Always Means Forever. Deborah Fletcher Mello
shimmered above her, radiating from a clear, bright blue sky. She could hear the ripple of water coming from someplace close, and a warm breeze scented the air with the aroma of honeysuckle and tea roses. She took a deep inhale of fresh air and held her breath. She struggled to focus on the man who had her writhing in ecstasy, wanting to see his face. For a split second, the very handsome man bore a striking resemblance to majestic Laurence Fishburne in the movie Othello. A minute later he looked like a very sexy Djimon Hounsou, then the actor Dennis Haysbert. Bridget could feel herself smiling in her sleep. This was surely too good to be true!
Laurence-Djimon-Dennis was now naked, a solid six-foot-four-inch tower of rippling, Hershey’s dark chocolate-toned muscle. His skin glistened with perspiration, light shimmering over the sinewy fibers. She examined every inch of him, her gaze caressing the broad wealth of his expansive chest, lingering on the firm, well-rounded globes of his behind that overfilled her small palms, and the thick length of male steel swaying blatantly between them.
He was palming both of her breasts beneath slightly rough hands, the contact against her skin moving her to moan. Her mouth parted just slightly as her tongue trailed slowly over the surface of her lips. As her dream lover eased himself above her, she could feel her body falling open, her legs parting eagerly. Her limbs felt light and buoyant, her body possessed as it moved in sync with his. The moment was suddenly electric, energy spinning her beyond her wildest dreams. And just as she could feel herself being consumed by the rise of heat, perspiration dancing against her skin, she woke up.
The clock radio on the nightstand beside her was buzzing harshly and Bridget was startled to find herself awake, and alone. It seemed as if it took forever for her mind to catch up with her body, the memories fading ever so slowly, and then she remembered that she was home, in her own bed, no man remotely close to making love to her.
A creeping dampness in her panties made her close her slim thighs tightly together. The dream had been too real, her body responding with a mind of its own. Turning to see what time it was, Bridget reached for the digital timepiece, depressing the alarm’s off button. She squinted through the darkness at the pale green numbers on the clock. It was still early, not yet two o’clock in the morning. It dawned on her that she had set her alarm incorrectly, not paying attention before she’d turned over and had gone to sleep. She still had at least five hours of rest coming to her, and with any luck she could still take advantage of them.
A full bladder was suddenly calling her name and as she moved to get out of bed, pain bristled down the length of her right leg. Bridget swore, clutching the limb between her palms as she was suddenly reminded that her day had started badly and had only gotten worse with each passing hour, the wealth of it peaking on her return home.
She had literally tripped through the door of her town house, falling face-first across the threshold as the heel of her Ferragamo pump had lost a battle with the new doormat she’d purchased on discount from the Macy’s department store in downtown Seattle. Pain had exploded from the center of her bruised kneecap, triggering a trail of hurt down the length of the limb, up her thigh and into her hip. Profanity had spilled over her lips as she’d cursed loudly, not caring that her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Eloise Gibson, had been watching from her own entranceway.
As she’d lain sprawled facedown against the foyer’s tiled floor, Bridget couldn’t help but think that her falling was an apropos ending for what had been a hellish day. Tears had burned hot against the back of her eyelids as she’d kicked off the overpriced shoes and pulled herself up and onto her feet. The old woman was still staring, her gray head and a wrinkled appendage waving for Bridget’s attention.
“Are you okay, dear?” she’d asked.
Bridget had forced a smile on her face and had nodded her head. “Yes, ma’am. I’m fine, thank you. Just clumsy is all.”
“Are you sure now? I can call somebody if you need me to.”
“That’s not necessary, Mrs. Gibson.”
“Well, if you say so…”
“Thanks for everything, Mrs. Gibson. You have a nice evening,” Bridget chimed as she’d moved too quickly to close her front door. As she’d secured the lock, she’d heaved a deep sigh and had cussed again. Reaching for her purse, she’d picked up the contents that had scattered across the floor and dropped them all onto the wooden bench that decorated the entranceway.
Wanting to cry, she’d let the first wave of hot tears flow over her cheeks, her palm rubbing gingerly against her bruised leg. Before the tears could flood into a full sob the telephone on the end table at her side rang, pulling at her attention.
Bridget had shaken her head as she’d pulled the receiver into her hand, noting the familiar number on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“You have some mail, dear!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gibson.”
“Just wanted you to know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she hung up the telephone, Bridget heaved another deep sigh. She had grown weary of the old woman’s timely reminders ages ago but had kept her annoyance to herself because Mrs. Gibson was better than any alarm system would ever be. Her watchful eye monitored all the comings and goings that occurred between her door and the entrances of the other occupants who resided in the small complex. And, for the most part, she was actually very sweet when she wanted to be.
Making her way to the rear of her home, Bridget had moved into the kitchen, searching her freezer for an ice pack to hold off the swelling. She had to be in court early the next morning and she didn’t need a bum leg slowing her down. The telephone ringing for a second time served to further distract her.
“Hello?”
“Bridget, turn on your television!” a voice had screamed from the other end.
“What? Jeneva? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. Turn on your television. Channel 76. Hurry!”
Bridget had reached for the remote and turned on the small, seven-inch monitor that was positioned beneath her oak cabinets. Her best friend’s excitement filled her ears.
“Isn’t he adorable! Look how cute he is! Hold on. I have to call Roshawn.”
Jeneva’s brother-in-law, Darwin Tolliver, beamed at Bridget from the television screen, the good-looking man promoting his new cooking show on the Homes and Food Network. He had been cute. Too cute, and Bridget had only been reminded that yet another man she’d been interested in hadn’t been interested in her.
Jeneva came back on the line. “Roshawn’s not home. I’ll have to call her later. So, what’s up with you?” she’d asked cheerily.
Bridget took a seat at the kitchen counter. “I lost my job.”
“What?” Jeneva’s voice was brimming with surprise. “What happened?”
“The partners are merging with another firm. It seems the new partners already have one intelligent, skilled, black female attorney on the roster and they don’t feel they have a need for a second.”
“Oh, sweetie! I’m so sorry,” her best friend hummed into the receiver.
Bridget nodded. “They’ll be transitioning our case-loads over and closing the doors in the next two to six weeks. I will actually be closing out my cases in the next few days so there’s really little left for me to do. Then I’ll officially be unemployed.”
“That stinks. So, what do you plan to do?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
The two had talked for another hour and when she’d finally hung up the telephone, Bridget had been sufficiently depressed. As she’d sat there staring blankly at the television set, the station ran the commercial for a second time. When Darwin Tolliver crooned his slogan “Let me show you how it’s done!” a chill had shimmered down her spine, straight into the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn’t