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I've been writing since I could first hold a pencil, and by all accounts I didn't limit myself to paper. Walls, tablecloths and the occasional sibling were all fair game, and it shouldn't be surprising to learn that markers were banned in my home with all due haste. Although I now content myself with inconveniencing electrons, the desire to bring the stories in my mind to life hasn't waned. In my spare time, I read, putter in the kitchen, and relax on my terrace, weather permitting, with my corgi who strives to be part muse, part food disposal. I'm also addicted to coffee and have a close relationship with my Keurig.

Friday, May 2, 2014

"Hunting Elysium"

All rights reserved by the author, and unauthorized duplication is prohibited. This one's for you, Melrick.


Hunting Elysium

September is one of those months in New York City. It's as brash and steamy as Times Square used to be, before the morality brigade got their panties in a twist and drove the hookers and the neon elsewhere. You have to head downtown now, or to the outer boroughs. That's just not right. No one should have to go to Staten Island to get an itch scratched.

But there I was, walking around the sanitized version of Times Square, dodging the tourists as they stood around gawking at the imitation sleaze. It's times like this you wonder if anyone in this town speaks English anymore. I was disgusted enough to want a cigarette, but you can't do that anymore, either. No whores, no tobacco, no oversized cups of sugary soda to take the edge off the warmth of the night. It's enough to make you want a real drink, but yeah. Not after last time.

Besides, I had a job. A real job, that might get me out of this rat trap of a neighborhood for good. I didn't need a lot more. I'd been saving for this for a long time now, squirreling away the favors for that one big payoff. Damned if I was staying in this town, in a place where Hell's Kitchen was as expensive as Yorkville used to be, before Yorkville turned into a place where only millionaires can live. None of the old places were around anymore, and nowhere felt like home. I needed to get out, and I wasn't going to let anything distract me.

Last time, though. It was a night a lot like this one. I was hot, and frustrated, and the bar door was open. The stale smell of beer that spilled out on a wave of cold air smelled like an Elysian field. Yeah, I read. I'm not stupid. Just subject to poor judgment.

I started with a beer, just to take the edge off. I wasn't planning on more. I wasn't. But she looked at me, and she smiled, with those red lips and those dark eyes that promised sin. What else was I supposed to do? I ordered her a drink, and when the barkeep reached for the Dewar's, I told him to make it two.

I don't even remember her name. Maybe she never told me. I remember the creamy feel of her skin when she slid against my bare arm. I remember the way she stood, tall and curvy, and held out her hand, the nails long and crimson. The last time I'd seen anything shine so perfectly had been a set of false fingernails some asshole was hawking on a corner. I watched her brush the dark curls off her shoulder, saw them tumble down her back, and I knocked back my scotch. The fifth, or maybe the twelfth. Not like I was keeping track.

She led me around the corner, used a shiny brass key to open a plain sort of door. The stairs were carpeted, a fact that managed to penetrate the magnetism of her swaying ass as I followed her. The same key opened another door, a matching brass "8" bright against the black wood. I didn't think there was a motel room I hadn't been in by now, but this was something else. I suppose the bit of blood on the pillow should have warned me, but the scotch made me stupid and that silken skin made me drunk.

She let me get naked, my cheap boxers feeling like a billboard advertising how far down the ladder I was from her, with her satin slip clinging to the lush curves of her. I could see the tight peaks of her nipples, and I reached for one strap as I shoved those crappy, faded boxers down, my cock as hard as a beat cop's night stick. I could smell her, musky and exotic, with the faintest scent of lilies and old earth that didn't click until later.

The satin slip ran over her curves like cool water to pool at her feet, while I gawked like a horny teenager. Dark nipples, dusky and proud against that pale skin, a perfect triangle of dark curls hiding her sweet core. I think I moaned. Shit, I all but drooled. Guys like me, we didn't meet women like this. But if she wanted to slum, who was I to complain? I pushed her back onto the featherbed and the cotton sheets that felt softer than clouds, and I felt my cock slide into the tightest, wettest pussy I'd ever encountered. I know I moaned then.

At least the razor was sharp. I never felt it at all, balls deep as I was in her heat. I saw her open her mouth, saw her teeth, as sharp and pointed as any shark, saw them turn as red as her lips. Yeah. Like I said, poor judgment.

But that was then, and tonight was the job. She was back, and the Big Guy wanted her stopped. Apparently, having a lamia stalking the streets of New York was bad form. And let's face it, it's not like she could kill me twice. I wasn't going to bet on my chances if the Big Guy's wife caught wind of this, though. Hera was the one that cursed his little piece on the side and made her the poor dating choice that she was today. Hera was more than capable of killing me hundreds of times, even more creatively than her lamia had. Don't fuck with a pissed off goddess.


Still, Zeus had promised. Do in his ex once and for all, and the Elysian fields awaited. I patted my pocket, feeling the blade he'd given me, the tingle of power reassuring as I paced and waited for the scent of lilies and old earth to lead me home.

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