Shiver : 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror

Red Rum by Ashley Pullo

The tiny black bowler hat, mustache, and unlit cigarette are the perfect editions to my crime scene photo. After disguising my hostage, I shove the remaining Potato Head parts back in my desk drawer, and then scribble a ransom note on a Post-it. Positioning the succulent in a compromising pose with my stapler, I snap a photo. Adam will be pissed — he’s been looking for his potted cactus for days.

ME: image

Adam: you fucking asshole.

Laughing hysterically, I text back.

ME: Mr. Prickly will return to you in exchange for a case of Shiner.

“Mr. Brooks?”

I throw back a handful of candy corn before pressing the intercom button. “Yes, Roberta?”

“There have been some complaints about loud music coming from your office,” Roberta drones.

“Complaints? Who would object to The Old '97s?”

She doesn’t respond.

I check the volume on my iPod dock — if Adam is trying to get back at me by whining about my music, then it’s a pathetic attempt. “Roberta, I’ll lower it if you snag me some Rice Krispie treats from the pantry.” I smile to myself, knowing that bargaining is against her secretarial creed.

Being an associate at a prestigious Manhattan law firm comes with a shitload of rules and agendas. It also serves as a breeding ground for arrogant assholes to strut around like peacocks only to have frumpy secretaries put them in their place. Except for my buddy Adam Ford — he hit the jackpot when he made partner. His secretary is all boobs and mostly brains, but my secretary could frighten a gargoyle.

Since I can’t sneak out until the afternoon partners’ meeting, I decide to tend to some urgent matters in the world of Chris Brooks: I play a game of solitaire on the computer. I read an article about how different countries celebrate Halloween. I reply to my older brother’s email about the Red River Shootout in Dallas. A little homesick, I then look up the fried treats previously featured at the Texas State Fair. Holy shit, fried beer!

With a few minutes left to spare, I open my closing argument file for the Perkins case. A competitor sued the Perkins family for two millions dollars claiming they stole their secret pickle recipe. I mean really, three years of law school, three years of legal practice, partner tracked, and I’m the asshole stuck defending pickle thieves. The highlight of the case was when I traveled Upstate to the pickle factory to observe the ingredient taste test performed by pickle experts — food scientists equipped with the knowledge of extracting the exact ratios of vinegar, salt and garlic. That was awesome.

At exactly 4:30, I switch off my iPod, grab my suit jacket, pocket some Snickers from my desk, hide Adam’s cactus, and then lock my office door. I still need to buy candy to hand out to the kids in my building. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be that creepy bachelor dude that gives the kids matches and condoms.

Passing her desk, I say, “Good night, Roberta.” As usual, Roberta ignores me. I clear my throat — she pretends to look through case files.

Walking toward the bank of elevators, I spot Adam speaking to a woman in a tight black suit. Not just a suit — it’s the sophisticated woman’s fuck-me-outfit. I should avoid Adam because of my cactus thievery…but damn, that woman’s ass is like a magnet, attracting my Southern pole.

As I approach them, Adam shakes her hand and nods cordially. Jesus, how does he do it? Gorgeous women just flock to him.

“Thank you, Adam. I’ll be in touch,” she rasps.

My eyes trace the curve of her ass before Adam catches me. “Lena, I’d like you to meet my associate, Chris Brooks.” Adam gives me one of his cold-as-fuck-smirks as she turns to face me — clearly planning his revenge for the cactus prank.

First impression? Sexy. Jet-black hair, ruby lips and pale skin … she’s basically Snow White with huge tits.

Extending my hand, I drawl, “Cute.”

Lena smiles slightly as she places her icy hand in my palm. “I’m Lena White,” she asserts. “What exactly do you find cute?”

Oh, fuck. My Texas charm isn’t going to work on this woman. In fact, she’s intimidating.

Adam scrolls through his Blackberry and says, “Sorry to rush off, but I have a partners’ meeting.” He looks up from his phone and smiles at Lena. “Chris will be happy to escort you downstairs.”

Following Adam’s suggestion, I press the elevator button with a smile. When the door opens, Lena steps inside and moves to the back of the elevator. I follow her, first pressing the button for the lobby and then joining her against the wall.

Alone in the elevator, we stand silently, watching as the numbers light up in descending order.

She breaks the silence by asking, “What size jacket do you wear?”

Without looking at her, I reply, “I’m not sure — my suits are custom tailored. But I think I bought a forty-four athletic blazer for my sister’s engagement party last summer.”

Continuing with her odd questioning, she asks, “Do you smoke?”

“Nah, never. Although I did chew dip as a freshman back at UT Austin. A horrible habit endured by fraternity pledges.”

“And do you smile all the time?” she asks, maintaining her stance and focus ahead.

Smiling and tapping my elbow against hers, I answer, “Smiling’s contagious. It’s also rule numero uno for the Matthew McConaughey School of Charm.”

Turning to me and smiling tightly, she deadpans, “You nailed it.” Her dark eyes narrow in on my smile, and then slowly trail down my chest. She’s mentally undressing me — I know that look! Flipping the roles and staring predatorily at my junk, she asks, “Why would you think I’m cute?”

The elevator dings with the passing of each missed floor. It’s a countdown.

Floor five. If she were a client, Adam would’ve introduced her as such. Floor four. She’s not wearing a wedding ring. Floor three. I haven’t had sex in five weeks. Floor two. It’s Halloween — the freakiest day of the year.

I move in front of her with my back to the elevator doors. “Lena, what I meant to say was …” I trail my finger slowly up her arm to rest on her cheek. Staring into her dark eyes, I stretch out my answer with an exaggerated Texas drawl. “You ridin’ my face and wearin’ nothin’ but a smile would be super cute.”

Floor one. I exit the elevator with a huge grin. Assuming she’s following me, I lead her toward the 5th Avenue exit.

“Chris,” she calls.

Turning my head back with a cocky smirk, I answer, “Yes, Lena?”

Her cold hand grabs mine, pulling me away from the revolving doors. “Would you like to go to a party with me tonight?” Lena’s chestnut eyes narrow in on mine, leaving me with no choice.

“Like a costume party?”

She releases my hand and takes a step back. “Is that a problem?”

“Are you into that?” I ask, wagging my eyebrows.

Lena’s mouth opens to speak, but then her lips curl into a seductive smile instead. She removes a black business card from her tiny purse and places it in my palm. “Pick me up at eight. And Chris,” she takes a step closer, “don’t ever walk in front of me again.”

The curt inflection of her voice nearly melts my face — smooth, white hot, and full of sexual tension. I watch as she floats through the revolving doors, graceful and confident. Studying her business card with a single phone number, I realize this woman has the potential to destroy me. I can either bite my knuckles and whimper, or forge ahead and bag that fine piece of dominating ass.

5:35 p.m.

Deep inside the mothball emporium of last-minute Halloween costumes, my phone rings.

Shit, it’s Adam.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Where are you?”

“Salvation Army.”

“Why?”

“I need a costume.”

“Did you get her number?”

“Of course,” I say proudly.

“Lena’s unique. Be careful,” Adam advises in a hyper-creepy voice.

