Shan R.K's Blog: Liston Hills : School Me

I was up for a promo a few months back (I won’t mention any names) but they really suck, like badly suck and it’s a pity cause I was looking to invest in a long term marketing solution for my books so I can focus on my writing.

Anyhow…. The paid marketing didn’t work hence why I was offered the free marketing. It goes without saying I took it and whilst doing so they told me that my book covers wouldn’t sell so I said alright…. I was going to change them, I will change them now….

What do you guys think? Old vs New?  So the first is the new covers I have so far (yes the one with people in it) then old cover.

NEW COVER OLD COVERNEW COVER OLD COVER NEW COVER OLD COVER

I am still doing the last one, but to be honest, I have no idea which direction to go.

I have made some changes to my website and I am still busy uploading all the short stories on book funnel for you guys. Obviously the paid one is the longer version but if you want the free versions you are welcome to download it under the ‘Coffee morning story’ tab on my website.

The new books will still be release as scheduled.

Until then ‘What’s your favorite food?’

What are your family’s top 3 favorite meals?

Hake with a special sauce made with puree lettuce, olives,pepper dew and 2 tsp of vinegar) served with roasted rosemary and garlic potatoes and creamy risotto. Red beef casserole Lamb roast with tomato and carrot basting.

Hello Readers, and bloggers.

To those who haven’t received my short stories, please note, I will add it under a tab on the website in the next week or so under – A coffee morning story.

I am not sure why many aren’t receiving my blog posts with the short stories. I see some of you do get them, and others are like ‘where is the story’

If you really want me to email you the short stories, please email me on shanrk@zoho.com and I will manually add you on to my short-story list.

For those who are, I am thinking of making a novel from Fated to you, but we will see. I loved writing the fantasy story.

****

But onto more pressing news… The Satan Sniper’s Motorcycle Club (Sin’s Killer) is now available for pre-order. I have a temporary blurb,

BLURB

Loving you is like a toxic trait I can’t seem to break.

I never understood emotions, but with her, I find my hands tighten on the steering wheel as she turns my way. The hitch in my breath – a deception of everything I once thought I was.

Sienna and I were supposed to be done, but now my wife needs me. The only problem, is which me does she need? The biker, or the Shadow? Never in my life did I have to make a choice.

The longer I spend with her, the hotter we burn, and I’m not so sure she’s ready to see the demons that flail my mind.

****

Unfortunately due to time constraints, I would have to push the book until the 31st March 2026. I have handed it to an editor. Once it is back, I will be posting the first three chapters on my website for subscribers. I will also post the new book cover.

The main books I am still releasing this year are –

You, me and Everyone else

Oh, How you sway me

For now, here is a link for

Fishing for compliments – https://books2read.com/u/31W7WW

Sin’s Killer – https://books2read.com/u/4EwkBz

A few Questions and Answers:-

Why am I not receiving the short stories?

I’m not sure, some people subscribed and get all my posts, whilst others don’t. I am sorting it out with WordPress.

2. Where can I find the short stories?

It will be in the menu under Coffee morning story.

3. What is the difference between the short story for sale and the free one?

It has a few extra pages. But mostly it is the same. Some people ask to buy me a coffee. Others offer to send tips. I always say no. Buying the book for a dollar is your way of supporting my writing.

4. How can I find Conception of truth print edition?

If you email me I will send it through. All Secrets of the Famiglia books are getting new covers as I am trying to revive the series to prepare for The Shadows series coming next year (Surprise)

5. What is your other pen names?

Funny. I got this question 3 times in a week. I am going to say, they are not important for now. I prefer to keep the different names separate as to not confuse the different series. But this pen name is personal to me and the only one I show my face.

6. Why did I use generated AI as a temporary picture?

I write all my books myself. I mostly design my own book covers in the beginning. Due to a bit of a time issue, I added a quick generated image for now. I obviously will not publish the AI picture or use it in the short stories. So don’t worry about it. The book covers are going to be designed from scratch. They will resemble my usual book designs. I will remove the temporary covers soon.

7. Why do you post a lot on social media then leave for long periods?

(I laughed at this one) I do post a lot at times, and disappear as I am not a social media person. I spend a lot of time reading, writing, spending time with the family, and living. I love the emails some of you send and I respond to them as often as I can. In the new year, I hope to share a bit more of my life with you guys. I want to allow you all a closer look at some behind the scenes of my writing space. In fact tomorrow I will post some pictures of my office where I write most of my books.

If you have any more questions please do ask, I am always happy to respond if I can.

This weeks story is – With Everything Taken

I want to provide a bit of context on this short story. I actually started writing it for webnovel a few years back. However, I never finished it or wrote much on it. So I’m going to redo this one and hopefully it will hit the mark this time.

Blurb –

There are times when I am my own worst enemy. Days when I berate myself and blame everything that happened to me on myself. But there are two sides to every story. His and mine. To Lee Wang, I was the American girl who entered his life, a means to an end. It was so easy for him to walk away.

I was the other woman, and with everything taken, she was the one he loved.

Who was I to question that?

To me there was no beginning to our story. There was just a moment when he was the keeper of my heart and the center of my entire world. Until like a passing wind, he left me. He turned his back and chose her. I thought that was the end of our story but it was only the beginning.

The Universe had other plans for all three of us and before I looked again we were all embroiled together like a darkness with no ending.

This one is going to be a tadbit longer than the other short stories, so I will post around 6 chapters.

Enjoy and if you have made it this far, thank you so much for reading.

written by Shan R.K

Dale Harrington, wore his smug the way the Circle members wore Italian thread. His family’s name was stitched into a bulletproof suit they shouldn’t have been capable of affording. A navy button from that line turned up by a corpse. Gregory Harrington signed the Lemour’e bill.

Carl rushed back to the DA’s office, and went straight to Dale. “Gregory Harrington is your nephew.”

A half-beat freeze held Dale in limbo. Even if he was shocked, he didn’t let Carl see anything apart from his nonchalant shrug.
“Everyone’s got family somewhere, I would like to think I do too.”

“His suit dropped a button at a murder scene.” The smirk slipped and Carl watched in fascination how the old man lost his arrogance.

“So? What are you implying? He’s a killer?”

“Funny,” Carl said. “That’s what guilty people sound like. What are you hiding Dale?”

Dale sighed, rubbing his forehead, “He was at Reuben’s with Holly. Her boyfriend caught them.”
Ugly. But not a motive for murder yet. But the script stank and Carl knew, two men involved with the same woman always ended in bloodshed.

Liston Hills glittered under the dim lantern of Carl Curtis’s balcony. He sat on the overpriced aluminum chaise lounger playing with the drawstring. He turned the black-and-yellow drawstring in his hands. He felt the hidden ridge like a small piece of paper. It was sewn between the threads. A number stitched inside.

Upon his better judgment to temper with evidence, he called it but no answer.

It was barely morning when the sound of the DA’s phone broke through his sleep induced state.

“Carl Curtis hello?”

“Hello, Mr Curtis. I’m returning your call?”

“Yeah. Ah, I found your drawstring yesterday over at Reuben’s pub.”

“Sir? You mean the one tied to my Master’s cat?”

“The black cat?”

“Yes Mr Curtis. The drawstring belongs to Master Kent’s cat, it doesn’t come off unless untied by a human. The knot is a constrictor knot sir, my master is very well versed in these things.”

“When last did you see the cat?”

“Three nights ago, sir. He was definitely wearing the string. I believe the cat should be around my master sir.”

“Unless your master is detective Barnes, I’m afraid you are mistaken, the cat can not be with your Master. Can I ask your Masters name?.”

“Dexter Kent sir. He is the head of the Kent family.”

“When last have you seen your master?”

“Two weeks ago, he was supposed to make an arrival to check on his siblings sir four days ago. I contacted him but he was unavailable. So I called his cousin sir. She is currently looking for him.”

“Who is his cousin?”

“Detective Barnes sir.” Well isn’t that a lovely surprise.

Carl arrived at the bar exactly forty five minutes after his call with Henny Henderson. The door was left ajar, as if calling him in. Carl didn’t need to be asked twice. Holly’s bare back faced him, blouse half off, kissing a man in a charcoal suit and vintage hat.

“Are you not open as yet?” Carl said.

The man lifted his hat, as the frown on his face caught the light – Sam Westerly.

If Sam was the hat in the shadows, whose story was he trying on? And who did he plan to blame for the blood? Dexter Kent’s name cut through Carl’s head like a blade as he jumped into his rental and left for court.

The Court room throbbed with money and press as Holly looked small and coached. Carl didn’t need her pity face or schooled expression to sell her innocence. He needed facts.

Barnes took the stand. Her timeline bent around a cat she “kept for four days.” There was a bathroom vent with fresh screws. There was transfer blood on Holly’s clothes. Sam swore he wasn’t the man in the suit. Dale admitted he’d been with Holly at ten and Carl Curtis sat quietly waiting for his turn.

The jury leaned to neither direction. Carl slipped the drawstring from his pocket as the words of the caretaker repeated in his head… The cat would be by his master. Except the cat wasn’t, the cat was by his masters cousin and the masters cousin was always near the bar. So was the cat.

Carl rose. “Your Honor, the State requests a brief recess. Ten minutes. Material evidence and safety.”

Judge Ford’s stare could nail a man to marble. “Do not waste my courtrooms time.”

Carl was already moving. Barnes caught his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Something you should’ve.” He shoved through the doors into sun. “Your cat keeps its own calendar. And I’m done letting this town write mine, follow me.”

