His ex-wife had called him foolish, allowing his daughter free rein over his checking account and access to his apartment while he dawdled around Europe and basked in the magnificence of cultures long dead, feeling sorry for himself. “Just don’t be surprised when you come back and discover you only have seventeen cents in the bank,” she warned. “It won’t take much for her to plow through the Garment District.”

“How can I be sure you wouldn’t try the same thing if I asked you to handle my expenses?” he had asked her slyly over the phone the night before boarding the plane. “I think I can trust my own flesh and blood with this.”

“Don’t be too sure,” a singsong reply caressed Brady’s ear. “She just might take revenge, considering you aren’t taking her to Europe with you.”

Brady sighed as the memories faded into white noise, and he plunged his hands into the junk mail pile, sifting half-heartedly through it. He looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen at night on a Friday—New York City was just waking up for the night, eager to revel in varying degrees of merriment and debauchery after eight hours of clock-watching. Messages retrieved on his cell phone revealed that he had no offers for projects and bookings waiting for him, either, and no prospects of any in the near future. His ex-wife was happily married to an orthodontist in Connecticut, his little girl was grown and preoccupied with her own life, Claire was moving on without him, and he was alone.

“Great,” he whispered involuntarily, dropping the mail back on the counter and retreating with the last of his travel bags to his bedroom. He tried not to feel bitter about it. Claire did deserve a real boyfriend, somebody strong and self-sufficient, and she had said she wanted as much. She wanted somebody dependable, and apparently a dependable man was not the type to jet across country on a whim.

But what was wrong with being spontaneous, being fun? Surely lawyers were permitted to cut loose every once in a while.

“I’m not an idiot,” he said aloud, staring balefully at the array of luggage he had tossed on his bed. Yes, he was famous, and had money, and liked to spend it and do wild things. He had earned the right to do just that. Why did Claire have to equate a fun-loving attitude with immaturity? Angrily he poked at a bag. Who had rammed that stick so far up her ass?

He sighed. Such a nice, heart-shaped ass it was, too. What he wouldn’t do for a nice piece of ass right about now. To think, too, he had behaved himself in Europe. He didn’t take advantage to get to know of any of the pretty girls floating past him on Paris streets, or lounging in Venetian gondolas, or leaning over a rail in Rome for a better view of stone ruins, supple breasts in full view and threatening to spill from a floral sundress.

Instead, had made good use of his right hand for much of the trip. It certainly would not have done his career any good to let his lust over his senses, leaving him to slut all over Europe. They had gossip tabloids, too, and his records sold well over there. No sense in endangering his career to satisfy his lust.

Brady rummaged through folded shirts and pants, forcing a chuckle. What career, he had to ask himself. He had not cut an album in almost two years, and while the royalties on his previous works were still brisk, he knew he could not live on them forever. The well would eventually run dry if he continued to spend and did not become productive again.

He froze. This was probably what Claire had meant by his being immature. Quickly, though, he shook his head and resumed. He was spontaneous, yes, but never careless with his money. He had hoped the trip would inspire him to write some new material. Instead, he arrived home with an armload of dirty laundry and empty notebooks.

Yet the trip was not a total loss. He smiled, thinking back to the pretty scenery of Europe, particularly that of the feminine persuasion. God, but was he horny right now. His cock stiffened slightly. Why couldn’t Claire have changed her mind about him when he got back?

He tossed his dirty clothes on the floor. No visitors were expected, no photo shoots for People or Rolling Stone were booked, so who was going to see how slovenly he lived? Who was going to care?

He felt tired, but not so fatigued as to want to sleep. There was so much to do now. He wanted to write again, record again.

He wanted more of a homecoming than an empty apartment, too. It would have been nice to have somebody welcomed him home by wrapping her legs around his waist as his cock firmly imbedded itself in her pussy.

There was that feeling again, however, that hardening in his pants that required a woman’s touch to appease. Now, though, it would have to be his own, just for the sake of ending it.

“God, help me.”

A fleeting thought of retirement flashed through his mind. He shook the notion away with the cobwebs, removing his stale shirt and unbuckling his belt as he padded into the bathroom. The Stones were nowhere close to retiring, and The Who were always coming out of retirement. Those guys were older than he was. Why should he consider hanging it up because of writer’s block? Could he afford to now?

I’ll get over it. I’ll be fine. He had endured many lows professionally and romantically, and survived.

I’d feel much finer after a blowjob, though. He sighed.

