I’m no saint. I’m certainly no prude. I’ve been visiting cat houses—what the old timers call notch joints back in the States—since I was a teenager and Sig owned a few houses back in our Coney Island days. The professional ladies of pleasure know what they’re doing, and sometimes, on my loneliest nights in my dangerous life, when I miss Sophie so much I’m dizzy with longing, it takes a professional to do what needs doing. And I have a soft spot for the ladies. They and I have something in common: we make our living outside the Law, because the Law dealt both of us rigged hands. The Law says I’m a criminal just because I romance women. And the Law says it’s a crime for the ladies to decide what to do with their own flesh and bones.
I can’t kid myself, though. I know that “the life” can be risky. It’s not unusual for a Lady of Pleasure to have the “pleasure” beaten out of her by rough trade or a vicious pimp who gets his kicks by using her as a slave. The only freedom she can hope for is to grow old, discarded, and die. The idea that Sophie, my Sophie, is caught in such a life scares me to death.
And then there’s the filthy horror that sends its stench through all those other horrors, a scenario twisting me up so bad I can barely breathe: the thought of Sophie pawed over by sweaty tourists and needy locals not only breaks my heart, it makes me sick.
Sure, add hypocrite to my list of sins.
I soothe myself a little by believing that whoever took her would realize Sophie is a class act and would stow her in one of the town’s fancier, ultra-discreet joints catering to the island’s secretive aristocrats and moneyed clientele, the kind of places where the women aren’t batted around, and even protected from violent clients.
It’s been a long time since I was last in Havana and availed myself of its erotic pleasures. Considering the current power shifts in the local underworld, and those gang wars Lansky and Nilo talked about, the Who’s Who of the cat houses is probably not the same Who’s Who I dealt with ten years ago. As far as I know, nobody in the fancier fleshpots owes me any favors, and without an invitation from a regular client or someone else well connected, I can’t get into those joints, and I don’t even know where they are. I can’t get information about those places without help. But until that help comes, I’m on my own, with nowhere to look but the back rooms of bars, the fleabag hotels, and the streets.
Havana, 1952, a city throbbing with pleasure and danger, where the Mob peddles glamor to the tourists and there’s plenty of sex for sale. In the swanky hotels and casinos, and the steamy, secretive Red Light district of the Colón, Cantor Gold, dapper art thief and smuggler, searches the streets and brothels for her kidnapped love, Sophie de la Luna y Sol. Cantor races against time while trying to out run the deadly schemes of American mobsters and the gunsights of murderous local gangs.
Learn more about award-winning author, Ann Aptaker:
Native New Yorker Ann Aptaker has earned a reputation as a respected if cheeky exhibition designer and curator of art during her career in museums and galleries. Taking the approach that what art authorities find uncomfortable the public would likely enjoy, exhibitions Ann has curated have garnered favorable reviews in the New York Times, Art in America, American Art Review, and other publications.
She brings the same attitude and philosophy to her first love: writing, especially a tangy variety of historical crime fiction. Ann’s short stories have appeared in two editions (2003 and 2004) of the noir crime anthology Fedora. Her flash fiction story, “A Night In Town,” appeared in the online zine Punk Soul Poet. In addition to curating and designing art exhibitions and writing crime stories, Ann is also an art writer and an adjunct professor of art history at the New York Institute of Technology. (Publisher).
Felix caught up to Pope when he had to stop to unlock the door. He stepped inside and stopped, turning back to Felix, still frowning.
“What? Go back to the gym and hit Doctor Brian Swenson up for a date, Felix. It’s clear the man is insanely in love with you. He wants you big time. We can be partners at work but dating you was a mistake. I see that now. What could you ever have seen in me if you were dating guys like that before meeting me?” Without waiting for an answer, he started to close the front door.
Felix did the only thing he could do and stuck out his foot to stop it. “Wait, idiot! I told you I needed to talk to you so why won’t you let me say anything?”
Pope yanked the door back open and stared at him, his face a mask of utter misery. “Sorry. What?”
“Let me in.”
Pope dropped his gym bag and crossed his arms, blocking the door with his body and staring at him. “Say what you have to say from there. I’m not letting you in.”
Felix ground his teeth. He wanted to punch Pope right in the nose but he couldn’t get his point across if his lover was unconscious.
“You are the man I want, Pope. I’ve told you that before. I want you to live with me. If I wanted Brian Swenson, I would have Brian Swenson, but the man isn’t the kind of guy I want.”
Pope sneered. “Ha! That’s a laugh. Who doesn’t want a brilliant millionaire with a rockin’ body and brain? Huh?”
“Me. It seems I want a grouchy, infuriating, sharp-tonged idiot who doesn’t have a clue how beautiful or sexy he is.”
Pope’s gaze flicked over Felix’s form and then returned to his eyes.
“I’m old and broken and…”
“Asshole!” Felix shoved his way into the apartment, cutting Pope off as he stepped into his personal space and slammed the door behind him. Pope stumbled backward, hitting the wall dividing the entry and the living room. Felix watched him reach back to plant the palms of his hands on either side of himself to stay standing. He braced himself as Felix advanced on him.
“What are you doing?” Pope growled as Felix grabbed the hem of his white T-shirt and ripped it open in one long tear all the way to the neckline. When Pope’s defined six-pack abs were revealed, Felix instantly slid the palms of both hands up the expanse of his stomach and chest.
“If you have to ask that, I’m doing this all wrong.” He bent his head and immediately took one of his nipples into his mouth, biting the nub.
“Jesus!” Pope exclaimed, instantly sinking the fingers of both hands into his hair as he held Felix’s head to his chest. The groan that rumbled out of him vibrated against Felix’s lips as he sucked and laved the hard nub was sexy as hell. He moved to Pope’s second nipple and gave it the same treatment as Pope moaned. He looked up and the sight of Pope’s head thrown back to lean against the wall, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his mouth open as his breath came in gasps was a sight to see. He pulled his mouth away and slid down to his knees, reaching for the elastic waistband of Pope’s shorts and pulling them down along with him.
Homeland Security investigators Felix Jbarra and Pope Dades are about to work their first big case as partners. Someone is creating counterfeit government documents and selling them through a site similar to the old Silk Road which was shut down years ago. As they dive into the case with the help of their friends at the FBI and LAPD, Felix and Pope realize the Dark Web site is selling more than documents. It’s selling death.
