On the day she was to die, Vadoma Taits awoke to pale morning light. Annoyed it was past sunrise, she chided herself for such laziness. Every minute of the day needed to be savored—not spent sleeping. She placed her hands over her heart to feel the strong, steady, beat. When would it stop? It didn’t seem possible, but she knew it would happen.

Hearing breakfast noises from the next room, she stretched her arms above her head and sighed. She  [read more →]]]> Elizabeth McKenna

On the day she was to die, Vadoma Taits awoke to pale morning light. Annoyed it was past sunrise, she chided herself for such laziness. Every minute of the day needed to be savored—not spent sleeping. She placed her hands over her heart to feel the strong, steady, beat. When would it stop? It didn’t seem possible, but she knew it would happen.

Hearing breakfast noises from the next room, she stretched her arms above her head and sighed. She would miss her family the most. After her parents’ death when she was only two months old, Aunt Kizzy and Uncle Boldo took her in, always treating her like their own child. She was grateful for their love, and yet, she wondered if her real Ma and Da would know her in the afterlife.

She opened the curtains of her box bed and padded barefoot to a nearby trunk. Inside, she found her best dancing outfit. The skirt was full with red and white stripes. Vadoma ran her fingers through the thin pieces of metal she had meticulously sewn in rows around the hem. They clanged merrily at her touch bringing back visions from all the fairs at which she had danced.

Pushing the memories away, she slipped on the skirt, a white cotton shirt, and a bright green vest, quickly lacing up the front. She tugged the shirt a bit lower over her breasts until she was satisfied with the amount of fullness showing. The neckline was purposely cut low to better entice the generosity of the men-folk in the audience. Gathering up her long, dark hair, she tied it in place with a red ribbon.

She dug deep into a bottom corner of the trunk where a small jewelry box lay hidden. Vadoma rubbed the intricately carved wooden top with affection. Opening it, she took out her mother’s gold earrings and four gold bangles that her aunt had given Vadoma on her sixteenth birthday.

Pausing in the doorway between the bedroom and the common area, her eyes took in, perhaps for the last time, the interior of the cottage where her family stayed when they weren’t traveling the Scottish countryside. It was bare except for a few pieces of essential furniture, an eating table with four unmatched chairs and a long worktable holding an assortment of cooking utensils. Colorful patchwork curtains hung from the windows and provided the only decorative frills. Everything else they owned needed to be small enough to fit in the old wooden cart their donkey, Esmeralda, pulled.

A pang of dismay shot through her as she calculated the income her family would lose after she was gone. Vadoma’s dancing and her Cousin Pierre’s acrobatics often brought in more money than the selling of her uncle’s wares.

For a few precious seconds, she allowed bitterness to replace the dismay. Since she had been old enough to understand the importance of family, she had longed to find love and have children of her own. But those were futile dreams, she thought with a shake of her head, and she refused to let anger ruin what little time she had left.

If there was any way to avoid her destiny, she would. However, she had seen her future, and now the future was here. Today would be her last and there was no way to change her sad fate. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she pushed herself out to face the day.

She found her aunt stirring a kettle of porridge over the peat fire. “Good morn, Auntie. Forgive me for sleeping so late.”

When Kizzy Taits turned to greet her niece, her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Ah! Look at you, my handsome girl. Is there something I should know? Have you finally set your sights on a man?”

Vadoma laughed, but then quickly lied. “No, no, I felt like dressing special, that’s all. I see rich men in the crowds today. I hope to put them in the mood to lighten their purses.”

Kizzy laughed too. “Ah! That explains why my left palm is itching. I’ve never doubted your sight. We’ll tell your cousin and uncle to perform their best today and the money will flow.”

Nodding guiltily, Vadoma snuck a spoonful of the porridge before grabbing two nearby water buckets. She went out the rear of their thatched cottage on Gypsy Row and made her way to a dirt path that led to the Bowmont River, which ran alongside the small town of Kirk Yetholm. Fog hung silently on the rolling green hills below the Cheviot Mountains. She shivered in the cool air, wishing she had remembered her shawl.

Reaching the river’s edge, she smiled at an elderly woman washing clothes on the bank. “Good morn, neighbor. How are you?”

The wrinkles in the woman’s face shifted into a grimace as she straightened and placed a claw-like hand on her lower back. “Ack! Lassie, the gods have cursed me again. I could barely get out of bed, but at least I’m alive.”

Vadoma clicked her tongue in sympathy. “Do you need more ointment for the pain? I could bring some by on the way to the fairgrounds.”

“Oh, no, now don’t bother with me. Get yourself to the fair. Perhaps this year you will catch yourself a husband, eh?” The old woman’s laugh started as a high cackle but ended in a choking cough.

Vadoma dropped her buckets and pounded the neighbor’s hunched back until the fit passed.

“A comely girl like you should be taking care of her own family by now. You should make up one of your love potions,” the old woman suggested with a wag of her crooked finger. “The one you made for Helene Andree worked. Did you see how big she is with child?”

“Ay, that is a good idea,” Vadoma agreed, forcing a smile. “Well, my aunt will be needing this water. I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

She picked up the buckets and filled them from the river. Walking toward the cottage, she watched the townspeople in the distance. The autumn harvest had been pulled in and now it was fair season. With the Scottish village of Kirk Yetholm being only a mile from the English border, its fair attracted droves of visitors from both countries. Vadoma could feel the excitement as the townspeople readied to sell their goods and make some well-needed money.

She stopped short at the sight of two noblemen and their valets. Biting her lower lip, she frowned. The paunchy, gray-haired gentleman who stood bored with arms akimbo was the Duke of Roxburghe, but she didn’t recognize the younger one. He was obviously upper class, but his stance implied a man comfortable with manual labor. Whereas his elder companion appeared soft to the point of femininity, he looked as hard as the cliffs of Berwickshire with muscles straining the cloth of his shirt. A leather cord held his unruly red hair, reminding her of the Highland men she had met on her travels.

As she stood staring, the group turned in her direction. She quickly bowed her head, but not before she saw the Duke’s plump lip curl in contempt. It was well known the Duke despised mingling with the country folk.

“Have you seen enough, Tweeddale?” the Duke asked. His voice thick with impatience. “I would like to return to Floors Castle before we’re pick pocketed.”

So, the rumors were true. The Marquis of Tweeddale’s son had come home to claim his inheritance. Would he be a more just lord than his father?

“I was hoping to stay for the fair,” the Marquis replied. “It would give me a chance to meet some of my renters.”

The Duke sneezed noisily. “Bloody country air,” he sniffed, wiping his dripping nose on a lace handkerchief before replying. “Let your land steward deal with the commoners. That’s what your father did.”

The Marquis stiffened, but kept his tone even. “Ay, but I would like to run things my way, with all due respect, of course.”

The Duke waved the handkerchief in the air and sighed. “As you wish.”

The Marquis inclined his head in Vadoma’s direction. “Look, there’s one of my renters now.” He smiled as he approached her, ignoring the Duke’s grumbling behind him.

Vadoma set down her buckets and dropped into a curtsy.

“Good morn, miss,” the Marquis greeted her. For a brief moment, his eyes lingered on her exposed cleavage before reluctantly moving to her face. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am George Hays, the 8th Marquis of Tweeddale.”

Vadoma exchanged a surprised look with the Marquis’ valet who could only shrug his shoulders in response. She didn’t know how to respond to his informality so when she said nothing, he frowned.

Trying again, he asked, “Do you live in town?”

“Maybe she doesn’t understand English.” The Duke peered around the Marquis, but kept his distance as if afraid he would catch something from her. “These gypsies have their own gutter language, you know.”

Vadoma glared at the Duke as she answered the Marquis in a clear voice. “I am Vadoma Taits of the Romani Lautari tribe and I live on Gypsy Row.”

The Marquis nodded in satisfaction. “Will you be attending the fair, Vadoma Taits of the Romani Lautari tribe?”

Now she gazed icily at the Marquis, unsure if he was making fun of her. “Ay, my family will be performing at it.”

“Oh? What kind of a performance?” His deep amber eyes lit up with interest. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he asked, “Do you tell fortunes? I have seen other gypsies do that.”

Unnerved by his boyish enthusiasm, she hesitated for a few seconds before answering him. “I see the future sometimes, like other Romas,” she replied, placing a heavy emphasis on the last word. Her tribe considered “gypsy” to be a slur against their heritage. They were “Roma” and proud of it.

“Tell me mine,” the Marquis commanded. “What do you see? What will happen to me?”

Vadoma shook her head. On any other day, she would be afraid of the repercussions of her refusal but her impending death made her fearless. She did not like to be rude though, so she explained, “It does not work that way. I do not command my visions—they command me.”

Disappointment showed on the younger lord’s face. The Duke clapped a pudgy hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Tweeddale. At least you didn’t lose any money in the deal. Consider yourself lucky the lass didn’t cheat you out of a few shillings.”

Her fists balled in anger at the Duke’s words. Before she could decide if the offer was wise, she found herself asking, “Perhaps my lord would like his palm read? It’s not as true as a vision but sometimes as satisfactory. No charge.” Her eyes flashed in the Duke’s direction.

The Marquis smiled like a child receiving a present and held out his right hand, palm up. Ignoring it, she reached for his left, which the Roma knew showed a person’s character. She was more interested in what kind of a man the Marquis was than what his future would be.

His hand dwarfed hers and the skin felt rough to the touch. The lack of smoothness surprised her, but she didn’t dwell on this discovery. Instead, holding his hand palm to palm, she absorbed his energy. She rarely read a person’s chakra, as the person could be depressed, but in this case, Vadoma thought it necessary to take the risk.

She uncovered his hand and began to examine the lines etched on his palm.

“Well, what do you see?” he asked, shifting closer until their heads almost touched.

As his breath warmed her cheek, she lost focus. For a moment, she laid in a plush bed with red velvet drapes, wrapped in the Marquis’ arms. She felt happy and loved, as they talked of their future together. Bewildered by the vision, she forced herself back to the present. “Your life line shows you are of good health and of a confident character. It has several branches, which indicate many long journeys and changes in your life.”

The Duke made an unpleasant snorting sound. “The local gossip could have told her that.”

Ignoring him, she continued. “Your fate line is deep and unbroken. You’ve the ability to succeed in anything you try.”

“Of course, he does. He is a Marquis,” the Duke muttered.

“Please, Duke, let her finish,” the Marquis admonished.

“Your line of Mercury shows you are intelligent. You love to read.”

The Duke let out a loud sigh. “The library at Yester House is no secret. It holds more books than my own.”

She gritted her teeth, trying to steady her temper. “However, your Family line is troublesome. You’re not close to those who share your name.”

This time the Duke laughed. “More gossip. It doesn’t take gypsy blood to know that about you and your departed father.”

Vadoma studied his palm for a few more moments. “That’s all I see.” She dropped his hand and laced her fingers together in front of her. Focusing on the ground, she hoped they wouldn’t notice the second lie of the day on her face.

The Marquis stared at his palm for a moment longer, his brows creased in thought. Finally, he said, “Thank you. Maybe we will see each other again at the fair?”

Vadoma looked up and gave him a small smile. “Perhaps, my lord.”

She let the group move on before she picked up her buckets and continued home. Until now, she had never held back information during a reading, believing all knowledge—good and bad—needed to be relayed. However, with the Marquis, for some unknown reason she couldn’t speak what she saw. She couldn’t tell him that his Girdle of Venus line was longer and deeper than Kosta Turnbull’s who had fathered ten children before the age of thirty. Nor could she tell him that his Ring of Solomon showed more wisdom than was expected for such a young man.

Vadoma sighed. His chakra still coursed through her, leaving her flustered. Considering the visible strength from his broad shoulders down to his well-muscled legs showing below his kilt, she shouldn’t be surprised at the power of his internal energy. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake herself free, but it was no use. Her last day on earth would be shared with the Marquis, whether she liked it or not.

By midday, the fairgrounds buzzed with activity. From the rows of stalls, sellers hawked everything from cheese to horses. Townsfolk and visitors trampled back and forth, haggling with the vendors and debating whether to part with their harvest wages. The ground soon became a mixture of mud and animal waste, while the air took on the scent of human sweat, cooked food, and feces.

Vadoma and her family had set up a small stage in the middle of the chaos. For their performances, Pierre warmed up the audience with flips and twists, and then ended with a humorous tightrope act. The children loved his antics, emitting high-pitched squeals of laughter. Vadoma would follow, singing several folk songs. For the grand finale, she would perform a traditional Roma dance accompanied by her uncle on the violin, while Pierre circulated with a basket collecting any coins the people felt obligated to give up in a show of appreciation. Off to the side of the stage, her aunt sold the brooms and horn spoons that her uncle made. In between the shows, Vadoma told fortunes for a small price. All in all, it was a system that worked. They didn’t have many personal possessions, but they didn’t starve either.

Half way through a ballad about a young woman rejected by her lover, Vadoma saw the Marquis. He stood motionless, watching her with arms crossed against his chest. She shut her eyes, concentrating on the words of the song and blocking out the desire she felt coming off her new lord despite the physical distance between them.

Paying homage to the importance of the day, she danced during the finale until she was winded and glowing. This was her favorite part of the show and she gave herself over to her uncle’s music, letting the rousing rhythms move through her body. She felt fully alive and stretched the moment out as long as she could until finally, it was over and the applause swept over her. She curtsied low to the crowd in thanks and then hurried off the stage.

Before she could wipe the sweat from her face, the Marquis reached her side.

“That was wonderful,” he said with obvious admiration. “I have never heard a voice as sweet as yours.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, my lord.” Hoping to discourage his geniality, she moved to pass him, but the Marquis grabbed her arm.

“Do you perform again so soon? I was hoping we could talk—about the town. I’ve been gone many years and so much has changed.” He gave her a hopeful smile.

She had never met a nobleman so unaware of social customs. Exasperated, she took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. His scent was as powerful as his chakra. A rush of lightheadedness overcame her and she wavered on her feet.

The Marquis seized both her elbows to hold her steady. “Are you ill?”

Nodding weakly, Vadoma allowed the Marquis to guide her to the edge of the stage. She sat for a moment, resting her head in her hands until the spots before her eyes disappeared. What she really needed was to be rid of the Marquis. How could Fate be so cruel as to torment her with this man on her last day? Shouldn’t she be allowed to pass on to the next life in a state of calmness and tranquility?

As she considered ways to escape the Marquis, who was still staring intently at her, sounds of a fight breaking out came from the far side of the stage. Alarmed, she forgot her current problem and ran across the platform toward the commotion.

“Pierre!” she cried upon seeing two townsmen holding her struggling cousin by the arms. At their feet, a stranger lay motionless. Dark blood seeped from a wound in his side, slowly forming a pool in the dirt.

The constable of Kirk Yetholm pushed his way through the crowd encircling the men. When he reached the center, his eyes widened. Picking up a knife from the ground, he asked, “Did you do this, boy?”

Pierre scowled at the men around him, but finally nodded. “Ay, you all saw me. There’s no denying it, but I had good reason. That man murdered my kin.”

Vadoma sank to her knees. “I don’t understand. Auntie told me my parents’ death was an accident.”

“Twenty years ago to the day, Vaddie, I swear on their graves. His name was Charles Gordon and he was the murderer. Old Rowena Douglas pointed him out while you were dancing. She told me that Gordon was drunk and challenged your Da to a fight. Your ma tried to stop them and in the scuffle, Gordon stabbed them both. He wasn’t punished because it was only gypsy scum that he killed.” Pierre jutted out his chin. “I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

“Oh, Pierre, what have you done?” she moaned. “You’ve sentenced yourself to death!”

From behind her, the Marquis confirmed her fear. “Constable, take the boy into custody.” He pointed at the body and then the men holding Pierre. “You two, follow with the deceased. I will meet you at the justice’s cottage.”

Vadoma grabbed a fistful of the Marquis’ kilt. “No, my lord, please! He did it for me. Arrest me instead. I beg you!”

Giving her a sympathetic look, he freed himself from her grasp. “No, lassie, he must pay for what he has done. ‘Tis the law.”

Her aunt’s heartbroken wailing brought Vadoma to her feet. “My boy! My boy!” Kizzy’s small fists thumped her husband’s chest with every word as if he was the cause of her distress. “He’s only fifteen. It’s not right. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Jumping off the stage, Vadoma wrapped her arms around her aunt. “Shh! Auntie, it will be all right,” she soothed, gently rocking the older woman.

“How? How can it be made right? My boy’s going to die.” Clutching fistfuls of her dark hair, Kizzy let out another long cry.

Vadoma grabbed her aunt’s hands and held them tight against her heart. “I promise you, I will free Pierre. He’ll not die.” She motioned to her uncle. “Go home now and wait for me.”

“Be careful, child,” Boldo warned, “We couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”

Nodding in understanding, she gave them both a quick kiss on the cheek. As she watched her uncle guide her tear-blinded aunt in the direction of their cottage, despair rooted her feet to the ground. Now what? How would she fulfill her promise before her time on earth ran out?

Though her people lived amongst the Scots and English and bent to their common law, they believed they had a right to punish their own when the need arose. They resented any interference from the locals. She had to get Pierre back so her tribe could decide the rightful penalty.

The Roma were a passionate people, prone to fighting first and justifying later. Feuds often turned violent with fatal consequences. Revenge went hand in hand with honor. If the man had truly killed her parents, then she knew Pierre felt righteous in his actions. The tribe would still need to judge him, but death was not the automatic sentence.

Without a clear plan in mind, she headed toward the justice’s cottage. Once there, she was dismayed to see another fight brewing between members of her tribe and the companions of the dead man. Rowena Douglas, who started Pierre on his murderous quest, was leading the battle of insults. Though shriveled with age, her voice rang out above the others, insisting Charles Gordon was a murderer first.

Vadoma didn’t see her cousin or the men who had led him away. Assuming everyone was in the justice’s cottage, she was almost to the door when a hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her backward.

“Here’s the wronged lass,” cried Rowena, holding up Vadoma’s arm. “Here’s the lass who lost her parents before she was weaned from her mother’s breast. She never knew the love of her own Ma and Da. Do you deny her the satisfaction of revenge?”

“No!” the crowd answered vehemently.

“Where is your proof?” shouted a stranger.

Rowena tapped her temple. “Here. You don’t forget the face of a murderer. Charles Gordon got what he deserved.”

The crowd surged forward, encircling the dead man’s friends. Fearing more bloodshed, Vadoma yanked free of the old woman’s grasp and ran to the justice’s cottage. Pounding on the door, she called out, “Please, let me in!”

After a moment, it opened revealing the constable. “What do you want, gypsy?” he asked with a sneer.

Motioning at the crowd, she replied, “You must do something, before more get hurt.”

Frowning, the constable surveyed the situation. It seemed everyone who had come for the fair was now standing in front of the justice’s cottage. The once festive mood had turned foul. “My lords?” the constable addressed the Duke and the Marquis who sat at a wooden table conferring with the justice.

“We should hang the boy immediately,” the Duke said without hesitation. “When the peasants see what happens to murderers, they will go home peacefully.”

“No!” Vadoma cried. On the floor in the far corner, Pierre sat curled up in a ball, looking every bit as despondent as she felt. Pushing the constable out of the way, she rushed to his side. “He doesn’t deserve death.”

“What would you have us do, lass?” the Marquis asked. “He took another’s life.” His eyes showed compassion, but his mouth spoke the reality of the situation.

“It’s not right that you punish one of us,” she insisted, placing a hand over her heart. “My cousin must be tried in a Roma court. The tribe must decide his fate. It’s our way.”

“Ay, but it’s not our way,” the Marquis said gently.

The Duke rose from the table. “Well, that settles it. Constable, take some men and make the necessary preparations. I want this done before sunset.”

“Please, wait,” Vadoma pleaded. “Grant me one request.”

Losing his temper, the Duke shouted, “Silence, gypsy, or you will join your kin at the gallows.”

For a split second, disgust flashed on the Marquis’ face. Rising to his full height, he filled the room with his physical power. “With all due respect, it is my village and I would like to hear what she has to say.”

She stared warily at the two men, wondering if the Duke would submit to the younger lord. “Let my cousin have the rest of today for his goodbyes. You’ll ease the heartache of his mother and he’ll end up just as dead. One day shouldn’t matter.”

After a moment’s consideration, the Marquis nodded. “Ay, I will grant your request. You have until tomorrow at midday.” Turning to the constable, he commanded, “Take some men and disperse the crowd. We don’t need any more bloodshed today.”

Holding back her tears, Vadoma whispered in Pierre’s ear, “I’ll send your Ma and Da to you. Do not lose hope, cousin, for I have an idea.”

Confusion showed on Pierre’s face, but he left his questions unspoken. Instead, he clung to her for a long moment before reluctantly letting go.

Rising, she forced her body to move away from her kin and toward the door.

“I am truly sorry it has to be this way,” the Marquis said to her back.

Her shoulders stiffened. The vilest Roma curse formed on her lips. She turned to unleash it, but when she saw the sincerity on his face, the words died before she could speak them. Flustered, she acknowledged him with a curt nod before departing.

Vadoma ran home to give the news to her aunt and uncle. After they hurried off to the justice’s cottage, she tore apart the kitchen, gathering the things she would need for the first part of her plan. As she placed two rose petals, three apple seeds, a blue colored piece of glass, a heart shaped stone, and a dove’s feather on the worktable, her gold bangles clanged merrily, unaware of the seriousness of the situation. The metallic sound cut through her already frayed nerves. Swearing, she slid them off and tossed them onto the eating table on her way to the bedroom.

She dumped the contents of her trunk on the bedroom floor. “Please, please, please…” she implored, tossing clothing and keepsakes to the side. With a cry of triumph, she found what she was searching for—a cord plaited from red, orange, and pink thread and a pink drawstring bag. Before returning to the kitchen area, she slipped off her dancing skirt, replacing it with a plain brown one.