He caught his face in his bathroom mirror, and nearly panicked at the sight of the stranger before him. Whose face was this? Who owned these hollow, gray eyes—eyes a national celebrity magazine had once called haunting and, coupled with his silky bass, able to bring a woman to climax—sinking underneath worried brows? His dark brown hair, cropped closely to his head, showed threats of silver, especially around the temples and sideburns. Loose jowls and bags under his eyes were evident in the harsh light lining the mirror.

No wonder he was able to slip through La Guardia unrecognized—he looked terrible. Even in the city, where television and movie personalities could roam unfettered, Brady averaged about ten autograph requests a day while strolling along the streets. Here, he looked old, nothing like the suave Lothario who had graced his album covers over the past twenty-five years.

Momentarily he pressed his forefingers above his cheekbones and pushed the skin backward, smoothing away the wrinkles. It was hardly an improvement. Other performers, either friends or acquaintances, had succumbed to the knife in order to keep up with the legion of pre-packaged boy bands vying for their audiences. While not a vain man, the thought of a slight nip and tuck had crossed Brady’s mind on occasion, but the end decision was always the same. Improving his looks was secondary to improving his craft, which needed all the help it could get right now. At least his face did not look like it was going to melt.

I’ll embrace gravity, thank you, he silently told the mirror, and released his touch. Wasn’t fifty supposed to be the new thirty, anyway? Weren’t men supposed to get sexier as they got older, like Sean Connery and Harrison Ford? Had they succumbed to the knife? Regardless, he would remain untouched. To try to recapture youth in such a way would be…

Immature.

He removed his clothes. At least the rest of his body did not show the ravages of time as well. Consistent diet and exercise left his body well-toned and easy on any woman’s eye. His blessedly large non-musical instrument proved no need for artificial stimulants, if his current, growing state of arousal was any proof.

In the claustrophobic confines of his tiled shower stall, Brady let the stinging hot water wash away the grime and muscular discomfort of the long transatlantic flight home. Finding a sliver of bay-scented soap resting in its cove, he lathered his chest and arms, trying to ignore his growing erection.

Fat chance. It would not be ignored, and nobody was going to slip into the shower to help.

He closed his eyes and arched his face into the spray. His right hand, still palming the soap, slid down his abdomen to rake through the patch of damp pubic hair covering the base of his now erect cock. Brady cupped his swollen scrotum, caressing the growing ache, and worked his hand slowly up and down his shaft, squeezing his circumcised tip and tracing the bobbing veins. His left hand idly plucked at one nipple, already puckered from the water needles stabbing his chest, then the other. Oh, to have somebody—anybody, Claire, whoever—in here with him to do this. Just to feel a warm body clinging tightly to his.

Here, now, there was only the water to cover him as the buildup of his emotions burst, and he came, shooting his load into the tile with a stifled cry. His orgasm was quick but racked his entire body, and it dissolved quickly as he opened his eyes to see what was left of the soap spiraling with his come into the drain between his feet.

He looked at his hand, wrinkled from prolonged exposure in the shower. If it wrinkled any more, perhaps it would atrophy. He wouldn’t be able to play piano if he kept this up, he realized.

Mute, he quickly rinsed, then ceased the shower’s flow with one strong yank on the faucet. He toweled himself off, cinched tightly his terry cloth robe, and shaved. His appearance improved as a result, but not so his mood, the one-armed exercise in the shower notwithstanding.

As he applied a cold, stinging after-shave to his face the bedroom phone rang, jarring all melancholy thoughts to the back burner.

His heart leaped into his mouth. Claire? Had she changed her mind after all?

The robe’s belt loosened as he dashed out of the bathroom, causing the flaps to fly wide open and expose his skin to the cold. Goose flesh erupted on his legs and hips; unconsciously one hand fell to rub it all away.

He answered on the second peal, then tried to mask his disappointment as he greeted the caller.

“The Prodigal Son of a Bitch returns!” hailed the hearty voice on the other line. “You better have brought me back something nice.”

Brady smiled, happy to hear Cal Briscoe, his best friend and one of the best studio musicians in the city. He returned the greeting in the cheeriest voice he could muster. “I tried, but she wouldn’t get into the suitcase,” he joked. “I’m guessing a little bird named Melissa told you I was back?”

