Crumple Zone

*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

*Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

*.*.*

"You, I thought, aren't all of y'all going to Red's? To celebrate your divorce?" Holly Tannenbaum asked, sticking her head into Marc Trahan's office.

The beautiful blonde gasped as Marc looked up, eyes red. He nudged the thick sheaf of papers with his hand and attempted a smile.

"Honestly? They just needed a reason to get some wings and beer. My failure as a husband is hardly worth celebrating, is it?" The handsome man smiled sadly.

I uh, I don't know enough of the details to know if you failed as a husband, or Becky failed as a wife," Holly said, her beautiful hazel eyes peering into Marc's warm brown eyes.

"Wow, that, that is the perfect HR response," he smiled.

"What can I say?" Holly smiled tightly. "I'm good at my job."

"Know what? Staring at this," Marc again nudged his decree of divorce. "Isn't going make this any better.

Even though her whitish blonde hair was in a large bun, a small hank of blonde hair had fallen forward. Holly pushed the hank of blonde hair out of her eyes. When she did so, the maneuver thrust her 32D breasts against her snug blouse. She nodded her head in agreement.

"True, true. When I divorced Mattie, sitting around feeling sorry for myself didn't make me any less divorced," Holly agreed.

"Know what? Casa Ole's got a pretty decent margarita and I like their steak fajitas," Marc said, standing. "Want to join me?"

Holly was on the verge of refusing, then looked into his hopeful eyes. She held up one finger.

"Give me one minute; need to make a phone call," she agreed and turned around.

Marc picked up his vinyl briefcase and dropped the thick sheaf of legalese mumbo-jumbo that declared that he and Rebecca Trahan were no longer husband and wife into the cheap piece of luggage. Becky Trahan could go back to Stepping Stone, Louisiana. Becky could return to being Becky Wright. Becky could go anywhere, do anything she wanted to do; she was no longer Marc Trahan's problem.

Stepping outside of his office, Marc looked at the nameplate affixed to the wall next to his door. 'Marcus S. Trahan' and underneath his name, the brass plaque read 'Manager of Marketing.'

"Manager of marketing, Mom," Marc thought. "Not bad for someone too God damned stupid tie his own shoes. But uh, how's your precious Irwin doing these days?"

The rustle of clothes told him someone was approaching and Marc turned. His jaw slammed onto the floor and bounced a few times as Holly approached. She'd taken the time to release her thigh length white blonde tresses from her severe bun and had changed out of her bland, nondescript pantsuit into a slinky, clingy red top with spaghetti straps and knee length black skirt. In her five inch heels, she was close to Marc's height.

Ready?" Holly smiled, gripping his right arm in her two arms.

"Oh dear God; I, I bet she doesn't even have a bra on underneath that thing," Marc thought as Holly's impressive chest pressed against his bicep. "Don't get hard. Don't get hard."

"Listen, hope you don't mind, but I would just feel so much better if we took my car," Holly admitted as they stepped out of the Boyd Building onto the attached parking deck.

"Hmm? No, no, that makes perfect sense," Marc agreed as she led him past his F150 pickup truck.

"I, this? This is yours?" Marc gawked at the 1965 ragtop Ford Mustang.

"Mm hmm," Holly agreed, unlocking the passenger door. "Well, really, it was my dad's, but..."

"And how'd you manage to pry the keys out of his hand?" Marc asked when Holly started to walk around the car.

Marc got in and reached over and unlocked her door. She got in, flashing a good expanse of stocking clad thigh as she did so.

"Wasn't easy," Holly smiled sadly.

Marc was astute enough to see that Holly didn't care to elaborate on how she came to be in possession of the classic automobile, so did not push the issue. She drove them to the trendy Mexican restaurant and they joined the small line of people waiting to be seated. Most of the patrons were just like them; the business professionals of St. Elizabeth Parish, looking to start their weekend with some spicy food and frozen alcoholic beverages.

The line moved quickly and within ten minutes, they were seated, menus in hand. Marc already knew what he wanted, but took a moment to see if they'd added anything new to the menu.

"Hmm, Margarita Fridays," Marc read from a small insert in his menu. "Blue, you ever had a blue margarita?"

"No, you?" Holly smiled as an attractive red headed waitress placed the basket of chips and small bowl of salsa in front of them.

Marc ordered a twelve ounce blue margarita and winced when Holly ordered an iced tea, unsweetened. The waitress scurried away to place their drink orders.

"Great, now I'm going feel like a lush, drinking a margarita while you drink iced tea," Marc complained.

