Afflicted: A Samantha Sinclair Novel

By H.D. Cyr

At the beginning of the Fall semester, Sam's colleague, Dr. Susan Epstein, went missing. A few days ago, she showed up at the community college where they both work, missing a shoe and half of her face. Sam is the only person who can see Dr. Epstein's decomposing corpse, and it is wreaking havoc on her peace of mind - and her appetite. She has i

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.D.Cyr Fiction
• Release date: Aug 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781088247211

H.D. Cyr

H. D. Cyr is an emerging author of Urban Fantasy. A genre she has loved with a passion for decades. She has an avid interest in criminology, psychology and is a tad obsessed with all things creepy and supernatural. She lives in New England with her amazing husband, two bratty dogs, and a yard full of noisy chickens.

Book preview

One

November 29th

She noticed the van earlier that day when she arrived on campus. She hadn’t thought much of it at 9 a.m. when the sun was shining and students were rushing to and from the parking lot. During the day, the van blended into the scenery, barely noticeable.

At night, with no other cars in the parking lot but hers, the van gave off a sinister vibe. Serial killers drove vans. Vans with darkened windows and metal tables bolted to the floor in the back. Walls lined with rusty, blood-stained tools. She imagined the driver of that van was quite proficient with his tools. Proficient at keeping his victims alive while he removed their skin and internal organs.

It’s a maintenance van. She whispered into the cold interior of her lifeless car. 

Or a very patient serial killer waiting for the perfect victim: a lone woman in a crappy car and a tight skirt. She was a horror movie cliché. 

Or a woman with an overactive imagination.

Then again, a student and a faculty member had gone missing from MCC over the course of the semester. As far as Sam knew, they had not disappeared from the school parking lot. But that did not quell her fears.

She turned the key again — and again the car wouldn’t start. It had snowed after she got to campus. Her car didn’t like the snow. And now another horrifying thought crept in. She was going to have to use public transportation. It wasn’t the money or the time it took to get home that bothered her; it was the people. Every time she rode the bus, all the weirdos gravitated towards her. Every. Single. Time. The last time she’d used public transportation, a toothless old man with a shriveled dick flashed her. She’d had nightmares for weeks.

She could call Chris. With any luck, he hadn’t had more than a couple of beers so far. Seemed reasonable given that he got out of work at 5:30, and it was a little after six. Then again, he was a large Italian Irishman. He could hold his liquor better than anyone she knew, and he liked to prove it. 

And while she hated to bug him for a ride (again), what choice did she have? A serial killer was idling in a creepy, windowless van behind her, deciding in which order to disassemble Sam’s body. It was possible to cut off limbs and keep a person alive if the killer had the right drugs. It was also possible to keep a person alive while removing their internal organs. She hated that she knew these things, but that was the price of being a crime fiction writer. Well, that and a very active imagination. 

Chris answered on the second ring. In the background she heard music, laughter, and clinking glasses.

How many drinks have you had? Her voice was too loud in the small interior of her car. 

His laughter sounded sloshy. Did your car break down again?

No. It won’t start. 

A man walked around the back of the van and got into the passenger side.

Two serial killers! She’d never outrun two. One man would chase her on foot, the other would chase her with the van. It was impossible to survive that scenario. 

Unless she had written a superhero novel instead of a murder mystery. Once she was in the alleyway, a superhero in spandex (preferably a woman) would come to her rescue. 

She should have written a superhero novel instead of a murder mystery, the opening scene was set in an empty parking lot. It did not end well for the woman whose only crime was wearing stilettos to work that day.

Sam didn’t wear heels, ever. But she was wearing a tight, knee-length skirt. She’d only worn the stupid skirt because she’d wanted to wear a sexy camisole and show off her new tattoo. Ok, she wore the camisole to show off the tattoo. She wore the skirt because it did nice things for her butt. Detective Cardoza, who was investigating the disappearances, was cute. And it had been a long, long time since she’d had sex with a person. And now she was going to die because she enjoyed sex. 

