Somewhere Near Leavenworth

"Well. Okay. I knew I shouldn't have left." Mike Turner was more resigned to his situation than angry.

He had taken an unknown side road out of Leavenworth to try to skirt the Kansas Highway Patrol's closing of K-7 due to near blizzard conditions. He just wanted to get home though hotel he was in had been just fine.

Now, visibility less than a quarter mile, wind chill in the minus 20 range and night rapidly approaching, he sat in his car, in a ditch, God only knew where. To add insult to injury, he was in a dead spot - his cell phone couldn't get a signal.

He was weighing his options when there was a knock on his window.

"Jesus!" He was startled.

Before he turned to the window he glanced in the rear view mirror and there was no car behind him. He rolled down the window and a woman's face, nose and mouth covered with a snow-covered muffler, poked inside.

"Looks like you're in a bit of a predicament. Need some help?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks. Can you get me out?"

"I could get my four-by down here and probably winch you out but, uh," the woman looked down the road, "I'm gonna guess you wouldn't make it more than a mile before you're in the ditch again. And no wrecker is going to come out in this."

"Yeah...I suppose you're right. I'm not anywhere near 7 am I?"

The woman laughed, "It depends on your definition of 'near,' you know. Right now, in this weather, you are a million miles from nowhere."

"Yeah, I sorta figured you were going to say something like that."

"Well, come on. Better come inside with me. That's my farmhouse. Maybe by morning things will have improved. Or, you could stay out here and freeze to death."

"I'll come in. You sure you don't mind?"

"Mister, I made the offer. I wouldn't have if I had minded though," the woman added dryly, "I would have felt real bad with you freezing to death out here."

He nodded his thanks, gathered his overnight bag, his laptop and his parka and got out of the car. The woman was already headed up the driveway.

It was only a short walk but with the bitterly cold wind and the stinging snow and his bags it felt like it was miles.

The woman left the back door ajar. He pushed it opened and stepped inside to the kitchen. He stomped the snow off his shoes, set his bags down and unzipped the parka. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely.

The woman was at the stove, putting a teakettle on. She turned to check him out and was alarmed.

"Mister, you need to take a seat. You look like hell. You gonna be all right?"

"Yeah," he huffed, "just let me sit down and take a pill."

He lurched toward a kitchen chair and fumbled with a tiny pill bottle.

She recognized it as nitro. "Oh God, you're not having a heart attack are you?!"

He sort of laughed, "No...just the cold...I've got stable angina. All I need to do is..."

"Is take one of those nitros. Here," she took the small bottle from his shaking hands and got a tiny pill, "open wide, tongue up." He complied and she placed the nitroglycerin tab under his tongue.

She put her hand and his shoulder, felt him shaking, and watched his face. Soon his color improved, his breathing slowed and his shaking stopped. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. What's your name?"

"Turner, Mike Turner. I live down in Overland Park. I was up in Leavenworth on some business. Thought I could beat the weather. I was trying to skirt the Highway Patrol roadblock."

"Yeah. I figured it would be something like that. They announced they were closing 7 just a while ago on the news. I hope you're a better business man than a judge of the weather." She chided gently.

"Listen, in my younger days, I drove a Metro Geo loaded with medical lab specimens up I-44 from Joplin to St. Louis in conditions worse than this." He smiled back.

"The key words in that statement Mike were 'younger days'."

He laughed, "Yeah...point taken.

"You know, you look awfully familiar. I just can't place you. We didn't like, go to high school together or something like that?"

The teakettle began to whistle, she smiled at him, "Darjeeling or Earle Gray?"

"Excuse me?"

"Tea, Mike, Darjeeling or Earle Gray?"

"Uh, Earle Gray, please."

She turned to pour the hot water into the cups. "No, I don't think we went to high school. And I doubt whether we've met before. But, you've probably seen me."

She brought the tea to the table and sat down. She took down her hair from the ponytail it was in and fluffed her hair.

"Oh. Oh, my god..."

She did a Groucho Marx with her eyebrows as she saw the recognition in his eyes.

"I thought you'd in Hollywood or somewhere else. I mean, given your official bio, I wouldn't think you'd be spending much time at home."

"Um," she waved her hand, laughed without humor, "it's like hiding in plain sight. This is my private get away. Belongs to a friend."

She looked at the clock. "Hey, are you hungry? Dinner time, you know, at least for me."

"Sure."

