Chapter 1

This sucks, I thought.

A memory had just arrived unbidden, not a recent memory, but rather an old one, a memory from my previous life. I was aggravated because in my previous life I’d been a female named Jane Wilson. My name in this life is Brent Carson. I’m a fifteen-year-old boy. If I’d been a male in my previous life, I could have used that experience to help guide me as a male through this one. How could I relate to fifty-five years as a female?

Memories from my past life started to trickle into my mind about eighteen months ago when the hormones of puberty started to trickle into my then scrawny body. I believed I was going insane, that or someone had slipped a hallucinogenic drug into my root beer, or that my imagination had slipped a cog and wandered into the realm of silliness beyond fantasy. Imagine my surprise when I finally realized that the answer was none of the above. The memories were real. They were also terrifying at first because they were retrieved in reverse order; although retrieved, as a verb, wasn’t completely accurate. My neurons and synapses didn’t search for and retrieve the memories. They just happened, and because my first memory from my previous life was my violent death at the end of that life, the memory was scary.

As my body changed, more memories from before my birth for this life slowly filled in the gaps in the life I lived as Jane Wilson. I’d just experienced Jane’s first memory: taking a bath with her little brother. He had a woody, which made the event memorable. Because I’d gone through her memories from her last to her first, I believed I now knew the major events of her life - my life, too, the life before the one I was now living. Confusing, huh?

As Jane Wilson, I was born in 1932 in New Orleans, Louisiana. As Brent Carson, I was born in 1988 in Phoenix, Arizona. Jane was born during the era known as the Great Depression, and in her youth, she was poor. My family for this life wasn’t rich but wasn’t close to poor. Jane Wilson had a younger brother. I had an older sister.

Nothing matched.

I begged the question: how could I, a fifteen-year-old male, relate to living fifty-five years as a female?

Interrupting my mental gymnastics, my sister, Grace, strode into my room without knocking. Good thing I wasn’t involved in my favorite indoor sport, the one involving a woody, like Jane’s little brother.

“Brent, you are a horse’s patooty!” she yelled.

“Patooty?”

“Yeah.”

“No such word.”

“Don’t care. Means ass with a capital A.” She stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, her stance and expression laced with anger. Dark, gorgeous eyes. Dark brown hair, long, with soft waves framing a pretty face. Her slim body had to be, to my mind, the envy of runway models everywhere. That’s my beautiful sister, Grace.

I stifled a snicker. Grace’s propensity for melodrama usually had that effect on me. I said, “No doubt you’re correct, but an explanation might give me some clues that will let me avoid being a horse’s ass under the same circumstances in the future. Has anyone told you that your eyes dance when you’re pissed?”

Her anger softened briefly but flared again. She said, “You saw me making out with Ted, and you told your nitwit friend, Billy, who told Gary Simmons, who told ... you get the picture. By the time the malicious gossip made the rounds and came back to me, I was doing the nasty with Ted, not just making out. Horse’s patooty! That’s what you are.”

Yes, I’d seen my sister making out with her date last Saturday night, but I hadn’t told Billy about the event. I’d known Billy most of my life - this life, that is. He couldn’t keep a secret, so even under the pain of torture, I would tell him nothing that demanded confidentiality. I grinned and said, “Not guilty, Grace. Oh, I saw you with Ted but didn’t say anything to Billy or anyone else about what I saw. Look elsewhere for the source of the malicious gossip.”

“Liar! I traced the...”

Instantly angry, I stood up, took her by the arm, and turned her. The door to my room was open, so I guided her into the hall. “I’m not lying, Grace,” I said calmly, stepped back into my room, and closed and locked my door. I returned to my computer where I’d been surfing the Internet when my sister interrupted my muses about my past life.

Grace’s accusation had upset me. I wasn’t a liar, except for little, white lies, or lies of omission, or lies to protect someone, and she knew this about me. What’s more, living fifty-five years as a female before taking on the body of a boy taught me about the pain that gossiping can inflict, so after retrieving Jane’s memories, I stopped being a gossip.

Then it hit me.

I’d asked myself a question: how could I, a fifteen-year-old male, relate to living fifty-five years as a female?

I suddenly realized that Jane Wilson’s life experiences would let me relate to the female of our species in a way no boy in my time and place could hope to achieve, and with that realization, I’d answered my question.

---

When my Jane memories arrived, fearing I’d be labeled a nut, I told no one about them. I considered telling my mother, the one adult I almost trusted, but a brief comment to her about them produced a negative response, so I pursed my lips and kept my own counsel thereafter.

My mother was a real estate agent, but she didn’t sell houses. She acted as an agent for office building landlords and tenants, mostly tenants because she declared landlords a pain in the patooty. Yeah, I’d assimilated Grace’s made-up word for ass into my vocabulary, and speaking of asses, my mom’s was magnificent, her best feature, and like most clever women, she understood her assets and dressed accordingly. She wore a tight skirt that fell to just below her knees, no hose - her legs were tan, no hose needed - and a white silk blouse. She was thirty-eight years old and looked five years younger than her age. I considered her beautiful, but then I’m biased.

“Nice patooty, Mom,” I said as she bent over to retrieve something from a lower kitchen cabinet.

She looked over her shoulder at me and grinned. “Patooty?”

“Yeah, according to Grace, patooty is a synonym for ass.”

Her grin widened momentarily, and then she frowned. “I’m your mother, Brent. Don’t...”

I laughed. “You also have a nice ass. In my humble opinion, it’s a world-class patooty. I appreciate perfection wherever I see it. It’s the artist in me. For example, Grace’s legs are in a class by themselves. She’s my sister, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the soft curves of her long, shapely legs anymore than I can stop appreciating the alluring shape of your ass.”

I’d referenced my artistic ability because Jane Wilson had climbed out of the poverty of her birth using her talent as an artist. I not only had her memories, I had also inherited her artistic aptitude and abilities, a talent I had yet to exploit. That would soon change.

Mom placed a pot on the stove. “What about breasts?”

“Waddaya mean?” I asked.

“Who has world-class breasts?” Her dark eyes danced with mischief.

“That’s a tough one. The garments females wear let me judge patooties and legs. I’ve noticed cleavage...”

She laughed. “No doubt.”

“ ... but I believe breasts must be bare to be properly judged, and I’ve yet to see a bare pair.” A lie, but a boy shouldn’t tell his mother everything. I lied to protect her, not me. No, that wasn’t true. I lied because the truth didn’t matter and the lie fit the conversation.

She let out the air in her lungs with a whoosh. Teasingly, she said, “That’s a relief.”

“What’s a relief?” Grace asked as she walked into the kitchen.

“Brent says he hasn’t seen a pair of bare breasts,” Mom said and giggled. Yeah, Moms can giggle, and I promptly demonstrated that Moms could make sons blush.

Grace giggled, too. “You haven’t seen a pair. How about just one?” she asked.

She mentioned one because I’d seen one of hers one time, and she knew it. We’d never discussed the event.

I let my Jane Wilson personality take over. With her memories, I could be her, was her, but because I’d lived as a boy for thirteen plus years before her memories arrived, I’d already developed my own distinct personality. With her memories, our personalities had merged a little, but for the most part still remained separate.

“I just told Mom that she had a great ass, Grace, and also declared that you have the best legs I’ve ever seen. Then Mom asked whose breasts I appreciated the most, and I told her I didn’t know because, in my opinion, breasts should be viewed without the clutter of bras, bikini tops, or blouses to be fairly judged, so I couldn’t connect a name with any world-class titties.” Hmm, would they cooperate? Maybe. “Which reminds me that my education is lacking regarding breasts, a knowledge gap the two of you could alleviate by showing me your tits.”

“Brent!” Mom gasped.

“Pervert!” Grace decried.

I laughed. “I think you both protest too much. Mom, you enjoy my avid gaze when you bend over, and Grace, you’ve been known to flash more of your legs than necessary as a feast for my hungry eyes, so don’t play the innocents with me.”

Mom looked at Grace. “He’s got us pegged, missy.”

Grace groaned. “Yep, but he’s lying, Mom. He’s seen some bare breasts, a lot of them, while surfing on the Internet.”

“Grace, if you keep calling me a liar, I might stop calling you a friend,” I said, my voice tinged with menace.

“Hah! Are you denying looking at naked women on the Internet?”

“Nope. A picture might be the equivalent of a thousand or more words, but it’s no substitute for the real thing. I’ve yet to cast my eyes on a live pair of bare breasts. How about it? Would either or both of you correct my woefully limited sexual education by showing me your tits?”

“Not me,” Mom said. “My breasts aren’t what they used to be.” She chortled self-consciously. “My patooty, either, dammit.”

“Well, mine haven’t reached their peak,” Grace said and giggled. “So to speak.” She looked at me. “To fill your knowledge gap, you’ll need to pursue your breast quest elsewhere.”

“Spoilsports.”

---

My art paraphernalia was sadly limited, and art stuff cost a bundle. I needed canvases, oil and acrylic paints, watercolor paint and paper, a drafting table, brushes, pastels, charcoal, palette knives, even a palette. I could go on and on. I also needed a studio.

Big problems. Except for some occasional sketches I let my mother and sister see, I’d kept my artistic talent mostly hidden. I needed my father’s support - and money. A demonstration was warranted.

That evening while Dad was watching the news on the television, I sat across from him and drew his portrait in ink. He noticed my concentration, my glances toward him, my busy hand scratching the linen vellum with a pen, and asked what I was doing. I told him, at which point he stiffened and posed, not what I wanted.

“Relax, Dad. Ignore me. You don’t need to sit perfectly still, not for a quick sketch.”

“Oh. Okay.”

My father was a handsome man with a dark complexion, coal-black eyes, and a square chin punctured with a deep dimple. I hoped I’d grow to at least his six-two height. He was a corporate executive, a VP for a regional real estate development company, belonged to a gym, and exercised religiously, watched his diet, imbibed booze socially but never to excess, and didn’t smoke. He golfed on weekends. Sounds like the perfect dad, huh? Not quite. He worked a lot, giving his employer fifty to sixty hours every week, and his weekend trip around the links was usually business-related, as well. In other words, he didn’t have a whole lot of time for his family.

Didn’t matter. I loved him a lot.

