Losing Control Read online

  LOSING CONTROL

  By

  Mila McClung

  RTWD PRESS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Losing Control

  Copyright 2012 RTWD PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Dedicated to my RD.

  ONE

  The drive to Connie’s house had always been a time for peace and the contemplation of nature. Straight up the Pacific Coast Highway, 126 miles from San Diego to Malibu. Blue skies, dreamy beaches and lush natural parks – there was nothing better for soothing the soul.

  And Fawn Hamilton had needed a lot of soul-soothing these days. First there was Connie’s death. Sure, it wasn’t entirely unexpected – her grandmother was eighty eight years old, after all. Constance Carroll was once the toast of Hollywood, bona fide movie star and Fawn’s best friend. She often made the trip up from San Diego to spend the weekend with Connie, who was too elegant to be called Grandma. They would huddle around the flat screen in the small but cozy living room, watching Connie’s old films while she kept Fawn in stitches relating inside stories about the directors and co-stars. Fawn encouraged Connie to write her memoirs, and she had started them, but a severe stroke ended the project – and broke Fawn’s heart.

  Then there was the divorce. Richard, Fawn’s financial consultant husband, had laid that little bomb on her right after Connie’s funeral. She figured he chose a moment when she was at rock bottom emotionally, hoping she’d be too numb to strangle him. She had sat staring at him with wet lashes and mascara-scarred cheeks, her hazel eyes red and swollen, while he described his frustration with their ‘shell of a marriage’ as he put it. For three years they had been trying to get pregnant. He wanted a son and heir, and Fawn had struggled valiantly through all the technological miseries of making his dream come true. But sex for him, so he said, had become a ritual meant only to procreate, no fun, no sizzle, no charm. Then he met Susie Q – a new intern at his firm, and the sparks had flown, whipping him up into a whirlwind he could no longer fight or deny. To top it all off – Susie Q, a fake-busted blonde who could not possibly be over nineteen, had become pregnant without meaning to (yeah, right, they never mean to) and they wanted to move to the Bahamas, buy a bar on the beach, and begin a whole new life together.

  Fawn was so overwrought she thought she would strangle him. How dare he put her through the endless lab procedures and testing and charting and disappointment and failure and miscarriages then suddenly decide he didn’t love her anymore? Not that she loved him much then anyway. Fawn had been raised to do as she was told, whether it was her dad or her husband who was in command. The conditioning ran so deep she never thought twice about what was asked of her – she just did it. So when her dad’s fresh young assistant Richard Hamilton asked her to marry him on her eighteenth birthday, she said yes, knowing old dad approved of the arrangement. Then she was passed from one kind of prison to another.

  Connie, bless her, had loathed Richard at first sight, begging Fawn to reconsider. And her mom, June, well, she didn’t like him but being stuck in the same vacuum as Fawn, she told her he was a good prospect and left it at that.

  Fawn turned her little red MG onto the side road that led to Connie’s neighborhood. She drove slowly, savoring the view as she headed towards the driveway, which was nearly hidden by a bank of bright pink bougainvillea. Looking back, her four years with Richard had been unfulfilled, empty, a waste, really. Living in a McMansion that he picked out, full of ugly, over-priced brand name furniture, pretending to be the perfect hostess to his slimy friends and their trophy wives. She cringed every time she thought about it, wondering who the hell that person had been. It certainly was never her.

  Today was moving day – the big hideous mansion had been sold, finally. She had gotten rid of Richard’s furniture on craigslist. She even bagged up all of the clothes he had bought for her – things she would not have chosen for herself – and took them all to Goodwill.

  This was to be the first day of the rest of her life. Connie had left her the hilltop bungalow in her will plus all of the vintage furnishings within it. Fawn was free to follow her dream – which was to be an independent jewelry designer. Sure, she’d played around with the idea since she was a child, making her own bracelets and necklaces from pieces of antique brooches she found in shops all up and down the coast. She had hidden her hobby from Richard, who usually laughed any time she showed some artistic talent, thinking it quaint and useless. But now she had a web site, and she was planning to use the second bedroom of the bungalow as a craft room. The reality of it all made her skin tingle with excitement!

