
Beyond Seduction
Autor:in
Kathleen O'Reilly
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1
âOKAY, SAM, THATâS A WRAP.â
The hot television lights were powered off, and Sam Porter pulled back from the small desk on the sound stage. He took a last drink of his water, and wanted nothing more than to be home in bed, preferably alone, nursing a cold beer, and watching the tape of todayâs show.
Four a.m. was too early for any human being of sound mind to be up, but heâd sacrificed in order to prep for this interview, which had been a slam-dunk. The Connecticut Senator was political roadkill, although now Sam felt like death warmed over and the night was still young.
The crew began arranging the studio for the next broadcast, cameras being rolled away to the side of the set as the mechanized take-down duties were performed.
He nodded in the general direction of his floor director. âThanks, Kristin. See you tomorrow.â
Kristin winked at him, putting aside her clipboard and headset. âMaybe youâll see me. Iâve got a hot dateâthink Iâm going to elope.â
He rubbed at his face with his palms. âJust as long as youâre back in the morning. Donât make me break in another one of you.â
âSure, boss,â she answered.
The crew started to take off. Goodbyes were always the shortest when the weekend was lurking nearby. Today was only Wednesday, but his staff were forward thinkers and Friday couldnât come soon enough.
âSam, wait a minute, will ya?â The voice of his producer boomed over the studio speakers, and Sam scowled in the general direction of the production booth. He wanted to get home, and Charles Whistleborne Kravatz III could be excruciatingly long-winded when he put his mind to it.
Charlie ambled into the studio, squawking into his cell. Impatiently, Sam tapped his foot until Charlie noticed, gave Sam an apologetic smile, and then kept talking for another ten minutes. Sam was just turning to leave when Charlie finally hung up.
âWeâve got a problem. The city manager pulled out and weâve got to find another guest for Thursdayâs show.â
âYouâre kidding?â
âSorry, Sam. Your fan base isnât huge out there.â
âYeah, well, someday. So what are we going to do? Know any Northern California radicals to put on?â
Charlie scratched his neck, parting the Brooks Brothers shirt buttons around his ever-expanding stomach. âI think we should do something less political. To offset the judicial expertâs talk about the nominee for the Supreme court. Big yawner. Give it some balance.â
âLike what?â
âI donât know. Human interest. Fluff.â
âI donât like fluff,â warned Sam.
âNo lectures, Sam. Hear me out. Youâre doing two solid days of hard, depressing crap. We need something more upbeat. Happier. Maybe not birdies and rainbows, but something to put people in a good mood.â
At the moment, Sam was several emotions removed from a good mood. âI donât know, Charlie. Let me think. Iâm tired and I need sleep.â
Charlie nodded. âDo that. And let me know.â He turned around to leave, and then turned back. âHey, I got a call about you while the show was taping.â
âNot another death threat, I hope?â
âHehe, no. One of your fans. Chairman of your favorite New Jersey political party. He tried to play coy, but I pegged him. They want you to be their drop-in candidate for the House Seat in the Fifteenth District, after Detweiler pulled out. Four months before the election? Who does that?â
Sam started to laugh. âMe? A candidate? Youâre kidding.â
âNope.â
Eventually Sam realized that Charlie was serious, mainly because Charlie was always serious.
Politics. His smile faded. âReally?â
âYeah. Since weâre right up against the election, itâs got to be a write-in candidate, and the party knows youâve got the name recognition to pull it off. They know they can trust you, your platforms are right. Itâs not that big of a leap, Sam.â
âYouâre kidding,â repeated Sam, still slightly in shock. It was flattering, it was intriguing, and most of all, it was something that heâd never thought about before. âIâm in television. I talk about politics. I donât do politics,â he said, weighing the arguments out loud.
âI take it thatâs a ânoâ then. Iâll send your regrets.â
Sam almost corrected that, but something held him back. âYeah, just tell them no,â he said, finality in his voice.
