If a story didn't include the possibility of violence and death, it seemed a little meek and boring to me.An hour flashed by and the story was as good as it was getting. An e-mail was zipped off to my editor and then the shower beckoned. It seemed as if the water washed away my London self, leaving the girl who grew up in Aurora and got her first taste of the life of a war correspondent by covering 9/11 for the Columbia University Daily Spectator. It was startling to realize that while that event shuffled me down the path of journalism, it played a part in making Con such a proficient operator in Special Forces that they at first tried to hide him from the world and then, for their love for him, pointed me in his direction. Fate is an odd mistress.After the cleansing shower, I had put on a nice, long-sleeved, rose silk blouse, ankle-length black wool skirt, knee-high suede boots with a two-inch heel, and enough make-up to accent my eyes and lips. Pazzo Pazzo, so said the internet,. Who said gentlemanly courtesy was dead? What had initially been intended as a simple, respectful kiss goodnight had been prolonged by Alice gently holding him to her, their tongues had danced inside one another’s mouths. As they stood, leaning against the wall of the house, Marcus could feel his erection growing as thoughts of the beautiful red head before him raced through his mind, he knew that with the way they were pressed together, she could feel it growing as well. That’s why, when the invitation inside came, he answered with a breathy ‘Okay…’ Alice opened the front door and led him by the hand through the darkened two story house. Despite being told that they were alone, the 18 year old Marcus still did his best to remain quiet, he even flinched as the stairs squeaked on his ascent. Alice laughed lightly at his nervousness, continuing to pull him up to her bedroom. It, too, was dark. The only light came from her computer monitor, which had flashing colorful geometric patterns.
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