This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the real person, Russell Crowe.  No insult or injury is intended, this story is for entertainment purposes only.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language.

Abandoned Oasis

©2006 by: Riley

Russell swallowed the last of his beer and glanced around the deserted set; an old western ghost town blown to smithereens. Late afternoon and the hot breeze blew tiny dust funnels along the road. He smiled, shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

He loved every part of making movies. He loved the screen tests, the initial excitement of being chosen, the thrill of reading his part in a script and the charge of working with other actors. The endless challenges. He even loved retakes to the point where the crew teased him about it. And he loved the ending part of making movies too. That time when he’d done all he could do, stretched it to the limit, had his fill of all the people around him, and wanted a holiday so bad he could taste it. Even working films back home in Oz, he felt the same way, beginning to end. He was proud of his work. Not overly proud, but proud to know he was moving ahead on the road he wanted. Another movie meant one more opportunity to be looked at. Seen. Another chance to be chosen and start the whole ball rolling again.

As filming wrapped up in Arizona there were hugs and beers, laughter and exchanged phone numbers. Then it all dissipated like a dream, everyone heading off to their own lives. But his was in another hemisphere, and he wasn’t quite ready to go home just yet. He needed that holiday, the one he could taste. Since it was his first film in the States, his first real freedom to explore America, it whetted his appetite even more than usual.

“Walkabout!” he grinned at the dashboard. Russell had hired a Rent-A-Wreck for the trip. What more did he need? Just wheels to carry him where he wanted to go. He had the money for a luxury compact, but bugger that. Why waste? Prosperity was all too new to him. Hell, the prosperity that offered him more than enough to stay in a clean motel room and keep several cartons of fags in the back seat was a thrill. He wondered when it would wear off. Become the norm and he’d want more. If life would go the way he wanted it. But at that moment, he was like a kid on Chrissie.

He felt he’d done a good job, worked hard, made some new mates. Lots of people took his agent’s number, telling him they knew someone who knew someone who might be looking for someone just like him. That made him laugh. Hollywood. Definitely not part of the universe as he knew it. But Sharon Stone believed in him. A smile spread across his face; nothing better than a beautiful, talented woman believing in a bloke. Without her, it could have been years before he got his first chance to show his stuff to Hollywood. Yes, life was good. He had his first American film under his belt. And he was heading to Las Vegas, baby.

He consulted the road atlas, plotted his route and put the rusty car in gear. No air conditioning, but heat never bothered Russell. He rolled down all the windows and let the dry desert air blow his hair wild.

~*~

Three hours on the road just past Flagstaff, his left arm was nearly burgundy with sunburn, and his stomach was starting to ache. Bad. He pulled over to the berm, figured to walk it off. He was deep in the Kaibab National Forest. Surprised at how green parts of Arizona were, he forgot for a brief moment that he was feeling under the weather. Mountains loomed, cutting the early evening sun off, casting massive shadows that rippled along the foothills. A chill ran through him and he rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his opened shirt. The ache in his stomach intensified.

Maybe it was the altitude? Fumes from the rat trap of a car? Could he have eaten something that had turned? He tried to remember everything he’d put into his stomach that day. Brekkie was fine, lunch seemed okay. He hadn’t had too much beer, knowing he’d be driving. He fought wave upon wave of nausea, gulping deep breaths and shivering in the heat. His head began to thump and he sat behind the wheel, pulled the atlas to locate a town. Seemed he’d be stopping early for the night. The tiny type on the map made him feel dizzy. Russell rubbed his eyes and rolled up all the windows. He was on an interstate highway, there was bound to be a sign, a gas station, something indicating a hotel, a town . . . a hospital. Nah, he wasn’t that sick. Watching the oncoming traffic, he pulled out and headed west.

He got five miles before he had to stop again, blessedly at a rest area. Nearly falling out of the car, he trotted to the rubbish bin, hoping to chunder in it and not make a scene. There were three vehicles parked near the restrooms. If he thought he’d make it to the building, he could have had privacy as he gagged. But as it was, he never even got to the bin.

His stomach convulsed. Violent gushes spewed from his mouth and nose and he could hardly stand. He leaned then slid down the side of an old pickup truck, sat with a thud on the pavement and groaned in the growing darkness. Again and again he suffered; vomit changing from chunks of food he could almost recognize, to clear fluid burning up his throat. Running a sleeve across his face, he wondered how to clean up the mess before the owner of the truck inadvertently stepped in it. But there was more. What could be left in his stomach, God only knew, but whatever it was, it was coming out. Russell could hardly breathe, panting between dry heaves that flushed his face bloody red and made his eyes water.