She could see the headlines now. Thirty-one-year-old assistant librarian - slain because she wore a tight skirt to work.

Babe? You still there? 

She ducked lower, tilting the rearview mirror so she could watch their next move. 

When she answered, her voice was a soft whisper. If you’re already drunk, send Finn.

Why are you whispering? he whispered. In the background, she heard Finn ask Chris if Sam was ok.

The van backed out of the parking spot. Its headlights lit up the interior of Sam’s car. If she survived this, she would immediately start looking for a moderately priced newer-used car. Anything had to be better than a 1972 Honda Civic that refused to work in any kind of inclement weather. 

She sank lower in her seat, heart thumping like a Metallica drum solo. 

Sam, where are you? Chris no longer sounded amused. 

Parking lot, B, she whispered. 

She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, hoping like hell that the men in the van would keep driving. 

Someone tapped on the driver's side window. Sam screamed and jumped across the console into the passenger side seat. Her head hit the ceiling, her phone hit the floor and went dark. 

Ms. Sinclair, said a man’s voice. A face pressed against the driver-side window. Everything ok?

It was Detective Cardoza. Thank god. 

Oh hello, Detective.

Sam climbed out of the passenger side door on wobbly legs, feeling ridiculous for screaming in the guy’s face. She scanned the parking lot, searching for the van. It was gone. 

Car troubles? he asked.

No. It just won’t start, she said.

He smiled. He had a great smile. A GQ kind of smile. In my experience that’s the textbook definition of car troubles.

She giggled and shoved her trembling hands into the deep pockets of her dress coat. Yeah, I guess it is.

I’d offer to help, but I know nothing about old cars.

They break down a lot, she told him. 

Good to know. He had a good voice too; deep and reassuring. It could have been the badge and the gun at his hip that reassured her. Either way, she was no longer fearing for her life. 

Let me give you a ride. 

That’s ok. She jerked a thumb towards the bus stop at the front of the building. I’ll take the bus.

The bus is gone.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw the taillights disappear around the corner. Well, shit. I’ll wait for the next bus.

I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone. Let me give you a ride for my own peace of mind.

If it’s not too much trouble.

It’s not.

Detective Cardoza’s car was a basic sedan with lots of fancy equipment inside and half a dozen antennas attached to the hood and roof. Like Detective Cardoza, the car was neat and clean, devoid of discarded coffee cups or candy bar wrappers. Not that she’d expect a cop car to be full of trash. But the detective in her novel Red Hot was a notorious coffee addict and ate most of her meals on the run. Her car was always a mess, as was her life for that matter. The metaphor was so obvious. It was probably why no one wanted to publish her book. 

Where too? Detective Cardoza asked and put the car into gear.

Last Stop Cafe.

He raised a thick eyebrow. Don’t take this the wrong way, Ms. Sinclair, but you don’t seem like the type of woman who hangs out at a biker bar.

My roommate likes to hang out there. 

Is your roommate into hairy guys with an overabundance of testosterone? he asked.

Sam smiled. As a matter a fact, he is.

Now both his eyebrows were raised. I didn’t think Last Stop catered to the LGBTQ community.

They don’t. But his friend Finn hangs out there, so now Chris hangs out there. Sam preferred O’Donnell’s, but O’Donnell’s did not have pool tables, and that mattered to Chris. Or maybe it mattered to Finn. It mattered to someone, so now they hung out at Last Stop once a week. 

He pulled out of the faculty parking lot and followed the windy two-lane road towards the rear exit. At this time of night, traffic on campus was light. She searched for the van as they drove. It was nowhere in sight.

Is Finn a boyfriend? he asked.

He’s not really my type, she said. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, but he’s good friends with my best friend, and I’m pretty sure there are rules against that sort of thing. 

I meant, is he your roommate’s boyfriend?

Oh, her cheeks warmed. Um, no, he’s not Christopher’s type either. Chris is more into . . . she gave the detective an assessing look. Well, actually you’re the type of guy Chris usually dates. 

Good looking and well dressed? he asked with a smirk.

