His scent lingered on my skin. I held my hand to my nose and breathed him in. Burning candles were the only remains of our second date. That, and of course, that smell. Thick and strong, like flesh and iron and blood. Raw. Visceral. I closed my eyes and thought of him, letting my imagination take care of the rest.
In the shadows cast by the streetlamps, Tegan and Damon stood watching.Their prey had been indoors for almost a week.
“This day time thing really isn’t working for me,” she said.
“If I could switch with you, I would. I’ve not seen the sun in nearly two hundred years.”
“You’re not missing much.”
Damon grunted and Tegan yawned. “Tell me again why I can’t bust down his door?”
“Because he knows we’re watching him and he’s smart. Perhaps smarter than you and I.”
“He may never come out.”
“He will eventually.”
Tegan yawned again and sat down on the grass. She stretched out onto her back. She looked up at Damon, but could barely make out his face against the backdrop of the star spattered sky. The breeze came and it chilled Tegan’s skin. She shivered and Damon dropped his coat on top of her. She slipped it over her cold skin.
“Thanks.”
He nodded. “You should go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine by myself.”
“What if he makes a move after I’m gone?”
“I will summon my coven.”
She stared at him and knew that he wasn’t going to let her stay another night. She was of no use to him this exhausted and she knew it. “Fine. I’ll go home. But after this is over you owe me.”
“Whatever you desire is yours,” Damon said.
“That’s a tall order to fill.”
“I’m up to the challenge.”
Tegan stood and kissed him on the cold cheek. She disappeared around a corner and was gone. He stood there in complete stillness for hours. He did not tire or grow bored, but instead meditated and snacked on the energy of oblivious passersby. By the time the city had finally quieted into slumber, the door of his prey quivered and opened a fraction of an inch.
Damon did not hesitate.
There’s a knock at the door, which is strange, but I open it anyway. Two guys stand there with pamphlets in their hands. I’m not wearing a bra and my shirt covers my shorts so it looks like I’m pantsless. The wintery cold air hits my chest and I see the younger of them glance down, then look away.
Hi, do you have a minute? the older asks.
Sure, I say and I bend down to scratch my ankle, letting my shirt fall forward a bit.
The older of the two starts talking about natural disasters and how the world is turning to shit and the whole time I’m staring at the younger guy biting my lip. He smiles and looks at the older man and nods.
Wouldn’t you agree? he says.
It’s cold, do you two want to come inside?
Oh no, we couldn’t go in there.
But I’m freezing. And all this stuff your saying is turning me on.
Excuse me?
I’m not interested, I say. I stretch and lift my chest in the air and I see them both look away into the distance.
Well, sorry to bother you, the older one says.
He shuts my door and I go back to sitting in my blankets.
Her body was still warm when they found her. Her father checked for a pulse, then began CPR. With every attempt at jumpstarting her heart and with every breath he pushed into her mouth, he begged God to save his child. The paramedics peeled him away, his arms and legs flailing like a mad man.
Today, the sun breaks the clouds and touches a church. A column of light shines through a pane of colored glass, engulfing the flowers on her coffin, dust particles floating in the beam like spirits.
**Author’s note:** My current novel will include some sexy scenes, and I’ve never written them before. This is a practice run for me, so feedback and criticism is more than welcome. My main concern is that this is too erotic/smutty. I want it to be sexy, full of innuendo and implication, but not explicit. What do you think?
“Trust me,” he says and kisses my neck.
He stands at my back and wraps his arms around me. His right hand rises and holds my breasts tightly. His left moves to my hip, his fingers falling lower and caressing my inner thigh. I lean my head back and exhale. A sigh of pleasure parts with my lips and my heart beats, embarrassed. This seems to turn Clay on. His breath deepens and he exhales in the crook of my neck, his warm breath wisping over my collar bone.
He pushes away from me and I feel his hand gently grazing my neck. He grabs the zipper to my dress and pulls, loosing it from my shoulders. With his hand he pushes the fabric from me and I feel my clothes drop to the floor. I wear only a red thong. The room is slightly cool and I feel my skin tighten, my nipples becoming erect. I shiver. Clay’s hands are at my ankles, grazing my skin. He moves upward, touching my ankles, my thighs. His hands tickle me and provide me a contrast of warmth against the coolness of his room. He pushes his finger under the fabric of my panties and pulls them to the floor.
“Just enjoy it,” he says. “Relax.”
I met Clay in the hotel lobby. He stood waiting while the bellboy loaded his bags onto a cart. When he saw me he smiled and I turned away. He got onto the elevator and I thought that was the last I’d see of him. But of course, it wasn’t. I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the hotel bar and ordered a martini. I lit a cigarette. The I heard a man’s voice, “Would you happen to have an extra?”
