Under the Radar

Beneath a line of mercury lights, a black sedan crawled along with the rest of the turnpike traffic, its polished surface reflecting the wet asphalt like some moving urban mirage. Rain dotted and streaked its darkened windows, hiding all but the faintest silhouette of the middle-aged man behind the wheel. He was a shadow in an endless sea of shadows that trailed out of Manhattan, and he was currently stuck on the highway leading out towards Newark Airport. His thumbs tapped anxiously against the steering wheel, his eyes darting repeatedly towards his watch, and then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a lighter. For a second, his features flared into sight as he lit a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating a handsome face with a head of sand brown curls, but as the flame snuffed out, the lines around his eyes betrayed any illusion of youth. Time seemed to be losing its kindness with him, and at a pace far faster than he liked.

Slowly, the traffic dissipated, affording him a flicker of hope, but as the minutes crept by he did the math, knowing Newark as well as he did.

“Call office,” he finally instructed his car.

The speakers crackled to life.

“Mr. Marsh?”

"Yeah, Peggy, I'm not gonna make this plane. Get me a flight out tomorrow sometime, and I'm gonna need a room at the Newark Marriot."

"I'll text you back with the new information," his assistant responded.

For a moment he thought to call her back, if only for the comfort of her voice, as the interior of his car felt like its own self-contained dimension – a lonely capsule streaking through a dead landscape of rusted refineries. He lowered his window a couple of inches, welcoming a sobering blast of moist heat, hoping to counteract the hypnotizing rhythm of his wipers, which were working to lull him to sleep. His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose and then pressed up against his temple. Hunger added to his irritation, but it would be too late for room service now.

Opening the laptop on the seat beside him, he drove with one eye on the screen, trying to tap out a fast email to the client waiting on him in Japan. Within a second of ending the communication, he realized he'd missed his exit. Squinting at the road sign up ahead, he prayed it circled back near the airport. Getting lost in this god-forsaken armpit of a town was the last thing he needed tonight. His jaw clenched and ached as the airport passed to his right and slipped from his field of vision, his normally sharp mind trying hard to focus. He couldn’t remember much about the hotel, having stayed there only once before, but he remembered the city of Newark - a filthy, blighted urban eyesore that smelled like the port it surrounded.

Traffic slowed to a crawl again, as if somewhere far up ahead, each inch was being fought for. The man scrubbed a hand over his face, his stomach tightening into a knot, his eyes straining to make sense out of a gradually blurring world. Taking the next exit ramp, he was relieved to see a sign for the terminals, but even better - there was a shopping center - and a little glass window with the holy grail of blinking green neon words.

Pizza.

Dry warmth exuded from the ovens in Vito's Pizzeria and it smelled like heaven inside. Buried in the corner, the man leaned back and tried to rest while waiting on a small pie. From inside his suit pocket, his cell phone rang with the theme from Dallas. He pulled it out and flipped it open without opening his eyes. "Peggy?"

"Can't get you on a flight tomorrow. Tuesday's the best we're gonna do."

"What about Kennedy?"

"Tried it."

"Well look, can you get me on standby or something?” He lowered his voice. "Peggy, pleeaase don't strand me in this hell hole."

"Mr. Marsh, it's Memorial Day weekend, and they've got a typhoon over there. I'll keep trying, but ya know, it wouldn't hurt you to have a few days off."

"That's a joke, right?" His left hand clasped the phone shut as his right hand slapped over his eyes. “This...is not happening to me.”

“You miss a plane?”

He peered out between his fingers at a freak that just spoke to him from the next table. Short brunette hair with straight cut bangs, cat eyes, fake lashes, red lipstick. A well-worn leather jacket wrapped a black bustier top which sat over a black skirt of frayed lace crinolines, followed by torn nylons that ended in faded army boots.

"Oh God. It's undead Audrey Hepburn," he moaned under his breath.

“I like that. That’s a new one.” The young woman smiled with approval. She popped the last bite of a slice in her mouth, licking the sauce from her fingers. “Where were you going?”

"Tokyo."

Her eyes widened in theatrical fashion. "You're going to Japan?"

"That's where Tokyo is," he mumbled.

"Sounds like fun."

"It's business."

"Still."

His eyes lifted towards hers with a glare. Still. Of course, to a girl who probably never left Newark, it sounded like a barrel of laughs, but work was work, and in between was picking up and dropping off rental cars, checking in and out of hotels and racing for planes in traffic on bad roads with people who drove him insane. Fifteen years of traveling had left him a little jaded on the subject. If anything, it was the other kind of still. Like 'why am I still doing this?'

