Geekus Interruptus
Read Geekus Interruptus Online
Authors: Mickey J. Corrigan
Geekus Interruptus
Copyrigh
t © 2013
Mickey J. Corrigan
ISBN (mobi): 978-0-9
923147-9-8
This
re-release is essentially the same as the original edition (Noble Romance
©
May 2013) but has had
minor changes and corrections made to the text.
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or
by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission
of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for
all other inquiries, contact Bottom Drawer Publications by email:
[email protected]
These are works of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual
person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is
entirely coincidental
.
To
our geeks and nerds: you guys rule, and the rest of us know
it.
Take Us to the Geeks
There’s love, and then there’s geek love. For many years, Marcy
Buenaventure believed these were interchangeable aspects of the same wondrous state.
A semiconscious blur of passionate devotion and one-on-one obsession,
culminating in an uncontrollable, allover bodily thrill. By the time she
realized she was wrong about love, it was too late.
Or so
it seemed to Marcy. This is her story.
~~~
Marcy fell for a geek, and she married him.
Only later did she begin to question geek love. After she’d adjusted to the dry
hump of her till-death partnership with brilliant software magnate Jess Margate,
Marcy suddenly discovered he was doing her wrong. Nerdy Jess with the myopic
green-gray eyes, the skinny-jeans bod, the twelve-hour days spent in front of a
computer screen. Against all odds, he’d gone and picked up a fuck buddy.
Another girl, it seemed, was now the receptacle for Jess’s geeky love.
At the time of her discovery, Marcy and
Jess Margate had been married for three and a half years. Signs he had been
cheating on her had been there for some time, but she’d failed to notice them. Because
she never thought he’d have any interest in scoring with other women. He barely
made the time to score with her. And, when he did, she was always willing,
always obliging. In fact, she was dying for his touch and made sure he knew it.
One person carries the fire in any relationship, and Marcy figured she was the torchbearer
in hers. But now it looked like she’d been wrong about that too. Maybe she just
didn’t turn Jess on. Maybe he’d never really clicked with her. Whatever the
reason, he’d found someone else.
Understandably, Marcy was devastated. She
despised cheats, liars, and home wreckers of either sex. She’d had an
unfortunate experience with a deceitful Don Juan only once in her life, and she’d
learned from that experience. The man, a handsome older guy with a swanky
bachelor pad in the city and a nice little family in the suburbs, had broken
her heart with his lavish bullshit. Marcy still felt guilty over her role as
the unwitting other woman. In her mind, all Don Juans deserved to be outed, scorned,
and properly punished.
Maybe devastated is not the right word for
Marcy’s condition. Let’s say Marcy was inspired. Inspired by her own experience
and by the painful cognition of her own husband’s untrustworthy behavior. Was
he lavishing some innocent girl with his personal brand of geek bullshit? She
couldn’t imagine it. She would have to see for herself.
Up until this point, the Margates had
enjoyed a nice life together. They still had the occasional night of passionate
sex (although Jess made love the exact same way every time, and it was, Marcy
had to admit, a lot like the instructions in a do-it-yourself construction
manual—that is, tab A into slot B), and they never fought about money or
travel, the house, or their social engagements. They were very rich. They got
along well. Jess was a huge success as an entrepreneur and software engineer,
and Marcy was beautiful and sexy. With no kids to act as emotional wedges, lots
of income to prevent financial bickering, and a total of six years of dating,
engagement, and matrimonial compatibility, their partnership was stable and
secure.
Or so it had seemed. Until Marcy realized
something was missing; something vital had gone wrong. What was it? At first she
wasn’t sure. She just knew something had changed between them. And it wasn’t
good. Not good at all.
For instance, Jess was more withdrawn than
usual (which meant he was very withdrawn, since he was usually withdrawn anyway)
and distracted. He wasn’t home much, which was to be expected because he was a
major workaholic. But, when he was home, he now spent significantly more time
in his downstairs office. With the door closed.
The other sign something was amiss was the
sharp increase in the frequency of his business trips. He often traveled on the
weekends now, and, when he came home, he acted strangely. Guilty and aloof.