"Why don't you go take a seat in the living room and I'll heat something up? It won't be much. A friend brought a broccoli casserole by yesterday. I was just going to heat it up; fix a salad. Ranch, French or Italian?" She went to the refrigerator, opened the door and started rummaging around.

"Uh, Ranch."

"Excellent choice...because that's all I've got."

~~~~~~~~~~

They ate together quietly in the kitchen. He felt awkward, unused to the comfort of a celebrity stranger and she was curious about her guest but she didn't want to pry.

She picked up the dishes. "Can I offer you an after dinner drink, coffee? Something stronger?"

"Coffee and something stronger would be nice."

"Okay, coming right up."

She poured a cup of coffee for both of them then went to the cupboard. "Let's see," she looked back at her guest, "you strike me as a Jim Beam man." He smiled and nodded. "Straight up, please."

She produced two lowball glasses and a three quarter's full bottle of Beam. She poured a dollop in each glass and held up her glass, "Here's to blizzards and new friends."

"Hear, hear," He clinked his glass with hers and took a sip.

She watched to see his reaction as the bourbon hit his tongue. He held the sip for a moment then swallowed - no grimacing, choking or coughing.

Okay, she thought to herself, he does know how to drink. But there was something about her guest she couldn't quite put her finger on; he was almost too polite.

"Uh, I've been holding off since you came in and looked like death warmed over but...it's my house, okay? I gotta have a smoke. Hope you don't mind."

He smiled, reached inside his sweater and pulled a pack of non-filtered Camels from his pocket. "Can I interest you in a real cigarette or do you really smoke the Reds you sing about?"

"Ah, you know my music? Yeah, I smoke Marlboros but I'd be glad to have a Camel."

She added the almost perfunctory mantra of the 21st century smoker, "Trying to quit, you know."

He smiled, "Twain said quitting smoking was the easiest thing in the world to do. He'd done it thousands of times."

He held out the pack, shook one up from the pack. She took it, he produced a Zippo and she held his hand as she lit up.

She leaned back in her chair, "God DAMN! That's nice." She blew out the smoke slowly then bent forward toward him.

"So, curiosity is going to kill the cat. I gotta know.

"What's your story? Are you going to kill me in my sleep?

"Are you just excessively polite? You know my music - well, at least one song, you know who I am, you've read my bio I guess, but for a fan, if you are a fan, you're awfully, uh, non-verbal."

He smiled, took a sip and then a drag, "You are safe with me tonight. Yeah, I'm a fan, not hardcore; I don't know all your work. I think my favorites are 'Yes I Am,' 'I Will Never Be the Same,' and 'Come to My Window.'

"I think your music is very passionate, driven. I've used some of your lyrics in my sermons and communion meditations..."

Melissa Etheridge choked on her Jim Beam.

"You're...you're a minister?!!! Oh God, I'm smoking and drinking with a minister?!!! Oh, Sweet Jesus!" Then she caught her language. "I'm...I'm sorry. Forgive me, Father."

He sat back, blew out a cloud of smoke, looking bemused.

"Ms. Etheridge, I'm not Catholic or Episcopal so you don't have to call me 'Father.'

"My congregation is primarily on the Internet. I have a web site and an email list. I do weekend seminars, back when you and I were kids they used to call them 'revivals.'

"And I do some one night 'concerts,' kind of a cross between a sermon and a stand up comedy routine..."

Melissa caught her mental equilibrium, "And you drink Jim Beam and smoke non-filtered Camels. Any other vices?"

"You're sizing me up as the stereotypical religious hypocrite, eh?"

"Well, yeah. But despite my better judgment I won't put you out in the cold. I'm not real big on you religious types. You understand."

"Yeah, I understand. Funny, sometimes that sentiment is reflected in your lyrics and other times it sounds like you have down the essence of the pure Faith."

There was an angry edge to her voice and her face was flushed. She didn't want to get sucked into a discussion on religion or have this guy try to "save" her. "You know, uh, I think I'm going up to my room for the night. You can have the bedroom off the living room. There's a full bath in there and towels.

"I'll see you in the morning. We'll see if we can't get you on your way as soon as possible, preacher." She pronounced "preacher" with the slightest touch of contempt.

He stood to say good night but she had already turned and left the kitchen.

"Well, that was different." Mike said to himself. He sat back down, finished his drink and smoke and went to the living room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mike made himself at home in the living room. He settled into what looked like Melissa's TV chair and watched TV.

