126 Secret Ln: A Cherry Falls Romance

by Ella Goode

  Corby

  The only vehicles that have rolled down my lane were mine and the delivery man, so when a pair of headlights bounce in the distance, I know it’s her. I look around the interior of the house. It took several hours to clean everything up, and it smells vaguely of lemon and bleach, but at least she won’t run screaming from the state of the home. Other things may frighten her, but not this.

  I turn on the front porch light and leave the door open. I made some mulled cider spiked with rum. Since I’m not a good cook, and serving reheated frozen dinners didn’t seem conducive to getting her to take her clothes off, I just plated some cheese and grapes. It’s a dorky, hipster thing that I would’ve written in for one of the uninteresting side characters that would be killed off later, but my bag of tricks is pretty shallow.

  Hopefully, she’ll be enthralled with my writer status, and that will be enough to get her to the bedroom. It’s all other women have needed. I once came home from a book tour to find a woman naked in my bedroom. She’d bribed the doorman to let her up and had lived in my apartment for three days, waiting for me to come home.

  That was a little terrifying, but I’d pay a fortune for this unnamed woman to do the same. I’m literally leaving my door ajar for her.

  She parks in front, the car slightly askew. Either she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Only serial killers really care about order, though, so this is a good sign she’s not here to murder me in the woods. Would I mind, though? As long as I had a taste of her before I went?

  She pauses when she spots me just inside the door. She throws her keys up and catches them, likely wondering if she’s the one that’s going to get murdered. The French call the orgasm a little death, so she wouldn’t be that far from the truth. I want to kill her and then revive her again and again, making her mine in a way that Victor Frankenstein never achieved with his sentient being.

  “Long way from New York City,” she says pertly as she steps over the threshold.

  “I am,” I agree. She looks disappointed that I’m not surprised or annoyed. “You wouldn’t be a decent reporter if you didn’t figure out who bought this place. Did you have to bribe Williams or threaten him?”

  “Neither.” Her face is inches away from a small Alberto Giacometti walking man figurine. Is she attempting to decipher me from my belongings? Curious as to what conclusions she’ll draw, I throw myself into a deep cushioned chair and watch as she pokes and prods the few ornaments I’ve brought with me from New York. “I brought Amethyst.”

  “That was a good idea.” I could see Williams spilling everything including his bank account to the woman.

  This makes my reporter spin away from the stack of mystery texts. “You know her?”

  “I don’t know her, but I have seen her and her husband out. He’s a bouncer at the Tipsy Cow.”

  “Yeah.” She narrows her eyes. “What else do you know?”

  “That bouncing isn’t all that he did.”

  “Oh.” She leans toward me. “Tell me more.”

  “Brigger Douglas, age forty—”

  “Stop.” She claps her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear you.”

  I shut up. Cautiously she drops her hands away. A wry expression whisks across her face. “I know I said I wanted to know more, but Amethyst is a friend, and she has the right to reveal her stuff to me. I don’t want to take that away from her. I’m not that kind of reporter.” She sighs. “I guess that’s why I struggle for stories. I don’t want to write things that would embarrass people just for the sake of creating headlines. That’s dumb of me, isn’t it?” She gives me another look—one I can’t read precisely—and then resumes her inspection.

  “I think you mispronounced admirable.” And sexy.

  “Admirable? Because I won’t write embarrassing stories? I don’t think so. And you should know I plan on writing about you.”

  “Fair.”

  “What?” Her head jerks up. “I thought you were hiding out? The internet says you killed someone and ran away.”

  “Is that the current rumor? I thought it was that I’d knocked up a supermodel and was trying to evade a paternity test.”

  “That was there, too. So which one is it?”

  “I do know how to plan a good murder.” I side-step her question. It’s not that I’m hiding things from her, but rather if I give all the answers now, she’ll have no reason to return.