She smiled. So, any leads on the case? 

God, she sucked at flirting. 

Nothing solid, he said. Dr. Salcedo says that you taught English for a couple semesters.

Freshman writing. Sam thought teaching basic writing skills would be easy because writing was her passion, and she’d always thought of herself as a fairly patient person. But patience had its limits, which she quickly learned that first semester of teaching. 

He slowed to a stop at a red light and looked at Sam.Why did you switch departments?

Teaching isn’t for everyone. And there was her ability to contend with. The visions were not a daily occurrence. At least they hadn’t been when she was teaching. But when she had a vision, her eyes did strange things, and her skin got really pale. It was embarrassing when it happened in front of people. 

Did you work with Dr. Epstein? 

Yes. She hired me when I started at MCC.

Earlier in the semester, Dr. Epstein took a week off to attend a conference in California and never returned. Rumor had it she’d met a man and was enjoying a torrid love affair. Dr. Epstein had a reputation, and depending on who one spoke with, she was a drunken hussy or a woman who knew what she wanted. Sam had always thought the latter. 

Were you and her close? 

We got along well enough. But I wouldn’t say I was close with her. I don’t think anyone was. Dr. Epstein had been a private person. As far as Sam knew, no one from MCC had ever been to her home. Nor were there any pictures of family or pets in her office. 

I’m told that you and Dr. Salcedo are close. 

Close-ish, she answered. 

What does close-ish mean? he asked, turning right onto Hartford Road. 

Is this my official interview? It was kind of exciting to be questioned about a case. It would’ve been more exciting if she hadn’t worked for the person he was investigating the disappearance of. 

Just asking questions, he said as he pulled into the parking lot of Last Stop Cafe.

Last Stop Cafe took up an entire block in front of the Cheney Mills apartments. The outside of the building was a respectable-looking brick facade. If it wasn’t for the motorcycles, trucks with Harley stickers, and gruff-looking patrons, one might think it was an actual cafe. 

We’re pretty close for work colleagues. I’ve been to his house a few times. Out to dinner with him and his wife. Why? Is he a suspect? She was joking. Obviously, Gabriel was not a suspect. He was one of the nicest and most even-tempered people she knew. 

Everyone’s a suspect until they’re not, he said, giving her a sidelong look.

Is that an official police line? she asked, a curve to her lips.

Are you making fun of me, Ms. Sinclair? He really did have a nice smile. And he smelled like expensive cologne, which wasn’t something she normally cared about. But, it had been a long time since she’d had sex.

I’m a writer, she told him. I’m curious about everything.

He casually stretched an arm across the back of the seat, turning his upper body towards Sam, allowing her a better look at his face. What do you write?

I recently finished a book about a police detective. Recently, as in eight and a half months ago. 

He pulled a card from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Sam. If you ever need any inside information on trivial cop stuff, give me a call.

Thanks. So, why are you asking about Gabriel? You don’t actually think he had anything to do with the disappearance of Susan Epstein, do you? 

A short skinny guy in a black leather jacket was being pushed out of the front door of the bar by a bouncer. A small woman in a short denim skirt was screaming at the bouncer. She took a swing at him and fell on her ass. The bouncer shook his head as if annoyed.

Detective Cardoza frowned. Maybe I should walk you in. 

I’ll be fine. 

He gave her a dubious look. When you’re not here, where do you hang out?

I normally hang out at home. I spend most of my free time writing. And crying over rejection notices. But I like O’Donnell’s.

O’Donnell’s pub was a family-owned business situated exactly one mile from Chris and Sam’s apartment. Mike O’Donnell was a retired State Trooper. Two of his three sons were police officers, as well as his youngest daughter. His other son and daughter helped with the bar. It was a nice place, and no one ever got punched. The same could not be said about Last Stop Cafe.

Mike O’Donnell served with my grandfather, Detective Cardoza said.

Small world. I’m surprised we’ve never run into each other before.

I don’t make a habit of hanging out at local bars.