When a man connected with the website turns up murdered, it’s all hands on deck and with so many letter agencies involved in this case, coordinating all parties is bound to be a challenge. When yet another agency unexpectedly gets involved, their bosses would find it laughable if it wasn’t so damned dangerous.
Felix and Pope are getting used to being partners but they are well-trained professionals who must learn to trust each other at work as well as at home. When a bomb almost kills them, they have no choice but to shorten that learning curve. From the mean streets of Hollywood to unfamiliar places on the Dark Net, our heroes put themselves in danger every moment, trying their best to protect innocents while keeping each other alive.
International bestselling author Patricia Logan, resides in Los Angeles, California. The author of several #1 bestselling erotic romances in English, Italian, French, and Spanish lives in a small house with a large family. When she’s not writing her next thriller romance, she’s watching her grandchildren grow up way too soon, and raising kids who make her proud every day. One of her favorite tasks is coaxing nose kisses from cats who insist on flopping on her keyboard while she types. Married to a wonderful gentleman for 30 years, she counts herself lucky to be surrounded by people who love her and give her stories to tell every day.
The kid finally shoved by me and made his way through the aisles toward the door. Calvin saw the push and looked at me, but I shook my head and waved my hand in a shooing motion.
Calvin moved aside, watched the brat storm out, and then joined me. “Who was that?” he asked, leaning down briefly to remove Dillon’s leash.
He gave me an amused smile. “I see the inclination toward enjoying the company of our country’s youth skips a generation in your family.” He kissed me. “Why’d you call me here?”
“I like you.”
“You know how there’s no statute of limitation on murder?”
Calvin reached up to massage his temple. “It was my day off.”
“Look at this.” I tapped the Kinetoscope. “This is an Edison Kinetoscope.”
“Are we talking Thomas Edison?” Calvin crossed his arms, and his biceps flexed and bulged and… distracted.
“Uh—huh. Yeah. That’s the guy.” I looked at the cabinet. “But there was no contact information from the owner inside the crate. No documentation, letter—not even a postcard.”
“I’ve yet to see the correlation between a piece of furniture and murder.”
“It’s a movie viewer,” I corrected. “And—you’re absolutely certain it’s not for you?”
He gave me a critical look.
“Maybe someone sent you a really morbid birthday present?” I suggested. Not that I sincerely thought it was a gift, but Calvin did work homicide and he was going to be forty-three this Friday. And it had been established how susceptible the Emporium seemed to be to death and mayhem since the two of us met.
“No one would send me an Edison Kinetoscope. What is this about?”
I let out a heavy breath. “It came with a reel of film. It still works, Max and I watched it. It’s the final round of the Leonard-Cushing fight of 1894. It’s not supposed to exist, by all accounts.”
“And did Leonard kill Cushing?” Calvin asked dryly.
“No.” I paused for a beat. “Someone else died, though.”
“It’s a movie.”
“Not—no, the murder isn’t part of the film, Cal. Someone spliced two scenes together. It’s not staged or fake. A man actually died and someone recorded it.” I turned the Kinetoscope on and tugged Calvin close. “Watch it.”
With a sigh, he relaxed his arms and leaned over the peephole to watch the scene. I waited, anxiously studying Calvin’s body posture as the seconds ticked by. Louis Armstrong projected from the shop speakers, Max was chatting up customers, and Dillon wove around this and that across the showroom. When enough time had passed that Calvin would surely have reached the outdoor scene, I noticed his jaw tense. And that was the only reaction I needed to authenticate what I too had seen.
“So?” I asked, for the sake of nicety. Calvin straightened and looked at me. “It’s real, isn’t it?”
“I told you.”
“Don’t get carried away,” Calvin chastised. “We don’t know anything—when or where or—”
“Mid-1890s. It was filmed relatively close to the same period as the boxing match.”
“How can you tell?”
“The frame rates match, they were both shot with a Kinetograph camera, the film itself was precut—”
“All right,” Calvin interrupted, holding up a hand. “We still don’t even know where this occurred. It could be any city in America that had a camera in the 1800s.”
I looked at the Kinetoscope briefly. “It’s New York—the Flatiron site.”
Calvin narrowed his eyes.
“Before the Flatiron Building actually existed.”
He was quiet, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Sweetheart… how the hell do you know that?” Calvin asked in such a calm, polite tone, it was nearly comical.
“You can sort of see the triangle shape of Fifth Avenue and Broadway in the background,” I explained. “The illumination just out of frame—a man named Amos Eno owned the property until his death in 1899, and he used to project images from a magic lantern onto a canvas screen hung from a shorter building. It was used for advertisements, news bulletins, and even election results.”
Calvin didn’t say anything.
He put an arm around my shoulders, drew me close, and asked, “Anything else I should know?”
“The phrase ‘twenty-three skidoo’ likely originated from the Flatiron’s Twenty-Third Street location.”
“It’s a windy corner. It was suggested that men would stick around the Flatiron to watch women’s skirts get blown up so they could catch some hot ankle action.”
“Police would have to chase them away.”
“Hence, twenty-three skidoo,” I concluded.
Calvin smiled and lowered his arm.
“What’re we going to do about the—” I paused when a customer walked by us. “M-u-r-d-e-r?” I spelled out.
“No, not nothing,” I answered.
“That’s about all that can be done, Seb.”
“I know a thing or two about handling evidence in a homicide,” I pointed out. Not that I was a detective or had a degree in forensics, but my ex-partner, Neil Millett, worked for the Crime Scene Unit of the NYPD. Four years of “tell me about your day” had taught me some. Like for example, there were records kept on homicides, even in the 1800s. And if it was an unsolved crime, that evidence was to remain in police possession until the cold case was a closed case.
“You know a thing or two about most everything,” Calvin replied simply. “Which is why it makes it next to impossible to argue that you’re wrong.”
“This is one of those moments I’m not sure if you’re complimenting me or not.”
“Who’s to say this wasn’t solved a long time ago?” I stared at the Kinetoscope. Call it one of my hunches, but I suspected that wasn’t the case. Surely the evidence on film would have been used, even then, to catch the murderer. And after the crime was solved, it would have likely been destroyed by the police. Instead, over 120 years later, the footage was shipped to a moonlighting sleuth.
“But what if it wasn’t solved?” I countered.
