Trois

By V. P. Trick

After her stint as a filing clerk, Patricia moved up in a world. Now (somewhat) happily employed in a big corporation, her life could return to its normal of writing, drinking, walking, and avoiding her recently ex-boyfriend cop. Moving in together? So much for casual! Perhaps she missed the infuriating man, maybe her new boss was a jerk, but damn it, she was not giving up on her brand-new ordinary life!
Relationship hiatus aside, she didn’t have one worry whatsoever. So what if some lunatic kept sending her pen name cheesy love poems? Nobody knows my real name, Big guy. The gentleman stabbed in a mall toilet? Coincidental. The old geezer ran over on a country road? No link to her. And the dead man murdered at the rest area? Not. Tied. To. Her.
Admittedly, Chris’s plan had backfired. The damn woman thought their relationship was still casual. Worse, she acted as if they were off while he believed they needed to regroup and plan better. At least, he did. Why couldn’t she follow his lead as his detectives did? If he smoked and drank Scotch, that had nothing to do with the damn woman borrowing guns, ignoring threatening fan mail or leaving a trail of dead men as she traipsed around the countryside, right?

Play dumb. Play nice. Run. Fast. “So. What do you want to talk about?” Big smile on her face.
He kept his head where it was, kept his hands where they were, kept the vein throbbing and didn’t answer. No way he was mad about one lousy gun, was he? She leaned closer and pulled his sunglasses off. His eyes were closed. Not good. He didn’t open them. Not good at all.
“Is this because of the gun?” He didn’t answer. She thought she saw him shake his head once, barely, but couldn’t be sure. So she repeated, “Christopher, is this about the gun or not?” He finally opened his eyes to look at her. “Damn you! You shouldn’t have given it to me if it was registered!”
“It’s not about the gun, but fuck, Patricia, what did you do with it?”
“It’s not about the gun?”
“No, it’s not. But now I’m worried. What did you do with it?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything with it.” She wanted to be absolutely sure, though. “But it’s not registered, right?” He stared. She could have sworn his mouth twitched, the beginning of a smile. It lasted a millisecond. At the most.
“No, it’s not.”
“Good then. Because, hum, ah, I kind of lost it.”
“Lost it?” A raised eyebrow. His voice was soft. Low and soft.
“Lost it. As in, it’s gone. I’ll pay you back.” How much did a gun like that cost anyway?

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. P. Trick
• Release date: Jan 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311286314

V. P. Trick

Career, family, metro-boulot-dodo and all that, until retirement. A middle life crisis later (a very early middle crisis), what if earth changed axis? Writing began and I’m hopeful to one day meeting a real Ingrid.

Book preview

If it weren’t for her damn boss, she’d have the perfect job. Quite an easy job at that, dress up every morning, do the hair and makeup thing full on (which had gone old by the fourth day), punch in at nine-thirty, punch out at four, ridiculous hours. Indeed a very easy job. When she spent the night with Christopher, the man waking up at five, she had an extra four hours to shower, eat, doll up and get to work. If she got up. She mostly didn’t, the man was impossible in the morning. Not that she didn’t like it, she liked it, him a lot, too much really. She really had to do something about it. Him.

She had not told Christopher about her boss. Why should she have? Christopher showing up at her work with guns drawn might have taken care of her problem, but she’d be out of a job, a job she had taken great care in picking. Her previous filing clerk job had not been such a success. So what if, from an outsider’s point of view, she appeared most useful, after all weren’t dangerous criminals caught? As an insider, way too inside, her tactics lacked efficiency and any sort of real plan. She was only a writer damn it, what did they expect! That filing position had left her somewhat exhausted, and she suspected, so had work around Christopher. Hence her new, and much better, office job.

Hence here she was, a couple of dark-coloured power suits later. In the office, chic pencil skirts, matching tight-fitting jacket and silky blouses were de rigueur. Her wavy hair was tamed into a sleek bun, her lips sultry red and her eyes artfully dark. She was a writer and a painter after all, and could paint her face to fit any disguise including that of a fancy office research clerk. She looked exactly like all the others in the place. She had not foreseen being a statistical clerical assistant, pedantic title for a secretarial job in a fancy insurance company, required so much maintenance, though. In reaction, she spent the weekend after her first week in a pair of worn-out sweatpants, an as equally worn-out matching tee (both Christopher’s), her face makeup free, and waves all over. Christopher didn’t seem to mind. Then again, why would he? The waves he liked, taking off his clothes he enjoyed, particularly when she was the one wearing them. She had adopted the same outfit every damn weekend since. Barbie doll during the week, nature gone wild during the weekend.