Sorting through a rack of plaid shirts from the past two decades, I laugh. “Fuck off, man. What’s her story anyway?” There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.

“She’s researching an old murder case.”

“Good. A client would suck.” I spot a shiny buckle under a stack of belts. Perfect — even though it’s engraved with the name DICK. “All right, bro. Gotta get dolled up for my date.”

Laughing, Adam says, “You do that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Get a clue, Brooks.”

I end the call and join the line of other dumbfucks shopping at the last minute. Finally reaching the register, I throw my handful of western wear on the counter and teasingly say, “Scary night, huh?” The young woman at the register closes her eyes, clearly pissed about the long line of rich folks trying to score some costumes.

She opens her eyes and glares at me. “Yeah.” She sighs. “Cash or check?” She scribbles down the prices on a sales ticket and manually adds the tax.

“What about credit?” I ask.

“What about it? You owe $47.50 — most assholes round up, seeing as this is a charity and all,” she suggests.

I take out my wallet and attempt a friendly smile. She bites the inside of her mouth and waits. I place a fifty on the counter and take the receipt. She calls the next person in line as I shove my overpriced clothing in the sack with my small bag of peppermint Lifesavers — the only bag of candy left above 53rd Street. “Happy Halloween!” I shout to the people in line behind me.

I walk a few blocks east before popping into my second favorite pizzeria. Kids in costumes zoom around me, collecting candy from a bowl on the counter and then rushing back out to street. I forget that New York City children don’t really have an opportunity to go door-to-door begging for sweet morsels of tradition.

When I was a kid back in Austin, we had a system. My two brothers and I would circle the neighborhood in cheesy Halloween masks, recycled from year to year. I think I wore the mask of Hulk Hogan a dozen times before high school. After our first trip out, we would empty our bags, switch our masks, and then go with our own set of friends. Later at night, we would combine our candy and have enough to last until Christmas.

“Can I get two slices?” I ask.

The pizza guy slides two congealed slices in the oven and preps a to-go box. “Six bucks.”

Goddamn, that’s robbery. I place money on the counter and snag a Milky Way from a candy bowl. He gives me a dirty look — like I’m literally taking candy from babies.

With my steamy pizza box and paper sack from the bodega, I make my way a few more blocks to my building. A police car slows to a stop near a gang of teenagers in dark hoodies. They do look a little squirrely, but this is just one of those nights when everything seems odd. I wave at the cops and the teenagers run off.

Arriving at my building, my doorman, Declan, opens the lobby door. “Evening, Mr. Brooks.”

“Nice tie,” I say.

He holds up the pumpkin tie and shrugs. “Eh, just having some fun.”

A few boys I recognize from my building congregate in the lobby, shouting and making a scene. They seem to be teasing a kid on crutches dressed as Obi Wan Kenobi. I approach them calmly and ask, “What’s the deal?”

The one dressed as a skeleton turns to face me, his canvas bag of candy swinging into my leg. “Gimpy is slowing us down. We can’t take the elevator to every single floor.”

I turn to the kid on crutches and ask, “What happened to your leg?”

“Oh, football,” he says quietly.

His friends run to the stairs, turning once to give us the middle finger and laugh.

“Little jerks,” I yell after them. “What’s your name, kid?” I ask the one on crutches.

“I’m Trent. Halloween is like my favorite holiday, after Christmas.”

“I hear ya, Trent. And dude, your friends seem like turds.”

Trent laughs as he shifts his weight on his crutches. “Yeah, but they’ll have three times as much candy as me. I can’t hobble and hold my bag at the same time.”

“I can’t let that happen.” Facing the front desk, I shout, “Declan, keep an eye on Trent until I get back.”

Declan nods apathetically and waves me off.

“Trent, give me an hour. And your candy bag.”

He reluctantly passes me his bag and then plops down on one of the sofas. “Whatever, man.”

I hurry to my apartment, remove my suit jacket and tie, throw my pizza and brown paper bag on the kitchen island, remove the bag of shitty Lifesavers, and then begin my quest to collect more candy than those dipshit kids.

In the hall, I pass by my neighbors, the Hansons. Luckily, they placed a basket filled with Twizzlers and full-size Hershey bars outside their door. I survey the hallway — no one. Without hesitating, I pour the contents of the entire basket in Trent’s bag. I then refill the bowl with my bag of peppermint Lifesavers.

First mission: Accomplished.

I take out my phone and the business card from Lena. Continuing down the hall, I text her.

ME: What’s your address?

Her reply is instant.

LENA: 5611 Lexington

I place the phone back in my pocket and then knock on the next door. A nice-looking woman I recognize from the mail center opens the door with a smile, but then her face changes.

“Trick o’ treat,” I say charmingly. She looks behind my shoulder and then at my bag. “I’m not sure we’ve met, I’m Chris Brooks and I live a few doors down.”

Puzzled, she says, “Okay.”

“I know this looks really weird, but I’m actually helping out a boy in our building. He’s on crutches and his friends ditched him.”

She narrows her eyes and asks, “Do you want candy?”

Why would she assume anything else?

“Yes, please.”

I watch as she takes a wicker basket from a small table near the door. She faces me, still thoroughly confused. I open my bag and smile — hopefully that will give her a clue. She drops in two snack-sized Twix. This is going to be tough.

“Poor little guy — Halloween’s his favorite holiday.” She smiles awkwardly, and then places another small Twix inside the bag. “He’s all dressed up in a Star Wars costume and sitting in the lobby. Twix candy bars are his favorite.” Not sure how to perceive me, and probably a little frightened, the woman places two handfuls of Twix in my bag. Holding a now empty basket, she closes the door.

The adjacent apartment door is decorated with cobwebs and dozens of plastic spiders. As I knock on the door, a loud scream wails through a small speaker at the top of the doorframe. The door creaks open, revealing a witch drinking from a goblet. In character, she cackles, “What do you want?”

Playing along, I answer, “Trick o’ treat.”

“Where’s your costume?” she asks, moving her fingers in front of my chest like she’s clawing for air.

I smirk and lean against the doorframe. “Give me candy, you wench.”

She laughs as she tosses packages of M&M’s in my bag. At least a dozen make their way in before she turns to open another candy bag. Her voice returns to what I assume is her normal tone as she teases, “Good one, Chris. It’s me, Libby Sanders-Dunlap!”

Ah, Libby. She recently got divorced. Need I say more?

“I didn’t know we lived on the same floor,” I lie. “I also didn’t know you were into the black magic.”

Her painted green hand grazes my arm as she giggles. “Do you want to come in?”

I shake my head and lift my bag. “I can’t tonight. I’m on a candy mission.”

Libby appears insulted. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“I am. But hey, let’s get a beer sometime,” I casually add.

She nods sadly and then closes the door. To be honest, Libby’s not my type. When I moved here eight months ago, she brought me a “welcome” basket of wine and cheese. I want a girl who welcomes me with beer and porn.

The last door on my floor is opened slightly and reeks of burnt popcorn. I knock once before a man in his late fifties swings it open. “Yeah?” he grunts.

“Uh, never mind.”

