Story Orgy Presents: This Is Not About Part part 4 #mmromance #blogstory #storyorgy

Good morning friends and readers! *sips coffee* Want a weather update? Sure. It's hot. Really hot. And muggy. I won't go into details, but sweat is an issue. LOL. It's Monday today, which means that Story Orgy is back and making it's appearance. Today I have part four of my contemporary romance This Is Not About.

Today's prompt is brought to us courtesy of the fine machinations of the fabulous Em Woods, author of some of my favorite m/m romances and fellow Orgiast.

JULY 11: It Wasn’t His Mother’s Cooking

This Is Not About

Part Four

The scent was amazing, that much was true, but it wasn’t his mother’s cooking. It wasn’t anyone’s mother’s cooking. Dubiously, Drake eyed the multi-colored blobs on his plate, then raised his eyes to meet Mick’s blushing gaze. “What is this?” The blush was pretty… if unusual. Mick was an urbane, sophisticated morning talk show host, after all. He should be beyond blushing.

“It’s a new thing. All the foodies are raving about it.” Fiddling with his spoon, Mick had the grace to look away.

“You’re taste testing or something for a segment aren’t you?” Drake concluded. The contrast in their current atmosphere and the neighborhood bar they’d met at the week before couldn’t be stronger. This place just screamed trendy date night and was chock full of hipster wannabes like the tall guy who’d been at the bar with Sean. Only these hipsters didn’t set Drake’s teeth on edge, and nor did he find himself stifling misery at the reminder of Sean with another man. Maybe he was finally getting over his lost love.  

“No… not really… well… maybe. But I really did want to try it.” Mick dragged his spoon through an orange blob, and a citrussy, curry sort of smell wafted up. His lower lip stuck out in a sort of pout, as though he were disappointed in Drake’s reaction.

“It looks like garishly colored baby food.” Drake returned his attention to the blobs on his own appetizer plate, but he was uncomfortably aware of Mick across the table. His friend was dressed with a sophisticated, timeless flair that Drake never could have pulled off. The soft blue pullover matched his eyes, clung to his muscular frame, emphasizing broad shoulders and toned arms. If Drake had attempted to wear such a thing he’d have looked like a fat nerd unsuccessfully aping the styles of a previous generation… or worse yet, like a down on his luck cartoonist who shopped at the goodwill.

On Mick the look was retro-cool and sexy in a very disturbing way. He snuck another glance at Mick under his lashes. And so was that pout… the full lower lip protruded in a  tempting way, and Drake had to scoot his chair back and put some distance between them. He was tempted to do something stupid…

“It smells good.” Mick interrupted that dangerous line of thought and Drake nodded, picking up his own spoon.

“So baby food is the new thing for trend followers, huh?”

“Foodies.”

“Huh?” Drake glanced up at the unfamiliar term. Thankfully, Mick was still looking at his plate, and he’d stopped pouting, which was really good because that kiss would probably be happening if he hadn’t, and it would really suck to ruin the best friendship he’d ever had by making sexual overtures and turning everything awkward.

“The food people aren’t like the fashion people. They call themselves foodies, not trendy.” Mick glanced up and their eyes locked, and it was Drake’s turn to blush as he couldn't shake the feeling that Mick knew what he’d been thinking, about the kiss and their friendship.

“Foodies? But they’re the same. The follow food trends like they follow clothing trends. Why do they need a special name?” It was a ridiculous question, and they both knew it, but Drake couldn’t think of anything else to say, which was kind of a first. He’d never before felt the urge to fill a silence between them. Normally he and Mick could talk about anything and nothing, or sit in silence without talking at all and still be comfortable.

“Uh… Well… just to distinguish themselves from people who like Chipotle and Applebee's, I guess.”

“What’s wrong with Chipotle and-”

“Nothing. Aren’t you going to try it at least before you diss it?”

He was so hung up on the word foodie that he couldn't think for a minute why someone who supposedly knew him as well as Mick did would think he wanted to start switching burgers and beers for trendy food and call himself a foodie, when he realized that Mick was raising a spoonful of orange pulp to his mouth with a determined expression.