They reached Reuben’s in under five minutes—Carl ahead, Barnes on his back, the caretaker somehow a silent comma behind them. The cat slipped from the old man’s arm and trotted through the side door like he’d paid a lease. It was obvious he knew where he was going.

Inside, the bar wore its polite lie of rosemary oil, stacked stools, and clean floors. It showed no signs of a murder. It also showed no trace of what they now sought. The cat didn’t look left or right. He took the narrow hall, brushed the mop sink, and nosed the scuffed door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Carl pushed through.

They made it to a back cold room. Kegs filled a good portion of the area. A humming fridge stood on the one side which was odd considering the temperature. The cat padded past a tower of crates. It stopped at a wall panel. The panel had a seam that shouldn’t have been there. He sat. Stared at Carl. Flicked his tail once as if to say, well?

Carl rapped his knuckles along the seam and heard the hollow beyond.

“Help.” The sound was male, weak male. He must’ve said that word for days.

Barnes holstered, wedged fingers beside his, and they levered a disguised door free of its magnetic catches. Cold air kissed their faces. The smell of damp and iron came up from a short flight of steps.

The cat went first.

They followed.

Ten feet down, concrete turned to packed earth. A single bulb swung on a cord like an old barn. In its thin cone of light sat a figure roped to a chair. His wrists were raw, marked by hemp, ankles cinched to a steel rung, a gag knot dug into his jaw. Even blood-dimmed, he looked like a man the town would rather whisper about than face.

“Master Kent, what on earth.” Henny chastised as he rushed closer to the man.

Dexter Kent.

Barnes’s gun flashed up out of reflex. Then she swore, soft, and dropped it to a low ready. “Well. That explains the hat. What the actual fuck cuz? I’ve been looking for you for four days.”

Carl was already moving. He cut the gag. Dexter coughed, spat a bit, and lifted his head. Dexter Kent’s eyes, were a storm-grey and light brown, unflinching and angry. Carl didn’t blame the man.

“Hold still,” Carl said, working the wrist rope. The knot looked familiar—double constrictor, fast finish, the same signature in the cat’s collar. But who would mimic Dexter Kent’s cats drawstring stitch?

Dexter watched him like he was evaluating a contract. “You took your time, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t find me.”

“Traffic,” Carl said.

Barnes angled to cover the room, voice low but edged. “How did you know he’d be here, Curtis?”

Carl didn’t look up. He found the spine of the knot, turned, and felt it surrender. “When Henny called at dawn he said the drawstring doesn’t come off unless a human unties it.” “And this one—” he nodded at the rope, “—is a double constrictor knot.”

“Only two types of people could open that drawstring without the cat doing some serious damage. It could be the owner who tied it. It could also be someone it was familiar with, such as you, the caretaker, or Dexter Kent’s siblings.”

Barnes frowned. “Meaning?”

“The caretaker swore he didn’t remove the knot. Cat went home three nights ago with the knot intact,” Carl said, freeing Dexter’s other wrist. “So whoever untied it wasn’t protecting a pet; they were planting a message. If the cat keeps his own calendar, you follow it to the person who didn’t get to go home. Where the cat lurks, so does its home. So Dexter loosened the cats drawstring, so we’d know he was here.”

Dexter flexed his fingers as blood returned. The caretaker stepped in, gentle, steadying him by the jaw the way men handle expensive porcelain and kings. The cat wove between Dexter’s ankles and sat sentry.

Barnes’s eyes cut to Carl. “So who would do that to Dexter?”

He sliced the ankle hemp. The rope fell. Dexter stood—slow, wobble, correction—and in two breaths was upright enough to be dangerous again.

“Detective,” Dexter said, voice gravel, civility wrapped around it like silk, “if that gun is for me, you’ll need a larger one. Let’s get to the court, I believe I had a story to tell.”

Her mouth kicked. “I don’t aim at family.” A beat. “Usually.”

Carl offered a shoulder. Dexter ignored it, then took it anyway for exactly two steps. Pride has physics.

“Up,” Barnes said. “Before whoever staged this decides to put on an encore.”

They climbed. Back through the door, the crates, the hum. The panel clicked shut on the hidden air. On the bar floor, the world had the gall to look unchanged.

At the threshold, Barnes stopped him with a palm. “Say it again,” she said. “The part about certain people could open the drawstring.’”

Carl met her stare. “A constrictor knott will piss off a cat, if it’s untied incorrectly. The caretaker knows that hence why he was convinced the cat had his drawstring on his neck. The siblings I’m sure wouldn’t bother. That leaves the tier—or someone he taught.” He tapped the cut rope stashed in his pocket. “And he didn’t learn on a sailboat.”

Barnes’s gaze went flat as glass. “He learned on people.”

Dexter’s grey eyes warmed a fraction. “You are both very quick,” he said. “This town is quicker. and we have a victim to save.”

“Then let’s move faster,” Carl said, pushing the door for daylight. “We’re not done.”

The courthouse was a furnace when they walked back in. The gallery sat straighter, whispers snapping like wires. The Circle watched with the cool patience of predators.

And then the doors opened wider.

Dexter Kent.

Alive, bruises fading under the lights. He stood with the kind of posture that makes a jury think of money and inevitability. The caretaker shadowed him. The black cat in his arms blinked once at the judge like even it had a right to speak.

Judge Ford’s gavel cracked. “This court will come to order.” His voice trembled just enough to admit the surprise.

Mason Gray leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense calls a witness. Mr. Dexter Kent.”

Gasps. Shuffling. The jury leaned so far forward they looked ready to fall out of the box.

Dexter swore in with that slow calm men in his family wore like a second skin. Then he sat, straightened his cuff, and turned his steel-grey gaze on the court.

“Mr. Kent,” Gray began, “can you tell the jury why you were found bound in the basement of Reuben’s Pub?”

Dexter’s voice rolled low, deliberate. “Because Barnabus Hunt put me there. He kidnapped me for the artifact you found listed in the State verse Petersen case. An artifact I passed to Petersen for safekeeping.”

A thunderclap rippled through the room. Reporters scribbled like their hands were on fire.

“Barnabus Hunt kidnapped you?” Gray said, savoring the words.

“Yes. He wanted leverage. He wanted what wasn’t his.” Dexter’s eyes slid to Holly, then back to the jury. “But I wasn’t the one who killed him.”

“Who did?”

Dexter’s mouth curved the faintest degree. “Sam Westerly. He wanted the artifact. He wanted Holly. He killed Hunt to get both. Then left me in the basement to rot.”

Holly’s hands flew to her mouth. Sam sprang to his feet. “That’s a lie!” he shouted, voice cracking. Deputies seized his arms as Judge Ford’s gavel battered wood.

“Order!” the judge roared. “Order in this court!”

Dexter didn’t even flinch. “You’ll find my rope knots match the drawstring you discovered. You’ll find Hunt’s fingerprints on the basement door and mine inside. You’ll find Mr. Westerly’s lies already crumbling under their own weight. Do the arithmetic.”

It was arithmetic the jury didn’t need long to solve.

An hour later, their verdict rang like iron.

Holly Secres: Not Guilty.
Sam Westerly: Guilty.

The gavel came down for the last time. Holly sobbed, shaking in her lawyer’s arms. Sam cursed until the deputies dragged him out. The Circle shifted like pieces on a chessboard, already recalculating their power.

Dexter Kent stood, nodded once to the judge, and strode down the aisle. Outside, a black sedan idled, chrome flashing under the sun. The caretaker opened the door. The cat leapt inside first, claiming leather as if it were a throne. Dexter followed, jacket sharp, cheekbones sharper.

“Mr. Curtis,” he said before sliding in. “I owe you a favor.”

Carl smirked. “Don’t wait by the phone. I may not be around to collect.”

Dexter’s grey eyes glinted, unreadable. “Maybe. But there are always phones.”

The door shut. The car slid into traffic, purring like money.

On the courthouse steps, Detective Barnes folded her arms. “Well. That circus is over.”

Carl loosened his tie, looking out at a town that wore its secrets like silk. “Not over. Just act one.”

She arched a brow. “Meaning?”

He smiled without warmth. “Meaning I’ll be sticking around a little longer.”

Barnes’s laugh was short, sharp. “Liston Hills will love that. to eat you alive.”

Carl glanced down the street where Dexter’s car had vanished. “Then it better watch its appetite.”

The fountain splashed. The press shouted. The Circle shifted their shadows.

And Carl Curtis walked back inside, ready for the next script.

Hi Guys I had some issues with my blog, but it’s all sorted out now. I will be posting the next short story later on today, and also announcing the Satan Sniper’s MC books release date later on today.

For those who haven’t read Kylie Bray, I suggest you get a copy as Kylie Bray’s new book will be a great indepth look at her time in Liston Hills. Also please not many of my older books are getting re-edits and new covers. Don’t be alarmed and feel like you are missing anything. If you have a proof of purchase and want another Ebook version, just send me your Proof of purchase. I will send you a free updated version. No need to buy another copy.

written by Shan R.K

The morning after his meeting with Judge Ford should have been about prepping for Jack Peterson’s artifact trial. It should have been about paperwork, and stacking up the kind of evidence that didn’t fold under a billionaire’s thumb.

But Carl Curtis knew himself well. He admitted that the button in his pocket was louder than any court docket right now. The bartender’s frightened eyes also spoke volumes.