Calvin crossed his arms again. “The oldest evidence I’ve heard of being held by homicide detectives only went back to 1909. And that was in the ’20s, before complaints of sanitary conditions and limited space were taken into consideration.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hi, I’m Calvin Winter,” he stated, reaching a hand out to shake mine. “I’ve been an officer of the NYPD for ten years.”
“I’m ignoring the sarcasm only because I’m incredibly turned on by you spouting random facts at me,” I answered.
Calvin smirked. “I’ll remember that.”
I looked around the Emporium, did a quick headcount of customers, and made sure Max wasn’t inundated at the counter, before saying to Calvin, “So there wouldn’t be a forgotten box somewhere in the Property Clerk’s Office?” I tried.
Calvin shook his head. “There’s very little, in terms of cold cases, prior to the 1990s.”
He shrugged. “A lot of reasons. Fires, auctions, improper storage and disposal… take your pick.”
“It feels wrong to not do something about it,” I said.
And thankfully Calvin agreed. “I know.”
“Maybe I’ll call the shipping company.”
“Hey, as far as I am concerned, I’m being held responsible for the condition of the Kinetoscope,” I said quickly. “I need to find the owner.”
“But that’s all,” Calvin answered with a touch of reluctance. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I echoed.
“If I get a call from an irate clerk at the property office this afternoon, we’re going to have words.”
Snow & Winter: Book Three
It’s summer in New York City, and antique shop owner Sebastian Snow is taking the next big step in his relationship with NYPD homicide detective, Calvin Winter: they’re moving in together. What should have been a wonderful week of playing house and celebrating Calvin’s birthday comes to an abrupt end when a mysterious package arrives at the Emporium.
Inside is a Thomas Edison Kinetoscope, a movie viewer from the nineteenth century, invented by the grandfather of modern cinema, W. K. L. Dickson. And along with it, footage of a murder that took place over a hundred years ago.
Sebastian resists the urge to start sleuthing, even if the culprit is long dead and there’s no apparent danger. But break-ins at the Emporium, a robbery, and dead bodies aren’t as easy to ignore, and Sebastian soon realizes that the century-old murder will lead him to a modern-day killer.
However, even with Sebastian’s vast knowledge of Victorian America and his unrelenting perseverance in the face of danger, this may be the one mystery he won’t survive.
Author C.S. Poe has graciously offered a chance for one member to WIN a FREE e-book copy of (your choice) in the Snow & Winter mystery series (in either mobi, Epub, or PDF format).
To enter the FREE drawing for Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Facebook group members only, send your name, email address to Jon Michaelsen via Facebook Messenger.
The Winner will be announced on Friday, October 5th @ 8pm EDT. Stay Tuned!
Learn more about author C.S. Poe and her amazing thrillers;
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and EPIC award finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books.
She is a reluctant mover and has called many places home in her lifetime. C.S. has lived in New York City, Key West, and Ibaraki, Japan, to
name a few. She misses the cleanliness, convenience, and limited-edition gachapon of Japan, but she was never very good at riding bikes to get around.
She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best on a daily basis to sidetrack her from work.
C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published by DSP Publications, 2016.
In the first chapter of Survival is a Dying Art, Angus Green’s friend Tom invites him to sit in on the meeting of a gay men’s book group.
“This is emblematic of the problems facing our generation,” another man said. He was a real estate agent with a big personality. “Many of us were shunned by our families when we came out. We didn’t have the opportunities younger people have to get educations and good-paying jobs, so we never made that much money while we worked. And then we lost so many of our friends and lovers to AIDS. Now we’re on our own without pensions or savings accounts or kids to look after us.”
There was a general assent among the men at the table, and I felt guilty about the opportunities my generation had because of the pioneering work these men, and others like them, had done.
“A lot has to do with how soon we came out,” another man said. He’d been introduced as Frank, and I had the sense that he and Tom were friends outside the book group. “I was too scared to come out when I was young, and I covered it up by working my ass off. I made money, yeah, but I never had the life I could have had.”
The doctor nodded. “I married my high school sweetheart because I couldn’t see any other path,” he said. “She worked to put me through college and medical school and gave me two wonderful children. For years I knew that I was gay, but I couldn’t abandon her after all she had done for me. It wasn’t until the kids were grown that I finally told her.”
I couldn’t imagine how painful that must have been for both him and his wife. “Fortunately, she understood, and I was able to keep my relationships with my sons, and now I’m loving being a grandfather. But I know a lot of other men in similar situations who’ve been shunned by their exes and their kids.”
The conversation wandered off onto tangents, and I was amazed at how many different paths these men had taken to get where they were. Tom insisted on paying for my meal, and then asked if I had a moment to speak with him and his friend Frank.
Frank ordered us glasses of Scotch from the bar, and the three of us moved over to stand at the railing overlooking the waterway. It had gotten dark by then, and the only boat moving was a small powerboat with Fort Lauderdale Police along the side and a big searchlight at the prow.
Frank was a couple of inches taller than I was, close to my boyfriend Lester’s height of six-foot-two but much skinnier. His gray hair was close-cropped and there were crow’s feet around his eyes, but I could see he’d been quite handsome when he was younger.
“I was surprised when Tom told me that you work for the FBI,” Frank began. “I wasn’t aware they’d lifted the rules against homosexuals in sensitive positions.”
“That happened long before I joined the Bureau,” I said. “Now there are gay men and women at the highest levels. Even so, I’m the only openly gay special agent in my office.” I took a sip of the Scotch, feeling the warmth on my tongue and the back of my palate. Smooth. “How can I help you?”
“I’m afraid someone might be trying to scam me, and while I don’t want to be taken advantage of, I do want to buy what he says he’s selling.”
“Slow down, Frank,” Tom said. “Go back to the beginning.”
Frank pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Okay. My family are Italian Jews. Centuries in Venice. Did you know that the word ghetto originated there? It means foundry, and the Jews were segregated in the neighborhood where the iron works were located.”
“Not quite that far back,” Tom said. “Start with your father and his brother.”
“Sorry.” Frank grinned sheepishly. “I get distracted by all the history. My father and my uncle were born in Venice right after the turn of the century. When he was in his twenties, my father came to the United States, but my uncle Ugo stayed in Venice. He was gay, and he had a lively group of friends, so he had no desire to leave.”
“Until the Nazis came,” I said.
