At over 11,000 words, this is the longest and most involved unfinished Loud House story I have. I started writing it in August 2019 right after I finished Reeling in the Years. As I was writing, I had an idea for another fic centered on Linka moving into a haunted house with her adopted family. I turned it over in my mind and reached the conclusion that it wouldn't be "Loud House" enough. That's never stopped me in the past, but I thought to myself "Why not just write it as an original story?" I liked that idea a lot, so I dropped this fic and moved onto that one. It became a novel called House of Whispers that hasn't been published yet.

I enjoyed the process so much that I eventually went on to write something like three novels and four or five short stories during the fall of 2019. All of the Loud House stuff I posted during that time (including the last dozen chapters or Reeling in the Years and the entirety of Nasty Girls: The Next Generation) had been written beforehand, and to be perfectly honest, I was done with Loud House stuff. I was going to make a second attempt at getting my writing career off the ground and was likely going to move on from fan fiction writing. I wound up needing money, however, and thus the commission whore era began.

I started to turn House of Whispers into a Loud House fan fiction - going in reverse, I guess, since most people try to turn their fan fics into original stories - but two things stopped. One, I'm lazy, and while turning it into a fan fic wouldn't have been all that hard, it was hard enough that I lost interest once no one read it.

When I first started writing Loud House fan fiction, I was aware that I, Flagg1991, had no fans. Lincoln Loud has fans. Luna Loud, Luan, they have fans. A lot of people tell me that they're fans of mine but let me write a story that doesn't have Lincoln in it, and poof, where'd they go? Maybe it's just me, though. I'm a fan of certain writers, and because I am a fan of them - the way they write, the way they tell a story, etc - I'll try anything by them, even if it's not in my preferred genre, even if the plot seems like something I wouldn't be interested in otherwise. Being that way, I've read a lot of great stuff that I may have missed otherwise.

I don't feel like many people do that with me. They pop up when Lincoln's involved and then wander off when he isn't. They're here for him, not for me. I've always gone the extra mile with my work, or at least tried, and one day it hit me: Why? As long as it has Lincoln and I put in minimal effort, people will be happy.

I don't say that to be bitter or anything, but that's kind of the mindset I found myself in when I was writing this story, and a large part of the reason I stopped. I've written a few little Loud House fan fics that weren't commissions, but for all intents and purposes, this story represents the very end of my Loud House career. I doubt that I will ever write anything beyond a oneshot ever again (unless it's a commission). And honestly, I probably won't do very many of those.

Anyway, this story was heavily inspired both by John Hinkley Jr. and Arthur Bremer. Hinkley was a mentally disturbed nutcase in the 1980s who shot President Reagan to impress the actress Jodie Foster. Meanwhile, Arthur Bremer was a mentally disturbed nutjob in the 1970s who plotted to assassinate President Nixon for attention. He eventually settled on Presidential candidate George Wallace when he found Nixon's security too tight. He shot Wallace, paralyzing him, and did something like 35 years in prison before being released. In this story, an adult Lincoln - a mentally disturbed nutcase in the 2030s - becomes infatuated with a prostitute named Ronnie Anne. He tries to woo her, but she tells him something to the effect that he isn't "manly" enough for her. He decides to prove her wrong by assassinating a young and charismatic senator running for President.

Great idea, Linc, that's sure to win her over.

On nights when the confines of his studio apartment became too much, the air too stuffy, the walls too close, Lincoln Loud wandered. A tall, cadaverously thin man with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, and lank hair the color of cigarette ash, Lincoln resembled a vampire from an Anne Rice novel only uglier. His Adam's apple protruded painfully from his narrow throat and his skin was a sickly shade of white that bespoke too many days indoors. His arms and legs dangled from his frame like branches from a malformed tree trunk, and when he spoke, his voice came as a rusty whisper. A freelance artist by trade, he slept during the day and worked by night, seated at the desk before the apartment's sole window and hunched over a Wapo tablet or a laptop so old it could legally buy itself a drink. In the summertime, he opened the sash and left the warm breeze roll in, bringing with it the sounds and smells of the city, and during the winter, he paused occasionally to contemplate the swirling snow like a gypsy gazing into a crystal ball.

He lived by the low, amber glow of a desktop lamp, never switching on the overhead light; it was too harsh, too cold. He owned a twenty year old Sanyo television and a VHS/DVD combo he salvaged from a junk shop on 58th Street, but he hardly ever used either. He had no magazine subscriptions, didn't read the daily paper, and seldom checked his many social media accounts (all existing for businuess reasons...gotta have a web presence). Because of this, he knew little of the outside, and that was the way he liked it. He listened to music as he drew and frequented a handful of internet message boards, but otherwise, his tiny room was an island unto itself, a vacuum, a world apart. He spoke to no one if he could help it, conducted all of his business online, and only went outside when he absolutely had to.

Esconded in those four walls, he was protected, sheltered. No one bothered him and he bothered no one. He made as little noise as possible, minded his own business, and gave no one any reason to take notice of him. Out there, in the maze of streets, warrens, alleyways, and gutters, he always felt exposed, vulnerable, and never fully at ease. If he were forced from his hole when the sun was up and the city alive, he scurried like a mouse and kept his gaze firmly ahead, lest he make eye contact with the wrong person and they perceive it as a challenge. They still looked at him as he passed, watching either openly or from the corners of their eyes, and he could barely restrain the urge to glance at them.

The only time he could stand being abroad was at night. The streets were empty then, the shops lining them shuttered and closed. Peace lay over the crumbling buildings like a heavy blanket covering his tracks, and for once he could walk freely. He wore a long, tan trench coat on these jaunts, no matter the weather, and in one oversized pocket, he carried a pawnshop .38 just in case he was attacked. You can never be too careful, there are a lot of crazy people in this world.

So crazy they might hurt you for no reason at all.

That prospect - being hurt - dominanted Lincoln's every third or fourth thought. If he heard footsteps in the hall, he froze and strained to listen, sure that next, they would start banging on the door, demanding to be let in. On those rare off nights he laid in bed with a paperback instead of working, he'd periodically get up and look out the window, scanning the street for signs of trouble. Every so often, sitting at his computer, the prickling sense of danger would steal over him, and he would move from in front of the window, half sure a sniper was crouched on one of the roofs across the way, training the rifle's bead directly on his forehead.

Of course they weren't. He knew that. He wasn't crazy. A crazy man believes every outlandish thought his fevered mind cooks up. Lincoln knew no one was after him especially. He was a non-entity, a poor creep two missed payments away from sleeping under the Brooklyn Bridge. Who cared about him? No one.

And that was the problem.

The city, and the world in which it sat, was a cold, callous, hateful place, a selfish place, and though some might call him paranoid, a place where random acts of violence happen just for the sake of happening. The people on the bus, the people in the markets, the people who passed him on the street...none cared about him, and some actively hated him. He could feel it raidiating from them in sickly waves. He didn't know them, had done nothing to them, but they hated him regardless.

But he was sure everyone felt that way.

