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Cissy and CED present:
A Tale of Three Brothers story by Marie deSoto Bang! Crash! Someone hit the floor hard directly behind Dane’s chair. Without looking up from his book, he reached out his right hand to steady the glass-shaded floor lamp before it fell. “Knock it off, you two,” he said evenly. Dillon was up in a flash and within moments, had Daniel in a chokehold. “Let’s see ya get out of this,” he challenged, his blue eyes vibrant. Daniel quickly shifted his weight to his back foot and proceeded to flip his younger brother over his shoulder. Dillon landed with a thud, grazing the potted palm to Dane’s left. In one swift movement, Dane rose from the chair, rescued the tottering tree and planted a booted foot squarely on Dillon’s chest. “I said enough,” he warned, shifting his gaze from Dillon to Daniel. His voice was calm and measured, but his dark expression told the younger men it was time to stop. “Okay, okay…” Daniel tried to sound serious despite the humor dancing in his green eyes. He offered Dillon a hand up, pulling him to his feet. “We have to get ready anyway. We’re supposed to be downtown to see the proofs in an hour.” As Dillon and Daniel disappeared up the stairs, Dane tried to get back to his book. It was no use. He’d read the same paragraph three times and still couldn’t recall what it said. T.S. Elliot deserved more attention than he could give today. He closed the book’s well-worn cover and placed it on the table. He had mixed feelings about today’s appointment. And being unsure was not a state that Dane Stewart enjoyed. It was all Daniel’s fault. Three weeks earlier he’d bounded into Danes campus office, Dillon in tow, waving a letter and newspaper triumphantly, babbling about having won a contest. By the time Daniel reached the end of his explanation, Dane’s expression had deteriorated from curiosity, to disbelieve to downright murderous. “No way. Forget it!” He turned his attention back to the pile of student essays on his desk. If he didn’t give his hands something else to do, they’d end up around Daniel’s throat. Daniel smiled, his good humor completely unaffected by his brother’s reaction, “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun! Besides, they’ve already made the announcement in the newspapers. We can’t back out now.” He opened the literary section of the paper and placed it on the desk in front of Dane. Local hunks chosen to launch NY Times best selling author’s new book series: A Tale of Three Brothers. Chosen from over 1000 entries, the Stewart brothers personify the heart and spirit of these wonderful stories, said public relations representative of author, Catherine Chloe Bennet. She went on to describe how photos of Stanford Professor, Dane, syndicated cartoonist, Daniel, and aspiring actor, Dillon, had moved through the selection process. Their fabulous faces will soon be in bookstores everywhere! Dane groaned aloud. No wonder his female students had been smiling and whispering all morning. “You two can do whatever you like, but count me out,” he said resolutely, tossing the newspaper aside. “But it won’t work without all of us. They want three actual brothers.” Daniel looked pointedly at Dillon who had so far been silent. It was time to bring out the big guns. “And you’d be doing it for Dillon, “ he added. “That’s right,” Dillon acknowledged. “Think of what this could do for my career.” He sat on the desk and leaned down. His long dark hair pooled on the papers in front of Dane, leaving his brother no choice but to look up. “You can’t buy this kind of national exposure and they’re handing it to us on a silver platter!” The minute his gaze met Dillon’s, Dane knew he had lost. He suddenly remembered all the high school plays, summer stock performances, and recently, the off-off Broadway role that he had not been there to see Dillon in. There had always been a good reason for his absence. College finals, his thesis, the reorganization of the Stanford’s Literature Department… all had seemed imperative to Dane’s career at the time. And Dillon had never complained. Not once. Damn him. “But, hey, if you’re uncomfortable, I totally understand.” Dillon sat up and turned away, sighing dramatically. “Oh, all right! You win!” Dane announced begrudgingly. Daniel shot him an instant grin. “You both win. Now if you don’t mind, please get the hell out of my office. I have a class to teach. Go make whatever arrangements need to be made.” If he was lucky, a scheduling conflict would arise, allowing him to put them off as long as possible. “Already done,” Daniel replied, slapping a post-it note down on the desk. He and Dillon sprinted for the door before Dane could find something heavy to throw at them. The preliminary photo shoot was set for next Wednesday—the only weekday Dane had no classes. He met the following Wednesday with the anticipation of a man facing root canal. The set where the photo shoot was to take place was filled with too many people and too much noise. Dane stoically endured the make-up artist and comb of the hair stylist. But when she turned to him with hairspray in hand, he literally growled at the poor girl, and she ran from the room in tears. Great. Now you’re making babies cry. She seemed so young. In fact, they all seemed young. The staff, the photographer, even the girls waiting to make a few bucks if a model was called for hardly looked Dillon’s age—and he was ten years Dane’s junior. Only one woman seemed out of place. She was older, or at least looked older, with her hair drawn back in a bun. There was something familiar about her… Something that tweeked at his memory-- though her appearance gave him little to go on. Thick glasses made it impossible to see her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was thin or plump. A voluminous tan sweater covered her from neck to calf. Brown boots took over where the sweater ended, leaving no part of her exposed. She kept to herself, hands in her pockets, standing by the publisher’s