By late afternoon he was back at Reuben’s Pub. The crime-scene tape was gone, but the smell of bleach clung to the air. The bar was clean, chairs stacked neatly, the counters polished until they reflected the overhead lights. In towns like Liston Hills, mess was never allowed to linger long—blood or in his case evidence.

Holly sat at the far end. She was hunched over a cup of coffee. The coffee looked like it had been reheated twice already going by the steam coming from the top. She didn’t look up until he slid onto the stool across from her.

“Attorney Curtis.” Her voice was small. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tighter bun today. Makeup did a poor job of hiding the sleepless shadows under her eyes. “Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.”

“You’re the only one who saw anything last night,” Carl said, setting his notepad down. “That makes you important, whether you like it or not.”

She gave a dry laugh, no humor in it. “Important? That’s not what Barnes called me.”

“Yeah, Barnes has a way with charm.” Carl leaned forward, steady. “Why don’t you tell me again what happened, but this time start with your day. Everything. From the moment you left your house.”

Holly shifted, fingers tightening around the mug. “I came in for my shift at noon. Regular crowd. Some office clerks, construction guys, a couple of housewives who drink martinis after bookclub or yoga classes. Nothing unusual. Then Sam came by.”

“Sam?”

“My boyfriend. Sam Westerly.” The way she said the name was jagged, torn at the edges. “He wanted to talk. I told him I was busy. He didn’t like that.”

Carl waited.

“We fought. Right here, by the taps.” She rubbed her temple, eyes darting toward the floor as if the boards still carried their argument. “He accused me of lying to him about tips, about who I was serving. Said I was flirting with customers. It got loud. Reuben told him to leave. He did, but not quietly. Slammed the door so hard a glass fell off the shelf and Mrs Kensley made a fuss about it.”

Carl scribbled. “And after he left?”

“Reuben went upstairs to his office. I stayed down here, cleaned up. I wanted to avoid going home to more fighting. Thought if I delayed it long enough, I’d cool off.”

Her voice thinned, like a string stretched too tight. “That’s when I heard the noise. The scrape of a chair. Thought it was a drunk sleeping it off. I went to check, and…” She swallowed. “I found him. Reuben. On the floor. Knife in his chest. I…” she paused, “I pulled it out. I don’t know why. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

Carl studied her, noting every twitch of her fingers, every quiver in her voice. “And Sam? Did he come back?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Would he have reason to hate Reuben?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sam hated anyone who told him no.”

Carl jotted it down, then flipped to a new page. “Now about Reuben. Full name Barnabus Hunter?”

She nodded.

“Fifty-one. Single. Owned this bar.”

“Yes. He… he was decent to me. Strict, but fair. Paid on time, never made me feel unsafe. Didn’t talk much about his past. I think he liked it that way.”

Carl’s mind churned. A man like Barnabus Hunter was quiet and single. He was the owner of a bar in a billionaire’s playground. He was either hiding from something or profiting from it. Nobody just existed in Liston Hills.

“Any enemies?” Carl asked.

“Everyone liked Reuben. He listened more than he talked. Some of the locals joked he was like a priest, minus the collar.”

Carl wrote Barnabus = priestly? then scratched it out. Nobody lived to fifty-one in a town of secrets without skeletons.

When Holly excused herself to refill her mug, Carl wandered the bar. The place was too perfect now. Every glass sparkled. The counters smelled like lemon polish. But it was the window that caught him.

A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared in from the sill.

The black cat.

The same one Barnes had cradled the night before. It looked perfectly at home here now. Its tail flicked against the glass like it owned the joint.

Carl’s skin prickled. Cats wandered, sure. But this one had timing too accurate to be coincidence.

He stepped outside.

The alley was empty except for Detective Barnes herself. She stood near the dumpsters and scanned the ground. It was as if she was waiting for a body to crawl out.

Carl crossed his arms. “You following me, Barnes?”

She tipped her hat without looking up, auburn hair catching the late light. “Just doing my job. You’re not the only one who likes answers.”

“Funny. I thought your job was finding suspects, not glaring at bartenders.”

Barnes finally straightened, her eyes cutting to the bar window where Holly stood frozen, coffee mug in hand. Barnes’s mouth curled into a smirk, and she tipped her hat again, this time directly at Holly.

Suspicion sharpened her features like a blade.

“Careful who you trust, Curtis,” she said, voice low. “Everyone in this town is better at lying than they are at living.”

The cat meowed, leaping down from the window to twine itself around Barnes’s ankles. She scooped it up with one hand, still smirking at Holly through the glass.

Carl felt the heat of the moment press down on him. Barnes wasn’t just looking at a potential witness. She was planting seeds. Poisoning the well.

When she finally walked off, cat in hand, the air seemed to ease. But Carl’s gut didn’t.

He turned back toward the bar window. Holly was gone.

Carl stood in the alley a while longer. He stared at the spot where Barnes had been. He listened to the faint echo of her words.

Three kinds of people. Billionaires. Workers. Deal-makers.

Where did that leave Holly? A bartender too nervous to keep her story straight? Or a woman caught between categories, drowning in someone else’s secrets?

And Barnabus Hunter—was he truly the unlucky owner of a neighborhood pub? Or was his bar another front in a town full of them?

Carl slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the button. Navy blue. Fredrick Lemour’e. Expensive. Deliberate.

Somebody had left it for him to find.

He intended to find out why.

Carl was ready to call it a night. Holly’s story had holes, Barnes had smirked enough to make his teeth ache, and the cat was still slinking around like it owned every crime scene in town. He’d gotten what he could, and he wasn’t going to pull water from a dry well.

He slid his notepad into his jacket. He dropped a couple of bills on the counter for the American he hadn’t touched. Then, he headed toward the door. That was when it happened.

Two things.

The first was Holly’s voice.

Her phone buzzed, she picked up, and without missing a beat said, “Yeah, I’m working tonight, can’t get away.”

Carl froze. That easy lie, smooth as silk, made his neck prickle. She hadn’t even hesitated. Whoever was on the other end believed her without question, which meant this wasn’t the first time she’d lied like that. To them. To him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t call her out. He filed it away. She lies too easily.

The second thing was under his shoe.

A tug, a scrape, then a soft snap as he lifted his foot. He looked down.

A drawstring.

Black and yellow, thick cord, frayed at one end like it had been yanked hard from whatever it belonged to. It didn’t match the uniforms of the local PD, and it sure as hell didn’t belong to Holly’s neat blouse and skirt. Clothing left behind at a crime scene was never an accident.

Carl crouched, rolled the string between his fingers, and pocketed it. Another thread in the fabric. First a button. Now a drawstring. Someone was shedding pieces of themselves across Liston Hills like breadcrumbs.

By the time he reached his rental—a gleaming black sedan with Bureau plates—his phone was already at his ear.

“Fredrick Lemour’e,” came the smooth, clipped voice on the other end.

“It’s Curtis again,” Carl said. “The button.”

“Yes?”

“Bulletproof?”

A pause, then the rep exhaled. “Yes, Mr. Curtis. The Imperial Midnight line isn’t just tailored. It’s armored. Kevlar woven beneath the silk. They’re built for… discretion. Our clients prefer to remain protected without looking like soldiers.”

Carl rubbed his jaw. “And these clients? Last time you gave me numbers. Now I need names.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly. You want me off your back? Then give me what I need.”

Another pause, longer this time, and Carl could almost hear the scales of loyalty tipping. Finally: “The only men in Liston Hills fitted for that particular line are the Kents, Delroys, Stones, and Brays.”

Carl leaned against the car, staring at the empty street glowing under streetlamps. “Four families.”

“Yes.”

“Bulletproof billionaires. Fitting.”

He hung up without thanks.

The names rattled in his head as he slid into the rental and pointed it toward the police station. Kents, Delroys, Stones, Brays. He’d read about them before, somewhere in the Bureau’s background file on Liston Hills sure but also in newspapers, youtube videos, news online station, tabloids. They were a discreet bunch. Old money. Money that smelled like oil, steel, and sweat from men dead two generations ago. The kind of names that got buildings named after them. The kind that never stood in line for anything, not even justice.

The station was spotless, like everything else in Liston Hills. White stone façade, glass doors gleaming, gold-lettered sign above the entry. Inside, the air smelled like disinfectant and polished wood. The uniforms behind the desk looked more like private security than cops—pressed blues, clean-shaven jaws, hands folded neatly behind clipboards.

Carl walked up to the officer he recognized from the night before. He was a younger officer with tired eyes. His jaw said he still believed in right and wrong, even if the town didn’t.

“Officer,” Carl said. “Got a question for you.”

The man stiffened. “Sir?”

Carl leaned on the counter, casual. “These names ring a bell? Kent. Delroy. Stone. Bray.”

The cop’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “They should. They’re founding families, sir.”

Carl arched a brow. “Founding families?”

“Yes, sir. Liston Hills was built in the late eighteen hundreds. Six families pooled their money, bought the land, built the first rail lines, schools, hospitals. They still own half the town, directly or indirectly.”

“Six,” Carl repeated. “Not four.”

“Yes, sir.” The cop’s eyes darted around, like even saying the names was dangerous. “The others are the Orniels and the Hughs.”

Carl let out a low whistle. “So the whole damn deck of cards.”

“Yes, sir. They call them the Circle. Old blood. Everyone else is just… orbit.”

Carl smiled thinly. “Orbit. Cute way of saying servant.”

