📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Crow Trap by Ann Cleeves

Summary:

Vera Stanope #1

From Ann Cleeves—New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of the Vera and Shetland series, both of which are hit TV shows—comes The Crow Trap, the first in the Vera Stanhope series.

“Ann Cleeves is one of my favorite mystery writers.”—Louise Penny

Three very different women come together to complete an environmental survey on the Northumberland countryside. Three women who, in some way or another, know the meaning of betrayal....For team leader Rachael Lambert the project is the perfect opportunity to rebuild her confidence after a double-betrayal by her lover and boss, Peter Kemp. Botanist Anne Preece, on the other hand, sees it as a chance to indulge in a little deception of her own. And then there is Grace Fulwell, a strange, uncommunicative young woman with plenty of her own secrets to hide...

When Rachael arrives at the cottage, however, she is horrified to discover the body of her friend Bella Furness. Bella, it appears, has committed suicide--a verdict Rachael finds impossible to accept.

Only when the next death occurs does a fourth woman enter the picture--the unconventional Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope, who must piece together the truth from these women's tangled lives in The Crow Trap.

CHAPTER 1

Rachael turned off the metalled road, then stopped with a jerk. There was a new tubular steel gate and she'd almost driven into it. One of the Holme Park tenants trying to impress. A ewe with a tatty coat and mucky behind nuzzled up to her as she got out of the car to open the gate. The ewe was fat. They didn't lamb up here until the end of April. The steel of the latch was so cold that it seemed to freeze to her fingers.

The track was worse than she remembered, pitted by frost. She drove slower than walking pace with two wheels on the verge. Still the exhaust bumped against a rock.

A mile on she realized she had taken the wrong track through the forest. She should have come out from the trees into open countryside, should by now have reached the ford. Instead she was on a sandy path, not so uneven but very narrow. On either side conifers blocked out the evening light. She drove on, hoping for a place to turn but the track divided into a footpath, the trees meeting over her head.

She had to reverse back to where the track forked. Branches scraped against the paintwork with the noise of chalk on a wet blackboard. The bumper hit a stone bank hidden by undergrowth. She pushed the gear into first and moved forward with a jerk before reversing again. When she reached the main track it was almost dark and she was shaking.

At the ford she stopped the car and got out to test its depth. Five years ago a student on his way back to Baikie's after a night in the pub had drowned, his car turned over by the force of the flash flood. The car headlights reflected from the surface, making it impossible to gauge the depth. It had been a dry spring so she decided to risk it. The water steamed and hissed as it hit the hot engine but she pulled out easily enough on the other side.

The track was blocked again by a gate, this time of wood. It was too dark to read but she knew there was a sign. Access to Black Law Farm and Baikie's Cottage only. She left the engine running while she opened the gate. The car was parked on a slope so the headlights shone up at an angle onto the open hillside. A movement must have caught her attention because she looked up and saw, caught in the beam, the silhouette of a figure, dressed for walking in a Gortex jacket and hood. There was a flash of reflected light and she guessed he was carrying binoculars or a camera. She was certain it was a man though the figure was too far away to tell. He turned and disappeared into the gloom.

She had the unpleasant sense that she had been watched for some time. As she drove the last half mile to the cottage she wondered who could be foolish enough to be out on the hill with so little light left.

Rachael decided not to call at the farm. It upset Dougie to be disturbed without warning. Bella would hear the car and come down to the cottage when Dougie was asleep if she got the chance. There was a light in the farmhouse kitchen but the curtains were drawn. The dogs barked loudly and chased from a barn into the yard. The noise seemed to echo round the hills and Rachael thought: that's good. She'll not miss that wherever she is. Then she saw the light upstairs and thought Bella was probably settling him down for the night.

She drove on through the yard which was scraped and clean. Baikie's Cottage was at the end of the track with a view of the valley, surrounded by trees which had been planted over the years to give some shelter from the wind.

The key was where it always was, under an ornamental chimney pot near the back door. Inside she groped for the light switch. The house smelled damp but she knew it was clean. She had come in November, after the last of the students, to scrub out. Bella had arrived with a couple of bottles of homemade wine and they'd made a day of it. They'd ended up in the farmhouse drinking Dougie's whisky. She slept in the guest room – Neville's room as Bella called it, though as far as she knew Neville hadn't been there for years – and had woken with the worst hangover of her life. It was the only time she'd ever slept in the farmhouse.

