Tempting Fools Read online

  Table of Contents

  Tempting Fools

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Tempting Fools

  Darien Cox

  Tempting Fools

  Copyright © 2020 by Darien Cox

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Cover Art © 2020 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  First Edition May 2020

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Sometimes, everything that once felt stable gets demolished, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to fix it. And while in hindsight there might have been a few rumbles in the earth, a few hints this destruction was imminent, it usually comes in a blinding, unexpected flash. That’s how it felt when my former life crumbled, like some bored deity hurled a thunderbolt at my sandcastle.

  Except that sandcastle was a life I’d spent years building. A marriage and family structure I’d thought I was pivotal in propping up. But when it fell, I learned a hard truth. I hadn’t been crucial at all. Or maybe I had been once, but now I was just some asshole staring at a pile of sand, wondering what the hell happened. Had my contribution to that structure always been temporary, or had I just not tried hard enough to hold it together?

  Either way, I missed my old life. For all my bitching and complaining over the years, I’d enjoyed being relied upon. Being pivotal. Now I spent most of my time feeling useless, aimless, and wondering what to do with myself. But I hid these feelings, particularly today. Because today I was supposed to be exploring the potential for new beginnings, and putting my best foot forward. Sadly, I was beginning to think I didn’t have a best foot to put forward. But for the sake of my date, I faked it like a champ.

  “Kurt, you wanna go first?” Bonnie asked.

  “No, you go ahead. I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines.”

  “You sure?”

  “Oh yeah, I have a lousy throwing arm. Count me out on this one. But you go on, give ’em hell.”

  She laughed, winking at me. “I haven’t pitched a ball since junior high, but screw it, here we go.” She accepted a basketful from the greasy-haired guy working the game, who then stuffed her cash into a fanny pack.

  Bonnie seemed surprisingly excited to be at a crowded amusement park on a late Saturday afternoon, and I was glad for it, because this date had been my idea, but I wasn’t sure how it would be received. Much had changed in the years since I’d last been to Hillock Beach Fun Park, but they still hadn’t paved the dirt walkways within. Since the place was directly across the road from the ocean, the sea breeze kicked up dust, creating a russet haze that coated everything from carousel horses to sweaty patrons. But Bonnie didn’t seem to mind the wind or the dust. In fact, she seemed to be having a great time, which was both pleasing and surprising, considering she was there with me.

  Since my divorce last year—accompanied by the death of my mother—I could barely stand my own company half the time. Inflicting my presence on others seemed cruel. But in my apathetic state, I didn’t trust myself to make decisions regarding my well-being, and everyone including my ex-wife and teenaged twins thought I needed to ‘put myself out there’. I’d yielded to the wisdom of others and had been reluctantly trying to date.

  I had nothing to lose. When I wasn’t doing work on my house or diddling around with my art projects in the basement, I was alone in front of the TV with a beer and a Hot Pocket, shouting at the nightly news while nuclear-temp cheese dribbled down my shirt. Singlehood wasn’t looking so good on me, so I couldn’t really argue about my life needing a shakeup.

  But maybe I wasn’t coming off as unappealing as I felt, because Bonnie was all smiles and warmth since I picked her up earlier, and seemed willing to make the best of an odd date for two adults. She was so damn nice about it, and that made me feel guilty as I watched her throw ball after ball trying to ‘Drown the Clown’. It was our second date, the first having been a dud, my shittiness at small talk leading to long, awkward bouts of silence. I was trying very hard to rectify that today, forcing myself to be more personable.

  I figured today had to be better, if only as an apology, since the first date was such a wreck. When it ended at her door, I tried to give her a peck on the cheek. But I missed, turning it into an air kiss. A fucking air kiss, like I was some Hollywood housewife thanking her for brunch. She looked stunned and confused. I wasn’t sure what was worse, my dullness on the actual date, or the way it concluded. But I practically ran back to my car, just wanting the night to be over.

  Bonnie was probably surprised I called her again. My choice of carnival date likely made her think I was trying to show her my lighter, more whimsical side, since I was such a bore last time. She’d be wrong. I didn’t have a lighter, more whimsical side. I was just being a selfish asshole. I’d originally bought the fun park tickets two weeks ago, along with booking the dinner reservations for later, because I thought my son and daughter were coming for the weekend. Their mother moved out of state with them after the divorce, and I didn’t see the little bastards nearly as much as I liked. The few times they had come to visit post-divorce were hellish, all of us stressed out by the new family dynamic, me shouting at them too much, them branding me a dickhead and locking themselves in their rooms.