Climbing the stairs, I look at my watch and hurry my pace. I have enough time to attack one more floor before I need to leave to meet Lena. The apartment door closest to the stairs has a doorbell the size of golf ball. I press the large buzzer and inadvertently summon church bells of Gothic proportions.

“Coming,” a shaky voice beckons from behind the door. “Almost there,” she crackles. The door opens and the cutest little old lady extends her arms. “Scotty! Give Me Maw a hug.”

Not sure what to do, I lean forward and accept her embrace. “Trick o’ treat,” I say into her poof of silver hair.

Pinching my waist, she rattles, “You’re as thin as a rail, Scotty! Come in, we’ll have some crab dip and watch Jeopardy.”

“Uh, okay,” I agree. She scoots through the entryway wearing leopard-print slippers and Christmas socks. I should turn around and leave, but the apartment is exactly like my real Me Maw’s house in Nacogdoches! Picture frames everywhere, and little bowls of those nasty orange peanuts stashed on every table. There’s even an identical lamp to my Me Maw’s antique from New Orleans — the one with a carriage as the base and red fringe hanging from the shade. This is trippy.

Unaware of her mental state, I quietly say, “Me Maw, I can only stay for a few minutes.”

She sits on a velvet love seat and passes me a tray of crackers. “Crab dip is your favorite, Scotty!”

I place my bag of candy on the floor and sit in a floral chair adorned with a lace doily. Taking a small bite of the crab dip, I decide to play along. After all, Halloween is the one night when role-playing is perfectly acceptable. Besides, I have a few minutes to kill, and she seems like a nice granny that just wants some company. “Delicious dip as always, Me Maw,” I compliment with a smile.

“Scotty, how’s Boy Scouts? Did you get all your patches?” she asks.

Not only does she think I’m her grandson, but apparently, ten-years old. “Oh, I need a few more.” I take another cracker with dip and watch the television.

“What is pumpernickel?” she shouts at the screen.

And she’s right.

It’s none of my business, but I feel inclined to make sure she’s okay living alone. “Me Maw, how are you feeling?”

She slaps her knee and laughs. “My damn cataracts are acting up, but other than that, I’m as fit as a fiddle, sweetie.”

I take a moment to look around her apartment. It’s neat and tidy and there aren’t any signs that she’s been forced to save her pension and eat cat food. Her clothes are clean and everything smells okay. Dozens of family photos line the walls — she’s loved by her family. “Me Maw, when was I here last?”

“Who is Clark Gable? Last week, Scotty. Your mother came with you — that little bitch,” she mumbles under her breath.

Noted.

“Me Maw, I really have to leave soon. Do you need anything?”

Saddened, she looks at me and pouts. “But you just got here!”

“I know, but it’s Halloween.”

She smiles and nods her head in understanding. “Well, where’s your costume? Do you need me to help you put something together?” She stands from the sofa with wobbly legs and pats my head. “Come with me, you can borrow one of Poppy’s old zoot suits.”

Not wanting to alarm her, I follow behind and keep up the charade. “No need, I have a costume,” I say.

“Oh Scotty, you can’t be Spiderman every year — try something new.”

The loud doorbell chimes. Ding, dong, ding, dong.

“I’ll get it — probably kids trick-or-treating,” I offer. “Do you have any candy to hand out?”

“Nonsense! I put the roll of quarters by the door. Kids love to have their own money.” She smiles as she threads her arm through mine.

Passing by the floral chair, I bend to pick up my bag of candy. I can secretly give the kids candy when she’s not looking and then get the hell out of here. We open the door together and … fuck!

Standing in the doorway is a man and woman — and a boy dressed as Spiderman. They stare at me blankly, but as the seconds pass, their expressions change to fear.

“Scotty!” Me Maw shouts, extending her arms to the Spiderman.

“Trick or treat, Me Maw,” Scotty replies quietly.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asks. He moves in front of Me Maw and narrows his eyes.

Stepping out into the hall, I reply, “She invited me in. I’m sorry, but she thought I was Scotty.” Saying it out loud only confirms my poor judgment.

“Ma, who is this guy?” he asks.

“I–I’m not sure. I was confused.” She rubs her temples and shakes her head. “Come on, Scotty! I made crab dip to eat while we watch Double Jeopardy!” The real Scotty and the “bitch” follow Me Maw into her apartment.

I’m left standing, silently defending myself to a man with a senile mother. Taking a step closer toward me, he pokes my chest. “If you come near her again, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you.”

I puff my chest — I don’t deserve to be threatened. “It won’t happen again,” I say, slamming my shoulder against his as I walk away.

When I reach the end of the hall, I glance back at the apartment and exhale in relief. I’m brought back to reality when several kids in costumes race out of the elevator and run past me — shit, I still need to get candy for Trent.

The apartment door on my right is decorated with cutesy, child-crafted ghosts and pumpkins. I knock quietly. A moment later, a little girl dressed in a princess costume answers the door. Before I can scold her for opening the door to a stranger, a boy around Trent’s age joins her.

He’s not wearing a costume and his face is smug. The boy snickers and asks, “Where are your kids?”

“I don’t have any,” I answer.

“Are you a fucking pervert?” he insults, stepping in front of his sister.

“What? No!” I answer defensively. Although, if I’m really honest with myself, this whole idea to help Trent get candy is kinda strange, maybe even something a pervert would do. However, this has become a personal quest — not a favor to some kid, but a mission to win. My competitive nature will always be a part of who I am, even if I don’t really know what it is I’m exactly winning.

“Listen, punk,” I spit out between clenched teeth. “I’m with the bureau of the New York City safety initiative. There are reports that you are providing tampered candy to unassuming little kids. I’m required to confiscate all your goods or be forced to take you to the precinct for questioning.”

Full of fear, the boy replies, “Okay, Mister.” He shoves bags and bags of candy at my waist as the little girl runs into the apartment yelling for her mom.

“And the bags over there as well,” I demand, pointing to extra bags on a table.

He hurries to retrieve them from the nearby table. Freaked, he shouts, “This is all we got — don’t tell my mom.” He shuts the door in my face.

Mission Two: Accomplished.

That was easy. Holding four giant-sized bags of Willy Wonka candy — Nerds, Runts, Gobstoppers, Laffy Taffy and those shitty Bottle Caps — I contemplate my next move. I should be getting ready for my date with Lena, but instead, I’m roaming around my apartment building like a middle school Halloween vigilante. At this rate, I’ll make the ten o’clock news as the Upper East Side Halloween Pervert.

Deciding I look like a chump carrying so much candy in dress slacks and a scruffy beard, I head back to my apartment. Once inside, I stash a bag of Willy Wonka in my kitchen cabinet (finder’s fee) and grab a beer from the refrigerator. I can take a quick shower and still be at Lena’s apartment on time.

There’s a knock on the door. I carry Trent’s bag of candy with me just in case.

“Trick or treat!” the little kids scream in unison as I open the door.

I pass out Hershey bars to a bloody leprechaun, a ghost-like doll, and a Dracula with blond hair. “Don’t y’all look scary!”

Excited with their treats, they chant, “Thank you!”