"What do you do?" She leaned forward on her table and studied him with interest.

"I'm a salesman. Sorry, I'm a bit tired," he said with finality, hoping to end the conversation. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms, his chin slumping back to his chest.

"What do you sell?" she asked.

An irritated huff came from his nose as he flashed her an unavoidable look of death. Rising, he fished a pack of Camel's from his pocket. "Security," he answered curtly, before retreating out the front door. Under the eaves, he lit up a cigarette and stared into the night. Here was New Jersey in all its glory. Parking lots, strip malls, misery and drizzle. That pretty much summed it up. Directly above him, a plane roared into sight and ascended at a sharp angle. Even in the dark, his eyes traced its form and registered a Delta 777. Glancing at his watch, he imagined it was headed to Narita, short one person in first class.

The front door of Vito's opened and closed. "Your pizza's ready," the zombie girl informed him, pointing over her shoulder like he might somehow need directions. She lingered a second to bum a smoke and then strolled off into the steamy night above the oil slicked sheen of the asphalt. He watched her for a moment, her hands folded in her pockets, body swaying with some invisible breeze, and then he took a final drag and flicked his cigarette into the street.

An ethereal mist floated onto the road from the swampland that ran beside it. The sky was same reddish black he saw around every airport, as if the non stop punch of departing planes had permanently bruised it. He swiped a finger across his eyes and then rubbed at their corners, trying to blink away his exhaustion. Visibility was horrible on that small stretch of highway, but ahead he could see the blinking wings of the flying neon eagle that sat above the Budweiser plant, and the Marriott was just beyond that. Soon he'd be in a five star hotel, enjoying hot food and sleep. He rolled his head to stretch out the kinks, his eyelids so heavy he could barely keep them open. And suddenly, there was a human form before him, inches from his right front panel. He gasped and swerved, skidding across two lands before regaining control of his car, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he peered into the rearview.

“What in the...” He narrowed his eyes, barely making out the shape of the freak who stood frozen on the shoulder. For a second, his brain argued he hadn't hit her so he didn't need to stop. He continued on slowly watching her form disappear back into the inky darkness. But he couldn't imagine how desperate someone would have to be to walk anyplace at night in Newark, let alone on an unlit, deserted highway. She was a young girl...she couldn't have been more than twenty, and she didn’t look like a drug addict or appear to be inebriated. But you've got pizza, the voice reminded him, like that was somehow more important.

Thirty seconds later, with an exasperated sigh, he turned his car around.

All right!! Looking forward to seeing where this story goes!

OK, you have my attention. Like Deena said, looking forward to seeing where it goes.

Lets hop this flight and see where it goes!

Nice start Kritter, thank you.

nice start, need more

Yeah I'll be looking for the next installment, you got me hooked

Oh i just love your stories Kritter!!! MoAr please

Claire Banarski wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she walked the five-mile trek up Route 1. She took in the patter of rain against the pavement, the soft echo of her footsteps, the distant roar of cars; the tiny comforts you strain to pick out when the silence is disconcerting. Beyond the guard rail to her right, a row of oil tanks stood like giant sentinels, bathed in a wash of blue light, and above her, planes glittered in a holding pattern like a chain of fireflies. But ahead of her, the road was dark and empty, eerie and foreboding, and covered with a veil of thigh-high fog.

She tried to imagine she was a vampire, walking with an army of vampires, an empowering vision which made her feel more secure. Edging a bit closer to the guardrail as a car approached, she reached to pull her collar up, feeling self conscious in its headlights. For a second, she glanced back as it grew closer, then jumped out of her skin as the vehicle sped by within an inch of her body before jerking and skidding across two lands. Claire froze, eyes wide, heart hammering against her chest, glancing back to see if he was being chased by the cops before zeroing in on the vehicle again.

The black sedan slowed a moment before disappearing into a pinpoint of light, and then its taillights blinked out the telltale pattern of turning around. Pursing her lips, she quickened her step, keeping a wary eye on the returning car. It circled around and pulled onto the shoulder a few feet from where she was walking. The light inside the car went on as the passenger side window opened. She narrowed her eyes at it, keeping her distance, ready to run if she had to, but a fast glance at the driver revealed the guy she'd just seen at Vito's.

