Torches - A Seduction

By Loren Stone

Two women, a hot summer's day in the city... and
the heat that rises between them.

"Torches" is the story of a seduction, from the
inside-out... of flesh and bone and heart and soul.

Read... and let "Torches" light your fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365295669

Book preview

Torches - A Seduction

Torches - A Seduction

by

Loren Stone

Copyright © 2016 by Loren Stone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review, or by bloggers who may quote passages for the sake of commentary and discussion.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-1-365-29566-9

For her... always

Chapter One

August 28th was just another late summer Sunday in this tired old city. For weeks, humidity and smog had gathered about the uppermost stories of the corporate high-rises. Gradually, the haze had thickened and crept earthward, till the blistering streets were choked with its density. Like a muscle exercised and flexed, day in, day out, the grip of summer strengthened its iron hold on the minds, bodies, souls of the City. Gang confrontations were escalating in the city's nether regions to the South and West. Muggings were up in the City Center. On any given night, the sound of gunshots was neither unfamiliar nor unexpected. Had there been ample funds, the police force would have stepped up its watchfulness and cracked down on violators. But the City was all but bankrupt, so the police simply let the ubiquitous violence take its course, then cleaned up afterwards, completing their routine inquiries paperwork and filing the requisite reports.

More and more people were moving out of town, returning to these streets only during working hours, Monday through Friday. At the same time, many town councils in the outlying suburbs were dealing with their homeless problem by busing their homeless here -- to either die or pass invisibly into the dead-end City shelter system. There were still hard-core city dwellers who lived in town, but even those who had called this place home for a lifetime were burning out fast. They were moving in droves to points far to the south and west -- and never looking back. Gradually, anyone and everyone who had once loved this place was being replaced or outnumbered by those who didn't, couldn't or wouldn't. Suburbanites had taken to leaving work an hour early to beat the rush out of town, and those of us who lived in town were looking up old friends and long-lost relatives who could offer us solace beyond the city limits.

I was not so fortunate a city-dweller. The few friends I had, lived in town, themselves, and my relatives lived a day's drive away. There were few people I wanted to see, anyway, inside or outside the City limits. My lover -- ex-lover -- of two years had left me abruptly, almost a year before, and I hadn't had the need or inclination to socially circulate, since then. Too many questions were asked by women who'd like my ex-lover and fished for clues to my guilt. Too much attention was focused on me by women who hadn't cared much for her, but were interested in me. When I looked around at the motley crowd of women who were available, ready and willing (not necessarily all at the same time), I recoiled with a mixture of disillusionment, shyness, and fear of infection.

Whatever hopes I entertained about a relationship, I saw played out on the street corner beneath my second story apartment. I lived in the midst of the City's gay ghetto, having moved there upon my breakup. My initial hope had been to jump- start my flagging social life by placing myself strategically between the City's premiere dyke bar, the women's bookstore, and the very queer Video Nook. My apartment building shared the intersection with the video store, a laundromat with a pool table in the basement, and a flophouse that signaled the onset of the seedier side of this neighborhood. All summer, newfound lesbian love, fueled by liquor and the rare license to lust openly which we found at the Club, had blossomed on that corner in the neon glare of the Video Nook, and I'd watched with a keen, voyeuristic eye.

But now I was seeing my worst fears realized in full sight and sound. Months of heat, humidity, heavy drinking and hefty doses of reality were taking their toll, and the affairs were as messy and loud in their conclusion, as they'd been sweet and soft at the outset. Most weekend nights at 2:00 a.m., I was reminded why I was still single, as epithets, accusations and empty bottles were hurled between one-time lovers. By 3:00 a.m., I'd resolve anew to embrace this thing called celibacy with all my might. My friends accused me of simply not being able to get a date. I didn't want a date.

Beyond the gay ghetto, too, summer ground the City under its well-shod hoof. Tempers everywhere were running high, patience was running short, and on the streets there was less eye contact and more space between passers-by. Anger was in abundance, and love was hard to find. In the withering choke hold of the late summer humidity, most of us didn't have the energy for any but the basest of human instincts. I hadn't turned on my television or radio in weeks, not wanting to hear the region's (inevitably bad) late-breaking news.

