Summary: Mac needs a favor from the CIA, and in exchange, she unwittingly agrees to go to Webb’s Harvard class reunion. Complete and total fluffy song fic.

PART 1 – “Promises made with a distant friend”

JAG Ops Mid-May, 2003

With unusually gruff and terse instructions, the Admiral handed me this assignment with almost no information, simply telling me to "deal with it." He’s been remarkably cranky for the past several weeks; I suspect there’s something going on with Meredith. Maybe the “honeymoon” period, after he finally proposed, is over. And, from what Tiner’s told us – you can always count on Tiner to fill you in on these things – the happy couple is trying to work out who should move into whose house.

Regardless of their relationship woes, I’ve now got this case that’s really more of a public relations challenge than anything to do with the UCMJ. I’ve been dealing with the most arrogant and showy attorney I’ve ever met: Charles Taylor. He delights in treating me to expensive lunches, which I don’t mind so much. But, when he pulls out his fat roll of cash with a flourish – producing it from somewhere in the depths of his too-tight suit pants – I can’t decide if I should laugh or simply try to ignore the fact that I’m being seen in public with this guy. Think Larry, from Three’s Company meets James Traficant.

Charles “call me Charlie, most beautiful women do” Taylor is the civilian attorney hired by Master Sergeant Andrew Rhodes, who hasn’t even been officially accused of anything yet. As I conclude my fifth meeting, in a two week period, with “Charlie,” I can see why the Admiral felt he needed to be assigned a JAG lawyer all his own. He won’t be deterred, and short of filing for a restraining order against him, he won’t let me turn down a single meeting. Not that he’s had much to say, mind you, just a lot of talk with no substance. As much of a scum as Rhodes may turn out to be, I really hope Charlie’s not billing his client for all these lunches.

There are NCIS agents on the Rhodes case, doing the real footwork, which is fine by me. I’m glad that I’m not conducting interviews in the heat of Iraq. But this guy’s almost making me wish I were in a combat zone, and sleeping on a dusty cot in a tent. The most amusing thing Charlie’s thrown my way was his declaration today that his client was really part of a CIA set-up. And, that Rhodes was spearheading a Company effort to break up an arms smuggling ring, which was selling grenades and explosives to loyal Ba’ath Party members. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is merely a ruse to get a deal when sentencing inevitably comes, but does he really think I’m not going to check out this cockamamie story? Not to mention the fact, that if it turns out he was selling ordnance to Ba’ath Party members, it’s treason, and disgustingly despicable.

The NCIS agents on the case are still in Tikrit, and are unreachable right now, so I decide to send off a quick email to Clay Webb, just so I can throw this ridiculous story back in Charlie’s face, and then communicate the information to the NCIS agents, since it might give them a lead as to the ultimate destination of the ordnance that’s been missing from under Master Sergeant Rhodes’s watch.

I compose my email, hit send, and am really surprised when I get a reply back from Webb within five minutes. He must be at his desk.

Mac: I appreciate your desire to dispose of this “spy story” straight away, but Master Sergeant Rhodes’ name set off some alarm bells when I made an inquiry about him just now. Let me look into this some more. He’s definitely not one of ours; but something’s fishy about him. Clay

Very interesting. At least I’ll have Charlie off my back for a little while. I dash off a quick “thank you” to Webb, and concentrate on a conduct unbecoming case I’ve got going to trial at the end of the week. I ’m prosecuting against Sturgis’ defense, and in spite of his friendly demeanor in the office, he’s a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom.

Three days after our first email exchange, and a hard earned win against Sturgis behind me, I receive more information from Webb:

Mac: It appears that your Master Sergeant Rhodes fancies himself a bit of a Secret Agent Man. He was selling rocket-propelled grenade launchers to local CIA agents who were posing as Ba’ath Party sympathizers. Instead of tossing him into the brig, our guys on the ground opted to use him as bait to get intel on the genuine arms buyers. He would’ve been quite useful if he weren’t quite so stupid. Apparently, Rhodes couldn’t figure out how to doctor the inventory documents very well, which raised suspicions, ultimately getting NCIS involved, and you, too, I gather. Clay

Shaking my head at the bumbling and overly confident Master Sergeant Rhodes, I have a hunch that I’ll need a bit more information from Webb, at least the contact info for his colleagues in Iraq, so I can pass that along to the NCIS team. If I’m lucky, he’ll arrange for the Company operatives to communicate directly with the NCIS guys, taking me out of the loop.

Webb -- He’s not *my * Master Sergeant, but thanks. This guy’s a real piece of work, and you should meet his attorney. On second thought, you don’t need to be subjected to that. I’m not directly involved in the investigation, but Admiral Chegwidden thought his lawyer could use a babysitter to stem the tide of a possible PR nightmare. Thanks again. I’m hoping that with this new twist, Charlie Taylor, Esquire will be kept busy enough to not insist we have lunch three times a week.

How are you, by the way? Sorry for not asking earlier. Why haven’t we seen you around here? I’d have thought we’d at least rate somewhere among the first month’s visits after you got back from Suriname. Scuttlebutt has it that you’ve been back for at least eight weeks.

Thanks, Mac

The truth is, I do kind of miss his spook face around here. I’d gotten used to him turning up now and then, over the years. I think it was after Afghanistan when I developed a real soft spot for him. We kind of “bonded” over the incident at the detention camp, without ever really talking about it.

Webb replied later in the day, saying that he’d been out of the country a lot, and has been in the doghouse even since his return from exile, but has been “working his way back.” Webb tells me that he keeps forgetting to get Rabb a “Thank You” card for sending him on that lovely vacation. I’m fairly confident in saying that Webb doesn’t really blame Harm for his re-assignment, but he’ll probably milk it for all it’s worth every time he sees Harm from now on. I email back, telling him that Harm deserves a huge thank you from me, too; he somehow got wind of this Rhodes case coming down the line, and snuck into the Admiral’s office to suggest that I was just the officer for the job.

Webb and I must both be at our desks today, and restless, because we’re exchanging emails every few minutes. It’s actually kind of fun, but we’re shooting bits of conversation back and forth so fast, the next thing I know, I’ve agreed to go with him to his twenty year Harvard class reunion.

“Shit,” I say under my breath, while quickly scanning back through my “Sent Mail.”

I piece together what happened, and realize it was my haste to respond to a string of Webb’s questions and assertions that did me in. I re-read Webb’s email:

I see Rabb’s acting like his usual charming self. And Roberts didn’t stay off duty for long. Yes, my mother’s fine, thanks for asking. Though, her latest nag is for me to attend my Harvard class reunion. Here’s an idea that would make it more palatable – why don’t you come with me? Send AJ my best, but scare him a little, tell him I’ll be by next week to ask for the loan of some of his people on a Company op.

Then, I look over my responses to find my error:

What else is new? His determination was inspiring. I’d be delighted; it’ ll be a hoot. I’m not so sure that’s the most appealing offer I’ve ever had.

Webb’s follow-up email was what tipped me off:

Rabb will be Rabb. And, Roberts will be Roberts. You do realize that you just agreed to go with me to this reunion, don’t you? I hope you don’t mix up the prosecution and the defense in court, because that kind of error could get you into a lot of trouble.

“Shit,” I say again. Obviously, I reversed the answers for Webb’s joke on the Admiral and his invitation to go to the reunion. I know Clayton Webb well enough to realize that I won’t be getting off the hook very easily. I also know myself well enough to know that if my schedule’s clear, I won’ t lie about it. Harvard, here I come!

Webb -- I’m ashamed to say that your oh-so wicked and clever CIA tactics worked on me. And, I’ve got a hunch you’re going to hold me to this, aren’t you? If you’re serious about wanting me to go to the reunion with you, I’ll stick to my word. But, you’d better throw in at least one very decent meal. Send me the dates, and I’ll check my calendar. -- Mac

PART 2 – “Show me your secret and tell me your name”

Webb offers me an out, acknowledging that it was very “noble” of me to stand by my error. But, he includes the details of the reunion, and I have to chuckle. Truthfully, I think it might be fun. Going to someone else’s’ reunion is a much better notion than going to your own. There’s no pressure to appear beautiful or successful.

The schedule for the weekend includes a picnic on Saturday afternoon, and a formal dinner with dancing, that night. Webb offers to pick me up on the appointed Friday afternoon, and notes, “Of course, I’ll foot the bill for the accommodations.” I tell him he’d better be footing the bill for *everything,* but that if I meet a handsome, successful Harvard grad to go home with, I’ll refund his money, and invite him to the wedding.

Webb and I email back and forth several times before the reunion weekend. I pelt him with all kinds of questions about what his college days were like. Was he in a fraternity? What were his grades like? How many majors did he have? How many girls saw the inside of his dorm room?

To all of these queries, I get the same answer: Classified.

Figures. It’s a bit of a puzzlement to me why Webb would want to go to something like this. He doesn’t strike me as the overly social type, and as little as I know about his close relationship with his mother, I can’t imagine him going just for her. Unless I really don’t know Webb at all, I ’d say there’s something else going on that he’s not allowing me to be privy to. I’ll get it out of him this weekend. Maybe he wants to see an old girlfriend, or something.

I ask if “classified” is the answer he’ll give to his former classmates when they ask what he’s been doing for the last twenty years. Webb assures me that he’ll be using his State Department cover, probably saying he’s in accounting, and he reminds me not reveal his “true identity.”

Webb -- Well, Clark Kent, you sound like you think you’re a superhero. I promise not to tell anyone that behind those three piece suits is a body of iron, clad in red and blue spandex. -- Mac

I get a terse “Thanks” from Webb, but can practically see the smirk on his lips through my computer monitor. I know he can take as good as he gives. I’ll have to bring up the spandex thing again, just to see his face in person.

As the weekend draws near, I can tell from his emails that Webb’s getting nervous, and that unanticipated fact is kind of endearing. He keeps telling me not to be worried, and that it’ll be fun, even when I assure him that I’m happy to just “be along for the ride,” and promise not to embarrass him. He’s quick to reply with assurances that he’s not worried about me embarrassing him. From that, I *know* he’s concerned about his own presence there, rather than mine. Which is really odd, considering the fact that he’s a spy – but, I suppose if you are one, the romantic image of James Bond probably goes out the window pretty quickly. In any case, I find myself enamored with this more “human” aspect of Webb. With such an arrogant façade, a little humility and self doubt are surprisingly appealing traits.