He bent his head so he could see her. "Sorry. Did...did you need a ride?"

She considered him a moment, weighing the chances he was a psycho. Business suit, mid 30s maybe, questioning look on his face. The fact that he had a pizza made him a little less threatening, but then, that was always a killer's hook. They looked like normal guys. Tensely balling her hands in her pockets, she wished she had her knife.

"No. I'm fine." She started to back away.

"Please…" He leaned his entire body closer, trying to see her eyes. "This can't be safe."

She looked behind them, to where the highway disappeared into darkness. It wasn't safe. It was madness. But she didn't have a choice. She chewed on her lips a moment as she studied at him again.

"At least let me bring you as far as the airport," he coaxed with a nod down the road.

Claire sucked in her breath and leaned inward, searching his interior for any sign of weapons and then took another step closer. "You're not a psycho, are you?" she asked.

"If I have to sit out here another five minutes...," he said dryly.

She smiled at him in spite of herself, and he acted on that look. "Here…' He lifted the pizza and deftly twisted to move it to the back seat. "Get in."

Claire hesitated, not sold on the idea, but it wasn’t like she would have to be in his car very long. She opened the door and edged inside, guessing she could jump if she had to. "Thanks," she half-whispered.

“Where are you heading?" he asked, as she closed it and buckled up, keeping herself pressed close to the window. The car smelled new, like leather and carpet mixed with a pack of cigarette smoke.

"Just up there." She pointed up the road. "About another four miles."

"Do you always walk that road in the dark?"

"No," she huffed out as if his question was beyond nuts. "You know that video store. The one off Route 9?" She gestured somewhere behind them.

"Uh, no," he responded.

"Well, I worked there four years. And then this morning, I go to work, and they’ve got an ‘out of business’ sign on the door. A couple of weeks ago they were saying they were gonna make me a manager soon and now...ta-dah...I'm out of a job. So I spent the whole day walking all over the city putting in applications, but I forgot they change the schedule on holiday weekends...so I...missed the last bus home."

"Did you find a new job at least?"

She shook her head. “No one’s really hiring right now.” For a moment there was silence as she glanced at the man again. He was clean-shaven and tan with a slightly pitted complexion, like his skin had been sand blasted, and his lips looked dry and chapped, but his eyes were the beautiful baby blue of swimming pool paint. She decided he was mildly attractive – in a business guy in a Lexus sort of way.

"Nice car," she finally offered, feeling obligated to break the silence.

"Company car," he responded.

Peeking over her shoulder at the back seat, her head tilted at his racquet. "You play tennis?"

"No, there's just some really large flies in Texas."

“Oh, ha - ha.” She rolled her eyes, not amused by his sarcasm.

A ghost of a smile lifted the corner of his lips as he glanced at her sideways. "Do you play?"

"A little."

“Any good?"

"Yeah, when I can find people to play with. Usually I just play against the wall."

"Technically, that's not tennis," he said.

She shrugged. "Technically, I don't really care."

“Somehow...that doesn't surprise me,” he responded, giving her a once over.

Claire narrowed her eyes at the smugness in his voice, unsure if she’d just been insulted. He probably thought she was a prostitute, which wasn’t exactly an unfair assessment, considering she was wearing a corset. There probably weren’t many goths in Texas, if that’s where he was actually from. She eyed him more discerningly now, deciding he looked like a Texan. Like if he had a cowboy hat on, he could be an oil man or a cattle rancher, driving an El Dorado with steer horns on its hood, a card carrying son of the ‘good old boys’ network. Her eyes fell on the gold watch on his wrist and she sighed and turned her head, resting her cheek against the glass to stare out the side window. There was a single car parked in the overflow lot that skirted the edge of the airport. She studied it as they passed, feeling bad that it looked so alone, sad and forgotten in the shadowy dark, just a mile from a complex of sparkling terminals that bustled with activity and life. She pursed her lips and shut her eyes.

“You look as tired as I feel,” the man said.

“It’s been a rough day,” she mumbled, and then she frowned at herself, realizing she was being rude to the poor guy. She shoved thoughtlessly at the bag down by her feet, then cocked her head at it, bending over to examine it’s tag. “Logan,” she read, then squinted at him. “Like the guy in the movie?”

“No, like the airport,” he said.

Claire laughed, studying his expression, trying to discern if he was serious. “You’re named after an airport?”

“Yeah, my father's flight was delayed and he was killing time in one of the bars, and my mother walked in and ordered a shot and there I was nine months later."