Plus, his shirts smelled bad. Like sweat and something else. Garlic pizza?
Burnt rubber? She wasn’t sure.
Marcy didn’t know what to do about their
growing estrangement, so she went shopping at Victoria’s Secret and took to
prancing around the house in lacy thongs. When he noticed, which wasn’t often,
Jess sometimes made love to her. But not with his usual intensity. Something
about their lovemaking was perfunctory. Their relationship had obviously gone
off track.
Once their sporadic sex life petered out entirely
and she couldn’t get Jess’s attention no matter what kind of cheeky get-up she
danced around in, the lights clicked on in Marcy’s brain. Suddenly, a neon sign
behind her eyes began flashing.
Affair, affair, he’s having an affair!
But
she couldn’t (or wouldn’t, she was so in love with Jess) drag that painful
knowledge into conscious awareness. Several long, dry weeks of lying sleepless and
untouched by her lover passed before she faced the truth she’d been hiding from
herself.
What finally triggered her awareness was a
dream. When Marcy woke up, it was after eight and her stomach hurt. Jess was
gone; he’d already left for the office. She lay there on the cool,
Egyptian-cotton sheets, recalling images from her strange dream. Bright morning
sun peeked through the chiffon curtains. When the air conditioner clicked off, she
could hear a bird trilling outside.
In the dream, which was starkly atmospheric
and in black and white, Jess stood a great distance from her at the far end of
a vast ballroom. A crush of unfamiliar people speaking an unfamiliar language
prevented Marcy from walking across the room to join her husband. He had his
hand placed firmly on the head of a pale woman with long, white hair. She moved
under his hand, as if he were directing her every choice. Her face was classic
in its snowy beauty—impassive, icy.
Perhaps the monochrome aspect of the dream
was somewhat misleading, but the feeling Marcy got when she looked at the two of
them was real. They were lovers. And she could do nothing about it.
Neon flashes she could no longer ignore
finally lit up her consciousness. The truth of her situation stabbed her in the
gut. Afflicted now with this new understanding about her husband, their life
and love, she felt mentally and physically ill. She had to make herself get out
of bed and face the day. The bizarre dream imagery haunted her as she dragged
herself downstairs.
After a quick breakfast of a poached egg on
a rice cake, Marcy wandered outside. Barefoot and grumpy, she sauntered to the end
of her tree-lined driveway for the morning paper. She was still groggy from
sleeping late and disturbed by the thoughts engendered by her dream. A warm
wind rubbed up against her skin, soothing, soft. God, she needed to be touched.
The crunch of tires on gravel startled her.
She jumped, dropping the morning edition of the
Herald.
“Hey, gorgeous. Where you been hiding?”
He’d pulled up behind her and parked next
to the twelve-foot hedge that hid the house from their quiet residential
street. He sat in the driveway like he belonged there. Typical of her neighborhood,
which was chock full of entitled elitists. These were people who had taken what
was not theirs yet felt damn good about it. Good enough to gloat and take more.
Peter smiled at her from the plush, almond
interior of this year’s Porsche SUV. His oversized Rolex sparkled in the
morning light. Marcy shielded her eyes with one hand. She really needed her
shades.
A male cardinal swooped down over the front
end of the car and up again, chirping a melodious greeting. The bird’s bright red
finery dazzled against the pale blue sky. They watched him fly off toward a
distant stand of leafy maple trees.
“He’s in a hurry,” Peter said.
Marcy responded before she could stop herself.
“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend waiting.”
What a thing to say! Her face felt hot.
“Lucky boy. That’s what I need. A chick who
waits for
me
in the morning.”
Marcy smiled. How inane. Peter had flirted
with her numerous times before, but she’d always brushed him off. Coldly. He
was married, the father of adorable toddler twins. She wasn’t about to play
games with him, no matter how handsome he was. And he
was
super-hot,
with his thick mane of beach-boy hair and his deep golden tan and those pale
blue eyes that looked at you like you were a biscuit on a stick. A soft snack
in his campfire grip, one step away from melting in his laughing mouth.