Everyone without someone, anyway. The only relative he maintained contact with was his mother. She lived across the Hudson in the two story cape cod where he grew up, less than thirty miles away in distance, but it might as well have been a million. Lincoln did not drive and getting to Jersey without a car was a hassle, one that required a bus or train, required moving among his enemies. He talked to her on Facebook every so often. She shared cat and Minions memes alongside Alex Jones level conspiracy theories. Did you know Michelle Obama is really a man? Those made Lincoln laugh. Once, long ago, he loved her, but he didn't know if he did anymore. After Dad died, she married a man who didn't like Lincoln, a man who yelled and berated him. A man who stood as the first of the enemies. She didn't like how he treated her son, but not enough to divorce him or to stop bearing his children, not enough to do more than pat his hand and shrug.

He had five siblings all told, three older and two younger, the older ones from Dad and the younger ones from him. He didn't talk to either set. The former drifted away because of him and he had nothing in common with the latter, the oldest of whom was currently fourteen to Lincoln's near thirty. Functionally, he was alone in the world, alone against the enemies, no one to talk to, no one to confide in, no one to stand with him. He tried to date online, but by and large, the dates didn't lead anywhere because none of the women wanted him. He used to think he was ugly or awkward, but there were men who were worse and they had wives and girlfriends. There was something unique in him, a scent he emmitted, perhaps, or something in his face that turned women off.

Men too.

Everyone.

He tried to befriend a few people, but the burden of them always wanting to talk was too great. The closest thing he had to a friend was a neighbor of his named Perry. An old, gangly black man with rhumey eyes and stubble salting a sharp chin, he was friendly and outgoing, always greeting everyone in the hall by name. Lincoln genunely liked him, but every time Lincoln left the apartment, Perry would detain him for a conversation that seemed to never end, The whole time, Lincoln smiled self-conciously, shifted his weight restively from one foot to the other, and fought back the urge to flee. For months, Perry invited Lincoln over to hang out, and Lincoln dredged up every excuse he could think of to beg off. Finally, he ran out and felt obliged to go: They sat uncomfortably in the living room drinking too-sweet iced tea and making contrived small talk until Lincoln was able to wiggle away.

There were others in the building he knew by sight. One was Cassandra, who lived on the floor below him. Pretty with black hair, clear blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her delicate cheeks, she was beautiful, and every time Lincoln passed her on the stairs or crossed paths with her in the lobby, his throat constricted and his face grew hot. He tried hard not to stare at her lithe form, small, tenderly formed breasts, and shapely hips, but he did anyway. He told himself every once in a while that he would talk to her, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it. She would just reject him like all the others, and in his state, he didn't think he could handle another one of those. Not right now. Later, at some hazy, indisctinct point in the far future, but not now.

Another of his many aqquaintences was Mrs. Ward, a severe old lady with hard eyes and a tight, sour frown. She lived in the apartment immediately to his right and asked him to help her move things on occasion since she was too frail to do it herself. When he did, she stood over him like a disapproving general and complained the entire time, telling him to stand up straight, lift with his knees, mind the carpet, don't knock over my knick knacks. She seemed the type to press her ear to the wall and listen for any wrongdoing she could report to the super, which is why he made so little noise.

Except for them, he had little interaction with other humans. Sometimes he liked that, and sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he wished for friends, family, and a girlfriend. Sometimes he wished he wasn't so isolated.

Twice a week, at least, the loneliness of his life struck him like an imaginary sniper's phantom bullet, and the walls started to close in. The air became heavy, hot, and drawing breath was hard; he'd start to shake, twtich, and jitter like a high tension wire. He'd get up and pace until he was sweaty and out of breath, but that was never good enough, he needed space, fresh air, to be free. Once he began to hyperventilate, it was only a matter of time before he threw his coat on, shoved the gun into the pocket, and swept into the night, where it was cool and he could breathe again.

Tonight, it began shortly after he woke in the purple afterglow of evening. The AC didn't work and he was hot, his stripped body lightly coated in sweat. A dream he couldn't remember echoed in the chambers of his skull like a distant scream, and something didn't feel right. He swung he legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and held his fevered face in his trembling hands. City sounds - honking horns, sirens, the shouts snd exaggerated laughter of people in the warens, drifted through the open window, and the acrid scent of exhaust fumes pinched his nose. He got up, padded across the room on bare feet, and drew the curtain back, the faint half-loght bathing his jagged features.

Cars passed in the street below, and people strolled up the sidewalk with the unrushed leisure of the unemployed. A gang of black men sat on a stoop across the way, talking and passing a 40 between them, and an old Hispanic woman pushed a metal cart laden with grocery bags south. He let the curtain fall back into place and swallowed thickly. Did anyone see him? Did they think he was staring at them? Were they going to come banging on his door?

He waited a while to see, and when no one did, he went into the tiny bathroom. The toilet hardly flushed, the sink was cracked, and old stains smudged the mirror. Pink mildew ringed the tub and mold festered in the corners like bad memories. He pulled off his boxers, climbed in, and turned the water on. He stood with his back to the spray, reluctant to wash his hair because he might open his eyes and finding someone standing there. He finally ducked his head under the water, quickly rinsed, and peeked through the gap between the wall and the curtain.

Alone.

Just like he knew he would be.

Getting out, he dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and sat at the table by the window. The sky was dark now and he turned on the lamp, a warm, ambient circle of light held the shadows back. He opened his laptop and signed into his Google account. He waited for it to load, then opened the ArtStudio program where his latest picture waited, a six foot tall lizard man with scaly green skin and piercing red eyes. Last week, he was contracted by a local science fiction magazine to create interior artwork for their premiere issue, five pieces for 300 dollars. That wasn't much, but being a freelance artist meant taking what you could get when you could get it. Magazine work was scant these days and most of his work came from fandoms.

Fandoms are filled with people who will pay top dollar to see their favorite characters (or original characters) drawn. Lincoln was involved in dozens of fandoms under dozens of different handles, ofen posting two or three free drawings before opening for commissions. In every case, he hadn't seen the movie or TV show the fandom was based around and didn't care to; he was just there to make money.

He set to work and spent half an hour agonizing over the minutest details (the belt buckle didn't look right and the fazer gun in the lizard's hand came across as too much like every other fazer gun he had ever seen). After an hour, his head throbbed hotly and he was beginning to feel fidgety. The air, stifling already, became even worse, choking, burning, and the ceiling lowered to meet the floor, triggering his claustrophobia. His heart started to race and his palms perspired, making using the wireless mouse hard. Finally, just before midnight, he got up, pulled on a white wife beater stained yellow with sweat, and threw his coat on top. He grabbed the gun from the drawer and dropped it into his pocket; it smacked into his leg with every step, as though commanding him to take it out and kill.

The hallway was dim and silent at this hour, the only sounds muffled TV noises from the apartments on either side. The brown industrial carpet was threadbare and matted with decades worth of spills and strips of wallpaper hung in limp tatters from the rotting plaster. The odor of pent up cooking smells asailed him as he scurried down the stairs, and in the lobby, a hobo who had someho gotten in sat against the wall. He looked up at Lincoln with tired eyes. "Excse me, sir, you got a dollar?"

"I got nothing," Lincoln mummbled, face flushing.

