Take Me Higher by Pamela Clare
Chapter 20
November 1985
Mitch and Megsarrived at the studio in New York City to find it different from what they’d imagined. Much of it was just empty space like a vacant warehouse, with chairs, ladders, and huge rolls of paper or cloth—he couldn’t tell from a distance. Bars crossed the ceiling, supporting large lights.
“There they are!” Myrna, the art director, walked toward them, clipboard in hand, her heels clicking on the tile floor. Her face was carefully made up, her curly hair held aloft by what must have been a gallon of hairspray. “Let’s introduce you to Rod, our photographer, and I’ll show you to the dressing room.”
“More like the undressing room,” Megs whispered.
Rod was a tall man, maybe in his late 40s. Dressed only in black, he wore his dark hair in a mullet, gold chains around his neck. He greeted them each with a hug and a kiss, as if they were old friends. “Mitch! Megs, darling! I’m so glad you’re here! Isn’t the weather awful? It’s so cold and gray.”
Mitch could see that Megs was fighting not to laugh.
She took off her down jacket. “We’ve seen worse weather.”
“Of course, you have.” He went over what would happen during the shoot. They would try a variety of poses, looking for something exciting and provocative. “No breasts, dicks, or pussies will go on the cover for obvious reasons. We have ways of hiding those lovely bits—text, airbrushing, artfully placed shadows. It’s a closed set today, so no one who shouldn’t be here will walk in on us.”
Myrna led them back to the dressing room, where they found robes. “Can I bring you herbal tea or coffee or something stronger?”
Mitch answered this time. “No, thanks. We’re fine.”
“Okay.” Myrna glanced at her watch. “When you’re ready, just head to the left and take a left again, and you’ll find our makeup artists and stylists. Let me know if you need anything.”
Makeup artists? Stylists?
“I’ve got a question.” Megs put a hand on her belly. “I’ve got recent scars from getting my tubes tied. They’re small but—”
“Lucky you! No worries. We can airbrush that out.”
François, who’d become their de facto agent and fixer, had connected them with a doctor in Canada willing to do the surgery when they hadn’t been able to find anyone willing to sterilize a 29-year-old, unmarried, childless woman in Colorado.
For Megs, it meant being able to enjoy sex without worrying about an unwanted pregnancy. For Mitch, it meant no more condoms.
“Thanks, Myrna.”
Inside the dressing room, they found a bouquet of flowers sitting on a glass table, cold bottles of water beside it, fluffy white bathrobes hanging on a hook.
Mitch found all of it surreal. “I think I prefer being photographed while I’m climbing. Stylist? What do they plan to do with my hair?”
Megs stood on tiptoe, rubbed the top of his head, his hair cut short. “Braid it?”
They stripped down to their skin, hanging their clothes on hooks.
Megs looked at Mitch’s dick. “The first thing everyone is going to do is check out your penis. Men, women, children, pets, the fly on the wall—they’re all going to stare. I might stare, too.”
Mitch’s dick wasn’t that big. “Ten bucks says they’ll try very hard not to look.”
“You’re on.”
They spent what felt like an inordinate amount of time with two makeup artists. It was a new experience for Mitch to wear mascara, eyeliner, and lip tint.
Megs seemed to find it all funny. “Don’t you look pretty? I’m jealous.”
“Are you kidding?” Terri, Megs’ makeup artist, put the finishing touches on Megs’ lips. “God, I wish I had your arms. They’re so sculpted. You look beautiful!”
“You do.” Mitch had to agree—but it wasn’t the makeup.
Megs had always been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—fit, strong, sharp-witted, with the face of an angel.
Myrna led them to the set, where Rod stood on a ladder, adjusting lights. On one end of the room stood the biggest fan Mitch had ever seen. Hanging from the ceiling was a long blue curtain that would serve as their backdrop.
Camera hanging from a strap around his neck, Rod told them how this would work. “You’re not professional models, I know. So what we’ll do is turn on the fan to catch your hair and then run through a series of poses while I shoot. I’ll ask you to move this way or that, to lift your chin or shift your arm. Let’s just see how it goes. What kind of music would you like—disco, R&B, jazz?”
Megs looked up at Mitch, and he could see she was close to laughter.
Mitch fought to keep a straight face. “We don’t need music.”
But Rod apparently did, and soon Last Dance was playing. “You can leave your robes on that sofa.”
They did as they were asked and then stood stark naked in front of about fifteen people, Megs’ hair flying into Mitch’s face, the two of them fighting not to laugh when everyone’s gaze went straight to Mitch’s dick.
Myrna wasn’t even coy about it. “You are one lucky woman.”
“Don’t I know it?” Megs said, then whispered, “That’s ten bucks.”
Rod put them through a series of poses, clearly not satisfied.
Then Megs had a suggestion. “Can we try this?”
She turned to Mitch and told him to stand behind her and reach around to hold her breasts while she used her hands to cover her pubic area.
Well, Mitch would never turn down a chance to hold her breasts.
Rod stared at them for a moment, then looked through his lens and started clicking. “Beautiful! Beautiful! I love it! Intimate. Strong. Provocative.”