Frankly, after a couple of weeks, Barbie doll was slowly turning to trash. Not that she had forgone the tight suits yet, but had replaced the expensive blouse with a white t-shirt on Monday, a red tank top on Tuesday, camouflage print long-sleeve tee on Wednesday to give her outfits some kick-ass power. Christopher was fond of her pencil skirts and high heels any way she wore them. And, oblivious to the kick-ass power, so was her boss. Amusing that such a short man would attempt to look down at her. Not that she cared. After the white women scare, she had set her mind on an office job and damn it, she intended to stick with it, sleazy boss or not.

Getting the job had been too easy, she should have suspected something. Then again, she was good at writing curriculum vitae; she could fabricate one for just about any type of job. A writer’s imagination never rests and writing fictitious resumes was fun. She had researched the five office skyscrapers in the downtown area that met her criteria of employment. Serviced by public transport lines, express lines preferably, and taxi stations, of course, but most importantly by coffee shops, restaurants and public phones, her basic essentials. The building she was in was the prettiest of the five and the first-floor ladies’ room very classy.

When manufacturing curriculum vitae, the only tricky part was the creation of solid credentials. To the insurance HR crew, she mentioned being a writer as proof of her writing skills and went so far as to give out one of her aliases (she could easy make up another one anyway). Naturally, she didn’t give her adult-reader pen name, too well known (The J man, Joshua’s story, had been published under that name). Besides, her adult books were a tad harsh, not your typical secretarial profile. She couldn’t give out her young adult pen name either; she had plans for it in a somewhat closer than later future. For now, she was into a serial murder-slash-private investigator story but she intended to write for YA again soon, probably after the office building love story she was also currently writing. Not that that story was going well, thanks to her damn boss screwing it up. Anyway. It was thus that she had given her kid-reader pen name. Little stories she had written about five years ago, ʻa delight’ she was told when parents bought them. Few did. Ingrid, her editor-friend-agent-dragon-lady-extraordinaire had not published the kiddie books.

They’re not in the spirit of the edition house, Patricia darling.

Ingrid had been right, of course; the replacement editor Patricia had chosen had not been invested in the books as Ingrid was in all the books she agreed to publish thus that was that, no more children books. For now. She did have a kiddie book in the works (slow and very sporadic works), one she both wrote and illustrated under a new yet undecided pen name.

To add credibility, her resume also mentioned some of her (fake) previous jobs, typing, filing, answering the phone. Perfect credentials were the key. All her old employers gave her stellar reviews. Out of the five she had made up, one had all her known coworkers retired, and one had closed down. Believability. HR called the other three. Having an agoraphobic computer genius like Mario for a friend was grand for setting up and answering inquiries by HR people. Ok, technically one might say he was a hacker but so what? In any case, who was she to judge? She had not mentioned Mario’s contribution to her getting her perfect office job to Christopher, what would have been the point? He probably knew anyway. Infuriating really.

In any case, HR bought it all. And damn she was good at interviews. Having fooled a number of HR people in the fast (including the City’s police Human Resources department to name only one), the HR guys of that pretentious insurance firm hadn’t stood a chance. She had done her research well (without any false modesty, research was one of her greatest talents), and knew the names of the men doing the interviews before said interview. She had also dug out some of their personal tastes beforehand. As it turned out, they too knew about personal tastes, specifically those of her boss. It had taken her three days to realise female personnel in the department, not that there was a lot, high turnover rate, were lean and brunette. She was tallish for a woman and wore high heels to work yet she was the shortest on the floor. Then again, most of the women wore high platform shoes. Hence for the last six weeks, she had been paid good money for the little work she actually did but way not enough for the stares and the not so damn subtle grazes she had to endure along with the rest of the herd of lean and brunette. The man was a pig, and he was putting a damper on her inspiration for a big office romance story. She’d be damned before she let him ruin her plan for the perfect romance! She was going to do something about it soon, but what? Let Christopher take care of it, she considered again. Being the overprotective cop that he was and he liked playing protective man. Hum.

Non, no, no way. Christopher was bad enough as it was; she didn’t want him to go over the top overprotective again. Besides, full moon, sports season, the weather, nobody knew why, but crime season had started in the city, and the Big guy had his team working long hours which meant he worked even longer hours. He was good at what he did however he did it, and so was his team. She had not been so bad either, had she? For a filing clerk. She might have lost some weight in the couple of weeks she had worked with him because of the throwing up and all, but she had fun nonetheless. Well, dead bodies and the serial killers notwithstanding of course.