Rachael switched on the Calor Gas cylinder outside then went into the kitchen to put on the kettle for coffee. The kitchen was tiny – a modern extension so narrow that she could touch both walls at once. She plugged in the rusty fridge, shut the door and was relieved when it began to hum. The gas flame spluttered but the kettle wasn't even warm. While she waited for it to boil she walked through to the living room and shut the curtains to keep out the draught. Once they had been grey velvet but the sun had faded them in strips and now the pile was quite smooth. There was a sofa covered with an Indian bedspread which Rachael had brought the year before from home, a couple of armchairs which needed something to hide the stains, books spotted with mildew and in one corner a fox in a glass case. The surroundings were so familiar that Rachael took no notice of them. She thought only about getting warm. Even inside it was so cold now that her breath came in clouds.

The grate was laid with paper and kindling but there were no logs in the basket on the hearth. There were matches on the mantelpiece but they were damp. After several attempts to strike one Rachael twisted newspaper into a spill and lit it from the gas flame in the kitchen. She nurtured the fire, remembering old tricks from the last time. The kettle squealed and she made instant coffee from an emergency jar she had brought in her bag. She drank it crouched over the fire, tending it until she was certain it would not go out.

She emptied the car then put a pan of water on the stove. She'd have pasta for supper, and a glass of the wine she planned to have with Bella later. She took out the basket to fetch some logs. They were stacked at the back of a high, open-fronted shed, which also housed a rusting tractor and some piled bales of straw. The lights from the house didn't reach that far and she carried a torch. Outside it was clear and icily cold. The stars in the wide sky, unpolluted by street lamps, seemed brighter than at home.

Bella had arranged her suicide as efficiently as she had done everything else in her life. In the torchlight she swung, hanging from a noose made of strong, nylon rope. Her face was white. She had prepared for the occasion by putting on lipstick and the silk top Rachael had bought her as a thank-you present after last season. Her black shoes shone so the torchlight reflected from them. She'd pulled two bales away from the wall and climbed onto them to tie the rope round a beam. Then, when she was ready, she had kicked one away.

Of course there was a note. She had thought of that too. It was addressed to Rachael and apologized that she had to be the one to find the body: I couldn't put Dougie through that and I knew you'd cope. It went on to remind Rachael that the kitchen door of the farmhouse was open so she'd be able to get to the phone without disturbing anyone – meaning Dougie again. But there was no real explanation for the suicide. She just said that she couldn't take any more. She had known that Rachael would find her before the end of the evening because she had left the log bucket empty. Rachael had always realized that Bella was a clever woman.

When Rachael saw Bella, swinging, recognizable by the silk top, the smartly permed hair, the lipstick, but not really Bella, because Bella had never been that still in her life, she was furious. She was out of her mind with anger. She wanted to use the body as a punch bag, to thump it in the stomach. She wanted to climb onto a bale and slap the white, lifeless face. Because Bella had been a friend. So what right did she have to do this without discussing it with Rachael first? And because, since she heard that the project would go ahead, Rachael had been looking forward to this evening. She'd imagined sitting in Baikie's Cottage with Bella and sharing a bottle of wine and a bucketful of gossip.

But she didn't hit the body. Instead she turned and punched the bale of straw, over and over again until her knuckles were scratched and bleeding.

Later she realized how long she must have been in the tractor shed. When she went back to the cottage the pan of water was boiling and it had taken half an hour for that lousy gas flame even to get the kettle warm.

As groundbreaking begins on a rock quarry in the moorlands, a local woman who had opposed the construction is found murdered.

Release Date: May 15, 2011

Release Time: 89 minutes

Director: Farren Blackburn

Cast:
Brenda Blethyn as DCI Vera Stanhope
David Leon as DS Joe Ashworth
Wunmi Mosaku as DC Holly Lawson

Paul Ritter as Billy Cartwright

Elizabeth Carling as Bev MacDonald

Amy Cudden as Grace Bishop

Daniel Flynn as Godfrey Waugh

Jane Holman as Bella Furness

John Lynch as Edmund Fulwell

Jack McBride as Dougie Furness

Jon Morrison as DC Kenny Lockhart

Daniela Nardini as Anne Preece

Skyla Pearce as May Waugh

Richard Short as Neville Furness 

Susie Trayling as Barbara Waugh

Mia Wyles as Jessie Ashworth

Hidden Depths  /  Telling Tales

Crow Trap

Ann Cleeves

Ann Cleeves is the author behind ITV's Vera and BBC One's Shetland. She has written over twenty-five novels, and is the creator of detectives Vera Stanhope and Jimmy Perez - characters loved both on screen and in print. Both series are international bestsellers.