I insist that he bring along his yearbook, or at the very least, some pictures of himself from college, so I can get into the “mood.” It’ll be interesting, assuming he’ll actually reveal something of his past to me, to learn a bit about the younger days of our “mystery spook.”

By the time that Friday rolls around, Webb and I have traded probably close to a hundred emails, and I feel like I know him about a hundred times better, too. Oddly, we haven’t once talked on the phone in that time period. I’m glad we’ll have the car ride, and tomorrow morning, to chat before going to any of the events, since in one of those dozens of emails, Webb informed me that he’d signed me up as his wife. I was a bit annoyed at first, and was about to compose a written tirade, chewing him out, but I reasoned that it’s not as if I’ll know anyone there, or will be likely to ever see any of these people again, so I let it go. Instead, I informed Webb that he now owed me at least a half-dozen *very nice* dinners for eliminating even the possibility of picking up a Harvard alumnus for myself.

Late on Friday afternoon, Webb appears in my doorway, seemingly out of nowhere. After his greeting, “Hello, Honey,” I look up to find him leaning on my doorframe.

“Oh, *Darling,* you’re early. Are the kids with your mother already? Did you pick up my dry cleaning? And get the oil changed on the cars? How about the plumber, did you call him? And, you do remember that you’re driving car pool next week, right?” I give Webb a taste of what married life could be like.

“Funny. You ready to go?”

“Not feeling up to playing your cover yet, eh, Webb?”

“How about we ease into it by calling each other by our first names to start off with, *Sarah*,” he suggests, putting extra emphasis on my name.

“Okay, *Clay*,” I say, hitting his name with a slightly nasty tone, and making a face at him.

Webb, Clay, whatever… laughs, and I smile, closing the file on a case I’d been reluctant to get too far into on a Friday afternoon, and frankly, I’m very glad he showed up early. It’s been one of those weeks that seemed to go on forever.

I grab my overnight duffel and the garment bag that’s hanging on the back of my door.

“I got it,” Clay says, taking the long zip-up bag that’s protecting the dress I’ve picked out for tomorrow night’s black tie dinner.

“Thank—oof! Harm.” Because I was looking at Clay as I was walking out of my office, I didn’t see Harm passing by.

“Where’re you headed Mac?” He says, looking not at me, but staring down Clay. Oh, brother.

“Out of town for the weekend, isn’t that right, Clay?” I’m feeling mischievous, and thoroughly fed up with Harm acting like he’s allowed to be nosey and annoyingly protective about my personal life. I try to sound as “in love” as possible, and I hope that Clay’s willing to play along.

“Sarah and I are going to my Harvard class reunion.”

Clay’s perfect; he nuances my name into a caress, and emphasizes “Harvard” with just the right amount of snobbery. Harm’s face is a puzzle – I can’t exactly read his reaction; I honestly don’t think he really knows what to make of things.

Since Clay and I’ve been standing here holding my luggage, we’ve also attracted Tiner’s attention. I can see him peeking out from his office space, leaning forward, neck craned, trying to discern what’s going on. Harriet’s also spending a much longer time than necessary, putting a file away in the cabinet that’s next to Harm.

“We’d better hit the road,” Clay says in the absence of a verbal response from Harm. “We don’t want to lose our reservation at the B and B.”

At that, Harm’s eyebrows shoot up towards his just-barely receding hairline. I have to concentrate hard on his gold wings as a focus point so I don’t laugh. Harriet saves me by finally closing the cabinet drawer. “Oh, Ma’am, that sounds like a wonderfully romantic weekend.”

She’s obviously baiting me, and I’m a bit surprised that she’s doing it in front of Harm. I expect her to pull me into the ladies’ room on Monday, for a full inquiry. She must be really desperate for gossip, and darn it, this is just too easy, and a hell of a lot of fun. Turning to her, and ignoring Harm, whose mouth is now hanging open, I say, “We’ve been looking forward to it for ages.”

“Sarah works so hard, she deserves nothing but the best,” Clay affirms, while swinging my garment bag over his shoulder, and putting his free arm around my waist to pull me in for a peck on the cheek.

Okay, this might be getting to be a bit much. I could take this really far, and with the punchy mood I’m in, things could get out of hand.

“Shall we?” I say, prompting Clay into action.

“Bye, Harm.” Clay’s overly friendly tone snaps Harm out of his stupor.

“Uh, bye,” is his flat reply; any glibness he usually has in stock, is completely out.

Clay and I barely make it into the elevator. As the doors draw together, we’re shaking with laughter, and I snort really loudly, which sets him off, even more. We gather our wits about us in time to exit the building with some dignity, but as soon as we get to Clay’s car, we start snickering again.

“Man, you were *good*!” I say between laughing spurts.

“You started it. I wasn’t sure what you were doing, at first, but Harm sure played right into your evil little plan.”

“He’s so easy that way. Sometimes, it’s just too big a temptation not to yank his chain a bit.”

“Tell me about it.”

We pack my stuff into the trunk of Clay’s silver BMW Z8. “Nice ride, Clay. What happened to your red Mercedes?”

“Totaled, but I got a nice check from the CIA to cover it; believe it or not, the circumstances really are classified. You into cars, or was your ‘Vette just a whim?”

“Sort of both. The ‘Vette was an impulse buy, but I had no idea what I was missing. You going to let me take a spin behind the wheel?”

“Um, maybe later in the weekend.”

It was a diplomatic way of saying “no,” and I can understand his protectiveness. I hate letting other people drive my car, I can’t help telling them just when and how to shift. I’m a terrible passenger in my own vehicle.

We fight the awful DC area traffic, and Webb stays remarkably calm through it. I’d have been climbing the walls, so to speak. I hate that feeling of being trapped, with no way out from all the cars you’re boxed in by.

Clay makes small talk about his car and other car’s he’s owned. I hope this isn’t an indication of our weekend, because as much as I appreciate cars, this could get old, really fast. It’s all very superficial, and the easy tone of our emails is no where to be found. Plus, I’d detected a sense of wicked humor in him when he picked me up, and was really having a good time with him for those few minutes. Joking around like that is something that there’s not enough of in my life, I think. It was a very welcome break from the intense male energy you get in the JAG office; even level-headed Sturgis and earnest Bud are a bit much sometimes.

I suddenly remember his comment about the bed and breakfast, “Hey, Clay, were you serious about the B and B?”

“Yeah, I meant to tell you earlier. It’s right before commencement week, and a lot of the hotels are already booked, so we’re B and B-ing it. Hope you don’t mind. I got us two rooms, but we have to share a bathroom.”

“I’ve bunked with men plenty of times, and you’re probably a better deal than sharing a bathroom with a bunch of Marines.”

That got a laugh out of him, and I start to feel a little more at ease, as well. I think we just got nervous once we got into the car, and realized it really is going to be just us, doing something purely social, for a whole weekend.

The concept still sounds strange, but I’m determined to have a good time, and there’s no reason we shouldn’t get along, and have fun.

“Have you kept in touch with anyone from college?” I ask, hoping to prompt a conversation out of which I can wheedle some good dirt about his college days.

“Have you?”

“Oh, no, I’m not playing that game. You answer, then I will.”

“No. You?” He says, sneaking a fast, but sly glance in my direction. He ’s deliberately playing with me.

“Okay, I see how this is going to go. Yes, a couple, but we mostly just email now.” I pause before asking my next question. “By going to this reunion are you trying to recapture your ‘lost youth?’” If he’s going to be short with his answers, I might as well ask more personal questions.

“’Lost youth?’” he derides my cliché choice of words.

“Yes, lost youth. Are you feeling old, do you pine for the days when you could stay up late partying, before bringing Muffy back to your room, and still get up for that eight o’clock calculus class?”

“Muffy? Sarah, you must have me confused with some 80’s preppy boy you once dated.”

“Clay, in the early 80’s I was in high school – barely – and was drunk most of the time. Plus, I’d be willing to bet big money that you *were* an ‘80’s pretty boy.’ But this isn’t about me, now spill.”

“There were no ‘Muffy’s,’ ‘Buffy’s,’ or ‘Mitzi’s’ in my college days. I did stay up late on more than one occasion, but it wasn’t to party, it was to study.”

“Did you have any friends?” Oops, that was a bit meaner than I meant it to be.

“Yes, I had friends, thank you very much. Well, two. They’re both dead, though.”

“I’m sorry.” Jesus, that’s a revelation.

“Me, too. Drunk driving. Not them; the other car. The bastard who hit us lived, of course, but Nick and John were DOA.”

I look at Clay, whose steely gaze is locked on the road, his jaw in a tight clench. His entire body has tensed up, and I move my eyes down his arms to his hands, where his knuckles are almost white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

“You were with them.” I know what it’s like to be the survivor. My memory of the night Eddie died is with me all the time, even if I’m not consciously thinking about it.

“I was in the passenger seat. Nick was driving; he took the brunt of the initial impact, and was dead right away. John wasn’t wearing his seatbelt; he was ejected, and had massive head injuries.”

“I’m sorry.” I reach to touch his shoulder, wanting to convey my understanding.

“I know,” Clay says, pursing his lips in a tight smile.

It’s strange to suddenly know we have this horrible thing in common. What happened with Eddie has got to be in my CIA file; Clay’s probably known all along. It’s just not something to be brought up out of the blue, though. Oddly, I feel a lot closer to him for having this knowledge. I wonder if he’s felt a kinship with me because of it all along, and I was just never aware.

“So then, this trip isn’t about seeing old friends or re-living the past. Are you confronting some ghosts?”

“Maybe.”

Clay sounds pensive, so I don’t press the issue, and we drive in relatively comfortable silence for several miles. Everyone deals with tragedy in a different way. I hope he knows that if he wants to talk about it, I’m open to be his sounding board. But, we need not dwell on it.

