Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) (3 page)

If you decide to resist that soft, pleading gaze of Claude’s, put down your fork and click here

Y
ou work until about three o’clock and then you can’t ignore your growling stomach any longer, so you head over to that burger chain you like so much — even though you know it’s so bad for you.

You order a burger with bacon and cheese, french fries, and a giant Coke. Then you cancel the order for the Coke because you have plenty of Tab back at the bookstore and you prefer that anyway.

The kid in the brown and orange (what sadist came up with that uniform?!) pantsuit sighs heavily so that you fully understand what a total PIA you are because you Do This Every Time. You apologize guiltily, grab your lunch bag, and retreat back to your lair.

But as you let yourself in through the side door of the bookstore, you’re startled and alarmed to hear what sounds like one of the bookshelves crashing over. It would take an earthquake to budge those things and as far as you can tell, the earth is steady beneath your feet. Okay, not totally steady, but that’s because your legs are shaking.

Another shelf goes crashing over and the whole building shakes.

Your bewildered gaze takes in books thrown everywhere: dumped in the aisles, scattered across the polished wood floor. The mahogany counter is swept bare of everything except the computerized register, which is bolted down. The cash drawer is open and empty.

You’ve been robbed!

But since they’ve got the money, why are the bastards still here? Why didn’t they take their ill-gotten gains and flee? Or are they venting their frustration with how measly the ill-gotten gains are by trashing your bookstore?

__________

If you decide to confront the intruder on your own, click here

If you decide to run next door to call the police, click here

Y
ou open your mouth to that kiss and for a strange few seconds you share warm, moist breaths with Detective Riordan. His mouth is both firm and soft. He tastes…

Wow.

You are
kissing
Detective Riordan. And the weirdest part of all is he’s a very good kisser. His lips press insistently against yours. He’s totally getting into this.

He’s not alone.

Osculate. Oscillate. What the hell is the word? Is there a word? Will you ever be able to form words again because this…is…so…crazy…

Crazy and sweet. So sweet.

He tastes like no one you’ve ever kissed before. Darker. Is dark a flavor?

You keep your lashes shut tight because you don’t want to break the spell. Tentatively, as the kiss deepens, you touch the tip of your tongue to the tip of his tongue. His tongue flicks delicately against yours. You experience that contact as vividly as an electric shock — and that shock seems to snap Detective Riordan back to sanity.

He pulls back sharply, lifting off you. At the same instant, you’re scrambling out from under him, sitting up, pushing your hair out of your eyes.

“What was that?” you demand, as if you didn’t know perfectly well. You’re not
that
out of practice.

Detective Riordan kneels in front of you, his face flushed, his eyes dark with emotion. He says defensively, “I thought you were having a heart attack.”

“That is some bedside manner, I gotta say.”

If possible, Detective Riordan goes still redder. “I thought you stopped breathing.”

“I nearly did!”

He makes some noises about arresting you for breaking and entering, but he doesn’t produce handcuffs. Then he informs you that Robert’s apartment has already been searched, which is aggravating. Mostly because — as he does not fail to mention — you really should have thought of this yourself.

You tell him you didn’t kill Robert. You can’t tell if he believes you or not, but he suggests you go somewhere and talk about it.

__________

If you decide to go with Detective Riordan, click here

If you feel discretion is the better part of valor, click here

“I’
m trying to help you, Mr. English,” Bruce Green says. “My informant tells me LAPD plans to make you the scapegoat for Hersey’s murder.”

Your finger hovers over the disconnect button, but you wait. The fact is, you’re starting to wonder the same thing.

“You’re gay and that’s good enough for LAPD.”

“I don’t believe that,” you reply. “Anyway, you’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything. I didn’t kill Robert. That’s the only thing I know.”

“You’d better talk to somebody, Mr. English. Tell your story,” advises Green. “Your next interview with Riordan and Chan will be downtown, take my word for it. They plan to have an arrest by the end of the week.”

