Minute by Minute (Games & Diver - Natalie E. Wrye

Copyright © 2016 by Natalie E. Wrye. This novel is an original work. It is a fictional writing, a work entirely derived from the author’s imagination. All characters and events are entirely fictional and not based in fact, nor based on any real person(s) living or deceased. Any resemblance or similarity to any real person(s), alive or dead, or event is purely and clearly coincidental. This book contains adult language and in some instances coarse language and, due to its content, should not be viewed by children.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a book review). Cover Design: Bookin’ It Designs www.bookinitdesigns.com

Table of Contents Prologue Beginner’s Luck Playing a Bad Hand Ace Up Your Sleeve “The Marshall Swindle” Snake Eyes Call a Spade a Spade Missing Your Shot Behind the Eight Ball Russian Roulette Laying the Burn Card Playing the Endgame “Knight” in Shining Armor

No Dice Betting in a Burning House Luck of the Draw When the Chips are Down Double Whammy Stacking the Deck Queen of Hearts Unlucky Pair Piecing the Puzzle Winner Takes All Break or Bust Epilogue Special Surprise To the Reader Acknowledgements More about the Author

Dedication

To the reader: This book—this series—is for you.

PROLOGUE DAY 7—9:02PM ELENA LEXINGTON I see the gun before I see the person behind it. The phone in my hand drops before I can scream, and the crash that it makes against the floor is loud enough to almost make me shit my pants. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for the sound of the gunshot— the last sound I’ll probably ever hear… One second… One and a half… Two.

Beginner’s Luck

How dreadful...to be caught up in a game and have no idea of the rules. ― Caroline Stevermer

Day 1—Sunday, 5:55PM Tampa General Hospital LUKAS GRIFFIN Tampa General is no different than any other hospital. The walls are eggshell. The floors

are cream. The overhead tiles are the color of porcelain, and the sheets… well, the sheets are the color of blinding snow. In other words… this entire place is revoltingly bland. And it is here, in these vanilla hallways, that it feels so clear to me why white… is such a disturbing color… Most likely because it is not a color… It is the absence of it. It is the absence of courage, the absence of audacity. It signifies doubt. Anxiety. Worry. Fear… And for a man like me, there is something particularly disconcerting

about the concept of fear… For me, fear took on a different color—the color red. Red marks. Red welts. Red cuts. Blood red. The color of my body after some quality “father-son” time. Red is a color I know. Red is a color I understand. But ghostly white— well, that’s something I’m not acquainted with. I’d read about people turning ashen, sneered at tales of frightened protagonists turning pale. But I’d never seen it in person… until now. The anxious look on Elena’s face

when we entered Tampa General sent an unnerving chill down my spine, but the expression she’s showing me right now? Nothing compares to this. Her pretty countenance was pallid as we headed for Ana’s room, but this face—this expression of pure terror— rivals any reflection that has ever bounced back at me. No beatings, no put-downs, no bruises could compare to the pain I saw on Elena’s face—a pain that cut me deeper than the lash of my father’s belt. The pain in her eyes, the pain I feel, becomes acute—unbearable—as we head towards the room number that unexpectedly resonates within the

hospital’s taupe-colored walls. “Code 99!” The hallway intercom rings out loudly. “Room 242… Code 99!” The sudden broadcast is like the sound of a gun firing at the racetrack. It sets into motion a tidal wave—a rolling surge of medical personnel that rumbles across the tiled floor, tumbling down the blanched corridor in hues of “hospital-scrub” blue and “lab-coat” white. Like racecars responding to the waving of the checkered flag, they’re off —the nurses, the doctors, the orderlies…

And two uninvited guests—a terrified Elena… and me. Upon hearing that announcement, we align ourselves as if at the track, hurtling towards the same unified goal— desperate to reach the same white line. Only in this race… there is no finish line. No slowing. No pit-stops. No breaks. The race doesn’t end when we reach the destination. In fact… it’s just beginning… “Code 99” marks the initiation of a struggle… the beginning of a fight for someone’s life. And that someone’s life… is Ana’s.

No matter how fast Elena and I run towards room 242, we can’t seem to cover any ground in the hospital corridor. The white tile swallows us in like quicksand, and our “white line” only seems to drift further and further away. With heavy legs and racing hearts, we trudge behind a trail of white coats and scrubs, attempting to rush past an impartible sea. A female nurse grabs Elena. “Excuse me, ma’am! Ma’am! You can’t be here!” “Yes, I can!” Elena heatedly retorts. “That’s my sister in there!” She pries the woman’s fingers off

of her arm and we bum-rush to the edge of the room, prepared to join the semicircle of staff forming around Ana’s bed. It is only when we clear the crowd that we realize that “Ana’s bed” belongs to someone else. She’s not in it. The nurse approaches once again. “We need you to exit immediately. This is an emergency.” The stone-faced employee hustles us out of the room and back into the hallway where our desperation only increases. The resuscitation call puts our nerves on an edge as thin as a knife’s blade, sharpening with each passing

minute that we can’t find Anastasia. Elena looks at me. “Didn’t the receptionist say room 242?” “Yeah.” “So, where is she? She isn’t here. I called Kat but she’s not picking up and I don’t know if she’s even…” The words die on her lips. My sudden grip on Elena’s arm catches her attention and I squeeze lower to grab her cold, hanging hand. I almost flinch from the chill that’s on her skin. I watch recognition dawn on her face as it has just dawned on mine, and the sound of a floating laugh—a very

distinct, yet familiar laugh—puts a sudden heat back into her clammy skin. I wouldn’t know which room was Anastasia’s if not for that laugh… and the chorus of “Ouch, Charlie— Ouchhhh!” that comes immediately after, turning speculation quickly into confirmation. Upon hearing that buoyant sound, Elena and I turn the sharp corner, bolting into the boisterous room. We almost walk straight into the arms of a bed-ridden Ana, one of which is bound by a makeshift cast and bent at an unnatural angle. I catch Elena before she can topple over Ana and the hospital bed.

Ana gasps, thrown off-guard by the incoming train that is Elena. “Holy shit, Elle,” she exhales roughly, throwing her hands up in defense. Pale-faced with shock, Ana nearly jumps from under the covers, cradling a bandaged-wrapped wrist and forearm. And yet still, she smiles… and the room grows a little brighter, a bit sunnier—made so by the light behind her tired eyes. Her eyes, sunken in with fatigue and physical trauma, are still a sparkling shade of grain, the tint matching the amber-champagne hue of her hair. But the white cast on her arm is

almost the shade of her skin, and there’s a dark bruising on her face and hands, purple and blue swirls that are signs of the automobile “accident” that almost took her life just earlier this morning. Despite the joviality in Ana’s smile, the marks on her body are hardto-miss indicators of a recent pain—a pain that may have been wrought by my indecision. A pain that may have been the result of my recent lies. My conscience is knocking on reason’s door, and before reason can answer, Elena cuts in, interrupting the internal struggle between my right mind and the wrong one—the one that’s been

dominating my life since I was twelve years old. “God, Ana, I’m so… I’m so…” Elena stammers, barely meeting Ana’s eye. “Just come here,” Ana says, motioning. With one hand still in mine, a relieved Elena falls into her sister’s embrace. It is a silent hug full of appreciation and admiration—all of the amazing things between them that they cannot say. No words could do justice to their touch. Silently, I stand by in sheer awe. It is only when Elena steps away

from Ana that we both discover the other person now standing in the room. A surprised Kat, holding a tray of cap-covered coffees, suddenly steps forward from the chair on the opposite end of the room. She narrows her eyes at us, and, guiltily—almost hesitantly—I let Elena’s small hand go. Fuck me. And even when I release her into the arms—well, arm—of her miraculously healthy younger sister, I can’t stop the air in the room from shifting. The joyous moments are yanked at the root—supplanted by something threatening.

Some type of anger—resentment. A score that has yet to be settled. Kat steps forward into the center of the room and within minutes, the sisters exit with Elena leading, as usual, and a noticeably seething Kat following closely behind. I stay with Anastasia, keeping her company… until the voices of her two sisters rise too loudly to be ignored. I excuse myself from Ana’s side and step into the hallway, finding myself in the unpredictable path of destruction. The two sisters are engaged in a tornadic battle—and it is bloody. They spare no verbal blows; they hold nothing back, and the only prisoners

they take… are each other. Rage and hurt swirl in Elena’s frosty blue irises. I see the same emotions explode in Kat’s identical eyes as she begins to yell at her older sister. “You know, I worried for you,” Kat declares. “I worried about you all damn day. “When I got the call about your car, I’d just assumed it was you. I went frantic,” she says, folding her arms. “I kept wondering how this had happened… why this happened, how you were and if you were dying while all I could do was pace back and forth like a freaking idiot…” Kat penetrates Elena with a watery

stare. “And then to find out that it was Ana…” she sniffles harshly. “I’d assumed that there was a reason—some reason—why Ana had your car in the first place, why you weren’t around, why you weren’t there while I was freaking out and having a nervous breakdown. “And now I guess I know why…” Kat finishes, motioning towards the door to Ana’s quarters. I look into Kat’s face and watch a shift take place. Something stronger replaces the hurt—something hardened. The pain melts away, and what is left is like stone.

Tough. Solidified. Unyielding. “What the hell kind of game were you guys playing, acting like you hated each other?” “It isn’t a game,” Elena replies softly. Or is it? I’m not exactly sure… “Oh, it isn’t?” Kat’s voice rises. “One minute, I have to keep you guys from tearing each other apart at my engagement party, and then I look up and you’re making moon-eyes at each other!” Kat motions towards the door again. “Meanwhile, Ana’s out there

alone, nearly dying, and you’re nowhere to be found!” The statement shocks even me. It’s an accusation that, frankly, is unfair, and it hits Elena where it hurts most—her love and responsibility to her sisters… who she loves more than anything on this Earth. Like the building of a summer storm, I watch Elena’s fury take form. I’ve seen this too often not to recognize it. I know it is only a matter of seconds before she strikes. I step into the storm… and just when I reach my hand forward to stop the inevitable, the lightning strikes. It’s white.

Hot. Searing. And I am blindsided by it. It crashes into my world, exploding into a burst of light. The sky cracks into a shock of hurt, and all I see next are fucking stars.

Playing a Bad Hand

There are usually no direct answers to how do you play such-and-such a hand when somebody raises in front. Every poker situation is different. The only way you can learn is to play. –Doyle Brunson

Day 1—6:23PM

Tampa General Hospital ELENA Oh my God! He hit him. Foxx hit Griff. And I can’t fucking believe it. Just as I was rearing back—just as I was two seconds from slapping the shit out of Kat’s self-righteous ass—a foreign fist crashes over my shoulder, landing directly in the middle of Griff’s face, and for the first time since I’ve met him, I realize that he has added another enemy to a list that, until recently, I’d thought only included me. Hell, as far as I knew, I was enemy number one. I’d chewed this man’s ass

out more times than I can count—at one point, publicly cursing him to the ends of the Earth and back. He was an “irreverent asshole”—a whorish, womanizing prick. And those were some of my better compliments. Kat had heard it all. Every swipe I’d taken at him. Every insult. She’d been there for the multiple hang-ups, for the in-office arguments that rumbled over the phone line in her editorial suite. She’d witnessed Griff and I go to hell and back with each other, seen us at our very worst.

And now—on one of the most distressing days of all of our lives—up pops another surprise… Griff and Elena. Mortal enemies. Complete opposites. Total and complete opposites. Like Jennifer-Aniston-andAngelina-Jolie sort of opposite… or, being that Griff is a guy, Billy Bob Thorton and Angelina… Oh, shit. Billy Bob married Angelina at one point. Ok, not them… But… you know… the whole “water and oil” thing.

I’m talking about the type of contradictory pair that can barely mutter a civil “hi” to one another suddenly being able to breathe the same air in peace… talk to each other instead of at each other… hell, touch one another without seeking the nearest bottle of Purell. And not only that… but now this inconsistent couple shows up together, hand-in-hand to visit the most adored family member. We weren’t fooling anyone… least of all, Kat—who undoubtedly saw the little moment between Griff and me. What I didn’t know is that Griff’s best friend—the one man who was

dead-set against any involvement between us—would literally walk up and hear about the intimate moment, too. The thunderous sound of his knuckles across Lukas’s unsuspecting face only confirms Foxx’s hardened sentiment. Kat and I gape as Foxx’s fist makes contact, and Lukas recoils, taking a step backwards as he struggles to find balance from a punch that I am sure felt as disorienting as it looked. Foxx steps forward, sweat plastering blonde strands of hair across his forehead, and he raises his other fist. The look of fury in his molten brown eyes puts pure fear into mine.

His voice is the most vicious whisper I’ve ever heard. “You lying son-of-a-bitch,” he snarls at Griff. “One favor. To stay away from her. That’s all I asked. One goddamned favor… and you couldn’t even do that.” Griff shakes off the punch, his cheekbone reddened by the sock, and he faces Foxx, standing to his full six-feet, nearly two inches, indignation imprinted on his face. I can’t even breathe. I wait for the barrage of fists that I know is coming; I wait for Griff’s inevitable retaliation. But he doesn’t respond to the hit.

He plants his feet, breathing heavily, staring his best friend squarely in the face. He says nothing. “Congratulations,” Foxx hisses, bringing them nose-to-nose. “You’ve fucked me, you’ve fucked my sister-inlaw, and now, you’ve fucked yourself.” The accusation makes Griff’s teeth clench beneath his razor-thin jaw. He glares back at Foxx, and those green eyes of his turn dull, dimming by three muted shades under the hospital corridor’s bright fluorescent lighting. The knot forming under his eye grows more pronounced, and his normally tanned skin pales, emphasizing

the olive in his irises. He only says three words. “Fuck you, Foxx.” The air grows still… until, abruptly, Griff spins, giving Foxx his ass to kiss as he deliberately turns his back on the confrontation. He walks away… But I don’t. Instead, I move nearer, regarding a still-gaping Kat—a Kat whose inability to keep a cool head has prompted her fiancé to lose his. “Look, I don’t owe you any explanations, Kat,” I assert. I step in closer, lowering my voice. “But while we’re at it, don’t you think you have a

little explaining to do yourself?” I glance knowingly at Foxx, provoking a small gasp from Kat. “Exactly. So while you’re out here pointing fingers, I suggest you turn and point one at yourself. I’m leaving…” I take a step backwards, but Kat lunges for me. “Where are you going?” I step out of her reach. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be back to visit Ana later.” “So will I.” “Fine. Try not to be here when I do.” I turn my back on Kat, halfexpecting her to grab me again. But she doesn’t, and I keep storming towards the

end of the hall, passing a stiff and wary Foxx who only glares in my direction. Griff stands a few feet away, and I can see the shock on his face when I stop in front of him. I lean into his body, suddenly feeling the need to be grounded. My voice is low; I speak so softly that only he can hear me. “Can we talk outside?” I can barely get the words out. What was meant as a whisper comes out as a mumble, and my hands are shaking so badly that they start to fumble as they cling desperately to the cuffs of my shirtsleeves. Surprisingly… I find myself still

reeling from the fight. But Lukas seems unfazed. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. “Of course we can,” he says. Then he places a warm, solid hand on the small of my back. He shoots an indiscernible look at Foxx before leading me out of the hall and into the lobby. Apprehension throws my stomach into knots as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. He’s waiting, and I’m terrified of the question I have to ask him. Fuck. This isn’t going to be easy. It’s actually going to be the hardest thing

I’ve done in years but right now… I literally don’t have a choice. Griff’s one of the last things I have to hold onto, and as much as it hurts to admit, some small part of me needs him. For now, at least… I glance hesitantly at his serious face, trying to fortify my newly weak backbone. “Lukas, can you…” I grit my teeth. “Can you drop me off at the Marriott? After what just happened… it looks like I’m going to need another place to stay.” His dark brows draw tightly together. “What about your things?” he asks. His voice is subdued—somber.

“They’re at Foxx’s and Kat’s place, right?” I nod reluctantly. “Yeah. Unfortunately. I’m going to have to send for them later.” I peek down at what clothing I have left, a mismatched outfit—half-Lukas, half-me. I shuffle awkwardly in Lukas’s borrowed sandals. “I can’t go back there,” I continue. “Not now… Not after this.” I don’t know what I expect from Griff, but it’s not quite this. He nods once, his lower lip and jaw set into a straight line that adds a silent gravity to his chiseled face. He reaches for my hanging hand.

“Come on.” At that, he turns. We drop by Ana’s room for a quick good-bye… and I follow Lukas, dumbfounded, as he cuts a path through the hospital lobby, steering me straight from its doors and into the parking lot outside. His fingers lock with mine, lacing around my fingertips to swallow my diminutive hand. My palm feels so tiny compared to his. I stare at the line of him as we walk, suddenly hyper-aware of his considerable size—the length of his taut legs, the breadth of his strong back. In simple blue jeans and a white t-

shirt, he is more god than he is man, his perfect posture and stature giving him the appearance of an all-encompassing Adonis. Foxx’s punch should have laid him flat, but it barely left a mark. Griff is closer to a fantasy than to reality, bordering on ethereal instead of human. It’s a humbling experience just being next to him. Is he even aware of the effect he has on women? The effect he has on me? He guides me to the door of his black Audi, opening and watching me enter its passenger side before circling around towards the driver’s.

He climbs behind the wheel, not saying a word, and then we peel off, leaving the hospital grounds and a presumably still fuming Kat in a virtual trail of dust. Good fucking riddance. I turn my back to the scene behind us, and the ice-cold relief I’d been waiting for covers my body, cooling my heated skin. But the feeling is only temporary. As we hit the highway, the problems that I am riding away from disappear in the distance, and those I have ahead of me come fully into view. What am I doing? Where am I going to stay?

What’s going to happen to Kat and me? And why have I dragged Lukas into this fight? He and I have never struggled for words with one another. If anything, we struggled to remain quiet around each other. But as we travel further and further away from Tampa General, our silence isn’t just complete; it’s uncomfortable. We cruise quietly in Lukas’s car, traversing tensely across the tawny sun that sets on the waterside city of Tampa. The downtown streetlights flash an amber pattern across our blackened windows as we pass them in quick succession.

Twinkle. Twinkle. Twinkle. Each light, to me, is a heavenly burst against the twilight sky; I count them one-by-one like stars, choosing to focus on each intermittent glow beaming back at me instead of this. The silence. The darkness. The quicksand. Have they followed me? I cough dryly. My throat is scratchy, my mouth— arid. The taste on my tongue is odd, and the sudden whir of police sirens in the distance only intensifies the drought

beneath my breast. “Elena.” I blink—confused. “Elena.” Stronger this time. I look over and find Lukas, still at the steering wheel. He’s talking to me. “You ok?” he asks. I inhale deeply. “No, I’m not… Who would do such a horrible thing?” I say softly. He shifts his gaze back to the road, his green eyes narrowing at the street ahead. He won’t look at my face, and I realize that while this question only evokes sorrow from my side of the car, on his—it evokes rage.

A palpable rage. An unsettling rage. “I have some thoughts,” he answers. “But I don’t want to jump the gun. I promise you… I will find out who’s behind this and take care of it.” “You talked to the cops, right?” “They know everything I know.” “And what do you know?” Lukas pauses, stopping the car at the closest red light. Ferocity begins to creep into his face, hardening his gorgeous features. His jaw tightens. “I know that whoever did this is dead when I get my hands on them.” The light turns green, and I am

jerked back into my seat before I can respond. I turn my face towards the window once more, concentrating back on the city lights until every sky-high fire on the horizon fades from my view.

Ace Up Your Sleeve

You can’t cheat if there are no rules. ― Lauren Oliver

DAY 1—8:26PM Tampa City Streets LUKAS The lights of yet another high-rise disappear into the distance.

For a town as southern as Tampa, this Florida coastline city sure doesn’t have the “hospitality” bit down. Three “No, sir’s,” five “Sorry’s” and two “We apologize’s” later, and Elena and I are back on the hunt for another hotel. Our eleventh of the night ended in an “Our sincerest apologies,” and suddenly that first chuckle we shared outside the first inn just isn’t quite funny anymore. The Marriott was booked. So was the Embassy Suites, the Sheraton—even the Motel 6… though I did shiver when I had to call that one. Every stay-in—every half decent

hotel within ten miles of Tampa General —booked… because some Sunshine, Sunset—whatever the hell—fucking festival is in town. So much for “leaving the light on” as the slogan says. Two hours later, and we still can’t catch a break. The night grows longer than the day, and suddenly the stifling air in my Audi doesn’t feel so awful, the turmoil inside of my tired brain taking a relapse as we take a detour that puts us past my house. I barely notice the neighborhood… until I look over at Elena. Her arms are tucked in close to her

body, her bare legs pulled up into the cushion of her seat. Sweat tinges the collar of her white shirt, and small smatters of it plaster the blonde hair across her brow. She’s asleep… and she looks beautiful. With one look at her, I know that I can’t just leave her at some hotel. Though, I should… and I know why… Because I will fuck up her entire life… like the life of every woman that came before her. And with all the secrets I’ve held that led to Ana’s accident, I’ve already gotten a good goddamned head start… Apart from dealing with the crazy

fucker that hurt Ana, I should be leaving Elena alone. She’s obviously got enough on her plate, and what is there doesn’t need to involve me in the least… Or does it? Just days ago, I interrupted her business plans when I thought she was on a date, proceeded to crash her rendezvous when I’d heard that she’d gone out. At that moment in the restaurant just yesterday, flying to Memphis to see her meant everything to me; I was willing to drop it all to have her to myself. And now that I do have her, the circumstances couldn’t be worse, the

timing to do all the things I’d dreamed about proving to be fucked up beyond belief. Even now I have to look away from her, suppressing the stirrings of a hardon while she sleeps tensely in the passenger seat, her long legs crossed, her pretty mouth pressed into a silent line. Better to leave it alone. Better to leave her alone. An unfamiliar image jumps unexpectedly into my head. My imagination starts playing tricks on me, and I see images that are not really there. I see myself wrapped around Elena’s petite body. Hugging her,

holding her—comforting her. Hmph. Comfort. I wanted to comfort her earlier. I wanted to say or do anything that would ease the pain. Such fucking pain. I could feel it shooting from her skin like sparks, stabbing me like a thousand little darts. And I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t kiss her. I couldn’t hold her. I didn’t even know where to begin. Comfort. Jesus. I’ve never even learned the word. In all of my twenty-eight years of living, comfort, to me, has been nothing but that—a word.

Just a term. Seven letters, two syllables— strung together randomly and placed in the dictionary. I never felt it. Never experienced it. Never dispensed it. I can provide a listening ear; I might even offer you a helping hand… But I’ve never been anyone’s shoulder to cry on. Just wasn’t me. I wasn’t raised that way… and my best friends could accept that. The women in my life…? Ah, the women. Well, I never let them get close enough to even see—never let them

come near enough to tell or know that I was an incomplete body, a damned consolidation of scattered limbs without shoulders on which to weep or careful hands with which to wipe away tears. Worked for me. The less they knew… the better. Better for them. Better for me. And definitely better for Elena. If she even thought that I might be responsible for what happened to Ana… Hell, I can’t even imagine it. I ride silently on the suburban streets, one hand on the wheel—staring out at the road—wondering about comfort. How long does it take to lose it?

How long to get it back? I question it all. Not for myself… but for Elena. I was born without comfort. Can’t miss what you never had. But I wonder if she can ever recover her sense of it. Will things ever feel comfortable to her again after this? Resting against the leather steering wheel, my watch abruptly beeps nine, and I decide to make a U-turn, my eyes shamelessly assessing Elena, gazing for God knows how long at her while I finally come to a decision. She’ll be pissed. But better angry than dead… I say.

***

DAY 2—8:03AM Casa de Griffin ELENA Splat. Crumple. Crumple. “Shit!” The sounds wake me up from my sleep. My sleep? Goddammit, I fell asleep! The soft smell of leather surrounds me, and I sit up, wondering where the fuck I am. I touch the seat beneath me

with frantic hands. Black. Leather. A couch. A blanket. Lukas’s. I’m at his house. What happened? I smooth out the rumpled shirt on my shoulders, taking care to pull down my black skirt that’s bunched around my thighs. My feet are bare, and I place them back in Lukas’s sandals on the floor, making my way into the kitchen where I think the noise is coming from. The scent of ginger and garlic greets me around the corner. “Damn.” I look up.

So, that’s where the cursing is coming from. It’s Lukas, standing in his low-slung jeans and white, v-neck T-shirt. The last thing I remember seeing him clutch was a black steering wheel. Now? Those large hands of his grip tightly onto a large, brown paper bag. His long fingers slide carefully inside of the harmless-looking sack before yanking roughly out. He slaps large tins of savorysmelling dishes on the kitchen counters, snatching his hands away as soon as the Styrofoam containers hit the surface. I nearly laugh. “What’s this?”

He finally notices me, glancing at my face and then the counters. “Good morning to you, too.” He points at the food. “This…? This is me burning the hell out of my hands with these sausage containers.” He turns. “The eggs are a little cold. I thought about putting them on the stove along with the pancakes.” “Food?” I step in closer. “You can cook?” “No… but I can order a mean IHOP.” His grin is slight as he looks around. “I’m just keeping it warm.” I inch my way over to the counter, leaning across its polished surface.

“That’s nice of you…” Griff shrugs casually, placing his hands behind him and onto the granitetop. His triceps tighten, and I look away. “It looks good…” I exhale loudly, stammering. “The… the food, I mean.” I clear my throat. “How long was I out?” “Not long… ‘bout twelve hours.” “Twelve hours?!” I stand up straight, pushing away from the granite counters. “What time is it?” Griff checks a watch I hadn’t noticed before. “Eight…in the morning.” Fuck. FuckFuckFuck. I start to swivel in my oversized sandals, searching anxiously for my

belongings. My purse. Where the hell is my purse? My phone… My wallet… I pad noisily out of the kitchen, the soles of my sandals slapping loudly on the hardwood floors as I make my way back into the living room. The couch. All of my stuff sits on its arm, each item placed carefully on the flat black leather. Lukas’s doing, no doubt. I snatch the phone and wallet from the sofa’s edge, stuffing each of them into my low-hanging purse. My money isn’t exactly abundant, but it’s there, and I need to get out of here.

It’s morning. The night’s gone. And I still want to see Ana again before the day is over. I need to call hotels, find one that’s available and get settled as soon as possible. I sigh heavily, tapping an anxious foot for a full minute. Settled? Hmph. Yeah, right. What kind of settling can I do with nothing to my name but the clothes on my back? And half of those aren’t even mine; they belong to… “Shit!” I slam into Lukas’s wide chest as I turn from the couch, nearly falling across his body as I stumble. He catches me by my upper arms, his long fingers

wrapping wholly around each limb. His grip is gentle yet powerful; he holds my clumsy body completely upright with his clutch as if I weigh nothing at all. As if he could throw me… fling me… maybe even toss me over his shoulder… “Fuck, I keep running right into you,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. “I don’t mean to; I just wanted to check on you to see if you needed me.” I blink up at him. Need him? Need Lukas Griffin? God, if he only knew how much I do… but I’d give anything not to.

I step back, away from him. “I’m fine,” I respond. “A lot of ‘I’m fine’s’ coming from you lately…” “Well, if I keep saying it, then just maybe it’s true.” I bite my lip, peering over at the front door. “The only thing that’s not fine are my accommodations— in that, I have none.” Lukas’s face falls into a serious scowl. I think he is going to scold me for not grabbing a taxi… maybe even chastise me for falling asleep, but then he speaks. He shakes a tousled head of hair. “Yes… you do.” I sigh with relief. Awesome. He

found a hotel. And as long as it has a vending machine with candy and fewer roaches than the local Howard Johnson, then I should be just fine. Well… so long as I keep quiet, don’t touch Lukas… and run the second he parks the car outside the lobby. I nod anxiously at him, and he leans in, lifting my long-strapped purse off of the shoulder of my ruffled shirt. “You’ve got all the accommodation you need right here,” he comments casually, “because you’re staying with me.” The statement is like a kick to the chest, knocking all the air out of me. I try

to open my mouth to say something, but all that emits is a gasp. What the hell did I just hear?? He rotates calmly on his heel, walking back towards the kitchen, as if nothing is wrong—as if he didn’t just tell me to “stay put.” Stay here. Like I’m some dog or some... thing he can command. I storm after him, catching up to his side where I try to grab at my hijacked purse. Complete fail. Before I can even touch the bag, Lukas whisks it out of reach, holding it high above his head and turning towards me—unaffected.

The look of indifference on his face infuriates me, and I huff heavily, feeling bolstered by my outrage. “What do you think you’re doing?” I yell at him. His emerald eyes seem to glitter at me. “I’m taking your belongings… just in case you get any ideas.” My eyes skim the black purse in his hand. “Any ideas about what?” “About leaving.” “What are you talking about? I have to leave. The Marriott, remember?” Griff squints at me. “What the fuck, Elena? I’m not taking you to some twobit hotel.” I scoff—exasperated. “You’re

overthinking this.” He takes a step towards me—a defiant step. His towering presence overwhelms me. “Am I? Because if I was thinking at all, I would have nixed this idea from the jump. You don’t need to be by yourself while Ana’s in the hospital. You shouldn’t be alone while all of this… is happening.” I brush my blonde bangs out of my face, scrambling for a retort. “I’m a big girl, Lukas. I can take care of myself.” He moves in closer to me, and I nearly take a step backwards. He lowers his raised arm to his side, staring down

at me. His lips are set firmly, and the dark hair surrounding them stands prominently. He’s tall enough to put his chin on the very tip of my head, and I have to incline my face to meet his. He glares down at my mouth before lifting his gaze to meet my eyes. I wait—breathlessly—wanting to see what Lukas will do next, what he will say, what he will do to make me stay. But he does nothing. Instead, his eyes go cold, and he hands my black handbag back to me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed by his sudden concession.

He walks past me into the living room, leaving me gaping at his back. He’s still holding the hand that held my purse into a fist as he heads towards the stairway. He speaks as he begins to climb. “You need to eat. I’m going to get dressed to take you to the hospital. Anything you want to use is yours. There are extra shirts in the drawers—extra towels in each bathroom. “All of your belongings have been delivered from Kat’s. They’re upstairs in the far guest bedroom along with the keys and codes to the house.” He hesitates on one step. “I won’t keep you here against your

will, Elena… no matter how tempting the prospect is. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

“The Marshall Swindle”

One of the objectives of opening play is to try to surprise your opponent. – Edmar Mednis

DAY 2—6:37PM Channelside Bay Plaza ELENA

Today was one for the books. After being taken from pillar to post—Lukas’s house to Tampa General to a shrimp-serving bistro on the water, I am almost too tired to complain. My parents’ sudden arrival at the hospital shook me up, and even though I was happy to see them, it wasn’t enough to lift my spirits. I couldn’t help but think that Nana would have known what to do. Nana would have known how to make it right. She would have helped me figure it out… and she would have never let me leave the hospital the way I had the day

before. Even though I hate hospitals. Always have. Always will. From the first time I walked inside one at the ripe young age of five right up until the last time—the final time, seventeen years ago, when I walked through those damned automatic double doors. I swear I could smell it. I swear I could. Death was in the air. It floated through the hallways and past the vending machines—camped out in the fabric of the waiting room seats and at the nurses’ desks. It was everywhere.

And seventeen years ago, it sat down in the beige corduroy chairs where three forlorn little girls watched their grandmother slip away. Nana Natalya. Miss Khvostova. Or, if you lived in her neighborhood, that mean old Russian bitch down the street. But we loved her ornery old ass. When she died, our family was shattered—most of all, the children. And as the oldest daughter, I… let’s just say, I was left to pick up the pieces. Life’s funny, isn’t it? How it can change in an instant? How one day you’re the babe sitting in someone’s lap and the next day,

someone’s sitting in yours? I‘d become “the lap.” That’s what I was; that’s what I had to be—for my sisters. My mother was a mess; my dad was busy trying to keep our heads above water, and now, Nana… Nana was gone. I was ten. Well, almost ten. Katarina was eight, and Anastasia was only five. And to watch everything come fullcircle… I went from watching my Nana slip away into nothingness in a stale-smelling hospital room to praying that my youngest sister didn’t follow suit. At one point in the hospital, Ana—

the youngest of us—seemed to have followed the footsteps of the old matriarch, right onto death’s doorway. It felt unnatural. It felt wrong. So, when I rushed into that hospital, just yesterday, I felt a dam of emotion beat against my closed eyelids. But the dam wouldn’t burst; it just sat there—as always, letting a thunderous river of tears rage against its foundation—a foundation that I’d carefully built brick-by-brick for seventeen years. It seems now, even under these circumstances, that damned dam won’t yield. I’ve built it strong. Stronger than I ever could have

imagined. Stronger than even I knew was possible. Outside in the rain at the Channelside Bay Plaza, I think of that dam; I brush the rain away from my cheeks as if they were tears, ducking my barely washed but stubborn head beneath my arm as I cross the damp streets outside the restaurant. I’m dirty. I’m tired. And the rain shower above my head is probably the most water that my hair has seen in two days. Still… Every drop is worth it. Three hours of visiting Ana, four hours of playing tour guide in a stuffed rental with my overanxious parents, and

one embarrassing hour with my realtor, Kathy, who I jilted two days ago, and somehow… after what could be deemed the longest day of my life… the rain is surprisingly welcomed. It’s a long-awaited disruption from my personal nightmare—a soothing cascade that helps to wash away the stigma of an exhausting day. Not to mention, it soothes the lashes from Kathy’s quick tongue. I can still feel the sting of her words from tonight’s dinner date; I can still sense the sharp barbs from the reprimands that she handed me in that snooty-assed, overpriced restaurant. The second I stepped out of the

Uber to meet her, I was met with a wrecking ball in the form of five-foot, two inches of sudden fury. “Elena,” she snapped at me across the table as we sat. “Get it together. You signed that Purchase Agreement for the studio two days ago. The property is in escrow now, but you’ve got to let me know if you want to follow through. “Eight more days to make a decision… eight more days to back out…” The words pierced me with icecold terror. Because, unbeknownst to Kathy, I still don’t have a single client for the unfinished studio.

Countless meeting after meeting after meeting with every dance company I can think of and nonetheless, the truth remains: I haven’t received one single offer for my services. The concept isn’t difficult to grasp: No dancers—NO studio. But the meeting with Kathy did help. She gave me a wake-up call—a chance to refocus my energy, a chance to actually do something that will take my mind off of everything else. Like my parents…. Ana… or even Lukas. I’m becoming attached to him again, leaning on him for support in the oddest ways.

Before, it was with the engagement party. Now? It’s Ana’s accident. I’m getting too close to him, depending on him for far too much. Much more than I know he’s willing to give. And Lukas is right. Venturing out there while some psycho’s on the loose is dangerous, but being in his house with him—alone? Well, that just may be even more dangerous. The knots in my shoulders loosen as the thought enters my mind, the tension lessening as I take in my suburban surroundings. The restaurants nearby are bustling.