He pushed through the door and out into the breezy night before the tramp could ask him for anything else. He hated homeless people; they were always coming up to him, asking him for things, bothering him, staring at him with boring eyes. Sometimes they got aggressive if he didn't have anything. There were times when they came to him in groups or one after another, and the gun heated in his pocket, burning his leg, reminding him it was there...ready to be used.

Like most nights he wandered, he started south, letting his thoughts drift as surely as his feet. The Brooklyn Bridge, all strung with lights, towered to his left, its vast expanse rising over low rooftops and fording the Hudson. The quiet roar of traffic filled his ears like a mother's lulaby, and he sucked a shivery breath. Standing at the iron railing running the length of the waterfront, he stared at the light dappled surface, the wind blowing through his hair. There were others around, but there were also streetlamps, so he felt safe enough to ignore them.

From there, he walked north, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. He made his way through the Bowry and Hell's Kitchen, unthinkingly zigzagging around pools of light so as to remain in shadows. A man shuffled out of an alley and stopped, and Lincoln's stomach dropped. He darted his gaze to the ground and quickened his step. Keep your eyes down, don't look up, maybe he'll leave you alone.

Lincoln passed in front of him, close enough to smell the reek of booze on his breath, and the back of his neck prinkled in expectation. Surprisingly, the hobo didn't ask him for anything or try to follow.

From Soho, he worked his way toward Tribeca and the East River. The decaying brownstone tenements lifting back from the sidewalk gave way to the western edge of Columbus Park, a parcel of green surrounded by tall office buildings and narrow streets. At this hour, darkness held sway, the rustling bushes potentially home to anything. A horn honked two blocks over, and Lincoln jumped.

Three streets over, he was passing a doorway when someone spoke, startling him. "Hey, honey." A chunk of ice splashed into his stomach, and his hand tightened around the gun in his pocket. Why couldn't people just leave him alone?

Swallowing hard, he turned his head, and a woman emerged from the shadows, a beam from a nearby streetlamp cascading over her like divine brilliance.

Actually, she wasn't a woman at all but a girl; roughly 5'5 and maybe 110 pounds, she couldn't be much older than twenty, maybe even younger. At first, he mistook her for white, but on second glance, saw that she was Hispanic, Mexican maybe, or Puerto Rican, her silky skin a light shade of sun-kissed caramel . Her midnight hair, glossy in the light, was pulled back from her broad forehead in a ladadacial poneytail that lay limply against her back. She wore denim jean shorts and a sheer purple blouse that bared her toned midfriff; underneath, the outline of her black bra was clearly visible. The waistband of a black thong rode high up the swell of her hips as if begging to be tugged, and long purple socks approached her exquisitely crafted knees.

Her eyes, suggestively lidded, were liquid brown and reflected the light as surely as the Hudson, and her senous pink lips curled into a leering smile. Freckles so faint that Lincoln couldn't tell if they were real or a trick of the light smattered her soft cheekbones and a silver chain clung to her throat, a crucifix resting in the hollow and trembling with the strong, regular pound of her pulse. It caught a shaft of light and twinkled like a shapphire on Mexicali sand. Her scent - fruity and warm - broke over Lincoln's nose like a flowery spring breeze, drenching his senses. His throat went dry and his heart sped up.

She was beautiful.

"Do you need some help?" she asked, and her brows arched knowingly.

That question caught him off guard. Help?

Then, all at once, he understood, and his face burned. He opened his mouth, but instead of words, a wheeze issued forth. She flicked her eyes lazily up and down his frame, and in them, he saw a hunger whose intensity frightened him.

"Uh...n-no, thank you," he heard himself say, his voice coming as a harsh croak.

The woman pursed her lips, and Lincoln stared at them, transfixed by how glossy they were, how they sparkled. "You sure?" she pressed. She pressed her body flush to his, and a jolt shot through him. He stumbled back a step as if shocked, and before he knew it, he was running, his shoes slapping the pavement and hot breath exploding from his chest.

He didn't stop until he was back in the shelter of the apartment. He locked the handle, threw the deadbolt, and engaged the security chain. Panting and shaking, he started to sit on the bed, but wheeled away and paced instead, a rapid fire blur of thoughts streaking through his mind. Why did he run away like that? He'd been propositioned before and he always responded with some variation of "Not interested."

But none of the hookers he'd ever met looked like that. From her dark eyes, in which seemed to dwell mysteries beyond his comprehension, to her rounded hips, she was stunning, and in the instant before he fled, he felt like he did around Cassandra. When she touched him, 50,000 volts crackled through his veins - stopping his heart, scrambling his brain, deflating his lungs. What else could he do but run?

At the window, he pulled the curtain aside and scanned the street, half expecting to see her standing on the sidewalk and looking up at him, but he was alone. Thank God.

A vision came to him: Her eyes, her smile, and the cross around her neck, all shimmering in the meagar light. Would her hips sway when she walked? Would her fingertips sizzle as they traced his flesh?

He shook his head and moved away from the glass. It was well past midnight and he needed to get back to work. He had a meeting with the editor of the sci-fi magazine tomorrow and he wanted to have the lizard-man done by then.

Shrugging out of his coat, he flung it across the room, where it landed in a heap, and sat at the desk. The woman's face came back to him, and he squeezed his eyes closed and counted to ten just as he did when it was Cassandra plaguing him. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and went to work.


The next morning at 8am, Lincoln shut down his computer and stood up, wincing at the twinge in his back. He'd been sitting here all night, first tormenting himself with lizard-man then working his way through a backlog of commissions from the Avengers fandom. He was as quick as he was skillful and managed to finish five. He passed an hour checking all of his social media accounts; he used a different name for each fandom because people were his enemy and might try to make trouble for him. He'd seen other artists doxxed, harassed, stalked, and threatened with death; you can't be too careful when you're dealing with human beings. They are the most dangerous animal of them all.

With a yawn, he went into the bedroom, took a short sleeve button up from the closet, and pulled it on. Next, he sat on the bed, put his socks and shoes on, and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the top of the dresser. He wore these whenever he had to go out during the day; partly because the sun stung his eyes and partly because he felt naked without them. Eyes are the window of the soul and every window has curtains so no one can look in.

Before leaving, he stood indecisively over his coat, which still lay on the floor where it had since last night. Part of him wanted to take the gun, but it was too bulky to fit in his pants pocket without making a telltale bulge. It was unlicensed, too, so it a cop found him with it, he would go to prison. A chill went through him and he turned away. He'd just have to make due without it. He shoved a sheaf of printouts into a folder, tucked it under his arm, and left, locking the door behind him.

Up and down the hall, doors stood open, loud rap music blasting from some and laughter, talking, and outraged yelling from others. A black man in a wife beater stood in the threshold of one, arms above his head and hands gripping the inside of the jamb as though he were getting ready to do a pull-up. Despite his eyes being covered and therefore unseeable, Lincoln darted them to the floor anyway. As he passed, the black man's steady gaze filled his perihphery, and his stomach bubbled with dread. They say if people look at you for more than five seconds, they either want to have sex with you or kill you, and everyone, everyone, looked at him that long.

