Traveler Through Darkness
A lifetime of want collides with fate the night of Tarik’s bachelor party, fulfilling his deepest secret desire—only it’s not with the strippers his Arab friends hired to cater to his every whim. Uncomfortable with the debauched festivities, Tarik ducks out of the soirée, stumbling into Wo, a kind Navajo artist, who forces him to say what he really wants, then gives it to him, all night.
About the Author:
Mezzofiction author, Fierce is imagination shapeshifted as a scribe taunting blank pages and carpal tunnel, neither of which are much use for deadlines. Close allies are impeccable timing and a trusty masseuse. Being a switch I/ENFP doesn't hurt. For kicks Fierce has other personas across several genres, tends to fill in “Other” on surveys without explaining, and chooses the finality of the Japanese Tamagotchi.
In summary: Fierce writes all kind of dirty things that you probably shouldn’t ever read…
“I am so sorry–” Tarik began.
“It’s okay. It was an accident.” The words were rushed as he pulled the soaked sweatshirt from his skin and fanned the dripping tablet. Black smudges coated the fingertips and heel of his left hand.
“I've ruined your work,” Tarik lamented, motioning toward the pad.
“Oh, no. It's just a sketch. I was fascinated with the moonlight on the harbor.” He flashed a charcoal rendering of the midnight water. A long, shimmering black strand fell forward of the band securing his hair, lighting just at the edge of his upturned mouth. “No masterpiece here.”
Piercing umber eyes met Tarik’s, and the gentle smile relaxed his shoulders. “You were in the ballroom earlier.”
“Mmm. The bachelor party.”
Tarik pursed his lips, nodding once. “I’m staying in the hotel. Allow me to get for you a clean shirt.”
“It’s fine. I don’t have far to go.”
“In this cold, with no jacket, you will freeze. Please. I insist—”
“What's your name?” the younger man asked.
“I am Tarik.” He bowed.
“I'm Wo.” He nodded. “Thank you for your kind offer, Tarik.”