“Bingo. She said she figured you could stand to see some familiar faces again, you know, to get back in sync,” Cal said. “Now, granted, I probably ain’t as appealing as those French broads you probably met overseas, but I was just finishing up here—”

“Where’s here?” A pang seized his chest. He listened closely and heard laughter in the background on Cal’s end.

“Sound on Sound.” Cal mentioned one of the many recording studios in the city. “Chelsea’s calling it quits for the night. I’ve been here since six.”

Brady nodded. Of course Cal would be working, there was no reason for him to wait around for Brady to decide to record again. Chelsea, being a popular jazz vocalist, would certainly want the best bass player on the eastern seaboard, if not the whole country, to accompany her deep, honey-coated vocals.

“I thought I’d head out to Knickerbocker’s to get a bite,” Cal was saying. “Why don’t you meet me there? You could regale me with stories of near misses from driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“Chelsea’s busy then, huh?” Brady teased. It was common knowledge among those in the music industry that the jazz diva tended to engage in more than professional relationships with her musicians.

“Drummer beat me to her, no pun intended.”

“Okay, sure, Knick’s is fine,” he chuckled. “It’d be nice to have a cold, watered-down American beer again.” He tried not to sound too lacking of enthusiasm. It would be nice to see Cal again after such a long absence, but in truth he did not feel hungry. Actually, he was hungry, but not for one of Knickerbocker’s signature hamburgers.

His cock stirred again.

Stop it, he admonished himself. He was going mad. “I’ll see you down there in, say, half an hour?” he told Cal.

Cal affirmed and Brady hung up the phone. Yes, he decided. Maybe not something to eat, but a drink would be good, anyway. A drink might help him forget his problems, if only momentarily.

He looked down at himself, willing away another threatening erection.

Europe had not done the trick. He wondered if anything would.

Under Covers - Buy Now

The scent of the cinnamon candy offered to me hadn't the strength to pervade the room and mask the aroma of the obvious afternoon delight my editor, Yale Barnes, had enjoyed with his secretary. The notion of those two--she the poster child for Goth Chicks Anonymous and he the twin brother of Jabba the Hutt--bumping uglies amused as much as it disgusted me. Yale was at least twice her age to boot; proof of God's existence, or not, depending on your view of how things work.

I closed the office door behind me and had to stifle a laugh at the image conjured in my head of Yale's hairy ass bobbing in coitus, Alissa's spindly fishnet legs trying to hook together at the ankles. No, I've not seen the boss' tush myself, but it had to be shaggier than carpet; there certainly wasn't much on his head.

Yale popped three tiny red pellets into his mouth. I could hear them clacking against his teeth in a disjointed melody. "What's so damn funny?" he demanded.

"Nothing." The word came out singsong through twisted lips.

Yale grunted and snapped the proffered tin shut. He gestured me to the free chair before his desk with the other hand. It was going to take more than three mints to mask the flavor of Goth pussy from his wife, but I elected not to be a smartass and suggest that. Snickering in his presence was close enough of a career killer, and for all I knew he was about to give me a raise.

Instead, the first two words out of his mouth were, "Ellyn Grizzard."

Then came the smirk, the Cheshire grin of a cat with a speck of feather caught between his fangs. This was the look that precluded an exclusive for the paper--pure, unadulterated trash.

"No." Not Ellyn Grizzard. Getting a raise would be preferable to digging up dirt and using it to bury Ellyn Grizzard. Getting fired would be preferable.

I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach. Ellyn Grizzard is a revered name in my parents' household. Ellyn Grizzard hosts a daily Christian worship program that is syndicated nationally, though her ministry headquarters is located not far from here. Her devotional books and tapes are reported to sell into the millions. Imagine Oprah genetically spliced with Mother Teresa, add a pink Chanel suit and matching heels, then top the whole thing with a pouf of silver cotton candy for hair. Ellyn Grizzard.

It isn't all a facade, either. Despite the aesthetics, Ellyn Grizzard comes off as very sincere, and I suppose it is possible for some people to look sincere and drive a Mercedes.

Ellyn Grizzard collects canned goods and shoes for poor people. Ellyn Grizzard once sang "The Old Rugged Cross" with Johnny Cash, and used to have lunch with Billy Graham whenever he was in town.

Far as the world was concerned, Ellyn Grizzard walked on water. The devious gleam in Yale's eye insinuated that he wanted me, or rather Libby Hoffman, to grab Ellyn Grizzard by the ankles and pull. Yale wouldn't ask anyone of such a thing, either, if there weren't something concrete to prove.

