The Backup Asset

…7

Vernon Blackburn rarely left his office at 5.00PM sharp. He felt uncomfortable busting through the gates among the masses of blue-collar, younger employees. Most engineers rarely went home on time. He felt almost embarrassed making his way through security at the exit and waiting in line after several exempt employees, but today he just had to get out of that office. He couldn’t breathe in there… He’d tried to open the window, dropped the thermostat setting to 68 degrees, but nothing helped. He had to get out.

As he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep Grand Cherokee he took a deep breath, the first deep breath he’d been able to take in more than an hour. He was ready to go home.

He started the slow commute, lined up behind several other cars crawling out of the parking structure in the five o’clock rush. A few minutes later, he picked up speed, driving eastbound on Virginia Beach Boulevard. Then he approached the stoplight at the corner of Virginia Beach and 460. If he took a right turn, that would lead him to I-264 then I-464, on the road to his home in Chesapeake. A left turn would take him to his favorite bar on Lafayette, the 1700 Somewhere. Nope, he was going to go home this time, he promised himself. He preselected for the right turn and set the blinker on, waiting for the light to turn green and letting his mind wander.

The car behind his Jeep honked twice, startling him. The light had turned green and cars were zooming past him. On an impulse, without any thought or concern for the fast-moving cars coming from behind, he cut all lanes and made a left turn, pedal to the metal, among screeching tires and a concert of angry honks. Once he made it out of the intersection he slowed down, resuming his normal, calm driving demeanor and rubbing his forehead furiously. All right, just one drink, just one, he promised himself again. Maybe this promise he could keep.

His watering hole of choice was a bar aptly named 1700 Somewhere. The owner, retired Navy, had rebranded to military time one of the world’s most famous excuses for a drink. This time it was 1700 right here where he was, and he needed no excuse. The blue light of the bar’s neon sign looked inviting in the darkening dusk.

He parked his Jeep on the side of the building and went straight inside. Vernon was a regular; the bar was almost empty, and the bartender didn’t wait for any order. He filled a glass promptly with double bourbon on the rocks and placed it on a napkin in front of him.

Vernon liked this familiarity, this sense of belonging that comes from being a regular in a place, any place. It almost felt like home in a twisted kind of way for the mentally weary, exhausted man in search of a break between work and family.

He held the glass with both hands, playing with it and making the ice cubes clink in the liquid as he swirled the glass gently. He cherished this moment, the furtive moment when he still had a drink in front of him, still having something to look forward to before resuming the dullness of his daily existence.

He looked at the familiar walls, decorated with identical clocks showing the time in various places of the Earth, labeled neatly as if the bar were some kind of special operations room at the CIA.

The walls wore the patina of time gracefully. Still showing traces of the era when smoking was permitted indoors, those walls were a living memory of the times when people were allowed to gratify their senses with more than just alcohol.

He almost didn’t notice the woman taking a seat to his left at the bar. He felt her scent first, a fine, expensive hint of French perfume. He decided it was French, but he wasn’t really sure. That’s what French perfumes smelled like in his mind: discreet, classy, and almost arousing.

Vernon turned to look at the woman, making eye contact with her for a split second. She wasn’t the typical barhopper looking for action. She was neatly dressed in a tight skirt and silk blouse, and her high-heeled shoes looked expensive.

She didn’t shy away from the eye contact; he did. But before looking away he had noticed the beginning of an inviting smile on the woman’s perfectly glossy lips.

She touched his arm gently to get his attention.

“Hi,” she said, almost whispering. “I’m Michelle.”

He turned to look at her, surprised. In the rare occasions he had started conversations with women in bars, he had initiated them, not the other way around.

He was relatively attractive, in his early forties, wearing his six feet even quite well and enjoying the artistic looks given by his brown hair, almost at shoulder length, and a neatly trimmed beard. Most people took him for an artist, actor, or musician rather than an engineer, a laser electro-optics engineer no less, holding a PhD in laser applications.

Vernon enjoyed his bohemian appearance a lot and cultivated it carefully, ever since that day in junior college when Samantha, a long-legged dazzling blond two years his senior, had invited him to take a hike because, according to her, nerds never got laid. He let his hair grow that fateful, abstinent summer, combing it back and growing a beard that gave him an early air of maturity. Samantha acknowledged the improvement the following fall by becoming the second notch in his belt, standing proof that artists got laid a lot, even if nerds didn’t. After all, his looks got him all the action, not his student ID card.

“Vernon,” he replied, turning toward the stranger. They shook hands. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she murmured, smiling and touching his arm again.

He gestured the bartender who executed promptly, placing new drinks in front of them.

They clinked their glasses and laughed quietly, in an unspoken greeting.

She looked at his left hand holding his glass.

“I see you’re married,” she probed, pointing at his wedding band.

“Yes, I am,” Vernon said.

“Will your wife be joining you later?”

He almost groaned loudly. He didn’t need any of this shit.

“Listen,” he said in a rigid tone of voice, “I’m not exactly asking you what you’re going back home to, all right? I’m actually not asking you anything whatsoever.”

“Fair enough,” she replied unfazed, touching his thigh. She squeezed it gently, a couple of inches above his knee, in an unmistakable invite.

He looked her straight in the eyes, searching for a confirmation. She didn’t blink, didn’t avert her eyes. He waved at the bartender, gave him a twenty to pay for the drinks, and grabbed Michelle’s hand. She followed him without hesitation as he took her behind his SUV, parked on the darkest side of the parking lot. He slammed Michelle against the wall, hidden from view by the Jeep, and searched her eyes again. She smiled.

He kissed her passionately, almost angrily, holding her with one arm and gently caressing her breast, almost in contradiction with the strength of his kisses. She replied, searching for his belt buckle with probing fingers. He pulled her skirt up and lifted her on his hips, pushing her against the wall, and she responded, clasping her hands behind his neck to hold on. Then he ripped her panties and penetrated her with an urgency he hadn’t expected to feel for a complete stranger.

A few minutes later, Vernon set her down and zipped up his pants. He avoided her eyes, focusing on his boots instead.

“I’m sorry…” he mumbled. “You probably deserve much better than this.”

“Vernon,” she said, reaching out to touch his face.

He turned and left, ignoring her call. He hopped in his Jeep and drove away, managing to avoid any eye contact with Michelle.

“Damn fool,” he admonished himself bitterly as he took the highway to Chesapeake to go home.