Hi folks, please be forewarned. This is a very long story. I haven't written one of those in a while and i keep getting e-mails asking for them, so as fall approaches and we all have more inclination to sit down in front of the fire with a nice long read, I decided to indulge. Those of you who want a quick story with a lot of sex scenes should probably skip this one. Also I have to warn you that I am again without the services of my regular editor and definitely in the market for a new one, so any experienced combat editors out there can feel free to contact me. I think that Callie did a good job here but she's back in school and doesn't really have the time. I must also regretfully inform some of you that I had told that I'd probably start slipping brief interludes that will lead up to this year's Hallowen story in, that this story because of its length will not include one of those. Lastly look out for a bunch of old friends in this story. SS06

"Hey, Will, have you seen this one yet?" yelled my best friend and office manager from the large shared space outside of my personal office."

I looked up from my computer screen and glanced in his direction. I took a sip of my now warm wild cherry Pepsi and looked at the clock on the wall of my office. I realized then that I'd missed lunch again. It seemed to happen a lot when I really got into a project.

I wiped my eyes and let them adjust to focusing on something other than the computer screen that was right in front of my face. "What?" I grumbled as I stood up and stared in his direction.

Danny was my exact opposite. We were so different that our close friendship amazed even me.

Danny is six foot four and weighs closer to three hundred pounds than to two hundred. People often make the mistake, because of his bellicose voice and aggressive yet friendly demeanor, of thinking of Danny as a former athlete. They think that is the reason for his bulk. They're wrong. Danny's bulk is all donuts and fried chicken. He has very little muscle it's all lard.

Danny is probably the least athletic man I know. He once missed three days of work for a back spasm that he got while bending over to tie his running shoes.

On the other hand, I'm five foot ten and weigh a hundred and seventy pounds. I actually have a gym in my house and work out every day and run at least six miles every morning. On days when the weather isn't good, there are two treadmills in our gym.

Danny is a friendly and outgoing person. He constantly talks to every member of our team. While doing that he keep each person on the straight and narrow project wise, but also makes sure the keep them on the healthy side of stress and burn out. His impromptu parties and lunches make our office a fun place to work. He's also in charge of hiring and counseling employees. He's the first person they see when they walk in every day and the last person they see before they go home.

I on the other hand rarely talk. I'm usually so involved with whatever I'm working on that I hardly ever leave my office. The only things that can ever get me out of my office are meetings with clients, Danny forcing me, or my wife. But since my name is on the door, I'm the one who fires people when it's necessary or unavoidable.

I wander over to Danny's desk. It is of course the opposite of mine. The funny thing is that we have the exact same set up. We both have two HP touchscreen computers powering three monitors.

In my case one PC and two of the monitors are for running AutoCAD. I'm an architect so I keep all kinds of designs and specs on that computer. In my case, the design computer isn't networked. It isn't even connected to a printer. If I need to transfer anything from that computer or print anything, I use a flash drive to transfer it to the other PC. That one is used for general office stuff and internet access.

Danny's system is of course outfitted differently. He has one monitor for office stuff. He has another monitor for internet stuff and his last monitor is for him to watch TV on.

My office is pretty stark. Except for a few photos on the wall of my wife, it is pretty much unadorned. I could take those pictures down and everyone would think the office has never been occupied.

Danny's desk is cluttered with every souvenir and collectable piece of crap you can find. His desk blotter proudly proclaims that a neat desk is the sign of a cluttered mind. He smiles at me as I approach.

He's staring at his internet monitor and grinning from ear to ear.

"Why didn't you tell ME at least?" he asks, pointing a finger that is still greasy from the Coney dog he's eating.

"Tell you what?" I ask.

"That Becca is making the transition from modeling to movies," he gushes as if he knows everything.

"Because the only transition that Becca is going to make is from modeling to motherhood," I said. "At least once a week, she tells me that she wants to have a baby and soon."