I finished the sketch, signed it, and handed it to my father.

He stared at the portrait, looked up at me, and then at the sketch again. “This is excellent, Brent. I didn’t know you were this talented.”

“I need art supplies, Dad,” I said. He nodded as he continued to gaze at the drawing. “Art stuff is expensive,” I added.

That caught his attention. “How expensive?”

I pulled a folded piece of paper out of my back pocket, unfolded the document, and handed it to him. “That’s a spreadsheet listing the supplies I need and their cost.”

“Holy crap!” he breathed when his eyes dropped to the total.

“Plus, I need a place to work,” I added.

His eyes zeroed in on mine. “You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack.”

He shook his head, glanced at the portrait and the spreadsheet, and said, “What do you mean by ‘a place to work?’”

“Oil paints and solvents smell. Also, I’ll be painting some large canvases, five feet by seven feet, some larger. My room won’t be adequate.”

He shook his head again. “Elaborate.”

“A studio, preferably with northern light through clerestory glass. A small, air-conditioned warehouse space would do it. Without telling her much, I queried Mom about rents for the type of facility I’ll need, and she says it would cost about eight hundred a month, maybe a little more. That’ll come later. Right now, our third garage would work if we put up a partition to make a room out of it, stuck a window air-conditioner through an outside wall, improved the lighting a little, and installed an exhaust vent.” I handed him another spreadsheet. “I estimated the garage-to-studio conversion cost.”

He gulped when he noted that total. “I’ll have to think about this.”

Which meant he’d discuss it with my mother. I smiled and tried not to look as excited as I felt inside. If he’d said no, that would’ve been the end of it. Mom would support me and would pressure Dad to do the same. To make sure I was as serious about art as I claimed, he wouldn’t cough up the total amount, which would be fine with me. Staging the purchases would work. I’d start with acrylics.

---

Jane Wilson was renowned for her landscape paintings. Her artistic talent and her memories were mine. I could paint landscapes without any training. What’s more, I knew the direction she wanted to take her talent when an accident took her life. She’d planned to switch from the macro to the micro with her work, and that’s where I started. The blank canvas on the easel in front of me was five by seven feet.

Daunting? Not at all. I knew the results I wanted. I could see the finished canvas in my mind. The micro-landscape was a hole in a red rock partially filled with rainwater. Sunlight and flickering shadows affected the composition and colors. The finished canvas would have the look of a non-objective painting. The colors would shimmer, fade, and change, iridescent in places, and hard-edged in other areas of the canvas. The palette was extensive, reflecting the crystalline microcosm of nature.

I worked all day, ignoring the call to dinner, painting into the night until my muscles cramped. The house was dark when I ventured inside. I needed a drink of water, and I was hungry. I grabbed another bottle of water from the pantry and a jar of mixed nuts, and returned to my makeshift studio.

The short break relaxed the cramped muscles, and the water and nuts, along with a trip to the john, mollified my bodily needs. I started to paint again, finishing the canvas just before dawn. I removed it from the easel, turned it face in against a wall, cleaned up my mess, and walked to the patio to watch the sun come up. The sunrise was magnificent, and my eyes settled on a tiny portion of the glorious daily event at the horizon. I studied that micro-landscape, that tiny bit of nature that would become my next painting, and marveled at the beauty around me.

I stripped and dove into the swimming pool and swam twenty laps. As I pulled myself up and out of the water, Mom stepped from the house.

“Morning, Mom,” I said.

“You’re naked!”

“Sorry about that.”

She watched me as I walked toward her and continued to look at me as I moved by her to go into the house.

She laughed. “Nice patooty, Brent.”

Looking over my shoulder, I grinned. “Thanks.”

“Considering the shrinkage factor after swimming, that swinging dick isn’t bad either.”

I laughed. “Like Grace’s breasts, my swinging dick hasn’t reached its peak. So to speak.”

That cracked her up. “Dry off before you go inside.” She tossed me a towel and returned inside, which pleased me. I would’ve been embarrassed if she’d watched me wipe the pool water from my naked body.

---

When I realized I was a female in my previous life, I worried about the sexual preference I’d assume when puberty finished doing its thing to my body and mind. Jane was bisexual with a preference for men. Imagine my relief when I determined I was 100% heterosexual. Sexy women turned me on. Pretty boys and handsome men did nothing for my libido.

Whew! Dodged that bullet.

Another bullet plagued me, though. From the extensive sexual experience I gleaned during my previous life - Jane was a tad promiscuous - I knew a lot about sex, much more than my teenaged friends, be they girls or boys. Nothing wrong with that, you say. Hah! With their silliness and inexperience, girls my age didn’t excite me, not like a more mature woman. By a mature woman I mean one in her late teens or early twenties, college-age girls, if you will. Like me, they knew the score. Are you starting to understand my problem? Yep, women that age took one look at me and saw a boy, not a man. Plus, I was too young to get a driver’s license, so my mobility was limited. Argh.

I wasn’t above using my experience to seduce fifteen- and sixteen-year-old girls, but the one time I succeeded turned into a disaster. The silly girl fell in love with me, mostly my tongue, I think. She sure did enjoy being eaten, but reciprocity wasn’t in her nature. She believed going down on me was, if not immoral, at least distasteful. The one time she tried, she gagged a lot and refused to even consider swallowing my semen. Like I said: silly.

I dodged that bullet when her father was transferred to Washington, D.C., and she moved a few thousand miles away from me. I made a personal promise to take cover from those kinds of bullets in the future by avoiding any sexual shenanigans with silly, inexperienced youngsters my age.

To that end, I started a quest for a young woman who wouldn’t look at me as the boy I was on the outside and would appreciate the sexually experienced young man on the inside, and I’d begun to believe my quest was futile.

Summertime in Metro Phoenix can boil your brains. Temperatures soar to one hundred ten degrees and above during the day and rarely drop below the nineties at night. A sane person avoided the heat, moving quickly from one air-conditioned space to the next. Also, Phoenix is spread out from hell to breakfast, which made it necessary for someone to drive me wherever I wanted to go. With my parents both working Monday through Friday during the workweek, this task usually fell to my sister. In other words, I’d need Grace’s support if I wanted to get laid.

Grace was driving when I said, “What do you think of that girl who waits on me at the art supply store?”

“Terry?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s pleasant, always helpful. Attractive. I like her.”

“I agree. I’d like to get to know her better.”

“Jeez, Brent, she’s ... ah, in her early twenties, I’d guess. Isn’t she a little old for you?”

I grinned. “Uh-uh, just right. I like older women.”

She laughed. “Okay, but do they like you?”

“Terry seems interested. We’ll be at the store around closing. How about I ask her to ride back to the house with us? If she agrees, you’ll need to drive her to her house later.”

“Why would she want to...?”

“She likes art and artists. I’ll show her my paintings.” I’d also recognized a streak of submissiveness in Terry Crisp’s personality. I figured I could use her submissiveness to my advantage.

“Paintings? Plural as opposed to singular?” Grace asked.

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“Six. Four more, and I’ll be asking you to chauffeur me to the art galleries in Scottsdale to set up my first one-man show.”

“I think you’ve been smoking too much happy hemp, Brent.”

---

Hooray! I was almost as surprised as Grace when Terry accepted my invitation to see my paintings.

My plan was altered, though, when Terry said, “No need for the ride. I have my own car. How about I drop by your house around seven? I’d like to change clothes and freshen up first.”

I agreed and gave her my address.

The second Grace and I walked into the house, she said, “Show me your paintings.” An order, not a request.

That morning, hopeful that Terry would want to see my work, I’d hung the paintings in my studio and arranged the track lighting to showcase each of them to advantage.

“All right,” I said, and Grace followed me to the studio. I flipped on the lights and motioned her to step into the converted garage ahead of me.

I’ve gotta admit I expected a different reaction than the one Grace gave me. Without saying a word or telegraphing what she felt about my paintings, she moved from one to the other, studying each before moving to the next. When she finished, she turned and left the studio.

I followed her. “Grace...”

She spun toward me, her expression a combination of anger and sadness. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I hate you!” she exclaimed, spun again, and ran.

I followed her. “Grace...”

She turned and rushed to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face in my chest. “I don’t hate you, Brent. I hate myself,” she stuttered between huge gulping sobs.

Talk about confusing! Even armed with fifty-five years’ experience as a female, I couldn’t fathom what was going through my sister’s mind, let alone understand why she’d reacted as she had. I held her while she cried.

When she finally gained a semblance of control, I said, “I hate it when you’re unhappy. Make me understand, Grace.”

“You ... you’re so talented ... so smart. You’re going to be famous. An artist. I’m ... I’m normal. Average. I hate it!”

This wasn’t melodrama. This was serious.

“Wrong!” I huffed. “Average you’re not.” I walked her to the hall bath and wet a washcloth. “You’re talented, too, and smarter than I am,” I said as I washed her pretty face.

“Hah! I wish. I sing off-key. I took ballet lessons for years and still stumble over my big feet. Name one talent I have. I dare you!”

“That’s easy. You’re a voracious reader and have a way with words. You could become a best-selling author if you worked at it. You’re gorgeous and tall with a runway model’s body. Your face and form could grace fashion magazines. I’ve watched you with your friends. You’re a leader, and your organizational skills are phenomenal. As I said, you’re not average.”

“A writer? Do you really think I could become a writer?”

“Sure, but you must work at it. You must write every day. Have you noticed that I work at my art every day?”

She nodded.

“It was difficult at first.” I was referring to Jane’s initial attempts with her art, not mine in this life. “I failed and failed, but kept trying, kept trying to improve, kept learning about paint and brushes and palette knives, all the tools I use to create my art. Do the same. Study plots and storylines, characterization, dialogue, narrative, all the tools a writer must use, and write every day. Before you know it, you’ll be a writer.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. It’s painful and discouraging and frustrating, but I didn’t give up. Be persistent and single-minded, and you’ll succeed.”

“Will you help me?”

“Sure. I’ll read and criticize, but you should look for more competent help than I can give you. Talk to Mom and Dad. They’ll scare up a tutor for you, but work at it for a while on your own. Let them know you’re serious, and they’ll support you enthusiastically.”