A family came from the restrooms and spotted him, the kids squealed, “Ew!” and the parents hurried them into the van. They actually sped off. Under other circumstances he’d have thought that was pretty funny. Other circumstances being that a mate was doing the vomiting instead of him.

Finally, his misery slowed to a stop and he leaned his head back against the fender. Sweat saturated hair caught the slight breeze and he shivered, gagged again and wondered if it was safe to attempt standing up. A loud groan preceded another bout of dry heaves.

“You drunk?”

“No.” Russell took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face.

“You okay?”

“Fuck no.”

The light sound of a woman’s laugh, then she squatted next to him. His eyes moved from her denim covered knees to the bottle of water she held out to him. His hand was shaking as he took it. He dragged a mouthful to rinse, turned and spit the awful taste from his mouth, then tried to drink. Bad idea. More.

‘Fuck!’ he thought, ‘how the hell much can I fuckin’ have in my stomach?’

As he leaned over, struggling with the searing bile crawling up his already raw throat, he felt the woman hold his shoulder, push his hair from his face. She took the bottle from him and wetting her hand, ran it cool over his brow.

“You going to live?”

“Fuck, I hope so.”

“Come on.”

When she helped him up, he was shocked at how weak he felt. His knees were rubber and every movement hurt from his bone marrow to the surface of his flesh. He leaned on her small frame, concentrated on trying to walk. “Ah, sorry ‘bout the mess,” he groaned as she skirted the foul puddles to open the passenger door of the truck for him. He climbed in and dropped his head back. “What the fuck?” he mumbled.

“Got anything in your car you need?”

He turned to her; she was standing at the opened door. The woman was stunning, but unique. Her hair was long and grey. It shimmered like silver satin under the high lamp illuminating the parking lot. Could she be old enough to be grey? He doubted it. Her face was perfect, chiseled and eloquent. Eyes a brilliant pale hazel. Her skin smooth, supple, not a wrinkle was evident, but in his condition he couldn’t trust his eyesight. Shaking his head, she climbed in behind the wheel and started the ignition.

“I’ll be fine. Just need to sit here for a tic, mate.”

She turned the engine off, leaned against her door and watched him. Another groan and as he swung the door opened, she charged around the truck to keep him from falling out. Her reward? Clear, smelly vomit down her thigh.

“Ahh, fuck! I’m so sorry.”

“In,” she instructed and he slowly returned to the seat. She reached over and clipped his seatbelt.

~*~

It appeared he was finished throwing up. Now, Russell was painfully shaking like a leaf, freezing the moment he was helped into her house, the air conditioning an assault. Even his skin hurt. In her guest room, she tugged down the blankets and simply pointed.

“Thanks.”

She walked out, closing the door almost all the way, leaving him enough light to see the way to the bathroom and get out of his clothes.

He peeled off his sweaty shirt and tee shirt, button down jeans, toed off his shoes and socks then climbed into the bed leaving everything in a pile. He felt like he could die. Actually wished he would. Under the sheets and blanket, he shivered.

Then he heard her talking. It must have been on the phone, he heard no responses. He rolled to his side and closed his aching eyes. Drifted off.

~*~

“Lainie, you take in another stray?”

Russell’s eyes popped opened. It was a man’s voice and he was heading down the hall.

“He’s sick, Pete. What the hell was I supposed to do? Leave him out on the highway?”

“You could have taken him to the hospital. Jesus. A woman like you? All your years of experience. This isn’t like bringing in an injured cat. You live alone, Lainie. Think about that. Who the hell is he?”

“No clue. Every time he opened his mouth, he puked.”

“Drunk?”

“He said no.”

“Drugs?”

“Pete. Go do the doctor thing and get off my case. It’s probably the damn flu. Help that poor guy, will you?”

Russell was a nervous wreck, weak as a newborn. What the hell was he doing in that woman’s house anyway? He should have asked her to take him to a hospital, or at least a motel. The doctor was efficient, kind. Temperature, high. Blood pressure, normal. Allergies? None. Russell was treated to an injection of antibiotics and a prescription. Told to stay in bed for a few days and drink plenty of fluids. He nodded, doing his best to focus on the instructions through a haze of discomfort. Finally he was left alone to sleep. And sleep he did.

~*~

It was late afternoon when he woke. The chills had subsided, and all he remembered was being awakened from blessed, painless slumber a few times to take his medication. In the corner of the room was his duffle, and at the foot of the bed, his ruined clothes, neat, folded, smelling fresh and clean. He considered going back to sleep, but opted for a shower, wanting to smell at least as fresh as the clothes the woman had kindly washed for him.

