Dulce Isle

by Loc Glin

  The Mystic Museum 2

  Dulce Isle

  Adrian Asorio can’t seem to move on after the death of his beloved wife Angelina. While trying to fill the lonely hours in his empty life, he discovers Minerva’s Mystic Museum. A painting of a female artist painting a nude male model fascinates him. He finds himself thinking about, and wanting, the male model. He begins to question his sexuality.

  Adrian is chosen as this full moon’s mystic walker. He is transported to Dulce Isle where he meets Jon and Rosa in the flesh. Adrian must confront his newly discovered sexual orientation and overcome the guilt he feels.

  Rosa DeVario and Jon Balentine shared a life with Rosa’s husband, Leon. When Leon died, both were heartbroken. Without Leon as their common denominator, Jon has reverted to his “loving men only” lifestyle, leaving Rosa without a partner.

  Will Adrian’s arrival on Dulce Isle be the answer that mends three tattered and broken lives? The universe has provided the opportunity…Adrian’s heart holds the key.

  Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 22,360 words

  DULCE ISLE

  The Mystic Museum 2

  Loc Glin

  MENAGE AMOUR

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Amour

  DULCE ISLE

  Copyright © 2013 by Loc Glin

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62740-720-5

  First E-book Publication: November 2013

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Dulce Isle by Loc Glin from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Loc Glin’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Glin’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  DULCE ISLE

  The Mystic Museum 2

  LOC GLIN

  Copyright © 2013

  Prelude

  Every full moon Minerva stands outside the doors of the Mystic Museum. She is its appointed guardian and caretaker. She watches for the sign indicating the chosen mystic walker. The light of the full moon will swirl around the mystic walker, creating a radiant aura that can be seen only by the guardian. It is the guardian’s duty to guide the chosen one to their destined path.

  Chapter 1

  Minerva watched the middle-aged man leave the seat he’d occupied each day for the past six months. His tortured and confused soul touched her even without the full moon’s light. Maybe this full moon he will be chosen, she thought.

  Six months ago Adrian discovered Minerva’s Mystic Museum. He’d started to spend his lunch hour there. Better there than in his lonely apartment. For many years his wife, Angelina, had his lunch ready and waiting for him in that apartment. They lived in a rent-controlled building just a short subway ride from the bakery where he worked. The museum was within walking distance of the bakery. Recently he’d begun to grab something to eat from a vendor on the way to the museum. Angelina would be rolling over in her grave. She’d been proud of her home-cooked healthy meals. He didn’t give two shits about what he ate now. He didn’t care about his health since he’d lost her. She was a statistic now, just another number added to the long list of nameless numbers that heart failure had claimed.

  She’d gone quickly. At least he hoped she hadn’t suffered. He’d come home for lunch one day and found her, dead on the kitchen floor. He could still feel the shock of that discovery, the wrenching pain, and the ensuing numbness. She was too young to die. She’d been ripped from him much too soon. Life without his Angelina was not worth living.

  He wanted to die. Short of an accident or an act of God, that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. He was healthy as an ox. Angelina had seen to that. She’d fed him healthy food, and they exercised. That was what made her death so confusing. She seemed to be in the best of health. They both were. He didn’t have the rippling muscles he had in his youth, but he was still well-built and in good shape. His arms and hands were still as muscled as ever. Working with the bread kept them strong and toned.

  His heart, on the other hand, was a sad excuse for what it had once been. With Angelina, he’d loved life. He’d enjoyed every breath that he took. As long as she was with him he was happy. He was complete. She was gone, and she’d taken that love of life with her.

  After two years, he thought it should be easier, but it wasn’t. That was why he’d started going to the museum. Nights alone in the apartment were bad enough, as he had to be there then, but he could do something about his days. The museum had become his answer for those days. He’d spent the last six months exploring its contents. He’d even come on his days off. He would look at paintings and allow his mind to take him away. He would imagine what it would be like to live the life depicted in the art. It was a diversion that got him through the day.

  He was repeatedly drawn to a picture portraying a female artist painting a male model. The artist’s red hair was what had originally drawn him to the painting, red hair so much like
his Angelina’s. But that is where the similarities ended. He kept trying to change her features into Angelina’s, but they wouldn’t. In the beginning, he came to the picture to look at the woman. He stared at the artist’s face in the background trying to see his Angelina, a futile endeavor.

