Out of the desert they leaned on weakened wooden frames, buildings with cracked and faded facades- forgotten memories of the past that was, relics and doorways leading back through time. All it took was the right person to come along and open them. The past waited. A man merely needed to step within and claim what had been left there.
Joseph Gray ("Joey" to his friends) peered across this landscape of the past and pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. He tapped one out into his palm before replacing the pack, then placed the cigarette between his lips and left it dangling. He rummaged through the right pocket of his faded jeans, found his lighter, pulled it out and flipped it open. Flame flickered to life. Joey lit the cigarette, replaced the lighter and inhaled.
So far, everything the old man had told him was true. If his luck continued, the following day might find Joseph Gray a very rich man. After all, the old man's tale could be summed up in a word: treasure.
Joey blew a smoky breath into the cooling night air. The last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, and shadows unfurled from the ghost town like a dark welcome mat. Joey sighed, tugged at his pack. Time to get a move on.
The house at the end of town sat on a hill, overlooking the main street like a king on his throne. A full round moon hung behind the house's pointed peaks and cast a dull glow as light fled darkness. Broken windows peered down like shattered, lunatic eyes as Joey approached. Cracked stone steps led up towards the dusty porch. He grinned. This was the kind of place where Norman Bates would feel right at home.
Joey flicked the cigarette to the dirt and ground it into a gutted, twisted filter.
Someone had the foresight to board the place up before abandoning it. By now, the wood was rotting, and the nails were rusty and weak. Joey had no problem ripping the boards off the front door. The wood crumbled in his bare hands. Something about the moist, slimy feel about it disgusted him. He wiped his hands on his jeans. Joey tried the door, found it locked, and kicked it in.
Two things- a musky, foul odor and a sensation of being watched- assaulted him. The first he wrinkled his nose and waved at; the second felt like the tingling of little spiders crawling over his skin. Joey draped his pack over one shoulder, unzipped it and withdrew a heavy Maglite. He flicked it on and shot a bream over the foyer.
On the right, the foyer led to a larger common room. To the left, it ended in a curving archway and a large door. A sweeping stairway walked up into depths of darkness at the far end. Other than these basic architectural observations, Joey saw nothing but wood floors, cracked walls, and a whole lot of nothin'.
Joey took a step inside and listened. There was even less to hear than there was to see. He wrote off the feeling of being watched to paranoia. It wouldn't be the first time.
He swept the Maglite's beam up the stairway. Light stabbed the shadows. He could just make out the beginning of a hallway; he'd save the upstairs for last. First, he'd see what he could see on the first floor, then work his way up, and then finally, work his way down to the inevitable basement. He moved the light over the archway to the left and its barricading door. He could just make out the words carved into the frame:
"ABANDONE ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE."
Joey vaguely recalled the words from somewhere else, somewhere he'd heard them before, but he couldn't make the connection. The knowledge was there, blurry, and just out of reach. He shrugged it off and took a step deeper into the house.
-CRACK!-
Wood splintered under his right foot. Before he could move, it gave way. The Maglite fell from his hand, clattered to the floor and rolled out of reach. Joey felt pain shriek up his leg as the wood bit into his calf and then deeper as he sank. The Maglite stopped rolling and flooded its light into his eyes.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," Joey echoed as he tried to claw his way from the splintered mouth sucking him into the recesses of the house. Wood creaked and groaned around him like old men cracking their dried up knuckles in unison. He blinked, blinded, and tried to find something to grasp, to get a hold on and pull him out of the hole.
Then the mouth opened wider, the floor gave way, and Joey fell into the dark.
***
"I hope this isn't out of line, but you look... absolutely stunning," Weston Gatlin said, his own stunning smile spreading apart his thick lips and revealing a set of perfect, sparkling white teeth.
Bridget Briswell, senior partner of the Briswell & Briswell Law Firm, cocked an eyebrow and playfully tapped a finger against her chin as if deep in thought.
"Out of line? Well, let's consider. First, I gathered this was to be a professional rather than personal meeting. You're a client, and a good lawyer always keeps clients on a strictly professional level. Second, how to take such a compliment from a married man?" she said. Despite her words, Bridget appraised the man seated across from her. Weston Gatlin was gray-haired, tall, and dashing with a dark complexion and a reputation for charm and flattery. He was also a multi-billionaire between his companies and investments in real estate, entertainment, and technology. These days, the name Gatlin was synonymous with success.
"Almost divorced man," Gatlin corrected with a tip of his wine glass. The wine corresponded with the pricey meal set before them as Gatlin had treated her to dinner in one of New York's most expensive restaurants under the guise of needing legal advice.
"Well, in that case, let's just see where the night takes us," Bridget said and tipped her own glass in response.
"I'll drink to that." Gatlin took a long sip of wine. Bridget tried not to think about how much Gatlin had spent on the bottle and followed suit. After all, her law firm was one of the biggest and best in the country, and she was no pushover when it came to pulling in six figures. Gatlin was just one of the elite who pulled in quite a bit more. She swallowed and felt the comfortable warmth of the wine pooling in the pit of her stomach.
"After all," Bridget added, "tonight I AM absolutely stunning, and I'm not that good of a lawyer."
Gatlin's eyes gleamed as they shared a laugh.
Naturally, the night (and perhaps the wine) led them to the top floor of the Gatlin building. Windows on all sides, the twinkling lights of the city blinked and glowed around them as Bridget let her silver dress slip from her shoulders, glide down her body and form a shimmering pool on the carpet around her ankles. Gatlin stifled a gasp at her perfect nakedness.
When Bridget, on her knees, unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled out his lengthening erection, Weston Gatlin said thoughtfully, "I love New York."
Bridget smiled as she took the esteemed Mr. Gatlin's little Gatlin into her mouth. She knew that as long as she had him in her mouth, this billionaire was at her complete mercy, completely under her power. It was this feeling, this control that turned Bridget on as she began work him with her tongue, her lips, her hand.
She slowly, expertly gained speed, stroking him harder and taking him deeper, flicking her tongue along the shaft, moaning in imagined ecstasy. Bridget knew what men liked, and she was good at pleasing them. This had not been the case a year ago. This had not been the case before she had met Melvin MacMuffin. It was funny how much could change in a year.
Gatlin's knees almost buckled, and Bridget slipped him out of her mouth. His bobbing erection was shiny and slick with her saliva. It gleamed from his crotch like a wet spear.
"Didn't plan on cumming this soon, did you?" she said with a wry smile. Gatlin chuckled.