The shopping center is packed with giggling college students and smiley faces. The rain outside is colder than it was just sixty minutes ago, and the former drizzle shifts into a downpour that starts to feel like ice. I step out of the rain and under a nearby awning, walking fast, my frozen fingers dialing for my mom’s new cell number. Shit, why didn’t I write it down? I should have saved it and saved myself the trouble. What good does having my cell phone do if I can’t use it? I don’t have much money for an Uber. Whatever change I had left in my

pockets was eaten up by dinner and the ride here. Six, seven… seven, six. Dammit, which one was it? I feel the digits of the cell phone number on the tip of my tongue, fumbling towards the forefront of my mind, but I can’t remember them. Which combination of these numbers is right? I’m trying every single sequence I can think of. The rain continues to pour, and the faster it flows, the more uneasy I become. The passersby have morphed quickly into a panicked mob, and the formerly cheerful crowd has taken a turn

—shifting into an anxious stampede that is desperate to find shelter from the torrents. Water splashes. Windbreakers flap. A couple to my left ducks into a store, and a little boy in red rain boots jumps a puddle. People push past me, herding impatiently for any cover they can find. They crowd their dampened bodies close to me under the awning, and the air around me becomes thick with heavy breathing, the simultaneous sighs of scores of people creating a gust that’s weightier than the wind. I glance behind me, feeling a prickling across my skin… and someone

flanking the crowd appears to be watching me. I can’t be certain because there are so many people, but the half-hooded person leers in my direction, a grey poncho sitting heavily on their hunched frame. A man? Maybe a woman…? I can’t tell under the cover of the darkened dusk. The chaos in my periphery makes it too difficult to judge; buzzing people block my view, making it impossible to distinguish. And I can hardly breathe. The person is behind me, and yet I can feel their presence. The crowd

shifts, and the hordes of people stir in the Channelside Bay promenade. I look backwards, and the person is almost right on my heels. I panic. I make a run for it. I crouch—attempting to shrink and disappear amidst the throngs of shoppers. I dip and dodge between them, trying to blend in among their umbrellas and heavy raincoats. The downpour overhead beats furiously as I dash. With another peek over my shoulder, I struggle to stay calm. I think I’ve lost the grey hood, but with the

million more that trample between the sets of restaurants and stores, it’s almost as if I’m being taunted. The universe is playing tricks on my mind, and somehow I feel like I’m the butt of some cosmic joke. I try to pull myself together. I step apart from the suburban mob, finally separating myself from the sea of people. I glance backwards towards the awning I escaped… but the person in the grey hood is gone. The crowd continues moving without me, the throngs of people seemingly oblivious to my nervous plight.

I smooth my humidified hair with shaky confidence. I laugh with nerves still simmering beneath the surface. I’m clearly losing it—seeing things that aren’t there. But when I reach back towards the cell phone I stashed, I feel the texture of something else beside it—some sort of paper. I take it out. It’s a handwritten note stuck in my back pocket. And the nervous chuckle gets caught in my throat. I stare at the note. It reads: Do I have everyone’s attention yet?

***

DAY 2—7:02PM Tripping Out! Offices LUKAS The rain is falling harder than ever. Water falls over my head as I exit the office, turning a partly cloudy day into a dreary dusk. I watch the texture of the sky thicken like a gelatin, growing coagulated and clotted like a steely, open wound.

Not only is the sky crying, it’s bleeding, and each drop of pale liquid is another symbol of pain—another sign of an injury gone unhealed. I stare upwards. It’s me; I’m the injury: the thorn in everyone’s side, leaking destruction on everything I touch. The entire day I felt like an unwelcomed sore—an impending infection that would only fuck up the party. Like this is new. Because come on… Who the fuck am I kidding? I always was some sort of sore thumb, sticking out in places that I didn’t belong.

As a kid, I’d tried to just blend in… and with Foxx and Chris at my side, I was able to feel a little less sore—a little less odd. That hasn’t been the case today… or yesterday… or for the past four months. Foxx and I still haven’t talked since… Ana, and though we hadn’t said more than ten words to each other yesterday in the hospital, I could feel his anger—his rage. I’m surprised he didn’t try to beat the shit out of me. But I know why he didn’t take it further. Because of Kat. Because of Ana.

Because of his family—a family that I’m sure does not include me anymore. Family. Hmph. Today, I actually got the chance to meet the rest of Elena’s family. I dropped Elena off at Tampa General today and practically into the hands of her recently arrived parents, a ragtag duo clad in tacky colorful clothing. Elena’s father is a tall, hunching man with a pervasive smile in his eyes, her mother a tiny pixie with a platinum pixie cut to match. A happy but odd pair, they seemed to be. They showered Ana with hugs and

kisses, harangued Elena within an inch of her life about visiting more often and when they’d heard that Kat was apparently too sick to visit that morning, they clucked for half an hour on end, taking an opportunity away from Ana’s hospital room to buy “get well” souvenirs for Kat from the lobby gift shop as if Kat had never been to Tampa. I warmed to them immediately. They possessed a fondness that was ever-present, a strange but obvious parental warmth that was conspicuously absent from my own childhood, even at first glance. They wore it like a badge of honor. The awkward couple clearly cared

about their three young daughters… but they were slightly aloof—wacky in this weird way that didn’t reflect the seriousness of Ana’s situation. For God’s sake, they had showed up to the hospital in Disneyembroidered clothing as if this were a vacation. Not that I ever knew what a “normal” family dynamic was in the first place. Foxx and Chris are all that remain of the family I once had, and with Ana’s accident and the Elena tryst, whatever I have left is dwindling fast—a fact that had become painfully clear when neither of my brothers showed up to work today.

Foxx, I’d heard, decided to work from home. Kat—as I’d heard earlier at the office—was sick, and the usually diligent Chris was noticeably absent, out of the office touching base with Voyager, the travel magazine client we have an important meeting with in two days. Two fucking days—and we still haven’t recovered all of their files for the collaborative spread that’s been hacked. With thunder clapping overhead and the storm sweeping sideways, I duck into the safety of my car, soaking the leather seats as I retrieve my barely rescued cell phone from my black briefcase.

Gotta be quick. The parking attendant here is a pain in my ass. Threatened to call a tow truck on me—or the cops—next time I parked in someone else’s reserved space. Of course, I never listen. I grab the cell phone I’ve managed to salvage from the rain with drenched hands. Griff: Checking in, bro. How was the meeting? Chris: Stressful.

No shocker there. Chris: The editor-in-chief Mike Slovak wanted to talk about the files, HALF of which are missing. I couldn’t be completely honest, but the runaround ain’t gonna work when we meet with the editors on Thursday. Griff: Fuck. Well, can we push it back? Chris: That’d be a negative. They’re looking for answers now. And I can’t

say I actually blame them. Griff… I can hear Chris’s plea even through text. Griff: Say no more. I’ll take care of it. Chris: Take care of it? Griff, in order to pull this off, I need you to take care of HER. My eyes narrow at the screen. Griff:

HER? Chris: Don’t be coy. HER. Sabrina. The managing editor. If ever we needed some of your special Griff charm, it’s now. Sabrina. Fuck. I nearly drop my phone when the name registers to my scrambled brain. Sabrina Wellington. Or “Bri the Bimbo” as Foxx liked to call her. A busty strawberry-blonde from London, Sabrina would kick your teeth

no sooner if you called her “Bri” than if you called her “bimbo.” With a hot-tempered tongue and an even hotter ass, Sabrina basically ruled over the travel magazine, Voyager, with an iron fist. She was as bright as she was lethal, as brilliant as she was ruthless… She could “bed and shred” with the best of them. And to add insult to injury… she’s wanted to fuck me since she first laid eyes on me. I never like to shit where I eat, never like to mix business with pleasure. Long ago, I could’ve given Sabrina the ride of her life, but my integrity

mattered more to me than a one-night fling. And if all accounts that I’d heard of her were right… then Sabrina was as bitchy as she was beautiful. It wasn’t worth the risk. At least, it wasn’t back then… Truth be told, it still isn’t. By the time I make it back home, my thoughts are only on two things: the Voyager files… and the hardheaded blonde that left my house this morning. The hour is late, my head is hung low when I finally finish going over the files in my home office. My eyelids are reaching for the floor, and whatever will I had that drove

me to the Tripping Out! office and back is definitely done. I haven’t slept well in days. I’ve been floating through the motions, operating somewhere between asleep and awake so much so that I have to clutch my old oak desk to ground myself—trying to regain some semblance of sense, composure— grasping for anything tangible. Anything that will pull me from this purgatory. It’s all just so damn confusing. Dreams. Reality. The line between them is constantly blurred. My nightmares have taken shape within my waking world, and the worst

things I could have imagined have actually come true. The roles are switched—because my reality is a living nightmare, and my dreams have shifted into pure fantasy. Half-asleep at my desk, I have a vision of Elena walking in. Her tread is timid, her delicate feet bare. She rounds the corner into my line of sight, looking heaven-sent, and then she pauses—a white button down hanging loosely on her shoulders, providing a palm-wide peek of skin from neck to hip. The platinum waves of her hair are casually tossed back, and they emphasize the gold flecks in her eyes—

flecks that seem to shimmer under the muted light of my amber desk lamp. She stands at the threshold of the office, watching… waiting for me to notice her. And I do—I can’t help but take her in with my eyes. The heels of her feet tap slowly against the wooden flooring of the office as she moves towards me. I inhale sharply when she sits abruptly in my lap, my body responding immediately upon impact. My aching cock grows hard and strong between her legs, and my hands start to itch, dying to touch every part of her scented skin.

In my lap, Elena is not innocently cuddled up; she is straddling me… and the satin and lace of her panties plants itself firmly between my thighs, while each of her bare legs dangles seductively where the arm rests would normally be. Even fully clothed, I am rock solid, and Elena takes advantage of it, rubbing the top of her slit across my steelcolored slacks, lowering her pussy lips so that they sit on the length of me while the lips on her face lick the skin at my jaw. I groan, my fingertips trailing along the edge of Elena’s overexposed cleavage.

She unbuttons my collar and shirtfront, biting my chest until her lips press against my abdomen. Through heavily hooded eyes, I watch her sexy little ass slowly slide backwards onto my knees, her tongue creating a wet trail as she continues to go lower. And lower. And lower… Just when the torture is too sweet, just when I don’t think I can take anymore… the doorbell rings and makes her disappear; it makes me shove the image of her back into the damning oblivion from which she emerged. In my office chair, I scramble for

composure, mentally and physically gathering myself together, tucking in a hard-on that was the result of the realistic fantasy. I check my watch. Two o’clock in the morning? Who the fuck could be at my door? I leap from my office chair, the hard soles of my polished shoes echoing loudly over the hardwood floor. The wind and rain are still beating outside by the time I make it to the front door, and when I do, I lean into the peephole, tightening a fist at the thought of what I may see beyond it. I balk. Elena?

I open the door… and there she is. The woman of my explicit wet dreams, looking very explicit—and very wet—on my front step in the pouring rain. The umbrella she carries isn’t large enough to cover a toddler let alone a curvaceously sculpted woman like her. Her hair is plastered to her forehead and neck in waves of gold, and the grey shirt she wears is stuck to her like a second skin, its bottom edge practically bleeding into the drenched denim at her hip. She holds her large black purse in her hand, chockfull of clothes she snatched just this morning from the

suitcases left abandoned at my house earlier. She’s soaked from every angle, and just a minute ago, I was thinking of a few places I’d have no trouble soaking even further. She bites her lips, nearly shivering from the chilled spring rain. “Can I come in?” she asks softly… and I shift on my feet. Goddammit, the universe is an ironically funny son-of-a-bitch. I step to the side of the door, not saying a word. The bulge in my pants twitches as Elena pushes past me. She floats further into the depths of my darkened house and

into the den. My traitorous cock has undermined me once again—the bastard… And I couldn’t say no if I goddamn tried.

Snake Eyes

Never play cat and mouse games if you're a mouse. –Don Addis

Day 3—3:04AM Casa de Griffin ELENA “Did you really mean what you said about getting the person who did this?”

Elena rubs her hands near the fire I’ve set, sliding her curvaceous bottom towards the fireplace, as she sits, legs crossed, on the grey rug in my den. Her clothes are not as soaked as they once were, and though it hasn’t been more than ten minutes since I sparked the blaze, she is half-dry, her blonde hair no longer dripping onto the floor. Or onto my clothes—which have long-since replaced her own sopping ones. After one shower and one hour of story-telling about what happened to her tonight, she is ten times more relaxed than she was when she first walked in. But now, after her seemingly

innocent question, the tension is back. I can feel it. She glances at me with a serious face, her tiny hands clutching together the buttons of the white shirtfront she wears. The blaze is reflected in her blue eyes, and they sparkle at me. Her dilated pupils are full of expectation, full of hope, and suddenly I feel an urge to give her everything she needs. “The person who did what?” I ask. “This. The crash… Ana.” I don’t even blink at Elena. “Every word.” She smiles, but it’s not one full of good nature. More like relief.

She scoots towards the armchair in which I sit, and instead of me watching her, we trade places, and I can tell that Elena is observing me with keener eyes. At my feet, she leans her body into me, and my breathing grows shallow with anticipation. “Good,” she mutters quietly, looking up at me. “Because I’m going to help you.” I scoff, not believing a word I’m hearing. “You are?” “Yes,” she responds. “You are?” “Absolutely.” I stand, walking away from the

fireplace to think. “I can’t believe what you’re saying.” Elena stands with me. “Why not?” she asks. “I have every reason to work with you on this.” “Every reason except that we can’t work together.” “Why can’t we?” I whirl towards Elena, locking my eyes on her face in the dimly lit room. “Have you forgotten that little engagement party that nearly blew up in our faces?” Elena bites her lip, nearly squirming on her feet, and the nervous gesture makes me want to kiss her.

Lick her even… but to allow her to get involved in some psychopath’s scheme? Not a fucking chance. I cross the den, heading into the kitchen with a stony determination. I fill a nearby glass with water, almost wishing that it were vodka. Elena starts to speak from behind me, having followed me across the house. “I admit it…” she comments over my shoulder. “The process wasn’t seamless… but the results were.” She circles my body suddenly, planting her feet right in front of me, dragging my eyes back to her face.

“Nothing is ever as good as it can be when we work together. And despite our infinite differences… I know that you know this.” Elena pokes a finger at my chest, keeping it there. The look in her eyes is dogged, and the set of her jaw is resolute. This is the hard-nosed, dogmatic Elena I’ve come to know… and in this instant, I know that nothing I say will change her mind. “Face it, Lukas. We work well together not in spite of our differences, but because of them.” She laughs dryly, growing sheepish. “Although, it nearly pains me to

admit it.” Her cheeks grow inflamed, and the blush on her face does something to me. I have no choice but to concede the point. Because she’s right. Elena brings structure to my spontaneity, and I bring impulse to her order. Nothing about our pairing should make sense, and yet it does. What we accomplished with Kat and Foxx’s engagement party was nothing short of a miracle—damn near magic considering the epic battles that Elena and I once fought. But ultimately we both wound up

winning the war—in that characteristically fiery fashion that two hotheads like us had grown accustomed to—that delectably explosive fashion where bodies became one and the sounds of two voices were unified in ecstasy. The memory alone is enough to make me grow hard again. With that finale in the Hyatt, every fight—every clash that Elena and I had —was worth it. I can only hope that this new war will end the same. Even though I know that it shouldn’t… I make a decision right then and

there. “Yeah,” I forfeit to Elena, sighing hesitantly. “Let’s do it.” A smile starts to form in the corners of her mouth. “But,” I interject before she can get too excited, “we’re going to do things my way. “The engagement party was more your thing. This is more mine. I’ve got a private investigator on it, and he and I will be doing the bulk of the investigating—figuring this out. Starting with Gregory Sears…” “But…” “If you want to stay in the loop— and I’m assuming you do…”

Elena nods emphatically. “You will listen to whatever my PI, Henry, and I have to say. Don’t go chasing after hunches. Don’t interact with Sears. And for God’s sake, never try to take matters into your own hands. “We’re not cops, ok? If this shit hits the fan, we’ll be on our own. And it’d be better if we come out alive…” The nod Elena gives me this time is more rigid, more curt. If she’s scared at all, she doesn’t show it. And my respect for her increases by that much more. She clasps her hands together. “Great,” she declares, walking towards me. “So, what’s the first step?”

“The first step…” I approach within arm’s length of Elena, tempted to touch her hair—close enough to actually do it. I hesitate, pulling out my cell phone instead. “… is sleep.” I turn the cell towards her to show the time. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, and we need to be sharp if we’re going to go, uh… hunting.” I turn on my heel, heading towards the stairs. “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to come, too.” I nearly stop, smiling. “Doesn’t have to be my bed, though

I wouldn’t stop you if it were. Pick any bedroom you’d like.” I reach the staircase. “Wait,” Elena calls after me. “What about Sears?” “I’ll handle Sears.” “But what if he gets away?” “He won’t.” “But how do you know?” “I just do.” “But how?” Elena cries louder this time. I stop climbing the stairs. I can hear the desperation in her voice. “Because, my faithless Elena….” I mutter, turning slowly to meet her eye.

“I know where he’s staying.”

***

ELENA I wake up in Lukas’s bed. Well, Lukas’s guest bed. It’s a California King, replete with devilishly red comforters. The pillows, as in normal Lukas Griffin custom, are made of something more luxurious than cotton, and the sheets are just as expectedly flawless— soft, blood-colored and extremely

decadent. I’d make love to this bed. Hell, I’ve already given the pillows the most head they’ve probably ever seen in this house. The mattress may be twice as large as the bed I had at Kat’s house, and still it is Oompa Loompa-sized compared to the juggernaut that is Lukas’s bed. Huh. Funny. That is exactly how this bed makes me feel. Like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory in a “world of pure imagination.” Stumbling around in a fantasy/nightmare from which there is no

waking. A place of wonder and mystique not meant for innocent, uncultured, middle class, wannabe-world class dancers like me. If only it could last… But that’s just the thing. With Lukas… nothing can. He isn’t built that way. And I was stupid enough just days ago to think that I was. I fling the covers to the side, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. As soon as my feet touch the hardwood floor, I feel a familiar anticipation—the same mix of dread and excitement that accompanied me on the first walk to Lukas’s hotel room.

Only this time, there is no hotel. This is Lukas’s house. No witnesses. No excuses. And I can’t tell if that thought fills me with distress or interest. Conflicted, I float in a time-less, sensation-less haze through Lukas’s hallways. I don’t even realize that I am standing at his door until he looks up at me. His shirt is unbuttoned—his collar up. Silver shiny cufflinks are fastened at his wrists, and they flash as they move beneath his heavy hands and quick fingers—large, perfect fingers that pull

towards the tiny buttons on his white collared shirt. He presses each button into its designated hole, and I watch as Lukas skillfully slips them through, cinching each clasp over his impossibly chiseled torso—slowly closing the curtain on what is one of the greatest displays I have ever seen. Because this man’s body is a work of art. He is art… And everything he does bears the mark of his effortless perfection, an inherent flawlessness that exudes from within, transforming the simple to the extraordinary with just his touch.

Amazing—how the simple act of dressing himself is a spectacle in and of itself. It is just like when I watched him on the computer at Ana’s graduation party. Same confidence. Same poise. I am a captivated spectator, absorbed by the show. I don’t blink for fear of missing a second… until he notices me. “Sorry…” I say. “I don’t know what I was thinking… I just assumed… I should have checked…” His laugh rumbles low as he strolls over to me, leaving what’s left of his shirt half-opened.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he murmurs playfully. “Nothing here you haven’t seen before…” Innocent enough on the surface, the suggestive subtext of what Lukas is saying is strong… and clear. His green eyes flash seductively at me, and suddenly I have to look away. Because if I don’t, I’m not quite sure what will happen next. I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice with Lukas, and I’m just trying not to jump. “I’m going to head to the kitchen to heat up that IHOP, if it’s still there,” I tell him, avoiding his eye. “Good,” Lukas declares, finishing

off his buttons. “I’ve got a few things to take care of, but I’ll be down soon.” I nod, slinking my way out of his room. When I reach the kitchen, I start to breathe easier. There’s something about Lukas that sucks the air out of the room, making it hard to inhale, hard to concentrate. I can barely be around him anymore. But not for the same reasons that I had before. The man I met over the phone was irresponsible, wild—a total player—but upon closer inspection, there’s a latent seriousness to him, a sadness that even

Lukas’s sexy smile can’t hide. I never wanted to meet the man behind the smile before, but Saturday night gave me a glimpse—a peek at something more. Something tangible. Something real. And now I’m afraid that he’ll never let me get that close to him again. But at least in here, maybe I have a chance… I start to drift away from the kitchen, heading towards the den. I pick up a piece of mail on a shelf and suddenly I am perusing, digging my fingers through drawers, sliding my fingers across countertops.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? I’m lurking—no, better yet: sneaking around—in Lukas’s house… wearing Lukas’s clothes… with Lukas right upstairs. And I’m doing it all without shame. Just a peek, I tell myself. Just one little glimpse, and then I’ll stop. I’ll head back into the kitchen where I intended to go—heat up some IHOP leftovers—pretend that I don’t give a shit. Pretending I don’t is easier than knowing that I do. I move to the next bookcase.

Let’s see… What do we have here? CDs. A shit-ton of CDs. I’ve already gone through these before. Prince. David Bowie. Bruce Springsteen. I snatch a CD. Hm. Justin Timberlake. My, my, my… I should take this one for later. My hands continue to roam around the room. I open up cabinets, a hutch—peruse through countless bookshelves, and what do I find? Not much of anything.

Business books. Computer programming files. Wow. An award? I linger on that one. It’s glass-encased, practically hiding on a mid-level shelf. The paper award reads “Young Entrepreneur of the Year,” and I smile. Lukas Griffin is a self-made man… and I should have known not to expect anything less. But still, something’s strange, something’s… off. He has all the accouterments of a normal twenty-eight year old man. The sports paraphernalia, the men’s magazines, and—oh—even the exotic

porn. But it’s somehow incomplete. It’s not what’s there that’s the problem… but what isn’t. No photo albums. No pictures. Not a birthday card in sight. Zilch. No poorly drawn but sentimental pictures stating “Thanks, Uncle Lukas.” No postcards or cheesy Christmas cards that say “I’m thinking of you.” Nothing. Not one personal touch. Not one sense of family… or girlfriends… or friendship… or love. That’s it. Where’s the love in this house? The passion that Lukas expresses in

everything he does? At the keyboard. Behind a desk. In the bedroom… He’s full of fervor, almost obsessive dedication… in every way but this. Here’s a man who’s fiercely loyal to his friends, dedicated to his success and yet this is the second time that I’ve looked at his house and sneered. It’s so damn cold, so frigid. Nana Natalya always said you have to know where you came from to understand where you’re going, and I believed her. I touch another “young business owner” book, fingering the pages.

So, just where did you come from, Lukas Griffin? The sound of a soft footstep from behind me answers my question. I turn. It’s him—Lukas—standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes intense, his stare smoldering. He just caught me rifling through his personal belongings. And it couldn’t be worse than if I had “Oh, shit. Busted” written on my forehead. He shifts on his feet in the partialblinded sunlight of the window-covered den, the pewter gray cast of his suit adding to the storminess of his

expression. He looks serious, but unsurprised. He raises an eyebrow as if this is just what he expected. “Looking for something?” he asks. Lukas’s voice is rich—completely unruffled. His quiet calm sends my nerves thrumming underneath my skin. I clutch the cd in my hand, feeling inspired by its presence. “Yeah,” I say, recovering from shock. “Music. I always listen to music when I cook.” His eyebrows shoot even higher. “When you’re heating up leftover IHOP?” “Of course. Heating up leftover

IHOP is as close to cooking as I basically get.” “Well, then,” Lukas comments softly, motioning towards the kitchen. “Lead the way.” I take a deep breath, anxious to wipe the “busted” sign off my forehead. I do what Lukas asks me to. I walk past him slowly, unable to take a breath until I’m clear of his body. I reach for the refrigerator door, deflecting. “So, when are we going to make a move on Sears?” I ask absently. “We?” A cabinet shuts from behind me. “We aren’t going to make a move on

Sears. You are going to stay as far away from him as possible, and Henry and I are going to make a move on Sears.” I shut the door, forgetting about the deflection act. “And what am I supposed to do?” “Stay here… and help us do our research into Greg’s assets.” “His assets?” “Yeah,” Lukas says, stepping closer. “We need to cut that son-of-abitch off at the knees, find out where his money is—hack his computer, if necessary.” The notion is too wild to even address, too preposterous for even a rebuttal. Lukas wants me to do what?

“And with what computer hacking army?” I ask. But he doesn’t respond. Lukas…” I start again. “Man, that IHOP sounds good right now.” “Lukas…” “I was really looking forward to it…” “Ok, Lukas...” “If only someone was heating it up like they’d said they would…” “LUKAS,” I groan louder, nearly smacking him. “God, if only I could hang up in your face right now…. it’s so much harder to hang up in your face when we’re talking in person.”

He smiles broadly. “If I were a lesser man, I’d mention a few other things of mine that you could hang on…” I have to laugh. “Such language,” I chastise. “And from the ‘Young Entrepreneur of the Year’?” But the giggle never makes it out. I’ve just told on myself, just admitted that I was snooping, and Lukas catches it. Because the moment it comes out of my mouth, his eyes narrow at me… and, like a gift from the heavens, the doorbell rings. I jump, and Lukas straightens up.

He turns on his polished heels and soon he’s heading towards the door with me practically nipping at his ankles. He takes a glance out of the door and then opens it. “So, Elle… Say hello to your ‘computer-hacking army’ of one.” A familiar and welcomed smile and voice greets me on the front step. “Hey, Elle… Surprised?”

Call a Spade a Spade But when you're playing poker, you don't know the answer to that until after the cards are laid down, and then it's too late. –Fred Thompson

DAY 3—8:03AM Casa de Griffin LUKAS Nobody is happier to see Ana’s face and hear her voice than Elena. But I have to admit that,

considering the circumstances, I run a very close second. A call from Tampa General nearly shocked me out of bed this morning. Ana, released from the hospital with a broken arm and bruises, called me first thing in the morning from the hospital. Wanting to surprise her sisters, she hadn’t told them of her discharge. Turns out the surprise was on her when I’d told her that Elena was staying at my place. Being Ana—naturally—she had wanted to see for herself. So, I let her, sending a car to pick her up from the hospital—cast and all.

Luckily, she didn’t need to be checked out in the care of anyone, and when given the option to choose where she’d go first, she picked here, wanting to talk to Elena about what had exactly driven Elena to my house—of all places. And that wasn’t the only reason… The Ana that called this morning was simmering with rage. Indignation. Wrath. This morning’s Ana was one I’d never seen before—a determined Ana— hell-bent on getting retribution. Not just for herself but for her sister—who was the real target of the

attack. It was just what I needed: Ana’s attitude getting perfectly aligned with mine. I’d long been past the point of wanting retribution. Revenge was the only goddamned thing on my mind. And with Ana’s return, I’d found the perfect opportunity to exact it… and keep her and Elena out of harm’s way while doing so. Ten minutes into Ana’s appearance at my front door and I am already antsy, anxious to get out of the house and back to work so I can look into those damned hacked files.

They’re the only connection we have left to this fucking psycho… and I’m the only one who’s capable of linking all of his underhanded acts together. I grab for my keys on the counter, and Elena notices. She separates herself from Ana’s embrace, walking over to stand beside me at the kitchen counter. “Where are you going?” “Work,” I answer curtly. “Stay here with Ana.” She glances quickly over her shoulder. “I can’t. Ana’s taking off to go to Kat’s at noon.”

“Go with her.” “I can’t, Lukas. You know I can’t.” Elena’s voice is no louder than a sigh; regret fills her pretty face. I place my hand on her chin, stroking the skin underneath it, unable to turn away from her—unable to stop myself from enjoying the touch. I reach for my key ring. “Here,” I say, extending the other hand towards her. “Take the key to the house. Use it if you have to leave, but only if you have to. Don’t let anyone in besides each other—and I mean, no one.” I turn from both Ana and Elena, grabbing for my black briefcase.

“We’ve got a bead on Sears. Henry and I are going to look into a few things. Meanwhile, Ana…” The younger Lexington girl looks up at me. “I need you and Elena together by evening.” I point at her cast. “We’re working at half-capacity here, so Elena will be your fingers. You be her eyes and ears. I need you both at a keyboard when I get off from work. We’re coming at Sears from all sides, so be prepared.” I head towards the front door, lugging my belongings with me. “Prepared for what?” Elena calls at my heels. I stop.

“For tonight, Elle. “We’re confronting that sonuvabitch tonight.”

***

The drive to work is smoother than usual. And so is the walk when I get inside. I stroll into my job with a steadfast purpose… and to an increasingly routine, welcoming committee of none. Usually the last person to arrive at Tripping Out!, I am now the only one,

and the few secretaries that are here can’t even account for my missing copartners. I wave “Good morning” to the employees, pay a visit to a few of the writers. I stop by the IT offices, and by the time I hit my own, I am utterly exhausted, craving caffeine and maybe even something a little sweeter… Fucking dreams. I sit at my desk, feeling anxious— worried that after last night’s naughty fantasy, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of my newly-arrived “houseguest.” I could barely manage it this

morning… and that was right in front of Ana. To recapture my sanity and keep my brain off Elena and back on work, I draft an e-mail from my laptop to Chris, CC’ing Foxx on the message before I hit send. From: [email protected] To: [email protected] CC: [email protected] Subject: All hands on deck Did some digging last night on the Voyager case and came up empty.

In case, you haven’t heard— Elena was stalked last night. Probably by the same bastard that cut her brakes. Police are on it. My PI’s on it. I’m on it. And anybody that’d like to join, feel free to raise your hand. I’m open to all options and opinions. UPDATES: Working on recovering Voyager files with IT. Our June wedding spread is ready to go to print. New website’s looking better than ever.

P.S. It’d be a little easier to see a show of hands if they were actually here. I don’t really have to point out how awfully quiet it is in the office… Several minutes pass before any response. Chris replies first.

From:[email protected] To: [email protected] CC: [email protected] Subject: Re: All hands on deck Sorry about the missing hands.

My own are tied. Still discussing details with Voyager about the July spread— details regarding the files that weren’t hacked. Wow, I can’t believe Elena got stalked. Just what the hell is going on? Call me if you need me. I’ll free up one of those hands whenever I can. P.S. Sabrina asked about you, Griff. Just think about it. That’s it? That’s all I get? The normal Chris I know would be grilling me about every single fucking

detail. This Chris is full of excuses, lacking in suggestions that aren’t Xrated. He’s frivolous. He’s late. He’s full of single-minded purpose, and he’s become increasingly selfish. God, he’s me. Usually unconcerned about our financials, I checked the numbers today in Chris’s stead. I lean back in my chair—thinking. The Christopher Johnson I knew isn’t the one that’s currently in my inbox. As the weather has changed, so has his attitude, and the passing spring has ushered in a new edition of Christopher

Johnson—a different version. One that I’d thought I’d love to see, but find myself questioning. Hm. My influence must be stronger than I think… because Chris has changed his walk, his talk—even his clothes. Tom Ford has become a new staple in his closet, and he’s sporting the swagger of a changed man. I hate to say it… but I miss the old Chris. My hands are still frozen over the keys when an e-mail notification pings from my computer. Another e-mail… this time from my private investigator.

From: henry.classer@classerinvestigations. To: [email protected] Subject: We GOT HIM We found the bastard. He’s been keeping a low profile —jumping between here and Tennessee, as you know, but he couldn’t hide for long. He’s not in an apartment. He’s in a hotel. The Hilton at Clearwater Beach. I’ve been trying to reach your

cell but that whole “No cell phones policy” at your job is a pain in the ass. Your office phone’s screwed up, and I can’t even get a… . . . SHIT! I am out of my seat before I can finish Henry’s message. I slam my laptop closed, stuffing it carelessly into my briefcase. “Sarah!” I call out of my office for the nearest secretary. “I can’t get calls to my goddamned office phone?”

I check the dial tone on the receiver. Nothing. Sarah appears at the door within seconds. “Are you serious? No way,” she groans in her thick Boston accent. Her flushed face is as red as her hair, and I’m not sure if she’s blushing because I’m pissed or if she’s blushing because… well, it’s me, and she’s had a not-so-secret crush on me for months. This is one of the times I hope it’s not the latter. Sarah starts to panic. “Don’t worry,” she says, slightly fussing. “I’ll get Jade on it right away.”

“Great. And can you make sure it’s done soon, please? I gotta run, and I need things to be in working order by tomorrow morning.” “No problem… Mister Griffin,” Sarah practically curtsies. “Jade’s just finishing up with Mister Johnson’s items. She’ll be right over.” “Perfect.” Sarah nods, disappearing quickly from sight. Papers skewed, my desk a mess, I round my large desktop’s wooden edge on my way out the door, cursing out loud before I barrel into a nervous Jade, an executive assistant from my floor. “Shit, Jade.” I lean over, gathering

her things. “I’m so sorry.” Her shy brown eyes peer into mine as she bends down, and she blushes, retrieving her papers from my fumbling hands. “Sorry that I knocked over your…” I look down. “Receipts.” “Oh, not to worry, Mister Griffin,” she flusters. “They’re not mine.” I glance at the receipts as they pass from my hands to hers, noticing the expensive purchases. Huh. Bouquets. “They’re just orders for flower arrangements,” Jade stammers, fumbling for an explanation. “Mr. Johnson requested them.”

Missing Your Shot

If you can't find the one being hustled in the poolroom, it's you. –Unknown

Day 3—7:01PM Casa de Griffin ELENA

Half-angry, half-amused, Anastasia taps an almost comical foot on the pavement of Lukas’s long driveway. “You’re fucking crazy, Elle.” “I know.” “Griff is going to kill you.” “I know that, too.” “And you’re still going to go through with this?” I jump in the back of the Uber parked on the side of Lukas’s house, tucking my high-heels in. I’ve got a packed bag of running shoes and a pair of sweats, if need be, but right now I’m in a black, understated but sultry dress—camouflage, in case I have to blend in.

Though where I’m doing this blending… I have no earthly reasonable idea… Back door still open, the car still in park, I can’t stop an overzealous Ana from lecturing me. I also can’t stop my hair from losing its curl or my makeup from slightly running on this most humid of nights, but I try. My entire get-up is courtesy of the quickest makeover in the history of makeovers, but I make a conscious decision not to care. It’s more important that I follow Lukas… instead of worrying about frizzing up.

“I’ve gotta go, Ana. I’ll see you soon. Call me on my cell if you need me.” I close the door in her face, giving the driver the go-ahead. “What do I do if Lukas calls?” she yells. The car starts to pull off. “Not open your big mouth,” I say through the crack in the window. “My big mouth?” I hear from the quickly lengthening distance. “I don’t have a big mouth!” I let Ana’s voice fade away, choosing to focus on the task ahead of me. My skeptical Uber driver actually

listens to my command of “Follow that black Audi” and we tail Lukas’s car, trailing him into a deepening dusk as he pulls away after making a quick stop at his house. Stay here, he said. Wait here, he said. Keep an ear open for my phone call, he said. Little did Lukas know that while he was lecturing us and grabbing files from his home office, I was secretly getting ready, preparing to follow him through whatever trail he was intent on going. Whatever trail that I know is leading to Gregory Sears. I re-up my pink lipstick in the

backseat of the Uber, feeling a sense of anticipation that I’ve never felt before. Goddammit, what have I gotten myself into? I look behind the car into passing traffic. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. And the truth of the matter is… I don’t want to. I want to show up and confront the pansy-assed, wormy bastard, Greg. I want to see the look on his face when I do. As usual, Lukas tries to speed through traffic. My only saving grace is that the Tampa streets are thick with cars,

punctuated by a sea of red brake lights that sit bumper to bumper, preventing all of the rush-hour jam victims from getting to their destinations. We catch up fairly quickly. For an Uber driver that looked at me as if I were nuts outside of Lukas’s driveway, my forty-year old, balding grouch of a chauffeur, Jesse, is sure good at following directions. He stays on Lukas’s ass, slithering behind him as we snake our way out of Tampa’s city streets and across the I-75 freeway. I have no idea where we’re going… and I’m praying that my dwindling debit card balance has enough

to cover the ride. I wait. And wait some more. Dusk turns to late evening, and by the time we exit the interstate, we’re in Clearwater, Florida—a quaint but touristy, coastal city that flanks the western side of Tampa. I keep my mouth shut, watching stars begin to come into view on the horizon. By the time we actually make a stop, I’m at my wit’s end. I scoot closer to the front of my seat, peering over my driver’s shoulder. McDonald’s? We came all the way here for a

McDonald’s? Lukas’s car pulls into the drivethru, and I’m tempted to follow. I have Jesse, the driver, park the car in an open space on the opposite side of the building, and we wait, letting the car idle while we watch for Lukas’s car to exit. I glance at my phone. C’mon, dammit. Doesn’t take that long to order a freaking Big Mac to-go. Two more minutes pass, and Lukas’s Audi still hasn’t emerged. I feel an immerse urge to have Jesse ram him out of the drive-thru. Gregory Sears is on the loose, and

we’re wasting time trying to pick up Mickey D’s over-salted fries! Suddenly, the back door opens. I scream. A man in a white-collared shirt hops in beside me. His hair is dark—his eyes intense. The only thing that gives those darkened irises away is their fiery green color—a color too light to be emerald, but deeper than a tropical sea. Lukas. I clutch my chest, my breasts nearly popping out of my low-hanging neckline. I try to adjust myself, desperately trying to cover up my surprise… and my embarrassment.

