Cut Cords: Summer's Romance, #3

By L. A. Zoe

Summer gets her wish. She marries Clayton. Can they live happily ever after? 

Hardly any of their friends and family attend the ceremony. They enjoy their honeymoon in Hawaii despite a disagreement about the continued use of birth control. And soon after Clayton insists on taking an adventure trip to South America. When he returns, Summer hits him with the news. She tests positive for pregnancy. 

Can Clayton handle fatherhood again? At 50 years of age?

Pregnancy sparks a new fear inside Summer: What if Clayton someday practices his furry fetish with his own child?

She doesn't really believe he would commit this sin, but one part of her doubts him, and that drives them apart.

Summer's struggle for acceptance continues. Not even marriage protects her from her enemies.

Someone hires a beautiful escort to tempt Clayton into bedding her -- and then bragging about it to Summer. Knowing Summer refuses to tolerate any unfaithfulness from Clayton.

Summer and Clayton must crash the family Christmas party just so he can spend the holiday with his grandchildren.

Declining viewership and advertising revenue, plus professional attacks because of her marriage, threaten Summer's job at Station KPLU.

Summer's mother's health continues to slide downhill.

Clayton finishes writing his manual on how to become a real estate developer, but Summer must rewrite it. And Ana's cousin lets them know they've barely begun to set up a viable online business.

Can Summer cope with all the stress?

Will Clayton resist the temptation to bed the gorgeous woman hired to seduce him?

How will Summer react when the escort tells her the truth about her husband?

Grandma keeps predicting bad luck.

And Summer's stomach keeps growing. Clayton resents her suspicions, and now refuses to make love to her.

In the hospital, Summer must survive the most critical day of her life.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386087052

Book preview

Cut Cords

The Watsons

Summer's Romance: 3

L.A. Zoe

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter One

Hawaiian Honeymoon Fears

Summer needed to talk to Clayton over lunch, before they returned to their room. Something she just decided on that morning, while dozing. Yet this place seemed so...ordinary.

The front of Ono Hawaiian Foods looked more like a trinket shop on Euclid in St. Louis’s Central West End or a clothing resale shop on Brentwood Avenue than a world-famous must-do while in Honolulu. Small signs, and local announcements and notices, plastered the two large plate-glass windows.

Summer gasped for breath, and wiped her face. She and Clayton walked half an hour in the midday tropical sun for this?

The temperature and humidity reminded her of St. Louis during a heat wave.

Reminds me of Cherokee and Meramec when I was a kid, when they still had real businesses, Clayton said. He shrugged. Let’s go in.

The clatter of dishes and chatter of customers speaking over the outside traffic noise sounded familiar and reassuring.

But the smells! Cooking meats, and fish, and spices—they teased her nose with their new, exotic scents. Summer had to remind herself she was still in the United States, and not Hong Kong, China; Tijuana, Mexico; or some other equally foreign locale.

Their server, a handsome young brown hunk with shoulders broad enough to carry both she and Clayton, explained the foods on the menu. He even let them try the poi, a bland, blah starch.

They wound up ordering a combination plate. They shared kalua pig, laulau, pipikalua, lomi salmon, poi, and haupia.

I’ve got a present for you, Summer told Clayton after their waiter left. I went into the drugstore while you were talking to the desk clerk.

The suspense is killing me.

Summer opened her bag and flipped him the package of Trojan Her Pleasure Ecstasy condoms.

It landed in his lap. He fumbled with it for a second before looking at it, then quickly holding it down in his lap, below the table so nobody could see.

He rolled his eyes at her, but smiled.

You can show it to everybody here, if you want, she said. We’re married now.

Clayton handed it back to her. We could also make our own sex video and upload it to YouTube. But I for one prefer to remain private and discrete. What are those for?

What do you mean, ‘what are those for?’ Are you crazy?

You’ve seen my doctor’s report, and I’ve seen yours. We’re both clean as virgins.

Summer suddenly felt like fainting. Maybe she was getting heat stroke. She gulped down half a glass of cold ice-water, then realized she was hiding her face from Clayton so he couldn’t see how upset she was.

She thought...but maybe he didn’t.

