Fisher of Men Read online

  Fisher of Men

  Eastern Shore Swingers, Volume 1

  Phoebe Alexander

  Published by Mountains Wanted Publishing, 2014.

  Copyright © 2014 by Phoebe Alexander

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Mountains Wanted Publishing

  PO Box 1014

  Georgetown, DE 19947

  www.mountainswanted.com

  Cover design by Teresa Conner of Wolfsparrow Publishing

  To all my lifestyle friends: May the fishing always be good in your neck of the sea!

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY PHOEBE ALEXANDER

  PROLOGUE

  Leah felt the softness of the bed cushion her body as the shock of him throwing her down absorbed into the sheets. She melted like cheese in between two layers of bread on a hot grill, only the mattress was the bottom slice and the top was his bulky frame. I can't believe I'm letting him toss me around like this, she thought. Or that I'm comparing myself to a sandwich. What is wrong with me?

  Her lungs struggled to fill with air under his weight as he took both of her wrists and pinned them above her head, nestling them in the silky amber-colored waves that fanned around her face. He looked infinitely pleased by her gasping and breathy moans. When she saw a smile spread across his lips and the trademark dimples pop out under his scruffy stubble she stropped thrashing. He's enjoying this a little too much. “Why are you doing this to me?” she questioned, her green eyes wide and meek. A simple question, and well-justified, she deemed, searching his face for the truth.

  “Because I want you to stop playing the innocent little good girl, Leah,” Cap fired back without hesitation. “You and I both know there is a wanton vixen in there lurking beneath that prim and proper church-going exterior you show the world. That's the woman I want.”

  She felt exposed, as if she were naked beneath him. She checked to see if she was still wearing her work clothes, an impeccably tailored charcoal gray suit with a light blue pinstripe and matching blue camisole. She sighed. Yes, still clothed; he hasn't actually figured out how to strip me down using just his mind yet. “Yet” being the operative word, of course.

  She shot back at him with the first thing that came to her mind: “What makes you so sure that's who I am? Maybe I really am the good Christian girl I profess to be!” Why do I suddenly feel like Sandy in Grease? Her memory flashed her an image of Olivia Newton John wearing those ridiculously tight black spandex pants in the Shake Shack with John Travolta.

  “Because I feel the way your body responds when I kiss you...when I touch you. I smell your desire, Leah. You can't hide it.” He propped himself up on his elbows, freeing her wrists and diminishing the crushing weight against her breasts. He lowered his head so that his breath fell against her neck and his teeth lightly grazed the skin stretched across her collarbone. Her body involuntarily stiffened, her pelvis shifting so that it met his squarely. She found herself lamenting the layers of fabric that separated them.

  He has a point, she conceded. She felt her body raising its white flag of surrender as he yanked her camisole down with one finger, exposing two creamy mounds of flesh jutting up from an ivory lace bra. He decorated the space between her breasts with soft, wet kisses.

  “God doesn't hate sex, you know,” he attempted a new strategy, peering down at her again from his perched elbows. His lips glistened from the artwork they'd created in her cleavage. “He invented sex, after all. He made us to feel pleasure. It's not a sin.”

  She let his words spiral through her mind. She'd always believed there was virtue in abstinence, in self-control and denying her carnal desires. She'd always pitted Good Girl Leah against Bad Girl Leah, rewarding herself when good triumphed. Cap's claim challenged every notion she had of sex. All the ambivalence, the confusion, the conflicting feelings she'd been struggling with since she met him all came down to this crux. What if he is right? What if my Good Girl and Bad Girl selves can peacefully coexist?

  ONE

  You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride, a secluded spring, a hidden fountain...Come into your garden, my love; taste its finest fruits. -Song of Solomon 4:12, 16 (NLT)

  The music pulsated throughout her body. She felt the drums in her lungs, the bass in her spine, and the vocals in her nerves. The sanctuary was dark but the stage was awash in multi-colored lights cast from rigs on the ceiling. It was the kind of lighting used at rock concerts: spiraling teals and purples intermittently spiked with yellow-green dots. The lights shifted like a kaleidoscope turning in front of her eyes. I can't believe I'm in church, she kept thinking. It seemed to be the only thought that she could grab on to. Everything else in her mind was swirling wildly, moving too erratically to process, just like the crazy dancing lights.

  The song ended and the worship leader began a prayer. Leah bowed her head instinctively, but she was distracted, imagining what her mother would say about this display. It was hard to believe she was there at her parents' suggestion. The minister of this church, Pastor Brian, had gone to seminary with her father. As soon as he learned his old college buddy had taken over this up-and-coming church on the Delmarva Peninsula, he'd encouraged Leah to give it a try...perhaps due more to curiosity than loyalty? she now suspected. Pastor Brian had earned a reputation for quickly amassing huge, vibrant congregations. He was working his way down the east coast: New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and now the eastern shore of Maryland. He'd stay three to five years and then move on to the next venue. He'll probably time it so he can retire when he reaches Florida, she mused. Maybe I'm performing reconnaissance so Dad can learn the method to his madness?