Back at the worktable, she used the cord to tie the rose petals and the feather together. Holding her hands above the objects, she forced the distress from her mind so as not to taint the love potion. Satisfied, she scooped everything into the drawstring bag and scented it with four drops of rose oil.

Next, she shook a small amount of chamomile leaves from a battered tin into a leather pouch. Reaching up to a high shelf, she rejected several bottles until she found a skinny red vial half-full of liquid. After adding it to the collection on the worktable, she scanned the room.

A battered cupboard stood off in the corner. Opening the bottom doors wide, she pushed aside a pile of folded blankets. Behind it, two bottles of whiskey stood hidden. Holding them up to the weak window light, she picked the fullest one, tucking it under her arm while she replaced the other.

She put all the items she had assembled, along with some rope, in a satchel and then donned a long, dark cloak. With a final look at her home, she hefted the satchel to her shoulder and headed out the door and toward the town square.

When Vadoma entered the Cross Keys Inn, everything came to a stop. The room previously filled with merry customers eating and drinking now held silence. Frowning, she approached a serving girl. “I need to see the king.”

The girl pointed to an open doorway across the tavern. As Vadoma walked toward the side room, she saw both support and condemnation on the faces she passed. She paused before entering, sneaking a peek over her shoulder. A few folks nodded their encouragement. She rubbed her palms dry on her skirt. She had never spoken to the king of the Romani Lautari tribe alone before. Considering the trouble her family had caused today, she wasn’t sure how he would receive her.

In the middle of the room, William Faa II sat at a table with a pint of home brew and a half-eaten meal. He was a short, round man with a long beard and snowy-white hair that fell in braids to the middle of his back. Three mutts, their ribs showing through dirty fur, begged for scraps at his feet. For as long as she could remember, he had been their king.

Vadoma approached him slowly and then fell into a deep curtsy. Underneath her skirt, she fought to keep her knees still. With her head lowered, she waited for him to speak.

When he did, his voice came out clear and strong. “Vadoma Taits.”

“Ay, sir.”

“You know I cannot interfere with their laws.”

“Ay, sir.”

“Yet, here you are.” He stroked his beard, considering her. “Why?”

She lifted her chin, meeting his stare. “Because you are a smuggler.”

The king’s hand stopped in mid-air. Though his expression remained stern, the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You remind me of another young woman from long ago—one who is no longer with us.” Seconds ticked by as his eyes bore into hers. Finally, he asked, “How does it help you that I am what I am?”

“When I free my cousin, get him to America.” It was common knowledge the king smuggled Scottish whiskey to the far off country to avoid taxes. She knew she did not ask the impossible.

Still, the king’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “How are you going to free him?”

Keeping her face blank, Vadoma adjusted the satchel on her shoulder. “Leave that to me. I only need to know if you’ll do what I have asked.”

The king gave her a small nod. “Ay, girl, for your dear parents, I’ll do this.”

Her business with the king settled, Vadoma started down the road to Floors Castle, where the Marquis was staying with the Duke. It would take her until sunset to reach it, but that was fine. She needed the cover of darkness for the remainder of her plan.

Reaching the gates of the castle, she stopped to marvel at its grandness. The main building stood three stories high, with peaked towers on each corner. Two matching smaller buildings grew out from its sides like muscle-bound arms. Local stone had been cut to make the impenetrable light-colored walls that over the generations had kept the nobles safe.

Servants told the villagers of wondrous gardens filled with a colorful palette of flowers, along with oak, lime, and chestnut trees. The River Tweed moved lazily through the grounds, attracting an abundance of wildlife. During particularly hard times, a few foolish souls always tried to hunt the land. When caught—and they always were—the punishment of death by hanging was swiftly meted out.

Off to the side of the closed gates two guards, one tall and the other short, loafed against the stone wall. On the road to the castle, she had debated the story she would tell to get past these men. Should she use tears or womanly charm? Which would they fall to? Deciding, she pinched her skin until tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, please, please, you must help me,” she called out with desperation in her voice.

“What’s the problem, lassie?” the smaller of the two asked in concern.

“I don’t know what to do,” she moaned. “I’m so afraid.” Covering her face, she moved her shoulders as if crying and then peeked through her fingers to see the guards’ reaction.

They exchanged puzzled glances. “What’re you going on about?” the bigger man asked.

Vadoma pointed to the castle. “I must see my sister. She’s a maid for the Duke.” She paused to wail for effect. “She’s to be married in a fortnight, but today I saw her betrothed with another girl at the fair. My father’s going to kill him!”

“Ay, that’s a mess, but we can’t let you in without permission,” the smaller one said with a shake of his head. “We could lose our posts.”

“Or worse,” the bigger one added.

“Oh, but please. I have to warn her.” She forced more tears from her eyes.

The smaller one shuffled his feet in the dirt. “Lassie, we want to help…but…”

Vadoma opened her satchel and removed the whiskey bottle. Pretending to be torn on whether to offer it to the guards, she finally held it up. “I’ll give you this if you let me pass.”

The bigger man rubbed a rough hand across his mouth and then nudged his partner who shrugged in response. With a quick look around, he grabbed the bottle and said with a nod in the direction of the castle, “Hurry now and don’t let anyone see you.”

Vadoma dropped a curtsy in thanks and ran through the gates.

She paused at the edge of a grove of trees after working her way through the shadows to the rear of the castle. In a nearby courtyard, several servants went about their evening business. Her fingers worried the coarse cloth of her cloak while she waited for the help to disappear. When the courtyard finally emptied, she headed for a side door.

She walked through the hallways as if she belonged, doubling back a few times when she took a wrong turn. At last, she reached the kitchen area, her intended destination. In the large room, a lone housemaid rested her feet, softly humming a Roma folk song.

Vadoma thanked the heavens. She knew several of her tribe worked at the castle and had hoped she would find one of them.

“Excuse me,” she called out softly, entering the room. Despite her efforts not to startle the girl, the maid jumped visibly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need your help.”

Puzzled, the girl looked around the room, expecting Vadoma to be addressing someone else. “Miss?”

Vadoma laughed easily, hoping to put the maid at ease. “Ay, I mean you. I need your help.” She hesitated, unsure how much to tell. “Something bad happened to my cousin today. Tomorrow, he’ll be put to death unless I can convince the Marquis to change his mind.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Oh, how awful for you, but what can I do?”

“Does the Marquis take any food or drink before retiring for the night? Maybe tea or liquor?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed at the question, but she nodded. “Ay, the past few nights he’s taken tea and a biscuit. He has a sweet tooth that one does.”

Vadoma felt a stirring of hope. Maybe her plan would work after all. She dumped the contents of the satchel onto the worktable. Holding up the red vial and the leather pouch, she said, “I need you to use these for his tea, tonight.” At the alarmed look on the maid’s face, she quickly added, “It won’t harm him. It’s only to make him sleep soundly. It’s chamomile leaves and poppy syrup.”

“Why do you want him to do that?” the girl asked.

“It’s best you don’t know. Otherwise, he could blame you,” Vadoma explained, fighting the impatience that was creeping into her voice. “Please believe me, though, when I say I’ll not hurt him.” She silently wondered if that would be her third lie of the day.

The girl bit her lip, considering Vadoma’s request. “What’s in the other pouch?” she asked, pointing to the pink bag.

Vadoma smiled slyly. “Ay, this is for you. It’s a love potion guaranteed to work on the most stubborn of hearts.” She watched the girl’s face change from suspicion to curiosity. “You have someone in mind, don’t you?”

The girl shrugged, running a finger along the edge of the table.

“You wear this around your neck when he’s near. I promise he’ll be in love with you before the next full moon.”

Finally, the girl nodded, picking up the pink pouch. She placed it around her neck, tucking it under her chemise.

Relieved, Vadoma smiled. “Thank you. Now, I’ve only one more thing to ask.”

Vadoma waited, curled up in the corner of a dark sitting room in the same wing as the Marquis’ bedchambers. Wishing she could light a fire in the cold hearth, she adjusted her hood and pulled the cloak tighter around her shivering body.

Two knocks sounded on the door followed by silence and then three more. The girl had delivered the tea as promised. Now it was up to Vadoma to finish what she had started.

After what seemed an eternity, a clock chimed the midnight hour. Vadoma rose from her hiding spot and stretched her cramped limbs. Crossing to the door, she laid an ear to it, listening. When she heard nothing, she inched open the door to peek out. The dimmed oil lamps in the hallway revealed only deep, flickering shadows. She begged Fate for a few more minutes of life before creeping on silent feet to the Marquis’ bedchambers.

At his door, she once again listened for any telltale sounds, but all was quiet. Hunkering down, she felt around the floor until her fingers grasped the cold metal of a key. Vadoma silently thanked the maid who had dutifully fulfilled her requests. She slipped into the room, locking the door behind her.

She stood for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the soft firelight glowing from the hearth. What she finally saw was a room fit for a king. Regal red was the dominant color from the silk-covered chairs to the damask wallpaper. Matching red velvet drapes framed the large four-poster bed where the Marquis lay sleeping on his back, his tangled hair spread across the starch white pillows. The room celebrated manliness with its heavy, dark wood furniture and gold-framed hunting scenes hanging on the walls.

Though the richness of the room fascinated her, the sleeping nobleman held her stare the longest. Earlier in the day, she had merely guessed at the strength he possessed. Now, as he lay bare-chested despite the chill in the air, his hard curves were on full display.

Vadoma closed her eyes, but the vision of the Marquis’ virile body remained, refusing to be dismissed so easily. With a shake of her head, she approached the bedside. From the satchel she still carried, she removed the last object, a long piece of rope. Taking hold of the Marquis’ wrist with her finger and thumb, she lifted it slowly, testing the strength of her sleeping potion. When he didn’t wake, she tied the wrist to the nearest bedpost. Moving to the other side of the bed, she repeated her actions. A small grumble escaped from the Marquis’ lips, but nothing more.

Now, she needed to wake him. Reaching forward, she poked his ribs, but as flesh touched flesh, his energy surged up her arm. Startled, she jerked back, almost landing on her backside.

“Gajo!” she thought. “Why does this man’s chakra continue to vex me?”

Glaring at the Marquis, she picked up a penknife from the writing desk in the corner. Her finger plucked the blade, testing the sharpness. It would do.

It took three tries and a draw of blood before his golden lashes flickered open. His eyes first revealed confusion and then sparked with anger, deepening the amber to a scorched brown. He tried to move his arms in defense, but the ropes held tight.

“What’s the meaning of this? Untie me this instant,” he commanded.

“Silence,” Vadoma replied from the shadows. Her voice sounded calm to her ears, belying the turmoil in her stomach. “You’re in no position for demands.”

“Who’s there? Show yourself, coward.” He spit out the last word in a show of disgust.

Vadoma stepped forward.

The Marquis’ eyebrows shot up, but his face showed no fear. “Ay, it is an angel of Death. So, you are to take me in my bed like a feeble invalid instead of a conquering soldier on the battlefield. How cruel and heartless.”

Vadoma lowered the hood of her cloak, revealing her face.

He shook his head. “No, not Death, but a sorceress or perhaps a she-devil. Killing me will not save your kin.”

“I’m not here to kill you, my lord.”

He lifted his chin at the blade she still held. “Yet there is blood on my sheets.”

“Only a little,” she replied defensively with a toss of her head. “You would not wake.”

“Well, I am awake now. So, if you are not here to kill me, then what?” the Marquis asked, waving his hands in a circle.

Vadoma’s agitation tangled her thoughts, tying her tongue. She didn’t have the Irish gift of gab, yet she needed the right words or all would be lost. How could she convince him to go against his laws? If she was honest, this part of the plan had never been set in her mind. Giving up on eloquence, she simply said, “I mean to have you see reason.”

The Marquis’ eyes opened wide and he let out a harsh laugh. “Reason, you say? A reasonable person would not hog-tie their lord. But no matter, I cannot free your kin. He took a man’s life. He must be punished.”

“You could let him escape. No one needs to know the truth.” Now that the moment to beg had arrived, she felt her strength waning. She grabbed one of the bed’s wooden posts to steady herself. Hoping they weren’t her last words, she said in a rush, “If he was tried in a Roma court, exile would be his punishment. I’ve arranged for his passage to America. You’ll never see him again.”

The Marquis was silent for a moment. “You must love him very much to take such risks, but dead or exiled, you’ll never see him again either.”

Her knuckles turned white, as she gripped the post tighter. “I love him with all my heart, but I’m to blame for his crime. I must at least save his life.”

“And why would I do this for you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “Am I granting your request out of the goodness of my heart? My father would hang you alongside your kin.”

“Ay, you speak the truth there. Your father was no saint.” Her eyes locked with his, remembering what his palm revealed earlier that morning. “But we both know you’re not your father.”

The Marquis swung his hands side to side. “So untie me and I will consider your request.”

She shook her head in response. “You must swear first that you’ll let my cousin escape.”

Through narrow eyes, he weighed her demand. Finally, he agreed with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I swear.”

Vadoma relaxed for the first time since her last day on earth had begun. “You are indeed a kind and just lord.”

A small smile played across the Marquis’ lips. “Maybe so, but I am also a man. If you want this favor, you will need to give me something in return.”

Confused, she wondered what she could possibly have that the Marquis would want.

Reading her mind, he answered, “You. You must lay with me tonight.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief and then her fists clenched in outrage.

He laughed at her. “No one needs to know,” he said, using her own words against her.

“I would know,” she replied indignantly.

“Hmmm, so you do not agree? You love your virtue more than your kin? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I didn’t say no.” Vadoma considered the penknife she still held, watching the firelight bounce off the blade. It would do no good to kill him, and it was a small price to pay for Pierre’s freedom. She could live with the shame for the brief time she had left on earth. Perhaps she would even die during the act. This made her smile. It would serve the scoundrel right for demanding such an exchange.

“Then say, yes, Vadoma Taits of the of the Lautari tribe.”

She was surprised he remembered her full name. If it weren’t for what he had just demanded from her, she would think he was truly different from all the others who treated her kind worse than dogs.

Resigned, she put down the knife and slipped off her cloak, tossing it on a nearby chair. With a snap of her wrist, she pulled the covers from his lower half and then hiked up her skirt to straddle him. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You aren’t going to untie me first?” the Marquis asked in disbelief. “It would be more pleasurable if I had the use of my hands.”

“The animals have taught me that you only need the use of one thing to get your pleasure. You should have been more specific about the rules before you made the deal.”

Despite the insult, he laughed. “You gypsies are known for your cleverness and it is rightly deserved, but we do it my way or not at all.”

She had never been with a man, never even had a beau. How could she let this stranger touch places that were meant only for a husband? Her eyes moved over his muscular torso and arms, avoiding his lower half. She was not ready to look in that direction. When she reached his face, she found a mixture of kindness and amusement.

“At least I am not the Duke,” he said with a smile.

Despite the situation, she laughed. “If you were, you’d be dead by now.”

“Untie me, gypsy queen.” Though his voice was soft, it still held the power of one who was used to being obeyed. “I will not hurt you. I promise.”

Reluctantly, Vadoma slipped the knots of the rope, freeing him. He rubbed his wrists to get the blood flowing again. Unable to meet his gaze, she waved at the bed and asked, “Now what, my lord?”

He patted the space beside him. “Now, you lay with me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut before easing her skirt down over her hips. Stepping free, she tossed it on top of her cloak. Afraid she would falter; she quickly removed her vest and then lifted her shirt over her head. Holding the thin material over her bare breasts like armor, her breath came in short gasps as fear took over her body.

She heard the bed creak and then felt the Marquis’ legs on either side of her thighs. When he touched her hands, she jolted. Still, he came at her, gently loosening her death grip on the cloth, the only protection her innocence had left.

She stood before him in all her nakedness with eyes closed. Could she get through the whole deed without opening them? Maybe it would make it easier…

He held her hands, palms up. His lips softly brushed the inside of each wrist and then the crooks of her elbows. As he slowly ran his fingertips up the length of her arms, sparks from his chakra warmed her shivering skin. For a moment, his hands lingered at her throat and she wondered if he meant to strangle her, but then they continued over her cheeks and into her hair. No, she would not get off so easily.

His hands left her hair and skimmed her shoulders, continuing their exploration, finally stopping at her breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples and an unfamiliar, though not entirely unpleasant, sensation shot through her lower body. Her mind had just begun to drift when one thumb was replaced with his warm mouth. As his tongue and teeth had their way with her nipple, she bit her bottom lip to keep the moan from escaping her lips. Her ragged breathing was no longer from fear.

Rocking on her toes, she reached out until her hands found his shoulders. Though his mouth remained on her breast, his hands moved to her buttocks, gliding over her smooth skin. Leaving her backside, he ventured to her thighs. Up and down his fingers stroked until finally, he reached between her legs, cupping her most sacred part in his large hand.

When he slid his finger inside, Vadoma gasped in shock. His fingers played, teasing her body with sensation after glorious sensation. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, arching her back, hoping it would never end. It was like the joy she felt when dancing, only a thousand times better.

When her insides exploded, she thought she had finally died, crying out in a mixture of alarm and ecstasy. When her heart resumed beating, her eyes fluttered open. The Marquis gave her a wolfish grin and in one quick move, she found herself lying on her back in his bed.

“My turn, gypsy queen.”

He lowered his head and kissed her. Like before, he was gentle at first, his lips slowly caressing hers. Nevertheless, with each touch, he became more demanding as his desire rose.

“You bewitched me from the moment I first met you,” the Marquis whispered in her ear. “Never have I known such beauty.”

Vadoma opened her thighs and grabbed his hips. When he entered her, they gasped in unison. She raised her hips, meeting his thrusts, and when he came, he cried her name. Spent, he collapsed on his back, hugging her to his body.

A tear rolled slowly down Vadoma’s cheek, landing on his chest.

Feeling the wetness, he lifted her chin and searched her eyes. “Was it that horrible? I thought you enjoyed yourself.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “It was everything I had hoped love would be.”

“Then I don’t understand.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “Why are you sad?”

“Because I’ll never feel this way again. I’ll never love and marry and have children.” Her voice caught in her throat. “Tonight is the end of my life.”

His hand tightened protectively around her fingers. “You mean to harm yourself? I told you no one will know. You’ll not be shamed.”

“I will not cause my own death, but there is no escaping what is to be. Thank you for making my last hours so happy—and for my cousin’s life. Do not forget our deal.”

“Ay, of course, I will honor my word, but I still don’t understand.”

She did not explain further, feigning sleep instead. If the older women spoke the truth, he would join her in no time. Then she would slip away to get word to Pierre and King Faa. Her cousin would be saved and she could rest in peace.

As she waited for the Marquis’ breathing to turn heavy, she fought her own body’s weariness. Losing the battle, she fell into a deep sleep and dreamed.

Vadoma raced along the stone path laughing. Tall hedgerows formed the walls of the garden maze, twisting and turning into an intricate geometric pattern. A little boy ran in front of her, his ginger hair blazing in the summer sun. He looked over his shoulder, screaming in delight. From around the corner, a giant of a man stepped out, swooping the boy up into his arms. The boy flung his arms around the man’s neck and kissed his cheeks.

“Da! Da! You’re home!” the boy cried in delight.

The man buried his face in the boy’s hair. When Vadoma caught up to them, the man’s smile widened at the sight of her. Love and longing burned bright in his amber eyes. He shifted the boy to one hip and crushed her against his chest with his free arm. He smelled of horse and leather and sweat.

Stepping away from her, he put the boy on the ground. He had felt her surprise. Kneeling, he gently placed his large hands on her rounded stomach, kissing his unborn child hello. At his tenderness, her heart swelled with desire and happiness.

Vadoma wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her husband was home.

She woke with a start, the dream still in her head. Sitting up, she placed a hand on her racing heart, willing it to slow.

The Marquis stirred next to her. His brow furrowed as he struggled awake. “Is something wrong? You look frightened.” He ran a comforting hand up and down her arm.

Vadoma stared at the man who would become her husband and the father of her children.

“Do you believe in Fate?” she asked.

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders. “Ay, I suppose. Why?”

“I think Fate just changed her fickle mind.” Laughing at his obvious confusion, she took his hand and laid it on her breast. “Have you regained your strength, my lord?”

When he gave her a wicked smile, Vadoma’s life began anew.

Elizabeth McKenna is a full-time technical writer/editor for a large software company. She had never read romance novels until one Christmas when her sister gave her the latest bestseller by Nora Roberts. She was hooked from page one (actually, it was the first love scene). She’s always wanted to write fiction, so when a psychic told her she would write a book, she felt obligated to give it a try. She combined her love of history, romance and a happy ending to write her first novel, Cera’s Place. Available on Kindle and Nook. She lives in Wisconsin (Packers, Brewers, and Badgers – oh my!) with her understanding husband, two beautiful daughters, and sassy Labrador. When she’s not writing, working, or being a mom, she’s sleeping.

She’s nothing spectacular. She never was. She probably never could be.

I looked at her, slouched on the sofa, her lips wrapped around a blow pop and a magazine in her lap. Her hair, not light enough to be blonde and not quite dark enough to be brown, is pulled together in a sloppy bun at the nape of her neck. She’s lost weight since I met her and her shoulders are bony and they look painful as they  [read more →]]]> Jennifer ten Haaf

She’s nothing spectacular. She never was. She probably never could be.

I looked at her, slouched on the sofa, her lips wrapped around a blow pop and a magazine in her lap. Her hair, not light enough to be blonde and not quite dark enough to be brown, is pulled together in a sloppy bun at the nape of her neck. She’s lost weight since I met her and her shoulders are bony and they look painful as they jut out of the dirty white t-shirt she is wearing. She is the furthest thing from my ideal and sometimes I wonder why I let her live in my home. Losing weight has made her breasts sag and her jeans always hang somewhat lopsided on her hips. I don’t even want to look at her. Instead, I look back down at the bills in front of me and sign my name on the stack of blank checks with indifference.