Serial killers weren’t prowling the city these days, only your ordinary greedy or passionate one-timer murderers. She had heard Bridget, Christopher’s secretary-caretaker-sometimes dragon lady (everyone needed one such woman in their life), mentioned that Christopher and his team had the highest solving rate of the megalopolis’ four homicide investigation units. Typical. Not only did she have to fall for a cop, she had to fall for a good one. She already hated cops; a bad one would have been simpler. One more to hate was no big deal but one to be crazy about was something else. Adding to the mix his team, all of whom she had learned to know and liked, the Big man was making their affair truly complicated. Patricia smiled to herself and sighed. It really was a nice time in their relationship.

Six weeks on the power-suit job. Had she been honest with herself, she might have admitted to being kind of bored with the job. And angry. Bored with the job and the Barbie look, angry at her boss. Maybe changing the look would change the boss? Maybe if she interchanged her week’s look for her weekend’s for the oversexed boss? It wouldn’t change anything for Christopher; he had pretty much seen her in all her outfits, disguises as he called them, and the result had always been the same. Oversexed. The HR guys had spent a great deal of time going over the company’s mandatory dress code; she didn’t want to get into trouble because of it. It would be like the jerk had won. Thus subtle kick-ass look. Too subtle for pig-boss so far.

Christopher showed up at her hotel some time past eleven. She was already cozy under her covers when she heard a faint knock and Christopher walked right in. Had he used his key or jumped the lock again? What’s the point of living in a secure hotel if the damn man can just walk in any damn time he wants to, she wondered for the nth time. Not that she really cared, it was late, she was half asleep already, and she did like him walking in.

I wasn’t expecting you, Big guy. They usually saw each other only once or twice during the week, and they had spent last night together at his place.

I was in the neighbourhood. He kissed her hair without touching her.

He didn’t smell of cigarette. Hence, he had not smoked on the way over. He did not smell of sweat hence no jogging. Thus, he was simply back from a regular, not gruesome, not weird, not mother or child, murder scene. Still he knew the drill, ghastly killing or not, showering was mandatory. She didn’t want to touch accidentally something that had previously come into contact with a dead body. Not that she could have felt it, but hey, to each his, or in this instance, her own quirks. Minutes later, he was lying naked next to her, lips on her shoulder. His body was warm, but his wet hair wasn’t. When she shivered, he smiled at her, that sexy crooked smile of his. No doubt he had noticed her body’s reaction to the coolness. It really was a nice time in their relationship. So why did he choose that moment to drop a bomb on her?

Sarah’s First Letter

Sarah had opened the envelope, threw it away, no return address on it hence no place to send the warm yet generic thank-you note, and read the letter.

I dare say, Oh lovely lady,

That you are the loveliest.

I dare say, Oh charming one,

That soon we will be as one.

I dare say, Oh lovely lady of mine,

That you deserve the best.

I dare say, Oh charming lady of mine,

That Oh so very soon, you will be one of mine.

What a cute poem! She liked the rhymes, and she loved the way it looked, with its clipped words pasted on a soft yellow paper in an artistic collage. She felt it gave the missive a cheerful air. Working for the St-James Public Relations Agency, spending her days opening, reading and sorting fan letters for writers, she had read it all. What she mostly saw were letters telling authors how great or how horrible their books were. I’m your biggest fan! Love your work! Hate your work! Hate your guts, you scumbag! Such language!

Sarah divided the mail into four neat piles. Love. Hate. Reply. Special. She put the poem in the Love pile at first. She kept going, quite a stack today. She was sorting author Patricia’s mail this afternoon. Sarah was a dedicated worker; she separated Patricia’s letters with care. Taking her job at heart, Sarah had read all the books of all the authors assigned to her. She liked Patricia’s books, mostly because they were written by a woman though she did find some of the stories too graphic or peculiar for her tastes. The J man, the story of a hacker and his girlfriend, was her favourite from that author. The story was realistic to the point she had almost believed it to be real. Autobiographies being more to Sarah’s tastes, she liked realistic books like that.

Sarah was assigned fan letters from adult writers; teens authors were handled by Carol, and kids by Liann. Exceptionally, the owner, Mr St-James, had also given Sarah two young adult authors and one kiddie. She had not complained. Even if she was well into her thirties, Sarah liked teen and kid books a lot. She was happy with her out-of-category authors, and as she had done for her adult authors, she had read the books of her assigned kid and teen writers.