“Until the Nazis came. And by then it was too late.”
We were all quiet for a moment. I imagined that being both gay and Jewish had made Frank’s uncle a prime target.
“A few months ago, I started looking around online to see what might have happened to the painting. I discovered that it had been confiscated by the Nazis, but then it disappeared. I put up a bunch of posts on art and auction sites asking for information, and eventually a man contacted me, saying that he knew where the painting was, and he could get it to me – for a fee.”
I nodded. “And you’re afraid he’s scamming you.”
“Exactly. I did my own research on him and I discovered that he owns a pawn shop in Fort Lauderdale. That made me concerned. I don’t want to be involved in anything shady, and the very fact that he runs an operation like that makes me distrust him.”’
I agreed to help, and we finished our Scotch as people partied on that fancy yacht moored below us. When it came to say goodbye, I kissed Tom’s cheek and hugged him, then shook Frank’s hand, but the two of them seemed unsure what they were supposed to do. I wondered about their relationship – just friends? Or did one of them want something more?
Whatever Tom and Frank wanted from each other, I hoped they could get it. And maybe by helping Frank track down his uncle’s painting, I could pay back Tom for the favors he’d done for me in the past.
Neil Plakcy has written or edited over three dozen novels and short stories in mystery, romance and erotica. To research the Angus Green series, he participated in the FBI’s sixteen-week citizen’s academy, practiced at a shooting range, and visited numerous gay bars in Fort Lauderdale. (Seriously, it was research.)
He is an assistant professor of English at Broward College in South Florida, and has been a construction manager, a computer game producer, and a web developer – all experiences he uses in his fiction. His website is www.mahubooks.com.
Devastation was all he felt. Everything else within him, numb.
He knew he’d never belonged here, not at Hatcher’s, not in Cane’s Inlet and definitely not pretending to play host at the upscale Medusa Lounge. In way over his head, the people around him too forceful, too powerful and easily able to toy with his chance at happiness. It was like the truth had become his enemy, destined to keep him from uncovering what lay beneath hidden tendrils. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he shouldn’t know. In a single moment, he’d left betrayal in his wake. Yes, total devastation.
His last word reverberated in his mind, it’s cry awful as he was left alone in the stateroom. Both men gone, though seared into his mind like a bad memory. The pain he felt ate at his insides as he ran out of the stateroom, down the corridor, where he darted past the entrance to the lounge, where he could hear the joyous sounds of the party, laughter, celebration, the popping of a fresh bottle of champagne. He had nothing left in which to celebrate.
Again, the word…that name, hit him hard. Nearly toppling him to the ground when he ran off the gangway of the Medusa and onto the dirty footpath. The trees absorbed him, thankfully hid him.
He kept running, his suit still a tangled mess. Forced to throw on the ink-stained shirt which had been the catalyst for what had transpired. Buttoning it as he ran, the tie forgotten on the carpet of the stateroom, along with his dreams and probably a few drops of Parker St. John’s thick load. He reached the dock, breathing heavily, and thankfully saw the schooner, and in terms of people, only Willy. He wouldn’t be able to face anyone else.
“What are you doing here? Ain’t it your big night?”
Noah looked up. The glow from the full moon must have caught his tear-streaked face.
“Just take me back to the mainland,” Noah pleaded.
Willy silently welcomed him with a simple hand gesture.
Once on board the schooner, Noah tried his best to keep from gazing back, but as they sailed toward the peninsula, the billowing sails and towering masts of the Medusa peeked up over the trees, almost as if they were playing with him. Shooting him a reminder of what an outsider he was. He wiped a series of tears from reddened eyes. Hatcher’s Island was in his rearview mirror. So was the life he’d attempted to forge here. Noah was done. Finished.
Cane’s Inlet would fade into view, too. All that it represented would fade from his life.
He’d lost everything.
As he crouched near the stern of the boat, it was like he was willing himself to the shore faster, Willy left him alone with his thoughts. The old sailor knew when a man didn’t want to talk. What had happened during the last hour had seemed unreal, its events unfolding like in a movie, the pivotal scene down in cinematic slow motion. He was reliving it, vividly and relentlessly.
Parker’s threat, his manipulation. His undressing before him, exposing his muscular, thickly furred body, his powerful erection and asking, no—demanding–that if Noah desired to keep him from revealing to the Hatchers what he’d discovered, Noah agreed to have sex with him. Parker was sexy, sure, and Noah had always found himself jealous of the man’s easy confidence. Slightly attracted to the idea that Parker wanted him.
Noah had been weak, and afraid. Caught between a rock and hard cock.
He’d given in, had dropped to his knees. Taken the meat into his mouth.
Then just as Parker’s big cock was climaxing all over him, that’s when Demetri had arrived, finding them together. And this only hours after the two of them had declared their love for each other. What possible explanation could Noah have given? Not that Demetri remained for a half-assed explanation. He had run, disappeared. Would he have gone back to the party? Certainly, he hadn’t caught the boat, because Willy wouldn’t have had time enough to go and return given the time passed between then and now. Not even fifteen minutes.
Parker too had excused himself moments after Demetri had run off, his tone as cold as ever. His attitude self-satisfied. “Clean yourself up. I expect you back at your post.”
Fuck him was Noah’s thought as the boat reached the pier on the eastern edge of Cane’s Inlet. Willy was barely given the time to secure his boat before Noah was leaping off, running again. He’d have to offer his apologies later, but then again, that probably wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen.
He’d decided. Noah Sanders was leaving Cane’s Inlet, and he was leaving this minute. His car was parked in the lot, and thankfully the keys were secure in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He didn’t need any other thing, just keys, a car, and an open road. Zander’s Bridge awaited him, and then he’d be gone, never to be heard from again. All he’d sought, all he’d learned, none of it mattered anymore. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, his heart a mixture of emotions. His soul empty of everything but embarrassment.
He found his car in the crowded lot; so many guests still out at the Medusa had left their vehicles here. And why not, the night was young still, not even ten o’clock. Not one to believe in superstitions, Noah couldn’t help but think the full moon high in the black sky had something to do with the twist of events tonight. Or maybe it was fate finally intervening, telling him he’d been foolish to think he could outsmart the entire town. Find out his truth with most of the residents unaware of his reason for coming to town.
He’d trusted the Cane’s. And then gone and betrayed them. Or at least, one of them.
