Coming Together: At Last, Volume Two Read online

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  Phaze

  www.phaze.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Alessia Brio

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  A Little White Lie

  Love Under the Endless African Sky

  Slice

  Around Midnight

  Island of Fantasies

  Seafood Cocktail

  Instinct

  My Secret Beauty

  Unchained Heart

  Synchronized

  Shorn

  She's No Shrinking Violet

  Just Be

  Send More Japs!

  Enough Said

  Black and White

  About Coming Together

  With Special Thanks

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  Also published by Phaze Books in the Coming Together series:

  Coming Together:

  Special Hurricane Relief Edition

  Coming Together: For the Cure

  Coming Together: Under Fire

  Coming Together: With Pride

  This is an explicit and erotic anthology

  intended for the enjoyment of adult readers.

  Please keep out of the hands of children.

  www.Phaze.com

  Coming Together

  at last

  volume 2

  edited by

  Alessia Brio

  Coming Together: At Last, Vol. 2 © 2008 by Alessia Brio, ed. and contributing authors.

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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 permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Phaze Production

  Phaze Books

  6470A Glenway Avenue, #109

  Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  [email protected]

  www.Phaze.com

  Cover art © 2007, Debi Lewis

  Edited by Alessia Brio

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-093-5

  First Edition—January 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Coming Together: At Last

  is dedicated to the memory of

  Mildred Loving

  1939-2008

  Loving vs. Virginia

  [N]ot a day goes by that I don't think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the “wrong kind of person” for me to marry. I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry. Government has no business imposing some people's religious beliefs over others. Especially if it denies people's civil rights.

  I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard's and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That's what Loving, and loving, are all about.

  ~ Mildred Loving

  June 2007

  Introduction

  © L.A. Banks

  What is the color of the most powerful force in the universe, love? When we look at hope and freedom and change and passion, do these words conjure a race or ethnicity, or are they values and ideals that cross the boundaries of form?

  These are the questions I ask myself as I watch the world news. Surely a mother down on her knees wailing at the sight of a collapsed school building in earthquake-ravaged China is no different than the aggrieved father searching desperately for his children in cyclone-stricken Myanmar, who cannot in my mind be distinguished from the traumatized grandmother clutching pictures of her grandchildren to her breast as rescue workers look for survivors in the tornado-ripped heartland of America, any more than those people's cries are different than those of a mother in Darfur lifting her child up to a UN truck begging for mercy ... or Baghdad's suicide bomber-embattled children wondering where their parents are after an explosion.

  Then is there any difference between the people mentioned above and their losses than that of the inner city mom standing over her shot teenager calling on the Lord for mercy, than there would be for the suburban mother who has just learned that her teen has tragically wrapped their car around a tree on prom night and didn't make it? Images, images ... oh, we have all seen them, paused, and held our palms against our hearts when we have. Maybe we've said a silent prayer for those people caught in the grip of tragedy because we can identify with their pain. For that glimmer in time, we don't see differences; we see the feelings and emotions of our fellow man and woman.

  If we are really thinking, feeling members of humanity, we are called upon to reach down into our souls to ask fundamental questions. Can one deny that the waters of Katrina or those of the dreadful tsunami refused to delineate between religion, ethnic heritage, age, or gender? Did helpers who scrambled to assist survivors weep less for an orphaned child because of that child's hue? That's not what we saw during and after the 9-11 disaster. We saw people of all races and origins rushing in to help, some even giving their lives for strangers. We saw love sublime, strangers helping strangers, just because it was the right thing to do.

  Therefore, it seems that the only logical conclusion one can come to is that love, hope, passion, pain, suffering ... all these things are a condition of being human, and are not conditional upon what type of human one happens to be according to labels. A baby crying pulls at one's core, no matter what ethnic group that child was born into by the accident of birth ... laughing children have that same effect. Tears shed for a profound loss also move us and break down walls. But if tragedies are so compelling, then let's step back for a moment and peel away the layers to consider one additional level of awareness. If we can understand the cries that follow a bridge collapse in Minnesota, and/or any number of horrific events that have happened, why can't we understand the colorblind nature of love?