"She's high," he spits out. "She needs to grab all of the dinero she can, while she's got that body. Then the two of you can sit back and get fat together, later on. Shit, any woman can lay back and spit out a kid. The trailer parks are full of girls who aren't even out of high-school and have a couple of kids. But how many women can say that they were a genuine super model?"

I looked at him as if I was puzzled.

"Will, think about it," he said.

"I don't get it," I told him.

"Shit, Will, you've been working too hard, dude" he said. "There's millions of trailer trash hotties out there, but how many super hot models are there? It's a case of rarity, dude. Do you get it now?"

"No," I said. "I know at least ten or twelve women that you'd call supermodels. I don't know anyone who lives in a trailer though."

"Grrrrrr," he growled at me.

"Besides, what makes you think Becca wants to go into film?" I asked.

"This encounter that I got from one of those super-secret internet entertainment sites," he said. "They have all of the news that most of the celeb media doesn't get or can't run."

He clicked his mouse and I watched as a nearly six foot woman ducked out of a building, trying to avoid being seen. She was clutching the hand of a shorter greasy looking guy, with glasses and a general unkempt appearance. She wore a hat and a long trench coat and kept sticking her hand in front of her face to obscure it from being seen. She was holding the man's hand and trying to avoid the reporters and photographers.

"See," said Danny. As we watched the reporters swarmed the woman, firing question after question at her. It just seemed off to me. Normally, Becca would always stop and politely answer any questions that she was asked. She was very grateful for what she did for a living. Even if it sometimes meant that she lost a bit of her privacy. We also had a pretty good way of dealing with it. Becca had two sets of ID.

One set that she used while working, that proudly proclaimed her as Rebecca Miranova. The other set that named her as her actual legal name Becca Temple. After a shoot, she'd just throw her hair in a ponytail, take off her make-up, throw on a baseball cap and get onto a plane as a tall and thin but unassuming wife of an up and coming architect. She'd even taken classes with several speech therapists and could for a few moments hold a conversation in which she'd sound like a typical Midwesterner.

But there on Danny's monitor she sounded like a formerly Russian supermodel and she wasn't taking any time to answer any questions.

"See," said Danny again.

"Okay, Dan, work with me, here," I said. "What did you see in this interview that makes you think she's going into film?"

"Well she's clearly trying to avoid the reporters," he said. "Your wife doesn't do that. She even let's high school reporters interview her. She's nice to everyone. Two, look at that little nerdy dude that she's with. He's obviously some kind of movie producer. That's why there's all of this secrecy. They're discussing exactly the kind of film she needs to break into acting. A lot of models try to go into film and let's face it, they suck. Just because they're good at being a mannequin, or strutting their tiny little asses down the runway, it doesn't always translate."

I watched the monitor again and saw Becca duck into a car with the man. The alarm bells went off in my head then as once they got inside of the car the camera caught a fleeting glimpse of her leaning over to kiss the man.

I didn't need to drag Danny into it so I pretended I hadn't noticed it. He was so busy making plans for my wife's movie career that he hadn't seen it.

"Danny, I missed lunch," I said. "I think, I'm going to call it a day."

"Sure, you're the boss," he smirked. "You get to just up and leave in the middle of the afternoon on a fucking Wednesday. Bosses often do that and..."Oh I get it," he said smiling broadly.

"You want to go home and give your hot assed wife the bone train. Just seeing my little video here has started your salmon swimming upstream, huh?" he quipped.

"Whatever?" I said.

I grabbed my coat and my laptop from my office. I stopped and downloaded my work files onto a four gigabyte flash drive. I have a similar setup at home so I can work there for a while if I feel like it.

I smiled and waved at several of my employees on the way out. Once I got to out parking lot, it was easy to spot my car. It was the only screaming yellow 2013 Mustang GT around. Becca thought it was odd that my car wasn't like my outwards personality.

I guess she thought of me as shy and studious, so my car should be something understated that doesn't stand out as well. It's pretty simple. From the time that I was a kid growing up, I loved cars. I had hundreds of Hot Wheels cars and tracks to run them on. Of the more than a hundred toy cars, at least thirty of them were Mustang variants.

