Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 23: What My Eyes Have Seen
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 23: What My Eyes Have Seen - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Illustrated
Scott came awake slow, surfacing from the kind of deep sleep he didn’t usually get. His body felt heavy but good, no tension in his shoulders, no knots in his back.
There was weight against him. Warm. Soft. Breathing steady.
Scott blinked himself further awake and felt hair against his jaw, the curve of a breast pressed to his ribs, a leg hooked over his. Skin on skin.
Only then did the memory surface, clearing the fog—their hands, their mouths, Maggie pulling him into her, the two of them collapsing into this bed hours ago. The smell of them still hung heavy in the sheets, sex and sweat, sharp but good. One of the best smells he’d ever known.
He lay still, soaking it in. She felt good against him. Too good.
Two and a half times now. That was the tally. So what was this? Maggie experimenting, realizing male sex wasn’t as bad as she’d thought? Or something else? They’d told each other they loved one another. She’d kissed him in front of the kids—twice. She’d given him the drone, a gift that showed she’d been paying attention. That didn’t feel like just scratching an itch.
He shifted his eyes upward. Red digits glowed faintly on the ceiling, Maggie’s cool little projection clock. 17:25.
He blinked at the numbers, worked backward. They’d crashed around eleven-thirty. Which meant he’d just slept a solid six hours. Better than solid. Amazing, really.
And the alarm on Maggie’s phone was set for 17:30. Five minutes.
Scott shifted carefully, easing an arm free and sliding his leg out from under hers. He tried to keep his movements quiet, but Maggie stirred anyway, eyes blinking open in the dim light.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Gotta pee.”
Her lips curved in a slow smile. “We really did that, didn’t we?”
“We really did,” he said.
“Good,” she murmured, settling her cheek back to the pillow. “I was kind of hoping that wasn’t just a dream.”
He slipped out of bed and padded into the bathroom, unashamed of his nudity. His cock was slumped over, asleep, still a little slick as he positioned it to piss. There was a faint sting to it, a lot of happy exhaustion, like it had just finished the marathon it had been training for.
Relief came quick; then he washed his hands, splashed water on his face.
As he straightened, he felt a faint sting across his back. Curious, he turned sideways, craned his neck, and caught the reflection in the mirror. Thin red scratches trailed over the skin of his back where Maggie’s short, lesbian friendly fingernails had scratched him. And when he shifted further he saw faint bruises on his ass in the rough shape of fingers. She had really dug in.
He touched one of the marks lightly, felt the tenderness, and found himself smiling at the memory.
Back in the bedroom, he said, “I’m gonna grab a quick shower.”
Her eyes were barely open, her voice soft and deliberately whiny. “Nooo. Come back here instead. Until the alarm goes off. It felt nice, snuggled up against you.”
“It felt the same to me,” he admitted.
It was only two more minutes, but he climbed back into bed anyway. She rolled into him instantly, fitting herself against his chest like it was where she belonged. He pulled her close. She tilted her head up and kissed his nose, the faint musk of their earlier sex still on her breath. He didn’t mind. Not at all.
He felt safe, too. Even if only for two more minutes.
The alarm chirped, soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet. Maggie groaned into his chest, muttered something that sounded like “fuck you,” and slapped it down off with a lazy hand.
“Time to face the world,” Scott said.
“Fuck the world,” she mumbled, eyes still shut. Then she opened them just enough to meet his. “Except you. You’re okay.”
He smiled, kissed the top of her head. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
She sighed and pushed herself up, sheets slipping down her bare shoulders. “Alright, YC. Shower time.”
They untangled reluctantly, both moving slow, both still carrying the pleasant ache of what they’d done. Scott felt the sting on his back again as he swung his legs off the bed. Maggie stretched beside him, muscles long, her skin glowing faintly in the dim light from the clock projection.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like stolen moments or a one-off fling. It felt like something much stronger.
Scott sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his shoulders, stretching the stiffness from his back. “Go ahead and shower first,” he said.
Maggie’s head came up instantly. “No fuckin’ way. Mom’s down there. We just fucked each other quite intensely, and I do not want to be the first to face her. She’ll take one look at me and just know. And she’ll say something too. Start asking questions. Start making wedding plans. Fuck that shit. You go down first and make initial contact. If you don’t want her to know, put on your cop face. Pretend it’s Mr. Truth and Justice you’re talking to down there.”