The cop didn’t reply. His gaze flicked over Carl’s shoulder, then dropped back to his desk, suddenly busy with paperwork that didn’t exist.

Carl turned, half-expecting Barnes, but the lobby was empty. Too empty.

He left the station with the names burning a groove in his notebook. Kents. Delroys. Stones. Brays. Orniels. Hughs. Six families, six empires. If the button belonged to one of them, this wasn’t just about a bartender. And if the drawstring belonged to one of them, it wasn’t about a bar fight.

It was about power.

And power in Liston Hills didn’t spill buttons or strings without a reason.

The courtroom looked more like a cathedral than a place where justice was meant to be served. Polished marble floors, carved oak benches, stained-glass windows that threw fractured light across the judge’s bench. Billionaire money had turned it into a monument — not to law, but to themselves.

Carl Curtis stood at the prosecution table, tie crisp, case file open in front of him. His client, the museum clerk, watched the perpetrator. He sat shackled in cuffs. His suit was wrinkled, and his hair was slicked with nervous sweat. The man looked like a smuggler on paper, but in person he looked more like someone who’d stumbled into the wrong casino and bet against the house.

Carl kept his voice even, steady, professional. He argued the facts, laid out bail terms, stressed that Dawn had roots in the state, that he wasn’t a flight risk. He didn’t mention Dexter Kent. He didn’t mention Delroys, buttons, or drawstrings. Not yet.

Because one thing Carl had already learned in Liston Hills was that you didn’t play all your cards on the first hand.

Across the aisle, the defense lawyer droned on about cultural artifacts, Mesopotamian ownership rights, unfair customs seizures. The judge, Ford, rubbed his temple like the words were an annoyance at best.

When the arguments ended, the gavel struck with finality.

“Bail is granted,” Ford said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d already eaten his fill of corruption. “Two hundred and fifty thousand. Cash or bond. Court will reconvene in fourteen days.”

The gallery stirred. Reporters’ pens scratched. A few gasps, a few low whistles. Quarter of a million wasn’t pocket change to most people. But Carl knew better. In Liston Hills, it was Tuesday lunch.

And then she stood.

From the back row, a figure rose like the scene had been choreographed. A tall woman, blonde hair swept into one of those Monroe hair dos that belonged in fashion magazines. Her dress was scarlet silk purposely worn to say ‘danger’

The kind of red that turned heads and made instagram followers putty for more. Diamonds winked at her ears, and her heels clicked like every step was an exclamation mark. The sound hit against marble as she came forward.

“I’ll cover it,” she said, voice low, rich, assured.

The clerk blinked, stammered. “Excuse me, miss?”

She produced a checkbook from a slim clutch bag. “Two hundred and fifty thousand. Cashier’s check will be wired by close of business.” She smiled faintly. “Is that sufficient?”

The room buzzed. Even Judge Ford arched a snowy brow before nodding.

Carl scribbled a note, but his eyes didn’t leave her.

Harper Kent. He didn’t know her name yet, but he knew the power in her posture. She wasn’t doing Peterson a favor. She was sending a message.

When the gavel struck again and the courtroom emptied, Carl waited. He caught her in the marble hallway, her perfume crisp, expensive and oh boy, he knew she was in trouble.

“That’s generous,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Dropping a quarter-million without even breaking stride. Most people would call that reckless.”

She turned her head, blue eyes glacial. “Most people aren’t me.”

“And who exactly are you?”

“Harper Kent.” She extended a manicured hand. He didn’t take it.

“Kent.” He repeated it like a test. “Any relation to Dexter Kent?”

Her smile didn’t falter, but the pause between her inhale and exhale was all the answer he needed. “He’s my cousin.”

“And you’re paying bail for Peterson because…?”

“He’s a friend.”

Carl tilted his head. “Funny. Most friends don’t have cousins in bulletproof suits running stolen artifacts across state lines.”

Her lips curved into something sharper than a smile. “You’re new here, Mr. District Attorney. You’ll learn that curiosity in Liston Hills is rarely rewarded.”

“Maybe I like bad odds.”

“Maybe you won’t.” She stopped, heels clicking to silence, then lowered her voice. “You asked about Dexter. He’s… caught up. But I’ll pass along your message.”

Carl held her gaze, unflinching. “Do that. Tell him Curtis is looking for him.”

She laughed softly and dismissively. She walked away. The red silk trailed like smoke. It was the kind that lingered in your lungs after the fire was gone.

He hadn’t even made it to his rental when his phone buzzed. New York number. Fredrick Lemour’e.

“This is Curtis.”

“Mr. Curtis,” the voice said, smooth, precise, tinged with nerves. “We’ve completed our review of the client registry. The button you inquired about, navy blue, Imperial Midnight line was purchased by a Gregory Harrington.”

Carl stilled. The marble pillars of the courthouse felt suddenly colder.

“Harrington,” he repeated.

“Yes. Gregory Harrington. He ordered two suits, custom fit, three months ago.”

Carl’s jaw tightened. “Any relation to Dale Harrington?”

The rep hesitated. “That isn’t information we’re permitted—”

“Don’t bother.” Carl cut him off. “I already know.”

He hung up without a thank you.

written by Shan R.K

The navy-blue button sat on Carl Curtis’s nightstand like a dare. Sleek, glossy, hand-stitched, with the faintest etching on the underside that only a magnifier could catch: FL.

Fredrick Lemour’e.

He knew the name. Everyone in law school knew the name. A fashion house so absolute it didn’t advertise its existence. People knew. The place where a suit cost more than most people’s mortgage. Their clients weren’t rich, they were wealthy, blue bloods, landed gentry, oligarchs, and Liston Hills’ founding families. Elites. Carl wasn’t a fan.

He sat back in the leather chair of his immaculate temporary apartment, twirling the button between his fingers as dawn painted gold across the sky. Barnes’s warning from last night echoed in the silent air – Three types of people. Billionaires. Those who work for them. Those who made a deal with them.

Fredrick Lemour’e clients fit neatly into category one. Maybe three, if the gossip pages had an ounce of truth apart from an AI-generated image of someone.

He pocketed the button. He’d have to reach out to his contacts in New York. If the button belonged to a Lemour’e piece, there would be records. Nothing at that company happened by accident. And if his midnight stalker turned out to be wrapped in Lemour’e threads, it meant someone wealthy wanted him rattled before he’d even warmed the seat of District Attorney.

By eight-thirty, Carl was primed, pressed, and dressed. Walking down the marble lobby of the courthouse, he didn’t miss the entourage of starers. A local cop had already dropped off his first day’s docket— A neat leather folder stamped with his name.

He reminded himself, The Liston Hills District Attorney’s Office was temporary, an outpost until the state finished building the bigger federal extension. But walking through those glass doors and seeing the brass letters etched into frosted glass—District Attorney’s Office—sent a jolt through him.

It was punishment, sure. But punishment still came with power and perks.

Inside, three attorneys were already waiting at the long mahogany table with two detectives seated behind them. Barnes wasn’t one of them—thank Christ—but he recognized the types immediately.

The short-haired woman in the navy skirt suit, already typing as if she’d be fired for a small demeanor, he’d say she’s the crazy one. Crazy lawyers made the best researchers.

The younger man in a gray checkered blazer, nervous energy bouncing off him like static as he spoke to the burly detective as though he were speaking about a holiday in Vegas. Carl was almost certain the youngling was the overpriced junior associate from Cromwell’s law firm, who had to get his hands dirty.

And finally, the old one, silver at the temples, eyes wrinkled but sharp, reading the morning paper like nothing in the world surprised him anymore. Which Carl thought probably didn’t.

“Carl Curtis,” Carl introduced himself, setting his folder on the table. “District Attorney. Guess we’re colleagues.”

The woman glanced up, her smile polite but collected. “Anna Lark. Assistant District Attorney. Specializing in corporate crime.”

The young man nearly toppled his chair in his rush to stand. “Lukas Ward. Junior associate at Cromwell.” He shook Carl’s hand, with a handshake that screamed, junior, rookie.’

The older man folded his newspaper with surgical precision, like an angry vulture, or overtly excited kid on Christmas. “Dale Harrington, your predecessor. Been here forty-six years. You’ll find the billionaires own the courtrooms the same way they own the golf clubs. Try not to choke on the champagne while you’re here.”

Carl smirked. “Sounds like an endorsement for our justice system.”

Dale didn’t smile. “I’m not quite familiar with the anthology.”

Before Carl could answer, the door opened and the court clerk peeked in. “Curtis? Judge Ford wants to see you. First case docket is on his desk.”

Carl excused himself, straightening his tie as he followed the clerk down polished hallways that gleamed with money the USA was definitely not using. Even the courthouse reeked of wealth. Crystal sconces, art that belonged in museums, not state property. He wondered how many billionaires’ “donations” had greased the marble.

Judge Ford’s chambers were as ostentatious as the man himself. Ford was broad-shouldered, white-haired, his robe draped over the back of a leather chair while he sipped coffee from china that wasn’t state issued.

“Curtis.” Ford didn’t look up. “Your first case.”

A folder slid across the desk. Carl picked it up. The State vs. Jack Peterson. Charges: Illegal smuggling of a restricted artifact. Item: One red marble artifact, circa Mesopotamian era, valuation pending.

Carl’s brows rose. “Artifacts?”

Ford’s eyes finally met his, sharp and measuring. “Jack is no ordinary smuggler. He’s tied to collectors. People with deep pockets. People who don’t like their toys seized at customs.”