Once I got my license, I drove the family car for a couple of years but when I went away to college, I had choices to make. My dad's biggest factor in picking a car for me was budget. He told me that I had x amount of dollars that he'd pay for a car for me. It was enough for me to get a nice, new small car. I told him I'd wait until the end of the summer and save the money that I earned over the summer too. He thought it was very responsible of me.

At the end of the summer between the money dad was offering and the money I had saved, I shocked my dad. I didn't get a new car. I got a six year old 1999 Mustang GT. When I drove it home, my mom didn't bat an eyelash. She looked at my dad who was still sputtering in outrage.

"What did you expect?" she asked him.

Since that first car, I had never driven anything else. Every car I've ever owned has been a Mustang. After trading that first one in after my first big payday as an architect, I've managed to keep every other one I've earned.

Something about the design of the car and what it symbolizes strikes a chord in me. Mustangs say America and freedom and unbroken continuity. Since 1964, Ford has produced the Mustang. Unlike a lot of Muscle cars, they've never gone away. The Challenger, the GTO, the Charger and the Camaro have all become popular again. As of late, the car companies are trying to grab the market of people who are interested in Muscle cars again. The Mustang has been here since it all began. It's the only one of those cars that has always been here. There are more Mustang clubs across the country and the world than almost any other car type.

Another thing about the car that I really love is that it can be the ultimate ice breaker. From both strangers I meet on the street to clients I meet for business, the car gets a response. It just pulls something out of people in the way that a Toyota or a Volkswagon or for that matter a Saturn, simply doesn't.

My thoughts on that day weren't on the car though. As much as I ordinarily loved driving, my mind was on other things.

The only thing I loved more than that car was my wife, and my feeling was that unlike my car, she wasn't mine alone. Most of us know where we fit in the world. We all rise to a certain level like water. When the ice melts in the spring and the rivers rise, we know that eventually those same rivers will go back to the levels that are appropriate. At the same time if the summer is particularly hot and the levels drop, we know that only a few rains will bring them back close to where they usually are.

I guess it's the same way with people. As much as I love her, in the back of my mind, I've always thought that Becca was too good for me. I always felt like she'd settled. And to be truthful, I've always felt that one day, she'd leave me for someone who was on her level.

I guess that's why, I've never really commented or participated much in her conversations about us having kids. As much as I'd like to have children, I've always thought it would be a mistake for us.

I don't think I could handle being one of those dads who only see their kids every other weekend. There's also the fact that I want my kids to have as normal a life as possible. And to have them dragged around the world according to Becca's schedule wouldn't allow them to do that.

Becca had pretty much been able to dictate when and if she travels. Right now she's on the top of her game. Clients are willing to locate her shoots here in town or very close. And when she does have to travel, we usually go as a vacation.

There's also the fact that I know most of the photographers she works with. Most of them have been to our home at one time or another and they all know exactly how I'd react if one of them were to try something with her.

But in the end, I guess it all comes down to faith and trust. In every relationship, both parties have to be able to trust their partners. They have to have a clear understanding of what they can and can't do to stay in that relationship. There are some lines that just can't be crossed with some couples.

Becca and I know several couples, mostly from her side, who have very liberal views on their marriage vows. Some of them are into swinging or simply have open relationships. Becca knew going in that I wasn't like that. I get jealous at the drop of a hat. The funny thing about it is that Becca does too.

In fact, it was Becca's jealousy that actually made me realize that the two of us might have a future together.

Five years ago, I got a commission to design and build a new wing on a house for a guy in California. He loved the designs and I worked with the contractor to make sure that everything came out the way we wanted. After the renovation was complete the owner decided to throw a huge party to show off his new space. I was invited and went back out there for the party. He had several university students who interned for him at the film studio he worked at, working the party as well.

