The bikers had both looked at each other again when Debbie mentioned someplace they had to be. Their stares seemed less jovial now, more resigned. When she mentioned calling the tow truck, Mark couldn't help but mumble under his breath that damned Rufus was already on his way. Knowing what was coming, he looked at Debra, thinking he might tell her to lock her car doors, or better yet, run. Resigned to the inevitable, he said they'd make the call. They smiled at Debra, kissed her and got ready to leave. If their smiles seemed a little wan, their kisses a little cold, Debbie didn't seem to notice. For that one moment, she felt…loved. If only it could have lasted.
The two biker lovers left her then and crunched across the still frozen ground to their waiting Harley. Chrissie looked back at the dead Chevy, watching the woman inside dress by the feeble dome light. She shook her head and chased after her hulking man, threading her slender gloved hand around his leather clad waist. Mark looked down at Chrissie, smiling warmly at his girlfriend. "You done good, babe. You're really starting to get the hang of this. First time you actually seemed to be enjoying yourself."
“It was fun. Once she got over her shy prudishness, she was a good lover-
really started to turn me on. I liked her. She was a really nice lady. I feel really bad now that we're going. Are you sure she won't suspect what's to come?”
“Nah, they never seem to remember. None of the others did.” Mark was busy scratching another notch into his black leather belt. He looked back at the big Impala, watching the pretty woman inside redressing herself. He thought about the newspaper article he'd seen as a kid, the lurid details of what was yet to come this night. Rufus and his tow truck were on their way all right, but what he brought was far from relief and a restarted car. His passengers were common visitors to this infernal hill, the twin specters of misery and death. He took another look at Debra Primm's Chevy, wishing there was more that he could do. Through her partly open window, he could smell her perfume and hear her singing happily to herself.
“Glad to be of service, Miss Primm,” he mumbled to the frosty night air, just as the pristinely new Impala and its driver flickered, faded and winked out of sight. “Always a pleasure to lay a ghost to rest.” Turning to Chrissie, he watched as his girlfriend put on her cracked helmet, yanking the chin strap tight. She was so sweet-he loved her so much. He hoped what he felt, all this love, would last forever.
“Debra makes three-she was by far the best. Hard to believe this hill has claimed so many lives and the police have never done anything about it. I remember reading about Miss Primm’s gruesome murder at your cousin's house. That Rufus was a monster! This damned hill is one dangerous place.”
“I’ll say. Be careful, okay, Mark? Remember that nasty skid we got into coming up the hill? That could have been really bad, lover.”
“Like I could ever forget it. Sleet’s stopped. Let’s hit the road-it’s getting late.”
The two bikers got on the big chromed-out black Harley with the ghostly blue flaming skull howling from the head of the gas tank. Mark brought the big beast to life with a snarl, eager and ready as a fiery steed from hell. As it off with a throaty roar, Chrissie wrapped her slender arms around her lover's muscular torso, holding on for dear life.
The Harley roared back up the hill toward town, and then disappeared over the hill. Mark eased on down the road, only picking up speed when the frosty pavement seemed to clear. Suddenly, Mark hit an unseen patch of black ice trickling across the cracked road, going into a bad skid before he could do anything. Chrissie screamed as Mark wrestled the big Harley for control. Losing the battle to keep the big beast upright, Mark’s curse and deeper scream joined Chrissie’s.
She went down first, her helmet cracking and bouncing off, her broken body scraped raw and shattered before she’d slid thirty yards. Dead. Blessedly, dead. Mark stayed with the bike until the end, riding his well-loved hog right into the massive oak.
Bike and rider exploded on impact with the old dead tree, yet nothing lit up the sky, no loud whoosh or roar shattered the quiet.
The night stayed silent as the grave. Crunched Harley and torn bikers simply winked out and disappeared. Forgotten ghosts. Again. Break Neck Hill had fed and grown quiet. Sleeping. Waiting.
THE CHOCOLATIER
I visited The Chocolatier with a perfectly innocent goal in mind, to begin with-
that of selecting the perfect birthday gift for my lover, Danielle. We both enjoy handmade chocolates and The Chocolatier was new in town. I’d read about the shop and its French owner, Alain Osanne, in the local paper, and figured that chocolates would make an ideal gift. Soon, however, it was The Chocolatier himself that captured my attention, because when he looked at me through his shop window I thought about sex-sex that was dark, delicious and decadent, much like the chocolates in the display. If Dani were there she would also be revving her engines for the hot Frenchman, and that made me smile. Occasionally a man caught our fancy. Bisexual and dedicated to each other, from time to time we shared a male lover. This man had caught my attention, and Dani would like him too, I was sure of it.
The scrolled letters on the sign outside the shop looked like hand decorated icing on fondant. It was decorative but simple, to the point, and incredibly seductive. I was peering in when I saw him working inside the shop, and an attractive profile he made.
Good looking in a sleek and androgynous way, his black, shoulder-length hair was secured at his nape while he worked. His eyes were like the chocolates he had placed in the windows, molten brown, filled with rich, sensual suggestion. He was tall and lean, despite working in the devil’s own calorie exchange, and he was dark skinned, like a Romany gypsy. The white chef’s uniform he wore only seemed to emphasize his looks and his high cheekbones and sculpted lips added to the unusual appeal.
Just as I was admiring the view, he walked toward me and put a small tray of heart shaped dark chocolate in the window. They were decorated with a cupid’s arrow, 117
perfect for Dani’s gift. But my attention was soon back on the man himself. He certainly wasn’t the sort of man you usually found stocking a window display in a small village in the Kent countryside.
As if he sensed my presence, he looked up and met my gaze through the window. My breath caught. There was such intensity in his stare that I was thrown off guard and smiled. Inclining his head he gave a slight bow, one hand touching his chest lightly, a rather old fashioned gesture, I thought, which, combined with his looks, brought to mind images of iconic passion-the tango, a wild gypsy-hearted dancer who was relentless in pursuit of his sweetheart.
How odd, to discover such a man in our sleepy little village. Usually, the best we could hope for was a passing tourist or a randy farmer who wasn’t adverse to women who mostly preferred other women. Dani would adore the idea of such a find. With that in mind, how could I resist investigating further?
The door chimed as I opened it, a bell over head announcing my arrival.
He appeared from the preparation area almost immediately, strolling out to meet me. “Bonjour. Good afternoon.” His accent was as rich and delectable as his wares. “Is there something in particular I can help you with?”
“Bonjour.” I tried not to eye him up too obviously. It was difficult not to. “I’m looking for something special, a birthday gift for my lover.”
“Your lover.” He repeated that deliberately, and then cocked his head on one side, as if he was trying to guess what my lover was like. “Does he prefer dark or light chocolate?”