Tag Archives: paranormal

OUT NOW—The Persecution of the Wolves by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985) #paranormal #wolves #werewolves #shifter #thriller

Blurb:

Someone’s got it in for the Adams brothers. But who? And why?

Werewolf brothers Matthew and Isaac have lived in the peaceful village of Eyam, Derbyshire all their lives. The villagers know what they are, and have their reasons for keeping quiet. But this secrecy comes at a cost—the brothers can’t risk romantic entanglements.

Then, at the next full moon, a sheep is slaughtered on Eyam Moor, by what could only be a large animal. Even the brothers’ staunchest supporters begin to have their doubts about who—or what—could have done it.

As the brothers fight to clear their names, things are complicated by unexpected opportunities to indulge their lust. Isaac is intrigued by a handsome newcomer to the village, and a vivacious visitor is happy to offer Matthew her all.

Can the men prove their innocence, or is their centuries-old secret about to be revealed to the outside world, bringing their carefully crafted existence crashing down around their ears?

Please note: This book has been previously published. This version has been re-edited.

Universal Link: http://books2read.com/wolves    

*****

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Modern day Eyam

As Matthew and Isaac Adams stepped through the front door to their house, the telephone started ringing. Matthew sighed. “Typical. No rest for the wicked. I’ll answer it—you go and get ready for work.”

Isaac nodded and headed off to do as his brother advised. Matthew, the older of the two, walked up to the ringing phone and snatched it off the hook. Then, remembering the person on the other end of the line would have no idea what a rough night he’d just had, he made the effort to inject some politeness into his tone.

“Hello? Adams residence.” Isaac had told him time and time again the last part about the residence was old fashioned, that people didn’t say that anymore, but Matthew couldn’t seem to shake it.

“Hello, Matthew? It’s Richard.” The village vicar’s voice, even though he’d only spoken four words, sounded strained, almost panicked. “You boys just get back?”

“Yes, a moment ago. Why, what’s up?”

“I, uh… I got a call. A dead sheep has been found up on the moor. Not just dead. Mutilated. Like an animal attack.”

An unpleasant feeling wormed its way under Matthew’s skin and his stomach flipped. “Oh?” He paused, then figured he had nothing to gain by not saying the next words he wanted to. “You don’t think it was us?”

The vicar’s gasp was instant, one of genuine surprise. “Lord, no! Absolutely not. I just phoned to let you know and I was wondering if you’d come up there with me and take a look? You and Isaac are probably more qualified than anyone else in the village to tell what did this.”

“Isaac has to work. He just went to get ready. But yes, I’ll come up. I’ll let my brother know where I’m going, then I’ll be straight over. Are you at the rectory?”

“Yes. Okay, I’ll see you soon. Thanks, Matthew. Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

Matthew hung up the phone with another sigh. The horrible feeling that had crept under his skin and taken over his gut seemed as if it was there to stay, and it was never a good sign. The vicar’s news was surprising, yes, but he also had an inkling it was going to spell trouble, or at the very least inconvenience for him and his brother.

Pulling in a deep breath in an attempt to calm his jangling nerves, Matthew walked upstairs and towards his brother’s bedroom. The door was closed. He knocked. “You decent?”

“Yeah,” Isaac replied, “close enough.”

Matthew stepped into the room and looked at his brother. He was half-dressed, almost ready for his shift at the doctors’ surgery, where he was a general practitioner. “Sorry to interrupt, mate, but that was Richard on the phone. Someone’s found a mutilated sheep up on the moor, and he’s asked me to go with him to check it out.”

Isaac paused with one arm pushed into his shirtsleeve. “He doesn’t think—”

“No. He was quite adamant about that. He just thought we’d be able to help figure out what did it. I explained you’ve got to go to work, though. I’m going to head across there now and go up with him.”

“I could phone in, let them know I’ll be late.”

Matthew held up his hand. “There’s no need, brother. Relax. Just go to work and help the sick people. I’ll let you know what—if anything—I find out.”