She squared her shoulders and gave me a soft kiss on the lips. “I will. Thanks, Brent.”

---

Terry Crisp arrived fifteen minutes late. I’d started to wonder if I’d been stood up. She arrived wearing a tight pair of low-rider blue jeans and a yellow blouse. No bra, I noticed, and her bellybutton looked adorable. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she wore little makeup. Terry wasn’t a hard body. She was soft and feminine, very curvy, and about average in height, two or three inches shorter than I. I suspected her breasts were her best feature, but as I’d told my mother and sister, to judge I’d need to see them bare: my highest priority short-term goal.

When I opened the door to her knock, I smiled and said, “You look freshened up.”

She laughed - pleasant sounds. Some female laughs grated my ears. Terry’s laugh resonated like a bubbling brook.

“I went for comfort,” she said.

“Comfort is good. Iced tea? Soft drink? Beer?”

“Iced tea, no sugar, a squeeze of lemon, if you’ve got it.”

I fixed her drink and one for myself. I handed her the frosty glass and said, “Except for my sister, you’ll be the first to see my paintings. My dad converted a single garage for me to use as a studio. Let me show you the paintings, and then we can talk.”

“All right.”

She followed me until I opened the door to the studio. I motioned her in ahead of me as I flipped on the lights. “I paint landscapes - micro-landscapes,” I said.

“Oh my!” she gushed when she took in the six paintings covering two of the walls in my studio. She turned to me with a wide smile. “Now I know why you buy so many art supplies. Those are large paintings.”

I raised one eyebrow. Large wasn’t the critique I’d wished for. The window air-conditioner clanked and roared. Funny, I hadn’t noticed how noisy it was before. She stood in front of my first painting.

“That’s a hole in a red rock half-filled with rainwater,” I said.

“Oh. Oh! I see it now. I thought the painting was non-objective.”

“Uh-uh. I told you I paint micro-landscapes.”

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

She moved from painting to painting, and I described my vision for each until she stood in front of my last effort. “Tell me,” I said. “What tiny bit of nature have I rendered in this painting?”

She frowned with concentration. “I’m not sure.” She pointed. “That looks like it might be part of a flower.”

“That’s correct.” I waited.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s my favorite, though. It shimmers; almost takes flight. It makes my eyes dart, moving from one part of the painting to another.”

“Very good. The shimmering is the furious fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.” I stood close behind her. Her soft blonde hair smelled of apples.

“Yes! I see the hummingbird now, dipping its beak into the trumpet-like flower, its fast wings holding it steady and aloft, sucking the nectar from the ... it’s the flower of an orange jubilee, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Brent, the composition, the color! This is a great painting!”

She turned to me. I was close enough that her breasts brushed my chest. She looked up at me, her pale blue eyes full of wonder. I couldn’t resist the temptation and brushed my lips to hers, a kiss as soft as a landing butterfly. I pulled back and gazed into her eyes again. My hands hadn’t moved around her. They remained dangling at my side. She groaned and her arms moved around my neck. The kiss she gave me wasn’t soft. It was passionate and intense, and she rubbed her denim-clad mound over my erection as her fingers raked my hair.

With a gasp, she spun away from me. She faced the painting I called Sunrise, but I doubted she could see it. Her breathing was ragged. I moved close behind her and brushed her hair from her neck before I kissed it. My hands went around her small waist, one moving up to a breast while the other wandered down until it cupped her cunt. I could feel heat emanating through the denim, could feel her nipple harden under my fingers. My erection pressed against her ass.

“I want you,” I whispered in her ear. “I want to taste you, roll my tongue back and forth between your lips, separating them so I can reach your clitoris. I want you to come on my mouth, and then I want to stab you, push my length inside you, feel your silky thighs at my hips, your hips moving, meeting my thrusts.” I flipped the button loose at the top of her jeans. “I want to watch your passion build, hear your sighs and gasps and moans.” My fingers moved under her panties. Her pubic hair felt soft, not kinky, and she was wet with arousal. “We can’t do this, not now, not here, but soon.” I pushed a finger inside her, and my thumb brushed her clitoris. She gasped. “I can make you come now, though. Would you like that?”

She groaned, and her hips waved. My finger sawed in and out of her cunt, and my thumb wriggled over her hard clit.

“Answer me. Would you like to come?”

“Yes!”

I pushed her jeans down a little, giving me more room, and used both hands on her cunt while I kissed and nibbled on her neck. One hand finger-fucked her while the other fondled and massaged her clit.

“After you come, we’ll freshen up, and you can take me for a drive. That’s when I’ll eat you, and after I eat you, I’ll fuck you.”

“Yes!”

“Come for me, Terry. Come all over my fingers.”

Her body stiffened. I knew she would scream, so I forced my mouth onto hers. She screamed into my mouth, which muffled the sounds, and her hips ratcheted very fast, pushing my fingers inside her and pulling them out when she moved back. I wasn’t finger-fucking her. She was fucking my fingers.

And then she collapsed. I caught her, turned her to me, and kissed her, a soft kiss, romantic, not passionate. “Beautiful,” I breathed.

---

She drove me to her apartment, which she shared with another woman, she told me, but her roommate was out for the evening.

“I’m making me a drink,” she said. “A scotch and soda. What would you like?”

I grinned. “Gotta root beer?”

She laughed. “Gawd, you’re refreshing. Sorry, no root beer.”

“I’m fine. Which bedroom is yours?”

“The one at the end of the hall.”

“That’s where I’ll be. Bring your drink with you.”

I was naked on her bed when she stepped through the door. My hard-on stood straight and tall.

“Nice cock,” she muttered and sipped some scotch, her eyes never leaving my erection.

“Take off your clothes and join me,” I said and watched as she removed each garment until she stood before me completely naked. “Pirouette, please.” She made a graceful turn. “Your breasts are magnificent, your best feature. Are they sensitive?”

She sipped her drink. “Very.”

“Come here. I’ll test your veracity.”

She set the drink on the nightstand and reclined next to me. I kissed her and moved my mouth to her breasts. Ten minutes later, I said, “You weren’t lying.” Her nipples were as hard as glass, and she was very aroused.

By then her breathing was ragged again, so I rolled between her legs and slid down on the bed. Her cunt was open. I wouldn’t need to pry her outer lips apart to get at her clitoris, and it was ready for direct contact. The little nubbin shined in the subdued light, its hood fully retracted.

I adore the taste and smell of an aroused cunt.

She climaxed twice before she pushed my head away and pulled me up over her. “Fuck me now. Stab me like you said. And don’t wait for me. Fuck me and come.”

Orders and directions I could easily follow.

Her cunt was exquisite, very lively. The interior membranes milked my shaft timed to each of my thrusts. Her thighs wrapping my hips were as silky as I thought they’d be. I climaxed quickly, roaring loudly with pleasure as my body stiffened with rapturous sensations. When I collapsed and tried to roll my weight off her, she held me tightly. “I’m fine. You’re not that heavy. I like it like this.”

We held each other while I recovered. When my breathing and heart rate returned to normal, she asked, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen for this life, but I remember parts of my previous life. I’m seventy if you count both lives.”

She laughed. “I doubt the child-molester police would accept that reasoning.”

“Narrow thinking. That’s the problem with our culture.” I rolled to her side. She sat up and retrieved her drink. I said, “Keep some root beer in your refrigerator for my visits. I like it in frosted glass mugs.”

“All right.”

---

I sat content and watched the sunrise, studied the golden light bringing life to the trees and plants. The leaves of a rosewood tree sparkled like a million green butterflies. The plumes of purple fountain grass waved like oiled metronomes. A dove cooed and took flight.

The light in Arizona was different than the light in Louisiana. The air there was heavier, gloomier, the colors not as vivid. Older light.

I preferred the new light of the high desert.

Carrying a cup of coffee, my mother walked out of the house and joined me at the patio table. She hadn’t dressed for the day. A silky robe wrapped her and shimmered in the new light. Gold glimmered in her dark hair.

“Another all-nighter?” she asked. She looked fresh and clean but worried.

“Yes.”

“The way you work, Brent, it isn’t healthy. You’ve been painting for three days with hardly a break.”

I smiled. “I finished the painting, though. Wanna see it?” After showing my work to Grace, I’d kept the door to my studio locked. Unless my mom had snooped before I started locking the door, she hadn’t seen any of my paintings.

She nodded and blew air over the rim of her coffee mug before sipping. “In a minute. Tell me about Terry first.”

“What would you like to know about her?”

“You’re spending a lot of time with her. What is your relationship?”

“She’s a friend.”

“Are you having sex with her?”

I said nothing.

Mom slumped in the chair. “Thought so.”

I fixed my eyes on hers. “Terry’s not a threat, Mom.”

“You’re growing up too fast.”

“Physically I’m right where I should be. I will admit I’m ahead of my peers in the way I think, but Terry hasn’t affected my mental maturity one way or the other.”

“I disagree. You...”

“Mom, before the end of the year, a gallery in Scottsdale will present my first one-man show. At a minimum, my paintings from that one show will gross fifty thousand dollars. My share will be half that amount. I can do three or four shows a year, and with each successful show, my prices will increase. Before I graduate from high school, I’ll be earning in the range of a quarter of a million dollars per year.” Her incredulous expression made me laugh. “You don’t believe me, I see. Come with me. I’ll show you my work, and you can judge for yourself.” I stood and held out my hand.

“I’m not an art critic, Brent,” she said, but she rose from the chair and took my hand.

“I know, but you know what you like, and you’ve been to openings at some of the galleries in Scottsdale, so you can make a layman’s comparison.”

As we walked toward my studio, I explained my painting style, what I tried to achieve. Only one painting hung on the walls - my latest. It was my largest painting: nine feet by seven feet.

When my mother stood in front of the painting, I watched her expression. A look of wonder and awe filled her eyes. Her jaw gaped, but she slammed it shut and twisted her head to look at me. But the painting drew her eyes again, captured her attention, holding her in its grip.

“At some point the microcosm apes the cosmos,” I said. “Molecules swirl with atoms. Electrons circumnavigate protons. The universe rotates and expands. I started this painting to represent the shimmering leaves of our rosewood tree as they captured the morning light. It turned into a million green butterflies, and then finally evolved into an even smaller landscape, a microcosm that became a universe. I named this painting Controlled Chaos.”