  So this time, I bought their favorite foods, made a bunch of fun plans, and was going to really try to make it special, to bury the hatchet. I hadn’t taken them to this park since they were little, and thought it would be a nostalgic laugh for all of us. But my kids blew me off at the last minute, by text, and I was sad and furious and feeling so rejected I made a second date with a woman I wasn’t even sure I was attracted to. Like I said—asshole.

  Since I felt so bad about using Bonnie as a human Xanax, I was extra determined to give this date a proper chance. Bonnie was a sweetheart, and instead of balking at my purportedly spontaneous idea of the fun park, she’d jumped in with both feet, indulging in all the games and mystery meats and sugary snacks the place had to offer. Basically being the kind of woman I didn’t deserve under the circumstances. The clown perched above the dunk tank seemed to agree with me.

  “Hey tough guy,” he shouted. “Why you standing on the sidelines looking sooo sad? Because your girlfriend’s got bigger balls than you?”

  A collective ‘Oooh’ ran through the crowd, and I smirked as the clown’s amplified voice laughed long and hard at my expense. He wasn’t like the ‘Dunk the Punk’ clown I remembered from years past, but then, that was a long time ago. That clown had been a big, raunchy, barrel-chested guy with a keen wit and rattling smoker’s cough, so maybe he’d died, or gone to a clown retirement home or whatever old clowns did. Maybe he drowned in the tank.

  But this new clown was a different breed, maybe mid-twenties, though it was tough to tell with the makeup. His white-painted face was traditional enough, but he wore a skintight polka dot tank top with his baggy clown pants, and his arms were tanned and tight with lean muscle. I’d never seen a clown with a hot body before, and it was uniquely disorienting. Clowns weren’t supposed to be good looking, they were supposed to be ridiculous and scary.

  It wasn’t just the body; even with the clown makeup I could see this guy had a nicely sculpted face, high cheekbones and a perfect chin. His jaw-length brown hair was edged with ringlets under an oversized beanie, one thick strand near the front dyed bright yellow. Or maybe it was sprayed on or just a wig, since it matched the spotted red and yellow tank top that stretched over his fit chest and stomach.

  “High and dry!” th
e clown taunted from his caged perch. “Sorry sweetheart, maybe you should get the tough guy to give it a go. Or is he too scared?”

  I rolled my eyes, and gave the clown a wave. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Baby man!” the clown shouted. “Everyone look at the scared sissy baby man who won’t even try. Has to let the little girl do it for him.”

  Bonnie pulled her wavy black hair into a ponytail and readied another ball, her pretty face pinched in concentration. “Screw you, clown,” she shouted, throwing the ball harder this time. “Oh, damn it!”

  I laughed as the ball missed its target and the clown began another tirade of insults, a few light ones for Bonnie, but most of his ire still directed at me. I had to hand it to these clown-dunking rackets. They’d found a surefire formula: Get some guy riled up by targeting his ego in front of his girl, and next thing you knew he’d be shelling out all his cash to defend himself. It was genius in its simplicity.

  “Come on little girly, the target’s over here! Are you blind?”

  “You’re going down, clown!” Bonnie handed another five-dollar bill to the carnie, who set up another basket of balls for her.

  “Oh great,” the clown whined. “We’re gonna be here all night!”

  “Destroy him, Bonnie!” I encouraged. I was gonna have to buy that girl a nice bottle of wine when we went to dinner tonight. She was a trooper, and I was laughing for the first time in forever.

  “What’s the matter tough guy, you let your woman fight your battles for you?”

  “Sure do!” I called back. “She’s a lot tougher than I am.”

  The clown went silent and stared hard at me. He leaned forward, and his big, painted eyes narrowed. I figured he was wondering who was this odd specimen of man who could not be provoked. Or maybe he was trying to figure out if he knew me. This park was a staple in town that drew both locals and tourists alike, even in the winter when they traded out the rollercoasters and water flumes for indoor surfing attractions and ice skating. But it was unlikely the guy knew me. He was clearly several years younger, plus, I never came to this part of town much anymore. Which made me realize, not for the first time recently, what a bore I was. Because I lived in what outsiders like Bonnie referred to as a ‘fun’ town, I but rarely took advantage of any of it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even been to the beach I drove past every day.

  But since getting Violet pregnant in high school, having the twins, and getting married a year later, I’d been a goddamn busy guy the past eighteen years. Working, building a business, raising a family. We’d gone on vacations now and then, but my day-to-day life had consisted of little more than work and the occasional barbeque or dinner at the homes of couple-friends for most of the years since.