Carl flipped through the evidence sheets. Photos of a marble sphere, blood-red with golden veins, sealed in a glass case. Customs officials had flagged it coming through JFK.

“And why exactly is this landing on my desk?” Carl asked.

“Because Liston Hills money is already tangled in it.” Ford leaned back, sipping his coffee. “Jack’s defense will argue cultural rights, ownership claims, donations to museums. The usual. But what matters is who shows up in that courtroom. Watch closely. The case will tell you more about this town than I ever could.”

Carl closed the folder. “Message received sir.”

By the time he reached his own office—spacious, hollow and gleaming with a view of the sculpted fountains in front of the courthouse—his phone buzzed with a New York number.

He answered. “Curtis.”

A smooth voice on the other end. “Mr. Curtis. You called about a button?”

Fredrick Lemour’e. The company rep wasted no time. Carl described the piece, gave the stitching detail.

“Yes,” the rep confirmed after a pause. “That button is exclusive to our Imperial Man-night line. Hand-tailored suits. Only twenty were made this season. Each client is registered.”

“Names,” Carl said flatly.

“I’m afraid confidentiality—”

“I’m not a tabloid reporter. I’m the District Attorney. And if one of your clients is wandering Liston Hills at midnight around a crime scene, I need more than confidentiality.”

Silence. Then, grudgingly: “I’ll email you the registry after you send me your credentials.”

The line went dead.

Carl threw his phone down on his desk filled with stacks of cases and exhaled. Twenty suits. Twenty names. Each a breadcrumb trail. He hadn’t even touched the courtroom yet and the town was already dripping secrets at his size thirteen feet.

By ten o’clock, his staff was assembled, files stacked, and his nameplate—Carl Curtis, District Attorney—gleamed on the door like it had been waiting for him. Temporary as it was supposed to be, something about his name on the door called to him.

He should’ve felt triumphant. Instead, he felt watched.

Because when he glanced out the wide courthouse window, down past the fountains and polished cars, there was movement again.

A man.

Tall. Hat low. Standing just long enough for Carl to see him.

And then gone, like smoke in sunlight.

Carl slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the navy-blue button. He had a courtroom to walk into, a smuggler to prosecute, and billionaires waiting in the wings.

But he knew one thing already.

In Liston Hills, nothing, not a button, not an artifact, not even a cat showed up by accident.

I will be posting the last two chapters of Drawstring on Sunday. Apologies for the long wait, I’ve been busy getting The Satan Sniper’s MC book cover ready, and doing the playlist.

The short stories published on Amazon and Apple will be much longer than the ones on the website. The website short stories are the quicker version. I will be giving a few free copies away soon, so you guys are welcome to enter my competition for December and also please share.

written by Shan R.K

Carl Curtis

Carl Curtis had known since he was five years old, he was going to be a detective. Thirty years later he’s a detective’s nightmare – Appointed District Attorney. Sent to a small town called Liston Hills, he’s all but happy to be in the billionaire’s domain. He’s barely unpacked when a local bartender is found with a knife in her hand at a crime scene. Now it’s up to him to find out if she’s in fact a murderer or a victim. But with Detective Barnes leading the case, solving a case is the least of his problems. The woman is crazy, and what’s with her cat?This is a small town mystery and I dedicate this story to ‘them’ hard working detectives.

For a small town just outside Texas, where the Billionaires raised their kids, Carl Curtis found himself stuck in a place where few knew existed. To many, it was a whispered truth. To others, a fake place made up. But to people like Carl Curtis, this town would only ever be a punishment. And we call the town Liston Hill’s. As the sign passed, Carl Curtis drove unaware that his first murder would be like finding a needle in a haystack or, in his case, a cat in a dumpster, as Liston Hills was known for its vast amount of secrets. From the founding members to the locals, everyone in Liston Hills had something to hide. But let’s hope for Carl Curtis, separating the victims from the criminals would be something as easy as separating a dog from a cat.

It was September 16th, 2025, almost ten at night. Carl had just found his apartment building after his three-hour drive.It was a temporary apartment given to him by the Bureau until his townhouse was ready. He put his bag down on the floor when the call came. Staring at the number for a good four rings, he contemplated letting the call go to voicemail, but the blue-collar part of him couldn’t.

“Hello,” he said as he walked to his tiny kitchen.

“Hello, Attorney Curtis. My name is Holly…” the speaker paused, “Detective Barnes said I should give you a call.”

“Detective Barnes?” Carl frowned, dragging his hand over his face. He hadn’t even sat down yet. His bag, still leaning against the wall, zipper half open, tie hanging loose like a noose he’d escaped.

“Yes, sir. She asked me to call you. There’s been a-uh-situation at Reuben’s Pub and Grill.” The woman’s voice cracked, nervous, like she’d rather be anywhere else than on the line with him.

“Situation,” Carl repeated flatly. He reached for the notepad sticking out of his bag and clicked his black ballpoint pen.

“Define situation.” He didn’t like using digital devices when it came to cases. Carl was convinced his evidence could be tampered with if not particularly careful.

“A body.” Carl closed his eyes. He hadn’t even unpacked a toothbrush. “And what’s your role in all this, Miss Holly?”

“I’m the bartender.”

“Of course you are,” he muttered. There was a pause, then a shaky breath.

“They said I should call you because I’m the one who found him. And because—” Carl’s pen hovered over the page.

“Because?”

“Because I was holding the knife when they walked in.” Carl sat back on his heels and stared at the artsy ceiling like maybe the Bureau was playing a sick joke. His ‘temporary’ residence alone cost more than he made in a month. When he arrived in this place it was like setting foot in another state. The tall rise buildings, the immense amount of mansions, even the air smelled different, if that was even possible. But a murder on the first day on the job? Yeah, he was definitely in Texas.

“Let me guess. Detective Barnes was one of the first on scene.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic.” He blew out a long, tired breath.

“Don’t go anywhere. Send me your address, I’ll leave now.” He hung up before she could protest, stuffed the notepad back in his bag, and headed for the door just as the message pinged on his phone. Liston Hills hadn’t wasted a second proving its reputation for no murders was bullshit. The drive through the narrow streets didn’t improve his mood.

The place had that picture-perfect postcard charm.Perfectly built brick houses, shaped hedges, tall palm trees that were imported, string lights hanging over sidewalks. Street lights that actually all worked. Italian brand cars parked on the side walks. But Carl knew better. Pretty towns rotted from the inside out.

Money here didn’t mean honest. It meant power. It meant cover-ups. No one got rich by wiping other people asses without compensation. And billionaires knew exactly how to do that. Never mind who they had to knock out along the way.By the time Carl pulled up to Reuben’s Pub & Grill, the scene was already buzzing. Blue and red lights splashed across brick walls.

Locals lingered on the sidewalk with their arms folded, whispering like they were watching a show they’d never seen. The women were either in flashy outfits, gym clothes, or boyfriend jeans he knew cost extra if it were ripped. Detective Barnes was impossible to miss.

She stood at the entrance in her leather jacket, auburn hair tied back, tablet in hand, barking at an officer who looked like he wanted to be in bed watching a cop show instead of playing one.Carl stepped out of the car, straightened his tie, and approached the area. He didn’t mind the eyes settling on him or the burly man in a suit whispering to his wife and son.

“District Attorney Curtis.” Barnes’s voice was sharp, like she’d been waiting for him to start an argument.

“Didn’t think you’d drag yourself down here. Thought lawyers liked their desks and four walls. Carl gave her a cool look.

“And I thought detectives liked their evidence to stick in court. Guess we’re both disappointed.”Her mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a ‘I don’t know you’ but ‘I’m not going to like you either way,’ kind of smile.

“Your star witness is waiting for me?” Carl asked.

“She’s inside,” Barnes said, tilting her head toward the dim interior. “Still clutching a rag like it’s going to wipe her guilt away. You’ll love her. She’s crazy stupid.”

“Crazy stupid and holding a knife at a murder scene.” Carl rubbed his temple. “Hell of a welcome party.”

“Welcome to Liston Hills,” Barnes said dryly. “Try not to trip over the evidence while you inside.”Carl stepped inside. The smell hit him first—beer, old wood, and blood, the smell of iron and trouble. The bar was quiet except for the scribble of pens and the low murmur of officers cataloging every nook and cranny, every chair not in its rightful place, every smear on the counter. Evidence.

But searching for evidence in a place usually full of people was like searching for a salt grain in cup of sugar. At the far end, behind the bar, sat Holly. Early thirties maybe. Black hair scraped into a bun that had lost its fitting hours ago. Her hands shook as she twisted the rag tighter and tighter, like she was trying to wring out her nerves.She looked up when Carl approached, wide-eyed, pupils blown. Her crooked nose and blotched scarred cheeks told Carl one thing—she wasn’t part of the billionaires club. Her skin was like sandpaper, her nose definitely broken when she was in her teens. She was pretty, he’d give her that, but pretty came in many forms and hers didn’t scream the ‘upperclass’ kind. Wonder how much they paid her at this place?

“You’re the new district attorney?” she asked, voice trembling as she looked anywhere else but at him.“That’s what the badge says,” Carl replied, pulling up a stool beside her. He kept his tone steady, calm, the way you spoke to people perched on the edge of panic. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Holly? Start from the moment you walked in to the bathroom.”Her lips pressed together, then opened slowly.