PART 3 – “Don't want to be in public; My head is full of chopstick; I don't like it"

At the halfway mark, we pull into a gas station, and I hit the restrooms to finally change out of my uniform and into a pair of jeans and a loose, three-quarter sleeved button up shirt. When I’m done, I peruse the aisles of the mini-mart. I think it’s time this drive turned into a real road trip. I stock up on sodas, Fiddle Faddle, Red Vines, and various Hostess treats. When I get back to the car, Clay’s leaning on the hood, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles. He’s got his arms folded, and he’s clearly waiting for me, but there’s an indulgent smile on his lips.

When I get closer, he glances to the rather large plastic bag I’m holding in addition to the small drawstring bag that contains the uniform I’d changed out of. But Clay doesn’t say anything, his grin just gets bigger, and he cocks his head to one side, an open expression on his face. Clay really is a good looking man. It’s not that I haven’t noticed before, and I think he’s checked me out on more than one occasion, but we’ve always been working together, and often under not so desirable circumstances. However, seeing him resting on his fancy car like that, looking very casual in his jeans, surprisingly trendy brown loafers, and Polo shirt, he looks very handsome, and very appealing.

“You ready for your turn?” Clay says, letting the keys dangle down, while he keeps a hold of the key chain between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re ready to let someone else handle your baby?” I ask, surprised at his change of heart.

“I’m sure you’ll be gentle.”

His big grin, complete with a set of dimples I’d never noticed before, is too much, I can’t resist flirting. “Only if you want me to be.”

I swipe the keys out of his hand, shove my bag and the sack of snacks into his arms, and make for the driver’s seat. He’s still perched on the hood of the car when I’m done settling in, so I honk, and see him jerk upright.

“You coming?” I ask.

“Depends on how gentle you’re going to be,” he says, with a leer as he sticks his head into the open passenger side window, before hopping in, shoving the bag of snacks between his feet, tossing my bag of clothes in the back, and reaching for his seat belt.

Oh, man. There are so many places I could go with that line. Clay clearly knows what he’s doing, because now, he’s nailing me with a stare, that I can only assume is a challenge. He’s waiting for my comeback. But I hesitate too long while trying to decide what I should say, and it spoils the moment.

“Just drive, MacKenzie,” Clay says, shaking his head and chuckling.

Damn, he really kind of threw me there. My mind went little farther down that dirty line of thinking than I’d intended. Not that those thoughts aren’t appealing, but I could’ve come back with something witty, damn it.

Once we’re back on the highway, and moving along at a decent speed, I instruct, “Dig in, Clay. There’s Red Vines and Fiddle Faddle in that bag.”

We share the snacks, and I apologize for not asking earlier if he’s okay with eating in his car.

“It’s a car, it’s supposed to be transportation, and fun. Eating counts as fun.”

When we’re almost there, I inquire if there wasn’t anyone else he’d rather have attended this weekend function with.

“No.”

“Not ‘classified?’” I tease.

“No, that’s the truth. There aren’t a lot of people I’d even consider spending what little down time I have with, and since you so eagerly agreed to come along…” Clay jokes.

“Yeah, well, how could I resist? Seriously, there’s no one you’d have wanted to ‘go away with’ for the weekend?” I brace the steering wheel with my knee as I put “air quotes” around the phrase “go away with” so he gets my drift. I’m curious about his social life, since it’s sounding like he doesn’t really have one, or maybe he’s just way too particular to seriously date anyone.

“No, there’s no one I wanted to ‘go away with’ as you so subtly put it. Not even any likely candidates, thank you very much. And, before you ask: Yes, the idea of going to a reunion alone was a depressing one.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry that your social life is so dismal. Maybe you’ll hook up with an old classmate this weekend.”

Clay snorts, but I’m halfway serious. He’s a great catch, the whole being out of the country on top secret ops half the time, aside.

“You forget, *dear*, that I’m married. I don’t really want to be picking up on anyone while even pretending to be married. Bad form.”

“Good point.”

“Thanks for coming with me.” He sounds genuinely grateful, which is nice. It makes me feel really good about being here with him.

“You’re welcome.”

“Actually, I’m having a really good time, so far. I think this could be fun. I’m usually a real asshole on road trips.”

“Conveniently forgot to mention that little fact, did we, Clay? And, if you tell me it was classified, I’ll roll your nice little sports car, and the two of us, right off the road.”

He holds up his hands in capitulation, and offers me another Red Vine as a peace offering.

Just after midnight, we pull into the small parking area next to the bed and breakfast. It’s in an old, and very large, but homey looking, saltbox style house. Clay dials a combination into a lock box, and retrieves the key, telling me that he’d arranged for a late check in.

We’ve both packed pretty light, so we make just one trip from the car, with Clay leading the way. I presume he knows where he’s going. Creeping up the stairs, I notice how much the wooden staircase squeaks, and I hope we’re not waking up the other guests, or the owners. Climbing up and up, we finally get as high as we can go, and Clay puts his bags down to open the door to our little suite.

There’s a sign hanging over the doorframe that reads “Sisters’ Suite.” Once inside, I can kind of see why. There are two small rooms squeezed into the slant-roofed space, separated by a tiny bathroom, and a sitting area containing exactly one love seat, and one small bookshelf. The décor is very “early American,” with colonial era American flags sewn in the pattern of the bed quilts; the feel is cozy and comfortable.

The rooms are identical, so we arbitrarily choose, and, after taking turns in the bathroom, we go right to bed. I lie awake for a little while, still buzzing from being in the car for so long, but soon, my mind is wandering back to when the house might’ve been built, and I drift off, sort of dreaming about all the historical events this home may have seen.

Breakfast, which we show up embarrassingly late to, is really delicious and quite hearty. If I want to fit into the dress I brought for tonight, I’m going to have to go light at lunch. Over stacks of pancakes, drenched in blueberry syrup, we have a great time chatting with the owners, who are an older couple of Professor Emeriti from Harvard. Mrs. LaSalle – Dr. LaSalle, actually – was a classmate of Clay’s father’s.

“I swear, I had no idea,” Clay declares, as we head back upstairs.

“They seemed pretty happy to have discovered the connection. What time does this picnic start, anyway?”

“Two o’clock.”

“Good, I need to rest from all that food. You want to leave here at about a quarter ‘til?”

“Sounds good.”

We retreat to our rooms momentarily, and meet again in the sitting area, laughing when we realize we were both going for the love seat.

“It’s okay, I’ll go to my room,” he says politely.

“Don’t be silly, we can make it, we’re both fit and trim.” I sit down, and pat the cushion next to me, beckoning him to sit as well.

He’s trying to be polite and not make contact with his hip into mine, but in the end, he’s wedged himself between me and the side of the tiny couch.

“Maybe it was that last short stack of pancakes, but I don’t think we’re as skinny as you think, Sarah.” To illustrate his point, he wiggles his butt back and forth, which really doesn’t go anywhere, since we’re pressed in pretty tightly.

“You calling me fat?”

“No, I’m calling *us* not anorexic enough to fit here.”

“You afraid of a little closeness? We are married, after all.”

“Don’t even start with me. I think we’ll pass as married just fine. In fact, if we pull it off, I might start recruiting you as my wife for ops.”

“Great incentive,” I say sarcastically, while hoisting myself up, to plop my butt on the floor, with my back against the love seat.

“Okay, I see your point.”

After that, we settle in and read quietly for a while. Clay’s got today’s Boston Globe, and I’ve picked up a recent copy of Time from the top of the bookshelf. Halfway through an article about the state of health care in the US, I just can’t keep my suddenly leaden eyelids from closing. Must be the heavy breakfast and the long drive catching up with me, even though we slept in. I give in, figuring I’ll either wake up in time, or Clay will let me know when we need to get going.

Next thing I know, I can hear my name, but I can’t move my body. I’m in one of those frustrating half asleep/half awake states where I’m aware of what’s happening, but I just can’t wake up. I hate that.

“Sarah? Are you trying to get out of going to this picnic, or are you really asleep?”

“Uhhh,” I barely manage to get out, but my eyes still refuse to open.

“Sarah?”

Clay’s voice is right in my ear now, and his hand is on my head. He’s not stroking my hair or anything, but it’s a sweet sort of gesture.

“I’m here,” I mumble, and realize I’m a bit pasty-mouthed, and was drooling. My vanity kicks in, and I sit up right away. “I’m awake, what time is it?”

“One-forty-five.”

“Shit, we need to leave.”

Clay laughs a little. “I’m not in a huge hurry, it’s okay. I fell asleep, too. Go in about fifteen?”

“Yeah.”

In exactly fourteen minutes and thirty seconds, we’re back in the little common room, ready to roll. We spend more than a polite amount of time checking out each other’s outfits. It’s kind of funny when we realize it, but not too awkward, which is good, because he looks pretty hot in his traditional khaki chinos, with a kind of modern looking polo that doesn’t have any buttons, but just comes together in a “v” below the collar. He also still hasn’t shaved today, and the “rough” look goes well with this casual outfit. I’d have been embarrassed if he’d made a big deal out of me checking him out, so I’m very glad he didn’t. Plus, I find I like the fact that he was looking at me in my strappy, but casual, sandals that show off my French manicure, flat front stretchy chinos, and my new cap-sleeved stretchy v-neck top with sort of funky black and gray diagonal stripes.

“Ready?” he finally asks, tossing his keys a half an inch in the air, and catching them in his fist again.

“Yep.”

Clay tears through the outskirts of Boston, where our B and B is located, and navigates the traffic here with the aptitude of a native.

As he’s making a rather risky left hand turn, Clay glances my way and begins, “I should tell you something before we get there.”

“Ah-HA! I *knew* there was something you weren’t telling me!” I declare when we’re through the turn, and I’m no longer afraid of a collision with on coming traffic.

“I wouldn’t keep anything from you.”

I give him a “Yeah right” look, which he catches in his peripheral vision.

“Okay,” he concedes. “At the dinner tonight, the Alumni Association’s giving me an award, so they might pay a bit more attention to me, and to you, too, today than they normally would to an alumnus and his wife.”