I cringed. Not Ellyn Grizzard. Scandalous behavior was only supposed to be indicative of male ministers, the Bakkers and Swaggarts of this world. My mother would die to think that one of her idols might be hiding skeletons.

"Ellyn Grizzard," Yale continued, his head tilting at a confident angle, "is a great big bull dyke."

And maybe fucking them, too. Fucking butch, lesbo skeletons.

"No." That I could not believe. I had only seen the woman's show one time, not by choice, and was subjected to a tearful thirty-minute explanation of why all homosexuals were doomed to wade without flotation devices in the Lake of Fire for all eternity unless they rejected temptations of the flesh. Her voice had such conviction; she quoted Scripture to back her claims, and actually thumped the damn Bible she was holding in time to the blinking phone number on the bottom of the screen.

"Yes," Yale insisted.

"No," I said vehemently.

Yale nodded. "She's a lesbo. A queer. A butch bitch. A friend of Dorothy."

"My mother goes to her church."

"She's a breast woman, a carpet muncher, a sister of Sappho. Probably spells woman with a y and has a Melissa Etheridge CD in the dash of that Mercedes she bought with the tithes of a hundred little old ladies."

Did I mention Yale is an atheist? I doubt God believes in him either.

"I don't believe it." I slumped further into the chair.

"Believe it, girlie." Yale stuck his fat hand into an open drawer and produced a tattered envelope. "Got a hot tip that Miss Holier Than All of Us has been slumming the local dyke bars looking for the love that dare not speak its name."

"She better hope nobody speaks it on her show. It's live, you know, they can't edit it out," I muttered. This was something I could not picture. Ellyn Grizzard could have been one of the Golden Girls, if any of them had developed a habit of punctuating their speech with Praise Jesus in every other sentence. To hear this bit of alleged news was akin to learning that my eighty-year-old grandmother liked eating pussy. I shivered at the unbidden image burning in the back of my skull.

"I hope not, either. If this lead pans out, I want the Spectator to scoop it before anyone else." He upturned the envelope and three thin matchbooks fell to the desk. One was black and embossed in gold with a profile of a naked woman, not unlike she of the truck mud flap variety. "Your cell has a camera feature, right?"

"Yeah, but--"

"Check the batteries and hit the bars. Try not to look conspicuous," Yale said.

I rolled my eyes. I only made my living as an undercover reporter, yet Yale never failed to coach me on a job I could do better than he had ever done. This is why Yale is the editor--he sits behind his desk and dictates. Then he shifts in his chair to allow Alissa deeper access when she's kneeling underneath to suck his cock.

"Good thing I had my khakis pressed," I muttered, but he wasn't listening.

"I'd like to have seven inches of copy before we go to press. Get to it."

I waited for the inevitable joke about Ellyn Grizzard needing a good seven inches herself, but Yale simply folded his hands on the desk. No jokes, that meant business.

I slid the matchbooks toward me and turned them in my palm. In three days I had to patronize such aptly named establishments as the Grecian Urn, Club Virgo, and Uncle Marge's, all because of a tip claiming that maybe some senior citizen evangelist was grazing on the other side of the fence, fields in which I had never thought to step. Surely our readership would be more interested in seeing pictures of a sweet potato that looked like Paris Hilton. We had three leads submitted just this morning.

The look on Yale's face, the silent, urgent command that I take my assignment and get the hell out of his office, told me different. He was a man of few words, preferring to reserve his energy for the computer keyboard, and apparently for whatever he did with Alissa. My rebuttal went unspoken as his chubby finger pointed the way out his door to these greener pastures inhabited by women with crew cuts and Birkenstock sandals.

Voyeur - Buy Now

"Do they, uh, do it a lot, then?"

Sheila nodded. "See, here's the thing. Mr. Baylor didn't want his wife to check in here. He wanted her to stay at home, but she insisted she come so he wouldn't have to worry about her. She even offered to divorce him so he could move on and find somebody else. Can you believe that shit?" Sheila scoffed. "I tell you, Mrs. Baylor must be stumping for sainthood to do something like that. If that were me, I'd have my husband waiting on me hand and foot every day, even if I didn't know who the hell he was."

From what she knew about Sheila, Marissa imagined the nurse would do exactly that. Perhaps the diminutive black woman could make Alzheimer's cower as well.