I nod at the designated parent escorting the kids — I feel his pain. Trick-or-treating as an adult sucks. Closing the door, I search for a bowl or basket to leave outside my door. I can’t keep answering the door all night …

Knock, knock.

I open the door to find Libby, witch-free and determined. She’s holding a six-pack of beer and arching her eyebrows in that way — the one a woman uses to seduce men.

“Hi, Chris. How about that beer?” Libby thrusts the bottles into my chest and walks past me. “Wow, your apartment is really pink!”

My apartment is pink because the previous tenant adored pink. Months later, I’m still waiting for the goddamn co-op board to approve my remodeling request. “What can I say? I’m a sensitive guy.”

Libby glances back over her shoulder with a sinister smile. “Even the bedroom?” she asks, walking toward my room.

Ah, shit. Not now — I have to be somewhere in an hour.

I place the beer on the counter next to my cold pizza and walk after her. By the time I catch up with Libby, she’s made her way onto the edge of my bed. Patting the spot next to her and popping open the top buttons to her shirt, she moans, “My divorce is final and I need to be fucked.”

Whoa.

Let me think this scenario through logically in five seconds or less. Five. I have an attractive woman sitting on my bed trying to seduce me. She’s inviting me to have sex without any of the foreplay. Four. It’s been weeks for me, and surely she’s been abstinent during her divorce. We’re both horny adults looking for some casual fun. Three. Being on the same floor in the same apartment building could pose complications. I’ve met her ex-husband — total douche. Two. Lena White is waiting for me. One. Libby brought Heineken. That decides it — I cannot have sex with a woman that drinks that shit.

“So, listen, Libby,” I start.

“Chris, please don’t turn me down,” she begs as her eyes begin to water.

I sit down next to her and place my arm around her shoulders. “Libby, I can’t. You deserve better than a one-night stand — and I can’t even commit to a cable company.”

Sobbing, she mumbles, “I know. But maybe that’s what I need — one night to feel something, anything.”

Libby is attractive and nice but her divorce comes with baggage. Although her baggage isn’t really the main issue, it’s more that I’m focused on my career and only have time for casual sex. If I met her at a bar, I would totally take her home, but this is awkward because I know she needs more. And hey, what’s the best solution in an awkward situation? Laughter.

Smiling, I say, “Libby, I can make you feel something, if that’s all you want. Would you like that? Lay down and hold still.” We both laugh as I attempt to unbuckle my belt. “C’mon, girl — let’s do the Texas Tangle.”

We fall back on the bed laughing, my hand resting on her hip.

“Oh, Chris. I needed that,” Libby says breathlessly.

“Animals need sex, humans want companionship.” Sitting up from the bed, I rub her leg. “You need to find a man that can give you both.”

Libby exhales and then buttons her top. “Easier said than done — seeing as how my first attempt didn’t go so well.”

“Libby, I’m the one that’s embarrassed.”

Libby sits up and rests her head on my arm. “Let’s just agree to never talk about this night?”

Can this night get any stranger?

I stand up from the bed and smile. “Deal.” After pulling her up from the bed, I twirl her around and do a two-step toward my closet. “I want to show you my costume,” I say. As I remove the plaid shirt and belt buckle from the Salvation Army bag, Libby laughs and shakes her head.

“I don’t get it?”

“A cowboy in Manhattan.”

“But what about the large hat and boots?” she asks.

With a smirk, I kick open my closet door to reveal my favorite boots beneath my tailored suits. Proudly, I point to the upper shelf housing my vintage, black Stetson. “Will these do?”

8:24 p.m.

After presenting Trent with the candy liquidation, I decide to take a cab to Lena’s apartment in fear of being unfashionably late. I read her text to the cab driver, repeating the address several times before he understands. My accent’s not that bad. When we arrive at the location, I remove ten bucks from my wallet and pay the driver. He grunts in appreciation and then speeds off into traffic. Dumbass.

Lena’s building is ten times more posh than mine. Not a single doorman with a pumpkin-themed tie. Nope, her doormen are dressed in wool suits with gold-fringed lapels.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Sure. I’m meeting Lena White,” I answer.

“There’s no one here with that name, sir. Please follow me to the desk so I may assist you.” The doorman leads me to a gold desk straight from textbook pictures of Versailles during the French Revolution.

I remove my phone and text Lena.

ME: I’m downstairs in the lobby.

LENA: I’ll be right down.

“Hey, she’s coming down to meet me,” I say arrogantly as I walk toward the elevators.

Against a wall, I pose like Clint Eastwood during the final sunset of a western flick. Head down, hat tipped, and one boot lazily crossed over the other. As the elevator door opens, I see the tips of her black pumps first, then raising my head, take in the rest of her outfit. A little black dress, off the shoulders and sexy as hell.

She gives me a tiny smile before stepping back inside the elevator. Holding the door, Lena suggests, “Let’s have a drink upstairs before we leave.”

Joining her in the elevator, I ask, “So what’s your real name, Ms. White?” I move within inches of her body, staring down and eliminating any doubt she may have of my objective. The tension is unbearable — the sexual tension is unbelievable.

Lena returns my concentrated gaze, but her full lips twitch into a smile. “My name is Lena. Do you want the drink or not?” she asks, enunciating every word.

Ready to challenge her smart, ruby-stained mouth, I’m interrupted by the opening of the elevator doors. She quickly exits the elevator, looking over her shoulder at me just once. But goddamn, that look she gives me … I’m in way over my head.

Lena leads me into her apartment, or rather, a temptress’ bachelorette lair. The first things I notice are the chill in the room and the multitude of closed doors. It’s cold and mysterious, like an elegant catacomb with secrets — possibly a dungeon or two as well. Every wall is painted charcoal gray, except for the one wallpapered in gray and black plaid. The lighting is minimal, seeing as how the chandeliers are candles and the lamp shades are red silk. Black velvet furniture, gray carpet, red pillows, and an entire wall that resembles an ancient library. The only lightness in the apartment is a large white canvas above the sofa — but even that has what appears to be a blood spatter.

“So, Adam told me you were researching a case.”

Pouring cognac into tiny black glasses, she says, “Mr. Ford shouldn’t have told you that. Shall we toast?”

I’m a dude, and I take masculine pride in never saying omigod in public — I even avoid it internally for fear it could slip out, but … Oh. My. God! Somehow, I just walked onto the set of American Psycho, cue Huey Lewis and the News.

I take the glass from her hand and casually sniff the liquid. “To new friends,” I declare in a scratchy voice.

Lena smiles and taps her glass against mine. “Yes, to new friends and new experiences.”

I take a drink, letting the cognac swirl around my mouth before swallowing. It’s pretty good, and it’s fucking sexy that this woman drinks like a man. “Shall we retreat to the parlor for a cigar?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Lena places her glass on the bar cart and then takes mine, her red nails scraping against my hand as she transfers the glass. She removes my hat and tosses it on a chair with a tiny smirk. Her hands then glide over my chest, teasing and mocking my thrift store shirt.