Scott gave her a skeptical look. “You’re paranoid. Mom’s not a witch, she’s just a lovable stoner carrying on the hippie lifestyle her folks started. She wouldn’t know if we robbed a bank, let alone had sex.”
“Then you’ll have no problem going down to face her,” Maggie shot back. “Get in the fuckin’ shower, Dover.”
He arched a brow. “Are you telling me to hit the showers?”
“If you don’t, Mom won’t even have to look at you,” she warned. “She’ll smell it. It’s a wonderful smell we created, but it’s time to wash it away.”
Scott chuckled, pushing himself upright. “Fair point.”
He padded into the bathroom and turned on the water. He didn’t have any clothes here—something he’d need to fix if this became a regular thing. A couple pairs of sweats, some T-shirts, a toothbrush, deodorant, razor, and his own shampoo and body wash so he didn’t walk out smelling like lilacs and cucumbers.
The spray hit his skin, hot and stinging where her nails had raked across his back and where her fingers had dug into his ass. He ducked his head under, working through a final rinse, when a voice carried in from the doorway.
“Leave the water running.”
He blinked, turned, and saw Maggie standing naked just outside the door, framed in steam.
“How long have you been ogling me?” he asked.
Her smirk was lazy, amused. “Not ogling. Just appreciating the artistic quality of the male form.”
Scott stepped out, dripping, and she brushed past him, slipping into the shower.
After drying off and tossing the towel in Maggie’s hamper, Scott pulled on his boxers and slinked downstairs, careful on the steps, ears tuned for any sound. From the living room he could hear Katie’s dragon game blasting through the speakers, the kids laughing and bickering as they played. Mom’s voice drifted from the kitchen, humming to herself. Nobody saw him slip into his own room.
He shut the door, grabbed his electric razor, and gave himself a quick once-over. Not as close as a blade, but fast. He leaned into the mirror, checked his work, and grimaced—he still smelled like Maggie’s lilac-and-cucumber body wash. Definitely not his scent. He dabbed on a little cologne at his neck and jawline. It would cover him for now. He’d wash it off before shift.
True, he could just tell Mom he’d showered upstairs because Maggie had a badass shower, but better not to even show up on her radar. Mom wasn’t a witch, like he’d told Maggie, but she was sharp, and stoners had a way of catching little details nobody else noticed.
He pulled on jeans, black uniform socks, and a baggy polo shirt—the standard pre-shift outfit. No shoes, no gun yet. Those came last.
When he finally made his way to the kitchen, Mom was bent over a wooden bowl, tossing together a salad. Kale, of course, but she’d been generous with spinach and green leaf lettuce too.
She looked up the moment he walked in. “Merry Christmas, my beautiful boy,” she said, arms opening. She pulled him into a hug, squeezing tight.
When they broke apart, her eyes flicked over his face, and her mouth curved into a knowing smile. “You and Maggie are doing it now!”
Not a question. A statement.
“Damn,” Scott whispered. “Maybe you are a witch.”
Mom laughed. “I dabbled in Wiccan beliefs back at the turn of the century, but that’s not what told me.” She touched his cheek lightly. “It’s all over your face, son. You are glowing in a way that only a man in love—who is having that love returned—can look.”
Mom’s smile widened, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “That, and I tried to wake you up a little while ago to ask where the colander was, but you didn’t answer and your door was locked. And then I went upstairs to ask Maggie, and her door was locked. Neither one of you ever locks doors against the house. So ... I knew there was a reason. I wasn’t sure—maybe there was an explanation. But when I saw your face just now, I knew. Congratulations, son. I knew this would happen someday. I knew it ever since you first introduced her to me.”
She pulled him into another hug, warm and lingering.
Right then, Maggie came down the stairs. Loose-fitting blouse buttoned up, jeans, socks. No gun, no shoes, hair still down. Her face was set in professional calm—cop face, like she’d practiced for just this moment.
“Hi, Mom,” she said.
Mom went straight to her, wrapped her in a big hug, then—before Maggie could react—kissed her square on the mouth. “You are positively glowing as well! I am so happy for both of you.”
Maggie froze, eyes wide, then turned her stunned gaze to Scott.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “You were right. She is a witch.”