“Are you crazy?” I emit from a gasp. Lukas barely blinks. “I don’t know. Are you? “I’d say it’s pretty safe to say that you are. You’ve followed me for the last thirty-three minutes in an Uber car.” He clasps a hand on the Uber driver’s shoulder. “It’s ok, guy,” he says to the driver. “This is my… friend. Tell you what: How about I just pay for the ride and inconvenience, and we’ll just get the hell out of your hair?” The driver smiles for the first time. “Fine by me,” he says. “Do whatever makes you happy. Though, it

was fun to act like a spy for a little while.” He takes the hundred offered to him by Lukas. I glower at the hairless, older chauffeur. Hmph. Et tu, Jesse? Jesse repositions himself, turning back to his steering wheel, and Lukas clutches my hand, practically dragging me out of the backseat. Once we’re out of the silver, fourdoor Uber car, Lukas analyzes me carefully, letting his stare skim me from my head to my toes. I watch his eyes process the slender

straps at my shoulders, the plunging neckline, the cinch at my waist, and the strapped heels at my feet. He gazes up at my up-swept hair, his eyes taking in a few falling blonde tendrils. He looks directly into my shocked gaze for a second before stopping, letting his glare linger on my blush-colored, pink lips. “What’s all this?” he questions slowly. I glance down at my outfit. “I wanted to be ready.” “For what? A cabaret?” I reveal the bag behind my back, nearly shoving it at him. “For anything,” I answer.

Lukas steps closer. “Are you prepared for real fucking danger? “Because that’s what you’ve put yourself in. Gregory Sears is a dangerous man. “We have no idea what he’s capable of. It’s possible that he’s been watching me, stalking you, and clipping brakes to kill one of us, so how you thought it would be a good idea to follow me to go see him is beyond my comprehension.” Lukas pushes the bag back towards me. “If I had any sense…” he comments roughly. “I’d leave you right here to fend

for yourself.” I recoil in anger. “If Gregory Sears is so goddamned dangerous, then why are you confronting him in the first place?” Lukas’s green eyes flash. “I’m not. My PI, Henry, thought it’d be too risky.” “For you?” Lukas hesitates. His response is raspy. “No… for Greg.” His eyes scan the nearly empty parking lot, settling back into our clandestine corner. He grabs my hand again, walking me towards his sleek, parked Audi.

“Come on,” he commands.

Behind the Eight Ball

Just be patient. Let the game come to you. Don't rush. Be quick, but don't hurry. —Earl Monroe

Day 3—7:51PM Clearwater Beach Hilton ELENA Less than five minutes later, we park outside of the Hilton.

It’s a low-rise, squat, white building on Clearwater Beach. Located next to the Marina, it’s got all the feel of a beachside resort—the implanted palm trees, the little tiki huts. The lobby is well-lit—bathed in a yellowish-gold glow—and even as Lukas and I are parked across the street, the smell of the ocean overwhelms me, the scent of briny water and white sand flooding my senses, further reminding me of how we are nearly surrounded by a captivating sea. Not too many places to run to in a remote location like this. It’s almost a bottle-neck, really. One way in. One way out.

I’m praying that this will work in our favor and not against us. The second we settle outside of the hotel, I grow anxious. I can only keep quiet for approximately three minutes before I have to say something. “He’s here?” I ask Lukas. His reply is calm. “Yeah… he’s here, alright.” “So, we’re waiting for him to come out?” “Yep.” Lukas checks a large, leather strapped watch on his wrist. “I talked to Henry on the way here. Seems the elusive Gregory keeps a tight schedule. “According to the night manager at

the Hilton, almost every night around eight-thirty, he leaves the hotel. He’s not gone for much more than a hour and when he returns, he’s always carrying something with him. What it is… we don’t know. “That’s why we’re here: to figure out where the prick is headed every night.” I squirm nervously in my seat, glancing over Lukas’s shoulder at the distant Hilton entrance. “You think that will give us the answers we need?” Lukas keeps his eyes on the same set of doors, never looking over at me. “If it doesn’t get us the answers,

then I’m hoping it’ll get us damn close to them…” He falls silent, and I let the conversation drop, not wanting to prod or distract him any further. And so we wait. And we watch. Fifteen minutes go by. Twenty. Before I know it, it’s a minute past eight-thirty, and there’s still not a single sign of Sears. I sigh, exhausted. I slip off my high heels in the passenger seat, cuddling up next to my oversized bag as I try to get comfortable. Meanwhile, Lukas’s eyes never

waver from the Hilton’s doors. The corded muscles at his arms and shoulders tighten as he forms a fist on the steering wheel. The tan skin above his collar looks even darker with the red undertones that sweep into his neck. I can’t see his face at this angle, but I know he looks determined—heatedly focused. The thought of the stubborn line of his jaw and his heavy dark brows causes an unpredictable warmth between my thighs. I clench my legs together underneath my black dress, opting to distract myself with what’s in my bag. I pull out a bag of chocolates,

unwrapping the foil of one before biting softly into its square shape. I lean into Lukas. “So, where’s your PI in all of this?” He looks back at me for the first time in almost half an hour. He taps my knee before nodding in the direction of a dark grey sedan across the street. “See that gun metal-colored car across the way? That’s him.” “And I’m guessing you guys have some sort of signal?” “Yeah,” he comments softly, his voice a low rumble in the car. “Whoever sees Sears first turns on their lights. “It’s better than just flashing each other. A flash is too obvious. Turning on

your lights, starting your car—those will look like you’re just moving from the parking space.” “Got it.” I shift further into my seat. “So, how long have you been working with Henry?” Lukas looks at me. He opens his mouth, but then closes it, peering over at my bag of sweets. “How long have you had the appetite of a fat, pre-diabetic kid?” I throw a wrapped piece of candy at him, and he smiles. The slow show of his white teeth and rising lips puts a flutter in my stomach. God, if only Griff didn’t look like

dessert on a platter. He’s the only delectable thing in my life I can’t have, and I stuff my mouth with another sweet to keep from gaping at him. “I’m serious,” I say to him. “Was it after the engagement party? I heard about your Porsche…” Lukas looks away from me, outside of his driver’s side window. He lets the silence stretch, and just when I think he’s going to answer, he says nothing—disappointing me even further, but making me more curious than ever before. “You can tell me, you know…” I keep pushing. “I’m sure one of the many

women in your life just got fed up…” He snaps at me. “I don’t have women in my life.” “Come again?” Lukas continues staring away from me, his eyes focused at the seemingly empty Hilton. “Let me be more clear: I don’t keep women in my life. They’re there one minute and gone the next. That’s how it’s been; that’s how it is. I can’t think of many women who would have a reason to retaliate. They’d just as soon forget me as I would them.” I swallow thickly. “Sounds like a lonely life.” Lukas’s voice is barely above a

low rumble in the darkened car. “It suits me. It suits me just fine, actually.” But his answer is not enough. Getting a taste of Lukas is addictive, and the way he shares parts of his life piece-by-piece is almost agonizing. Each bite-sized nugget of information from him is a sordid morsel —a piece of the puzzle that is Lukas Griffin. I hate to admit it to myself… but I’ve been stowing those pieces away— placing them on the board in my mind so that one day I might join them together. Get a full picture. As if that’s even possible at this

rate. I nearly scoff. I ask another question. “Is that how you run your business?” I can sense his hesitation. “Come on…” I urge quietly. “From one business owner to another business owner wannabe…” Lukas turns his head towards me finally, grinning. “No,” he says, answering my inquiry. “Not at all, actually. With my business, I like to take a whole piece of the pie—hoard it to myself. I’ve been doing this for a while now—running my own web content.

“When I was a teen, I created my own recovery software. It could recover almost anything you’d thought you’d lost —any file you forgot to save, any folder that’d been hacked. “It was all mine. And while Chris and Foxx were off at college, I was developing it, fine-tuning it. “Soon after, I’d patented it, sold it to customers—came out of it as an experienced businessman.” “A wealthy businessman?” I add. Lukas’s grin turns lopsided. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” I cross my arms, enjoying this. “You’re autodidactic then—selftaught?”

“Of course.” “And I’m guessing you used that autodidactic business acumen to help Chris and Foxx develop Tripping Out!” Lukas hesitates. “Of course,” he says even lower. I shake my head, chastising myself. “And all this time, I thought they’d brought you in. Why didn’t they work with you before?” Lukas inhales soundly, thinking. “They were just doing what they were told. Going to school. Following the rules. “Luckily, I never had any… so I made up my own.” He smirks silently to himself, and I

almost shiver at the hidden double meaning. Ever since I let Lukas into my life, he’s been telling me to disregard every guideline I’ve ever followed. I will never let him know how dangerously close I got to chucking my entire rulebook out the window for him. “So, that’s it then?” He glimpses back at the Hilton. “In a nutshell,” he replies. I exhale loudly, regarding him closely. “You know… sometimes I envy you…” He quirks an eyebrow upward. “Envy me?”

“Yeah,” I declare, feeling selfconscious. “I was always a rulefollower—Little Miss Hospital Corners. I mean, I was always tough. My grandmother raised me to be. “My parents didn’t have any sons so I had to fend for my sisters.” I laugh to myself. “During those school days, I’d break your face if you looked at my sisters the wrong way, but in the classroom, I was straight-laced. “Didn’t do drugs, didn’t have sex. But I had a mean streak that was a milelong. I’d learned to be blunt—not to take anyone’s shit. “I could bluff my ass off, but in all

actuality, I was a good girl disguised as a bad-ass. “It wasn’t until I met Linda about a year ago that I started taking some risks. She’d crashed a yoga class I was taking, took a swig of Jack Daniels out of a hidden flask, and complimented me on my flexibility. “It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” I laugh at the memory. “Wasn’t long before we’d become connected at the hip. She’s the one that convinced me to take the leap of purchasing my own studio.” For the first time all night, Griff looks interested in something that’s not

the Hilton’s front door. “So, why’d you stay ‘good’ for so long?” I shrug casually, considering the question. “I don’t know… Guess I didn’t like the idea of being punished.” Griff slowly grins, and I realize I’ve just put my foot in my mouth. He leans in closer, and I can smell his cologne. Or is it cologne? He smells like some combo of cotton and earthy spice, a muted aftershave that smells like the rain on the ground after a stormy day. Fresh.

Natural. Primitive… And it’s not just his scent. His body, his stare, the breadth of his shoulders. Hell, even the tight muscles he tries so hard to camouflage beneath his white button-down shirt. Everything about him. At his basest core, Lukas is all man —full of heart-stopping, desireinducing… sex-wetting testosterone. He fulfills a need in me I never knew I had—one that has nothing to do with any rules and everything to do with a need to be free, to set myself loose from any restraints.

Lukas smiles. A real smile—unrestrained and showing full white, straight teeth. It is a smile full of wit and genuine fascination. “That’s not the Elena I know,” he comments pointedly. A mix of intrigue and indignation flares beneath my breast. “Pray-tell here, Mister Griffin. What do you presume to know about me?” He takes a deep breath, locking gazes with me. “Well, let’s see…” he muses quietly. “You… you have a small birthmark

on the inside of your right thigh, a few scars on the skin above your left knee. “Your feet are, uh, tiny—delicate for a dancer’s—and you’ve got an arch that’s higher than any I’ve ever seen. “Your hair and skin smell like vanilla. Hell, I’ve never met a woman before you that tasted the way she smells. It’s fucking insane to me, actually. “Your orgasms are intense— different. Your legs don’t shake much like other women. “In fact, they don’t shake much at all.” He looks down at my fingers. “It’s your hands that tremble

slightly. “I can feel them shudder when you’re clutching my head… gripping my hair… when I’m eating your pussy. “Your moans are surprisingly highpitched, breathy—a stark contrast from a voice that’s normally husky and deep. “Your lips are a rosy pink—both sets of them, and there’s nothing I enjoy more than seeing my cock in between either pair. “You’re highly sexual in bed but you’re more sensual when entered from behind. Your lips grip my dick and tightly massage it. You become undone in my hands when I penetrate you that way.

“Your legs are long, your ass is perfect, and you come the hardest when you’re being punished. “So, you see, you’re not fooling anyone, Elena—least of all, me. I’ve seen you when you get punished, and if being punished is something you don’t like… then I’m excited as hell to see what happens when you encounter something you do.” I sit quietly in my seat, unable to say or do anything—shocked into total silence. The Audi in which we sit suddenly feels inexplicably hot, and I reposition myself, focusing on a cool ocean breeze that filters through the crack in my

passenger side window. Unexpectedly, Lukas places a warm hand on my bare knee. “Are you uncomfortable?” he asks. His voice is quiet—seductive. “No, I’m not.” “Too hot? Too cold?” “No, not at all.” “Come on, admit it… You’re uncomfortable, Elena.” He gives my knee an innocent squeeze, and I suck in an abrupt breath. “You’re squirming in your seat.” I sigh, giving in. “Yes, ok. I’m a little uncomfortable.” Lukas leans into me.

“You wanna know why you’re uncomfortable?” The sound of his voice is smooth, the timbre as thick and as rich as molten honey. His words nearly sear my skin, and the mysterious heat that filled the front seats just minutes ago is now sweltering, stifling the air with a seaside spring stickiness that simmers with sexual tension and unspoken suggestion. Salt air fills my lungs, and desire spreads in my core. I wipe a shaky hand above my brow. “No, I don’t. Tell me: Why am I uncomfortable?”

“Because…” Lukas bends further towards me. “You never disconnected your seatbelt.” I glance down. The large polyester black straps are still crossed at my chest and waist. Beads of sweat have formed underneath the belts, and when Lukas reaches his hands in to unbuckle me, I can barely breathe, my body going into overload as it processes his smell and touch. He reaches over me, his hands pulling at the two-inch black webbing. The belt clicks, releasing from its lock… and I finally take a breath. “Feels better, doesn’t it? Not being

so contained?” The shadowy stubble on Lukas’s face is darker than the evening’s hour. Flecks of golden light frame the handsome face that is mere inches from my own. I bite my lip in frustration. “Yes,” I whisper—at a loss for many words. “Much better now.” The words are no more than a sigh, softer than a gasp. They come out too breathy, and by the time my teeth meet my bottom lip, I know I’m in trouble. I resist the urge to close my eyes, hoping to stave off what will happen if I do. It’s a complete failure.

Because it happens, anyway. Lukas bows his head into mine, and our lips connect, pressing against one another in the softest of kisses. In fact, it can barely be described as a kiss. The interaction is wrought with hesitation, reticence that comes from both sides. Lukas is tasting me—testing me. I know he’s holding back to see what I want. And I do want him. I do. But I’m still towing the edge…. I’m circumventing the cliff, attempting desperately not to dive. Still… Lukas isn’t a man who takes

what he wants. He’s a fisherman, dangling irresistible bait. His entire objective? To make you want to give into him. He’s a player of all players, one who doesn’t put his cards on the table unless he knows he controls the game. It’s not enough for him to simply win. He must make you happy to lose— draw you so far into him that the only success seemingly possible is his. Ultimately, you end up folding to him—and you do it with a smile on your surrendering face. I’ve never met anyone like him… and I wonder if I was simply outmatched

from the start. “Is this better?” he asks. He brushes a thumb across a sensitive nipple, and I gasp out loud. “Yes,” I answer on a whimper. “Is this better?” He cups my entire breast with his hand, working the pad of his digit around my areola, circling and circling until the sensations at my nub pool at my core, creating a flutter in my belly that sinks to my sex. “Mmm, yesss,” I hiss. “How about this?” As Lukas’s mouth moves across mine, so does his hand. He traces the hand that was at my breast to my collar,

the surface of his slightly coarse palm blazing a heated trail as the friction between our skin grows warm—made even hotter by the rhythm of my frantically beating heart beneath the surface of my chest. With softly leathered fingers, he feathers touches against the bare skin of my plunging dress, sliding a careful palm against my humidity-slicked skin— skin that is made salty by coastline winds and tiny slivers of briny but desire-induced sweat. His digits descend, stretching towards the meeting of my thighs, where he presses the full weight of his hand— cupping my soaking mound through the

blackened fabric. I groan as his finger inches towards my clit and rubs it; the groans turn into whimpers as Lukas strokes the length of my slit, caressing the enlarged pink peak between my legs until I can’t remember my own name. My voice is high-pitched—breathy, just as Lukas said, and it is not long before he starts to laugh softly, his playful noises mingling with my own lust-filled ones. Damn that frustrating laugh. It is the sound that the poker player makes when the royal flush falls into his hands—the sound the chess master makes when he sees that the Queen is in

peril. Translation? I’ve lost… And Lukas knows it. His low chuckle is a sign of triumph—a signal of victory over my inevitable submission to him. I spread my legs wider, predictably reveling in my defeat. Ringggggg! “Shit!” Lukas pulls away from me. He reaches towards his front pants pocket where he retrieves his ringing IPhone. He touches a button on its flashing screen, sounding off a few extra expletives before placing it at his ear.

“Henry,” he grunts. “Where the hell are you?” I hear from the other end of the phone. “I gave you the signal,” the voice says. “I waited an extra fifteen seconds. I even flashed you. “Nothing. “I had to take off.” Lukas squeezes the phone even tighter. “Where’d you go?” he asks. “I went after him, of course,” the masculine voice on the phone responds heatedly. “Sears just left the hotel…”

Russian Roulette

Play the game for more than you can afford to lose... only then will you learn the game. —Winston Churchill

Day 3—8:44PM Clearwater Beach Hilton LUKAS. Shit.

I am fucked. I am so fucked. I am indescribably, unimaginably, undeniably fucked. And it’s all because I can’t keep my goddamned hands off Elena. It’s becoming a pattern now. It seems every time I get preoccupied with exploring her body, something momentous happens. Another reminder from the universe that nothing good can come from getting caught up with a woman whose body has been sculpted by God’s own immaculate hands. With Elena, I’m in real trouble… because it is that very body that drives

me to extreme distraction. I forget myself. I forget who I’ve always been. And I’m not sure I like it. With Sears out of the hotel and Henry on his tail, there seems nothing left to do but to wait. But with Sears’ hotel room number burning a hole in my pocket and frustration burning an even bigger one in my chest, waiting is the last fucking thing I want to do. And the insipid thought of not taking action is driving me insane— making me feel useless in a situation that may have been all my fault… I can’t stay here in this car.

I place my phone back in my pocket after my PI’s phone call. I straighten my white collared shirt, reaching in the backseat for my suit jacket before putting it on. I remove the keys from the ignition, pocketing them. Elena reaches for my arm. “Wait...” she exclaims. “Where are you going?” “Inside,” I grunt. “I’m going to take care of a few things.” She squints her eyes curiously at me. “How are you going to do that? Sears left. There’s…” She stops.

“Oh, I get it…” she continues thoughtfully. “You’re going to break into his room.” “I never said that.” I reach for my car door. “Stay here.” Her outburst is swift. “No,” Elena says brusquely. “I’m not staying here.” I turn, glowering at her. “Yes, you are.” “No… I’m not.” She smoothes out her dress with determined hands. “You can’t just barge in there, you know,” she comments emphatically. “You’ll need a key and you’ll need help from someone at the front desk to get it.”

I narrow my eyes. “I know that,” I declare. “That’s what I’m going to do.” “You think you can just charm your way into Sears’s room?” “Trust me, I’ve charmed my way into tougher places.” Elena sighs, probably catching the double meaning. Hell, I’d managed to charm my way into the confines of her tight little body… and I don’t think there’s any place on this earth that’s harder to get into than that. I open my door, closing it swiftly behind me. “You need my help,” I hear muffled

behind the window’s glass. I keep walking. “No,” I say to myself, heading for the Hilton door. “I’m not letting you get involved in this.” I stroll over the black, paved street. I hit the sidewalk, and shortly thereafter, I’m through the lobby door. I pull on the sleeves of my suit jacket, preparing to plead my case to whatever desk clerk may be behind the countertop, welcoming and checking in Hilton hotel guests. I turn the corner… and I pause, staring. They’re men. All of them—men.

Not one single female receptionist in the lobby. There’s almost always at least one woman behind the desk, and tonight is the night they choose to make the lobby a sausage-fest? Fuck. And now they’re all looking at me. I approach the receptionist’s desk tentatively, trying to devise a plan before I plant my feet in front of the highreaching granite counter. I walk slowly. But no such luck. I can’t think of a thing to say to these men to convince them to give me a key to someone else’s room.

A sudden whoosh of air sounds behind me as another person enters through the double doors at the entrance. I start to say “Hello” to the employees at the desk when I recognize the clicking of familiar high-heeled shoes. “Hi there,” she says over my shoulder. Elena practically ignores me at first, beaming past me at the clerks behind the tall desk in front of us. She clasps a hand on my shoulder, and I nearly flinch, discombobulated by whatever game she’s decided to play. “Hey, bro,” she says to me. “You took off so fast that I didn’t have a

chance to catch up with you. Damn these stupid heels,” she complains. She smiles then, evoking a chorus of white bright grins and “Hello, Miss’s” from the two men behind the counter. She turns her attention on them, and they shift excitedly on their feet, enchanted by the blonde, blue-eyed beauty that is shooting flirtatious looks in their direction. “Hi, gentlemen,” she greets. “We’re on our way to a very important black-tie event, and our other ridiculously irresponsible brother has forgotten our passes upstairs. “I mean, what good does this dress

do if I can’t even get into the event?” Elena laughs, and the clerks join her, spreading their lips widely as they smile at her, falling head first into her beautiful and poised charm. “It does a lot of good, ma’am. It’s… you… you look fantastic,” one employee stammers. Elena bats her long eyelashes. “Why, thank you. I appreciate that. What I’d appreciate even more are those passes… but as you can see this dress has no pockets whatsoever.” She giggles, patting the fabric at her hips and waist. The men behind the desk follow her movements with their eyes, and they lean

forward, almost hoping to get a better view. “It’s because of this darn dress that I lost my room key.” She pauses, nearly pouting. “Could I get another?” The two men behind the desk nearly fight for access to the computers. “Yes, ma’am… Right away, ma’am… Which room, ma’am?” Elena leans towards the counter. “It’s under the name Gregory Sears and the room number is…” She hesitates, and I slide the paper out of my pocket, sneaking it into her open palm, where she secretly reads Sears’s room number.

“512,” she finishes with confidence. “Of course, ma’am.” They occupy themselves with a few other keystrokes and soon, they disappear to the back room, re-emerging shortly after with a burgundy key card in hand. The younger clerk passes it to Elena, forgetting about me entirely. “We usually charge for extra key cards, but for you, Miss? No charge.” He glances at the older Hilton employee. “We understand how these things can happen.” Elena fiddles with the card on the counter before taking her hands off of the

surface. “Thank you so much, gentlemen. You are a God-send at a time like this.” “You’re welcome, ma’am,” the older man chimes in. “Please don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you.” Elena nods, bowing her head gently towards them. “Certainly… It would be my pleasure.” She smiles softly, the corners of her rouge lips turning upwards slightly. She moves away from the counter and walks to the elevators without so much as a glance at me. I follow closely, hiding an immense

smirk, as I give a half-assed salute in the direction of the front desk. “Gentlemen,” I bid adieu to the smitten employees. I wait beside Elena as the elevator dings for our floor. We step inside, and it is all I can do not to throw her up against the wall and kiss her. I hit the button for the fifth floor, and we stand silently, side-by-side, as the elevator ascends, grinning quietly as we rejoice restrainedly in our triumph. Elena murmurs in a subdued hush before we hit the fifth level. “See, I told you that you’d need me.”

I say nothing, glancing in her direction. Her returning smile is smug— confident, and I’m actually proud to have been proven wrong. “After you, Madame Superspy,” I say. The elevator stops, the doors open, and Elena exits first, following the signs that point us in the direction of room 512. We hesitate at the door for a few seconds. A question forms on Elena’s face as she pulls the key card out, and I nod at her silent inquiry, letting her place the small card in the slot, while the light at

the lock turns green, allowing us entry. She turns the door handle, and we step inside. The room—or shall I say, suite—is large in space and breadth, its décor complete with furniture and amenities in hues of gold, apple red, and warm, sandcastle beige. The walls are cream-colored, and the tables are wooden. And as large and seemingly nice as the suite may be, it is not nearly as luxurious as I expected, not even close to being as grand a room as would be anticipated from the son of a profitable magazine’s CEO. Greg’s father, Martin Sears,

wouldn’t dare be caught in this “subpar,” understated show of wealth. I sneer at the entire scene before me, feeling disgusted by the owner and executive boss of TravelTalk and his sneaky, weaseling excuse for a son. I approach Gregory’s nightstand. “What are we looking for?” Elena asks from the center of the room. “Anything—receipts, letters… Anything that might connect Sears to whatever the hell’s been going on.” Elena starts moving, but before she can get too far, I stop her with my voice, issuing a quick warning before opening Gregory’s wooden drawers. “Don’t move anything too much.

And if you do, put it right back where you found it. We don’t want to kick up any suspicion that anyone’s been in here… Especially us.” I can practically hear Elena’s nod. We rifle through drawers, searching between furniture. There isn’t much of anything here… besides a couple of awful suits, cologne, razors and some magazines with porn— the questionable, nearly pre-pubescent kind. Elena groans in frustration as she checks another couch cushion. “When will Greg be back?” “Probably soon. Let’s start moving so that we can get the hell out of here.”

“Does Henry know we’re inside the hotel?” I hesitate, not wanting to answer her question. “No,” I reply reluctantly. “He’d fucking quit if he knew I was doing this. He’s very strict about not overstepping boundaries… and doing whatever we’re doing here is practically obliterating the bounds.” I hear Elena’s footsteps grow closer behind me. “What?” she whispers harshly. “He doesn’t know you… we’re in here?! How’s he supposed to warn us when Greg is coming back?” I turn around, looking into Elena’s

eyes. “He’s not. We’re on our own for right now. That’s why I wanted to come alone. So, we’d better make it fast.” Elena reaches both hands towards her hairline, panic settling into her worried face. “What’ll we do if he comes back?” she nearly screams. “I’ll knock him out—cold-cock him before he can identify us.” “Griff!” she hisses. I close the drawer I just examined, nearly chuckling. “All kidding aside… Let’s get the hell outta here. It’s only a matter of time before Greg comes back from his little

trip. I don’t want to go to jail before Henry tells me where the lanky prick went in the first place.” I hustle Elena towards the door, keeping my hand on the small of her back. We reach for the door handle, exiting, and as soon as I slowly click the door shut behind me in the hallway, the elevator just around the corner dings, and a pair of solid footsteps head closer to our direction. Elena gasps softly. But before the heavy footfalls can make it around the corner, I push her into the opposite room’s doorway, pinning her body into the little square nook as I

kiss her violently. That little square nook is the only thing that can hide our faces. With our kiss, I keep Elena’s mouth adjoined to mine, angling my lips over hers so that whoever is coming our way can’t pick us out of a lineup if they had to. Any passerby will only be able to make out a horny couple in the throes of passion. As long as they keep walking, they won’t be able to look any further— won’t be able to tell that the sweat at our necks and the loudly beating hearts are from two people that are trying to avoid detection, and not too lusty guests that are too goddamned randy to even make it

inside the door. I keep kissing Elena with everything I have… and I continue to listen. The person from the elevator turns directly down our hallway. Their footsteps slow as they round the corner, adjusting from rushed and unsteady to slow and deliberate. The trek that brings the unwelcomed guest our way seems fucking interminable. My heart pounds, my brow sweats, as I try to focus on Elena’s lips. They’re soft, insistent—supple. They meld perfectly with my own, slanting completely in sync with mine.

Elena moans a little bit as I press my tongue at her lower lip, and she bites softly at mine, apparently unable to prevent her real reaction from slipping into this feigned and fake play we’re giving to whatever audience is waiting just a few yards away. I grunt as our pelvics begin to press together, rubbing in rhythm, making me grow harder than steel encased in stone. I try to stifle another groan, but am unable to… because as much as Elena cannot seem to find the will to keep herself together during this little façade of ours, I have to admit to myself… Neither can I. We’re seconds away from getting

caught by this uninvited spectator, and yet, I am distracted again—my thoughts wandering from the person with us in the hallway back to that first night that I had Elena’s body. That night when I squeezed her body into the Hyatt’s hallway walls— when I swallowed her screams with my hungry mouth. And now all I can think about is an encore—a second reenactment in this Hilton hotel where I can cup her ass with my hands, wrap her long legs around my waist and fuck her right here in this hallway until she can’t stand any longer. I snake a hand between us,

squeezing my thumb and index finger at the apex between Elena’s wobbly legs. I’m tempted to lift her dress up and touch her skin-to-skin, not giving a damn if we’re giving anyone else a show or not. Her moans are spellbinding, her mouth tastes great, and I’m thinking about all of the other places on her body that I already know taste great as well. And just when I start to lose myself… just when the surroundings around us start to fade into a hazy, erotic-obscured oblivion… the sound of Gregory Sears’s voice from behind us nearly makes me freeze. The onlooking bastard mutters

“Damn” as he leers at our interaction. Not recognizing either of us, he continues to open the door to his room, taking a slow step inside of its threshold, before completely shutting the door on the hallway and us. I can barely breathe. My hands are slick with sweat by the time I let Elena go, and my heart is still beating hard even six minutes later when we exit the hotel, hand-in-hand. We couldn’t have dodged a bigger bullet. It still feels like it’s lodged in my throat.

Laying the Burn Card

A "real man" doesn't play safe unless he wants to win. –Unknown

Day 3—9:23PM Tampa City Streets ELENA I can hear my own blood rushing

through my ears. It is like a raging river, pumping through an overextended tunnel, pushed to its max with every surge. It sounds too loud to be normal; I’m sure my veins are close to exploding, and irrationally, I start to wonder if the people passing me throughout the Hilton lobby can hear it as well. I don’t know what is going on around me. My vision is too blurry to make out faces. And I think that I am on the verge of dying… I squeeze Lukas’s hand as he leads me to his parked car outside. “Lukas…” I start to call out.

His voice is calm, composed. He talks to me almost as if I am a child, and I begin to fear the worst, worrying that it may be some sort of a diversion—a distraction from something awful. “What’s wrong with me?” I ask. “Hold on,” he replies assuredly. “Listen to my voice, and don’t let go. “You’re having a panic attack. “I’m getting you the hell out of here.” With that reassurance, Lukas tightens his hold on my hand, practically carrying me across the street as he wraps his arm underneath mine, supporting my weight until we make it to

the car. He opens the passenger door, placing me inside. Not long after we pull off from the curbside outside the Hilton, I take my first deep breath, an inhalation that calms my shaky nerves—that soothes the fresh fear from a mind-boggling, heartpounding near-miss. A semi-run-in with the man that may have tried to kill me. Just when I thought I was equipped to handle confronting him, I started to fall apart at the seams. The second that he closed the door on Griff and me, I thought I’d faint. But not from Lukas’s intense and

sensual kisses. Not this time. Goddammit. I’m in over my fucking head. “It’s ok,” Lukas says, interrupting my thoughts, squeezing my thigh. “Relax. Breathe…” I place my hand over his. “I am,” I respond. “But barely. I thought I could take it… but the second I realized that it was him, I thought he’d kill me… or I’d kill him. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so much in my life.” “Believe me. I know the feeling.” Lukas glances at me, and his gaze is hot.

A tingle that runs over my skin turns into a burn with his glare, and I look away from him, not wanting to be sucked back in. Not into this fading panic attack… nor into Griff’s enticing allure. “I’m ok,” I repeat. “Just get me home.” The reality that Lukas’s home is now “sort of” my home doesn’t seem to escape Lukas, and he smiles, throwing me a genuine look of appreciation that I’ve never seen before. With my heartbeat slowing, I start to smile, too—imagining what may come of tonight if we finish what we started in that Hilton hallway.

Abruptly, a horn from behind us honks. Beeeeeeppppp! “What the hell…?” Lukas rasps, peering into his rearview mirror. The blare of the horn sounds across the intersection, and two cars nearly collide at our bumper, practically glancing off of each other as they run a perpendicular route. I look backwards out of the rearview window. The sedan behind us clearly just ran a red light. And now it’s almost directly behind us, swerving past the other car to continue on a path that nearly places it in

our backseat. “Jesus,” I comment softly. “Could they have cut it any closer?” “Any closer, and we’d be looking at a completely different scene,” Lukas declares. “They had to practically sit on our trunk to avoid missing that truck.” I scoff loudly, feeling nervous again. The tingles are back, and the heat from Lukas’s gaze just seconds ago becomes a chill—an irrational but undeniable chill. Calm down, I tell myself. Don’t get jumpy. You’re out of the woods, and you don’t need to start hiking your way back

in. But I find that it’s easier said than done. Because the car behind us—the silver sedan that just avoided the awful potential accident—is stuck to us like glue, and I have to focus on Lukas’s hand still on my thigh to keep from sliding back into panic. I start to think that I’m the only one who notices… until Lukas does. He doesn’t say it, but I see the recognition in his eyes. He speeds up, and suddenly we are tearing through traffic. We move over into the left lane, passing a car. Without the Audi’s blinker

on, we pass two more. We are closing in on bypassing our third car when I suddenly find the balls to check behind us. And it’s still there. The silver sedan. Two cars ago, it would have been a coincidence, but at this speed, with this movement between traffic, it’s become apparent. We’re being followed. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we may have been trailed since we left that God-forsaken hotel. Shit! I look over at my seemingly calm chauffeur.

“Lukas,” I murmur. “I see him.” Lukas doesn’t look at me, but at the road. His eye movements are quick, his head unwavering as he examines all of his mirrors. All this time, he’s been fully aware of our situation, and I can’t tell if the cool exterior he keeps should assuage my rising horror… or heighten it. We switch into another lane. Fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy. We’re not cruising down the residential roads anymore; we’re

careening down them. And what were once passing cars are now fuzzy blurs—insignificant, almost stationary markers that are gone just as quickly as they appear. I squeeze my eyes shut, relishing in the feel of the lifeline that is Lukas’s hand. The next thing I hear is Lukas’s voice. “Henry, what the fuck?” he yells into his cell. “That bastard Sears is behind us. I don’t know how this happened, and I don’t know how the fuck he…” “What?” I hear from Henry’s end. “Whoa! Wait, slow down here a sec,

Griff,” he practically exhales. “That’s impossible.” I clench my teeth. “Why?” Lukas demands. “Greg Sears is still at the Hilton. I followed him all the way to the Clearwater Post Office and back. Bastard has a P.O. Box. “By the way, I caught your little escape out of the Hilton lobby. I warned you about getting too close. You could compromise…!” “Hank, I’ll call you back!” Lukas ends the call. He reaches over, tightening my seatbelt. I open my eyes and watch him

fasten his own. “We’re taking our company on a little ride, do you understand? When I say buckle down, you do. When I say head down, you obey. We’re going to lose this son-of-a-bitch, and I need your cooperation to do it. “Are you with me?” he finishes. I can barely grit out a response. “Yes.” “Can you stay calm?” “Yes.” “Do you trust me?” It’s a hell of a loaded question… and surprisingly, for the first time since I’ve met Lukas, I don’t hesitate. “I do.”

“Ok,” he says firmly, gripping the gearshift in his right hand. “Then, let’s play his little game.” Lukas kicks the Audi into another gear, and I am jerked back into my seat. We take the exit for the interstate, and soon we are flying. The traffic is surprisingly minimal, and we glide through the roads as if we own them—Griff at the wheel, his black Audi slicing through the city like a razor blade through silk. Time stood still just earlier on the crowded highways between Tampa and Clearwater, but now? It is a bullet… and Griff and I are catapulted across its space continuum.

