in the mirror, shifted into drive and merged back onto the highway. Five minutes later she pulled up under the rough-hewn weathered logs that formed the signature portico of the sprawling four-story Cascade Lodge.

Same old same old so far.

After she announced her arrival to registration, a deep male voice greeted her: Mrs. Bartholomew …

Oh, shit. They can’t even get my name right. It’s Barthelme with the last syllable pronounced like the pronoun ‘me’; I’m not a Mrs., and despite that call me Freya. You must be Mr. Brightman.

The voice came from a tall and fit, but simply dressed executive sliding along the granite-topped front desk toward her. Freya quickly sized him up as a local because of the weathered but still youthful and attractive face. A shaggy head of curly brown hair along with style-less glasses made him look dull, unconcerned about his appearance, which seemed to her odd at an upscale property like the Cascade Lodge. Freya also noticed he wore no rings or other jewelry, carried a ballpoint pen with the hotel logo and a simple clipboard, none of the designer accoutrements used by his affected counterparts at five-star places she routinely covered.

He carries the country guy all the way through to every detail without the affectations that mark others in his position. That’s encouraging. She subtly sniffed the air, searching for the tell-tale aroma of expensive aftershave or colognes. None of that smelly stuff many of them must bathe in, either, which may mean I’ll be with a real man, though perhaps a dull one, too.

Freya, in the spirit of bonhomie, please call me Edward.

That’s good. Edward it’ll be. She stuck her hand out and he took it lightly.

Some strength there; not like so many in the hospitality business who have a limp hand; but what the hell, I’m here and might as well make the best of it.

After a brief familiarization tour of the main building, Edward escorted her to a quiet table along a towering window wall away from other guests in the Cascade Lodge’s cavernous main dining room. A quick lunch salad came and went and, as the help cleared away dishes, she leafed through several pages of prepared questions. Because of his simple affability that bordered on innocence, she found it easy to mix hard and soft questions, which he responded to with openness and genuine interest in being candid.

Edward had affected an aw shucks Ronald Reagan-like charm during the tour, which bored Freya, and her indifference allowed the marketer to stay mechanically on message. Until they sat down for lunch, the repartee between them remained light and it allowed her to feed him mushy questions, those she carefully crafted to sound obsequious. Freya knew that fawning questions disarmed sources, and, when she fired off the hard ones, it caught them off-guard, giving her unexpected insights into challenges resorts faced. Though the magazine’s print edition viewed each resort and tour operator as a major advertiser, Travel in Style’s blog operated differently; and Regina Stein wanted it that way, encouraging her staff to be brutally honest when leading a thread on a particular destination.

Describe for me demographics of the clientele you go for, by season, and then give me an idea of how successful you’ve been in attracting people in that segment.

After posing that A-grade question, she looked up to see if he contorted his face while pondering it. As Edward struggled to reply, she felt a twinge of regret at having thrown a complicated one at him unannounced. Poor guy looks like a specimen insect impaled on a pin.

His face blanked and he held his palms open, asking for forgiveness.

Take your time, Edward, and get back to me when convenient. I’ll be here a day or so, unless that line of inquiry shortens my stay. She smiled sweetly and waited for a response.

Edward’s hands remained extended, but a sly smile crossed his face as scores of muscles relaxed. You know, Freya, there are some subjects I can handle, but others Ms. Gordon, the GM and managing partner, should answer for you.

His pleasant and honest grin didn’t distract Freya.

That’s fair. Many properties in your category divide disclosure between executives. When can I talk with her? She tapped the sheaf of notes with her pen and squinted to emphasize the seriousness behind the hard-line direction she wanted to take for her story.

Edward’s face remained frozen in a smile, his eyes locked on Freya’s as he pulled out a cell-phone, keyed in seven numbers and reached Cascade Lodge’s executive suite. Edward introduced himself and spoke softly, asking for the general manager’s schedule, saying the interview should take no more than 30 minutes. He looked at Freya with raised eye-brows.