“I didn’t walk in. I was already here. It was the end of my shift. I was cleaning some glasses waiting for Riley to take over. Then I heard… something. Like a pot falling on the floor. I thought maybe one of the regulars had passed out in the bathroom again.” Carl nodded, jotting it down.

“So you went to check ?”

“Instead, I found Reuben on the floor.” Her voice cracked on the name. “Lying on the floor, blood everywhere. And the knife—it was sticking out of him. I—” She stopped, breathing fast. “I don’t even know why I touched it. I just… I panicked.” Carl studied her, the rag twisted tighter in her fists. The whites of her eyes were stark in the dim light. She looked guilty as hell. But Carl had been in the game long enough to know guilt and fear wore the same face.

“Alright,” he said finally, shutting the notebook. “Here’s the good news, Holly. Touching a knife doesn’t make you a killer. The bad news? Around here, it makes you the perfect scapegoat. So either we find the right killer or you’re going to jail.” She stared at him, lip trembling.

“You believe me? I had no reason to kill my boss. He was a good guy. I’ve worked here for six years now.” Carl exhaled slowly. “I believe Liston Hills has a lot more secrets than the zero’s in the residence bank accounts. The question is, are you one of those secrets or just on their payroll?” Carl didn’t waste time.

He told Holly to stick close, keep her mouth shut, and let him handle Barnes. She nodded like a cornered rabbit. There was something seriously wrong here, he knew it before he spoke to Holly in person. The walk out of the bar was anything but smooth. Barnes was waiting, arms folded, expression carved from stone And a stance that screamed annoyance.“You’re not taking her,” Barnes said flatly. Carl met her stare.

“She’s not under arrest. You don’t have enough evidence. What you have is a panicked bartender who touched a knife as a reflex. If that’s your smoking gun, your case is dead before it even breathes.” Barnes’s jaw worked, but she didn’t argue. Not yet. She handed Holly over like she was tossing Carl a ticking bomb.

“Fine. She’s your headache,” Barnes snapped, then motioned for the uniforms to clear a path.Carl guided Holly out into the cool September air. The crowd had thinned, but a few stragglers still whispered from across the street, their voices carrying on the wind.That was when he noticed him. Tall. Too tall to blend in, even with the crowd. A charcoal suit tailored sharp enough to get any attention. A fedora pulled low, shadowing most of his face. He leaned against a lamppost like he had all the time in the world, one polished shoe tapping slow, steady beats on the pavement.Carl slowed. Instinct prickled. Holly felt it too—her hand clutched his sleeve, and she whispered, “Do you know him?”

“No,” Carl said, though the lie burned. Something about the man felt familiar. Not his face—he couldn’t see that—but the air around him. Like stepping into a room where someone had just finished an argument. Tense. Charged.The suited man straightened when Barnes strode past with her clipboard. For the first time, Carl saw movement beneath the hat. A smile.Barnes didn’t even glance at him. She barked at an officer, scribbled something, and headed toward her cruiser. Holly flinched when the man tipped his hat ever so slightly in their direction.Carl pulled her closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t look at him. Eyes forward. Keep walking.”Holly swallowed hard, obeying. But Carl couldn’t help himself. He glanced back once. Just once.The lamppost was empty. The man was gone. Carl’s pen itched for his notebook, but for the first time all night, he didn’t reach for it. Some things, he thought, weren’t worth writing down.

Not yet.

Carl pulled up in front of Holly’s house. A pristine double-story duplex, two tall white pillars stood on either side and a wraparound porch with a coffee table, swing chair and cushions that didn’t come from a salvage store. French windows glowed warm from the inside, framed by plastic shutters painted the kind of sage green you only saw in glossy magazines.

A flowerbed lined the front, clipped within an inch of perfection, the kind of detail that told him Holly’s paycheck wasn’t buying this. Someone else’s money had its fingerprints all over her life.“Stay inside,” Carl told her as he idled at the curb. “Lock the doors. Don’t open for anyone unless you know it’s me.”Her hand lingered on the door handle, knuckles pale. “And if they come back?”Carl looked at the gleaming porch lights, the polished brass knocker. The house was perfect, but the fear in her voice cracked through the polish.

“Then you pray I get here before they do, Holly.”She slipped inside, door shutting with a soft click. No slammed hinges in Liston Hills. Not even fear disturbed the quiet.Carl’s own place, courtesy of the Bureau, was no less polished. The temporary apartment was tucked inside a high-rise of smoked glass and white stone. Valet parking out front. Balconies dressed in iron sculptured work. A lobby dripping with marble and chandeliers that belonged in a hotel, not a residence. Even the elevator hummed like money.He had barely stepped onto his landing when he saw her.Detective Barnes leaned against his door frame, cradling a sleek black cat like it was part of her wardrobe. The thing purred with zero remorse at disturbing him, eyes gleaming gold in the soft hallway light.Carl stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell me that’s not evidence.”Barnes smirked, stroking the cat like a Bond villain.

“Relax, Curtis. Followed me out of the pub. Or maybe it’s yours. You two look alike—same grumpy stare.” He brushed past, sliding his keycard. “What do you want, Barnes?” She moved in close, perfume strong and expensive, cat still lounging like a king in her arms. “I just thought I’d come have a little chat with our newbie. Consider it a welcome gift.”

“Oh, this should be good.” His sarcasm didn’t even make her flinch. He knew of Barnes since he was a junior at the D.A office in Houston. What she was doing here? Only she knew.

“In Liston Hills, there are only three kinds of people. One, the billionaires. Two, the ones who work for them. Three, the ones who made a deal with them.” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming.

“Nobody’s innocent. No one else in this town exists.”

“Which category do you fit in Detective?” She smiled as she stroked the cat, “Look at you getting all smart. Nobody is innocent, not even me.”

Carl’s lips curved in something that wasn’t a smile.

“Not even their kids? The town was built for them wasn’t it?” Barnes laughed, throaty, dangerous. The cat meowed right on cue.“Especially not their kids. They could get away with just about anything.”

She tapped his chest with a manicured finger, then turned, heels clicking on polished marble as she headed for the elevator. The cat leapt from her arms, slinking down the hall like it owned the place.Who knew? Maybe it did.Carl should’ve gone inside. Should’ve poured himself a drink and ignored the world. But instinct dragged his gaze across the street.

And there he was again.The man in the suit. Tall, still, hat low. A shadow under the glowing lamps of the overpriced avenue.Carl ran. Across pristine asphalt, shoes echoing loud in a town too quiet. He hit the opposite curb, heart pounding—Empty.

The man was gone.Carl cursed, scanning the flawless hedges, the spotless sidewalks. Nothing. Except—he looked down at his feet, lying on pale stone like it had been placed for him to find, was a navy-blue button. Expensive. Hand-stitched. The kind worn by someone who never bought off the department store rack. He picked it up, pocketed it, and stared into the polished glass of the buildings around him. His reflection looked back, tired and wary.

“Welcome to Liston Hills,” Carl muttered.

In quoting others we cite ourselves… A true statement. So this short story took me a bit longer to draft as I found it hard to tap into my male dominance :-) I did however manage to write it. But my hubby is on a work trip so I couldn’t get his opinion in how accurate I was. But here is your chapter 1, and let me know if it is any good or not (I feel my self consciousness is flaring.

A side note… The short stories will be extended versions on amazon, not the blog version and they would have new covers. I’m busy with my second draft of Killer and Sienna’s story, so once Im done, I will be posting the first three chapters first on my website…. How exciting is that? Anyhow, you all take car until tomorrow.

written by Shan R.K

Charlie

It was Friday afternoon, two days after Lyle and I got ‘tangled.’ I could, without a doubt, admit our escapade reached my top 5’s. I’m uncertain what I expected to happen after I practically mauled my boss on his desk. The cliché part of it went to the simple fact that I, like millions of other rom-com, romantic girls fell for my boss. What I considered to be a changing, riveting world experience turned out to be nothing more than a ‘simple lay of the land.’

The eyes, the kiss on my cheek as he held my waist, or even the trail of feathering touches down my leg, it was just that.

In simple terms? Lyle was ignoring me. I couldn’t call it ghosting because he made sure to be around, smile, ask me a question then vanish.

But sitting in his office for two hours with another woman who looked like she sauntered her way out of a sports illustrated magazine was my limit. I would never be a Jocelyn, Jeniffer, Megan or Cindy, but I was no half – assed bang-dang-bong queen either. He didn’t have the right to lead me on and let me fume in silence, without so much as a ‘Hi Charlie, thanks, but it’s not going to work out,’ or ‘Hi, Charlie, last week was good ‘n all but I don’t think we’d make a good fit,’ or ‘Charlie, you and I it will never happen, but thanks.’

Shit, had I known he was THAT guy, I would’ve not gone there. I inwardly groaned at my horrible lie even as the thought came to mind. I would’ve so gone there, he was like a Labrador mixed Ridgeback. Nice on the outside, but he had some moves only the bad dogs knew.

The hot brunette walked out of his office and I silently compared my blonde hair, to her sleek long ponytail, my round face to her hollow cheeks, and my big lips to her fake pout that by definition resembled a Botox job gone wrong. I had better lips, and that meant something, but she had beautiful green eyes, and my sappy, angry-vated (Yes, I made that up) brown ones stood no chance.

He walked out after her, she turned, and her hair had just the right amount of bounce as she faced him.

If Lyle saw me standing behind him, he gave zero indication he did.

“Thank Mr. Adams, do let me know before the end of the week.”