He says it all really fast, and I’m trying to absorb what he’s saying, when I finally get it. “What did you do, endow a scholarship?”

“Ten, actually, for students who can’t afford the tuition. And a chair in international relations.” This time, to distract me, he changes lanes three times, back and forth, and back again, within two blocks. I’m trying to stay centered in my seat, but it’s difficult, with all the swerving that’s going on.

“Okay then. This is good to know. Good thing you told me now, I’d have looked like an idiot, not knowing my husband had given away so much of our money without my consent!”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“No, it’s a really good thing you did.” It’s pretty impressive. And, I really like the fact that he designated his scholarships for kids who need the money.

“Thanks, just don’t let it get around.”

I know he’s kidding, but I can see that he’s incredibly modest about his gift to the school. I’m sure this award is why his mother insisted he come this weekend. I suspect, too, that he wanted a “wife” along for support, in the face of what I anticipate will be a fair amount of attention.

“Hey, Clay, before we get there – am I Sarah MacKenzie or Sarah Webb? Or did you make up something entirely different for me?”

“You kept your name, you’re Sarah MacKenzie. But, I didn’t fill in the ‘occupation’ blank for you on the form, so you can be whatever you like.”

“Got it.”

We arrive at the campus, park, and make our way to the banks of the Charles River, to a little park where there are maroon colored balloons floating from the corners of picnic tables, and there’s a huge spread of “picnic style” food. I eye the fried chicken, and hope we don’t get stuck chatting with anyone for too long before we can eat. In spite of breakfast, I’m hungry again. And, actually, since we’re late, things are in full swing, and our arrival goes pretty much unnoticed.

“Food?” Clay says, and I nod enthusiastically.

We pile up our plates, and find a table with only one other couple at it. As soon as we sit, they’re introducing themselves, and scolding us for not picking up our nametags. Claire dashes to grab them for us as soon as we tell them our names. Cliff quizzes Clay on any mutual friends they might’ ve had in school, and after about fifteen mind numbing minutes of Cliff rattling off a series of names that Clay has to shake his head “no” to every time, he gives up at last.

“How about professors? You ever have Dr. Huxtable?”

Oh God, here we go again. I shift on the bench, and plan my move. I’m going for dessert; there’s only so much of this I can take. I couldn’t even engage Claire in a side conversation because Cliff kept turning to her to confirm the names of people that he apparently thought she should know, too, even though she went to NYU.

As I just start to make my move, Clay’s hand hits my thigh, right above my knee, and he holds me in place. I cover my laugh with a small cough.

“You okay, Sarah?” Cliff asks.

“Let me get you some water.” Leaping up as he’s talking, Clay heads to the beverage table, presumably to get me a bottled water, and I spot an official looking woman greet him very enthusiastically, and begin to chat. Great, I’m stuck.

“So, Sarah. How’d you and Clay meet?” Cliff wants to know.

Before I even realize it, the story’s spilling forth from my mouth. “It was just after he graduated, actually. I’m a few years younger, so I was just out of high school; well, I was home schooled, actually. He saw a performance of the circus my parents and I were performing with at the time, and after the show, he stayed around to compliment my act.”

I have to hand it to Cliff and Claire, they barely missed a beat. “That’s so interesting,” Claire chimes. “What was your act?”

She’s putting on a good face, but I can tell it’s either horror or disgust that’s brewing just below the surface. I consider my answer for a second, and concentrate on not breaking “character.”

“Well, my parents were in the side show, but I didn’t really want to go that direction. I started out as a costumer for the monkeys, but by the time Clay and I met, I was swinging from the trapeze by my hair.”

“Interesting,” comes the predictable comment from Claire.

I’ve apparently rendered Cliff speechless; he’s looking off in the direction Clay went. I turn to see Clay coming back to the table with the woman in the pastel business suit, who was so animated at the beverage table.

“Um, let’s not mention my circus past to Clay. He likes to think he ‘rescued me’ from a wicked past,” I quickly whisper to Cliff and Claire.

They just have time to nod before Clay puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sarah, this is Diana Lauper, the Alumni Association’s Gift Planning Coordinator. She’s been working with Mother on her gift annuity trust.”

Okay, clearly, donating money to a university has a whole language of its own, because I can’t be sure, but I think he said she helped Porter Webb write Harvard into her will.

“Very nice to meet you, Diana.” I smile up at the perky looking blonde, who appears to be in her early 40’s.

“Sarah, I was just telling Clay that I want to take you over to meet George O’Dowd, our Vice President of Alumni Affairs and Development.”

“I’d love to.” Turning back around, I bid farewell to Cliff and Claire, shooting them a knowing wink when I say, “We’d love to chat more with you later.”

“What was that all about?” Clay whispers to me as we’re being led by Diana across the grass to a large, free-standing tent.

“They were just asking about how we met.” No need for him to know how I’ ve been amusing myself here today.

“Okaaay.” He’s suspicious, but I think there’ll be enough distractions, once we meet this VP, that he’ll forget about it.

For the next hour, we’re schmoozed quite effectively by Vice President O’ Dowd. He’s a big man, probably played football in college, I’d guess. I can see why he’s under the tent, his shiny bald head is positively glowing. He must’ve been out earlier, without any sunscreen.

He goes on and on about how our generosity is giving so many wonderful opportunities to such deserving students. Finally, he begins to work the conversation around to the future, and asks Clay what he’d like to see happening at Harvard for “the next generation.”

Clay plays it all extremely smoothly. We both know this guy’s buttering us up for the next gift, probably hoping Clay will pull out his checkbook right now. But, all Clay does is direct the questions back at O’Dowd.

“Well, George, I was wondering if your staff would have the time to sit with us some time soon to talk about exactly how our endowment funds are being invested. And, I’ve been hearing talk of possible changes in the way tax benefits are handled for donations, and with the stock market the way it is, Sarah suggested it might put us in a position where we’d need to take advantage of the tax breaks.”

I smile and play the “woman behind the great man,” as Clay hints at more funds coming Harvard’s way. And, O’Dowd, of course, is practically drooling.

“My staff would be delighted. I’ll have Jennifer call you first thing on Monday. I assume you and Sarah would like this weekend to be all pleasure?”

A huge wink gets thrown my way, and I want to gag. This guy is a riot.

“We’re staying at a fantastic B and B. Clay knows just how to show his girl a good time. But, he’s promised me a tour of his old dorm room, for old time’s sake,” I whisper to George, and finish off with a sultry wink of my own.

Clay’s eyebrows knit together for a second, and I see George’s guise of enthusiastic host slip as he realizes what I’m hinting at.

“I’ll have Molly arrange that, as well. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to talk for a moment with the Simons.”

“Great, we’ll see you tonight, then. And, maybe we can talk about what’s going on in the math department.”

George departs with a quick, “Fantastic.”

Diana’s wandered off to talk up another couple, and Clay and I are alone.

“Tour my dorm room?” Clay asks incredulously.

“’Sarah suggested it might put us in a position to take advantage of tax breaks…’” I retort, quoting him.

“Okay, so we’re both good at lying. But, I do intend on giving them some more money.”

“What was that about the math department?”

“Oh, some big grant they had just ran out, and Mother wants me to consider a gift to the department.”

“You always do what your mother tells you?”

“Hardly,” he snorts. “My grandfather chaired the math department, but I want to find out what those weasels want to do with my money before I give it.”

“Trust issues, Clay?”

“No, it’s just such a game, getting money out of alumni. If I don’t think they’re going to use my money well, I’ll buy equipment and donate that, rather than cash. This picnic… tonight’s party… paid for with donations. That money could’ve gone to students or research.”

“Never thought about it. My law school hasn’t caught up with me yet, to ask for money.”

“They will eventually.”

The rest of the afternoon is actually quite nice. Clay and I chat, both together and separately, with lots of alumni and their husbands or wives. I meet a lot of people who remember Clay, but none of them seemed to have hung out with him much back then. He was a bit of a mystery in college as well.

A handsome attorney and I talk for a long time about the legal field, and he finally gets around to asking if Clay and I have kids. I can’t resist telling him we have twins, and that they’re just adorable. I pat my stomach and whisper to him that we just found out we’re expecting again, but that Clay wants to keep it a secret until the first trimester is over. Jake nods in understanding, pointing to his extremely pregnant wife, who’s sitting down, looking very much like she could give birth at any moment. I can’t help telling these stories. This really is too much fun.

By the time we head back to the B and B to relax a bit, and change before the dinner tonight, I’ve told three people that I’m pregnant, one person that I’m an attorney now, but that I used to be a linesman for the electric company, a nice couple from Syracuse that Clay was a Colonel in the Marine reserves, and one very pretentious husband and wife, who just wouldn’t stop talking about their kids’ grades, that I was a spy, but it was the “slow season” so I was home with Clay for a while.

PART 4 – “People tell me I haven’t changed at all”

A “power nap” and a shower do the trick to perk me back up after feeling a bit wiped out from the sun and humidity. I’m sitting on the love seat, waiting for Clay, when he comes out asking for help.

“I can’t get my cufflinks.”

He’s kind of flustered, and his tie is totally crooked. I’m impressed that he’s tied it himself, and I whistle at how handsome he looks in his tuxedo, which gains me a sweet dimpled smile. He was in the bathroom after me, where he showered, and shaved as well. As I step into his personal space to assist him, I can smell the tang of soap and a light cologne.

“Thanks,” he smiles.

I stand to help him with his cuffs, and we’re eye to eye. I look down to his feet, and see he hasn’t put his shoes on yet. Since I’ve got my modest heels on already, we’re the same height. It’s kind of fun being as tall as him. He looks at me, and I look back up from his feet to catch him taking in my dress before we meet gazes. This prolonged eye contact and checking each other out thing is really unnerving. Sexy, but unnerving.

“Great dress.”

I’d decided on a low cut silver dress made of a sort of shimmery-slinky material. While it’s a bit revealing in the front and back with its “v” showing a generous amount of cleavage and essentially backless-back, it hangs all the way to the floor, with a not-too revealing slit up one side.