The hot water steamed away sweat and that miserable feeling in his aching body. He dressed and again thought about going back to bed. Sounds from outside the window caught his attention and he leaned against the sill, pushing lace curtains aside to check it out.

His rusty Rent-A-Wreck was parked in the driveway, and the pretty grey haired woman was tossing a frisbee to a three legged dog. The animal was beautiful. A Golden Retriever who moved awkwardly, but efficiently, its tail wagging a mile minute, almost knocking the happy creature over.

“Yeah,” Russ chuckled. “Sometimes too much joy can be a dangerous thing.” He turned to see the door moving, opening. He had to walk closer to the bed to see what had caused it. A one eyed Siamese cat sauntered in, behind her, a repulsive English bulldog who glared up at Russell with sheer repugnance.

“What? This your room, mate?”

Its big square head tilted and one ear perked. The cat boldly hissed up at him, walked closer, sniffed before licking his bare foot then leapt to the bed and snuggled on the pillow. 

He ruffled the dog’s ear and headed out of the bedroom. He could hear the woman come into the house, the sound of the panting goldie, the water running in the kitchen.

“G’day,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She didn’t turn from the sink. “Have a seat. Made you some chicken soup.”

He sat and pet the handicapped dog then turned to thank her for the bowl of soup. After he ate not one, but three servings, he leaned back in the chair and watched her. Her beautiful silver hair was braided in a long rope reaching the small of her back. She wore jeans and a tee shirt. A remarkable looking woman. Her body, slender, perfect with its easy curves, its fluid movement. When she turned to join him at the table, it nearly took his breath away. Her face was flawless, but not the face of a young woman. The face of wisdom, maturity; a face not weathered by the elements and age, but polished by experience. The texture of her skin was delicate, but his first impression was correct. Not a wrinkle, none of the crow’s feet or laugh lines that even he had. She was ageless, and if his life depended on it, he couldn’t have guessed her years.

The Golden Retriever propped its head on Russell’s knee, and the one eyed cat circled his feet.

“Lainie? That your name?”

“Elaine. Yes, Lainie. And your name would be?”

“Russell. Russell Crowe. What happened to her leg?” He grinned at the dog, pressing her snout under his resting hand, begging for attention.

“Some idiot tossed her out of a moving car on route 40.”

“Jesus. And the cat?”

“Rotten kids with a pointy stick. Found her dying under my porch last winter.”

Russell turned to the bulldog, snorting at the doorway, watching him like a hawk. “And what’s wrong with him?”

Lainie gathered his dirty dishes, glanced at the slobbering dog and shrugged. “Peabody? He’s just ugly.”

“Not really. I kinda like his look.”

As though the dog could understand, he straightened his broad shoulders and sat with a thump, looking a lot like he might consider permitting Russell to remain in the house after all.

“Feeling better?”

“A bit. Head’s still killing me.”

“Then you’d better get back to bed.”

He stood with a groan, more than his head still hurt. Even his eye lids ached. “Lainie, I really appreciate what you did for me. How can I ever thank you?”

She dried her hands on a dish towel, never looking at him. “The best way to thank me is don’t. Get to bed. I’ll keep the critters out of the room.”

“No worries, love. They don’t bother.”

~*~

Russell was amazed at how quickly he dropped into a deep sleep. No sooner had his head hit the pillow and his mind wander to the woman in the kitchen, his breath eased into an even tempo and he felt himself drift off. It was a restful, replenishing slumber, the kind where he woke in the exact position in which he fell asleep. He stretched. It was dark, probably late. But he heard music drifting down the hall to him. Vivaldi.

He remembered a few things clearly. It surprised him that he’d remember anything, considering his condition when he came to be in Lainie’s house, in her guest room bed, recovering from the damn Asian flu. But he clearly recalled that the house was neat, simply decorated, nothing extravagant or fancy. There was no television in the lounge, but a nice sound system capable of far more depth than he was hearing at the moment. Books, lots of books. Interesting.

He splashed cool water on his face, ran wet hands through his hair and took a good look in the mirror. He had the obvious appearance of a man getting back from hell. His eyes were still a bit bloodshot, his face a little pale, but he felt fine. Actually he felt pretty damn good. Russell was in the habit of working himself hard, pushing himself way beyond his limits, and never even realizing it until something happened, like a bad cold, pulled muscles he had no clue how he hurt, the flu. Usually, he’d just sleep it off. Rest. Take a brief holiday from the speeding treadmill that had become his life. Not that he minded the way he lived his life, the way he worked. And it certainly wasn’t as though he was trying to make himself sick. Acting was such joyful stress for him, he usually had no clue he was asking too much of himself. His body held the wisdom his head never grasped. It knew when to tell him to stop, sit tight and rest. Maybe it was time to pay better attention.