The three kiddie books had been fun reading yet not memorable; she barely had any mail to sort at all for those. It might be because pre-schoolers did not write, though. Her first teen authors had published a series about a geeky girl going through college. There had been one book published every year for the last four years. Sarah had loved those. They were exactly like her life back then, except in the books the geeky girl got even with the popular crowd, and she had a sweet boyfriend. Sarah had received quite a lot of mail for that author. Sarah’s last odd author only had one book out, published sixteen months ago, The book generated a fair amount of mail, about half-and-half Love-Hate. The book related the life of a foster care dropout college kid who tried to earn a living doing odd jobs and screws up every single one of them while making friends along the way. Sarah was not sure she understood that one.

The Agency taking care of the Love, Hate and Reply piles, Sarah was aware her authors did not read most of their fan letters. Special, the mail she couldn’t classified, was given to Mr St-James. In author Patricia’s case, Mr St-James had instructed he was to check them out before sending them to Patricia’s publisher. Madam Ingrid had requested copies of any letter out of the ordinary be sent to her immediately. The other three piles were sent to the publisher for a final review then archived upon return. Not all authors or publishers proceeded that way. Of Sarah’s authors, only ten out of the thirty kept the mail, and only seven had the Special pile. Her three exceptionally assigned authors plus author Patricia wanted both. Sarah had been told by Mr St-James, keeping mail away from the authors was a way to protect the often too fragile author’s ego. Love-Hate-Reply.

A New Chapter for Chris

"You know, Princess, I’ve been thinking." He smiled softly at her. She looked pretty in that skimpy little top she liked to wear to bed. Not that he was going to let her keep it on much longer.

She smiled back with an intrigued look. Playfully, wanting to keep it light, he had purposely used her I’ve been thinking line. What about, Big guy?

About you. And me.

More of the intrigued look with a hint of puzzlement to it. Neither of them talked much about the us thing, especially her. What about, Christopher?

"I’ve been thinking about the last few weeks, the past months actually." Since I first dragged you to my place really.

Her smile turned playful, Are you offering me my old job back?

No fucking way in hell! No, Darling, I’m not. Besides, you’re the one that quit. He had had enough trouble getting her to resign from the fucking job. Officially, a filing clerk position in his department, unofficially, a recklessly-snooping-around-murderers-just-doing research-Big-guy-writer clerk. Not that she hadn’t been great at it, surprisingly helpful, but so fucking unsafe, and he wanted her safe. As in the fucking library, Pussycat. She had been safely working in a nice cushy insurance office for the last six weeks; no way was he letting her come back. Not that he didn’t miss her at the office, he missed her like hell, but he had a much better plan.

I didn’t quit; I took a leave of absence. Big difference.

Not for him. The end result was the same: she was out and safe. Same thing, Angel. Besides, you already have a new job, with the power suits and everything. Moving up in the world, Dollface.

Ah. Right.

Six weeks and even now he wasn’t sure why she had taken the job. As far as he was concerned, her real job was writing. She was meant to write just like he was destined to be a cop. And it wasn’t like she needed the money, did she, with most of her books selling very well. Her hotel suite was paid for the next five years, she even owned shares in the chain. She had no relatives, no dependents to take care of; already had money to last her for the rest of her life. Unfortunately. And if by chance she ever ran out, well, he was going to take care of her. Macho as it was, he had dreams of her depending on him, dreams that brought him back to his plan.

Had he not been so focused on the plan, he might have noticed her lack of enthusiasm at the mention of her six-week-old job. He might have asked more questions. He might even have found out about her boss. He didn’t.

Instead, he said, in his usual straightforward, almost too-direct manner, I don’t want to talk about the job right now, I want to talk about us. I think we should move in together.

She stared at him dumbfounded then burst out laughing. Maybe she’s drunk, he thought, but he could always tell when she was tipsy. She wasn’t.

Her laughter died down, replaced by a frown that had her brows almost touching, Surely you’re not serious!

Not the reaction he had hoped. I am. Deeper voice but not angry, not yet.

She sat up, back straight and rigid. That’s preposterous! Preposterous! The woman had a way with words.