  Now he returned because he was drawn to the male model the artist was painting. Most of the painting was filled with the body of the male model. The model’s hair was dark brown and short. Adrian could not see his face. Only the back of his head was depicted in the painting. He lay propped up on his left elbow. His muscled back curved to his hip. His right arm with its clearly defined biceps followed the curve of his back. His forearm followed the curve of his hip. The model’s muscled ass and legs were a thing of beauty. He found himself looking at the male model more and more. He told himself that he was beginning to appreciate tasteful art. He allowed his eyes to linger on the model, not the woman. Lately he’d begun to dream about the faceless man. He thought about the woman less and less. His body had become acutely aware of the man. The intense physical reaction his cock experienced was becoming an annoyance. Adjusting his pants when he stood was embarrassing.

  He was by no means homosexual. He allowed himself to entertain these thoughts. Anything was better than his loneliness. Sometimes he thought the woman in the picture was laughing at him. It was as if she knew where his mind was traveling, because she shared those same lustful images.

  It was Saturday night. Adrian sat at his kitchen table. The TV, his only means of escape, had just gone on the fritz. He pushed the food around in the black microwavable container. It was quick and easy to make these dinners, but they were a tasteless fare. He went to the door. He grabbed his sweater and umbrella before he stepped through it. It wasn’t raining, but the weatherman had warned of the possibility.

  He stepped outside. Between the gathering clouds, he could make out a full moon. He decided to go to the museum. It would be the first time he’d gone at night.

  He walked up the granite stairs to the museum’s door. He chanced to see the raven-haired woman dressed in black. She looked up toward the moon, now shining brightly through a break in the clouds. She nodded and smiled before she left. He’d seen her many times before. He wondered if she was the Minerva the museum was named for. He pushed the doors open and went inside.

  His feet automatically took him to his favorite spot. He sat down and gazed at his imaginary lover. The raven-haired woman stepped between him and the painting. Her charcoal-lined eyes drew him in. He noticed her translucent skin. She appeared ethereal. She seemed something like an angel, except angels didn’t wear makeup or skintight black dresses. She held his gaze for quite some time. He felt emotions churning in his mind and heart. It was as if she was inside him, sorting through the dead and decaying garbage building up in his soul.

  “It is quite an interesting work, wouldn’t you say?” she asked when she finally spoke.

  He rose as any gentleman would.

  She smiled a friendly greeting. “I am Minerva, caretaker of this museum.”

  “It’s a nice place.”

  “We try to make people happy. What do you think of this piece?” She tilted her head.

  “It’s interesting.”

  “The model has such a compelling form. Even a man such as yourself can appreciate his male beauty. I know he sets my heart aflutter.” She smiled.

  “I can and I do.” Does she know how I feel about him?

  She stepped to the side and stood next to him. She seemed enthralled with the painting. The room the red-haired artist painted in was bright, and sunlight streamed in from everywhere. Windows seems to enclose the room. The paintings sitting on the floor leaned against the glass walls and rested against each other. In some places they were two and three deep. A vase of fresh flowers, roses by the look of them, adorned a small table next to the woman.

  After a long moment, she asked, “Do you think they are in love?”

  “I never really thought about that,” he said. I imagine him loving me.

  “It is a shame we cannot see his face.”

  “That, I have thought about,” Adrian remarked.

  “Have you come to any conclusions?”

  “I’m not a connoisseur of art,” he said. “But his body is fit and desirable. Maybe he is faceless so we can imagine someone ourselves.”

  “Or possibly he is disfigured.”

  “Hmm, that wouldn’t stop her or anyone from loving him,” he said.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound sure of that.” She placed her hand on his arm for a moment.

  “This picture touches my soul. I don’t know why.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his admission.

  “It was painted in a small town populated by peasants and struggling artists.” She removed her hand.

  “What is the town called?” His mind raced. Maybe he could go there and find him. He needed to find out what was going on in his mind and heart. These cravings were in his head. He wouldn’t be able to act on them, would he? He needed to know.

  “You’d like to go there?”

  “I think I would.” He looked into her eyes.