Isaac opened his mouth, then closed it again, apparently having thought better of whatever he was going to say. He continued to dress. “All right, I will. But make sure you let me know what happens. Send me a text or something, and I’ll phone you as soon as I have a gap in between patients.”

Matthew grimaced. He hated texting. Hated mobile phones, actually. Technology was one of the things he disliked most about modern-day life, though it was a necessary evil. It solved as many problems for him and his brother as it created, so he dealt with it as best he could. Fortunately, Isaac had always had an affinity with computers and phones, so he tutored Matthew.

“Yes, all right. I’d better go and find my phone first then, eh?”

Smirking at his brother’s rolled eyes, he left the room and headed for his own bedroom, where he thought he’d left the device the previous night before he and Isaac had headed for the caves. On spotting the mobile phone—which Isaac often made a point of telling him was akin to a brick—he grabbed it, stuffed it into his pocket, and made his way downstairs.

Retrieving his keys from the hook by the front door, he called up to his brother. “I’m going now, Isaac. I’ll see you after my shift at the pub. I’m working until closing time.”

“Okay. Don’t forget to keep me posted.”

“I won’t.” As if he could forget. The dead sheep was going to be a big thing, he just knew it. The vicar might not think he and his brother had anything to do with it, but some of the other villagers might. When there was no proof either way, just his and Isaac’s word, it was understandable, really. Since he and his brother changed into wolves every full moon, it was a natural conclusion to draw. Particularly since wolves had been extinct in England for over five hundred years.

*****

Author Bio:

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award), The Persecution of the Wolves, Hiding in Plain Sight, and The Heiress’s Harem and The Dreadnoughts series. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 170 publications to her name. Find out more about her writing at http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk, or on Twitter or Facebook. Join her Facebook group for exclusive cover reveals, sneak peeks and more! Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. Subscribe to her newsletter here: http://www.subscribepage.com/lfnewsletter

Release blitz organised by Writer Marketing Services.

The Bus Route: Final instalment of a brand new KDG story

The Bus Route: Part VII of a brand new KDG story

I hope all of you’ve all enjoyed this brand new KDG story. It’s been my pleasure to bring it to you. I hope it has helped you survive and thrive during lockdown. Please stay safe.

If you’ve missed any of The Bus Route up until now, just flip back through the blog. All seven episodes are still up, at least for the moment. So enjoy, and happy reading whatever else you are reading.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Final Instalment

I lurched to the kitchen and tossed the bakery bag in the trash. Even if he wasn’t drugging me, I wasn’t taking any more chances. In ten minutes I had a bag packed. I was just about to leave the flat when my phone rang, and I froze. I knew it was Jon. I knew he’d be suspicious if I didn’t answer, but I waited, taking two deep breaths and then mumbled a hello I hope sounded like I just woke up.

“You all right?” His voice dripped concern. “I was worried when you weren’t at the suite.”

“I feel like shit.” It wasn’t hard to sound ill when it was the truth.

“Shall I send a limo?” He asked.

“Just let me sleep. I don’t want to move right now. I’ll come when I feel a little better.”

There was an uncertain pause. “All right. Go back to bed, then, but I’m sending the limo first thing in the morning. You don’t need to be alone right now. Then he added, “I’ve already picked out our next mark, so I need my partner well and strong.”

Oh I knew all about the next fucking mark, I thought. I white-knuckled the phone and forced a reply. “Thanks. I’ll be here.”

“And Seth, don’t worry about anything. I’ve got this.” The line went dead.

I fumbled my device into into my pocket. The last thing I did was to stuff the cash from our efforts down deep in my bag. I’d need it if I were to survive. I couldn’t take a flight without some sort of ID, but I could easily enough buy a train ticket, and cash was my new best friend.