"Hey, I wasn't driving? I'd ordered the twenty ounce," Holly assured him. "Maybe next time, okay?"

"Okay," Marc smiled at the thought of there being a 'next time' with the blonde beauty.

He nodded with satisfaction as the waitress placed the drink in front of him, along with a glass of iced water. He picked up his glass and took a sip.

"May I?" Holly asked after Marc swallowed his sip and nodded in satisfaction.

Marc studied Holly's beautiful face as she took a dainty sip of his drink. As she tilted her head, lips pursed in concentration, he admired her square face, large hazel eyes underneath two perfectly shaped slashes of light eyebrows, her slim nose and her full, pouting lips.

When she shrugged and smiled, her teeth were perfectly white, perfectly straight. Her face, her throat, her shoulders were lightly tanned. Her breasts strained against the slinky material of her camisole top and Marc swore that he could see the outline of her hard nipples and crinkled areolae poking holes into the stretchy blood red material.

"I kind of like that," Holly agreed, then looked up as their waitress appeared. "Three enchilada plate, please. The chicken."

"Gracias," said their red headed waitress. "Senor?"

"Steak fajita," Marc ordered, smirking at the red headed woman's use of Spanish.

"So, Marc, why do you say you failed as a husband," Holly asked quietly as their waitress walked away.

Marc told Holly about meeting Becky Wright on the campus of the University of Louisiana at DeGarde. In truth, they had little in common. She was a mediocre student that had grown up as the oldest child out of three daughters, grown up in a trailer in Stepping Stone, Louisiana. He had grown up as the baby of the family; three girls and one older brother. The girls had doted on him and the brother had bullied and tormented him mercilessly. Since he couldn't fight back physically, Marc fought back by getting straight A's throughout school.

Even though Trudy, Sacha and Helena had doted on him, Marc's mother liked to joke, after three girls and Irwin, she was just too worn out to pay any attention to Marcus. Friends and family would laugh or nod knowingly, but to Marc, being ignored or passed over by his mother was nothing to laugh about.

Edmund, their father was a good and loving man, when he was home. When Marc was six, his mother and father divorced and Ed Trahan simply stopped coming around.

"And?" Holly prompted after a long moment of silence.

"Straight A's. Got all straight A's," Marc affirmed. "Anyway, my roommate drags me to this kegger, we're there ten minutes and this cute girl runs right into me, spilling her beer all over me."

"Works every time," Holly giggled. "Know how many cute guys I met doing that at Connelly?"

Marc laughed out loud at Holly's admission. Their food arrived and Marc told Holly about Becky's big push for a diamond engagement ring.

"You know, something she can show her Mom and her sisters and all her friends back in Stepping Stone," Marc said and groaned in pleasure as the tasted his succulent steak fajita.

"Were you at the engagement ring status at that time?" Holly asked.

"I guess," Marc shrugged. "I mean, she was the first girl that didn't want to know all about Irwin, didn't spend all her time staring at Irwin, following Irwin's every move."

"No, Marc. Were you ready to be engaged? It is a simple 'yes' or 'no' question," Holly said, hazel eyes studying him.

"No, not really," Marc admitted. "But she got her nineteen thousand dollar ring, I got my degree; she'd already flunked out by that time, and we're living in Camelot Apartments."

"Which one? Mattie and I lived in apartment three oh two," Holly disclosed.

"No kidding? We were in two oh seven, facing the pool. Anyway, remember? Martin sent three of us to that conference in Santa Rosa?" Marc said.

"Mm hmm," Holly agreed, scraping some beans and rice onto her fork.

"But this big forest fire cancelled the convention. So Derek and I got on the next plane out; Finnegan had family out there so he stayed," Marc continued. "We get back, Derek gave me a ride from the Lafayette airport home."

Holly watched as Marc told of stepping into his apartment, entering his bedroom, and discovering his wife in bed with not one, but two African-American men. She studied his eyes as he described the horrific beating the two men delivered and of his wife calmly sitting in bed, watching the savage pummeling the two men delivered to him.

"Thank God for Mrs. Knudsen next door," Marc said. "I'm pretty sure they would have killed me had the cops not shown up."

Holly remembered Marc showing up for work a few days after the ill-fated convention, eyes blackened and nose covered by thick adhesive bandages. She looked at his nose; Marc's surgeon had done a masterful job of repairing the damage.

"Room for dessert? We've got a chocolate flan that's out of this world," their waitress suggested.

"Maybe if I hadn't eaten all of those chips," Holly smiled at the waitress.