“These clothes won’t do,” she scorns. Lena unlatches my stubborn belt buckle, the difficulty of the task forcing her tits to press together and spill over her dress. After noticing the name engraved on my rodeo buckle, Lena’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. Then with her smile disappearing, she rips it off and throws the belt to the floor, the tacky gold contrasting against the chic gray carpet.

I place my hands on her hips but she viciously slaps them away. All right, Lena — take control. My shirt comes next. Lena traces each button with her finger before finally setting it free. Her cool hands reach inside my shirt, caressing my sides and delicately massaging my shoulders. She shakes the shirt off and kisses my chest. One, two, three pecks. Red stains from her lips form a trail of feminine seduction along my chest. I inhale and hold my breath as her hand slides inside the waistband of my jeans.

“Lena,” I moan.

“Shh,” she commands.

Unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them over my hips, she follows them to the floor. Her hands squeeze my thighs, holding her weight as she positions herself on her knees. More kissing. She kisses every inch of my legs, leaving me covered in red lipstick. When her mouth nears my briefs, I nearly lose it, especially when she grabs my ass. I stay still and give her what she wants. After her hand grazes my nuts and then slowly glides along Big Tex, I smile — this blow job is going to be amazing.

Looking up at me, she says, “Wait here.” With a gentle squeeze of my crotch and tiny bite on my stomach, Lena stands and walks away. She opens one of the many doors and closes it behind her.

This is definitely different, but there’s nothing wrong with changing things up. Kicking off my boots and removing my jeans, I contemplate this new experience. What harm is there in a little candle wax or rope? She might be a little dominating, but I find it extremely sensual. It’s decided. I will let her do whatever freaky shit she wants as long as …

“What the hell is that?” I shout as she walks toward me.

Draped across her arms is what looks like a tweed jacket and a bowtie. Oh shit, and a pipe. This just went from an erotic fantasy to an awkward role-playing game. I’ve read about fetishes and sex games that involve a reversal of power and the occasional props, but I just want a blow job — not dress like some creepy old dude and be bossed around. Reaching for my jeans, Lena approaches me with a frown.

“Chris, this isn’t what you think. But if you do something for me, a favor that would require one hour of your time, I promise to bring you back here and do whatever you want.” Lena places the jacket and tie on the chair with my Stetson, and then tosses me a black T-shirt.

As odd as all this seems, the promise of having her bent over the sofa in an hour decides my fate. I pull the T-shirt over my head, stopping midway to watch as Lena unzips her dress. The black fabric falls to the curve of her hips, revealing her ripe, plump breasts in a black lace bra.

“Put on the shirt,” she instructs.

Obliging, I pull the t-shirt over my chest. Lena arches her eyebrow as she observes the tightness of the shirt against my frame. Taking a step closer, she runs her hand across the small section of my stomach that the cotton fails to cover. Her fingers graze the waistband of my briefs — damn, that drives me crazy.

“Now your jeans,” she orders.

Taking a step back, Lena unfastens her bra. Fuck, it’s one of those bras with the hook in the front — like a package concealing a wonderful present. The tightness of my jeans against my erection is infuriating, knowing I have to wait an hour before I can play with her tits.

“Jacket,” Lena instructs.

As I reach for the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Lena fondles her nipples. Her skin is so flawless and delectable — I want to nibble and suck every inch until she moans in pleasure.

Pulling on the jacket and exhaling in agony, I ask, “One hour?”

Lena smiles. “Yes, Professor.”

9:40 p.m.

We stop in front of a walkup somewhere in SoHo. I pay the driver and then help Lena out of the cab. She pauses on the sidewalk to reapply her red lipstick — slowly and methodically, just to torment me.

“Is this a costume party?” I ask, still unsure of what I’m about to encounter.

“I suppose.” Lena takes my hand and earnestly adds, “Don’t be afraid to let your inhibitions go. It’s more enjoyable for everyone involved when guests are comfortable and open to new things. Role-play can be liberating, especially when encountered with people that share the same objective.”

No way. No fucking way — I’m on the cusp of my first swinger party! I shake my shoulders and roll my neck. “I’m ready, Lena.”

The palm of her hand moves to my cheek. Her thumb glides over my scruffy stubble, grazing the edge of my mouth, as she whispers, “Don’t forget your pipe.” Lena’s other hand slides into my jacket pocket to remove the smoking pipe. I smile as she tries to position it between my lips. “Hurry along, Professor,” she instructs.

If she wants me to act like a professor, I’ll do it. I know a lot about military history, and I can fake my way through a few conversations before the orgies commence. I need a back story — I’m a professor at a college on Long Island. I teach four graduate classes, and I’m currently writing a book on the JFK assassination. This is good!

Mission Three: Accomplished.

I follow behind Lena, watching as her ass shimmies when she climbs the steps to the front door. She presses the buzzer and I quickly pinch her ass. Lena shoots me an annoyed glare, but I simply smile.

A man decked out in a black tuxedo with tails and a tight frown opens the door. “Good evening. I’m Wadsworth, the butler.”

“Hello, I’m Ms. White,” Lena replies.

Wadsworth switches his attention to me as I chew on the pipe. “And you, sir?” he asks with a strained British accent.

Lena places her hand on my arm and answers. “I believe this is Professor Plum.”

“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Wadsworth states.

“We only met today — we received similar invitations to a dinner party at this address and decided to share a taxi.”

Oh, so that’s our story. Hot.

“Very good. Follow me and I will introduce you to the other guests.” Wadsworth sharply turns toward the entry hall, so we obediently follow him. “Everyone is in the dining room,” he adds over his shoulder.

That’s weird — I guess swinger parties start with a nice meal so everyone can get acquainted. Like a potluck dinner that turns into potluck sex.

Whispering into Lena’s ear, I ask, “Why are we eating dinner?”

“Shh, just play along,” she scorns.

Fine. I’ll play along. I’ve read that Manhattan sex clubs have crazy memberships and vetting processes, but so far, this all seems like a silly game. Nothing like that movie with Nicole Kidman and the mask-wearing sex cult.

“Ladies and gentleman, may I present Ms. White and Professor Plum,” Wadsworth announces.

Wadsworth — where have I heard that name before?

Wadsworth extends his arm in a presentation gesture, and then pulls out a chair for Lena. I take the last available chair on the opposite side of the table between two attractive women.

Placing my pipe on the table and checking out the hot chick to my right, I ask, “What’s for dinner?”

She leans into me and smirks. “Mrs. Peacock revealed a few minutes ago that we’re having one of her favorite recipes prepared by the cook.”

Huh.

“I’m Miss Scarlet, and I love a man in tweed.” She pinches the fabric of my sleeve between her fingers and winks.

I wink back at her and then study the guests slurping bowls of soup around the table, none of which are wearing an actual Halloween costume. Across from me is dark and sexy Lena, dressed in black and going by the pseudonym of Ms. White. Miss Scarlet is wearing a revealing burgundy dress and staring at me with lust. Mrs. Peacock is to my left, drinking wine and nodding goofily at the table conversation. A dude next to Lena is dousing his hands in hand sanitizer and squirming in his seat.

“Do you like Kipling, Miss Scarlet?” asks a man with a fake mustache.

In a seductive voice, Miss Scarlet replies, “I’ll eat anything, Colonel Mustard.