To diffuse some of the citywide frustration and put our summertime passions to good use, City Hall had taken rare action. A rich cousin of a council member had donated funds to refurbish a four-block stretch of the riverfront and actively promote events every weekend in the summer, starting in June when the heat began to rise. Each weekend, The Landing, as the promoters billed the new fairgrounds, offered something different -- a live concert by a famous act or a theme jam featuring folk rock bands and food stands serving up flavors of the bayou, Jamaica, Nashville, and rural points in between. The riverfront was the only alternative to sitting in front of the air conditioner all weekend, if you were stuck in the city in the summer.

And so it was, on the last Sunday afternoon in August, that I found myself meandering through the crowds on the riverfront to sounds of a local reggae band. As one song melted into another in the hot dampness around me, I was dismayed to hear myself thinking the music all sounded the same after a while. Was I over the hill before my time? A 27-year-old should not be yawning at 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, grousing about how loud the music was, I thought, checking my watch yet again. What the hell was I doing here? I wondered, and in my reverie I was nearly run down by a pack of teenage boys on roller blades, their eyes glazed with heat and a sugar rush. Oh, well, I consoled myself, the day was a freebie. Besides, I really did need to get out more. I hadn't been outside much, since my breakup in the Spring. Unless I had to drag my bones off to work or go grocery shopping, I usually couldn't be bothered to leave my apartment. But this celebration of local talent -- they billed it as Homegrown -- had been all the talk at work for months, and I'd gotten several invitations to tailgate parties and barbecues before, during and after the event. The parties hadn't tempted me, but when another woman I worked with had offered me a free ticket on Friday, I decided to accept. Now I was here, so I'd better make the best of it.

I strolled from one end of the fairgrounds to the other, and back again, weaving in and out of testy nuclear families and shrieking gaggles of teenage girls. The crowd pressed in around me, filling my nose with the odors of human and animal sweat, frying grease, salt and powdered sugar. Here and there came whiffs of leather and cheap cologne. And through the babble of voices filtered the sounds of money changing hands -- dollar bills and loose change -- paper bags opened and closed around new purchases, and the crackle of food and candy wrappings opened, dropped, stepped on. In the distance beyond the food stands, I could hear the clink of crafters' tools on metal, the thud of mallets on wood and leather, the chink-chink-chink of a stone sculptor's demonstration, and tens of other sounds I couldn't identify, but faintly recognized.

I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but saw no one I knew well. As the sun sank ever so slowly, the throngs teemed in the lengthening shadows, while the heat tightened its humid grip. I checked my watch again -- 4:25 -- and thought of heading home for a few hours till a band I wanted to hear took the stage.

The marauding roller blade boys thundered through the crowd again, and I jumped back, stumbling into a line of people waiting to buy hot soft pretzels. Kids yelped, a woman hollered, and I felt my ankle turn over in a gut-wrenching twist. After disentangling myself from an irate young mother with three small children and a big dog on a long leash, I limped over to a nearby empty cement bench to nurse my injured ankle.

Maybe this was a sign, I muttered to myself as I stripped off my sock and shoe and massaged my foot. My ankle swelled visibly, turning grey and purple and tender under my fingers. Yes, it was time to go home, I decided, as the musical audience down by the river erupted in cheers and whistles at the reggae band's finale. I shaded my eyes against the sun, but couldn't see past the crowd around me. I knew there was an exit nearby, and past the teeming bodies lined up to buy food, I caught a glimpse of the fluorescent-green shirts of the Jam's security guards who were stationed at every gate.

The stabbing pains in my ankle subsided to a throb, so I rose and hobbled along the outskirts of the feeding frenzy towards the closest exit. But the gates -- both entrance and exit -- were clogged with humanity, so I paused to rest my ankle. I took one last look around the fairgrounds, and a handful of craftswomen's tables situated near another, less crowded exit, caught my eye. The women behind the tables all seemed to know each other, for they shouted comments amongst themselves as they took money and wrote receipts for the outstretched arms of the crowd. Their tables were arranged in a loose, lopsided pentagon, and the pack of people milling within the perimeter prevented most from