“Of course, Kelly.”  I rolled my eyes as he smiled the same charming smile he smiled at me less than a week ago.

My phone rang as Kelly walked pass me. I picked up at the sight of my mother’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hi Mama.”

“Hi honey, your brother was telling me you’re homesick. I was thinking of coming to you, but your father has miles he needs to use up and it’s more than enough to cover you and Nolan’s tickets home for the weekend.  Just told your father I’d run it by you before he booked.”

“That’s great mama, I just need to see if can get off. Which weekend is it?”

“Next one honey. I have to go help out at Old Niels farm stall this week, since Aunt Ems is ill.”

“I’ll let you know. You take care now.”

“Of course honey, tell Lyle I say hi.”

“Okay Mama.” After ending the call, I found Lyle watching me. I walked toward him, the feeling of him not wanting me a potent, ugly vine curling around my limbs.

“Hi, can we talk?” My voice came out lower than intended, and with all the confidence I mustered and anger I gravitated toward myself, it was a wonder I even spoke at all.

He smiled like nothing, like he couldn’t tell I was affected, like nothing happened between us.

“Of course, what did you want to talk about?”

“What happened the other night?”

He paused, for a beat as if to gather his thoughts. That should’ve warned me, but I never was someone who’d take a hint.

“Okay. What about it?” His eyes got smaller as I stared at him just inside his office door, he stared back at me, waiting.

“Was there a problem?” I said and I could’ve sworn the walls were laughing at how foolish I sounded.

“Why would you think that?” He stopped by his desk and leaned his hip on it as his hand flexed on the desk. Was he saying something? I didn’t know with him.

“After we had… ah…” I paused as his amusement at my stumbling words grew not just on his lips, but the sudden crinkle in his eyes. Gosh, was his eyes always the blue?

“Sex, Charlie. We had sex.” He patted the desk as if to remind me of where it was, right there and the sudden thought it elicited had my cheeks flushing a cherry crimson.

“Yes, we did.”

He laughed softly as he walked from his desk to where I stood, awestruck by my situation. His hand went behind my waist, pulled me in, flush against his body, as he closed the door.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” His words, the way he held me, as if I was his, and the toxic smell that mixed with seafood, and garlic I should’ve not wanted, liked or be affected by – did all of that.

“No, yes, I… don’t know.” He dropped his mouth to mine, and as if the world felt right again, he kissed me so intently I forgot why I had an issue, why I was fuming, why he had a…hold…

I pulled away from him, “Who was the woman in your office?”

His eyebrow shot up, as he barely let me go as I took a sane step away from his hard rigid…body

“A potential client. She wants to hire out the restaurant for a major event next week. Why? Are you jealous?”

“Nope, nah ah, not jealous at all.”

“Charlie, what happened between us shouldn’t have happened, but it did and I don’t regret anything. Frankly, I’m glad, but you’re young, and Nolan’s sister. So I’m thinking…”

“It was a mistake? Not a good idea we date? Or see each other? I get it…” He grabbed me closer and for the first time in years I felt like I belonged in the arms of a man.

“Are you fishing for compliments? Cause none of that is true. I want to date you, I want us to see each other. I just feel we should tell your brother and parents and keep things clean. If your brother knew I was devouring his sister while she worked for me and doing it secretly, he’d kick my ass.” A huge relief filled me as those words left his mouth. My body melted when he bent to kiss me again and this time we didn’t stop at kissing.

Lyle

If I had a review for every moment Charlie made me smile, I’d have as many as James Patterson by now.

These last two years are the best any man could hope for.

Charlie hasn’t only brightened my life, but she also added something I would call love to every part. Today as I slip my ring on her finger, and watch the tears stream down her face, I can without a doubt say she is the only woman I can imagine my life with.

We had our fights, oh boy did we. Sometimes big ones that left her crying, and me in a foul mood. We had our issues, firstly with Nolan who did in fact punch me, and chose not to speak to me for three months, after he found out I was dating his sister. Then there was my mother who reasons only she knew didn’t like Charlie at first, but somehow they fixed their issues and became somewhat close. And the big one was when Ouma Darla died, we both went into a depressing phase then.

But with all those trials, moments, Charlie and I stood strong and always found each other with open arms. So it wasn’t a wonder I asked her to be my wife four times. Three of which she said no, and though the fourth time I got a tentative yes, I knew she was going to be my girl forever.

“You think the cactus is going to unalive itself while we on honeymoon?” She asked after I slipped the ring on her finger. I shook my head, “You took care of it, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I did make that watering system work on my own.” I shook my head.

“Are you fishing for compliments Mrs Adams?”

“I guess I am Mr Adams.”

THE END

We are done. I’m going to be publishing the short stories on Amazon, Kobo, Apple and other retailers, with a few added extra pages, if you want a copy, from me for $1, please fill out the short story form available on my website from Tuesday, 16th September 2025.

I would be posting the next short story from tomorrow. For those who ordered signed paperbacks, please note I would be sending them out from next week.

For now here is a blurb of our next short story…

Drawstring

Carl Curtis has known since he was five years old, he was going to be a detective. Thirty years later he’s a detective’s nightmare- Appointed District Attorney. Sent to a small town called Liston Hills, he’s all but happy to be in the billionaire’s domain.

He’s barely unpacked when a local bartender is found with a knife in her hand at a crime scene. Now it’s up to him to find out if she’s in fact a murderer or a victim. But with Detective Barnes leading the case, solving a case is the least of his problems. The woman is crazy, and what’s with her cat?

This is a small town mystery and I dedicate this story to them hard working detectives.

written by Shan R.K

Charlie

It was Friday afternoon, two days after Lyle and I got ‘tangled.’ I could, without a doubt, admit our escapade reached my top 5’s. I’m uncertain what I expected to happen after I practically mauled my boss on his desk. The cliché part of it went to the simple fact that I, like millions of other rom-com, romantic girls fell for my boss. What I considered to be a changing, riveting world experience turned out to be nothing more than a ‘simple lay of the land.’

The eyes, the kiss on my cheek as he held my waist, or even the trail of feathering touches down my leg, it was just that.

In simple terms? Lyle was ignoring me. I couldn’t call it ghosting because he made sure to be around, smile, ask me a question then vanish.

But sitting in his office for two hours with another woman who looked like she sauntered her way out of a sports illustrated magazine was my limit. I would never be a Jocelyn, Jeniffer, Megan or Cindy, but I was no half – assed bang-dang-bong queen either. He didn’t have the right to lead me on and let me fume in silence, without so much as a ‘Hi Charlie, thanks, but it’s not going to work out,’ or ‘Hi, Charlie, last week was good ‘n all but I don’t think we’d make a good fit,’ or ‘Charlie, you and I it will never happen, but thanks.’

Shit, had I known he was THAT guy, I would’ve not gone there. I inwardly groaned at my horrible lie even as the thought came to mind. I would’ve so gone there, he was like a Labrador mixed Ridgeback. Nice on the outside, but he had some moves only the bad dogs knew.

The hot brunette walked out of his office and I silently compared my blonde hair, to her sleek long ponytail, my round face to her hollow cheeks, and my big lips to her fake pout that by definition resembled a Botox job gone wrong. I had better lips, and that meant something, but she had beautiful green eyes, and my sappy, angry-vated (Yes, I made that up) brown ones stood no chance.

He walked out after her, she turned, and her hair had just the right amount of bounce as she faced him.

If Lyle saw me standing behind him, he gave zero indication he did.

“Thank Mr. Adams, do let me know before the end of the week.”

“Of course, Kelly.”  I rolled my eyes as he smiled the same charming smile he smiled at me less than a week ago.

My phone rang as Kelly walked pass me. I picked up at the sight of my mother’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hi Mama.”

“Hi honey, your brother was telling me you’re homesick. I was thinking of coming to you, but your father has miles he needs to use up and it’s more than enough to cover you and Nolan’s tickets home for the weekend.  Just told your father I’d run it by you before he booked.”

“That’s great mama, I just need to see if can get off. Which weekend is it?”

“Next one honey. I have to go help out at Old Niels farm stall this week, since Aunt Ems is ill.”

“I’ll let you know. You take care now.”

“Of course honey, tell Lyle I say hi.”

“Okay Mama.” After ending the call, I found Lyle watching me. I walked toward him, the feeling of him not wanting me a potent, ugly vine curling around my limbs.

“Hi, can we talk?” My voice came out lower than intended, and with all the confidence I mustered and anger I gravitated toward myself, it was a wonder I even spoke at all.

He smiled like nothing, like he couldn’t tell I was affected, like nothing happened between us.

“Of course, what did you want to talk about?”

“What happened the other night?”

He paused, for a beat as if to gather his thoughts. That should’ve warned me, but I never was someone who’d take a hint.

“Okay. What about it?” His eyes got smaller as I stared at him just inside his office door, he stared back at me, waiting.

“Was there a problem?” I said and I could’ve sworn the walls were laughing at how foolish I sounded.

“Why would you think that?” He stopped by his desk and leaned his hip on it as his hand flexed on the desk. Was he saying something? I didn’t know with him.

“After we had… ah…” I paused as his amusement at my stumbling words grew not just on his lips, but the sudden crinkle in his eyes. Gosh, was his eyes always the blue?

“Sex, Charlie. We had sex.” He patted the desk as if to remind me of where it was, right there and the sudden thought it elicited had my cheeks flushing a cherry crimson.