“Colonel Mustard, are you a real Colonel?” Lena asks between slurps of soup.

White. Mustard. Peacock. Scarlet.

“Yes, of course. Retired and presently working in Washington,” Colonel Mustard adds.

“And what about you, Mr. Green? What do you do in Washington?” Miss Scarlet asks.

Green. Oh shit — Professor Plum.

Nervously, Mr. Green stands from the table and throws down his napkin. “I work for the State Department and I’m a homosexual,” he recites.

What the …

“Everyone, please follow me to the study to meet our host, Mr. Boddy,” Wadsworth instructs.

I watch in confused horror as the cast of Clue obediently rises from the table and follows a fictional butler through the entry hall.

“I’d like to know why we’re here, Wadsworth,” Colonel Mustard shouts.

Yeah, me too.

“I invited you — please follow to me the study and I will explain …” Wadsworth’s voice trails off.

I try to get Lena’s attention but she patters off ahead of me. Miss Scarlet on the other hand, gives me all her attention — pressing me against the wall outside the dining room and running her hand over my chest.

“I hear you do things to lady patients that doctors aren’t allowed to do,” she whispers while grabbing my junk. “Nice boots, Professor,” she adds in a breathless pant.

Miss Scarlet pushes off me in slow-motion but then she turns sharply and dashes off in front of me. As we make our way into the study, the guests disperse. Miss Scarlet chooses the antique desk to sit atop while I cozy up on the sofa next to Mrs. Peacock. Lena is seated in a wingback chair with her legs crossed. I stare feverishly at her body while placing my pipe in my mouth — this game better hurry up so I can get her naked.

A man in a dark suit and carrying a duffel bag moves swiftly to the fireplace. He looks at me like he’s confused and then shoots Wadsworth a nasty frown. No worries, because I’m soon distracted by a scantily dressed French maid with a huge rack.

“Would joo like some brandee?” Her French accent is terrible, but the view down her cleavage is awesome.

“I’ll take one,” Mrs. Peacock answers.

The maid continues to pass out the drinks to the guests and then places the tray on a table. She leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Wadsworth moves to the center of the room and nods to the man in the dark suit. “Very well, we’ve all been called here for one reason … blackmail!” His face becomes animated and excited as he addresses the guests. “Our host,” he points to the man with the duffel bag, “is blackmailing us.”

Mrs. Peacock fans herself with her purse and whines, “I’m not being blackmailed! I’m an open book. I have nothing to hide!”

The man against the fireplace laughs maniacally as Wadsworth reveals seven envelopes. “In my hand, I hold the only evidence of our government indiscretions. Including you, Mrs. Peacock.”

“I’m not ashamed of my dirty secrets,” Miss Scarlet declares with a devilish grin.

“Give me those envelopes,” Lena demands.

Colonel Mustard approaches the mystery man and claims, “So you’re Mr. Boddy?”

The man leaning against fireplace smirks. “Yeah, so what? There’s nothing you can do — I’ll be leaving now.”

Wadsworth puffs his chest and smiles. “Not so fast! I’ve called the police and locked all the doors. They will be here in thirty minutes. Once the police arrive, we can explain that we’ve been blackmailed and Mr. Boddy will be arrested.”

Mr. Green stands from his chair and moves toward Wadsworth. “We? Are you being blackmailed as well, Wadsworth?”

Wadsworth lowers his head and sighs. “I’m afraid so. My late wife befriended the wrong kind of people.” He raises his head and fakes a cry. “They were socialists. But I didn’t have any money so I was imprisoned as Mr. Boddy’s butler.”

“What exactly is a butler?” Colonel Mustard asks.

“I buttle.” Wadsworth deadpans.

Lena steps forward and asserts, “We should wait for the police and then we can forget about this horrible night.”

“Do you want the police to know about all your dead husbands?” Miss Scarlet quips.

“Enough!” Mr. Boddy opens his duffel bag and delivers a black box to each guest, excluding Wadsworth. I stare at the box in my lap, wondering how long this game plays out before the actual sex party begins. Talk about prolonged foreplay…

“In your box you will find a lethal weapon. The only person preventing us from leaving is Wadsworth. Murder Wadsworth and we can walk out of here and continue our monetary arrangements.” Mr. Boddy pauses by the light switch and waits for us to open our boxes.

Mrs. Peacock holds up a lead pipe and says, “But I’m not a murderer!”

Lena moves to the arm of the sofa where I’m sitting with her gifted weapon. She looks down at me and gives me a tiny smile. I glance at the nylon rope in her lap, imagining all the creative things that could be done with a rope and a naked Lena White.

I open my box to find a dagger. Unsure if it’s real, I carefully pick up the handle and examine the blade. Plastic.

And then the lights go out.

Thump.

Bump.

Crash.

I hear Mrs. Peacock moving from the sofa, but I stay put. In the darkness, I feel Lena’s nails combing through my hair, and then her hand grabbing the back of my neck. She kisses me. With her lips parting and her mouth accepting my tongue, we make out in the blackness like two teenagers.

Bang!

A gunshot pops through the silence forcing Lena to break our kiss. And then the lights come on.

“He’s dead!” someone shouts.

“There was a gunshot — who has the revolver?” Colonel Mustard demands.

Everyone turns their heads toward the desk where Mr. Green is shaking nervously. “I didn’t do it!” he shouts, dropping the gun on the floor.

Wadsworth kneels near the body, Mr. Boddy, and rolls him over. “Professor Plum, there’s no gunshot wound. Is he dead?”

“I’m just a teacher,” I say with a smile. I rise from the sofa and walk over to the body.

“No, you’re a psychologist with the W.H.O. - surely you can take a pulse,” Wadsworth insists.

Oh, right. I kneel next to the man on the floor and pretend to take his pulse. “Yep, he’s dead.”

“Then who killed him?” Lena asks.

With a trembling voice, Mrs. Peacock shouts, “This is just too much. I need a drink.” She picks up a glass of brandy from the tray and throws it back in one swallow.

Mr. Green points at the glass and yips, “Maybe it was poison!”

Mrs. Peacock launches the glass at the wall and wails. “I don’t want to die!”

Picking up the empty glass, Colonel Mustard states, “Now we’ll never know if the brandy is poisonous.”

Placing his arm around a faint Mrs. Peacock, Wadsworth adds, “Unless she, ya know.”

“Aaahhhhaaaa!” A scream resonates outside the study, forcing everyone to exaggerate a panic attack and rush out the door.

“Yvette!” they shout in unison.

Fuck. For a sex party, this is more elaborate and kinkier than I originally thought. Not wanting to stay in the study by myself, and wanting to know what’s going on, I dash out into the hall. I catch Wadsworth darting behind a door with my dagger.

I find the other guests standing inside a room with a large billiard table. On top of the pool table is the maid, Yvette, fingering a lace handkerchief.

“Why did you scream?” Lena asks on cue.

“I was frighteened, mon dieu,” she explains in her horrible French accent.

“Tell us what you heard, Yvette,” Colonel Mustard orders.

