Markwildyr.com, Post #246
Does last week’s story of lost
opportunities ring any bells. It rang a big one for me. It freaking tolled. Maybe
I’ll write a story about it one day. Oh, I believe I did already. Think it was
called “Jimmy.”
This week, let’s insert an air of
mystery in our two Part story. Maybe this one will stoke some memories, as
well. Here goes.
* * * *
Cee
One Eff One
When the
phone rang at one a.m., I automatically glanced at the clock on my computer
screen. Friends know I usually work until two in the morning, but few of them
phone me after midnight. I was at a crucial point in my latest murder mystery
novel—the third in the series—and didn’t really want an interruption, but I
succumbed to my curiosity and picked up my cell.
“Hello,” I
said, hoping my voice held just enough irritation but not too much. After all,
it could be an emergency call. “Mars Thraxton here. Who is this?”
A voice that
seemed to come up out of some hunky guy’s testicles robbed me of my irritation.
“See if you can guess.”
My pique
returned. “Not up to playing guessing games… or robo calls. Tell me who this
is, or I’m hanging up.”
“A friend.
Someone who really likes your novels. Devoted reader, you might say.”
That voice.
It grabbed me where it counted. “You sound interesting but not familiar.”
“You write
detective stories. You’ll figure it out.”
“No games,
guy. Tell me or I’m ending this.”
“If you
think hard enough, you’ll—”
I’d no
sooner punched the button to hang up on him than I regretted it. That was quite
a voice. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. I hit the redial before I
overthought my action, but got a non-responsive number like you sometimes get
with spam calls you don’t answer but try to call back.
That should
have been that, yet I was snared, but good. I sat before the computer with my
mind reviewing everyone I knew. Couldn’t begin to figure out who my mysterious
caller had been.
I’m not
ashamed to admit that I went to bed that night physically aroused by the
recollection of that sexy voice. But I will swear to this day that I kept my
hands off myself.
****
The next
morning, my agent phoned me, and for a brief moment, I thought he might be my
mysterious caller of the previous night. Caddo Damon’s voice was deep and
interesting in its own right, but it didn’t have the vibrato quality I’d
detected. Could he disguise it? I dunno.
“Caddo,” I
said right in the middle of his description of a pitch to one of the big five
publishers, “you have a deep voice. How much deeper can you make it?”
“What?
What’re you talking about.”
“Humor me.
Make your voice deeper.
“For crying
out loud, I’m trying to talk business here. But I guess you’re not the wackiest
client I’ve got. You experimenting for a scene in your book? Disguising voices?
Well, if I was gonna do that, I’d go higher.”
“Just do
it, Caddo.”
“Like I
say, I’d go higher,” he said in a voice lower in pitch than his normal speaking
voice. Interesting, but not the same. I’d never met Caddo, but I’d seen his
picture. He was a decent looking guy, and I might could have gotten up some
interest, but he was all business and married with a couple of kids… plus, he
was way off in New York somewhere. But I digress. He wasn’t my mystery caller.
Determined
to complete a difficult scene in my novel before the day was out, I turned my
mind to writing. Was making decent progress too, until my computer warned me that
I had an incoming email. Sometimes I regretted setting the thing to go “bong” upon
the arrival of each new message, but for some reason, I was loath to kill the
alert.
My ire
prickled when I checked and saw an email from an aol.com with the odd name of
Cee1Eff1. Crap. Belonged in the Spam folder most likely, but I opened it anyway
and read the following:
If
you won’t talk to me over the phone, maybe you’ll read what I have to say.
Still no clue? Think back. Way back. We were close then, although perhaps I was
closer than you were. Attached are a couple of photos. Nothing you haven’t seen
before, but perhaps changed a little.
I opened
the first attachment and stared at a torso with chiseled abs, interesting pecs
with a light sprinkling of hair between two large, brown aureoles. Rib cage
tapered to trim waist with an interesting “innnie.”
The second
snap was of a groin covered by bathing trunks. Good thighs with a downright
fascinating bulge hiding behind the material. Who was this guy?
I scrambled
to open the third attachment and discovered an oblique view of a guy’s exposed
behind. Wasn’t exactly a bubble butt, but it was full and round and interesting
as all get out.
I grabbed
my phone and hit redial, but the call still didn’t complete. I know some phones
have settings that can block numbers, but I didn’t know how they worked.
Dropping the cell on my desk, I swiveled to my computer.
Okay,
you got my attention. But stop playing games. Who are you, and stop being coy. You
know how to use a camera, so give me the rest.
My novel
forgotten, I waited impatiently to see if there was anyone on the other end to
reply to my message. A few minutes later, my desktop went “bong” again.
Thought
that might pull you out of your book. They’re good, by the way. I wasn’t
kidding when I said I was a reader. But I’m not ready to reveal all. I have a
date in a few minutes, so will be leaving. In the meantime take a look at those
photos. There’s something in there that might kick off a memory or two.
“No, no!
You can’t leave me like this!” I muttered aloud. “A clue, you said.”
I copied
the three photos and spread them on the desk atop pages of my forgotten mystery
novel. Getting out a magnifying glass, I poured over those three images like
Sherlock Holmes in his proverbial deerstalker seeking to uncover dastardly
secrets. I imagined the task was harder for me because I kept getting
distracted by a downright sexy male torso, an intriguing groin hidden by a
skimpy swim garment, and a delicious butt that kept putting my libido between
me and my primary task.
But
finally, I did find something that ticked a memory. An inch or so above the
left nipple, a small brown mole triggered something. A mole. Why would that be
meaningful?
Because I’d
seen it before. Or one like it in approximately the same place. Did that mean
this was a former lover?
I shook my
head. No. That memory—as ill-formed as it remained—wasn’t salacious. I’d seen that
mole in my younger days in Paris, Texas when we kids ran around like a wild
pack. One of my buddies had a mole like that.
No, that wasn’t
right. I could clearly remember the four kids I regularly palled around with
back then. No, this was a hanger on. A younger kid. A pest. Always trying to
run with us. He’d gone to the swimming hole with us a couple of times. That’s
where I’d seen that mole.
What was
his name? Gary, Larry, Harry? None of those seemed right. I stared at that mole
perched on that luscious chest like a brown bug and…
Bug! That
was it. I’d called the kid Bug because of that mole—when I wasn’t calling him Three-titty-Monte.
What was his name? Didn’t matter. I had my way in now. I composed a message to
Cee1Eff1.
Okay,
I got it now. Long time, no see, Bug. From what I can see, you grew up good. Wouldn’t
mind a look at more… if you know what I mean.
I hit send
and tried to return to work, but it didn’t go well. All I could think of was
that round, brown mole on that well-shaped trunk above that intriguing groin.
And that didn’t even mention the fantastic naked behind.
Crap. He’d
said he was leaving for a date. So he was out having a good time while I was
home stewing. Who was he with? Guy… or gal. Somehow, that was important to me.
*.*.*.*.
Poor Mars. He’s
trying to create, and some guy’s jerking him around—and not in a good way. He
seems to be a decent detective. He’s picked up the trail from just a single
brown mole. Wonder what happens next?
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email:
markwildyr@aol.com
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Twitter: @markwildyr
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
You have something to say, so say it!
See you later.
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