What the hell was she thinking? Before
Marcy could take control of herself, she began to simmer. She clicked on
automatic, her body taking over. She licked her lips. Slowly, languidly. She
caressed her flat belly with one hand, making suggestive swirling motions. Her
nipples hardened, and she thrust herself forward in a fuck-me position.
She watched as his eyes wandered, first to
her breasts, heavy underneath a short, silk half-shirt, then up and down her
lanky legs clothed in a pair of extra-tight denim cutoffs. She moved her hips
slightly when his eyes landed on her crotch, boldly outlined by the stretch
material of her jeans.
Then, at just the right moment, she said, “Oh,
is
that
what you need, Peter?”
He flashed one of his trademark grins. The
kind of smile a shark gives a surfer’s meaty calf. Not surprisingly, Peter was
well known around town as an aggressive ladies’ man. You might want to land
him, but watch out because he would definitely bite.
Marcy felt something loosen inside her.
Something that had been locked up tight. Locked up and forgotten during six
years of by-the-book sex and hard-core fidelity. Something she’d almost forgotten
she could feel: lust.
Not just any kind of lust, either. Her own
favorite species of lust. Marcy had a deep and abiding lust for mindless sex.
And not just any kind of mindless sex. Mindless sex with men who knew how to
make her body scream for more.
In other words, Marcy had rediscovered her
passion for non-geek love.
She smiled at Peter and left the paper
behind her on the driveway. It fluttered in the slight breeze. Slowly, rolling
her curves from side to side, she strolled over to the car. As she leaned in,
pressing herself into his open window, she was acutely aware of his proximity,
the smell of lime aftershave mixed with rich
café au lait.
“Maybe I can help you there,” Marcy heard
herself saying.
In a catlike purr. The kind of come-on
voice she’d employed so successfully in her single years. It was all coming
back to her, like jumping back on a horse or bicycle. She wanted to feel something
big and hard in the clutch of her thighs.
Peter’s eyes roved her body and settled
like excited fingers on her protruding nipples. She arched her long back and
yawned, raising her arms above her head so her short shirt rode up even higher.
She could hardly believe she was acting
like this, like the neighborhood tramp. What the heck was she doing? She didn’t
do this kind of thing anymore. This was the old Marcy, the single girl who went
out of her way to have sex with everybody available. Not Jess’s straight-laced
wife, the cool, distant woman who barely spoke to the neighbors. Not the woman
who hated the kind of woman who flirted with (or fucked, actually slept with)
another person’s husband.
She sighed in defeat and recovered her
runaway senses. Time to pick up the newspaper and save herself from becoming as
detestable as the rest of the cheaters, liars, and home wreckers ruining the
state of modern romance. But, before she could withdraw, Peter reached out a
salon-tanned, professionally manicured hand. He pressed gently on her right
nipple until, under the tender pressure of his thumb and forefinger, she soaked
the crotch of her panties.
Oh my God.
How many weeks had it been since Jess had
touched her? Had he ever made her this wet this fast, this easily?
“You have beautiful breasts,” Peter said. “I’ve
been wanting to do this since the day you moved in.”
In slow motion, she lifted her shirt all
the way up and moved her body forward until her bare breasts were right in his
face. Without a word, he ducked his head so he could nuzzle her nipples. His
face was smooth, recently shaved, his mouth warm, fresh. The sun massaged her
back while his uncalloused hands massaged her breasts. Confidently, with an
arousing sense of ownership.
She closed her eyes and listened to the shrill
call of the cardinal. That bird could sing.
Peter stopped his suckling, emitting a low
growl. She stepped away, and they stared at one another, both squinting in the summer
sun. His eyes were the kind of iceberg blue that comes from tinted lenses.
When he asked, “Is anybody home at your
place? I mean, can we take this inside?” he sounded out of breath.
Marcy wondered if he was asthmatic. Or
maybe just old. He had some serious wrinkles around his mouth and a couple of
pretty deep furrows in his broad brow. He still had the chiseled good looks
that come with upper-class breeding and decades of personal care with no
expenses spared, but he was, she decided, kind of old. Middle-aged. Decades
older than them, her and Jess.