Drake found himself entranced, watching as the silver spoon with it’s vibrant orange blob approached then passed over the succulent glistening lower lip. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as Mick lips pursed around the spoon and closed.

His breath caught as Mick pulled, and the spoon popped, empty from his mouth.

“Uh.” He grunted. A deep ache tightened his solar plexus and he yanked his gaze away, scooping up a greenish blob off his own plate for a distraction. He shoved it in his mouth, and pretended that everything was fine. It tasted like ashes, and stuck to every part of his mouth, like a big spoonful of ash flavored peanut butter. His fingers itched to draw the  image, a leering, tongue stuck letch with big eyes popping out of his head sitting across an intimate table from handsome, oblivious man.

“Okay.” Mick’s chair scraped on the floor as he scooted it backwards. “Let’s go.”

Drake swallowed the green ashes he’d shoved in his mouth and let his spoon fall to the table. “Go?” His voice was thick and awkward in his own ears, barely audible over the sudden hammering of his heart.

“Yeah… Baby food smells great, but the texture…” Mick swiveled his head around, seeking their waiter.

“The texture-” Drake echoed, unable to resist letting his gaze wander over his friend’s figure- the tight pants he’d paired with the pull over were just as retro, and just as… captivating. Though honestly, it was the man in the pants, the lines of thigh and abs, the whole picture that appealed rather than just the fabric that clung.

“I want fried chicken and crisp cole slaw.” Mick nodded firmly, snapped his fingers at a waiter. While the waiter scurried toward them, Mick took out his wallet and dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” The obsequious voice stirred Drake from his seat.

“No. Thank you. Cancel our order, please. We’ve been called away.”

“Called away?” Drake muttered aside as he strode beside Mick out of the restaurant, a converted storefront in a strip mall. “Fried chicken was calling you?”

“Hah. I thought it was a better excuse than this food sucks. I need texture.” Mick clicked his car fobbed and a vehicle parked half way down the street purred to life, lights flicking on. “ When I’m old and toothless you can feed me mashed up pulpy stuff.” He shuddered. “What were they thinking? Why is this a thing?”

“Isn't that my line?” Drake protested, automatically swinging around to walk with Mick to his car, even though his own jeep was in the opposite direction, around the corner.

“Why should you get all the good lines?”

Mick opened the passenger side door for him, and Drake slid into the opening, pausing with one knee on the seat. “Because I’m the snarky artist in this pairing and you're the sophisticated trendsetter?”

“Artists are frequently trendsetters,” Mick pointed out as he crossed between his Audi and a Lexus parked in front of it. “I, however, am simply a trend spotter. And that is made even easier by the fact that everyone who thinks they’ve “got something” new sends an email to the station and the flunkies weed through them.”

Drake eyed his friend’s clothes, then his own Levi's and sweater, forcing himself to sneer playfully while his gut roiled. “You look like a trendy kind of guy.”

“Because I have a fabulous person called a wardrobe consultant, who according to my contract with the studio, gets to buy and coordinate all my clothes unless I am at home in the privacy of my own house. Just in case, you know, someone sees me.” Mick’s door opened, and he met Drake’s stare over the top of the car. “Get in. We can hit up a Popeye’s drive thru I know of, and go back to my place, where I can be the real me.”

Drake obeyed, silenced by the implication that he hadn’t really been hanging out with the real Mick.

Story Orgy Presents: This Is Not About Part 3 #mmromance #storyorgy #prompt

Good morning friends! I have finally been inspired enough to pick up my old prompting habit again. This little snippet continues a story I began back in January. It only had two parts at that time, so this is part three. To catch you up, Drake has been pining after a break up, but his long time best friend Mick is sick of the moping. He thinks it's time for Drake to look around him and realize that love has been beside him all this time.

This Is Not About

Part 3

“Every morning…”

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Drake didn’t bother to put down his book. In all honesty, he was still a little pissed at Mick for leaving him at the restaurant the week before.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Mick yanked the chair opposite Drake, dislodging Drake’s foot from the lower chair rung.