“Yes, we did.”

He laughed softly as he walked from his desk to where I stood, awestruck by my situation. His hand went behind my waist, pulled me in, flush against his body, as he closed the door.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” His words, the way he held me, as if I was his, and the toxic smell that mixed with seafood, and garlic I should’ve not wanted, liked or be affected by – did all of that.

“No, yes, I… don’t know.” He dropped his mouth to mine, and as if the world felt right again, he kissed me so intently I forgot why I had an issue, why I was fuming, why he had a…hold…

I pulled away from him, “Who was the woman in your office?”

His eyebrow shot up, as he barely let me go as I took a sane step away from his hard rigid…body

“A potential client. She wants to hire out the restaurant for a major event next week. Why? Are you jealous?”

“Nope, nah ah, not jealous at all.”

“Charlie, what happened between us shouldn’t have happened, but it did and I don’t regret anything. Frankly, I’m glad, but you’re young, and Nolan’s sister. So I’m thinking…”

“It was a mistake? Not a good idea we date? Or see each other? I get it…” He grabbed me closer and for the first time in years I felt like I belonged in the arms of a man.

“Are you fishing for compliments? Cause none of that is true. I want to date you, I want us to see each other. I just feel we should tell your brother and parents and keep things clean. If your brother knew I was devouring his sister while she worked for me and doing it secretly, he’d kick my ass.” A huge relief filled me as those words left his mouth. My body melted when he bent to kiss me again and this time we didn’t stop at kissing.

Lyle

If I had a review for every moment Charlie made me smile, I’d have as many as James Patterson by now.

These last two years are the best any man could hope for.

Charlie hasn’t only brightened my life, but she also added something I would call love to every part. Today as I slip my ring on her finger, and watch the tears stream down her face, I can without a doubt say she is the only woman I can imagine my life with.

We had our fights, oh boy did we. Sometimes big ones that left her crying, and me in a foul mood. We had our issues, firstly with Nolan who did in fact punch me, and chose not to speak to me for three months, after he found out I was dating his sister. Then there was my mother who reasons only she knew didn’t like Charlie at first, but somehow they fixed their issues and became somewhat close. And the big one was when Ouma Darla died, we both went into a depressing phase then.

But with all those trials, moments, Charlie and I stood strong and always found each other with open arms. So it wasn’t a wonder I asked her to be my wife four times. Three of which she said no, and though the fourth time I got a tentative yes, I knew she was going to be my girl forever.

“You think the cactus is going to unalive itself while we on honeymoon?” She asked after I slipped the ring on her finger. I shook my head, “You took care of it, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I did make that watering system work on my own.” I shook my head.

“Are you fishing for compliments Mrs Adams?”

“I guess I am Mr Adams.”

THE END

We are done. I’m going to be publishing the short stories only via ebooks, with a few added extra pages, if you want a copy, from me for $1, please fill out the short story form available on my website from Monday, 13th September 2025. I would be posting the next short story from tomorrow. For those who ordered signed paperbacks, please note I would be sending them out from next week.

For now here is a blurb on our next short story…

Drawstring

Carl Curtis has known since he was five years old, he was going to be a detective. Thirty years later he’s a detective’s nightmare- Appointed District Attorney. Sent to a small town called Liston Hills, he’s all but happy to be in the billionaire’s domain.

He’s barely unpacked when a local bartender is found with a knife in her hand at a crime scene. Now it’s up to him to find out if she’s in fact a murderer or a victim. But with Detective Barnes leading the case, solving a case is the least of his problems. The woman is crazy, and what’s with her cat?

This is a small town mystery and I dedicate this story to them hard working detectives.

written by Shan R.K

Lyle

F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote to his wife, ‘I love you and that is the beginning and end of everything’ and the world of literature called it one of the greatest romantic words ever said. Yet,I find Zelda’s Fitzgerald’s question the most fitting where love is concerned, when she asked, ‘Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and nowhere else in the world?.’

Because to question the small stuff, to notice the moment as one would a fine piece of art, or the after taste of a vintage wine longer after you’ve scented it, is the greatest experience of love I could think of.

All I ever wanted was a family to call my own. A flutter at an idea of someone loving me enough to say yes. I’ve wanted a reason to get angry that I scream with an immense amount of passion. I want to get lost in her eyes and not recall every word she said. I want someone who keeps me dangling on the edge of a cliff whenever I turn my attention too long away from her prying one. I want someone who picks on me, leaving my clothes on the floor, the crumbs I forget to wipe on the counter. I want someone to want me, as I want them, and spend hours obsessing over what to get me for Christmas. I want a wife, and children, a life partner to grow old with, kids to give me wrinkles years before its due date. What I don’t want is a complication, and the girl who just walked out my office a minute ago is a big complication.

But I find Zelda’s words in my head, and I wonder why in the few hours with Charlie I have felt more alive than I have these last six years. And why the thought of her spending even a moment in my presence makes me want to live just a bit longer, and smile a tad bit wider, as I sit up straighter. I wonder why in her presence there are in no others.

Charlie

If I could count on my hand the times Lyle has looked at me during work this week, I would lose if I said a hundred. I believe it was a lot more than that.

We were spending more time together than I initially thought we would. The workload on the restaurant was no joke, and by my 14th day on the job, I was at least done with catching up with all the inventory, contracts and the restaurant’s backload. Lyle had a ton of back-load. He loathed admin, and without a proper secretary for six years, the task was daunting.

I had just finished scanning the last papers, when he walked in. I noticed he’d started bringing me lunch around 3pm, at first it was fish, seafood, but recently he started making me sandwiches, steaks, and tuna salad with pineapple. The food was great, but I found his company the best part of it all.

“You done?” He asked as he put our plates on the table, and pulled out a bottle of wine.

“Are we celebrating?” My eyebrows shot up as he answered me by opening the bottle and pouring a bit in two glasses. I got up from the floor and stretched my neck, and arms. His eyes lingered on my body as it had done these last fourteen days.

He wanted me, of that there was no doubt in my mind. But us together wouldn’t be simple. I was not a simple girl.

“You done?” he asked as he set the plates down.

“I’m done.” I lifted the last file, dropped it on the pile, and dusted my hands. “You’re welcome.”

“You’ve been useful.” His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“Useful? I just saved your ass from drowning in papers.”

“Fine,” he said, sliding a glass toward me. “Very useful.”

I took it, swirled the wine, and leaned against the desk. “Don’t flatter me, I might start expecting payment in more than cash.”

His eyes flicked down my body, then back up. He drank. “What do you want?”

“Depends.” I took a slow sip. “What are you offering?”

The air shifted. He was close now, close enough that his arm brushed mine when he set his glass down. His gaze didn’t leave my face.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“Always have been.”

His hand came up, rough fingertips brushing my jaw, and then his mouth was on mine. Hard, claiming, nothing polite about it. I dropped the glass on the desk, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him closer.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine, his breath hot, his body pressing into me until I was bent back against the desk. Papers scattered to the floor, but I didn’t care.

He lifted me, set me on the edge, his hands gripping my thighs as if he was finally done pretending. My chest heaved, my pulse wild. I reached down, tugged at the buttons of my top until it fell open. His eyes went darker, his breath rough.

“Charlie,” he growled, like a warning.

“Too late,” I whispered, dragging him closer.

He pinned me down against the desk, his mouth moving over my throat, my chest, his hands greedy on my skin. My legs locked around him as he ground into me, every ounce of restraint gone.

I arched into him, tugging his shirt up, needing skin, needing more. His lips crushed mine again, deeper this time, his body heavy over mine as he finally gave in.

His mouth claimed mine again, slower now, like he was trying to make sense of the madness we’d stepped into. My top slid from my shoulders, forgotten. His hands cradled my face, firm but careful, as though he was fighting not to lose control.

“Charlie,” he murmured against my lips, voice rough, almost breaking.

“I know,” I whispered, pulling him closer, refusing to let him stop.

He lowered me gently onto the desk, papers crumpling beneath me, but all I felt was the heat of him, the steady weight of his body pressing down. His kisses trailed across my collarbone, down the curve of my chest, each one lingering like he was memorizing me. My hands slid over his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt, feeling the tension thrumming in him.

When he finally pushed the shirt off, I touched his bare skin, warm and alive under my fingers. He exhaled hard, forehead pressing against mine, as if he needed the contact to stay steady.

“This is wrong,” he breathed, though his body told me he had no intention of stopping.

“Then stop,” I whispered back, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

“I can’t.”

His mouth crashed onto mine, and then there was nothing left but the rhythm of us. His body fit against mine, every shift and press pulling me deeper into him. The world shrank to the sound of his breath, the taste of his mouth, the way he whispered my name like he’d wanted to for years but never dared.

I closed my eyes, letting go of everything except the feel of him moving with me, the desk beneath us forgotten, the past forgotten, even the future. All that existed was the here and now, the heat between us, the unspoken truth we’d both been denying.

When release finally came, it wasn’t only the tension breaking, it was everything. Years of teasing, years of almost. His forehead rested against mine, his hand tangled in my hair, our breaths uneven, our bodies still pressed tight together.

For the first time, neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say. It was all there in the silence, in the way he didn’t let go, in the way I didn’t want him to.

The last chapter of this short story is coming soon. The next one is going to be about a mystery in Liston Hills. How many of you guys know of the my mystery book The things you teach me? The short story blurb will be posted with chapter 4 of Fishing for compliments. Happy Friday everyone.