She turned to me and reached with one hand to touch my face.

“I believe you,” she said, her voice soft and loving. Tears welled in her eyes, and she hugged me fiercely.

Chapter 2

While still in the grip of an orgasm, Terry knelt in front of me in my studio, gulping my ejaculating semen with relish. I had my first glimpse of the life I lived before Jane Wilson. Once again, it was a terrifying event. I died, and it wasn’t a normal death. I felt the pain of a bullet rip through my chest and heart, exploding out my back in a cone of pink mist.

Terry thought I’d collapsed with pleasure. I didn’t correct her mistaken assumption.

During that life, I’d been a male, but after assimilating Josh Randall’s memories, I worried his life experiences would be even less applicable to my current incarnation than Jane Wilson’s.

Thankfully, capturing his memories took only a few weeks, not the eighteen months required to relive my life as Jane Wilson.

Randall was born at the turn of the century and lived thirty-one years, dying nine months before Jane Wilson’s birth, leading me to believe that, at the moment of his death, his life force escaped his no longer compatible body and entered the fertilized zygote that would become Jane Wilson. Using logic, Jane’s life force - her consciousness? - probably became me during my incubation in my mother’s womb.

Randall was a miner, and for much of his adult life, he worked for a company that mined, milled, and smelted copper in Echo, Nevada. At the end of his life, he was an industrial blacksmith, operating a huge steam hammer to bend and mold various metals into tools and equipment used by the mill and smelter. He was murdered by a group of strikebreakers the company imported to force the union to its knees. I don’t know who prevailed, the company or the union. I know for sure that Josh Randall lost.

Unlike Jane Wilson, Randall’s passion wasn’t his work. His wife and two daughters gave his hard life meaning, and they returned his love with full measure. He was a large man with huge hands, very strong, and unfortunately his short-fused temper occasionally insured his participation in barroom brawls. He killed one man with his bare hands, but he wasn’t prosecuted for the assault. The other man drew a gun and wounded him before Randall ended the fight by breaking his opponent’s neck with one blow from his meaty fist. The authorities decreed that Josh had killed his assailant in self-defense.

Randall lived in different times, with no telephones, no television, no computer, not much in the way of mechanized transportation, and he didn’t like horses and hated mules. He liked dogs and put up with cats because his daughters adored them. He crapped in an outhouse in the back of his small clapboard home and wiped his ass with pages ripped from a Montgomery Ward catalog. His wife cooked with wood and coal. The same stove heated the house. The winters were harsh and long, and finally I realized why I hated cold weather so much. No centralized heating and no air-conditioning at all. His laundry was hung on clotheslines; water for bathing was heated on the cooking stove, and others in his family reused the hot water until it became tepid and dark with grime and dirt.

I turned sixteen the day I experienced Josh Randall’s earliest memory, completing his history in reverse order, and thanked fate that I was living in better times. I started my sophomore year in high school the day after my birthday.

---

“Grace to Brent, come in please,” Grace said.

“Sorry,” I grumbled. I’d been reviewing my life as Josh Randall trying to figure a way to use his life experiences to enhance my life as Brent Carson.

“Doing a little woolgathering, huh?” Grace said.

“Yeah. I was just thinking that we have a lot of reasons to be thankful. Life is a lot easier now than it was in the early 1900s.”

She laughed. “Instead of Brent, I should call you Bent. You have the weirdest thoughts, little brother.”

“How’s your writing coming along?”

“Okay.” She twisted her pretty face into a grimace. “That’s a lie. Writing is hard, really frustrating. Sometimes I just want to give up.”

“I read a novel last week, one I checked out of the library. Terry recommended the author to me. James Lee Burke. Have you read any of his novels?”

“No.”

“Check him out. His dialogue is crisp, his narrative lively, and his characters come alive on the page. Spend a few weeks copying his writing style, assimilate what works into your own style, and you’ll be a better writer because of it.”

“Is that what you do with your art?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“I look at the beauty in the world around me, let my mind wander from the large to the small, turning what I see into composition, color, form, and texture, and then try to capture my mind’s eye vision on canvas.” I chuckled. “It’s hard, really frustrating. Sometimes I just want to give up.”

“Touché,” she said and laughed as she pulled the car to the curb.

Grace was driving us to school, a rare event with only two vehicles in our family. She stopped at the curb to pick up her friend, Kate. I slipped out of the car and held the door for the girl, greeted her, and grinned when she flashed a lot of leg as she clamored into the vehicle. I moved into the back seat.

Kate was a pretty girl, slim, almost too thin. She had a long, classically beautiful face, and she wore her auburn hair softly curled at a medium length. Like Grace, this would be Kate’s last year in high school. The two girls were close friends.

“Guess who called me last night?” Kate said to Grace.

Grace giggled, moving into girl-talk mode. “I don’t know. Who?”

“Hank Sharp. Ooh, he’s a hunk. He asked me...”

I tuned them out and returned to my silent investigation of Josh Randall’s life. Surely I could use some of his life experiences to my advantage, some of his talents, some of the knowledge he’d accumulated during his short life.

I made a small mental list.

He was an exceptional bare-knuckle street fighter. That might hold me in good stead if one of the school bullies assaulted me. I grinned with that thought.

He had a green thumb. Instead of being a miner, he should have pursued farming as a career. Everything he planted grew like a weed, and like most skills, his gardening was based on knowledge he’d picked up along the way. Mom had an uncultivated garden patch at the rear of our property. Some organic vegetables would taste good this winter, and Phoenix had a fall growing season as well as one in the spring. Nothing but cacti and native desert plants thrived in the Arizona summers, though.

Randall could chop wood. I needed more and different kinds of exercise, and we had a wood-burning fireplace in the family room, as well as a fire pit in the backyard. Maybe I could talk Billy into borrowing his father’s pickup truck, and we’d take a day trip to the mountains and bring in a few cords of wood, which I’d later reduce to the proper size for the fireplace and fire pit to burn during the winter months.

Randall also enjoyed hunting and fishing, sports I hadn’t tried, but he didn’t hunt or fish for sport. He killed animals and jerked fish out of streams to feed his family better than his meager wages would otherwise allow. I’d let his hunting skills rest with him in his grave, but decided to try my hand at fishing. In her youth, Jane did some fishing in the Louisiana bayous, once again for food, not sport. Mom loved fish; Dad preferred beef but would eat fish, mostly shellfish, though. Still, I’d get a kick out of putting some fresh fish on our dinner table. Fishing required fishing poles, reels, lures ... a boat. I’d done some boating on Lake Pleasant, some water skiing. A boat would be good.

Like a car of my own.

I needed money.

I focused my attention on Grace and Kate. Their conversation hadn’t changed much since I tuned them out. Their topic: boys.

With an inward chuckle, I said, “Grace, after school will you drive me to some art galleries in Scottsdale?”

“I can’t. I have ... how about tomorrow?”

“I’ll call Terry. Maybe...”

“No! I’ll do it. I want to do it, Brent. It’s just that...”

“Tomorrow will be fine, Grace.”

---

That afternoon, Terry and I were fucking on her couch. With Grace busy, Terry begged off the last hour of her shift at the art store and picked me up at school. We’d driven directly to her apartment for some afternoon loving.

Just before we were ready to climax, the door opened and Terry’s roommate, Nora, walked into the room. Terry was riding me, and she didn’t miss a stroke.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she said. “Coming...”

I watched Terry’s eyes. They were fixed on her roommate, I assumed. I couldn’t see Nora. She was behind me.

“Coming...” Terry repeated and her eyes rolled back in her head when her body shuddered in orgasm.

Her fluttering cunt took me over the edge. I spurted my viscous offering when exquisite sensations briefly removed me from the here and now. I bellowed with pleasure, reared back and thrust forward while jerking her spastic cunt down around my shaft with my hands on her hips as another jet of semen squirted. I ejaculated two more times before I collapsed, but Terry was still moving on me, so I marshaled my sapped strength and stayed with her until she experienced her last pulse of pleasure with a heartfelt sigh.

A few seconds later, Terry kissed me and said, “Nora’s home.”

“I noticed.”

Terry looked over the end of the sofa. “She’s also playing with her pussy.”

I chuckled. “That’s something I’d like to see.”

“That can be arranged,” Nora said as she walked around the end of the sofa and came into my view. She hadn’t removed any clothing. She’d merely raised her skirt and pushed her hand under her panties. Her busy fingers didn’t falter as she walked.

“Nora has a difficult time coming with a man,” Terry said. “I think you should eat her, and then fuck her.”

From Terry’s comment, I figured that Nora’s unscheduled arrival had not been the accident I’d initially presumed.

Nora was a pretty girl, petite, barely five feet, not more than a hundred pounds, with a cute figure. Dark hair and eyes, a button nose. I guessed her age at twenty-five. Later, I discovered I’d guessed wrong. She was twenty, a year younger than Terry.

“Would you like that, Nora?” I asked. “Would you like me to eat you, and then fuck you?”

She nodded, her fingers still busy under her black, lacy panties.

“Let’s take this to my bed,” Terry said and lifted herself off my still-hard cock. It glistened with her fluids and mine.

Nora fixed her eyes on the shiny shaft. She licked her lips.

“Would you like to clean it with your mouth, Nora?” I asked.

She nodded again, looked up from my cock to my eyes, and then shifted her lusty gaze to Terry. I saw Terry nod, and Nora dropped to her knees and took my cock in her hand. Her tongue lapped around the crown as if it were a Popsicle.

“Can you taste Terry’s juices as well as mine?” I asked.

She groaned and nodded, sucking half my length into her small mouth.

That answered the silent question in my mind. Terry and Nora were bisexual lovers.

Nora pulled her mouth off my cock, and her tongue licked up all the juices on the shaft. “Do you like the way I taste?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Terry will taste the same way. I want you to eat her while I fuck you.”

Nora smiled. “I’d like that.”

I didn’t notice that Nora had any problems climaxing with a man. Of course, I made sure she had an orgasm. As I fucked her from behind while she was lapping up a come cocktail - stirred, not shaken - from Terry’s cunt, I used my fingers to fondle her clitoris.

