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From: MichaelD38@aol.com
Subject: RP: {MichaelD} "Sunset on Roses" (mf, teen, rom) (CR305: 10,10,10+) (1/6)
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DISCLAIMER AND AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons is
unintentional and strictly coincidental. It contains explicit descriptions of
sexual activity with a minor, and anyone offended by such things should read
no further. This story describes certain activities that would be illegal in
the real world, and it is not the author's intention to condone such behavior
or to inspire people who cannot separate fantasy from reality. If reception
of this work is illegal due to your age or other repressive local regulations,
liability for downloading it is your problem, not mine. This work is intended
for the quiet and private enjoyment of adults who enjoy quality erotica.
If you missed a chapter, feel free to e-mail me, and I will be happy to
supply the missing pieces. Intelligent comments and criticisms will receive
appropriate responses. Flames go straight to the recycling bin.
Sunset on Roses
I.
I was thirty-two and six months past a difficult divorce. I worked for a
small law firm in Laguna Beach, California, splitting my time between personal
injury and criminal defense. My ex-wife and I had sold our house in Irvine
and split the proceeds, and I had put my half into a small cottage in Laguna
Canyon. I spent most of my time working, gardening, and feeling sorry for
myself. During my marriage, like a lot of men, I let my circle of friends
dwindle down to the point where "our" friends were essentially her friends,
and when we split, she got them all.
That summer, my loneliness finally began to win out over my resentment at
anything female, but I was at a loss about what to do. I hit the bars for a
few weekends, but I had never been any good at the bar scene when I was
single, and I wasn't any better at it after ten years of monogamy. So when
this finally happened, I was lonely enough to let it. Karma, I guess. It's
funny how these things happen.
My firm frequently hired young kids to work as file clerks to assist the
secretaries and attorneys. Almost without exception, they were college
students or kids just out of high school, old enough to dream of being lawyers
but young enough not to understand the reality of it.
On Monday of the first week in June, the office manager stuck her head in my
office, and I noticed a pretty girl with red hair standing just behind her.
"Michael, I'd like you to meet Tracey. She's Marcy's daughter. She's
starting today as a file clerk."
I nodded to her as they took a step or two into my office.
"Hi. Nice to meet you."
"Hi."
I noticed as she got closer that she was one of those rarest of creatures, a
natural redhead (and I mean red, not just strawberry blonde or orange), with
rich, dark copper-toned hair. It was long and straight, about six or eight
inches past her shoulders. Her skin was tan, slightly olive-toned and only
lightly dusted with freckles, not the fair Celtic skin you often see on
redheads, male or female. Her eyes were a pretty hazel-brown, and she was
about five-nine with a medium build.
I could sense a few sparks as we looked at each other, but I reminded myself
that she seemed a little young. Besides which, her mother Marcy was one of
our secretaries, a competent though very free-spirited woman, and that
probably put her off limits no matter how old she was.
Tracey left with the office manager, and I didn't see her again until that
afternoon, when I went into the library to do some research. She was at the
table, surrounded by open files and pleadings that she was punching and
placing in the file folders.
"Settling in all right?"
"Yeah. You guys have a lot of files."
"Lawyers don't do anything without making fifteen copies of it and sending to
everyone they know."
She laughed.
"What do you do?"
"Personal injury with some criminal defense."
"What kind of people do you defend?"
"Down here it's mainly DUI or petty drug offenses, or domestic violence.
Nothing big time. Worst case I ever had was a liquor store robbery with an
assault on the clerk."
"Did you win?"
"No. Most of our clients are guilty. My job is really to ensure they get a
fair trial, not get them off."
"I want to do criminal defense. Or constitutional law."
"You want to be a lawyer?"
"I think so. I like writing and debating."
"Criminal defense is tough. It's not for everyone and it's definitely not
like it is on television. It's one of the hardest and most thankless jobs
around."
"Yeah, I'm sure. I'd at least like to try it, I guess."
"Where are you going to school?"
"Corona del Mar."
"High school?"
"Yeah."
I looked down and twirled my pen through my fingers. So much for that, I
thought.
"How old are you?"
"Just seventeen. I graduate next year."
"Where are you going to apply?"
"I can't decide. I don't know if I want to go somewhere close, like UCI, or
somewhere back East. Where did you go?"
"USC and UCLA."
"Undergrad and law school?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. That's cool. I have some friends who want to go to USC."
