Ian Baxter

By Scott Crowley

Rising from the ashes of Boston's long dormant literary community a powerful novel propels an unknown college student to the forefront of an American renaissance.

Ryan Gibson, the author of the groundbreaking novel Ian Baxter, is a fringe member of a group of artists who frequent the infamous apartment of Clayton Cooper, an elitist writer of little success but great influence. Cooper's disdain for Gibson's work shatters the group and spawns a second great novel of the period by Gibson's best friend Thomas Campbell.

In the midst of the firestorm, an American police action in Korea draws Gibson to the horrific killing fields of South Korea. He returns a shell of himself, a battered and reluctant voice of a generation he could and would never identify with.

Gibson's suffering extends to three tumultuous relationships that only add to his staggering burden as possibly the American writer of the century. A lifelong nemesis reenters his world and tries to destroy what little life he has left. Their struggle is fierce and all consuming. Only one will survive the war of words and actions that defined their relationship.

Ian Baxter is the answer to questions that should never be asked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 18, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462081127

Scott Crowley

Scott Crowley is the author of Ian Baxter. Crowley and his wife, Sharon, reside in Tewksbury, Massachusetts. They have three children.

Book preview

C H A P T E R 1

September 1995, Beacon Hill, Boston.

The stench of stale beer, marijuana, and body odor made all who entered the spacious two-bedroom Beacon Hill apartment recoil in disgust. For the five people huddling behind its protective walls, it was sanctuary.

Three young men were sprawled on a tattered couch in the living room, flicking cigarettes and talking softly. The only female sat on the floor near the couch reading English magazines and picking her toes. The fourth male was seated comfortably in a large chair that looked surprisingly expensive and dignified among the rabble of cheap furniture that was scattered about the room.

The apartment, later consecrated by the press, was located on one of the poorest streets of Boston’s prestigious Beacon Hill. It was rented to Clayton Cooper, a writer of minimal success. Cooper was twenty-eight years old with no real income other than a trust fund set up by his grandfather. He was tall and thin with no signs of aging other than his slightly graying temples. He looked like an eighteen- year-old prep school student. His nose was the main detraction on his face; it was large and hooked, but its angular shape gave him a distinguished, intellectual appearance. He was an avid art collector, dedicated writer, and amateur painter. Cooper, many said, sacrificed his life for the arts; privately he understood his own limitations.

Intuitively he realized he did not possess the blinding talent needed to distance himself from the legions of writers vying for a few precious slots. He wanted to be the voice of his generation in the mold of a drawing room warrior, commanding respect and admiration with his mighty pen. He was intelligent, occasionally brilliant, but not nearly as gifted as he wanted people to believe.

Cooper briefly attended Harvard University; he left after a tumultuous, academically sketchy freshman year. He never discussed the circumstances surrounding his abrupt departure, rumors persisted, but most were exaggerated and untrue. His grieving parents were so distraught they nearly wrote him out of their hefty will. He begged for their forgiveness, they reluctantly yielded after months of pitiful groveling. More important than his few achievements and many failures was the role he played as the leader of the group of young artists that gathered nightly at his apartment. The criterion for membership was simple: if you achieved any form of commercial success, you were unwelcome. Clayton would only have to say two simple words, sell out.

He loved to sit in his imposing chair and listen to the others debate endlessly about anything and everything. In some respects, it was a marvelous platform for local artists to gather and talk passionately about their crafts. Unfortunately, there was more than just talk going on in the apartment. Most of the visitors were so high on their drug of choice they did little writing, acting, or painting. A few worked tirelessly on their projects, the rest seldom focused on anything for more than a few days at a time.

Ryan Gibson and Thomas Campbell sat at the end of the long couch, talking and laughing softly. A typical conversation between the two friends usually ended in a furious argument. They enjoyed a friendship the rest of the group envied. Their uncompromising loyalty to one another set them apart from the others.

Thomas Campbell was the second oldest member of the select fraternity and was a constant thorn in Clayton Cooper’s fragile ego.