Drake dropped The Sandman Overture to the table, narrowly missing his coffeecup. He glared at his friend. “Doesn’t look like I can stop you, does it?”

Mick’s green eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “Don’t act like a spoiled brat.”

That it of anger over being embarrassed last Friday spiked. “Fuck you.”

“You wish,” Mick retorted smoothly.

“You should be so lucky.” Drake shot back. They glared at each other for a long minute before Mick’s lips twitched. The microexpression was all it took to alter the direction of Drake’s emotion. He burst into laughter as the twitch became a grin and then a chuckle.

“Sorry.” Drake finally got control of his laughter. His stomach ached pleasantly from the laughter,and his mood was incredibly lighter. “You were right, and I didn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s fine.” Mick picked up a napkin and shook it out over his lap then flagged down the waitress. “So, you want to go out this Friday?”

It was like swallowing vodka when you thought you were drinking from a water bottle. His mind instantly went in the wrong direction. Mick was hot. So sexy.. lean, pretty, and so off limits. It took less than three seconds. Not long enough for Mick’s expression to change, not long enough for the waitress to get to the table, but long enough for Drake to picture his friend naked, get turned on and feel like a complete jerk. Then the other shoe dropped and he realized that Mick was NOT asking him on a date, but asking him if he wanted to go somewhere and hang out, like they did most Fridays. “Yeah, I’m u-” Aware of his stirring senses, he abandoned the word up and finished with “in. Maybe someplace with music.”

“Leave it to me.” Mick beamed,turning a brilliant smile on the waitress who’d finally arrived at their table. “Coffee,black please.”

“One black coffee. Can I bring you a muffin, or a plate of eggs and bacon?” The cute waitress was blatantly ogling Mick, and Drake felt embarrassed for the poor girl. He wanted to shoo her away from the table or tell her just how gay Mick was, but he couldn’t.

Mick however, it seemed was used to being stared at, and he just smiled kindly and shook his head. “Just coffee, sweetie, thanks.”

She blushed and scurried away, giggling.

Drake watched her go, turned back to Mick, who had grabbed a pen from his pocket and was writing on a napkin.

“Happens all the time.” Mick said, not looking up.

“Girls young enough to be your daughter hit on you all the time?” Drake derided. “I can imagine.”

“No.” Mick threw down the pen and pushed the napkin to the edge of the table. “People recognize me from the show all the time.”

“Oh yeah. She was eying you like a side of beef.”

“She was not.” Mick’s cheeks pinkened, and h ducked his head. “I’m gay. All of Morrisonville knows it. And she’s not young enough to be my daughter. I’m only thirty-five and my daughter is twelve.”

Drake spewed the coffee he’d just sipped. It sprayed over his plate and splattered the table. “Daughter?”

***

“Yeah. Did I forget to mention that little detail?” Mick watched Drake nearly swallow his tongue while he attempted to gather his wits. He tossed a napkin in Drake’s direction and waited while Drake mopped at the liquid he’d sprayed all over.

Finally, Drake spoke. “I have known you all our lives. In kindergarten you had a Barbie lunchbox.”

“You punched me in the nose because of that lunch box.” Mick reminded him.

“Because my dad wouldn’t let me have one. My sister Ava had one with sparkles, and sparkles were too cool.”

“My daughter went to school the first day of kindergarten with a hot wheels lunch box.”

“That’s great. But my point was, I know you. You’ve been gay since forever and everyone knew it. You do not have a daughter.”

“But I do. Want to see a picture?” He reached for his phone, where the latest pictures of Mika were stored in a separate file. “Her mother just sent these.” Without waiting for Drake’s answer, he swiped the phone on and set about finding the photos.

“Who?”

“Mika, my daughter.” Mick jerked as the phone was snatche dout of his hand. He glanced up to find Drake glowering at him. It was amusing, and yet… a little shiver went down his spine. Drake mad was seriously hot.

“Who is her mother? You’ve never dated a woman. I doubt you’ve ever even touched one, let alone impregnated one.”