âGlad to hear it âcause weâd have to kill the show, and I for one would not be happy. Hell, Iâd have to find a new show. And I donât even wanna think about the network. Youâre a cash cow, and cash cows are hard to come by these days.â
âI didnât think about losing the show,â Sam murmured, wrapping his mind around the possibility of a new direction in his daily routine.
âYouâre thinking about losing the show, Sam?â asked Charlie, his faded blue eyes still sharp as theyâd always been.
âHow long do I have?â
âYou gotta decide fast. Ten days is all youâve got.â
Politics. It was something he talked about, studied, read about on a daily basis, but heâd never considered himself a politician. He was a journalist. But wouldnât it be nice to be able to work for the country instead of bashing do-nothing politicos on a nightly basis? His practical side laughed at the idea, his sentimental side was flush with new ideas.
âI should say no,â he answered, his practical side winning the argument. Sam had enough to think about right now. Like what to fill in on Thursdayâs show.
âBut thatâs not a ânoâ?â
âItâs a not yet,â answered Sam. âIâll take the ten days, Charlie. Let me think.â
After Charlie left, Sam headed for the dressing room. Finally a chance to lose the suit, and he pulled on his jeans with a contented sigh. He would never be a suit, and although he played a talking-head on TV, and did it well, blue jeans were his natural habitat.
The television studio was a cold, lifeless place with cameras, overhead banks of monitors, and the smell of sanitized air freshener, rather than the smell of hard work.
Samâs dad had been a plumber, who came home smelling of plumberâs grease and somebodyâs clogged drain pipe, and Sam had learned to appreciate the smells that came with an honest dayâs labor. It was the primary reason his dressing room smelled like pen ink and microwaved chicken rather than the âclean fresh scent that follows a soft summerâs rain.â
His ratty, overstuffed couch was always waiting for him when he wanted to lay down and think, and the sounds of Bob Dylan, Toby Keith, and Springsteen were permanent playlists on his iPod. He needed it to drown out the city noise. At his heart, Sam was a Jersey boy, born and bred, and although Manhattan paid his salary, his home sat on the blue-collar side of the Hudson River.
Sam cast a longing look at the couch, but he had places to go and people to meet. The couchâand much-needed sleep would have to wait.
Two long East-West blocks covered the distance from the studio to the bar on 11th where he was headed. A few fans stopped, waved, but New York wasnât the target market for the Sam Porter show. A conservative talk show host in Manhattan garnered more death threats than autograph requests. Since Sam was a firm believer in the right to bear arms, as well as carry them, he wasnât fazed.
The cool September air blew around and through the concrete jungle, and it was a great night for a walk, the perfect way to wake him up. It might be Wednesday, but New York never knew it. Midtown was bustling, cabs lined up bumper to bumper, the night lights starting to illuminate the sky. Yeah, city life was okay.
He passed by a bookstore on the way, and the photograph in the window caught his attention. Sam stopped.
He knew that face; a face heâd had on his showâonce.
Mercedes Brooks.
Itâd been over a year ago, and heâd pushed her from his mind, or so he thought, but the photograph stirred up a visceral reaction that surprised him with both its appearance and its intensity.
He studied the picture. She hadnât changed, her long, long dark hair was deeper than the shadows.
Her eyes were just as dark as her hair, and the photographer had caught a wicked gleam in them.
Those eyes had made him wonder.
Did they tease a man first thing in the morning, or were they cloudy with sleep? Did they ever grow blind with passion, reckless and unknowing?
It might only be a photograph, but the camera had captured a part of her, and the gleam stayed there. How far would she go? A teasing Lolita, a brazen Delilah?
He stood and looked for a minute, happy for the anonymity of a busy street where no one cared if a man stood a little too long, or stared a little too hard.
Then, spurred on by an impulse that he didnât want to examine, Sam walked inside, picked up a book off this display, and started to read. He shouldâve known itâd be a mistake, everything about her yelled âmistakeâ but he wanted to know, and his eyes followed the evocative words, blood-heating words:
He wasnât a man sheâd ever see outside the bedroom, because his world wasnât hers, and she couldnât adapt to his, so they met in private, in the dark, and for a few hours, they would pretend.