We’ve been lucky, she said. Those times without any protection. But that night, at the Daltons’ anniversary party...I don’t know.

When is your next period due? Clayton asked.

His matter-of-fact tone surprised Summer. But, of course—he’d been married before. After three wives, discussing periods didn’t upset him.

Next week, after we return. That’s why I told you we should get married last Saturday, so we’d be on our honeymoon this week.

And last night—I didn’t bring any because, well, we’re married now. Right?

Summer looked down and away. She couldn’t look at his face, not into those magnetic gray eyes.

I’m not ready for a baby, Summer said, voice quivering. I guess, I assumed—because you’re fifty, and already a father—you wouldn’t want to have a crying baby again.

Or maybe I can’t.

Is that true? Have you checked? Or did you have a vasectomy? Summer hated hearing the eagerness in her voice. Why didn’t she think of that before?

Clayton tightened his lips into a grim straight line. I’ve never thought of having a vasectomy, he said. At my age, that should be an obvious no-brainer, shouldn’t it? Sexually active older man with three adult children? Yet I’ve just kept on using condoms even though they’re inconvenient. And that’s the nicest thing you can say for them.

Why haven’t you? Summer asked.

I don’t know, really. Like I said, I just never thought about it. I guess, I just didn’t want to close that door. Why, do you want me to?

Summer shook her head. Her face still felt flushed and red from the sun. But when it comes to kids, I’m not ready...yet.

She couldn’t tell him. This morning, while nearly still asleep, she realized she couldn’t trust him yet. She loved him. She wanted this marriage.

But Brooke and everybody else warned her: he started cheating after marriage, not before.

The honeymoon was too early to start a family, when she didn’t know whether they would still be together a year from now.

Oh, she hoped he would keep his promise. Oh, she ached to spend her life with him.

But a child...

A wave washed her off the island, out to sea, drowning her in the depths of the South Pacific.

On top of everything else...no, she couldn’t handle a baby.

Even if she trusted Clayton that far, pregnancy would interrupt her career. Unlike prior decades, pregnant TV reporters could still remain on the air, but only to a certain point. And it would limit her mobility in the field. How could she cover emergencies?

And sooner or later she would have to go into the hospital and actually give birth. Then care for a tiny baby who expected feedings and diaper changes around the clock. How could she handle it?

Clayton swallowed hard, but nodded. Your job, he said. I understand.

Summer nodded back. How could she tell him the entire truth?

Yes, her reluctance came from not wanting to derail her unstable job, and her fears about Clayton’s future fidelity, and her reluctance to accept the responsibility.

Yes, all three factors were important.

But they weren’t the biggest reason.

What if they had a baby, and Clayton confused fantasy with reality? Furries, sexualized cartoon images of animals and other creatures from childhood.

What if he lost control of his kinky desires?

Chapter Two

An Unusual Client for an Escort

Gayle Smith, working street name ‘Ramona,’ parked her car in a space behind the Holiday Inn close to Lambert Field Airport, freshened her lipstick, applied a dab of perfume and, in her high heels, bypassed the front desk to go straight to the room number the agency gave her.

She wore a simple red shift—easy and fast to remove, easy and fast to put back on. And a woolen jacket to protect her from the autumn night chill.

As she rapped the hard wood door with her knuckles, Gayle wondered exactly what the phone girl meant by the notation a little weird. If they guy sounded aggressive, mean drunk, or hostile, the phone girl was supposed to arrange for muscle to wait nearby in case of trouble. Or just refuse his business.

Ninety percent of her customers were gentle sweethearts she controlled without effort from start to finish. The other ten percent, she could usually handle, though it took more effort to keep them distracted or calm.

Come right in and have a seat, the man said. He waved five hundred dollars bills in her face and handed them right to her. Here’s something upfront for you. All right?

Sure. She stepped in and looked around. He wore a dark pinstriped suit. Silk, and tailored. Nice men’s cologne. Too expensive for this motel. Something was wrong. Where’s your suitcase?

Take it easy, I’m local, but I’m not a cop. He stood, and spun around, lifting his jacket. See, no gun. No badge. He unbuckled his pants and shoved them down. See? I’m showing you mine and I’m not even asking you to show me yours.