“Hey Ellie,” I call out, tearing her out of her reverie, “I signed a few checks for this month. You wanna make sure they get sent out?”

“Yeah yeah,” she replies without looking up. “Don’t forget to leave me some cash for the groceries.”

“Put it on your card,” I tell her. “I’ll pay you back.”

“What’s the difference? Just give me some cash.”

“I don’t have any cash on me just now.”

“Oh.”

Ten minutes later, she closes the magazine and stands up, making the couch creak. I feel her come up behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders and leaning in close. “Why don’t you have cash? You always have cash.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t have any.”

“Oh,” she sighs, pulling her hands off my back and walking towards the kitchen. She is wearing a pair of terry cloth black shorts that her hips can barely hold up.

“You want some coffee?” She asks. “I’m gonna make some coffee.”

I get up suddenly, pitching the chair I was sitting in away from me. “No, I don’t want any fucking coffee.”

She shrugs and plods into the kitchen, dragging her feet loudly.

I hate the way she walks. She refuses to roll her feet, heel to ball, the way a normal person does. Instead, she steps first with the ball of her foot and crashes loudly with her heel. It sounds like the clumsy step of a child. When she wears heels, she shuffles. And she stands pigeon-toed. I want to correct her, but it’s not worth it. Fixing her feet wouldn’t fix her and her legs have become so bony and thin that they would disgust me even if they turned out right.

I’ve never loved her, but I wasn’t always disgusted by her. I used to crave the feeling of the curve from her formerly wide and feminine hips to the indent of her stomach beneath my hand. In the evenings, after dinner, lying next to her, I’d trace my fingers down the side of her body while she slept on the couch. The television would be on, casting blue light on her body and creating delicious shadows, and I’d marvel at the smooth way her body transitioned. I’d rest my hand on her waist and watch it rise and fall with every breath she took. Sometimes I like to pretend that she was perfect, so I can hate her for ceasing to be so, but the fact is I settled. I know it, she knows it, we both know that I have always desired something, someone, completely different. She lacks so much more than just the roundness that I love but it is an easy place to begin. Her shoulders are angular, her face is pointed, her knees are scrawny. She is gaunt and skeletal with sunken features that emphasize her sharp bone structure. When I touch her face, I know that I could crush her skull entirely with just a squeeze of my fingers. She is so incredibly vulnerable to my whims.

I met her, Ellie, at a bar when she was twenty-seven. I was thirty-two and only temporarily interested. She sat huddled in a barstool next to her sister, playing with the straw in her rum and coke, chewing on it and twirling it between her fingers. I smiled at her and she meekly smiled back, tucking a thick sheath of hair behind her ears. She looked down quickly, but brought her eyes back up in intervals that let me know that she was interested. I was drunk and so I might have smiled at her or her grandma. It didn’t matter, I just wanted to get laid. Ellie went home with me that night and somehow, she tangled herself up in my life so tightly that she never left. Slowly, her things infiltrated my house. Her books wound up on my bookshelf. Her clothes appeared in my closet. Every night, she slept in my bed, tightly curled into a fetal position with my body wrapped around hers. She became a part of my routine. It was like waking up with arms or the ability to breathe. I didn’t question the possession or the ability, it was so natural, but if suddenly they were gone, I’d be paralyzed.

* * *

Have you ever considered, while driving on the freeway, what it would be like to pull up behind one of those enormous semi-trucks and rather than hitting the breaks or flicking on the blinker to go around the monstrosity—what if you simply pressed your foot even harder on the gas, accelerating until it is only dead weight that keeps the petal flat against the floor?

I think about it every time I pass a truck on the highway.

* * *

“Can I have a hit?” She asks, waving her fingers in my face. They were already formed into the v-shape of a professional smoker.

I shake my head as I exhale a cloud of smoke. “No.”

“No?” She snorts, incredulous.

“I don’t like women who smoke,” I tell her, inhaling enormously. “It’s not attractive.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches into my coat pocket. Finding what she is looking for, she lets a cigarette drop out of the pack and puts it to her lips. I hand her my lighter. I don’t look at her, but I can hear the deep inhale of her first hit. I wait for the sound of guttural burning coughing to replace it. I don’t have to wait long.

“My throat is on fire!” She sputters.

I laugh. “Told you so.” I place my hand on her spine to give it a good thump, the way my mom used to when I was a kid. I’d cough and she’d pound the hell out of my back. I don’t recall that it ever really helped, but it felt right, so I started to do the same. Instead, I felt Ellie’s spine poking out of her skin. She was wearing a flimsy white t-shirt which did nothing to hide her alarming frailty. I let my hands run over the cascade of protruding ribs guiding me to her waist.

“I thought it would feel better. Calming or something.” She croaks. Her voice had already taken on a deeper shade. More masculine. Less attractive. I tell her so.

“Baby, it’s only calming if you’re used to it.”

“How come you never cough?” She asks. I winced at the naivete on her face. She looks stupid, yet cute, like a puppy. 
“I did, at first. Back when I was in the seventh grade.”
“Seventh grade?” She squeals. “But you couldn’t have been older than twelve.”

“That’s right,” I say with a nod. I put the cigarette back in my mouth, sucking in hard. My hand is still resting on her back and I can feel each inhalation of her lungs. Clean air enters her body and she rejuvenated with each breath. She also slips further away, again, with each breath. I take my hand away when she becomes too disgusting to look at.

“Okay, I’m going inside,” she says. I wave her away without a word. My cigarette is almost gone, but I have a nearly full pack laying next to me on the stoop. I am not opposed to smoking the whole damn thing before going back into the house with her.

I thought she would be sleeping by the time I enter the house. I don’t see her and she isn’t in any of her usual locations, so I assume she is in bed. Rocky isn’t anywhere to be found either, further evidence that she has retired for the night and he is probably parked at the food of the bed. I creep into the bedroom, where I find her lying on the bed with a book perched in front of her nose. She doesn’t look up when I walk in. Wordlessly, I pull off my clothes and crawl under the covers, nuzzling close to her.

“Can I do something for you?” She asked with a yawn. She didn’t put the book down.

I press my body close to hers, curling my arms around her waist and breathing in the scent of her hair. She starts to shuffle away from me, but I held on tightly.

“Just let me read, okay?” She says. I can feel the muscles in her legs tighten, but I am not deterred. I let my hands roam down the length of her body, running over the soft skin covering her hips and dipping between her thighs.

She sighs and rolls over, lying her book on the floor beside her. A sign of defeat. A peace offering. A plea for something she knows I can’t give to her.

I pull her legs apart and pretend to love her.

* * *

There is something vaguely unsettling about realizing that you cohabitate with another human being, not because you love them, but because it is convenient. It is easier to perform a role: act as though you care about the things she says, act as though the meaningless things she tells you are important, and act as though her life is of any consequence to your own. All of this is significantly less destructive than telling her to get the hell out. So, you let her stay.

* * *

Saturday night and I’m swilling vintage bourbon out of a crystal rocks tumbler so delicate, I think I might be able to clench my fist and shatter the glass into a million tiny pieces. The ice has melted, making the expensive liquor taste like shit and I want to head back to the bar and get a refill, but Ellie is clutching my hand tightly as she leads me through a sea of people.

“Rachel! Hi!” she calls out, spotting a friend. She turns to me, “Rach is my cubicle mate, honey.” She has a smile on her face. I grimace back at her.

“So you’re the man who lives with Ellie,” Rachel said to me, setting her hand on her hips. I have a vague sense that she is attempting to be seductive. Briefly I imagine what it would be like to fuck her. “You lucky dog.”

“Lucky dog, indeed,” I say. “Though if we’re being honest, Ellie actually lives with me. I bought the house. I pay the bills.” With that, I wretch my fingers free from mess of intertwined digits that hold mine and crane my neck, looking for the bar. Seeing it, I raise my glass and tell Ellie that I’ll be back. I don’t bother to look at Rachel’s stunned face.

Ten minutes later, Ellie is pushing her way through the people, turning her head and looking for me. She sees me leaned up against the wall, next to the Christmas tree with a cup of punch in my hand. The punch has been made lousy with hooch by some fearless employee. I’m impressed by the anonymous ballsiness.

“What was that all about?” She asks me, setting her hand on my chest. She doesn’t sound mad, or even humiliated.

“It’s my house,” I tell her, looking away. “You live with me. Not the other way around.”

“I don’t think that was her point,” Ellie tells me. Her voice is beginning to get that whiny drone that I hate so much. “Rachel was trying to make conversation.”

“I don’t want to have a conversation with her,” I tell Ellie. Finally I look down at her. I can tell that she’s taken the time to really get dressed for this occasion. There are clumps of mascara on her eyelashes and her lips are painted a matte Christmas red. Suddenly she stands up on her tiptoes and plants a dry kiss on my cheek. “Let’s just go,” she says with a sigh. I can feel her grasp my hand once more and squeeze it tightly. For a second, I want to squeeze it back, tell her that it’s okay, have fun, I’m fine. Instead, I let her lead me towards the coat check.

We’re almost out when we run into Stanley Parker, Ellie’s boss. His eyes run over the length of Ellie’s body, drinking in her slim shape and I’m certain that I see him lick his bottom lip.

“Leaving already?” he asks with a chuckle.

Ellie smiles. “Yeah, he’s got some work to do,” she tells him, nodding her head at me.

“Oh! So this is the boyfriend?” Stanley asks her, barely turning his head to take a glance at me. I stand erectly, waiting for his eye to give me the same examination that they have just given Ellie. I doubt he’ll lick his bottom lip after gazing at me. When he finally meets my eyes, they are stern and hold little emotion. “We’ve heard so much about you,” he concedes.

“I imagine,” I say with a smirk.

“Ellie tells us that you’re a writer.”

One of two things happens when people learn that you’re a writer. Or rather, one of two assumptions are made: either you can’t find a job and so, by being a writer, you’re pretending that you do something, or you really consider writing your job and so, by default, you’re lazy as shit.

Suddenly Ellie pipes up. “Oh yes. He’s a wonderful writer, aren’t you honey?”

“Yes, I am. Wonderful.” I keep my eyes locked with his, waiting for him to give up first. Give up the eye contact and lose.

“I’ve never heard of you. I suppose you’ve never been published?”

I snort. “I’m also a nutritionist, so you wouldn’t recognize my name,” I tell him. “You don’t look like you read the type of thing I write.” I stare unabashedly at his thick waist.

“No, I don’t,” he concedes. “I prefer a more…intelligent read.”

“I suppose you do,” I say, though we both know he doesn’t. This verbal game of cards is becoming stiff and boring, so I wrap my arm snugly around Ellie’s waist, letting my hand dangle just over her hip and plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Ready, to go sweetheart?” I say, giving him a wink as I do. She nods silently and out the door we go, but not without a final look back at Mr. Stanley Parker.

“What the fuck was that?” she asks furiously, as she arranges herself in the passenger seat of my car.

“What was what?” I feign innocence, hoping she’ll just let it go.

She sighs wordlessly and I win.

Two hours later, I’m fucking her as hard as our bodies will let me. I think I want to hurt her. I know I want to hurt myself. I hold her down with one hand, propelling myself with the other. Her eyes are closed and it makes it easier for me to watch her knowing she can’t see my bared teeth. I don’t bother myself to wonder what she’s thinking. When I finish, I carelessly lay my bodyweight over her and bite down on her shoulder. She doesn’t make a sound, but she presses her fingernails into my back, dragging them down and I’m positive that it’ll leave a mark, but goddamn it feels good.

The next morning she is still sleeping when I wake up. I pry her arm off of my torso and slink out of bed. She doesn’t so much as stir and I’m glad. There is an angry red mark on her shoulder and I feel a brief pang of guilt as I walk into the bathroom. I don’t kiss her goodbye when I leave for work and I ignore her calls later that day.

When I come home that night, something isn’t right. The kitchen is empty. She isn’t lying on a yoga mat in the living room, “strengthening her core,” and I don’t see Rocky anywhere.

Suddenly…

“You don’t love me, do you?” she croaks. I spin around and find her crouched in a ball on the sofa. She has a red blanket wrapped around her and her eyes are cast downward.

I can only sigh. I think she wants me to lie to her, say that I do, I really love her, but I’ve got such a shitty way of showing it. When I don’t say anything, she just nods her head. 
“I thought we wanted the same things,” she says as she pulls the blanket up and over her head.

I laughed. “No baby, you didn’t. We never wanted the same things and you know it.” I smile at her. “I hate the shit your into. I don’t give a fuck about Martha Stewart, and if I hear one more techno song coming out of your stereo, I’ll cut off my own fucking arms.”

She looks away. I watched the nervous way that she is pulling on her fingers. I hear the bones pop pop pop as her knuckles slipp in and out of their sockets.

“You want kids and homemade fuckin’ pot roast for dinner every night, but you know that I won’t get you pregnant and I’m happy eating a quarter pounder every day, for every meal, for the rest of my life.”

She squints her eyes at me, pushing the fingers on her right hand backwards with those on her left. “Why are you with me?” She whines.

I shake my head and look up at the ceiling, as though it will make things suddenly clairvoyant. “Fuck if I know,” I say finally. “It’s comfortable? You keep my house clean?”

I see her eyes close.

“After all these years?” She whimpers. I can hear the beginnings of a tremor in her voice. Tears won’t be too far behind. I can almost feel the lump in my throat that I knew she must be fighting in her own.

“Yes, after all these years,” I say coolly, trying to shake the confusion out of my head.

“I can’t believe you,” she mumbles, tears begin falling openly down her face. Her lips are trembling and her chin was quivering. I can’t even feel bad. “Don’t you love me at all?”

I sigh. “Shit, Ellie. No. I don’t love you. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. I can’t remember.”

She stands up on the couch, visably trembling and suddenly, I feel a genuine sense of tenderness for her. I need to wrap my arms around her gamine waist and rest my head on her clavicle and let her run her fingers through my hair so we can both mourn the thing we are about to lose. I look up at her imploringly and she nods. She lets me trace my fingers over her back and I can feel her tears falling down my neck. I carry her upstairs and all night I feel her body pressed up close to mine, her head nuzzled below my chin.

The next morning, I kiss her forehead, her neck and her bony chest. I kiss her fingertips, all ten of them and I let her pretend to be sleeping.

When I come home from work that night, she is gone. As though she has dissolved, all of her things have disappeared. There isn’t so much as a pen in the drawer that belongs to her.

She never came back.

Six months later, I received an envelope in the mail. I didn’t recognize the return address, but the script was unforgettable. Looping and swirling, it was Ellie. I opened it up to find an announcement: she is engaged. The announcement was a charming photograph of Ellie with a man I didn’t recognize. They held each other tightly and wore smiles that were positively beaming. Ellie had put on some weight and looked like her old self again. She wore a low cut, tight red sweater, but none of the bones I’d memorized were visible. On the back she had written a brief note, short but bitter:

“My life started the day you walked out of it.”

I wanted to point out that it was she, in fact, who’d walked away, but I let it go.

I looked at the picture again. She was smiling up at the man who held her so tightly, his fingers were pressing white marks into her shoulder. I hope he loves her, I thought before ripping up the announcement in too many tiny pieces to count. I tossed the pieces, one by one, in the garbage and went to bed.

Jennifer ten Haaf is a 23-year old writer seeking fame, notoriety and a bank vault full of gold, and while she would prefer to accrue all of these things before death (no offense, Emily Dickinson), she’ll take what she can get.

Jeanne Wetherford finished typing the last sentence with a flourish, read over what she had written, and saved the document. She leaned back in her chair, and let out a breath. There! She was done, the latest installment of Mingo’s Feline Escapades under wrap.

This made number twenty-seven in her series of best-selling cat mysteries.

She sighed, stood, and walked into the kitchen for a cup of lukewarm coffee.

The house was quiet, with only the soft strains of a Lorena  [read more →]]]> Richard S. Freeland

Jeanne Wetherford finished typing the last sentence with a flourish, read over what she had written, and saved the document. She leaned back in her chair, and let out a breath. There! She was done, the latest installment of Mingo’s Feline Escapades under wrap.

This made number twenty-seven in her series of best-selling cat mysteries.

She sighed, stood, and walked into the kitchen for a cup of lukewarm coffee.

The house was quiet, with only the soft strains of a Lorena McKennitt song holding back the silence. Jeanne stood there a moment, listening, then abruptly stepped to the CD player and pushed “Stop”.

The house settled. The clock ticked. Mr. Sims, her white Persian, twined a path around her ankles, demanding food. Silence filled the room, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. She couldn’t stand it, and turned the CD player back on. The strains of a Celtic ballad drifted from the speakers and held the silence at bay.

Jeanne leaned back against the kitchen sink and sipped her coffee.

Another Mingo down. Another flush of royalties into her bank account. By now, she’d amassed a tidy sum. Whatever for, she no longer knew. It’s not as if she ever bought anything. Or went anywhere.

Movement out the window caught her attention. She ignored Mr. Sim’s manipulations and glanced outside. At the house next to hers, Nate Calhoun was pulling his lawnmower from his garage.

She perked up a bit. She only knew Nate well enough to say hello to now and then, but he was good to look at. Well, interesting, anyway. He had dark, wavy hair and a sort of blocky face, not handsome in the traditional sense, but far from unpleasant. He was a stocky man, and shorter than her lean five-eleven. Nice shoulders with a trim waist. Dressed for yard work in grass-stained jeans and a tee-shirt that had seen far better days, he looked—capable. Not GQ material, but worth a second look, for sure.

Nate pulled at the starter cord, and the lawnmower coughed blue smoke and stalled. He yanked the cord a dozen times, and Jeanne could hear his faint curses through the closed window. Her lips curled in a slight smile when Nate finally ceased jerking on the stubborn cord. He unscrewed the gas cap, glanced inside the tank, then smacked himself on the forehead and stormed back into the garage. Jeanne’s smile widened.

Her iPhone rang and vibrated, dancing along the counter where she’d left it.

She sighed again, stepped to the counter and picked up the phone.

“Jeanne, my girl, how’s it hanging, babe?” She grimaced.

“Hi, Sean. And yes, the new book’s finished. Just a minute ago, in fact.”

“Great news! Email it on over, we’ll take a quick look, don’t expect to need any revisions, though, the last dozen Mingo’s were perfect, have it out to press in no time. How’d you like the latest version of the new cover we sent you? Mingo on the Eiffel Tower?”

“It was fine, Sean,” Jeanne said, although it didn’t ring a bell. After so many, the covers tended to run together. “Go with it, I guess.”

“That’s great, we already had it set up so it won’t take long, we’ll start the ball rolling, get the ebook up at Amazon, and…”

Jeanne tuned him out. Sean was a good editor, enthusiastic and eager, but it was all rote by now. She stepped to the fridge, took out some cream, poured it in a saucer. Immediately she was surrounded by four felines – Mr. Sims, Darcy, Tiny Tom and Furdelance—purring like chain saws. She smiled, knelt, and absently rubbed their backs as they lapped up the cream and Sean blathered on in her ear.

And here came Mingo, her grey and white domestic longhair, strutting arrogantly into the kitchen like he owned the place. Which, she thought, he probably did, since he was the inspiration for all of Mingo’s Feline Escapades. He shoved his considerable weight through the feline crowd gathered around the bowl, parting them like Moses did the Red Sea.

The King has arrived, Jeanne thought, and grinned. Mingo—King of the Known Universe.

Sean brought her back to the moment. “Is that all right with you, kid?”

“What was that, Sean? I missed that last part.”

“The next book. This is the end of May. Can you have it by, say, first of August?”

“I don’t know, Sean. I don’t even have a plot in mind.”

“I’m not worried, kiddo. You knock these things out like trailer-trash Mama’s having babies. It’s not like their high literature or anything. Just plug into the muse, babe. Now, gotta go…”

“Sean, wait. Did you get a chance to read the synopsis of the History?”

“Haven’t looked at it yet. I know it’ll be good, though, just don’t let it interfere with your cash cow, Mingo pays the bills for us all, he’s a fat cat in more ways than one. Ride it for all it’s worth, kid.”

“But, Sean…” The phone went dead.

“Damn,” she said. That was Sean. All mouth and no ears.

She put the phone down and hugged herself. She should be back in her office, working on the History for the short time she had between Mingos, but she couldn’t work up the energy.

She needed to get out, take a walk, immerse herself in spring, or something, before she went stir crazy.

Jeanne caught up a sweater and threw it across her shoulders as she moved to the door. She opened it – and barely stopped Mingo with her foot as he made a dash for the outside.

“You silly furball,” she laughed, and bent down to pet him. “You wouldn’t last a minute out there in the big, bad world. Get your butterball butt back inside.”

Mingo retreated, nose in the air. Jeanne smiled after him. Of all her babies, he was her favorite.

* * *

Outside, the wind had kicked up, whipping through the vibrant green new leaves of the red oak in her front yard. Jeanne pulled her sweater on as she started to walk. She passed Mrs. Whinkle and her evil little Chihuahua, Foofoo, taking their daily stroll. She nodded a greeting to Mrs. Whinkle, but kept her distance from Foofoo. He was a notorious ankle biter from way back.

She reached Nate’s house and saw him pouring gas in the mower. He looked up, spotted her and grinned.

“First cut of the year,” he said, “and wouldn’t you know it – damn mower wouldn’t start.”

She stopped, the fingers of her right hand straying to her hair. She and Nate had never exchanged more than a few words, and this was the first time she’d seen him smile. It lit up his whole face. She twisted a strand of hair in her fingers, shrugged.

