Chapter 1

October 25, 2005

I’m not sure quite why I chose that particular bar to visit during my stay in Reno. It was somewhat funny that it had a country/western theme and I kept thinking of that Doug Supernaw video with the same name, which fit my estranged wife, Molly. My marriage to her was a no-win proposition of the same scale as a night at one of the big casinos of the sort that make damn sure that you don’t come out ahead.

If I gave her everything that she asked for, I was too much of a pushover, but if I stood up to her, I was some kind of a misogynist or knuckle-dragging caveman. Either way, the bed had gotten very cold toward the end, so I finally gave up on that lose-lose scenario, my own personal Kobayashi Maru, and like James T. Kirk, I found a solution. One couldn’t save a marriage if the other partner simply refused to even live in the same world as the rest of us. I had strong suspicions of borderline personality disorder in her case, but I’m no shrink, so it could be something else.

I resigned my position at Molly’s father’s restaurant business, traded up on my bike for one that was suitable for cross-country travel, paid the difference from our joint-bank account, took what few possessions I wanted, closed the joint-account by putting the majority in hers and a substantial minority in my own, and headed to a city where I could get a quick and easy divorce. A chef like me should be more than able to make a living somewhere else, long before anyone caught up with me. I didn’t care about her money. I had married her with the crazy idea that she loved me as much as I loved her.

Of course, it being Reno, I made sure that I had a room before even going near a bar, and quickly rediscovered why I didn’t go there often. The whiskey was horribly overpriced, even from the well. If I wanted the high-end, smoother, and aged stuff, I’d be paying out of my ass. I decided on beer instead, since it was relatively cheap and I might actually wake up without my head caving in the next morning.

Feeling somewhat braver, I got to the floor and decided to ask a particular blonde with sunglasses on for a dance. She took off her shades, as if expecting me to recognize her, put them back on with some surprise, and then almost jumped on me with startling enthusiasm to dance with me. Despite her having some high-class, designer eyewear, I didn’t think that she was anyone really important. She might be a trust-fundie like Molly, old money, that sort, or perhaps an emerging model, but I didn’t care about that. I just wanted to enjoy a dance in what amounted to a fancy honkytonk.

I had something of a wicked grin when I heard Sawyer Brown’s “Some Girls Do”, as it really seemed to fit the attitude of my past and present company. Molly hated my country music, my leather boots, my faded denim jeans, and my tendency to go shirtless on a really hot day unless I had to cover my upper body for some reason. She especially hated my .357 magnum revolver, at which I practiced until I no longer anticipated recoil and stopped sucking at it. To her, it was a reminder that I was still a Montana redneck with a Blackfoot grandmother who grew up in Billings and often fished in the lakes near the Bighorn Mountains.

“So, what do you do for a living?” I asked the blonde out of curiosity, as the song faded.

“Oh, my God, you really don’t know, do you? Must not watch much cable,” she grinned, somewhat embarrassed by her earlier expectation that I should recognize her.

“Well, mostly documentaries, Sci-Fi channel, things like that. I’m a big fan of Adam Richman, though not of some of his online tirades. Then again, he’s human, celeb or not. I’d hate to think that my every word was treated as the final word on who and what I am. My wife has given me enough shit as it is, which is why I left her,” I commented casually.

“You’re married?” the blonde gave me a crooked smile.

“Estranged, yes, but I haven’t bothered to take off the band yet. Probably should, huh?” I showed her my wedding ring.

“Yeah, probably should in most cases. If I wasn’t such a self-pitying, self-absorbed prima donna, I’d have noticed your wedding band by now. Anyway, I’m an actress. I have been on Smallville for a while. That’s a series about the young Superman,” she explained.

“I see. I’ve heard of it, just never broke down and watched it, probably due to my bad experience with Lois and Clark. Teri Hatcher and Dean Cain ruined that whole thing for me back in the 90s. Molly loves that show, but I can’t stand it. Anyway, I’m a chef. Nice to meet you. I’m Jack Phelps. No relation to the reverend, thank God!” I told the sassy blonde with the short hair.

“Allison Mack, but please don’t tell anyone. I just want to be incognito and so far it has worked, though that’s not very flattering to me,” she whispered to me.

“Well, how about I call you ‘Allie’ for now? Your secret’s safe with me. It’s probably due to the nature of your audience. Most cult TV is like that. Now, if I had seen Sherilyn Fenn in here, I’d have recognized her from the other end of the bar. Why? Because I used to watch Twin Peaks religiously. As for flattery, think of this. I hadn’t the foggiest clue in the world that you were famous, whatever list you’re considered to be, and I still wanted to dance with you. Take that for what it’s worth,” I observed.

“Come to think of it, you have a point. You found me attractive on your own, without being told something to prejudice you in my favor. So, a chef, huh? And your wife hasn’t tried harder to keep you? Is it your cooking or just her pride? I might have to get you to cook for me some time, just to find out what drew her in the first place and why she has given up what seems to be a real catch,” Allie teased me a little.