  Madness is probably the word my mother would use to describe it all right, she smirked. The over-the-top sound and light system; the young, good-looking song leaders casually dressed in jeans; and of course the rock band instruments. She tried to envision an electric guitar being played in her parents' church back home. Her mother, who had led the music at church since she could remember, had just recently broadened her horizons enough to use a digital keyboard. She couldn't begin to imagine something like this spectacle in her parents' church. Yes, Mom would call it a spectacle.

  The band segued into the next song, which had a driving beat and fast tempo. She felt her hips begin to sway to the rhythm before she could think to stop them. It was a song she'd heard on Christian radio. She felt her mouth open as her vocal chords began to vibrate in her throat, the lyrics escaping quite uncontrollably past her lips. Her eyes closed but she could still see the dizzying lights pulsating against her eyelids. She felt the music in her soul, down deep where the Holy Spirit resided within her.

  Leah had perfected her weekly routine. It wasn't hard to do when sixty plus of her hours were devoted to The Pearl, the upscale resort where she worked. She'd started out as the front desk night manager, fresh from finishing her undergrad in Hotel Administration from the prestigious program at Cornell. A year later, she'd snagged the assistant gen
eral manager position when the incumbent left to take a job at a resort someplace tropical...was it the Bahamas? Bermuda? Something with a “B,” Leah thought, scanning her memory as if the detail mattered.

  Her boss had retooled the job description and given it a swanky new dual-purpose title which was so ridiculous that she had to forcibly restrain herself from eye-rolling when she announced it: Guest Experience Strategist and Staff Liaison Specialist. Most of the time after she delivered the full title, she had to clarify, “I make sure everyone is happy: guests and employees.”

  Her parents were still adjusting to the idea of their daughter working in the hospitality industry. Since her birth, they'd not foreseen any other future for their daughter, the oldest of three, aside from being shipped off to Bible college and settling down with an aspiring minister, much as Mrs. Miller had done circa 1980. Leah was born in 1984, exactly nine months after her parents' wedding. Naturally, her parents had found the perfect way of doing things. Why wouldn't their daughter want to follow in their footsteps?

  She still remembered the day she told them she was applying to Cornell. Her guidance counselor, confident that Leah would be named valedictorian of her class, was devoted to helping her precocious mentee gain acceptance into a prestigious school. She showed Leah hundreds of college brochures and signed her up for dozens of mailing lists. Soon the Millers' mailbox overflowed with packets from universities all over the country, each selling themselves as the best value with the best faculty and the most engaged student body.

  “How will you ever decide?” Mrs. Miller had asked. And Mr. Miller had replied, “Well, eliminating the ones we can't afford should make it easy.” They didn't anticipate that Leah would get a scholarship to attend an ivy league school like Cornell. She was able to leverage the trend of encouraging bright young women to study science and math. Leah sealed the deal by committing herself to the engineering program.

  However, engineering never quite seemed as appealing once she started classes, especially not after the hotel administration program lured her in like a siren. Perhaps it stemmed from her growing up in a land-locked state and being especially susceptible to happy promises of working in tropical locales or aboard cruise ships. Something about that carefree, sun-drenched lifestyle was wildly alluring after growing up in a tiny little dot of a town in the cornfields of the Midwest. When she told colleagues she hailed from Wahoo, Nebraska, the looks on their faces were priceless.

  Some thought the obscurity and town name were so comical that she must be making it up. Every once in a while, a devoted fan of late night television would say, “Isn't that the fictitious home office of the Late Show with David Letterman? You know, when he does his Top Ten List?”

  It was true. For a while, her town was the honorary “home office,” which was something Letterman agreed to after town officials relentlessly harassed him. “How else do you get your little town on the proverbial map?” many Wahoo residents had joked. Her father had even joined in by doing a little bit of Top Ten Listing from the pulpit. It was still a source of pride even to present day.

  Leah Miller was the small town girl who ventures far from home and makes a name for herself in the big city. Just another cliché, she thought as she slid her conservative church-going pumps off and contemplated what to do with her one day off. She didn't feel especially motivated as she propped her feet up on her rattan ottoman. All she wanted to do was replay the events of the previous night when she'd been called into work unexpectedly.

  There's nothing more aggravating than being called into work at the last minute on a Saturday night, Leah sighed as she clicked the red button on her cell phone to end the call. She was known as the Go-To-Girl at The Pearl, the manager who would cheerfully spring into action whenever called to duty. Such as tonight. One of the bartenders was going to be out taking care of her sick toddler, a bartender needed to work a large private party which had been booked months in advance.

  “It's the off season in a resort town,” her boss had reminded her. “We've got to impress this group so they'll continue to book here. They've nearly blocked all the rooms. We could have a lucrative long-term deal on our hands if they make this a regular thing!” His voice was animated and full of urgency.