Actually, he was exhausted and dozed through most of the evening's shows. He awoke fully in time to catch the "Top 10" on Letterman. After Letterman he watched a little more TV and then turned the TV off.

He turned out the living room lamp and walked to the picture window. There were bright spotlights on the front of the house and he sat by the window in the dark and watched the blizzard, the spotlights turning the swirling snow into a dazzling white, swirling piece of living art.

"Penny for your thoughts, Preacher."

He made Melissa's voice out at the back of the room. It had none of its earlier edge.

"Uh, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know exactly. I just feel like maybe...I don't know, it kind of feels like I'm kind of an enemy here in your home. I don't like feeling that way..."

"Hey." she interrupted him, her voice smoky and quiet, "I'm sorry. I doubt whether you would have gotten all pissed off if the situation were reversed - at least I hope not. I over reacted.

"You are something of a curiosity to me."

"Curiosity is good, I guess," he said slowly. "I don't fit the stereotypes very well. That may be confusing."

"No shit, Preacher, but then some say I don't fit the stereotypes very well either. But with you it's like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know. When do I get the sermon?"

She came into the living room and sat opposite him by the window. In the light from the front yard he could see she was dressed in a t-shirt, underpants and athletic socks.

"No sermon. I can't sing either, if you're wanting me to sing for my supper." He smiled shyly, hoping she would pick up on his attempt at humor.

"Touche, Preacher." She smiled back. "Got another one of them Camel's?"

He produced his pack and shook another up. She took it, he produced the Zippo and again she held his hand as she lit up.

"It's funny, really, I've dreamed of being able to talk to you.

"It wasn't an immediate thing. It was after I heard 'Come to My Window.' Then I heard 'Yes, I Am' and 'Never Be the Same' and," he paused, lit a cigarette because he was lost for words, "I don't know...it's hard to explain. I just wanted, needed to talk to you."

"So, Preacher, here I am."

"Yeah, here you are. And I'm a little lost."

"Did you want to talk about sex, you know, why I'm queer? Maybe think you're man enough to "cure" me, or a preacher enough to "save" me?" She was baiting him, being defensive before he could go on the offense.

"Look, I'm sorry."

"No, that's all right. No, I don't care why you're queer or, for that matter, that you are. I know I'm not man enough to 'cure' you, if that means what I think you're implying, and I doubt whether I'm enough of a disciple to 'save' you."

"You said 'disciple' instead of 'preacher'."

He was slowly blowing out a cloud of smoke, trying to get his mind in gear. Her statement caught him off guard, "Uh...?"

"You said 'disciple' instead of 'preacher,' is there a difference or is this latest buzz word in the religious con game?"

"Uh, a disciple is a follower of Christ; Christ is my 'master'. All Christians are *supposed* to be disciples, we're all supposed to be 'about our Father's business' and that business is principally to make other disciples.

"St. Francis of Assisi once said, 'Preach the Gospel always. When necessary, use words.' I meant my life is probably not, ummmm, 'attractive' enough to make you curious about discipleship, that's all."

"O-kaaay." She blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'll keep my questions simpler."

He shrugged, grinned in the near darkness, "You asked."

"Yes, yes I did. Well, I asked earlier if you had any other vices. I think you kind of sidestepped that one."

"Umm. My laptop is by your feet. If you know what you're doing feel free to browse. You're likely to find quite a bit you to indict me as the hypocrite you expect. A hypocrite by your standards, at least."

"Cool. You're letting me snoop." There was quiet excitement in her voice as she reached for the laptop case.

Her face was lit in the glow of the screen as it booted up. She was smiling. She knew what she was doing.

"Bring up the Windows Explorer and start in 'My Documents' in the writing folder. I, uh, think I'm going to turn in."

She looked up, smiled, "Not going to stick around, eh? Must be some sick shit in here."

He returned the smile; it was tired, he looked a bit pained. This was his life she was going to be looking through but he made the offer. "I guess it depends on your definition of 'sick.' 'Night."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Preacher, wake up." Her voice was soft.

"Hmmm?"

"Wake up, wanna talk?"

He was momentarily confused by his surroundings then he realized where he was. He sat up in bed and reached for the light on the night table.

"No. Please don't turn on the light." He withdrew his hand and felt her weight settle on the side of the bed next to him.

"Six screenplays, four plays, 48 sermons and essays and 27 dirty stories, kinky dirty stories..."