She loved lying next to him, his body so much stronger and bigger than hers. Sometimes she would trail her fingers over his arms, following the ridges and dips, the curling hairs tickling the pads of her fingers. He had lovely arms that sheltered her, and kept her warm when the world was cold, cherished her when she felt unloved.
His body was built to pleasure her with his big, hard, workmanâs hands, among other parts. She loved when he rubbed his hands over her, slow at first, almost shy. He wore a ring on his right hand, cold silver that jarred when he drew it over the heated skin of her breasts. He would do that to her, and at first she thought it was an accident, but by the third time, she grew to love that ring, and the simple wanton pleasure of cold silver against a naked breast. Her breasts werenât the only place he teased. He liked to delve between her thighs, the ring pressing against hot, swollen flesh. A single touch that would pull her out of her skin, but never fast. Always slow, excruciatingly slowâŠ
âSam Porter?â
The voice jerked him out of that dark, blissful place that heâd just visited with his vivid imagination. He glanced down. At his body.
Quickly he covered his fly with the book and turned.
An older woman stood there, her eyes as curious as a kid. She was bundled up in a wool cardigan and carried a stack of books in her hands. âYouâre reading that?â she asked, the bright eyes dipping to the lurid cover.
Instantly Sam put on his fan-face. âOh, no. Just keeping up with the state of the world.â
She clucked her tongue, the faded red hair shaking in disapproval. He saw that look a lot. âSad whatâs happening. Sometimes I think Iâm getting too old, that I donât understand the young. Sex, sex, sex. Seems like we get bombarded with it everywhere. Books, television, health insurance. Can you believe it, theyâre using sex to sell health insurance? You should put that on your show.â
Carefully, unobtrusively, Sam replaced Mercedesâs sex book, then gave the woman an empathetic nod. âI think youâre right. Iâll talk to the producer.â
The woman stared at the dark, gauzy cover displaying a man and a woman locked in a shameful, wicked, indecent embrace that lookedâŠ
Sam looked harder.
âŠreally inviting.
Time to cut to a commercial. âListen, I need to run. Thereâs never enough time, is there?â
The woman held out her hand, and Sam took it in his two. Heâd learned many years ago that women really liked that move, no matter the age.
âWatch us next week. Weâll be heading out to San Francisco on Thursday and Friday.â
The blue eyes grew wide with shock. âSan Francisco? Theyâre very liberal out there, arenât they?â
Sam smiled and gave her his confiding laugh. âNew judge on the Ninth Circuit, and thereâs a legal scholar whoâs written about the court. Iâve got some questions. Thatâs the way it starts. I always have questions.â
Visibly she relaxed. âThatâs what I like about you. You wonât let anybody get away with anything. I wonât miss it. Can I ask you a favor?â
âWhat can I do for you?â
She held up the stack of books in front of her. Law books. âI got a problem with the social security department. Foolish computer error, thatâs what it is.â
âWhat what is?â
âThey think Iâm dead, and I donât know how to prove Iâm alive. The state of New York issued a death certificate as a mistake. I was in the hospital four months ago, stupid heart. I should exercise more, I suppose.â
âYou need some help?â
âCould you?â
Sam thought for a minute. âIâll need your ID. Just to make sure youâre not pulling one over on me.â
She laughed, and then handed over a well-worn card. âHere you go,â she answered.
Sam pulled out his cell, and punched in a few numbers. âI know just the guy.