Cooper saw him as a threat to his throne. As their friendship blossomed, he grew so envious he seldom stayed in the room when Campbell recited one of his masterful short stories. He could not bear to witness the positive responses his stories always received.

Thomas Campbell, like Clayton Cooper, hailed from a wealthy family that pampered him with a fine education and a carefree childhood. He was a proud graduate of the prestigious prep school Phillips Academy. After a tortuous period of youthful deliberation, he chose Brown University over Yale. At the tender age of twenty-one, he received his bachelor’s degree in civil engineering.

After his graduation from Brown, he quickly realized he could not handle the drudgery of a nine to five office job. He passed up a lucrative promotion and took a year off to find himself. He withdrew his substantial savings and spent a wild year traveling across Europe and Asia.

When he finally returned to Boston, he decided against a career in engineering. After a year of bouncing from one dead-end job to the next, he finally found a position that allowed him to sleep late. He became a male escort. The majority of his clients were sophisticated businesswomen who needed a bright, handsome, articulate man to escort them to a business dinner or a function. They seldom wanted sex from him, but on occasion, he was propositioned. He always politely declined. One of his faithful clients said he was the most intelligent man she ever wanted to fuck.

Sitting on the floor across from Campbell was Monica Fairchild, Clayton Cooper’s live-in girlfriend. She needed a place to stay and he provided it. It was a relation of convenience. She found the quasi- decadent environment very stimulating.

Unlike the others, all Northerners, Monica hailed from the Deep South. Her rootless family moved all around Georgia and Florida, dodging social workers and truant officers at every turn. Her father, William Fairchild II, died in the jungles of Vietnam when she was only a few months old. This is the story her mother always told her, but it was far more complicated and disturbing than she could have dreamed. It wasn’t until her eighteenth birthday that her mother revealed the murky details of his disappearance.

William was born to fly, at nine his father William Sr. took him to a nearby Air Force base to gawk at the sleek jets. He watched in wonderment as Silver F-86 Sabre Jets took off and landed with a graceful roar.

His youthful dream of becoming a pilot did not waiver as he reached college age. It was 1967, the summer oflove in America; the summer of death for so many young soldiers in that strange place called Vietnam. It was the summer the anti-war demonstrators realized their own power. He had mixed feelings about the escalating conflict; his best friend died trying to take a village nobody cared about. He was home from college when the nervous Marine Officer marched up the long driveway and broke the news to his mother. She screamed and fainted in the trembling officer’s arms, he called for the neighbors to help him. It was his first time delivering a death notice.

After graduating college in 1969 he joined the Air Force and married Monica’s pregnant mother. He wouldn’t let the inconvenience of an unplanned child deter him from his quest to fly jets. He got his wish, in 1971 he was off to Vietnam as an F-105 replacement pilot.

Three months into his tour he was ordered to fly a covert mission over an enemy infiltration route in Laos. After completing an inconclusive bomb run his plane was rocked by enemy anti-aircraft fire. The aircraft burst into flames and spiraled towards the ominous jungle floor. His wingman did not see a parachute and assumed he went down with the plane. The Air Force designated Fairchild as Missing in Action. The story does not end there; like everything else in Vietnam, it had no ending.

Immediately after the crash, the highly secretive U.S. Joint Personnel Recovery Center in Saigon received dozens of reports about an injured American pilot near the impact area. The reports were encouraging. A local farmer claimed he saw Fairchild three days after the shoot-down, he looked injured, but could communicate and walk, although with a severe limp. His captures, probably Communist Pathet Lao forces, marched him through a small village and then into the depths of a suspected, and much feared, jungle prison. U.S. J.P.R.C personnel received reports about Fairchild as long as a year after the crash, but could do nothing but gather the information and hope he came home with the other POWs after the cease-fire in 1973. He never did.

Monica’s brokenhearted mother remarried five years after the fall of Saigon. Her new husband was nothing like William Fairchild. He was an alcoholic who liked young girls who did not resist.