“Wiccan,” Mom corrected cheerfully. “And I’ve only had the training. I’m not an active member of the coven anymore. Well—except on Samhain. I still go to the yearly gathering. Always a good time.”
Scott knew the word. Samhain—the big one. The most important holiday on the Wiccan calendar. It fell on October thirty-first, the same night everyone else called Halloween. Growing up, he remembered, other kids’ moms were helping with costumes or handing out candy, his was in a field somewhere with her coven, chanting around a bonfire.
He didn’t mind. It had been a rhythm of childhood. Every Halloween, Mom would head out in one of her flowing skirts with beads in her hair and a shawl over her shoulders, smelling of incense and patchouli as she kissed him goodbye. Then Dad would grab a jacket, check the flashlight, and take him door to door through the neighborhood. Just the two of them.
Those nights had been theirs—a little bonding ritual between father and son. Scott with his plastic pumpkin bucket, Dad with his steady hand on his shoulder, cracking jokes and sneaking candy from the haul. By the time they got home, Mom was long gone, off with her people. She wouldn’t return until after midnight, smelling of woodsmoke and pot, her smile still wide from whatever drum circles or rituals she’d joined.
It was just his normal. Mom’s off doing some pagan ritual shit and Dad takes me trick or treating. And looking back, Scott realized he’d loved it.
Mom’s eyes sparkled, curiosity shining through the mischief. “So tell me—when did this start? When did you first do it?”
Scott and Maggie exchanged a quick glance. No point lying. Not to Mom.
“A little while ago,” Scott said carefully.
Mom tilted her head. “And how many times since then?”
“Not a lot,” Maggie admitted, voice even. “Fewer than you’d think.”
Mom chuckled. “Do the kids know you’re doing it?”
“No,” Scott said quickly.
“They will,” Mom warned. “Kids always know before you think they do.”
“We’re still figuring it out ourselves,” Maggie said, cutting in before Mom could press. “Until we do, we’re not telling them.”
Mom studied them both for a beat, then nodded. “Fair enough. I understand.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Scott said.
She softened, turning her attention to Maggie. “So, honey, are you still a lesbian?”
Maggie’s brows rose. “That’s not exactly a choice, you know.”
Mom nodded knowingly. “Of course. You don’t choose your sexuality, it chooses you. You can play on the other side of the fence—hell, I spent almost two years as a lesbian back when the Iraq War started—but you always know where your true path lies. You know it in your heart.”
Maggie gave a small smile. “In my heart, I am a lesbian and that will never change. But...” She glanced at Scott, her mouth twitching. “It seems I’ve developed a fancy for little excursions over the fence lately. Only with Dover here, though.”
Mom clasped her hands together, eyes bright. “That’s beautiful. Like a story written in the Book of Shadows.”
Before either of them could respond, Christopher bounded in, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from gaming. “Hey, Scott, can we take a quick bike ride before dinner?” he asked.
Mom tapped the salad tongs against the bowl. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”
Scott gave Christopher a sympathetic look. “Nana says no.”
Maggie added, deadpan: “And Nana rules.”
Christopher groaned, spun on his heel, and trudged back toward the living room.
Scott and Maggie drove in separately, as they always did on Thursdays, pulling into the lot a few minutes apart. No change in routine. No reason to. They split toward their respective locker rooms without a word, gearing up the way they always had—duty belts, vests, radios, cams. The smell of oil and gun cleaner in the air, the chatter of lockers slamming, the little rituals that settled each of them into work skin.
By the time Scott slid into his seat, briefing was already buzzing with side conversations. Lieutenant Ransom strode to the front, gravel in his voice even before he started talking.
“Update on the one-eighty-seven Dover and Carter caught last week,” he said, flipping his notepad open. “Our shooter, Theodore Jamal Cartwright, also known as ‘Hard Core,’ turned himself in at the county jail two nights ago. Walked in with a lawyer, asked to be arrested for murder.”
That got heads turning.
Ransom continued, “Less than two hours later, he gave a full confession. Said Mr. Winthrop—our victim—was trying to buy some weed from him, looked like he was going to pull a gun, so he ‘fired wildly into the air to scare him.’ Quote, unquote. Apparently that round just happened to hit Winthrop in the face even though he fired straight up and was nearly a foot taller.”
