Chapter Twenty-eight

The backyard to my old house abuts a Pep Boys.

When I say old house, I mean my house of just over a month ago, where I had lived with my kids and husband. A house, by some weird turn of events, I had been kicked out of, even though my husband had been the one caught cheating.

Since our house sits in a cul-de-sac, we have an exceptionally large and weirdly-shaped backyard. In fact, our backyard is bigger than most little league baseball fields, which was always fun for the kids and great for parties.

On the other side of our backyard fence was the parking lot to Pep Boys, with its massive, glowing sign of Manny, Moe, and Jack in all of their homoerotic glory. I hated that sign, and thank God they shut the damn thing off at closing time.

It was well after closing time and the lights were off. Thank God. Manny, Moe, and Jack were sleeping. Probably spooning. My ex-partner Chad was happily watching over a sleeping Monica - at least, I hoped he let her sleep. No doubt he was watching her in more ways than one. Let's just hope he didn't creep her out too much. Chad was a great guy, even if a little love-starved.

We're all a little love-starved, I thought.

I was sitting on our backyard fence, my feet dangling down, looking out across the vast sweep of our backyard, toward where I knew my children were sleeping.

Or where they should have been sleeping. A flickering glow in Tammy's room meant that she was up well past her bedtime since this was a school night. Her laughter occasionally pierced the air. At least, pierced it to my ears. Actually, I could tell she was trying to laugh quietly, perhaps laughing into a pillow, but occasional bursts of laughter erupted from her.

Most remarkable, and surreal, was that my daughter was laughing at Jay Leno. I could hear his nasally laugh and wildly ranging voice - which went from high to low in the span of a few words - even from here.

Jay Leno? Seriously?

And since when did my ten-year-old daughter watch Jay Leno? And since when was Jay Leno ever laugh-out-loud funny? Perhaps a mild chuckle here and there, sure. But ha-ha funny?

At the far end of the house I could hear Danny's light snoring. His snoring never bothered me, since I was a rather deep sleeper. Supernaturally deep, some might say. Anyway, mixed with his snoring was something else. Another sound. Not quite snoring. No, a sort of wheezing sound, as if someone was having trouble breathing through one nostril. Along with the wheezing was an occasional murmur. A female murmur.

My heart sank. Jesus, his new girlfriend was sleeping with him, in our bed. The fucker. Probably sleeping naked together, their limbs intertwined, touching each other intimately, lovingly. All night long.

Just a month earlier I had been sleeping in that same bed, although Danny had long ago stopped sleeping naked and had made it a point not to touch me.

The fucker.

I stared at my old bedroom window at the end of the house for a long, long time, and then I forced myself to find another sound, and soon I found it. The sound of light snoring. A boy's snore. Little Anthony was sleeping contentedly, and I found myself smiling through the tears on my face.

A small wind made its way through the Pep Boys parking lot, bringing with it the smell of old car oil, new car oil, and every other kind of oil. Living here, you get used to the smell of car oil.

I folded my hands in my lap and lowered my head and listened to the wind and my son's snoring and my daughter's innocent laughter, and I sat like that until her laughter turned into the heavy breathing of deep sleep.

I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message: I'm sad.

The reply from Kingsley Fulcrum came a minute later: Then come over.

Okay, I wrote, and did exactly that.

Chapter Twenty-nine

I drove east on Bastanchury, winding my way through streets lined with big homes and big front yards, the best north Orange County has to offer.

It was past midnight, and the sky was clear. The six stars that somehow made their way through southern California's smog shined weakly and pathetically. The brightest one might have been Mars, or at least that's what a date once told me in college.

Probably just trying to impress me to get into my pants.

Speaking of impressing me, Kingsley Fulcrum was an honest-to-God werewolf. Or, at least, that's what he tells me.

Maybe he just wants to get into my pants, as well.