At seventeen, Monica readily accepted a partial scholarship to Boston University. She wanted out of the small town life, more importantly she wanted to escape the nightly visits of her drunken stepfather. The frequently out-of-work trucker relished the challenge of picking her bedroom lock; it turned him on. She cowered at the sound of his heavy boots coming down the hallway. The door would fly open; he would smile and pull his stained pants down. He would get angry if she took too long getting undressed; he was on a strict time limit. His wife seldom went to the store for more than an hour at a time. He covered her biting screams with his dirty, callous hands. After he finished he always found the energy to curse at her for tempting him so cruelly.

She told her unsympathetic mother about the brutal attacks, she responded defensively and called her daughter a little liar. She threatened to kick Monica out of the house when she discovered a home pregnancy test under her bed. She thought she was fucking the neighborhood boys. Monica had nobody to confide in when her stepfather took her to that awful doctor down the road; the one who performed the surgery nobody ever talked about.

After an unremarkable college career at Boston University, she floated from job to job. She was fired more times than she quit. She finally settled down as the manager of the Coffee Bar, a chic specialty store on Newbury Street. It was a steadyjob with decent benefits, but it was far below her education level.

To combat her frequent bouts of depression she wrote volumes of blistering poetry. She wrote in a descriptive style that was painfully honest, almost pathetic in its pathos. Because of her awful childhood, Monica could not interact with others normally. She tried to overcompensate for her awkward social behavior by flirting with both men and women with equal cruelty.

Sitting placidly next to Thomas Campbell was the youngest member of the group, nineteen- year-old Ryan Gibson. His age and academic background set him apart from the others. They were all highly educated, or at least had long lists of scholastic accomplishments that allowed them to select the college of their choice. Clayton only lasted a year at Harvard, but his acceptance to the prestigious institution solidified his aura of intelligence. Like the others, excluding Monica, Gibson’s family had money, but it was recent and possibly fleeting. Gibson was a second year student at Suffolk University, a solid blue-collar school that seldom produced any notable alumni. It was located only a few blocks from his parent’s plush Beacon Hill home. He was a commuter student, missing the college experience by light years.

He was short and wiry, with brooding brown eyes and black hair. He smiled infrequently and hardly raised his voice above a whisper, but when provoked his temper was short and violent. Only a few people knew of this dark side. Unlike Thomas Campbell and Clayton Cooper who came from old money, his family did not acquire wealth and stature until he was in middle school. He was ten years old when his parents moved from their dilapidated two-family house in Med- ford to Beacon Hill. Ryan, his brother Patrick, and sister Alisha attended private schools in the city.

Gibson found the transition from public to private school easy; he did not have any close friends at his old school to leave behind. He had given up trying to change his social position.

The most glaring, eventually controversial difference between Gibson and the other artists was his reluctance to show his work or even to discuss any part of it with them. This added to the mysterious conditions surrounding his addition to the group. His work was unknown, his intelligence questioned, and his involvement with Thomas Campbell viewed with curious suspicion. The two had met a year before at a local bar called The Rose. It was Campbell who introduced him to the elitist world of the struggling artist.

The Rose was a sleepy little bar that catered mostly to the city’s artistic community. Campbell spent most of his free nights huddled in the cozy bar, drinking himself silly. It was in this chic little bar that he discovered Gibson.

The first time Campbell saw him at The Rose, he was sitting at the loneliest table in the place, furiously scribbling on a wet napkin. He didn’t approach him that night, he watched him from a distance for few weeks. He always sat at the same table, night after night, seemingly disinterested with those who tried to talk to him. He was a tragic figure; his long, listless gaze intrigued Campbell. He had to get to know him, if only for a character profile for his next novel.

After two weeks of observation, Campbell decided to go over and say hello. Gibson looked up with disgust as the stranger approached; it was obvious the intrusion annoyed him.

Hey, how’s it going.

Hi, Gibson replied with a cold stare.

I’m Thomas Campbell.

So.

I couldn’t help noticing your intense writing style, Campbell said with a friendly grin. Gibson did not respond immediately, he was agitated beyond words. His writing was too personal for him to discuss with a total stranger.

Don’t worry about it, Gibson bristled, his words spewing forth like the bite of a cornered dog.