Glancing from Lena to Miss Scarlet, and finally to Yvette’s large chest, I eagerly accept this silly charade on the pretense that there will be a buffet of breasts in my near future. Even Mrs. Peacock, as quirky as she is, has a nice rack.

Crossing her legs and revealing a lace garter, Yvette mutters, “I heard a gun in the studee. I don’t want to be all alone so I scweamed.”

“Aaaahhhhaaa! Help!”

“Who’s screaming now?” Mr. Green asks, running in the direction of the yelp.

Following the other guests’ lead and plodding off toward the kitchen, I place my hand on Miss Scarlet’s back. She stops, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me. I run my hands up and down her body as Lena bumps into us.

“Shall we go to the kitchen?” Lena frowns.

We move quickly to the kitchen to find a large woman dressed as a cook draped on top of Wadsworth. He’s squirming beneath her dead weight until Colonel Mustard and Mr. Green heave her body onto a nearby chair. Obviously, she’s not really dead, and the blood stain on her back looks incredibly fake. I also catch her breathing but decide to just look away in fear that I may laugh.

“Another murder!” Mrs. Peacock screams.

Wadsworth stands inches from my face and says, “If I’m not mistaken, Professor Plum was given the dagger used to kill the cook.”

Everyone gasps.

Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “Uh, yeah. But I left it in the study.”

“So anyone could have taken the dagger,” Lena adds in my defense.

“But we were all in the billiard room with Yvette,” Mr. Green protests.

Actually, no. I saw Wadsworth carrying the knife and sneaking off somewhere.

Colonel Mustard wipes his brow and exhales. “That can only mean that there is someone else in the house.”

In unison, the women flutter and flail and Mrs. Peacock even loses her balance.

“We need to search the house — it’s time for everyone’s favorite part.” Wadsworth removes some long matches from a drawer and begins to cut them into different lengths, a pair at each size. “We’ll pair off and then decide what to do as a group. Bedrooms are on the second and third floor. Each pair can take a room.”

Finally! I wonder what Mr. Boddy and the cook do during the sex portion of the party.

Wadsworth distributes the matchsticks as I move closer to Lena — I want her to know that I want to be with her. Colonel Mustard and Yvette pair up and leave the kitchen in a hurry. They’re probably heading straight for the biggest bed. Next, Mrs. Peacock and Wadsworth tap their matches together and join arms. Wadsworth gives me a sly smile as he passes me on his way out of the kitchen. My odds are awesome, and hopefully Lena won’t be upset or jealous if I end up with Miss …

“You’re with me, sister,” Miss Scarlett teases. Holding their matchsticks together, Lena and Miss Scarlett acknowledge their matching pair.

But?

That leaves …

“Let’s go, Professor — I know where we should start.”

Nope. No. Nada. Uh uh. Never in a million years.

Full of frustration and nursing a bad case of blue balls, I shout, “Lena, I’m not fucking a guy. You’re welcome to stay and have your fun, but I just can’t do this.”

Mr. Green’s eyes widen as he frowns in horror. Worried that I may have offended him, I quickly add, “Bro, it’s not you. I’m into women.”

Breaking character, Lena stomps toward me and barks, “Chris, what in the hell are you talking about?”

“The sex party. Hey, I’m okay with being paired with a stranger, but I’m not comfortable with a guy.”

“Sex party?” Miss Scarlet snickers.

“Chris, if you haven’t noticed, this is a group of intellectuals that meet once a month for Clue reenactments. We needed a Plum … wait, why on earth would you think I was bringing you to a sex party?”

If I really think long and hard about her question, I will just end up embarrassing myself further. So instead, I simply place my hands on Lena’s shoulders and kiss her cheek. “I should probably go.”

I make my way through the entry hall and straight toward the front door, secretly praying that none of the others follow me. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I glance at myself in the entry mirror. Shit! I’m such an idiot. And I can’t even open the door. What the actual fuck?

“Chris,” Lena’s voice rasps.

I turn to face her and force a smile. “Lena tonight has been equally intriguing and ridiculous. I think I enjoyed some of it, but it’s just not my thing.”

“I’m really sorry I gave you the wrong impression about the party. When I met you today, you seemed like a guy that would be laid back and fun. It takes a certain kind of guy to put up with my little hobby.”

And maybe I could make it work — her hobby in exchange for kinky sex. “I’ll call you next week,” I say. And I will. I can take her to dinner on my own terms and bring her back to my own apartment.

“I’d like that. Here, I need to unlock the door.” Removing a key from a jar near the door, she adds, “Rules of the game.”

“Good night, Lena.”

She gives me a tiny, pathetic wave — alerting me that I will never see her or my Stetson again.

Once I’m outside, I walk a few blocks, enjoying the fresh air and laughing at my own stupidity. I take out my phone and text Adam.

ME: You will never believe where I was.

Adam: In the library with the revolver.

11:45 p.m.

By day, Bleecker Street is a typical Downtown avenue with businesses and apartment buildings. Tonight, in the midst of ghouls and goblins, it rivals Sixth Street in Austin during the South by Southwest music festival. People spill onto the street outside Bixby’s bar wearing an array of costumes — although I doubt anyone else has a story like mine. After squeezing through some pimps and hookers and stepping on the rubber claw of an oversized chicken, I spot Adam and his girlfriend, Chloe, standing at a high cocktail table.

Chloe, enchanting as usual, sashays toward me wearing layers of suede and floral, and a skirt that drags the floor. She has a daisy tucked behind her ear and a beaded headband fastened around her long, brown hair.

“Chris!” Smiling dazedly, she forms a ‘V’ with her index and middle fingers. “Peace, my brother.”

“Nice costume, Moon Beam.”

Chloe takes my hand and drags me to the table with Adam and a tray of pumpkin-flavored beer. “I heard you had an interesting night,” she says over her shoulder.

Adam smiles arrogantly and adds, “Hey, Brooks, glad you made it out of there alive.”

“Ha ha. Get all the jokes out now so I can enjoy the rest of my night,” I demand. “Where’s your costume?”

Chloe laughs as she says, “Did you expect Adam to be wearing anything that might make him look slightly ridiculous?” She passes me a pumpkin ale and places her elbow on Adam’s shoulder. “Show Chris your costume.”

Adam sighs and then points to the front of his gray T-shirt. I can make out some lettering and a canoe forged inside a circle. Ah, Camp Crystal Lake, the fictional camp of the Friday 13th franchise. My cousin, Daisy, was an extra in the first movie — and if the VHS tape is paused at just the exact second, her sneakers with the rainbow laces make a cameo. “Understated brilliance, bro,” I admit.

Chloe then puts her arms around Adam’s waist as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. I want that someday — someday when I’m ready.

“So Chris, how did you end up as a prime suspect in a murder dinner theater?” Chloe asks.

“I can answer that. It was payback,” Adam interjects.

Surprised, Chloe asks, “So you knew where he was going? Sometimes you two act like little boys.”

“He kidnapped my cactus!” Adam sarcastically whines.

Puzzled, I ask, “How did you know about the party? Wait, lemme guess — she invited you to go before she even met me.”

Placing his empty bottle of beer on the table and taking another one, Adam answers cockily, “Of course she asked me first, Brooks.”