“Ah, I’ve heard they kind of need gas every once in a while.”

He smiled and rubbed his shoulder. “Yeah, my mower sent me that message loud and clear.”

Jeanne laughed, a little uncertain, and felt herself blush. She wriggled her fingers at him and walked quickly away. Her face burned.

She really needed to get out more. Meet new people. Before she forgot how.

* * *

Jeanne made it home just as her mother’s car turned into the driveway.

God, not now.

She unlocked her door as Celeste rushed up and gave her a peck on the cheek, then barged into the house ahead of her, hair freshly coifed, resplendent in a blue Coco Chanel pant suit, Gucci bag tucked under her arm, wearing brand new Christian Dior patent-leather pumps.

“Good Lord, Jeanne, this place is a mess!” She picked up yesterday’s newspaper from the coffee table, then let it drop. “And socks on the floor, what are you thinking, dear? You were raised better than that!”

“Mother, please, I know the place isn’t immaculate, but it’s livable – and I don’t have the luxury of a cleaning staff like you do.”

“That’s not the point, dear. It’s all about first impressions.”

“It’s not like I have a lot of visitors, Mother.”

“Oh, come now.” Celeste walked around the living room, picking up nick-nacks, putting them back. Darcy jumped up on the back of the sofa, and her mother’s lip curled.

“And all these cats! Wouldn’t one be enough?”

“Darcy’s a rescue cat, Mother,” Jeanne said. “She’d been abused by her previous owners, and we took to one another.”

“You’d have every cat in the state living here if you had your way,” her mother said. “What does Jackson have to say about it?”

“Jackson’s no longer in the picture, Mother, and hasn’t been for some time. I told you that a month ago.”

“Come on, Jeanne. Jackson’s the best thing that ever happened to you. And you just throw him over? For what? He owns a bank, for God’s sake! It’s not like you’re going to find a better prospect.”

Jeanne’s lips thinned.

Celeste stepped into the kitchen, picked a cup from the dish drainer, and poured herself coffee. She tasted it, frowned, and poured it down the sink.

“Jeanne, Jackson is perfect for you. He’s rich, connected, and available. Throw in tall and handsome, what more do you want? You’d be the queen of society. And I’d finally get some grand-babies!”

“He’s an idiot, Mother. And our kids would be morons.”

“Oh, Jeanne, you don’t mean that. And you do know you’re not getting any younger. You’re 35, and just look at you. Skinny as a hat pin. Aren’t you eating? Sitting at that computer for all hours of the day, writing those cat stories! What did we pay Harvard for?”

Jeanne hugged herself, stared at the floor. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “I think of myself as ‘willowy’, Mother. And I’m a writer. Writers write.”

“What about this other thing you’re doing – A History of Cats? The book that’s going to prove you’re a serious scholar.”

“I’m working on it,” Jeanne whispered. She gritted her teeth, twisted more hair.

“Jackson will love it!” her mother said. “His wife, a recognized authority in her field. And you’ll have nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Mother!”

“You’ll be an asset to him, Jeanne. You’ll both go a long way, I’m sure. And quit twisting that hair, I’ve told you time and again to break that habit. It’s un-lady like.”

“Mother, it’s over between Jackson and I. Over. We had nothing in common. And I told him how important the History was to me. Do you know what he said, Mother? He said, ‘Really.’” She repeated the word, drawing it out with mocking exaggeration. “’Reeaahhahllyyy.’ Then he laughed, and walked away. Just blew me off. He wasn’t interested in my dreams, the egocentric prick.

“Jackson was your idea of the ideal mate, Mother. Not mine.

Celeste sniffed. “If you really think that, you’re a fool, Jeanne. And if you let him get away you’re more of one.” She gestured out the window. “You’ll wind up living with some uneducated loser with no money or prospects. Like that man out there.”

“That’s enough, Mother! What did you come here for, just to harass me into believing as you do? That money and class are everything?”

Her mother frowned. “When I married your father, it opened doors for me that had been shut in my face all my life. Introduced me to people and places and things I’d never have known otherwise.”

“And now Daddy’s dead and you have all his money and the Wetherford name. You’re right where you’ve always wanted to be.”

Celeste went white. Without another word, she marched to the door, kicking Furdelance out of the way as she did. The cat yowled and ran off down the hall.

“Mother, wait, I didn’t…”

Celeste turned at the door and drew herself up. “You always were an ungrateful brat. I came here to take you to lunch, but I know you’d rather not go. You’d rather be by yourself. With your cats. You’ll always be alone, Jeanne. You’ll grow old and bitter and lonely, all alone.” With that she turned on her heel and marched out the door.

Jeanne caught the grey and white blur from the corner of her eye and stopped Mingo just before he made his escape out the open door.

“No, you don’t,” she whispered, and, hugging Mingo tight to her breast, she shuffled across the living room and shut the door.

She nuzzled Mingo. “If I didn’t know better I’d have thought you were streaking out there to take on the old witch one-on-one. If so, thanks for the gesture.”

She sank down on the sofa, buried her face in a tolerant Mingo’s fur, and cried.

* * *

The next morning she overslept, finally dragging herself out of bed and plodding into the bathroom. She treated herself to a long, leisurely shower, and dressed in her most comfortable writing outfit—her Dad’s faded black Harvard sweatshirt (old and ratty, with the sleeves cut out) and a pair of cotton pajama bottoms with a hundred tiny Pooh Bears, Tiggers and Eeyores chasing one another around her legs. It was mid–morning before she planted her butt in front of her computer.

She pulled up the A History of Cats manuscript, and sat staring at a white page with Chapter 7 typed at the top for what felt like forever.

After a moment she realized her legs were jittering in place like a school girl that had to pee. She pressed down on her thighs, willing them to stop.

God, she had a case of nerves. She couldn’t concentrate at all.

Okay. Chapter 7. The Lynx. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. And hovered.

“Crap,” she said under her breath. She pushed the chair back hard, stood up and paced into the kitchen. More coffee. That’s what she needed. Yeah, right. She already had a case of the jitters. Let’s make it worse.

She glanced out the kitchen window. Outside, a breeze rustled the tops of the Yoshino cherry trees growing between her house and Nate’s. She watched as a few blooms drifted lazily to the ground.

Slowly, her muscles unclenched and she relaxed. On impulse, she went into the dinning room and opened the window. The cool wind wafted through the screen and into the house, carrying the scent of flowers.

Jeanne smiled, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply of spring.

She felt a weight lift from her spirit—and then another weight press against her shins. She opened her eyes to find Mingo pushing against her, demanding attention. She bent and picked him up.

“You need to go on a diet, big guy,” she said, and touched her nose to his. “Want to lie in the window?”

She put the fat cat on the window sill and he immediately lay down, purring in contentment while contemplating the outside world.

“Stay out of mischief,” she said, and returned, refreshed, to her manuscript.

* * *

Jeanne wrote steadily for several hours, lost in the world of the lynx, when she was yanked from her writer’s trance by the ringing of the doorbell.

She answered the door to find Nate standing on her stoop, bits of leaves and bark in his hair, wearing what looked like the same threadbare tee-shirt he’d had on the day before. He clutched a simmering, tail-swishing Mingo tight in his arms.

“Uh, does this belong to you?” Nate asked. Mingo squirmed in his arms and Nate almost dropped him. Nonplussed, Jeanne reached for the cat.

“Mingo, what are you…how did…?”

“I found him wandering across my front lawn. Think he was stalking a butterfly.” Nate grinned as Jeanne took the cat, which promptly grasped Nate’s tee-shirt with the claws of all four paws and refused to relinquish it. Jeanne tugged, Mingo clung, and the thin tee-shirt shredded like paper.

Nate stood there, mouth open in surprise, his tee-shirt hanging in tatters around him.

For a moment Jeanne was speechless. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think. I was so shocked to see Mingo outside…”

Nate’s lip curled in a smile. “Hey, it’s just a tee-shirt, and one that was ready for the trash a year ago.”

“Still, I didn’t mean…I’ll be glad to pay…”

“Don’t worry about it. Heck, I’m just glad it wasn’t my skin.”

Jeanne finally allowed herself to smile. “Yeah, this guy’s got a set of scimitars for claws. I guess you better count yourself lucky.” And then, “Thank you, Nate.”

For a moment they stood looking at one another, at a loss for words.

“Well,” Nate broke the silence, “I just wanted to make sure he got back safe.” He smiled, and started to turn away. “I’d best get back. That hedge isn’t going to prune itself.”

Jeanne’s fingers caught at a strand of hair, twisted. “Why…why don’t you come in? I was just about to make myself a salad for lunch. I’ve got enough for two…”

“Well…sure, why not?” He grinned again. “I worked up a bit of an appetite, carrying that cat back over here. Like hauling a sack of bricks.”

She held the door open and he walked in, taking in her living room, eyes roving over the prints on her walls, the bookcases overflowing with books. “Man, you’ve got a cozy place here,” Nate said. “My décor is early Neanderthal.”

Jeanne covered her sudden shyness by turning and gently putting Mingo down. The big cat jumped up in Jeanne’s favorite chair, wadded up and fell asleep.

“How did you get out, you crazy cat?” Jeanne muttered to herself. She crossed to the dining room window, Nate on her heals.

Mingo’s escape route was readily apparent. A corner of the window screen had been pried out and peeled back, creating a space just large enough for the rotund feline to pass through.

“Oh, you devious animal, you!” Jeanne said, scowling at the cat. Mingo opened one eye, gave her a disdainful look, and went back to sleep.

Nate stepped up beside her, examining the screen. “You know, this won’t be too hard to fix. See, the mesh was tucked in this grove, here, and was held in place by this strip, here. It’s not torn, he just pulled it loose. I can repair it in a jiffy if you want.”

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow, and Jeanne realized how cute he was, standing there with his eyebrow arched and his tee-shirt in tatters.

“Okay,” she said. “You fix the screen, I’ll do the salad.”

It took Nate only a moment to pop out the screen and pull it inside. He spread yesterday’s newspaper on the dining room table, and laid the screen on that. By the time he had the mesh back in place and the screen re-installed in the window, Jeanne had made the salad and filled two bowls.

She poured them both glasses of milk, and Nate dove right in, eating with gusto. “Hey, this is pretty good,” he said around a mouthful of spinach. “I’m more of a meat and potatoes man, but…” He looked at Jeanne, gestured with his fork. “This isn’t that packaged salad stuff, I can tell.”

Jeanne played with her hair. “No, it’s the real thing. I grow some early greens in containers out back.”

“Fresh from the garden!” Nate grinned. “Man, that’s something. I could get used to this.”

Jeanne felt heat rise in her neck, and twisted her hair furiously. She took a dainty bite of salad, her first. Nate was finishing his last bite and had drained half his milk.

“I wouldn’t worry about this old tee-shirt,” he was saying. “I go through plenty of these in my line of work.”

“What is it you do, Nate?”

“I’m a painter. And a good one, too.”

Jeanne perked up. She loved paintings, and admired artists of all kinds. “A painter? What do you paint? Landscapes? Still lifes? Have you had a showing? I don’t believe I’ve seen anything of yours. What galleries sell your work?”

Nate looked at her, his glass half-way to his lips. “Uh…I’m a house painter, Jeanne. I paint houses.” He grinned, and his eyes lit up. “I’d say they were works of art when I got through with them, though.”

“Oh my God,” Jeanne said, “I didn’t mean…I mean, what was I thinking, of course you meant house painter. I mean, not that you couldn’t be an artist.”

God, she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Nate laughed. “It’s okay. I’m often confused with Rembrandt.”

He looked at her. “But you’re an artist. An author, right?”

“Well…I guess you could say so. I’m more of a genre writer. I write mysteries. Cozies.” She was suddenly embarrassed. “Mingo’s Feline Escapades.”

“Yeah, I though so. I’ve seen those in the book store. Haven’t read any of them, though. I’m more into thrillers. You know, Preston and Child. Rollins. Like that.”

“Anyway,” Jeanne said, “they pay the bills. I do have a more serious book in progress – it’s called A History of Cats.”

“Really?” He looked interested. “You mean the history of all cats?”

“I know it’s ambitious, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to do – catalog all the cats in the genus Felidae. Tiger, bobcat, lynx…on down to domesticated felines, like Mingo.”

“The smartest of the bunch. They figured out how to get us to take care of them.”

She surprised herself with a real laugh. “Yeah. I never thought of it that way.” Then she surprised herself again. “Would you like to read what I have so far? Maybe give me your opinion?”

Nate smiled. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve never read a book before it was a book.”

She dashed into her office, grabbed the draft copy of the History she’d printed earlier. Almost dropped it, her hands were shaking so. Damn jitters! Then she hurried back to the kitchen, forcing herself to slow down. It’s not as if he’s going to disappear, she told herself.

She stepped into the kitchen and stopped short.

Nate had disappeared.

For a moment she stood speechless. And then she heard the shouting coming from outside.

Jeanne ran to the door and onto her front stoop.

Nate was hurrying across his lawn, arms outstretched, yelling at a woman storming out of his front door with two suitcases in her hands.

“No. NO!,” Jeanne heard him yell. “Where do you think you’re going! You can’t leave, damn it! I thought we had this settled. You said you’d stay! That you wouldn’t move in with him!”

“Just leave me alone!” the woman snapped back. “I’m not yours to command anymore! I’ve got a life now!” She hurried down the walk, ignoring Nate’s pleas to stop. A Ford F-250 idled at the curb, and the woman threw her bags in the back, jerked open the passenger door and jumped in, Nate haranguing her the whole way.

The truck roared away in a cloud of exhaust, barely missing Nate, who swung a kick at its back panel as it passed. Jeanne starred, owl-eyed, as Nate stalked back to his house, went inside and slammed the door so hard her ears rang.

She stood on the stoop, clutching the manuscript in hands suddenly gone damp.

“Crap,” she breathed.

* * *

Jeanne fed the cats, put on her pajamas, washed her face and brushed her teeth. Back in the kitchen, she scooped up Mingo and carried him to the bed. She crawled under the sheets, and Mingo settled in, staking his claim at her side.

Jeanne tried to read for awhile, but she couldn’t concentrate. All she could see in her minds eye was Nate, cursing and shouting and carrying on about that woman.

His wife, no doubt.

Jeanne fumed. Why had she let her guard down? Why had she let him into her house? Her life? And why him, anyway? Who did he think he was?

God, she was as desperate as her mother said she was.

The hell with him, she thought. She threw the book across the room, turned off the bedside lamp, and yanked the covers to her chin. She reached out and stroked Mingo’s fur. The cat purred, at peace with the world.

And Jeanne lay wide awake, staring into the lonesome dark.

* * *

The next morning Jeanne was up early. She marched outside in her sunglasses and straw hat and garden gloves, and started in brutalizing a hapless flower bed.

Chop out a weed. Sling it in the bucket. Attack another one with her trowel. Finish the bastard off.

A shadow fell over her. She chose to ignore it.

“So,” Nate said. “You heard all that commotion yesterday, huh?”

She stayed quiet, but murdered a few more weeds with abandon.

“I was going to explain. Really, I was. I mean, if, you know, if…hell, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

Jeanne sprang to her feet, muscles quivering, and tore off her sunglasses. Peeled off the gloves, slung them at his feet as if they were gauntlets and she was issuing a challenge.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she yelled. “Good God, Nate. You come in my house, all simpering smiles…’Oh, here’s your cat! Oh, let me fix your screen! Oh, why don’t we go to bed! Jesus, you think I’m an idiot? That I wouldn’t find out? You’re married, Nate. And I’m not that desperate!” Her fists were clenched, her entire willowy frame fraught with tension. She was mad enough to spit.

“You’re just like everyone else, you, you…cad! Out for what you can get. Well, you’re not getting in my pants, mister. You’ve played your hand, and I’m wise to your antics. I wasn’t born yesterday!”

Nate stared at her, his mouth open. He blinked. “You know,” he said, “you look kind of like one of your cats when you get mad, Jeanne.”

Her own mouth fell open. “Wha…why you…who do you think…!”

Nate smiled. “She‘s my daughter, Jeanne. Her name’s Samantha. She wants to live with some guy she met at college, instead of staying in a dorm. Damn uppity twenty-something girl, comes home for spring break, breaks that news, and breaks my heart. Go figure.” He looked at her and arched his brow, his eyes twinkling.

Jeanne’s mouth snapped shut. “Oh. My. God,” she whispered. Her face went fiery red. “Oh. My. God.”

“Actually,” he continued. “I was something of a dick. She loves the guy. This Greg. And I’ve met him. He’s a pretty decent fellow. I’d already come around to her way of thinking, and then I pulled a one-eighty. Forbid her to go.” He shook his head. “I’m just…I’m just not ready to see her leave. You know? She’s my little girl.”

They stared at one another. “Crap,” Jeanne said. She felt she could crawl into the flower bed and bury herself. Away from the light of day, and the spectacle she’d just made of herself.

Instead, she turned and walked away.

* * *

Later that evening Jeanne poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and attacked A History of Cats with a vengeance. She typed for a solid hour, and then found her mind drifting. To images of Nate. The way he’d looked at her, with his eyebrow cocked, that cute smile on his lips. She’d watched him as he fixed her screen, watched his hands work the mesh back into its groove.

Those hands. So strong. So gentle. Caressing the screen. Caressing her body…

She realized she was slowly, sensuously, twisting a lock of her hair. She blushed, dropped her hands between her knees and squeezed them tight.

What was she thinking? She’d made a fool of herself in front of him. He was probably out with his buddies, drinking beer and laughing about the ditsy woman who lived next door, and what an idiot she was.

She was ashamed. His daughter? What had she been thinking?

That was the problem. She hadn’t been.

Crap. Now what was she supposed to do?

She decided on another glass of wine.

The kitchen was dark but for the faint light from the clock on the microwave. Jeanne poured her wine, and sipped it staring out the window.

The night was clear, the stars bright and glittering. A beautiful, peaceful night.

Movement tugged at her peripheral vision. She was high enough to see over the hedge that grew on their common property line, and by the light of a half-moon she saw Nate come out his back door and walk across his yard. He had a bundle tucked in his arms.

Then she realized – it was a telescope. Wrapped in what looked like a quilted afghan.

Nate unwrapped the telescope and planted it firmly on its tripod legs in the center of a circular flagstone patio about 50’ from his house. The telescope shared the space with a fire ring and two weathered Adirondack lounge chairs

As she watched, Nate bent over the instrument, fiddling with the knobs while studying the night sky.

Jeanne had no idea how long she stood there in the dark, watching him. She was mesmerized.

Finally Nick straightened up. He stood a moment with his hand resting on the telescope before turning and lowering himself into one of the chairs. He covered himself with the afghan.

For a long time he lay there, unmoving. Jeanne could just make out his still form in the moonlight. But somehow she knew that he was staring up. Up into the star-strewn bowl of the night sky. He looked so small, under all those stars. So alone. And so lonely.

A sudden hollow ache behind Jeanne’s breast made her swallow. I’m lonely, too, she thought. So God-awful lonely. A slow tear trailed down her check.

She turned and went seeking Mingo. Time for a tear-fest with her best buddy.

* * *

Jeanne awoke the next morning to the ringing of her doorbell, and the pounding in her head. God. She’d polished off half a bottle of wine last night.

“All right, damn it!” she called out. “I’ll be there in a minute, jeez..!”

She plodded to the door, realizing as she reached it that she’d slept in her writer’s outfit. “Screw it,” she whispered, and opened the door.

“What!”

Celeste stood there, fist raised to knock. “Jeanne! Dear girl, what in the world.”

And Mingo took that opportunity to dash out the door.

“Mingo!” Jeanne screamed out. “Mingo, get back here!” She pushed by her startled mother and ran down her front steps. “Mingo!”

Mingo tore across the front lawn, only to dig in his heels and stop short, back arched, hissing and spitting at Mrs. Whinkle and Foofoo. The Chihuahua went into a barking, bouncing frenzy and lunged at the cat. Mingo promptly spun around and dashed into the street.

A car horn blared. Brakes squealed. The smell of scorched rubber filled the air.

“Mingo!” Jeanne screamed, terrified now. She ran for the street, seeing Mingo in her mind’s eye, lying in a bloody, broken heap beneath the car’s wheels.

And then Mingo streaked past her, running full tilt, ears laid back, and hauled his fat ass up the red maple in her front yard.

He climbed until he’d clawed his way almost to the top, where the thin branches strained under his weight.

And there he stopped. Clinging to the trunk. Meowing.

Jeanne’s heart started beating again. “Oh, Mingo, dear God, you scared the crap out of me. I should leave your ass up there!”

Mingo looked down at her and let out a plaintive meow. Foofoo’s barks faded as Mrs. Whinkle dragged him down the street.

Jeanne realized Celeste was standing beside her, staring up at the cat. “I’ve never seen that cat move so fast,” she said.

Jeanne allowed herself a small smile. “Me, neither”.

Celeste looked at her. “I want to apologize, Jeanne. I was wrong the other day. Sometimes I let my mouth run away from my brain.”

Jeanne hugged her. “So that’s where I get it from! It’s okay, Mother. But can we talk about it later? I’ve kind of got another problem here.”

Celeste patted Jeanne’s arm. “Of course, dear. Later.” She looked to her side. “I guess you could always get that young man to cut the tree down with a chain saw.”

Jeanne turned to see Nate walking up, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans.

Nate looked at Jeanne, then at Mingo clinging to the tree for dear life. “That feline just doesn’t know how good he’s got it,” he said. He looked at Jeanne again. “You know, living with you and all.”

She caught herself starting to twirl her hair, forced her hand down. “He thinks he’s an escape artist. Bit off more than he can chew this time.”

Nate frowned up at the cat. “I can climb up and rescue him. If you want.”