Okay, sorry for bothering you. He nodded and walked back to his table. The next night Gibson sat at the bar and noticed Campbell sitting a few stools away. Campbell’s manner was quite different from the previous night. The gleaming smile that left such a favorable impression on Gibson had disappeared, replaced by a heavy scowl. He mumbled to himself and slammed his fist on the bar top.

Tough day? Gibson asked.

Fucking tough life, Campbell growled.

We all have those days, Gibson said in a tone that should have ended the conversation.

My girlfriend is leaving me, he sighed and gulped his drink.

Why?

Who the fuck knows. Maybe because I’m a fucking drunk, or maybe it’s because I can’t keep a job, or maybe its my unpredictable mood swings. I’m a great person to be around. He ordered another drink and glanced at his new companion. He only then realized that his new friend was the kid from the night before.

I went to an Ivy League School and what did it get me? Tonight I will be with some fucking princess who wants me to show her a good time! All this with a big ass grin plastered across my stupid face.

Why?

Never mind, Campbell answered sadly.

There was an awkward silence until Gibson turned on his stool and introduced himself.

My name is Ryan Gibson. Thomas Campbell right?

Yeah nice to meet you, and if I’m alive tomorrow it would be a pleasure to talk to you. Campbell smiled sadly and stumbled outside. This auspicious meeting was the beginning of an extraordinary friendship.

Mike Walsh was the fifth person in the apartment this particular Friday. Walsh was a tall, frail looking twenty-five-year-old Emerson

College student. His hair was long and unwashed, giving the impression of deliberate neglect. He was convinced he was the next Robert Frost! His poetry was a convoluted attempt at originality, laced with cliché topics and dramatic lines that were transparent and unmov- ing. He was a loud, arrogant, passionless fool who believed his dress and alternative attitude was as important to his artistic merit as inspiration and talent.

Hey Campbell, Walsh called to Thomas.

Yeah.

I saw him.

Who?

You know, Walsh grabbed his pipe and sucked deeply.

Don’t play games asshole, Campbell snapped impatiently.

J.D.

J.D. who?

J.D. who! Come on Thomas you’re not that stupid are you?

Fuck off Walsh, Campbell turned away in disgust. Gibson chuckled and continued to read the newspaper.

J.D. Salinger! How many J.D.’s do you know!

Don’t tell me you and your little friend Joshua went to his house again. That guy is such an ass.

I said I would go to his house every year until I saw him. You just can’t break a pact like that. Walsh laughed and sucked on his beloved pipe.

So you saw him this time.

Yeah I saw him. Let me start from the beginning.

Great, I have to listen to this again, Monica sighed.

Josh and I were so high we couldn’t find the fucking house. We’ve been there five times, but we could not find the fucking road! Finally, we saw a group of teenage girls coming down the hill towards us. They were giggling and falling all over each other, we knew he was near, we knew we were getting close.

"What is this? Apocalypse Now? Sounds like you were searching for Colonel Kurtz," Campbell added with a sly grin.

You know what story that movie was based on don’t you? Monica asked. She hoped nobody knew the answer.

"Yeah we all know Monica, Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness Walsh answered without taking a breath. So we get to his house and notice his garden is much larger than the last time we were there. He must have expanded it. Isn’t that weird?"

So what, get to the point. For Christ sake, this guy thinks we like to hear his dribble.

Well it’s just sort of weird. The place was very quiet, we thought he was out. We saw one of his neighbors; they looked at us like we were crazy. They really protect him around there.

Do you blame them? With rats like you running around peeping in people’s windows, I’m surprised they don’t shoot you. Actually I wish somebody would shoot you so we wouldn’t have to listen to this crap every six months.

You’re just fucking jealous Campbell, I was ten feet from the guy who created Holden Caulfield!

So what did you do?

I crept up to his kitchen window and looked in.

Yeah,

And I saw him sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper and eating breakfast. He was sitting there eating breakfast! Can you fucking believe it? J.D. Salinger, man!

What did you expect him to be doing? Campbell wished he had never encouraged him.