“Thanks. You think Claire and Cliff will approve?” I chuckle as I push his expensive looking watch out of the way to fix one of his cufflinks.

“They were a bit much, weren’t they? The whole thing’s a bit annoying. It hasn’t been too torturous for you, has it? The food tonight should be good, and I think there’s dancing, if you’re into that.”

“I’m starving. And dancing could be fun,” I say, finishing up with his other cuff, and sneaking my hands up to adjust his tie.

Getting tenser with each mile, Clay drives us to the hotel where the ballroom’s been transformed into a combination dining room/dance floor/presentation stage.

“It’ll be okay.” I’m not exactly sure what’s got him so spooked, so to speak, whether it’s the idea of getting the award, having people pay special attention to him, having his picture taken, or the whole package, but I want him to know that I’m here for moral support.

“I just hate formal functions.”

“But you go all the time to stuff like this, or fancier, for work.”

“Exactly; for work. I’m not very good at the ‘outside of work’ stuff.”

“Hmmm.” It’s an interesting aspect to Clayton Webb. Smooth spy by day, socially-nervous and perpetually single 40-something by night. Maybe I should try to fix him up with someone.

At that thought, my heart drops. What’s going on with that? It’s not like I want him for myself; yet, I don’t really want anyone else to have him? That’s twisted.

I smile, and raise my hand in a wave at the people who think I’ve got a degree in waste management and practice large animal veterinary medicine in my time off from my real job as the owner of a head shop in Georgetown. They give us a thumbs-up, presumably because I told them I could find them a good “contact” for some prime California marijuana, once they’ve settled into their new home in Marin County.

“You talk to them today?”

“Just a little. I told them about the scholarships and the endowment,” I lie glibly.

We mingle in the lobby for about twenty minutes, sipping cold drinks, and talking with a woman that Clay introduces as Mitzi.

I give Clay a pointed look, and while Mitzi’s shaking my hand, I can see Clay out of the corner of my eye, shaking his head and waving his hands back and forth to communicate that he never slept with her. I sputter a laugh, and tell her how glad I am to meet her.

The conversation is bland and superficial, until Mitzi asks Clay if we ever take our act “on the road.” I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about, and Clay suddenly laughs in this annoying, fake way, telling her we don’t usually have time to travel, and that he’s just spotted President Sumner, to whom he wants to introduce me, so can she please excuse us.

“What was she talking about? And you don’t really want me to meet the President of the University, do you?”

“Actually, I do. He’s a friend of Tim Fawkes.’”

“President Sumner.” Clay gets the gentleman’s attention, and we talk with him for an extremely pleasant few minutes, before one of his staff insists that he “mingle” more.

“Tell your mother ‘hello.’ And, Sarah, it was really nice talking with you. Best of luck on the bench.”

“How’d he know I’ve been presiding?”

“I filled him in on you last week.”

“Clay, you’re an interesting man.”

I was really impressed with the genuineness between Clay and President Sumner, and I find myself also incredibly flattered that Clay would share one of my professional achievements with him.

We find our table, which is, of course, up front with some other high-end donors, whom I presume are also being honored tonight. And, we’re forced to sit through two incredibly long and superficial talks by the Athletics Director and the Dean of the law school. The third, and final, speaker turns out to be a graduating high school senior who’s one of the beneficiaries of Clay’s scholarship funds. He talks about how his mother left when he was eleven, and when his father was drunk all the time, he ended up taking care of his three younger siblings. His story’s really moving, and Clay’s positively beaming by the end when Lucas talks about the teacher that helped him find this scholarship, because even though he could’ve gotten a full ride to Northwestern, his dream was to come to Harvard.

When he comes off the platform, Lucas steps forward to shake Clay’s hand, and if the man whose dry wit and quick comebacks are well known has ever been at a loss for words, now’s the time.

It’s really touching, and if I weren’t here watching it, you’d think we were in some ridiculously idealistic after school special. But, I can relate to this kid, and Clay seems very proud. It’s a really nice moment, and I notice the event photographer snapping away. I hope they get a good shot.

The moment that I suspect Clay’s been dreading the most finally comes when President Sumner steps to the stage to thank him. He talks about the shy, nervous kid who came to Harvard and grew into the generous man he is today. While he’s talking, a slide montage begins on the screen behind him, and there are pictures of Clay through his time at the university. It starts with what I think is his high school graduation photo, and goes on to show him relaxing with friends, dressed in a Harvard sweatshirt at a football game, standing at a podium obviously participating in a formal debate, and finally, Clay in his cap and gown posing with his mother and President Sumner at his 1983 commencement.

Clay’s staring stony-faced at the President, clearly refusing to acknowledge the larger than life images of his younger and skinnier self. I struggle not to laugh at his long hair, which to my 21st century fashion taste looks suspiciously mullet-like. The photo of his graduation is very good, though, and I can see how the mature and slightly jaded Clayton Webb was once a younger and more innocent version of himself.

Calling his name, President Sumner beckons Clay up, but he just sits there, shaking off the President of Harvard. I can see that Clay’s sweating some, and he really doesn’t want to go up there, but this could turn out to be quite embarrassing for a lot of people if he makes a big deal out of this. So, I take his hand and pull him up. He comes along, and though I’d only intended to get him going, I guess I’m going to have to take him the whole way there.

President Sumner chuckles, “Clay, I see you’re being led around by your lovely wife, Sarah. We know who wears the pants in this family.”

The audience laughs, and we smile at the joke he’s made to break the tension. Clay and I are finally on the small stage, standing just to the right, and a bit back from the President.

The rest of his speech, about what Clay’s done since Harvard, is vague enough so that if you knew what he really did for a living, you’d pick up on the references, but if you had no idea, you’d leave the event thinking Clay was a really grateful economics and political science double major who’s been quietly working away in the depths of the State Department since he graduated.

Clay squeezes my hand when President Sumner again refers to me as his “lovely wife,” and I lean my body closer to Clay’s in a silent communication of my own. We’ve certainly come a long way from the casual work friends we were a few weeks ago. And, I hope we can continue to spend time together after this crazy weekend is over with. I definitely think he’s someone very worth getting to know even better than I already have.

I’m kind of lost in that train of thought, imagining what kinds of activities we could do together once we’re back in DC, that I almost miss when Clay’s called to step up and accept his plaque. More pictures are snapped, and the formal part of the evening is over.

The rest of dinner gets served, and when dessert arrives, Clay and I are asked to stand together with the university’s mascot, John Harvard, against a backdrop that’s got the Harvard crest on it. I feel like I’m at the prom as the photographer arranges Clay’s arm around my waist, and puts my hand on John Harvard’s shoulder. The mascot is actually a guy in a football uniform with a huge, and kind of grotesque, costume head on. It’ s hardly the dignified Harvard image you’d imagine, but I guess it beats the Banana Slugs at Santa Cruz, where Chloe’s started to talk about attending on a volleyball scholarship. She even sent me a t-shirt for my birthday.

“Thank God that’s over,” Clay says, as he thunks his forehead onto my shoulder, and drops his arm from around my middle.

I put my hand on his back, “You want to go back to the B and B?”

I kind of want to dance, they’re playing a lot of great 80’s music, but if he wants to go, that’s okay, too. It’s been a pretty stressful evening for him.

“No, I’d love a drink, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I’m okay with it. Can you get me a Diet Coke?”

“Sure.”

While I’m waiting for Clay, I find a seat at an empty table, and watch the dancing. Everyone’s pretty much got the 80’s style down. Actually, they probably haven’t danced since the 80’s. The music changes over from “Africa” to “She’s Blinded Me With Science,” and I laugh as just about everyone on the dance floor says, “Science!” at the same time.

I look up, thinking Clay’s returned with our drinks, but it’s a couple I don’t recognize. They tell me they were also poly sci majors, and how proud I must be of Clay. I smile and nod, assuming they’re talking about the endowed chair and scholarships. However, they proceed to tell me that Clay told them what a let down it was when he lost his finger in the tractor accident on the kibbutz just before the World Pro-Am Bowling Championships five years ago. But what a miracle it was that the digit could be re-attached, and they understand that I’ve been instrumental in encouraging him to bowl again.

I’m dumbfounded. At first, I try to think back five years ago. Maybe Clay really was in Israel on an op, and the tractor accident was a cover story. There’ve been months at a time when I’ve gone without seeing him. Could he really have lost a finger and had it re-attached? The bowling thing doesn’t make any sense, though.

“Yeah, he’s so much happier when he can bowl. The depression was getting really bad, before we got him back to the lanes,” is all I can come up with, and I hope it fits his story.

Corey and Cindy excuse themselves to go dance when “their song,” “Every Breath You Take” comes on. I smile and wave at them, thinking how twisted that their romantic tune is really about a stalker.

“Your drink, my dear.” Clay finally returns. And, he sounds down right chipper. That drink must’ve already started to do him some good. We should all be so lucky.

“Where’s your drink?” I ask when he sits down empty handed.

“Finished it at the bar,” he states simply. I’m impressed with the fact that he didn’t make a big deal out of doing that. Even while trying to do the right thing by me, Mic used to make me feel like I owed him a huge debt of gratitude when he’d go out of his way not to drink in my presence. It’s not something I usually mind so much, but it’s just the polite thing to do, if you’re with an alcoholic.

“Clay, what’s this I hear about a kibbutz, bowling, and a re-attached finger?”

“Where’d you hear that tall tale?” Clay’s eyes dart around the room before coming back to mine, looking overly innocent.

“From Corey and Cindy Dolby. You’re busted, buster.” I take a sip of my drink, still keeping my eyes on his.

“Okay, I told them we spent our vacation that year on a kibbutz in Israel, and that we –“

Before he can continue, a huge hand descends on Clay’s shoulder.

“Clay, you dog! Look at this dame you scored!”

“Anthony, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is Anthony Cryer, one of my classmates. Anthony used to copy my econ homework.”

“You dog! I did not! Okay, once or twice.” A belly laugh like I’ve never heard erupts loudly from Anthony, and just before he thankfully saunters off to torture someone else, he’s got one parting wish for us, “When that brood of yours is born, I want a crack at your bitch for breeding.”