Maybe you should. It’s a nice place. Whoa, she just totally flirted with Detective Cardoza without giggling. 

His smile changed from polite to something she imagined could easily relieve a woman of her panties. Maybe I will.

She snort-giggled - there it was.

Chapter

Two

Last Stop Cafe was crowded and smoky, despite the no-smoking signs. The floors were dark wood; the walls were brick. Patrons were dressed in leather and denim, though the women wore significantly less leather and denim than the men. At the front of the bar, a band was banging out a bad rendition of Nirvana’s ‘Teen Spirit.’ 

She scanned the bar looking for Chris or Finn. Chris was a big man with a big presence and a booming voice. He was hard to miss, even in a crowded bar. Finn was also hard to miss. There was usually a horde of barely dressed women surrounding him. 

Hi there, said the bartender with a toothy grin. What can I get you? 

I’m looking for a man — tall and muscly. She flexed her bicep. Piercing blue eyes, very loud. His name is Chris.

The bartender leaned across the bar and yelled to be heard above the band. You Sam?

Sam frowned in confusion. Yes?

He said if you showed up, to tell you to sit your ass on that stool and don’t move until he gets back.

Where did he go?

He shrugged. No idea. You want a drink?

She shook her head. She’d give Chris ten minutes, then she was going home. Without him close by, Last Stop Cafe was not a fun place to be. A few of the scarier-looking patrons were watching her with skeptical eyes. Maybe they thought she was an undercover cop or something equally unwelcome in a biker bar. She wore a cardigan, matching camisole, and a knee-length skirt. She slipped out of the cardigan and draped it over her coat, hoping that the tattoo that covered her right arm helped her to fit in. 

Initially, she’d wanted a tattoo that was small and subtle, easy to hide. But when Finn showed her the design he’d created, a Celtic dragon that spanned the length of her arm, she fell in love with it. The body of the dragon perched on her forearm, a snarl on its lips as if protecting her from danger. Slightly unfurled wings wrapped around the pale skin of her forearm. The tail was thick at the base, thinning out as it slithered over her elbow and wrapped itself around her bicep like a Celtic arm band. It had taken Finn six hours to complete, and when it was finished, she had actually cried — it was just that beautiful. 

A forty-something man with short grayish hair and a long thick beard sat on the stool next to Sam. He wore black jeans, shiny black boots, and a t-shirt. So, pretty much like every other man in the bar. 

Great tat, he said. You get it done locally?

Yes, she said, and focused her attention on the cover band. Sam was not in the mood to make new friends. She was tired and hungry. Then she realized why Chris and Finn weren’t there. They’d gone to pick her up from work. Dammit. She’d been so wrapped up in Detective Cardoza’s smile, she had forgotten that Chris was on the phone when she’d dropped it.

She reached into her small crossbody bag for her phone and . . . it was still on the floor of her car. Double dammit. 

Can I ask where? the man said.

A friend did it, she said with a dismissive wave. 

The man continued to stare at her, waiting, it seemed, for the friend’s name. 

Finn, she said. He works at Invisible Ink. Invisible Ink was on East Center Street, close to Sam and Chris’s apartment. 

He does good work, the man said, leaning uncomfortably close to Sam. 

A small curvaceous woman in a tight black tank top with Last Stop Cafe stamped over her right breast pushed herself between Sam and the guy with the beard. 

She has a boyfriend, Bunny said to the guy as she waved over the bartender. He’s big and mean and doesn’t like it when strangers talk to his woman.

The man looked at Sam as if to confirm this. Sam nodded, and when the guy walked away, she said, Thanks, to Bunny. She didn’t have a boyfriend and would never date a man who referred to her as ‘his.’ But it got rid of Mr. Inquisitive.

Chris and Finn took off about fifteen minutes ago. Said you should wait for them here.

So I’ve been told.

Bunny was one of Finn’s many conquests. According to Bunny, Finn was great in bed, had unending stamina, and wasn’t into the relationship thing. Not that Sam cared. Finn and Chris were good friends, and there were rules against hooking up with your best friend’s good friend. 