I don’t know what I expected, I guess I never thought my first sight of this great man would be over a bowl of corn flakes. It was weird to see him performing such a mundane task.

Did you expect to find him kneeling at an altar with a ray of sunlight beaming through a stain glassed window illuminating his divine hand! Campbell mocked.

Yeah something like that. Why do you get so pissed off every time I talk about him? Are you jealous?

"What I can’t stand is shitheads like you who worship him like some kind of literary messiah. Every sixteen-year-old who reads Catcher in the Rye identifies with Holden Caulfield."

Isn’t that the true mark of a great novel? Identification by every generation that reads it?

Walsh you’re just like every guy I went to college with.

What do you mean?

"It’s the same tired shit, read Jack Kerouac, read Naked Lunch, read Catcher in the Rye, the same old criteria for every goddamn generation! There is no substance in that."

One very good novel doesn’t make somebody a literary genius, Cooper interrupted; his indifferent tone was transparent.

Did J.D. Salinger write the greatest American novel in this century? Walsh asked.

No, Campbell answered flatly.

Who did?

I did.

You did, where is it, Walsh chuckled.

It’s in here, Campbell pressed two fingers against his temple.

So you’re not into hero worship, but you’re okay with self-worship, Walsh shot back; he seldom pushed Campbell so far.

I’m tired of talking to you Walsh. He turned and whispered something to Gibson.

Clayton Cooper stared at them until his stomach ached and his face burned. He regretted ever letting Gibson into the inner circle of his private commune. Cooper wanted to be the best friend. He believed Campbell commanded limitless talent, but would never succeed if his choice of friends were any indication of his judgment or taste. He wanted to be the one Campbell confided in.

Ryan did you see how much weight I’ve gained? Monica lifted her shirt and let Gibson look at her stomach. It was flat and marred only by a large belly ring.

Oh don’t be so bulimic, Cooper said casually, glancing over the rim of his book.

I’m not, she answered defensively, her eyes boiling from the remark.

You look fine, Gibson said with little interest.

You guys all suck! You only care when you want a piece of ass! She sat for a few moments watching Gibson. She was amazed at his consistent lack of interest in her. He was one of the few who had not made a pass at her at one time or another. Thomas laughed at her, but she always sensed his sexual arousal. Ryan would turn away and blush, it amused her at first, but she soon tired of this odd behavior.

How come you don’t let us read any of your work? She asked Gibson with a coy, uncertain smile.

What? Gibson asked softly. Walsh and Cooper suddenly became very interested in the conversation.

You heard me. We all share what we write, but you never let us see anything. Come on, I’m desperately curious. Her eyes glowed; she relished his discomfort.

Monica lay off, Campbell ordered.

Let him speak for himself, he’s a big boy! He reads all of our shit, but we can’t see his? Is he secretly writing at mom’s house? Is he writing the great American novel in his bunk bed? We need to know! Monica laughed uneasily; she began to doubt her own intentions.

Monica what’s bothering you today? Another fucking disaster in your life! Campbell snapped.

Oh shut up Thomas! Monica responded angrily, standing and slowly making her way across the room. She ended her strut directly in front of Gibson.

Let it slide Thomas, Clayton Cooper said with an amused grin, clearly showing his approval of the interrogation.

Monica do I need to shove my work down your throat to be accepted. Do I have to be like you!

Don’t compare yourself to her Ryan. I think we can safely say she is not hiding behind a wall of self-involvement like you are, Clayton interrupted.

Clayton don’t get involved! This is an ego stroking argument started by someone who gets off insulting people, Campbell snarled.

Fuck off Thomas! Monica yelled.

Don’t make her the villain. A true writer is someone who is not afraid of their work, and those who think they are writers and aren’t, should move on with their lives. Clayton stared at Gibson.

Clayton I’m afraid I can’t compete with all the material you put out, but I wouldn’t be so sure you can be proud of what you have done, Gibson said simply. Silence loomed; Campbell lifted his head only to see tears streaming down Monica’s face as she laughed herself into a fit. She was holding her sides and wiggling on the floor.