Marc paid the bill, left a generous tip, and assisted Holly from her seat. She pointed out that he'd left half of his blue margarita and he shrugged.

"Oh, my ex-husband? He would have been asking you what's wrong with you." Holly tittered, taking his right arm in her two arms.

"Oh, Becky would have finished it for me," Marc agreed.

Outside, a man in his late seventies, early eighties offered Holly fifty thousand dollars for her Mustang. She flashed a brilliant smile and admitted, it had been her father's; she wouldn't part with it for any amount of money.

Pulling up next to his pickup truck, Holly thanked Marc for a wonderful meal. Marc was initially surprised that she knew which vehicle was his; there were still a few vehicles parked in the multi-level parking deck. Any thought about anything at all vanished when the beautiful twenty three year old leaned over and pressed her moist lips to his. Her arms wound around his neck as she thrust her enchilada flavored tongue into his mouth.

"Thank you," Holly whispered, breaking their kiss.

"I uh, you, you kidding?" Marc grunted. "No ma'am, thank you."

She kissed him again, pressing her full breasts into him. Marc resisted the urge to grab her heavy orbs, resisted the urge to pinch and twist and pull her hard nipples.

"I uh, hey, you, you like Italian? I, ever been to Benito's?" Marc asked. "Want to go there tomorrow night?"

"I can't," Holly smiled easily. "Hank, I broke a date with Hank; we were supposed to go to the Carrie Hebert exhibition at the Lopez Center; she's an artist out of Myndee, Arkansas! Anyway, we were supposed to go there tonight, but I broke our date to go out with you."

Holly kissed him again, then sat back. Marc resisted the urge to adjust his rampant erection as he opened his car door.

"But, maybe next Friday? Oh, and maybe next Saturday? Think of something all three of us can do, all of us together, okay?" Holly said. "You, me and Hank, all right?"

"Uh huh," Marc agreed, closing the door of the pristine classic automobile.

"Hey, Marc, come on, you didn't ask her to break a date with her boyfriend," Marc consoled himself as he got into his truck.

"Shit, you didn't even know she had a boyfriend," Marc continued as he started the truck.

: But God damn, that Hank is one lucky bastard, huh?" Marc said, remembering Holly's passionate kisses, the feeling of her breasts pressing against him.

Marc shuddered as he made his way from the parking lot of his apartment complex to his apartment. Outside, frolicking in the complex's overly chlorinated swimming pool were two obese women. Marc wondered who would have the gall to sell plus sized thong bikinis. As he closed the door of his apartment, he wondered who would have the gall to buy plus sized thong bikinis.

"Well, apparently those two would," Marc said, shuddering again, then parodied the Guns N/Roses song 'Paradise city. "Oh take me down to the Cellulite City where the thighs are wide and the girls ain't pretty..."

Opening his briefcase, Marc again saw the legal papers. He wondered what Becky had thought when she received the papers. Then, pushing thoughts of his wife, his ex-wife out of his head, Marc again thought of the beautiful Holly Tannenbaum.

Monday morning, as Marc prepared his cup of green tea with a heaping tablespoon of local wild honey, several Boyd Investment Group employees looked on as Holly filled Marc's ear with chatter about the Carrie Hebert display. 'Powerful' and 'provocative' were words Holly used the most. Marc noticed Holly never used the word 'beautiful' though.

"Well, I suppose some of it is beautiful, in its raw simplicity," Holly said thoughtfully.

With a 'see you later,' Holly bounded out of the lunch room. A few of the men watched her shapely rear end walk away. Some of the men, and some women looked at Marc with questioning eyes. A few even looked at Marc with hostility.

The Human Resources assistant had built a reputation in the office as an ice queen. Holly had constructed a thick and high wall around herself, then outside of that wall she'd dug a deep and wide moat then filled the moat with fire breathing dragons. A few men had braved asking the beautiful young woman for dates, and had been politely but firmly refused. The ones that would not take 'No' for an answer no longer worked at Boyd Investment Group.

At four o'clock, Holly stuck her head into Marc's office. He looked up from his hand-written notes and smiled. She returned his smile warmly.

Some mocked Marc for resorting to writing his notes out, full hand, rather than typing on his computer. But, Marc claimed it helped him to organize his thoughts into legible, coherent ideas and plans.

"You like red beans and rice? Hank's making that; it's Monday. For whatever reason, Monday means red beans and rice," Holly asked.

"Yes, yes I do," Marc said. "My grandmother? On my Mother's side? Oh. My. God."

"Well, want to come over?" Holly invited. "It might not be as good as your grandmother's but..."