  Fawn eased up the hill to the charming stone cottage and parked beside it. Stephanie Hamilton, Fawn’s older cousin and Connie’s lawyer, was supposed to meet her there to give her the keys. But Stephanie, doll that she was, had never let punctuality get in the way of doing business.

  Fawn admired the chunky bungalow, sweeping a cascade of windblown chestnut hair from her cheek and casting teary eyes towards the seaside patio where she’d spent so many happy summers, tanning and gossiping with Connie. She walked around to the stone-covered haven and let the sea breezes caress her body. It was a warm day; she was glad she’d worn denim cut-offs and the pink tank top. The only possessions she was bringing to the house were a small suitcase packed with under-things, shorts and tops, three pairs of flip flops and two big boxes full of her jewelry crafts. Her entire life packed tightly in the passenger seat and trunk of a midget sports car. And that’s just the way she wanted it.

  Her gaze sailed out over the beach below the hill. Surfers and swimmers and walkers were enjoying the beautiful spring day. Then she glanced at the big beach house just to the left of the hill. It was a sprawling, opulent jewel, rather Old English in design, with a kidney-shaped pool and a carriage house on the adjoining property. Connie had owned it in ages past, when her Hollywood lifestyle demanded something more impressive. She had sold it off in the Seventies to a candy manufacturer, Leo Trahern, whose business rivaled Hershey’s, and kept the former housekeeper’s quarters, the bungalow, as her sole residence. Of course, she hadn’t lived there alone, her secretary, Emmanuella “Emmy” de Sica, had kept her company until her death five years before.

  Fawn was thinking that she preferred the solitude and quirkiness of the stone bungalow to the large, elaborate design of the beach house. It did fit nicely into the seascape, though, made you feel you were on the coast of Dover instead of Southern California.

  A sleek hybrid sedan pulled up behind Fawn’s MG. Stephanie Hamilton eased out of the front seat. Fawn was a bit in awe of Stephanie. The woman had natural golden blonde hair and jade eyes, her skin a sparkling shade of sienna – also natural due to her parents’ mixed ethnicity: her dad, Fawn’s uncle Nigel, was a pale-eyed blond, her mom, Peg, was an elegant former Super Model from Namibia.

  “Hey there, girl!” Stephanie shouted as she came round to the patio. “Already enjoying the view, I see.”

  “Yeah, it’s unreal, isn’t it? I can’t believe this is my home now.”

  “Well, it’s true. Here are the keys to prove it!”

  She dangled the keys at Fawn, who clasped them and hugged them to her chest. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “Oh, Steph, I’m afraid I’m going to lose it when I go in. I’ll be seeing Connie everywhere.”

  “I know. I’ve done the same thing every time I’ve come here in the past few weeks. She was a hell of a lady.”

  “She sure was. Are the cats inside?”

  “Oh, yes.
I fetched them from the sitter yesterday.” She turned towards the windows and laughed. “Ha! They’re waiting for you! Look!”

  Fawn drew her gaze towards the house. The two female Siamese cats, Harlow, and Garbo, were perched on a big chintz armchair by the bedroom window, staring at the women with languid blue eyes.

  “They don’t seem too happy to see me. We never really bonded when I came up here on the weekends. I hope we get along all right.”

  “I’m sure you will. Have you met any of the neighbors yet?”

  “Well, I know the Finches, next door. Connie used to invite them in for tea, since they’re British. And I know the De Paolos, across the way, very well. We’ve been antiquing together lots of times. But that’s about it. I think most of the others I knew have passed on.”

  “Then you don’t know about him yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Him.”

  Stephanie’s eyes pointed Fawn’s stare towards the beach house, where a muscled young man with gleaming baby blond hair and beautiful, broad shoulders, his bare skin as brown as the sun could bake it, was performing Tai Chi, wearing only a low-slung pair of black shorts.