One of those interns was my sister Ava. There were so many actors and models and entertainment types at the party that normal people stood out simply because no one could tell who we were.

I was just getting out of a failed relationship with my college sweetheart and wasn't looking to meet anyone. Ava like a good little sister was always on the lookout for someone she thought would make me happy. I turned her down. I didn't want to meet anyone. I did have conversations with several very famous people of both sexes, but I didn't stay with anyone at the party for very long. I figured that being famous, they had better things to do than talk to me.

I gravitated to the side of the house where there were fewer people. I spent time looking at the host's art collection. I was lost in one of his Warhol prints. Mostly because it took me a while to get a perspective on it that actually made it seem more like art and less like junk. Then she came into the room.

I have to admit that I gave her more than the once over. I looked at her body. She was tall, a couple of inches taller than me. And she's built deceivingly. Her breasts are fuller than they appear when she's clothed. And she has some hips on her. No one would ever accuse her of being top-heavy and she's never going to grace the cover of "Bubble Butt" magazine. But she has some very alluring curves.

I think the thing I spent the most time studying was her face. Beeca's features are so interesting that I could write a book about them. Her eyes are luminous. So much so, that they appear to glow when she's happy. Her nose is almost an after-thought. It's so tiny that it looks like God took one look at what he'd made and said, "Shit, she has to breathe too doesn't she?" So he just threw a nose between her eyes and above her mouth.

Her lips are thick and full and naturally a dark rosy color. There are times when it looks as if she's wearing lipstick, when she actually isn't.

And then there's that mane of long thick brown hair. Her hair is too thick and too heavy to move. Becca's hair could be a weapon. It isn't like those women you see on TV where every time they flick their heads, their hair flits around.

Becca's hair goes nearly to her ass and it's like ballast if she turns her head hard enough to move all of that hair it's going to knock the shit out of someone or something.

When we first met, Becca still had a very heavy Russian accent. "Take peecture. Lasts longer," was the first thing she said to me.

"Sorry," I blurted out. I quickly left the room. I moved back towards the host's large garage for safety. First, because I wanted to look at his collection of cars again; and secondly because I really wanted to compare the actual house to the model of it that I'd made to show him the design.

Just as I was comparing the angle of awning over the sun balcony on the model, to how it actually turned out on the actual house, I sensed someone behind me.

I turned and looked into those bottomless eyes. "Why are you going where I go?" she asked.

"In both cases, I was in the rooms first," I said. "Are you accusing me of reading your mind?"

"Not accusing anything," she said. "Am just tired of being stared at."

"You should get used to it," I said. "You're so beautiful that people just get lost looking at you."

"Three years ago, people called me..." she looked as if she'd drawn a blank. "What is word for long neck deer?"

"Bambi?" I asked.

"No, dear with long, long neck not normal deer," she said emphatically.

"Oh, a giraffe," I laughed.

"Yes," she said bestowing one of her dazzling smiles on me. "I was waitress and ... I was terrible waitress, but this is California. You know how that goes. There are beautiful and tall women everywhere. The ones who can sing become singers. The ones with big boobs become actresses. The ones who like to fuck become prostitutes."

I looked at her because I'd never seen her in a movie. And her voice was too heavy yet at the same time to scratchy to imagine her having a pleasant singing voice.

"The rest of us..." she began again. "The ones who can't do any of those things are models."

I breathed out a sigh of relief. There were far too many questions going on in my mind. I truly had imagined that she was some kind of high priced hooker. I was sure that even though my annual salary was in the mid six figures, I couldn't afford her.

"What is this toy?" she asked pointing to the model. "Where did you get it?"

"It's not a toy," I said. "It's an architectural model. It's like a 3-D representation of what the house was supposed to look like when the remodel was done."

"Oh..." she said. "I thought you were going to bring out your G. I. Joe collectibles and say that they all lived in this house. My photographer Joey is the beegest nerd. He has hundreds of Star Wars dolls ... Sorry, they are not dolls. They're ACTION FIGURES." Then she laughed and if I hadn't been attracted to her before then, her laugh would have won me over.