Clayton, she laughed, what are you going to do about that? Are...you going to take that...in your own...your... she couldn’t finish.

Shut up! Cooper snapped impatiently, his face twitched with anger.

I know you don’t like me for some reason, but I’m sure I’ve never done anything to you. A gloomy expression crossed Gibson’s face as he said this, it was not new for him; his entire life was full of moments like this.

That’s right you’ve never done anything! You hang around here like a goddamn groupie. I’m sick of seeing your pathetic face everyday! Cooper was enraged by his insolence.

Clayton back off! Campbell stood up.

I’m not talking to you Thomas, Clayton added quickly.

I don’t care who you’re talking to.

Thomas can’t you see he’s got the wrong idea about what goes on here. All of us have sacrificed promising careers for our work; this isn’t just some hangout for a bored college guy. When did you decide you were a writer? Last week! You’re a distraction.

Come on Clayton that is such elitist bullshit. Nobody here will ever do anything, we’re all wasting our time, Campbell would not let up.

He doesn’t understand why we have given up so much. Ryan you don’t have the capacity to understand what we are trying to create, you just think this is a cool place to hang out.

Gibson remained silent during the brutal tirade, waiting patiently for his turn to speak. Monica’s laughter faded as she realized her grave error. She felt like crying; she knew there was no chance of reconciliation. The group was dissolving in front ofher eyes and she felt responsible. She stared deeply into Gibson’s eyes and felt her heart sink, she could feel his anguish.

Cooper had waited a long time for this moment; he only needed a feeble excuse to justify a confrontation.

Clayton you’re a piece of work, Campbell sighed.

Thomas I respect you but I can’t let him disrupt us.

What are you saying? You know as well as I that we are nothing but a bunch of lazy bastards who don’t want to get real jobs. You’re so arrogant it makes me sick. We are not Hemingway or Joyce; we are just a bunch of rich kids who think our pampered backgrounds somehow elevate us over everybody else. You have a fucking fantasy that you’ll be discovered and recognized for the genius that you think you are. Man...It’s just not there, all this is just a smoke screen.

Campbell you don’t know the first thing about me; don’t comment on something you should understand, but obviously choose not to! Cooper yelled back.

Do you want me to leave? Is that what you want? Gibson calmly asked Clayton. Clayton eyed him with disgust but said nothing. He wanted the fight to end; Campbell’s remarks had wounded him deeply. The world he had artfully constructed was destroyed by a few moments of chaos. He wanted more than anything to be discovered with his flock of writers in tow. He wanted to be their guru, the leader of the revolution!

No.no Ryan I didn’t mean anything, Monica stammered.

Clayton cut her off, Shut up Monica, you asked the question all of us have been wondering for a year.

Clayton...Don’t make this your own private war, Monica snapped.

Gibson stood up and headed for the door. Monica jumped up and tried to stop him.

I’m sorry...I’m so sorry...Please don’t go, she pleaded.

Now you want him to stay! Campbell was disgusted.

Shut up Thomas! I was bored and curious that’s all.

Don’t worry I’m leaving! Clayton hastily made his way to the door. You can all sink into your cesspool of mediocrity! He slammed the door and was gone.

After a few minutes of silence, Gibson decided to leave; Thomas stopped him at the door.

This is probably our last night here, I think we should stick around and tell the others our side of the story, Campbell said calmly.

All right. I’ll stay until he comes back. Gibson sat next to Walsh who was smiling brightly. He loved confrontations and this was the most memorable of all.

Come with me! Monica grabbed Gibson’s arm and dragged him into her bedroom. He reluctantly sat on the edge of her giant bed.

What the hell is going on? You can’t be serious about not coming back.

What do you mean? How can you ask me that? I can’t come here anymore, didn’t you hear him!

He’s just. Monica searched for something to say.

Why did you bring me in here? I just heard the others come in and I don’t want them to think anything is going on in here.

Fuck them! Let them think what they want. She paced the room like a caged tiger.

Monica I’ve been coming here for a year and I’ve never felt welcome, only tolerated because of Thomas.