Now it was Jeanne’s turn to frown. She bit her lip. “I don’t know…it’s dangerous, Nate.”

Nate smiled. Cocked his brow. “Tree Climbing 101. All of us guys have to pass that one as kids.”

He spit on his hands, rubbed them together, walked to the tree. Studied it for what Jeanne thought a long time.

Then Nate began to climb, and he climbed like a monkey, moving sure and fast from limb to limb. Wide eyed, Jeanne watched him.

“Be careful!” she cried out.

He looked down at her, grinning. “Piece of cake. Haven’t had this much fun since yesterday morning!”

Jeanne blushed and hid her face in her hands. Crap.

Nate laughed and continued to climb.

It only took him a few minutes to come almost within reach of Mingo, but he could climb no further on the thin upper limbs. He paused a moment. Then, holding on with his left hand, he reached up with his right, and wriggled his fingers in a “come hither” gesture.

“Come on, Mingo. Time to go home. Your mistress is worried about you.”

To Jeanne’s surprise, Mingo carefully backed down until he was close enough for Nate to gently lift him off the tree trunk.

But now Nate had a problem. He needed two hands to climb with. Jeanne watched him thinking about it while she twisted her hair into a tangled mess.

“All right, big guy,” Jeanne heard him say. “Be good.” He placed the cat over one shoulder, and gingerly started down the tree.

And Mingo lay there, sprawled over Nates shoulder, placid as a grey and white sack of potatoes.

Something pulled Jeanne’s hair, and she realized she’d twisted a wad of it tight enough to pinch. She pulled her fingers free.

“Is he okay?” she shouted to Nate.

“He’s fine,” Nate answered. He was breathing a bit harder than when he’d started.

He was almost down when he stopped to rest. He rubbed Mingo’s fur and the cat purred with contentment.

“See, Jeanne,” he said. “Piece of cake.”

He placed his foot on a lower limb, and it snapped with a rotten crack. “Shit!” Nate yelled, and then he was sliding down the tree. Nate grabbed at limbs and missed, and Mingo grabbed at Nate with the claws of all four paws and locked on. “Shit!” Nate yelled again, with feeling, and finally managed to bear-hug the tree as he slid to the ground. Mingo jumped down and fled back into the house.

Jeanne rushed to Nate. “Are you alright? Oh, no, look at your poor arms!”

The insides of Nate’s arms were abraded raw from the rough bark of the maple.

“Oh, crap, that hurts,” Nate said. He held his arms out from his side, doing a little dance step as the pain hit. “Jesus, that hurts.”

Jeanne took his hand, all business now. “Come on. Inside. Let’s have a look at you.” She turned to Celeste, who was staring at them both as if they’d gone over the edge. “Mother, could you feed the cats, please?”

* * *

Jeanne led Nate into the bathroom, and sat him down on the toilet seat. While she rummaged through her medicine cabinet, Nate turned his hands palms up and laid them on his knees. He stared at the inside of his arms. “Not quiet as bad as I thought,” he said, but Jeanne noted the pain glittering in his eyes.

She smiled. “Tree Climbing 101. Did you pass that course?”

“Well, I kind of skipped the part about climbing down.”

Jeanne laughed. She held up a bottle of peroxide. “This is going to hurt a bit.”

“Oh, crap,” Nate said. He turned his head away. “I don’t have to watch, do I?”

Jeanne cleaned the wounds in warm soapy water, and poured a generous dose of peroxide over them. Nate winced, but took it like a man.

Then she applied the iodine.

“Ouch, ouch, OUCH! Damn it! What are you doing, branding me?”

Jeanne laughed. “Tough guy,” she teased. “I’m all done. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.”

Nate stood, waved his arms back and forth experimentally. “My arms look like buffalo chicken wings,” he said.

“It’s the new look,” Jeanne said. She smiled again. “I kind of like it.”

“You know,” Nate said, “you look kind of nice in Pooh pants.”

Jeanne suddenly realized they were crammed into the tiny bathroom together, the fronts of their bodies almost touching. Shyly, she reached up and touched his arm where she’d applied the medicine, gently tracing her fingers down his biceps to his hand. Caressed his palm with her nails.

Then her courage deserted her. She spun around, trying for nonchalant. “I…I better check on the cats. Mother tends to over-feed them.”

“Jeanne,” Nate said, but she’d already fled for safer environs.

* * *

After an awkward goodbye, Nate went home. Celeste left a few minutes later, after again apologizing and booking another lunch date. Once again, Jeanne was alone in a house suddenly too quiet by far.

She worked on the History for the rest of the day, pausing only long enough to eat a light dinner. Then she was back at it.

It was late by the time she finished for the day. She turned off the computer. For a long time she sat there, in the dark office, staring at the blank screen.

The silence thickened. The clock ticked on.

Melancholy settled over her shoulders like a shroud. She really didn’t want to face that empty bed.

When her phone rang she almost fell out of the chair.

It was Nate. “Just wanted to thank you again for fixing me up,” he said. “Only thing is, you forgot my other wounds. The ones His Royal Highness inflicted.”

“Oh, Nate, I’m sorry. Mingo was scared, he didn’t mean…”

“I know, Jeanne. I’m just glad I was there to help.”

There was an awkward silence. Nate was the first to break it.

“I was wondering…if you’d like—you know, if you could maybe come over for a while.”

“Is it your arms? Are you hurting? Do you need more iodine?”

“Ah…no. I just wanted to show you something.”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s getting late…”

“It won’t take long. You see, we were talking the other day about artists, and I…well, I just wanted to share something with you. Jeanne?”

“Okay,” she said, surprising herself yet again. “Just give me a minute.”

“One more thing. Bring Mingo with you. I have a fenced in back yard, and he can roam to his heart’s content.”

* * *

Nate met her at his front door and led her through the surprisingly clean living room to the back door and outside into the back yard. The spring evening was clear and crisp, the sky pregnant with stars.

Jeanne placed Mingo on the grass, and laughed when he high-stepped around as if negotiating a mine field.

“This here’s my pride and joy,” Nate said, and he led her to the telescope he’d already erected in its place of honor, the center of his patio. “A 12” LightBridge Truss–Tube Dobsonian. I bought it used on EBay, and re-built it myself.” He smiled. “You see, you’d asked me if I was an artist. I doubt if I am, in the sense that you meant. But I do know a good paint job when I see one. And I have a respect for a finely tuned instrument. I love looking at the stars, Jeanne. There’s artistry out there.” He gestured at the sprawling starscape and grinned. “And I know art when I see it.”

With Nate’s patient tutelage, it didn’t take Jeanne long to grasp the intricacies of the telescope. Soon she and Nate were taking turns searching the heavens. Jeanne was awed by the beauty of Saturn, humbled at the far-flung grandeur of a spiral galaxy.

Nate adjusted the telescope to a new quadrant. “Take a look at that,” he said. Jeanne studied the area he’d focused on. Through the powerful lens rt looked like an oval globule with a black spot in it’s center, shot through with color. “That’s NGC 6543.”

Jeanne gazed through the eyepiece, and gasped in delight at the beautiful image.

“It’s called the Cat’s Eye Nebula. Thought you’d like that one.”

“Kind of reminds me of Mingo,” Jeanne said. “Being as he’s King of the Known Universe and all.”

They lost all track of time as they studied the heavens. Nate pointed out Cirrus, the Dog star, the North star, and other prominent stellar objects until Jeanne was dazzled by the wonder of it all.

* * *

They took a break from the telescope and Nate led her further into the yard. He’d brought the afghan from the house, and now he spread it on the dew-damp grass. Nate lay down on his back, favoring his arms, and Jeanne joined him. Mingo strolled over, purring, and curled up between them, where he promptly fell asleep. Jeanne and Nate stared up at the countless stars above.

“This is the best part,” Nate said. “Just lying here, trying to work out patterns in the sky. Watching for meteors. Picking out constellations and individual stars. And wondering what lies beyond.”

Jeanne stroked the cat. Mingo purred.

“It’s so relaxing,” she whispered. “But so aloof. And so lonely.”

“My wife left us,” Nate said after a moment. “Me and Samantha. About ten years ago. And to this day I’m not sure why. I keep asking myself, what did I do wrong? Where did our marriage derail?

“I thought we were a team. We had a plan. She’d go for her law degree, I’d put her through school. But once she had that diploma, it was goodbye family life, hello party time.

“I thought that maybe there was another man, but as it turned out – no. She’d just grown tired of me, she said. That we’d grown apart. Our interests had ‘diverged’. So she left. Me and Samantha both.

“We don’t hear from her any more, not so much as a card on Sam’s birthday.

“I thought I could make up for being a failure as a husband by becoming Super Dad, so I threw myself into raising my daughter. And then, or course, Sam grew up, too. And it was time for her to leave.”

He turned to look at Jeanne, and she could see the starlight dancing in his eyes.

“It was hard to get my head around that, you know? Being on my own really sucks. I was lonely,” he said. “But now—not so much, with you here.”

He reached out to pet Mingo, and his hand touched Jeanne’s. Gently she twined her fingers in his.

“You still going to let me read that book-in-progress?” he asked. “A History of Cats?”

“I’d like that,” Jeanne said. “If you want.”

They lay there in easy silence for a moment before Nate spoke again. “You know, I think I should write a book. I could call it A History of Stars.”

“That’s quiet an ambitious project. Lots of stars out there.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It would take a while. A life time, maybe. Maybe forever.” He looked at her, his eyes kind and warm. “I could use some help.”

Jeanne squeezed his hand and smiled. “I could get used to that,” she whispered, and for a long time she lost herself in the star shine of his eyes.

Side by side and holding hands, with Mingo purring between them, they lay back and traveled the stars, together.

Richard Freeland has been a writer for several years and has recently published his first book, an anthology of short stories titled “Equinox – Six Declinations”, as an ebook available at the Kindle store. He lives with his wife Martha, two great boys Josh & Scott, one elderly Border Collie named Wendy, and their cat, Henry (the King of the Known Universe), in Gainesville, Georgia. He’s currently working on several new short stories and a novel – which is in the 4th draft – while managing two web sites: www. jekyll-island-family-adventures.com, and www.dragonlyre.com (his writing site). 

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Love can conquer all, and there can be a happy-ever-after. Sometimes you just have to find the way to it.

Staunton James pulled his pickup into the garage. A glance at the dash clock told him the bad news—he was hours late. Truth was, he and his buddies had hand-caught more fish before they killed off the case of beer. Afterwards, there’d been plenty of misses and falls into the cold lake and beer-fueled laughing. When  [read more →]]]> Phyllis Anne Duncan

Love can conquer all, and there can be a happy-ever-after. Sometimes you just have to find the way to it.

Staunton James pulled his pickup into the garage. A glance at the dash clock told him the bad news—he was hours late. Truth was, he and his buddies had hand-caught more fish before they killed off the case of beer. Afterwards, there’d been plenty of misses and falls into the cold lake and beer-fueled laughing. When you’re having fun doing nothing but drinking brewskis and bullshitting with your buds, what did time matter? Well, for one, it mattered to the woman inside the house. She’d probably stopped waiting up for him a couple hours before.

He climbed down from his truck, retrieved the bucket of fish from its bed, and walked up to the door he knew would be locked. He pounded on it, waited, pounded again.

“Come on, Baby!” he called. “Open the door, Baby! You know I don’t have my key!”No light came on, and no sounds of footsteps came from the other side of the door.

“Come on, goddammit, or I’ll shout the neighbors awake!” The garage light came on then, and the door opened to frame his unhappy wife. He gave her a big, drunk smile. “Hey, Baby.”

“You’re five hours late. Stacey and Daddy left hours ago, and Daddy was pissed.”

Shit. That would mean getting called into the old man’s office for responsibility lecture number two hundred something—don’t be late, especially when your father-in-law is in the mix. More than once in the past ten years, Staunton had conceded marrying the boss’ daughter was a bitch.

Now, he opted for conciliation and held up the bucket of fish. “Baby, I caught plenty of fish. I know how much you like…”

“Jesus, Stan, you are not cleaning those things in my kitchen. Do it out back!” The door began to close.

“Baby, don’t close the door, ‘cause…” Staunton heard the clunk of the dead bolt going home. “…I don’t have my key,” he murmured. “Fuck.” At least she’d left the garage light on for him. There was no consideration in it, he was sure. She just forgot she turned it on.

Staunton took a battery-powered Coleman lantern from his camping supplies, found his knives and a clean bucket, then took a bag of ice from the freezer. He turned the lantern on, and laden with his supplies, he walked around the outside of the garage to the worktable against its back wall. He set the lantern and everything else on the table then dragged the hose from the garden and set to work. A inch or so of ice went into the clean bucket, then he took the top fish from the other. Head off, fins off, tail off, scrape scales, slit the belly, and dump the guts onto the table. Hose what was left of the fish clean, making sure no fish blood or stomach or intestine slime clung to the meat. Slice perfect fillets and toss them onto the ice.

The whole process was therapeutic because the beer still in his system made the fish look like the people Staunton despised. The first one was his father-in-law—the fish had the same flat eyes and clammy skin. Mr. Big Deal Owns Five Car Dealerships, embarrassed because his son-in-law can only manage the service department and who lets his hot-shot salesmen talk down to Staunton because they went to college and all he has is certificates of accomplishment for auto repair courses. Staunton took great pleasure in that decapitation.

Next was his social-climbing mother-in-law, though how you could consider someone a few years younger than you a mother-in-law was a puzzle. She wasn’t even the first of his wife’s stepmothers. As his father-in-law aged, his wives got proportionally younger. This one would take his wife to lunch at the country club but never Staunton. “Well, Stan, you just wouldn’t know how to behave now, would you? They don’t serve Budweiser, and you’d just wipe car grease on the napkins.” Bitch. Slicing that belly open and watching the guts spill made him chuckle.

The third fish was the former quarterback who had dated his wife in high school and was now his father-in-law’s top salesman. Staunton knew some of the salesman’s long lunches were probably spent right here in this house, upstairs in his bed. And his wife and the asshole she was fucking thought he was too stupid to notice the guy’s aftershave on the pillows. Though this fish was already dead, Staunton shoved a knife into its fish brain and imagined the quarterback paralyzed and dying slow.

Staunton James went through his enemies one-by-one, the beer making him cry until he couldn’t stop. What made him cry wasn’t clear, though the possibilities were infinite. Undereducated, overpaid (in the old man’s eyes), cuckolded, and none of it was about to change. So what if he got a little satisfaction by imagining the faces of people on a bunch of fish?

He spared his wife. Not her fault she met him during her rebel-against-Daddy-stage and after a break-up from a guy whose family didn’t think her good enough. That had pissed off her old man, that his precious little debutante wasn’t classy enough for some Yankee family who came over on the Mayflower. Not her fault she and Staunton forgot to use birth control just the one time, just once. Not her fault he wanted to marry her because he well and truly loved her. Not her fault the next kid came barely a year after the first.

His hands stilled, and his thoughts went to the early years of their marriage. She had understood his need for independence from her father, that he wanted to support their new family on his own, and she’d been more than just a business partner. She had done her best to make sure he succeeded, and, for a while, he had. They had, in their marriage and in their business.

Staunton had always suspected that his father-in-law had sabotaged the car repair shop they had set up. Getting the loan was easy—every banker in town knew whom he’d married. The business wasn’t anything like his father-in-law’s, but the money came in steady. His wife knew more about cars than the average spouse and put her business degree to use managing the place. Those had been good days, when they worked side by side and both had a vested interest in their personal and professional success.

The business prospered enough for Staunton to get a loan to buy two roll-back tow trucks. He hired six guys to run ‘round the clock shifts, and his wife’s ability to write a good bid landed a contract with the county to tow vehicles away from accident and crime scenes. They put in long hours, but, God, it was fun to work together and smile with genuine joy when both babies dozed in the Pack-n-Play in the office, people cooing over how cute they were.

Then—and he didn’t notice until it was too late—his customers stopped coming, and the county contract didn’t get renewed. That brought arguments over money, lots of arguments over money. More arguments because he didn’t want to take his father-in-law’s help. That was too steep a fee to pay.

The tow trucks went first, sold for thousands less than what he owed. They tried cutting back on business hours, but he knew the end was near when he had to lay off mechanics, some of them guys he’d been in VoTech with in high school. Then there came the day—the worst of his life—when he had no choice but to sell off his shop equipment and the building and take the job his father-in-law offered. He didn’t put it together until he took over the dealerships’ service department and saw his old customers had been coming there for months.

He was sure, as well, his father-in-law wanted his wife to divorce him. Staunton thought the old man was scared his ticker would shut down one day from one too many Viagra pills, and since he only had the one daughter, she would get a lot of money the old man didn’t want Staunton to share. She had never brought the subject up, and Staunton wondered why Mr. Quarterback had just divorced wife number two and would be available for more than nooners. All Staunton would want was to see his kids.

What would his kids think if they saw him standing in the dark outside his house, weeping beer, and pretending to kill people as he cleaned fish. And it wasn’t even his house. Father-in-law and wife number two had lived here, but wife number three refused to set foot inside. The old man deeded it to his daughter, free and clear, and whereas his wife always called it “our house,” Staunton’s father-in-law made certain he knew who did and didn’t have a claim.

Staunton was past the point where beer and desperation and depression were a truly bad mix, where remembering a .22 pistol lay in the glove box of his truck, just a few feet away, wasn’t a good thought to have.

He put his hand back in the bucket for the last fish, his fingers brushing the strong, scaly body. He felt the fish breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The breathing slowed and was on the verge of stopping all together when Staunton pulled it from the water. The fish lay limp in his hands, its tail twitching, an eye fixed on his. In a futile attempt to breathe, the fish’s mouth opened and closed, then gaped and didn’t move.

“No,” Staunton said. “No!”

He grabbed the lantern and clutched the fish to his chest as he set out through the backyard to the little path that led down to the creek at the edge of the property. The beer made him stumble and lurch, but he reached the bank without falling. He set the lamp down and knelt. With care he lay the fish in the water, his hands in a loose grip around it. The current was decent for a small creek, quick enough he and his wife always made sure to keep the kids away from it. The fish didn’t move.

He splashed water over the gills and hoped the movement he saw meant the fish was getting water to breathe. After futile minutes of waiting for the movement again, Staunton cupped water in one hand and poured hand after hand of water over the fish’s body.

“Come on,” he pled with it. “Come on. Come on. You can do this. Come on.”

The fish was as flaccid and cold as the seaweed that once scared him at the beach when he waded into the water.

Staunton’s head hung, and he wept again. He couldn’t even save a stupid fish he caught to eat anyway. The fish was as dead as his future, as his present, and this futile act of desperation was as impotent as he.

The fish’s body quivered, shuddered, and with a fierce push of its tail, it freed itself from Staunton’s hands. He held the Coleman up and saw it thrash its way to deeper water, then, with a splash, it was off into the dark.

Staunton stood, fists in the air, and relished triumph. He stayed that way until his arms grew heavy, and he lowered them. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his house in a weak moon. He could go back to the house, scrape fish guts into a bucket, then bury them at the far end of the yard. He could pound on the door again, and his wife would let him in. They would go to bed and turn their backs to each other. He would wake up with a throbbing head, and the new day would be the same as the last.

He walked back to the house and made sure the fillets had plenty of ice on them, then he hosed the mess of his fish cleaning into the empty bucket. He dug a deep hole well away from the house and poured the guts and tails and fins and scales in it. After tamping the dirt hard over the hole, he went back and washed his knives, the table, and the wall of the house, making certain he didn’t leave a spot of blood or a scale.

Back in the garage, he put everything away—the fish into the extra ‘fridge, the knives in his tool box, the Coleman with his camping gear. He opened the passenger side of his pick-up and sat, his legs dangling over the garage floor. He told himself he should go inside, look in on the kids, kiss his wife as she slept, but he smelled of stale beer and fish slime. His wife would just push him away, and the kids would chime, “Gross, Dad!” He smiled at that.

He looked around the garage. His tools, collected over the years since high school, were the only things that were his. Them, and his free will. Nobody owned that yet. No one would.

Staunton James opened the glove compartment and found his release.

Caytlyn Hylton-James lay on her side and stared at the bedside clock. She watched as it changed to one a.m., and her lips pinched in exasperation. He had said he’d be home for dinner, and here it was, three hours after her father and Stacey left.

How could he forget? Stacey and Daddy came the same Saturday every month, and Stan would always tease her in a thick, redneck drawl: “Well, Honey, I guess I better be taking my monthly bath.”

She suppressed a giggle then let her annoyance return. Stan wouldn’t be subtle enough to stay out late and deliberately avoid her father, knowing full well he’d get an earful from her tonight and him on Monday morning. When he got with those buddies of his, the ones he’d known since elementary school, time just had no meaning for Staunton James.

Staunton hadn’t been the most popular guy in high school—the top guy in VoTech, yes. You couldn’t call him a jock, though he played football and baseball. Never elected captain of either team, he was a steady performer—a good receiver in football, a good bat and good hands in baseball.

A cheerleader, Caytlyn rooted for him as she had any player when the ball came his way, but they just never moved in the same clique. Hers was the jock/cheerleader one, the most popular at the high school. You seldom saw Staunton James in the halls of the high school. He and his friends spent the day learning how to fix cars, only trouping up the steps to the main school for the courses the state said you needed to graduate—history, English, math.

After she graduated high school, she never gave Staunton James or any of the “grease monkeys” another thought, much less her quarterback lover. Daddy’s money got her into Radcliffe. Radcliffe got her a Harvard law student for a boyfriend, then fiancé. When the wedding planning halted after his family decided she was a poseur—real Hiltons didn’t spell it with a y, she was told—Staunton James picked up the pieces.