Russell walked down the hall and leaned against the doorway. Lainie was sitting in a wing back chair, a pale blue satin robe tied at her waist, reading glasses at the end of her nose and a book in her hand. Again he was taken aback by her look. So controlled, so beautiful.

“What’re  ya readin’?”

“Words,” she closed the book and looked up at him over the wire rims.

“Just words?” He sat across from her on the sofa.

“You play an instrument, Russell?”

“Sure do. Guitar.”

She nodded, removed the glasses, folded them calmly and set them on the book. “You know how sometimes you’re playing music, and sometimes you’re just playing notes?”

A smile crept across his face. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, tonight, I’m just reading words.”

“Would you rather talk words?”

She set the book aside, crossed her legs, modestly wrapping her robe closed at the knees and grinned. “You feel up to it?”

“Yeah. Feeling much better, thanks to your care.”

Her head tilted.

“I didn’t say thank you, did I, mate?”

“Technicality.”

Russell found himself smiling. It was the kind of smile he usually reserved for that discussion just before foreplay and he wondered what he was doing.

“Where are you from?”

“Down Under.”

“That’s obvious. Where in Australia?”

“Ah, technicalities. Mostly Sydney. Move around a lot. Soon, I hope to buy a farm.”

“A farm? Ducks and chickens?”

“Cows,” he chuckled.

“You plan on hitting the lottery?” she said with a teasing grin.

“Something like that.”

Lainie eyed him, one brow up. “I like your vagueness, Russell.”

“Will you be as vague with me then, love?” He glanced around the room. “You lived here long?”

“No.”

“Nicely ambiguous.”

“Thank you.”

Verbal volleyball was Russell’s specialty. Stretch his brain and anyone could reach his heart.

“Where you from, Lainie?”

“America.”

“Touché,” he giggled. “What do ya do?”

“Right now? I take care of a three legged dog, a half blind cat, an aging bulldog and a sick Aussie.”

“What did you do before?”

She stood, walked toward him and his head tilted up, eyes intense on hers.

“Why don’t we just leave it where it is, Russell. We’re all nothing but a bunch of baggage. A neat package of shit and sunshine.” She stepped closer; her eyes toured his shoulders, his chest, moved to his lap. “Just a package. That’s all we are. Not important to know everything that’s inside.”

“Guess you’re right.” His heart was starting to race and that smile took over his face again.

“And, to be very honest my Aussie friend, my package is very intrigued with your package.”

“Yeah?” He stood, she was so close he could smell the scent of her, the want between her legs, and the need between his was beginning to strain against his jeans for satisfaction.

“But, maybe you find this package a little too scuffed and old for your liking.”

His hands took her silk covered waist and tugged her tenderly against him.

“Lainie, I think you are a remarkable beauty. Can I ask, how old are you?”

“Older than you.”

“No semantics, love. The truth.” His lips gently brushed against hers, felt the warm rush of a pant from her chest. The kiss intensified and he tasted her lips, savored them one at a time and ran the tip of his tongue along the heat just past her teeth, sweet, inviting. Intriguing.

“Fifty-seven,” she whispered like a secret.

His fingers pulled at the silky tie and slid beneath, pressing his palm along the warmth of her skin.

“That wasn’t so hard, love, was it? Lainie, I don’t care how old you are. You’re beautiful, desirable,” his kisses moved to her neck, “and I want you.”

“Take me,” she sighed.

He slowly opened the pale blue fabric, exposing her breasts. There, he nuzzled and nursed as she whimpered to his touch. The breast was soft, warm, not firm or solid. The nipple tasted like well seasoned food, not candy. Her flesh rippled under his tongue and it spurred him on. Hands slid around and held her perfect ass, pressed her closer to him.

“Jesus, Russell. Please take me to bed,” she gasped.

“Soon,” his tongue moved to the other nipple, consumed it as his hips ground an aching hard on against her thigh. “Soon.”

She kissed the top of his head, ran her hands through his hair. “First lesson about loving an old woman, dear,” her breath caught and he heard her sigh. “We don’t fuck on the floor.”

“If I was making love to an old woman, I’d take that advice, love.”