I took the tube to Euston Station, all the while my skin crawled with the sensation of being watched. I was already hanging on the meat hook and had been for a while. I’d just been too stupid to figure it out. I was at the Bus Stop the night Eleanor disappeared. And when the police finally discovered the body of Claire Richardson, I’d be implicated too. After I left, Jon would have laid her out beautifully for the police to find, just like the Incubus Killer always did. If it was him. And how could I possibly still hold out hope that it wasn’t? Surely that was why he sent me away, and now I was next on his list.

I bought an overnight ticket to Glasgow on the Caledonian Sleeper. I even shelled out the extra dosh for a private couchette. I grabbed a couple sandwiches and a bottle of water from the M&S and ate as though I were starving, feeling better with each bite. The drug seemed to be wearing off.  Surely I’d be okay once I was away from him.

I had hours to kill before I could board at 21:15, so I hid out in a little mom and pop café, the kind that served breakfast and, deli sandwiches and little else. I drank tea until my kidneys floated and the staff began to look at me suspiciously. Then I went to a Costas around the corner. Time stretched interminably with me incessantly checking for updates on Eleanor. But there were none.

It was just getting dark when I got a text from Jon.

Feeling better?

I didn’t answer. I was supposed to be sleeping, after all. A follow-up text came almost immediately.

Pleasant dreams.

I dropped the phone and it skittered across the floor under the neighboring table where a woman behind a laptop and a stack of books picked it up and handed it back to me, text still taunting me on the backlit screen. Thanking her, I turned the device off and stuffed it in my bag.

I waited another endless hour at the train station, heart going into free fall every time I saw a tall dark man in the crowd, who might have been Jon. But no one paid me any attention.

I was only able to relax when I was safely locked inside my couchette, watching the lights of London fall away outside my window. I ate my last sandwich then turned out the lamp and crawled into the bed falling instantly into an exhausted sleep.

Conscious thought returned to me slowly some indeterminate time later lulled by the hypnotic rocking of the train. For a time, with no sense of anything amiss, I watched the familiar silhouette limned in the moonlight streaming through the window. Then Jon’s whisky-smooth voice came out of the darkness. “Did you sleep well, Seth? I was worried about you. Oh don’t get up,” he said without turning away from the window. “Just rest. We’re still a long way from Glasgow, and you’ll need your strength.”

Even as fear dried the back of my throat, I had little desire to move, nor was I sure I could. I wondered if I was I still only dreaming. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” I mumbled as though speech was something new to me.

“On the contrary, I was hoping you would. I left you enough clues.”

“So you are the Incubus Killer then.” Whether it was fear or the drug, the words didn’t slide easily over my tongue.

He huffed a laugh that steamed the window. “I like that appellation, don’t you? It’s so very evocative.”

“How did you drug me? You at least owe me an explanation.”

The muscles of his shoulders bunched and relaxed in a shrug, and just like that, the crawling of goose flesh over my skin became something more tetchy, and my cock stiffened.

“Oh Seth, do you really want to waste our time together with drawn out explanations of details that would only bore you and can hardly matter now anyway. What does matter is that you were always going to be my masterpiece, from the moment I saw you eking out a living at the Bus Stop, from the moment I saw you watching me, so much like me and yet so different. After you, I’ll leave this country sated and begin anew, just as I’d planned.” He trailed a finger across the fogged window, and then he turned to face me. “But you, my dear Seth, you will be my fondest memory, and oh how I’ll miss you.”

I shoved to my feet, and in my muddled efforts to walk stumbled right into his arms, which closed around me. He took my face in his hands and pressed his lips to mine breathing deep like I was fresh air.

I flailed and jerked, feeling like I was falling, and as the kiss deepened, I curled fists in the back of his shirt, just like poor Eleanor had done. Just like her I was no longer trying to push Jon away.

He eased me gently, carefully toward the bed, where he lay me down and looked me over, him the artist, me the work yet unfinished needing to be complete. Than he settled next to me pulling me close, the feel of him against me summer heat lightning and ozone before a storm. “Are you going to kill me now?” Somewhere deep in me there must have been fear, terror even, but the drug kept it far away.