We twist and wind like the curves of an infinity symbol—in a vacuum of invincibility. The silver sedan barely has time to recover—but it does. A symphony of beeping horns is left in our wake as the following car tries to keep up. I peek backwards only to find that the shiny vehicle is scarcely staying upright, its foundation wobbling as it attempts to weave in and out of traffic, interlacing between interspersed cars. We’re close to losing him. We’re close to… “Look out!” I scream, turning to find a pair of red brake lights facing me through the windshield. Lukas swerves, and our car nearly

goes airborne, the left two tires peeling off of the ground briefly only to land shortly after with a screeching thud. “Head down!” Lukas bellows. I obey, tucking my head into my lap, bracing for potential impact—knowing that it is only a matter of time before the silver car catches up to us… or that our Audi will flip, and it will all be over. But I am so wrong. It is not our car that spins out of control… but the silver one. It veers around the same stalled car that Lukas just missed—fishtailing, sliding into smoky figure eights that cause chaos around us. One car slams into another in a

domino effect that reaches towards us. One-by-one, speeding vehicles slide out as rubber screeches and squeals ominously in our direction, clamoring for our car with teeth made of mangled metal and fiberglass. Unable to turn away, I lift my head, gazing at the sordid scene behind us, waiting for the mouth of destruction to finally reach us… Our vacuum of invincibility has been shattered. Everything seems to move in slow motion, like a carousel ride of devastation—a vehicular ring-aroundthe-rosies that whirls and twirls in front of our very eyes.

I search for Lukas’s eyes on the other side of the car. He glances at me—and I find the security I’ve been craving all night in his eyes. I hold onto that security. Right up until the screeching stops. The wheels of the vehicles behind us finally quit turning. The wave of destruction deadens at our heels, barely scraping the metal at our tailpipe. Lukas skillfully shifts gears, and we speed away from the scene—with hardly a scratch on our bumper, heading towards safety as we veer right at the nearest highway exit. I don’t realize that I’ve been holding my breath until I exhale.

Not even fifteen minutes later, Griff and I cruise into his winding driveway, parking silently while I try to stave off a bubbling feeling of hyperventilating. Lukas exits the car first. He circles the Audi wordlessly, heading towards my passenger door. He opens it, taking my shaky hand… and I can barely climb out. When I can finally stand straight, I look Lukas in the eye. “Am I crazy?” I ask him. “No, you’re not.” “That was my Uber driver Jesse’s car, wasn’t it?” “Yes, it was.” “Was he alone?”

“No,” Lukas hesitates. “He wasn’t.” “Do me a favor?” I ask. He sighs. “I think you’re entitled to one.” “This is the second time that I’ve almost met my maker with you at the wheel. If I ever agree to ride in a car with you again, just shoot me. It’ll be a much quicker death, I’m sure of it.”

Playing the Endgame

The commonest mistake in history is underestimating your opponent… –General David Shoup

Day 4—8:58AM Casa de Griffin LUKAS Twelve hours later, I step into my

home office after spending a restless night in my bed. Half the night was spent dreaming of Elena. The other half? Well, that was spent suffering from nightmares—enduring visions of crashing cars, hallucinations of coming face-to-face with Elena’s grey-hooded stalker… a heavily-cloaked Gregory Sears… or whoever the hell else could be behind all of this chess game bullshit… But the sight of Elena in my home office seat makes me pause. She is tapping furiously at my office keyboard, her eyes focused

intently on the computer screen. She pivots in my leather chair, a severe scowl plastered on her full lips. Where two seconds ago she was half-hidden by the back of my large coffee-colored armchair, she is now fully visible, the waves of her blonde, shoulder-length bob bouncing as she tilts her head mockingly at me. She stands over my oak desk, placing both of her hands like kickstands on its surface. “He’s married,” she declares. “What?” The frown deepens. “You heard me. Married. Or with someone, at the very least.”

She plants a white slip of paper on the desktop, leering. “Nobody buys underwear for a woman they’re not seeing.” I cross my arms, leaning against the doorway. “And who said he bought underwear for a woman he was seeing?” “Walmart does.” Elena points to the paper. “The receipt’s from the bag in his room. I snatched it from underneath his hotel bed. Stuffed it in my cleavage before we left.” I drop my arms, taking a step towards her. “You did what? You stole

something… from Greg’s hotel room?” Elena sighs. “You’re missing the point.” “Yeah. The point being that you’re more insane than I thought you were.” Elena’s blue eyes roll at me, and she drops back down into the seat, her casual indifference turning my surprise into outrage. “The point is…” she stresses, “that Greg bought women’s underwear, and he brought it back to his hotel room. You don’t do that unless you’re seeing someone.” She picks up the piece of paper, waving the receipt. “You wouldn’t buy clothes for a

prostitute or even a woman you were just screwing. It’s too intimate.” She palms the receipt carefully. “That means he’s seeing someone here in Tampa. That means that someone…” “… is helping him out while he’s here,” I finish stolidly. Elena points a finger at me. “Bingo.” I step further into the room, watchfully analyzing Elena. She’s got balls, that’s for damn sure. It was a sneaky move, one I hadn’t even noticed. And though I’d probably never admit this to her, I’m proud of the

job she did. She kept a cool head under pressure. Not many stalking victims potentially tracking their own stalkers could or would have done the same. To be honest… she impresses the hell out of me. I pry my thoughts off of her and focus them back on the Sears track. “Ok,” I muse. “So, if Greg’s out here buying panty packages for some woman, then who’s our mystery lady?” Elena shakes her head. “I don’t know… I haven’t exactly been keeping tabs on Greg since he stopped dating Kat. He’s a stubborn

bastard… secretive as all hell. “As I’m sure you know, his family comes from money, and they all bow at the feet of the great Martin Sears, CEO and owner of the magazine, TravelTalk, and reportedly the biggest prick in the state of Tennessee.” “With his son coming in at a close second,” I add. Elena nods. I walk towards my desk, starting to pace as I try to draw the pieces together. “I know of Martin Sears. Henry told me the rest. Three children, all Vanderbilt grads. The oldest two were sent over to the London office after graduation. Greg, the prodigal baby boy,

was kept here in the states so he could be under the careful watch of dear old Dad.” “Yeah,” Elena comments adamantly, “but I’d heard they were nothing but a bunch of miscreants. I’d heard Martin Sears had shipped the two eldest off so that their druggie habits wouldn’t be exposed. “His darling Gregory was the one he preferred to run the family business eventually… after poaching whatever insider info he could glean from Foxxhole Publishing, I’m sure.” I rub my hands together, warding off a chill. That fucking leech, Sears.

“No,” I nearly bark. “There’s no way that Foxx’s dad, Victor, would let the bumbling Sears family take advantage of him.” Elena shoots me a meaningful glare from beneath her long lashes. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t try… especially after…” Elena trails off abruptly, growing silent. “After what?” I demand. She straightens up, circling my office desk and perching on the corner— a serious look on her innocent face. “Well, Ana was the one person who did follow your instructions last night. She used the info from you and Henry

and literally single-handedly hacked into Gregory’s bank accounts, but… she didn’t find much.” “Much activity?” Elena shakes her blonde bob back and forth. “No… There wasn’t much money…” The statement shocks me into silence. Spoiled little Gregory… without his family fortune? Elena keeps talking. “The activity was pretty normal— standard middle-classed spending habits. That’s the thing, though, I guess. Greg isn’t exactly middle class.”

She raises her eyebrows exaggeratedly. “But he does seem to have something going on at the Post Office. Ana saw a few regular payments to the Clearwater USPS.” I cross my arms, thinking. “Well, that would explain what happened last night. Henry said that he followed him all the way to the post office and back. It’s pretty clear that Sears keeps some sort of P.O. Box. Hell, I guess this just confirmed it.” “Yup,” Elena nods. “Pretty interesting that a guy who’s supposed to be working at his Tennessee father’s company maintains a mailing address

here in Florida.” She shakes her head. “God, Tennessee has the worst fucking scum. I got a text from Linda just this morning, saying that Teddy dropped another note off at my house.” I arch an eyebrow. “Teddy?” Elena sighs heavily, barely meeting my eye. “My bastard of an ex. He’s been sending threats to my house as Linda tries to help sell it. “I think he’s trying to prevent the listing agent from pulling off the sale. So, not only has he lowered the bar for bad exes, but now he’s trying to hit new

lows by going after my business plans.” Her quip makes me smile, and I shove my hands into my pants pockets, trying to wrap my mind around what she’s just told me. A thought occurs to me. “Think he’s ambitious enough to try to ruin other things?” I ask. She looks up at me. “You mean…?” I nod at her implicit question. “No…” she answers. “No way. “Ted can barely afford his own pot, let alone plot against me from Tennessee and Florida. I just… I can’t see him going that far.” I narrow my eyes at Elena, not

believing a word. The word naïve comes to mind. For a woman as sharp-witted as she is, I fear she may be surprisingly innocent of the world; she still has the luxury to put people in categories that are black-and-white—classifications characterized by basic titles such as good or evil—when, in most instances, people are actually neither. I learned long ago, as a child, that most people operate within shades of grey. “You’d be surprised,” I tell her. “It’s better to overestimate your opponent than underestimate them.” I take a step closer, revisiting the

thought of Trina. “And betrayal is always one step closer than you think.” Elena crosses her arms, observing me closely. “Opponent? Are we at war?” I don’t hesitate. “Always.” Elena stands up from where she was leaning against my desk. “So what’s the next move, general?” she quips with a question. “The next move?” I draw in a deep breath, expelling it quickly. “Well, it’s gotta be one of my former favorite past-times.”

I head towards the office door, daring her to follow. “Let’s go panty-searching, blondie.”

***

Day 4—12:52PM Le Petite Cafe ELENA Sigh. What a goddamned day. I spent most of the morning, searching for clues about a woman

alongside a man who’s seen more women’s underwear than a Victoria’s Secret clerk, and still we made no progress. With Henry following Sears and Ana doing some digging, we only managed to come up with one additional clue: An old postcard from a woman named C.C., delivered to Gregory’s P.O. Box. No return address. No additional information. Just a note—a simple card that said “Thinking of you” addressed by a woman with no real name. Without any identifying information,

it was a dead end. And bribing Walmart clerks to see if they recognized a guy that looked like Greg wasn’t an option, either. But C.C. wasn’t the only woman of intrigue on my mind this morning. A call from Kathy, my business realtor, derailed my afternoon spying, and instead of looking into the mystery woman C.C., I was concerning myself with another mystery woman—C.K. Connie Kittredge. A new-ish transplant to Florida with New York ballet ties, Connie Kittredge was a woman to be reckoned with—a successful proprietor who had transferred one of her smaller dance

companies to the Tampa Bay area. She’d been looking for a studio to work with, silently seeking a business partner to ease operational burdens. A downsize “reportedly” used to cushion her transition into retirement. Or so Kathy heard. And when Kathy catches wind of something, she’s on it faster than a carnivore on fresh meat. With Linda and Kathy in my corner, we set up a meeting with Connie that very moment. Two hours later, I’m sitting in the middle of a semi-crowded café waiting to meet with Connie. The café is half-Starbucks imitator,

half-bakery… and, still, the smell of buttered frosting isn’t enough to stop my nervous stomach from quietly lurching. I swallow the taste of my breakfast down before it can come back up, when suddenly the door in front of me swings wide open, startling me half-to-death. The woman that walks through it astonishes me even further. Holy cow. This new patron is lovely, an older woman—maybe twenty years my senior. Sporting a heavily-coiffed brunette bob, she wears a suit that is almost more stunning than her face. The luscious hair curls towards the ends, and the waves of thick brown

locks sit mere inches above her pearl necklace, the shiny tendrils swishing the décolletage at her peach-colored collar. Her eyes are a peculiar shade of brown, and they smile with uninhibited humor as she enters the building, looking about the room with an air of grace that could rival Princess Grace of Monaco. Good grief, this woman is stunning. She’s styled to perfection, and before my jaw can drop any lower to the ground, I realize that I have to pick it up immediately… because this woman is my potential client. Her eyes land on me. “Miss Lexington?” she asks, approaching me carefully.

“Yes,” I stand—mesmerized. “Mrs. Kittredge, it is a pleasure.” She smiles at me, wide and innocently. “Wonderful to meet you, dear. The pleasure is all mine.” I motion towards a chair at my table. “Please, please have a seat.” “Thank you,” she responds courteously, pulling the chair out to sit across from me. She seats herself before me, and I linger nervously on my feet for a second longer, taking in the smell of baked goods, feeling embarrassed about our little impromptu office. I have no office space in which to sit Mrs. Kittredge, no building to

welcome her in. Thanks to the prior deal gone bad for Linda and me, my current studio is still in the works, still stuck in the due diligence phase that is scheduled to end in less than one week. On a hopeful whim, I contacted Mrs. Kittredge to set up a spur-of-themoment meeting, and I thank God she accepted. Our “office” is nothing more than a little café close to Tampa’s business district, and Mrs. Kittredge’s Swing Low Dancery is the first company with which I’ve had a face-to-face negotiation. To say that I am nervous would be a gross understatement.

I stuff my face with a piece of cookie to literally keep my teeth from chattering. I finally take a seat. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” “Why, of course,” she purrs melodically. “This is one of my favorite places in the city. It’s much more relaxed than any mundane board room.” I grin. “My thoughts exactly.” “Besides,” she leans in conspiratorially, “I was so impressed with your resume, dear. It sounds like your classes would be exactly what my younger dancers need…” That is all it takes for my butterflies to go flying right out of the window.

Mrs. Kittredge and I have the sort of conversation that makes this business deal feel like a reunion of age-old friends. We share our love for dance and ballet with one another, engaging in the sort of “shop talk” that unifies us in a way that only dancers know. A beautiful, graceful woman with a warm nature and open mind, I am not surprised to hear that Mrs. Kittredge was quite the ballet dancer herself. Her enthusiasm speaks for itself, and five minutes into talking, I am practically salivating for her to sign her dancers with me. This is a woman that I’d love to

work with. Suddenly, my thoughts shift to Lukas. A skirt-chasing, seemingly selfabsorbed egomaniac, Lukas Griffin turned out to be a man I never saw coming, a man in whose company I found immeasurable pleasure—a man in whose presence, like Mrs. Kittredge’s, I have the opportunity to feel alive again. I never realized how important all of that was—not until a large piece of me felt like it was dying without Ana. Around him, I feel somewhat whole again, and the fragments of me that are missing, the segments of my soul that have been pitted by… well, life… are

smoothed over, filled in like plaster to a cracked wall. He pushes my limits, dares me —challenges me. He’s the most unique man I know— a multifaceted hard-ass with the face of an angel and the body of a god. He is still on my mind when another female patron enters the café. She is a long-limbed brunette— rather pretty… but unlike the woman who sits adjacent to me, her hair is fabulously long and windswept. The cut of her dress is not prim or proper but almost juvenile-like, and the material of her garment has neither the lux nor the sophistication of Mrs.

Kittredge’s lavishness. The woman’s outfit is clearly overpriced, but cheaply made. Her face is cast downwards towards her expensive shoes—as if something were permanently fascinating on the ends of her Manolos. She looks around the café in search of something until she finds it. It’s a seat beside a man I hadn’t noticed. He sips coffee behind a raised newspaper. The second he lowers it to greet the woman, I gasp softly. The man’s hair is as red as the blush on my face, and I recognize him immediately. Mrs. Kittredge turns in response to

see what has grabbed my attention. “Ah!” she exclaims when she sees who is seated at the other table. She clasps her hands together. “Oh, I must visit that table before we’re done. Ms. Stark is such a lovely young woman. She worked for us briefly when our studio was on the other side of…” But I hear nothing else. The rest of Mrs. Kittredge’s words are overpowered by the sudden ringing in my ears. I am unable to process anything over the sound of my own pulse, and shock is playing a symphony inside of my skull. Holy shit.

“Knight” in Shining Armor

No one ever won a chess game by betting on each move. Sometimes you have to move backward to get a step forward. –Amar Gopal Bose

Day 4—1:58PM Casa de Griffin

LUKAS A mid-day slump hits me hard at the strike of two. A caffeine craving at noon turns to mania two hours later, and soon I am practically begging for a hit of caffeine, ogling the various cups that sit errantly on neighboring desks with an eye that is green with envy. I need a break. With Chris back at Voyager and Foxx still out of the office, I walk solitarily to the local Starbucks with my eyes on the ground and my head in the sky as I try to figure a way around the issue dealing with the Voyager hack.

It isn’t easy. I spend half the day recovering what had been hidden by the hack while Chris and Foxx were out of the office, and though I uncovered what was left of the missing files, I honestly don’t feel any better than I did when I walked in. In fact, I feel like shit—a temperament only exacerbated by the even shittier weather. The grey day has deepened into black, and where the rain fell in a steady shower merely hours ago, it now falls from the heavens in heavy sheets—huge blankets of water that smother the very air in my lungs. No longer in my suit, I saunter out

of my building in soaked black gym wear, the thick humid air making it difficult to distinguish between my own sweat and the condensation outside. Exhausted does not even begin to describe how I feel. I walk to the streets outside, and I am overcome with sudden mental and physical fatigue, the effects of my brain and body workouts both putting the brakes on an internal engine that is clearly overrun. God, I can’t wait until I go home. My stomach flutters when I realize that I get to go home to Elena. One thought of her cupcake-scented skin, and suddenly, my cock turns into steel.

Even casually dressed, she is beautiful, a sight to see when sashaying around in my oversized work shirts and sandals. Like this morning. Her shoulder-length hair constantly shifts in sexy disarray, and even now, when her eyes are sad, they are clear, blue pools of emotion, just as sheer and fucking breathtaking as the day that I met her. And when she comes… God, when she comes… Those blue eyes come completely alive, and all the fire that usually resides in that hot-tempered mouth of hers shoots straight to her irises.

Amazing irises. Fucking unreal irises. On anyone else they would be nothing but oval-shaped balls of cells and nerves, but on her, they are swirly, sky-blue kaleidoscopes. They shift from hot to cool; flame to frost, with the flip of a switch… or a touch to her clit… A kiss to her clit… a slow lick to her clit… Mmmm. My mind continues to wander. Elena has the type of pussy that begs to be licked—the type of plump, pink lips that almost smile at you, inviting you in… in every way.

I half-smile to myself. As I pass under the covered bridge outside of the building, it turns into a smirk. I’ve had her pussy in every conceivable way. And when she’s in my hands, there are so many more ways that I’ve yet to fuck her, so many other ways that I swear I could create. Because each of these positions is a different knob on her perfect little body, and I have appointed myself the captain at her helm, pushing and pulling the controls to turn her on at my will. Nothing has ever given me more pleasure. And it is the very thought of that

pleasure—and the realization that I may not have it anymore—that distracts me as I hike across the walkway towards my car. In the throngs of a full-blown fantasy about Elena’s orgasms, I don’t even open an umbrella, choosing to brave the downpour on the short tour to where I parked. Even at a normally busy lunch hour, the street is empty, and the few sounds that drift across the cement are not enough to distract me from my vivid daydream. But the darkly clad man on that empty street is. To say that he doesn’t blend in

would be a lie… because he does. Almost too well. I don’t even see him. At least, not at first. A sudden movement—a flash—out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I discover quickly, almost embarrassingly, that I am not as alone as I thought I was. I’m walking in the middle of the rain, with a dick harder than brick, and probably muttering to myself in front of a complete stranger. But my embarrassment turns quickly into apprehension as I watch the man approach the parking deck where I am headed and disappear under the cement cover.

He’s by himself, but seems to walk with a dogged purpose. I tell myself, Ignore him. You’re horny; you’re on edge, and if you don’t watch it, you’re going to start seeing things, reading things that aren’t there. Maybe even get your dumb ass locked up… Like last week. I almost approached a man in the grocery store that looked like Gregory Sears. I just about hassled another Sears look-alike before even taking a second glance. I’m losing it. And with Elena in my house, I’ve only become more desperate, my

determination to find the bastard responsible for her accident shifting into anxiety… Obsession… Paranoia. And after Elena’s run-in? It is abundantly clear that there’s more than one psycho prowling the streets, and the second just happens to be me. Don’t follow this guy. Leave him the fuck alone, and keep it moving. I decide to slow my gait, choosing to put more distance between myself and the unsuspecting stranger—a guiltless guy who is probably just on his way home to some (hopefully) beautiful

woman. Like I am… for the very first time in my life. My thoughts fall back to the beautiful blonde that I know is waiting for me. And if she weren’t in so much pain, I’d give her a homecoming that she’d never forget. I’d stroke the ache I see in her eyes away—replace it with pleasure. I’d kiss those swollen lips that she has bitten nervously again and again for the past forty-eight hours. So many things I could do to her… would do to her… that I just can’t. I can’t comfort her in the way she

really needs. I can’t tell her the truth about Ana’s accident. And I sure as hell can’t fuck her into forgetting. Even I’m not that big of a bastard. I shake the memory of Elena’s body off, tightening the hold on my duffle bag from work. I look up… and what I see makes my fingers tighten painfully around the strap. The man. The stranger. He’s still here. He’s in the parking deck. He’s walking towards my car… His hood is removed from his head now. He walks slowly around my car with an air of arrogance, his brown hair

matted to a nondescript appearance. It’s too far to see his face, too dark to distinguish his features. I pick apart his exterior from a distance, and, to tell the truth, I’m not doing such a great job at it. I’m pulling at scraps that haven’t materialized, connecting the dots that aren’t there. Is he a friend or a foe? Family or enemy? With caution, he brushes his fingers along my car, and I swallow a lump that goes down like a razor blade. Strange. This man exudes the entitlement of an acquaintance but the aloofness of a stranger.

Coworker, maybe? Fuck! What’s wrong with my eyes? I should be able to see from this distance. I’m getting closer to him, and I’m frantically trying not to overreact. And with the way I feel right now, whoever he is better pray to God he’s not a foe. I can see him better now. He’s taller. He’s lean. He pats something white across his hand. He leans over, pulls up my windshield wiper and places a white square beneath it. Another note?! And with one small gesture, this stranger has just acquired the greatest

enemy he has ever known. I bolt towards him, pursuing him with a vengeance that has surpassed my anger. The man glances up… sees me—all one hundred and ninety six pounds of brawn and flesh barreling towards him like a bullet on crack. Furious. Desperate. Hurtling towards my target. The man yelps—a frightened sound that excites me… He starts to run, but it’s too late. I’m on his ass before he can even protest. Head down, shoulder lowered, I tackle the man as if he were a dummy, slamming his body to the cemented

ground. Bam! We hit the floor. His body takes the brunt of the blow, and I feel the whoosh: the sudden expulsion of air that rushes from his lungs as he makes impact. That impact is nothing compared to my fists. I slam them against the man’s face in rapid succession, beating down and across as if he were a human bass drum. He raises his arms to cover his face, and still, I pound him with punches, my anger and frustration fueling a force in my hands—hands that feel no pain— hands that know no end.

I am relentless. “Stop! Stop! Please stop!” the man screams. And I wouldn’t… if it weren’t for the absolute defeat that I now hear in his voice. I release my fingers from their fists and grab him by his hair. I yank the brown, mangy mess. “Who the fuck are you?” The short wait is killing me. Is it Sears? I’ve finally caught the prick in the fucking act. “I’m…” he sputters. “I’m… I’m only parking security!” The words shock me into silence.

I grab the man’s wrists, pulling downwards. His nose is busted, his large nostrils gushing blood onto his darkened collar. The top buttons of his coat are open, and I make out the beginning of a white letter—a white “S” that almost teases me from beneath the cloak. Security. The fucking meter maid. I let him go, pushing myself off of his crumpled body with a thrust that lands me on my feet. I’m relieved… embarrassed… and absolutely disappointed. The security guard lies there in pain for several seconds, moaning on the

floor. Through my confusion, I extend a hand to him, which he hastily rejects. He stands to his feet, wobbling— cowering the second he catches my eye. I try to explain. “Look, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry for…” “Not yet you aren’t!” he interrupts me sharply. “You’re going to hear from my lawyer, buddy. No one should get that mad over a parking ticket!” The uniformed parking maid hobbles away, and I watch him with regret, feeling guilty and disoriented by the entire melee. This day is turning into a shitshow,

and somehow, somewhere I became the clown at the center. I turn to my car, grabbing the guard’s ticket. $100 for a parking violation?! I crumple the ticket, chuckling softly in near hysteria. That parking maid beat me worse than I could have ever beat him. But soon the laughter stops… because I realize that in all my research, in all my attempts to put the pieces together—harassing perfect strangers and combing through possible connections—I, to this day, still haven’t made any moves in this sick, twisted little match. Whoever the true culprit is,

whoever threatened Elena on the street and put Ana in the hospital—Greg or not… is still somewhere out there… And right now, they have complete control of this game.

No Dice

Luck is not chance; it's toil. Fortune's expensive smile is earned. –Emily Dickinson

Day 4—5:47PM Tampa City Streets ELENA Five missed calls, two unanswered

texts, and one shaky voicemail later, and it appears that all the progress Lukas and I have made in the past three months has gone to shit. He hasn’t ignored me like this since a week before Kat and Foxx’s engagement party… when I had to text him via Skype… When we had strangely hot cyberse… God… I can’t even say the word. It was one interesting night. And if I’m asked about that night on my deathbed, that one statement will be all I have to say of it. But now it’s different. At least, I thought it was.

Several hours later, after witnessing the strangest rendezvous in Le Petite Café, it seems that Griff and I are right back where we started—with me virtually chasing him all around, trying to get a hold of him to no avail. And frankly? I’m tired of the constant pursuit. Still… I can’t unsee what I saw in that cafe, and if there’s anybody that should know about it, it should be Lukas. As a last ditch effort, I call his work number. It’s the only move that gives me any sort of hope. The phone rings twice before someone answers.

A woman. “Lukas Griffin’s office,” she says. “Hi, may I speak to, uh… Mister Griffin, please?” I answer, feeling triumphant. But my bubble is burst. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but he’s not in at the moment.” “Well, do you know where he is, then?” The woman hesitates. “I’m not at liberty to say.” “It’s important that I get ahold of him.” “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t give out Mister Griffin’s number to, uh… strangers.”

The way the woman says ‘strangers’ catches me off guard and I hear a hint of something—some sentiment that seems strangely similar to snark. My teeth clench in frustration. “I’m a friend of Lukas’s.” “So, this is a personal call? Not business?” she says, undercutting me. “I’d rather discuss that with Mister Griffin.” “We don’t transfer personal calls to our execs here at Tripping Out!, ma’am, so if there is something with Mister Griffin that you’d like to discuss, I’d suggest that you call Mister Griffin’s cell phone.”

She pauses. “That is, if you are personally close enough of a friend to actually have Mister Griffin’s cell phone number,” she remarks smugly. I almost can’t believe what I’m hearing. For an employee at Tripping Out!, this woman is awfully protective of Mister Griffin’s affairs, and the tone that she is taking with me is downright possessive—snooty, at fucking best. Makes me wonder how many friends (or flavors) Lukas really has running around. “What is your name, may I ask?” I inquire of the woman.

“Sarah,” she spouts with several Bostonian elongated “a’s.” “I’m an executive secretary for this company.” “Ok, Sarah…” I patronize. “I shouldn’t have to prove to you that I am a close friend of Lukas’s, and as far as ‘stranger’ labels go, I wouldn’t exactly call the woman that is staying in Mister Griffin’s home a stranger. “So,” I continue snidely, “if you could do me a really big favor and tell me where he is right now, I won’t have to come to the office and make a very big scene. “And by ‘big scene,’ I mean ‘tear everything and everyone at that office

apart with my bare hands to find him. “So, I’d say you have two very interesting options here, Sarah, and if I were you… I’d pick Option B. “Is that “friend-ly” enough for you?”

***

Mise En Place, one of Tampa Bay’s premier restaurants, is a restaurant meant for lovers. It is a restaurant with the sort of grown-up, sultry atmosphere that makes unemployed dancers from humble

upbringings like mine feel inadequate— makes them feel like children that have merely been playing the role of adult while others—like rich, magazine execs like Lukas— actually live it. It is one of the many playgrounds of the wealthy—a place where moguls who have “made it” and the beautiful women on their arms dine on six-course meals —meals that I can’t afford no matter how many of my piggy banks I break. So when I step into Mise, after convincing the host to let me fill in for a last-minute cancellation, I feel sorely out of place. My clothing is simple; my hair is unstraightened.

The nude heels I wear are Targetbrand, and besides the gloss that I have on my lips, I have not one stitch of makeup on my face—a fact that I completely regret the second I walk into its honey-lit interior. It’s that feeling that I’m in over my head again. Ever since I got involved with Lukas, it’s a sentiment that’s followed me—clinging to my clothes, shrouding me like smoke. I can’t shake the stench of it off my skin. I try to walk calmly past the other tables as one of the hostesses seats me, but with every patron I pass, there is a

fear—this knowledge that I don’t belong… and that everyone around me can smell the pungency of my oddness with every step I take. When the hostess stops, I sit quickly at my table. Slightly frazzled, I ask for a glass of water, and I force myself not to fidget, grasping desperately for the reminder of why I am here in the first place. Lukas. He’s here. And somehow, my threat to the secretary, Sarah, was enough to get her to give up the goods. She’d told me about his dinner date, and I was on the next Lyft car, smoking.

After my last Uber incident, I think I’ll pass on them for now. I spend a minute or two pretending to look at my menu. Once I’ve given it an obligatory once-over, I let my gaze roam, scanning the entire restaurant, jumping from white tablecloth to white tablecloth, looking intently—cautiously—for him. I know he won’t be hard to miss. Even amongst this exclusive, upper-crust crowd, Lukas’s poise is head-and-shoulders above others. With the rugged good looks of the bad-boy across the street that your mom warned you to stay away from, he has a demeanor that is the very opposite of

that—cool, composed… always in control. He is the sort of man that catches every eye in the room. All I have to do is look for where every woman’s eyes are pointed, and I will find him, looking as completely and utterly delicious as only he can—making every hundred-dollar dish on each table pale in comparison to his appeal. Damn him. I just need to find him in this restaurant, tell him what I saw and get the fuck out of here. I really don’t need to overcomplicate my life with this growing attachment to Lukas. Not when

there’s so much on my plate already. Not when there’s only but one place that this situation can go… I straighten up, continuing to stare from face to face. The waitress comes, takes my very random but very expensive order, and I sip at my newly arrived water, searching. And searching. And searching. Finally, I’ve sipped so much water and done so much surveying that my bladder is full and there’s a crick in my neck. I toss my white napkin to the center of the table, as if throwing in the towel,

and I head for the ladies’ room. Halfway to my destination, a familiar gesture catches my eye. A large hand rises to the corner of a full and shadow-covered mouth; its fingers play gently on the edge, slightly squeezing—as if the person is clutching a small cigarette that they’ve just realized is no longer there. It’s a gesture borne out of habit— like a former smoker who doesn’t yet know that he’s quit. It’s not a nervous move, no. More like anxious. It’s a motion used when biding time —more so when one is caught in agonizing anticipation.

I know that movement well. It’s the gesture of a man who’s finished waiting—a man who is calmly considering his options… and quietly preparing to strike. That smug, self-righteous son-ofa-bitch. He’s just sitting there, coolly, at a large, white-covered table, his hand tapping absently at the corner of his mouth, a navy suit hugging perfectly at his shoulders. His gaze is intense, and he stares at the face of a woman sitting opposite him, a slender-built, strawberry blonde with claws for fingernails and freckles on her bare arms.

I jumped the gun with what I said about Gregory Sears back at the hotel. The man sitting at this table is the one I want to kill most. I break my route, stomping purposefully over towards his table. “Remember me?” I quip. “Elena,” he says, squinting curiously at me. “What are you doing here?” “Looking for you, actually… and what a surprise. Here you are,” I coo mockingly. I turn, extending a hand towards the ginger-haired woman on the other side of the table. “Hi,” I say to her, infusing warmth

into my tone. “I’m Elena.” She grips my hand for a shake. “Sabrina Wellington,” she answers with a rich London-accent. “Nice to meet you.” “And you as well.” Lukas stands. “Elena,” he says to me—almost threateningly. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?” I keep a fake smile plastered on my angry face—a face that is preparing to crack at any second. “There’s no need to, Lukas. I’m going to take off soon and let you get back to your lovely dinner.” He steps angrily towards me,

almost forgetting his surroundings. He glances suddenly at Sabrina, reeling his temper back in. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Sabrina?” Sabrina says “certainly,” but he doesn’t even wait for her reply before whispering to me. He grabs my elbow with a grip that is anything but gentle. “Elena,” he grits. “Outside. Now,” he rasps through clenched teeth. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I hiss back. “Enjoy your meal.” I discreetly snatch my elbow back and then I turn quite quickly on my heel, heading towards the ladies’ room before

I can break down in front of them both. To my shock and overwhelming dismay, Lukas follows me. He steps into the ladies’ room with me, locking its black wooden door behind him as I try to push him away. “No,” I yell, slapping his hands away as he reaches in. “You can’t be in here. Go back to your date.” Lukas flinches, taken aback. “What? Look… Sabrina is not my date.” “Yeah,” I scoff. “I’m sure.” “She isn’t. How did you know I was here, anyway?” I laugh humorlessly, pacing. “Your darling ‘executive’

secretary, Sarah. I didn’t even know you had a secretary.” “I don’t. This is something that Foxx, Chris and I set up recently— shared staff so that we could stay on top of things.” I guffaw out loud. “Sounds like the only thing Sarah wants to be on top of is you. “Not that I would know whether she has or hasn’t, anyway. You and your flavors are none of my business.” “Sarah is not one of my flavors, ok?” Lukas’s voice starts to rise. “And neither is Sabrina. Hell, I don’t even know why Sarah didn’t tell you the full story, but Sabrina Wellington is just a

business associate.” I laugh. Hard. For the first time. “Business associate? Oh, that’s real rich… and real original. Yeah, she looks like a regular working girl, alright.” At that, Lukas stomps towards me, and he backs me up into the wall adjacent to the sinks, his hands planted on either side of my face. I gasp at how quickly I’ve been trapped. “Look,” he says nearly barking into my face. “Sabrina and I are not here on a date. She’s a client from Voyager. We’re looking to smooth things over with her

after the hack that compromised half of our collaborative files, so I’m only here tonight on behalf of our company to tie up any loose ends. “Chris is running late, and Foxx couldn’t make it because he says he’s still at home, working, and watching over a sick Kat… or so he says. “Honestly? “I think he’s trying to avoid seeing me so that he won’t kill me. And he wants to kill me because my unbelievable ass can’t stay away from you. “I’m risking one of the best friendships I’ve ever had because of you.

“Don’t you get it at all, Elle? “I can’t… stay away from you. Not Sarah… Not Sabrina… You.” He sighs, hanging his head for a second before returning his gaze to my face. “It’s you, Elle. You’re fucking torturing me. “And I’m no good… I’m no good for you… “I told you this before, back in Foxx’s office at Ana’s graduation party, and you still don’t seem to get it.” The color of Lukas’s eyes deepens, and his irises darken under the muted light, sliding from a light emerald hue into a dusky jade.

“I’ll fucking ruin you,” he finishes… and I shiver, believing every word that’s coming out of his mouth. Lukas finally drops his hands to his sides, and I can see the light bruises on his knuckles—small cuts at his fingers that are evidence of a recent scuffle. I take an unsteady breath that runs haggardly out of my throat. My voice is a rasp when I respond. “What am I supposed to say to that?” I ask quietly. Lukas places his hands in his pockets, glaring at me without blinking. “You’re not supposed to say anything. You’re supposed to walk away… walk away and never look

back.” Lukas takes a step backward, giving me space, and I take advantage of it, using the opportunity to walk around him. My steps are slow, sluggish. They feel weighed down to the floor as I tread mechanically to the door. “Guess there are no words left, huh? For the first time since we spoke, it seems the two of us are finally all talked out.” I speak the words softly over my shoulder to Lukas, not meeting his gaze. I focus my attention back on the bathroom door, preparing to unlock it. As my hand flies to the silver

switch on the darkened wood, a larger hand slams on the door above mine. Lukas encloses me against the door this time instead, spinning me to face him. He pulls my white blouse towards him, staring at my lower lip. “You’re absolutely right this time, Elena,” he exhales. “No more fucking talking between us.” And then he descends, placing his greedy mouth on mine and devouring it. I inhale sharply, not expecting it, and I breathe him in, sucking in the taste of his mouth and tongue, joining them with my own.