Granted, I've seen the evidence of his lycanthropy in the form of excessive hair the night after one of his transformations, and so I tend to believe the big oaf. But Kingsley is a good wolfie. Apparently, with each full moon, he preferred to transform in what he calls a panic room in the basement of his house.

Probably a good thing for the residents of posh Orange County. After all, can't have a big, bad werewolf picking off the surgically-enhanced Desperate Housewives of Orange County one at a time like so many slow-moving, top-heavy gazelle. Would probably hurt the ratings.

Or drastically help them; at least, until the show ran out of stars.

Stars? I thought.

Now don't be catty.

Bastanchury was always a pleasant drive, made more pleasant these days because it led to a big, beefy werewolf. I hung a left onto a long, curving, crushed seashell drive, past shrubbery that really needed to be trimmed back; that is, unless Kingsley was purposely going for the creepy feeling they invoked. Or maybe he just didn't want to make his home too inviting. I voted for both.

Soon I pulled up to a rambling estate home that sat on the far edge of north Orange County. The house was a massive Colonial revival, with flanker structures on either end, and more rooms than Kingsley knew what to do with.

I stopped in the driveway near the portico, in a pool of yellow porchlight. My minivan seemed inadequate and out-of-place parked before such an edifice. Hell, I seemed inadequate and out-of-place.

The doorbell gonged loud enough to vibrate the cement porch beneath my feet, and was answered a moment later by a very unusual-looking man. His name was Franklin and he was Kingsley's butler. Yes, butler. Yeah, I know, I thought those went the way of Gone with the Wind, too, but apparently the super affluent still had them.

Must be nice.

But in the case of Franklin, maybe not so much. There was something very off about the man. For one thing, his left ear was vastly bigger than the right. And it wasn't that it was bigger, it seemed to not, well, belong on his body at all. As if, and this is clearly a crazy thought, it had actually belonged on another person's body altogether. Perhaps strangest of all was the nasty scar that ran from under his neck all the way to the back of his head. The scar, I was sure, wrapped completely around his neck.

My instincts were telling me something very, very strange was going on here, so strange that I didn't want to believe them.

He was tall and broad shouldered, and there seemed to be great strength contained within his very formal butler attire. He looked down at me from a hawkish nose, nodded once, and asked me to follow him to the conservatory. I spared him another "Clue" game joke. This time. Next time, he may not be so lucky. Also, he spoke in what I assumed was an English accent, although it could have been Australian. I could never get the two straight. But my money was on English.

I followed his oddly loping gate to the conservatory. No, I wasn't greeted by Mrs. Plum wielding a candlestick (whatever the hell that is). Instead, I was greeted by a great beast of a man who sprung from his oversized chair with a glass of white wine in hand. How he didn't spill his wine, I didn't know. As he bounded over, exuberant as a puppy, I was half expecting him to jump up on me and lick my face clean. Good thing he didn't, since he would have crushed me. Instead, he set the wine down on an elegant couch table and gave me a crushing bear hug. I think a bone or two popped along my spine. He then led me over to the sofa where a glass of wine was already waiting for me. Along the way, he snatched his own glass.

Franklin waited discreetly near the doorway until Kingsley dismissed him. The gaunt man nodded, a gesture that was meant to be somewhat dignified; instead, it came across as sort of herky-jerky, as if the man didn't have complete control of his head.

No surprise there, I thought.

When the butler was gone, I turned to Kingsley and said, "Are you ever going to tell me Franklin's story?"

The attorney was gazing at me with heavy-lidded eyes. The air around him was suddenly charged. No, supercharged. His brown eyes crackled with yellow fire, and he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a creature stalking me from the deep woods.

"Maybe someday," he said. His voice was thick and sort of husky.

"Was he in an accident?" I asked, suddenly a little uncomfortable. I quickly reached for the wine and sipped it, keenly aware that Kingsley was staring at me intensely.

"I'm sure parts of him were in an accident," said Kingsley. He had reached out and lifted some of my hair off my shoulder and was now stroking it delicately between his oversized thumb and forefinger.