A ripple of cynical smiles spread across the room.
Scott shook his head, voice flat. “That’s a good story. That’ll get him second degree at the very worst. Maybe even manslaughter two.”
Mendez leaned forward, frowning. “Why the fuck confess at all? Word was Homicide knew he was the shooter but didn’t have shit to prove it. Just a snitch dropping his name. Nobody was talking.”
Scott kept his face unreadable. He knew whose snitch it was—his. Nobody else needed to. They didn’t want to know anyway. Everyone in the room understood: snitches were sacred ground.
“The word on the street,” Scott said, “is that the Crips running Danger Island were real pissed at Hard Core. Like ‘we’re going to kill your stupid ass if you show your face here again’ pissed. I’m thinking he turned himself in to get off the street and set himself up so he only does ten years or so.”
Ransom nodded. “That tracks. Hard Core knows this is just a local beef, one branch of the Crips, not the whole empire. This shit won’t follow him into the jail or the pen. In there, he’ll be a fucking hero. The brother who shot some loudmouth whitey motherfucker in the face for mouthing off to him. He’ll be golden.”
The room absorbed it without comment. No muttering, no murmuring. Just deputies taking the information in, slotting it where it belonged.
Ransom flipped his page. “Alright. Moving on—”
The shift hit the streets at 2015, like always. It was Christmas night. A shitty night to work but not as bad as New Year’s Eve or the Fourth of July. Those were “amateur nights,” the dates when thousands upon thousands of non-habitual drinkers got smashed beyond recognition. It added an entirely new element to the dynamic of the night. More booze out there in the hands of people who didn’t really understand it—didn’t know its ways. It was like adding Chinook winds to an already parched landscape full of dry brush. One spark, one dangling PG&E wire, and the whole thing could combust.
Christmas wasn’t like that. It was just the usual drunks, but all gathered in bigger clusters, trying to play happy family for each other. Old grudges came up. Tempers grew hot. Fists and cooking implements flew. Good times.
Scott didn’t even get coffee in him before the MDT lit up. He ran three calls back-to-back-to back. Two of them family disturbances—shouting, slammed doors, kids crying in the background, neighbors calling in because nobody wanted to be the one to walk across the street and knock. The third was at the mission at North and Scottsdale. A pair of bums squaring off over the leftover dinner rolls from the Christmas feast. One had stuffed three in his coat, the other wanted them. Fists had flown before anyone could step in.
After clearing that one, Scott put himself available, hoping for a lull long enough to pour some caffeine into his system. Habit kicked in—eyes flicked to the CAD, a quick scan of the district. He always knew where everyone was; you had to. No cop should ever be wondering where the other eight units in District 1 were.
Everyone was tied up. Pearson still finishing the paper from his transport. Mendez on a family fight with Carter rolling code from the far side. Two cars stacked on a traffic crash with no injuries but lots of screaming. The rest scattered across disputes and alarms.
Maggie’s status popped back to AID—available in district—after dropping a DV suspect off at the jail. For about three seconds, they were the only two free units in the entire district. Dover and Winslow. That was the whole bench.
He angled the nose of his unit toward Starbucks. He didn’t make it far.
The MDT chirped. He and Maggie were assigned to a call together, 16-A-1 the primary, 12-A-1 the cover.
ASSIST EMS – GRAVELY DISABLED ADULT REFUSING TRANSPORT.
And just like that, there were no unassigned District 1 units. Business as usual.
Scott sighed. He’d worked a few of these. They sucked. Usually disgusting. Usually nothing you could do. Medics wanted law enforcement to put someone on a 5150 involuntary hold because, in their opinion, it was life-or-death if they didn’t get to a hospital. Problem was, this was America—you were allowed to make stupid decisions. If the patient was alert, oriented, and otherwise rational—no suicidal ideation, no true gravely-disabled criteria under the statute—there was no lawful way to force them.
One stuck in his head: sixty-year-old female, full-blown acute stroke. Left side dead, face drooping, words slurred. It had just hit—still in the window for the clot-buster. Medics did the whole speech. She said it would clear by morning; it had always had before. They told her those had been TIAs—mini-strokes, her warning signs for the full blown stroke she was now experiencing. The ER doc talked to her on speaker phone, begged her to come in. She refused. Scott evaluated her for a psychiatric hold. Alert. Oriented. Decision-making intact—except for refusing treatment for a massive stroke. No criteria to violate her civil right to be stupid. They left her sitting on her couch, drool on her chin and resolve in her eyes.