“It’s not the cooking, I promise you that. I’ve gotten nothing but top reviews for my culinary skills from the best food critics in town. To be honest, though, Molly never wanted me to cook for her, preferring to use staff, because that’s what socialites and their trophy husbands do. We don’t cook. We let the help do that. Granted, I’ve often been too tired of cooking by the end of the day, but on my days off, I frequently wanted to cook for Molly and bring her things like breakfast in bed, and she would have none of that business. I was of her class now and shouldn’t lift a finger for myself. It was undignified for a gentleman like myself.

“She really wished that I would retire and let my skills deteriorate, since her father had more money than God. However, on that point, Daddy agreed with me instead, knowing that a man wants to earn something in life, not just have it handed to him. Hell, to quote Ricky Skaggs, ‘I’m just a country boy, a country boy at heart.’ I work for a living. I take pride in my trade. I didn’t want to just become arm candy and a glorified errand boy for my wife,” I vented my spleen at last, to a Hollywood actress no less!

“So, wait, she had a man who knew how to cook and wanted to do it for her now and then, and she refused to eat your cooking or even try it out? What is she, nuts? What kind of food do you cook, anyway?” Allie wondered.

“I cook a lot of different things, from the high-brow gourmet crap that I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole myself except to sample to the deep-fried country gravy stuff that will kill you with a massive coronary but is to die for, if you ask me. I think that it’s helpful to know all that stuff, in fact. It gives me a lot of versatility, you see,” I clarified.

“Hmm ... you can cook. Can you fuck? I mean, really? If you’re that hot of a commodity, I wouldn’t mind a fling. Not a serious relationship and I would plead with you not to kiss and tell, but a nice rebound affair where I can take your mind off your fucked-up wife. That’s not good for a marriage or anything like that, but neither of us is ready for that, anyway. Hell, I’m not sure that either of us will marry again, so it’s always possible we might hook up in the future, but I won’t make any promises, and neither should you. It’s just too soon, wouldn’t you agree?” Allie proposed.

“So, you and me, a little privacy and a little time of steamy sex? Sounds like a winner to me. I’ll just have to make sure that I cook for you, too, somehow. Even if it’s something simple. Thinking of a renting a cabin soon. That might be the place. Your call, of course. You’re the one with the tighter schedule. I’m just in town to get laid and get my divorce. Your thoughts?” I presented the options.

“How about this? I’m between films and already finished production on the ninth season of Smallville. It’s October now. I don’t have to be anywhere for another six weeks. I don’t even have anywhere to spend Thanksgiving this year, not since I broke up with my boyfriend. We go to this place of yours, I pay for the cabin while I’m here and you can decide if you want to move out afterward. By then, you can probably get a job and be able to take over payments or find a more permanent house. Face it, I do have more money. I’m rich and famous. Don’t let pride stop us from having a good time.

“While we’re there, you can cook to your heart’s content and fuck me bow-legged. Just don’t tell a soul, please. I don’t think that I can handle betrayal anymore. You know what I mean, right? I trust you for some reason, so don’t blow it, please. Just know that we’ve had something special, you and I. That would be enough for you, since you don’t seem to be hung up on fame and celebrity, or am I dead wrong?” Allie suggested.

“Hmm ... the chance to cook for a sexy blonde and fuck her on a daily basis ... what sane man would pass that up? Or even crazy man, like me? I will take my secret to the grave, if I must,” I winked at her.

“Man of honor, then. Good for you. Now, how about I get you signed out of whatever motel you’re checked into and put you in my suite so I can spoil you rotten. Someone willing to cook for me deserves a little pampering of his own. I insist. You can pay me back later with all that fine cooking and fucking me blind. No gentle crap, either. We’re not man and wife. I’m a grown woman, even if I look a little petite. I could use a little rough sex. Too many guys are afraid to risk offending me and they always kiss my ass. That gets old after a while. Okay, not the literal part of that, but well, you get the idea,” she laughed at herself and her choice of words.

“Honey, if you want it rough, I’ll oblige until you decide that you want otherwise. Depending on just how rough, how kinky, I think that a safe word might be wise. As for kissing that part of your anatomy, I was about to say that I wouldn’t mind a good taste of it as well a chance to plant some kisses on it,” I offered.

“Yeah, a safe word. That sounds sensible. What is that phrase, ‘safe, sane, and consensual?’ That way, if you want to tie me up and ravage me, we can draw a clear line between bondage and rape. I’m actually rather kinky that way, but my ex just didn’t get that I can be a feminist and still like being dominated. He thought that I was sick for wanting it, but then he wanted me to top him and it just wasn’t my thing. I tried it, but I didn’t care for it at all. When he started suggesting weird shit like cock and ball torture, chastity, orgasm denial, and cuckolding, I was done. I gave him the boot, just not how he wanted it. I don’t want to be the top. I want to be the bottom, you see? I’m submissive, not dominant. Promise to keep that a secret, too?” she pleaded with me.