On the Edge
an excerpt

Down the old alley, Nolin strained to balance a load of heavy groceries on one arm, trying to unlock the apartment door with his free hand. It was getting late, it was beginning to rain, and he didn’t want to be out here any longer than he had to be. A crash of thunder only reminded him that the faster he could get this door open, the faster he could hole up in his dark apartment with his laptop and a bowl of popcorn as a companion.

Finally, he set down the bags, pushing the door open and picking the paper sacks back up.

The bottom split open. The water must have soaked through, weakening it. Nolin swore, and set the other bags just inside the door. Tossing his keys into the house, he chased after the scattered groceries.

Just my luck…

He retrieved a tin of margarine, went after the small block of cheese and container of coffee.

A dark hand closed over his cheese. As Nolin straightened up, he found himself staring into the liquid eyes of…

“You dropped this,” she offered helpfully.

“Aye… thank you.” Nolin took the cheddar, stacking it in his arms and heading after the carrots. He didn’t recognize the dark-skinned woman. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the weather. She looked like she had stepped out of one of his mystery novels. Femme fatale. A deadly woman. Honed muscles and sharp instincts and a dangerous eye for seduction of the innocent…

She wore a hat, a hat that looked like it had been stolen from the thirties, wore stiletto leather boots that cut off just below her knees and clung to her skin, a corset top and short skirt. She held the remains of a slender cigarette between her left index finger and thumb, smoke wafting from it like incense and a dim glow of fire still caught in the ash-white tip. Beyond the tight clothing she wore nothing to suit the cold weather. There was probably more skin than clothing, but Nolin wasn’t going to be the one to tell her she looked like a prostitute dressed like that. People were so touchy these days about friendly suggestions.

“The new tenant?” he asked amiably, picking up the bag of frozen carrots. He grunted, looking at what he already held. It was one thing to balance an absurd number of bags in sacks, sacks were all about the same size. None of these had handles.

She shook her head—he caught it as he straightened up. But she disagreed aloud as well. “No.”

“Haven’t seen you around before.” Nolin laughed, heading over to the steps and setting down the vegetables and butter. He gestured with the cheese. “And I know pretty much everyone…”

It was a dark and stormy night…

“You don’t recognize me?” she asked. “I’m disappointed, really.”

“Should I have? Are you famous?”

“No.” She smiled.

It was a deadly smile.

In that moment, Nolin knew what he thought of her. Anti-hero. She was the sort of person you’d expect to see in a story, and not helping you pick up your groceries. She was the sort of person you’d think to be evil…

She picked up his grapes, brushing them off and handing them to him.

Their fingers brushed. It was like touching an electric fence. A jolt shot through Nolin’s body and he shivered, instinctively pulling his hand back, the grapes on hand. He glanced at them. Muddy, but they’d still be edible. Just needed a good washing.

“I’m Noira,” she completed, as if the moment had never happened. “You can call me Noira.”

He stared at her through foggy glasses, finally taking them off and rubbing them on the hem of his shirt. She offered him her hand again. “And you?”

“Nolin.” He glanced around, seeing nothing to avoid the second touch. Setting the grapes down in his porch, he accepted her hand. “How do you spell that?” he asked, trying to ignore the feeling.

It wasn’t like just shaking hands.

It was like touching someone made of fire. She made him want something. She made his attention stay focused on one and only one person: herself. It was like a spell. It broke his mind, it took away the fragments of distraction. He knew one thing, in that moment. He held her hand.

A crash of thunder startled him away from it and he jerked, instinctively taking his hand from hers.

The spell broke.

Nolin just stared at her with green eyes. “You know, this isn’t great weather to be talking in. Would you like to come in and have some tea?”

“N-o-i-r-a.”

He realized a moment later it was an answer to his first question.

“And, thank you, but I’m afraid I have very little time…” She shifted from her right to her left leg, looking for a moment awkward. He watched as her gaze drifted over to his car and then snapped back to him.

It was like staring into a vampire’s eyes.

She pushed him against the wall, painted fingernails digging into his shoulders. “Look at me, Nolin.”

He gaped. “What do you want? Money? Food? My car?”

“None of that. Look at me!”

It was an order, not a request. He complied, staring into her dark eyes, dark eyes set in a dark face with dark makeup that didn’t run in the rain. He nervously moistened his lips with his tongue. Nervous. He was so nervous. Her liquid black eyes were controlling, her touch was demanding, her makeup and clothing just right to make her the most seductive person he had ever laid eyes on.

Her eyes could have put a mascara company out of business.

He stared at her.

“Listen to me very carefully. You should know me, Nolin. But in lieu of such pleasantries, we will have to settle for a warning.”

She leaned forward. Her breath was warm on his cheek.

“They are after you.”

“I know you,” Nolin gasped. “You’re…”

She walked through his door, a gun in her left hand, the safety clicked off. The detective glanced up, and when he saw what she carried, he froze. His hands fell to his desk.

“I know what you’ve got in there,” she snarled, “and you’re not going to reach for it. Or you die. And if you die, who’s going to be there to save…”

He drew a gun from his desk and pointed it at her.

“I warned you!” she screamed, pulling the trigger.

The shot blasted through his chest. He dropped a hand to the wound, holding it up bloody. Then he smiled, cocking the gun. She noticed a moment too late the red glow in his eyes as he fired…

“The one who walks in,” he murmured. It’s every writer’s nightmare.

Your character walks through your door... and into your life.

“Very good. They’re after us, Nolin. I need you to trust me.”

“I can’t trust you!” He sank back against the house. “You killed my heroine!”

“That was fiction! But have it your way.” She drew a gun. He wasn’t sure where it came from, or whether it was even loaded, but she did press it against his head with a snarl. “You’re going to come with me, or I’ll shoot you.”