Bunny leaned in and touched Sam’s forearm. 

---

She tripped on an exposed root, pitched forward, and fell face-first into the trunk of a tree. A loud crack and a burst of pain ripped through her face. 

---

Sam blinked, and she was back in the bar. Bunny was staring at her, an odd expression on her face.

I’m sorry, Sam stammered. What did you say?

Your nose is bleeding. Bunny pushed a stack of napkins into Sam’s hand. 

Sam held the napkins to her nose. They came back with blood. Shit.

She pushed her way to the back hallway and into the ladies’ room. Two women were applying lipstick in front of the cracked mirror over the sinks. Sam stared at her reflection. Blood was smeared across her upper lip and chin. Her stomach violently flipped. She pushed into a stall, barely latching it before she fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet. 

This was bad. Very, very bad. She’d had visions her entire life, and there had been moments when the visions had been so violent and terrifying that she’d nearly passed out. But never had she come out of a vision with a bloody nose. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and cursed whatever sick and twisted entity had afflicted her with this damnable ability. When the two women left the bathroom, Sam exited the stall, splashed water over her face, and rinsed her mouth.  

She desperately wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and pretend this hadn’t happened. The problem was, she would eventually fall asleep, and then the dreams would take over. And the dreams were always worse than the visions. 

She could drink coffee, stay up all night . . .

. . . And be miserable at work tomorrow.

Getting drunk was an option. Except whenever she got drunk, she did dumb stuff. Like flirt with people she shouldn’t flirt with. People who were good friends with her best friend. 

Someone knocked at the bathroom door. She ignored the knocker. A few dots of blood clung to her camisole. She doused a paper towel in cold water and blotted the silky material. 

The person knocked again. It was a two-stall bathroom, and there was no lock on the goddamn door, and yet the idiot kept knocking.

Sam threw the door open, expecting to see a drunk woman on the other side. Oh, hey Chris. What’s up?

Finn was standing to the side, looking almost as frazzled as Chris. 

Next time you call asking for a ride, stay the fuck there, he snapped.

Look, I’m sorry but . . . 

We went to pick you up, and you weren’t there, Chris interrupted. Your car was unlocked, the door open, and your phone was on the goddamn ground. I thought something had happened to you.

Do you have my phone? 

You scared the hell out of me. Chris was mostly an easy-going guy. But when he worried about Sam, he did it loudly. 

Sam sighed. I’m sorry. There was this van and . . .

And you thought serial killer. He may have heard this one a few times before.

Two people have gone missing from MCC in the past few months, Christopher. It would be reasonable for anyone to think that a windowless van belonged to a serial killer. 

Did either of those women disappear from campus? Chris asked, his voice becoming calmer.

No, but . . . 

He put his big hands on her shoulders and bent forward just enough to bring them eye to eye. You know how you’re always telling Micah she shouldn’t watch so many FBI dramas because it scares the crap out of her, and then we end up with more deadbolts on the apartment doors? Maybe you should take your own advice.

Sam rolled her eyes. The difference is . . .

You’re a writer, and she’s just overprotective. He may have heard that line a few times before as well.

I’m sorry I scared you. Everyone at school has been on edge lately. Not just me. The whole situation is causing a lot of tension and . . . She shrugged one shoulder. I mean, there were no windows in the back of the van, Christopher, and it had been there all day. 

I know Susan’s disappearance is stressing you out. But Jesus Sam, you scared the shit out of me, he said, pushing a hand through his hair. Unlike Finn, Chris’s hair and beard were always pristine. How did you get here before us, anyway? 

Detective Cardoza gave me a ride. He insisted. So, if you want to blame anyone for me not being there when you showed up, blame him.

A wide, lascivious smile spread across his face. The hot detective who smells like sex? 

Sam nodded, eyes flicking between Chris and Finn. 

A few months ago, she’d accidentally flirted with Finn. She hadn’t meant to touch him so much, but after seven tequila shots, she’d had a hard time keeping her hands to herself. And now Chris and Micah, Sam’s cousin, were both convinced that Sam had a thing for Finn. She didn’t. 