  It is one of the greatest conundrums in the world, in my opinion—because if people are laid prostrate from a loss of a loved one, doesn't that mean that they had to love whomever the tragedy befell? Doesn't that mean they loved their child just as you would love your child ... that they loved their parent or spouse or friend or partner just as you would have loved yours? If we accept that as truth, then how can we regulate love to an artificial parameter like race, when we've just gone around the glob
e in this small exercise of recalling current events to show that all people have been touched by loss (which means they have also all been touched by love)?

  For how can you have loved deeply and not weep when you have lost? It wouldn't matter, then. You'd remain dry-eyed and stoic. But that's just it. We've seen communities and families devastated and the pain of that spread out in roiling waves that effect us, even a half a world away while watching the news. Thus we can only conclude that where the tragedy hit, people were connected to others that loved them, and once the victims were no longer in the world, that bitter reality created indelible suffering for someone who cared that they were alive.

  With that as a premise, rather than wait for a disaster or an act of God to create a glaring media frenzy to show just how human we are, why not embrace love for all people when the skies are clear and calm, when the waters have receded, when the shelling has stopped, and while there is laughter in our midst? Love is joy. Love is freedom. Love is hope. It is something that we all deserve and is provided for in abundance in the universe and on our planet, like air, as an ultimate act of God.

  I personally believe in love and light ... and the indomitable human spirit. I believe in hope and grace and caring, and in heroes and sheroes, maybe that's why I write about them ... just as I believe in a Higher Power that levels the playing field, eventually ... and I believe in angels. Most of all, perhaps, I believe in the ability of people to change for the better, to open their hearts and to receive the greatest power in the universe (and to use it for good) ... and that is the power of love.

  Peace and Stay in the Light!

  ~ L.A. Banks

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  www.vampire-huntress.com

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A Little White Lie

  © Steve F. Young

  When she reached across the table

  And laid her hand on my arm

  I jumped

  I was immediately paranoid

  That she thought I jumped because

  She was black

  Her nails were long and dark red

  Deep caramel fingers tipped

  In fuck me red

  I let my eyes follow the slim

  Line of her arm

  Until it disappeared

  Past her shoulder

  Into a thin blue blouse

  Her neck was unimaginable

  I was staring

  She squeezed my forearm

  I looked up at her face

  She was happy I was staring

  Parted smiling lips painted

  In fuck me red

  Red looks good on you

  Thank you

  She leaned back

  And took a slow sip

  Of a gin and tonic

  I swear that drink was sweating

  I wanted to tell her

  This was a fantasy

  At last coming true

  I wanted her to ask

  Why I thought red fingernails

  And unimaginable necks

  Looked so much better to me

  On black girls

  Than any other

  I wanted to try to explain

  Maybe because where I'm from

  Most black girls

  Won't bother with white boys

  That look like Opie all grown up

  Maybe racism in America

  Had made what I wasn't

  Supposed to have

  The very thing I covet

  But I didn't tell

  And she didn't ask

  Because none of that mattered

  This was two people

  Strolling along a familiar path

  With an unfamiliar

  And somehow very exciting twist

  She did ask me

  Have you ever been with a black girl?

  And not long after getting inside

  Her house

  She knew I had lied

  When I said yes.

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  Love Under the Endless African Sky

  © Aliyah Burke

  [One]

  Capitol Hill

  "I don't give a damn! That's my baby girl that's over there!” the masculine voice thundered, causing the other man to back up from the venom in his tone.

  "I know that, Congressman, but we don't have any authority to get into Zimbabwe for a rescue mission. Our military has no reason to go. I've contacted the embassy, and they said they'd do their best to find and protect her."

  Congressman Thomas Buxton ground his back teeth and frowned at his aide. “Jason, I am not leaving her alone over there. Get me a way to get her out. I don't care what it takes, find me a way.” He looked up as the other members began filing back into the room. What a time for Congress to be in session. I'll not fail you this time, baby girl. This time I will be there for you.

  Wiping a hand down his face, Thomas looked at Jason. “She's all we have. I can't lose her."

  "I'll do whatever I can. I promise."

  With a heavy heart, Thomas Buxton reclaimed his seat. Shoving personal issues to the back of his mind, he focused on the session.

  It was after ten at night when Thomas entered his office and shut the door behind him. He needed to call his wife, but until there was something tangible he could tell her, he didn't want to.