"It's right ahead there." She pointed. "They did it in an airport?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your parents."

"God, no."

"Well, don't say it that way," she said softly. "I would think that would be romantic."

--

Logan pulled up to the side of the road by the fence where the girl had pointed. Corroded metal pipes and shells of cars suggested it was a junk yard and the salvage company sign on the fence agreed with that determination.

"Thanks," she said quietly as she got out of the car.

His head ducked lower, taking in the gloomy landscape, searching for anything in or near it that might have been a shelter. "You live here?"

"Oh, yeah…" she started, "Inside the business trailer. See, Joey, the guy who owns this place, he lets me stay here off hours. Kind of in exchange for watching the place."

His eyes drifted from her to the decrepit trailer that sat at one end of the yard. "You're homeless," he said in the form of a statement, as it was the only conclusion he could draw.

"Oh, I got a home," she said nonchalantly, as she pulled her jacket over her head to protect her from the drizzle. "I just don't like to go there." She lingered a moment, only half retreating, unsure if he had more questions, but he just sat there in wary silence. "Okay, well, thanks again. Enjoy Japan."

"Yeah," he answered, not driving away until she'd reached the trailer and entered it.

--

The pizza was still appreciably warm and, in typical New Jersey style, dripping with oil. Famished, Logan dug into it as he sat at the linoleum table in his hotel room. While he ate, he pulled the curtains slightly apart to take in the dreary view from his top story window. He went to release them and then stopped, noting he could see the salvage yard from there. It was haunting to think someone lived in that trailer, especially a young woman, although he imagined she could hold her own. He smiled a moment, recalling the attitude in her voice, before frowning at the memory of her eyes. Surrounded by her thick, dark makeup, they looked lifeless and dull, wounded even. It was a look he'd seen far too much of in his line of work.

The vibration of an incoming text message brought his cell phone out of his pocket, expecting new flight information.

'Tue 11:05am Delta 204 C.15.'

"Damn it." He winced at the thought of an extra day's stay and tossed his crust into the box. For a moment, he sat there rubbing the back of his neck, and then, he paused with a tilt of his head and peered down at the trailer once more.

Did you delete this from your DA account? I can't find it. I wanted to see if you finished it there.

It's in storage there in its old, uncompleted form (which was precisely half of the novel.) In fact, I only just completed it about a week ago. So you guys are seeing it as I edit it. The story has changed quite a bit though from the DA version. Well, Claire's part of it, anyhow. Logan is the same snide bastard as always. But it's just as well that the old version is hidden. :P This..version..is a little more raw and honest, if I can call it that.

hmmm... Logan is a snide bastard? I didn't notice lmao. I live with a smartass sometimes arrogant husband so snide is nothing LOL!!!!

ok well, then I guess I'll just have to read what you're posting here then lol

I already love this story Kritter! I'v missed your writing very much!

The story has my undivided attention.
Good start.Please continue.
Matt

Hi Kritter. Just found this...anxious for more.

I was reading it over at DA and had planned to jump in here when it got to the new part. Since you've made changes I'll read it again. Glad you finished it Kritter.

Yeah, it's slower going than I would have liked because I have to rewrite most of this current chapter, but I am working on it.

A well told story so far. Let'er rip and we'll see what ya got.

Would love, love , love MoAr!!!

Room service delivered a pot of weak coffee and a stale bagel in the morning. Logan consumed both without thought while he scanned through the sports pages of the Sunday paper. Uninterested with the rest of the news, he peered out of the window. Manhattan loomed like an enormous gray battleship floating on the horizon, but his eyes didn't even notice that as they dropped straight back to the junk yard. There was something oddly intriguing about the girl he’d deposited there last night, and it was the first time in a long time that he'd found his curiosity so piqued. A poignant smile crossed his face remembering the last girl to have done it. It was his junior year in high school when an Indian girl left a poem in his locker. She was completely different from the others, with copper skin and large, dark, soulful eyes, wearing soft flowing dresses that passed her knees when mini skirts were in style. He'd wanted to ask her out a dozen times, but he knew his mother wouldn't have it.

Instead, he spent the next five years weaving a path of destruction through the miles of carbon copy debutantes who dwelt in his family's social circles. Then traveling turned his relationships into weekend flings with women he met in hotel bars. Sad, empty relationships, void of any semblance of emotion. The ones he avoided at all costs now, preferring loneliness to that kind of depression.