âDan. Itâs Sam. Need a favorââ
âYouâre not going to put us on the show, are you?â
âNo, no, youâre in the clearâthis time. I have a citizen in need.â
âItâs after five, Sam. Can it wait?â
âCome on, Dan, Iâll owe you one, and best of all, itâs easy.â
âWill we get a kudos on the air?â
âFor you, Iâll do a special segment.â
âOkay, whatâs up?â
âI have a lady here, living, breathing, and talking to me, that the social security department thinks is dead. Can we correct the state records, and mail one of your official letters to those nasty bureaucrats in Washington that wouldnât know a heart if it was, well, a living heart?â
âName of the un-dead?â
âGeraldine Brady,â answered Sam, and then reeled off the rest of Geraldineâs pertinent info while she beamed as any non-dead citizen would. âGot all that?â
âYeah. Blockheads, all of âem. Iâll fix it.â
âYouâre a prince among men, Dan.â
âSave it for your fans, Sam.â
He just laughed and hung up. âI think itâs taken care of it, but hereâs one of my cards, and let me know if you donât get a letter in a couple of weeks.â
Geraldine put down her books and gave him a hug. Right in the middle of the bookstore. Sam smiled politely, because he wasnât exactly comfortable with the touchy-feely aspects of his job, especially not under the wicked, gleaming eyes in the photograph of Mercedes. Sam ran a finger under the collar of his leather bomber jacket, feeling the sweat that had collected there. Somehow, some way, he was absolutely sure Mercedes Brooks was laughing at him. He swore under his breath, and shook his head, clearing the ghosts, clearing the image of her.
OâKelleyâs was a much-needed reprieve from the bookstore. The place was casual, dark, and ear-poppingly loud. He scanned the room for the guys, spotting them at a table against the black-paneled wall, underneath the Harp beer sign. Bobby was a journalist who heâd bonded with when he was a political reporter for WNBC. Across from him was the reason for the dinnerâTony Rapanelli. Seven years ago, after a particularly rowdy New Yearâs Eve party, Tony had mistaken Bobby for a mugger and tackled him in the middle of 8th Avenue. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Things had been quiet for awhile, but now Tony was going through the last throes of a painful divorce, and it was sucking the life out of him slowly and surely. For the past few months, Sam and Bobby had been working with Tony, trying to cheer him up, trying to let him see life after a break-up. Tonyâwho had been married for seventeen years, with two kids, two dogs, and one house on Long Islandâhadnât even cracked a smile.
However, they were determined to keep trying.
Sam plastered a grin on his face. âHey! Didnât mean to keep you all waiting.â
Bobby stood and they knocked fists, an odd mix of formality and urban America. Although he always wore a jacket, Bobby was half Puerto Rican, half Italian and still carried around some of the ways of the street. âMy man, howâs things?â
âEh,â Sam answered, ordering a Diet Coke from the waitress.
He settled into a chair and grabbed the bowl of pretzels, the best he was going to manage for dinner.
Tony raised his glass. âTo women.â
At that, Sam raised a brow. This was new. Maybe they were lucky and Tony had gotten laid. In Samâs experience, sex always put a rosy spin on life.
âToday is Tonyâs anniversary,â muttered Bobby, before Sam could get too carried away with excitement. âListen, Tone, the wife has a friend. Now, sheâs not a stunner, but sheâs niceââ
The table broke out in groans. âAnd she got a boob job last year,â he finished.
âAge?â asked Tony.
âThirty-two.â
âWhatâs wrong with her?â he asked.
âNow, wait a minute,â Sam interrupted. âTony, youâre thirty-seven. Absolutely nothing is wrong with you, and thereâs no reason to assume that thereâs a problem.â Sam believed in fighting injustices wherever they occurred, even in his friends.
âPoint taken,â admitted Tony, and then turned back to Bobby. âSo whatâs wrong with her?â
âWere you listening?â said Sam. âThere doesnât have to be anything wrong with her. Right, Bob?â
Bob got all shifty-eyed and Sam groaned. âLook, sheâs got this voice. Kinda Brooklyn.â
âNo, absolutely not,â said Tony, using two syllables at the end, just like any good Long Islander would do.
âJeez, how do you plan on meeting any women if no one is good enough?â
Bobby laughed at Sam. âSpoken like the eternally single man that you are.â
âI was married. Once,â said Sam.
