CHAPTER ONE

Animal

The snores emanating from the lips of the man beside her sounded like it was coming from a pig. She stared at him, disgusted, as the frown on her face deepened, leaving her with a dull headache. Her skin still crawled from having his hands trail the length of her body in the most demeaning manner; his saliva, and cologne clinging to her skin as she dismissed the overwhelming desire to kill him with a pillow.

Sighing softly, Gloria crawled out of bed silently, the soft carpet tickling her bare feet. Flexing her toes, she stretched both her hands above her head and let out a soft yawn before rising to her feet, exhausted. She groped in the darkness for her clothes, and finding them on a chair by the fireplace, she hurriedly got dressed.

She loved this part of her job — getting dressed. While it did nothing to remedy her stained reputation, it showed an end to her torture. She would get dressed, get rid of the pig that soiled her bed in that moment, and forget for a few seconds who she was and what she did.

Straightening, she stole a glance at the snoring redhead; her frown deepening at the sight of his unclad body. It was nearly impossible to imagine the redhead mayor who slept unashamedly bare before her was the same man who joined the entire town to condemn and shun her.

She thought of his wife. What she wouldn't give to see the look on Mrs. Bradley's face once she saw her husband asleep and comfortable in the bed of sin.

Gloria wondered where the nosey gossip — Mrs. Bradley — believed her husband was; a business meeting; a trip? a fundraiser at church? No doubt the lying bastard — Mr. Bradley — had come up with something, and it was certainly no doubt his gullible wife believed him. Mrs. Bradley would believe her husband's lies, as would every woman whose husband Gloria had given a taste of sin. And for this singular reason — she thought, as she made her way to Mayor Bradley's discarded coat on the floor — she always took a souvenir. She would store it in a safe place for a later date.

With a smile now creasing her face, she plucked a customized button from his coat and buried it in her pocket. Turning to the door, she stalked into the night.

*

EUREKA SPRINGS, ARKANSAS

"Perhaps we do not have to go in person. Perhaps it is possible to have a servant go on your behalf," Howard complained.

Stuart Sullivan paid little attention to his son, choosing instead to focus on the pile of paper before him as he struggled to calculate the cost of his journey.

The sound of wood scraping against cement pulled Stuart's attention to his restless son, who was now on his feet.

"Do you intend to ignore me this entire time, Father?" Howard ran a weary hand through his hair.

"Do we have to go over this again, Howard?" Stuart frowned, his attention returning to the task before him. He was trying his best to work out the cost of his journey, but it didn't help that his eyes were failing. Frustrated, he pushed the document aside.

"Will you have me repeat how important this is to your mother?"

"Mother?!" Howard spat. "The last time I checked, I have no mother, and you certainly have no wife." His words were nothing new; it was the same response he gave to conversations involving his mother. Yet, they had a different effect on Stuart every time they were spoken. This time, the effect was pain. It was like a stab to his chest, draining him of whatever energy he thought he had left.

Stuart leaned forward and placed his tired hands on the wooden desk before him. "Would it make you happy if I didn't go; if I didn't give your mother this one last wish she had?" He rubbed his aching eyes.

"It would help if you wouldn't bother spending so much on an ungrateful, undeserving woman who only returned to you when she needed you. When she knew she was dying—"

"Howard!" he warned, anger swelling in his chest, causing his limbs to tremble. Gripping his desk, he fought to regulate his breathing.

Stuart was exhausted; emotionally from the recent passing of his wife and physically from the constant nagging of his son that left him with a headache.

Howard stood before him, lips pursed as a frown creased his face. He ran his gaze down the length of his son and shook his head, saddened. He could hardly recognize the man who stood before him; the man who had become embittered and burdened by grief. For it was grief that led to Howard's unbecoming attitude — grief rather than anger. Grief for a mother he never had, a mother whose absence in life left a void that was widened by death. It was the consequences of his mother's absence that was slowly but surely turning him into a drunk; a bitter alcoholic who spent most of his time in the brothels.

"You will respect your mother's memories," he warned, even if he knew his admonition would mean nothing to his son.

"If you insist on this journey of yours, Father, then I'm coming with you to San Francisco. Not for her—" he spat "—but for you. I'm coming along to make sure nothing terrible happens to you on the way."

Heaving a tired sigh, Stuart nodded reluctantly. While he didn't look forward to Howard's badgering, he didn't suppose he could manage the journey alone given his ill health. "Alright son, we'll go to San Francisco together to sprinkle your mother's ashes."

"I have no mother," Howard murmured, "and you had no wife."

Rising to his shaky feet, Stuart turned and made his way out the door, away from Howard and his cruel words; even if they were indeed true — he never really had a wife.