"Trojan families?"
"Yeah."
"A lot of them down here."
We went back to work, and I went back to my office a little later. Despite
the age difference, I got to be decent friends with her over the next few
weeks. Most of the time, we would discuss her ambitions to be a lawyer and
her ideas about college. On occasion, I would borrow her from filing for a
few case management tasks, such as organizing trial notebooks. Something was
developing between us, although at most it seemed like a "big brother" thing
to me.
The associates at the firm tended to eat lunch together, while the
secretaries and staff, if they didn't eat at their desks, kept to themselves.
Few law firms, especially small ones, operate on strict schedules, though, so
it wasn't unusual for me to eat lunch by myself.
One day, about a month after Tracey showed up, I came down the building
stairs and ran into Tracey coming out of the restroom. Both of us realized we
were heading out the door.
"Going to lunch?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Me too."
We fell in together out on the sidewalk.
"Where were you going?" she asked.
"Just to the La Salsa down the street."
We sat together in the patio area.
"I heard you just got divorced."
"Uh, yeah. Last year. It was final just before Christmas."
"I'm sorry. That must have sucked. Do you have kids?"
"No. That was one of the things that contributed to it."
"You wanted them and she didn't? Or something like that?"
"Something like that."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"Are you doing anything for the Fourth of July?"
"I was going up to my Dad's."
"We'll probably go to my grandparents. They live out in Coto de Caza."
"I've never been out there."
"It's nice. Kind of rural, but I like it."
We ate for about a minute before she spoke up again.
"Could I ask you a favor? This will sound weird."
"Shoot."
"Would you mind reading this story I wrote? You write really well, and I'd
like to get someone's opinion on it."
"How do you know how I write?"
She glanced away for a second, slightly embarrassed.
"Um, I read a lot of the stuff I file. It keeps it from being too boring. I
really like how you write. I thought you could maybe give me some
suggestions."
"Sure. I'd be glad to."
"Thanks."
When we got back to the office, she gave me the story, about twenty typed
pages entitled "Sunset on Roses," and I started reading it when I got home
that night. I take my writing very seriously, and I tend to be a very harsh
critic, so I had to keep reminding myself that she was still in high school.
The story was about a girl named Betsy, who lived with her mother in an
unidentified beach town in Southern California. Betsy dreamed of going to
college back East, but her mother had no money to pay for the tuition.
Betsy's idea was to win a scholarship from the state Rosarian Society by
growing the finest rose in California.
I could definitely see that Tracey was writing, at least in part, about
herself. What struck me, though, was that she had made the leap from simple
adolescent fantasizing to drawing on her experiences to create something new
and interesting. What was more impressive was that Tracey's story went beyond
a mere tale about a young girl growing roses. Instead, she used the rose as a
metaphor for Betsy's growth and "blooming" from a hesitant girl to a confident
young woman. I did find the choice of theme a little unusual, since most
serious rosarians I've met are middle-aged or retired folks who've been
gardening their entire lives. Tracey either had some unusual inclinations for
a seventeen-year-old girl, or she deliberately wanted to show that Betsy was
reaching for something beyond her years.
I was not surprised to see that Betsy won the scholarship in the end. I
think Tracey was simply too young (and idealistic, unlike a divorced, thirty-
two year old lawyer) to see the dramatic potential in a failed quest. She
clearly showed, though, how the process of creating the winning rose was what
really qualified Betsy for her scholarship and her future.
The grammar needed some work, and structurally I would have done a few things
differently, but overall, I was impressed, and told her so the next day.
"You really think so?"
"Definitely. This is college-level stuff. You might think about including
it in your application packet if they let you do it."
"Thanks. I really appreciate this."
"Are you into growing roses?"
"My mom is. So I know a lot about it."
"I have a few rose bushes in my yard, but nothing prize-winning."
"I love roses. My mom has about fifty bushes around the yard."
"She has more spare time than I do. You know, if you have anything else, I'd
like to read it."
"Really?"
"Sure."
"I have some other stories. But that's really the best."
"Whatever you're willing to share."
So she gave me several more of her stories. As she said, "Sunset on Roses"
was her best stuff, but I could see she definitely had talent. She liked
creating two-leveled stories, using some surface element-like the roses-as a
metaphor for what she really wanted to say. The mark of true talent, I'd
always thought-but then that was how I liked to write.
II.
"Don't go to law school," I told her a few days later. "Major in English and
try to become a writer."