The three of us climaxed simultaneously.

A half-hour later, we explored some other sexy combinations and permutations available for three participants.

Fun.

As Jane, I’d had sex with two men one time, and with another woman and a man quite a few times. Looking back, I think sex with Terry and Nora was the best threesome I’d experienced in both lives. Three lives, if I counted Randall’s, but I couldn’t count that life. Randall wasn’t lucky enough to climb into a bed with two sexy women. Not that he considered himself unlucky. He loved his wife passionately.

I also looked forward to some alone times with Nora. She was a lively, happy tart, and with her petite size, I hit bottom, an event that rarely happened with Terry.

---

The first gallery owner I spoke with looked at me like I had two heads and told me to go away without looking at my portfolio. I didn’t have much more luck at the second gallery, but the manager was at least polite and took ten seconds to flip through the photographs of my paintings before sending me on my way.

I’d taken the photos in my portfolio with a digital camera. They weren’t very professional. The lighting was wrong, producing glare in places, eroding the quality of the paintings I was trying to present with the photographs.

The third gallery owner studied the photographs. I apologized for their quality, telling him he needed to see the actual paintings to appreciate them.

He shook his head and said, “They don’t fit this gallery. Did you see any large paintings displayed as you walked back to my office?”

“No.” I reached for my portfolio. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I should have been more observant.”

“Whoa!” he said. “I have another gallery opening in early December located at the south end of downtown Phoenix. It’s an old warehouse and tortilla factory I’m renovating to change its use. The gallery spaces are voluminous. Your work might fit that gallery. Of course, I’ll need to see the actual paintings before I can make any commitments, and if I’m interested, I stress that I’ll want to deal with your parents for any contractual relationship, not you. How old are you, young man?”

“Sixteen.” Going on a hundred and two, I thought.

“That’s what I thought. When may I see the paintings?”

“Tonight, tomorrow, whenever. I get out of school at four o’clock. Will you want one of my parents present?”

He smiled. “That would be best. Let’s do it tomorrow about five-thirty.”

I agreed and gave him my address.

That evening, my father promised to leave his office early the next day, and Mom wanted to meet Gary Frazier, the gallery owner, and said that she’d make arrangements to be there, too. What’s more, Mom had some ideas on how my paintings should be presented.

“That studio doesn’t do your paintings justice, Brent,” she said. “Its size forces an observer to stand too close to the paintings. I’ll clear that wall...” She pointed. “... and we’ll hang the large painting there. We’ll hang another over the fireplace mantel, and two more on that wall.” She pointed again.

“Hang one in the entry,” Grace said. My sister had gotten into the spirit of the event on the drive back to our house from the gallery. “For impact,” she added, “we should hang all the paintings in the entry and the family room. Grouping them makes a larger statement.”

Later, I corralled Dad for a private conversation.

“Do you know how galleries and artists work together?” I asked.

“Not really, but I’d guess that a gallery shows an artist’s paintings and takes a cut from any resulting sales.”

“That’s essentially correct, but the details count. For example, the percentage of gross sales a gallery takes varies. This will be my first show, so...”

“If Frazier agrees to show your paintings,” Dad said, interrupting me.

I smiled. My dad had doubts. I wasn’t concerned. He’d come around. I said, “Frazier will hem and haw and appear reluctant, but in the end, he’ll do it.”

Dad huffed a laugh. “A negotiating ploy, huh?”

“Yep.”

“I know about negotiating,” he said.

“I know you do. Here’s what I want. I want fifty percent of gross sales. I want the gallery to pay for the frames. I want the gallery to pay for the professional photography needed for brochures and other marketing material, and the gallery should pay for the brochures. I want a say in how the paintings are framed, and how and where they’re hung for the show. That’s what I want. I won’t get it. This is my first show. He’ll ask for a sixty/forty split, sixty to the gallery. Hang tough on that one. He’ll bend to the fifty/fifty. He’ll want me to pay for the framing. Bend on that one if you must, but be prepared to front the money for the frames. I’ll pay you back out of my cut from the sales. Hang tough on the photography, but if you have to, agree to split that cost, but in that instance, I’ll want ten color prints of each photograph for my future use. In the end, I’ll back away from interfering with where and how the paintings are hung. I gave you those ‘wants’ to use in the negotiations.”

“Got it,” he said, warming to the subject.

“Now let’s talk about pricing. Pricing is critical. If the paintings are priced too low, they won’t sell. If the paintings are too cheap, buyers will think there are underlying negative reasons for the low price, and they’ll walk away without buying. If the paintings are priced too high, they won’t sell. Buyers are astute. They understand value and won’t shell out their money if the value isn’t there. Ask Mr. Frazier for his opinion regarding a price range. His response will tell us a lot, mostly about the quality of his buyer list. I see nine of the paintings averaging $5,000 each, and the largest should sell for $10,000. Also, if the show doesn’t sell out and only one or two paintings remain unsold, the price on those paintings should increase, not decrease.”

Dad looked a little shocked. “That means you’ll net $27,500.”

“No. Remember, I’ll be paying for the frames and half the cost of the photography. I’ll net around $25,000. Next item: exclusivity. If he asks for it, that’s good, but don’t give it away except for Phoenix. Exclusivity beyond Phoenix is possible but ... let’s do this. If he asks for exclusive rights, I’ll jump into the negotiations.”

“All right. Son, how do you know all this?”

I grinned. “The Internet.” And my life as Jane Wilson.

“Oh,” he said.

---

Gary Frazier did indeed hem and haw, but he made a low-ball offer. Dad, bless his greedy nature and negotiating skill, laughed at him, and in the end, did better than I expected. The split leveled off at fifty/fifty. I paid for the frames and any prints of the professional photographs of my work I wanted for my portfolio. I promised to keep my nose out of where and how my paintings were hung. We accepted Frazier’s pricing without negotiating. The nine paintings would average $6,000 each, and Frazier planned to put a $12,000 price tag on the largest painting. He knew his buyer list better than I.

Then we hit our first snag.

“The opening is scheduled for December 10^th,” Frazier said. “That’s a Friday. I’ll be showing the work of two other artists in the same show.”

My heart sank. I’d counted on a one-man show. “I don’t like that,” I said. “I might wait and work with a gallery who will present a one-man show for me.”

Frazier laughed. “If you could see my new gallery, you’d know that’s not possible. I’ll have 10,000 square feet of gallery space alone, not counting office, storage, and space for other backroom activities. I’d need twenty-five to thirty paintings from you to do a one-man show.”

“Is this a deal-breaker, Brent?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know. I do know that before I decide, I’ll want to take a gander at your new gallery, Mr. Frazier. Regardless, although we backed off having a say about where my paintings will be hung for the show, I want those rights restored.”

Frazier didn’t look happy. Had he planned to hang the other artists’ paintings to my detriment? Or was he still negotiating?

“May I see representative paintings of the other two artists?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve shown both artists before.”

“In your present gallery?”

“Yes.”

“So, size-wise, the other two artists will be showing small paintings?”

“Compared to yours, yes.”

I grinned and looked at my father. “No problem, Dad. Let’s proceed.”

Frazier laughed. “You figured it out, didn’t you?”

“Yep,” I said.

“What?” Dad said.

“Tell him,” Frazier said.

“My paintings will be showcased. Mr. Frazier needs me as much as I need him. A ‘voluminous’ gallery, to use Mr. Frazier’s description of his new facility, needs large pieces of art filling the space. My paintings will lend the drama such a gallery demands. Hundreds of small oil or watercolor paintings would work, depending on his buyer list, but the opening will be more successful if he showcases my work. We don’t need to worry that my paintings will be stuck in an out-of-the-way corner.” I turned to Frazier. “Do you have anything to add?”

He smiled. “You said it all, and said it well. One item remains open and needs to be discussed. I want exclusive rights for future shows displaying your work.”

“No problem,” I said. “You can have it for the Phoenix area.”

He frowned. “That’s not my definition of exclusive rights, young man.”

“Name the other galleries in your network,” I said.

“That isn’t my definition, either.”

I looked at my father. “This is a deal-breaker, Dad. Mr. Frazier wants to ride my coattails for every show I’ll ever have anywhere in the world.”

“That’s crazy!” Dad huffed.

I looked back at Frazier. “Name the galleries currently in your network. Name them now, Mr. Frazier, or we walk.”

He said nothing.

I said nothing. Dad understood what was happening. Did my mother? The first person to speak lost.

Frazier lost. He named five galleries. They were located in San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Denver, and Santa Fe.

“Will you work with me to set up one-man shows in those galleries over the next two years?” I said.

“Yes,” Frazier replied.

“I won’t accept less than a fifty/fifty split, and the contract must contain a performance clause. I won’t be shackled in those cities with galleries that don’t perform,” I said.

“I understand.”

“All right. I’ll give you exclusive rights for the Phoenix area and the five cities you named. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes. I’ll prepare the contract and message it to your father by the end of the week.”

Thanks for the memories, Jane, I thought as I looked to the heavens.

---

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Dad and Mom had left their bedroom door slightly ajar, and as I approached their room, I heard their voices. They were talking about me.

“Brent confounds me, Paul,” Mom said. “He’s sixteen years old and has the maturity of a professional man in his mid-thirties.”

Dad chuckled. “It looks like a career or money won’t be a worry, either. In a year or two, he’ll be netting as much or more from his art than I make at my job. What amazed me was how easily he handled Frazier. The night before last, he told me exactly how the negotiations would proceed. It’s as if he wrote the script for a one-act play and each of us present played a part. Amazing!”

“Amazing, yes, but also frightening,” Mom said. “I’ve known smart boys, geeks with IQs in the stratosphere. You have, too, but although Brent’s IQ is above average, it isn’t that high, and he’s certainly not a geek. He has a twenty-one-year-old girlfriend for crissake, and she’s no wallflower, either. She’s what you call a babe. He’s fucking her, too.”

Jeez, Mom, watch your language. I grinned.

“Are you certain about that?” Dad said.

“I asked him point-blank if he was having sex with her.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

Dad groaned. “Yeah, he’s fucking her.”

“What should we do about him, if anything?” Mom asked.

“Besides this older girlfriend, is he doing anything that would hurt him or us or his future?”

