Help Me Make It Through the Night
Kathy Golden
Help Me Make It Through The Night
Kathy Golden
Table of Contents
Copyright
Help Me Make It Through the Night
About the Author
Excerpt: Children Who Never Grow Old
Excerpt: An Invisible Hand Christian Novella
Copyright
Help Me Make It Through the Night
Written and published by Kathy Golden
© November 2015 by Kathy Golden
All rights reserved.
This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Word count is approximately 2000.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You may request written permission by contacting the author at:
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First Publication
Published in the United States of America
Published by Kathy Golden
Help Me Make It Through the Night
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Story description:
On Christmas Eve, two strangers, fit only for one another’s company, meet for the first time at a bar. A chance meeting? Maybe not. But one thing’s for certain. They both need someone to help them make it through the night.
************
Outside the Why-Not, scribblings on a poster-board yelled, “No Christmas music allowed!’” But the bar’s owner was a selective Scrooge. Inside, a fir tree heavily ornamented and flashing multi-colored stringers occupied each corner of the room, the scent of fresh pine holding its own against cigarette smoke and perfumed-cologned-or-other human occupants looking for an encounter much more impermanent than a fleeting holiday. Placemats splashed with Santa, Rudolph or Frosty and embellished with burn-holes facelifted scarred tables. Above the liquor-pit, red and green neon numbers counted down the hours and the minutes before the sleigh and its reindeers would be running late. Neither the ambience nor the décor attracted Mistique’s attention or lessened her anticipation.
She hadn’t noticed the man on her first couple of visits. By round-three on the pick-up circuit, a crashing self-esteem forced her to linger in the shadows before showing herself to practically the last possible prospect. More than once, only the unbearableness of spending an entire night alone kept her from abandoning her reason for being there. Hiding until she was ready to be seen took some ingenuity; then she discovered as long as she was a purchasing customer, she could sit in some of the dimmest corners, with an aura of “keep your distance, I’m sipping alone” fairly effective against the curious. For most men, too many willing partners were available to bother with those who weren’t. From one of her temporary havens, she’d spotted him.
Now she stood assessing herself in the mirror behind the counter. This was her second week with the violet eyes and black-and-blonde waves that made her feel less exposed. After adjusting her uncomfortable cleavage for at least the fourteenth time, she continued to wait.
Three weekends of observation had revealed the man’s modus operandi. He came in, sat down, and then, as if studying the perfect way to pick up a one night stand, he spent over an hour looking at the women and men who came in apart and left together. He shook his head at more than one approacher until his own observation session was over.
Mistique suspected he paid a waitress or maybe even the owner to see to it his favorite table facing the entrance was always available when he arrived around his usual time, whether it was nine-thirty p.m.—or just now—a quarter till ten. She hadn’t understood the purpose of his ritual at first. Guessing—hoping—at last she did, she tugged at the bra a final time, ordered for both of them and walked over to where he sat.
She set a glass down in front of him. "Hi, Bailey. Absolut neat, right? May I join you?"
The lean, dark-haired man, in the vicinity of thirty, looked first at the drink and then at her. "Right, and you are?"
"Mistique."
His brows arched. "Mistique?"
She pointed a thumb toward her hair. "It’s the name of the wig."
Bailey took in this woman’s appealing face six or seven years younger than his own and the breasts straining against the close-fitted blouse. Neither skinny nor fat, she smelled good. He didn’t have many criteria beyond that. He gestured toward the battered leather-cushioned chair opposite his own. "You've obviously done your homework. But if you want to leave anytime soon—”
"No, I'm not ready to leave.” She sat and sipped her drink, certain she hadn’t practiced her lines well enough to avoid the embarrassment of being turned down. After all, who came to a place like this for a reason like hers? “I’m not in a rush.” Hadn’t she just said something like that? “That is, we don’t have to leave—not yet. I . . .” She blew out a breath. He sat there, not helping in the least. But how could he help her utter a sensible response? She rushed on. “I don’t want to leave now. I just wanted to talk. You seem like the kind of man who wouldn't mind talking . . . first."
Bailey leaned back in his chair. "I’ve been called a decent listener. Talk about what?”
Her taut nerves started to loosen; then her thoughts shifted to traffic lights, to the way a yellow one lets you know the red one stopping you dead in your tracks is only a few seconds away, and you need to keep driving or hit the brakes. What she wanted to talk about was laughable; the ramblings of a recent sleep-around trying to add depth and meaning to bedding a stranger. And darn, if he wasn’t a patient man. Too patient. Why didn’t he suggest something, provide some opening into further conversation? He had to see her floundering. Instead he just looked at her, an expression somewhere between mildly interested and whenever-you’re-ready-go-ahead. To heck with it. She needed to keep driving. "It bothers you, doesn't it? It bothers you to come in here and go out every weekend with a new . . . a different person."
The alertness in his gaze told her she’d at least come close to a bull’s-eye.
Bailey drank some of the vodka. "I gather it bothers you too."
A definite yes and a green light. She wouldn’t hesitate again. "My problem is that absence of communication, not connecting somehow before the sex.”
"So you want us to pretend to be—"
With mild annoyance, Mistique flipped back some of the long hair that had fallen forward. "No, not lovers or anything like that. Just—before the ‘my place or yours,’ I want to talk about the pain, about what landed us
here to begin with."
He picked up a pack of gum from the table, removed two sticks and offered her one. "Why do you want to do that?
"Thanks. A kind of masochistic, verbal foreplay, I guess. It seems to me we all suffer silently when maybe we could talk more and help each other out."
He tossed his empty wrapper in the elf’s face imprinted on an ashtray. "Don't you have friends for that? It's been a while for me, and I don't have much to say about it anymore."