“Her mother is a very nice lesbian named Gina who wanted to have a child. She lived-”

“I remember Gina. redhead, no boobs. Lived across the hall from you in that dive you used to rent.” Drake sneered, but his anger had faded, his expression confused.

Mick decided to end the joke. “I donated sperm, dumbass. She wanted someone to father a child, not a lover or a husband.”

“She sends you pictures. I suppose you split holidays like a divorced couple?”

“No,” Mick picked up the napkin and began shredding it. The talk about his daughter was all his fault, he knew that. He just had to blurt out the one big secret that he’d managed to keep from Drake all these years. Well, the second biggest secret. “I’ve never actually met her. It wasn’t a relationship. I was… down. Thought I’d never find anyone of my own, never have a chance to have kids otherwise. And we agreed, Gina and I, that she’d tell Mika who I was when she was old enough to ask.”

Drake bit his lip, eyes darkening. “She hasn’t asked?”

“She’s twelve. Barely old enough to realize that a woman can’t have a baby by herself. I’m okay with it. I didn’t bring this up to-” Every morning he woke up, wondering if today was the day he’d get the call, if today was the day he’d get to be called Dad.

“Hah! Have you seen-”

Mick held up a hand. “I have seen way more than I want to. But Mika and Gina live in the country, and she’s very sensible. Plays softball and the violin. No way is our daughter going to turn into Miley Cyrus. Speaking of… guess who not so politely canceled her appearance on Morning in America?” He deliberately changed the subject.

“There is no way you booked Miley Cyrus. Morning in America is just not…”

“Uh uh uh. We’re grabbing a bigger share of the audience all the time.”

“It’s regional.”

“It’s the age of cable, made for Netflix, and Amazon. Television as we knew it is dead my friend.” Mick drained his coffee and stood. “Besides, I hear they have a really hot, gay host.”

“I can’t believe you had a daughter and kept it from me all this time.” Drake was thumbing through the pictures he’d finally found on the phone.   There weren’t a lot, because Mick saved the rest on a thumbdrive at home, but enough. A smiling dark eyed infant, a charming five year old with one front tooth missing, hugging that Hot Wheels lunch box, and one of Mika with her violin, a mutinous frown on her piquant face.

Already he regretted the impulse to prove to his friend that Drake didn’t know everything about him. This awkward sense of exposure served him right for trying to prove there was still enough mystery between them to make a relationship interesting. “It wasn’t really my story to tell. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’d like to meet her someday.” Drake looked like the comment had surprised him as much as it had surprised Mick.

“Yeah, me too. Meanwhile, I’ll pick you up tonight, eight o’clock ok?”

Drake was chewing his lip again, a gesture that spoke to his confusion. Mick liked it. He liked that Drake was confused by him, it reassured him that he wasn’t alone in his current state. “Ok.” Drake agreed, though he sounded fairly hesitant.

If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more! 

Hank Edwards

Havan Fellows 

EM WOODS

Story Orgy Presents: This Is Not About part 2 #mmromance #storyorgy

Welcome back to Story Orgy Monday! Got your coffee? Today, we learn more about Mick Stone, Drake's friend from last week. Read on!

This Is Not About # 2 

January 11, 2016

He Was Wearing That Ring

“And he just sat there, staring at me, like I was speaking French or something.” Mick complained. “But worst of all… he was wearing that ring.” That stupid, fake, meaningless, stainless steel xoxo ring that the ex had given Drake for Valentine’s day a year earlier. Yeah, Mick had always hated that trite, trivial piece of junk jewelry. 

“Mm hm.”

“I mean… it’s been a year. Drake needs to get over this and get on with his life.” He continued.

Mindy just huffed a fringe of blonde hair out of her eyes and pursed her lips. The stylist was usually a very good listener and functioned as much as a sounding board for Mick as she did “fashion consultant”. Her title was ambiguous, because really she was all things to him and his Morning in America Co-host Abby Jones. Mindy did make-up, hair, clothes… and attitude adjustments if either of them got too big a head.

“Mindy?” He nudged her gently with the toe of his foot.

“Yes?” She muttered, picking up a pair of scissors from the vanity and turned on him, an irate gleam in her green eyes.