All Mitch could think about was Megs and how good it felt to be the man who went home with her. Being naked with her in front of an audience made his blood run hot, and he had to fight not to get an erection.
Afterward, they put on their robes and walked back to the dressing room.
The moment the door closed, they were on each other, tearing off one another’s robes. There was no need for foreplay or finesse. Mitch backed Megs up against the wall, lifted her off the floor, and slowly buried himself inside her, thrusting deep. The two of them came hard and fast—and in complete silence.
Afterward, a driver took them back to their hotel, where they started from scratch, taking time now for tenderness, indulging themselves, prolonging one another’s pleasure.
Mitch drew Megs against him, kissed her. “I love you.”
She snuggled into his chest. “I love you, too, but you still owe me ten bucks.”
Megs lookedup to find Mitch looking angry, distraught. “What’s wrong?”
He tapped a message into his tablet. “What if I can’t?”
“What if you can’t?” It took her a moment. “What if you can’t have sex?”
His gaze met hers, despair in those brown eyes.
Megs hadn’t imagined her heart could break more for him, but it did.
She set the journal aside, sat on the bed beside him, took his hand. “I won’t love you any less, if that’s why you’re worried. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You’re on a lot of medications, and those narcotics and anti-seizure meds can make it hard to get an erection. None of the medical staff have suggested this will impact you sexually in the long run. Give yourself time to heal.”
He tapped another message into the tablet. “I want to try it.”
“You want to try to have sex—now?”
He answered without the tablet this time. “Yeah.”
She supposed some people would find it scandalous—having sex in a rehab hospital. Though why shouldn’t they? Mitch was injured. He wasn’t dead.
Still, she hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve just been through a second major surgery, and you’ve got a broken neck and a clavicle that hasn’t healed.”
Megs thought about it. “I suppose I could go down on you.”
He tapped in another message. “Yes, please.”
“Change the accent back to Australian, and ask me again.” She was just teasing him now, but he did what she asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Okay, then.” She walked to the door, locked it, then made her way back to the bed, taking off her clothes. She knew how visual he was, how much looking at her body aroused him. “Don’t put any pressure on yourself, okay?”
She knelt beside him, drew down his covers.
He reached out, cupped one of her breasts, fondled her. It was the first time he’d touched her sexually since the night before the accident, pleasure sliding through her. But this wasn’t about her.
She tugged off his pajama bottoms and pushed up his T-shirt, his body with its new scars so precious to her, his gaze raking over her.
“I know every inch of you.” She started slow, leaning down to kiss his chest, those firm pecs with their dusting of graying curls. She teased his nipples, kissing them, licking, sucking them into her mouth—and delighting when she felt his abs clench. “I love every inch of you.”
His fingers slid into her hair. “Mmm.”
It was the first sound of pleasure he’d made in so long.
She didn’t look at his penis. She didn’t want to put pressure on him. Instead, she caressed and kissed his chest, her lips pressing against his heartbeat before shifting to kiss and taste his biceps. “God, I love your muscles.”
She wasn’t just saying that. She’d always loved his body—all that muscle and soft skin, his flat, dark nipples, his sculpted chest. “My man.”
She kissed and nibbled her way down the center of his belly, giving each muscle of his six-pack lavish attention before moving on to nip and lick his obliques. “My favorite muscle.”
She could have wept honest-to-God tears when she saw his erection, not for herself but for him. She kissed her way around it, then, uncertain how long it would last with those meds in his bloodstream, she took him in hand and stroked.
“Did you ever pay me that ten bucks?”
His answer was a soft chuckle.
She lowered her lips to his cock, swirled her tongue over the swollen head, then took him into her mouth, sucking, bringing him fully erect. She knew his body well and knew what he liked most. Holding onto the base of his cock with one hand, she moved the other up and down his length in tandem with her mouth.
Mitch sucked in a breath, his fingers drawing tight in her hair.
And her pulse skipped—not from desire, but from joy for him.
Focused entirely on his pleasure, she built on her rhythm, swirling her tongue around him as she moved, going faster when little thrusts of his hips demanded it.
God, she loved him—her other half, her heart, her delight.
She knew how to read him. He was close now, his balls drawing tight, one hand clenched in the bedsheets, the other fisted in her hair.
He came with a groan, his hips lifting off the bed, come spilling over her hand as she finished him.
Heart soaring, she reached for the tissues, wiped them both clean, then helped him pull up his pajama bottoms once more. “Well, I guess that answers that question.”
He reached for her, relief and love shining on his face.
“I can’t sleep in your bed. It’s against the rules.”
He raised a middle finger to the ceiling, a fierce expression on his face.
“In that case…” She slipped into bed beside him, pressed her cheek to his chest, one strong arm holding her close. “I’m so glad you’re still here with me, Mitch. Whether you learn to speak or climb again, I’m so grateful that you’re alive.”
When he’d fallen asleep, she got out of bed, dressed, and unlocked the door. Then she lay down in her foldout chair, her heart brimming with gratitude.
Thank God.
That following Sunday,Megs drove back to Scarlet Springs with Mitch’s blessing. He’d made it through his first week of rehab and was already showing improvement with speech and balance.