He lifted her in his arms and sat her on the chair. There he knelt and grinned up at her. He lifted her legs, set them gently on his shoulders and proceeded to kiss her calf, the tip of her knee, the inside of her trembling thigh. His hands moved to her heated flesh, and with gentle fingers he unfolded the flower, easy, so easy. Watching every expression on her face, the way it melted to his attention, his fingers slid the valleys, became covered with warm honey. Finally he could wait no longer, lowered his mouth to the treasure. With one long, smooth movement, his tongue tasted her and he groaned.

“So delicious, Lainie. So fucking delicious.”

He sucked gently at her heated bud, his fingers soft on her pussy, diving, sliding, entering. Lainie was extremely responsive, more so than he expected, shuddering and moaning. His finger, deep inside, received the trembles of tiny orgasm after tiny orgasm, but he wanted to feel more. He wanted to see her lose her control at his command.

He sucked harder, created a rhythm that accelerated her reactions. Brought her to a frenzy, and still, he sensed her holding back.

“Come for me, Lainie, ” he whispered into her mound, his fingers working her clit like guitar strings. He didn’t want to just have sex, Russell wanted to make truly passionate love with the remarkable woman.

She began to writhe, her heels planted on his shoulders and her back arched. More, he wanted more. He licked a finger, slowly slid it into her anus, moved it with the beat of his strum. Finally, he saw the rush of color spread from her breasts to her face, watched her eyes close, and she cried out.

“That’s it, love. Just like that. Yes, Lainie. More, baby. More.”

She was compliant, gave him all of it, more than he could have dreamed. Rolling and gasping, shaking as tears rolled down her face. He was satisfied.

He kissed her back to earth, pressing loving lips on her belly, between her breasts, on her cheek, and finally, when her breath had calmed, he devoured her mouth.

“Now, your first lesson about loving me. I seldom fuck on the floor.”

She smiled into his eyes.

He carried her to her bed and laid her tenderly, stood back and tugged his tee shirt over his head, unbuttoned his jeans. Russell loved the way her eyes hungered for him, they way they caressed his form. It made him feel special, as special as he believed she was. He had been with older women, been with younger women It never ceased to amazed him how different they all were. But Lainie was something unique, something he’d never seen. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the package she was, had to be stuffed with something unparalleled that made her such a draw; something that called wounded animals into her care, and a sick Aussie too.

As he kicked his jeans away and crawled over her, he could feel her apprehension. To calm her, he kissed and caressed her, talked softly. Told her how he saw her, what she radiated. He slid his finger into the wetness, she was ready and he was way past ready.

Positioning himself carefully, he pressed the head of his cock at the door, slid slowly, then deeper. It was driving him insane to restrain, but he chose the path, a gentle road.

With a sudden gasp, Lainie cried out. “Oh God, Russell. Stop, please. Stop.”

Tears slid from her eyes into her hair and he kissed them, stopped moving but didn’t retreat. “Shh, shh,” he soothed. “We’ll take it slow, baby. Shh.”

But she struggled under him as he advanced. Just another inch, another millimeter was all he wanted, just movement to stimulate him, and help her to receive his length. But he was hurting her. It broke his heart.

“Shh. I can tell this is too hard for ya,” he slowly withdrew and she sobbed. “Shh, Lainie. We’ll try another way, that’s all.”

He held her close until she relaxed, then rolled her over. He helped her up onto her knees then checked her path. He slid one finger deep, then two. Tight. So fucking tight he wondered how long it had been for her. But he was determined. Hell bent to give her pleasure. Kissing her shoulder, he pressed in. It was easier and he got further. Stopped often to allow her a moment to adjust, but at last he had full penetration. He straightened and grasped her hips, massaging as he began to slowly pump into her. He watched his cock slide in, slide out, and his excitement built. The pressure in his belly mounted as his cock received her heat. “Ahh fuck, Lainie. Jesus!”

He was losing control, his thrusts intensifying, the tremble beginning in his balls as they tightened. A hand snaked around and worked her trigger. She was so sensitive; he could actually feel her tightening around him as he pounded. “Jesus, Lainie!”

Hot come exploded, pouring into her as she struggled with another orgasm to break the records. As he jerked and jutted into her, she arched up. He took that opportunity to grasp her, hold her heaving breasts and pump the last ounce of his offering into her shuddering belly.

~*~

“Got a package, love.”

Lainie grinned, eyed the crotch of his jeans, then the box. “Where’d this come from?”

“Federal Express. Signed for it while you were in the shower. Hungry?”