  “What kind of group is it?” Leah had inquired, curious about what kind of organization wanted to party in a ghost town. During the late fall and winter months when it was too cold for warm-weather beach activities, Ocean City hibernated.

  Her boss, Barry Sampson, checked the record on his computer. “I'm not really sure,” he admitted. “It just says Casey's Group. They reserved the ballroom, and we don't book that for less than 100 guests. No catering contract, but they requested the full bar menu. It's going to be a busy night, too busy to rely on only two bartenders.” She could practically see the dollar signs dancing in front of his eyes.

  “Okay,” Leah had smiled into the phone. Fake it till you make it was one of her most oft-repeated mantras. “I guess I'll brush up on my bartending knowledge this afternoon then.”

  His audible sigh of relief whistled through the phone. “Atta girl!”

  “It's no problem,” she assured him. Besides, it's not like there's anything else going on in Ocean City in the middle of November, she had thought. I'd otherwise be home alone wishing Netflix had better movies to stream and stuffing my face with junk food.

  She climbed the steps to the back entrance of The Pearl and entered the door that led to the administrative offices. There was a pile of mail and notes on her desk right in the center. Her administrative assistant's last action before leaving each night was to dump anything received throughout the course of the day on Leah's desk. Leah didn't spend a lot of time in her office. She was a hands-on manager, always making the rounds to the front desk, to housekeeping, to the kitchen, then out to the pool and then back through the lobby to mingle with the guests. She took her responsibility to keep everyone happy very seriously.

  No time to look at that pile now, she thought, glancing at her watch. It was 6 PM and the party started at 7. She needed to get over to the ballroom and see how the set up was coming along.

  She greeted the other two bartenders with a little wave. “Trish called off tonight,” she explained. “So I guess you're stuck with me. I couldn't find anyone else to come in.”

  “It's all good,” the tall, thin African American bartender assured her. “We'll have you doing Tom Cruise moves from Cocktail before the end of the night!” he predicted, the words sliding smoothly out of his wide, toothy grin.

  The other bartender, Gina, was a short, slight woman that Leah guessed to be around 50 years of age. “Oh, look at her, staring at you like you've got two heads!” She shook her head at her colleague. “She's too young to remember that movie!” She had her dyed-auburn hair with the slightest wisps of gray peeking out around her temples whisked back into a severe bun.

  Steve chuckled his deep, silky laugh. “Don't mind her,” he told Leah, cocking his head toward his fellow bartender. “She always likes to remind everyone how old she is. I think it's kinda amusing, especially since I'm even older.” He winked.

  Leah's eyes grew wide. She would have never guessed Steve was older than Gina, not in a million years. Guess I'm not too good at this age guessing thing, she thought, tying on a blue apron emblazoned with The Pearl's logo. She pushed the double doors open into the back of the ballroom and peeked inside.

  The room looked festive and elegant. Ornate brass chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling with their pearly white glass lamps, the bulbs turned down so only a faint glow was cast throughout the room. Twenty white tables were spread with fresh white linen tablecloths, anchored with round mirror tiles holding long white taper candles rising from shiny silver and blue candlesticks. Between each pair of candles were simple, tasteful floral centerpieces that featured white roses, blue carnations and greenery with little sprigs of faux pearls jutting out like baby's breath.

  Leah scanned the perimeter of the room. Two
sets of dark wooden doors on the side connected to the rest of the hotel and on the short sides hung floor-to-ceiling navy blue velvet curtains. On the wall where she stood, the swinging doors to the kitchen blended into the navy walls so that they were nearly imperceptible. A bar area was set up not far from the entrance to the kitchen. Directly across the room, the D.J. would set up his station in front of the parquet dance floor that would soon pulsate with multi-colored lights as music thumped throughout the room. The other long wall had the appearance of being all windows, but in the middle a set of glass French doors opened to the patio. The four ballroom walls were studded with art-deco style sconces which projected soft halos of light all around the room. Plush navy carpet with a floral paisley pattern stretched to all four corners of the room.

  The ballroom was empty except for two waiters adjusting the centerpieces on the tables so that everything aligned perfectly, and the D.J., who was beginning to wheel in his equipment. Leah imagined what the elegantly appointed room would look like in another hour, filled with at least a hundred people, perhaps ladies in cocktail dresses and men in suits? She wasn't sure what to expect from Casey's Group, but by quickly perusing the contract she gathered it was a local charity organization.

  The image bubble she'd created burst as the double doors from the hallway pushed open and a middle-aged woman with immaculately coiffed copper-colored hair and long, red manicured fingernails sashayed across the paisley carpet on four inch stiletto heels. She was a woman of girth, with broad shoulders and wide hips, but she carried herself with confidence and appeared to be on a mission. She immediately turned to Leah with a look of determination and began addressing her long before she got within ten feet. “The night manager at the front desk told me that his supervisor was bartending tonight? A Ms. Miller, I believe? Would you mind getting her for me?”