In 2006 Ann was awarded the Duncan Lawrie Dagger (CWA Gold Dagger) for Best Crime Novel, for Raven Black, the first book in her Shetland series. In 2012 she was inducted into the CWA Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame. Ann lives in North Tyneside.

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The Crow Trap #1

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⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: Starting Point by NR Walker

Summary:

Turning Point #3

After going past the point of no return and finally reaching breaking point, the only thing Matthew Elliott can do now is start over.

Matthew Elliott is a recovering man. As an ex-cop and ex-fighter, his new job teaching kids at the local community gym about drug awareness and self-defense, is a little bit of both. His new focus on helping street kids is helping him heal, and with Kira by his side, he’s making strides.

Brother and sister, Rueben and Claudia, are homeless kids and they're very much alone. As they strike a chord with Matt, he does everything in his power to help them. But when Ruby and Claude need more help than he bargained for, it stops being about work, and starts being about home.

The day he met Kira, Matt’s life changed direction, and it’s only now he realizes that everything he’s been through was a lead up to this. It was never about endings. His life, his purpose, was just beginning.

Blogger Note:

When I read this nearly 10 years ago, the Turning Point trilogy was complete and I read them all together and decided to write an overall series review not an individual review for each entry.

Original Series Review August 2014:
I fell in love with Matt and Kira from the first time they met in the gym.  As good as each story is and the mysteries in the books are, it was watching their relationship and their individual characters evolve throughout the series.  I think it's safe to say that Matt grew the most between the two from book 1 to book 3, but Kira came into is own as well.  The supporting cast helped complete each story in a way that isn't always easy to write, whether they were in almost every chapter or only in a scene or two, they always not only added to the plot but also to Matt and Kira's character development.  This is definitely a must if you are a fan of NR Walker but frankly if you love a well written tale with amazing characters and heart, this is one series you don't want to miss.

RATING:

Tamara Coulter was my psychiatrist. She reminded me a bit of Diane Keaton—middle-aged with grey-brown shoulder length hair, and a kind face. She was very smart and soft spoken, but her words were carefully chosen and usually fired with perfect aim.

She was the best the LAPD had to offer and I’d been seeing her twice a week for six months. We’d covered a lot of ground, from the death of my mother to my going undercover, how I’d lost my hearing in one ear, how I’d almost lost Kira.

We talked about actions and consequences, but most of all, we talked about guilt.

From my first appointment, Tamara had talked about guilt. How it can paralyse or catalyse one into action. How it, more often than not, led to resentment and depression. She’d told me we’d be focusing more on guilt so I’d gone home and researched all I could, that way, at my next meeting, we could discuss it properly.

I have a photographic memory—a mind for details. Years as a detective did that. I’d read all the documents on guilt and other associated emotive behaviors I’d been able to find, which probably annoyed my doctor more than was productive. Too much time and the Internet were not a good combination.

Tamara had been surprised, and amused, but in my attempt to be prepared and dedicated to getting help, I’d also shown her what she’d come to suspect—I was a control freak.

Apparently.

So then we talked about that too.

Actually, there wasn’t much we didn’t talk about.

I had to realise the doctor didn’t have the ability to take away my guilt. Only I could do that.

Tamara had said I needed to acknowledge that as part of my therapy, I had to seek absolution from whom I’d hurt. I’d argued that that seemed a little redundant to me. “So I have to make Kira feel guilty, in order to absolve my guilt?”

“How so?”

“If he doesn’t forgive me, I can’t get better. That’s not fair on him.

What if he’s not ready to forgive me? What if he can’t? You’re saying that he has to, no exceptions, or I carry this burden forever? What kind of horrible responsibility is that?”

“Do you think he should forgive you?”

“I don’t think it’s right to ask if he should or not. That’s not fair. I want him to, yes. But if he should forgive me? That’s something only he can answer.” I’d taken a breath and exhaled loudly.

Tamara had waited, the way she does, knowing I’d keep talking.

“I think he has forgiven me, yes. For the life of me I can’t figure out why, or by what grace of whose god, but yes, he has.”