  His gaze landed on the tri-fold picture frame on his desk. The middle one was of his whole family; there was a copy of his wedding photo on one side and the other was his only child. His daughter.

  A knock on the door had him wiping away any trace of tears. “Come,” he announced.

  The door swung silently open and in walked Jason Holden, his aide, and his wife, Jacqueline Buxton. Forcing a smile on his face, he stood.

  "Jason, I thought you'd gone for the evening.” He walked around his desk and kissed his wife gently. “Hi, honey."

  Jason smiled. “I was on my way out when I ran into Professor Buxton, so I escorted her up. Goodnight, Congressman, Professor."

  His wife smiled at Jason. “Goodnight, Jason. Always good to see you. You'll have to come for dinner soon."

  "I look forward to it.” Jason nodded and kissed her on the cheek. He left them alone in the room.

  His wife's expression lost all cheer as she approached one of the chairs before his desk. “Tell me you've got some news."

  Shaking his head, he sat beside her, reached for one hand and squeezed it. “Not yet. Jason's been looking and I've put in a call to Colonel Nowell."

  Her shuddering gasp made his heart wrench. Pulling her close, he pressed a kiss to her head. “She'll be okay, Mother. We raised a strong girl."

  For a few moments, they sat there huddled together, sharing strength with one another as they prayed for their baby girl.

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  Skynomish, Washington

  The man rolled over and reached blindly for the phone. “What?” he barked into the receiver.

  "Did I wake you, Matthews?"

  "Yes,” he growled.

  "Lounging away in bed after noon? You drunk?"

  Squinting against the sun that shone in through the windows, the man sat up and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Am I drunk? Not really. However, I do have one hell of a hangover.

  He reached for a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag as he pushed up out of bed. The blonde woman in the bed rolled over, exposing creamy breasts to him. He ignored them. “What do you want, Nowell?” Barefoot he padded to the sliding glass door off his bedroom and stepped out onto the porch.

  "Can't I just call to see how my old friend is doing?"

  "You were my superior officer. Since I've been out you haven't called me a single time.” He took another puff on the smoke. “What do you want?"

  "I need your help, Ryder."

  Ryder Matthews leaned on the railing and snubbed out his cigarette. His gaze took in the pristine wilderness of the Cascade Mount
ains. “With what?"

  "My goddaughter is in trouble."

  Ryder ran his tongue over his teeth. He'd heard about Colonel Richard Nowell's goddaughter. Seen pictures of her. Cute. Colonel Nowell didn't have a wife but his best friend did—and a daughter. And the colonel looked at their daughter like she was his own.

  If he remembered correctly, her name was Henrietta. Her father was Congressman Thomas Buxton. A democrat but one who worked hard to keep bases open and increase base pay for those who served.

  The colonel had told them how proud he was of her. Ryder hadn't had the pleasure of meeting her, however.

  "What kind of trouble is she in?"

  Ryder sat down on a chaise and listened to his former boss tell him the situation. Before he knew what had happened, he'd hung up the phone, kicked out the still sleepy blonde, and began packing a bag to grab a flight. It was going to be a long one.

  He settled into his plane seat and closed his eyes, mentally going over the information he'd gotten from Colonel Nowell. There wasn't an exact known location on Ms. Henrietta Buxton. He knew where the missionary group started, but according to Nowell, they were travelling between villages.

  So his plan was to hunt her down, hopefully quickly and before the trouble reached her. There was serious tension between the army and the rebels. He was getting into the country under the guise of going to their embassy.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Ryder had agreed solely for the respect he had for his former commanding officer. Colonel Nowell had defended him staunchly when the United States Marine Corps tried to say he was psychologically unfit for duty.

  Ryder agreed to resign his commission and leave the Corps quietly as long as they kept their opinion of his mental status off his permanent record. They had, and so he quit the only thing he'd ever loved doing.

  Looking out the small window, Ryder glanced down at the ocean. From this height, everything looked so peaceful. He sighed and reached in his pocket, pulling out his iPod. Turning it on, he called up a picture of Henrietta that had been sent to him by Nowell and downloaded.

  Ms. Henrietta Buxton. In the photograph, she wore a black tank top and khaki shorts. She sat on a rock, a lake and mountains behind her. Her walnut brown eyes twinkled at him from behind her rectangular eyeglasses. A beautiful grin teased the corners of her full, lush lips.