Trying his best to push the image of Demetri’s wounded expression from his mind, he got behind the wheel of his car, needing to focus. He gunned the engine, at last ready to disappear into the ether, just as his mother…no, not his mother, only the woman he’d thought for forever had been his mother, but really was just a woman who had stolen him. Could he do as she had done? Never to be heard from again. Was that the legacy he wanted for himself? To repeat the mistakes of the past, especially as he remained unaware of why it had all happened in the first place. Again, he fought against bitter tears, and he wiped them away with his hands, like wipers on a windshield.
“Shit,” he said aloud, the sound of his voice loud inside the confines of his car.
He couldn’t just run. He needed something vital—his laptop, back inside his room at the Ocean’s Breeze. No way could he leave that, because there was too much on it, website searches and notes about whom he talked to, what he’d learned, a full write-up of his luncheon with Stefan those couple of weeks ago. While it was password protected, Noah had little doubt someone would be able to get beyond his firewall, and then the Hatchers would learn everything.
Just run in, he told himself, pack his bags quickly, throw them in the car. And then he’d be gone. Which he tried to do, but after pulling into the lot and parking right up against the stairs that led to the porch, he noticed the Ocean’s Breeze was darkened; not even a porch light lit, much less one kept on in the lobby. Few people were staying here now, the season’s residents not yet in town. Which is why he’d been able to secure his room for cheap. But he’d never seen the old Victorian so black; it was almost like no one was there, no one even on duty.
He took the stairs, approached the front door. He tried the door and found it locked.
Where was Renny? Wasn’t he always on duty when Cilla was out?
Then he remembered what Cilla and Demetri had told him earlier tonight. Something had been off about Renny, he’d been upset and began throwing things. He’d calmed down, they’d said, but perhaps he’d experienced a relapse after they’d left. Noah peered through the small windows on the front door but again, all he saw was darkness. Should he knock? Or maybe call? Then he remembered yet another detail about Renny’s meltdown—he’d thrown a vase and in turn had broken a window. Demetri had needed to patch it up, making them late for the gala.
Moving along the darkened porch, his shadow barely visible from the moon’s glimmering light, Noah located the broken window. All the glass had been cleared out, the window secured by cardboard and tape around its perimeter. An idea formed in his mind, one he tried to dismiss. He couldn’t do such a thing as break-in. Could he? Turning his head, looking, listening, for signs of anyone lurking, he wiped sweaty palms on his suit pants, then began the process of removing strips of tape from the edges. Seemed Demetri had been thorough, taping the window from both inside and outside. Soon, though, the cardboard came free, leaving a gaping hole that gave Noah access to the lobby of the Ocean Breeze.
This was the moment of truth. Was this him breaking the law? Gaining illegal entry?
Except he was a legitimate tenant, he did pay rent on his room. He just didn’t have a key to the front door and had never needed one. Cilla or Renny had always been there, the door never locked. Again, a cursory look around him revealed no one watching him. So, he crouched down and stepped over the sill, seconds later finding himself inside the Ocean Breeze. As he made his way across the floor, stealth accompanying him, he listened for any sounds of life. But the place was deserted, the office door closed, no light coming from within. He reached around the check-in desk and retrieved his room key from the wooden slots. Nothing to stop him now.
Still, he felt he had to act fast. Up the stairs he went, dreading their creaking noise. But he made it to his room undetected and let himself in. He nearly turned the lamp on, a natural instinct. Except he had to think differently now, he was a cat burglar set upon stealing his own possessions. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, seeing was surprisingly easy. He went over to his desk and took hold of his laptop, placing it under his arm. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw what a mess he looked. Tear streaked cheeks, the black ink stain on his shirt, buttons uneven. With his attempt to run from Cane’s Inlet, anywhere he went he’d no doubt receive strange glances.
He made the decision right then to change. Off went the suit and he quickly donned a pair of comfortable jeans and casual shirt, his leather jacket the last piece. The rest of his clothes would just be forgotten. Like he hoped he was, once the residents here knew he was gone for good. It was his only option. Before leaving the room, he took one last look, at where he’d lived these past few months, his eyes landing on the discarded suit on the bed. He thought about what might have been. A new life, a glamorous one. So much potential. All of it destroyed.
Noah Sanders bid farewell to the Ocean Breeze, his room and the stairs, slipping out again through the window. Still not seeing a soul. Was everyone in town at the Medusa opening? And where had Renny gone running off too? None of this was Noah’s concern anymore, and so, with the laptop comfortably under his arm, he made his way back toward his car.
That’s when he heard the blaring of an alarm. Fear struck him as he stared back at the grand house he’d called home, wondering if he’d tripped a wire. But no, the sound wasn’t coming from here, but certainly nearby. He thought of the other times he’d heard sirens in Cane’s Inlet, both instances revealing the bodies of two slain women, their necks sliced. The killer still not caught to this day. My God, he thought, could there be another victim?
Yet the sound was different. Not police, not an ambulance. More like a security alarm.
Whatever the type, this was none of his business.
Noah dashed to his car, fearing discovery, as though the alarm was meant to alert the cops about his escape. Out of the parking lot he went, taking the side streets instead of the access road to the shore. He needed to get to the downtown area and ultimately find his way over Zander’s Bridge. As he drove past the Little Liffey, an establishment he’d miss, he thought he detected a shadow running on the sidewalk, a lone figure caught ever-so briefly under a streetlight before becoming absorbed in the black night. Noah then realized where the person—man or woman. he couldn’t be sure—had come from, the blaring alarm that much closer.
He noticed which building’s alarm had been activated.
“The Historical Society,” he said aloud.
For some reason, he pulled to the curb. He shouldn’t have, but he did. Cane’s Inlet still had a pull on him, most notably its connection to the long-ago past. Out of the car he went, dashing up the pathway to the porch. Unlike the Ocean’s Breeze, not only was there a light on beside the door, but the front door was wide open., shards of wood indicating a break-in. The alarm was deafening. Noah wondered if there was a switch he could find to shut it off. Then he would call anonymously call 911 before driving off again.