“Not that I know about. Dammit! He’s a good boy, Paul. He studies and gets good grades, not great grades, but ... ah, hell. I’ll be surprised if he goes to college. Why should he? He’ll be a famous artist by then.”

Wrong, Mom, I thought. I’m going to college. I stifled a snicker. If only to sample the goodies of some college girls.

“From all indications,” Mom said, “he’s not into booze or drugs, and he hasn’t taken up that nasty cigarette habit it took you so long to shake. He treats me with respect, sometimes with tongue in cheek, but you know what I mean. He honors you, too. His big sister thinks he walks on water, and she’s as baffled by his maturity as we are.”

“Then other than his girlfriend, there’s nothing for us to do,” Dad said. “Do you want me to talk to him about the girl? Or better yet, talk to the girl? What she’s doing is against the law.”

Don’t do it, Dad, I thought. If you do, I’ll turn you everywhere but loose.

“As crazy as it sounds, Paul, I don’t think she seduced him. He’s the dominant half of that pair.”

“After watching him handle Frazier last night, that doesn’t surprise me. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Talk to him. If she isn’t pushing him where he shouldn’t be going, let’s leave well enough alone, but we’ll need to monitor the situation carefully. He might be the most mature sixteen-year-old boy on the planet, but he still needs our support and guidance, and most of all our love.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dad said. He chuckled. “He’s fucking her, huh?”

Mom laughed. “Yeah, and Brent fucking that babe has given you ideas, I notice.”

“Hmm, that’s nice, baby. How about taking off that nightgown?”

I slipped silently away. A voyeur I’m not, at least as far as my parents are concerned. Watching Terry and Nora is something else again, though.

---

Billy thought I was crazy when I wanted to bring in a load of wood from the mountains, and I knew no one else with access to a pickup truck, so I gave up that idea. I also gave up on Billy. We no longer had anything in common. Deep down, I knew he felt the same way. No words were spoken, but we stopped hanging out together.

I did plant a fall garden. The white flies ate everything that came up from the ground.

Mom laughed. “Organic, huh? To hell with organic. Try this.”

The insecticide did its job, and it wasn’t long before we had some vegetables from the garden on our table. I put off fishing until I had my own boat, and by using tried-and-true methods to avoid altercations with bullies, I had no occasion to test my Josh Randall-inherited street-fighting ability, which I figured was just as well. I suspected Randall’s success in brawls came more from his massive size than his street-fighting talent. I’d never attain his prodigious bulk. I did grow another inch, taking me to six feet, which pleased me. I had a couple more growth spurts in me, I figured. Maybe I’d reach Dad’s height yet.

I went to school. I painted. I had sex with Terry and Nora. The weeks slipped by. September and October came and went. Nora left to visit her parents in Minnesota for Thanksgiving. She didn’t come back. An old boyfriend asked her to marry him. She said yes. Terry was more upset than I, mostly because she had to find a new roommate for the apartment. She couldn’t afford the rent by herself. I didn’t offer to help her. I couldn’t. I had no money. My having money was just around the corner, though. December 10^th was a week away, and although Terry was submissive sexually, she was no dummy.

She was also halfway in love with me, and the veiled suggestions and hints for me to help her with the rent came one after the other until finally I said, “Terry, find a roommate or a cheaper apartment. I can’t pay half your rent, and not because I won’t have the money. I’m sixteen years old. You’re twenty-one. We get away with what we’re doing because I drop in here three or four times a week, and I never stay overnight, so we don’t attract any attention. That can’t change.”

The tears flowed - hers. I understood. Jane was quick to cry, too.

“You don’t love me,” Terry said between sobs.

“Sure I do, but...”

“Yeah, but! There will always be buts. Right?”

I could’ve lied to her. I didn’t. “Probably. After I finish high school, there’s college, and...”

“College! You’re going to college? Why?”

Jane Wilson’s biggest problem in life had been her lack of education. Agents, gallery owners, investment advisors, and garden-variety conmen took advantage of her fiscal ignorance. Besides sampling the goodies of a few college girls, I wanted a college education so I could manage my money better than Jane did.

“Because an educated person has a better chance for a good life,” I said simply.

She twisted out of my arms, turning her back to me. “You’ve just been using me.”

“We’ve been using each other, Terry. There was never a future for us.” I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me. “Admit it.”

She looked up at me with the saddest expression I’d ever seen, but she nodded. “You’re right, but...” She shuddered and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara. “Okay, I’ll find a new roommate, but hear this, Brent Carson. I’m going to start dating other men, too. I get offers, you know.”

I nodded but remained silent otherwise.

“Won’t it bother you if I go out with other men?”

I said nothing.

“I won’t just date them. I’ll fuck them, too.”

I said nothing.

Sudden anger replaced the sadness in her eyes. She slapped my face.

The Jane in me wanted to respond physically. The male in me didn’t allow me to strike a woman. I turned and left the apartment. I was two blocks away when Terry pulled her car to the curb. The passenger-side window was down.

“Get in, Brent. I’ll drive you home.”

I had a five-mile walk ahead of me. I got in.

A mile down the road, she said, “Are we finished?”

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Just like that?”

“No. I’m devastated, Terry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I have. We had no future as lovers, but I cherished our friendship. For your sake and mine, we need to make a clean break. Right now, not tomorrow or the next day. Because a break is inevitable, we shouldn’t put it off.”

“I’m sorry I slapped you.”

“I know.”

“What about your show?”

“I’ll instruct Frazier to send you two invitations, one for you and one for your guest. I painted some watercolor landscapes to give loved ones for Christmas gifts. I’ll give you yours now.”

She pulled to the curb. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was valiantly trying to control her sobs, swallowing them one after the other. “You drive. I can’t,” she said.

She curled up against the passenger door and cried during the drive to my house. She stayed in the car while I went inside to get her Christmas gift. When I stepped outside to give it to her, she was gone. I prepared the painting for shipping, and Grace drove me to the UPS store.

Later that evening, Terry called me.

“I want to be friends,” she said as a greeting.

“That is my fondest wish,” I said.

“That can’t happen until I’ve found another lover.”

“I believe that’s the only way.”

“I want the watercolor painting. I’ll pick it up...”

“I put it in UPS this afternoon. You should receive it tomorrow or the next day.”

“Oh. Okay. I don’t have a gift for you, not yet, but...”

“Your friendship will be the best gift you can give me, Terry.”

“I want to be your date for the opening. We can go as friends.”

She hadn’t given up, wouldn’t for a while. I knew this would happen. She loved me. She wouldn’t give up without a fight, and a female fought through manipulation. As Jane, I’d perfected manipulation to an art form.

“I asked Grace to be my date for the opening,” I said. “She accepted.”

“Oh.” She sniffed.

“Goodbye, Terry. I’ll see you at the opening.”

She couldn’t control the sob that overwhelmed her. I pushed the end button on my cell phone.

---

Sunrise brought my mother outside to talk with me again. I’d painted all night and finished my laps in the pool. A towel wrapped my waist.

“Good morning, Mom. It’s a beautiful day.”

She grumbled but smiled as she sat at the patio table with me and blew air over the rim of her coffee mug.

“You surprise me,” she said. “I thought I might find a morose young man, but you seem chipper.”

I snickered. “Yes, I asked Grace to be my date for the opening. Yes, I broke up with Terry. I’m not morose but I am upset. Terry wanted more from me than I was willing to give, so I ended our relationship.”

“What did she want that you wouldn’t give?”

I said nothing.

“What about Nora?”

“She’s in Minnesota. She’s engaged.”

“And that doesn’t bother you either?”

“No, I congratulated her and wished her every happiness.”

“Did you learn anything from these relationships?”

“Yep.”

“What?”

I said nothing.

“Will your next girlfriend be closer to your age?” she asked.

“Probably not. Girls my age are ... too young for me right now. That’ll change as I get older. When I’m twenty, a twenty-year-old woman will probably work for me. For what it’s worth, Terry hasn’t given up on me completely, so I anticipate a few more problems. Still, I’m determined to make a clean break now.” I huffed a cynical laugh. “Can you imagine the wailing and gnashing of teeth if she were sixteen?”

Mom hooted with laughter. “Okay, I get the picture. If you scare up another ‘older’ girlfriend before the opening, don’t even consider telling Grace she can’t be your date for the event.”

I frowned. “I wouldn’t do that to Grace, Mom.”

The anger in my voice surprised her. “Sorry,” she said, and from her tone of voice I gathered she meant it.

“Are you aware that Grace wants to be a writer?” I asked.

“No.” She frowned. Mom prided herself on knowing everything about her children. I’d just surprised her, and she didn’t like it.

I said, “My talent as an artist disturbed her, made her feel average. Grace isn’t average. There’s nothing average about my big sister. She’s a reader. She’s well spoken. I suggested that she could be a writer if she worked at it. She’s been writing every day. That’s good. That’s how any art form is perfected, by working at it, but expert instruction can shortcut the learning process. High schools, even colleges, can’t teach anyone how to become a writer, so she’ll soon come to you or Dad for support with her lifetime goal. Find someone who can teach her the tools of a writer, who can critique her work and point her in the right directions. Don’t jump in now. She’ll know when she can’t move forward on her own, and that’s when she’ll come to you. Someday, your children will make you proud, Mom: a best-selling author and a famous artist, pretty good boasting material, I’d say.”

She said nothing. She did shake her head, which I took to mean that I’d confounded her yet again, so I decided to up the ante.

I said, “On another subject, as a professional artist, I must present an individual, distinctive look. It’s a marketing tool, and because of my age, I’ll need every advantage I can think of. I’ve studied men’s fashions on the Internet and various magazines like GQ. I’m tall and slim with a dark complexion, so my face and body are ideal for the look I want to achieve, but I’ll need to have my hair styled. My new clothes will be basically black with splashes of strong color. I’m not talking outlandish, Mom. I’m talking style with a capital S, and style costs money. Will you and Dad front me a couple thousand dollars so I can achieve the look I want for the show and start building my wardrobe accordingly?”

She looked as if I’d driven a nail into her skull, which made me laugh.

With another shake of her head, she laughed with me. “I’ll talk with your father, but go ahead and make your hair appointment.”