Mick flinched instinctively. “Okay… Okay. I said enough about Drake already. No need to get… snippy.” With a pointed glance at the scissors, he grinned as she groaned at his lame witticism.

“Look, bossman.” She flipped the hair back out of her face and met his gaze. Her sea green eyes were slightly exasperated. “Every Monday you come in here and it’s the same old, same old. Had dinner on Friday with your bestie from high school. Blah blah blah.”

Unable to stem the hurt that remark caused, Mick sat upright in his chair and let his face go blank. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bore you. Is that what you wanted me to wear today?” Of course it was. The suit jacket hung on a hook in front of the closet, obviously waiting for him to don it, and next to it was a cozy looking cream colored sweater that he’d have chosen for himself given the opportunity to shop for his own clothes, not that the network would ever allow such a thing.

“That’s not-”

He brushed off her apologetic tone and forged on. “Charcoal grey with a fisherman’s sweater, huh? We must be doing another outside shoot.” He knew perfectly well they were. Spring was in the air and though it was biting cold outside still, the powers that be insisted that if the big wigs in New York could film outside in short sleeves, then Mick and Abby could too.

“Mick, stop. I didn’t mean that to be … insulting.”

“Well, it was.” He admitted, immediately hiding by pulling the creamy thick knit sweater over his head. Unfortunately, he really couldn’t cower behind the garment forever. He tugged it into place and settled it, meeting Mindy’s eyes again.

“It’s just ironic, you see? You talk about Drake getting on with his life, that a year is too long to be hung up on a guy who doesn't want you. But boss, how long have you been hung up on Drake?”

“I’m not!” He protested, but the words rang hollow in his own ears and he saw from Mindy’s expression that she wasn’t buying it either. “He’s just a friend.”

Fortunately, a rap on the dressing room door saved him from having to justify that. 

.

If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more! 

Hank Edwards

Havan Fellows 

EM WOODS

Story Orgy Presents: This Is Not About #mmromance #storyorgy #blogstory

Welcome back to Story Orgy Monday! Got your coffee? Ready to meet some sexy new men? Read on!

January 4, 2016

“This is not about”

Studying the Wiley Coyote-esque diagram he’d sketched on his napkin while waiting for his dinner to arrive, Drake Arthur concluded that something was missing from the elaborate Rube Goldberg trap. Glue. Buckets of it. Drums of it. That’s what he needed. Drake nodded his head decisively. Where to find it? How to haul it? He began sketching barrels of glue in.

“Drake?” Mick Stone’s impatient voice made it clear it wasn’t the first time he’d attempted to gain Drake’s attention.

“Huh?” His head snapped up and he caught Mick’s concerned stare. “What?”

“We don’t have to stay here,” Mick offered, nodding sympathetically toward the bar, where Drake had studiously avoided glaring since they’d entered their local neighborhood bar and grill some thirty minutes earlier. More specifically, he indicated a couple of men who had been holding down that bar. The first man was a stranger to Drake, a tall slender blond who appeared to think it cool to shave his head on the sides and leave a dramatic sweep of hair on top. That man smiled too much, laughed too loud and was way too touchy with his hands and his body, constantly leaning on, nudging, or petting the shorter man next to him. Drake hated him on sight. His slick appearance and hip clothing grated on Drake’s nerves.

But the trap… it wasn’t designed for that man. No the trap was for his companion. A small, dark haired, pale little man with elegant features, overlong hair and a propensity for overdoing the eyeliner. Sean.

Yeah. The glue was for him. His fingers moved… sketching Sean into the diagram, flat on his butt on the floor, a drum of glue poised over him, spilling out in a wave.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We already ordered.” Stubborn. That was him. All his life people had been shaking their heads, clicking their tongues and telling Drake Arthur that he was stubborn. He’d always laughed them off, told people he was determined, persistent, a hundred things that were less negative. That character trait had stood him in good stead, gotten him through high school with honors, the same in college. It had landed him a dream job with a fabulous company and a place on the career fast track.