“Does it matter, Seth?” He trailed kisses textured with teeth and tongue and breath over my throat, patiently cupping and stroking like we had all the time in the world. “Does it matter?”

“Not really, no.” I might have said the words, or maybe I just thought them, but the fear slipped still farther away along with the Bus Route and the smell of stale take aways and the rent overdue. My fists had fallen open, gone seeking, needing, touching. The sheets were clean. The space was warm. Ages later, I opened my eyes just enough to see his face haloed in moonlight, all soft and out of focus. And I was certain. It really didn’t matter. Not at all.

 

The Bus Route: Part VI

The Bus Route: Part VI of a brand new KDG story

I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. I am sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Part VI

 

I didn’t go to Jon’s suite. I went home instead. I’d not been there in several days. I wasn’t sure how many. The place was cold and smelled like stale take aways. I took three nighttime cold tablets and crawled into bed, but my sleep was riddled with nightmares, a heaviness in my chest, a pillow pressed against my face. Then my soul was leaving my body, looking down from above only to discover that it was Claire Richardson’s body below me displayed like sleeping beauty on satin sheets. And then I was trapped inside Eleanor’s corpse, and there was no escape from her decaying flesh, and no one knew where I was.

I woke unrested, tangled in sweaty sheets. My head pounded and everything ached. I crawled into a tracksuit I taken off days ago and sat bleary-eyed looking at a text from Jon.

You were asleep when I found you. I left you to it. Breakfast on the counter. Eat something. You look thin. 

I ignored the bakery bag in the kitchen. The thought of food nauseated me. I took more cold tablets instead. The TV droned background noise as I leaned against the counter making tea. There was no milk in the fridge and I didn’t feel like getting any.

“The body of missing mining heiress, Eleanor Willis St. Charles was found early this morning at a scrap yard in greater London,” the announcer said.

I burnt my tongue on the tea and slopped the cup on the counter as I fumbled to turn up the volume.

“Authorities have released no further details at present,” the announcer went on.

It had to be the Bus Route. It was too much of a coincidence not to be.

When no more information was forthcoming, I pulled up my laptop. With no illusions about being a good citizen, I never paid much attention to current events, until now. The news of Eleanor’s death was all over the web. There were no new details, but lots of stories about the woman’s past and her unhappy relationships with hubby and daddy. And then there were the comments.

You can’t tell me this isn’t another Incubus killing.

Got to be the Incubus Killer. Willis St. Charles was a looker.

In spite of police efforts to keep things quiet, most commenters suspected the Bus Route was the crime scene.

Honestly,one comment said, who would even risk a hook up at a place like that with the Incubus Killer out there?

I didn’t live in a vacuum, but I had little time for news when I was busy trying to keep a roof over my head. I never even looked at a newspaper before I met Jon, but clearly I had missed the bigger picture.

When I Googled Incubus, there were dozens of hits, some giving definitions varying in length and detail, of the mythological male demon who came to people in their dreams and drained them of their life force while impregnating the women who survived. Most of the hits, however, were about the serial killer who had been plaguing the more sleazy bars and meat markets in Greater London for almost a year.

Autopsies always showed that there had been sex not long before the time of death, which as far as coroners could tell was consensual. Any sign of struggle was more in line with kink rather than rape. The truly strange thing about the deaths was that there were never any visible causes. Police suspected the killer might be a chemist or a doctor who knew how to cover his tracks. So far there was no real evidence other than the rising body count of people who shouldn’t be dead.

It was when I saw the images of the victims that my stomach gave up the battle for containment, and I spent the next ten minutes on the bathroom floor hugging the toilet. When there was nothing left to puke and my legs would finally support me again, I forced myself back to the laptop. While I didn’t recognize them all, there were at least four victims I was certain I’d seen and several more that looked familiar. All of them had passed through the Bus Stop. All of them had been with Jon. I had watched him seduce them, I had admired his finesse, his grace. I had even considered studying his technique and trying it myself. But I had none of his charm and good looks, none of his skill at seduction.