I drank more wine, suddenly wishing like hell that I could get a serious buzz going.

"Parts of him?" I asked, suddenly more nervous than I had been in quite some time. "What does that mean?"

"It means...I will tell you later."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He had slid closer to me, looming over me. I could feel his hot breath on my bare arm. I could feel his eyes on me. Crackling sexual energy radiated from him. I seemed to be caught up by it, sucked into it.

This wasn't meant to be a booty call. In fact, over the past month I had barely even kissed Kingsley. But now I felt myself curious about something more. Excited by the thought of something more. Terrified about something more.

But....

"I don't think I'm ready," I said, not wanting to meet his eyes. I loved those big brown eyes.

"You're trembling," he said.

"And you're breathing on me."

I saw him smile out of the corner of my eyes. He was still playing with my hair.

"How long has it been since you've had a man touch you?"

"A man? What's that? I've heard about those curious creatures."

He grinned some more. "How long has it been since you have made love, Samantha?"

"That's a little personal, isn't it?"

He laughed loudly, a sound that erupted from him with such force that I jumped. "And sharing our supernatural secrets isn't personal?"

"Don't use your attorney double-speak with me, Kingsley Fulcrum. I'm just not comfortable talking about it."

"Then I retract my question. I was out of line."

But he didn't stop touching my hair. Didn't stop staring at me, but I sensed that some of his supercharged energy, which had been erupting like solar flares from the sun, had died down a little. Also, his breathing wasn't so ragged, either.

I set my wine down and curled up next to him, holding his waist tightly. Kingsley reached down, wrapped a heavy arm around me and softly kissed the top of my head.

Twenty minutes later, when I felt comfortable and safe, I said, "Six years."

"Six years what?" he said groggily. I think he had been dozing lightly on the couch.

"It's been six years," I said again.

He didn't say anything at first, but I heard his heartbeat quicken. Finally, he whispered, "Too long."

I nodded and took in air I really didn't need.

Kingsley moved me aside gently and stood. His knees popped. He offered me his hand. "Come," he said. "I'm exhausted. Let's talk in bed."

"Bed?"

"Yes."

I protested some more - or tried to - but he had already snatched my hand and was pulling me through his opulent home and up his staircase, and to his bedroom and bed.

The horny bastard.

Chapter Thirty

We were in bed.

I was still wearing my jeans and tee shirt. Kingsley was in a pair of black workout shorts and nothing else. We were both on top of the covers. Kingsley had his hands folded behind his head and was staring up at the ceiling. I was on my side, propping my head up with my hand, watching him. In the night, I could see him clearly. He was a little static-y; meaning, there were some limits to my night vision. Light particles flitted through the air like snow flakes caught in a car's headlights. I was used to the light particles. I barely saw them anymore.

Kingsley was a beast of a man. His body was thick and powerful and nothing like the men you see grace most muscle magazines. There wasn't a lot of definition. Meaning, he was just pure muscular mass. Maybe a few pounds overweight, but he wore the weight well. No, he wore it perfectly. In fact, I was certain his hulking frame would have looked emaciated if he was at his ideal weight. Tufts of hair ran down the center of his chest and spread over his flat-enough belly. I never much liked hair on men, but with Kingsley it came with the territory.

"So is that a line you use for all the girls you have over here?" I asked.

"What line?"

"'I'm getting tired, talk to me in bed'. That line."

"No," he said. "But it's a good line, apparently. I'll have to remember it."

I slapped his chest. I could have been slapping a side of beef. "Asshole."

"So, has it really been six years, Samantha?"

"Yes."

"Your choice or Danny's choice?"

"His choice, but then again, that part of me sort of shut down and never came back, either. But if he had wanted to make love to me, I would have done anything for him. What was mine, was his."

"But he didn't pursue it."

"Nope."

"Did he ever touch you again?"

"Not like that." I told Kingsley that sometimes Danny and I would get close. Sometimes we would kiss passionately. Sometimes we would be on the verge of making love, and then he would just pull back and shudder. Once or twice he vomited.