I don’t say anything at first, and just turn in my chair to face Clay with my eyebrows raised in an expectant expression, waiting for an explanation. Either that guy’s totally disgusting, or we’re all of a sudden dog breeders. I’m so hoping for the latter.

“Um, we show champion Saint Bernards?” Clay says in a question, obviously hoping this will satisfy me.

“Is this some game you spies play?” I’m kind of annoyed that he’s been telling these tales about us – not that there’s an “us,” mind you. And, I ’m totally ignoring, for now, the fact that I’ve been doing the same thing.

“Shhhh, don’t say that so loudly. And no, it just sort of happened with Anthony. He’s such an ass, he wouldn’t shut up at the picnic, and I was trying to find a topic that would drive him away. Didn’t work though, he was just really impressed, kept asking about my bitches. I think he liked the fact that he could say ‘your bitches’ in polite company.”

“And the kibbutz bowling tournament?” I want to know just what else he’s told people.

“World Pro-Am Bowling Championship. Actually, I did compete once, in the Junior Division. And,” he continues defensively, “The tractor thing really did happen to someone I know. They did successfully re-attach it. I don’t know if he was a bowler, though,” Clay ends, looking genuinely curious to know if this guy ever bowled.

“UN-believable.”

Just when Clay’s looking very guilty, and is, I presume, about to apologize, Rob and Molly Nelson greet us, and ask when we’re going to start our training at Star City for our trip with the Russians to the International Space Station.

Shit.

“January. We’re really excited. And, if it works out, and the timing’s right, Sarah will be the first woman to give birth in space.” Clay’s immediately on top of it.

Oh, Jesus. I guess this is payback time for me.

“Wow!” Molly’s totally in awe.

“Good luck with that,” Rob says, warily. I can’t blame him; I’d think we were freaks, too.

Not so subtly, Rob gets his wife away from us, and I guess it’s time to face the music.

“Let’s take a little stroll, shall we?” Clay smiles contritely at me.

PART 5 – “Some people call it a one night stand; But we can call it paradise”

I take Clay’s offered hand, and when I get up he keeps a hold of it while we walk back out into the much quieter lobby off the ballroom.

“And you were mad at me about the kibbutz and dog breeding?”

Clay’s fighting so hard to sound mad, but on the word “breeding,” his voice cracks. He tries to cover with a cough, but I’m on to him.

“I thought the astronaut story would impress them. I was doing it for you.” I can’t sustain the charade of “doing it all for my man” act, and I bust up.

“What else have you told people?” Clay asks, his cheeks taut from laughing.

“Umm, I’m not sure I can remember it all.” I look around, wondering if I’ ll remember who I told what to if I spot them.

“Oh man, you’re worse than I am.”

“Wait, did you do more than the kibbutz and dog stories?”

“Yeah, but at least I can keep all mine straight. I told Tom and Meg that we met at one of those baseball training camps. Judd and Ali think we’re world canasta champions, but I had to excuse myself from the conversation when they started asking about the rules. And, if we see her later, Nancy Ferraro will want to know when and where you first studied Chinese acrobatics.”

“Hey! The circus story was one of mine! Cliff and Claire; we met when you saw one of my acts. My parents were in the side show.”

“They were!? That’s not in your fil—oh. Also part of the scam; I get it.”

“Okay, so we’re a little twisted.”

“Obviously, we’re bored with our real lives.”

“Which is odd, considering the fact that you’re a CIA operative, and I’m a military attorney who finds herself in more personally dangerous situations than most Marines on active duty in combat zones.”

“True. So, do we have some self-worth issues, or what?”

“Maybe a few. Or, there are just some things we’d like to change about ourselves, but we’re not sure how, or are frustrated that we can’t just wake up one morning and have those things already be altered.”

“Hmmm, good insight.” Clay smiles and leans towards me. I think we’re going to kiss, and the idea is very appealing. It’s a really nice moment.

Unfortunately, it gets interrupted when, out of the corner of my eye, I see people waving at us. I lean away from where Clay’s head was just tiling towards mine, and look to see who it is.

“Shoot, the Smiths, the Halls, and some other couple are waving. I hope they aren’t talking about us. I think the Smiths were the ones I told we met when you rescued my cat from a tree when you were doing your volunteer fireman’s training, but the Halls think we met when my sister, a truck driver, set us up on a blind date at a truck stop. Who are those other people?”

“Just the Keatons, who think we got matching tattoos that say ‘I love you’ on our butts when we honeymooned in Las Vegas.”

“We honeymooned in Las Vegas? I don’t think so.” If he’s going to make up something like that, he could’ve at least picked a more appealing location.

“They’re coming this way. We need to get out of here. I told the Smiths we met when I was in Seattle on a vacation, and you owned a combination fish market/coffee shop. Quick, want to dance?”

“That’s a fine way to ask a woman for a dance.”

Clay drops his shoulders and sighs. “Sarah, I’d love to dance with you, will you do me the honor?”

“That’s more like it. Very convincing. But, with all the lying you’ve done today, how do I know you really mean it?”

I’m torturing him, I know it, and the three couples are approaching fast, but I need to get him back for the fish market thing, and those tacky tattoos we’ve supposedly got. I watch his eyes dart between me and the group of people who might expect our stories to mesh. Then, all of a sudden, his facial expression shifts entirely away from the look of panic that had formed, and I catch myself looking into his eyes again.

“Sarah, you look incredibly beautiful tonight, and I’m almost sorry we aren’t married, because I’d love to be able to take you back to the B and B, and make love.”

Sold!

“Wow. Okay, let’s get to it.” I take his hand, and we walk briskly towards the dance floor.

“You probably mean the dancing, don’t you?”

Part of me wants to immediately answer “yes,” and smack him, but another, very surprised, but increasingly aroused, part wants to say “no.” My internal dilemma of mind and body is cut short by the loud music that begins to blare out of the huge speaker that I didn’t realize we’d walked up to.

~You saw me standing by the wall, Corner of a main street And the lights are flashing on your window sill All alone ain't much fun, So you're looking for the thrill And you know just what it takes and where to go~

Moving to another, slightly quieter, part of the dance floor, we settle in. Clay puts us in a very traditional dance pose, which is kind of funny, because if I remember correctly, and judging from the other couples here, slow dances to pop tunes are usually danced with arms simply flung around one another. Though, I think that’s one of Clay’s charms, he’s got a bit of “traditional” about him, but not so much that he’s a complete fuddy-duddy. Besides, his hand on my bare back feels really great, and I’ m relishing the feel of his skin on mine.

“Any sign of them?” I look over Clay’s shoulder to see if anyone who might be mad about our lies is coming this way.

“I don’t think so.” In trying to get a better view around me, Clay pulls me closer, so we’re kind of cheek to cheek, and we stay that way, swaying to the music, stepping back and forth in rhythm.

~Don't save a prayer for me now, Save it 'til the morning after No, don't say a prayer for me now, Save it 'til the morning after~

This 80’s music takes me back. That time of my life was pretty crappy, but hearing the music now, I feel somehow better about my past. Like I can enjoy some of the things I missed out on from back then.

~Feel the breeze deep on the inside, Look you down into the well If you can, you'll see the world in all his fire Take a chance - Like all dreamers can't find another way You don't have to dream it all, just live a day~

I’m glad all that’s so far in the past. I like who I am now, even if there are a few improvements I’d like to make, as I’d alluded to Clay earlier. It would be nice to share my life with a man; have a little romance, maybe. I sigh at the thought of it, and relax even more into Clay’s embrace. I’m feeling really comfortable with him, and wonder again about the idea of going to bed with him.

Clay slides the hand, which had been on my back, down so it’s now encircling my waist. The hand that was holding mine out in the traditional dance pose gets brought up to his neck, where he places my hand. His final move is to shift his now-free hand also around my waist. We’re in a real “slow song” dance stance now. And, if I weren’t getting so turned on by it, I’d giggle at this unlikely position we’re in.

~Don't say a prayer for me now, Save it 'til the morning after No, don't say a prayer for me now, Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after, Save it till the morning after~

His hands are warm on my waist, holding me close to him, and the effect is that my heart commences a hard pounding rhythm. I’m a bit shaky from how turned on I’m getting, and from nerves, too. The way Clay’s breath is now blowing hotly past my ear is sending periodic shivers through my body. I fully lace the fingers of my right hand through his hair, caressing his scalp. In addition to the heat I’m feeling between me and Clay, which is getting intense, it’s really hot on the dance floor, and I’m glad I went bare-legged.

~Pretty looking road, Try to hold the rising floods that fill my skin Don't ask me why I'll keep my promise, I'll melt the ice And you wanted to dance so I asked you to dance But fear is in your soul Some people call it a one night stand But we can call it paradise~

Clay tilts his head encouragingly to the side as I continue to comb my fingers through his silky hair. I’m glad we’re here as a married couple; this isn’t something I’d ever have the nerve to do at any Navy or governmental function. Playing this role is giving me courage to act on the strong physical attraction I’m feeling towards him.

I lean back to speak. “Congratulations on being honored, by the way. I’m really proud of you.”

It’s something wife would say, but I also mean it. Clay’s face is very close to mine, and he’s just near enough so that I can’t focus, damn aging eyes. I pull my head back, and get a concerned look from Clay.

“You were out of focus.”

He smiles a soft closed-mouth grin, and lets out a gentle breath of a laugh through his nose. I smile back and take in his countenance. His eyes are captivating, especially up this close. In fact, his whole face is incredibly alluring.

~Don't say a prayer for me now, Save it 'til the morning after No, don't say a prayer for me now, Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after Save it 'til the morning after~

Almost imperceptibly, it starts to get harder to keep him in focus. I feel only a little silly when I figure out that he’s started to lean towards me, very slowly. I’ll have to remember to tell him about that later, but now, I’m feeling a sudden pull of pleasure and attraction in my lower stomach, and I’m concentrating on his now out of focus lips. I lean towards him as well, and we kiss. Sometimes first kisses are awkward, and all you can do is think about how odd the other person’s lips feel on yours, or how foreign they taste to you. This first kiss is not like that at all. His lips are pliable, and a little chapped from being in the sun for several hours today, and probably from talking so much at the picnic and tonight. The texture just adds to the sexy sensations that are quickly going to my head, and elsewhere. All these things at once – his lips moving over mine, his hands stroking my lower back, his soft breathing through his nose, the way our bodies are suddenly pressed hard together.