"I just don't know if I could support myself doing that."
"That's what everyone thinks, but once you go to law school, it's hard to
turn back. If you go to law school, you'll end up like me."
She didn't laugh at my intended joke.
"Do you like to write?"
"Plenty. I've just never been able to sell any of it. I've written a few
novels, one of which is essentially dead, another I'm still trying to get
represented."
"Well, don't give up. I mean, you're not that old."
I laughed.
"Thanks. I didn't think I was old at all."
"Well, you know what I mean. Could I read your book?"
"Which one?"
"The one you're trying to sell. I promise I won't steal it."
I had to think about that for a moment. This book was-or at least I intended
it as-a serious, complex, political/sexual satire, and beyond the fact that it
had some explicit sex in it, I was concerned that it might go over her head.
"It's a pretty heavy book. I don't know if it's your sort of thing, based on
what you like to write about."
"I like to read a lot of stuff."
I gave it to her the next day, which was Friday, telling her not to feel like
she had to read it all at once.
Sunday afternoon, while I was out gardening, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Um, hi, it's Tracey. From work."
"Hi. What's up?"
"I didn't want to bother you on a Sunday, but I just had to call you. I
stayed up all night on Friday reading your book, and then I read it again last
night. It's one of the best things I've ever read. I mean, I cried at a
couple of spots."
"Thanks. I'm glad. What was it that you cried at, just out of curiosity?"
"When John and Brittany broke up, you know, when he found out who she was,
and then at the end, when I realized what you were trying to say."
"What did you think it was about?"
"About how our society is so fixated on appearances and stereotypes, and how
people who refuse to play along with that get hurt. That's why John and
Brittany got back together, right? And why Paul Beaumont lost the race at the
end?"
"Yeah. Wow. I'm impressed. I mean, mainly because I was concerned I hadn't
done that great a job with the theme."
"It was amazing. You write so well. I felt so stupid when I read it, after
I'd given you my own lame stuff to read."
"Your stuff isn't lame. You write a lot better than I did at your age. Just
give it time."
"Okay. Um, I was thinking, I could bring the disk by your house today, if
you want."
I thought about that for a moment. I mean, the obvious thing would have just
been to give it to me tomorrow at work, and surely she knew that.
"If you want to. I'll be here."
I gave her the directions, and she showed up in a little Toyota Tercel about
twenty minutes later. She was wearing denim shorts and a white T-shirt that
set her hair off brilliantly.
"So, this is your house, huh? This is nice. I love Laguna Canyon."
"I like living here, except for the traffic on the road. I'm betting we
won't get another El Ni�o for another fifteen years so I won't get hit by a
landslide. You want something to drink?"
It was hot out, so I figured that was simply polite.
"Sure. Water is fine."
I led her into the kitchen, and she leaned against the sink, looking into my
backyard. I tried to keep my eyes off her butt as she bent over, but failed.
She had very pretty legs, and I had to force my glance away from them.
"You've got nice rose bushes. Your yard looks like my mom's."
"It runs in the family. You should see my mother's house. Like something
out of 'House & Garden.'"
She opened the back door and went out to look. I followed her and gave her
the glass of ice water. She took a couple of long swigs as she looked around
at the landscaping and the little pond I'd built in the back corner. She
knelt down and poked at the fish a few times. Then she stood up, setting her
glass down on the stone bench by the pond, and put her hands in her back
pockets. She looked around the yard, then at me.
"So. You live here all by yourself?"
"Yeah."
"It looks like you don't go out much. Just garden."
"That's about the size of it."
"I guess it's hard since you just split up."
I had to look away from her a second.
"You're very direct, you know that?"
She shrugged.
"I just think people should deal with stuff instead of trying to hide it."
"Well, in answer to your question, yes. It's hard to meet people around here
outside of hitting the bars."
"Oh."
"If you were a little older, I might ask you out," I said, but I regretted it
the instant it was out of my mouth.
She looked startled, then smiled, and then started laughing. She put her
hands over her mouth to stop herself, with limited success.
I stifled a grin, feeling an embarrassed flush spreading over my face.
"It's not that damned funny."
"No. No." She held her hand over her mouth. "I'm not laughing at you. Or
I am, but it's not what you think."
"What do you mean?"
"Are you worried about my mom?"
"For starters."
She laughed again.
"She doesn't care. She thinks you're great. She was joking about my hanging
around with you so much just last night."