According to the articles, the victims of the Incubus Killer were always found displayed in some cross between strange funeral rites and works of art, always with a great deal of care and tenderness and lots of symbolism that baffled police. I recalled the strange way Jon had behaved when we found Claire Richardson dead, almost like he wasn’t surprised. But bloody hell, if it was Jon, why did he bring me there? If it was him. But it had to be him, didn’t it? There were too many coincidences.

An update popped up on the site I was reading. Police were interviewing people who frequented the Bus Stop. Just like that, all doubt disappeared. Surely that explained why Jon had come to me when he certainly didn’t need my help. Were my videos trophies? Did he want to capture the act for posterity? Was that the only reason Jon had involved me? It hurt that he used me like a fool when I thought he admired me. I thought we had a bond, even if it was just the bond between thieves. When the light bulb finally went on, it was all I could do not to puke again. He was toying with me. Had been all along, and the only plausible reason he had sought me out was that I was his next victim! Christ! Had he been drugging me all along? I thought back over the few weeks I’d known him. I wasn’t fond of wine, and I never drank when I was working. I couldn’t afford to. And yet somehow, even after Eleanor disappeared, I had convinced myself I’d celebrated our successes a little too hard and was hung over. Then there were the flu symptoms that only went away when I was feeling drunk and euphoric, only when Jon was around. And the nightmares – me who never remembered dreams! With a shiver I recalled last night’s horror fest. This couldn’t be happening. I thought he was my friend.

The Bus Route: Part V

The Bus Route: Part V of a brand new KDG story

I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. I am sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Part V

 

“This her fuck pad?” I asked.

“It’s for when she needs to stay over in the city, so probably, yes.”

He’d told me she was a banker or a broker or some such. He poured me a whisky and we drank in silence. I glanced back at her room. “How long do you think she’ll be?”

“Why?” He eyed me wickedly. “Someone make you a better offer?”

I chuckled, trying for suave, but just sounding nervous. “For this,” I patted the envelope tucked inside my jacket, “I’ll stay all night if she wants.”

“Half the fun is the dance, Seth, and you and I are doing the tango.”

“She has been in there a long time though.”

He shrugged it off. “You know women with their makeup, especially if a camera’s involved.”

I sat on the sofa and leafed through a copy of the day’s Telegraph. “Looks like they still haven’t found Eleanor.” I tossed the paper aside. “She was a nice lady.”

Jon came and sat next to me. “I’m sorry it upsets you so.”

“Doesn’t it upset you?”

“Of course it does, but all we can do is hope she’s all right.” He laid an unsolicited hand on my forehead. “You feel feverish again. Seth, you’ve got to let go of this misplaced sense of guilt over something we have no control over. Oh it’s natural under the circumstances, but it’s making you ill, and I don’t want you ill. I want you to enjoy the ride.” He stood and offered me his hand, pulling me up off the sofa. “Come on, let’s go check on our porn star, then after, I’ll take you back to my suite and see that you take care of yourself.”

He knocked softly on the bedroom door. “Claire, darling, are you all right? She’s probably passed out cold, and you’ll still have time for that better offer,” he whispered over his shoulder to me.

Sure enough, Mrs. Richardson lay sprawled across her bed. She’d stripped out of the power suit leaving only silky black knickers with a matching bra and dark stockings with suspenders. A few tendrils of expensive blond hair escaped her chignon and curled around her face.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Jon sounded like he was admiring the Mona Lisa rather than an aging executive fighting to hold on to her beauty in a world that devalued her more every minute she aged. With a guilty start, I realized that Jon didn’t devalue her. He really meant it.

“Yeah, she is,” I replied.