  Her gaze flits from my face to the floor as if there’s evidence of my serial killer tendencies to be discovered on the wooden treads. Or perhaps she’s envisioning a basement full of bodies. I clear my throat. “No bodies should be kept at home. It’s too easy to be discovered.”

  “That’s not reassuring.”

  “The door is open.” I wave to the entrance where the steel door is fully ajar. Outside, the porch light is beginning to attract an army of insects.

  “What is the best way to murder someone?”

  “There’s no best method of murder. It’s what you do after the murder that is important, which is body disposal. No body. No conviction.” I push to my feet and walk over to the door. “Of secondary importance is what you do prior to the murder.” I shut the door and turn to lean on it.

  She swallows and slides a hand over her purse. Does she have a gun in there? She doesn’t seem to be the kind to carry a weapon around. “And what is that?”

  “It’s not one thing but a series of things. Establish an alibi.” I start toward her. “Make sure that no one will be looking for your victim for a period of time.” She backs up against the table. “Get the victim somewhere isolated.”

  “My mother knows I’m here.” Her grip tightens.

  “Kill any witnesses.”

  “You can’t kill my mother!” she cries.

  “It’s just fiction.” I stop in front of her and tip her chin up. “But this is real.” I slide my mouth over hers and wait.

  Chapter Eight

  Glory

  He presses his mouth against mine but makes no move to deepen the kiss. Is he waiting for me to give him the green light? I’m guessing that’s not something a serial killer would do. I part my lips, inviting him in. That’s all it takes, and he’s deepening the kiss.

  His tongue dips into my mouth as his hands come up to caress my face. He tilts my head back so he can deepen the kiss even more. One of his hands tangles in my hair as he takes what he wants. I moan into his mouth, my tongue tangling with his. He gives my hair tie a pull, freeing my hair.

  “You taste so sweet,” he says when he breaks his mouth from mine. “I bet you taste sweet everywhere.” His mouth goes for my neck. He begins to trail open-mouth kisses down it. I dig my fingers into his shirt, needing something to hold on to as he continues to torture me with his kisses. I had no idea it would feel so good for someone to kiss your neck. My eyes fall closed, still not believing that I’m making out with Corby O’Neal. I barely know the man, but I know that I like what he’s doing to me.

  I’m broken from my trance when suddenly he grabs me and picks me off my feet. My legs naturally wrap themselves around him as he walks us over to a chair. He sits down with me in his lap. His mouth comes back to mine again, and I get lost in his kisses. His hands slip up the back of my sweater. He trails his fingers up and down my back so gently that goosebumps appear. My body enjoys each and every stroke.

  I don’t know how long we kiss. It could be seconds or hours, but when I finally break my mouth away from his, I see his lips are a little swollen. It’s then I realize that we’ve just made out like high school kids.

  “Are you trying to seduce me so I don't write a story about you?” I tease him. But I’m almost positive I’d do almost anything to have his lips back on mine.

  “Write whatever you want. Most do. It doesn’t bother me anymore.” He gives a small shrug. I don’t know why his comment kills the mood but it does. It might have something to do with the fact that I’m now thinking about him and another woman.

  I start to crawl off
his lap, but his hands go to my hips, holding me in place. It’s then I feel his hard cock pressing into me. How I missed that I have no freaking clue. I lift an eyebrow at him, and he releases his hold so I can slip off his lap and stand. I’m a little unsteady on my feet. I’m still in somewhat of a shocked state that we just made out. I shouldn’t be, because neither of us can deny the attraction we have to one another. But I came here to get answers. To get my story, and I’m not leaving without it. We all know that’s not the only reason I came here, but it’s still one of them.

  “Why did you leave New York?” I ask as I start to roam around his space. It looks freshly cleaned. I can tell he hasn't really settled in. There isn’t stuff lying around, but it doesn’t look as though he’s comfortable in the space.

  “Needed a change.” That’s a vague answer. I continue to take in the room.