But sitting here watching his ex-lover play kissy face and flirt with some tall drink of water with ash blonde hair… he kind of wished he’d been oh… intelligent...resourceful...charming.... Maybe then… “I still love him.” He sighed, thunking his head on the table and avoiding Mick’s sympathy. The napkin fluttered to the ground. Drake made a half hearted effort to reach for it, but missed.

“Don’t be an ass.”

Sympathy? What the hell was he thinking? His head shot up and he stoked the spark of annoyance into a flame. “Have a little sympathy, man. My ex has moved on, and he’s rubbing my nose in it.”

Mick scowled at the bar then turned the dark look on Drake. “This is not about that. It’s been over a year. Quit moping around acting like an idiot.”

“I'm not moping.” Drake stiffened, flicking a glance at the bar, where Sean’s date was flipping some raggedy hank of hair out of his eyes and smiling in a smarmy way that indicated all too clearly… as though his wandering hands left any doubts…. what he was up to. “That guy is a snake. A user… all he wants is to get laid. Sean deserves better than that.”

“Fuck.” Mick grabbed his highball glass and gulped the remainder of the whiskey in it. He spluttered, eyes watering and thumped the glass back on the table. “This is not about what Sean deserves. It’s about you, you stubborn fucking asshole. It’s about what you deserve. And that is not to live in the past hankering after some guy who was never fucking going to stay.”

Mick shoved his chair back and dug in his pocket.

Drake sat, frozen into silence, heart thumping loudly in his ears, heat burning his cheeks and the nape of his neck. Without looking, he knew they were the center of everyone’s attention. The diners, the drinkers, the meager staff, Mick knew how to make a scene. Drake just sat there as Mick threw a crumpled bill on the table and stalked off.

Finally he drew in a breath and released it, finally he shook off the embarrassment and sipped his own water, staring determinedly at the salt and pepper shakers and a green card announcing that it was National Margarita Day next Wednesday.  

“He’s right you know.” The voice cut like a knife, stabbed him clean to the heart and left him bleeding.

He glanced up in time to see Sean strolling away from the table, one arm wrapped around the blond’s waist.

If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more! 

Hank Edwards

Havan Fellows 

EM WOODS

Story Orgy Creature Feature: Mum's the Word #storyorgy #mmromance #creaturefeature

Good morning friends and readers!
Welcome back to Story Orgy. Welcome back- I'm catching up with Izzy and Owen slowly, but it should be clear by now that this story is going to go on a whole lot longer than originally planned. It was supposed to end on October 26th, at which time the whole of Story Orgy was switching to a holiday theme and writing some good old fashioned feel good holiday stories. That didn't quite work out, as you can tell. I have a few more posts to go before we get this all squared away and move on.
Ready to see what happens next?

Mum's the Word 

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Izzy handed the badge holder back to Gregoire… whose real name appeared to be Gregory Noire, which wasn’t much better than his assumed identity. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were law enforcement I would never--”

“Throw a cannonball at a cop?” Hearing the clear, crisp voice, Izzy was amazed that he’d ever thought the man a foreign national. “Good to know.”

“I can’t really take credit for the cannonball.” Izzy demurred. “You actually knocked that shelf over all by yourself.”

“Because you hit me in the head with something else!”

Shrugging, Izzy glanced around the room. “So, there’s no Cigar Store Indian here either. Is that what you’re really looking for?”

“Today it is. I didn’t figure we’d find it though. Same as with all the other moderately valuable items. It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Stolen.”

“There isn’t really going to be any new grand reopening of the museum for the alumni association, is there?” He’d thought after the weeks of fruitless seeking, through box after box of worthless trivia, of the growing certainty that there would be no archaeological glory, that disappointment had become something he knew well.

But it seemed that he’d been holding some secret hope, some spark of a dream that had been nurtured by their recent findings. And that small spark had been enough to warm the fire of his ambition and if not fan it to a full flame.

Noire’s words were a bucket of ice water thrown rudely in his face.

“No. There is not.”

Frustration spilled over into rash speech. “Then what are we doing here? Why are Owen and I wasting our time in this museum?”