Only once had he officially lived with a woman. In his early thirties, feeling the time had come to settle down, he decided to get married. Wanting to keep it simple, wanting a wife his family, his aunt Margaret in particular, would if not endorse, at least tolerate − he had never looked for the MacLaren clan’s approval, but the wife was to be a peace offering of sort. Well, not peace but a truce. Ok, not a cease-fire exactly but a what? Respite? Lull? Moratorium? De-escalation − he ended up living with a woman he would never have fucked, much less dated, under any other circumstances. A snob and a pain in the ass, as he had known from the start since she had been, and still was, what silver spoon families called ʻa close family relation.’

It had been strictly a business commitment, a how-to-shut-up-the-family-and-do-the-expected-thing type of decision. A bad decision to say the least. He had never been a do-what’s-expected-of-you guy. As it turned out, he wasn’t good at it. He had not wanted to live with a woman before, had certainly not wanted to live with that woman during, and had not wanted to live with one since.

Mid-thirty and a couple of brief, casual not-going-anywhere relationships later, he forwent girlfriends for the much simpler female fuck acquaintances. With the job and all, being the workaholic that he was, he preferred being alone. Until her. He had had his place for years now, had had women over occasionally, of course, for coffee or drinks before going out, but never for the evening or the night. His territory. He’d go over to their place and come back to sleep alone.

Until Patricia. The first time she came to his building, he liked the sight and the feel of her in the place, her mere presence; it was as if the place had softened around her. Lending her his bed, he kept her the night, and even as he glared at the ceiling above his fucking couch, he wanted to keep her close. Closer. She was right for the place. Right for him. From that moment on, he had wanted to keep her by his side for longer and longer periods yet the damn woman kept slipping away. He often wondered how much of it was because he was a cop.

Tonight he had believed he could have her all but it seemed there was still much convincing to do. Taking a deep breath, he put his best smile back on and steady his voice. Playful. Think about it, Princess. It’s going to be great. We’re great together. You’ll have breakfast served every morning.

She didn’t like playful. Don’t be ridiculous! We’ll kill each other within the first two weeks.

He tried patient and loving. Patricia Darling, I think you’re exaggerating. Noting the look on her face, he added, So what if we have a few words once in a while?

She didn’t like patient and loving either. ʻA few words once in a while?’ We argue all the times!

Patient still. No, we don’t. Not all the times.

We are now!

That’s because you’re−

She cut him off, I’m what? Are you saying the arguing is my fault?

Ok, patient was getting old, and it wasn’t getting him anywhere. She was trying to pick a fight, and he had no intention of falling for it. All I’m saying is, I think we should try it. A week, two weeks. A month. You pack a few suitcases and bring them to my place, see how it goes. I’ll get you an office in the building; I have a vacancy on the second floor. You can arrange it however you want, turn it into a studio for your painting and writing.

Why should I go to your place? Why can’t you come here?

My place is bigger. I’ll make room for you in my closets. He had already, months ago, but the damn woman still had to fill those drawers and shelves.

I have a big closet too. If it’s only for a couple of weeks, why can’t me make it work here?

Come on, you live in a hotel.

So?

Princess, nobody lives in a hotel suite.

From her lounging position in bed, she half raised, hands on hips to frown at him, "I live in a hotel suite."

Yes you do, but you shouldn’t. You need a real place. My place.

This place is real, and it’s mine.

Mine could be yours.

I can’t live at your place. Who knows how many women you brought there!

Now standing in front of the bed, fists on her hips, frowning harder than ever, her blue eyes dark and stormy defying him, she was magnificent. He sighed. Big tactical error, he hadn’t been prepared. Too bad she hadn’t been drunk, it might have been easier. Then again, maybe not. He got out of the bed and came to stand in front of her. Mast erect. He couldn’t help it. She was sexy as hell in her sheer top and panties, wavy hair all over. Her hair was cut a bit shorter than its usual shoulder-length, making the waves puffier. He liked.

Besides, Big guy, we can’t move in together, we’re middle-aged!

Middle-aged, now what? Middle-aged was fifty, he had a couple of years to go, and she had a couple more. You’re not forty yet, and I’ve just turned forty-two. Forty-two’s not middle-aged!

It is when it’s about moving in. We’re too old for this. That being said by a woman stomping her foot on the floor like a child. Sexy as hell. His cock twitched; it didn’t help his case. Apparently he was enjoying the storm in her eyes and the see-through top a bit too much. She narrowed her eyes at him. Won’t help you get laid more often, Big guy.