  Fawn stifled a gasp. “Oh my God! He doesn’t do that every day, I hope!”

  “Not every day. But why wouldn’t you like it if he did? Eye candy is good for the soul, especially one as hungry as yours.”

  Fawn actually felt herself blush, and lowered her head in shame. But her eyes eventually drifted back to the Adonis by the sea.

  “Well, I’ll be too busy to worry about him. I’ve got a ton of custom necklaces pre-ordered, and I have to finish them by next week.”

  “It’s nice that your craft room looks out over the sea and the beach house. You can set your work table at the window, and take a quick glance every now and again.”

  Stephanie was grinning. Fawn twisted nervously in her flip flops.

  “I think I’ll go inside now. You can stay for lunch, if you like.”

  “Lovely idea. I stocked the fridge with all your favorites! We can sit out here while we eat, and enjoy the show.”

  Fawn shook her head, unlocked the patio door, and slipped quickly inside.

  TWO

  “So, who is he anyway?” Fawn asked, trying not to seem too interested.

  Stephanie was rifling the fridge, came out with a big package of salad greens, some rotisserie chicken and a loaf of Italian bread.

  “His name is Taury Trahern. I’m sure you remember his granddad Leo who lived there until he passed away about seven years ago?”

  “Oh, sure. I’ve seen all his grandkids down there at some point. But I don’t recall that one.”

  “Well, he’s kind of young; probably just filled out enough to be intriguing in the last year or two.”

  “How young is he?”

  “Not too young, if you know what I mean. He’s your age, actually … twenty two, or that’s what he told me.”

  “You’ve talked to him then?”

  “Um hum. And believe me, he’s even nicer close up. The bluest eyes I have ever seen, and that smile…” she sighed. “He moved in recently so he could restore the beach house. Apparently old Leo left it in sore shape when he died. I like Taury. Most rich kids are too busy spending the inheritance on Maseratis and European junkets or becoming infamous on reality shows. They wouldn’t care about what happens to some old beach house. He’s quite a catch, wouldn’t you say?”

  “For some wealthy society girl sure. But why waste time talking about him, Steph, unless you’re going to make a play for him?”

  “No, not me. I’m strung up in Tom Cedar’s racket, and loving every minute of it!”

  “The tennis player? I had no idea.”

  “Oh, it only happened about a month ago. Met him at a charity tournament here in town; I swear it was lust at first sight!”

  “I thought that was supposed to be love at first sight?”

  “These days you take it as you get it, Fawn. True love is a fairy tale.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, did you have true love with Richard?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Why’d you marry him then? Must have been lust.”

  “Wasn’t that, either. Honestly, we never had much of a connection. I did what I thought he wanted me to do. I was a zombie, Steph.”

  “Poor Fawn. You need a good man. There are a few around, you know.”

  “Like Tom Cedar, I suppose?”

  “Um hum. He knows exactly where to hit the ball on my court, if you get my drift.”

  They both laughed then dug into their lunch.

  After Stephanie left, Fawn walked quietly about the house, taking a mental inventory of what each room needed to make it more hers, and less Connie’s. She planned no serious changes, maybe a rearrangement here, or some new wallpaper there. The floors were all pine, clean and sturdy, no need for any alterations. The walls in every room were white plaster; she didn’t intend to paint them. They made a great neutral backdrop for fresh, bright-colored curtains and artwork. The bungalow had two bedrooms, each with its own bath, a living room, hallway, and an eat-in kitchen.

  Fawn adored the kitchen with its 1930s white cabinets, crystal drawer pulls, beaded glass china storage and 1950s chrome and red breakfast table with matching chairs. The only thing she might change in there was the tile countertop. It hadn’t fared well over the years, but Connie had been reluctant to replace it – her beloved Beau Sullivan installed it himself when he built the property for her. Now there was true love.