This is exactly what you’re afraid of and you have to struggle to speak. “What is it you think you can do for me?”

“I can get the support of the gay community behind you. We’ll put your story on the front page: the story of how LAPD is trying to railroad an innocent gay man because they’re too prejudiced and lazy to do their job.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

__________

If you decide to hear what Bruce Green has to say, click here

If you decide to hang up on him and hope for the best, click here

Y
ou’re still thinking over Claude’s crazy request when you arrive back at Cloak and Dagger. As you unlock the side door and push it open, you realize at once that something is very wrong. Books are scattered everywhere, in fact, entire shelves have been knocked over. Chairs lie on their side. Even the framed prints on the wall have been torn down and smashed.

Just when you thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

Numbly, you turn to the counter, and sure enough the cash register drawer is open and empty. Not that there is ever a lot of cash in there, but that’s not the point. You find the phone behind the counter. It still works. You call 911.

You’ve been taking it for granted the intruder got away, but now you wonder if you’re being overly optimistic. Maybe he’s hiding in the back of the store. If you weren’t so shocked and angry, you’d probably wait for the cops outside, but you are completely and uncharacteristically pissed off at this…this violation.

You grab the poker lying in front of the faux fireplace and you head for your office. What you find there leaves you feeling sick. It’s one thing to steal, but why this wanton violence? Boxes of books have been tipped over and emptied. Desk drawers have been hauled out and dumped — same story with the file cabinet. Your heart pills are crushed and sprinkled throughout the papers like the dust you’ll eventually be.

Jeez, that’s a morbid thought. But this kind of thing would make anyone feel like there isn’t much of a point.

At least the intruder is gone. He’s not hiding in the back and he doesn’t seem to have broken into your living quarters.

The skull sitting at the top of the stairs is a nice touch.

When the cops finally arrive — oh joy, Detectives Riordan and Chan again — you’re sitting on the staircase trying not to have a heart attack. Literally.

__________

Click here

If you want to sail ahead to the part where the pirate ship appears on the horizon, click here

“B
ring the prisoner to my cabin,” Captain English drawls, sliding his cutlass into its scabbard and absently straightening the snowy cuffs of his linen shirt.

(Psst! YOU’RE Captain English! Remember? Don’t just stand there gaping. This isn’t a movie.)

You saunter ahead of your men as they hustle the still struggling, big, blond, Royal Naval officer across the rolling deck and down a narrow stairway. The scent of timber and tar mingle with sweat and gunpowder. The ship murmurs to herself in anticipation. The battle has been fought, the spoils won.

You reach your cabin, throw open the door, and your prisoner is hurled inside your richly appointed quarters. Watery blue light filters through the three sides of massive windows, hundreds of glittering prisms created by diamond-shaped panes of glass. Your prisoner sprawls and lands face first on the sumptuous purple Persian carpet. The chart table is littered with rolled and unrolled maps, your compass, your spyglass. Carved and lacquered chests are brimming over with books, for when you’re not marauding the high seas, you like to curl up with a good murder mystery.

You nod for your men to retreat. They hesitate, but you wave them off impatiently. In addition to your cutlass, you carry a pistol in the pocket of your greatcoat. You’re not worried about whether you can handle one slightly-the-worse-for-wear salty sea dog.

The door closes quietly behind First Mate Angus Gordon. Your prisoner lies where he has fallen. You watch the slow, steady rise and fall of his broad, muscular back beneath the torn and blackened rags of his shirt. Under those dashingly tight black breeches, the man’s arse is taut and perfectly formed. Hunger flicks to life inside you. If you’re perfectly honest, that hunger never fully sleeps.

“Welllll, my treasure,” you say in a voice that isn’t quite as steady and hard as you might wish. “Would you like to tell me your name?”

Your prisoner raises his head. His hair is guinea gold, his eyes are the green gilt of ancient Venetian beads. “Lieutenant James Patrick Riordan,” he rasps in a voice like rough velvet.

“Ah, Irish,” you murmur. “I’ve no quarrel with the Irish.”