Since patient was obviously not working, he went back to his usual blunt manners. Getting laid is easy, don’t need you to move in for that.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It means, this is not about sex. Ok, a smaller, less confident man might have felt insecure saying such a thing naked with a boner going but he didn’t. So he liked sex, so did she, and he sure liked it with her. Immensely. But this wasn’t about sex, or rather this wasn’t just about sex. He enjoyed having her around, talking to her, making her laugh. And smile. And blush. And all those things women did that she did better than everyone.

She threw her hands in the air. The hell it isn’t.

Patricia, seriously. We could try it without sex if you want.

She eyed him suspiciously, sensing a trap. Fucking right, her at his place would give him plenty of opportunities to help her change her mind. All the time in the world to seduce her. He liked that too. She must have read some of his thoughts in his eyes. Or lower.

Christopher James MacLaren, you’re an arrogant jerk!

You know, Darling of mine, I don’t see what the big problem is. We like each other. A lot. A man and a woman meet. Man and Woman fall for one another. Man and Woman have sex. Woman wants to move in with Man. That’s the way it goes.

The hell it is. Woman does not want to move in with Man!

Well, some women do. Ok, so, not his best argument, not even close. Patient not working, direct not working, pissed off had taken over.

It got him more of the narrowed eyes, Do they now? Well then, why don’t Man ask one of them to move in?

Maybe I should! His ship was already sinking, launching another torpedo wouldn’t change anything, would it?

Well, it did.

Yes, you should. And right now. I mean, the state you’re in, I think you really need to. At which, she walked to the chair where he had laid his clothes before his shower. As she took the pile in her arms, picking up his shoes too, he thought for a moment she was going to throw the bundle at him. Although, for fear of hurting him, he knew she wouldn’t throw the shoes. To his surprise, she walked to her front door and threw her stack, his stack, in the hallway. Good luck with your new roommate!

He didn’t move. Ok, Princess, calm down.

She drew a steadying breath before locking eyes with him. "I am calm, she articulated slowly. Like hell she was. I am very calm. I want you to get the fuck out."

I’m not going anywhere. I think we should talk about this.

No. We’re done talking. I want something casual; you want to keep a woman in your place. At your disposal. No middle ground. Get out.

He studied her for a beat. He should have seen she wasn’t ready, should have understood right away. Big tactical error indeed. He sighed and shook his head at her. He started to say something, saw the glare in her eyes and stopped. Patient was back. The plan would have to wait.

He strolled outside. She slammed the door behind him. He heard her throw the dead bolt he had installed a couple of months ago. It didn’t make much difference because he knew how to jump the door’s electronic lock and jimmy the dead bolt. He smiled. Tonight wasn’t the night to remind her of his many skills in that field, though. He needed a new plan. In case she was watching through the peephole, he dressed slowly. I’ll let you simmer, Pussycat. I’ll let you apologize for throwing me out naked. More accurately, since he had walked out all by himself, let her apologize for having demanded he walk out naked. The first step in his new plan Her apologizing. He was patient.

Ménagerie: Moving

The beginning of a new life. She was ready, had been for so long. The death of her siblings was a relief. Free she was. Free from perfection. Free from perversion. Her turn to be perfect and perverse.

She smiled. No more man in the way. No more men. She intended to enjoy her freedom. Although freedom was not the correct word. It gave the siblings and the man too much power, as if they had had a hold on her.

The beginning of her new life. Perfect and perverse. He had been a test. She was such an overachiever. A cop of all men! Perfect. Perverse.

She would have to choose carefully. Her new life needed to be grand. Her men needed to be grand. The harder, the better. Figuratively. Physically.

She left the school behind. No regrets. Teaching she did in her everyday life, she was a natural at it. She had taught her neighbour’s kid how to ride a bike. She had taught her colleague’s oldest how to ride a woman. She had taught her sister’s boyfriend how to die. A lifelong vocation.

The cop man might have been good training had he been himself, but he wasn’t anymore, was he? Her sister had spoiled him. Both her sisters had spoiled him. He was already half dead when she caught up with him. No fight. Typical.

The beginning of her new life. Perfect and perverse. She was such an overachiever. She had enjoyed it. Next time, she intended to enjoy the man before enjoying it. Perfect perversion.

Excerpt from Ménagerie, by Trica C. Line

Patricia’s Moving Along

No wonder she was writing the adventures of a female serial killer, she felt like killing someone herself. Not sure who, though, amongst her diminutive boss, her pushy editor, her infuriating ex or her screwed-up self. Damn she was tired. Between her day job with Wandering hands and the book signatures she had done over the last two weekends,