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BOLTON
TWO YEARS AFTER CHASE ME THROUGH THE TREES…
“The victim, forty-six-year-old Charles L. Bawdin of Hell’s Kitchen, had a criminal record including wire fraud, securities fraud, investment advisor fraud, and money laundering connected to a Ponzi scheme he ran from 2008 to 2019. He was also a suspect in an ongoing financial investigation,”the reporter says with a neutral expression on her face, as if she’s reporting on the weather instead of a gruesome murder.
“I’ll never understand how news anchors can be so nonchalant about what they’re reporting on,” I comment to Cal as we sit at the breakfast bar sipping our morning coffee.
He scrolls through the morning’s financial reports on his tablet, oblivious to the conversation I’m trying to start. I sigh pointedly, wondering why I even bother talking to my husband at all in the morning.
“Sorry, Lightning Bolt,” he murmurs, putting his tablet down to make eye contact with me like our marriage therapist taughthim. “She’s probably glad someone is taking the human garbage in this city out. It’s easier to hide a smile than a frown.”
Ummm, a bit much, but at least he’s implementing the techniques we learned in therapy.
Ever since Cal and I hit a serious rough patch two Halloweens ago, we’ve been in marriage therapy. Counseling highlighted how our own issues were tanking our marriage—namely his workaholism derived from his inherent need to make his dead father proud, and my issues of abandonment from my father leaving when I was a young boy. Having a neutral third party tell us how fucked up we are because of our daddy issues really put everything into perspective.
I focus again on the news, greedily lapping up every detail. This shit is fascinating.What? I’m a dark romance and thriller writer…murder is interesting to me. Purely for professional reasons.
The anchor flips her long, bottle-red hair over her shoulder before she continues reading off her teleprompter.
“One eyewitness claims seeing a tall, imposing figure with a bloodied butcher knife and mask escape down an alley after Bawdin’s murder, but no other accounts have corroborated that story. Authorities link this crime to another murder that took place last week, where the victim also had a criminal record. Both victims had Christmas ornaments in their hands, prompting some to call the killer the Christmas Cleaver. Authorities are unsure of the connection to the case.”
My brain flips the switch, allowing my imagination to run rampant.
A serial killer who goes on a killing spree every Christmas season and leaves an ornament behind to avenge his father’s death until he falls in love with the detective on the case…
I rush to type the idea out on my phone, desperate to catch all the details before the thought evaporates.
“Are you getting a plot bunny?” Cal asks me. He grabs the coffeepot from the counter and brings it back to the island, refilling my cup.
“Maybe…” I answer.
I’m already writing a contracted book for my publisher, but no matter how hard I try to rein my creative juices in, I always have a side project on the back burner. Eventually, I’d love to turn all the side projects I’ve completed into an interconnected series of gay romances. One day…
He stands behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist and bending down to kiss his way up my neck. His warm breath on my skin makes me feel as if I’m melting. His hand collars my throat, those thick fingers creating the slightest pressure. When he gets to my ear, he nibbles on the lobe.
“You’re brilliant, you know. With the way you craft these stories, it’s no wonder you’ve made the bestseller list.” Cal had never read my books until recently. It turns out he’s really into dark romance, both in real life and on the page.
Jeeze, it’s like he wants me to melt like a sundae in the summer sun. If he keeps it up, I’m going to turn into a puddle on the floor.
“Thanks, Daddy. I’ll see you when you get home from work.” I pull him toward me, planting a kiss right on his lips. It turns sloppy fast, his tongue delving into my mouth like he’s trying to taste the syrup from the stack of pancakes I inhaled for breakfast. He nips my lips, bringing us both back to earth.
“Careful. If you keep it up, I’ll bend you over this island and make us both late for work. Remember, you have a meeting with your agent soon.”
Oh yeah, that meeting I forgot about.Fuck.
“Fine. We can be responsible adults for now…but after dinner, I’m picking this back up where we left off.” I run my hand up his suit jacket, enjoying the feeling of the rich woolbeneath my fingertips. “Or I may prep myself ahead of time, so we don’t have to wait. I’ll video call you if that’s the case.”
Cal sighs. The frustrated type of sigh where he’s trying to have patience with me. I know that sigh all too well, having heard it multiple times throughout our marriage.
“Behave yourself before I make you behave. Love you, Lightning Bolt,” he rasps before grabbing his coat and heading toward the private elevator.
We’ve been married for nine years, and I still get sad when he leaves for work. Not as sad as I used to be when he was a raging workaholic, but I still hate to see him leave. Especially when he leaves me hot and bothered.
I sit at the kitchen island for a few more minutes, mentally preparing myself for my meeting with my agent while I sip my coffee. When my mug is empty, I shuffle over to the shower. Each step is a nail in the coffin of my lazy morning I planned on having. What does my therapist say?
“Let’s reframe our negative thoughts, Bolton. Perspective matters.”