He thinks you don’t respect him, she blurted.

Maybe I don’t respect him Monica.

You should, she replied defensively. It was more out of habit than true conviction.

Don’t worry about me, I’ll survive. I don’t need this place.

How can you say that?

Why are you so interested in keeping me around? You hardly ever fucking say a word to me!

I don’t know...I...I just feel something for you, she stammered.

Silence loomed, the only sound came from the front door opening and closing. From the heavy sound of shuffling feet and laughter, there seemed to be more people than usual.

Two large candles located at opposite ends of the room dimly lighted the room. Clayton was obsessed with candlelight; he always kept a fresh stock on the dresser.

You know I always wondered why you never let us see your work?

I know, Gibson answered without looking up.

I guess you’ll let us see it someday, she raised her hand and ran it through his hair. He froze.

She looked out the cracked bedroom window and closed her eyes, letting the late September breeze cool her fiery emotions.

I miss school, I really loved coming back up here after the hot summers back home. It was always nice to get away from home. Her face clouded over as she wrestled with her past.

You miss all the work?

No! But I really miss the smell of new books. Sometimes I feel like I have lost my edge since I left school, she continued to run her fingers through his hair, I can barely add and subtract anymore. I can’t describe it. I’ve always done my best work during the fall semester. Something about the crisp New England air gets my blood flowing, it transforms me. I want to write until my hand bleeds. I can’t get enough of the feeling; it’s intoxicating. I want to do it all, but like everything else I can’t handle the letdown when the season ends.

The letdown?

Everything is a fucking letdown. I can’t stand this place or Clayton anymore! she lashed out.

Leave him, Gibson interrupted.

I will, I will, she quietly resumed her stroking, but he has some kind of hold on me.

He treats you like an invalid.

I know he does, but he’s helped me a lot. I can’t forget the time we’ve spent together.

Do you love him?

Sometimes.

Boisterous laughter suddenly broke out in the living room. They stared at the door and expected it to open. Monica stopped stroking and leaned over to kiss him. He did not respond to her attempt and this made her giggle like a schoolgirl.

You’re afraid of me.

I’m afraid of what you can do to me.

What do you mean? Monica asked, her interest slightly perked.

Forget it.

You really keep it all inside don’t you?

I’m not like you.

What?

You don’t keep anything inside, he said in a serious tone.

You’re right. For instance, I masturbated three times today...once in the shower and twice on the couch watching a porno flick. The funny thing is the movie was a lesbian flick. Isn’t that weird? Her face colored slightly as she thought about her own words.

I’m leaving, Gibson said in a dry, sober voice.

Are you bored with me?

No, but I’m tired of this place.

Monica jumped up from the bed and closed the door tightly, but she did not lock it. He looked at her face and felt his emotions churning. He caught her profile in the candlelight; her protruding nipples aroused him.

She sat on his lap and felt his excitement. He blushed and she responded by pushing him down on the bed. Gibson attacked her eager mouth. Monica tugged and fumbled with his pants. He tore at her flimsy shirt until her small breasts tumbled out. She ran her fingers through his hair and begged for more, the intense play pushed her to the edge.

Without warning he stopped.

This isn’t right. he mumbled awkwardly. I just don’t know about this, Monica.

Okay, she sat up and wiped the saliva from her chest.

Monica...I’m sorry, I really want this.

It’s over, she moved to the corner of the bed and grabbed her shirt. She showed little emotion. The feverish sexual excitement that had gripped her moments before was already a pleasant memory.

Monica! He searched for something to say.

So this is what my honey does when I’m out, Clayton Cooper said in an amused voice.

Ryan jumped to his feet and fumbled with his shirt and jeans. Monica did not rush to get dressed; she methodically pulled her T- shirt on. Without warning she burst into a fit of laughter and strutted out of the room. Clayton smiled cheerfully, but it was clearly strained. Gibson stood and tried to follow.

No Ryan, don’t go. I’m not mad. Stay for a minute, I want to talk to you, Clayton said pleasantly.

I don’t think there is anything to say, Gibson answered abruptly, he