"So, Mr. Baylor visits every day after school, he teaches high school not far from here, and gets him some every chance he gets. I tell you, child, they must have had one hell of a sex life before this happened, because he doesn't seem to want to let this get in the way of it. Uh-unh." Sheila inhaled deeply and looked far away, no doubt pining for the same kind of sex life for herself. "So, when he visits he waits it out here," she continued, "and when her memory is good they don't waste any time, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do," Marissa said, and wrapped her hands around the dewy aluminum can. The cold did little to quell the heat of arousal that still burned within her. Back in Room 112, Mrs. Baylor had her hand cuffed around a warm, wet cock, which to Marissa's eyes had equaled the girth of the can. "I take it today was a good day, then?"

"Thank you, child. I could use a good day like that." Sheila laughed, stood, and tossed her empty can into a nearby recycling bin. "Come on," she gestured Marissa to stand. "Let's find you something to do that won't involve walking in on naked people."

"So no sponge baths, then?" Marissa joked, and Sheila laughed again.

"Usually we start the new people in the cafeteria serving lunch. That way you'll get to meet most everybody here and put names to faces."

Marissa did not argue, but stood silently and took a deep breath to subside the arousal coursing through her blood, warming her breasts. It wouldn't look dignified, either, to be walking through the home with her thighs pressed together like she was more of a pati—, resident.

She followed Sheila down another hall leading to another wing of the building. They were about halfway to their destination when Sheila suddenly leaned into Marissa.

"You get a good look at that man's dick?" she sang in a low voice.

"What?" Marissa blushed. How could she respond to that? While it had been difficult not to look, there was Mrs. Baylor's head obscuring the shaft's full glory. To be honest, Marissa would not have minded a better look. She was not, however, going to confide that to Sheila, whom she barely knew aside from reputation.

Sheila chuckled softly at her embarrassment. "Have you?" Marissa countered. "I mean, ever got a good look, at him?"

"Well, uh…"

Marissa's answer was forgotten at the turn of a corner as she ran into a hard body. The sound of a clipboard hitting the floor jarred her nerves. Hands touched her everywhere to steady her. She felt ready to come, heady with the scent of cologne.

"Oh!"

"Marissa! I'm so sorry." Glen Cooksey's deep voice rumbled in Marissa's ears and sent a pleasured sensation down her chest to her heart. Glen was the home's supervisor, a handsome man of about thirty-five with sandy blond hair, matching mustache, and dark eyes. Now, though, his features were a blur as Marissa tried to steady her frame, and her urges, in his grip.

"I'm sorry," he echoed, "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. You okay?"

"Fine," Marissa muttered. She rubbed her head and tried not to look at him; she didn't want Glen to see her flushed expression. Yet, Glen was too easy on the eye to resist. His dress was always semi-casual; when Marissa interviewed with him, she imagined his closets were stuffed with nothing but Polo shirts and khaki slacks. Today's Polo was blue with yellow piping around the sleeve cuffs.

Sheila stepped in to rescue Marissa from further stammering. She touched Marissa's arm and lead her slowly down the hallway. "Marissa and I are on the way to the cafeteria to start with the lunch shift."

Glen bent down for his clipboard, allowing both women a nice view of his tight backside and taut thighs. Marissa heard Sheila's sotto voce sigh of approval. "Yes, yes," he was saying as he consulted the clipboard. "Was just coming to find you for duty, Marissa, but I see you're in good hands. I'll see you later, then." Just like that, the busy supervisor disappeared around the corner.

"Um-hmm." Sheila's smile was dreamy. "There's another one."

"Another what?" Marissa shook away further lustful thoughts, but found it difficult to expel the image now of Glen's large hands kneading her breasts and tweaking her nipples. Why was she thinking like this? Had the Baylors affected her this much, or maybe it had really been that long since she had sex, that anyone would do.

Glen Cooksey was handsome, though…and the big boss. No, it wouldn't work. It couldn't.

"Another fine specimen of man," Sheila had said. "You see that bulge when he bent over? I tell you, child, I wouldn't mind me some of that."

Marissa turned her gaze straight ahead of her again, and she caught the slightly open door of a linen closet as she fell in step behind Sheila. The image of Glen's hand became more vivid in her mind now as she pictured her naked self gripping a coat peg attached to the closet wall for support, while Glen pounded his cock into her slick pussy from behind.

The ache below returned in full force, soaking her panties. Wouldn't mind that myself, she thought. Thank you, child.

The Healing - Buy Now

"Dan, will you do something for me?"