“Have you forgiven you?” she’d asked.

“I’m working on it. Every single day. It’s not something I’m going to wake up one day and be magically cured of. You know that, Tamara. You know I could spiel off some textbook answer so you can tick all the right boxes, but that’s not how this works.”

Tamara had smiled. “No, it’s not.”

“Then why make me say it?”

“Because it’s better for you to say it, than for me to keep saying it. I know you’ve studied all you can on this, Matt. I know you’re capable of telling people what you want them to hear. You did, after all, exactly that to a team of department psychologists about going undercover.”

“I lied to them.”

“Yes, convincingly. I read their files on you. You knew exactly what they were going to ask, what they were going to look for and how to be credible in your responses.”

“Do you think I’m lying now?” I’d asked. I’d kept my emotions in check. I’d even given her a small smile.

Tamara had looked at me for a moment. “No. No, I don’t. I think you’re working very hard at getting better,” she’d said.

But I was pretty sure she wondered every now and again if I was telling her what she wanted to hear. Sometimes she’d look at me as though she was looking for some telltale sign of my lying to her. Most of my appointments with her involved debate and banter, and I wondered what today’s appointment might entail.

Today was a scheduled appointment, and I’d been looking forward to it. I had something to share. I was smiling. I hadn’t stopped smiling yet.

I knocked lightly on the open door. The woman looked up from the file in front of her and smiled. “Matt, come in.”

I closed the door behind me and sat in my usual seat.

“You’re in a good mood today,” she said brightly as I sat down.

My smile got wider. “I am.” Then I told her, still getting a thrill to say it out loud, “I asked Kira to marry me.”

Her eyes widened, and her grin matched mine. “I take it he said yes.”

“He did.”

“That’s really good news, Matt,” she said.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am,” I said, knowing I sounded like a school kid, and not really caring. “It’s not a magical fix, and I still have a long way to go. I know that. I’m not pretending this is going to fix anything overnight, but it’s a good thing, yes? We’ve not set a date or anything, we’re just taking it one day at a time.”

Tamara was still smiling. “It is a good thing,” she said. “And it’s good you’re both aware that while it’s a positive step, it’s still good to be cautious.” She tilted her head, in the way that she does. “Did you think I wouldn’t agree?”

“I didn’t know what you’d think,” I answered honestly.

“You sounded like you were waiting for my approval, or my disapproval.”

“I tend to babble a bit when I’m nervous or excited,” I told her. “But I didn’t want you to tell me we weren’t ready for this kind of commitment.”

Tamara was still smiling at me. “You didn’t plan it? Was it a spur of the moment thing?”

I nodded. “We were at Mitch and Anna’s wedding.”

“Ah,” she said with a nod.

“And after the speeches, and while Mitch and Anna danced, I just looked at Kira. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He signed, asking if I was okay. I signed back saying I was fine. And then I signed the words ‘Marry me’ across the reception hall,” I told her, knowing my grin was ridiculous. “He didn’t answer me straight away. We danced first, and we joked about his mom, how it’d keep her happy if she at least had some colors to work with when she planned the wedding. Kira said he thought blue and silver would be nice. Just like that, he picked out the colors to our wedding, well, for the invitations anyway. I asked him if that meant his answer was yes, and he said yes.”

Tamara was grinning with me. “Sounds very romantic.”

I sighed, trying not to smile, which was futile. “We kept it quiet though. We didn’t want to take anything away from Mitch and Anna.”

“Did you tell Kira’s parents yet?”

“Tonight,” I told her. “We’ll tell them tonight. They were up at the cabin this last week, so Kira called them and told them to come around for dinner tonight.”

“Do you think they’ll be happy?” she asked. She always asked questions, like every answer was a test. It used to bother me, but I was used to it now.

“I think so.” Then I amended, “Well, I hope so. They’ve been very good with me in the last six months. I think I’ve earned back some trust with them.”

Kira’s parents were often a topic of conversation between Tamara and me. She knew how much I loved them, and how sorry I was that I’d hurt them.

“I’m sure you have,” she said. “The fact that Yumi calls you her Matty, I’m fairly certain she’ll approve.”

I nodded and shrugged one shoulder. “I just feel sometimes, not all the time, but I wonder how long I have to feel like I failed them.”

Tamara looked at me for a long, quiet moment. “That’s an interesting choice of words, Matt,” she said. “You said you wonder how long you have to feel like you failed them. I’m sure they’ve forgiven you, but yet you still feel as though you owe them.”