Finn was watching the interaction with an amused look on his face. The amused look faded at the mention of Detective Cardoza. It made her smile.

He gave me his number. Said if I had questions about police procedure, I should call him.

Like how to handcuff someone to a bedpost? Chris winked.

Sam snort-laughed. 

I can give you a ride to work, Finn offered.

Whereas Chris was wide and bulky, Finn was on the lean side — a runner’s build with extra muscle around the shoulders and thighs. He was not as tall as Chris. Few men were, but Finn was taller than Sam by half a foot. He wore his hair long, and his goatee was on the scruffy side. His eyes were a grayish-blue. He always wore jeans that were faded and rode a little low on the hips. Despite looking like a thug (or maybe because of it), he entered a room like all eyes were on him. And sometimes they were. 

She flashed a quick smile. Thanks, but I’ll take the bus.

It’s on my way to work. Finn pushed.

Our apartment might be on your way to work, but my job is not. 

She hated that ever since the tattoo, which he’d insisted on doing at his house and refused to take any money for it, it had become increasingly difficult to get him out of her head. Turns out he’s a nice guy with a decent sense of humor and a fairly impressive book collection. 

Sam, the man is offering to ride you. Let him ride you, Chris sniggered. I mean give you a ride.

Are we going to play pool? Sam asked.

Fine. Loser makes dinner, Chris said. 

Finn pulled Sam’s phone from the back pocket of his jeans. You dropped this. His fingers brushed over hers when she took the phone. Her heart did a little tap dance. 

Thanks, she said.

Two striped balls fell into corner pockets. Sam whooped gleefully. Suck it, pal, she said to Chris. 

Chris laughed. Finn smiled. She ignored the effect that Finn’s smile had on her body and lined up her next shot. 

Chris yelled, Naked chick behind you.

The cue slid to the left of the white ball, barely moving it. She scowled at Chris. You’re a dick.

Yeah, he smiled obnoxiously. Get ready to suck that dick. Nope, sorry, that came out wrong.

Sam laughed, moving away from the table to give Chris room. She stood against the back wall, arms folded over her stomach. Finn strode over to her. He rested his hand on the wall and leaned in. I have a mechanic friend, specializes in old cars. I could have him look at yours. Finn was always offering his friend’s services for Sam’s car. 

I can’t afford a mechanic. Not if she intended to eat, pay the rent, and try to make a dent in her student loans.

He shrugged one shoulder. He owes me a favor. 

Sam raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this line. He must owe you a lot of favors.

Finn’s head tilted to the side. He does.

It’ll be fine in the morning, she assured him. 

He arched an eyebrow

It’s temperamental, she explained. It doesn’t like the snow.

It’s a machine.

A machine that doesn’t like snow. Kind of like its owner.

He leaned in a little closer. Her stomach fluttered. 

Does its owner like getting from point A to point B? 

No, she answered. Chris looked up after he sank a striped ball into the corner pocket and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Sam rolled her eyes at him.

Are you always this much of a pain in the ass when someone’s trying to help you out, or is it just with me? he asked with a lopsided grin.

No, it’s just you, she assured him. 

He laughed; the fluttering in her belly increased. Stupid belly.

Anyway, I’m thinking about getting a new car. Or scrapping the piece of shit she currently owned and getting a bus pass. 

I’ll see if my friend knows anyone in the market for a vintage Toyota. 

Vintage? She asked. 

People have more luck selling an old car if they describe it as vintage, rather than saying a piece of shit.

I guess that makes sense.

His eyes skimmed the camisole and hip-hugging skirt. You look nice by the way.

I ran out of clean clothes. At least that’s what she’d told Chris that morning when he’d mentioned the temperature drop overnight. 

Usually when people run out of clean clothes, they don’t look as nice as you. They dress like, well, this. He waved a hand in front of his faded I love Green Women t-shirt, and jeans that sported half a dozen rips.

The jeans aren’t so bad, but the t-shirt I’d be embarrassed about, she said, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.