"Vomited?"

"Yes," I said. "Not something a wife wants to see after kissing her husband."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

We sat quietly some more. Kingsley's eyes were open. He continued looking up at the ceiling, or at nothing. His chest reminded me of a powerful, idling truck engine.

"So, have you lost all interest in sex?"

"Well, I don't consider myself sexual," I said. "I consider myself, in fact, a monster. Monsters don't have sex."

"When was the last time you orgasmed?"

It was late. We were alone in bed. We were talking softly to each other. My innate need for privacy cringed at the question, but we were adults here, and it was a legitimate, if not too-personal question. I didn't have to answer it, but I did.

"See my comment above."

"Six years?"

I nodded. Kingsley, I knew, could see me in the dark. No doubt he saw my gesture, or sensed it.

"Hell of a long time," he said. "Do you miss it?"

"I don't think about it. Quite honestly, having orgasms is pretty far down there on my list of things to worry about. Besides, I don't think I can anymore."

"Why do you say that? Have you tried?"

I knew my face was red. A crimson-faced vampire. Go figure. But what can I say? I never talk about my sex life. Not even with my sister, who was one of the very few who knew my supersecret identity.

"No," I said. "I haven't tried."

"You haven't wanted to or haven't tried?"

"Both. I haven't wanted to even try."

"Because you feel you are a monster. And monsters don't have sex, or orgasms, or real lives of any type."

I said nothing. What was there to say? That part of me was dead, I was sure of it.

Kingsley rolled over on his side and faced me. "You have been punishing yourself a long time, Samantha, for something that wasn't your fault."

"I'm not punishing myself," I said. "I'm dealing with it the best I know how. Besides, I don't feel sexy. I feel cold and gross, and what man would ever want to touch me?"

Kingsley suddenly put his hand on my hip as if to answer my question. His hand nearly covered my entire left hip. Jesus, he was a big boy. And then he did something that even I wasn't expecting. He gently nudged me to my back and as I fell backward, he slipped his hand between my thighs and opened my legs. His hand, through my jeans, felt remarkably hot.

I reached down and stopped him. "I'm not ready for sex," I said. "I may never be ready for sex."

"Who said I wanted to have sex with you?" he said, winking at me.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Just seeing how dead that part of you really is." He ran his warm palm up the inside of my thigh, over my jeans.

"I think you should stop."

"You think?" he said quietly, perhaps even huskily.

His hand continued up my inner thigh and I heard myself gasp. The moment I gasped Kingsley smiled again. The light particles around him were zigzagging like crazy. Like moths on crack.

"Please," I said.

"Please what?"

And then his hand lightly touched me between my legs and I reached down and grabbed his hand. I made a half-hearted effort to push it away, but his hand wouldn't move. Still, I didn't release his hand even as his thick middle finger gently stroked the fabric of my jeans. I wasn't sure if he knew what he was stroking, but the big son-of-a-bitch had found the right spot.

Lucky guess.

I gasped again and made another effort to push his hand away, but this seemed to only inspire him to work his middle finger faster.

"You deserve happiness, Samantha Moon. You are not a monster. You are a sexy woman who has been dealt a very strange hand. But I have a surprise for you."

"What?" I heard myself ask. My hands were still on his hands. It had been so long since anyone had touched me down there. So long. Hell, I had forgotten what to do with my own hands.

"That part of you didn't die. In fact..." And now his one hand was expertly undoing my jeans, button by button, as if he had done this hundreds of times before, which he might very well have had.

Now he slipped his hands inside my jeans, and his strong, curious fingers found their way under my panties, and now they were moving down with a mind of their own, gently parting me open.

His middle finger touched me almost hesitantly, perhaps testing my readiness. Jesus, I was ready.

And then two things happened simultaneously.

Kingsley lowered his mouth to mine, kissing me harder than I have ever been kissed in my life, and his thick middle finger slipped deep inside me.