He doubted they wanted sex.

Which left only one thing…

Rejecting that thought as paranoia, he pounded down the steps and went through the lobby, half hoping to catch a glimpse of Cassandra.

Empty.

Outside, the August sun shone hot on his skin and sweat instantly sprang to his brow. Cars, many of them yellow taxi cabs, crept through the street, horns blaring impatiently, and an endless procession of people streamed along the sidewalk. Lincoln lowered his head, squared his shoulders like a linebacker gearing up to break through the opposing line, and descended the steps.

Thinking of Cassandra reminded him of the hooker from last night, the Latina with the liquid eyes and sinful smile. His guts tangled and his heart jagged keenly. The more he thought about her, the more he found himself wanting her, which disturbed him. He'd only been with one woman in his life and was still unsure of himself...then add to it the fact that he didn't even know her. God, how can you take off your clothes and show your body to someone you literally just met? You have no idea what kind of person they are, they might make fun of you, or they might be sick in their head and bite your thing off.

He shuddered.

Putting her out of his mind, he walked the five blocks to Jim's Diner, a grimy hole-in-the-wall on the corner of Broadway and Reade Street where the food was cheap and the service not very good. Lincoln didn't like eating out because one of the cooks or servers might tamper with his food, but he had to meet the editor somewhere and, like Lincoln, he lived close by.

A sign was plastered to the door, white writing on a blue background. CAVANAUGH/STILLWARD '36. Even as reclusive and cut off from the world as he was, Lincoln knew the first name in an instant: Carter Cananaugh, the handsome and popular Democratic candidate for president from a wealthy and storied New England family of politicians and businesspeople. Tall and strikingly handsome with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, crystal blue eyes, and black hair swept perfectly back from his brow, Cavanaugh was a moderate in a party that had moved increasingly left and lost much of its blue collar support, and though that may have been a handicap fifteen years ago, today it was a boon; the last Lincoln heard, he polled fifteen points ahead of the GOP incumbent and was projected to carry the popular vote and the Electroal College.

Lincoln didn't like him.

Every time he saw Cavanaugh on YouTube, in one of those ads that play before your video starts, he could almoat believe that the liberal was staring right at him, peering deep into his soul and seeing ever fault, every weakness, every aberrison.

He hoped Cavanaugh lost.

Pushing open the door, he went inside.

A tiny dining room stood on his left and a lunch counter to his right, a ceiling fan stirring the blistering air. The tile floor, blue and white in a checkered pattern, was cracked in places, and the wood paneled walls drooped in the summer heat. A row of red vinyl booths, stuffing poking through rips like intestines through stomach wounds, flanked the front window, and tables filled the remainder of the space, each one boasting a rack of bottles (ketchup, Tabasco). The sounds of sizzling and banging pans drifted through an order window, and Lincoln's stomach reluctantly grumbled.. A waitress filled a mug with coffee and sat it in front of a burly man in a black uniform, and when Lincoln saw the NYPD patch on his shoulder, he stiffened. He'd done nothing wrong and followed every law he knew of, but cops made him nervous anyway: They're always shooting people and putting them in deadly chokeholds. The pundits said it only happened to blacks, but Lincoln was certain that if he made one wrong move around a police officer, they'd kill him just the same as they would a black.

Don't act suspicious, he told himself, but he was concious now of every twiitch, tick, and breath. Trying hard to ignore the cop, he looked around and spotted Lou Andrelli at one of the tables. A big man with a gray beard, glasses, and a bald spot, he wore a colorful Hawwian shirt and a silver wristwatch. Coarse, fur-like hair covered his deceptively powerful forearms and peeked out from the front of the shirt; he looked more like an aging porn star than a science fiction editor.

Lou lifted one hand, as though his loud attire wasn't enough to make him stand out in the near empty room, and Lincoln crossed the room, struggling against the urge to duck his head and hide his face."Good to see you again, Linc," Andrelli said, half standing. They shook over the table and sat, Lincoln instantly glancing over his shoulder. He didn't like having his back to the door but he couldn't very well ask Andrelli to switch him spots.

Heh, that'd make him look crazy.

"Hot as hell out there," Andrelli said and wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. Lincoln wondered if he did that before they shook, and barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion. "I was hoping this place had A/C." He let out a raspy smoker's laugh that grated Lincoln's nerves.

Lincoln met Andrelli through a mutual aqquatince six months ago, shortly after he decided to found his magazine. As was his custom when he first met someone, Lincoln did the comprehensive a background search on him free could buy (it's prudent to know who you're dealing with). A writer who'd been publishing in the leading sci-fi magazines since the late nineties, Andrelli was best known for participating in something called the Sad Puppy movement in 2015. Lincoln scanned the Wikipedia article and lost interest half way through - something about conservative writers trying to prove some science fiction award was being unjustly given to books with progressive themes and not to popular books that actually deserved it. Lincoln didn't care either way, just as long as Andrelli wasn't dangerous.

And honestly, Lincoln couldn't say he was entirely convinced he wasn't. You never know. You just never know.

A waitress came over and took their orders: Andrelli got a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, and Lincoln a cup of coffee, black. When she was gone, Lincoln laid the folder before him and opened it, staring unwaveringly at it to avoid making eye contact. "I have three of them done," he said without preamble, hating the low, mousy quality of his voice, "I expect to have the other two by, uh, by next week."

He slid the folder across the table, and Andrelli took it, slipping on a pair of reading glasses as he did so. The bell over the door dinged and Lincoln shot a furtive look over his shoulder; a black man with dredlocks sat down at the lunch counter and greeted the cop with a nod. The cop said something, and the black man laughed.

Were they talking about him?

Lou Andrelli's voice brought him back. "These are perfect," he said, a grin in his voice. He flipped through them and chuckled. "Now this...this is art."

He held up the picture of Lizard Man, and Lincoln flashed a self-depricating smile. Praise made him uncomfortabe even though he knew his work was good and deserved it. "T-The belt buckle took me a while. And I was worried the fazer was too cliche."

"Eh, cliche's good, if you ask me," Andrelli said with a dismissive wave, "harkens back to the old days. A lotta people think sci-fi has to be this Harlan Ellison level social commentary, but I like the Golden Age stuff myself. It was fun, you know?"

Lincoln nodded as though he did. Movement flickered in the corner of his eye, and he stifftened. The waitress sat a cup of coffee in front of him, and another in front of Andrelli. When she was gone, he picked the mug up and gave the contents a tentative and unthinking sniff. Was it his imagination, or did it smell like bitter almonds? He flipped through his encyclpedic knowledge of poisons. Cyanide, maybe, or arsenic.

His stomach knotted.

"...adventure and exploration," Andrelli was saying, "and, occasionally, you had the ones where the intrepid hero clapped some alien cheeks." He laughed again.

No one poisoned it, Lincoln scolded himself.

Still, he hesitated before lifting it to his lips. The boiling liquid tasted old, burned, and bland, but not deadly.

"...Ellison was a great writer but a goddamn flake," Andrelli rambled. Passion crept into his voice and Lincoln wished he was somewhere else. "You ever hear of The Last Dangerous Visions?"