She sat at the table, obviously distracted by the package she’d set on the counter while Russell whipped eggs for an omelet. “Why don’t you just open it?”

“I know what it is.”

He tossed it to her, smiled and heated the pan.

Watching her mirrored reflection in the toaster, he was surprised to see the woman he knew as stoic, strong, even pragmatic, finger the box like it would explode in her hands. He turned.

“Lainie?”

She’d gone white, reading a letter from the package. She replaced the paper, closed the box, and pushed past him to the trash. There, she simply dropped the parcel and let the lid flop closed.

“I have errands to run. If you’ve gone before I get back, have a safe trip, Russell.”

With those words, she left the house.

He blinked. Listened to her old truck pull out of the driveway, smelled burning eggs.  He pulled the pan from the burner then reached into the trash can.

“Shouldn’t do this, mate.”

“Uff!” the bulldog agreed.

Russell turned to Peabody. “Damn straight I shouldn’t. It’s her private business. Not mine.” But he took the package, opened it and sat at the table.

“Don’t give me that look. I know, I know. But Christ. It’s just too fuckin’ tempting.”

Peabody thumped to the floor, rested his massive head on huge paws and watched Russell break every rule in the book.

Russell was angry at her. After the night they’d shared, all she could say was, “If you’re gone before I get back, have a nice trip”? Brutal. Unacceptable. Perfectly Lainie. But there were things he wanted to know, needed to know about her before he left.

He lifted the letter. Not professional letterhead on watermarked parchment, but it was attached to what looked like a six page contract.

            Elaine!

You’ve blown me away with this manuscript. For years, every publisher in the country has begged for this story, and as your agent, I’ve had to deny them. Now, you come through. Now that I’m retired. But I’ve dusted off all my contacts for you, dear. This is remarkable. The Random House contract enclosed is just a sampling of the offers we’re getting.

            Call me, now.

            Yours,

            Mitchell Kennedy

Russell reached into the box. The manuscript was only about a hundred pages; he glared at the cover page, blinked. “Holy shit.”

            Abandoned Oasis

            the memoirs of Elaine Barkley Cook

Elaine Barkley Cook? Jesus, he knew that name. And the title, Abandoned Oasis?

“Holy bloody shit!”

The words “abandoned oasis” were from a line of poetry. A mate introduced him to the stirring poems of Elaine Barkley Cook years ago. That particular line was so stunning; Russell almost stole it as a lyric for a song he was writing. He could recite the line; it had touched him so deeply he would never forget it.

            Cry no tears for the abandoned oasis.

            Self love, sacrificed

            to the prodigious need

            for self survival.

It wasn’t the last surprise he’d discover about Lainie.

~*~

He poured a mug of coffee and settled over the manuscript. Reading the first few sentences gave him a rush of fear. Did he really want to do this? But Elaine Barkley Cook was the kind of writer who drew a reader in, trapped them. He was already too far to retreat.

My name is Elaine Barkley Cook, and this is my story. My truth. The story of how I fell from a very high place. A place I struggled to acquire, plowing through years of alcoholism to six straight blissful years of sobriety, finally achieving the real American dream. A beautiful baby daughter who brightened my days, and a marriage that to the average suburban onlooker, appeared perfect. As I said, the real American dream. This is the story of how I lost everything. How I came to live in the Arizona State Women’s Correctional Facility for thirteen years, and how, by the grace of God, I regained my freedom. This is the story of hell and the aftermath. My story.

The beginning of the book focused on several news stories that sensationalized a murder case that baffled the country. Lainie was suspected, accused and finally convicted of the murder of her five year old daughter, Melanie. The trial was covered from Lainie’s point of view then her experiences as a prisoner were detailed.

After enjoying years of sobriety, Lainie’s husband, Carl Cook began to secretly feed her various foods and beverages laced with alcohol, leading her into another serious bout of alcoholism. One evening, he took her out to a neighborhood party, made sure she drank heavily and from that point, Lainie remembered nothing. Nothing but the police, her husband’s claim that he had watched his wife murder their little girl and take the child’s body away.

No body was found and Lainie had no memory of the incident, but there was so much evidence that Lainie herself believed it all to be true.

In the book, she told the stark realities of her life in prison, the desperation, fears and one particular rape by a male guard that put her into the hospital. It took two surgical procedures to repair the damage and explained Russell’s difficulty with making love to her.