“Well come on then, my darling, let’s get you tucked in.” Jon sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her to him and then froze.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” The hair on my neck stiffened, and I knew when I saw the pallor of her skin, the blue tinge around her lips. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” I swallowed bile and stepped back toward the door. “Bloody hell, Jon, she’s dead! What the fuck are we gonna do?”

“First of all, we’re not going to panic.” To my surprise, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the woman’s lips before he settled her tenderly onto the mound of pillows. Then he carefully lifted her into his arms and rearranged her so he could pull the duvet up over her, gently tugging and tucking as he did so. For an eternity he sat silently stroking her cheek. All the while I fought not to panic or be sick, or both. I mean respect for the dead was one thing, but we had just conned this woman, and Jon’s behavior was kind of creepy. “Pleasant dreams my darling,” he said at last.

“Surely we can’t just leave her. Besides our fingerprints are all over, Jesus, Jon, at the very least we’re implicated.”

Still he didn’t move, only sat there stroking the dead woman’s face. The longer he didn’t move, the more I wanted to run away. At last he spoke. “Go back to the suite Seth. You’re not well. I’ll take care of her.”

When I didn’t move, he took in a deep breath, then stood slowly, as though the act itself took a great deal of control. When he turned to me, his face was set in hard angles, his eyes cold like I’d never seen them. Maybe it was just the shit situation, but the fight or flight instinct kicked in, and I turned to run, but I stumble over my own feet suddenly dizzy. And then he was there, gripping me around the arm, the hard lines softening, his gaze once more warm, filled with sympathy. “Go back to the suite,” he said again. And when I still didn’t move, he cupped my face in cool hands. “Listen to me, Seth, you’re not well. I shouldn’t have pushed you to this job so soon. I should have let you recover a little more thoroughly. He slipped an arm around me and walked me to the door. “I’ll call a cab to take you home. Just get some rest and don’t worry. I’ll be there soon.”

 

The Bus Route: Part IV

The Bus Route: Part IV of a brand new KDG story

I hope all of you are staying safe during lockdown. For me and many others, it feels like an opportunity to press the restart button in a world gone mad. For me this has been a time of intense writing and reading. Anyone who follows my blog loves to read or they wouldn’t be here. So I’m choosing this time to share a brand new KDG story that has never been made public before.

Be warned, this is a different kind of KDG story, a hybrid of erotica, crime and paranormal with a pinch of horror thrown in for good measure. I am sending you an instalment of The Bus Route once a week for seven weeks, so be sure to check in every Friday for a new instalment.

 

Sex in derelict buses. Who knew it was a thing?

A money-making thing for Seth Allen, who blackmails enthusiasts stepping out on their other half by catching the deed on cameras he’s rigged at a public transport scrap yard known by frequenters as the Bus Route. Sadly the paydays aren’t as regular as Seth would like until con artist, Jon Knight, suggests they team up. With Seth’s tech and Jon’s charm, the money rolls in and the future looks bright until their marks start disappearing mysteriously.

 

 

 

The Bus Route: Part IV

My hangover turned out to be a recurrence of whatever bug I had, and Jon insisted I stay in his suite until I was better. Three days later, we took a cab to the Bus Stop. Within minutes we were squeezing through the gap in the fence. I pointed out to Jon all the buses I’d equipped with cameras so we could choose together.

Inside the scrap yard Jon marched over to the double decker he’d done Eleanor in, pulled out his keys and scratched a deep, spine-shivering scrape in the paint next to the collection of slashes left by others who had done the deed in this bus. “Didn’t get a chance to leave my mark the other night,” he said with a smug smile.

“Christ, you’re like a dog pissing in the corners of his patch.”

Jon only chuckled. “Too bad we didn’t make it upstairs the other night. I could use it again, I suppose. I’ll be with someone different, so it’d still count for a new mark, maybe we’ll do it on the stairs. Something about a blow job on the spiral steps of a double decker sort of gets you right in the sac, doesn’t it?”

“I have a better one in mind,” I said.