Lincoln shook his head. He didn't know what that was and he didn't know who Harlan Ellison was.

"It was an anthology. He complied three volumes of it, alright? Then he strings the authors along for forty years, telling them every so often 'yeah, we got a new publisher, it'll be out next year.' He wouldn't let them out of their contracts either, so their stories were in limbo for four decades. Four decades. Can you believe that?"

The bell dinged, Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. "That's crazy," he muttered.

"Right?"

Shortly, the waitress came back with Andrelli's sandwich and he bounced from topic to topic, telling Lincoln every nugget of sci-fi fandom history and every legend he could think of. His movements were animated with the fervid zeal of a man holding forth on something he loved, and Lincoln started to worry he'd be there all day. Why couldn't he shut up? Lincoln didn't care about The Eye of Argon or John W. Campbell.

Mercifully, after what felt like hours, Andrelli finished the last of his coffee and sighed. "I can write you a check now if you want."

Lincoln opened his mouth to decline, but reconsidered. Normally, he didn't accept payment until the work was done - less pressure that way - but a voice deep in the back of his mind cried out for him to accept. "Sure," he said.

Withdrawing a leather bound checkbook from his breast pocket, Andrelli hunched over, made a check out to him, and rippe it from the book. He handed it to Lincoln, and Lincoln took it, folding it and slipping it into his pocket without looking at the amount.

After agreeing to meet up here at the same time in one week, they left, Andrelli going one way and Lincoln another. The day that had started hot was now unbearable, and the energy drained from him like the life from a wilting flower. A city bus passed by in a blast of scalding air and Lincoln tracked it with his gaze: A giant picture of Carter Cavanaugh's face screamed across the side, perfect smile, perfct teeth, all seeing eyes…

He knew the Democrat wasn't really looking at him, but that didn't stop the body-wide prickle. Turning away from the bus, Lincoln started down the sidewalk at a contrived pace, neither too fast nor too slow. A black man on a bike whizzed by from behind, his shirt rippling in the wind, and a group of homeless people sat outside a 24 hour convenciance store, their filthy clothes rotting from their emaciated frames. One asked him for a dollar but he ignored them, then went an entire block worrying they were following him, outraged by his refusal to even acknowledge them. He fought the urge to look back and lost.

People, yes, but no homeless.

He forced a humorless laugh and went on. He was two blocks from his building and waiting at a crosswalk when he saw her. The woman from last night, the Hispanic with the smutty eyes and dirty smile, strode languidly down the opposite sidewalk, dressed in a tight black pair of yoga pants and a purple tank top, her ponytail swinging back and forth like a pendlum. Lincoln's heart clapped and his lungs ground to a breathless halt. The pedwalk light changed and everyone else streamed across, leaving him alone, standing there and gawking, knowing he was drawing attention to himself but not caring. His eyes slthered up and down her back, heart slamming; the tank top didn't meet her pants, and he could just make out the dimples at the base of her spine. Her hips rolled hypnotically from side to side, and her back muscles flexed beneath the fabric of her shirt, seeming to wave him on. Come on, Linc, follow me~

A box van blared its horn and the spell broke. Lincoln shook his head and took a deep breath. The pedestrian light changed again, and he hurried across, keeping his eyes averted. When he entered his apartment ten minutes later, winded and soaked in sweat, he locked the door and leaned against it, realizing for the first time that he was shaking like a man in the grips of Parkinson's.

Suddenly, he knew why he wanted that money.


"And don't drag it," the old woman spat, "or else you'll scratch the floor."

Tall and ramrod straight, her lips puckered sourly and her beady eyes perpetually narrowed in displeasure Mrs. Ward stood by the open front door, arms crossed disdainfully over her chest sunken chest. Lincoln sighed, bent over, and grabbed the end table in a back straining bear hug. He lifted and stumbled, setting it back down hard. "Be careful," Mrs. Ward hissed.

"Ma'am," Lincoln, "if we took the records out -"

But she cut him off. "I want those records to stay right where they are, thank you. They're precious to me."

It was just past three and the brilliant heat of afternoon pressed insistantly against the living room's single window, ancient dust swirling in its light like dancing phantoms. Framed photos, many of them black and white, stared down at him from the florial papered walls and The View played on a TV so old it was elligible for a discount at Denny's: Sasha Obama held forth on why her sister Malia would have made a better candidate than Carter Cavanaugh.

Lincoln was asleep when a loud banging came at the door, startling him so badly he nearly fell out of bed. Heart crashing, he crept to the door, making no noise, and peered through the fish eye lens, expecting a hitman or the homeless person he ignored earlier.

Instead, it was Mrs. Ward.

Which was even worse.

I need help rearranging my living room, she declared.

She wasn't asking.

This happened every six months or so; she'd wanted everything moved so she could have a change of scenery. Like him, she rarely left her apartment and probably started to feel cooped up after a while. Putting the couch and TV in a different place gave her the illusion of variety.

"I don't know if I can move this without taking the records out," he said.

The end table was crammed with dozens and dozens of LPs and 45s that had belonged to Mrs. Ward's parents. The Eagles, AC/DC, Journey, Bon Jovi, all bands that Lincoln had heard of at one time or another but wasn't familiar with.

Mrs. Ward's dog, a tiny Pomeranian with ginger fur named Rocky, trotted in from the bedroom, and the old woman bent to pick him up. "You're a big, strong boy, you can do it," she said with a patronizing hilt.

Lincoln let out a deep sigh and looked down at the table. What could he do? Walk away? He grabbed it, gritted his teeth, and leaned back. The feet left the floor and the muscles in his back clenched tightly. He slowly turned and carried it over to the spot Mrs. Ward had indicated, a wide gap between the sofa and a frail wooden highboy. Mrs. Ward tailed him at a safe distance lest he go mad with lust and try to attack, and Rocky cocked his head curiously left and right as if trying to figure out why that strange, fidgety white haired human was moving everything. Lincoln sat the table down with a grunt and stood up as straight as he could. "Move it a little to the left," Mrs. Ward ordered.

He picked it up, resisted the urge to throw it at her, and shifted it slightly to his left. "Too far," she snipped, "move it back a hair."

Define 'hair.'

Rather than argue, he scooted it over. "That'll do," Mrs. Ward said, "you may leave now."

Doing his best to now show how relieved his was, Lincoln ducked his head and scuttled out of the apartment. "Close the door behind you," Mrs. Ward called, and Lincoln did. He went right and was just letting himself back into his own apartment (locked so no one could come in and set up an ambush) when a familiar voice spoke on his left.

Perry.

Lincoln sagged. Perry, in slacks and a pale yellow button up open to the chest ambled over in that slow gait of his. He claimed to have taken a bullet in Afghanistan in 2017 and Lincoln had no choice but to believe him; Perry had given him no reason to distrust him, but Lincoln distrusted everyone. "Hey, Perry," Lincoln said.

"How you doin' today?" Perry asked.