~Save a prayer ‘til the morning after Save a prayer ‘til the morning after Save a prayer ‘til the morning after Save a prayer ‘til the morning after Save a prayer ‘til the morning after~

The song fades out at the exact same time that we begin to expand on our kiss. Clay’s body is pushing into mine a bit more, and our mouths are beginning to open when we come back to our current situation at the same time: precisely when “Mr. Roboto” comes on the sound system.

Instead of making out, we’re busting up so hard that I’m actually close to peeing in my pants. My dress; whatever. Clay and I are holding on to one another, semi-bent over with the giggles as we make our way off the dance floor, and back to our table.

“Time to pack it in, I think.”

“It’s your night; up to you.” I take a sip of my very watery Diet Coke; all the ice has melted.

“Let’s go,” Clay says, leaning down to pick up my small purse.

Just as he’s about to pass it to me, he yanks it back, and holds out his other hand instead. I take it readily, and we slink stealthily along the walls of the ballroom, to make our exit unnoticed. Clay lets me into his car, but I stop him before he turns away by pulling one of his tuxedo lapels, and rotating him back to me. He smiles, knowing exactly what’s about to happen, and we kiss.

Clay puts a hand behind my head, and with his fingers in my hair, he holds me close. I move my arms up from his chest to circle his neck, and he leans me into the frame of the car. His body is warm in contrast to the cool spring evening, and I press my chest to his, enjoying the way my breasts give way to his firm chest. Kissing Clay is all consuming, we could be anywhere, and all I’d be able to concentrate on would be the way our tongues are mingling, and the way we’re exploring each other in this new way.

I can feel his erection growing, and my tongue laps hungrily at his. Still kissing, I feel him bending down in a way that has me really baffled, until I hear the ‘plop’ and ‘clink-jingle’ of Clay dropping my purse and his car keys onto the passenger seat. When we straighten up from the stoop he’d had us in, his free hand starts at my hip, and finds its way to my breast. His palm presses into my flesh, and I moan a little at how good it feels.

His kisses grow in urgency, and soon we’re pushing our hips together, while gasping for breath between open mouthed kisses, where tongues and lips are being alternately nipped at, sucked on, and licked. One of us needs to put a stop to this. Not that I want to stop, I really want to have sex with him, my core is buzzing with desire, and I’m really wet with want. But, we should stop practically dry humping in the parking lot. Though, I guess I’m glad we didn’t valet park, because this feels so good.

It’s Clay who finally starts thinking practically, and acts on it, as well. Nuzzling my neck, and nibbling between words, he asks, “Sarah, you give any thought to my idea?”

“The one about going back to the B and B and going to bed?”

“That’s the one.”

“I think we’d better, before we get arrested for doing it right here, and Harvard tries to give all your money back to you.”

I get a chuckle out of him, and that sets us in motion. He trots around to the driver’s side, while I slide in, after picking up my clutch and his keys. I reach over to stick the keys in the ignition, and Clay dips his hand, led by his fingers, into my cleavage, twisting his hand, so his knuckles graze the side of my breast.

“Your skin is so smooth.”

I smile and tell him to drive, “You’ll get to feel a lot more a lot faster, if you start the car and get going.”

“Tease.”

“You love it.”

“You can tease me all you want, Colonel MacKenzie.” He revs the engine hard to emphasize his sentence.

“Don’t tempt me.”

We continue this verbal flirting game all the way back to the outskirts of town, but all talk of teasing and ‘torturing’ is thrown completely out the window as soon as we’re in my room. We attack each other with fervor, and I know that whatever slow and teasing sex we might have in the future, tonight ain’t the night.

His hands are on my breasts, kneading at them, while his mouth devours mine. I shove his suspenders over his shoulders, his jacket having already been discarded onto the floor as soon as I threw the lock on the door to our little suite. His suspenders trap his upper arms at his sides, and he has to pull his hands away from me to rid himself of the hindrance. The spaghetti straps of my dress have already fallen off my shoulders, and so I reach to unzip the long zipper that begins under my right arm, and ends at my waist. The material of my dress begins to fall away in a Y pattern at my side as I separate the zipper teeth down the line.

Again, Clay has to take his hands off my breasts to allow clothing to be shed. But, when my dress falls from my top and exposes my bare breasts, Clay appreciates the momentary inconvenience.

“You’re gorgeous, Sarah.”

I reach for a kiss from him, and move my now exposed breasts over his chest. Even though his shirt’s still on, I get a hint of what lies beneath. When I back off a little, my dress falls the rest of the way, leaving me in just my bikini underwear. Part of me wishes I’d opted for thong undies tonight, but I didn’t really anticipate this. Which reminds me of something.

“Um, protection?” I query.

“Yeah, I have some.”

“Really?” I’m kind of relieved that we won’t have to resort to just petting and “hand jobs,” or be forced to dress again, and go in search of the closest market or convenience store that would carry condoms. But, I’ m a little miffed that he’d have assumed he’d be needing protection. Admittedly, it bothers me less to think he’d anticipated *us* needing condoms, than to imagine him thinking he’d need them for an encounter with someone else.

I back away and try to casually step out of my dress, which is around my feet. I move to sit on the edge of the bed, very ready to be out of these shoes.

“My mother gave them to me.”

“You’re joking.” I pause my hand over the back strap of the one shoe that remains on. I look to where Clay is fiddling with his cufflinks.

“No.” He looks up from working on his shirt cuffs. “I believe her exact words were, ‘Clayton, you haven’t dated much in the past decade, you don’t know what nasty things are out there, even nice girls get things. Take these with you.’”

“God, I can’t imagine talking about sex with my mother. Well, we didn’t talk about much at all, really. But, your mom doesn’t strike me as being so open about those things.”

“Believe me, she is. Far more than necessary, at times.” The blush that now covers his face lets me know that he’s endured the embarrassment of being talked to by his mother about sex on more than one occasion, and I suspect the condom talk that’s graced us with protection for the evening was nothing.

I’m more than satisfied with his answer. “Should we move into your room, then?”

“Finally!” Clay says tossing both cufflinks in frustration. “Hate those things. Come here.”

I walk to him, and his eyes positively devour my body. It’s similar to being undressed by his eyes, but the dark passion that I can see brewing in his hazel gaze feels more like he’s making love to me. Moisture begins to pool between my legs in earnest, and I slow down my walk, enjoying the time it’s taking to get to him.

Clay’s eyes never leave my body, though they dart quickly to my face, my lips, and my eyes now and then. But, he’s taking all of me in. He lifts his hands and undoes his buttons, one at a time, in the same cadence as my progress towards him. When I’m standing directly in front of him, he jerks his shirt off his shoulders, one at a time, and yanks it the rest of the way out of his pants, throwing it down when he’s done. Finally, he crushes me to him. Our lips hit together hard, and I bet we’ll have swollen and raw lips tomorrow. Right now, though, it feels so good to increase the stimulation of our love making with these harsh physical meetings.

His hand cups my rear, and he’s reaching down and around as far as he can – his fingers finding the wet edges of my panties between my legs.

“Your room.” I have to struggle to say against his mouth.

“’Kay.”

I break all the way away, and he follows me to his room. Once there, he gently pushes me to sit on the bed. From this new vantage point, I have great access to his flat and smooth stomach. I play my fingers in the waistband of his pants, while he careens his hands in my hair, and urges my head to rest on his midsection.

I kiss and nip at his rib cage, and run both of my hands around the upper reaches of his thighs to grasp his tight butt muscles. He tilts his hips towards me, and I loosen my grasp to bring my hands back to the front of his pants again, where I unhook and unzip.

Before I can really reach in, Clay moves away, rummages in his overnight bag, and tries to look casual while placing the small box of condoms on the bedside table. I smile at him when he glances at me sheepishly. He looks sexy with his trousers hanging open at the fly, exposing his dark gray boxer briefs.

I scoot back on the bed, and lie on top of the quilt, with my head resting on the pillows. Clay toes his shoes off, and pulls his pants down and off, taking his dress socks with them. Getting on the bed, he walks to me on his knees, and lies down, halfway covering my body.

His erection is pressing into the side of my hip, which I cock out a bit. He presses into me, while teasing my nipple into a tough peak, and craning his neck up to kiss me. I want better access to him, so I turn on my side, throwing a leg over his hip, and pulling him close to me, with my arm around his back. I scratch his back in an experiment, and it’s a success – he arches in pleasure and “hmmm-ooohs.”

I tilt my hips to put the juncture of my legs onto his hipbone, and the pressure on my sensitive nerve endings there makes me press even harder, ramping up for release. Clay’s hands wander down and across my body, but keep drifting back to my nipples, which pleases me immensely. Ultimately, he allows his touch to migrate, placing his mouth over my breast and breathing hot air on my skin before covering the area in kisses. A sucking kiss on my areole slides to my nipple, and I instantly want him to do it harder. The sensations of stimulation zing electricity right to my clit, and I get more vocal in my passion.

Clay responds to my moans with hungry noises at my breast. One of his hands finds the spot that seems directly connected to the nipple he’s mouthing. Over the material of my underwear, he’s rubbing at me, and I really want to shed the last of the clothing that’s between us. His fingers find the edge of my panties, and they skate between my sodden lips, slicking back and forth over my clit, and to my core. I’m so close to the edge, and begin to suckle the skin on his shoulder, where I can feel the muscles controlling his arm and hand movements. The rawness of his sinewy tendons pulling and tensing pushes me right over. I completely let myself go in the moment, and pant and moan my release, writhing my hips around to take full advantage of the two fingers Clay’s got inside me, while his thumb passes over and over my clit.

Just a moment after my dizzying orgasm, I’m feeling impossibly driven to really have this man. Clay looks up from my breast, and smiles. He withdraws his hand from between my legs and under my panties. We roll away from each other a bit, and hook fingers into waistbands, to tug and remove respective undergarments.