Bobby rolled his eyes. âAnything before twenty-six is too young to count.â
Bobby was right about that. The marriage had been too short, too casual to count, and Sam had stayed far away since then. Maturity and wisdom would do that to a man. But today, he found himself wishing there was someone to go home to. Not because he wanted a home-cooked meal, oh, no. His reasons were more basic. Sam was still carrying around an extra seven inches of pain and misery from a little too much âcold silver against a naked breast,â and it would be nice to have someone to take the edge off.
Like Mercedes Brooks, for example.
Sam closed his eyes and groaned, low and painful, and a mere two decibels louder than he intended.
Tony looked at him sideways. âWhatâs wrong?â
Both his friends were staring, because Sam didnât have problems. He didnât groan. He didnât complain. And usually he didnât suffer from slip of the tongue disease. Lack of sleep, lack of sex seemed to be taking its toll. Damn. Sam shook it off. âItâs the show. We got stuck without a second guest for Thursday night. A city manager broke his leg, and now Iâm guestless, except for the judge.â
âWhat does Charlie say?â
âHe wants to do something lighter.â
âWhat do you want?â
It was a loaded question because up until that moment, Sam would have answered differently, but his whole body was tense and taut, and the more he considered it, the more he thought that maybe Charlie was right. They did need something lighter. More provocative. âSex.â
Bobby howled. âHard up?â
âI meant for the show.â
âThen book a sex therapist.â
âNo.â His mind was racing along various roadtracks, but he kept coming back to the same endpoint.
âA hooker? You know, theyâre trying to unionize in Canada. That could be both sexual and political.â
You know, Bobby had a point, but not now. And not in San Francisco. Sam was busily pondering other plans for San Francisco. âNo.â
âSam, youâre boring.â
âIâm not boring,â he protested.
âSo find somebody.â
He knew somebody. Sheâd be the perfect somebody. They could discuss the white-noise of sex in America. She could blissfully talk about sexâmeaningless, passionate sex between two consenting adults, locked in a tangle of bare flesh, while he drove inside her, tasting the curve of a firm naked breastâŠ
Damn.
Sam really needed to get laid. Itâd been over three months since heâd broken up with Shelia. Sheâd been nice enough, but she wasnât The One. She wasnât even The Maybe One.
âBook somebody, Sam,â said Tony with an almost-smile.
âGreat looking,â added Bobby. âItâs about time that your guests werenât old, fat and bald.â
âCan you guys give me a break? Enough about my show, letâs talk about something else. Like Tony. The purpose of this dinner. Remember?â
Bobby nodded. âYou got to get back on the horse, Tone. Samâll find some club, youâll meet women, see them all nicely dressed, or undressed, and remind you of what you are.â
âWhatâs that?â asked Tony.
Bobby smiled, wide and slow. âYouâre the rarest of the rare. A precious quantity to be savored and sipped, and tupped as often as you like. Youâre a single, heterosexual man in New York.â
He might as well have thrown his friend in front of a bus, for all the good it did. Tony attempted a weak smile. âI donât know that I can do this.â
Tony was going to need all the reassurance he could get. âDonât worry about it,â Sam said. âIâll call Franco. He knows the good places.â Sam made a note to himself to call Franco, and stuck around for another couple of rounds. But tonight, it wasnât the taste of alcohol that put him on fire. It was one Mercedes Brooks.
On the way home, he stopped by the bookstore in Paramus and picked up a copy of her book, buying it quickly before anyone noticed.
When he got to his house in north Jersey, he settled down to read, and got halfway through the first chapter when he made up his mind. Mercedes Brooks was going on his show. Charlie was right. What would be so wrong with a little talk about sex?
He laughed at himself. Yeah. Since when did he agree with his producer? He looked down at the book, flipped to the cover, watching the faint images come to life in his mind. It wasnât politics he was thinking of now, far from it. Sheâd stayed there in his head for nearly a year. Maybe it was time to see Mercedes Brooks again.
In the flesh.










