As he entered the museum, he realized he dare not touch anything. This was a crime scene. All he wanted was to turn the alarm off. But his efforts in the dark proved fruitless, the piercing sound penetrating his ears, seemingly growing louder with each step he took. A stream of light caught his attention, and so he moved further into the room, finding himself drawn to the Medusa Room. The door was ajar, the source of the light found inside. Another couple steps and he eased open the door, finding before him a mess of destruction. Shelves had been torn down, books lay on the floor, broken picture frames whose shards of glass had fallen to the dark carpet. But what he most noticed was he’d found the source of the alarm, the sound at his loudest inside this room.
The famed Star Diamond case had been smashed, no doubt such action tripping the alarm.
Noah breathed deeply, shock consuming him, as he realized that the diamond was gone.
“Who would have stolen it, and on a night like this?”
There was no answer, not from him, nor from the intruder he suddenly heard behind him. The footsteps startled him. He tried to spin around, but the alarm had aided in the person’s stealth-like approach. So, Noah never saw what happened, he only felt it.
A quick, hard blow to his head. And then came darkness. He never ever heard the thud of his body crumpling to the floor.
* * *
A beep. That’s what heard. Persistent, droning. He wanted to turn it off but he didn’t know how. Didn’t know where the sound was coming from.
Hell, his mind a jumbled mess, he didn’t know where he was.
Still just darkness, perhaps a slit of light giving him a sense of hope he didn’t know that he even needed.
Nothing made sense. Except that his head hurt. That much thundered inside him.
His eyes flickered but failed to fully open. The effort was painful, so he stopped.
At least his ears worked.
“Well, look who’s coming around.”
The voice was familiar to him, except his mind couldn’t process the face behind it.
Could he speak? He tried to move his mouth and even that hurt. His entire head felt like an anvil had fallen on it. His mind randomly inserted an image of the Road Runner cartoons, and even as tried to fight the laugh he felt inside, knowing it would be painful, he did anyway. A short, loud bark that sounded dreamlike to him.
“Ow,” he said, his first word. He tried to suck down air.
“That’s an appropriate one, I guess. Rest easy, you’re going to be fine.”
Again, that voice, soothing now, resetting his breath. Normal and easy, and his eyes closed. Gentle murmuring around him, lulling him to sleep, or perhaps a far worse place. Thoughts of his mother carried him down a path, dark, tree-covered, no sunshine and no warmth. He shivered and thought of snow, and then blackness found him. Again.
Then came that persistent beep once more, relentless in its efforts to annoy him.
“Can you turn that off?” he heard, and realized the words had somehow come from him.
“No, Noah, it’s monitoring your vital signs. Don’t think about it.”
“Thinking is the last thing I can do.”
He was speaking but still unable to open his eyes, still unable to decipher the source of the voice. It was female he’d figured out, his brain beginning the slow process of healing. Or cognitive function. What he most knew was that his head still hurt. Not an anvil hitting him, his head replaced by one.
He shifted his body, deciding he was lying on his back, slightly angled. One of his fingers felt funny, like a clamp was around it.
“Where am I?”
“Cane Medical Center. It’s nice to have you back among the living.”
So, he was still in Cane’s Inlet. Last he knew, he’d been running from it, his intent to never return. What had happened to make him stay? And who was this woman?
That was a good next question to ask. He formulated it first in his brain. He struggled before saying, “Who are you?”
“Noah, it’s Ginette Hatcher. Just go easy, don’t push yourself.”
He heard a slight laugh. “Good to know nothing has changed on that front. No killing your relentless politeness.”
He was processing what had happened to him by her choice of words. Killing, back among the living, relentless. Cane Medical Center. Just how close had he come to dying? Suddenly he wondered what time it was; he didn’t sense any light in the room, so it must still be dark, perhaps only an hour or so since…since…that part of his memory was blank. A good thing, he surmised.
He recalled the full moon. Shadows all around him. The thought of that piercing alarm worse than the beeping sound around him.
“What time is it?”
“It’s just after ten o’clock.”
He let that sink in, realizing she hadn’t said whether a.m. or p.m. It couldn’t have been p.m. because it had already been after ten when he’d made his escape from Hatcher’s Island. A chill hit his body courtesy of the onslaught of memory and the fact that he might have been unconscious for nearly twelve hours. He’d never been in a hospital before, at least not for himself. The antiseptic scent hit him like a brick just now, his mind taking him back to White Pine’s medical center, where his mother had endured poking, proding, so many tests that ultimately were unable to save her.
“Mom,” he said, softly, to himself.
That’s when his eyes flickered open, wide and questioning. The word a shock to his system. Like the fear washing over him had awakened him. His vision was blurry, the woman at his bedside more shape than human.
“Sshh, just rest. It’s too soon, don’t push yourself.”
He tried to shake his head, a gesture usually so effortless. He felt his brain rattle. He spoke. “Tired of rest. Ironic, right? I need to know, how long have I been asleep?”
“I’ll let the doctor know that you’re awake and talking. It’s more his job than mine anyway. He’s the professional.” He felt a gentle squeeze to his hand that bordered on the maternal. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you need anything, there’s a call button in your left hand. Just press your thumb down on it.”
His eyes closed without him trying, his hearing heightened. He heard the click of heels on hard tiles, the opening and subsequent closing of the door. He strange it was, he thought, the very woman he’d been running from, fearful of what Parker St. John might reveal to her, she was now at his side, none the wiser about who he was but behaving in a manner that could only be defined as maternal.
Resisting sleep was futile, so he gave in. Worry ceding to healing. When he woke up again, his eyes flickered open and this time he could see better. Ginette Hatcher looking as lovely as ever, her graying hair perfectly styled, her outfit a crisp blue. She appeared to be dressed in work clothes, as opposed to the glittering gown she’d worn just hours…no, not hours…could it have been days? Panic set in and his thumb found the call button and he began to press it.
“Noah, it’s okay…Dr. Delvecchio is here…right next to me.”
Blinking away a blur of fresh tears, he looked up and saw a kindly older gentlemen standing next to her. He wore a white coat, and a stethoscope hung around his neck. A thick white mustache highlighted his face, aided by kind eyes. But his physical details weren’t what piqued his curiosity, but rather…his name. There was something familiar about it.
“Do I know you?” Noah asked, his eyes trying to focus on the elderly man.
“Not unless you remember the events of Friday night, when you were brought in. I was on duty—and a rare night at that.”