We wrestle for access to one another’s skin, and Lukas lifts my white blouse over my head, wrapping it around his fist. His lips travel hungrily towards my cleavage, and he lowers his head towards my bra, biting through the black lace that is no real barrier to his tongue or mouth. I cry out… as Lukas’s teeth continue teasing. He unzips my blue jeans hastily, and the next thing I know is that his hand is inside of them, prodding, testing— exploring. But I am already soaked, and his fingers need no further confirmation.

Lukas tugs my jeans roughly to the floor, and in an instant, my black underwear join them, leaving me naked from the waist down as his fingers stroke gently at the hot slit between my thighs. He spins me back towards the door, placing my hands against the wood, and I hear the zip of his pants, the quiet unfastening as he releases his incomparable cock from underneath his trousers. Lukas lowers himself, and soon the head of his thick dick is prodding towards my center, ready to penetrate through my throbbing lips. He says my name on an exhale.

“Elena.” And I know he is seeking permission. I can barely think. I just nod. And Lukas slams into me from behind, trapping my ass and legs between his, so that he fits into me tighter than a glove—my soaking wet sex squeezing him in the most pleasurable of ways as he groans softly into my ear, the sound of his voice mixing melodically with mine as I moan in unison. Oh, God, it must be a sin for him to feel this fucking good. Ruin? Understatement of the year.

If this is what ruin feels like, then I want Lukas to wreck the fuck out of me… because no one… and I mean, no one… has ever made me (or my body) feel the way he can. He picks up pace, and I am already starting to whimper, my body brimming with sensations of ecstasy as Lukas quickly brings me to a climax, my pussy releasing and pulsating around his cock —extracting Lukas’s own orgasm right out of him. We sigh together, and I slump in his arms, falling slightly forward as his large hands support my body, gripping my tiny waist to keep me upright. I struggle for breath as Lukas

catches his, and we finally settle down, our bodies no longer heaving from the enormity of our orgasms—our pounding hearts no longer beating frantically out of control. Lukas caresses me into his chest, and I exhale. He sinks towards my ankles, replacing my panties and jeans back over my bottom where they once were. He twists me around, and he releases my shirt from his hand, shaking it out, positioning it and placing it back over my head to sit at my shoulders. I watch him do all of this silently. When he is done, he kisses me, and it is lingering—full of desire and lust

and unspoken promises of additional rounds. When he lets go of me, he looks directly into my eyes… and already, I want him again, right there—directly on the spot. I return the favor, zipping the fly of his navy pants—refastening the button at the top that I know he nearly ripped off. I glance back at his face, wanting to see how he feels… and where I just saw lust merely seconds ago, I now find regret—deep, sympathetic… profound regret. It crushes me like nothing I have ever known. “I’m sorry,” he says to me softly,

holding my disbelieving blue eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that; I actually told myself not to.” He fists his hand on the door, pressing against it. “You’re my houseguest, not my play toy. When I came to dinner tonight, fucking you was not supposed to be on the menu.” Lukas squeezes his eyes shut and then reopens them to glare down at me. “I’m a piece of shit,” he declares, “for doing this at all. I’ll never do this to you again.” His last words shatter whatever dignity is left in me. My pride in shards, I try to

recover… but my body feels suddenly heavy, and I don’t even have the energy to shrug. “It’s not like you did it without my consent. I was a willing participant. Anything you just wanted, I wanted, too… maybe even more…” Lukas nods, and I turn silently. I put my hand back on the lock, and unlike a few minutes ago, I turn the switch to the “off” position. I open the door and head past a crowd of women who are looking curiously at the entrance. “Oh, my God… Finally…” they exclaim, relieved to be let in. I bypass them quickly, not waiting

to see their reactions when they get a peek of Lukas, and I pass Sabrina’s table where a new man now sits. A man with red hair and an even redder face. The man I saw just this afternoon in the café. The man who is the reason I came here to talk to Lukas in the first place. Chris.

Betting in a Burning House

If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time. –Chinese Proverb

Day 4—7:24PM

Casa de Griffin LUKAS Our dinner doesn’t last long after I return to the table. With a barely composed look on my face and a quietly impatient Sabrina fuming silently in her chair, we adjourn pretty quickly, wrapping up last bits of info about the joint Tripping Out!Voyager piece—finally putting all of the remaining recovered hacked files to use. Thank fucking God. I am only too eager to get out of there—only too eager to head back to my house where I know Elena is waiting. And what will happen between us

now? I have no idea. I just know that despite breaking my promise to myself not to touch her— despite telling myself to leave her alone and keep her far away from me and my lies, I can’t wait to fucking see her. What I didn’t expect is that she would feel the exact opposite when I entered into the house. Almost all of her belongings are placed at my entrance, and I nearly knock over a suitcase as I try to open my front door. I recover the bag quickly, glancing around at the scene before me. What the hell?

Suddenly, a voice from the stairs calls down. “I’m sorry I put them in your way. I just needed to gather them together before I moved them out.” “Before you…?” I can’t believe it. “Wait, Elle… what the hell do you think you are doing?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Elena appears from the second level, descending the stairs one-by-one in a different set of clothes. Instead of the jeans and white blouse from earlier, she’s switched into black yoga pants and a grey camisole, and I once again I realize that, dressed

up, dressed down and everything inbetween, Elena is physical perfection— sheer beauty with that dancer’s body, those blonde waves and gorgeous face and eyes. It’s those eyes that capture me as she walks down the staircase. These crystal-clear, powder blue eyes that stare back at me—full of heat… emotion… hurt? Damn, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear… But Elena’s voice interrupts my thoughts. She reaches the bottom stair, planting her feet onto the hardwood. She walks into the foyer, and the hurt that I

thought was in her face has dissipated, disappeared as if it were never there. I start to suspect that, in fact, maybe it wasn’t to begin with. A new expression rises into her eyes and face, and the Elena that I initially met—the hard-as-nails, nononsense, man-eater (or maybe just Lukas-eater)—reemerges, with a renewed resolve and a few old bad habits. She crosses her arms as she traverses the length of the foyer. “I’m moving out,” she declares openly. “I can’t do this.” “Do what?” I ask, growing angry. “This. Us. Whatever we agreed to

when we said we wouldn’t have any rules between us. I can’t do it. It’s just not me.” She reaches for a suitcase and I block her hand, placing my body between hers and the bag. I want an explanation. No, fuck that—I demand an explanation. I won’t let her leave until I have one. “What’s not you?” I ask. She sighs exasperatedly, meeting my eye—challenging me as always. “All of it. Everything. “The sneaking around. The romps in restaurant restrooms. Going off on

these half-cocked schemes with a…” She motions towards me. “… wayward-cocked man. The… jealousy…” “With you, I… I don’t even recognize myself anymore…” Elena hesitates, shaking her head. “I’m not the woman you thought I was, Lukas. And I’m not the woman I thought I was. “The Elena you know is an illusion. “ “We’re an illusion. And I’m tired of pretending we’re something we’re not. “Enemies… friends… lovers…” She laughs humorlessly. “We’re none of those things, and yet

somehow… we are all of them.” She looks towards the ceiling, scoffing. “God, you really had me thinking at one point that you and I could just… make up the rules as we went along— that we didn’t have to fit our situation into some category, some tiny little box. “Because having no structure works for you. “You contribute minimum input, receive maximum output… and when you’re done, you can just walk away without a second glance.” Elena points a finger towards her chest. “I’m not built that way.

“I’m not you.” I step in closer to her. “What do you want me to say?” I ask of her. “I never pretended to be anything other than what I am. I never offered more than I was willing to give. You knew what this entailed. “You knew me,” I conclude— staring. She steps back from me, lengthening the distance once again, and I feel cold. I feel colder than I have in a long fucking time. Elena meets my eye. “I wish it were that easy,” she

remarks. “I’m not walking away because I know you. “I’m walking away because I don’t.” She grows animated, gesturing more and more as she speaks. “I accepted Whore Lukas, came to terms with… with Reckless Lukas, Stubborn Lukas, the Magical, Can-DoAnything-With-His-Fingers Lukas…” “But this newest one? “The… self-sacrificing… selfeffacing, considerate, observant, caring…” She pauses. “… suddenly self-aware and

unintentionally soulful Lukas. “This Lukas scares the hell out of me. “How do I reconcile this version with everything else you’ve shown me?” Elena holds her hands in the air with uncertainty, and I swallow a lump in my throat, knowing that I can’t fill her empty hands with the answers she needs —the answers she deserves. I say nothing. And at my lack of response, Elena begins to slowly pace. She starts talking. Fast. “One minute, you’re nothing but heat; the next, you’re ice-cold. You say one thing and do another—you tell me

that you don’t care and then go out of your way to show that you do. “Which is it?” she demands, stepping closer. “Which. Is. It?” Her crystal blue eyes are desperate —pleading, and it makes me want to give her everything she’s begging for. Everything that I’ve been begging for… but wouldn’t dare admit until tonight… “Give me something, anything,” she says. “Help me put the pieces together so that I can understand you. “Show me who you are… so that I can make sense of the person that I’m becoming with you.”

Her last words deaden my racing heart, and I open my mouth, prepared to explain, rebut… anything… But no words come out. And it’s because of these damned twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years of damage, abuse, neglect, and self-loathing close the door on my momentarily open mind, and I do the only thing that I’ve learned how to do as a child—the only thing that came naturally to me growing up. I shut down—withdraw. I can literally feel the icy walls erecting themselves around my soul. Part of me wishes I could stop it. And a part of me doesn’t… because

these walls are the only home I have ever truly known. And without them, I don’t know where Lukas Griffin belongs. He certainly doesn’t belong anywhere else. Trust me. He’s tried. And so I let Elena walk away. I leave her without answers, without hope—without a shot in hell of getting the truth. And this time when she reaches for the bag, I don’t interfere. I step aside, watching her gather her belongings, and it is almost an outof-body experience. The version of me that Elena has coaxed out of hiding

retreats, and in his place steps the bastard that I’ve presented to the world. Coldly, I allow Elena to walk out of my house without another word. I don’t even step towards my threshold to watch her go. But it’s unnecessary… because she turns to me before disappearing. “Not that you may even give a shit, but I thought you should know, anyway. “Whatever you did to Chris… whatever secret you started to reveal on our cupcake-run at Ana’s party has come back to bite you in the ass.” Elena grips the handle of her suitcase, pulling it closer. “Chris is fucking your ex-

girlfriend, Trina.”

***

“Come on… “Pick up.” I squeeze the IPhone in my hand, nearly bending the metal. “Pick up the goddamned phone, Hank.” The phone continues to ring for the fifth time, and just when I hear the beginnings of a “Hello” on the other end, my elation is deflated. It’s Henry’s voicemail, and the

artificial, recorded voice of my PI infuriates me more than a rejected call, the sound of his message’s banal introduction making me angrier than I’ve been all week. It’s misguided—Henry’s not the real target here. But I’ll settle for him. I’ll settle for him until I can get to Chris. Henry’s voicemail beeps. “Hank,” I growl into the phone. “It’s Griff. Call me back when you get this…” I hesitate, thinking even more clearly. “As a matter of fact…” I reason

aloud into the voicemail. “Don’t.” “Start a case on Chris Johnson— yes, my Chris Johnson. I want a trace on all his calls, his e-mail, his whereabouts. “I’ll text you with his addresses, his cell phone number… whatever you need. He’s not at his house, and he’s not answering his phone right now. “I checked. “And I want it all—whatever you can get on him, give it to me. Hit me back when you’ve gotten into his personals.” I end the phone call, pressing the red button in the center of my phone. As soon as the voicemail finishes, I toss my

phone into the passenger seat. No less than two minutes later, I pull into Foxx’s driveway, the first time I’ve parked in front of his familiar white pillars since Ana’s party. I hardly felt welcomed then… I sure as hell don’t feel welcome now. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I climb the ivory polished steps to the front door, practically skipping them two at a time before I reach the entrance. I stand there, disoriented for a full minute, before I realize that I actually have a key to the house. I hope the locks haven’t been changed.

I retrieve the key, slipping it into the lock—only too happy to realize that they weren’t changed. I step inside, taking in my surroundings. Once I walk inside the foyer, I freeze. There’s a quiet that I had forgotten existed in this house, an almost rustic serenity that undermines its suburban setting. Foxx’s house is filled with the air of a countryside, a humble atmosphere tinged with the smell of home and simplicity—warmth. It couldn’t be more opposite than mine, and I am ruefully reminded of it

now every time I decide to visit… Which I imagine will be less and less these days. Especially after I commit homicide against one of Foxx’s closest friends. I start to ascend the stairs when I realize that I’ve forgotten to knock, a habit that I never had to employ before, but might have to now that Foxx and I are on the outs. I pause, calling up the stairs. “Foxx!” I wait. “Kat! Is anybody home?” A few seconds pass before an unexpected voice sounds from the upper level.

“Yes, somebody is home. And even if they weren’t, you’re loud enough for the neighbors to hear you.” My foot almost slips off of a stair. “Elena?” “Wrong sister,” I hear from up above. “Ana.” I tighten my grip on the railing, climbing further up. “Ana? What are you doing here?” “What are you doing here? I live here, remember?” Oh. Right. “One crazy evening in your house was enough for me,” she continues. “So, I’m guessing Foxx and Kat aren’t home?”

Ana finally appears at the top of the stairs, clad in a slender-strapped, royal blue jumper that matches the color of her cast, her fawn-colored hair sweeping at her back and shoulders. She looks down at me with humor in her eyes and smiles; unfortunately, the facial expression falls quickly. “Correct, but I’m not quite sure where either of them are. They left separately.” Ana continues descending the staircase. “Seems there is more than one feud happening in this family,” she finishes. A rift between Foxx and Kat? Shit.

“Too many to fucking count,” I comment softly. “Come again?” Ana asks curiously. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” I turn around to step back down the stairs. “I’ll be back later,” I throw over my shoulder. My footsteps are heavy as I make my way back to the foyer. The steps behind me are in sync with mine, and they are lighter than a feather as they echo after me. “She left you, huh?” Ana’s words make me stutter-step as I march off the edge of the last stair onto the floor.

I barely catch myself. I stop—motionless, never turning. “And what would make you say that?” Ana’s voice is closer than ever before. “Because if she didn’t, you wouldn’t have assumed that I was her, your voice wouldn’t have hitched when you said her name, and your face wouldn’t have fallen the second that you saw mine.” I don’t move, and Ana catches up to me, landing at the foot of the stairs with a flounce. “Three weeks ago, I probably would have done unspeakable things to

have you act that way with me,” she laments with an exaggerated pout. “But I had to come to terms with it.” “With what?” Ana circles me, stopping to stand face-to-face. “The fact that you’re butt-fuckingcrazy in love with Elena.” I step around her, choosing to ignore her completely. “Bye, Ana.” Ana calls after me. “Oh, come on! Don’t get your overpriced and reportedly deliciouslyfilled Calvin Kleins into a twist!” “Good-bye, Ana.” I open the front door, heading

swiftly for the outside stairs, and when I look up, a black Navigator truck is thirty feet in front of me, the monster vehicle idling quietly by the front driveway. Through the threshold, I look curiously back at Ana. “It’s for me. It’s a Lyft car, not an Uber,” she explains without prompt, walking towards the doorway. “I took Elena’s advice on car services,” she says. Ana smiles again, and this time, the expression is wicked, darkly mischievous instead of her normal playful type. “With as many secrets that are floating around in our little circle, I’m

certain you didn’t think you were the only one that had any… did you?” With that last cryptic question, Ana closes the door on me. And even though I am dying to, I walk silently, determinedly— unhesitatingly—to my car without a single backward glance.

Luck of the Draw

All of us have bad luck and good luck. The man who persists through the bad luck who keeps right on going - is the man who is there when the good luck comes - and is ready to receive it. –Robert Collier

DAY 4—9:07PM Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay ELENA The lights of Tampa Bay’s Grand Hyatt aren’t as bright as they once were. Just five short weeks ago, the black countertops in the lobby shone with a polished opal gleam that put the expensive leather pumps and soles of their wealthy guests to shame. The cream and gold tones of the lobby were pharaoh-like in their exquisiteness, and the grand staircase leading up to the second level felt as if it were fashioned for royalty—as it were a marble-polished pathway en route to

greater nirvana. I loved it. It was the perfect place for Foxx and Kat’s engagement party. It was a dream to have orchestrated the party on my sister’s behalf—a dream to give her something she never had before. Now, the recent reek of our current relationship only sullies the memory of that day, and the gorgeous amenities that were once the reason I was drawn to the Hyatt hotel have turned unsightly— dulled by the sourness that exists between Kat and me… as well as Griff and me. I can’t believe I’m back in this

hotel. And if it weren’t for Linda’s generous offer after my desperate call to her from Lukas’s house, I’d be in some bed-bug-infested Super 8 right now. And now that I’m here at the Hyatt after everything that’s happened… I’d almost rather be sleeping with the critters… Because I don’t want to be anywhere near the thirteenth story that Griff and I christened—or cursed—with our lovemaking. That was the night when everything seemed to change. At the reservation desk, I avoid that level and its hallway like the plague,

purposely steering the receptionist from booking anything that will put me near that unlucky floor. I retrieve my key card from the clerk for my eleventh floor room, and by the time I make it to its front door, I am totally exhausted—drained from a long day… and an even longer night. I settle in with my suitcases, plopping down on the unadorned white bed as I dial my closest friend, Linda, on my cell phone. “Lin,” I call out when she answers. “Ellessss!” she exclaims. “Thank you so much for the room. I don’t deserve this.” “Of course you do,” she coos.

“Only the bestest for my bestest. No way was I going to let you stay in some fleabag motel.” I laugh. “Lin, the Marriott isn’t some fleabag motel.” “Might as well be compared to the Hyatt. I’ve seen the pictures from the engagement party. Fancy fucking digs.” I scoff, pushing the sudden images of that night away. “Yeah,” I say impassively. “Real fancy.” “So, you want to tell me what happened?” Linda asks. “Happened with what?” “Mr. Super-Cock.”

I say nothing in response. “Oh, come on, Elle. You’ve been holding out on me ever since Kat’s party. Give.” I sigh, slipping my shoes off of my feet. I lie back on the hotel bed. “There’s nothing to give. You know everything I know.” Linda sighs even louder than I do, and I know that if she could step through the phone and smack me, she would. “Yes,” she moans—exasperated. “I know about the party, about Ana’s accident, about the meeting with Mrs. Kittredge, but not much more! “I know you stayed at Super-Cock’s

house. I know you dealt with some crazy shit since you’ve been there. And I know that you left. “But what I don’t know is why you left.” I spread-eagle my legs and arms on the bed in a cross formation, wanting to talk about anything but this. “I left… because I had to leave… because I shouldn’t have been staying there in first place… because… oh, hell, Lin! Aren’t you supposed to be worried about the sale of my house?” “Your house is in great hands, Elle. Interested buyers. Awesome listing agent. I’ll send you some more info about the specifics.

“Now… about Super-Cock…” “Can we forget Super-Cock…? I mean, Griff… and talk about something else, Linda? Like… how’s Hercules?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Hercules?” “Yes, Hercules. My dog. Linda… my damn dog. Is he ok? Where is he?” Linda changes her tune, her normally deepened tone brightening. “Oh, yeahhhh, that Hercules… I thought you were maybe using a pseudonym for Super-Cock.” She giggles nervously. “Yes, your Hercules is fine.” “He’s unusually quiet over there.”

“Well, that’s because…” Linda hesitates. “He’s not over here.” “WHAT?!” “Now, don’t panic,” she says soothingly. “He’s at your parents. They came by and picked him up.” Linda starts to talk quickly. “Elle, you know I’m no good with dogs, and you know that the walking and feeding and…” I stop her, nearly screaming her name. “Linda, please. Stop. Talking. I’m getting a headache.” I clutch my suddenly aching left temple with one hand, rubbing the small

mass underneath the skin as if it will soothe a pain that I know has nothing to do with my physical fatigue and everything to do with my mental one. “I’ll call my parents about Herc tomorrow,” I tell Lin. “I’d love those house specifics in the morning, if you’ve got them.” The pain in my temple throbs even harder. “You know what?” I consider out loud. “Just call me in the afternoon; I’m sleeping in.” “Ok, Elle, but there’s still details I’m dying to know about…” “Bye, Linda.” I hang up… hoping my overzealous

partner-in-crime will forgive me in the morning for pulling a move I normally used on Lukas Griffin. I’ve gotten way too comfortable with cutting calls in people’s faces. I start to sit my phone down when it rings suddenly. Still lying face-up in bed, I reach the phone mechanically towards my face, answering it. “Linda, for the love of God, please… no more Super-Cock talk.” A voice gasps softly on the other end of the phone. “Miss Lexington.” The voice is feminine, unfamiliar… and I bolt straight up in bed.

“Yes, hello? This is she.” “Hello, Miss Lexington. I am so sorry for the late hour, but this is Regina Troutman of the Swing Low Dancery Company.” Her pitch is polite—courteous, but there’s a solemn undertone to the start of this unfamiliar woman’s conversation, and though she hasn’t said much yet… I’m already starting to wish that maybe I actually were talking to Linda. Super-Cock references and all. The woman on the line keeps talking. “I’m the personal assistant of Connie Kittredge, Miss Lexington.” Mrs. Kittredge.

Shit. How could I forget the name of the dance company that Connie Kittredge owns right here in Tampa? I straighten up, clutching my cell with a surprisingly steady hand. “I called to speak with you regarding the meeting you scheduled today with Mrs. Kittredge for lunch tomorrow.” “Yes?” I ask shakily. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that Mrs. Kittredge has to cancel.” My recently weary heart starts to race. “Oh, I see,” I respond. The hand that was rock-steady

finally starts to shake. “May I inquire as to the reason?” The assistant is silent for several seconds. “Miss Lexington, I’m not at liberty to say.” I suppress a frustrated sigh. That’s the second time I heard that line today. Is this a statement from a universal script that all executive assistants must memorize? If so, then I’ve met my motherfucking quota for the day. “I’m sorry… Regina, is it?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Look, I’m just going to level with you, Regina.

“I’ve had one hell of a day. “I’ve been searching for a woman that may or may not exist that may or may not be working with a man that I think tried to kill me. “I had a nerve-wrecking lunch meeting with a woman who could make or break my career as a dance instructor with the snap of her well-manicured fingers. “I’m damn near homeless, staying in a hotel, and the man whose house I just moved out of might be responsible for getting me kicked out of this hotel because the two of us had security camera-witnessed, hot-as-hell, hallway sex right outside of one of the grand

suites. “Oh, and I just recently uncovered a secret rendezvous between that man’s neurotic ex and his current best friend.” I finally take a deep breath after the enormous monologue, inhaling deeply before saying my next words. “So, if you could please tell me why tomorrow’s important meeting that has been today’s only saving grace is cancelled, then I would really… really… appreciate it. Thank you.” I say the last expression with finality, and silence greets me on the other end of the phone. It deepens as I listen to my own heavy breathing—these weighty inhales

and exhales that drown out even the hum of my own hotel room’s central air conditioning. I wait. Out of nowhere, the assistant begins to speak again. She talks quietly, even though I am sure she is alone, as if Connie Kittredge were in her very room—as if raising her voice by just one decibel would be a fate worse than death. It unnerves me… but I am simply too thrilled not to hear a dial tone from her hanging up in my line-crossing face. So, I swallow my nerves down alongside a huge helping of fear. “Ok,” she whispers fiercely.

“Here’s the deal. “Connie called me just this evening, telling me to cancel the meeting between you two for tomorrow. She was pretty adamant about it—not that it’s not customary for her to make last-minute decisions, but still…” I lean into the phone as if the act alone will help me to hear Regina clearer. “So what does this mean? I mean… can we reschedule or…? I can wait if we just…” The assistant’s response is quick. “I’m sorry, but you’d be waiting until pigs flew out of my ass.” “So, next Tuesday, or…?”

I regret the joke immediately. “I’m kidding,” I say quickly. Regina actually giggles. “Don’t worry about it,” she hisses over the phone. “I like your style, Elena.” But then the giggles stop. “I will tell you one detail… but please keep this to yourself so that I can “keep” my job.” My voice is drastically low when I reply. “You have my word.” Regina sighs. “Connie Kittredge received a call today. “Turns out a woman she knows

named Kat convinced her that it was not a good idea to do business with you. It almost sounded personal—really personal. “So, if I were you, Miss Lexington… when it comes to finalizing a second meeting with Connie Kittredge, I have to be honest here… “You’d have a better chance of seeing God.” I can practically hear Regina shake her head through the cellular call. Her tone is full of empathetic warning. “And even His calendar probably isn’t as booked as Mrs. Kittredge’s,” she finishes.

When the Chips Are Down

A true man of character knows his limitations – but doesn’t accept them. –Unknown

DAY 6—6:06PM Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay ELENA

Jazz music is good music to drink to. That’s what I’ve learned in my forty-uhhh… I check the clock on my Hyatt nightstand. … four hours of isolation. I take another sip of my vodka—a subconscious/not-so-subconscious allusion to Mr. Super-Cock, and I replay the song on my hotel stereo, a sweet but sultry melody named A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream that momentarily chases away my nightmares—replacing them with alcohol-fueled, musically-inclined delusions of grandeur. I pretend to play the trumpet in the

chorus; I drum my fingers as if playing on piano keys. My hair is partly wet, my Hyatt robe is half-on, and I swing my glass of liquor through the air as if it were a microphone, placing it to my lips to sing into it before tilting it upwards, letting swallows of smooth vodka slide down my anesthetized throat. A throat temporarily numbed by liquor that I swear has been improving my usually awful vocal chords. Clearly, I’m drunk. And perfectly fine with it. With a dusky sunset flirting at my bay view window, I am the life of my one-woman party—hopping from my

white chaise lounge chair to the even whiter bed, skimming my fingers along the grey dresser drawers as I belt out nonsensical lyrics to the instrumental cadence emanating from the radio’s over-bassed speakers. There’s no method to my madness. Without cause or patience, I yank out clothes and items from my suitcases, commenting crassly on each one as I “unpack,” poking fun at my own fashion taste as I fling dresses over my shoulder and chuck shoes at my carpeted floor. “Awful,” I declare, taking another sip of alcohol. “Disgusting.” Each object I pick up is worse than

the next, and I suddenly hate my wardrobe, taking my frustrations with life out on all that I currently own. No wonder I can’t make anything work with anybody, I ponder irrationally. I’m a mess—inside and out. I haven’t been able to talk to Ana, can’t talk to Kat, and I have neither the patience nor the balls to call back Linda or Kathy, who are both desperate to determine my next move before my quickly-closing due diligence period is up. By all accounts, I’m fucked… So, I might as well get fucked up. I down what’s left in my liquor

glass, and I dial Ana’s number, hoping that I can catch her despite her recent absorption in her “unofficial” internship at Tripping Out! I remind myself not to ask Ana about Lukas as the phone rings. It isn’t until Ana picks up my call that I remember that I was never really good at keeping promises to myself, anyway. “Elle,” Ana answers. “Ana! Thank God. Took me forever to get ahold of you today.” Ana sighs. “That’s because I don’t have an office phone…” She lowers her voice, whispering

harshly. “And you know that we have a ‘No Cellphones Policy’ at Tripping Out! I’m not even supposed to have my cell phone here, Elle!” I toss a t-shirt back into my suitcase. “Well, excuseeee me. I thought you’d be off work already, Little Miss Teacher’s Pet.” Ana snorts roughly from the other end. “I’m nobody’s Teacher’s Pet… but for the record, I do think I’m close to figuring out this whole ‘hack thing.’” She starts to ramble. “The thing I’m having trouble

figuring out is why the hacker attacked the Voyager account. Tripping Out! has so many larger collaborations, so many more lucrative deals. Of all the partnerships that we have in the pot, why even bother with that one?” She sighs, and I can already just imagine Ana’s little index finger tapping on her bottom lip. “I know Griff and Chris had a hardon for fingering Greg Sears, but I can’t tie him to the hack. I’m starting to think that it’s closer to home, you know? Someone with more of an inside track. And I haven’t exactly ruled out that twobit bimbo, Trina, so I’ve been wondering…”

I can’t make out the rest of what Ana is saying. Because I am still stuck on the name Trina. Trina. Trina. Trina. My drunk mind is repeating her name, and all I can see is her pretty, brown hair-framed face at Foxx and Kat’s engagement party. I can still smell her sickly sweet Chanel-knockoff perfume—can still remember the feel of her golden dress straps as I tap her shoulder while she dances seductively in Lukas’s reluctant arms. My thoughts jump, and suddenly the image of Trina at Le Petite Café emerges

in my mind—reeling me fast into a flashback from only two days ago when she sat across from Mrs. Kittredge and me at the teashop. I see it as if it is happening all over again. I see her sit at the table of an oblivious Chris. I see her lock eyes with me across the room. And just as swiftly as the memory sweeps in, it breezes back out, returning me promptly into my phone conversation at the hotel room—with an anxious Ana still speculating aloud on the call. I feel disoriented. And for once all afternoon, it has

nothing to do with the vodka in my system. “Ana,” I interrupt, trying to gather my thoughts together. “I need to say something about Trina—something we’d started to talk about last week…” Ana’s voice grows even quieter. “What is it?” she asks. “Oh, shit,” she hisses vehemently. She turns silent. “Shit, I thought it was Foxx for a second. I have to go…” “Wait… Ana!” “Yeah? Elle, spit it out. What did you call me for in the first place?” Call? I called?

Oh, right. My suitcases. The unpacking. The rest of my stuff. There actually was a reason I called Ana in the first place. “Ana, I left a bag full of jewelry in the guest bedroom at Griff’s.” “So?” Ana retorts. “So… I need you to go pick it up for me.” “Me? Why me?” “Yes, you… I can’t be seen back at Griff’s house. I… I don’t want to talk about it. I just need you to go get it for me.” Ana sighs, and I breathe easier, content in the knowledge that she’s going

to relent. But I speak too soon. “Elle,” she says gravely. “You’re my big sis, and I love you. Hell, I might even call you my favorite sister if I wasn’t so worried about Kat walking into work and catching me say it, but… Griff—that is your problem, not mine. “And if you want something, then I suggest you woman up and go get it.” “Woman up?” “Yes,” Ana states firmly. “Woman. Up.” “Besides,” she continues with a hint of sadness in her voice, “it’s not like you’ll be likely to run into him.” My brows furrow, drawing together

in confusion as I try to sit calmly on the hotel carpet. “Why wouldn’t I?” “You don’t know? Wait… no, I guess you wouldn’t…” Ana takes a deep breath. “We think Griff may have gone out of town. He hasn’t been answering texts, phone calls, house calls, nothing from any of us. None of us,” she states emphatically. “He’s been missing for the past two frickin’ days.”

***

The last tiny sliver of sunlight slips beneath the horizon, and the twilight that I had just danced in my Hyatt hotel room less than two hours ago is gone. Location? Lukas’s driveway Current state? Shitting-in-my-pants. And the “double-O-seven”-mission style retrieval of my bag from Griff’s house is already falling apart… because one hour and thirty minutes later, I am still drunk, still nervous as hell about seeing Griff, and still sitting in the backseat of my Lyft car with no real effort to place one foot outside of the

door. The Lyft driver sighs as he’s been doing in thirty-second intervals for the last five minutes, and still, I don’t move. My fingers are stuck to the back door handle as if submerged in rubber glue, and despite my best intentions, I can’t get them to budge an inch. My body seems ready to go… but my mind is screaming at me “Hellsss no.” My nerves are worse than they’ve ever been, and for the second time since I’ve been idling in the backseat of the Lyft car, I’ve considered bribing the little lemonade stand boy I saw packing up just around the corner.

I toy with the key to Lukas’s house, flipping it in my palm. In and out, I tell myself. Easy. He’s not here… You checked. His car’s not outside, the lights are off, and the house is completely silent. All you have to do is exit the car, run upstairs, and grab the bag. You don’t have to be 0-0-7. No sneaking required. I tighten my hold on the car door handle. “Come on, lady; I don’t have all day,” the Lyft driver groans. I open my mouth to voice a retort when I realize it’s useless. I need the

driver to stick around until the deed is done. And besides… he’s right; I barely have enough money on my card to cover this trip, let alone the extra coins to waste on the car idling in the driveway. I take a deep breath. Finally, I open the door. The front yard of Lukas’s house is eerily dark as I approach, and when I hit the front step, the conventional porch light above the door flickers on, bathing the outside entrance as well as me in a subdued but pervasive copper hue. It is welcomed. Especially as the sky swirls from a burnt orange color into black—the last

remnants of the sun waving goodbye as nighttime steps into its place, ushering in with it a parade of purple storm clouds that thunder overhead. I duck inside of Lukas’s house just as a drizzle begins to fall, and I pull the jacket on my shoulders tighter, squeezing the flaps against an air-conditioned breeze that hits me as I close the door behind me. I disengage the house alarm quickly. And then I stand there, soaking in my surroundings. The A/C is as cold as the house’s atmosphere, the sterile feel of Lukas’s entryway hitting me like an icy blade as I

take in the utilitarian furniture, the sharp edges of the quartz counters—the smooth, cold marble. So cold. So barren. Especially without him here. Lukas brings a heat to this beautiful but desolate house, and with all the passion that dances in his eyes and resides on the tip of his tongue, to me… Lukas is a living, breathing flame… and I am drawn in like a hopeless moth, begging to be burned. I push aside the fire that settles in my belly at the thought of him, and I call out his name, double-checking that he’s not brooding somewhere near within the

house. I wander further into the foyer, shouting again and again. Lukas! But there is nothing. No one is here. At the realization, I dart up the stairs, checking briefly into Lukas’s large bedroom before retreating back into the hallway. I shut the bedroom door behind me, and I slink into my “own” room, feeling my way around for the light switch. I hit it… and nothing happens. The light doesn’t come on, and the room remains deeply darkened, the depths of its shadows merely punctuated

by lines of street light that filter in from outside. Ok, breathe, I tell myself. It’s probably by the bed. I use the sparse lighting to find my way around, and when my fingers land on my bag on the nightstand, I nearly shout in victory, shaking the heavy purse to make sure all of my jewelry is still inside. With that jingling confirmation in hand, I creep back out of the room like an amateur robber—employing only an eighth of the grace of the real James Bond. Guess I won’t be quitting my day job.

And just as soon as a smile finally makes it to my lips for the first time in two days, a noise from downstairs stops me in my tracks. A muffled thwack from a level below. My eyes shoot wide, my body locking in place. The dormant hands at my side come alive, and the sleepy sensation that settled into my limbs is chased away—hurtled out by curiosity, alertness… adrenaline. I’m not alone like I thought I was. I don’t turn my head or take a step or even breathe. I listen closer… Closer… closer… Thump.

At the sound of the second noise, I put my full weight on the guest bedroom doorway, practically using its steady frame to support my shaking knees. I push the guest bedroom door quietly, peering out into the carpeted hallway. I look for obvious signs of life —a light, an open door, sounds of running water even. But the silence in the air is thick, almost tangible; each square foot of space is like its own quiet graveyard, and it’s almost as if the sounds were never there. But I know I heard something. I incline my head… and hear it again—soft shuffling from the floor

beneath me. What is down there? Am I hearing the noises of the rainstorm outside? I peer down the ends of the hall searching for Lukas’s bedroom, but it’s all closed up. The door to the bedroom is shut, and it’s as if it was never disturbed. Or was it? I didn’t imagine opening it to check for Lukas. I didn’t imagine shutting it behind me. So, who the fuck is downstairs? I don’t know… and the realization causes an unfamiliar chill to course through my body—an unwelcome shot of ice that sends shivers down my spine

and adrenaline through my veins. Fear. Anger. I take a healthy swallow of both as I encroach on the landing above the staircase. My footfalls are soft as I make my way down the stairs, and with every step that I take, I feel an urgency that I must suppress, an internal fight with the calcified stubbornness that I’ve sculpted to perfection throughout the years. Slowly, I tell myself. Slowly. Anticipation sets my nerves on fire, and my imagination runs wild with all of the possible scenarios. A stranger. A stranger is in the fucking house.