“Thanks, Mom. You and Dad, you’re great. I consider myself very fortunate indeed to have you as parents.”

She grinned and said, “We love you, too.”

I stood up. “I’ve gotta grab a shower or I’ll be late for school.” At the door, I turned back to my mother. “Grace will need a new cocktail dress for the opening.”

“I know that, you little whippersnapper. Jeez!”

With a smirk, I said, “Sorry.”

Chapter 3

“Grace,” I said, “you will make every other woman at the opening green with envy. That dress is stunning, but what it packages makes the dress, not the other way around.”

She blushed, but just under the flush of her embarrassment, I could see that my words had thrilled her. What made it easy was the fact that I hadn’t exaggerated at all.

“And Mom, if you looked any more alluring, Dad would need to carry a stick to beat off the men that would crowd around you instead of my paintings.”

Mom beamed. “Paul, listen to your son and learn. He knows how to compliment a lady.”

“Hah!” I said. “Dad’s a man of few words, but his love for you shines like a beacon. Look at him. He can’t take his eyes off you, unless it’s to glance at his beautiful daughter.”

“Boy speaks truth,” Dad said ponderously, which cracked us up.

With large smiles, the ladies took our arms, and Dad and I escorted them to the limo waiting at the curb in front of our house - Dad’s contribution to the cause. One of many.

Inside the limo, Mom said, “I like your new look, Brent. It ages you slightly. You look eighteen, not sixteen.”

The beautician had given me a razor cut that looked wild, but framed my long face perfectly, giving me a mysterious appearance, like I kept secrets. I’d clipped a picture from a magazine to give her an idea of what I wanted. She did a good job of it. My trousers were black linen. The black shoes were Bally loafers. Thin black dress socks. A thin, black leather belt. My shirt was bright red, knit, cut like a t-shirt but with a slight v-neck. I wore a Kenneth Cole black three-button leather dress jacket, with a red silk handkerchief in the pocket. I’d raised the lapel at the back of my neck. I looked good, and I knew it, which was important for an artist at an opening.

“Thank you,” I said as I watched Dad push the cork out of a bottle of champagne.

“You’re both too young, but one glass won’t hurt you,” Dad said as he poured the bubbly into the flute Mom held in her hand. She handed the glass to Grace, and Dad continued pouring until we all had our drinks.

“A toast,” Dad said. “To the ladies first, Brent. Sweet Rose, you were my first love, and my last, and I’ve never loved you more than I do tonight. Grace, tonight you fit your name. You are grace and beauty, and I’m very proud of you and love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Man speaks truth,” I said ponderously.

Grace choked. It’s difficult to drink champagne when you’re laughing.

“To you, Brent,” Dad said. “You are my son, and I love you, but you confuse me. I’ve decided that that’s a good thing. You confuse me because your maturity approaches mine. You’re just sixteen, but you create astonishing paintings superior to artists who have labored at their craft for many, many years. But my toast isn’t about how mature you are or how great you are as an artist. I toast you, Brent Carson, because you are a good man.”

“Man of few words like hell,” Mom said. “Paul, that was beautiful, but I want to add good luck for your show tonight, Brent. May all your paintings sell. As hard as you’ve worked, including many all-nighters, you deserve all the success I’m certain you’ll achieve.” She started to take a drink but stopped. “Oh, and I love you, too.”

“I want to make a toast,” Grace said after drinking to Mom’s, “but I’m out of champagne.”

“That can be remedied,” Dad said and poured a little more champagne in Grace’s glass and mine, and then filled Mom’s and his.

Grace raised her glass and said, “To Brent, who more often than not ends up being more like my big brother than the little brother he is. I’m not sure how you do everything you do, Brent, but you never cease to amaze me. I might add that you look very dashing tonight.” She paused. “Oh, and I love you, too. You, too, Mom and Dad.”

A happy bunch spilled out of the limo when it stopped in front of the gallery.

---

I’ve mentioned the importance of a buyer list to the success of any art opening. The buyer list is a gallery owner’s lifeblood, but a competent gallery owner can’t rely strictly on his buyer list. Non-buyers are invited, some related to the business of art, like art critics, but some merely because an art opening is also a social event.

As we entered the gallery, I heard live music filling the cavernous space. The music was background sound, in this instance a string quartet with a piano. I saw pretty waitresses dressed in finery circulating and offering wine and hors d’oeuvres to the guests.

“Are we late?” Dad asked when he noticed a number of small groups standing and talking in different areas in the gallery.

“No, we’re early,” I said. “You’re looking at the pre-opening guests, Frazier’s serious buyers, for the most part. The bulk of the business end of this opening took place before we arrived. Now it’s party time. But not for me. It’s time for me to go to work, to take center stage, so to speak, and talk about my art with the buyers and critics and other guests. We can’t leave out the other guests. Non-buying guests occasionally become buyers.

“It’s a staged affair, Dad. First I’ve gotta impress the buyers, especially those who purchased one of my paintings, and then Frazier will introduce me to a critic or two. Finally, close to the end of the evening I can relax and briefly join the party like all the other guests.”

I patted Grace’s hand. “I hope my repetitive hyperbole doesn’t bore you because it would be best if you stayed on my arm or nearby most of the time.”

She nodded.

I didn’t truly need her by my side, but she was so stunningly beautiful that I worried about smooth predatory males turning her head and taking advantage of her naivety. Not that my sister was overly naïve, but the world of art at this level drew men with money and power, and men with money and power used both to get what they wanted. If these men had eyes in their heads, and they did, they’d want Grace.

Frazier noticed us and broke away from the group he was with. He hurried to us with a large smile on his face, a good omen, I hoped.

“Brent, I’m glad you’re a little early,” he said and extended his hand. I shook it, and when I started to end the handshake, he held on and added, “I’ve put sold stickers on seven of your paintings, and I’m certain the remaining three will be purchased before the evening ends. Congratulations, young man!” He shook my hand with both of his. “Come. I want to introduce you around. You look good, by the way, very ... ah, arty.” He laughed.

That’s when he noticed Grace. “And, Grace, you are ... well, you’re simply gorgeous.” He laughed again. “This is going to be fun. The two of you will be a bigger hit than your paintings, Brent.”

I talked about micro-landscapes, color, form, composition, texture, balance, all the tenets of my art, until I was blue in the face. I grew tired of my repetitious narratives before Grace, but my flowery hyperbole convinced three other buyers to part with their money.

Early in the evening, Terry arrived with her guest, a woman named Vicki, Terry’s new roommate and lover. Terry whispered in my ear after leaning to kiss my cheek.

“Call me,” she said in parting.

I was pleased that she hadn’t been more demanding than the brief greeting she’d given me. Perhaps our friendship could be saved and fostered. I altered that opinion later when I suddenly found myself standing alone. One of the predator males I wanted Grace to avoid had captured her attention, and they were talking quietly in the far corner of the room. Almost as suddenly as I’d found myself alone, Terry stepped in front of me.

“Hi, handsome,” she said.

I grinned. “Hello, friend.”

“Congratulations. I noticed the sold stickers on your paintings. You sold out!”

I nodded.

She glanced toward her new roommate, who was standing with a group looking at one of my paintings. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I told her about you. She wouldn’t say no if you joined us for a naughty evening.”

Vicki was indeed beautiful, and to say I wasn’t tempted would’ve been a lie, but as I’d predicted, Terry hadn’t given up on me. She was using Vicki as bait.

“Terry, that gentleman in the navy suit standing over there with two women is a gallery owner from San Diego. One of the women with him is a gallery owner from San Francisco. Both want to show my work. Frazier wants to do another show for me next December, and galleries in Denver, Los Angeles, and Santa Fe have expressed interest in presenting one-man shows for me. I’m buried in work, and I can’t neglect my education. Socializing must take fourth place to work, school, and sleep. I can be your friend, but I don’t and won’t have the time a heavy relationship requires.”

Anger briefly flared in her pretty eyes, anger that quickly changed to disappointment.

“Terry!” Grace said, returning to me. “It’s good to see you again. How have you been? Have you noticed that all of my little brother’s paintings sold?”

Terry nodded. Grace took her by the arm. “I have someone I want you to meet. Like you, he’s an art lover. In fact, he purchased one of Brent’s paintings.”

As Grace dragged Terry away, Terry turned her head and mouthed, “Call me.”

After Grace made the introductions, she quickly extricated herself and came back to me.

“Thanks, big sister. I owe you,” I said.

Grace laughed. “Yes, you do. That girl is not about to give up on you, Brent.”

“Argh.”

---

I met Sherry Crane while Grace was across the room talking with another predator male. I’d stopped worrying about my big sister. After a few whispered comments, Grace told me in no uncertain terms that she could take care of herself. After that conversation, I watched her, and she appeared to hold her own with the powerful, rich men who hit on her.

“Brent,” Grace said, “I try to ignore the charm, the flash, and look underneath for the real man, but if I raise my eyebrows at you, please come running to help me escape anyone who refuses to accept no as an answer.”

“That works for me,” I said.

So Grace was testing her alluring feminine appeal with predator males while I stood in front of a beautiful woman who’d just introduced herself as Sherry Crane. If Grace had a rival at the opening, Sherry would be that woman. She was tall and slim, wore a slinky black gown held aloft with what looked like a diamond-studded necklace. A matching bracelet wrapped her feminine wrist. Her soft shoulders were bare, and the gown plunged at the back. The elegant silkiness of the garment offered hints of an incredible body underneath - a naked body, I figured, because I could see no evidence of a bra or panties under the dress. She wore her black hair long. It was sleek and luxurious, styled a little like mine, giving her a wild, dangerous look. A panther came to mind. Her dark eyes glinted like the necklace that held up her dress.

A compulsion to kiss her shoulders nearly overwhelmed me. The urge also surprised me. I’d never considered shoulders as replacements for kissable lips, but then there wasn’t any part of Sherry Crane that wasn’t utterly alluring. I tried and failed to guess her age because I couldn’t decide whether she was in her early or late twenties.

When she introduced herself, her sultry voice captivated me almost as much as her soft shoulders.

“Your work presents a degree of maturity that doesn’t conform to your youth, Mr. Carson,” she said.