I looked at him and my eyes jumped. This was an unexpected surprise. I handed him a cigarette and my lighter. “You and I,” he said, “We have a connection.”
Clay kisses me on the small of my back and works his way up my spine to the crest of my neck. Then, gently, he grabs my shoulders and lays me face down on the bed. I follow his lead, but I feel myself guarded. I’ve only just met him, after all, but inside I want to let go. I want to let myself be vulnerable.
“Wait for a moment,” he says. “No peeking.”
I hear a shuffling noise. I wait twenty, thirty seconds, then feel his weight depress the mattress. “This might be a little cold,” he says, and I feel little pinches of moisture drip onto my back. His hands rub the oil over my skin. It smells of lavender and vanilla. Clay’s strong hands caress my body, massaging away my tension, my apprehension. I allow myself a moan of pleasure.
“I studied massage therapy,” he tells me.
“Of course you did,” I reply.
He laughs and continues. He works on my legs, and back, and shoulders. When he feels my body ease, he goes back to my legs and moves his hands along my inner thigh, going higher and higher. I feel myself tingle and try to suppress it. Then I feel his fingers touching me intimately, continuing the massage, but its far more satisfying.
It was his confidence that brought me up to his room. A normal man would have been turned off by my flippancy toward his advances, but not Clay. Every time I denied him, he would smile and sit quietly, gazing at me with his dark hazel eyes. Even when I looked away and turned my back to him, he didn’t budge. He just sat there, drinking his tequila until I turned around again.
“Who the hell drinks tequila straight?” I asked.
“My father is from Mexico. This is the only way we drink it.”
It isn’t until Clay turns me over that I realize he is nude. And his body isn’t bad. He’s toned and slim and his dark skin looks like caramel in the dim lights. I look below his waist and see that I’m not the only one aroused.
“Not bad,” I tell him.
“Shhhh,” he replies.
He starts at my toes, kissing and tickling them with his tongue. Then he moves to my ankles, then to my shin and calves. When he comes to my thighs he runs his hands down the sides of my legs, then grabs me and pulls me up to his mouth. I put my hands on his shoulders, uncertain that I want him to continue, but he just smiles like he did in the bar and lowers his head between my legs.
The more we drank, the friendlier we became. His hand was suddenly resting on my bare knee and I didn’t know for how long. I looked at his hand, then up to him. “You’re sly. I didn’t even notice you were touching me.”
He smiled mischievously and began stroking my skin. He moved his hand slightly higher, then leaned in and kissed me. My response was delayed, but after feeling his warm and moist lips touching mine, there was little I could do but surrender to him a kiss. He pulled away and smiled and said, “You’re a good kisser.”
“That’s the best line you’ve got?”
“I’m a firm believer that actions speak louder than words.”
“And just what do you mean by that?”
“Come up to my room and let me show you.”
Clay licks me until I fully surrender and release a moan. I feel my muscles loosen, as if dissolving into the bed. He lifts himself up and gazes at me with his dark eyes, causing my breath to shudder. “Finally relaxed,” he says, then leans down and licks my breasts. He kisses my skin and flicks my nipple with his tongue, then presses his weight against me.
He starts slowly, rhythmically. I ask him to go faster, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes deeper, and it makes me want him more. I feel my body begin to tense again and suddenly, unexpectedly my toes curl and my breath escapes my mouth uncontrollably. In this instant, his hips spasm and he elevates my back and I feel him and are eyes meet and then it stops and we relax and he’s on top of me like a heavy quilt.
We breathe the same rhythm. He rolls off of me and adjusts his bed sheets. He pulls them up to cover us and we curl up together. I face him and with his free hand he pushes away some loose strands of hair that cling to my face. “Let’s just lay here like this all night,” he says.
I smile and kiss him deeply, fully comfortable in his gaze.
The creature hit me, knocking me off balance. I dropped my torch and my face collided against the rocky floor. I felt the warmth and thickness of blood trickle down the side of head. The fire from my torch burned a few feet away, but still I could see nothing. As I stood I heard the patter of footsteps, then felt teeth or claws sink into my shoulder and flip me to the ground. More blood trickled down my arm, wetting my clothes. Again, I could see only blackness, but this time heard a sniffing. The creature was sure to have tasted my blood and now hungered for more. I shuffled forward, reaching for my torch. I heard a low growl, and in that instant I neglected the torch and removed my blade and thrust it at the sound. I felt the satisfaction of it penetrating flesh and felt the warmth of its blood oozing onto my hand. It lashed out at me and struck me, but I didn’t let go. I felt fur and muscles and saw its orange eyes glowing in the dark. I removed the blade and again thrust it into the creature’s chest. It gave off a tiny exhale and fell forward onto me. It’s mouth was near my face. I could feel its breath on my neck and smell its fleshy urine stench. The creature snapped its jaws at me, and as it did I ripped my blade from it and jammed it into the beast’s neck, its teeth nicking my already injured shoulder. I sliced sideways against it’s flesh and tore the knife from it, and heard blood spatter the walls of the cave. The beast fell to the ground.