It can’t be Lukas. I’ve called his name too many times already. I count upwards slowly as I place each foot on the next stair, descending at a pace that is uncharacteristically constant and controlled. My extremities practically burn with the barely contained itch to rush, and I have to tell myself to stay calm with each breath. Do not rush. Do not run. Do not strike. Not yet… I reach the end of the marble, and now the soles of my shoes find the hardwood beneath, planting heavily on the base of the living room floor.

I cross the room, and a muffled moan from the den hits my ears. But I don’t stop… Instead, I advance—like a fool— towards the noise, traversing firmly across the couch towards the second enclosed room. I squeeze my fingernails into my palms. And then I step into the room.

Double Whammy

In chess one cannot control everything. Sometimes a game takes an unexpected turn, in which beauty begins to emerge. Both players are always instrumental in this. –Vladimir Kramnik

DAY 6—9:13PM Casa de Griffin LUKAS

I used to pride myself on being the “composed drunk.” When your alcohol tolerance is as high as mine—when you’ve been drinking since you were twelve and exposed to alcoholism since, well… birth—you learn a thing or two about how to keep yourself together. I used to be “together.” I swear I did. But from the moment I started picking up a bottle again, things changed. I’d become that sloppy wino that I’d always hated to see—that stuporladen lush that couldn’t keep his head up no matter how many times you snapped

your fingers in front of his face. A binge drinker. That wasn’t the type of drunk I’d been as a teen; I’d been an all-day sipper, guzzling at breakfast, lunch and dinner—wading my way through school classes undetected. Now, at twenty-eight, I’m a lousy drunkard—heavy-handed, out of control. Guess I’m just too old to do this shit anymore. Still… It doesn’t stop me from raising the second vodka bottle to my lips. The first one I let slip from my fingers on the couch, knocking its way against the cushions before finally

clunking to the floor and rolling away. I laughed quietly to myself. I’m not a quitter… As soon as the first one fell, I reached for the second—twisting the cap off before the first bottle traveled just three feet away. Good old Grey Goose Magnum. I take a whiff of the vodka from the bottle neck—the same vodka I’d given to Elena at Foxx’s engagement party—and I breathe it in. Remembering what it felt like to drink it in my hotel room with her. Remembering what it felt like to see her drink it. It turned me the fuck on to watch it

slide down her delicate throat. I wanted to see her taste it. I wanted to see her taste me. I wipe an exasperated hand across my face, thinking of her vanilla-tasting skin. Elena. I can smell her. I can taste her. I can hear her. “Lukas?” The sound of my name vibrates from the doorway to the living room, and I ignore it, wiping the same hand across my face—hoping it will swipe the memory of everything about her away. But I hear the sound a second time, anyway.

“Lukas.” I look up. The noise is real. She is real… and I can make out the shape of Elena’s body in the dark, her small and shapely form creating a sexy silhouette in the doorway between the den and living room—a silhouette that cannot be fabricated even in my wildest fantasies. No vivid dream can live up to the reality that is Elena. She steps towards me, and it feels like I’ve been knocked in the solar plexus. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe at all. “What are you doing here?” she

asks softly. The intermittent moonlight from the sky illuminates part of the path between us, and she steps into the glow, letting it display her tight blue jeans, her white blouse and the blue blazer that sits over it all. She’s as beautiful as ever… and inexplicably, I am angry at her for letting me know it. I look away from her, finally speaking. “Funny… I thought I lived here.” She stops in her trek. “Yeah, but… they told me you’d been gone for two days. Everybody thought you were out of town.”

“Well, it looks like everyone was wrong,” I retort back. “And if that’s all you have to contribute, then you can go back to where you came from and tell everyone that I’m not… but that they can leave me the hell alone just the same.” Elena moves forward again, and I can practically hear the anger in her step. “That’s not what I came for,” she snaps. “I came… to get my bag back.” I glance over. “Your purse of knick-knacks… I was wondering if you’d come back for it.” “Of course.” “Good,” I comment firmly. “Now,

you can go.” The statement is dismissive, but I can’t stop myself from saying it. I want her to go. I don’t want her to see me like this. I hear Elena take a deep breath, and just when I think she is going to turn on her heel—walk away from me just like everyone else in my life… she doesn’t. She takes another step towards the couch on which I sit, and she places the black knick-knack bag at her feet. She waits, sighing. “Lukas,” she says, calling for my attention. When she doesn’t get it, she repeats my name.

“Lukas… are you ok?” “Just peachy,” I answer sarcastically. “Thanks for visiting. In fact…” I comment like a TV commercial actor, twirling the liquor bottle in my hand. “Thanks for your stay at the Griffin Inn. We appreciate your business, and we hope that on your next visit in town… you choose another place to stay.” I continue spinning the neck of the bottle between my fingers when suddenly it is snatched from my grasp. Elena leans forward, whisking the bottle from my clutch, and my reaction time is too slow to do anything.

I sit—almost dumbfounded—as she twirls back towards the doorway, stomping over into the living room. I realize that she’s in the kitchen when I hear the splashing of liquid in my silver-lined sinks. She returns without the bottle in her hands, and I realize what she’s done. I stand suddenly, towering over her as she marches vehemently toward me. “Are you out of your fucking mind? That bottle cost three hundred fucking dollars. Do you know what you’ve done?!” “Yes!” she practically screams into my face, her crystalline light blue eyes blazing into mine.

“I’ve taken the trigger away from a man who’s trying to escape from the world—snatched away the elixir of the Mr. Hyde that I’d heard about but never seen! “What are you doing, Lukas? “This isn’t you!” I glower into her stare. “How would you know? You don’t even know me.” “And whose fault is that?” Elena growls. “You shut me out all the time!” “Because you can’t handle it!” I bellow towards her, nearly bringing us shirt to shirt, chest to chest. “Nobody can!” Elena pokes a finger into my chest,

stabbing it at my hardened pecs. “Well, you’ll never know until you try, will you?” Her face is determined, her darkened brows furrowed. She looks at me with slanted eyes filled with anger, and I make a decision that only the drunken Mr. Hyde in me could ever make. She wants the truth? Oh, I can give her truth—more than she can handle. More than anyone could. I’m about to tell her something that will turn her wide eyes into saucers. I grit my teeth. I’ll give her just what the fuck she

thinks she wants.

***

When I sit back down on the couch, the scene before me doesn’t feel real. It’s as if someone else is talking, and I am simply listening. A broken boy of twelve is telling the story, and Lukas Griffin—the twentyeight year old man—is idling by in his blue jeans and white t-shirt, his arm twisted into submission, his hands tied behind his back. The grown Lukas is no longer in

control. The child he once was—if he ever really was a child—has taken the podium in his place. “My father—my real father—was a drinker and a real ladies’ man. “When I was young, he used to entertain women at all hours of the night. In and out. “Constantly. “‘Gotta bed the broads to keep your whistle wet,” he’d say. And he did just that. “He gambled. He hustled. He bartered. He whet every single appetite he had… and then some. Indulged in every habit he liked along with ones he

didn’t. “He had so many habits. So many hobbies.” Elena smoothes out her shirt with shaky fingers, sitting beside me on the sofa. “Sounds like a fun guy.” “Yup,” the child in me replies. I toy with the first glass bottle on the floor, kicking it lightly. “Except for the fact that his favorite hobby was beating his son.” Elena winces, and the expression gives the young man some subtle sense of pleasure. Does it hurt to hear? Good. Because it pains the boy to say it… And at her reaction, he feels strangely fulfilled… like a sadomasochist getting

his kicks. And he doesn’t stop there. He keeps going, tumbling out the tale of his life with no regard, no reprieve—no remorse. One after the other, he rains blows down on us both, whipping at our skin with his words. Drunken beatings from his father. Lash. Lonely nights without food. Thrash. He tells her all about the nights the father had stumbled in drunk, looking for someone to take his anger out on—how the father had kept a bevy of women at his disposal, floating in and out of his

bedroom while he had siphoned money out of their overflowing purses. Money that he sometimes would throw his son’s way when the rumbles of the son’s hungry stomach would interrupt his precious blackout slumber. And then the child places the final, bludgeoning cherry on top: his “socalled” mother, an indifferent waif of a woman, who wouldn’t take her only son. Not even when she finally learned of the abuse. Not even when she saw the bruises with her own eyes. Wham. Wham. Wham.

I tell the story of my upbringing to Elena. I tell her about the note on my car, the night of the engagement party… Greg Sears showing up at the office… the hack. I tell her about every omission, every lie… every secret I’ve let lapse between us. I tell her about how this waif-ish woman—who, at some point, must have been a mother—waited fifteen long fucking years to say anything to her son, and how two days ago, she finally had the fucking balls to reach out to him. Only to tell him that the only father he’d ever known—the father he’d

despised, the man who’d “raised” him and fed him and abused him—was dead —murdered by the same bottles of liquor that had sustained him all those years. A predictable—and rightly deserved—alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. Such was the fate of the father. Such was the future of the son… I tell her about everything I ever was… until I have nothing left… Until my psyche and body are beat so badly by my pounding that I don’t have another breath to give. I give her the truth—all of it. But the truth doesn’t set me free;

instead, the truth is pounding and beating the “free” out of me. And with this mental whipping comes the release of my perpetual fear —the freedom of the frightened child. My secrets are gone, and, with it, go all the fear I’ve ever felt. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. And though I’ve exhausted myself from the self-flogging, I may have whipped Elena even harder. She seems withered under the beating. Just like I knew she would. Just like any person would. I finally let the fear go… and all that is left is the pain.

The pain of my past. The pain of an incomplete man. To know me was to know pain. When it came to Elena… I assumed it was simply better for her not to know me. I sigh, feeling wilted. Her voice is subdued when she finally responds. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth— about… about all of it?” “I thought I was protecting you.” “From what?” I stare openly into her eyes. “From me.” Elena’s gaze diverts from mine, and she drops her hands into her lap, staring

off into space. And within the blink of an eye, her face is in her hands, and she begins to sob—these heartbreaking sounds of grief that shake her shoulders with their intensity, racking her body as she quietly breaks down right in front of my eyes. And I am shocked. She’s never cried in front of me before. Not when we’ve had our worst fighting bouts. Not even at the hospital with Ana. It seems as if layers of hurt had built up in her heart, and I was the last brick to bring it all down—crashing the wall that she’d built inside of her

indomitable soul. The sight of her—the sight of this amazing person I’ve come to know and admire—crumbling apart is more than I can bear, and I just don’t know what to do. I can’t think of how to show her how her reaction makes me feel. So, I kiss her. I kiss the perfect woman in front of me—tears and all, not letting the salty streaks on her reddened cheeks get in the way as I search for her lips with mine. She responds almost immediately, and I cover her mouth with mine, fisting a hand into her hair to keep her right where I want her—clutched to my body,

her lengthy legs trapped between my own. The taste of her mouth is indescribable, and like the rest of her body, it has its own distinct flavor, a delectable savor that belongs to her and her alone. Combined with all of her other qualities like her scent and her silky skin, it is like napalm to my senses, driving a basic, carnal need in me to the brink and back again. Every tear, every expression, every part of her—including that unfiltered mouth—drives me insane. I said I wouldn’t fuck her, but fuck, how can I not?

When she’s sitting there, looking all soft and feeling all supple—when she’s got her hands around my waist and her small tongue at my lower lip—how can I not want to lay her down and do unspeakable things to that supremely fuckable body—that unabashedly honest tongue? I grab Elena’s jaw, lifting up her face to stare into mine. Her eyes are heavily hooded with desire, and whatever little resistance I had left is completely demolished. “Come on,” I say gruffly to her. I separate myself from her body, grabbing onto her limp, hanging fingers. I swallow her hand with my mine, and

soon I am leading her out of the hallway and upstairs towards my master bedroom. She follows obediently, her steps mirroring my own. We advance up the marble stairway to my room at a silent, steady pace, and still when I open the bedroom door, she remains quiet, simply stepping in line with my lead. I grab the arms of her wrinkled blazer, tossing it to the side. I slide her tight blue jeans off her ass and down her legs, and I lay her on my bed before she can conjure up any protest. She doesn’t. She just looks widely up at me, her

blue eyes big and wondrous, full of confusion and awe. Instead of ripping at the buttons on her blouse like I normally would, I unclasp them one-by-one. Elena is shaking uncontrollably by the time I unbutton the last one, tears still trickling from her eyes. I open the blouse to reveal her panties, and I blow gently at the silk over her sex, a calculated move that makes the lips of Elena’s pussy noticeably quiver. She is gasping before I even touch her. “I thought you said you wouldn’t fuck me,” she mutters breathlessly.

“I’m not.” I lean over her, finally pressing my lips to her soaking panties. “This—my beautiful, blue-eyed blonde —is something I believe they call making love.” She inhales sharply, and I settle between her legs, making myself at home —to the greatest home that a formerly self-imposed homeless boy like me could ever know. Between Elena’s thighs is my comfort zone—a place I know, a place I cherish, a place I adore. I can lavish my attention on it, taking my time “interior decorating” her magnificent walls. And in return, her zone is always warm and welcoming—

inviting. It treats me like the owner I am. My pussy. Mine. And always mine. I chuckle softly into the comforts of her always-receiving confines, taking my time to marvel at the beauty that is her magnificent pussy. Bare, trimmed or in-between, it is a sight to be seen—a unique treasure that could be stamped the “eighth wonder of the world.” I press my tongue to her plump lips, lapping at her sensitive slit over the black fabric that stretches there. She moans, and I can tell that she is already near her peak, the slow anticipation of what I’m about to do

driving her as crazy as it’s driving me. I nuzzle my nose between her folds, inhaling. “Do you want this, baby?” I ask. I stare upwards at her. “Yes,” she hisses softly. “I said, do you want this, baby?” Louder, she calls. “Yessss.” “Do you… want… this?” I fix my lips on her pussy, sucking her through the thin silk. “Yes, Lukas!” she finally screams, pressing her hand into the sheets. I grin with my chin resting at her clitoris. “That’s what I thought, Elena.” And then I punish her.

I trail a torturous route with my mouth from one end of her pretty slit to the next. I run my tongue from the inside to the out, taking my time to soothe and suck at her pulsating clit. I let the pressure of my mouth do the talking, whispering sweet nothings without saying a word, serenading her with a song that has no lyrics. My tongue is my instrument, and I can conduct “the Ninth Symphony” with it. Elena’s breathing shifts from shallow to nearly panicked until she is panting in such quick spurts that I fear her heart will explode.

I want it to. I want this time to be the best she’s ever had. I want to give her every soft touch that I’d ever been denied—every warm kiss that never met my face. I need my touch to give her everything she’s ever dreamed of— everything I’d ever dreamed of. I let myself be the answer to her nightmares… I let her be the answer to mine. And when she comes, I hold her there, cupping her pussy with my mouth as I let her ride the wave of ecstasy on the edge of my tongue. Her cries are incessant, and her pleas to God are uncontrollable as she

weaves her hands through my hair, holding on for dear life. Mmm. Sweet bliss. I relish every second of her climax. And before her breathing can even out again, before she can come down from her delicious high, I am out of my clothes—shucking my pants in a second, tossing my shirt in a flash. My boxer briefs are one of the few layers that separates us, and when I rejoin Elena back on the bed, they are shortly the only one that does. I slide Elena’s panties down her sculpted legs; I inch my fingers beneath her black bra to release the perky, soft pink nipples atop her tender, supple

breasts. I slide my face in-between them, licking and sucking, taking my turns with each one as I pull her sensitive tits between my teeth. Her sighs are loud, her groans released tightly from her bitten lips. I can’t resist it. I go straight for her bottom lip, sucking it inside of my mouth so I can swallow her moans. At the same time, I peel off my black boxer briefs and send them flying across the room, repositioning myself so that my hardness prods near the center of Elena’s warmth. I hesitate, grabbing Elena’s face for

her full attention. “Listen to me, love,” I say sharply. “I know what I said before… Fuck what I said before. “I don’t want to play these games with you anymore, Elena. I don’t want to have rules. “And I had lied to you before. I did have rules… and I was playing with the same playbook I’d been using all my life. “No more. No fucking more.” I slink off of the bed and towards my pants, retrieving a golden condom from my back pocket’s wallet. I prepare to open it when a hand grabs my own. It’s Elena’s.

“No rules, right?” she whispers, staring hungrily at my mouth. I put the condom down onto the bed. “No rules,” I agree. And then I slam into her. She cries out on a surprised gasp, her wetness fitting me like a tailored glove, surrounding my naked shaft with a mixture of heaven and complete nirvana. Jesus Christ. I can hardly take it. I’m harder than the Rock of Gibraltar, and I pause and hold my breath for several seconds before I can even begin to move inside her. She feels so damn good. The thought can barely form in my

head before I start to move, my body leading the way as my brain scrambles to catch up. I move slowly, steadily. I slide my cock into the recesses of Elena’s tight pussy until I can build up a beat—a hypnotizing rhythm that puts both of us on a journey to ecstasy. Slowly, I tell myself. Don’t rush. But surprisingly, it’s not hard to make it last… because the longer I draw our lovemaking out, the more erotic Elena gets. To see her face with every inch I draw deeper, to hear each hitch in her sighs… It makes me wonder why I’ve never

done this before. Why I’ve never touched a woman like this, kissed a woman like this, penetrated another woman like this… But when she opens those frostcolored eyes and looks into mine, the answer is as plain as day. It’s because none of those other women were Elena. With this step, I set fire to all the rules I ever had… and I’m enjoying watching them all burn. I close my eyes, savoring each stroke into Elena, letting my body voice all of the things I cannot say. I comfort her in the best way I know how—and in doing so, I find the

peace I’d been searching for… and I pray to God that it will be enough. Because, in this moment, Elena is enough for me. But am I enough for her? I can’t think about it for long because soon our bodies start to ebb and flow in unison, a stark difference from the way we used to crash into each other, colliding into one another with waves of eroticism and elation, riding the other’s body into a euphoric climax. And though I loved when we came together fiercely, this time is better than every time before it because there’s something here that wasn’t quite there before…

And whatever it is, it makes me want Elena more than ever. I pick up the pace, swinging on a crescendo of Elena’s moans. Her whimpers turn to cries, and I stroke harder, feeding the frenzy of her quickened heartbeat, the tempo of her strangled breaths. Suddenly, I feel myself coming… and can’t do a damn thing to stop it. Elena climaxes intensely on my cock, her gorgeous cunt squeezing the length of me in a wet embrace, and I pull out with no more than a second to spare. I imprint her body with my orgasm, contentment flooding my body as I release the contents of my climax in

steady spasms over the expanse of Elena’s shimmering body. And even when the spasms stop, I cannot stop touching her, my desire for her overshadowing everything else, my body barely descending from its peak before it, unprecedentedly, decides that it is ready for another round with the woman with whom my need knows no bounds.

Stacking the Deck

Cards are war, in disguise of a sport. –Charles Lamb

DAY 7—2:32PM Casa de Griffin LUKAS

Sixteen hours later, the dead of night turns into dawn, which in turn rolls into mid-afternoon… and Elena and I still can’t get enough of each other. With a warm Saturday rainstorm as our background music, Elena and I make love into the wee hours of the morning— waking only to grab each other again, begin another round of incredible sex, and repeat the same cycle over and over —our satiation never complete, our hunger never satisfied. We shut ourselves in, cutting the world off from each other. It isn’t until my phone buzzes from the far side of the room that I have even

have the presence of mind to take my nose off of Elena’s soft neck. I barely stir. “Your phone’s buzzing,” she tells me with a murmur. “I know.” “Well, don’t you want to get it?” “Elena,” I mutter, my lips buried in her collarbone. “I haven’t been answering calls or texts for the past two days. Do you honestly think I’ll start now?” Elena rolls over in bed, and the perfect embrace we are wrapped within breaks abruptly. She extracts the curvy line of her body from the hollows of mine, and she looks at me—her arctic

blue eyes wide and unassuming. She grabs my hand, squeezing it. “Look… I know staying closed off seems like the perfect idea right now… but we have to rejoin the real world again at some point. “You… me… We’ve both cordoned ourselves off from everyone for the past three days. And if we don’t deal with our issues now… “ Elena sighs heavily, rubbing my palm. “Then we’ll never deal with them… We’ll cut ourselves off… “And I’ll let us… because I know how much easier it is to avoid the problems instead of addressing them.

“Let’s take the difficult but right route—for once.” I don’t say anything, but as Elena’s tiny fingers start to interlink with mine, I feel a tug in my chest—a pull at heartstrings that were chewed and torn before, but now have been slowly repaired by her—along with the insistent and irresistibly irritating, but adorable Ana. I give in… releasing myself from Elena’s hold so that I can swing my legs over the bed. I walk—stark ass naked—to my jeans, and I pull my cell out of my back pants pocket, pressing the center button at the base before hitting the “Text” app

sitting in the far left corner. I snort on a laugh. Speak of the goddamned devil… It’s Ana… and she sounds urgent— almost panicked. Anastasia: Ok, hear me out before you decide to ignore this or even throw the phone out the window. I’m just a messenger. And you know what they say about shooting the messenger… So, don’t pop a cap in my ass… Chris’s phone is on the fritz. He asked me to hit you up so that the two of you could meet for a

business dinner. It’s something to do with Voyager —and it doesn’t sound very good. He says he knows it’s short notice but he needs you. Be at the Grand Hyatt. Tonight. 7 o’clock. Armani’s. That’s all I got. Remember: NO CAP-POPPING. I close the message. Incredulous, I hold the phone in my hand for several seconds without saying a word. If I wasn’t so fucking furious… I’d actually laugh at some of Ana’s jokes. But I can’t.

Because anything involving Chris is no longer a laughing matter, and the truth of the actual matter is… that I don’t trust the lying bastard. The dirty con artist got Ana to do his goddamned dirty work. And I’m not so sure I’m up for whatever Chris is trying to pull. Elena sits up when she notices me not moving. “Who was it?” she asks. “Ana,” I reply gruffly. I turn towards her. “She sent me a message from Chris.” Elena nearly gapes. “From your friend, Chris?”

My friend, Chris. I scoff. The expression sounds so foreign to me now. “Yeah…” I try to quip lightheartedly on a hard laugh, “… that’s the fucking one.” Nerves warp Elena’s face—as I’m sure they are warping mine—and she sits silently on the bed, confusion contorting the expression across her furrowed brow, my white bed covers clutched fiercely at her chest. “What does he want?” she questions quietly. “Business dinner.” “And does he know…?” “That I know?”

She nods silently. I shake my head at her. “No…” I look down at my phone again. “But he will after tonight.” I toss the phone towards her. “You’ll need an outfit.” “For… dinner?” Elena gawks. “But I thought this was strictly business, and I…” “You… are my business. And I’m not leaving you by yourself. Not again. Also, last time I checked, I own a third of the company involved in this socalled ‘business dinner’…” I trail off, my thoughts wandering over to what the hell Chris’s angle could

be, but I draw a blank. “Let’s both get showered and dressed as quickly as we can,” I say, staring out of the window at the falling rain. “Looks like we’re going to be in for one hell of a night.”

***

DAY 7—6:41PM Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay – Armani’s ELENA

My dress is too short. My dress is too fucking short. With my high heels clicking against the taupe-colored tiles of the Grand Hyatt lobby, I pull for the fourth time at the lower hem of my unfamiliar and new navy dress, trying pointlessly to extend the length of it. A tug here. Another yank there. My palms are sweaty, but Lukas doesn’t seem to notice, and as we cross the length of the golden lobby, I let my hand that is engulfed in his hang peacefully in its place. The other hand? That hand is going nuts, pulling needlessly at the line of the dark blue

stunner that Lukas purchased for me just this evening. It’s a flawless, A-line dress— sleeveless, and it fits perfectly at the bust and waist, hugging my slanted curves only to flare delicately out at the hip, creating the aesthetic of a beautiful but chic woman alongside her black suitfitted Adonis. It’s probably the first time I feel praiseworthy at Lukas’s God-like side. And I must admit… He and I paint a damned beautiful picture together. But I am casually fucking it up… Because I am too damned preoccupied with my dress to let the

visage of us stay perfect. It’s all because I need a distraction, really. Anything. Any little detail to focus on rather than what I am about to witness. This impending implosion of a decade-long friendship. Almost two decades, actually. Chris and Griff. Best friends. Business partners… turned enemies. It feels like I am marching into the throes of a ticking time-bomb convention… and I’m the one who has lit everyone’s fuse.

The elevator in front of us dings, and we step inside silently, squeezing each other’s hands tighter in place of talking. Several tension-filled seconds pass as we ascend in the elevator before Griff looks at me. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispers… and I smile. It is the only statement he manages to make… because as soon as we are ushered into the restaurant, we catch the sight of Chris sitting at a nearby clothcovered, white table. And the sight isn’t pretty at all…

Queen of Hearts

Sometimes you have to withdraw. Sometimes you have to sacrifice one of your pieces to win - preferably a knight rather than a king or queen. —John Rhys-Davies

DAY 7—6:55PM Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay – Armani’s

ELENA “Waiter… Waiter!” I call out to our server as he passes for a second time. “Another glass of white wine, please.” He nods in response to my, frankly, rude interruption, and I uncross my legs for the seventh time underneath our table —taking a moment to steady their shaking before crossing them again, squeezing tightly. Lukas and I sit at one end of the massive round tabletop, and a noticeably nervous Chris sits at the other, his hands folded across his menu, his eyes on

anything but us. And Griff—the passionate man I’ve come to know—is anything but. His back rod-straight, he sits politely in his seat without saying a word, his errant hand on my thigh the only motion that he makes as the quiet deepens ominously among the three of us. He answers questions from the waiter with only “yes’s” and “no’s,” and when it is time to order, he reads off his choice as if by teleprompter—his voice emotionless, his face impassive. Clearly, Chris has had enough. He pipes up. “Look… Griff…” he says,

motioning across the table. “I know you’re probably mad that I’ve left you to stag it at the office—no, scratch that. I can see on your face that you’re probably mad that I haven’t been there.” Chris hesitates. “I hate that things have gotten this awkward, but maybe we’re gonna need to work around this. “I know things haven’t been the same lately… but I’ll do anything to rectify this.” His eyes are pleading, his face intense. Chris is obviously emotional at this point, and even after knowing his secret,

I do have to say… A part of me feels really bad for the guy. I am afraid that Griff may destroy whatever friendship he and Chris have had. Even worse… I’m afraid that he’ll just destroy Chris. But I stay silent… and I am shocked when Griff actually responds. I am not shocked, however, at the low growl that emits from his clenched teeth. “What exactly are you trying to rectify?” Chris’s brow furrows, and he waves a hand between Griff and himself.

“This,” he spouts. “Us. I know I put us in an awkward position. I should have been there. I should have…” Griff cuts him off. “You should have been there. Period. You shouldn’t have missed all that time from Tripping Out!, and you shouldn’t have let everything fall on my fucking shoulders.” Griff glowers, his gaze hot with anger. “I know what the hell you’ve been up to.” Chris finally stands up for himself. “What I’ve been ‘up to’? The only thing I’ve been ‘up to’ is taking care of this Voyager account. I’ve been busting

my ass to get our business on track!” Lukas takes a sip of his water. “Business?” he asks, lowering his glass. “Don’t you mean ‘personal’?” Chris literally flinches. “What?” His voice is disbelieving, and Lukas leans in over the table—his green eyes narrowing in Chris’s uncomfortable direction. “The flower purchases. The new goddamned suits. Did you think I wouldn’t know?” “Know what?” “Know that you were seeing her?” Chris’s normally blushed face pales.

“How…?” he asks, trailing off. “Never mind how,” Griff responds, his silky voice gruffer than it’s ever been. “That’s why you were keeping me from pointing fingers at her, huh? Protecting your little girlfriend? “You son of a bitch,” he continues. “It was easy to point fingers at Gregory Sears. He hated our company. Hated us. And we all hated him. “But now this? “Now to know that you purposely kept the spotlight off of Trina? Her, of all people?” Griff snorts harshly, pointing a steady finger at Chris’s wide-eyed face.

“It makes her look even more guilty… It makes you look even more guilty,” Lukas finishes. I look at Chris… and wonder if he’s just peed in his expensive pants. “Trina? G-guilty?” He shakes his head. “Griff, look… I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but you’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t come here tonight to argue. I came here tonight to make sure our Voyager account stayed solid. This is a business dinner, or did you forget? In fact, I invited Sabrina Wellington here tonight to take care of that very business…” Suddenly, Chris’s gaze averts over

Lukas’s head. “Aaaaand she’s here right now,” he mutters quickly. He shifts in his seat. “Miss Wellington!” he calls out louder in greeting. I follow Chris’s glare to glance behind Lukas’s calm but infuriated face —only to find the redhead from a few nights ago, circling the table in a blushcolored dress, her pretty face obliviously cheerful as she moves towards a seat. A seat away from me… that puts her right next to Griff. “Mister Johnson,” she practically sings, leaning into Chris’s awkward kiss

at her cheek. She peers behind her seat towards Griff with expectant eyes. “Mister Griffin.” She slides his name off of her tongue as if it were a dirty word. The expression on her face is smug and satisfied… and I could wipe that look right off of her. Griff stands briefly to shake her hand. “Miss Wellington… I’m a little surprised to see you here.” Lukas recovers quite quickly, and he politely pulls out the sultry redhead’s chair—a move that sparks blatant annoyance in my own chair.

The redhead laughs softly as she takes a seat. “Mister Johnson—Chris here— actually notified us only a short while ago. Said that the Voyager team could attend this Tripping Out! business dinner to wrap up a few final things, and I agreed.” Of course, I think. And Sabrina Wellington smiles wider. “I’m just sorry that our senior editor, Karen Follop, couldn’t make it. Guess Tripping Out! will just have to settle for just the managing editor of Voyager tonight,” she jokes lightly. “Our p-pleasure,” Chris stammers,

and I catch the scowl that Griff sneakily throws his way. “We just ordered not too long ago. We’ll motion for the waiter shortly,” Chris continues. “Wonderful,” Sabrina exclaims, clapping her hands together. She picks up a menu, musing aloud. “Now… let’s see about…” “What the hell is going on here?” A male voice booms directly behind my head, and I jump an inch in my seat. The voice is familiar, but scarily heated. I have to pull a complete 180degree turn in my seat, and when I do, I have to wonder if I will pee myself this

time. Jesus Christ. Foxx is here… and angry in a well-tailored light grey suit. He moves around the table, regarding every person sitting there, and he finds a seat, sliding out a chair to sit beside Chris. Chris is breathless by the time he can even speak. “What are you doing here?” he asks Foxx. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” “Me?” Chris squeaks. “I’m the one…” “Gentlemen,” Lukas butts in—his tone clipped but courteous. “We have

company here.” Foxx looks over at our unusual guest—his eyes widening. “Bri… Sabrina… I mean…” He clears his throat loudly. “Miss Wellington, how are you?” Sabrina leans forward in her beautiful but dangerously low-cut dress, and she smirks at Foxx, the expression small but sinister. “I’m quite well. You seem to be doing well.” Foxx unfurls his white napkin with a sharp snap into the air. “I’m fantastic,” he replies… and the small exchange is dropped. Chris expels a long breath, glancing

tensely from person to person around the cloth-covered tabletop. “Well, if no one has anything to start with at the moment,” he gestures across the table, “let me just say that…” He pauses, his hand freezing in mid-air. “Kat!” My stomach drops at the sound of Kat’s name, and I whip my head around, twisting fast to find myself staring directly into a set of eyes that are identical to mine. My sister’s eyes. Kat’s eyes. In her heavy black blouse and grey pants, she seems every bit as severe as

she is dressed, her face confused but austere as she glowers at me and then the rest of the table. She shifts the purse in her hand to the other. “What is this?” she questions harshly. “Some sort of party?” “I thought you were too sick to come out tonight?” Foxx asks, his voice low and gravelly. Kat walks towards him, scooting a chair as she prepares to sit down. “I lied,” she states plainly. “So, why didn’t you tell me that you were coming to Armani’s?” “Why didn’t you?” “I told you that I was going to a

business dinner.” Kat’s eyes circle the table. “Well, that’s what I was supposed to be attending as well,” she comments wryly. “But this doesn’t look much like business.” “It was supposed to be,” Foxx replies. “It was Griff’s idea.” Griff balks. “My idea?” Griff calls out suddenly. “But…” “Don’t even start,” Foxx barks towards Lukas. “I’m talking to my fiancée.” “Funny,” Kat remarks—her tone dry and snide. “You haven’t really talked to your fiancée in days.”

“That’s because you’ve been shutting me out!” Foxx’s voice rises, startling all of us. I watch silently, willing myself not to say anything, but Kat and Foxx continue to go at it in the presence of every shocked face at the table—and a few shocked faces that aren’t—and within minutes, I decide that I just can’t take it anymore. I have to say something. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kat,” I bellow over at her. “Why don’t you tell Foxx the truth so that we can all stop hearing the bitching?” Kat’s jaw nearly drops to the

tabletop. “My bitching?” “Yes,” I reply, hissing loudly across the other guests. “Your bitching. It isn’t enough for you to ruin your own life; you have to butt in and ruin mine, too.” “What?” Kat screeches. But now, I’m on a roll. And I can’t keep my wheels from spinning out of control. I lean closer to the table, nearly spitting the words. “Mrs. Kittredge? Surely you haven’t forgotten the little conversation you had with her. “Hell, I know that you and I haven’t

been on the best of terms, but sabotaging my business relationships. That’s beyond fucked up.” “Who?” Kat acts unbelieving. “Who the hell is Mrs. Kittredge?” she asks. That’s it. I grip my fork at my place setting tightly, resisting the urge to plant its tines into the wood at my table. “Don’t insult my intelligence, and don’t play dumb with me, Kat! “You can’t just pull the wool over my eyes like you have with Foxx. And if you had any fucking integrity, you’d tell your fiancé the truth.”

In fact, the truth of Kat’s secret is rattling at the edge of my teeth. I grind them silently in an effort to keep the secret in, but it’s like a tiger rattling in a cage. It feels like I’ve been holding onto it for so long. And I can’t hold it in any longer. “You’d tell him,” I yell menacingly across the white tablecloth, “that you’re pregnant!” Kat gasps. The audience at our table gapes. A stunned hush follows in the wake of my unexpected revelation, and none of the suddenly mute members of our dinner party can do anything but stare—their

gazes flicking between Kat and I and then slowly over to Foxx, who is stunned into total, catatonic silence. An entire minute passes before he moves again, and he turns in his seat to glare at a seething Kat, whose eyes are filling with angry tears. Abruptly, Griff squeezes my thigh under the table. “Elena,” he snaps quietly. But whatever he is about to say is interrupted by an increasingly vocal Foxx, whose voice begins to climb from the ashes of a whisper into a strong and steady roar. “That’s just fucking perfect,” he booms.

He turns on the entire table. “Just how many fucking secrets is my ‘so-called’ family keeping behind my back? “Anyone? Hm?” He presses his lips into an angry line. “First,” he calls out, motioning towards Griff. “My best friend creeps right under my nose and sleeps with the same sister-in-law that I specifically asked him not to get involved with. “And then my… amazingly truthful fiancée neglects to tell me about a child —our child.” Foxx twists suddenly to the side, gesturing at a flustered and

understandably flushed Chris who sits idly by. “Anything you’d like to add, Chris?” Foxx asks him. “Any secrets you’d like to throw into the pot?” Chris opens his mouth slowly before being abruptly cut off. “No,” Griff snarls, catching everyone’s attention. He glares openly at his red-faced friend. “Chris is all ‘secret-ed’ out.” Griff throws his napkin at the table, and Chris squirms, his eyes narrowing as rage finally reaches his face. “Nobody speaks for me,” he grits

out at Griff. “You, least of all.” “Well, then, have at it,” Griff declares. “Go on; tell me how you really feel. Take your anger out on me like you always wanted to because you’re still not over your college crush, Trina, and you want to blame me for her not wanting you! “G’head,” Griff finishes. Chris practically growls in response over the table. “You don’t fucking get it, do you?” he yells. “I’ve been over Trina. And I’ve been over you and your constant and persistent dickheadedness.” “Dickheadedness?”