"Absolutely," Marc agreed and Holly smiled happily.

She gave him the address of her Lambert Condominiums condo while leaning across his desk. Marc fought hard, but managed to keep his eyes on her face, rather than on her unbelievable cleavage. The twinkle in her eye let Marc know she'd done her stretching and posing on purpose.

"Think I passed that test," Marc smiled as Holly bounded out of his office.

"You are just going to love Hank," Holly assured Marc when she opened the door of the condominium. "I know I sure do. Oh! Flowers? Oh, Marc, you didn't have to do that!"

"I might like Hank, I might even want to drink a few beers with Hank, but I very seriously doubt I'll ever love Hank," Marc thought as he followed Holly into the condominium.

She'd taken the time to change out of her severe business suit and now wore a tank top and yoga pants. Marc wondered why in was called a 'wife-beater' shirt. He knew people claimed whenever there was a domestic disturbance call on 'Cops' or 'Live PD' television shows, the husband usually wore a tank top and filthy jeans. But Marc had seen just as many NASCAR tee shirts, ripped up flannel shirts, and shirtless torsos making appearances on those shows.

Marc admired the miniscule black panties that showed through the yoga pants. He followed as Holly turned the corner and stood in a brightly lit room, holding out the vase of flowers he'd picked up at the Burns & Burns Grocers grocery store.

"Look, Hank! He brought us flowers," Holly said.

"And some ice cold St. Elizabeth Lager," Marc said, wondering if Holly was aware that her light brown areolae and hard nipples were visible through her tank top.

"Oh! Oh, look at them; they're beautiful," Marc heard a musical voice enthuse.

Entering the kitchen, Marc saw a beautiful young woman at the stove. Her long blonde hair was shot through with strands of brown, what most people referred to as 'dirty blonde.' She too wore yoga pants and a tank top. She appeared to be the same height as Holly, seemed to be very similarly built as Holly, with slightly darker skin, and a rounder face. Her eyes were a deep chocolate brown, his mother would have called them doe eyes.

"Just waiting on the drop biscuits to finish; you said you brought beer?" Hank smiled at Marc.

"I uh, yes, Saint Elizabeth; hope that's okay," Marc said, wondering if Hank knew he could see her dark nipples through her tank top. "I, a lot of people drink that Gratchley's, but I think it's pretty nasty."

"Room on the bottom shelf," Hank said, nodding toward the refrigerator.

"We still have...yes!" Holly laughed, finding four frosted mugs in the freezer compartment.

"Hank, huh?" Marc asked as he poured the cold brew into one of the glasses Holly offered him.

"Well, it's really Henrietta, but she just is not a Henrietta, now is she?" Holly said, producing a second frosted mug for his deft hand.

"Whole weekend, Holly just would not shut up about you," Hank disclosed as she served the meal.

"Me?" Marc asked in genuine surprise.

"Yes, you," Holly said, resting her hand on his forearm.

"But now that I see those eyes, well, who could blame her?" Hank said.

They ate in the dining room. Marc made a pig out of himself, having a second plate and four drop biscuits.

"A woman likes when her man appreciates her cooking," Hank said.

"Her man?" Marc wondered to himself as Hank and Holly cleared the table.

"Marc, what you take in your coffee?" Holly asked.

"Its decaf," Hank called out from the depths of the narrow kitchen.

"Two cream, one sugar," Marc said.

""And Hank made her toffee cheesecake; oh my God, I get fat it's all her fault," Holly enthused, carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee.

"Olive U?" Marc asked, reading the printing on the ceramic coffee mug.

"Oh! This, this is so sudden, but I love you too," Holly teased.

"Huh? Oh, oh!" Marc asked, then smiled widely. "Olive U, I love you, cute."

Hank entered the dining room a moment later, three plates of cheesecake wedges on a tray.

"Marc, see me putting a gun to her head?" Hank smiled. "See me making her eat this?"

"Like I'm going be able to say no?" Holly complained.

"This, oh my goodness, this, this is so good," Marc enthused.

There was a hint of tartness; Marc was willing to bet Hank added sour cream to the creamy filling. But the rich toffee offset the tart creamy goodness.

"Without that sour cream, this, this would be just too rich," Marc said out loud.

"That's right," Hank agreed.

"Well, this is a work night for us," Hank said, taking Marc's empty plate and mug.

"So, we're kicking you out," Holly admitted, picking up her own plate and mug.

"I uh, but, I, I'm real glad you came," Hank said from the doorway of the dining room.