Yes, weird. He seemed to know everything she had to be careful about. Gayle stayed close to the door, so she could run out if he tried anything.

What do you want?

Something special.

All right, but you have to wear two condoms, and use lots of lube. And tip me double.

His gray eyes flashed. I don’t mean that.

Handsome, too. Black hair styled in a short, sharp cut. This one had money and style. And young to boot.

He shouldn’t have to pay for it. But he wouldn’t be the first rich guy Gayle bedded just because he wanted some new pussy without any complications or attachments, emotional or financial. Simple, fast, and easy.

Maybe his wife was on the rag.

Then what do you want? Gayle asked.

Let me look at you first. That’s it, turn around.

Gayle began to unzip her shift.

That’s not necessary, the strange man said. It’s how you look with your clothes on that’s important. If your clothes come off, he wants you all right. Let me take a good look at your skin and your face.

The man walked around, examining her like a cow in a farm show, reminding her of directors and cameramen on the occasional modeling gigs she got.

Now let me see you smile. You’ve got to look sweet pretty, not cold. This isn’t VOGUE Magazine. Ah, that’s better. Turn it on. Dazzling blue eyes. And a touch of exotic cheekbones.

My greatgrandmother was a Cherokee, Gayle said.

Good body. Not too thin, not too fat. Not too tall, not too short. If you qualify for the job, you’ll have to play it up without seeming to play it up.

What kind of job? Gayle asked, confused by everything he said.

At least you come close, and have some sense. I’ve already interviewed ten other women. The agencies should have known they weren’t suitable, but didn’t listen to what I requested.

What is suitable? Gayle asked.

Do you smoke tobacco?

Gayle shook her head.

Better go ahead and take off your clothes. If you’re shooting up, you’ll lie to me about it.

Gayle did so, and he looked her over for needle tracks, but didn’t find any because Gayle never did anything but snort heroin, and she stopped that two years ago.

She noticed a bulge in his pants, but he refused her offer to take care of him, especially since he paid already. He really thought he was too good for her.

You look good, the man said. You take care of yourself?

Aerobics and yoga, Gayle answered.

Can you go all evening and all night without getting high or smashed? Can you drink socially without getting drunk?

What’s this all about?

You can put your clothes back on, thank you. Can you dress well? I mean, stylish, with class?

Like a debutante?

He looked surprised she even knew that word. Yes. Exactly.

Gayle almost blurted the truth. She would have been a debutante if her father hadn’t been laid off in the financial crisis. But this young man looked as though he had the connections to learn her real name, and she didn’t want that.

You might think it’s funny, but some guys only want an escort for the night. I mean, once I was a gay guy’s girlfriend at his family reunion. I’ve been taken to some very nice dinner parties. I know good manners. I did some acting in high school and college. I know how to pass for upper class, what fork is for the salad, and how to make a good impression.

A broad grin covered his face. How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars?

Red alarm bells sounded in Gayle’s head. What for?

Just seduce a man I know.

That’s all?

And brag about it to his wife.

Chapter Three

The Big Announcement

Summer tried to concentrate on the Nora Roberts novel she bought at the small bookstore around the corner from the baggage carousels, but kept putting it down.

She hated the night lighting at St. Louis’s Lambert Field. It seemed too bright and harsh in the middle, and cast too many shadows along the walls.

She glanced at her watch. 6:30. Clayton’s flight from Miami was scheduled to land at 6:18. Last time she checked, the estimated arrival time was 6:45. She wanted to stand up and go check the television monitors showing all Arrivals again, but was afraid to lose her seat. A lot of people stood nearby, waiting to meet family and friends landing at Concourse C.

Why didn’t Lambert authorities place the bank of television screens where people waiting at the Concourse C exit could easily see it?

What would David think of that as a story? Improving Lambert Field customer service? Along with the figures on just how many planes landed late?

No, that might be too hard-hitting. Too likely to bruise somebody’s inflated ego. Not sexy or funny enough.

Better to stick to traffic accidents, fires, and petty crimes. That was real news.