“Wait, who are you talking about?” Chloe interrupts.

Adam turns to Chloe, rubbing her shoulder and smiling. “Remember that mystery writer I told you about? Lena DeMarco? She’s been researching white collar trials for the past month. She’s friends with someone important because I was instructed to give her full access.”

“Oh, yeah. I read her last novel,” Chloe says, nodding her head.

DeMarco. I only knew her as Ms. White.

“She came in today for a file. Before Lena left, she invited me to the Clue reenactment. I declined and found her a replacement,” Adam teases with a smile.

Chloe looks at me and asks, “And then what happened?”

“Adam introduced me to Lena. She introduced herself as Lena White — Adam didn’t correct her, and he failed to give me a heads up.”

“Ad-am.” Chloe pinches his waist as he laughs.

“Chloe, it was fine. At first,” I whisper.

“Really? Like how?”

“Don’t think I’m crude, okay?” Chloe is a lady, and my intentions are sometimes ungentlemanly.

“I’m not a prude,” she defends.

Throwing back some warm ale, I laugh at the night’s events. “Lena’s smokin’ hot, and I wanted to get laid. I was invited to her apartment where I drank cognac and then allowed a woman to sexually control me — she did some dirty things to me.” I raise my t-shirt and show them the lipstick stains on my chest. “And then she promised even dirtier things if I dressed how she wanted and took her to a party,” I say, finger-quoting the last word.

Confused, Adam asks, “So you didn’t know it was a Clue party?”

“No, you jackass. In fact, she kept talking about interacting with other guests and role-playing — even told me to let it all go and enjoy new experiences.” I lower the volume of my voice, knowing that Adam will find my next statement hysterical. “I thought we were going to a sex party.”

They both erupt in laughter. Adam slaps my back and teases, “So when did you figure out the mystery?”

“Colonel Mustard was the a-ha moment,” I answer, embarrassed.

“And that’s when you left?” Chloe asks, still chuckling.

I close my eyes and exhale. “Not exactly. I thought it was just a nerdy swinger party, and when you have such high hopes for sex in a new way, it’s impossible to believe it could be anything else.”

“Shit, Brooks! When did you finally figure it out?” Adam quips.

“Can I get a stronger drink first?” I ask, placing the nasty beer on the table.

Chloe shakes her head. “Not tonight. The bar is only serving pumpkin ale and the house special.”

Frowning, I say, “Well, after the maid was killed with my dagger in the kitchen, it clicked. To make the long story short — ”

“Too late.”

That voice. Her voice.

“Nat, you’re here!” Chloe shouts.

Natalie.

“Looking cheesy, Adam. Who’s the geek with the elbow patches?”

Damn, her snarky mouth is incredible.

Turning around to meet her gaze, I glance at my watch — willing it to stop. Our eyes connect. There she is … the girl that will eventually belong to me.

“Do you remember Chris?” I think Chloe asks the question. But I can’t be sure as I enter a new dimension that only consists of Natalie, smiling in suspended time.

“Hey, darlin’,” I finally say with a smirk.

Her red lips part and slowly form a smile. “Hey.”

There’s conversation happening all around us, muffled and unimportant. Monster Mash pounds through the speakers as a few guys dressed in ridiculous costumes whistle as they walk past Natalie. But I don’t look. This is our bubble — a public seclusion of two people destined to be together.

“Odd costume,” she teases, thumbing my sleeve.

“Long story,” I reply, taking her hand.

Chloe interrupts our moment of suspension by shouting over the music. “Nice costume, Nat! Only you could pull off Marilyn Monroe. Want a beer?”

I glance at my watch as Natalie turns her head. As I suspected, no time has elapsed.

“Pumpkin beer is vile. What else is there?” Natalie asks.

“Blood-orange Sangria. Hey, did Pete come with you?” Adam asks, organizing the empty beer bottles on a tray.

Natalie sighs. “I left his lederhosen-wearing-ass at the party in Chelsea,” she looks back at me with a smile, “and came here.”

Best decision she’ll ever make.

Taking her hand, I say, “Let’s get a drink.” Walking toward the bar, I notice the eyes of every single guy skimming her body — Natalie’s a vision tonight, platinum wig and iconic white dress swaying against her hips — but she’s mine.

Soon.

The first and last time I saw Natalie, she had some major shit going on in her life. But on that night, I knew without a doubt that we would eventually be together. Funny how fate likes to control the outcome. And funny how we both allow it, knowing that one day it won’t matter.

“Here, grab that seat,” I say, guiding her by the small of her back to an empty chair.

Natalie sits on the leather stool and pulls me in next to her. “Let’s order the Sangria.”

While motioning for the bartender, I place my other arm around her bare shoulder. The bartender, dressed as the alien, Alf, places two napkins on the bar in front of us.

“Beer or Red Rum?” he asks in a nasally voice.

“Red Rum, I guess.”

When the bartender leaves, Natalie swivels slightly on the stool, her knee resting under my nuts. “How’ve you been, Chris?”

“I’m good. Busy at work.”

With her blue eyes sparkling, Natalie asks the inevitable question. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Nah, holding out for someone special. You?”

“Yeah, but nothing serious. No one special.” Her hand moves to the waistband of my jeans as her pinky strokes my stomach. But when the bartender places the mini pitcher of blood-red liquid on the bar, she quickly removes her hand.

“May I present, Red Rum. Do you want to start a tab?” the bartender asks.

“Sure,” I say, pouring the alcoholic punch into our glasses. He leaves an orange ticket next to the pitcher and waddles away toward the other patrons in his furry costume.

When it’s just us, alone in a pocket of space controlled by fate, I smile. Returning my smile with a wink, Natalie brings the glass of Sangria to her mouth. She slowly takes a sip, and then staring into my eyes, sensually licks her lips.

I simply watch.

“Perfection. Do you want a taste?” Natalie asks.

I take the glass from her hand and place it on the bar next to mine. Leaning in and inching closer, we let our lips linger on the verge of a new story — our story. Placing all my faith in our future, I don’t kiss her, not yet.

I shift behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders, and pressing my mouth against her ear.

“Soon,” I whisper.

Are you craving more from Chris, Natalie, Adam and Chloe?

Continue on their timeless journey of friendship and love in the upcoming release, The Album.

A moment, a kiss, a love, an epic soundtrack.

Available 11.11.14

Hey y’all!

Fifteen years ago I became a permanent New Yorker, but I have yet to abandon my Texas charm. NYC is an amazing place to find inspiration — the random and the ordinary that make up reality. My writing showcases inspired ideas, as well as my love for dichotomy, authenticity and humor.

I'm just a girl. A girl with a dream. A dream to write for television. I also had a dream to marry Christian Bale, but I digress. I'm a girl with a dream to write and write and write until someone tells me to stop. And even then I would find a way to write about the jerk who wanted me to stop.

Connect with Ashley Pullo

Website: www.ashleypullo.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/ashleypullo

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AshPullo

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/ashpullo

Email: authorashpullo@gmail.com

Mailing List: www.ashleypullo.com

The Album 11.11.14

The Ballad 12.11.14