Perry, like Mrs. Ward, lived alone, his wife of thirty-five years having died of cancer several years before. Up until three months ago, he was best friends with an old white man from down the hall named George. Alcoholic and wheelchair bound, George sat in his doorway and greeted everyone who passed, especially the women, whom he also leered after. Every time Lincoln left his apartment, George was there, bleary and ushaven, and Perry was beside him, leaning against the wall and drinking a beer. In May, George stroked his way into the obituarties and Perry had been lost ever since - you could see it in his eyes and in the aimless way he wandered the building. Lincoln felt bad for him/

"Alright," Lincoln answered with a sigh that was largely contrived. I'm really tired, please leave me alone, it said.

Of course, Perry didn't take the hint. "That's good, that's good. You got anything goin' on? I'm makin' ribs and there's gonna be a lot."

The thought of sitting in Perry's obsessively neat apartment and desperately searching for something to say struck cold fear into the pit of Lincoln's stomach. "I'm actually going to bed," he lied, "Mrs. Ward woke me up to help her move furniture."

Disappointment flickered through Perry's eyes then was gone so quickly that Lincoln thought he may have imagined it. "Alright, maybe next time."

"Hopefully," Lincoln said.

He and Perry awkwardly faced each other for a moment, then Lincoln turned and went inside, closing the door behind him and locking it. He should really be more socialable. Perry was a nice guy and was obviously lonely, why not be friends with him?

Lincoln considered the idea...then rejected it. He just wasn't a people person, that was all.

Pushing away from the door, he crossed to the desk, sat down, and ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes ached and every muscle in his body twinged with weariness, but if he tried to lay down, he'd just stare at the ceiling until he got frustrated and gave up, so he might as well start on the next drawing.

He checked his accounts and was perturbed to find no messages from any fandom geeks wanting art. Work had been slow all around lately and he was starting to worry. Rent was coming up, and the power bill, and he needed to go grocery shopping. He didn't have a penny to spare.

So why was he thinking of paying the Latina?

Lincoln's stomach lurched. He was seriously contemplating tracking her down and paying her to have sex with him and had been since he saw her on the steet after his meeting with Andrelli. God, he couldn't believe it, but he really was; with her dark, sultry eyes, pink, lacivisou smile, and lithesome form, she captivated him, and the more he turned her over in his mind, imagining what her body looked (and felt) like the more he wanted her. Even now, his heartbeat picked up and his stomach twisted. The feelings were different than they were with Cassandra, sharper and more urgent.

Because she, the Hispanic queen, was within his reach; she would actually sleep with him.

All he had to do was pay.

The prospect of having sex with a strange woman he didn't even know was deeply unsettling, but also somehow exhilrating, It was wrong, it was illegal, it was even disgusting...but desirable as well. That sense of excitement, however, wasn't what was important to him.

It was having her, she of the perfect body, lightly browned skin, sinful lips, and perky breasts. Her smell, her taste, the shape of her naked body pressed sweatily to his, thier hips moving in time to a song as old as time, moans rising, eyes rolling…

Lincoln realized he was rock hard for the first time in weeks, maybe months, and he swallowed with an audible click. His eyes darted around the room, as though she would be there, grinning salaciously and offering her supple young body, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. How old was she? The other night (last night, reminded himself, it was last night) he put her at twenty, but in the glimpse he caught of her from across the street, she looked even younger.

Would she really have sex with him? It seemed too easy, too good to be true. A beautiful woman opening her legs and letthing him have her. What if it was a trap? What if she was a nut and tried to kill him?

It could happen. She could get him into a dark alley, pull a knife, or...or…

Another possibility came to mind, and he shivered.

But that was just the paranoia talking. Or so he told himself.

Taking a deep breath, he stared at the computer screen with tired eyes, and a faint frown played at the corners of his mouth. He knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn't be able to concentrate with her on his mind.

He should probably go cash this check anyway. How much would she charge? She was stunning so probably a lot.

A lot more than he should spend.

Getting up, he paced indecisively, then finally slipped his sunglasses on and left again. It was even hotter outside than it was before and by the time he reached Regina Check Cashing ten minutes later, his head throbbed. He got in line behind a dozen people and waited for the single teller to take care of all the customers, his heart racing when someone stood behind him. After nearly half an hour, his turn came, and in fifteen minutes, he was back in his apartment, sweating and peeking out the window to make sure he wasn't followed.

Tonight, he vowed as he sat behind the computer, he would go to her tonight.

But where? He had no idea where she lived or what her hours were. She was a prostitute, though, and those walk the streets after sundown, so it shouldn't be too hard to find her.

Resolved, he logged into the art program and started another drawing, this one of a rocket ship hurtling through the recesses of space, the curved flank of Mars in the background. He stopped only to consult a file of science fiction magazine covers from the fifties and sixties for reference, and was done by nine. As soon as he was finished, he got to his feet, threw on his coat (making sure the gun was still in his pocket), and went off to look for the Latina.

He didn't find her.

First, he went northwest, in the general direction of where he'd been last night, then cut south, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. He stopped in a diner beneath its soaring frame for coffee, then made his way methodically through the surrounding neighborhoods. His sudden and inexplicable lust gave way to frustration, and by midnight, his stomach churned.

At one, he gave up and walked home in defeat. Maybe it was a good thing he didn't find her...maybe it was a sign of some kind. Even as he unlocked his door, he knew: Sign or not, he wasn't going to stop until he had her.


The next day, Lincoln woke in a burning bar of sunshine panting and covered in sweat, a sound he couldn't place ringing through his head. Frantically pushing up to his elbows, he strained to listen, heart pounding, but it didn't come again, and after a few minutes, he allowed himself to relax. It must have been a dream; every so often, he'd come awake with an imaginary noise reverberating in his ears and swear someone was trying to break down the door, or smash out the window.

Swallowing against a sand paper throat, he laid back down and gazed up at the ceiling. Glittering beams of sunlight reflected by passing cars streaked across the walls and the fan on the nightstand stirred ripples in the curtains.

Did he dream of her? He seemed to remember dreaming of her, but he couldn't be sure. A nebulous memory danced just beyond his grasp like a flicker in fog, then was gone, carried away on the tide of his waking mind.

He must have, why else would he be hard? Most men his age woke with erections as a matter of course, but not him. And when he did achieve one, they weren't this full, this incessant. He hesitated to say he was sexually dysfunctional, but something had happened over the past year; he went from masturbating once a day and stealing secret glances at passing women to mustering a pitiful half-mast every couple of days and ignoring the prettiest girls the way he ignored everyone else. Except for Cassandra, but even then, he barely looked anymore. Why bother? Why torture himself pining after something he so desperately wanted but could never have?

And what he wanted wasn't merely or even mostly sex. Maybe it was at one time, but now it was a woman. A woman to hug and hold and give foot rubs to, a woman whose clean scent he could draw deeply into his nose, a woman in whose fenemmity he could bask.

That was fantasy, though, and when he gave serious thought to what a relationship actually entailed, his need evaporated. He coudn't see himself playing husband or boyfriend, couldn't imagine offering solace in her times of need or...or doing anything, really, except sitting here, hidden away, safe from eyes like a mouse in its burrow. His desire for love, affection, and intimacy, once normal and strong, steadily drained away until nothing remained, not even a drop. Hard to get wood when you don't care, hard to want a hand to hold when you don't want it.