representative who was overseeing the shoot. She looked nearly as uncomfortable as Dane felt. “Okay, people, lets get started.” the set assistant barked. “Group shots first, then individuals.” For the next two hours the brothers were photographed in nearly every conceivable position wearing every expression imaginable. Standing, sitting, kneeling, reclining, shirts on, shirts off, smiling, pensive, angry—there seemed no end to it. Just when Dane thought he couldn’t take one more minute, the set assistant called him out. “Hey, you, Fabio. Take a break. You too, Irish.” He clapped his hands impatiently when Dane and Daniel didn’t move fast enough. My name is Dane, you pea brain! “Let it pass,” Daniel cautioned, as if reading his brother’s mind. They each grabbed a towel and a bottle of water from the refreshment table and sat down on the floor against the wall. “Man, it’s hot under those lights!” Daniel mopped the sweat from his beard and ran his hand through his red hair. He’d remained smiling and cooperative through most of the day. But his natural good humor was beginning to fray around the edges and he looked tired. “Any idea when we’ll be done?” Dane queried. Daniel shook his head. “According to Dillon, they still have to shoot some stills with us and the girls.” Dane glanced at the models congregated on the opposite side of the room. Too tall, too thin, too perky… He dismissed them one at a time. A well-endowed brunette looked right at him and pursed her bright red lips in an exaggerated kiss. Too much! Dane thought with a shudder. He was about to tell Daniel that he’d be hard pressed to appear interested in any of these women when laughter from the direction of the set caught their attention. They watched as Dillon lifted a beautiful black girl off the floor by her waist and spun her around until she squealed with delight. Then he allowed her to slide down the length of his body, his hands cupping her derriere. She wrapped her legs around him and leaned in until their lips were only a breath apart. “Yes, yes, that’s right!” the photographer shouted, snapping the camera shutter wildly as he watched the pair through it’s lens. If Dane and Daniel were out of their element, exactly the opposite was true of Dillon. He was completely at ease in front of the camera and it showed. He sank to his knees, and a moment later was on his back with his lovely companion straddling his hips. Dane’s eyes widened. “When did he learn to do that?” Daniel hardly heard him. He was too busy watching the petite woman with platinum hair who was making her way toward them from across the room. “Hi, I’m Connie,” she said softly, offering Daniel her hand. “We’re up next.” Without a word, weariness forgotten, he allowed himself to be led off toward the set. Dane couldn’t help but think that his brother would have followed her over a cliff if that’s where she’d had a mind to go. Once in front of the camera, Connie gently led Daniel through a series of poses. The pair complimented one another other perfectly. And though their movements were less provocative than those of Dillon and his partner, the results were no less appealing. Thirty minutes later, Daniel walked back toward Dane with Connie’s number in his pocket and a huge grin on his face. “Your turn, Fabio,” he teased. “Thank God,” Dane replied, ignoring the quip. The sooner he finished, the sooner they’d be out of there. He made his way on to the set, folded his arms across his chest and waited. And waited. He was beginning to feel ridiculous standing alone in front of the camera when an argument broke out between the set assistant, the photographer and the publisher’s rep. “Sorry, sweetie,” the assistant said flatly, “that other girl didn’t show so you’ll have to pick from what we’ve got!” “But you don’t understand,” the rep insisted. “None of them is the right type.” “Well, what the hell is the right type?” The set assistant yanked the clipboard from the rep’s hand, flipped a few pages, then read aloud. “Plain, mousy, frumpy, dowdy…” He looked up, eyes scanning the room. “What about her?” He pointed to the woman in the sweater. “I beg your pardon!” the woman shot back indignantly. “Who are you calling a mouse—You, you illiterate cretin!” Surprisingly, of all the unflattering adjectives the assistant had used, mousy was the one she took issue with. Dane smiled. She may have been plain and dowdy but she sure had a backbone. “Can’t we continue tomorrow?” the publisher’s rep pleaded, positioning herself between the assistant and her angry companion. “I’m sure we can find someone suitable by then.” Dane cringed at the idea of prolonging this agony another day. “No can do,” the photographer replied. “Tonight I’ll be on a plane bound for Milan with J. Lo and company.” “There you have it, honey.” The assistant spread his hands in a gesture of finality. “It’s one of them, her or nothing. Take your pick.” The publisher’s rep nervously chewed the end of her pencil. She looked at Dane, then at the woman in the sweater. A slow smile dawned on her face. “No way, Marky!” the woman in the sweater exclaimed. “If you think I’m getting up there with him, you’re crazy!” Dane’s pride bristled. He may not be a professional model but she was no prize either. “It’ll be fine, C.C.” Marky assured her. “If you don’t like the pictures we’ll reshoot them when Michael gets back from Milan.” Before she could protest further, the assistant stripped her of her bulky sweater and her glasses, then spun her around and pushed her toward Dane. Stumbling forward, she tripped on the lighting cord and landed against his chest with a thud. His hands went to her waist to steady her. “Sorry,” she offered, turning her face up to his. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled softly amidst fine features and a creamy complexion. Beneath his hands, her waist felt small. Her breasts against his chest were full and firm. Dane couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised. “I’m afraid I haven’t much experience at this,” she added, reminding him of the task at hand. “Me neither,” Dane whispered softly in her ear. “We’ll just have to make it up as we go along.” Neither of them knew what happened to the next half-hour. Somewhere just beyond the scope of his senses, a camera shutter clicked incessantly. Someone was calling what seemed to be directions, but he couldn’t make out the words. All he could focus on was the woman in his arms. With each moment that passed she grew warmer and more familiar. Her hands were soft. Her skin smelled of soap and lavender. She responded eagerly to his lead, moving with him as he spoke gently to her. He drew her down to the floor and as she turned in his lap, his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her blouse and brushed bare skin. The shock of contact startled them both. “Sorry,” he whispered and started to move his hand away. She caught his wrist and looked squarely into his eyes. “Don’t be. I liked it.” Their mouths were inches apart. He could feel her breath on his cheek. He had been so wrong about this woman. She was no ugly duckling. She was a swan just coming into her own. Beautiful, full of promise and ready to fly. So damn ready… He wanted to kiss her more than he had ever wanted to kiss a woman in his life. “Okay, people, that’s a wrap!” The shout of the set assistant cut through the fog that surrounded them, shattering their private little world. They moved apart so suddenly that C.C. fell out of Dane’s lap and landed on the floor. “Oh, jeez, sorry.” Dane fumbled to his feet then reached down to give her a hand up. “Thanks,” she replied, making a concerted effort not to meet his gaze. She found her feet quickly then stepped back, putting an arm’s length of space between them. “You guys were fabulous!” Marky cried, moving up beside C.C. She handed over the belongings that had been stripped from her friend half an hour earlier. C.C. slipped her glasses back on then donned the big sweater, wrapping it tightly around her like a shield. To the rest of the world, she was an ugly duckling again. But Dane knew better. “I can’t wait to see the proofs!” Marky added as she trotted off to check in with the office. “Me neither,” Dane and C.C. answered in unison. Then they looked at each other and began to laugh. “Forgive me,” Dane started when they had both recovered. “I’m Dane Stewart.” He offered her his hand. It was hard to believe that only moments ago they had been so intimate. “I know who you are, Professor Stewart.” Smiling genuinely, C.C. returned his handshake. “I was in Metzer’s American Lit class the year you were a TA.” “You’re a Stanford grad?” “Class of ’98.” Dane had always prided himself on his photographic memory. But hard as he tried, he couldn’t quite place her. “I’ve read your books too. I really enjoyed the commentary on O. Henry. But the one on Eliot—“ she paused, trying to find the right words. “Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye.” Dane smiled at the challenge in her voice. Apparently, this swan had a brain. Finding out just how much of a brain could prove an interesting undertaking. “Maybe we could discuss it sometime.” He looked around the now empty studio. “Somewhere else,” he added flatly. “Somewhere far away from here!” she finished, picking up his train of thought. “This has been a day for the record books!” “One I’d just as soon forget,” he replied. C.C. looked at him pointedly. “Well, maybe not all of it,” he amended with a smile. “What do you say we hit Starbucks. We can sit outside and harass the passersby.” “They’ve got a triple shot espresso with my name written all over it! Just let me get my purse.” As C.C. went off to search for her bag, Dane waited by a table that still held remnants of the day’s activity. Release forms, promotional flyers, there was even a copy of the first few chapters of one of the books in the Three Brothers series. He picked up the chapters and began to read. He was on the last page when C.C. returned. “It’s a damn shame,” he noted, his eyes moving quickly through the final paragraph. “Hundreds of writers out there—really good writers whose work is worthy but they can’t get anyone to publish them because people would rather spend their money on this mindless drivel.” He flipped the pages back to the beginning and tossed them aside. “And the stories are always the same. The author probably sits down to write every first of January, proof-reads the galleys by the end of March, then spends the rest of the year torn between book signings and tennis at the club with her publisher.” He shook off the thought and smiled at C.C. “Ready?” “Yes, I’m ready.” Her tone didn’t seem quite right. The animation was gone from her eyes, replaced by something else. What was wrong? Dane didn’t have to wait long to find out. “On second thought, Professor Stewart, I think I’ll pass on the coffee. I’ve had quite enough artificial stimulation for one day.” She turned her back on him and began to walk away. Dane had absolutely no idea what had just happened. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this woman walk out of his life without doing something to stop her. “Wait… C.C… Can we take a rain check? I don’t even know your last name!” “It’s Bennet.” She turned back to face him, her eyes full of fury. “Catherine Chloe Bennet.” She waited, allowing him a moment to turn the name over in his mind. It took just 5 seconds for Dane to recall where he’d seen it before. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, amazed at his own stupidity. “If you need to get in touch with me I’m in the book, under B,” she continued, “though you might also try P—for Purveyor of Mindless Drivel!” She turned away, heading resolutely toward the exit. “And by the way,” she grabbed the handle of the door and yanked it open, “I wouldn’t count on a rain check. I don’t think I’ll be able to fit you in between book signings and tennis at the club!” C.C. Bennet slammed the door behind her leaving Dane Stewart alone in the empty studio, his foot planted firmly in his mouth. |