She met his gaze straight on. "Why do you take so much time before you pick someone?"
His body shifted forward, and without hardening his eyes pierced her. "Have I been on hidden camera every week or what?"
She shook her head. "No, only my camera. I could be totally wrong, but I think it takes you a while to get mentally ready for it.” Her fingers toyed with the gum. “You go through some kind of prelude so what comes after is not so . . . so empty."
Bailey’s shoulders lowered and he leaned back against his chair. "Yeah, that's pretty close to why I do it.” He noticed for the first time the way her purple eyes clashed with the streaked hair. He’d slept with masqueraders like her before. Though not quite like her. Her fragility leaked through her disguise in a way he had to give in to. “So, Mistique, here's my pain. We had been together for almost three years. Got engaged and she wanted me to live with her. I wasn't ready—maybe not even for marriage. Anyway, she ended it. It’s been eight months. I've tried moving on.” He shook his head. “Can't do it."
Relieved, Mistique put the spearminted stick in her mouth. He could have been like the others: all intercourse and no discourse, yet her instincts had been correct. "Do you still care about her?"
"For whatever reason, and there shouldn’t be any, yes. However, I resented being forced to do something I didn’t want to do."
Mistique nodded her head. "My guy’s married. Actually, he's not mine anymore. After two years of us, he packed up his family and moved away.” She rubbed her upper arms, a little cold. “I'd give anything for a chance to have him back."
"Would you?"
Her hands lowered, one migrating to the table; the other, her lap. "I would. And that's the thing my friends and family don't want to hear anymore. It’s what I can't make them understand."
"That you love him no matter what."
"That I love him—no matter what. For obvious reasons, we never spent this holiday together. Still, he’d call around 1 a.m. or 2 a.m. Last Christmas, even with him gone, I waited. Nothing.”
“And tonight?”
“I didn’t want to stay at home, alone, waiting.”
Bailey resisted an impulse to reach out and touch her hand and to tell her—what? That she stirred something in him? She didn’t come here to hear that. “My ex-fiancée and I were supposed to attend a party tonight. She probably went, and rumor has it, I’ve already been replaced. I won’t be celebrating with my family either. My sister’s invited some friend of hers I can’t fake any interest in.”
He swept a frustrated hand through the air. “So this joint, the sex? Why do you bother with it?"
Mistique’s finger tracked the moisture on her glass. "It’s the only contact with him I have left. I can close my eyes and see his face."
Bailey nodded. "I see her face too.”
He drained his glass with a finality triggering fear in Mistique that he was about to leave, and if irritation were an indication, it would be without her, his need for someone to help him make it through the night no longer an issue. She understood the abrupt shift all too well.
Bailey stood. “Listen, lady, it’s been … original.”
She had to stop him. The sound of music from the jukebox penetrated her panic. “Bailey, would you like to dance?"
He scowled, then his shoulders drop. "Sure. Only I have a request too. Do you mind very much if I don't dance with Mistique?"
A small laugh escaped her. She pulled off the wig and ruffled her short auburn hair. She popped out one and then the other of the contact lens, heedless of where they fell. Holding her right hand over the right breast, she reached in with the left hand, snatched out the push-up and threw it on the table.
Bailey stepped back. "Whoa. I wasn't expecting that."
She stared at the discarded insert. "I can put it back in if you like, but they're so uncomfortable."
"I can't imagine.” He shrugged. “They would have eventually come out anyway, right?”
“Right.” She chucked the left one onto the table. “Relief at last.”
Bailey smiled. “Glad to hear it. So, what's your name?"
His first of the night. Maybe I should have taken those things out earlier. "My name’s April."
He extended his hand. “All right then, April.”
As they approached the dance floor, Johnny Rivers’s "Swayin To the Music” began to play.
Wrapped in Bailey’s embrace, April leaned into the somewhat smoky, clean-clothes scent of him. They’d crossed a small barrier, perhaps an insignificant one to most people. But she’d needed his story, needed to tell hers, needed to know she would strip down with someone willing to say out loud how much love can hurt. She felt less humiliated now, and they were back on course. She’d have sex with him, knowing they wouldn’t be thinking about each other. And maybe afterwards, they’d discuss that too.
"April?"
Moving with the rhythm of the song, her arms encircling his neck, she looked up at him. "Yes."
"We don’t have to do the ‘my place or yours’ unless you want to.”
She stilled, her body tense. "Then what happens after this dance?"
His hands rubbed soothing warmth into her back. "Don't worry. The Why-Not doesn’t close tonight or tomorrow. I think we can find enough to say until then."
She smiled. "I think so too.”
She stood on tiptoes to reach his mouth. He bent his head, and the lingering exchange comforted them.
When their lips parted, Bailey’s brushed the top of April’s hair, and once again their bodies swayed to the music.
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Thanks for reading this story. I wrote it to focus on two people finding the Christmas present they needed most in one another’s company. Though it wasn’t my intention at the time I wrote it, I plan to expand Bailey and April’s story.
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About the Author
I write in multiple genres: Romance and Christian fiction and family dramas. I also enjoy audiobooks immensely and plan to have most of my published works available as audiobooks.
A collection of short stories and several novels and novellas eagerly await the time when I will finish writing them and hit the “published” button.
Seldom if ever affected by writer’s block, my greatest challenge is managing to get the immense wealth of fiction that the Muses have brought me into formats where others can read and enjoy it.
I have written stories, poems, and music for most of my life. I am thrilled that the internet and current technology make it possible for authors and musicians to so easily share their talents.
Feel free to visit my websites and/or contact me. I will get back to you.
Twitter: @KathyGoldenKG
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My other books:
Excerpt: Children Who Never Grow Old