What would it be this time? A heart attack? GI bleed? Another stroke?
He keyed up. “Sixteen-Adam, en route.”
Maggie echoed the sentiment. The last two free units in District 1 were now committed to a probable clusterfuck. He flipped a U-turn and started heading for the north side of Northwood. North Northwood, if you will.
Scott got there first. He didn’t bother waiting for Maggie, even though policy said no officer went into an in-progress call alone unless it was an active shooter, a kid, or a cop involved.
On paper, sure. In real life, everyone knew better. Cops weren’t machines that clicked neatly through policy just because it was written down. He had five healthy bodies already standing by—Engine 42 from Heritage County Fire and Medic 42 from County EMS. If somebody inside decided to kick his ass, those five would jump in. This wasn’t a crime in progress anyway. It was a gravely disabled adult refusing transport.
What could possibly happen?
He rolled right in, easing the unit up behind the idling red fire engine. The address was a duplex in one of the nicer slices of Northwood, which still meant you were visiting South Chicago instead of South Beirut.
The moment he opened the door, the smell hit him.
Thick. Decay. Shit. All swirled together in the air.
It was worse than a body that had been down in the summer heat for a few days. And that was fucking remarkable.
Scott walked forward, flashlight in his left hand out of habit, the beam bouncing off the street in front of him. Two of the firefighters and both medics from the ambulance were gathered at the rear of Medic 42, standing right in the plume where the exhaust drifted into the night air.
When he got closer, he realized why. Diesel exhaust was preferable to whatever horror was leaking out of the duplex. Better to choke on fumes than breathe the madness inside.
The medics were Meeker and LaSalle. Meeker was the senior, the lead medic. On anything medical, her word was law. LaSalle might do the legwork, but she made the calls. The fire captain held his clipboard, steady and calm, the overall Incident Commander unless a battalion chief showed up. The engineer was rubbing Vicks under his nose.
Protocol said to check in with the captain first, so Scott angled to him. “Hey, Cap. What in the name of God is making that smell?”
The captain blew out a breath. “Twenty-eight-year-old male inside. Name is David Cole. He’s been a paraplegic since a motorcycle wreck when he was sixteen. Lives here alone. Parents down in Sac—they help him out financially, but otherwise abandoned him years ago. Neighbors called a welfare check. Said the smell’s been getting worse the last four or five days. Thought he might be dead.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “I take it he’s not dead?”
“Not dead,” the captain confirmed. He jerked his chin toward Meeker. “Barely, according to our medic here.”
Meeker shook her head. “One big lump of infection. Got some burn wounds about a year or so back. Stopped showing for wound care appointments. Now he just sits in the living room and drinks Kirkland vodka with Kirkland orange juice.”
The engineer was impressed. “Kirkland vodka’s good shit. Same distillers as Grey Goose.”
That set off a quick sidebar. Meeker said she was a tequila woman, swearing by Herradura. LaSalle threw in Jameson. The captain said anything wet and brown, though he leaned Glenfiddich when he could get it.
Scott shrugged. “Bulleit bourbon. Smooth as hell, though it’s a little steep for my budget.”
The engineer grinned. “Cheaper than Grey Goose.”
They all chuckled, the dark humor working as an air freshener of its own.
Scott glanced at the duplex. “Where’s your other guy?”
The captain sighed. “Inside with the patient. Someone had to stay in there. He’s the fuckin’ probie.”
Scott nodded, understanding. It was called Paying Your Dues. Everybody had to do it. Which was why he was working Northwood tonight instead of Far South County, where farmland, rivers, and relative peace were the rule instead of the exception.
Maggie’s unit rolled up, headlights sweeping across the scene before she killed them and parked right behind Scott’s.
He thought about keying up, Code-4ing her off the call. He didn’t really need her. There were already five healthy bodies here in turnout gear and medic blues. If somebody inside decided to take a swing at him, those five would pile on without hesitation.
But he didn’t. He let her come.