How about a story on how often that loud, obnoxious man blasted everyone’s ear drums every ten minutes by announcing smoking was allowed only in designated areas? Why was that needed? Talk about mind-control propaganda. Who was so brain-dead they didn’t know you weren’t supposed to pollute the airport’s air? Not allowed since Clayton was a baby, she bet.

She smelled the sweet, blazed scent of the Cinnabon deluxe sweet rolls, and licked her lips. Indulge herself while waiting? No, he might land any moment. Besides, she felt too nervous to feel good.

The hard seat tired out her ass. Summer stood up, and stretched. She had to move.

Now the television monitor displayed an estimated arrival time of 7:10. She checked her watch. 6:40.

Where could she buy a hamburger? A pizza? Tacos? Fried rice? An overpriced candy bar?

By 8:30 Summer wanted to chew up and swallow her book. Clayton’s flight was delayed by a tropical storm threatening to grow to hurricane status.

By 10:00, when Clayton’s plane finally landed, Summer wanted nothing except to see him, tell him, and get to bed. She woke up at 4:30 that morning, and had to get up at that same time tomorrow morning. She had to hope makeup would hide the bags under her eyes.

Except Clayton still didn’t show up. She peered as well as she could past the dividers, down the long corridor, but couldn’t see him. The other people who waited with her the last four hours, seemed untroubled.

What was Summer missing?

She remembered their flights to and from Hawaii. How long it took to get off the plane even after it landed. And how long this concourse was. Gate after gate after gate.

Add a trip to the bathroom, and Clayton might not show up for another twenty minutes.

Summer sagged, feeling as though she walked that Inca trail up the Andes to Macchu Picu.

Clayton checked a bag. They would have to wait at the baggage carousel for it to show up.

If Clayton wanted to go without her on any more adventure tours, he better drive himself—just take his chances leaving the Mercedes in a long term parking lot.

The next time he arrived four hours late, she wanted to sleep right through it.

Wearing bluejeans ripped at the knees and brown hiking boots, Clayton rounded the corner.

Summer stood near the concourse exit. Clayton spotted her, and began running.

He crushed her into his thick gray sweatshirt. It smelled of sweat and must. He swung her back and forth, off her feet, before giving her hard kiss that made Summer forget not only the hours of waiting at there at the airport, but the nearly two weeks she spent sleeping alone, angry with herself for missing him so much.

He put his arm around her waist. Come on, with any luck my bag’s already going around the carousel. Number Five.

She pointed. Stains and grime covered the Mystery Ranch Sweetpea pack on his back. I hope your large bag is in much better shape.

He laughed. It didn’t go up the mountain with me.

However, Baggage Carousel Number 5 was not even revolving yet. They took seats facing it, and waited.

They traded small talk about the flight and her waiting for him and her job and his trips.

Summer kept glancing from her watch to the carousel. It began rotating, the metal pieces eternally sliding into each other. But no bags yet fell from the mouth of the chute.

And she couldn’t face Clayton’s hot, gray eyes. When she wasn’t with him, she forgot how magnetic they gleamed, intense as gamma radiation. Laser-focused charisma.

Now she felt the beams out of Clayton’s eyes, like something out of one of those superhero movies, shining at her. Staring straight into her heart, pulling out her secrets.

What’s wrong? he asked.

Nothing, now you’re back.

He took her hand and squeezed. I hoped you missed me, but it wasn’t half what I missed you.

Liar. You were off in the rainforest, hiking up the mountains, chasing pretty Indian girls.

They all smelled like llamas.

So you got close enough to smell them.

I didn’t have to get close.

So you chased the llamas instead?

They’re prettier.

Thump clunk! Thump clunk!

The bags began falling out of the chute.

Summer looked for Clayton’s black Longchamp Cowhide Leather bag. Not yet.

She closed her eyes. The surge of energy—gratitude he arrived—passed, leaving her again exhausted.

Didn’t you like any of the women on the tour? Summer asked.

I liked them all. But Autumn was right. Either they could beat me at arm wrestling or out-argue me about how tourism exploits women, natives, and the environment. And their legs were hairier than the llamas.

Now was the time. Do it! Say it!

Summer looked away, ashamed of her weakness. Ashamed