Logan shook the thought from his head as he opened up his laptop, bringing up a list of new recruits. Qualifications, names and faces flashed across the screen, the endeavor feeling more pointless with each tap. His eyes lifted to the walls of his silent room, and then he leaned his head back towards the window, observing a pristine blue sky. Somewhere outside it was Memorial Day weekend, and he felt like he was in quarantine or solitary confinement, cut off from the world around him. Or more properly, cut off from life. He stood and pressed his palms to the glass, enjoying the warmth from the sunlight. His gaze crossed over the tennis court below, then drifted to the junkyard, and then he turned his head towards his racquet and raised an eyebrow at it.


Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in his car peering across the street at an unsuspecting girl through the mesh of a junkyard fence. He watched her for a good long time while he tapped his thumbs anxiously against his steering wheel. She was in the dirt on her knees, her slender body hunched over a partially dismantled engine, busily tugging away on a wrench. Even with the streaks of grease that graced her hands and face, there was something adorably feminine about the way her lips puckered out in a punkish pout while she struggled with a bolt.

After a few deep breaths, Logan grabbed his racquet and exited the sedan, walking in her direction. As he approached, she lifted her head and bolted to her feet, backing slowly towards the trailer, wiping her hands against the sides of her jeans. Her head tilted at him with an expression of nervous confusion, and for a moment, he almost felt that way too. Without the heavy make up she'd worn the night before, the radiant sun-kissed glow of her face caught him by surprise. She was much cuter than he'd remembered and for a second he had to struggle to remember why he was there. As her dark brown eyes narrowed towards his racquet, he managed to return to his senses.

"Hi." He smiled sheepishly. "They have courts over at the hotel. I was wondering if you might like to play a few rounds?"

"Oh." Her arms folded across her waist, lips momentarily tightened belaying a distinct discomfort at his unexpected presence.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have just walked in…," He started to make his excuses, realizing he probably just came off as creepy.

"No, sure…that's okay," she mercifully interrupted with a lopsided shrug. "I'll play. Can you give me a minute to clean up?"

"Of course." He turned around and let out a breath, feeling relieved for the moment. The yard around him was a maze of pitted dirt and twisted metal, like the remnants of some kind of war zone. It brought back an unpleasant reminder of his last trip to Libya. At least no one was trying to kill each other here, although that could probably be debated.

The young woman emerged with her racquet a few minutes later, having traded her sandals for sneakers. She was wearing an old white T-shirt and a pair of ragged cut offs, which she tugged at several times, trying to keep them from riding up her legs.

"Do you know a lot about engines?" he asked, gesturing towards the one she had disassembled.

“Oh. No, nothing at all." She bit her lip, looking a little embarrassed. "That's all going in the compactor tomorrow. I just like to take them apart."

"Because you like to see how they work?"

"Yeah, but...really, it's just kind of fun. I like to pretend I know what I'm doing."

“Ah, you have an imagination."

"I guess." She smiled shyly, not unhappy with his estimation.

He glanced at the racquet in her hand and frowned at its long faded paint. It was wooden and the design suggested it was straight out of the 1950s. Flea market fodder, and if she paid a dollar for it, she paid too much.

“Well, I hope you can bring some decent competition," he said, starting to feel more relaxed.

"I hope so, too. It's been awhile since I played anyone."

"I'll go easy on you," Logan promised.

"No, don't," she said quickly. "Even if I'm bad, don't do that. I like a good challenge."

“Alright.” Logan grinned, imaging she had no idea what she was in for. Opening the passenger side door, he noted her trepidation, as if she was once again debating getting in his car. He walked around and sat silently behind the wheel, letting her pick her timing. Finally, she slid in and gave him a weak smile.

“I don’t think I know your name,” he said.

“It’s Claire,” she said apologetically, like her name was the most common, depressing thing in the world.

"Claire,” he repeated as he pulled on to the road. “Is that French?”

“It’s Polish. Well, I guess the name’s not Polish. But...my dad was Polish, so...it might be Polish. Although, nowadays, a name can be almost anything.” She caught the feigned look of confusion in his eyes and slowed her words. “But it’s...probably French.”

“Can you speak it?”

“Which? French or Polish? I only know curses in Polish. French...I had in high school. Four years.”

“Et vous n’avez probablement pas se rappeler un mot.”

“I probably don’t...what?” She narrowed her eyes and laughed. It was a delicate, appealing sound despite the slight hoarseness to her voice.