In high school, Staunton let it be known all he ever wanted to do was build and race cars, and he’d been good at it. The two cases of trophies in the basement proved that. Caytlyn hadn’t realized how much she enjoyed the race track. When she came home from college and started seeing Staunton to piss her father off, she did the dutiful girlfriend thing and never missed a weekend. There was something about the smell of fuel and worn tires, the daredevil attitude of the drivers that excited her. And, well, Staunton was damned fuckable in his fire suit.

Caytlyn looked at the clock again, and all nostalgia left. On cue, she heard the garage door open. She sat up and dipped her feet in her slippers. As she headed downstairs, pulling on her robe, she heard him pounding on the door. Long after he’d left that morning, she saw his house keys on the kitchen counter and knew this would happen. So, she strolled to the door to the garage as if she had plenty of time, and, as far as she was concerned, she did. Passive-aggression, she supposed, but she was the one who had to endure Daddy’s disapproving comments all through dinner.

When she reached the kitchen, she heard, “Come on, Baby! Open the door, Baby! You know I don’t have my key!”

She stood on the other side of the door, arms crossed over her stomach.

“Come on, goddammit, or I’ll shout the neighbors awake!” Good luck with that, she thought. The nearest neighbor was a mile away.

When she opened the door, it was worse than she expected. The smell was a combination of fish, beer, and mucky water. He had mud in his hair and on his face and the biggest shit-eating grin, the one he always had after a day with his friends.

“Hey, Baby,” he said.

“You’re five hours late. Stacey and Daddy left hours ago, and Daddy was pissed.”

“Baby, I caught plenty of fish. I know how much you like…”

“Jesus, Stan, you are not cleaning those things in my kitchen. Do it out back!” She shut the door, making sure it was locked.

As she fumed in the kitchen, Caytlyn heard him stumbling about in the garage. She could go upstairs, get dressed, and help him, but she was too pissed. She went back upstairs, stopping to peak into both kids’ rooms. They’d slept through the pounding, at least. One thing about Staunton James, he’d given her two beautiful children. She’d never deny that.

Caytlyn turned on the lamp at her side of the bed, debating whether to lock the bedroom door. She’d been doing that a lot, not for any particular issue with Staunton, but from guilt. When Tyler Edwards was the star quarterback and she was the captain of the cheerleading squad, she’d given up her virginity in the back seat of a car he bought from her father. A particular symmetry she appreciated, but Tyler hadn’t grasped. She’d gone to Radcliffe, and Tyler had gotten a football scholarship to Alabama. She thought she found her future, and Tyler blew a knee in his junior year. He hadn’t needed to finish college to become Daddy’s top salesman.

He had needed to divorce two wives before she’d let him come visit her again, and she still wasn’t sure why she let him. Tyler’s sexual skill hadn’t progressed much since high school, except that he never lasted as long as he had then. When he wasn’t drinking, Staunton was far better and truer. She ignored the fact she wasn’t the only bored housewife Tyler visited.

No, she knew why. Tyler was someone her father would approve of, someone he could envision leaving the car dealerships to, someone who sucked up to him far more than Staunton could ever conceive of doing. She started seeing Tyler because it would mean Daddy would criticize her less, and she knew her father was more than complicit in her adultery.

Caytlyn went to the window and parted the curtains to watch Staunton clean the fish. The light from the Coleman showed her only his hands, certain as they cut and scrapped. Daddy complained that Stan would never get the grease from under his nails, and Caytlyn contrasted Stan’s scarred, calloused, working hands against her father’s soft, pink, manicured ones. Still, even after all the years of working a desk job, grease still colored Stan’s fingers like a bad tattoo. She didn’t mind it, but her father did.

Caytlyn turned away from the window, guilt making her face flush. She shouldn’t have been pissy to Stan, but she still smarted from that disapproval of Stan and everything he did. Though her father disparaged it, she had enjoyed the hours she and Staunton spent at the business they made together, and it was the saddest day of her life when they had to sell it. She had justified the job with her father as security—his businesses were well-established and certain. Stan would always have an untouchable job at Hylton Automotive Specialists.

She decided, despite the fact Daddy approved and probably let him have all those long lunches to come here, she didn’t love Tyler Edwards, never had, never would. She may not have been in love with Staunton when they married, but the years had changed that. Tyler wouldn’t even miss a beat when she told him not to come around anymore.

Caytlyn went to the bathroom and freshened up, changing from her flannel nightgown to a satin one. She wanted to have a talk with Staunton when he finished cleaning fish, and the nightie would make sure she had his attention. She couldn’t tell him about Tyler, though she knew he suspected, but she would tell him, “From now on, it’s you and me, Baby, no matter what Daddy says.”

When Caytlyn heard the noise, it didn’t register for a moment. Then, the memory of hunting with her father and brothers returned.

She ran through the house, trying to not wake the kids. She opened the garage door and thought she had imagined hearing the gunshot. The passenger door of Staunton’s truck was open, and he sat, facing sideways, his legs dangling. She had never seen him look so confused, and he stared through her.

“Stan, Baby, are you okay?” she asked, her steps slow in approaching, her eyes searching for blood and finding none. When she stood in front of him, she saw the pistol hanging from his index finger. Holding his eyes with hers, she took the gun and set it on the work bench.

His mouth was open, and she saw black on his upper lip. As she watched, blood trickled from his nose and the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, my God, Stan, what happened?”

“Ah nidn’t noo it wight.”

“Stan, don’t move. Just sit there.”

She dashed back into the kitchen, her heart beating too fast, and grabbed the portable phone. Surprised by her calm, she got an ambulance on the way, then went back to her husband.

Blood had dripped over his chin and onto the front of his jacket, but he had sat still, his eyes blinking fast.

“Stan?”

She noticed he didn’t move his head, just his eyes, and now she saw his fear. Despite what the paramedics might say, she went to him and took him in her arms and almost cried out with joy when his hands rested on her hips. Her fingers raked through his hair, seeking, she realized with a flip of her stomach, an exit wound. She found none. Caytlyn eased back from him and saw his left eye was now bloodshot, the skin around it puffy and starting to bruise, as if someone had hit him. She leaned down and peered into his mouth to see if the blood came from biting his tongue.

She shut down another cry when she saw the small, round hole in the roof of his mouth. Then, she held him again, her tears mixing with his, as she figured out what he’d said to her.

“I didn’t do it right.”

All those donations to the local public safety foundation paid off. The dispatcher recognized the address where she sent ambulance and called the sheriff to let him know. The sheriff called David Dinwiddie Hylton and said, “There’s been a shooting at your daughter’s house.”

“Did she kill her low-life husband?” Hylton asked.

“No, sir. Mizz James thinks he shot himself.”

No, no, that wouldn’t do, not at all. “Sheriff, I think you mean an ‘accidental shooting.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure the ambulance guys understand that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Damn, the bastard couldn’t even kill himself right. “What hospital will they take him to?”

“The county medical center, sir. Mizz James is there with him, sir.”

Hylton hung up and began to dress.

When David Hylton strode into the emergency room, people got out of his way. He was on the hospital board, after all, his picture among the others in the lobby, and the cardiac wing had his name on it.

The receptionist tried to intercept him, but he was too fast. “Mr. Hylton, sir, you need a visitor’s pass! Sir?”

His back to her as he walked ahead, he dismissed her with a lift of his hand. Yes, he’d proposed that rule after a baby got snatched from the nursery, but he practically owned this damned place. The rules weren’t for him. He took his handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his face. No wonder they had trouble making a profit if they kept the damned heat up so high.

When he saw her in the waiting area outside a room in the ER, he wanted to shake his daughter senseless. Both children were with her, one on either side, in the white-knuckle clutch of their mother.

“Caytlyn!” Both children jumped at his call, but Caytlyn raised angry, defiant eyes to him. “What are the children doing here?” he demanded.

“Well, if Momma hadn’t moved three states away to get away from you and your succession of bimbos, I would have called her.”

He gave a quick glance around to see if anyone were near. “Caytlyn, watch what you say.” He saw she was barefoot and wore one of her husband’s coats, unbuttoned to show the skimpy nightgown she wore. The implication made his pulse race. “Couldn’t you have dressed before you got here?” he asked. The sweat broke out on his face again, and he decided he needed to get to the gym on more of a regular basis. He was out of breath.

His daughter’s angry eyes settled on him again. “We rode in the ambulance. I didn’t have time, and, Daddy, who gives a fuck?”

Hylton felt the heat creep up his neck. “I told you to watch what you say, young lady, and talking like that in front of my grandchildren…” He smirked; she might as well learn her lesson. “Well, they do say, if you lie down with dogs, you’re bound to get up with fleas.”

Caytlyn stood and leaned down to talk to her children. “You two sit right here. I’m just going around the corner to talk with your granddaddy.”

Without acknowledging him, she walked several feet away, then turned to him and said, “Daddy,” in a tone he’d never heard from her before.

He scowled at the two children, also barefoot, and wearing their coats over their pajamas. They huddled together and wouldn’t look at him. They didn’t look like Hyltons. They looked like trailer trash, which they would have been if he hadn’t put a decent roof over their heads.

Caytlyn whirled on him when he rounded the corner and put a finger in his face. “Don’t you ever talk about my husband like that in front of his kids.”

“Caytlyn…”

“Shut the fuck up, Daddy.”

“Young lady, your language. You’re a Hylton.”

“No, Daddy, I’m a James, and you will shut up and listen to me.”

“You need to calm down.”

“Well, I might feel a lot calmer if I slugged you, so not another word out of you unless I ask you a question. Now, how did you know I was here?”

“The sheriff called me and told me what happened. But don’t worry. I told him to make sure people know it was an ‘accidental shooting.’”

Caytlyn laughed, an edge of hysteria to it. “No, Daddy, it was no accident. Staunton put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

There was a silver lining to this cloud, after all. “It’s all right, darlin’,” he said, annoyed at the sweat rolling across his temples and down his cheeks. He again dabbed his face with the handkerchief. “You and the children can move in with Stacey and me. He can’t go in the Hylton mausoleum, but I’ll find a good plot for him in the town cemetery, and…”

Caytlyn pushed him against a wall, her hands clawing at his face. There was a high, keening shriek that chilled him after he realized it came from her. Hylton tried to get her by the arms, but she was too fast, too intent upon marking him. He held up his arms to ward off her assault. She tore at him, pulling at his clothes, her nails scraping.

Her screaming brought some nurses and a young doctor, all of whom got her off him. Hylton felt a sting and warmth on his cheek and touched it with his fingertips. They came away bloody. Ungrateful little bitch. The doctor had calmed her down at least, and when Caytlyn looked at him this time, it was with hate, not anger.

“Staunton’s not dead, Daddy,” she said. “And I will never forget that you fucking smiled when you talked about finding him a good plot.”

“Caytlyn…”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hylton, Mrs. James,” the doctor said.

“She’s Mrs. Hylton-James,” Hylton said, a point of pride that his name was still part of hers.

“Ignore that bastard,” Caytlyn said. “I know it’s hard since this is his second kingdom after the car lots and you’re all just his little serfs. I’m Caytlyn James, and I want to know how my husband is.”

“Well, Mrs. James, he’s…”

“Not in front of him,” Caytlyn said.

“Very well. This way, please.” The doctor motioned toward the main hallway.

Hylton walked up to his daughter, surprised he was still panting. “Caytlyn, stop acting like white trash and listen to me.”

“No, Daddy. Not now, not anymore. You’ve made sure of that. Get away from me.”

“Caytlyn, you’re overwrought; otherwise, you’d remember just who writes the checks.”

“Fuck your checks, Daddy. Taking them is too high a price. Stan just proved that.”

She turned and walked away with the doctor as the two nurses trying not to look at Hylton. He wiped his face again as he glared at them. “If you want your jobs, you’ll forget what you heard here, understand?”

They looked at each other then started to laugh, not stopping as they walked away.

How dare they? He needed their names, and they’d be clearing their lockers out tonight. “You, there! You wait! Stop right there!”

The nurses double-timed to get back to their duties. David Dinwiddie Hylton started after them, felt a mountain of pain on the left side of his chest, and died before he hit the floor.

Caytlyn set a cup of coffee beside Staunton, then joined him at the kitchen table. “How’d we do?”

“Good, real good,” he said. “Fifteen new customers this week, two of them contracts to maintain fleets of delivery trucks.”

“I thought maybe ten, but fifteen is good. We found a great location and a real deal in that shop the guy sold us.”

“Well, you did get the brains in the family,” he said and smiled.

His smiles were just a little crooked still. The small .22 bullet had not gone into his brain, but dug a furrow through his nose to lodge in the sinus cavity above his left eye and left him with some nerve damage. The doctors left the bullet there, deciding the surgery to remove it could cause more damage.

“We’re a good team,” she said. She lay her hand on his arm and squeezed.

Thank God for pre-nups, she thought, that limit what your stepmother can steal from you. Between selling the car dealerships and giving her stepmother a little extra settlement, then selling the house her father had deeded to her, they had a substantial nest egg to build their own house and start James Car Care. Once again, they worked side by side with a new baby in a carrier at their feet.

“You know what I was thinking?” Staunton asked her.

“What, Baby?”

“I was thinking if the business keeps up, I might start doing a little racing again.”

“On one condition.” She saw his face lose its enthusiasm, so she leaned in and kissed him. “I’m your crew chief.”

Phyllis Anne Duncan is a retired bureaucrat with an overactive imagination, or that’s what she’s been told since she started writing stories with her weekly list of spelling words in third grade. She’s best known for her non-fiction, and she’s slowly making her mark in fiction. One of her short stories and several book reviews have appeared in eFiction Magazine, and she hopes there’ll be more.

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This afternoon after work, I go into the store. A little bell on the door announces my arrival. I’ve never been in here  [read more →]]]> There’s a little Asian goods store across the street from my apartment. I walk by the shop every day on my way to work every day and every day I see this lime green Buddha Ash Tray happily smiling at me through the store front windows. I’m drawn by the rotund belly and jovial face of the Buddha.

This afternoon after work, I go into the store. A little bell on the door announces my arrival. I’ve never been in here before yet it seems familiar to me. Wood carvings of the Yin and the Yang, posters of dragons, of dogs, Chinese cookbooks, Japanese cookbooks. The lime green Buddha.

“Can I help you?” I turn and see a very pretty girl. She’s Asian. She has long black hair, fleckless brown skin, small lips, a button nose. She’s very petite. Her name is Lilly, according to her name badge.

“Huh?” I stammer.

“Can I help you? With something. Are you looking for something?” She smiles. She’s beautiful. There is warmth in her smile.

“Huh? Uh, yeah. I wanna buy this Buddha here.”

She grabs it gently from its window display, brushing my hand with her hips as she does. She takes the rotund green figure and walks him to the checkout counter. “Anything else?” She asks.

“No, I don’t think so?”

“No, nothing else,” She rings me up, wraps the Buddha up neatly and picks up the pen from the counter and writes something on my receipt before she shoves it all in the bag and hands it to me. “Have a nice day. See you again!”

I walk out the door, a little bell on the door announcing my departure.

* * *

I couldn’t tell you why I bought it. I don’t smoke and I’m not drawn particularly to Buddhism or to Asian art in general, yet, here I am, walking up three flights of stairs to my apartment, holding a plastic bag which contains a lime green Buddha ash tray. I enter my apartment, kick off my black and white Chucks, toss my jacket on the tattered red patent leather love seat and take the Buddha out of the bag. I carefully unwrap it and set it on the center of my glass coffee table. The table is littered with finger print smudges and food stains.

Inside the bag is a receipt for the Buddha. It cost me twenty dollars. On the back of the receipt is a phone number for Lilly. She must have put it on there when I wasn’t looking because I didn’t ask for her number.

I know it’s her number because beneath the seven digit number is the name ‘Lilly’. I’m glad to see her number and I decide to give her a call.

The phone rings four times and then her voice mail comes on. “Uh, hi, Lilly, this is uh, James. You, uh, put your number on my receipt. I’m the guy that bought the little green Buddha from you. At the store you work at. Anyway, I’m calling because I assume you want me too because you gave me your number, so, uh, call me back if you want too,” and I give her my number and hang up.

It’s now six in the evening. I called Lilly about an hour ago and now I’m in the kitchen making dinner. I can’t cook in a messy kitchen. The kitchen is the only room in the apartment where nothing is out of order. I’m making wild trout stuffed with corn bread and wrapped in bacon with a side of cheesy Brussels Sprouts. I’ve just decapitated the trout and gutted it and split it open. Now I’m rolling it in dried corn bread batter and also stuffing it with the batter, with white onions, with lemon wedges, with garlic, with chives. I do this to a second trout and I lay them both in a frying pan greased with peanut oil, where I then wrap them with bacon strips on either end, sear them in a pan for a minute on each side and then place into a baking pan, greased with shortening and olive oil and then shove into the oven and bake at a low temperature. I am just starting to prepare to steam the Brussels sprouts when my phone rings.

“Uh, hello,” I say.

“Hi.”

“Who is this?” I have the phone resting between my neck and shoulder blade.

“This is Lilly. From the store. You called me.”

“Oh, yes. Yeah, I called you. You wrote your number on my receipt.”

“I did?”

“Ya. You did. You don’t remember?”

“Not really. Sorta.”

“Sorta? Do you do this sort of thing often?

“No. Not really. That was my first time.”

“Okay,” I shrug. “So, why did you want me to call you?’

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Do I think you’re pretty?”

“Yes. Do you think I’m pretty.”

“Yeah. I do. I do think you’re pretty. What are you doing?” I throw the sprouts into the steamer and walk over to my apartment window. I live in an 800 square foot studio apartment on the 3rd floor of the Drake, which is an old apartment building with a manual elevator, oak staircase, skinny hallways and low ceilings. It was built in 1908. I often stand at the window and admire the view. I can see the whole city from here. Two of the seven bridges of Portland, the Portland Building, Mt. Hood, and the Columbia River. I look down and I can see white oak trees, maples, a traffic jam, a pot dealer, and Lilly standing outside the Asian store at the bus stop.

“I’m waiting for the bus,” she says.

“Do you like fish?”

“Do I like fish?”

“Yes. Do you like fish? I’m cooking fish for dinner. And Brussels sprouts. Would you like some fish?”

“Are you asking me to have dinner with you? Fish?”

“Yes. My girlfriend is out of town and I’m lonely.”

“I have to go. My bus is coming.”

I look out the window and see that the bus is not coming. “That doesn’t answer my question,” I say.

“Fish isn’t my favorite. Why did you call me if you have a girlfriend?”

“The fish is really fresh. I caught it this morning, actually,” I lie. It was actually purchased yesterday from the fish market across the street from my work. It was probably alive three days ago.

“Where do you live?”

“I live across the street. In the Drake. If you look up you can see me. I’m on the third floor. I’m waving,” I wave and she looks up but I don’t think she sees me. “I thought you said your bus was coming?”

“Not my bus. I was wrong.”

“Do you want some fish?”

“I thought you said you had a girlfriend,” She pauses and I hear her sigh. “Which apartment is yours?”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

Lilly likes fish now. She said my trout was amazing and the Brussels sprouts were “pretty okay.” After I steamed them, I cut them in half, poured melted unsalted butter on them, sprinkled them with organic Swiss cheese, which I let melt. I show her around my apartment, which doesn’t take long. She likes the art-deco style of decoration we— my girlfriend and I— have. . The posters of Audrey Hepburn, of James Dean, of skinny Elvis. My bookshelf with In Cold Blood, with Oliver Twist, with Fight Club, with The Odyssey, with poetry by Whitman, poetry by Plath, poetry by Poe, sonnets by Shakespeare, and with the Kama Sutra.

“Not mine,” I say. “It’s my girlfriend’s.”

She nods.

“Have you read it?”

She nods again and says, “No.”

She seems very impressed that I’ve read all the books. I tell her I’m an English major and I work in a food cart on 4th and Main that sells sandwiches stuffed with French fries and your choice of meat with a ‘secret sauce’ that’s actually just Thousand Island salad dressing and she says that’s “pretty okay.”

We’re sitting on my couch now and we’ve been talking for an hour. She’s a first generation American. Both her parents were born in Hanoi. She was born in Baltimore and moved here six years ago. She had two uncles killed by American G.I.’s during the War when they were just children. We talk about how we’re both pacifists and how Vietnam and the War in Iraq were both “terrible tragedies.” She’s twenty-four years old and she goes to Portland State, majoring in music therapy, which she tries to explain to me but is still beyond my realm of understanding.

“It’s basically therapy but instead of using a couch and words, you use music,” She explains to me.

“You can go to school for that?”

“Yes. I’m going to open a private practice.”

“Why don’t you just major in music?”

“Because I’m a flute player.”

“So?” I say. I know nothing about music.

“So there’s not a big market for flute players.”

I think she’s beautiful and before I know it, my lips are on hers and then on her neck. My hands are on her small breasts and she is moaning a little. She leans into me. I feel her hips arch into mine. I feel our hearts beating together. Her skin feels soft and healthy.

We don’t even move to the bed before we are both naked and making love ferociously on the couch. We are both skilled lovers and she is letting me know that she approves of my performance. By the time we’re finished, we’re both in the shower and she tells me that this is her first time showering with a man. I don’t believe her. I let her wash me and I wash her. We collapse into bed, still a little damp and fall asleep.

I wake up in my bed, alone and still naked. I sigh and get up and take a quick look around the apartment to confirm that Lilly is indeed gone. I shave and make a pot of coffee. There’s a note from Lilly on the counter, “Had a lot of fun last night. Let’s do it again soon.”

