Seductive Reasoning Volume One E-Book

Iain Cambridge

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Epiphany Blaze is a middle-aged woman with a troubled past, for having reached the end of her working career she needs to relieve herself of the heavy burden that has plagued her for over thirty years.

Andrew Davidson, a computer programmer who seems to spend his life on the road, is looking for a life less boring.

When these two unlikely people meet in a hotel bar, in a forgotten part of the world, both would find what they are looking for in each others company.

'Seductive Reasoning' is a highly sexual, character-based drama that explores the innocent flirtations of two strangers, perverted by the stark glare of insanity's lust.

Leseprobe

Iain Cambridge

Seductive Reasoning Volume One

See no Evil

For Deb and Matthew. My love for you both is eternal. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

PROLOGUE:

  'She reached behind her head and removed the clasp that held her ponytail so firmly in place and placed the clip in her mouth. With both hands, she then ruffled her hair into some sort of order, causing her blouse to strain with the effort of keeping her modesty in check and failing badly as the gaps between each button pulled apart allowing a partial view of the red lace of a bra that clearly had to work for its living. She then placed the clip in her handbag and took a sip of her drink, leaving a red lipstick mark on the rim of the glass as she did so. She closed her eyes against the pleasant sting of alcohol as it burnt away the stresses of the day.'

SEDUCTIVE REASONING: PART ONE - CONNECTIONS

It was shaping up to be another long evening of boredom and I was about to make my way to the hotel bar, for the prospect of spending the night trapped in my room with nothing but mindless game shows coupled with the sound of frantic lovemaking coming from the room next door was quite frankly, unbearable. The rhythmic banging on the wall accompanied by the shrill sounds of a woman screaming for a deity I doubted even she believed in, drove me from my cocoon of dated seventies wallpaper and furniture that should have been replaced some ten years before the room had been decorated.

I pocketed my wallet, picked up my book and left the room.

  Having been sent off to another God-forsaken part of the country, some small town full of low lives and ne'er-do-wells, I had ended my day, as per the previous three days with my book and a glass of bourbon. The book was a place in which to lose myself. To wander within a world of fantasy in the hope that such meanderings would stave off the monotony of this repetitive lifestyle, whilst the bourbon was an attempt in inducing a semi-drunken state whereby the book would seem a little more interesting than it actually was. To be fair, it wasn’t the book that was uninteresting; it was the fact that I had read it so many times before that I could now quote it word for word without referring to the text. The years had become a sort of "Groundhog Day" for me of late, except that there were three hundred and sixty-five of them. The same thing over and over again, punctuated every six weeks or so by a return home for two weeks whilst I reminded myself why I got married, and to reintroduce myself to my wife.

   I design computer software for a living and fix the issues created by others who are, let’s say—less talented. I work for a large telecommunications company, who shall remain nameless, save it became known by their competitors that their mainframe systems were so outdated that they had felt the need to put me on a ten-year exclusive contract. They wanted that I bring them up to speed in this ever-increasing digital world, and at the same time attempt to drag their workers kicking and screaming into the twentieth century.

I must add at this point that at the time of writing we were well into the twenty-first century, which I should have mentioned before my last statement as it would have gone some way into preparing the base for my little joke.

So anyway—back to the bar, book, and bourbon.

On entering the bar I saw, without surprise that it was empty. No one in their right mind would deliberately visit this town, so why they thought it needed a hotel was beyond me.

The pale and uninteresting pictures of horses went hand in hand with the other items of a racing nature. It was an attempt to create a theme for this small corner of the hotel, something that spoke of some heritage of an equine nature. It seemed that some one hundred years ago, the town gave birth to the winner of some cup or another. The horse in question, ‘Darling Bessie’ I believe its name to have been, had its picture at the heart of the bar. Resplendently domineering as it hung above the fireplace—guild framed and ostentatiously pretentious. There was an old poker machine in the corner that would gladly take your money if offered, and an old man behind the bar who would be willing to do the same.

I placed my book on a table nearest to the window as I found that the dull lights of the bar were a little too harsh for me to read by and that the natural glow created by the long spring evenings and the low setting sun, was just right. It also gave me the opportunity to judge when my evening was over.

No more light to read by equals time for bed.

The barman greeted me by a simple raising of his eyebrows, for such was my routine since the day I first checked in we both felt that we had gone past the need for actual words, other than for me to tell him to get a drink for himself. Even this was now so mutually accepted that I didn’t wait for my change anymore on the assumption that he would use the remainder to get the beverage of his choice. The raising his glass to me, and mine to him was our only acknowledgment of this. After that we both got on with the evening until the night was spent, it was then that we were forced to exchange our nightly farewells by way of a,

   “See you tomorrow Charlie”, followed by a “Mind ‘ow you go Guv.”

  About an hour and two more refills into the evening, other patrons of the hotel began to populate the bar. This wasn’t unusual, as at some point the lack of anything on television, and the further lack of an ability to walk the streets safely, meant that the hotel bar was ‘The place to be’—if only for a few hours, serving as it did as a catchment point for all the flotsam and jetsam of societies lost and forgotten. As I ran my critical eye over this collection of outcasts, I suddenly realized with some degree of distain that I was, in fact, one of them. This antisocial group of misfits had drafted me as a member without my knowing, and seemingly without objection.