“You can’t guess?”

“Why should I?”

“Your professor Gamez was the most likely suspect. While I was investigating his thefts, I needed to keep an eye on his two proteges in case they were a part of the scheme.”

Flinching under a tidal wave of emotions, anger, resentment, fear, Izzy’s lips moved, but no sound came out. The university thought he and Owen… “Professor Gamez?” He asked, shocked. “You think the professor stole artifacts?” Even as he couldn’t believe it, neither could he find any other solution.

“There is no doubt at all.”

“But these things could have been taken any time. The museum has been closed for decades.”

Noire shook his head relentlessly. “No. The last complete inventory was done in 1994, when the previous museum head retired and Gamez took over the position with his promotion to full professor. since as you noted, the museum was not open to the public nor used to teach classes any more, there was exactly one set of keys which remained in his possession.”

Izzy shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not possible,” he murmured. “Other people…”

“The losses are too extensive, Izzy. A professor here and there, or a student who might have come in for research? They just didn’t have the time or the opportunity to hunt down the most valuable artifacts, no. There was only ever one suspect in this case.”

“Professor Gamez.” Incredible. He’d known the professor so long, and never suspected the amiable man was capable of such… dishonesty.

“And his two teaching assistants.” Izzy tacked on bitterly. “I can’t believe--”

“Oh, believe it.”

“And the university let you… just… we don’t really have jobs for this semester?” That hurt more than finding out the professor he’d defended was a criminal. He’d counted on this job, on getting caught up with all his bills and being able to quit working at the senior citizens home. Looked forward to lattes before class and steak… not every night but once in awhile.

If you’d asked him even two years ago what food he could eat every day and not grow tired of it, he’d have said pizza. Now? He was heartily sick of every kind of cheesy tomato pie you could imagine. “I think that’s pretty shitty thing to do. Owen and I have never done anything dishonest.”

Noire’s brows rose, “Except take home boxes of docuemnts that aren’t supposed to leave the museum?”

“Except that.” Damn Owen had really screwed them over with that move. “And we did return them promptly.”

“Exactly.” Noire had the good grace to look slightly ashamed. “I’m not sure about your jobs. I’m pretty sure at this point that you two had nothign to do with the thefts. But as for your employment, that’s up to the university.”

“Of course,” Izzy muttered. “Owen has been gone a logn time.”

“He has, hasn’t he?” Noire stood up, smudging the blood smear on his head as he brushed at it. “We’d better go find him.”

“He’s not stealing anything.” Izzy felt compelled to defend his friend. “I know he isn’t.”

“Then what’s taking him so long? If he’s not doing something he shouldn’t be then he’s taking the longest piss in medical history.”

“He’s looking for a mummy.” Izzy confessed, feeling like an idiot for not realizing what Owen meant sooner.

“A mummy? The one referred to in the box of correspondence you took home?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not here.” Noire said flatly. “That was one of the first things we looked for. It’s a sizeable piece of stone and easily recognizable.”

“You knew it wasn’t here?” That explained why he’d had little interest in the box of documents.

“We knew. It was a red flag for the university.”

Noire opened the door and allowed Izzy to pass in front of him. Instead of heading toward the staircase and the restrooms, Izzy shined his light toward the end of the hall. It was dark, and looked much the same as when they’d left it earlier in the day.

“The restrooms are up here.” Noire pointed out.

“Owen’s not in the restroom.” Izzy confessed. “He left to check out a secret door we found earlier today.”

“Secret door?”

“Down there,” Izzy gestured, sending light scattering up the walls and around the end of the hall.

“He’s not there.” Noire must have extraordinary night vision because he shot past Izzy into the darkness without a second thought.

“Seriously?” Izzy followed more slowly, shining the beam of his flashlight into the side corridors as he went checking to see if Owen had wandered off somewhere else, even though a growing sense of foreboding told him that the secret room behind the secret door had swallowed Owen whole and left Izzy here with the law and no idea…

“Come on Izzy. I can’t believe our initial searches missed this.”

If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more! 

Hank Edwards

Havan Fellows 

EM WOODS