  “Didn't want to face the pregnancy?” I turn to face him. Hating that I have to ask that question, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate if I didn’t get it off my mind. I really should have asked before I kissed him if that was the case.

  “There is no pregnancy. Not one that’s mine, at least.”

  “Why not agree to the paternity test?” I ask. The judge had actually thrown the case out, so he didn't have to.

  “There was no point.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  “Yeah.” He stands from the sofa. I watch as he reaches down and adjusts his cock. I try to play it cool. No big deal, but I’m sure the heat I feel rushing to my face shows, and Corby doesn't look like one who misses much.

  “I think I should go.” An ache starts to form in my stomach. I shouldn't have come. Corby made it clear what he wanted when he invited me over to his place. This is so typical. He’s a celebrity who thinks he can have whatever he wants. Of course he’s some playboy; I don’t know why I would have thought anything different. As much as I enjoyed kissing him, I’m not going to be another notch on his bedpost. This is Cherry Falls, after all. There is no avoiding an ex once you have one here.

  “I thought you wanted a story.”

  “Not sure there’s one worth telling here.”

  “Ouch.” He lets out a bark of laughter. The sound is rich and damn sexy. Yeah, I need to get out of here before I end up back on the sofa with him. He has heartbreak written all over him.

  “See you around, O’Neal.” I turn to leave heading for the door. My feet feel heavy and my body screams for me not to go. Before I make it to the door he snags my hand spinning me back around to face him.

  “There was no need for a test because I never touched her. The judge threw the whole thing out because the woman had broken into my place to begin with. I hadn’t pressed charges because she was clearly crazy. Starting to wonder if I made the wrong choice in that.” Damn.

  “Why? Because now everyone thinks you are dodging out on a kid?”

  “No, I don’t give a shit what they say. They are always saying something.” After the digging I did on him, I think he might be right on that count. People have this weird obsession with him. I’m kind of getting that. He’s mysterious. Even I find myself being drawn to him.

  “Then why are you thinking you made the wrong decision by not pressing charges?”

  “You. Because now you’re thinking I’m dodging out on a child, and that doesn’t sit well with me. Isn’t that why you're trying to run out of here?” I lick my bottom lip.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I mean I was down with the whole killing people thing, but the shitty dad thing wasn’t working for me.”

  He smiles, and I swear my panties burst into damn flames. This man may not be a serial killer, but the way he’s looking at me tells me he's lethal in a different way.

  Chapter Nine

  Corby

  Henry Thoreau wrote his greatest novel in the forest. “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life.” And so I am here in this small town in Cherry Falls, staring at the great expanse of pine outside my window, and yet my page is still blank.

  It’s not as if I don’t have thoughts, but none of them seem worthy of putting pen to paper. All of them are lewd and dirty and involve putting Glory into a number of inconceivable positions with all but a few having her legs spread. Most of the time I’ve written about sex or seduction it has been in the context of crime because murders are almost always a crime of passion, whether it’s love or hate. There’s only one form of expression that ties those emotions together, and it’s the violent outpouring of emotion.

  It’s the battered wife whose control and sanity snaps at the sight of the man who has inflicted untold abuse on her for years sitting on the sofa with one arm elbow deep in a family size bag of chips (that he has not shared with any family) and the other down his pants, gripping his sweaty, tiny dick. It’s the young man rebuffed in real life who spends all his time on the internet, searching up justifications and finding a sympathetic voice in the forums that hate, spurred on by the only people he believes understand him as he spews his vitriol out in the form of bullets.

  I don’t write about these characters precisely, but versions of them. My stories have always been dark and gloomy, good for rainy days and the black nights.

  Living in the city all my life gave me a certain impression of small towns. They are backward, without one Starbucks in the entire county, whereas I am used to seeing them on every block. The only Michelin they’ve heard of is the tire and not the restaurant rating guide. The people are more interested in their neighbors than their own lives.