“Yeah, that’s right… You think a few weeks can erase a decade of irresponsibility, whoring and poor judgment. “You hold down the Tripping Out! fort for one week, and all of a sudden, we’re supposed to forget all the times you haven’t showed up before?! “It doesn’t work like that, Griff. “And if it wasn’t for Ana’s text, I wouldn’t be here at all!” He stands, planting trembling hands on the table in front of me. “You hear me? Not at fucking all.” The ticking time-bomb that is Griff starts to count down, and before he can reach one, our reluctant waiter appears,

dropping my order carefully in front of me before circling the table to do the same with Griff and Chris. Our poor waiter turns on his heel, happy to leave, and sadly, I watch him go, my relief from his brief reprieve fading into the distance as the server walks further and further away. And without warning… without any other preparation or additional clues… the table explodes, breaking out into an epic battle of screaming and yelling and finger-pointing. The voices drown out the live piano music, and a harried hostess has to approach the table, her tone pleasant but firm in an attempt to hush the feud that’s

happening within our small but raucous dinner party. With the exception of the fretful bystander Sabrina—everyone is engaged in war. Teeth gnashed. Hearts pounding. Voices raised. Everyone… but me. I can’t find the will to argue anymore. Because somewhere… somehow… in the midst of Chris’s small diatribe that sparked this fiery explosion, something else is triggered. Something within me is triggered. I don’t know what it is… but it feels like… like…

A puzzle piece that’s not supposed to be there… or a chip in the dice that keeps the two blocks from rolling right… I stay still—even amidst the chaos… trying to remember exactly what it was while the ambient roar in the restaurant disappears into the background of my mind like white noise. Come on, Elle. Think! You’ve got the pieces of the puzzle; just put them together. Put them together, Elle. Put them together. And while I chant this mantra in my mind, the scene around me changes.

Lukas stands, tapping my shoulder. “I tried, Elle,” he whispers in my ear. “I really did.” He slams a hand on the table, prompting everyone’s sudden silence. “I’m heading to the men’s room,” he announces, “and when I come back to pay this check, I’m out of here. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening…” he says, looking around the tabletop. “… ‘cause you’ll be doing so without me.” He places his hand on my back. “Excuse me for a minute, love.” I nod, and Lukas turns to walk away. He disappears toward the end of

the hallway with my eyes glued to the back of his black suit jacket and the pieces of the puzzle I’d been trying to solve scattered back into the damning disarray that it once was.

Unlucky Pair There is but one good throw upon the dice, which is, to throw them away. -Unknown

DAY 7—7:52PM Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay – Armani’s LUKAS The second I hit the restroom door, I sigh in relief, letting go of a long and

tension-ridden breath. My nerves are shot to shit. My hands are involuntarily shaking. And the tightness in my chest makes it hard to inhale with the weight of my guilt, anger and frustration all pressing down on me. I’m running away again. But to what am I running… I have no fucking clue. I use the bathroom quickly, avoiding the mirror on my way out. I’d rather not see the shame in my eyes, and when I exit, I find myself staring into someone else’s. Shit. Sabrina. Her stance is bold. Her face—

unapologetic. She pushes me back into the men’s room the second she sees me, and she locks the door behind her before I can even figure out what’s happened. I’m startled as hell. And all I know is that I’m in deep shit. “Sabrina…” I find myself saying. “What the fuck is this?” Her smirk is sly, and it reaches her hazel eyes. Her skin is glowing and she’s positively brimming with sexual energy, a sensuality that emanates off of her reddened skin. This woman is in-fuckingcorrigible.

And I’ve got to get the hell out of here. I make a play for the exit, but she blocks it, lifting her leg and sticking her high-heeled shoe on the closed, wooden door. “Don’t play games, Griff,” she purrs, her British accent strong and soothing. “Your reputation precedes you, so I know you know what this is.” “Really?” My response is scathing. “Looks like a current colleague of mine is getting really goddamned inappropriate.” She smiles. “And you would be right.”

She reaches for my shoulders. “Why else do you think I pushed so hard to work with Tripping Out!” I swat her hands away. “Don’t do that… Feel free to enlighten me, Bri…” She scowls at the nickname. “Just why would a company such as yours opt to work with one of the hippest new travel pubs on the block?” The sarcasm is dripping from my tongue, but that doesn’t stop Sabrina from flicking out hers. She licks an already wet lip. “Your company being one of the hottest new travel pubs was reason number one. Reason number two… is in

your trousers.” She reaches for my cock, traversing my fly with taloned-fingers. I grab her clawed hand, nearly stabbing myself in the process. “Mmmm,” Sabrina hums. “Rough. Just the way I like it.” “Put a fucking lid on it, Sabrina. This is business. Strictly business.” She glances at my fly. “And so is this. Did you think we were going to choose to work with WanderLust or TravelTalk?” My gaze tightens on her. “Gee, why not?” I ask. “Besides the fact that a bunch of old farts are running them?”

She titters. “Well, Rustin Dixon wouldn’t know what was hip if it bit him in the arse, and Martin Sears… well, Martin Sears barely has a magazine, anymore. “That company’s going down faster than the Titanic.” I freeze. Martin Sears. Martin fucking Sears. As in Gregory’s Sears’s bushwhacking daddy… and boss. “You mean Martin Sears’s company wanted this collabo?” “That’s riiiiight,” Sabrina sings. “And we wanted you… I wanted you, Griff. From the moment I saw you in my

office.” My heart starts pounding, and I can’t think straight. The mention of Martin Sears’ name sends my sensibilities through the roof, and I struggle to find the strength to calm myself. I take a look at Sabrina. All soft and seemingly sexy. Any man would love to stick one to her. At least, any man that isn’t me… At this point in my twenty-eight fucked up years of living, she is the furthest thing from what I want. I think about Elena, and finally, I find the calm I was looking for. I release Sabrina’s hand slowly,

sliding my fingers up the arm I just held. I take her elbow in my hand, pulling her closer so her body skims along my own. She gasps… and I know I’ve got her right where I want her. I lower my gaze, glaring openly at her rosy mouth. I take both hands away from her arms so that I can slide them around her waist, letting my fingers tickle her midsection as I reach towards the small of her back. Sabrina sighs, and she rests her chin at my chest. She inclines a head full of reddish auburn hair so that her face looks up at mine. I hold her still.

“Any man would be a fool not to want you, Sabrina…” I mutter softly. I keep reaching and reaching with my hands… Finally, I find it. My hand, at last, touches the wood, and I unlock the bathroom door. “Luckily for me, I don’t mind being a fool,” I tell Sabrina. I take a step back from Sabrina, stone-faced, as I open the door that was just shut. “Class dismissed.” I hold the men’s room door open. “Now, get out of here and go home before you embarrass yourself any further.” Sabrina scoffs with disgust, but,

clearly too embarrassed to reply, she relents. She turns on her heel, her hazel eyes shooting barbs of indignation my way. She readjusts her large breasts in her skin-revealing dress, and then she’s off, walking past my outreached arm, leaving a trail of Dior perfume and “Go Fuck Yourself” in her wake. I wait two seconds and then I follow. The moment I pass through the door, I find Elena outside in the hallway, staring me in my face, gazing back and forth between me and the door that Sabrina and I just exited.

***

The waiter comes with my check, and I can’t get Elena to even look at me. From the look on her face outside the bathroom, it was clear that she had something to say, but when she sees me walk out of the restroom door behind Sabrina, all bets are off. She freezes, walking back towards our table without a single word. When I reach her side, I attempt to touch her, but she flinches, and whatever apology I was ready to give dies a quick death.

I’m screwed. Sabrina just dropped the biggest bomb ever on me in the restroom— basically confirming that Sears is our fucking guy—and the one person I want to tell is probably the last person who wants to listen to me. I accept the black folder containing my check from our shell-shocked server, and I thank him, nodding dutifully as he starts to walk away. But when I open the folder to place my cash inside, something noticeable is missing… There is no check. A carefully handwritten note sits where the check would normally be

placed, and instead of numbers and dollar signs, I find myself staring at inkscripted text—glossy black letters that lie firmly in the middle of a plain white page, its font slanted, its cursive immaculate. Without reading, I raise the folder in my hand towards the waiter. “Uh, excuse me? Waiter…” The black-vested man turns towards me. “There is no check in here,” I tell him. He takes a step forward, nervously rubbing the cuffs of his white shirt. “You’re Mister Griffin, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He waves it off, his sleeved arms flapping as he motions a hand in my direction. “Then you’re covered, sir. I was instructed that someone else has picked up all of the orders for this table.” “Someone else?” I open the folder. “Yes,” he begins, “they wanted to pay for any expenses incurred by Mister Griffin and his company, so I…” My throat slams closed. I can no longer hear what the waiter is saying. In fact… I can no longer even fucking breathe.

The note that replaces the check is not just beautiful; it’s deadly… and what it has to say strikes more fear in my heart than anything I have ever experienced— any fate that I have ever faced. It reads: Now that I’m certain that I have everyone’s attention, we can finish the game. Instead of capturing the Queen… maybe I’ll reign in her place. Either way I win! One final warning.... A chance to make your last desperate move —all of you—

be present at 363 Weeks St. Tonight! 9PM. Elle should be familiar with the place. Invite no one else or the game will end abruptly. The clock is ticking… Elena begins to turn away from the table when I grab her elbow. “What do you want?” she asks angrily. Her voice is laced with anger, but her eyes are wet with hurt. I hand her the note. She reads… silently, and when

she’s finished, she looks as sick as I feel. “That’s the address for the studio I’m purchasing,” she declares. “I know.” “So, what does this mean?” I sigh, and the breath I take literally feels heavy. I can’t swallow because dread seems to have solidified in my throat, and when I actually manage to take a gulp, it feels like sandpaper—scraping, cutting, biting sandpaper that scrubs me raw and leaves me exposed. I can barely rasp the words. “It means that someone wanted us all here together—someone tricked us

into coming… I was told that Chris wanted me here for business…” She gasps, following up. “And Chris was told the same lie...” I finish. “And I’m willing to bet that the same bullshit was fed to Foxx and Kat to get them to come here.” I pose a question to the entire table. “Who texted you about coming here tonight?” The table speaks… and it’s unanimous. The same name comes off of everyone’s lips in a scarily unified chorus, and I realize that everyone at the

table—everyone except the scandalous but unsuspecting Sabrina—was sent the same text message. The same spiel about a business dinner that never existed—the Tripping Out! meeting that never was. I crumple the note from the folder, squeezing hard. “This little ‘family reunion’ wasn’t an accident,” I say, shaking my head at Elena’s terrified face. “Someone set us up—the only person who didn’t show tonight…” I slap the leather check holder back onto the table. “Goddammit. Guess we’ve found Sears’s fucking accomplice.”

Piecing the Puzzle

Life is a succession of lessons, which must be lived to be understood. All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle. –Ralph Waldo Emerson

DAY 7—8:42PM Tampa City Streets LUKAS “Ana?” Elena screeches. “My Ana?” “No… that’s not even poss… I can’t… I won’t.” I speed through traffic, nearly barreling through several stoplights. The wheels of my Audi screech as I catch another yellow light, scarcely passing the overhead glow before it can turn red. I’m on my way to Elena’s studio— with Elena in tow. And this time… the only person I’m thinking about confronting is the last

person that ever I thought I’d have to… Ana—the conniving young woman who orchestrated tonight’s little get-up and implicated herself in the process. The note was an obvious threat—a warning directed at the rest of us. I call her cell a million and one times, but nothing. It goes straight to voicemail again. And I push the Audi’s speed just a little bit faster. “Come on, come on…” I chant from the driver’s side… because I have no clue what else to do. Elena is nearly having a panic attack in the passenger seat beside me, and, irrationally, I try to will the time

that it takes to get to the studio space to go by faster. Just a little faster. God, work with me here. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Elena states softly. “Oh, it is,” I comment. “Trust me.” The snort Elena gives is both harsh and exaggerated, and it ticks me off. “Trust you? Trust you?” She turns to me, her blonde hair whipping across her collar. “Tell me—how the hell am I supposed to do that after a decade of ‘irresponsibility, whoring and poor judgment’?” She quotes Chris, and I place both

hands at the helm of my car, glaring heatedly at her out of the side of my eye. “I’m not that man, anymore, Elena; you know I’m not that man.” “Do I?” she asks—her throaty voice rising even higher. “Because the man I’d thought you’d become wouldn’t have been walking out of the men’s room at the same time as his slutty client. We both know how you feel about restrooms, don’t we?” Elena twists back towards the window, and I don’t say anything. It’s going to take more than just this drive to erase months of the bad taste that I’ve put in her hot-tempered mouth.

And right now—who I was and what I have become is a subject too big to take on. The only thing we need to take on is Gregory fucking Sears—and Ana… if she’s done what we think she has. Or rather… what I think she has. Because Elena won’t believe it. She’s spent half the ride trying to convince herself it isn’t so. Even with the wealth of evidence piling up against her noticeably absent younger sister, Elena won’t buy into it, choosing instead to blame Sears alone… or Trina… or even Chris—insisting that we call the police despite what the note says.

All the while, I continue to speed towards Elena’s studio—afraid of what will happen if we don’t meet this nine o’clock deadline. And also afraid of what will happen if we do. I shift gears without another word. It’s Saturday night, and the traffic is thick. I weave in and out of cars, inciting a barrage of honking horns. With no more options, I call my PI, Henry. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my phone, I squeeze Hank for every ounce of information he has on Sears, Trina… and Chris as well. Luckily, he moves with haste.

“Gimme a sec. Lemme grab my notes on Trina…” he says over the phone. He appears to flip a page on the other end of the line. “Ok…” he starts quietly. “Here we go…” “Katrina Stark. Aged twenty-six. Former assistant at Swing Low Dancery. Current cocktail waitress at the Boogalou restaurant. He pauses. “I’d been tracking Trina for a while, hoping something would come of it. She had been having a few lunchtime meetings with some mystery guy, but when I found out it was Chris, I delved a

little deeper… Turns out he’d been spending his nights with some woman —as I suspected… but the woman wasn’t Trina.” Henry continues to rattle off information. The sound of flipping pages and furious scribbling can be heard as plain as day through his over-amped, office speakerphone. The mention of Katrina’s full name ignites familiar sparks, but before I can delve any deeper into the spark, Hank bellows over the line, cutting my thoughts. “Hold tight. I’ve got more on Sears,” he exclaims.

“I know you knew that Sears maintained a residence in Tampa until very recently… like, last month recently —hence, the stay at the Hilton. “He lost his waterside Tampa apartment— failure to pay rent. He appears to still be working at his father Martin Sears’s magazine, TravelTalk, but from what I’ve gathered, TravelTalk is filing a Chapter 7 bankruptcy…” Bankruptcy? “And Martin Sears went on a recent hiatus…” Hank continues. “Rumor is… he’s been committed —unwillingly checked into a mental asylum for a breakdown he suffered in the wake of widespread whispers that

his company was going under. “The Sears’ stand to lose everything. “And Chris…” Henry appears to rifle through more pages. “Well, I did what you told me to, but there hasn’t been much to report on him these past few days. He seems to have just fallen off the map.” I tighten a hand on the steering wheel. “Thanks, but no further investigation is necessary at this point, Hank. “I think I’ve got all the information I’m going to fucking need.”

***

ELENA Nine o’clock PM. And not a minute left to spare. With the tension between Lukas and I thick enough to cut and the fear between us setting in even thicker, we reach my studio on Weeks Street with the smell of rain in the air and the stench of anxiety choking the life out of us. With the humid sky dark and the studio doorway even darker, I retrieve

the studio key from the lock box using my realtor Kathy’s code, and I place the key in the lock, turning it to step into a surprisingly blackened room. Where’s the light? Where’s the light switch? I reach for it, using my outstretched hands to guide me. I find the switch, swiping a hand upwards against the wall to turn the light on. Nothing. The overhead lights do not kick in, and Lukas and I wander around aimlessly, searching for another means to illuminate the place. I hear a creak underfoot, and suddenly the tightened studio space

around us lights up. I look up and into a soft amber glow coming from the corner of the room. Oh my God… I see the gun before I see the person behind it. The phone in my hand drops before I can scream, and the crash that it makes against the floor is loud enough to almost make me shit my pants. Instead, I squeeze my eyes, preparing for the sound of the gunshot— the last sound I’ll probably ever hear… One second… One and a half… Two.

The seconds stretch, the moments flex and time is bent into a circle—a fluid loop that spins round and round into infinity, making the marking of the minutes impossible. I don’t know how long I stand there with my eyes tightly pressed into slits. A second? An hour? Maybe two. All I know is that my heart has crawled its beating way into my throat, and I hear my pulse in my own ears— humming and thrumming like the ticks of an oversized clock, each strum counting down the closing moments until my death.

But there is no shot—only laughter. The sounds I hear next are inhuman, and I start to believe I am hallucinating until I actually make out some of the words in English. It is coming from someone’s voice, and though the voice is soft and somewhat melodic, what the voice has to say isn’t fucking pretty at all. “Do you have a death wish?” it says. Pure fear keeps my eyes clinched, but I am too curious. I open them slowly and stare into the face of savagery itself. Jesus Christ. It’s Linda… Like I’ve never seen her before.

Not when she was laughing hysterically beside me on my living room floor. Not when we cried together at sappy movies. Not even when she chastised me at our local diner for not dating more often. That was a smiling Linda—a freshfaced, outwardly vibrant Linda. The Linda right here in front of me? —is a sick and fully demented Linda— a confusingly angry woman, full of fire and passion and rage. Her face is the color of a beet, and her spirited brown eyes sparkle, filling up with an intensity that seems to have no filter. It is surreal… and almost stunning

to see. The moment I lay eyes on her, I am utterly incapable of looking away. She steps in front of Lukas and me in less than a flash. I feel the touch of Lukas’s hand, and he pushes me behind him, backtracking away from Linda as she brandishes a black handgun—a small .38 revolver that she levels at his chest, pressing it between his strong pecs as she slowly backs us into one of the studio’s darkened corners. We are trapped. And where, once, the thought of an unknown predator hunting us was the scariest thought in my mind, I now

realize that there are things so much worse—so much more frightening— than the notion of some anonymous assailant. In an ironic twist, it’s Linda—my confidant, my closest “friend”… who seemingly wants to kill me. “What’s wrong, Elena?” she says, stepping further into the light. “Aren’t you happy to see an old friend?” She smiles but the gesture is hollow; the heated look in her eyes cancels out any fake expression of happiness that is plastered on her face, and she peers over Lukas’s shoulder, her face full of an inexplicable humor that I can’t understand.

She shrugs casually. “Or should I say ‘new friend’?” She looks skyward as if pondering. “I mean, we’ve only really been friends for a little over a year now, right? “Odd…” she mutters, “how we seemed to get so close in such a short amount of time—how we seemed to be attached at the hip just six months in.” She laughs. “Welp… now, I guess you know why…” Lukas raises his hands in front of his chest in surrender, and I clutch the back of his arms for dear life, my back squirming against the corner’s adjacent

wall—hoping that my next move won’t be my last. But I can’t resist asking… I always knew my big mouth would get me fucking killed one of these days… “Why are you doing this to me, Linda? What the hell did I ever do to you?” If I thought Linda was laughing hard before, it was an understatement. This question makes her roar, and she doubles over for a brief and unsteady moment, her loud mouth taking in air as if she’s heard the purest of comedy. “Ohhh,” she moans out loud,

shocking me. “Oh, God, that was so funny. See, you still think this is about you?” Her face hardens. “You stupid little bitch, this was never about you. “This was about your stupid fucking family—all of you little pawns surrounding that little queen of yours— Kat. “Prissy bitch,” she spits. “I played the game to a fucking T,” she states, starting to pace. She condescends to us as if we are children in a classroom. I expect it’s because she believes we are—nothing but simple minions in

her complex round of Cat and Mouse: her sick, twisted little game of Chess gone rogue. “You see…” she lectures. “You never go straight for the Queen, no. “That’s the easiest way to lose. “You must be strategic, take down all of her allies. “One. By. One. “And when she is vulnerable, you go in for the final strike.” Linda stops pacing, facing us. “And after everything… after all of my most strategic moves, I still couldn’t get that simple whore to myself.” Her expression drops into a frown, but then she smiles.

“So I settled for second best.” Changing directions quickly, Linda walks in a semi-circle, treading near the opposite corner of the room, which is hidden in shadow. She motions towards a pile of clothes in the corner. It is only when she touches the pile—when she brushes her fingers along the top of it—that I realize that it is a person—a limp and crumpled figure on the floor, folded into a pathetic heap. Linda leans over the mangled figure, and I nearly swallow my tongue. “Say hello, Princess,” she clucks. And I realize that the haggard form is none other than my baby sister—the

ever-constant “babe in my lap”, as Nana Natalya would call her. Ana.

Winner Takes All

Everything's a gamble, love most of all. ― Tess Gerritsen

DAY 7—9:07PM 363 Weeks Street LUKAS Fury fuses with fear up into my

neck, and the feeling flames from the pit of my stomach to my face, heating half of my body—feeding a fire behind my narrowed eyes. The moment I see Linda’s gun, a protectiveness I didn’t know I had surges within me, and all I can think about is Elena’s body… and putting as much distance between it and Linda’s weapon. So, I use my body to make it happen. And when Elena talks—for the first time ever—I don’t speak. I instead choose to let her talk down the psychotic Linda—while I surreptitiously back the crazed brunette

into another corner, slowly maneuvering Elena and I in a circle so that when I decide to attack, Linda will have nowhere to run. I watch the plan slowly take shape. Until another wild card is thrown into the game. Anastasia. And upon seeing her little body unconscious in the corner, I reach a level of rage I didn’t know I could touch—my protectiveness emerging in the face of not only the threat to Elena’s safety, but Ana’s as well. This psycho bitch is fucking with the only woman I’ve ever made love to and the little sister I never had.

And I don’t take too fucking kindly to people threatening the women in my life. I give Elena two more seconds to talk before I step in. As soon as I unclench my rigid teeth, a frantic Chris pops suddenly into the studio space, and all of a sudden, the severely unbalanced odds are tipped ever so slightly out of Linda’s considerable favor. “Shit!” she cries out. “Shit, shit…” Total control is slipping steadily from her grasp, and to regain it, Linda repositions her hands on the gun, clutching the dark handle with two hands

that are now shaking like they’ve never been before. Her anxiety should excite me, but it doesn’t. Panicky people do panicky things… and I know it is only a matter of time before Linda’s nerves get the best of her… And I don’t want the people I care about most to be in front of her pistol when they do. Linda’s eyes go wild again. “Step away from the door,” she grits. Chris slowly follows Linda’s instructions, and before I can catch his eye, I watch realization dawn on his

furrowed face. An epiphany morphs out of his confusion as Chris processes what is happening, and like me, his expression shifts from bewilderment to comprehension to fury. I find some strange sort of comfort in his anger. And a heightened awareness moves steadily from within my impatient limbs. My fingers itch, my toes tingle, and I am holding my shoulders so taut that they almost ache. Every part of my body is a trigger unpulled. All it will take is one snap—and I know that I will explode in a furious and

fiery fashion. And honestly? I can’t wait for someone to set my spark. I don’t move a muscle—or even flinch—as Linda swings the gun at us, rotating the weapon in a circle to encompass us all. “I hate that it had to come to this…” she mutters, her fingers tightening on the gun. “At some point, I had hoped that you guys would continue pointing fingers at each other—self-destruct, but…” she says, growing louder and bolder. “Looks like I’m going to have to destroy you myself.”

Suddenly, the door to the studio swings open. The smack of the metal handle against the wall is loud. But the sound of the bullet coming from Linda’s gun is even louder. The gun goes off. Elena screams. And my head swivels towards the door, praying that I won’t see something that none of us are equipped to handle. The two people in the doorway are crouched at the waist with their hands on their heads—knees bent, heads down. And I have no idea who it is and if they’ve been shot. I wait, my heartbeat thundering in

my ears… When they once again stand to their full height, I am finally able to see that it’s Kat… being held by an indomitablelooking Foxx. Kat is shaking, but they are alive… and unharmed. At least for now—because when Linda looks at Kat, the scowl on her face deepens into a grimace, and she rushes towards Kat, leveling the gun directly at her heart. Foxx rushes to intercept and is met with the muzzle of Linda’s .38. “No, you don’t, Foxxy,” she says, stopping him in his tracks. She looks over, narrowing her gaze

at a hesitant Kat. “Get in here, Queenie,” she snarls, and Kat obeys, her frightened eyes never leaving Foxx’s side. Recognition flashes in Kat’s dimmed eyes, and she squints at Linda curiously. With fear fixed in her face, Kat takes a step backwards, and I watch a look of victory wash over Linda’s deluded countenance. “C.C.?” Kat questions of the crazed woman. Linda grins widely. “That’s riiiiight. Never thought you’d see me again, did you?” “You know this psycho?” Foxx bellows.

Linda cuts Foxx a sharp look, slanting the handgun in his direction. Kat sighs shakily, her voice cracking as she attempts to speak. “Of course I do,” she finally answers. “She’s Greg’s older sister from London, Claire.”

***

ELENA I’d never met Gregory Sears’s older siblings before. Moreover… I never fucking wanted

to. The egotistical eggheads were supposed to be running the London office for their dear old daddy, so when Linda Claire (formerly known as Claire Linda Sears) showed up in a Tennessee yoga studio, I thought nothing of it. Kat was already living in Tampa; Ana was attending college. And their overly protective big sister—seemingly the biggest failure of them all—was stuck in Memphis, living an unhappy life in an unhappy relationship in an unhappy town. But when Linda showed up, things started to turn around. From the first time I met her, she

was a breath of fresh air. I’d never guessed in a million years that she’d turn out to be merely poison. “Oh, no, you don’t, Queenie,” Linda calls out. “You’re going to sit here, stay still and watch. “You’re going to witness your family fall apart right in front of your big blue eyes. You’re going to watch them fall one by one… just like I’ve had to watch mine ever since you sabotaged my brother.” I watch Kat’s teeth tighten. “I’ve never sabotaged anyone.” “Bull. Shit,” Linda responds. Her brown eyes actually fill up

with tears. “You changed the man he was. “My baby brother was going to be our CEO—he was destined for greatness… And now he’s nothing but a shell of his former self.” Linda grins through her tears. “After tonight, it will all be worth it—this entire game.” She looks around at all of us. “Everyone—everyone in one of the most expensive and celebrated restaurants in the metropolitan Tampa area—watched all of you attack each other tonight.” She leans in. “So, tomorrow… when they find

your lifeless bodies in here, they will all believe that you turned on each other— just as you had earlier tonight. “And as soon as my brother walks through that door, it’ll all be over. First, my family fell apart—now, yours will fall.” I exhale as Linda’s last words fall on my sensitive ears, and my formerly solid legs buckle at the knee. Linda’s threat hits me like a boulder falling from the sky, and suddenly, the burden I feel is like experiencing the weight of the world on my shoulders. The brick wall that is Lukas’s back tenses, and I hold onto him, wishing I

hadn’t been so desperate for friends— wishing it wasn’t all my fault that Linda lured us here. Wishing I’d had my sisters’ backs all along. Because if I had, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I’d isolated myself from Ana— given Kat my ass to kiss. All so that we could end up here? God, what would Nana say if she could see us now? If she could have seen us earlier tonight? We were a fucking circus. And I let it happen. Because I’d taken the bad from Nana and none of the good.

I’d treated kindness as a weakness, spontaneity as a curse. I’d sacrificed relationships, friendships—even my own family—because tough love was what Nana taught me. I remembered all of the “tough” and somewhere lost the true meaning of “love.” I’d been a bodyguard more than a big sister. In those insufferable minutes in front of Linda’s gun with some of the people that I love most, all I can feel is shame. Shame at what I’d almost become. And now I’ll never know what my relationship with Lukas could have been —what a healthier relationship with my

sisters could have been. More importantly… I’ll never know what I could have been. I wait agonizingly for it all to come to an end. One minute turns to two, which feels more like an eternity, as we wait in the studio for the other Sears to appear. And just when I think Linda’s words may be nothing but empty threats, Gregory appears. He walks through the studio doors as if he owns them, his head held high, his face determined. He steps cautiously into the space, taking in his surroundings with a look of incredulity on his face. And he proceeds to do something

that surprises us all. He turns on his own sister. His first words send a shiver through me, and I don’t know if my reaction is good or if it’s bad. “Linda, what the fuck is this?” he screams. Linda turns toward her own brother and opens her mouth to respond but, in doing so, she keeps her aim steady; she never moves the gun off of us. “Where the hell have you been?! I’ve been waiting for you for twenty minutes. I needed you! It was hard enough keeping everything under control by myself.” She turns her back on Gregory.

“It’s all just a minor set-back,” she comments, feigning casualness. “Nothing too big to stop the show.” “Too big?” Angrily, Greg steps towards Linda. “This just got fucking huge, Linda. What are all these people doing here? We were supposed to settle the score with Kat, not anyone else.” She snaps at him. “Don’t give me that shit, Greg! That little bubbly, blow-up doll sister of hers should have bit the big one in that crash. I thought she was a goner… but after coming to Tampa, I’d found out that you didn’t have the guts to followthrough.

“And, as usual, I’m the one who made this whole thing possible, dammit. I’m the one who got close to Elena— arranged the whole ‘house selling cover.’ Who fabricated the Ted alibi? Me.” She points her finger at her chest. “That was me. “I did what needed to be done, so just shut your fucking trap and have my back, ok? Family first.” Gregory glares but does nothing. In a weird turn of events, he stops fighting Linda completely, giving the floor to his older sister, who is clearly bent. I never thought I’d see the day, but

out of the two… it’s Kat’s most hated ex, Gregory, that is the sanest Sears in the room. I decide to roll the dice. I gamble for his rationality. “Greg,” I say softly to him. “You don’t have to do this.” “Shut up!” Linda screeches. “You don’t have to hurt anybody. We’ll go home. Never bother you again. We can help you get your job back at Foxxhole.” Linda stands there, fuming, waving her gun back and forth at us all. “Don’t listen to her, Gregory. It’s a trick. They won’t help you. The only people they ever help are themselves.”

“That’s not true,” Chris pipes up. “We’ll help you. We’ve still got pull at Foxxhole. We’ll talk to Foxx’s dad— reason with him. You guys don’t have to do this.” “Everybody, shut the hell up—right now,” Linda snarls. “You’ve done this to yourselves.” An awakening Ana grunts from the corner, and Linda turns towards her. To my surprise and utter shock, Kat darts, without regard, towards the barely-conscious Ana. “Unh unh unh,” Linda warns, directing the gun at Ana. “Don’t try it, Queenie. You do that, and I’ll shoot both of you in the head.”

Kat freezes. And Linda smirks. She trains the firearm right back at Kat. “No!” we all cry at once. “Please…” Kat starts to cry quietly. “Just please… don’t hurt my baby…” “Baby?” The question comes from Greg. He moves towards Kat, and I see a softness in his face that was never there before. For the first time since he’s walked in, he looks calm—almost sorrowful. Linda, on the other hand, looks like she just hit the lottery. Her eyes grow wide with

excitement. “This game just got so much better,” she sneers at Kat. “Two for the price of one.” I balk, feeling eerily calm. While Linda’s eyes are stuck on Kat, I edge my way to Linda’s side, inching my way over behind her back. Ana starts to stand, and Linda backs away from her. “I’ve had enough now,” she states, her tiny hands shaking around the handle of the weapon. She squints at Kat. “Time to start dying… starting with you, Queenie.” I’m close enough.

“No!” I shriek, rushing in front of Kat. I place my back to Kat’s front as she protectively clutches her small stomach. “Elena, get the hell out of my way…” Linda shouts. “No…” I grit through clenched teeth. “You’ll have to shoot me first…” “That’s not a problem.” Out of nowhere, Griff is at my side, his body a blur as he jumps right in front of my line of vision. He stands firm. His solid body blocks the path of Linda’s aim, and he clutches me with one large hand, wrapping his fingers behind his back to grab mine.

“But not before you shoot me…” he rumbles. Linda growls in frustration, her ruddy face turning redder under a small curtain of coffee-colored hair. “Fine!” she shouts at the three of us. “I’ll shoot you all! I’ll put you all out of your misery and then end my own.” “What?” Greg questions without hesitation. “Linda, don’t…” But Linda drowns him out. “Any last words?” “Yeah,” Foxx adds, walking towards Kat. “You’re not going to touch my family without going through me.” Chris joins his side. The four of us stand proudly in

front of Linda’s handgun, protecting a pregnant and pint-sized, trembling Kat and Ana. Linda is unraveling at this point, quivering with palpable wrath. Her rosy-colored shirt is the same hue as her enraged face, and she raises the handgun higher, keeping it directed at chest-level. “Lin, please…” Greg pleas with his sister, reaching towards her... but she ignores him outright. “Say ‘Good Night’,” she growls. “Linda… Linda, don’t!” I sense the movement before I actually see it.

It rocks my body, surging like the building of a tidal wave. The air thickens, the silence grows and in that split of a second before the trigger is pulled, the deadly wave hits, hurtling towards its target, shocking us all with its raw power. It’s Griff—in the form of a human lightning bolt, boldly striking towards an unprepared Linda. He lunges for her tiny, lithe body, and at the moment he does, her finger pulls the trigger, filling the air with a hot, blinding white flash. They fall towards the ground as a shot rings out, shocking us all— resonating in our ears as every one of us

dives for the ground—me landing on top of Kat, Foxx planting atop of me. Simultaneously, a lunging Chris hits the ground with Ana, and they skid, sliding headfirst across the hardwood floor as a huddled mass. Griff is the only one of us set apart. He lies on top of Linda, covering her. But he is motionless… His body twitches before rolling over, and when it does, the stain of red color sitting inches above his heart steals my breath, snatching the air from my lungs—knocking me shamelessly to my trembling knees. Oh my God.

I crawl clumsily to his side… but he is barely moving. The metallic smell of blood stings inside my nostrils, and I cradle Lukas’s head in my hands, unsure of what to do or where to touch. There is blood every-fuckingwhere. And I feel like I am swimming in it. I touch my hand to the red spot on his chest, but I can’t tell where the blood is coming from. It’s as if the wound is all over his body—and I can’t stop the steady flow of life that pours out of him. I forget Linda. I forget Greg. I forget my surroundings.

I forget myself. The only thing that registers in that moment is the sound of the bloodcurdling cries echoing across the studio’s solid walls. It takes me several seconds to realize that the screams are coming from me.

Break or Bust

Love is a game that two can play and both win. –Eva Gabor

DAY 9—4:22PM Tampa General Hospital LUKAS

I can’t feel anything. Not pain. Not pleasure. Not sorrow… or anger. I waft through a dimensionless space that knows no time, and as I drift away, a barrage of images haunts me—a montage of visions that swirls and settles only to be swept away again before my very eyes. Do I even have eyes? I see things, unable to tell if there are actual eyes with which to look at them; I hear things without knowing if I have ears. I seem to have no form—no sense of being.

I am everything… and I am nothing. My body is nothing but a memory, and the Lukas Griffin that I was has no shape—only a collection of observations without sensation. Observations that may not even be real. Am I dead…? The presence of white light says that I am. Should I go to it? It has a voice… It’s Elena’s. I close what I think are my eyes, and I listen. I let her soft, husky voice pull me

from the depths. “Griff.” A pause. “Griff.” A soft brush against my cheek. I can see her. I can smell her. Elena. The beauty and pain in her voice pulls me from the depths like a drowning man out of water. I take a deep breath. “Oh my God, Griff… It’s ok…. Listen to me.” The touch at my cheek feels stronger. “Breathe, Griff. Breathe…That’s good.”