Freya ignored Edward and looked with casual disinterest out the huge plate glass window at the forest that encircled the lodge. She recalled from the drive in that beyond the forest, perhaps quite a few miles away, the perpetually snow-capped Mount Rainier loomed over the region; however, she lost sight of the iconic mountain when she entered the dense forest inside the park boundary. Edward’s silence drew her back to the table. In response, Freya shrugged her shoulders as an uncertain gesture about time needed.

He made an entry into a small wire-bound paper scheduler and put a free hand with his thumb up to let Freya know he booked the interview, signed off and closed the clam shell of the phone. He broadened his grin. O.K. Freya, you’re set for tomorrow morning at ten when you and Ms. Gordon will have breakfast in her office.

Wonderful! She said with feigned enthusiasm. That’s far more than I could ask for. As she dropped her eyes to record the time and place on her notes, Freya added: You’ll be there, won’t you?

He frowned. No. The GM handles interviews alone; but I’m available up until then as well as after for as long you need, Freya. He consulted his scheduler and, while his eyes scanned the little pages, added: I’ll host you for dinner tonight and tomorrow, unless you have other plans.

She saw him blush and mentally recorded his shyness as something for possible leverage if needed during her visit. That’s nice of you, as long as I’m not taking you from family or other duties.

Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m married to my work; and, because we’re a year-round property, I don’t get off the mountain very often.

I fully understand, she said, wistfully, comparing his concept of 24/7 work with her schedule. After discarding the idea, she said: Interesting you should say ‘off the mountain’, Edward. Are we on Mount Rainier here?

In a way. Cascade Lodge is what’s called an in-dwelling; and, because the property sits on an island of private land surrounded by the park, we’re not obligated to report to the National Park Service or government authorities the way concessionaires inside federal boundaries do.

So, I’m in the National Park but not?

Yes, and we’re not quite so unique. What I mean to say is there are several in-dwellings, like this, he waved a hand, that were private property before the feds claimed the land for a National Park. Grandfather clauses let us retain private status but to avoid controversy we operate to their highest standards and even beyond. Many of the competing lodges around here are outside the park, which loosens the reporting requirements they have; while others operate inside as concessionaires reportable to the park service and Department of the Interior. These differences, among many others that you’ll see and hear about, make us unique.

From independent research, Freya knew about the corporate parentage of the property. Watching and listening to Edward, she started to like his genuine enthusiasm for the hotel; and the commitment to his employer submerged his nervousness that she suspected either came from unfamiliarity with dealing with a journalist, working with a woman, or both. I’ll have to ask him about that later on, she promised herself. Maybe he’s just given me an angle I need for the blog if not the story -- how unlicensed concessionaires circumvent federal regulations. Then, on reflection: That, however, is not the kind of story we’re doing. Damn! It could have been an interesting feature. Good idea, wrong publication.

Here’s how I’ve arranged the remainder of the day for you. He paused and waited for her to encourage him to continue.

God, am I going to have to sanction every move we make? She cocked her head to one side and indicated with her hand to go ahead.

When finished here, which I see we pretty much are, I’ll let you attend to any personal needs you have for half an hour or so if you need the time; then we’ll take a short trip off premises and into the park for a quick tour up the mountain and a possible sunset, though you might be tired by then, given the late hour it now is back east. They forecast clear weather today, but there’s a possibility of rain tonight and possibly tomorrow; so we should take advantage of blue skies when we can.

He looked around the room, and said as he leaned across the table: I didn’t see anyone else with you. Will you need photos or assistance taking pictures to illustrate your article?

Freya forced a laugh; but she thought it sounded phony. Remembering the photographer’s case she said: I’ll take my own, thank you, Edward. There was a, uh, problem with finding a photographer at this late date so the magazine wants me to illustrate my story.

He looked at his scheduler again. Hmm, I recall when your staff booked your visit that you were supposed to be here with another person.

She quickly added: We canceled the photographer who was to join me.

So I should release Mr. Jardin’s room, then?

Most assuredly.

That’s fine.

It sounded to her like a comment of relief. Did we actually fire him for the right reasons? Why’s that, Edward? I mean, does the absence of a photographer …

"Not really, it’s not the presence or absence of a photographer, but it’s that one, Roald Jardin, that got me