"Erotica," he corrected.

She taunted him quietly, "You say to-mat-O, I say to- may-toe."

"There's a difference."

"Oh, yeah, what?"

"Porn is just to get your rocks off - or the female equivalent. Erotica is a story with a sexual component. A story has a beginning, middle and end."

"Ah.

"Why do you write it?"

He hesitated, "Don't laugh. Sometimes it's escape..."

"Nothing funny about that."

"Sometimes it's to get off - to keep a moment in time alive. Sometimes...I don't know...I guess that's why I thought I wanted to talk to you. I feel such passion some time. I don't know why or how to deal with it; I just feel a hole inside. It's a hole that demands to be filled, that aches to be filled. Usually in the dead of night."

"Now that's funny," and she laughed.

"Well, thanks a lot."

"No, the 'hole to be filled' in the 'dead of night.' Christ, were you making a pun?"

He didn't answer. He felt his face flush with embarrassment.

She quieted. "Sorry," but then she barely suppressed a giggle.

He stayed quiet, feeling the heat in his cheeks rise.

"C'mon..." She chided gently.

"The night can be a wonderful time, all's quiet. I can work, write, and watch TV. The world doesn't invade. Other times it can be terribly lonely..."

"You just want to connect," she completed his sentence and reached out and touched his arm in the darkness. "Who's making the pun now?" He sounded a bit petulant.

"Me, I guess." Her fingers moved lightly up and down his arm.

"That's why you wanted to talk, isn't it? You've heard that feeling, felt that feeling in my lyrics. You don't know what it is, per se, but you can feel it. It drives you nuts. Something like that, Preacher?"

"Yeah," her hand touched the back of his. He turned his palm to her fingers. She caressed it and slowly intertwined her fingers with his.

"I can feel it in some of your stories. I can feel it in your some of your essays. Didn't read your sermons but it's probably there too.

"Lay back." Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

He slid back down in bed and he felt her fingers caress his face; touch his throat.

"Uh...won't they revoke your lesbian membership card or something?"

"Shhhh...Preacher, we're not doing anything are we?"

"Well...not physically but my mind and heart are going a million miles a second."

She laughed, slid her body over the bedspread and up against his.

"Now I bet you're really racing," she whispered.

He sucked in a breath as her fingertips ran lightly down his forehead, over his eyes to his cheeks.

Her fingers went lower, down his throat to his collarbones and this elicited a quiet moan. She pushed the bedspread down, baring his chest. He didn't resist.

"What's this?"

"Bypass surgery scar."

"God...you don't look old enough. How did it feel?"

"The surgery or the heart attack that prompted it?"

"The surgery." Her hand played lightly along his chest. She gently kissed him on the cheek and then rubbed her forehead against it, waiting for an answer.

"It's funny, the surgery really wasn't that bad. It was a few weeks later that I felt...violated. When my shrink asked me..."

"You have a shrink?"

"...Uh, yeah..."

"Jesus, a preacher with a shrink. He's not court ordered or anything like that?"

"No. Anyway, when he asked how I felt post op the only word I could think of then and the only word I can think of now is violated. Being splayed open like an animal..."

Her hand moved to his belly and then withdrew abruptly.

He felt her sit up, pull her t-shirt off and raise her ass and pull her panties off. Then the bedspread came back and she pressed her naked body against his, pulling the bedspread up around them both.

The hand was back on his belly. She snuggled into the cradle of his arm, her face pressed against the side of his chest.

"If the lights were on I bet I could see a tent down there."

He was incredibly hard and despite the sheet, two blankets and the down filled bedspread he was sure he was making a tent.

Her fingertips ran along the line of his pubic hair.

He gasped.

"Uh, Melissa...wait a second...please." His voice was a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat. "Would you be doing this - would you be as excited as you sound and feel - if I weren't a preacher? You know, culturally speaking you're seducing a minister. Very nasty."

Her hand gently grasped his cock.

"Mike, would you be doing this, would your cock be so hard, the head so slick with pre-cum, if I weren't an unattainable lesbian rock star? You know, culturally speaking you're living out the dirty sex fantasy of oh, most heterosexual males between the ages of 15 and 45. Very nasty."

Her hand slowly pumped his cock, her index finger cradling the very tip, scooping a drop of slick wetness from his slit. Involuntarily he rocked his hips toward her hand.

"Unfair question...most males between the ages of 15 and 45 would probably be hard even if you were a drag queen in the dark."