“But I’ve a quarrel with you, Captain English. I’m a servant of Her Majesty the Queen,” Riordan says.

He appears to be serious. His eyes glitter dangerously as they meet yours. Your smile widens.

“I see. Well, you know how this works. You can join up with me and my crew — if I may say, we
do
offer one of the finest benefit packages this side of the equator, including comprehensive health care and retirement plans —
or
I can slit your gullet here and now. Your choice.”

“Feel free to try and slit my gullet,” Riordan says and jackknifes into a fighting position.

Not again. Maybe it’s your presentation? Maybe PowerPoint would help?

Riordan sidesteps and begins to circle you.

You sigh. He’s a large man. Shoulders wide as a gangplank. Fit.
Very
fit. But as you’ve noted over the years, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. You drop to your haunches, and yank the carpet out from under his big flat feet.

Lieutenant Riordan crashes down just like the mast of his ship fell beneath your cannon ball. He conks his handsome golden head against the sturdy leg of your chart table and it’s lights-out for all hands.

By the time your prisoner regains consciousness, you have him tied and spread-eagled on your big comfy pirate bed. He tugs experimentally at one of the silk scarves looped around the carved bedpost.

You finish lighting the lamps, undress, and join him in the soft cloud of plum lambs wool blankets and paisley satin sheets. Tiny flames dance in the frosted amber globes, casting warm shadows over his sleek, limber body.

“Don’t even think about it,” Riordan warns. His voice is low, fierce.

You stroke a delicate finger over the curve of his buttock, and he shivers. “But I
have
been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I saw you slit my midshipman’s throat,” you purr.

Riordan chokes out, “You seem to have an unseemly preoccupation with slits and slitting, Captain English.”

A bubble of laughter rises in your throat. You swallow it. You haven’t had such fun in a long while. “How very right you are, Lieutenant.”

You pounce, covering his long, strong body with yours.

“Grrrrr.” You nip the nape of his neck, and he starts. You kiss the bite mark, nuzzle him, nuzzle his ears, the side of his throat. He swallows hard. He smells of sweat and smoke and salt. He smells like a man.

You want this so much, more than you’ve wanted anything in a very long time. Your mouth is dry, your heart pounds violently, your cock is so stiff it hurts.

“I’ll kill you,” Lieutenant Riordan warns.

“It’s worth it,” you whisper and proceed to press a trail of kisses down his spine.

He stills. Indeed, he barely seems to breathe as you plant each teasing deliberate kiss all the way down to the damp velvet dip of tailbone.

“Shall I shiver your timbers, my treasure?” you ask. It never hurts to ask, after all.

Usually they say yes.

Uh oh
.

It appears you have not been paying proper attention. Lieutenant Riordan must have worked one hand free and then untied his other wrist. He suddenly rolls over and now you are pinned beneath his larger and more powerful body. He chuckles evilly at your astonished chagrin, covering your mouth with his, swallowing your protests. It’s that whole sweet savage possession thing you pirates are so fond of, and it leaves you feeling sort of hot and weak and shivery inside.

“How v-very d-dare you!” you stutter, when you have breath to speak again.

Riordan laughs.

You try to knee him in the guts, but maybe he went to the same prep school because that basically ends up with you making it easier for him to find the unguarded entrance to your body.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening. But yes, the lieutenant’s finger is up your arse.

His oil slick fingers move inside your body and now you are writhing, whimpering helplessly, begging him to do more, do whatever he wants to you.

“What, this?” he asks innocently, and presses the spongy little nub that makes you want to scream with pleasure. “Or maybe this?”

Tears spring to your eyes. It’s so sweet. So good. You know you should be fighting him. Hells bells. You could summon assistance by simply raising your voice. You know it, but somehow all you can do is nod and pant and nod again as he continues that leisurely teasing and tormenting.

“I’m going to do all that,” he promises, his hot breath sending chills of sensation over your bare skin. “I’m going to do it to you all night long. But first, I want to hear you say the words.”