She, however...she was different.

Because she was obtainable.

And she would leave when it was over.

Lincoln's stomach clutched with that familiar anxiety, and with a sigh, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Would she be out tonight? Did it matter? He should forget about her. He didn't have the money and, Jesus, it was wrong anyway. She might even be a cop.

His brow furrowed deeply and a doubtful mist swirled in his faded eyes.

Or maybe not. Maybe she'd be soft, warm, fragrant, and tight…

Getting to his feet, he went into the bathroom, closed the door, and got into the shower. Tepid water trickled from the head and onto his back and light fell through the transom, stinging his grainy eyes. He rested his forehead against the cool tiled wall and fought to stay awake. He could go back to bed, but then he'd sleep until dark, and he didn't like missing the whole day.

When he was done, he cut the spray, pulled on yesterday's underwear, and slung the towel over the shower rod. He sat at the desk, opened his laptop, and powered it on. First, he checked 4chan, then Pixiv, then, finally, DeviantArt.

No messages asking for commissions.

Dry spells weren't uncommon, and while he tried to prepare for them, he never had enough money saved up. The last time it happened, he ate ramen for a week and spent three days with no power before going to 4chan in defeat and offering to do drawings for five bucks a pop. If he didn't get some requests soon, he'd have to go out and solicit them on 4chan, and when he did that, the anons ripped him to shreds; they called him a hack, a loser, desperate, and egotistical.

Next, he checked his email.

One unread message.

From Smithwood Publishing House.

A small literary publisher from Long Island specializing in trade paperbacks and ebooks, Smithwood had contracted Lincoln to create two dozen book covers over the past three years. Last year, they overhauled their website, and he handled the graphic design, a three week job that netted him just under 400 dollars. Smithwood didn't sell very many units, but he assumed they were doing well.

Until he opened the email.

As he read the missive, his heart sank.

After five years, they were filing for bankruptcy and closing their doors. All contracts were being voided and rights returned to the authors. Lincoln read to the end, his chest aching, then heaved a heavy sigh. Smithwood work accounted for a good thirty percent of his income. Without it, he was fucked, royally fucked.

He caught himself before he could begin to hyperventilate and took a deep breath through his nose in an effort to calm himself. His mind worked frantically, already attempting to come up with ways he could replace the lost revenue, and his teeth unconciously worried his bottom lip. This was not good. He already made hardly enough to scrape by, without Smithwood -

On the nightstand, his cellphone buzzed, and a shocked tingle spread through him. He shot a wary glance over his shoulder and unthinkingly held his breath. It buzzed again, the screen lighting up, and he got uneasily to his feet. Only three people had his number, and he knew even before he picked it up that it was his mother, but some withered part of him expected it to be someone else, someone he didn't know, someone who wanted to hurt him.

Picking it cautiously up as though it would explode, he checked the number, and yep, it was Mom.

Every so often, she called to check in on him because if left to his own devices, he wouldn't call her. It wasn't that he resented her (which, to be honest, he did), he was just too busy. Normally, he sat at his computer from the moment he woke up to the moment he dropped into bed. He liked working...liked it a whole lot more than talking to his mother and having to come up with excuses for why he never visited. It's only thirty minutes, Lincoln, she'd nag. She didn't understand what crowding onto a packed train did to him, couldn't comprehend the chest tightening claustrophobia and the weak-kneed dread. She never had. She said he needed to man up and stop being a baby. All through his childhood, she looked down on him, spoke as though he were stupid, acted like he was doing it on purpose.

Then she married Stan. He's your father now, Lincoln, listen to him; stop making him mad and he won't yell, Lincoln.

He realized he was starting to fume and forced those thoughts away. That was the past. Stan, a factory foreman in Camden, was sucked into an industrial press five years ago and killed, and Mom was in her sixties now, old, reflective, and, he thought, regretted their strained relationship and wanted to improve it. Holding a grudge made him the bad guy.

Now he felt like crap.

Sinking onto the bed, he swiped his thumb across the screen. "Hello?"

"Hey, honey," Mom said.

"Hey," he replied and shifted the phone to his other hand. There was static on the line, why was there static on the line? It was 2034, telecommunications was supposed to be clear and easy. Was someone listening? The FBI? Homeland Security?

Of course not.

No one was listening.

No one.

"How you doing?" Mom asked.

Her casual tone, as though they'd last spoken two days ago instead of two months, made him miss a beat. "Alright," he said. He started to tell her about Smithwood closing, but cut himself off. She wouldn't understand that anymore than she would understand his anxeities. She'd just tell him to look for help wanted ads online. He couldn't work a normal job; just the thought of dealing with people (oh, God, the public) made his skin crawl. "Same old, same old," he added because he had to say something. "You?"

"Oh, I'm okay," Mom said with brief hesitation. "Just got back from the doctor."

Mom, overweight her entire life, suffered from a host of medical problems: Diabetes, gout, high blood pressure, arthritis, and sciatica among them. On bad days, of which there seemed to be more lately, she needed a cane to get around and couldn't climb the stairs to the second floor.

Outside, a horn honked, and Lincoln started. "Yeah? Everything okay?" he asked.

"Everything's fine," she said, "same as always, really."

Lincoln exhaled exasperatedly through his nose. For a moment, he was certain she would deliver a piece of horrible news (like that she was dying), but he should have known better. She was playing him again. She always did this: She strung him along with implication and innuendo, getting him worried and worked up for nothing. She once told him she found a lump in her breast and went to the doctor. He waited a week to hear back just for her to say that they ran tests on it and it wasn't cancer. Why did she imply that it was cancer? Why did she all but say I HAVE CANCER? She had been doing this his entire life, and sitting here now, he remembered why he never called her.

This shit right here.

He was fuming again and forced another breath. "You okay?" Mom asked, perhaps sensing the tension.

No, he wasn't fine, but he couldn't say so, he never could with her. "I'm tired, I just woke up."

"You should really keep better hours, Lincoln," she said.

And here it comes.

"I know," he said, "look, I have to go, I'm meeting an editor from Random House. Looks like I might be contracted for a lot of money."

That was a lie, he just wanted the call to end.

"Oh, honey, that's great," Mom said, "I love you and good luck."

"Love you too."

He hit the END button and dropped the phone onto the nightstand.

Getting up, he returned to the desk and sat down, guilt creeping acoss the back of his neck. Despite it all, she was still his mother and he loved her, and brushing her off made him feel even worse than doing it to Perry did. He'd call her back later; right now, he wanted to get started on the next drawing for Lou Andrelli. No matter how deep he buried himself in his work, however, he couldn't escape the gnawing worry of what he would do to make up for losing Smithwood. On the heels of that came the Latina, and finally, concentration spoiled, he got up and went into the kitchenette, where he made himself a Hot Pocket and ate it while gazing out the window, hoping for a glimpse of her.

Whatever she cost, it was more than he could spare.

But he was going to do it.

Of that much, he was certain.


At midnight, Lincoln threw on his coat, snapped the lights off, and stepped into the hall. Bass heavy rap music shook the walls and a man lay passed out or dead in front of an apartment down the way, his knees drawn to his chest and lending him the appearecnce of a dead pillbug.

