Chapter 6: Sunday Night Freedom

Sunday evening arrived with a low, heavy twilight that painted the Maplewood sky in deep shades of purple and bruised gray. The temperature had dropped, bringing a sharp chill that made the thick plumes of steam rising from house number fourteen’s backyard look like a localized weather pattern.

Marcus had spent the afternoon preparing the perimeter. The heavy cedar privacy fence was locked tight from the inside, the latch secured so that entry was entirely on their terms. A stack of hot, brick-oven pizzas and two large platters of spicy, glistening wings sat on the large patio table, the rich, savory scents mingling with the sharp tang of chlorine and woodsmoke. The outdoor speakers hummed with a low, heavy bassline—a slow, rhythmic electronic pulse that seemed to mimic a racing heartbeat.

Heaven stood by the edge of the water, a glass of dark rum in her hand. For the evening’s gathering, she had chosen an outfit that pushed the boundaries of casual comfort to their absolute limit. She wore a sheer, black oversized mesh jersey that fell mid-thigh, entirely loose and unbuttoned down the front. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a microscopic, high-cut black thong. Every movement she made in the shifting blue light of the pool exposed the full curve of her breasts and the pale, smooth expanse of her skin.

Marcus stood right behind her, dressed simply in dark board shorts, his bare chest broad and imposing in the twilight. His arms wrapped around her waist from behind, his hands sliding down to cup the bare undersides of her cheeks.

“Six twenty-five,” Marcus murmured against her ear, his breath hot. “They’re on time.”

The faint, unmistakable sound of the front doorbell echoed through the house. Heaven turned in his arms, giving him a slow, wicked smile before breaking away. “Let’s show our guests what complete freedom looks like.”

When Heaven opened the front door, Frank and Denise Kowalski stepped into the entryway. Frank was dressed in a crisp, dark designer polo and tailored jeans, looking every bit the affluent, commanding surgeon. Denise stood half a step behind him, wrapped tightly in a heavy trench coat that she kept securely buttoned up to her throat, her fingers white where they gripped the fabric. Her eyes were wide, darting nervously around the empty hallway, her breath coming in short, shallow puffs.