And she again leaves her number. I want to fry some eggs. I put some unsalted butter in the pan, crack open two Cage-free eggs and cook them sunny side up. They cook quickly, spitting and popping at me from the pan. I peel and chop an onion and throw a quarter of it into the pan with the eggs and brown them. I wrap the remaining onion in red saran wrap and put it in my crisper in the fridge. I throw some rye bread (which I will add Marion berry jam too) in the toaster and pan fry some ham steak. When it’s all done, I put in on my plate and eat it slowly while sipping my coffee. I’m tired of the games we play. Of the lies we tell. I put my plate and coffee mug in the dishwasher and hand wash all the pans I cooked with and head to the shower. I look at the picture on the wall of Lilly and I last summer at Multnomah Falls and feel myself smile. That was back before we had to pretend to be strangers in order to connect with one another; in order to be intimate. Back before we had to pretend to be liars.

It had been the best day of our young relationship. She’d never been to the Falls and we found a rare sunny Saturday in October. She was wearing her PSU Vikings grey and green hoodie and jeans with Nordic tennis shoes. She had on a Nike baseball cap and she’d pulled her long pony tail through the hole in the back. As we climbed to the top of the Falls, we held hands and smiled. When we reached the summit, we kissed and she giggled. We found a tourist to take our picture.

“Cute couple,” I heard the man’s wife say as they walked away.

She was right. We were cute together.

The game was her idea, and we’ve been playing it for six months now. She’d presented it to me just a few short weeks after that trip. She told me she couldn’t feel close to someone she knew. She told me she couldn’t love me unless we pretended not to care about each other. She told me she needed to keep getting to know me in order to be with me.

I stand in the shower and let the hot water cascade down my body. The shower is mine. Her shampoos, her conditioners, her razors; all gone. This place is now devoid of her. There’s some black mold growing on the celling which I still need to call the apartment manager about.

I get out of the shower and slowly dry myself with the same mildewed towel I’ve been using all week. When I’m mostly dry I drop it on the floor. I brush my teeth and when I spit I don’t clean it up. My mirror has spit stains. I leave the towel on the floor and put on my ratty boxer shorts and non-matching socks. I step out into the main room of our— my— studio and look for some clean pants, which I find underneath some t-shirts that I forgot to dry and which are beginning to mildew. The apartment used to be so immaculate.

I walk back to the kitchen table and grab the note from Lilly and reread several times before crumpling it up. I walk to the coffee table, uncrumple it and read it again. I recrumple it and place the piece of paper on the Buddha ash tray, and I light it on fire. I watch it burn while I drink the rest of my coffee, which has turned cold.

Justin W. Price was born in August of 1980 in Portland, Oregon and currently live in a Portland Suburb (Hillsboro) with his wife and our two dogs.  He is working on a novel and a book of poetry. His hobbies include literature, music, history, theology, politics, food, beer, cooking, karaoke, movies, and animals. He is currently an honors student, majoring in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing. He also works as a freelance writer and editor and tutor guitar and bass. His writings can be found at http://pdxkaraokeguy.hubpages.com and http://pdxjpricefirstblog.blogspot.com.

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“I’m off dating,” I said to my best friend when she showed up at my door with a hopeful look on her face and another phone number clutched in her hot little hand. “After that last creep, I’m staying home. The men can come and find me.”

“Then it’ll be Jack the mailman, who’s 70 if he’s a day, or that meter reader with B.O. and terminal halitosis.” Judy declared. She searched my closet, shuffling through the hangers with the  [read more →]]]> Valerie Gillen

“I’m off dating,” I said to my best friend when she showed up at my door with a hopeful look on her face and another phone number clutched in her hot little hand. “After that last creep, I’m staying home. The men can come and find me.”

“Then it’ll be Jack the mailman, who’s 70 if he’s a day, or that meter reader with B.O. and terminal halitosis.” Judy declared. She searched my closet, shuffling through the hangers with the expertise of a casino card dealer. “Where’s that sexy black dress that makes you look like a million bucks?”

“Jude. I’m not going. Besides, I burned my black dress after the last blind date you sent me on.”

“Oh, come on, he wasn’t that bad! And this one is it, I can feel it in my bones.”

As if she hadn’t said that about the last ten guys she’d sicced on me. There was more rattling as she moved deeper into the closet.

“Whaddya mean, ‘wasn’t that bad,’” I said, trying futilely to restore order as Hurricane Judy bulldozed through my clothes. “My dress had drool stains on it. That’s where it is—at the cleaner’s.” I crossed my fingers and prayed this was true. No way was I going out with any more of Judy’s “sure things.”

She turned, triumphant, the dress pristine in dry cleaner plastic dangling from her hand.

My spirits sank. “Is he at least taller than the last one?” I demanded. At five ten in heels, the last guy’s head had been about level with my chest, a fact he was quick to take advantage of. I couldn’t even recall what color his eyes were, since he’d never raised them as far as my face.

“I haven’t actually met him, but I believe he’s—tallish,” Judy hedged. Great. So he was probably a jockey.

“What does he do for a living?” I asked next. The guy before Shorty had been charming and good looking, but had confided to me that he was writing the Great American Novel and was looking for an understanding woman to support him while he finished it. He’d been working on it for three years and estimated it would only take another three to polish it up.

“Um…” Judy was getting that shifty look on her face that I dreaded. “He’s in—public relations.” So he probably handed out flyers in front of a peep show.

“Judy.” I put on my sternest look. “You’re my best friend and I know you just want me to be happy, but if I do this for you, I want your promise that this is the last, the very last blind date you’ll set me up with, got it?” She nodded vigorously, her curls bouncing. So she had probably another five guys in mind.

* * *

Bill waited at the table. He had a mop of dark hair and nervous hands. His head was bent down and I couldn’t even see his face. If he doesn’t act like he has more than two brain cells to rub together, I’ll plead a headache and go home early, I bargained with myself. I owed it to Judy to struggle through dinner, but that was it. When he stood up, I could see that he was at least six feet tall. Nice, but that wasn’t the important part. His soul was probably full of cobwebs.

Then he raised his head and looked into my eyes. I felt that blue-eyed gaze clear down to my toes and knew it could only mean one thing; I was in big trouble.

We made small talk over the antipasto. Usually I was fending off the wandering hands of Judy’s finds by now, but Bill was polite, intelligent, and actually seemed interested in what I had to say. I found myself fumbling uncharacteristically, trying to think about what I said before the words came out of my mouth. Bill just smiled gently at my pathetic attempts, which made me even more nervous. It was almost a relief when my contact lens popped out and landed in the lasagna.

By the time I came back from the bathroom, lens back in place and lasagna gone cold, I had taken myself in hand. Sure, Bill seemed attractive after those other losers I’d endured, but there was bound to be something hideous in his character just waiting to be discovered. Over dessert, I questioned him closely about his job, family and hobbies, but it was all amazingly normal. He was an executive at a well known candy company. I love chocolate and he got the stuff for free. He spent his free time hiking with his two dogs. I’m an outdoor girl myself and I have two dogs of my own. This was going from bad to worse.

Then Bill asked me to dance. The moment his arm encircled my waist, images of our wedding and the faces of our children – a little boy with his blue eyes, a girl with my curly hair—popped into my head. Holy cats – he really is the one! I reviewed my behavior so far that evening. Not promising. I had been, by turns, bordering on sullen and unbearably nosy. No doubt Bill was manufacturing his own headache excuse at this moment.

“Sorry I’ve been so quiet, but I had a killer headache earlier,” he confided, as if reading my mind. “This is about the tenth blind date my friend Tim has set me up with.”

“I can’t believe it—me too!”

We smiled ruefully at each other and laughed. Our hands seemed to fit together like the interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Then Bill said, “Thank goodness, this is the last one I’ll be going on.”

My heart sank. I pasted a smile on my face and racked my brain for something to say that would make Bill fall instantly in love with me. All I could think of was locking Judy and Tim together in a dungeon somewhere for tormenting innocent people this way.

That was when my bra strap broke. I could feel it crawl onto my neck like an overgrown inchworm and Bill, being so much taller, had to have seen it. I slunk back into the bathroom, fully expecting him to be gone when I came out.

The strap had snapped at the end and could not be fixed. I shoved it down under my dress and came out with my arm clenched at my side like a recently animated store manikin.

The first thing I saw was Bill. He was leaning against the opposite wall, a safety pin in his hand.

He smiled at my astonished look. “Like I said, this is the last blind date for me. Tim kept promising the next girl would be ‘the one’. It only took him ten tries to get it right.”

We decided to go for an after-dinner latte. On the way out, Bill gave my million dollar black dress an admiring glance and said, “Tim told me you were a shy, ‘quietly attractive’ girl who worked in a book store. He must have gotten his wires crossed. By the way, where’s the red carnation you were supposed to be wearing?”

“Uh, I forgot.” I gave a mental shrug. No doubt Judy had forgotten to mention it to me. It was just the kind of hokey idea she would have found romantic.

Then I spied a short guy in a very loud sports coat sitting with a mousy looking girl who looked like she had a terminal migraine. He was talking a mile a minute and shoving life insurance papers under her nose. She was wearing a red carnation.

Bill and I looked at them, then at each other. Nah, couldn’t be. We left, our arms around each other.

Valerie Gillen lives and writes in the wilds of Vermont. She has one husband, one daughter, many cats, a dog and a house rabbit named Clyde. Her four-star reviewed YA fantasy, A Little Magic, is available on Amazon, Smashwords and B & N.

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The magazine is edited via a collaborative, inclusive process which means that the stories are chosen by readers like you. The editors at eFiction know that readers know their own preferences better than they ever could.

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“Phone?” Inez buckled the seatbelt. The delivery van was so old it didn’t have a cross-strap. Each time Inez buckled-up, she looked a little confused at its absence. After fumbling with the buckle, she looked straight ahead repositioning her bare feet on the dash.

Seward started the van and pulled away. He’d press her again in a few minutes, when they were on the highway. For some reason, Seward found that people were honest  [read more →]]]> Aaron Wilson

“Phone?” Inez buckled the seatbelt. The delivery van was so old it didn’t have a cross-strap. Each time Inez buckled-up, she looked a little confused at its absence. After fumbling with the buckle, she looked straight ahead repositioning her bare feet on the dash.

Seward started the van and pulled away. He’d press her again in a few minutes, when they were on the highway. For some reason, Seward found that people were honest at high speeds. However, he was impatient. So, as he pulled on the on-ramp, he asked again.

Inez didn’t budge.

To Seward, she looked like she was trying to pretend to fall asleep. What was it with women, Seward thought, that they could so easily devolve from perky-go-lucky to bitchy-go-cranky? Either way, she was going to have to tell him something. Whatever she told him, he’d decided that it would likely be a lie.

Shifting her weight a little, Inez asked, “When did you get your scar?”

“Scar?” He knew exactly what she was asking about, but he wanted her to be specific. He needed her to engage him in conversation, so he could read her responses. He was good at lie detecting. He had known she hadn’t been forthright with him from the start, but he hadn’t had this much fun in years. Fun, he thought, it all really comes down to fun. Am I so simple?

“The one behind your right ear that curves down your neck, how far does it extend?” She sat up, removing her feet from the dash.

“Her name was Julie Ryerson. She died in Albuquerque.” He paused to focus on the road. An eighteen-wheeler passed on the left disrupting the headwind just enough that he had to compensate to keep the van on the road. After it passed, Seward was able to pick up where he left the story.

“Julie was lovely. The kind of firecracker that could ignite the soul of the most calloused man.” Seward looked over at Inez, taking his eyes off the road to meet hers. “She was a lot like you.” He quickly resumed watching the road.

“Julie died for the cause. She was leading a protest of eighty concerned environmentalists who were trying to have a specific species of butterfly added to the endangered species list. The locals were not amused.”

“Why?” Inez asked, “Wouldn’t the preservation of a species help to create an eco-tourist destination?”

“Yes. It would have, but the habitat in which the species resided had already been turned into a series of mixed-use nature trails. The most profitable type of tourism was from off road bikes. The town hosted several motocross competitions every year, including the X-Games.”

“So, couldn’t a compromise work?”

“Compromise! Compromise, are you for real?” Seward had to ease up off the gas. He noticed that he was pushing his van a little too hard. “You just blew up a water bottling plant, and you want to talk about compromise?”

“Hey. I tried to compromise with them.” Inez was leaning forward in her seat one hand on the dash. “I had asked them to slow down, pump a little slower and allow more water from the spring to travel down river.”

“So you know how it is.”

“Yes, I fucking do.”

“Good. Now you know how Julie felt when the town wouldn’t budge. They didn’t want to see their tourism dry up just because some butterflies’ habitat needed to be protected. They saw their livelihoods in jeopardy.”

“What do you mean?”

“About what?”

“The stuff about protecting habitat jeopardizes livelihoods.”

Seward had her. He would now have to double check everything she had told him. She was no environmentalist, and she hadn’t taken classes from the University of Michigan in any scientific field. If she had, she’d have known the answer to her own question.

“Okay. Let me put it this way: The EPA, under the second Bush administration – that’s Bush Jr. – proposed adding the Polar Bear to the endangered species list even though the species’ numbers didn’t qualify its addition.” Seward let out a long sigh. “These are the issues that get my blood fired up, sorry. Anyway, the proposal was denied. Any guesses why?”

“No.” Inez shrugged her shoulders. “You just said there were plenty of them running around.”

“True. However, the proposal predicted that the Polar Bear’s numbers would drop significantly in just a few years because their habitat was fragmenting too quickly for the species to adapt.”

“Do you know what happens when a species is added to the endangered species list?” Seward asked.

“Sure. We protect it.”

“Yes, we do protect it, but when a species is added to the endangered species list, we go further – we attempt to help it recover.”

Inez butted in, “How?”

“We have to protect the species’ habitat. The only way to ensure the protection of a species is to protect its habitat.”

“So we protect its habitat. What’s the big deal?”

“Where do Polar Bears live?”

“The North Pole.”

“Correct. So?”

Inez was slow to answer, “We’d have to protect the North Pole.”

“Yes, which would mean we’d have to find a way to slow the retraction of polar sea ice, which, in turn, would mean we would have to do something about anthropomorphic climate change.”

“I thought we were talking about Polar Bears?” Inez asked.

“We are. In order to protect the Polar Bear, we would need to solve climate change, because climate change is fragmenting the Polar Bear’s habitat, and we can’t help the Polar Bear if we can’t preserve its habitat – its ecosystem.”

Confused, Inez asked, “Weren’t we talking about Julie and your scar?”

“No.” Seward said, sternly. “I wanted to know who you were yelling at on the phone back at the gas station.”

* * *

Seward pulled the van over onto the side of the road. Without looking at Inez, he turned off the van’s engine. From under this seat, he pulled a gun and pointed it at Inez’s chest. The gun was small, sliver, and loaded. To prove that he was serious, he pointed the gun at the roof and fired. The small gun snapped like a cap gun the kids in the neighborhood played with on summer afternoons. Unlike the plastic replicas, his gun put a small hole in the roof.

Pointing the gun back at Inez’s chest, “I’m only going to ask each question once.” He was calm. He’d been in situations like this one before. Still, his outstretched arm with the gun quivered slightly. Smiling, he relaxed further by lowering the gun, but he kept it aimed, his finger on the trigger.

Inez sat very still. Her hands were open and rested on her lap. “If you look in my bag, you’ll find your answers.”

At hearing her confession, Seward didn’t hesitate. He fired a killing shot.

* * *

Seward replaced the small gun under his seat. Before moving, he watched traffic on 35 slide by his van. He took a couple of deep breaths and steadied himself. He asked the silence, “How many people have I killed over the years? How many people have I had to become?”

No answer.

He got out of the van. He needed to work quickly. No telling how long before someone would pull over to help or worse. Highway Patrol would be by soon, and he didn’t want to be on the side of the road.

Opening the passenger door, the pool of blood that had accumulated dripped on to the asphalt. Seward pulled Inez out and dumped her body over the highway embankment. Inez’s body rolled slowly and came to a halt at the bottom.

Seward pulled cleaning equipment out of the back and started to scrub the passenger’s seat. The blood wasn’t easy to sop up, but he made short work of the seat and floor mat. What a waste, he thought. Inez had been a pretty girl. He’d hoped that she was legit. The reservations he’d made for exiting the US were real, and now he’d exit alone.

Back in the driver’s seat, he started the van. He pulled out from the shoulder and made his way to the next major highway. He could have taken 35 most of the way, but that wouldn’t have been smart. Instead, he chose to take 90 West, knowing that he’d have to double back eventually.

While he drove, he pulled an envelope from under the dash near the steering column. Opening it, he dumped a pile of passports onto his lap. “I’m not going back to prison. I’m not going back.” He picked one: Rupert Earlson, Henderson, MN. He thought about Rupert for a while. What types of things did Rupert like? What did Mr. Earlson do for a living?

One thing was for sure, Rupert Earlson wasn’t a bike mechanic. He needed to unload the bikes and trade in his van for something sportier. Rupert was a poor teacher of English that wanted to see the world before he died of AIDS/HIV. In order to make his dreams of seeing the world come true, he’d signed on to teach in foreign countries. His first stop was Peru, but he planned to hit Korea, China, and Japan.

Before Seward could become Rupert Earlson, he’d need to clean up a few loose ends that Daniel Emmett Seward had created. As much as he cared about his bike shop and the community that he’d lived in for the last several years, it was his connection to Al that gave him the most reason to pause. The only way that the Feds could have found him was to go through Al. Al was the only person who knew his true identity. Before he could become the traveling English teacher, he’d have to take care of Al.

Seward new that if what Inez had told him about Al was true, and he believed her, he’d find him in a hospital. Al was a sickly fellow and if anyone was going to die of cancer at an early age, it was going to be him. Seward pounded his hands on the steering wheel. Al was the only one who knew all of his aliases. Seward would just have to hope that on his deathbed, Al had forgotten a couple of them.

“Ah! The life of an eco-terrorist,” Seward said over the hum of his van. “You blow a couple of buildings up and kill a few people, and the government won’t rest until you’re behind bars or dead. However, if you’re a multi-billion dollar industry that pollutes the air and the water, killing thousands, the government gives you a tax break for creating jobs.” Frustrated, he punched the van’s steering wheel three times. On the third, he accidently sounded the van’s horn.

What made him truly angry wasn’t having to kill Inez, but was that he’d changed personas so many times since leaving prison that he didn’t remember his real name. Up until this moment, he had been Daniel Emmett Seward and had been his entire life. His immersion into Seward’s life had been so perfect that he had started to even fool himself, but killing Inez—that brought back memories.

Arphallo waited in the rain, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat and still numbed by the cold. He watched the street, but had no idea what he was looking for. Arphallo considered calling Sam to ask for a description, but decided against it. In the rainy gray evening, everyone looked pretty much the same, anyway; all dressed in long coats and faces hidden under black umbrellas like a crop of dark mushrooms.

One  [read more →]]]> Episode V

Erica Lindquist & Aron Christensen

Arphallo waited in the rain, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat and still numbed by the cold. He watched the street, but had no idea what he was looking for. Arphallo considered calling Sam to ask for a description, but decided against it. In the rainy gray evening, everyone looked pretty much the same, anyway; all dressed in long coats and faces hidden under black umbrellas like a crop of dark mushrooms.

One woman stood out from the colorless crowd. The coat she wore was bright red and she carried no umbrella. Rain beaded in her curly golden hair. She saw Arphallo watching and wove her way through the evening pack of bodies towards him. The woman in red smiled and extended her hand.

“You must be Arphallo Sirus,” she said. “Thanks for waiting. Am I late?”

Arphallo checked his watch. “Only by a few minutes, but the restaurant is running a little behind.”

“I’m Lily Davis,” she introduced herself.

Her hand was still extended. Arphallo took hesitantly. What was he supposed to do? Shake it? Kiss it? He should never have let Sam talk him into a blind date. Arphallo settled on a brief handshake. Lily’s smile faltered.

“Well, why don’t we go inside?” she asked, gesturing to the doors behind him.

“Yeah, sure.”

Arphallo held open the door, glass lettered in gold leaf. He followed Lily inside and gave Sam’s name to a smartly dressed maitre’d. A waitress seated them under a wrought-iron arch strung with pale blue lights.

“Sam says he works with you,” Lily said. She shrugged out of her red coat and Arphallo cursed himself for not thinking to take it for her. The sequined dress beneath glittered, like the rain in her hair.

“Oh… yes,” Arphallo answered almost too late. “Sam’s my partner.”

“I know. I was just trying to get us started.” Lily’s smile was back, certain and bright. Her lipstick was the same red as her coat. “Sam talks about you all the time.”

“Really? What… what does he say?” Arphallo could not imagine the stoic Sam speaking at length on any subject. Much less about Arphallo, who had so little in the way of a social life that Sam had taken it upon himself to set his partner up on a blind date.

Lily laughed. “A lot of glowing praise that I hope to verify in person,” she said. “Sam tells me that you’re an exorcist. One of the best he’s ever met, himself included.”

“Really?” Arphallo asked.

“More or less.” Lily looked over her menu at Arphallo and winked. “Sam was an exorcist back in his day, but he can’t practice anymore. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it is,” Arphallo said. “Really? You know about that? Most people don’t realize that after exorcists die, they can’t make the spells work anymore.”

“I have a little experience,” Lily told him. “I was never an exorcist, but I’m a legal secretary. Dark law has always held a certain fascination.”

“I guess that’s why Sam set us up.” Arphallo glanced over the menu. Everything looked about the same; tasty, but overpriced and underportioned.

“Actually, I don’t think so.”

Lily put down her menu. As if summoned, a waiter appeared to take their order and then vanished just as discretely.

“What do you mean?” asked Arphallo when the waiter had disappeared into the soft, private shadows of the restaurant.

“Sam also says that there’s not much in your life besides the work,” Lily said. “He told me that you work about seventy hours a week.”