“I have this urge - it’s almost a compulsion - to rain kisses down your long neck and over your soft shoulders,” I said quietly, my eyes never leaving hers.

Her eyes widened, and then she smiled, and her smile took away her dangerous, wild look.

“Young man, that gorgeous young woman you’re with should have you on a leash. You’re dangerous.”

I laughed. “Thank you - I think. That stunningly beautiful, young woman I’m with is my sister, and if anyone should be on a leash, it’s she. The predator males in this place keep trying to steal her away from me.”

Sherry glanced at Grace. “If I were a male, I’d whisk her away and hold her close.” Her sparkling dark eyes returned to mine, and she looked dangerous and wild again. “But I’m not a man.”

“That’s the understatement of the evening. I didn’t believe any woman at the opening could possibly rival my sister’s beauty and grace. I was mistaken.”

Sherry frowned and shook her head. “You can’t be the teenager written about in the printed hype for this show.”

A distinguished man joined us. Was he Sherry’s date? Husband? Lover? Her father was a possibility. He was old enough to be her father.

“There you are, Sherry,” he said, his voice deep and commanding. He nodded at me.

“Uncle Harry, have you met this remarkable young artist?” Sherry asked.

“I have not,” Harry said.

Dr. Harry Crane was not only Sherry’s uncle, he was also an art critic who wrote a weekly column for the Arizona Republic & Gazette. What’s more, he was also a professor of art history at Arizona State University. Sherry didn’t tell me all this when she introduced him. As soon as I heard his name, I recognized him. I read his column every week.

“And this young man is Brent Carson,” Sherry said to her uncle. “He painted the large acrylics showcased at the opening tonight.”

“Which I haven’t had a chance to see. Frazier corralled me when we arrived, as you know. Join us, Mr. Carson, and tell us about your work while I take a look at your paintings.”

“All right,” I said. We turned to the painting hanging at our right. “My work appears non-objective, but it’s not. I paint micro-landscapes.” I described each painting as we stepped from one to the other. Crane didn’t comment, nod, or shake his head, and my descriptions became terse with less hyperbole. When we finished the tour of my work, I didn’t know whether he liked or detested what he saw.

“Humph,” he muttered. “Thank you, young man. Excuse me, please. Two other artists at this show expect my attention, I suspect.” With that, he walked away with Sherry on his arm.

Frazier sidled up to me. “What did Dr. Crane say?” he asked.

“Not one word.”

“Really?”

“Not a word. That is a frustrating man.”

Frazier laughed. “He’s that. We’ll know what he thinks on Sunday morning when his column hits the newsstands.”

“What do you know about his niece?” I asked.

“Sherry?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful with that one, Brent. She’s a piranha. She chews up young artists, spits out their bare bones, and moves on to her next meal.”

I laughed. “If she wants me for dinner, I might let her munch away.”

Frazier grimaced. “That evokes images I’d rather not have skipping through my mind. Darrell wants words with you.” Darrell was the gallery owner in San Diego. “He wants to know how soon you can provide him with twelve paintings.”

“Twelve?”

“Twelve. Ten is too few for a one-man show. Fourteen would be too many for his gallery. He also wants to talk about pricing.”

“All right, but find my father.” I grinned. “I am, after all, a minor.”

“Humph, in age only.”

“After our success tonight, the prices for my paintings should increase fifteen to twenty percent,” I said.

“I agree,” Frazier said.

“I’ll want Darrell to pay for framing and any and all photography and prints needed, also to crate and ship my paintings to San Diego for the show.”

Frazier shook his head. “That’ll be up to Darrell.”

“No, Gary. You’ll be getting your cut. Earn it. Get me what I want and we’ll have a long and mutually beneficial business relationship. I can ship twelve acrylic paintings in two months, but the show after San Diego, wherever it is, won’t take place until four months after Darrell’s show. I’m switching from acrylics to oils. Oils will give me a greater range of color depth than acrylics, something I’ll need with the direction I’m taking with my art. I’ll be renting a studio so I can work on a dozen paintings at the same time.”

Frazier nodded. “I agree. Oils would be a better medium for your style of painting.”

“Go ahead. Find my father, and the two of you can negotiate my deal with Darrell.”

Prior to the show, I’d had a private conversation with my father about future shows. He, too, knew what I wanted. I’d given him a few scenarios based upon the success of my first opening.

A little later, Dad found me. “You’re set for San Diego near the end of February. Darrell caved on every issue.”

I grinned. “Good job, Dad. You’re a wonder.”

“Thanks.” He beamed.

I beamed, too. My first show had exceeded my greatest expectations, and my second show was in the hopper, a one-man show this time. That Sherry Crane left without speaking to me again was the only downer of the evening. That, and Terry’s attempt to rekindle our relationship, I added as a thought a few seconds later.

---

Monday evening following my show, I received a call from Sherry Crane. My mother answered the call and passed the phone to me.

“Uncle Harry liked your work,” she said after I said hello.

“I noticed.” I’d read his column early Sunday morning moments after the paperboy threw the newspaper into the bougainvillea bush in our front yard. A couple of the critic’s comments were: a good command of the medium, and an artist with a vision.

Sherry said, “My uncle hosts a cocktail party for local artists every year during the Christmas season. He doesn’t discriminate. He invites artists he praised in his column, as well as artists he vilified. Most fall between the two extremes. Because the invitations were sent weeks ago, he asked me to call and invite you this year. The party is Saturday evening. It starts at six o’clock. Drinks and hors d’oeuvres only, so don’t expect to be fed. You’re welcome to bring a guest.”

“Tell your uncle that I’m pleased he thought of me. I’ll be there, of course. I do have one request.”

“You do, huh? What?”

“I’m too young for booze, and my soft drink of choice is root beer. I like it served in a frosted glass mug.”

I listened to a second or two of silence, and then she laughed gaily. “I’ll pass on your request, Mr. Carson. Whether he’ll comply, I won’t venture a guess. Bring your sister. She and I can compete for the most male attention.”

“For obvious reasons, you have my vote. What’s the dress for the occasion?”

“Casual, but I’d suggest elegant casual so you can compete for my attention.”

“Are you flirting with me, Ms. Crane?”

She laughed. “I guess I am. Call me Sherry.”

“I will if you call me Brent.”

“Deal. See you Saturday.”

I jotted down the address she gave me, and as soon as I ended the call, Mom said, “Who was that woman?”

I chuckled. “Sherry Crane.”

“Is she the stunning woman who was hanging on that art critic’s arm at the show?”

“Yes.” I explained the reason for Sherry’s call and her relationship with Dr. Harry Crane. “Does Grace have a Saturday night date?”

“Don’t know. If she does, she’ll cancel it. She told me she enjoyed your opening more than her junior prom. I think she’s starting to prefer the life you’re leading to that of a high school senior, which worries me, Brent. She’s a clever, level-headed girl, but she is a girl, and some smooth-talking, unscrupulous man might turn her head.”

“I had the same concerns Friday night, but she comported herself with panache with a number of smooth-talking, unscrupulous men, and I finally quit worrying about her. I’ll keep my eye on her, Mom.”

“Hah! I know where your eye will be, both of them, and they won’t be on Grace. Sherry Crane makes your ex-girlfriend look plain by comparison. Dammit!”

She actually stomped a foot with the curse. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“What has Brent done now?” Grace asked as she walked into the room.

“You explain,” Mom said to me, and left the room in a huff.

I explained, and Grace said she’d cancel her date.

“What’s the dress?” she asked.

“Elegant casual.”

“What does that mean?”

I shrugged.

“Mom will know,” Grace said.

“Probably.”

---

Grace drove Dad’s car through a cold winter rainstorm. She looked beautiful in a black sheath cocktail dress, which seemed a tad above casual to me, but she claimed that the funky costume jewelry festooning her lovely, long neck and one dainty wrist turned her elegant, semi-formal cocktail dress into elegant casual.

As cold as it was, I wore a black Kenneth Cole p-coat with the collar turned up. Black cowboy boots replaced the loafers I wore to the opening, and bright yellow provided my splash of color.

Grace said, “Sherry Cole is probably the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in person, little brother. Are you planning to take a run at her?”

The windshield wipers swished, masking the sound of my soft laughter.

“Yes,” I said, “if she lets me know that’s what she wants. Otherwise, no.”

“Do you know any of the other artists invited to the party?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Brent, I wouldn’t be opposed to a boyfriend that was a little older than me.”

“Define ‘a little older.’”

“Twenty, twenty-one.”

“Grace, I think we’ll be the youngest guests at the party, especially me.”

“Which in your case doesn’t matter, not the way you are.”

“To answer your earlier question, I met the two artists who shared the marquee with me last Friday, and another local artist introduced himself during the show. All three exceed your age criteria by at least a decade, which will probably run true tonight, as well. At a cocktail party, I suspect that you’ll have better luck eliminating potential boyfriends than trying to find one. Frankly, I don’t know what to expect tonight. Cocktail parties hosted by academia are usually pretty stuffy, but most of the partygoers tonight will be artists, and artists as a group can be rowdy. Stay close until we test the prevailing mood.”

When I’d lived as Jane Wilson, I’d attended many cocktail parties. Few were truly interesting and entertaining. Most bored me to tears, and the worst were hosted by academia. Professors as a rule are pompous, very full of themselves, but this party, although hosted by a college professor, was a gathering of local artists, and as Jane Wilson, I’d attended artist parties that had turned into orgies.

“Won’t my staying close cramp your style if sexy Sherry lets you know she wouldn’t mind if you took a run at her?”

“Grace, sexy Sherry is most likely the hostess for this party. If she is, she’ll be doing the running - running here, running there - to make sure the guests are enjoying themselves. Regardless, stay in sight. If you have any trouble, raise your pretty eyebrows, and I’ll come running to you.”

Grace laughed, nice sounds. Sometimes I wished Grace wasn’t my sister. If we weren’t related, I’d be taking a run at her.

---

Sherry was indeed the hostess for the cocktail party. She and her uncle greeted us warmly. Seeing her, hearing her sexy voice, gave me a partial erection.

Hey, I might be mature for my age, but physically, I’m still a sixteen-year-old boy with the hormones of adolescence raging within. Besides, Sherry Crane could give a dead man a hard-on.