Why this bus was so popular, I had no idea. There wasn’t much of it left, but it had made me more money than any other. The back of the bus was a raised row of seats up over the engine; all the other seats had been removed. The rear window was missing and the metal paneling on the driver’s side looked like it had been peeled back with a tin opener. There was nothing inviting about it, but it was well kitted with cameras, and Jon said he quite fancied a fuck across the back seats.

This time I waited in the bus. The night was clear and cool and the moon was a thin crescent. I was freezing my balls off by the time I heard drunken laughter, but I forgot all about the cold as Jon appeared with a well preserved middle aged blond, hair done up in a chic chignon. She wore a dark pencil skirt and jacket and had no-nonsense glasses balanced on her nose. The high-powered female exec look suited her, but then she was one, according to Jon. They stumbled right past me and practically fell up the steps leading to the remaining row of seats. I pulled out my phone and began recording as I tiptoed closer to the huffs and grunts that accompanied the slip and slide of clothing. Utility bulbs bathed pale skin stippled with goose bumps in rusty light.

I had just maneuvered into an unobtrusive position, when Claire Richardson looked up and beckoned me over. “There’s no need to hide. I think it’s hot watching you film us. Don’t be shy. Get in tight. I want lots of close-ups, and lots of Jon. Lots of Jon.” She gave him a solicitous grope.

“You heard the lady,” Jon said as he shoved Mrs. Richardson’s skirt up and positioned himself behind her for a bit of action doggie style. All the while she groped and grabbed for him from her awkward position on her hands and knees in the seat. But Jon dominated the scene, and just when I was about to signal him to move so I could video Mrs. Richardson’s face, Jon mantled her and turned her head with a brutal twist of her neck until her every ecstatic expression was camera front and center. Then he made a huge production of freeing the equipment and plunging deep. Mrs. Richardson cried out. I was sure it was pain, but when she reached around and grabbed Jon’s ass to draw him still deeper, I figured she was one of those who liked pain just fine. As tension rose, Jon’s fingers stroking her throat curled in against her trachea and tightened. When her struggle for breath was beginning to scare me, Mrs. Richardson came in a strangled desperate gasp. But it was the look on Jon’s face that made me lose it like a boy who’d just discovered his cock. Jon looked like he’d heard the angel chorus singing hallelujah. Wherever he was, it sure as hell wasn’t the back of a gutted bus fucking a stranger.

Jon had told Mrs. Richardson I directed artsy porn films and videoed at the Bus Route just for inspiration. He told her I’d hit on hard times and had to pawn my expensive equipment to pay the rent, but if she could come up with the cash, I would be happy to go to her flat and record the two of them in their own little porn film.

Afterwards, she was all over Jon in the limo, breathlessly mumbling that we could start the porno right there in the back seat, but before I could record anything on my phone, she passed out, head in Jon’s lap.

“You sure she’s all right?” I said to Jon, who sat stroking her hair. “She looks a little pale.”

“She’s fine. She did a few lines before we hooked up, for nerves, she said. Don’t worry.”

By the time the limo dropped us in front of a Mrs. Richardson’s building in Soho, she was awake and all but bouncing off the seat. With Jon at her elbow, she all but fell into an entryway of polished parquet and marble.

“I was thinking maybe in front of the fireplace on that white rug,” she said, battling not to tangle her words. “Wait right here.” She disappeared into the bedroom room and came out with a bulging C4 manila envelope, which she handed to me. “I hope it’s enough for you to buy back your equipment. That’s all the cash I have in the safe, but I can get you more tomorrow when the banks are open. Now,” she said, pausing long enough to give Jon a tonsillectomy of a kiss that had me hard again. “Stay right here, help yourself to drinks,” she waved to the full bar in the corner, “and I’ll go change into something a little more porny. She shuffled to the bedroom giggling as she went. I found the washroom and cleaned up as best I could. When I came back Jon was standing by the bar pouring whisky from a crystal decanter.