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Four Play

by

Kimberly Zant

© copyright by Kimberly Zant

cover art by Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

I was both excited and nervous when I worked my way into the Aphrodite. I’d heard it was the place for singles to meet and mingle, and after spending half my life as a staid wife I was definitely, irrevocably, single and feeling the need to express a little wildness. Despite that, I’m not sure, if I’d known what would happen that night, that I would’ve been able to gather the nerve to go. Fortunately, I had no clue that I was about to experience a complete transformation--the most exciting night of my life—and that it would change my whole outlook on the world and my place in it.

Inside, the music was the next thing to deafening. People crowded the place so tightly that it took me nearly twenty minutes to spot a stool to park myself. I pictured salmon fighting their way upstream to spawn, for it was a struggle to move more than a few inches at the time.

I was actually surprised when I spotted the little table near the back, completely deserted. There were five chairs around the table. A couple of empty glasses and some wadded up napkins cluttered the table, and I wondered if I would be ousted if I sat down. Maybe the people at the table were on the dance floor?

Finally, I decided to chance it. I sat down, pushed the debris to the other side of the table and looked around, trying to look open and friendly.

I realized as I looked around that I was as out-of-place as a preacher’s dick at a virgin’s wedding—a crudity my former spouse had been fond of using—but which, somehow, seemed appropriate to the occasion. Everyone looked so young!

My excitement took a nose dive. My nervousness intensified.

My story wasn’t unique by any means. I’d married my high school sweetheart. He’d gone on to college and then medical school while I supported us as a waitress and produced children—four of them. By the time my husband had finished medical school, my youngest was ready to start kindergarten and it was my turn to go to college.

Somehow, though, my turn never quite came. My husband needed money to set up his practice. There were bills, bills, bills, from his education that still hadn’t been paid off. I continued to work. He worked.

Twenty years passed in the blink of an eye and one day I came home early and found my husband in our bed with one of his nurses.

He wanted a divorce. I wanted to kill him, but I had my children to think of.

During the divorce, I discovered my husband had been three jumps ahead of me all the way.

Undoubtedly, he’d been planning the divorce for a while and so, despite the circumstances, he’d ended up with pretty much everything—which everyone told me he’d earned anyway—and I ended up with pretty much nothing—which everyone implied I deserved. I had slaved to put him through medical school, but he had become a wealthy doctor and I was now looked upon as a gold digger.

With nothing more than a high school education, it didn’t look as if I was likely to have anything I’d earned myself either.

Husband shopping seemed the only option for me. I’d only been allowed to hang up my waitress uniform five years previously to become the housewife my husband had promised I would be, but that five years seemed like a yawning cavern, apparently, to potential employers. In desperation, I’d had to take a job at a little coffee shop. Tips and earnings together produced an income well below poverty level.

I wasn’t hanging out to snare a rich man. I was just hoping to find someone who would help me pay the rent so I didn’t have to face eviction every other month.

So, here I sat, putting myself on the auction block for the first time in twenty years and discovering that I’d passed my expiration date.

There didn’t seem to be a single male in the place over the age of thirty. Most looked as if they’d only just reached drinking age. The ‘girls’ looked like movie stars and models--for that matter, so did the young men.

Despite the hard life I’d led, I had always taken an interest in my appearance and had worked hard to stay in good shape, keep my weight down. I was more voluptuous than thin, but definitely not fat and hadn’t realized the hour glass figure I was so proud of seemed to have gone the way of the dinosaurs. I’d thought, until I entered the dating zone, that I looked pretty damned good for a woman who had forty breathing down her neck.

Maybe I did, but I still looked thirty-ish, no matter what, and these girls looked twenty-ish—about the age of my ex-husband’s new wife.

I was about to get up and slink out the door like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs when a waitress appeared. “What’ll you have?”

I hesitated. Maybe one drink? I could nurse it and sit for a while and then, always supposing anyone at all had noticed my arrival, I wouldn’t look quite so much like a whipped dog when I left.

“How much is a screwdriver?”

She told me. It sounded like an awful stiff price for one little drink, but I nodded. While she was gone, I dug into my purse and counted my money—twice. It was all still there, all ten dollars. Well, one drink wouldn’t break me. It couldn’t when I was already broke.

I noticed a young man struggling through the crowd in my direction after the waitress had left. My heart executed a little flip flop. I might be thirty something, but I could still admire a pretty face! He was gorgeous! Tall, nearly six feet I guessed or maybe a little over six, well built, and as handsome as a young movie star, his face all hard angles and planes that made me breathless just looking at it.

Why, I wondered, had men not looked like that when I was young? I couldn’t recall even one that had looked this good. There had been plenty that were handsome, some that were pretty well built—the football players—but nothing in this kind of heart-stopping package.

I wondered where he was heading.

I looked around. I knew there were no tables behind me. I was near the wall, but maybe I’d settled near the entrance to the men’s room? I didn’t see a door though.

He’d reached the table before it occurred to me that I must be sitting at his table.

He propped his elbows on the table, favored me with a heart stopping smile, and leaned close. “You come here often?”

I stared at him blankly, shaking my head slowly like someone who was mentally deficient.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Uh, no.” I supposed he couldn’t find a seat either. I stared at the dance floor, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. He was stunning, but I seriously doubted if he was much older than my oldest son.

He leaned close again. “My name’s Rance. What’s yours?”

His cologne, when he leaned close, sent my senses reeling--or maybe it was just being that close to him.

I ignored the rush of excitement, staring at him in fascination when he straightened in his seat once more.

“Delilah,” I said finally, deciding that he was just trying to be polite.

He leaned close again, draping an arm over the back of my chair. “What’s that?”