  None of this proved to be true in Cherry Falls. Hardly anyone has inquired after me, the recluse living in the woods in a weird house with its flat roof and its concrete walls designed by an architect who ran off with his housekeeper—the male one. The food here is good from Virgin Street Diner, the Cherry on Top Ice Cream Parlor, and Bela’s Bakery. I heard that the owner learned to bake in Syn City, which makes complete sense since there’s something wickedly addictive about her croissants. As for the coffee, well, let’s face it. If you can’t make your own, you shouldn’t really complain about what you can’t buy.

  Most importantly, the city does not have Glory Gilmore. I stretch out my legs and fold my hands behind my head. I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth. The rest of the Thoreau sentence was “see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

  Until I met Glory, I had only been living a half-life, mostly monochrome. The world I’d inhabited was bleak and corrosive, filled with villains on both sides. The main character, almost invariably a man, had his own questionable morals. People like reading about flawed characters, so I make my heroes disreputable, but as long as he has the code of not harming children, no misdeed he commits would be classified as unforgivable. But writing about those characters and the sins they commit has placed me in a dark space. The walls of my five thousand square foot penthouse seemed to press in on all edges. It wasn’t just the crazed woman I found in my bedroom that forced me out, it was my own shadow that seemed to grow with every book published and every accolade placed at my feet.

  The city was too small for me. It wasn’t until I reached Cherry Falls that the weight crushing my sternum lifted, and I could inhale again. But still I wasn’t alive—not until I laid eyes on Glory, and even then I hadn’t drawn a true breath until I’d kissed her. It wasn’t mere desire that surged through me when our lips met and our tongues tangled. It was vital, pure blue flame that re-animated those long dormant feelings—the ones that I thought I’d killed off along with my characters.

  Kissing her turned me on so much that my dick hasn’t deflated even though she left—escaped—hours ago. I hadn’t wanted to let her go, but if I’d kept her, forced her to stay, I knew that it wouldn’t last. I don’t want to extinguish even an ounce of her spirit, which might have happened had I seduced her. One night isn’t all that I want from her. I want forever, and so I might
have to take it slow, as much as I detest the thought.

  My nights and days will be filled with images of her in this house, not a piece of clothing in sight, lying about ready for me to take her. Or perhaps she won’t be ready, and I’ll have to chase her through the halls and doorways and out into the woods. When I catch her, she’ll scream and squirm, but the liquid dripping between her thighs will tell the real story—the one where internally she’s begging me to take her, and so I will. I’ll press her down onto the soft forest floor, knees digging into the fresh dirt. I’ll drive my fingers into her cunt. With the honey scooped from her cunt, I’ll lube my cock and ready her tight channel for my shaft. Without much notice, I’ll breach her virgin channel with the broad head of my dick. She’ll scream because I’m big and she’s tiny, but her body will adjust, and her screams will turn to moans of pleasure and then piercing cries of ecstasy which will chase the birds away. I’ll fuck her until her limbs shake, and I’m too weak to hold us up a second longer. Together we’ll collapse, panting, sweating, but more alive than ever before.

  In the forest, we’ll find that we haven’t ever lived until we found each other.

  Chapter Ten

  Glory

  “Hot new story?” Willow asks as she drops down in the seat across from mine. She’s got her hair pulled up in a high ponytail and, like always, a bright smile on her face. I’ve never seen someone who smiles more than her.

  “Nope,” I admit sadly. Though it is for a good cause so that’s something. “There is a benefit raising money for children in need.”

  “Like medical?” she asks, stealing my notebook from me to look at my notes. Most would get their hand cut off, but Willow is a vault.

  “Yeah, and other things.” She runs her finger along Lennon Carver’s name. He’s somewhat new around here. His name isn't new, that's for sure. From what I dug up, he sold his shares of Colossal Inc. and has retired out to Wild Ridge Mountains. Who retires at the age of thirty-one? Obviously him. The man is not hurting for money.