Amber I didn’t expect to fall in lust. He’s gorgeous, that is all I know. He wears a uniform and the guy is quite simply drop- dead, freakin’ gorgeous. I’m leaning, back to the wall, arms folded beneath my skimpy black bra. Ahead of me, Billy sits dead as the proverbial in his seat, in a lap-dance booth. In my side vision, Amy stands in the corridor a few booths down; she’s, blubbering loudly, her barely-dressed body shuddering like she’s freezing or something. Trey, the most rule-bound security guy in Las Vegas, tries to comfort her in that clumsy, inept way of his – at times it can be endearing, but tonight it comes off as just plain creepy. The lighting is low, the air – warm and stuffy – reeks of cheap perfume, expensive aftershave and a rank undertow of male sweat. The other dancers and their guys have exited in favor of the bar. The DJ chooses this moment to play a little Nicki Minaj, as if to put a seal on the fire coursing through my veins. Barbie Tingz thuds out through the cheap speaker system; that’s me, that’s us, that’s what they all think of us as we stand tall and shake our bare asses in gossamer-thin G-strings and stripper heels, wasp-waisted like plastic dolls. The paramedic is not about to give up on poor, dead Billy, yet even I can see there’s no breath, and could hazard a good guess at no accompanying heartbeat, either. Billy-boy is just a limp body and a drool-smeared face. The eyes are a sure giveaway, they always are, wide open and blank like that, fixed on something unseen in the middle distance; there will be no reviving him. The paramedic grabs Billy’s shoulders, then pulls back, changing his mind. He glances around. “A little help would be nice.” Trey frees himself from Amy. “Allow me.” Together they ease poor ol’ dead Billy off his seat and lay him out on the floor on his back. His head flops limply to the side, as if he were inspecting the sticky carpet. Management, in the form of Jane, storms through the heavy black door to hurry things along. She wants Billy gone. She wants the pathetic, blubbering Amy gone. There are fifty dancers on the floor needing to use these booths to service paying clientele; a cadaver is never going to be good for business. Hot Foxies is caring like that. I quickly lose interest in Amy, Billy, the hustle, the lost income, in fact, in the club altogether. My gaze is fixed on the shape of the paramedic’s back and that cute butt that is fortuitously angled straight at me, those taut glutes contracting and releasing as he pumps Billy’s chest.

The bus snaked its way through the country roads and then to the lavish
development that backed up to the woods behind his house. Upperclassmen from this
neighborhood had their own cars. This bus collected the underclassmen: those few who
weren’t chauffeured to school, as minions of the privileged.
Jake leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, not looking at
the kids coming down the aisle. None dared to ask if they could sit in the empty space
next to him. They’d sit three to a seat rather than make that request. Just the way he
wanted it.
The over-filled bus pulled to a stop midway down Belmont Circle. New stop? Jake
looked out his window at the estate with a circular drive. Huh. It finally sold. He watched
as a single figure headed toward the bus. What, so now they get door-to-door service?
He rolled his eyes.
Seconds later, she stood in the aisle waiting. From his seat, his eyes skimmed up
passed her faded jeans and plain, loose sweater, and his breath caught in his throat.
Her long blond hair was pulled to the side in a loose braid. Her face? Ethereal. But then,
his flustered gaze became an annoyed glare.
Her bleak gray eyes seemed to look right through him before they darted to the
space next to him. Did she even register his indignation? She must have. Yet, she stood
there in the aisle twisting the loose adjustment strap on her backpack tightly around her
fingers.
“May I sit here?” her meek voice broke the silence that had fallen around them.
Noticing the hush of conversation, Jake’s eyes skimmed the crowded bus. There
was no doubt he and this new girl had an audience. Not something he relished.
His eyes swept back to her. He could tell she was nervous. He heard it in her
quavering voice and saw it in the way she avoided his eyes. He could just say no. But
so long as she was standing, the bus wouldn’t budge.

Last night Aidan heard the agonized cries of a recent inmate in addiction hell. God, had he acted
the same when coming off the poison? He could not recall, but what little he remembered chilled his
black soul.
He entered his room and stopped short at the sight of Cristyn. She was her father’s most trusted,
loyal assistant and nurse. Her presence always caused his heart to skip a beat. It made him fully aware he
was a man, and she a woman. Cristyn’s beauty never failed to capture his interest. She had a coal-black
shade of hair similar to his, and violet-blue eyes he could happily become lost in. This glorious young
lady was far too stunning to be toiling away in a country clinic for addicted reprobates.
Cristyn was making his bed, going about her chores efficiently and cheerfully. Early in his stay,
there were times when she had annoyed him with her sunny smile and optimism; then he’d learned to
bask in it, savor it. But nothing had prepared him for her touch. Even the lightest brush of her fingers
seized his breath. He was shameless, being attracted to her while in such a pathetic state.
Could he be drawn to her because she was the only attractive woman around for months? Perhaps,
for surely it could not be more. Despite his poor health, the rake still lurked under the surface. Yet during
his horrible first few weeks here, Cristyn had stood at the vanguard, coaxing him to eat and attending to
his every need. She’d spoken to him in soft, reassuring tones, all the while acting compassionate and kind
and encouraging him to embrace his recovery. My angel. My savior.
One particularly vivid memory recalled him as a crumpled heap of tears and self-pity. Cristyn had
held him, speaking soothing words of support. She had called him cariad more than once. Aidan found
out later it meant “love” in the Welsh tongue. A term of endearment? Did she refer to all her male patients
as cariad in her sensual, musical voice? What made him worthy of her special attention?
Beyond such questions, his blatant display of emotion and weakness embarrassed him the more
his condition improved. In increments, he slowly tucked away such vulnerabilities and allowed the old
Aidan to emerge, at least in her presence. The cool, detached, I-couldn’t-care-less rake. It was a solid
shield to hide behind. You damned coward.