"Why do you have this dollhouse ... I mean architectural 3-d model?" she asked smiling. "Are you a nerd too?"

"No, I'm and architect," I said. "I designed the house. That's why he invited me to the party."

"So you're not..." she began.

"Nope," I said. "I'm not some famous guy."

"Then you're not trying to act like you're too cool for the room?" she said in shock.

"Nope, I'm just a regular guy. I'm not really comfortable in big parties, so I tend to move away from the crowds."

She slapped her hand over her face. "So when you said that I was beautiful, you really meant it? It wasn't just some boollshit line?"

"Nope," I said. "It was just my opinion." She was becoming more and more animated and my ability to accept what I considered irrational behavior, even from a woman as beautiful as she was, had worn out, so I went back inside the house.

Once there I looked around the room and wondered what I was doing there. I waved at my sister who was carrying a tray of drinks and quickly slipped outside and left the party.

A few days later, back at home, I answered my phone absent mindedly while staring as usual at the designs I was doing for a building.

"Yeah?" I said as I spoke into the phone.

"That is not polite way to answer phone," she said. I was shocked. I knew instantly who it was, but couldn't figure out how she'd gotten my number or why she'd call me. I figured very quickly that she must've gotten my number from the guy who held the party and she probably wanted me to do something with her house.

"How can I help you?" I asked.

"Now you sound like you are working in a store?" she laughed. "You left the party before we were finished talking. I had to track you down."

"Why?" I asked. "You're some kind of model or entertainment person. You live in California and I live in Illinois, just outside of Chicago. I design buildings and homes. It's not glamorous and you probably make a lot more money than I do. I'm a normal boring guy. I do normal boring things. You can probably walk down your street and talk to twenty or thirty millionaires or famous people the same way I walk down my street and talk to my mailman or a bag lady."

"So what are you trying to say?" she asked in a huff.

"I'm trying to say that we're not the same kind of people. We don't travel in the same circles. We don't do the same things. We don't like the same things and you'd be wasting your time," I said.

"So now you've changed your mind and you don't like me?" she asked. "I'm not beautiful anymore?"

"I didn't say that," I said.

"But what you're saying is that when we looked at each other, there was no spark and I was imagining the whole thing?" she asked.

"Well, no, I'm not saying that either," I stuttered.

"Have you thought about me at all since then?" she asked.

"Well..." I said tentatively.

"Well what?" she asked.

"Okay, I thought about you some," I said. "But what does..."

"You only thought about me some?" she asked. "I've been obsessed with you. It's lucky for you that my friend Ava had your number. She told me I should call you."

It was really strange but we started dating on the weekends. Either I would fly to California or she would fly to Chicago. It got to the point that the five days between the weekends were torture for both of us. And thank God for unlimited phone packages because there were some nights when I'd call her when I first got home and we'd stay on the phone for three or four hours or until one of us fell asleep.

It was actually the telephone that made me realize that we had a problem. Apparently one night Becca called me and my phone was busy. She then called Ava and her phone was busy too. She called us both back an hour later and both lines were still busy. Becca doesn't do jealousy well. She left her apartment and drove to Ava's dorm. She stormed in and started calling Ava all kinds of names and tried to fight her.

Two of the guys who lived in the dorm room next to Ava had to come in and restrain Becca until she calmed down. When she did calm down she wouldn't listen to anything Ava had to say. She just stormed out and drove right to the airport with no luggage and got on the first available plane. Luckily Ava had the foresight to call me.

When Becca showed up cursing and screaming at me, I was ready for her.

"You bastard," she yelled. "I loved you."

"I still love you Becca," I said calmly.

"No you don't," she hissed. "Or you wouldn't be spending all of your time talking to chunky girls."

I looked at her and shook my head.

"If you love me, you have to promise me that you won't ever talk to her again," she screamed.

"I can't do that Becca," I said.

