Kiss Lonely Goodbye by Josee Renard

Welcome to Part Time Lovers.

 

This is your invitation to play, to experiment, to fulfill your deepest, darkest fantasy or get down and dirty—and then walk away. No regrets, no recriminations, no rules.

We want you to make the rules for your encounter. There are no forms to complete, no wish lists, no compatibility tests. Just jump right in. Part Time Lovers is about hooking up with the right person for right now.

We know your desires change—maybe even from one day to the next—because ours do. We created this Web site to accommodate every single one of your desires.

This week you might want a quick fuck, next week that high school fantasy or the hot vampire you just read about in your favorite book. Part Time Lovers is the place for you to find your dream lover.

So come on in. Someone is waiting for you.

 

Mercy and Jules

 

Mercy and Jules sat on cracked leather stools at the otherwise empty bar, looking out at the sun blazing red as it fell into the ocean. Each night it was setting earlier. Each night felt as if the summer were slipping away.

Jules laughed out loud at his musings. He’d had a good summer. Part Time Lovers was doing really well, Mercy wasn’t cranky anymore, and he’d spent an amazing night with Jeanne.

But he’d always dreaded the autumn.

There was just something about the dark evenings that he didn’t like. He preferred even the rainy days of spring to the cooler, darker days of the fall. Jules would be spending most of his time at Part Time Lovers for the next three months. He’d rather be inside looking at a computer screen than outside on the damp, gloomy city streets.

Besides, if last year was any indication, these months leadings up to Christmas would be their busiest of the year. He and Mercy had talked about hiring an assistant, but they weren’t quite ready for that yet. Jules was happy to put in the extra hours. They could worry about extra help in the new year.

“Funny,” he said, turning to Mercy. “We’re making more money than we ever have in our lives, and when was the last time you spent any of it?”

“Yesterday?” she laughed. “I just haven’t got out to the mall today.”

“I wasn’t talking about your shopping addiction. I meant any money on something you really wanted.”

“I really wanted that pair of shoes I bought yesterday.” She raised her feet off the brass rail and admired the turquoise sandals she wore.

Jules snorted. “A vacation? A new car? A piece of furniture?”

Mercy grinned. “Cabs are better than a new car, especially with the new drunk driving laws. Two glasses of wine and I could lose my license. I’d rather walk.”

Jules took a sip of the beer he had in his hand and nodded. “I’d rather walk, too. It’s just that we’re making so much money, and almost all of it is still sitting in my bank account.”

“Most of mine is sitting in my walk-in closet and on my bookshelves. I’d rather spend my money on clothes and shoes and books. You’re the one who needs a vacation, not me. I can handle things here if you want to go away for a week or two.”

Jules sighed and shook his head. Ennui, he thought, I’m suffering from ennui, and turned back to his drink. He’d focus on work. That always helped.

 

* * * * *

 

Sam’s week wasn’t going well. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong, for as long as he could remember.

He’d moved to Vancouver exactly one year ago, and he didn’t know a single person—except for the changing guard at the coffee shop where he spent most of his time. Time he should have been spending at home with his guitar and his song writing.

He hadn’t written a song for a year, either. It was as if moving from a small town right in the middle of the prairies to the West Coast had dried up all his creativity. Odd, really, because Vancouver was as wet as wet could be.

He’d thought the big city would offer him more outlets, more ideas, more venues. He thought he’d move to the city and the career he’d been slowly building would take off. But a weekly gig in a tiny basement club—actually called The Basement—wasn’t what he’d dreamed of all those years.

It wasn’t as if Sam wanted to be a superstar. That lifestyle didn’t attract him at all. He’d watched a friend travel the world for five years and then burn out. He’d never written—or played—another song after that experience.

For a songwriter, Sam was terrible at trying to articulate just what it was he wanted. But it was obviously time for him to try it.

Sitting in his living room, guitar in hand, recorder on, he waited for inspiration to move him, to tell him what to do next, what to write next, where to go next. Instead of inspiration, his cock moved.

Maybe that was his problem. He hadn’t had sex with anyone except himself since he’d moved to Vancouver, and that wasn’t a good thing. Sam’s songs were all about sensuality—whether he was singing about the scent of freshly mown grass, or the soft baby powder skin of a child, or the taste of a lover.

Obviously, his lack of sensual stimulation had led him to this impasse in his life. And in his career.

That thought led him to the computer sitting on the desk across the room. One of the servers at The Basement had mentioned a Web site called Part Time Lovers where she’d found a perfect weekday lover. She’d only been interested in a quick, no-strings encounter, and she’d had it with a very sexy man.

“It’s great,” she’d said to Sam. “It’s not like all those other relationship Web sites. You only pay a per post fee, there are no questionnaires, no long-term expectations, and you can find whatever you want. Or whoever you want.” She grinned. “Just check it out.”

She’d patted him on the cheek and walked away, leaving Sam thinking about the possibilities. And those possibilities had been running through his mind—and his bloodstream—for days. He wondered just what kind of people were interested in no-strings sex and whether that was all they were interested in.

He’d typed the URL into his computer half a dozen times but had shut it down before he’d gotten further than the FOR ADULTS ONLY warning on the bland homepage.

Each time he’d gotten that far, he’d scared himself with the intensity of his desire. Sam knew himself well enough to know that if he allowed that desire free rein almost anything could happen.

He’d learned that lesson—he hoped for the final time—just before he’d moved to Vancouver. Vanessa had been his ideal woman. Voluptuous, blonde, cool as ice. He’d spotted her at one of his shows, sitting in the front row with a couple of other women. He’d watched her through the whole show, while she’d chatted with the others, completely oblivious to his attentions.

Sam wasn’t used to that kind of response. Just being on stage meant he could—and often did—have a new woman every night. A ballad singing troubadour didn’t actually have groupies, but like all musicians, there was a vast pool of women who were interested in getting it on with even a third-class star.

Not Vanessa.

   

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