Steve had thought that he'd have a quiet Saturday afternoon to himself. The house was empty. His wife had gone shopping with friends, the boys were out with their mates and Kirsty had to go to the library to complete the paper she had to write. She'd hoped not to go, but found she was missing some information at the last minute and so had to make a quick dash.
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Part 1
It was almost 7:30 in the evening as I made my way east on West 53rd toward my hotel when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down. I didn't have an umbrella, of course, because - even though my hotel had complimentary ones - men don't use umbrellas...so they can get wet...because that makes us cool. But, instead of being cool, I decided to get dry and have a drink.
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He keeps saying that it can't happen again.
Every time, as soon as his afterglow wears off, the guilt and self-loathing kicks in and he spits out those words that always make me smile. He is so adorable, trying to fight this like either one of us has a choice. I keep telling him that this is bigger than both of us, and he would be much happier if he would just give in. Give in to his fate...the way that I did the very instant that I saw him.
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I had wandered into the bookshop to kill time.
My appointment with Carol at the employment agency was for 11.30am and I had caught the eight o'clock train in from the lake. For once it arrived on time.
The employment agency was on the second floor of the building and I found the bookshop at street level. I had an hour to fill in before I had to go, up so I thought I'd look for a book I had been after for some time, The Mycenaeans by Lord William Taylour.
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Mr Valens reached towards the numbers on the alarm panel inside the front door of his modern, two storey home. The red light was not flashing. He paused and cast his eyes around without moving, noting the gleaming kitchen bench, the bleak smell of domestic cleaner. Then he remembered. Today was Wednesday - Sharni Peller's cleaning day.
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Aven peered through the bars of the cage. Looking about her surroundings, whimpering softly for her master. It was dark in the room, and she could hardly make out anything. The door to the room was slightly ajar, and through it came light, but it beamed on nothing but the floor and her face through the bars.
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Given the choice between a young, hot, ravenous stud and an older gentleman, simmering in passionate wisdom and experience, my preference will always be without a single doubt the old man.
I often wonder if men realize that while a woman is walking down a street being appreciated for her eye catching silhouette, offering them a break in the usual nothing to get excited about scenery, that she may be doing a little appreciating of her own.
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Anna had worked at the photo processing lab for nearly two years. Rich had been her favorite customer since day one.
Rich was an amateur sports photographer and he was still learning the ins and outs of photography. He and Anna shared photography tips and techniques, he taught her about lenses and cameras, she taught him about color and composition. Despite the drastic difference in their ages, their personalities clicked from the beginning and they became friends of sorts.
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Brian pushed against the large revolving doors, his laptop case slung over one shoulder. Coming out the other side, he thought the building was even quieter and emptier than normal. The tiny shops on either side of the wide concourse were closed, as was always the case at seven thirty in the morning. Ahead, the escalator hummed as one unused step after other rose to the second floor.
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Andrew Weston was not a man to trifle with. Neither was Alison: his stepdaughter. It was as if they had been fashioned from the same cloth and they understood each other perfectly: often trying to outmaneuver each other in a game of one-upmanship. Both were self assured and attractive to look at.
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