“Go,” he’d said when she explained she needed to do laundry.
Then he’d tapped a message into the tablet, asking her to be back for dinner.
“You got it.”
It felt strange to enter their home after so long away. The place felt frozen in time somehow. And yet, there was proof that others had been here. The gear she and Mitch had taken on vacation was laid out neatly in their gear room. Someone—probably Rain—had stacked the mail on the kitchen table.
She lugged their dirty clothes to the laundry room, sorted it all into piles, and started the washing machine. She was in the middle of opening the mail when someone knocked on the door. She had hoped to slip in and out of town without being noticed. But Scarlet had only about 1,500 residents, and her SUV was parked in the driveway for the first time in weeks. Someone was bound to see it.
Megs opened the door to find Winona Belcourt, who was now seven months along with her first child. She and her husband, Jason Chiago, lived in a house down the mountainside and were Megs and Mitch’s nearest neighbors.
Her face lit up. “Megs! You’re home?”
Megs ushered her inside and closed the door behind her. “Just for today. I need to do laundry and catch up on mail. How are you?”
Win touched her hands to her bulging belly. “I’m feeling good, though I’m tired sometimes. I got an intern from CSU to help manage the clinic.”
“That’s smart. Have a seat. Can I make you some tea?”
Win shook her head. “You do what you came to do, and I’ll make the tea.”
“The tea bags are in the cupboard to the left of the stove.” Megs went back to opening mail, the two of them talking about little stuff—Win’s wildlife clinic, the growth of aspen on the slopes that had burned in the big fire more than a year ago, Win and Jason’s growing list of baby names.
“We’re trying to decide whether to go with Lakota and Tohono O’odham names or whether to mix those with English names.”
“You could alternate—Lakota for one, Tohono O’odham for the next.”
“That’s a cool idea.”
“Oh, I’m full of cool ideas. Just ask me.”
Another knock.
Sasha bounded through the door, her hair in braids, a ski cap on her head. She hugged Megs and Win. “Is he coming home?”
“Not yet.” Megs gestured toward the table. “Win has some tea almost ready. Sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”
Sasha was training hard for the next round of world championships. The Team was operating smoothly. “Conrad is almost as strict as you are.”
“Almost?” Megs teased. “I’ll have to talk with him about that.”
Then Sasha and Win asked about Mitch.
Before Megs could answer, there was another knock.
Lexi waddled in, out of breath. “You’re home?”
“Not exactly.” Megs glanced at her belly. She looked so uncomfortable. “You’d better have that baby soon, or you’re going to pop.”
“Tell me about it.” Lexi sat. “This is my last. Never again.”
Another knock, and Vicki and Rain joined them, both bringing treats—a pie from Knockers and some freshly baked scones from the local coffee shop.
Winona made more tea, and they settled in the living room.
Megs updated them on Mitch’s condition. “I can see a big difference already in his confidence, in his vocabulary and speech, and his balance. Yesterday, he walked on the treadmill with minimal support from the harness. He has a long way to go, especially with speech. He gets so frustrated, and I can’t blame him.”
Lexi took a small slice of pie. “When do they think they can discharge him?”
“They’re hoping to discharge him by the middle of next month, but they can’t yet say whether he’ll go to a long-term facility or whether he’ll be able to come home and get therapy on an outpatient basis. He could easily spend six months or more in rehab.”
Everyone looked surprised except Vicki.
Eric Hawke, her husband, had been badly burned on one leg while fighting to save Scarlet from the big fire. He’d had a dozen surgeries and months of painful rehab before he’d finally returned to work at full capacity as the town’s fire chief.
Vicki sipped her tea. “How are you, Megs?”
The question caught Megs off guard.
She didn’t often talk about her emotions with anyone other than Mitch. Still, she answered as honestly as she could, determined not to break down. “I … I don’t know. I keep telling myself I’m fine as long as he’s fine, that the better he gets, the better I get. But this hit me hard. It’s going to be a while before I truly feel like myself again.”
The women stayed, helped with the laundry, then left her to pack up, sending their best wishes to Mitch. Megs thanked them, once again wondering why she hadn’t wanted to move to Scarlet.
She drove back down the canyon, not wanting to be late for dinner. She parked outside the facility, carried in the duffel bag of clean clothes, and signed in at the front desk. Then she made her way to his room to find that dinner had just started and he was in the cafeteria. She set the duffel down on his bed and hurried to join him.
But when she walked in, the place was dark.
“Mitch?”
The lights came on, twenty or so voices shouting, “Surprise!” as well as they could—victims of strokes, brain tumors, and head injuries sitting around a long table, some in wheelchairs, all with their best smiles on their faces.
Then Mitch stood, love shining in his eyes, a cupcake in his hand, a single candle sticking out of it. “Ha… happ …y Bir..thday.”
Happy Birthday?
“Oh!” She made eye contact with everyone at the table, people in rough circumstances, each of them eager to feel and share joy again. “Thank you, all! Would you believe that I completely forgot?”
The gleam in Mitch’s eyes said quite clearly, “I didn’t.”