"Wonderful."
"No, it's cool. So, like, if you want to ask me out, ask me out. It's
okay."
My jaw dropped slightly, and I struggled with my surprise and desire for a
moment.
"Tracey, this is more tempting than you realize, but it's just not possible.
However well we get along, and however much I like you, the fact remains that
you're seventeen, and I'm not that much younger than your mother. I realize
that eighteen is an arbitrary distinction, but it's one we have to accede to."
She had been frowning as I talked, but a grin suddenly hit her face at the
end.
"What?"
"I've never heard anyone actually say that word."
"It's what happens when you go to law school."
But the grin left as quickly as it came.
"Why is it such a big deal? It's not illegal for us just to hang out."
"No, but I'm concerned about what it might lead to."
Her face darkened, and she frowned at me.
"Look. Whatever else happens, if you want to be my friend, don't treat me
like a little kid, okay? I may be seventeen, but I'm not a little girl. I'm
not some innocent virgin you have to worry about damaging. Lecture me about
the law, but don't patronize me."
"Okay."
"My mom is always telling me not to be satisfied with the ordinary, that you
have to be willing to look beyond and go beyond what everyone else does if you
really want to be happy and fulfilled. I don't care how old you are. You're
the sweetest, coolest guy I've ever met."
"Thank you. Believe me, if you were even two or three years older, we
wouldn't be having this conversation. We'd be on our way to dinner right
now."
"Why should two or three years make that much difference?"
"I don't know. But legally, it does."
She looked around the yard, frustrated.
"Only if, you know, we get to that point. But I really think you're assuming
too much right now, okay? I just said I'd go out with you. I didn't say I'd
do anything else."
Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.
"Well," I finally said, "we've certainly managed to create a very awkward
situation out of what should have been a simple afternoon visit."
She managed a smile, but didn't say anything. I looked around for a few
seconds before looking back at her.
"You hungry?"
She smiled.
"Yeah."
"Let's go."
We went down the canyon to PCH, then up a block to a popular Mexican-themed
seafood restaurant. It sat on the cliff above Laguna Beach, and was usually
jammed with people in the evenings. We got a seat on the patio, and I ordered
a drink. The waitress, if she thought anything unusual about our being
together, didn't show it. I looked around at the other patrons, then back at
Tracey, and decided that she could probably pass for nineteen or twenty if you
didn't know how old she was, and were assuming, as I thought people would,
that she was older.
"This place is expensive," she said while examining the menu.
"The benefits of dating a lawyer. Get what you want. The grilled ahi is
really good."
"What is it?"
"Yellowtail tuna. The meat is red, not like the white stuff you get in the
can. They season it with Mexican spices and then grill it rare."
"Like sushi?"
"Sort of. It's really good. Try it."
We spent some time talking about my book, then about her writing. Then we
talked about whether she really wanted to be a lawyer, and I tried to make
sure she understood just what was involved in the day-to-day practice, that it
wasn't all courtroom drama like they made it look on television.
"Do you watch 'Ally McBeal'?"
"Sometimes. But keep in mind that show is a comedy, a satire really. Any
real lawyer who behaved like she does would get hauled before the State Bar in
a hurry."
"I wonder about that sometimes."
"The guy who created that show, David E. Kelly, is an ex-lawyer, and I think
he intends it as way of getting back at everything he hated about practicing
law. A lot of lawyers who leave practice to write do that."
"Are you?"
"I have a book in mind. I have about twenty pages of it written, but I'm not
going to start on it seriously until I get done with the current one."
"What's it about?"
"It might sound a little silly. Or at least too ambitious."
"I won't laugh, I promise."
"It's going to be a comic allegory, a satire of the legal profession using
this young associate as a Christ figure."
"Wow. That is ambitious."
"I know."
"I'd like to read it, when you get done with it."
"I don't know if it will go anywhere, but I'll show you the draft if and when
I get it done."
The food came, and she pronounced the grilled ahi to be "bomb." We finished
about eight-thirty and walked back to the car.
"Are you okay to drive?"
"Me? Yeah."
She grinned.
"It's just that you talk a lot more when you drink."
"I do?"
"Yes. I could tell. But you're okay?"
"Yeah."
"You should probably get home."
We were standing in my driveway between our cars.
"Thanks for dinner."
Part of me wanted to kiss her, but nothing happened. We parted with a few
awkward smiles, and she got into her car and left.
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