“It’s not that much.” Arphallo realized he sounded defensive. Why? There was nothing wrong with being dedicated to the job. “Just when there’s a rough case.”

“All of your cases are pretty rough, to hear Sam tell it.” Lily held up a slim hand to forestall Arphallo’s argument. “Don’t you want to know why Sam did set up this date?”

“Yeah,” Arphallo answered uncertainly. “I guess so.”

“Because I’m fun.” Lily said it with that bright smile.

Her blonde curls lay across her pale shoulders and seemed to caress her skin. Arphallo swallowed hard and told himself to focus. Seven years without a date had frayed anything like skill. He was staring at Lily and had to force himself to look up as the waiter reappeared with two glasses of wine.

“Thanks,” Lily told the waiter, who inclined his head and left them alone again.

“Legal secretary doesn’t sound like the most entertaining job. What do you do for fun?” Arphallo asked. He was a little proud of the question. Lily wasn’t going to have him on his heels all night.

“Everything. I love dancing, skydiving, rock-climbing, riding horses and writing. I’ve published a few stories,” Lily said between sips of dark red wine. “I’ve even been known to go skateboarding on the odd weekend, when I can get a host willing to let me risk an ankle.”

Arphallo had just taken a drink of his own wine and very nearly spat it back out. “What?” he asked, breathless. “A… a host? You’re dead?”

Lily opened her mouth – her puppet’s mouth – and closed it again before she could answer. “Sam didn’t tell you?”

“No. He didn’t.”

Lily lifted her chin and looked at Arphallo for a long moment. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He felt like a suspect under interrogation.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I was just… just a little surprised. I don’t know why Sam didn’t warn me.”

“Warn you? Maybe he knew that you would react like this.” Lily sat back and tapped a fingernail on her wineglass. The crystal rang softly. “What’s wrong, Arphallo? A ghost can be a case, but not a date?”

“No! That’s not… not…”

“It’s okay,” Lily said. She actually sounded as if she meant it. “You’re young, Arphallo. You’ve never dated a dead woman before, have you?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m young? How old are you?”

“Does it matter?” Lily arched one of her blonde eyebrows at Arphallo. “What does age really mean, anyway? How old was I when I died? That has no bearing on how old I am now.”

“Doesn’t it?” Arphallo asked. “A psychology study showed lower ability to adapt to societal changes among ghosts.”

“I read that article,” Lily said. Her tone was challenging, but not angry. “It compared thirty-year-old living men and women to ghosts who had been dead for thirty years. It was a bad sampling.”

“What? How? They couldn’t very well compare the recently dead. They died in effectively the same time period as the study. They don’t have anything to adjust to yet.”

“Ah, but they didn’t take into account the age at which the ghosts died,” Lily said. She paused as their waiter brought steaming plates of pasta and a basket of dark bread. She inhaled the scent of the food, but did not yet touch it. “A full half of those ghosts questioned were over sixty at the time of death.”

Arphallo unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap as he thought. “Okay, I think I see your point. Even the living over the age of sixty lose a lot of psychological adaptability. They may just be retaining that in death, rather than being the result of being a ghost.”

“Exactly.” Lily punctuated her agreement with a swish of her fork. She took a bite of the pasta, covered in a creamy sauce and sprinkled with dried tomatoes. “Delicious.”

“I’m guessing you weren’t that old when you passed,” Arphallo guessed. “You seem pretty well adjusted.”

“Maybe.” Lily’s eyes were mischievous. “Or else I didn’t die long ago.”

Arphallo considered that and then shook his head. “I doubt it. The first year after death is a dangerous time with ghosts. They’re afraid of the Dark and they want to be alive. Desperate to return to the Light. That’s when they’re most likely to break laws, make bad contracts or even take unwilling hosts.”

“You don’t think I’m the type?” Lily asked.

“Not really, no,” said Arphallo. He twirled his fork in his clam linguine. “You don’t seem dangerous.”

“Is that all? I might be a very good actor.”

Arphallo smiled at her across the table. “If you were skinriding an unwilling host, you probably couldn’t taste that pasta. You would be fighting with the puppet’s spirit and wouldn’t settle into the body.”

Lily put down her wine glass and cocked her head curiously at Arphallo. “Really? I thought the native soul wasn’t aware of anything that happened while they were hosting.”

“They aren’t,” said Arphallo. “But free will is a powerful thing. If the soul is unwilling, it fights, even unconsciously. It will keep trying to throw off the controlling ghost.”

“I hadn’t heard that. I had heard, however, that some hosts remain conscious through the experience.”

“It’s rare – very, very rare – but it happens. I read about it in college, but I’ve never actually seen it happen,” Arphallo told her. “Besides, I can’t imagine Sam sending me on a blind date with a crazy ghost.”

“Probably not,” Lily said with a small laugh. “Sam thinks a lot of you, and that’s saying something. Sam’s a hard man to impress.”

“Do you two know each other well?” asked Arphallo.

Lily twirled her fingers in a circle. “Sort of. We met in the Dark and he never talked much about his life. He never asked me much about mine, either.”

“And yet he sets us up on a date?” Arphallo suddenly thought of something. “Wait, you… you are a woman, aren’t you? You’re not just skinriding one?”

Lily blinked, then smiled at him. “Yes, I’m really a woman. Not, I maintain, that it matters. But yes, I’m female.”

“Oh, good,” Arphallo said, relieved. “I’ve just… Never mind.”

“I know Sam picked the restaurant – and it’s good – but this place is a little tame.” Lily pushed her plate out of the way and leaned across the table, speaking quietly and conspiratorially. “There’s a great bar just a few blocks away.”

“A bar?”

“And I believe it’s karaoke night. What do you think?”

“Um…” Arphallo stammered. “I can’t sing…”

“So?” Lily asked, now grinning. “I have no idea if this body can, either. But it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”

“I guess. I really can’t sing, though.”

“That means you’ve tried,” Lily said slyly. “I can’t wait to hear the story, and then the song.”

Saving him from having to answer her, Arphallo’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the message and jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he told Lily. “That was Sam. I need to get back to the station.”

He fumbled for his wallet, trying to quickly figure out how much he needed to leave to cover everything, but Lily shook her head.

“I’ll get it,” she said. “You can take care of it next time.”

“There’s going to be a next time?” Arphallo asked.

Lily gave him a wink. “Say hello to Sam for me. And tell him thanks for setting up the date.”

“I will,” Arphallo promised.

For three evenings he’d watched and waited, following her nightly trek through the back alleys between her place of employment and her home. Even when weariness sucked at her steps like mud-filled puddles, she was enchanting. Tonight, he would have her.

He paused in the middle of the alley, waiting for that perfect moment. The feeble light cast by the broken lamps did not reach him in the corner between two buildings. It did not  [read more →]]]> Sharon T. Rose

For three evenings he’d watched and waited, following her nightly trek through the back alleys between her place of employment and her home. Even when weariness sucked at her steps like mud-filled puddles, she was enchanting. Tonight, he would have her.

He paused in the middle of the alley, waiting for that perfect moment. The feeble light cast by the broken lamps did not reach him in the corner between two buildings. It did not illuminate his rising anticipation. When she took her last step, he left the shadows behind.

These streets and byways were his playground, his courtyard, his hunting ground. He knew them better than those who’d been born and raised on them, though he had been here far less time. His knowledge, and their lack of it, made finely crafted moments such as this one possible.

He gave her nearly half a second to register his presence before he reached for her, tenderly bringing her into his embrace. She began to scream, to struggle, to understand that she must fight. She ought to have known. He had been here long enough, had fed often enough, to catch the limited attention of this city’s inhabitants. Subtlety, he had learned, ruined the feeding.

Her mouth opened, her eyes widened with instinctive terror. He nuzzled her neck, gently burying his teeth into her soft, fragrant skin. Her blood, spiked with the first dash of fear, flowed into his mouth. He drank greedily, savoring the build of endorphins that flavored her and the rush of hormones that deepened her taste. As life slipped from her to him, he adjusted his arms, cradling her tenderly. The bouquet was intoxicating, making his head spin for a moment.

He finished quickly, yet without haste, not losing a single drop of her. He always gave prey enough time to build a delicious panic, but not so much that their blood turned sour with too many chemicals. This was the only subtlety he appreciated or sought; the delicate balance of flavors found in a mouthful carefully prepared. The prey so often devoured their brackish food, never appreciating it. He appreciated every meal.

He laid her on the pavement, stroking her shining hair into place and caressing her pale, thin lips. He made certain her clothes were neat and straight. Other prey would find her in the morning, and their fear would season his next banquet. Running his tongue around the inside of his mouth as he stood, he savored the last echoes of her. Sated for the night, he turned to leave the alley.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned to glance back, and his chest tightened. His gut lurched as his feet rooted to the pavement. In the place he had just stood by her side, was a shape he had seen only once before in his long existence. He remembered that night, when his once-eternal companion had bolted, only to fall before it. He could never return to that distant place, even after so much time.

There was no grace in its form, no elegance to its movements. It wafted without advancing, defining and defying the lamplight. The sight of it leached the pleasure he’d just had out of him and left him shaking. It did not reach for him, yet he could feel its tendrils wrapping around him. Though it remained in place, it nibbled on his essence. With no direct contact, it stroked old wounds of loss and helplessness.

He fled knowing that he could outrun neither death nor memory. The shadow reached after him, swallowing him before he reached the end of the alley. The echoes of his anguish drifted into the night, settling like dust on the cobwebs of imagination.

On the pavement, the young woman stirred and opened her eyes. She ran her tongue over her full, red lips, smiled in contentment, and rose to her feet. As she strode forward, long shadows flickered on the pavement behind her.

Sharon Rose grew up in the military, which did its level best to turn her into a highly trained and functional contributor to Society. Being of the independent sort, Sharon rebelled and ran away to live under a rock, where she still resides. After frittering away some years with college degrees and corporate jobs in an attempt to amuse herself, she finally overthrew the last vestiges of her upbringing and became a Writer. Having attained this exalted state, she nevertheless persists in seeking new forms of diversion, primarily by reading online comics, weblit, spamming her various social feeds, and ignoring responsibilities. Sharon write serial fiction and posts it online three times weekly. To participate in her lifestyle of choice, please utilize the following resources: 

http://lilyfields.digitalnovelists.com

http://rosesinkwell.wordpress.com

http://www.twitter.com/sharontherose

Dan sat in his car, idling behind a MBTA bus, doing his best to remain calm. He hated traffic. Mystic Ave was jammed. It was late, past eleven, but there was construction  [read more →]]]> John Patrick Tormey

John Patrick Tormey  graduated from the Boston University Creative Writing Program in 2009. He currently works as a track laborer for the Mass. Bay Commuter Rail. He lives in Quincy, MA with his wife, two year old son, a dog and a cat.

Dan sat in his car, idling behind a MBTA bus, doing his best to remain calm. He hated traffic. Mystic Ave was jammed. It was late, past eleven, but there was construction up ahead. Cones, police details, trucks, back-hoes, men bent over jackhammers. His hands rested on top of the steering wheel. He inspected his knuckles. The skin was covered in small cuts, left there by the teeth of the owner of a Brazilian steakhouse near Davis Square. The owner didn’t believe, even in these uncertain times, that paying for protection was a sound investment. Dan flexed his hands and winced. There was a buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen to life. It was Meghan.

“Hey,” she said. “You busy?”

“Not at the moment. What’s up?”

“I really can’t talk right now. Where are you?”

“Medford. On my way home.”

“From work?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing in Medford?”

“Meg…”

“Sorry. I need your help with something. Can you come by the club? It’s on your way home.”

“What’s this about?”

“Jesus, Danny. I need your help, okay?”

It was not okay. Dan was tired, sore, and covered in dried sweat. He wanted to go home, take a shower, and fall into bed. “I’ll get there when I get there,” he said, and hung up.

He then called his wife, told her he needed to stop and see Meg about something. His wife laughed and told him not to stay too long; she’d be waiting up. Dan chuckled, said goodbye and hung up. The rear-lights of the bus disappeared. Breaks squealed as they released. Traffic began to move.

On a normal night, the ride from Medford to Brockton lasted forty-five minutes. Because of an accident at the 24/95 split, it took Dan a full hour and fifteen minutes before reaching the exit. Across the street from a Burger King and a package store, there was a large auto-repair garage. Behind that was the Puma Lounge. It was as tall and wide as the garage, fronted with dark glass. The parking lot was half-full with trucks, shiny black cars, and a line of motorcycles near the front doors. Closing time was another hour away. Dan found a spot in the back. He called Meghan and got her voicemail twice before she answered.

“What took so long?” she said.

“I’m outside.”

“Two minutes.”

Dan watched the doors. Three drunk boys in their early twenties stumbled into the lot drunk and laughing. They got into a dented, old Toyota and drove away. Then came a couple about five years older than the boys. They held hands and smiled at each other, faces flushed, eyes wide with excitement. They got into a small SUV parked in the space behind Dan. He was watching them through the frame of his rearview mirror when two knocks came at the passenger seat window, and there was Meghan’s face, framed in a bob of black hair, peering through a hand cupped against the glass. Dan pressed the button to unlock the door, and she got in. She was wearing a thick black parka that ended mid-thigh. She wore sheer black panty-hose and tall heels. Her face was painted with glossy make-up around her eyes and across her lips. She brought a thick, but not unpleasant, dose of perfume into his car. She leaned over the console and pecked a kiss on Dan’s cheek. She placed a cigarette between her teeth and lit it.

“Hey,” she said.

“How’s it going?” Dan opened her window a crack.

“OK. How’re you?”

“Feeling old.”

“What happened to your hands?”

“It’s late, kid. What’s the problem?”

“One of the customers.” Meghan ditched the cigarette through the window.

“Aren’t there bouncers for that?”

“Not for these guys.” Meghan looked Dan in the eyes for the first time since getting into his car. She was angry. “See the bikes?”

Dan counted them. Five Victories. “And who might the owners be?”

“Young Turks? I never heard of them either. I guess they just opened a clubhouse over in Avon. They showed up a couple months ago, carved out a spot near the back of the club. No trouble or anything. Other customers just avoid them.”

“What, they dealing to the girls?”

“The owner, too. But it’s not my business, so what do I care? I come in, I work my shift, I go home.”

“But…”

“A few weeks ago one of the younger bikers starts fucking one of the new girls. It turns into a regular thing, and she can’t stop yappin’ about him, blah, blah. Then last week, she comes into the dressing room, starts telling us about this deal her boyfriend wants to let us in on. We all chip in a cut of our take every night. ‘Only 15%’ she tells us, and we get free use of what they bring in to sell each night. ‘It’s just easier this way, but we all have to go in on it,’ the little bitch says. Can you imagine?”

“So you told her to get lost?”

“I didn’t think I had to. This Jamaican girl tells her, ‘I get me own shit,’ and walked out. I figured it got dropped. Except tonight, the Jamaican girl calls me. From Brockton Hospital.”

Dan closed his eyes. He lived on a quiet, wooded street in Easton with his wife. There was a working fire place in the living room. He wanted to lie down in front of it.

“Danny.” Meghan’s voice was softer. She touched his arm. “Would I call if it was something I could handle on my own? I can’t miss work. Devon just started private school. It’s fucking expensive. I can handle it, don’t get me wrong, but not if I have to pay 15% of my money to these assholes, and definitely not if I have miss work cause they kick the shit out of me and put me in the hospital.”

“I can give you the money.”

“I haven’t taken your money since I was nineteen years old. I appreciate the offer, you know I do, but that’s not what I’m asking you. I am not paying these guys my money.” She squeezed his arm. “And I need you to tell them that.”

“Meg…”

She let him go. “Danny, when’s the last time I asked you for help?”

* * *

Meghan was six when she called Dan at his apartment in Jamaica Plain and asked him to kill their father. Not his mother, not his older brother Joe, or his older sister Anne Marie. It was Meghan who told him about Doreen; how she had been admitted to Boston City Hospital with a concussion and shards of ceramic embedded in her forehead.

“Daddy hit her with a coffee mug, Danny.”

As a kid, Dan made his share of visits to the doctor for stitches and casts. Then he got too big. He wasn’t worth the trouble. It went the same for the others. But Doreen? Eight years old and she still wet the bed. She couldn’t read much beyond her name. She drew crude pictures of birds all day long at Sisters of Mercy School for the Disabled. The only thing Doreen loved more than her mother and her baby sister were birds. She was a sweet kid. But she wet the bed; she dropped a plate or a glass sometimes. It was as if God had painted a big, fat bull’s-eye on her forehead that only their father could see.

Dan waited at the house all the next day for his old man to come home from his job in the lumber yard at Grossmans before his nightly trip to the pub. Dan wanted his father sober, aware of what was happening. He hadn’t been in the house since being kicked out the year before for his small part in a car theft ring. No charges were filed against him that time, but that didn’t matter. He was glad for the excuse to leave, just as he was glad for this excuse to return.

He brought a bat but ended up using his bare hands. As much as he pretended that it was about his little sister as he smashed his father’s head against the hallway floor, Dan wasn’t so righteous. He was thinking of all the punches, kicks, belt buckles, axe handles, and burning cigarettes he’d endured. He forgot all about Doreen and Meghan.

When he was done, he felt much better. Blood dripped from his hands as he walked out of the house. Meghan poked her head out of the living room as he was passing by. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t look scared. She smiled. She touched his arm. He gave her chin a little squeeze, leaving a smudge of red there with his thumb. “Owe you one,” he said for not fulfilling the promise he’d made and left the house. From inside the bathroom where Dan had locked her, his mother was screaming for someone to call the police. And someone did.

His old man was out of the hospital in a month. He applied for disability and got to retire. He didn’t touch the girls after that. No one ever called Dan about it again, no one except the cops who hauled him away. He was five years in Concord with the thieves, rapists, pushers, and cons. The vocation he learned in jail, using his hands to extract money from borrowers late on payments, became his life’s work. It wasn’t hard. If guilt or remorse came too close, he pictured Meghan’s face, the red thumbprint on her chin. The little girl didn’t know it, but because of her phone call, he was released. For that, Dan remained ever thankful.

* * *

Meghan led him into the club. In the anteroom she told the female cashier, “He’s with me,” but the bouncer, a thick muscled kid in a tuxedo, blocked them from entering the floor. The music was loud. Dan was hanging back and couldn’t hear what was being said, but the bouncer was shaking his head as Meghan spoke into his ear. That lasted until Meghan decided she was done. She gestured back at Dan and poked the bouncer in the chest with her finger, still talking into his ear. The kid stared at Dan a minute, made a decision, and moved aside.

They went onto the floor. It was a large room cast in a smoky, purple light, an effective tool for deepening shadows and hiding the imperfections of naked flesh. To the left was the main stage. Two dancers worked for tips on opposite ends. About half the chairs rimming it were occupied by patrons. In front of them were tables, two to six chairs a piece. Waitresses slipped between those with paying customers while balancing trays heavy with bottles high above their heads. The dancers roved between them too, though some were seated, sipping drinks, smiling at whomever was buying. A few of them were performing lap dances. The bar was to the right. A wall of distorted mirrors, wide as the bar, extended from the floor behind the cash registers and bottles to the ceiling.

Dan put his mouth close to his sister’s ear. “In back of that?”

Meg nodded. “There’s another room, more tables.”

“How many?”

“You counted the bikes. Five. There’s one who is way older than the others. He’s the one in charge, I guess.”

They rounded the bar into the back room. There were more dancers and waitresses, but all the attention was devoted to the rear-most tables where the bikers sat with girls on lap and drinks in hand. All but one—the old man. His long, black hair was salted with gray streaks and tied in a ponytail; the sleeves of his Victory brand t-shirt cut off to reveal thick, sinewy arms, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, hands rested on his gut, cowboy boots propped up on an empty chair. Dan guessed that he and the biker were two years apart in age, one way or the other. He waited for the biker to notice Meghan was standing behind this guy in a black jacket, black dress shirt, blue jeans, and scuffed black shoes. A guy with sloping shoulders, bald head, gray moustache and goatee clipped neat, scar under the left eye and an expression of weary aggravation on his face. Once the older biker had taken it all in, it was time to go.

“Wait here.”

“But what are you…”

Dan moved quickly, and Meghan’s words were lost in the music. When they let him get so close without reacting, he knew this was not going to be too hard. Dan was almost to the table where the older man sat before the young men sprang into action. The two sitting at the table to his right came first. The kid closest pushed the dancer out of his lap, stood up in a hurry, and approached Dan off balance. Dan, hoping to spare his battered knuckles, kicked the kid in the balls. He pulled his 9mm from the waist of his jeans and smashed the butt of the handle into the kid’s nose.

The other one was still trying to get up, but Dan was too fast. He was a professional, and feeling like one, the trepidation from before vanished as he got to work. These guys considered themselves qualified. No one had informed them otherwise, yet. Dan pushed the dancer into the rising young biker, toppling both to the floor. Two short steps and he was sticking the muzzle of the 9mm into the old man’s mouth. He stared down the two on his left as each was drawing a piece, and said, “Toss them on the floor and sit down, please, gentlemen. This won’t take long.”

They hesitated a second, exchanged a glance, and dropped the guns to the floor and returned to their seats.

Dan told the other two to do the same. He then addressed the frightened club workers. “Give us a minute if you would, ladies, but quietly, please.” After the dancers and waitresses did as he asked and the back room was vacated, Dan focused on the man with the gun in his mouth. He plucked the sunglasses from the man’s face and revealed frantic, terrified eyes. Pretenders, just as he suspected. Dan grinned.

Meghan was safe and she could keep all her money. Soon he would be stretched out in front of the fire. Dan cleared his throat. He wanted no misunderstandings. He kicked the cowboy boots off the chair just to make sure the old biker was paying attention.

“You and me? We need to talk.”