Suddenly, I can feel the air enter my lungs… It hurts. But I can breathe again. I can feel again. I must have a body—eyes. Open them, I tell myself. The sudden flash of light burns like hell. I flinch… and the slight twist of my body causes a sharp pain to careen through my right shoulder. Fuck… what is that? I steady my body (Holy hell, I have one again), and I shut my eyes, choosing to focus on my breathing, inhaling and exhaling slowly because it feels like I’ve been deprived of oxygen for so long.

What happened? “You’re in a hospital,” I hear suddenly. “You’ve been shot… but you’re gonna be ok.” I inhale. I exhale. I listen. I try again to open my eyes. I wrench them open, and this time, they stay that way. Elena is staring down at me… and Kat… and Ana… and Chris… and Foxx. They’re all here. Here is a hospital. I’m in a hospital bed. And the burning between my back and right shoulder lets me know that the part about me being “shot”… really is true. I try to sit up.

Elena grabs onto my arm to help, and she smiles. I smile back… and in that instance, I almost forget about everyone else. “Ahem,” Ana barks, clearing her throat. “Do we need to get the two of you a room?” My voice is gruff. “Not right now,” I respond. “But it wouldn’t hurt to put one on stand-by.” Ana grins. Finally, I look at everyone in the room—my family—and ask the questions about what put me here. Foxx speaks first. “You don’t remember?” I shake my head.

“Not really.” “You dove for Linda just as she was going to start shooting us all. You knocked her out cold when she hit the floor. But as you both flew in the air, she shot you… and her brother in the process.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “How long have I been here?” I glance at Elena. “Two days.” “Two days?” I respond. “Wha…? How…? Jesus.” “It’s true,” she comments softly. “The bullet went straight through your right shoulder and hit Greg in the chest. There was blood everywhere, but most

of it was his.” She sighs quietly, touching my arm. “He’s dead…” she concludes. “And thanks to you, Linda’s in jail. “She lied, Griff,” Elena concedes. “She lied about everything. “It’s over… It’s finally over. “The house, the studio, everything.” “Linda sabotaged me right from the start. “With the exception of my dog, Hercules, who’s now with my parents, everything Linda has touched has gone to shit.” “The due diligence period to buy the studio is up, but I still won’t be able

to close on the property without selling my house. “I’m flying back to Memphis in the morning. But I’m just happy that we’re all alive.” The watery smile on Elena’s face is full of gratitude, but I can see the sorrow in her eyes, and I’ll be damned if the woman in my life—the first woman who’s ever made me give a fuck—is going to just up and leave… or be run out of town right when I have her to myself again. “You wait for me to take a bullet and then try to tell me you’re leaving?” Elena grins at my quip, tears shining over her blue irises.

“You’re not going anywhere, Miss Lexington. And the only person it’s over for is Linda. “Your studio is not over. Your business is not over.” I grab underneath her delicate jaw. “We’re not over.” I draw her face into mine, inclining my head so that I can bring her lips down onto my own. We kiss… and it is the best kiss of my fucking life. It’s full of gratitude and appreciation and everything I could have ever wanted and more. A slow clapping begins behind us, and when I peer over at the rest of the room, our quiet audience is now

applauding, their faces happy and glowing with pride and, in Ana and Kat’s case, wet with tears. They hug and laugh together in turns. “Well, this is a surprise,” Chris announces. “Who knew that the two of you would actually end up together?” Foxx asks. Ana raises her hand. “I knew,” she sings, smiling. “Guys,” Kat warns, rounding up the crowd. “Let’s all give them a little space, huh?” Grudgingly, everyone obeys. They shuffle out awkwardly, all staring at us

as they reluctantly make their way out of my hospital room. Our friends. Our family. I’d die for them. I almost did. “This really is a surprise, Griff,” Elena turns on me, assessing my face. “Are we prepared for this?” she asks. “I’m not Sabrina Wellington. I’m not wealthy and fabulous. If I’m really being honest with you here… I just don’t know if I can ever fit into your world.” I meet her gaze. “You know… this is not something you need to be worried about…” “Griff, listen…” “No, you listen to me,” I say, cutting her off before she can backtrack.

“I know that this hasn’t exactly been a fairytale. I’m the egotistical piece-of-shit, and you’re the inflexible hardhead. “We argue more than we agree… We can’t compromise on shit, and, to our detriment, we’ve collectively kept more secrets than the CIA.” I laugh incredulously, barely believing what’s coming out of my mouth. “I don’t even know your goddamned middle name…” I lean forward, gazing into Elena’s ice-blue eyes as she fiddles with the buttons at her blousy shirtfront. “But I know your walk… and the

way you talk... and the scent of your skin. “I’ve committed the texture of your hair and skin to memory, and I could pick your silhouette out of a lineup. “I know what you look like when you’re sad, when you’re mad, when you’re happy, when you come…” “Elena, I may not know the small things, but I know the important ones. “You want to know if you can fit into my world?” I chuckle softly, running a finger across her softened lips. “Silly, beautiful blonde. The only world that I belong in is yours. “You have become my world.

There’s no fucking place I’d rather be.” “And I know it doesn’t make any sense, and I know that you didn’t get a chance to know me before—and that’s my fault. I never gave you the chance to.” Elena raises a hand, effectively stopping me. I wait, curious as to what she has to say. She sighs, lowering her head. “You are right, Lukas,” she says softly. “You’re absolutely right… I don’t know you—not all of you.” “And this… we… have been a disaster. You’re bossy. I’m controlling. We come from the weirdest parents on

the planet, and we have…” she scoffs, “too many issues to count. “Where could we possibly go from here?” I exhale loudly, feeling resigned. I study Elena’s face, registering every detail of her eyes, her cheeks, her hair to my weary brain—devouring every bit so that I can play with it in my head later on. “Nowhere,” I tell her. “We can’t go anywhere from here… “So, that’s exactly why I’m starting over—from the very beginning…” I stick my hand out, grabbing hers to shake it. “My name is Lukas Rafaelo Griffin.

“I am a recovering alcoholic. “I don’t have a father… anymore… and, for all intents and purposes, my mother has basically been dead for the past fifteen years, but I do have, uh… two loyal, dedicated, irreplaceable brothers.” I grin. “I like expensive suits and trips out of the country. “I enjoy living here in Tampa—for the time being. “I’m half-Italian, and if you’ll let me, I’d like to take you out to dinner… and I don’t know… maybe impregnate you after dessert. You know… get some of the basics out of the way…”

She laughs, and I keep going. “And last but not least… in the words of the illustrious Anastasia Lexington… I am completely, undeniably, butt-fucking-crazy in love with you, and if you think you might be into that, then you could, uh…” I search around, finding Elena’s phone in her back pocket. I type my number in her Contacts list. “… give me a call sometime.” Elena laughs, and I lean forward, kissing her smile. The illustrious Ana peeks her head in the door, her eyes half-shut. “Can we come in now? Visiting hours are almost over, and I don’t want

to walk in on any more surprises.” I wave her in. “Yeah, sure. You’re welcomed —for now,” I grin. Smiling from ear-to-ear, Chris, Foxx and Kat follow Ana back inside the room. They start to form a circle around my hospital bed when Foxx makes an open announcement. “While we’re all here together and not ripping each other’s throats out, are there any other surprises that this little unit would like to share?” Foxx gazes around at all of us. Chris begins first, pointing a finger skyward. “I just wanted to say… that I was

never dating Trina. It was all part of my plan to figure out what she knew—about Griff’s busted car, about Ana’s crash. She’s trusted me for a long time— always thought I was ‘safe’.” He scoffs. “I figured I would use it to my advantage… but I guess it backfired.” Chris drops his raised finger. “And that’s all I have to say about that,” he concludes. But that’s not all… Chris’s confession triggers something in me—something I hadn’t really thought about until now. I’d had the clues right in front of my face, but with so much going on, I couldn’t put the

pieces of the puzzle together. Finally, I remember the detail I thought I’d overlooked. “That’s right,” I follow up. I grab Elena’s arm. “Elle… Trina? Katrina Stark? She’s the Kat that sabotaged your deal with Mrs. Kittredge—not your sister, Katarina. After talking to Henry in the car, what you said at Armani’s finally made sense. I’d been racking my brain for the answer, and now finally I can put two and two together.” Elena nods, placing a hand on mine. “I know,” she says. She looks back at Kat. “A part of me always knew that

Katarina couldn’t do that.” Kat beams, and silently, she and Elena share a moment. “Anyone else?” Foxx calls out. Nobody says anything. “Good,” I reply to the room. “Now everybody can get out so I can spend some time alone with my…” I look in Elena’s powdery blue eyes, finding mischief dancing there. “Girlfriend,” I finish. “What are you doing?” she whispers, leaning in. “I thought I was dead,” I hiss back. “I deserve this.” “The doctor told us that it was best for you not to move too much.”

“So then stop making my dick salute you,” I murmur into her ear. Elena giggles softly. “Well, at least, dead men don’t normally have erections, so congratulations on not being a stiff,” she jokes. I kiss her fragrant neck. “Oh, but I am stiff. And there’s only one way I’d like to celebrate.” Foxx grimaces from the other side of the room. “Ok, we’re outta here,” he declares. “I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I don’t need to see any more surprises popping out of your pants, Griff.”

“You got it!” I call after him. “No more surprises.” “Great,” he replies, reaching for the door. “I even promise not to tell you that the girl Chris is really dating behind everyone’s back is Ana.” Foxx turns quickly. Chris blushes. Ana runs. And the last word I hear before the door to my room closes is a loud and resounding “WHAT?!” as Foxx takes off in pursuit of a hastily retreating Ana and Chris who dart down the white-washed hospital corridor.

Epilogue Day 192—8:05AM Casa de Foxx ELENA “You look like you’re going to pop any second.” “I’m going to pop you any second. Now, leave me alone and go get ready.” Kat waves Ana’s wandering eyes away, shooing her with a pearl-colored heel from her swollen feet. Ana yips, hopping off of the bed where she sits beside Kat, and she scuttles out of the room, a smug grin on

her face—champagne-stained curls framing her lightly tanned skin. Kat groans, placing the heel back on the bed. I reach over from where I sit to help her stand, holding one of her rigid hands while the other cradles the large belly covered in white satin. The other new shoe I’ve bought Kat is also on the bed—along with the blue garter, Nana Natalya’s heirloom ring and a pair of sexy white fishnet stockings— courtesy of Ana, of course. “Ana’s right,” she comments begrudgingly, frowning sideways at me. “I do look like I’m going to pop any second.”

“All pregnant women look like they’re going to pop at any second,” I reply laughingly. She gasps, gripping my arm. “What if I do? “What if I get to the aisle and pop? Just boom—plop out a baby right there?” I pat her hand with calming fingers. “You won’t, Miss Worrywart, and in case you didn’t read the baby books… oftentimes… you get a little more of a warning than that.” Kat grins at me, her slightly rounded face lighting up with more than just a pregnancy glow. “I hope that’s true,” she replies.

“I’m just… nervous.” “About the baby or walking down the aisle?” “Both!” she says, letting me go. She wobbles over to the vanity in her room. She inclines the mirror so that it faces her. It reflects back a beautiful bride—a rosy-cheeked Kat dripping in her white wedding gown. I look over her shoulder at the amazing reflection. “You’re gorgeous, Kat.” “I don’t look fat?” she asks me in the mirror. “Of course you look fat. Wondrously fat and pregnant and happy and a little nervous.”

She gives an anxious giggle. “Elle...” she sighs contentedly. “Thanks for being the voice of reason— even when I was pigheaded and selfish.” She looks back in the mirror at her belly. “You were right. I should have told Foxx from the beginning. It wasn’t until I was getting ready to lose it all that I’d wondered why I’d been so nervous in the first place.” “Hey,” I call over her shoulder. She glances back at me. “You didn’t have to be.” I say. “I was nervous enough for the both of us. What kind of big sister would I be if I wasn’t?”

Kat grins, her blue eyes glistening as she breaks out into a watery smile. “Still the best big sister anyone could ever ask for.” I grin back, wiping quickly at a tear before it can materialize. I try to regroup. “So, are you ready?” I ask Kat. She smirks at me. “Question is… are you?” “Ready for what?” “Griff. Marriage…” She picks up her veil, fingering the lace. “Scared you’re going to be next?” “Let’s not talk about that...” I try to brush Kat off, but she only laughs. “You talked about voices of reason.

Let me be yours. You love him. He loves you. Tell him. I know you’re nervous… but you should.” “I’m not nervous,” I retort. “I’m resolved.” I hug a pillow to my chest on the bed. “Speaking of nerves,” I quip to Kat. “I wonder how our handsome groom is doing…”

***

LUKAS The toilet in Foxx’s master

bedroom flushes for the tenth time since Foxx has been in there. It marks only the thousandth time that he’s thrown up since he rushed into the room, his face green with anxiety and his stomach sickened by nerves. I’m sure he’ll deny it by the time he’s out of there, but I can’t help but laugh. I wish I had thought to record the sounds of retching outside the door— maybe even add some colorful commentary about how the groom was losing his breakfast the day of his own wedding. But alas, I wasn’t quick enough to make it happen.

I chuckle to myself, walking away from the door to give my best friend some privacy. I descend the wooden staircase, taking my time as I head towards the end of the property where the wedding ceremony will be held. Foxx’s house has seen a lot of things—a lot of things—but a wedding was never one of them. Until now. I knock back a cold beer on the outside patio, resisting the urge to rub my chilled, damp fingers on the pants of my expensive groomsmen tux. I don’t need to ruin a perfect steam treatment with my condensation-covered

hands. Besides… there are plenty of other more interesting things that I’d like to put my hands on right now. And every one of those things is located strategically on Elena Lexington’s curvy and beautiful body. I check my watch. Ok, I’ve given her enough time with her sisters. One hour until the wedding. Now, if only I can get her alone… I walk back inside the house. And to my luck, Elena is leaving her sister’s bonus room as I re-enter. I don’t even allow her two steps as she walks out of the door. As soon as she takes her hand off of

the knob, I’m on her. I run to her side, picking her up as soon as she turns. She gasps, and I whirl her into her my arms, placing my hands under her soft and sexy ass as I carry her —bridesmaid dress and all—into the open bathroom on the opposite end of the hallway. “Griff,” she breathes out on a gasp. “Baby, I’ve been meaning to talk to you…” “No talking, Elena Louise Lexington.” I smile slowly as I sit her on the edge of the sink’s counter, shutting the door behind us. “You want your sisters to hear your

screams?” Wide-eyed, she shakes her head, sending blonde tendrils flying back and forth, and I lift her peach-colored dress, sliding the softened silk up her thighs so that I can pull at the lace of her pink and white panties. Elena whimpers as I stroke a finger over the fabric. I consider lifting her so that I slide the nearly see-through thong off of her taut legs and past her heels. Fuck it. No need to. I inch her panties to the side, stroking her wetness with my thumb while I unbuckle my belt one-handed and go to work on the button of my pants.

Even with eyes half-hooded with lust, Elena reaches towards me, unfastening my button and zipping my fly down. She releases me from my black boxer briefs and I plunge into her, taking my time to let her pussy stretch around my already “at-attention” cock before moving another muscle. Elena groans, and I grin widely at the look of ecstasy on her face. She leans forward, biting into my shoulder, letting her tongue lap a section of my tuxedo. I don’t stop her. So much for keeping the black tux in tact. I don’t give a damn. This is more

important. With all of the chaos that’s been going on in this house today, I haven’t had one moment alone with Elena. Instead, we’ve been sneaking glances at one another, eyeing each other as we are pulled into two different directions by a bride and groom who are brimming with more nerves than two virgins on prom night. I’ve been waiting all day for this— and God, it was worth the wait. I start to stroke Elena’s pussy slowly. Knock knock. What the… ? “Is anyone in here?”

Chris. Dammit to hell. “Yeah,” I call out. “Someone’s in here.” “Griff?” he responds. “Oh, sorry, man; it’s just that Foxx is sick in one bathroom. Kat is taking up another one, and my beautiful Ana is occupying the closest bathroom with a hair and makeup crisis. Every bathroom is taken.” “And so is this one,” I practically grunt. “Be out in…” I look at Elena’s face. “Ten… no, fifteen.” “Jesus,” Chris mutters. “I’ll find somewhere else then.” I let Chris walk away, and then I look back to the beautiful woman in my arms, picking right back up where I left

off. “I thought we were done for sure,” Elena laughs softly. I stare down at her. “Done? It would take more than a weak-bladder-having Chris knocking at the door to keep me off of you.” I begin to slide further into the recesses of Elena’s body. “Or out of you.” Elena starts to grin, but then the smile slips away into an “O,” her pretty lips parting with pleasure as her other lips take in my cock, squeezing it and sliding against it to build us both into a frenzy. But the powder room is too small;

it can’t really accommodate all of the positions that I’d like to twist her into right this second. I tilt Elena backwards, getting ready to throw her smooth ankle over my shoulder when another tap sounds at the door. “Chris, fucking take a hint. I said ten more min…” “It’s not Chris,” I hear on the other side of the door. I freeze. It’s clearly not the man that just knocked two minutes ago; it’s a woman. And the interrupting woman’s voice is muffled, soft—subdued… as if she has placed her lips against the very

wood on the other side of the door. I suspect that she has… or maybe that she’s even been listening. And despite the amount of time that has passed between the last time I heard this familiar voice and now, I recognize the woman’s speech patterns immediately. If I thought our quarters were small before, I was wrong. My entire world has just gotten a hell of a lot smaller.

Love Sexy Mysteries as much as I do? One of my favorite duets is getting bundled into one big makeover package. Read on for Chapter One of

Behind the Blindfold: Volume 1 by Natalie E. Wrye

Chapter One

The more things Change The moan she heard woke Saturday up with a jarring start. Rolling over towards the edge of the bed, she rubbed her eyes a little harder than she intended, blinking furiously to clear her vision. She reached for the alarm clock on the nightstand. 2:00 AM. All was dark in her apartment. Nothing but moonlight shining through

her bedroom window. She sat up straight, dazed and confused. What the hell is that?! Saturday reached for her previously discarded white bathrobe, slipping it quietly on her shoulders. She couldn’t tell if the sound was coming from inside or outside of the apartment…but she knew one thing: …It sounded way too close. She kneeled at her bedside. She swept her hands back and forth under her bed, finally grabbing ahold of the baseball bat that she kept stashed, and padded her bare feet out of her room and into a small hallway. Another moan sounded, causing her to shudder. It came from her bathroom,

and the light was clearly on behind the closed door. Saturday lived alone now; no one had access to her home, except her good friend, Kara, who she trusted wholeheartedly and who was now unfortunately out of town. Saturday didn’t have that many male friends in the city, at least any she could really call on. 9-1-1 was an option, but whoever this intruder was might have the upper hand on her as soon as she went to dial. Sleep had fogged her brain, and she couldn’t think clearly. All she could think of was to go on the attack. Use the element of surprise. It certainly wasn’t her brightest idea. She reached for the door…and

flung it open abruptly, shrieking as her druggie excuse for an ex-roommate, Kristen, almost jumped clean out of the foam-covered bathtub. Her blonde head was scarily reminiscent of a bobblehead, as she grasped aimlessly around for support to stay upright. Saturday watched her struggle without lifting a finger to help. Saturday lowered her raised bat with a sigh of relief and frustration. Typical. This was a common experience that Saturday knew all too well. Kristen must have wandered over here in a spacedout fog following one of her usual drug binges. Six months had passed and Kristen

hadn’t changed one bit since she moved or, rather, was unceremoniously kicked out of Saturday’s apartment. Episodes like this had become a weekly routine in their household. Saturday had had enough of rescuing Kristen from whatever God-forsaken place she had wandered into following her most recent bender. After suppressing thoughts of actually using the bat on Kristen, Saturday repossessed her secret copy of the apartment key and half-dragged her towel-clad, soapy ex-roomie down the hallway and out of the door. It seemed as though Kristen decided that she would take a relaxing bath in Saturday’s garden tub in the

middle of the night. Honestly, Saturday wondered why she hadn’t suspected Kristen from the start. Despite her addiction, Kristen was damn resourceful; she could’ve really been something in life if the drugs didn’t always incinerate her memory. Knowing Kristen, she had probably just simply forgotten that she wasn’t Saturday’s roommate anymore, despite half a year’s passing. It was the primary reason that she was Saturday’s exroommate. Aside from the drugs and constant stupor associated with it, Saturday had to admit: on some level, she sort of envied Kristen’s nonchalant way of living. Before Saturday scared her half-

to-death, Kristen had been enjoying what Saturday could only guess was a luxurious bath, as evidenced by the loud moaning. Saturday could not remember the last time she had a chance to sink into a hot bath. She was always on the go: working as an art gallery tour guide and serving at a trendy restaurant in Manhattan just to make rent. Life was a blur of 6-minute lukewarm showers (it took about 5 for the hot water to even kick in) and brisk walks from job to job. She absolutely adored her position at the gallery, and constantly imagined different ways to get involved in art full-time. As of yet, not a single one of those plans seemed remotely possible.

Kristen wouldn’t know about this life if it bit her on the ass. She was a spoiled rich kid, only settling to room in Saturday’s tiny (but clean) apartment because her parents instituted an allowance for her that cut into her cocaine stash of cash. And that moaning…did Kristen have to be over the top with EVERYthing? Despite her annoyance, Saturday chuckled to herself as she pulled back the covers and climbed back into bed. It had been so long since Saturday had done ANY type of moaning. Her thoughts now taking a different direction, Saturday lay back on the bed and untied her white robe, letting it fall

open. She needed a release…badly, and it had been entirely too long since she had one. Her last relationship was over a year ago, and though Charlie was a good friend, the threads that connected them were like silly string. They hadn’t had what she would call a “true bond” – no ties strong enough to make their romantic involvement last. She lowered her hands down to her hips, ready to start stroking the sensitive nub between her legs when she decided against the straightforward approach. She figured it best to let her hands take the scenic route. Saturday brought her hands back up to her hair, threading her fingers across

her scalp. She splayed her fingers, spreading them across her neck and over her constricted nipples, cupping each breast as she massaged. She did her best to pretend the hands belonged to some faceless man, some man whose only desire was to draw sounds and sensations of pure pleasure from her. Her fingers continued their leisurely trek, finding her center warm and slightly damp. As her two fingers made their way inside, Saturday extracted that moan that she was looking for, relishing the feel of the tiny pressure that she was building. In. Out. In. Out. Ohhhhhhh. Once the sensation reached peaking

levels, Saturday increased the intensity of her motions, letting herself touch the crest and tumble over, gasping as she fell back down to neutral. She removed the robe completely this time, tossing it on a nearby chair. Saturday sighed contentedly, pulling the covers up to her naked breasts. She let her fingers roam over to the far side of the bed, briefly wishing that she had someone there to occupy it. She missed the touch of a man, the oppositional feel of soft skin over hard muscle. She exhaled heavily at the thought. The next guy in her bed would have to be a game-changer, she vowed. No more settling. No more Charlies. In the meantime, unfortunately, taking care

of herself would just have to do…for now… *** After Saturday’s “intruder” experience with Kristen early Tuesday morning, the rest of the week bled together until Friday afternoon, when Saturday did her routine shopping at the farmer’s market. She specifically picked Fridays to shop because of the convenience; other people normally wanted to enjoy their summertime Friday afternoons. Unsurprisingly, most people she knew wanted to hang or relax then, not take on “Sunday morning” chores like grocery shopping…which worked out perfectly

for her because she had her pick of the fruit without interference. Plus, she looked like a classic case of “Who done it and why?” Better to not let a crowded market see her this way. Her wavy hair was piled up haphazardly on her head, her face was completely bare, and her white tank and jean shorts were nothing to write home about. She picked, sniffed and sampled her way through countless booths and carts of fresh produce when a silken voice made its way to her side. The voice was intriguing: deep and sexy and almost directly behind her. He wasn’t speaking to Saturday; he was obviously talking on the phone, but the voice was so sensuous that she stood

transfixed to the spot in front of the cart. Pretending to peruse through the peaches in front of her, she surprised herself by actually straining her ears to eavesdrop on the oblivious man’s phone call! “Yes, of course,” he said. “In the basement, yes. That’s where I want them. All of the boxes….” “Pay attention. Be. Careful. Those items are very valuable to me…” Jeez, he’s pretty bossy. Is he talking to movers? He sounds so stern. Saturday took another step to the side, grabbing a peach on top of the display, still maintaining her charade. Ok, move along, girl. He’s going to know that no one is THAT interested in peaches. Especially sucky and decaying

ones like today’s batch. Just as Saturday was moving to the grapes, she decided that now was the time to sneak her peek. She glanced over her right shoulder…and she was not disappointed. He stood tall and muscular in black gym clothes (shorts and a t-shirt) with a phone at his ear and his mouth set in determination on his face. He had a black baseball cap on to match, covering his eyes, and his lips were full and inviting as he spoke. Suddenly, he leaned in closer to the phone, his head now bowed and his voice low and heated. “You listen to me, carefully. I told you what I wanted, and that’s not what

you did. So, from now on, you will do exactly what the fuck I tell you to….and I am not going to tell you twice.” His face was like stone: his lightly bearded jaw clenching and unclenching as he spoke. Oooh, he’s pissed. And yet, she wasn’t put-off by it; in fact, that only made Saturday more interested. IN FACT, she was trying to lean in so closely to hear his conversation that she placed too much of her weight on the fruit cart, and citrus went bouncing everywhere off of the cart as it lurched forward. SHIT.SHIT.SHIT.SHIT! Saturday went scrambling after the

runaway fruit, as she felt a figure swoop in to help her. Mr. Bossy in Black, himself, had placed his phone in his pocket and began to help her gather all of the produce. Their arms brushed past each other as they worked on returning the fruit to their proper bins. Saturday’s hair stood on end every time. Others walked around them during the whole debacle (this fucking city, I tell ya), but he made quick work of the process, placing things back in her basket and on the stand. She grabbed the last lime from the edge of her foot and placed it on the display mantle. Saturday stood from her kneeling position, brushing her hands vigorously

on her shorts to free them of any grime. She pulled her back straight, using her shaky hands to swoop wild strands of hair back behind her ears. Now, she had to say something to him. Saturday realized that she had wanted to speak to him since the moment she got a glimpse of him. And now, after what he’d done, she couldn’t just leave or ignore him. Oh, boy. Here goes. Despite her disheveled appearance and nerves, she decided that she would put on her best face to thank the helpful man: Mister Bossy Man, Mr. God-yousmelled-really-good-and-seem-so-cute. She exhaled loudly, put on her biggest smile and turned around, right hand

extended to finally greet him, but he was nowhere to be found…. *** Saturday night. Bright lights. Cool paints. Saturday reached out to the touch the frame of the painting in front of her, caressed it like a lover’s face. Oh, baby. Come to mama. Her fingers slid down its length. She enjoyed each of the arts (dance, music, sculpting, all of it), but there was something visceral about her feelings for paintings. Instinctual. Longing…that’s what it was. A need to possess such beauty. To be the proprietor or the creator. She had

a painter’s heart, and had been spilling that heart on canvases since she picked up a brush in 7th grade Art. She stepped back from the painting, making a mental note of the artist. Beaumont. She loved his work. She had been a tour guide at the Clairvoyage gallery for two years, and she had yet to see a work of his that she did not absolutely love. Saturday walked to the other side of the room, giving the painting a final glance. Bye, baby. Tonight was going to be a huge exhibit for the gallery, and she was pumped. A quick visit to the ladies room mirror, and she felt pretty good about the sandy-haired brunette staring back at her.

Honey-colored eyes, long mascaraaided lashes, red lips. Her athletic build was on wonderful display in the dress she wore that matched her lipstick. A deep side part with one side of her long hair pinned back topped the look off and she was back on the floor, showing colorful wonders to a packed house. Room to room. Wall to wall. She displayed as much as she could, as she and the other guides performed a dance around each other, taking their respective groups through a choreographed walk of the gallery. She joked with the gallery guests, engaging them in light banter about the art and artists. Teaching the history and inspiration behind artistic pieces was

fun for her. During these exhibits, she always hoped to pass that enthusiasm on to others. Saturday led her group to the next display, and then she saw it. A pair of emerald green eyes appeared next to the nearest display case, and then disappeared just as quickly, vanishing behind a white wall. She was pretty sure she glimpsed brown hair and stubble framing the sight, but there was no mistaking the eyes that she saw. Wow. Saturday continued roaming the halls of the gallery with her tour group: motioning, gesturing, and explaining. And yet, half of her was focused on the beautiful man with the piercing eyes.

Every time her gaze was diverted for a second, there were those eyes. Around a corner. In the background. There. Gone. Back again. For over an hour. Then…nothing. He disappeared behind a large display and did not reappear. Saturday secretly scanned the crowd for the next 30 minutes, but she didn’t see him again. She re-focused on her spiel about the current sculpture in front of her. Forty-five more minutes, and Saturday was navigating her last group through the gallery. Almost there. Her feet were killing her. Whyyy did I decide to wear heels? She had just been relieved of her duties, and was eager to get some wellneeded time off of her feet.

Finally. Saturday plopped down on the nearest bench, gingerly rubbing her now heel-less (Thank Heavens!) feet. Focused on soothing her poor, fatigued soles, Saturday did not notice the tiny moan that escaped her mouth, nor did she notice the shadow that was now descending upon her. “That good, huh?” said a familiar voice from above her. Saturday glanced up…and surprisingly into the direct gaze of Green Eyes, AKA Mr. Bossy-in-Black, the produce market guy. Well, not quite into his gaze. Green Eyes was now fitted with another baseball cap that eclipsed half of his face, but it was him, alright… complete with stubble, brown hair and

full lips. Saturday let out a sheepish laugh. “Uhh..yeah. It’s just that…I’ve been on my feet all night…in these heels. And now I have to hike it to my stop before I miss the last bus. It’s been a loooong night.” Green Eyes gave a slow side smirk. “And it’s going to get even longer…” Saturday froze in stunned silence, giving him an inquisitive look that turned into one of horror when she followed his stare to the glass gallery front. Coming down outside was a sheet of torrential rain, and she had neither the patience nor the clothing to deal with that sort of weather.

Her attention was diverted from the window when he started to speak again. “I’ll take you. Wherever you need to go.” He stared at her, barely blinking. Saturday raised an eyebrow. Is he serious? He looks serious. She skimmed her eyes up and down the length of him in careful appraisal. Mmm… He was built, that was for sure. He had broad shoulders with a wide chest that lowered into a tapered waist and tight hips. He was pretty tall; at least to her 5’5” frame. Six-two…she wagered. He had long-ish brown hair that swept past his ear and a little down his neck. Saturday swallowed hard. His face was just…all types of yes. His strong

jaw wore something closer to a 6-6:30ish o’clock shadow. What he wore was modest: white t-shirt, faded jeans, brown leather jacket. Huh. Funny. She didn’t notice before. The gallery’s exhibit was a formal event. She realized that everyone was dressed in sophisticated attire…but him, and somehow, he oozed sophistication. He took his hat off. And those eyes…man, those eyes. He was looking intently at her now, fixing her with a steady and questioning gaze. Question. Oh…yeah. Didn’t he just ask a question? A suggestion, of some sort. What was it…? OH, right, right. Take me to my bus stop. Or home. Or to

bed…Down, girl. He seems innocent enough…but so did Ted Bundy. Yeah, but…Ted Bundy was never THIS cute. Cut it out, Saturday. He seemed to sense her internal debate, and spoke up, extending his right hand towards her. “I’m Mark Rich…art-lover…and helper of the sore and stranded.” He grinned slowly. Saturday chuckled and grasped his hand. “I’m Saturday. I’m a tour guide with Clairvoyage. And yes…(she resolutely decided)…I will take that ride. But ONLY to the bus stop. It’s not far.” She stood up from her seat. “I appreciate this.” She looked around the gallery.

Almost everyone had cleared out; a few stragglers made their way to the front doors. Her boss, Vicky, was gone and the other guides skedaddled as soon as the exhibit closed. Out of others’ earshot, Vicky’s slimy husband, Cristiano, offered Saturday a “ride,” but she gladly passed on that. Fuck you, vanity. You, too, swollen feet. Now, normally, she wouldn’t have accepted this kind of offer, but she was bone-tired and hurting. She already surmised that she’d mace his ass with her little pink pepper spray if he turned out to be crazy. Clutching her mace-laden purse, she let Mark guide her out of the gallery with his leather jacket as their overhead

protection. Well, not so much “guide”… as hold the jacket over her head as she squealed, slipped and slid her way into the front passenger seat of his car. Mark eased Saturday into the seat, wrapping his jacket around her, and entered the driver’s side, turning the heat on high as she rattled off directions to her stop. The rain had been freezing, and to get warmer, Saturday let herself sink further into the leather seat of Mark’s Porsche (!?!). She inhaled deeply, taking a sly sniff of his weathered jacket. Soap…and coffee beans. Hm. A man after my own heart. Her ears perked up when she heard humming and drumming coming from the

front seat. Green Eyes, in all of his wethaired, wet-clothed glory…rocking to the beat of his own radio, clearly enjoying himself as he drove. She smiled into the collar of his jacket. Who is this guy? A thought came to Saturday’s mind. She pulled the collar higher over her face, and she let her eyes roam over him. With his white t-shirt wet, she could see every muscle, every line. Watching his full lips mouth the words coming from the speaker, she let her imagination play a little. His lips’ movement combined with his absent-minded fondle of the Porsche’s throttle sent her senses into overdrive as she thought of what each of those would feel like on her.

She could sense her nipples hardening, despite the car’s warmth, but felt powerless to stop it. She could feel the area between her thighs become damp. With that realization, it dawned on her that Mark was simply one of the sexiest men she had ever laid eyes on. And his demeanor, his smile, the abandonment with which he now jammed to the music warmed her to him. He seemed so easy-going in demeanor today: lighter, looser. Before her thoughts could delve any further, they were slowing by her bus stop as her 11:02 bus cruised into its destination. The rain had thankfully stopped, giving Saturday a much-needed reprieve

as she handed Mark’s jacket back to him. She wanted to believe that the spark she felt as their hands brushed in the exchange was a fluke, perhaps static shock, but she knew it wasn’t. She liked him. “Thank you,” Saturday said, facing him under the streetlight’s illumination. “Not many people would have done what you did for a complete stranger.” Something unidentifiable passed in Mark’s eyes, but it was over as soon it came. “My pleasure, Saturday.” She smiled, hopping out and rounding the car in front of the headlights. Before she could step foot on the bus, Mark called to her, stopping her

in her tracks. He rolled down his window, looking straight into her eyes. “Oh… and Saturday… I hope you didn’t get too wet tonight.” Saturday froze, shell-shocked, as he flashed her the most bedazzling smile and then faded down the dimly lit street.

To the Reader What did you think? Did you like the series? Love it? Hate it? What’d you think about the ending? Or was that the ending…? Hmmm… If you’d like a look at my other books on Amazon or Goodreads, please feel free to stop by! Think about leavinga review while you’re there, too! If you’d like to chat me up any time, g’head and e-mail me at

[email protected] OR leave a comment on NatalieWrye.com OR on my Facebook.

Acknowledgements There are FAR too many wonderful people in my life to name. Thanks to God, my family, the bloggers, the READERS! Just know that if you are someone who has had the opportunity to read a single word of anything that I’ve had the pleasure of writing that I love you… more than any words can ever say.

More about the Author Natalie E. Wrye is a math geek by day, writer by night. She is a quirky, former Yankee living in Northwest Georgia with nothing but her Friends and Gilmore Girls reruns to keep her company. Natalie started writing nonsensical stories at the ripe age of 6; she hopes things have changed since then. She loves chocolate, cuddly things, and large libraries. Oh...and she thinks it's pretty cool to talk in 3rd person. Join Natalie’s Newsletter or FB group to get special and exclusive updates from her works.