“Dr. Delvechhio is mostly retired,” Ginette explained. “I asked him to consult.”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Noah said, more confused than ever. Trying to decipher what he’d just heard. Still unsure what day it was. Surely wasn’t Friday, since he’d referenced it as the past. Also, that Ginette’s presence here wasn’t recent. It sounded like she’d been here for a while…which had him asking, internally, for how long had he been here, both her being here and himself. The words he thought became the words he said.
“It’s Sunday night,” Dr. Delvecchio said. “You’re been here for forty-eight hours.”
“I lost two days?”
“You rested for two days. Now, what do you say I run some tests and ask some questions, if you’re up for it?”
“Uh, sure.” All he’d wanted since coming to Cane’s Inlet had been answers.
Now it was just more questions.
“What year is it?”
“Are you unsure?”
“What’s your name?”
Now that was a complicated answer and he felt his brain swell again. “Noah.”
“How about a last name?”
“Sanders. My name is Noah Sanders.”
He looked at Ginette Hatcher as he spoke those words. She nodded.
“Do you know who the President of the United States is?”
Noah frowned. “Do I have to admit to that?”
Both Ginette and the doctor laughed. “Ok, we’ll keep things local. What town do you live in?”
“White Pine,” he said.
“Is that where we are?”
“Where are we, Noah?”
“Cane’s Inlet,” he said. Despite his efforts the other night to escape. He was still here, and the truth of the matter was he’d lost two days of his life. Had he just been laying in this bed? That awful beep the only sound, he unable to hear it until only recently. Thoughts of the beep brought it back to the forefront of his mind; he heard it again, loud and invasive.
“Well, why don’t we have a looksee at you,” Dr. Delvecchio said.
“Should I leave?” Ginette asked.
“She can stay,” Noah said. “I’d like her to stay.”
“That’s fine,” the doctor said. “Why not give us a little breathing room though.”
Noah watched as Ginette took a seat in the corner of the room, assuring Noah she’d be near if he needed anything, and he thanked her, his inner self feeling an unfamiliar warmth. She’d never been so friendly in all their dealings while at Hatcher’s. What had changed? His injury, or maybe Parker had told her what he’d learned? He forgot his questions as he felt a shock of cold against his skin. The doctor had begun his examination, placing the metal end of the stethoscope directly against his chest, Noah took a deep breath, tried to relax as his head fell back against the pillow. The doctor then checked his lungs, asking Noah to inhale, exhale, then repeat. A check of his blood pressure came next, then a pinpoint of light shining in his eyes. That hurt, making him blink, close them.
“It’s okay, Noah. Just open your eyes again. Just stare forward.”
Noah did, fighting against the light, knowing it was important to get an accurate diagnosis.
At last, Dr. Delvecchio was done, Noah thankful for his gentle bedside manner.
“Am I gonna live, doc?”
“Keeping a sense of humor does the mind wonders, but regardless, yes.”
“So, what happened to me?”
“Before you arrived, I don’t know? You were brought into the Center with a head wound, a bit of blood leaking. We sewed you up quickly. Nothing serious, but there was a slight gash. The stiches will dissolve on their own, doubt even your barber will notice a scar. What most concerns me is in your eyes; your pupils remain dilated, which is the sign of a concussion. You’ll need time to heal, but you’ll be fine in a few days. You may suffer blurriness, faintness, or nausea.”
“So I’m stuck here?” Noah asked.
“Hardly. We’ll keep you one more night for further observation, but you should be good to go in the morning, barring any overnight setbacks. I’ll check in on you again. Make sure you have someone to pick you up and take you home. You have a roommate, a wife? Someone to stay with you”
Noah tried to process all he’d just heard, but what most struck him was the fact that he was being released tomorrow. He decided not to answer any of the doctor’s questions, instead closing his eyes, faking sleep while his mind tried to ascertain just what the next day would hold for him. Sure, while only two days had passed since the party at the Medusa, so much had gone down, most of all his living arrangements. Demetri had asked him to move in, but that was no longer an option; betraying your lover had a way of killing a relationship. And Cilla, siding with her nephew, would surely kick him out of the Breeze.
He heard a scrape of a chair, the click of heels again.
“Thank you, Dr. Delveecchio. I knew I could count on you to help out.”
“Lucky for us all I was on duty that night. I may be retired, but I’ll tell you being home alone makes for long days.”
“I think I’ll retire when they carry me out,” Gineete said. “Thank you for always being there for our family.”
Then he heard the door close, leaving Noah wondering had both departed.
A creak of the chair next to him suggested otherwise. He fought against the pain by taking a chance of opening his eyes. He saw Ginette Hatcher again by his side, again questioning why she was being so caring. No boss showed this level of concern toward an employee.
“You don’t have to stay here,” he said. “I’ve got nurses. The call button.”
“Now is not the issue,” she said. “Tomorrow is.”
“We don’t even know that I’ll be released.”
“If it’s not tomorrow, it’ll be the next day. You’ll be leaving the hospital soon.”
He allowed a small laugh, feeling the pain rattle inside his brain. He reminded himself he’d have to avoid any emotion that produced a physical result. A laugh, a sneeze. They seemed to rattle him, and not just his brain. Because at the moment, even his heart hurt too, from all that he’d lost. Demetri, his residence, probably his job, too. He’d run out on the biggest party of the year, ditching his post on what was essentially his first night.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said, and then, unable to fight the tears inside him, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“In the Army, I believe they call it dereliction of duty. Being AWOL.”
“We’ll deal with all that later, Noah. For now, I have some arrangements to make.”
“No, your housing,” she said. “Because I’m guessing you need a place to stay.”
“Yeah, uh, sort of, I think.”
“The last thing you need when healing is further stress. You’ll stay at Hatchers.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to give up a room, I mean, not with the season coming…”
“I don’t mean the resort, Noah. I’m referring to the house. We have many rooms.”
Her words couldn’t have surprised him more if she added the words “what else is a mother to do for her son?”, but those he failed to hear. Still, her invitation reverberated inside the echo chamber that was his hurt brain. He recalled Emerson’s words about mixing business and pleasure, a warning for him to maintain a fair distance between the resort and the house. This was dangerous territory, and all he wanted to do was say no.
Except he had no other option.
“I don’t want to intrude…Mr. Hatcher…”
“You leave him to me,” she said, “Besides, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”
“Who is that?”
“My son, Stefan.”
“I’ll think you’ll get along brilliantly. He’s quite a smart boy.”