  Handsome former athlete Beau Sullivan had been a film producer at Warner Brothers. When he and Constance Carroll met on a 1950s movie set their eyes locked, their souls entwined, and that was it. No more films for her – she lost all interest in anything but being with Beau. And he quit producing, built the Malibu property as an early retirement home and then he actually retired, at the age of forty. They lived a sublimely carefree life for the next twenty years. His investments covered most expenses, which were really minimal, thanks to her skills as a gardener and his as a carpenter. But of course, nothing good lasts forever – Beau died suddenly one April morning. A heart attack, so the doctor said. Connie was devastated, but her New England upbringing had prepared her to be strong and unfailing in a time of tragedy. She eventually found Emmy de Sica and made her a companion more than a servant. Life went on, with the memories a little easier to bear once she was out of the beach house.

  “At least maybe you’re with him now, Connie love,” Fawn whispered as she stared at a photograph of the couple, taken on a honeymoon in Niagara Falls. “Sometimes I think it’s better my way. I’d rather get over a bad marriage than have to deal with losing a piece of my soul.”

  She felt something brush her bare leg, looked down to see Garbo blinking up at her. Harlow sidled up next to Fawn’s other leg. They’d never come near her before. It was almost like they were consoling her. She sat down on the hard floor, began to pet them both. Harlow curled up in her lap, purred like a car engine.

  Fawn spent the rest of the day and most of the evening going through Connie’s photo albums, smiling at some pictures, wiping tears away when she glimpsed others. She puzzled over her mother June’s expression in several scenes. She’d been born a year after Connie married Beau, and should have been a happier looking child growing up in such loving surroundings. But she always seemed miserable, sending dark, jealous glances at her parents. Fawn remembered once, when in a fit of teenage angst, she blurted out that June never loved her. And her mother had said an odd thing – that she’d never known love so how could she give it? When Fawn had calmed down enough to question her words, June blew it off as nothing, merely things a person would say in the heat of anger.

  Still, Fawn pondered what she had meant. Had Connie and Beau loved each other too much? Was their love so intense it allowed no room for giving their only child a portion of it? If that was true, she felt sorry for her mother; had the urge to call her but it was late
. Maybe in the morning; but right then she was tired, and decided to head on to bed.

  As she was closing the white-flowered curtains in the bedroom, she noticed movement on the beach. The brilliant moonlight was showering the sand, illuminating a head of blond hair on a dark figure. It was that boy. That Taury Trahern. He was walking down to the shore. He glanced round, looking for observers then stepped out of his shorts and dived nude into the glistening water.

  Fawn felt a sudden tightening in her body. She imagined herself sneaking down to join him, shedding her cut-offs and her tank top, along with some major inhibitions, and sliding into the cool, salty drink. Why he had captured her imagination she couldn’t say but he had, and there was only one way to satisfy the aching between her thighs.

  She put the cats up for the night in the craft room then locked the doors and turned out the lights.

  Once in bed she slid a hand down her panties and let herself wallow in a wonderful dream where the still faceless blond moved over her like a dark, sinful snake, caressing her breasts and kissing them, kneading her hips and thighs and licking at her all over. It usually took her awhile to achieve any kind of release but this time it was instant. Shocked, she tried to calm the waves, but they rose again and again until she felt tears come to her eyes.

  Finally she removed her hand and got up to wash then slipped on a pair of short red polka dot pajamas.

  Before she returned to bed she peered out the French doors. The boy was standing on the beach. It looked like – but no, he couldn’t be staring at her house. She cowered in a dark corner, watching his every move. He entered his home and a light came on. Fawn stared at his silhouette as it went from window to window, feeling like some perverted fool as she tried to catch a solid glimpse of his face. But he was too far away.

  She sighed and climbed into bed. Sleep did not come easily. Visions of past sorrows, arguments, conversations, wracked her brain. A fierce headache drove her out of bed and into the bathroom. She found her dependable pain reliever, downed a couple with a sip of water then she made her way through the dark hall to the back French doors.