Dan Wilkinson sat in Julian's favorite wing-backed chair, facing the fire with his head bent. The first thing Julian noticed about his friend tonight, as Dan straightened and craned his neck around the blue paisley fabric to acknowledge the question, was the raw puffiness of Dan's otherwise angular face. Dan's brown eyes, which Julian had always thought were set too deeply in his face, were rimmed red and glassy with unshed tears. Dan's unruly mop of dark hair frizzed atop his head and brushed his shoulders, having come loose from the elastic band that kept it secured in his trademark ponytail.

Dan looked a mess, and given the circumstances there was no reason to blame him. Julian was certain he looked no better, yet time and the day's events had prevented him from checking a mirror.

Gently Dan shook his head, unsmiling. "No," he answered after a momentary pause, "I won't do it."

Julian inched closer and took the matching chair opposite him-- her chair. He cringed slightly as he sat, as if the lingering ghost of her touch was trying to envelop him, taunt him. Julian focused instead on the brandy snifter cradled in Dan's hands and the dark red liquid slanted inside, looking as though it would spill on Dan's crisp, pleated slacks.

"I won't do it," Dan repeated softly.

"Dan." Julian crossed his left ankle over his right knee. A clump of dirt was stuck to his heel. Cold, graveyard dirt, flecked with slim, green blades of grass. How did he miss that coming into the house? Julian shook his head and turned back to Dan. The thought of soiling his once pristine carpet was not a priority. Besides, so many other mourners had come trampling through the house today, smearing the mud of the dead into the floor with each quiet step.

Like it would matter in the morning, Julian knew. Cleaning the rugs was not priority.

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask," he chided Dan.

"Don't I, Julie?" Dan's expression was pained. He was known to everyone but Dan as Julian, yet at this moment Julian wished Dan had called him by his given name. Julie had always sounded affectionate coming from him, not at all feminine. Today, however, it carried a patronizing tone, and sounded mournful. Dan spoke as though today was the day of his own funeral, not Jessie's.

Julian sighed. So Dan did know.

"How long have we known each other, Julie?"

"Thirty years this November."

"Thirty years," Dan echoed. "More than half my life." As if to illustrate his point, Dan ran an absent hand through his hair. Several short strands of gray slid across his temple, concealing the microscopic wrinkles forming near his eyes. Laugh lines, Julian knew they were called. He and Dan had many occasions to laugh over the last three decades. There had been their friendship, and the success of their professional partnership. Right now, however, none of it seemed to matter without Jess around to continue sharing it with them, with him.

"The first time I saw you, strumming that guitar in the Common, in the middle of the night, I wanted to cry out, Dan. You looked so funny to me" Julian's smile was natural, for the memory was so vivid. "You had the longest hair of anybody I had ever seen. It nearly covered your entire face. Where I had been, when ... people didn't look like you or your friends."

This finally brought a smile from Dan, and he touched a finger to his reddened nose. " Almost being the operative word. It didn't conceal me completely, unfortunately. You could still see this thing."

"What was your nickname, what those other hippies called you? Something from a TV show."

"Cousin It." Dan set the snifter on the round occasional table between them and sank lower into the chair. He appeared hypnotized by the flames licking the mesh grating at their feet. "You came over and told me I wasn't holding fret bar correctly."

"And you called me a narc and told me to piss off," Julian laughed. The scene played like a television rerun in his mind--Dan in his patched jeans and cutoff Red Sox T-shirt. Julian had worn a three-piece suit and was toting an empty briefcase, trying to blend into Boston, and the twentieth century, after a very long sleep. Dan and his friends had an illegal campfire going. Smoke of every flavor perfumed the Common, tiny spots of red light guiding Julian toward a guaranteed second-hand high. That a police officer had not come over to put a stop to it seemed a minor miracle.

Dan nodded. "But you didn't. You stayed, and listened ... and suggested song lyrics." Those soulful, set back eyes pleaded with Julian. Keep talking. As though good memories could heal the pain. "And we formed a song writing partnership, made a record, and you told me your secret."

"Why does everything sound so simple in retrospect?" Julian felt the side of his face twitch in an involuntary smirk. "Where's the angst of the starving artist."

Dan shrugged. "Maybe there isn't enough time to rehash all of that. Besides, I like to think of the happier times, especially now."