“I think I will for a long while,” I told her. “And that’s not a bad thing. A little remorse every now and then means I’ll never take it for granted.”

Tamara raised one eyebrow thoughtfully, which told me she didn’t really agree with me. “Do you feel like you need to earn their trust again?” she asked. “Have they ever said that?”

“No, but I’d just feel better if there was something I could do that would tip the scales, you know? Make it better.”

“Like marrying Kira?”

Throwback Thursday Time Machine

No Return  /  Breaking  /  Starting

NR Walker
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.

She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.

She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.

She’s been writing ever since...

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Starting Point #3

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Monday's Musical Melody: The Bachelor & the Cherry by VL Locey

Summary:
Campo Royale #2

Is he brave enough to stop hiding behind his persona and give love one final try?

Jordan Stevens has crammed a lot of living into his fifty years. Some of those years have been good, some bad, and some he would just as soon forget. The world isn’t always kind to an aging queen. Lovers begin to scamper into forbidden fields, your padding tends to slip, and you spend more time with egg whites than most pastry chefs. Heartache is nothing new to the man who embodies the acid-tongued Sitka Patel on stage every night, which led Jordan to vow to never trust another man under eighty again. He has his club, his drag family, and his Bombay cat Heckle. Who needs the hassle? That philosophy had served him well, until a stunning young thing with dark chocolate eyes shows up at the back door of Campo Royale with a suitcase, a sad story, and a dream.

From the time he was old enough to spell the word sequin, Yampier Perez knew that someday he’d be wearing them. One of three children born to Cuban immigrants, Yampier was always a little glitzier than the other neighborhood boys. His love of fashion design and performance arts was barely tolerated at home and even less so in the hallways of his rural Georgia high school. Yet, Yampier never let his light be doused, not even the day his older brother caught him modeling his sister’s prom dress. Beaten, disowned, and on his own before graduation, he found himself having to work seedy jobs doing even seedier things, until he saved enough cash to head to the Big Apple. That money has now run out, leaving him stuck in Wilmington with no food, no place to stay, and no family. Little does he know that stumbling into the Campo Royale Club, half frozen and weak from hunger, is about to bring him everything he has yearned for.

The Bachelor and the Cherry is a gay age gap romance that features an aging drag queen, a virginal newcomer, lots of sass, wigs galore, hurt/comfort, family found, and a richly sequined happy ending.

ONE 

Jordan 

“…fantastic choice for any day that you feel you need to shrink the appearance of those monstrous pores. I usually make this mask on days when I’m feeling a little trollish. You know those days well, I’m sure. When you wake riddled with premenstrual moodiness, a saggy pussy, and lines so deeply etched all over your face, your mug looks like a Rand-McNally roadmap.” I glanced up from mixing a dollop of organic yogurt into my bowl of already whipped egg whites. “For all of you tarts who don’t recall what a Rand-McNally roadmap is, fuck all the way off.” 

Heckle lay on the kitchen counter, sleek black tail flicking, his glowing golden eyes on the container of yogurt at my shoulder. 

“Do not put your shitty paw into my yogurt,” I warned the Bombay. He regarded me as most cats do humans who correct them. With disdain. My sight went back to my cell phone propped neatly against my sugar canister. “Right, back to this anti-aging mask. I’m sure most of you watching are saying to yourselves ‘I simply do not understand why Sitka is worried about her face. She’s simply stunning and hasn’t aged a bit since the day she turned twenty.’” I paused for effect. “Which is why Mother Patel loves all her children.” I puckered and blew a kiss at the Android. “But despite what my little ones say, time does march on. Usually right over a queen’s mug like a battalion of regimental Hessians. And for all the pedantic kiddies out there, do not drop comments in mother’s box saying that Hessians weren’t regimental or battalions. I truly do not care what you rotted little reptiles think.” 

Sitting back, I lifted my reading glasses from the counter to squint through them at the recipe book hidden by two-thirds of a spoiled black cat. Fucking reading glasses. Honestly. Talk about adding insult to injury. As if being on the cusp of fifty-two wasn’t sour enough, my whore of an optometrist informed me I needed reading glasses. With bifocals. That tottering old optimist has no clue how close he came to be beaten to pudding by an outraged queer with an amethyst Hermes tote. Honestly, life was full of curveballs once you crested forty-five. I hated balls. 