The entire story was heart wrenching, but moved to an even more disturbing level when she told of her husband’s conjugal visits. Private, unwatched visits where he never touched her. Visits where he described how much he despised her. How he murdered their daughter. He gave astounding graphic details that sent Lainie into episodes of depression so great that once again, she was hospitalized. She never said a word, convinced that the case would never be reopened. Guilt racked Lainie, terror that she was culpable by her inability to protect her child. She resigned herself to the life of a prisoner. And never wrote another word of poetry.

During her thirteenth year at the correctional facility, word reached her that Carl was diagnosed with cancer. She felt nothing. Numbness was her protection and she permitted nothing to invade that safe space. But on July 23^rd of that year, she was astoundingly taken from her cell, given her belongings and released. Her attorney explained that Carl had confessed to the murder, assisted the police to the exact location of the baby’s body, and asked for the death penalty. He was denied. Even this turn of events could not reach Lainie’s heart. Her daughter was still dead. Murdered at the hands of a man she trusted.

The state of Arizona gave her a settlement that bought the house she lived in. She was living a solitary life and only found true peace and connection when helping injured animals.

            I am not happy, but I will live. Survival is important. The reasons for it are not.

Russell read the last lines of the book several times, could hardly breathe. He was about to close the manuscript when he glance up. Lainie was standing at the screen door. She stepped in, skirted Russell and dropped a grocery bag onto the counter.

“Lainie, this must had been very healing for you, love,” he said softly.

“Get out of my house.”

“Lainie, I’m – ”

She turned, fire in her eyes and stood close, glaring down at him. “I don’t care what you are. I don’t care about what you think. Just get the hell out.” She pointed to the door.

Russell stood. “Injured and damaged things are all ya care about?”

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Then ya should take a look in the mirror, love.”

“Get the hell out of my house!”

He leaned close to her ear, whispered.

            “Cry no tears for the abandoned oasis.

            Self love, sacrificed

            to the prodigious need

            for self survival.”

She gasped and his hand rested tenderly on her shoulder.

“Lainie, you’ve become your own words.”

A sharp movement, her hand cracked across his face. Russell stepped back, his head jerked to the side.

“Get out!”

With a swing of his arm and a long stride, he grabbed his duffle and charged out of the screen door. It slammed closed and he went to his rental. Tossing the bag in, he thumped behind the wheel and fumbled for his key. At the point where he could insert it into the ignition, everything came to an abrupt stop. His anger, his confusion, his frustration fused into a solid wall that paralyzed him in place.

An alarm went off inside his brain. This was not something he could just walk away from. It wasn’t something he was meant to walk away from. There was a reason he got sick near Elaine Barkley Cook’s truck. A reason he needed to discover.

He dropped the keys in his lap and reached back for a carton of fags, lit and chain smoked three in a row. Rubbing his eyes, he realized that of course, there are times for a proper root, good and hard, getting and giving as much satisfaction as possible before moving on. He was still supposed to move on; there was no doubt about that. But it wasn’t going to be that way. At the very least, he owed her an apology. He climbed out and took a deep drag, tossed the butt and headed for the house.

Standing at the screen door, he didn’t pull it open. He knew it wasn’t locked because Lainie was exactly where he left her, her back to him, her shoulders firm and straight.

“Lainie,” he spoke softly. “Let me in, love.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move.

“Please.”

Lainie turned and walked toward him, her body was slow, emptied. Her eyes, red. She pushed the handle and he placed his hand over hers before moving inside.

She stepped back and he took her shoulders in his hands, lowered his face to hers and talked. He spoke quietly of his discoveries in the book, candidly of his ideas of who she was, what she meant in the scheme of life. Of his life. How he saw her. He told her what he knew, about his own life and what he was learning. And he verbalized his thoughts for her future.

“Lainie, love. Don’t keep your heart so hard. It’s the place you hold Melanie. Be gentle with yourself so that you can be tender with her. She’s always with you, love. Always.”

Lainie sobbed, dropped into his arms. “I failed her, Russell.”

“Yes, in a way you did. But in so many ways you didn’t.”

She raised her face to him, her eyes registering wonder at his comment. He slowly moved behind her, continued talking calmly as he removed the fabric covered band that held her braid. Tenderly he undid her hair, ran his fingers through the silky texture, massaged her scalp, kissed her neck. Her head dropped back and his hands settled on her waist.

“You need to write, Lainie. You need to keep on healing yourself. So what if you never publish these things, it’s not important. It is important that you survive. And love, it is very important how you survive.”

She turned into his embrace and sought his mouth, her kisses desperate, longing. He became consumed by them, his hands grasping at her clothes, his mouth wanting every inch of her. He pulled back.