Because having Maggie on a call was often more useful than just another swinging dick. A twenty-eight-year-old male might take her presence differently. A cute female cop could shift the tone of a contact, make it easier to get compliance. It wasn’t sexism, not in Scott’s mind. Out on the street you used anything you had. Every advantage mattered, whether it came from muscle, charm, or just a different face on the uniform. Maggie knew she was sometimes used in this manner and was okay with it. Anything to clear the fucking call.
Her door opened. She stepped out, searched for them, saw them, and then trudged forward into the diesel haze, wrinkling her nose. She walked over slowly. “Suck my cock,” she said upon arrival. “What is that?”
Scott gestured toward the duplex. “Twenty-eight-year-old paraplegic. Motorcycle wreck when he was sixteen. Got burned six months ago, never went to wound care. Neighbors thought he was dead. He’s not. Barely.”
Maggie looked at the house, then back at him. “So ... we actually have to go in there?”
“Looks that way.”
“Can’t we just wheel him out here?” she asked. “Do this in the fresh air?”
Meeker shook her head. “That’d be a violation of his right to dignity.”
Maggie stared at her. “Dignity? Who the fuck came up with that right?”
Scott sighed deeply. “Whoever the motherfucker was, he didn’t work in fucking Northwood.”
That broke the tension, drew a few dark chuckles from the fire crew and the medics. The smell still hung in the air, heavy and rancid, but the humor made it a little more bearable.
They drifted together in a loose knot—Scott, Maggie, Meeker, and LaSalle—just outside the glow of the medic’s taillights. Meeker opened a plastic bag and handed each of them an N-95 mask. The sight brought a ripple of memory from the dim, dark COVID days. Everyone had been trained on their use back then, whether they wanted to be or not.
“No reason to think he’s got COVID,” Meeker said, snapping the straps on her own mask into place. “But this’ll cut the smell to some degree.”
Maggie paused mid-strap. “To some degree? You mean we’ll still be able to smell that?”
Meeker’s eyes crinkled above her mask. “Smell’s carried on molecules a lot smaller than viral particles suspended in respiratory droplets. Droplets a mask can stop. Smell molecules get through. Not all of them, though. Cuts it down maybe fifty percent.” She shrugged. “What you really want to cover are your eyes.”
Maggie’s voice was careful. “Why the eyes?”
Meeker glanced toward the house. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Scott grunted. “I don’t really like surprises much. What are we going to see?”
“Maggots,” Meeker said flatly. “The venous stasis ulcers on his legs, the burn wounds on his hip—they’re all crawling with them.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Scott’s stomach turned. He’d seen maggots in human flesh before—half a dozen times since leaving the jail for patrol. But never in living flesh. Never crawling inside someone still breathing.
He took a deep breath through the mask, the diesel exhaust now thick with the rancid undertone seeping from the duplex. “You think maggots in his skin is life-threatening?”
“No,” Meeker said. “Maggots are a symptom. Come gaze your eyes upon Mr. David Cole in there and you’ll see why I think you really need to put him on a hold for gravely disabled.”
Scott nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go check it out.”
They pushed through the front door, and the smell tripled instantly.
Scott staggered a step, stomach lurching. He’d never puked on the job before. Not in the jail, not on patrol. Not even the time a psych inmate smeared shit across his face and then started eating it in front of everyone. But this—this was right up against his line.
Flies swarmed the air, thick and buzzing. Flies in fucking December. That alone said plenty. They’d found a breeding ground in here so prime they didn’t care what the calendar said.
The heat was cranked as high as it could possibly go. Oppressive. Stifling. Scott immediately regretted wearing his cold-weather jacket—sweat already prickled the back of his neck.
Everywhere he looked, there was garbage. Remains of DoorDash meals stacked on counters, spilled across the floor, each one a little hub airport for the flies. Empty Kirkland vodka handles leaned drunkenly against Kirkland orange juice bottles, orange against clear in a tableau of slow suicide. A half-full bottle of each sat on the coffee table, condensation long gone, the smell sharp and cheap.
And in the middle of it all, slouched in an electric wheelchair, was David Cole.
Twenty-eight. Paraplegic. Alcoholic.
He looked like death reheated.
Skin as white as a sheet of printer paper—maybe whiter. Hair black and greasy, slicked against his scalp in wet ropes that made the pallor even harsher. A filthy Harley-Davidson T-shirt hung off his narrow shoulders, sweat shorts bunched around his thighs.