Clay pulls me on top of him, and holds my face in his hands. We stare into each other’s eyes, and, flicking mine back and forth between the two of his, I see him doing the same. It’s like we can’t focus on any one thing for longer than a split second. I pull one of my legs up to kind of straddle him, and Clay pulls my face to his for an unexpectedly chaste kiss. It’s followed by a series of quick, hard kisses to my mouth, and all over my face. I slip off him just so I can get my hand between us, and to his erection. His cock is hard and hot in my hand, and I softly drum my finger pads over his balls. It’s his turn to moan his need, now.

I’m more than ready to complete our coupling, and while stroking his hardness at a steady pace, I ask, “Condom?”

“Yeah.”

I reach to the table by the bed, tear open the box and fish out one of the prophylactics. Looking back to Clay, he’s propped up on his elbows, his cock standing upright, strong and hard. I offer the condom out to him, and he quickly completes the task of sheathing himself. The vaguely familiar smell of sex and the rubber that the condoms are made from fills the room. Swinging a leg over Clay, I hover over his cock.

“Remind you of your college days?”

“You really want to hear about the women I had sex with when I was far too young and naïve to know what to do with them?” His hands on my hips are tense, as he wills himself not to push me down.

“No,” I laugh.

Leaning to him, I sink myself onto his cock, and find his lips with mine. He thrusts up into me, and the hands on my hips grip me hard. We kiss sloppily, in an effort to find a rhythm with our hips. Once we get going in a pattern, Clay urges me with his legs to roll over. We make the rotation, still joined fully, and once he’s on top, the thrusting begins for real.

I lift my legs high, and he raises up, hammering into me hard and fast. We shift again in a mutual effort to feel more, do it harder, go faster. He falls to me, his forearms on either side of my head, and he dips down for a harsh kiss. I grab his head and hold him there, snaking my tongue into his mouth. His tongue shoves into my mouth, and we let ourselves get lost in the kiss while our hips continue the primary stimulation. Needing to breathe, we break apart, to suck in panting breaths.

Clay holds himself up, his palms flat on the bed, next to my head. I lock my legs around him, high up on his midriff. I pull him to me, forcing his thrusts harder and tighter. With each hit on my pelvic bone, I’m filled to the brim, and he’s hitting just the right spots, inside and out. I’m breathing hard and fast, gasping almost. Clay’s making short soft grunting noises in my ear, and when his breathing stops for a few beats, I know he’s over the edge. As he’s pumping into me, I squeeze myself around him, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him, and producing another orgasm for myself. I can tell his climax is over, but he keeps up with his thrusts as I ride mine out.

When we’re both completely spent, he dashes off to the bathroom and returns in a flash, minus the condom. Instead of immediately lying back down with me, he considers my now languid form, completely relaxed, and embarrassingly close to sleep.

I smile a sleepy grin at him, and pat the bed, inviting him to come and sleep.

“Let’s get under the covers,” he suggests.

“That means I have to move, doesn’t it?” I really don’t want to get up.

“You were moving just fine a minute ago.”

“I had the right motivations, then.”

He comes and begins to tug at the blankets.

“Okay, okay. Anxious to get into bed, are we?” I start to move.

“It’s been a long day.”

I shift to get the bed coverings from underneath me, and Clay falls hard to the mattress. We scoot together, and arrange the blankets and pillows sufficiently, letting our sleepy bodies relax into the bed, and into each other.

PART 6 – “Take me every morning”

Sunlight streaming in through the windows wakes me up the next morning. I shift in my waking, and Clay stirs besides me. I look over to where he’s sprawled out on his stomach, and watch as he opens his mouth, closes it, opens his eyes, closes them, and then arches his body, stretching against the mattress. He rolls over, and I move in. A small kiss on his lips, a touch on his chest that slithers to his half-erect cock, and his hands are all over me. His erection fully forms, and in spite of whatever “morning breath” we’ve got, we’re soon kissing and ramping up fast for sex. Clay reaches for a condom, and this time, I unroll it.

“I want you on top; I want to watch you,” Clay says, even as I’m preparing to mount him.

Riding up and down, at a slow steady rate, Clay’s thrusting matches my pace. With his fingers, he’s circling my clit, and when I come, I swear I can feel his cock harden even further inside me. I’m still riding out the peak of pleasure when Clay holds me to him, and groans his release, the feeling of his strong cock muscles spasming inside me, and at my opening.

I fall on top of him, and he laughs. “Morning.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

We get up to shower and dress in time for the amazing brunch that’s served. Dr. LaSalle hands Clay a plate of fresh fruit, and slides him a very obvious wink. Shit, I hope we weren’t too loud. Though, she doesn’t seem offended in the least.

Clay settles our bill, and we pack up his car to head back to DC. I’m sort of sorry our weekend’s over. Though, I’m pretty certain that Clay and I will be spending a few more weekends together in the future.

We drive back at a leisurely pace, Clay’s hand resting on my knee most of the way. Hitting the predictable Sunday traffic when we’re almost all the way back, I feel like we need to at least say something about what’s going on between us.

“So, when’s your next reunion?” I open with.

“The only reunion I want to attend anytime soon is with you. Clothing optional.”

He laughs at his own suggestion, and I run my hand up his thigh to give a fast, light squeeze to his “package.”

“Name the time and place.”

“My place, tonight?” Clay glances to me, his eyebrows raised in hope.

“Well, since I *did* end up landing a handsome, successful Harvard grad to go home with, I think I owe you at least a night of ‘thank you sex.’”

“Thank you sex? I’m going to have to keep finding reasons for you to be grateful, then.”

“I’m sure that won’t be hard for you.” Again, I squeeze him; this time, he pushes into my palm, his erection apparent.

Before I can tease him further, he gets his mind back on the road. “Let’s not give our fellow drivers a show they weren’t expecting.”

I look to the crawling traffic, and flinch when I see an SUV that looks like Harm’s. But there are a million SUV’s, what’re the chances of seeing him on the road? I shrug my shoulders, feeling positively naughty and uncharacteristically daring. I undo the top of Clay’s jeans, and fish around to get to his still hardening cock. In spite of his protests, he’s getting really turned on. Lifting his hips, he helps get his clothing out of the way just enough, and I bend to taste him.

A suck of air into his lungs, and the size increase in his erection tells me how it feels. I nod up and down, sucking and licking his cock, sliding my tongue over the smooth skin that sheaths the long hard muscle. I flick over his head, and bring one hand over to join my efforts, wedging my hand down to tickle his balls. Clay puts a hand on the back of my head, petting my hair, and lightly urging me on.

His strong thigh muscles contract and release in time to my mouth’s movements on him, and finally he holds my head close down on him, as he spurts into my mouth, hot and fast. I swirl my tongue around his weakening cock, and make sure I’ve left him as dry as possible. Swallowing and sitting up, I push my hair out of my face, feeling a little dizzy, and a bit car sick. Though, it was worth it. Clay fiddles with his fly, tucking himself back into place, and I tilt my head back, shutting my eyes, and leaning on the head rest. I jump when Clay reaches for my crotch, and begins rubbing me through my pants.

“Your turn.”

“Okay.” I smile, but keep my eyes closed.

Since the traffic’s going at a snail’s pace, there’s really no hurry, and the way Clay’s touching me, generates a long and drawn out arousal that has me shaking by the end. I shudder hard when I come, and Clay’s finally able to put both hands back on the wheel.

“Great road trip,” I say, still content to keep my eyes shut.

“We’re almost to JAG, you want to pick up your car, follow me to my place, and get done senseless?”

I open my eyes and turn to meet his smiling face head on, while we wait for a stoplight to turn green.

“I’ll follow you. And, you’d better be prepared to drive fast.”

Sunday night turned into Monday morning very quickly, and I hated having to leave Clay’s bed so early in the morning to get home for a fresh uniform. I kissed him at his door, while he was dressed in his worn-looking white terrycloth bathrobe, and we agreed to email later, and to have dinner tomorrow night.

Zoning out while stirring my coffee in the small kitchen at work, Harm walks in and interrupts my preparations.

"Oh. Hey, Mac." He seems surprised to see me, for some reason. It’s not like I’m not in here about the same time every morning.

"Hey, Harm." I turn and give him a funny look when I catch him starting to back out of the kitchen as if he’s trying to ‘get away.’ “You all right?”

"Um, yeah. I just, well, I, um…” He’s looking at his empty coffee cup, my full coffee cup, the refrigerator, back out to the hallway, a spot on the wall over my head; anywhere but actually *at* me.

“Spit it out, Harm,” I say, bending my head to put my face in his line of sight, which is now aimed squarely at the floor.

“I just, well… I thought I saw you and Webb on the freeway last night. In a, well, um, a kind of, umm... compromising position.”

Oh, shit. I knew I’d been a bit too adventurous. I will my face not to turn red, and force a neutral expression. Meanwhile, Harm’s gaze is darting around the room again, mostly at spots on the floor.

“Are you sure?” I say, my tone heavy with doubt; I can play this off, I think.

“Yeah, because it sure looked like Webb, and the hair was like yours…” He starts out kind of defensive, as if he’s trying to actually convince me that he really did see me in an embarrassing situation. But then he trails off, the wheels turning in his head. “Wait! Clay’s got that red Mercedes, right?” He points his index and middle fingers at me, the way he does with a witness. “Never mind. I think this was a silver ‘Beemer.’ Good, because I really didn’t need to see what I thought I saw last night.”

The relief in his voice is almost funny. Poor guy, so traumatized. I’m sure it’s not as if he’s never wished for that particular fantasy to happen to him, though.

“BMW Z8, actually.” I smile knowingly, and walk away fast, catching the Admiral in the bullpen for protection in case Harm puts two and two together faster than I can get to my office and shut the door. Luckily, he doesn’t catch my drift until he’s walking past us, and I get a chance to see his face snarl into an obvious “eeeew” expression. I smile, and turn my attention fully back to my CO.

“Yes, sir. It was a very satisfying weekend. Thank you for asking.”

END