  Not that there was anything wrong with that. I did what I had to do, I was responsible and productive, and the years had flown by. My ex-wife Violet used to suggest going out a lot, to art galleries or live music or romantic dinner at one of the seaside restaurants. I acquiesced far less as the years passed and my business grew, and would grumble that I was tired a lot. It wasn’t making excuses; I’d co-owned a construction and building company, and I was tired a lot. But I’d also been negligent, barely registering Violet’s increasing protests, her pleading that we needed to do more as a couple. That negligence ultimately came back to bite me in the ass. I’d listened to her, but I’d never fully heard her.

  Was this self-awareness? Maybe this dating thing was working out for me after all, if not by finding a love connection, at least by rattling something loose in my brain, helping me finally acknowledge my flaws. Too little too late. Because when Violet told me why she was considering divorce, my response had been a lot of shouting and denials. I’d worked my ass off for years to help make a good life for us, what the hell else did she want from me? A lot, apparently. Having more fun, primarily, and spending more time together, just the two of us. Oh yeah…and more sex.

  I almost wished she could see me right now. Look Vi, here I am at the fun park, having FUN! And if the looks Bonnie was giving me were any indication, likely about to have some sex tonight. I could almost hear Violet’s response in my mind. “Why couldn’t you have done all those things before, when it counted? Why couldn’t you have done those things for ME?”

  I guess I thought I was getting around to it. Our kids were nearing college age, we could finally take a breath soon. Having worked as an emergency room nurse for years, Violet was as stressed and tired as I was. I wasn’t shocked when she brought up the lack of fun in her ‘This isn’t working anymore’ diatribe, but I thought she’d have a bit more patience with me regarding that. But when she added that she found our romantic life lacking, I was shocked. And she in turn, was shocked that I was shocked.

  She said I should have known. But I didn’t know, because I’d been content with what we had. I thought we were both happy. So what if we weren’t so hot between the sheets anymore? We’d been married for years. That sort of thing didn’t matter in the larger scope of things. Except apparently, it did matter, to her. Mattered enough for her to bring it up in the first ten minutes of our discussion about separating. My rationalization that we’d been married a long time didn’t fly so well, when she pointed out that we were only in our thirties, since we’d married so young. And that she was still a young woman, with needs and desires.

  I told Violet she was being unreasonable, and she countered that it was perfectly reasonable for a wife to want to fuck her husband. She then rattled off a frighteningly detailed list of times she’d wanted to have sex when I’d declined, citing circumstances, locations, and my alleged excuses. Feeling cornered and angry, I’d offered to fuck her right there on the kitchen table if it would make her stop yelling and pointing her finger in my face. That suggestion went over as well as you’d expect, and I’d spent the night in a hotel.

  Bonnie’s joyful laugh as she continued to throw balls at the dunk-clown brought me out of my self-pitying. I smiled as I watched her play. I needed to be focused on this woman tonight, my date. Whether this went anywhere or not, I aimed to prove tonight that I could give someone my full, focused attention, and show her a good time. I could be fun, damn it.

  The clown was back to taunting Bonnie as she tried in vain to dunk him. His striking, painted eyes periodically flicked over to me, that same odd expression as before, like he found something about me troubling. It gave me a funny feeling whenever he looked my way, some instinct warning me to turn from his gaze, that there was hostility in it. But that was ridiculous. The dunk tank was just a game, as was his heckling. Whatever I saw in his eyes was likely either my imagination, or an illusion created by the heavy makeup he wore.

  Even so, I held his stare each time our eyes caught, as though accepting a challenge. If there was any real animosity there, he was probably just annoyed I wasn’t falling for his racket. I felt bad for the dunk-clown in a way. He was just trying to do his job, and his consistent taunts of ‘tough guy’ meant he’d probably had me pegged as an aging, competitive frat boy type with insecurity bubbles just ripe for the popping. His gaze was not for me. It was for my wallet.

  I’d dressed casual today, because I knew the park would be hot and dusty, and I was right—I could already taste the grit, and had seen that my dirty blond hair was literally dirty when we visited the funhouse mirrors earlier, mine and Bonnie’s locks both sporting a thin layer of dust. I was not, however, an aging frat boy, despite wearing a Trinity College tee shirt my older sister Gwen gave me for Christmas. I’d never gone to college myself, and though I’d worn my nicest dark jeans in a quest to look at least halfway decent when we went to dinner later, I was normally a work boots and baggy jeans guy—and not just because I’d put on a few pounds lately.

  Now that I thought about it, the ‘nice’ jeans I was wearing felt a little too snug. There was definitely a bit more padding to me now, surprising really, since I’d spent most of the spring and early summer doing very physical work, and the mid-July heat had me sweating bullets before noon most days. But I supposed the beer and Hot Pockets were taking their toll.