“Love, we gotta slow down a bit here. No floor fucking,” he teased, leading her to the bedroom, but he was actually most concerned about the animal growing inside of him. About how he’d control it when he entered her. He forced everything to slow down, begging his heart to steady, and his hands to be gentle. Knowing how she felt wrapped around him, how good it was. He undressed her as she undressed him, then she knelt at his feet and his apprehension slowly dissolved. He buried his fingers deep into her silver hair and watched her hot tongue trail the length of him. Russell had to sit on the edge of the bed, his knees became weak as she licked and kissed his cock, made it jump and jerk to her touch. Her fingers tenderly rolled his balls and he dropped back onto the mattress with a hiss.

Lainie took him deep into her mouth; her hands working magic, making him gasp and groan. His hips became alive, moving of their own accord, pressing up until he could feel the back of her throat open to him. The heat of her mouth was making him wild. He wanted to pull her up, force himself into her but knew he couldn’t. Not the way he felt that moment, like a hurtling freight train seeking fruition. She sucked and he pumped, grunting and apologizing, but she continued.

When he came, it seemed endless. The movement of her tongue and throat as she swallowed his offering pulled more and more from him. “Ahh, fuck!” He grunted and groaned, rolled his hips, then dropped an arm over his eyes, gasping to catch his breath.

Lainie crawled up beside him, pressing her flesh along his and he held her close.

“Thank you,” she whispered.  

“It should be me thankin’ you, love,” he chuckled.

“For everything,” she snuggled closer.

“How come you’re allowed to thank me, and I’m not allowed to thank you?”

“You can.”

He turned, kissed her mouth tenderly. “Thank you, Lainie.”

“You’re welcome.”

He pressed her back to him and warmly spooned against her. His cock was soft, but beginning to regain its desire. He had a plan and hoped it would work well. Setting the soft head against her wet opening and using his finger, he slowly inched his flesh inside of hers. As his excitement grew, he was already buried into Lainie. She was soft in his hands, cooperative, wanting it as much as he did. When he could push, he did but until he’d regained his full stiffness, he moved easily, soothing the damaged walls of her path.

His fingers played, circling her clit, teasing it. He kissed her neck, whispered in her ear. Calculated his moves and felt every tremble against his swelling cock. He pressed deeper, reaching her womb. Then he took her button between finger and thumb, worked it until it swelled and throbbed, until she cried out his name. He was fully erect and again out of control.

“Lainie,” he said as his body took over and pressed the first hard, demanding thrust. “Tell me if I hurt ya, love. Tell me.”

But she move with him, moved against him, bending her body permitting him more access. He gripped her hips and pounded. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes. His hands pushed her shoulders even further and he rocked into her.

“Ahh! Baby! Jesus!” Russell was on an erratic ride, pummeling at high speed. All his efforts to begin slow, take the time to assure her comfort had paid off big time. She was on the frenzied journey with him, and he would last long. He wanted her to come again and again. He loved how she came, the explosiveness of it, the vulnerability. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen.

It lasted an eternity, felt better than anything. She came again and again and he relished the pressure on his sensitive cock. When finally he could wait no longer, she was with him, thrusting back as he drove it home, spurting everything he had into her. They dropped with the sheer exhaustion of lovers who had reached the top. Together.

~*~

Russell kept in touch with Lainie. Holiday cards, an occasional phone call, mostly when he was lonely on the road and needing to hear a familiar voice.

Elaine Barkley Cook died while he was filming Master and Commander. He had spoken to her only a few weeks earlier.

“How are ya, love?”

“Old. And you?”

“Gettin’ older everyday.”

He listened to the muffled sound of a conversation, her hand over the receiver.

“Someone there? I can call later.”

“No, no. I have a stupid visiting nurse.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Why? Lainie are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He could hear her shuffle on the bed, the sound of papers and crisp sheets. He didn’t believe her and made an immediate mental decision to visit Arizona as soon as filming ended.

“I picked up three fledgling geese a few weeks ago. Maulled by a coyote I think. They all lived, but between them, not one can fly. Or swim.”

“And what did ya name them?”

“Moe, Larry and Russell of course.”

He laughed.

“So, you’re going to marry her?”

“I am.”

“Good, good. Do something for me, Aussie?”

“Anything.”

“Be a good husband.”

“I will.”

He never made it to see her; she was gone two weeks later. The only thing he had of Lainie was a copy of the only book she’d written after her troubles. A collection of poems entitled, A Stranger Knows. It was dedicated;

            to one ugly dog, a hard life, and a wonderful Aussie

THE END

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