Liar. You love balls. Just not the ones that jocks toss around. 

I slid my glasses onto my nose, taking care to slip the arms under the edges of my pretty red turban. It had a lovely fake ruby brooch pinned to the top where the material gathered. I’d not had the energy to fuck with a wig for this week’s podcast. Gluing and ungluing. Fuck that crotch rot. They’d get me in a turban sans makeup. Poor little chits. Probably half my followers would be blinded. Imagine what their poor eyeballs would do if they had to see me barefaced and deal with the glare from my motherfucking bald spot. No wonder I drank and smoked. 

“So, now we have to add the honey.” I reached around my cat to find the little plastic honey jar shaped like a bear. “Just squeeze a dollop in and mix it well into the already whipped egg whites. Now, I must say that while there is no medical evidence to back up the claim that egg whites help with wrinkles, it is known that the protein in egg whites helps temporarily. If you’d rather smear another source of protein on your face, please do.” 

I waited for a moment. Timing hunty. It was everything. “I can hear all you naughty rug rats snickering out there. Minds out of the gutters, children. Mother meant something like a cooling beet mask or oats and molasses.” I gave the phone a saucy wink. 

“Now that we have the ingredients all mixed, I like to apply the mask with a fan brush.” I plucked one of a thousand brushes from a yellow vase that was usually found on my makeup stand. “Using a brush applies the mask more evenly and there is less waste. As we all know, some of those salon masks are pricey and we don’t want to waste a drop.” Another pause. “Do behave out there.” Heckle stretched out over the counter, his whiskers dangerously close to my bowl of wrinkle cream. “Also, using a brush will get more of the mixture into your pores.” 

I began painting the sticky mixture over my cheeks, all the while chattering away about aging gracefully, upcoming shows at the Campo, a few of the nearby pageants, and a long dissertation about the best corn chips for avocado dip. I liked to keep the banter flowing from one topic to another. The viewers enjoyed that. 

Once I covered my mug with the mask, I sat back, found my cigarette case, and tapped out a Marlboro then returned it to the case. My lighter was a pretty diamond-encrusted refillable. Actually, they were cubic zirconia, but a real lady never made a comment on such things. It was gauche. And if there was one thing Sitka Patel was not, it was gauche. I may be many things, but ungainly was not one of them. Cruel and evil, I would cop to. Snarky and bitchy also fit. I was sure my girls had other words to describe me, some kind and many unkind. That was children for you. You take them in, feed and clothe them, pass along your vast knowledge, and then they call you a washed-up bar queen. No one spoke to me that way, not even one of my own children. A mother could only take so much abuse then she had to sever ties, to save her own heart from shattering into even smaller, icy bits. Honestly, if the shards of my cold heart broke any more, it would be nothing but dust inside my breast. 

Shaking off that melancholy shit, I told the viewers that I’d be back after the mask had set then I hit pause on my phone. Heckle watched me slide off the stool with typical cat disinterest. 

“I’m stepping out for a smoke,” I told him. He yawned. Typical male. Or at least typical male in my life. Always thinking of themselves and not giving a good goddamn about me and my needs. At least the cat could be neutered. I had fantasies of doing that to a few of my exes that gave me far more wood than would be considered psychologically sound. I grabbed my cigarette case, my phone, my cooling cup of coffee, and made my way through my condo. It was a rather nice set up, two bedrooms and two baths. Lots of open area with a view of the Brandywine Creek. It was a tad too costly for the view, but I’d earned a little upscale in my life. Just call me Weezy Jefferson. I’d spent many miserable years living hand to mouth, doing things that no proper queen should, in order to not starve. This little place was my reward to myself for working my scrawny ass to the bone for so long. I’d lived through so much, seen so much heartache, suffered so much pain. Not that we all didn’t as we moved through life. No one got out of this motherfucking clambake unscathed but gay Black men who liked to dress in ladies clothing then climb on stage might have a tougher time of it than say the White billionaire flying into space in a penis rocket. 

Moving through my tan and white living room, I grabbed a throw from the sofa, draped it around my shoulders, then threw open the sliding glass doors. The whole miserable building had gone to no smoking regulations about ten years ago. It sucked but such was the life of a nicotine addict. Stepping out onto the patio, I closed the door behind me and turned to look down at the icy creek and snowy trees below. Sitting up on the fifth floor had its advantages. No one could see me out here in my mask, turban, and fluffy throw ensemble. Which was good. I did not like to be spotted looking frumpy. The bad thing was that the wind had a tendency to blow up the ten story building. Talk about a chilly pussy.