  “I believe you do.” She moved in front of him again. She reached for his hand, and he met it halfway. She placed her other hand on his heart. “You do not have to feel this way. Loneliness has played here long enough.” She tapped his chest. “Love waits for you. Follow your heart’s true desires.” She lifted her eyes to his. “You will find them at the end of Clearview Lane behind Rosa’s door.” She removed her hands and walked away.

  “Where?”

  “On Dulce Isle,” he heard her say as the universe shifted.

  He closed his eyes against the wave of nausea that assailed him. When he opened his eyes, he was on his hands and knees, and he was retching his insides out.

  Chapter 2

  He spit the last of the putrid taste from his mouth. He reached into his pocket for the handkerchief he always carried, a quirk he’d picked up from his father. He was closing in on forty, and yet it seemed an old man’s habit to him, but it was a habit he was thankful for at the moment.

  “Are you all right?” a strong, masculine voice asked.

  Adrian stood. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be fine in a minute. I don’t know what happened.” He felt a little woozy.

  “Neither do I. Suddenly you were…just there. I almost tripped over you.” The man’s hand reached out in a helpful manner, offering support. Adrian swayed. “Here, lean on me,” he said as he lifted Adrian’s arm over his shoulder. “We don’t want you to fall.”

  The man had dark-brown hair. He and Adrian were about the same height. Adrian looked at the side of the man’s face. He had an ugly, puckered scar in the shape of a C extending from the corner of his right eye to just under his cheekbone, and fine bones they were. Aside from the scar, the man was handsome. He had a strongly defined face, with very masculine features. That look was accentuated by his five o’clock shadow. He had warm brown eyes and a nose Adrian had seen on Roman statues. His lips were defined and sensuous. Adrian felt like kissing them. He stiffened at the thought. What was happening to him? Panic filled his belly. First the model in the painting, and now this man? Good Lord, his male friends, which he had few of, would abandon him if they were to find out.

  Personally he held no malice toward the homosexual, man or woman. He felt no hatred for those who chose that lifestyle. He felt that one was lucky if they could find someone to love. He’d always had Angelina. She’d been what he’d wanted. What would Angelina think about these new feelings he was having? Angelina loved life and was a free spirit, but she was always a little stiff where sex was concerned. She was always agreeable, and she even seemed to enjoy it, but he never felt that he rocked her boat. He’d love to be with someone who would let him know how she felt.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay,” Adrian said, glancing away.

  “If you’re sure,” the man said. H
e removed Adrian’s arm from his shoulder. “My name is Jon Balentine.” Jon extended his hand. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

  “Thank you, Jon. My name is Adrian Asorio.” He accepted Jon’s handshake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Are you new here on Dulce Isle? I haven’t seen you around before,” Jon asked.

  “Where?” Adrian looked around. He saw “Clearview Lane” on the street sign. His knees buckled as he passed out.

  Jon couldn’t catch Adrian before he hit the ground. “Shit, I knew he was going to pass out,” Jon muttered. He knelt beside the man he’d just met. Adrian, he’d said his name was. He checked the man’s head. It wasn’t bleeding. “Maybe he doesn’t have a concussion,” Jon said as he struggled to lift the solid and muscled body from the ground. Somehow he managed to get the stranger into a fireman’s carry. He was a fireman, so it should have been easier than this.

  Jon headed toward Rosa’s villa at the end of the lane. She would be interested in the newcomer. He was almost certain of that. Hell, he was interested in the newcomer. Adrian didn’t look to be the artsy type. The newcomer appeared to be a little older than him, but not by much. He was thirty-five. Adrian couldn’t be much older than that. At least that was what his body suggested. His muscles were as hard as rock, especially the ones in his arms. Jon was drooling just thinking about it. He wanted to see this man naked, which was unusual. He usually went for the younger, pretty-boy type. This man was older, and not exactly handsome. He had an everyday face. His hair was brown, like his own, as were his eyes. Nice, friendly eyes from the quick glance he’d had of them.

  He passed through the rose-covered trellis that adorned the walkway to the villa. He tried to avoid the thorns that might tear the skin on Adrian’s face. The path led to the front door of the villa. Normally he would use the back entrance. The servants took their duties seriously. If he were to use the front door, they would want to answer it. They would be insulted if he just walked in, even though he stayed there more times than not. The villa was like home to him. Today he would use that front door. He could use the assistance.