I stabbed it twice more until there was no breath left in its chest. Behind me I heard a whimper. I picked up my torch and approached the source of the noise and in the firelight I saw the bruised and beaten body of a young girl. She looked at me with fear in her eyes, and cowered as I stepped near. She was tied with ropes, so I cut them and removed from my pack a blanket, which I wrapped her in and carried her from the cave.
Now she sleeps next to my fire. I gave her some stale bread and some dried fruit. Soon after she fell asleep, I returned quickly to the cave, but could not find the body of the beast I had slain. A great dread arose within me, so I sprinted back to camp and found the girl laying peacefully, her eyes closed in reverie.
She hasn’t spoken and looks different than the Peruvians I’ve encountered. Her skin is lighter and the exotics of her face suggest she is of oriental descent. There is a mystery here that I do not understand.
After waking up yesterday and eating the rest of the yucca and rice, I trekked further up the mountain. About two hours into my journey I found a dead and mutilated animal that I believe was an alpaca. It had been dismembered and the meat stripped from the bone. It’s head had been severed, but was nowhere in sight. So I continued with my senses on full alert. A number of times an animal moved and I drew my blade and my body tensed, listening. But nothing was there.
As the sun fell and the sky turned orange, I smelled a foul aroma, like that of rotting flesh and the sourness of urine. I listened, but could discern nothing. I proceeded, following the smell until I came to a cave. The sun was nearly below the horizon and I dared not face the creature at night. I could choose to face whatever was in that cave now, with what little light remained, or make camp and wait until morning. But my choice was made for me.
From inside the cave I heard the scream of girl. It was high pitched and so loud, I could hear echoing in my ear drum. Then came a roar — a deep gluttonous, roar — that was so deafening, the earth shook and to my left I heard the clatter of rocks as they fell from a precipice. The girl again let terror erupt from her lips. I acted as fast as I could. From my bag I pulled a torch and lit it with my blade and flint, I then approached the dark cavern. The girl was no longer screaming. There was the type of silence that comes only seconds before death. My foot entered the lip of the cave, and the quiet was broken by the girl’s sobbing. I took a breath and entered the cave. Before I could react, I felt a presence to my left, in the shadows…
I made camp in a small cave that overlooks a valley. I started a fire and had a small dinner of yucca and rice, provided to me by a tiny village I passed through about two hours ago. The people there were kind, giving me warm clothes and food. They speak a language that I don’t understand, but their hand gestures and smiles seemed to imply that they were offering me a place to stay. I declined, not wanting to put them into any further danger.
One of the old women took me by the hand and led me to her hut. Inside was her daughter, perhaps 12 or 13 years old. Her face had been bludgeoned and her forehead bore a wound that still seeped blood. She could barely breathe. The woman seemed to want my help, and kept repeating apu, apu,which I’ve surmised is their name for the creature I hunt. I could do nothing but put my hand on the chid and whisper a prayer, then, to the protestation of the child’s mother, I turned and left. She grabbed me by the wrist and begged me to stay, but there was nothing I could do.
I’m close now. Very close. This has been a long six weeks, but finally it will come to an end. The creature hasn’t much longer to live.
I’ve been reading a lot about Amanda Hocking lately. In case you don’t know her, you can read this article. She’s being heralded as a woman who may be a game changer in the publishing industry. She’s an inspiration to all writers, since she is living proof that one doesn’t have to go the traditional publishing route to make a living.
However, I do admit some hesitancy when approaching just how revolutionary she is. I fear that too many writers are going to try to adopt her model and sort of flood the indie market with sub-par books. This could be a raw deal for those writers who have worked hard at it there whole life, but still haven’t been lucky enough to break into the market. However, my theory is that, for those choosing the self-publishing and ebook route, the best will rise to the top while the rest will fade to the bottom. The hard part, I think, is finding readers willing enough to read a book from an author they’ve never heard of before.
As for me, my dream is to be published the traditional way, but I’m open to self-publishing. I’ve heard how hard it can be to find a literary agent and then to find a publisher willing to take a risk on a new writer. So there might be some merit to self-publishing one’s earlier work to sort of get a base audience. Perhaps I will try it. But don’t be mistaken. If I go the ebook/self-publishing route, I will spend a lot of time polishing my writing and my story. I’d even like to hire a freelance editor to check it over. No sense in putting out a book chalk full of easily fixable errors.
And to you, Amanda: Thank you for being an inspiration to us all.
Blue Eyes and White Lies 