I turned from the wind, hurried to get a smoke out of my case, and was just putting flame to Marlboro when my phone buzzed. I drew in a lungful, let it out, and then rummaged around inside my roomy little caftan for my cell. Pulling it out of a large pocket, I stood facing indoors, the wind whistling up over my balls. Fuck February weather. Fuck the cold and the short days and the rotten ice patches in every parking lot. And mostly fuck the hell out of Valentine’s Day with a barbed wire dildo. 

Teeth chattering, I checked the incoming call. It was Clarice, my newly appointed manager. Rolling my eyes, I took a puff, let it out, and answered the phone and went right into Facetime. 

“Henny, why the hell are you calling me?” I asked right off. Clarice Patel Coco was another one of my children who had come into my life as so many of them did. Scared, hungry, and with nowhere to go but with a dream of being a drag queen. That had been fifteen years ago. She was one of my first babies but far from my last. As long as I had a breath and there was a gay child with a love of sequins and performing wandering the cold city streets, Mother Sitka would be there for them. It was what the older gays did, darling. Or should do. 

“What the hell is that all over your mug?” Clarice asked. “You look like a Yeti came on your face.” 

“Crude.” I hid my smile. My children didn’t need to know how fucking funny I found them to be most of the time. “It’s an anti-aging mask, I think it froze.”

I tapped it with a long purple fingernail. Oh my, it was incredibly hard. I’d have to thaw my face over the fake fire in the fireplace. Or stick my head in the oven. No, that would be bad. I’d see how dirty it was and would have to critique Babacar when he showed up in the morning. Then he would cry and I’d feel badly. I’d give my housekeeper a raise to stop his tears, and he’d go off to dust, but my oven would still be grimy. 

“Not to make an unwanted comment but you do realize that smoking ages a person, right?” 

I gave my club manager a well-manicured middle finger. I’d just had them done by that new salon near Winnie’s Diner down the street from the club. The plum color was gorge. It made me want a plum outfit. Hmm, maybe I could throw something together for the Queen of Hearts Valentine Show that was coming up. Ugh. Fucking Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’d just skip the whole thing and get drunk in my office. Leave the romance to the kiddikins like Gigi and her burly kitty boy, Tyr. 

“Did you ring me to pretend you were the surgeon general, or did you have another reason?” I flicked ash into the ceramic ashtray frozen to my cute little patio table. “I’m in the middle of recording a podcast about facial masks for those of us who have lived a bit more life than others.” 

“Ah, so a face mask for saggy pussies. Got it.” 

“Please do fuck off.” I shuddered violently. Gee whiz smoking was fun. For fuck’s sake. “Why are you calling? Is the club on fire?”

“No, we have a queer little lost puppy sitting on a stool sipping a cola that Cord gave him and looking around as if he just blew in from Kansas and landed smack dab in gay Oz.” 

“Well shit.” 

“Fucking munchkins,” Clarice said. I sighed with flair. “I can feed him then send him packing. Your call, Mother.” 

Like I needed this right now? When would it stop? 

When uptight asshole parents stop kicking LGBTQ kids out of their homes, that’s when. 

True. Sadly, I didn’t see that happening anytime soon. 

“Send Eladio down to Winnie’s for a burger and fries for the poppet. I’ll be there asap.” 

“Will do. He’s cute. Has an accent. Southern.” 

Of course he did. “That’s nice. Just keep Jim-Bob there until I can find my keys.” 

“Yampier.” 

“Gesundheit.” 

“No, his name is Yampier.” 

“That’s unique. What kind of name is that?” 

“Not a clue, but he’s kind of beautiful.” 

Weren’t they all? Pretty gay waifs all alone in the world. Fuck I hated people sometimes. Okay, I hated people most times, but times like this I loathed them even more. I ground out my cigarette with passion then went to find my keys. And a fucking coat. Maybe some slacks. Caftans did not winter wear make.

Monday Musical Melody

Viking & Drag Queen  /  Bachelor & Cherry

Barkeep & Bookseller  /  Financier & Sweetheart

Chanteuse & Bodyguard

VL Locey

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.

(Not necessarily in that order.)

She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.

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The Bachelor & the Cherry #2

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