"I knew it," she screamed. "You love her don't you?"

"Yep," I said. "And I have for a very long time."

"How long?" she asked she was calming down.

"About twenty two years," I said.

"But she's only twenty three," said Becca.

"Well, I was kind of jealous of her when she was first born," I said. "Here, let me show you something." She was still angry but I got her to come over to my couch. I showed her the photo album I'd gotten ready for her.

As she looked through and saw pictures of me growing up she also saw a lot of photos of Ava.

"She's your..." she began. She had the biggest smile on her face. Then she turned red.

"Yep, Ava is my baby sister," I said.

"Neither of you ever said anything about that," she hissed. Even as she whined she snuggled herself in and wrapped her long arms around me. "I feel so stupid," she gushed.

"No you don't," I said. "You feel warm and soft and..."

"Stop that," she smiled. She pulled my hands out from under her sweater. "You have to call Ava, first."

"Why so I have to call my ... chunky sister?" I asked.

"Oh please don't tell her I said that," she whined. I dialed the phone and handed it to her. After a few minutes of them chattering away she handed the phone to me.

"Hey sis," I said.

"Will, that woman is crazy about you," she said.

"I feel the same way about her," I said.

"So maybe you should do something about it," she said.

"I'm trying to, but she won't let me take her clothes off," I laughed.

"No stupid, I meant something permanent, like getting married and having kids," she said.

"Ava, that's ridiculous. Becca is going to be one of the top models on the planet. She has a very bright future ahead of her. In a few years she won't even remember me. You know it, I know it and she knows it. You act like I'm supposed to change both of our lives by just saying, Hey, Becca, ya wanna get married? Don't be..."

"Yes!" yelled Becca from across the room.

She snatched the phone and started kissing me. I was totally shocked. I had no idea what was going on. I didn't even realize that she'd been listening to me. I hadn't listened while she was talking to Ava so I guess I thought she hadn't either.

As I pulled into my long driveway, I realized that the car had gotten us home on its own. I don't remember leaving the freeway at my exit. I don't remember whether or not I stopped at stop signs or even if I ran through any red lights. I'd been so lost in my memories of meeting Becca and the early days of our relationship.

It's funny. I never spend much time thinking about how we got together. But now that it's probably going to end it's all I can think about.

I got out of my car after grabbing the laptop. I closed the car door and noticed that she'd already noticed me. The transformation is amazing. One second she's lying there on a lounge chair in front of our pool. She's the very epitome of beauty with a light sheen of suntan oil on her body. The tabloids would probably pay money for this shot of one of the world's most beautiful women relaxing during her time off. In the next second, she's looked across the yard and seen me and she jumps up and trips, barely avoiding an awkward fall in a clumsy tangle of thin arms and super-long legs. The super model's poise and grace are lost in the frenzy of a woman who has clearly missed her mate.

"Hmmm," she says hugging me. "Home early. I think someone missed me." She presses her body against me in a full on hug. She doesn't give my clothes or her tanning oil any thought."

"Let's go upstairs," she growls.

"Becca, I might need to work for a little while," I whine.

"At the office, you work," she said. "At home, I'm your job. So yeah, let's get upstairs and do some work."

"Well what about dinner?" I asked.

"There's a phone in the kitchen," she smiles. "I'll use it to make pizza."

Ten minutes later we were in our room thrashing away at each other. Becca has very unusual tastes when it comes to sex. I think that most people have the wrong idea about her. Most people think that because they've seen her on the covers of so many magazines or so many entertainment shows, that they know her.

They don't. It's strange to hear men talk about her as they look at a magazine cover. They believe that because she's photographed a certain way, that they can tell what she's like.

Becca and her mom came over here from Russia after her father was killed in an industrial accident. He worked in a stamping plant over there and a press malfunctioned. The piston, under incredible pressure, ruptured the side of the cylinder it worked in and a huge shard of metal hit him in the head. From what she tells me it happened so quickly that he died instantly.