“Remember a word,” he finished her sentence, impressed that she actually did.

“Well, I don’t get a lot of chances to speak it. I probably should have taken Spanish. I’d be fluent in that by now. So, you took French?”

“That’s a really good guess.” He smirked.

Claire frowned and crossed her arms, looking him over with the deep evaluation one gives when they’re not sure what to make of a person. He glanced at her with an awkward smile, wondering what she made of his invitation, and if she thought he had done it out of some kind of interest in her. Which, when he pressed himself to consider, wasn’t entirely out of the question, given he had two nights to kill, although she was far below the class of women he was used to. Pulling into the hotel lot, he put the thought from his head, in eager anticipation of a few rounds of decent tennis.

The courts were cracked and fading, with numerous depressions that were acting as bird baths when they walked up. The deplorable condition didn’t surprise him, as few airport hotels bothered to resurface their courts. Only the resorts really cared. But outside of a few foreign embassy friends, he rarely found willing opponents, and as much as he actually loved the game, even the sight of its drooping net still got his adrenaline flowing. The opponent part, though, he quickly debated.

From the second Claire served, he knew she was an amateur at best. Her idea of 'good' was obviously being better than the wall she played against, and yet, he found himself enjoying making her run all over the court. She was amusing with her bungled swings, girlish screams and frustrated stomps. Amusing because she was going all out and her emotions were genuine, not the weak, silly things women sometimes did to try and look cute. She was of medium height, but she had a long, fluid stride that reminded him of a gazelle. Graceful, if that was possible, being as she seemed kind of rough around the edges, with a bit of grit in her attitude that he didn’t think was an act.

He toyed with her a good thirty minutes, until she appeared on the edge of exhaustion. "Do you wanna take a break?" he questioned.

“Please." Her winded voice was barely audible as she sat straight down on the asphalt and rolled onto her back, her chest visibly rising and falling with each deep breath.

He walked over to where she was laying and stared down at her with a grin. "Giving up?"

"You're way too good for me." She gasped, without trying to get up.

"Well, don’t say that," he responded with a gentle shake of his head, taking a knee by her side. "I think I had the advantage of a couple of years of instruction. You played really well, considering…"

His comment made her smile. The kind of smile that puffed out her cheeks and crinkled the corners of her eyes. She started to talk in a sweet, friendly voice about how she'd never played sports in high school because she had no coordination. Logan could only half listened. The fabric of her T-shirt had bunched just slightly above her waist, and the inch of tan skin it revealed from her flat stomach was far too much to bear. Regaining his feet, he reached out a hand to help her back to hers.

"Let me take you to lunch," he said, gesturing towards the Chili's down the road as she stood. "Are you hungry?" The sad, stupid laugh that escaped her lips made it clear his question barely scratched the surface. Of course she was hungry. She was probably starved for anything close to a decent meal. A reserved smile snaked across Logan's face as he strolled with her back to his Lexus. He had forty-eight hours to go until his flight. Plenty of time to seduce her.

Hello Kritter, this is the first time reading any of your story's and I have to say I have really enjoyed this story so far and will be adding it to my reading list. Thanks for posting it for us to read.
Wayne

good chapter, need another

Our boy sure does sound like a predator. Just what does he have in mind for our simple little miss, hmmm?

better question is what doe the miss have in mind for him?

bwhahaha!

Okay I bit, now ready for more .

Yep Kritter, need more. I've been waiting on this story for awhile now.

Just checking...checking...checking...

Thank you for the chapter. More please!

I know you're a busy gal Kritter, but please don't leave us hanging here.

We would like to have moar of this excellent story please.

Yes! very good story! please post more if you can.

Just checking again to see if you had added any more chapters to this great story.
Wayne

I did a major overhaul on this novel after I wrote it and in edit, I decided I wasn't thrilled with it. So I was re rewriting a large portion of the story and I hit that point where I was sick of it...but it's been a few weeks so I might have another go at it now. There are parts I'll have to censor though if I'm posting them to the forum.

Look forward to the revisions and the rest of the story.

Good to see this story isn't dead.

C'mon now Kritter. You know you don't have to censor anything for us!

Good story so far. Was looking for MOAR!!!!!

Really was!!!!!!!


WAB

Just checking for more. Hint, hint...

Deena in GA said:

Just checking for more. Hint, hint...

Click to expand...

You got me to check again also.
Wayne

Oh sigh, add me to the just checking list.