This confused Noah even further. Had Parker not exposed him for the fraud he’d been all these months? Was Ginette Hatcher unaware that her son lay in this hospital bed, soon to rest his body inside the house which should have been his home all along?
Now his head truly hurt; in fact, it throbbed. So too did his heart.
Adam’s new Cane’s Inlet Mystery trilogy includes SCANDALOUS LIES, SINISTER MOTIVES, and the forthcoming SUSPICIOUS TRUTHS.
His acclaimed Jimmy McSwain detective series includes HIDDEN IDENTITY, CRIME WAVE, STAGE FRIGHT, GUARDIAN ANGEL. and FOREVER HAUNT, in eBook and print. The first two titles are available on audio as well. Jimmy will return in FRESH KILL.
To find out more about author Adam Carpenter’s books, click on his photo above!
The narrator is Brody Norris, a small-town architect who has stepped into the role of amateur sleuth in a local murder. He and his husband, Marson Miles, have invited an attractive new acquaintance, Dahr Ahmadi, to join them for dinner at their loft, hoping to get to know him better—and to sound him out as a possible suspect—but the evening ends with an unexpected development.
This scene is taken from the middle of the novel. Mister Puss, the cat in the series subtitle, winds his way in and out of the story—as cats are wont to do—but he does not appear in the following.
Excerpt from FlabberGassed:
Some three hours after Dahr arrived at the loft, our evening together came to a close. A wonderful time, as they say, was had by all. Marson had charmed Dahr with his cooking and his small talk and his considerable skills as a gracious host. Dahr had charmed both Marson and me with his stories and his magnetism and his winks. Or were they tics? And apparently, I, Brody Norris, had all but charmed the pants off Dahr Ahmadi. It was not my intent to create an atmosphere of flirtation—I had simply tried to be amiable and welcoming—but Dahr must have tuned in to a more primal vibe.
When he arrived that night, we had greeted each other with handshakes and tentative hugs. Upon parting, however, we had cemented our friendship, so we forwent the handshakes altogether and hugged in earnest. And then, after the thank-yous and good-nights, Dahr offered kisses.
“May I, Mr. Miles?” he asked Marson outside the front door, leaning near for a smooch.
“With pleasure,” said my husband, and they exchanged a chaste peck.
“And Mr. Norris?” he said to me.
“Of course, Dahr.” We pecked.
Marson said, “Hope to see you again soon, Dahr. Good night.” And he turned inside to begin cleanup. It was not in his nature to leave things till morning.
Dahr asked me, “Walk me to my car?”
First Avenue was dead quiet—Saturday night, and our tiny town had “rolled up the sidewalks” already. A bit of evening drizzle had left the street dark and shiny. Yellow leaves glistened and dripped in the warm glow of a streetlamp. The soles of our shoes kissed the damp pavement. Then the man in black turned, and once again, he kissed me.
This was no tic. This was no ritual observation of some ancient parting custom handed down by Dahr’s Persian forebears. No, this was a kiss that meant business. This was a kiss that shot through me, that left me speechless and woozy and open to the unknown.
But then, without a word, he turned and left.
Shambling back to the loft, I wondered, What the hell was that? Was he making a statement? Was he challenging me? Daring me to fall for him?
Or was Dahr just using his wiles—buttering me up for a good report to Sheriff Simms?
When I stepped inside and closed the door, Marson looked up from the kitchen sink, merrily rinsing his way through a stack of dishes. “He’s such a sweet guy—what a great evening.”
Still a bit dazed, I confessed, “He kissed me.”
“He kissed me, too, kiddo.”
“I mean, he kissed me again, outside.”
“I’ve said it before, Brody: you’re an attractive man, desired by many.”
I took my explanation a step further. “I mean, he really kissed me.”
Marson gave a playful growl. “Yikes. Was it good?”
“Marson”—I moved toward him in the kitchen—“aren’t you … jealous?”
He set down his sponge. “Jealous? I’m complimented! Besides—” And he broke into laughter.
Marson grinned. “He’s not old enough for you.”
“Or”—I grinned—“he could be just the exception that proves the rule.”
Truth is, there were no rules, etched in stone or otherwise.
True, when I was fourteen, I had developed an abiding attraction to older, creative men. True, my first marriage had been to an older, creative man, an architect in California named Lloyd Washington. True, my current marriage was to an older, creative man, a Wisconsin architect named Marson Miles. True, this seemed to denote a pattern. But there were no rules.
True, Dahr Ahmadi was perhaps two or three years older than I was, but this did not qualify him as an “older man.” In the generational scope of things, we were contemporaries. Dahr was a certified nurse practitioner, a respected professional with a noble and humane calling, but this did not qualify him as a “creative man.” He was a man of science. So it was easy to understand Marson’s confident assumption that, in my eyes, Dahr could never measure up. But there were no rules.
True, Marson and I were married. The conventions of marriage—of conventional, heterosexual marriage—demand a lifelong commitment of body, soul, and desire, frequently sworn in vows at the altar, which can lend poignancy to a fairytale ceremony. But even the most earnest exchange of vows offers no guarantee that reality will not evolve and intervene. And the truth is, for us—for any gay couple, married or not—there were no rules, other than those we were content to define for ourselves.
True, Marson and I had written “vows” and delivered them at our tidy civil ceremony, but they were sworn to no god. They focused on an abiding love, which sprang from friendship, and a commitment to “be there” for each other in a joining of forces till death do us part. But they made no reference to carnal fidelity, which struck us both as an irrelevant hangover from some medieval obsession with procreation. So for us, in the matter of Dahr Ahmadi, there were no rules.
True, we had a shadowy understanding that indiscretion could be hurtful to each other and therefore harmful to “us.” Did such an understanding therefore imply that any contemplated indiscretion should simply be replaced by discretion, by the venerable bromide that what you don’t know can’t hurt you?
I don’t know.
What I do know is that the memory of Dahr’s kiss—the second one, out on the street, under the drizzle in the yellow lamplight—vexed me and excited me and consumed my thoughts from the moment I stepped back into the loft on Saturday night. It followed me up the winding staircase as I prepared for bed. It stirred beneath the blankets as I cuddled with my husband, who drifted off, exhausted by his efforts to stage the perfect dinner party. It staved off my own sleep, and when at last I slumbered, the memory of the kiss peppered my dreams with possibilities. This was temptation, pure and raw and simple.