Lincoln locked the door behind him, ducked his head, and went down the steps, an empty condom wrapper and a pile of cigarette butts crunching underfoot. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers closed around their contents: In one, the .38, in the other, a wad of twenties and tens totalling three hundred dollars. He searched Google to get an idea of how much prostitutes charge and arrived at an average of 150. It was up to the "provider" to decide her price, so he brought extra just in case.

In the lobby, the same bum from the night sat in the same spot, his legs propped before him in a sloppy M and a glass bottle of Steel City Reserve between them. Lincoln averted his eyes and hurried out the door. The night was hot and muggy, the air still and quiet, and by the time he reached the end of the darkened block, he regretted wearing the jacket. Lamps up and down the street threw murky puddles of light onto the cracked sidewalk. A pile of black garbage bags cluttered the curb in front of a brownstone, the material crinkling as things moved through them. Rats, probably. A chill trickled down Lincoln's spine, and his grip tightened on the .38's grip. Owing to the constant presence of six million people's refuse, rats in New York City grew to dizzying proportions, some as big as cats...some, legend had it, even as big as dogs.

He doubted that was true; rats that big were just another NYC myth like alligators in the sewers and mole people living in the subway tunnels. Even so, the prospect of meeting a fifty pound rodent in a dark alley sent Lincoln's heart knocking.

Turning right at the end of the block, he followed 145th Street toward the East River. Black man sat on stoops, a group of Hispanic teens crowded around a low-rider from which blasted Spanish rap and drank beer, and a fat white woman in a tank top and booty shorts strutted along with a 2 lieter of Coke in her hand, butt wiggling exaggeratedly. Was she a hooker too?

He slowed his step and looked around. He didn't see the Latina anywhere and went on, cutting north and then west. At first, the streets were busy with traffic, but as time wore on, they emptied out, as did the sidewalks; Lincoln met two drunks stumbling home, a homeless man who asked him for a dollar, and no one else. A full moon tracked across the fuzzy black sky and bathed the decaying facades looming over him in a ghostly glow. Save for the low roar of cars on FDR Drive, the night was silent now, and alone, Lincoln looked left and right, squinting to peer into writhing shadows, hoping to see her but seeing nothing instead. His stomach coiled like an eel and his heart palpitated with a corrosive mix of apprehension and fear - fear he wouldn't find her.

At the corner of 145th and 53rd, he turned right and came to a shuffling stop. Ahead, a dark-shrouded figure made its way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. It entered a spill of lamplight, and Lincoln's middle lurched.

It was her.

Wearing tiny denim shorts and a white tank-top that pulled up her hips and the small of her back to reveal warm, brown flesh. Her butt rolled from side to side and her ponytail swept between her shoulder blades. Lincoln's throat went dry and his stomach somersaulted.

She strolled idly along, as unrushed as a lazy summer afternoon, her heels clicking the pavement with a low clop that put Lincoln in mind of Victorian horses on cobblestoned streets. He couldn't see her very well in the dim illumination, but she was just as beautiful as she was the last two times he crossed her path.

Too beautiful.

His mind screamed at him to turn and run, but his feet carried him forward. She reached the end of the block and turned, and seeing his chance slip away, Lincoln quickened his step until he was jogging. Sweat ran down the back of his neck and the gun in his pocket slapped his leg in a steady, monotonous beat. He turned the corner, and she was there, a sneer on her pretty face and something in her hand. The light from a streetlamp glinted on its edge, and Lincoln realized what it was.

A knife.

With a cry, Lincoln stumbled back, and the Latina came forward, the blade thrust out in front of her. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a dog-like grimace, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you chasing me?" she hissed.

Lincoln held his hands up and bumped into a free standing post box. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice locked in his chest and he wound up stuttering instead. She jabbed the knife and him and he cried out. "What do you want?"

"I-I-I j-just wanna…"

She squinted her eyes, then a slow, evil grin spread across her lips. "Hey, you're that lame-o from the other night. For a minute there I mistook you for a threat." She closed the knife and tucked it into her pocket, where it made a bulge, and Lincoln nodded vigorously in agreement that he was indeed not a threat. She cocked her hip to one side and crossed her arms over her perky breasts, her smile widening just a little. "So," she said, "how's it going?"

Lincoln swallowed. Of all the things he anticipated her saying, that wasn't one of them. To be fair, he'd never been in this situation before so he had no idea so he wasn't sure what she would say. She lifted her brow expectantly and he blushed. "Uh, it's going good," he said at lenght. "You?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Kinda bored, not much going on. You wanna hang out?"

From the not-so-innocent inflection in her voice, she meant sex.

Do you want to have sex?

A vise tightened around Lincoln's chest and he wetted his arid lips. Her dark eyes sparkled wih mischift and her smell, sweet and flowery like fresh lavender, intoxicated his rapidly addling brain. "Yeah," he said, "that'd be...that'd be great."

"Alright," she said briskly and looked around, "there should be an alley around here somewhere."

An alley? Where everyone could see? She turned around in a slow semi-circle, looking for a private place, and Lincoln said, "I live nearby, we can just...go there."

She flicked her eyes appraisingly up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not he was dangerous, and he flashed a sheepish smile. "Hmmm...okay," she chiruped, "let's go."

Walking back to his apartment with a prostitute was one of the most uncomfortable things Lincoln had ever done in his life. His stomach twisted and turned with nerves and his heart thundered against his ribs like a drum. The whole way, he had the overwhelming sense of being watched. He looked over his shoulder every couple seconds, and when a car passed in the street, his heart jumped into his chest, certain it would be a cop come to take him to jail. He felt more exposed and vulnerable than usual, and had to fight back the panic rising within lest it consume him.

"You nervous?" the Latin asked at one point. She walked with the swaggering confidence of a woman without any fear, her stride easy but restrained to keep pace with his.

Lincoln started to say no, but stopped himself. She was a hooker, he didn't have to save face with her. All she cared about was making money, anytthing beyond that wasn't in her perview and she probably didn't give a shit either way.

That he didn't need to try and impress her was liberating, but opening up to anyone, even just to admit to being anxious, unsettled him. "A little," he allowed.

"Never done this before?" she asked.

His building was in sight: Seven stories tall, brick, grimy once-white trim, ramparts, and an overhang over the main door. The hobo from earlier picked through a trash can flanking the walkway and a stray cat darted across the walkway. "No," Lincoln said.

"Figured," she said, "you can always tell a first timer. You act like a pig's gonna jump out of nowhere and talk you to jail." She snorted laughter that was meldoic despite its mocking tone.

He didn't respond, instead he went ahead and held the door open for her. She went in and he followed. In the cold florsecet lighting, her skin took on a sallow cast and lines appeared around the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair wasn't as glossy anymore, and her small breasts sagged just a little. She looked older now...maybe even a little worn out.

Lincoln saw this but barely registered it; in spirit, he was already upstairs, already taking her clothes off, already making depserate love to her. "Where to?" she asked.

"Up the stairs," Lincoln said but made no move to climb them.