Julian's smile faded. Dan was offering the condensed version of their history together. Months of acquaintance had passed before they formally agreed to collaborate on anything, and it took even longer to get a recording contract. Once achieved, though, they would make many albums. Gold records, platinum, multi-platinum ... and frankincense and myrrh for all Julian could keep track.

The Commoners were a legend now, not quite in the same strata as The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, but they were absorbed enough in the popular culture to be sampled by hip-hop artists and referenced on The Simpsons . In all his years of existence, in all his incarnations, Julian had enjoyed this one the most.

Until this point, anyway.

He knew, too, Dan exaggerated about how Julian came to reveal his true self--the telling of the "secret." It happened quite by accident during their first tour, when his need to feed outweighed the need for discretion. To make a long story short, Julian was caught in the act, offering a groupie his own "autograph" when Dan happened upon them backstage at a show. Julian had said nothing, he didn't have to. The bruise left on the already stoned young woman revealed more than words could ever do.

"I'm glad you never judged me," Julian told him.

"I'm glad you never drained me dry," he said.

They shared a laugh. This exchange was pure ritual, recited over years, like a Monty Python comedy skit.

"Dan," Julian said, serious now, "you know I love you. You know that."

"I do. I also know I can't do what you're about to ask me to do."

"What is that?" Julian arched an eyebrow.

"You want me to kill you."

Surveillance - Buy Now

The idea, originally, had been not to appear so desperately enthused when Darlene offered him the job. Acting gigs in Atlanta theatre were scarce now, leaving Troy with few options. He would need a job that allowed him to work around auditions. That his best friend operated a successful housecleaning business was fortunate, and he had hoped a blasé reaction would at least confirm his talent. He could play it cool on the exterior when his inner starving artist clawed and begged for rent and something to eat besides baked beans and Cheerios. Not even Cheerios, for this month's budget wouldn't allow it. He had to settle for a box of whole grain Ns from the salvage mart.

I should write that down, he thought wistfully. Write his own scripts, seeing as how none were coming his way. Do a one-man show, offer free beer if he thought it would fill seats and his coffers.

"It's twice a week, but it's a great job. You'll be able to get by on it for a while," Darlene was saying over a steaming mug of frothy cream. They were sitting on the deck at Caribou Coffee, overlooking busy Peachtree Street. Bloated with cars in both directions, filled with people who knew their intended destinations—their nine to five deskwork, their 401ks, their security until retirement and a life sentence to a Winnebago and Bermuda shorts.

Troy snorted and sipped the latte paid for by his friend, the first drink he'd enjoyed in two weeks that didn't have a sulfuric aftertaste. Where was the adventure in security, anyway? He rather enjoyed making soup from ketchup packets. Even the plastic added an extra thickness that he hoped would keep him regular.

Right.

"Pays five thou a week," Darlene continued. Troy did his absolute best not to shoot vanilla soy milk and coffee through his nose. Sir Olivier would have been proud. Damn, he was in the wrong biz. With that kind of cash he could realize his dream of upgrading to the Cheerios with those freeze-dried strawberry nuggets. And buy milk!

"Sounds good," he said, his voice cool, his knee bouncing nervously under the table.

"Of course, it pays a lot because it's a fairly big apartment, and the client is a total germophobe." Darlene rolled her eyes. "The guy grates soap over his pasta like it was parmesean. Well, he's out of town for a few months and wants the place spotless when he returns."

Troy crinkled his brow. "And I'd have to keep going back twice a week? Is somebody sub-letting the joint?"

"Nope. The apartment is empty." Darlene set down her mug, looking suddenly coy.

"Then why the need to clean the place so often if nothing gets touched? I mean, yeah, some dust might accumulate, but if the place is ventilated well enough..."

"He's a very anal retentive germophobe."

"Okay." This gig sounded better by the minute. For five thou a week he could watch TV from a rich weirdo's luxury Buckhead abode. Satellite, in color! Do a bang up job of cleaning on his last week, and collect a hefty paycheck.

"Oh, and all the rooms are always monitored with video security. He's a paranoid, anal retentive germophobe."

"I see." Crap. Still, five thou to polish furniture and maybe those large, porcelain cat sculptures rich weirdos were fond of buying...

"And you'll be naked, did I mention that?"

His face bent toward the glass tabletop. He could see, in the faint reflection, the tiniest bit of latte foam bubbling from within his nostrils. He choked and gargled like a virgin taken by surprise during her first blow job, and snatched the proffered paper napkin from Darlene's hand.

"I guess I didn't."