The waitress arrived with my drink. Relieved at the distraction, I snatched up my purse, fumbled for my wallet. By the time I’d retrieved it, I discovered the young man was paying for the drink and ordering a beer for himself. “Oh. You shouldn’t have done that!”

He waved a hand, dismissing my protest. “My treat!”

“But…!”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Delilah.”

A faint smile curled his lips. “As in Sampson and?”

I felt a blush rising. “Everybody just calls me Lilah.”

He chuckled. His laugh was as nice as his voice. It raised goose bumps. “I think I’m going to call you Delight.”

I suspected he was making fun of me and felt my blush deepen to a dark, and probably very unflattering, scarlet.

He put an arm around the back of my chair and leaned close again. “Hey, if it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t,” he murmured close to my ear.

He must be drunk, I decided. Or maybe he just couldn’t see me that well? It was certainly very dim in the nightclub.

There was no mistaking now, though, that he was flirting.

I managed a smile, wondering if I should just tell him I was way too old to be of interest to him.

Or, maybe, he was what passed for a gigolo these days? Maybe he was one of those gorgeous young men who attached themselves to older women with money?

“What do you do for a living?”

I’m sure I looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Now was the moment of truth. Now his eyes and his smile would cool, he’d excuse himself and disappear. “I’m a waitress,” I said bluntly.

He leaned back, looked me over speculatively. “Oh? Where do you work?”

I was stunned to silence for several moments. He didn’t look the least put off by my humble circumstances. It had to be the lack of light then, I decided.

I told him the name of the coffee shop. He nodded, leaned close again, told me he was a departmental supervisor at a software development company.

I was impressed—extremely surprised, but impressed. Maybe I just wasn’t very good at judging age.

Surely, if he had that sort of position he must be at least a little closer to thirty than twenty?

But still years younger than me. It had to be the lighting, I decided.

His beer arrived. Two young men had trailed the waitress. Like Rance, they could have been mistaken for young heart throbs of the silver screen. One of the two was no more than medium in height, but stocky or, more likely since the stockiness did not include his middle, more heavily muscular than the other man with him. The second was tall and lanky, fair, and almost baby faced pretty. He reminded me strongly of Brad Pitt.

They ordered beer, then sprawled in the vacant chairs at my table. The young man who’d introduced himself to me as Rance leaned toward them. “This is Delilah.”

He knew them? I’d assumed they had just wandered over to find a place to sit.

“This is Jerico. And the computer nerd over there is Trey. They work with me.”

Jerico of the sports jock build and Trey, who could have gotten a job as Brad Pitt’s double. I would have been willing bet my last cent that if these three worked together and there were any females on staff, it would have been impossible for the females to keep their minds on work.

I smiled and nodded at the introductions, but I was becoming more uncomfortable by the moment. Now I had three very young, very good-looking men at the table with me. I should have felt flattered, I suppose, or at the least, gratified to find myself surrounded by gorgeous young hunks, but I felt like I’d stumbled upon some sort of game. Any minute they would do or say something to indicate that they’d only been amusing themselves at my expense. Surreptitiously, I downed several healthy swallows of my drink, hoping it would help me to relax.

The waitress came back with the two bottles of beer the newcomers had ordered. Trailing behind her was another young man. Like Rance, the newcomer was swarthy, his hair a dark color close to black.

He didn’t appear to be quite as tall as Rance, though that might have been because he looked to be a good bit more muscular—like Jerico the newcomer had the build of a sports jock. He ordered a round and sat down in the last seat, across from me. He was introduced as Nick.

The young man named Trey, who’d sat next to me, opposite Rance, leaned over closer to me, placing his arm on the back of my chair. “You ready for another drink?”

I’d only taken a few sips—gulped them actually and was feeling a little light headed already—though it was possible my senses were merely swimming in the testosterone surrounding me. I shook my head. He grinned. “Better get one while the waitress is here, pretty lady. What are you drinking?”

“Screwdriver,” Rance volunteered, leaning forward and dropping his hand on my knee as he spoke to Trey.

“Bring another screwdriver, too,” Trey told the waitress, then leaned over, I thought, to speak. Instead, he sniffed my neck. “Like your—perfume.”

I stared at him a long moment when he sat back, then looked at Rance. Rance gave me a smoldering look that made my heart skip a beat. I glanced at Jerico and Nick. Nick grinned lazily and winked.

Jerico, I saw, was looking at me as if he was hungry, and I was roast beef.

I realized they were all sizing me up.

I began to feel rather overwhelmed. I had studied them thoroughly, naturally, but being checked out by four men at once, and four, moreover, that were all well above average in looks, was more than a little intimidating.

I should have felt superior in age if nothing else. Rance looked like he might be the oldest of the four, and if he was a day over twenty five, I would’ve been shocked speechless … which meant I was sitting at a table surrounded by four young men roughly half my age.

I found, though, that I didn’t feel as in control of the situation as I would’ve liked.

“Excuse me. I need to go to the lady’s room.”

I got up abruptly.

Rance pointed toward the back of the building. I saw the sign with some dismay. I’d rather hoped I could use the restroom as an excuse for making a quiet exit, but it was in the opposite direction from the club’s entrance.

I went to the restroom.

It was crowded. I checked my makeup while I waited my turn. I looked pretty much as I had when I’d left home, but it seemed to me that my makeup looked a bit on the garish side in the bathroom lighting—Maybe they thought I was a hooker? I took out powder to tone it down, then brushed my hair, which was far longer than was considered stylish anymore, but which had always been my best feature, which made me reluctant to cut it.

A girl, young woman, who looked to be about twenty was watching me. I glanced at her questioningly.

“Your hair’s pretty. Is that your natural color?”

She seemed nice enough, friendly. I wasn’t inclined toward deception. “Only sort of. I put a rinse on to cover the gray.”

The girl looked surprised. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

“Premature, huh? That sucks. What’s the color?”