He made a noise in the back of his throat as if Sam had just insulted a national hero. Captain Kirk was a hero.

Captain Kirk was a philandering tool who should have contracted an STD halfway through the first season.

Finn laughed. She hated to admit it, but he had a great laugh. So, you have watched the series. I thought you were more of a Star Wars kind of girl.

When I was seven, I was a Star Wars kind of girl. Now I’m a Star Wars kind of woman.

His lips twisted into a wry smile, I love it when you correct me.

I wouldn’t have to correct you if you understood the difference between a girl and a woman. Or a barnyard animal. Chick was another favorite term of his.

My deepest apologies for offending your feminist sensibilities. His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth. She licked her lips, more from nerves than anything else. 

Finn slipped the beer from Sam’s hands and took a long pull, his eyes on hers.

I don’t know if Chris has ever mentioned this to you, Finnegan, but I don’t share well with others. 

Neither do I.

That’s not what I hear, she said.

He gave her the beer. Don’t believe everything you hear about me, Sunshine. 

So, you’re not into strippers and one-night stands? she said, looking over Finn’s shoulder. A tall brunette with a wicked smile was walking their way. Heads turned to watch her, and not in the suspicious way they’d watched Sam. 

Sam set the beer on a nearby table and walked away just as Laura wrapped her surgically enhanced body around Finn’s. Every time they were in public, some version of Laura threw herself at the man. Not that she cared — not that she wanted to care.

She ordered a beer and turned her attention to the band and the two dancing women in halter tops near the stage. Off to the side, a table full of guys were calling, Show us your tits. One draw of Last Stop was the chance to see women flashing their boobs. 

The man on the stool to Sam’s left elbowed his buddy before they got up to get a closer look at the two women jiggling by the stage. And then Finn was sitting in front of her, back to the stage. He leaned close enough that she could smell the cheap perfume Laura must have bathed in.

Why do I get the feeling there’s tension between us, Sunshine? 

Sam’s nostrils flared. I kind of wish there was some distance between us, Finnegan. 

One of the dancing women jiggled out of her halter, and a cheer rang out in the bar. 

Finn leaned in closer to Sam to be heard over the noise. You’re not jealous of Laura, are you?

Sam scoffed, rolled her eyes. Why would I be jealous of Laura?

He shrugged a shoulder. Maybe you have a thing for me.

Someone thinks pretty . . . A fat drunk guy got off the stool next to Sam, knocking her with his elbow and pushing her off of the stool. She turned to glare at the man, but Finn slid an arm around Sam’s waist, pulling her flush against his body. 

Someone thinks what? he prodded.

She looked at him, his hands on her hips. There was a mild throbbing between her legs, and her pulse was racing. She hated that she was so attracted to Finn. 

Thinks pretty highly of himself, she said.

He tucked some hair behind her ear. So, you’re not interested in dating me?

I could not be less interested, she said. 

When I was a kid, my mother told me that when a girl acts like she doesn’t like you, sometimes it means she does.

Did your mother also tell you that you were the cutest boy on the playground?

As a matter a fact, she did.

Well, sometimes mothers say things that aren’t true.

He tilted his head to the side. You don’t think I’m the cutest boy on the playground?

Not the cutest, but the one she was most curious about. 

And then Chris was there, Sam’s coat and sweater in hand. If you two are just gonna flirt all night can we go home? I’m hungry, and you owe me dinner.

Not flirting. Sam realized her hands were on Finn’s thighs. Dammit, she did it again. And this time, she couldn’t blame alcohol. She quickly folded her arms over her stomach. 

Uh-huh, Chris said in a dry tone. 

We were, um, talking about tattoos. I was thinking . . . She cleared her throat, ignoring Finn’s hand on her lower back. Jackass still had not moved it. I might get another tattoo.

Really? Chris sounded skeptical. 

Really, really, Sam said with a big smile.

Finn took Sam’s hand and turned it over, swirling a finger over the underside of her wrist as he spoke. "I was thinking