Pulling the piece of paper from my pocket, I double-check the address and look up at the door. The painted letters are faded. Bricks are covered in soot and garbage litters the ground. The alley I face has a working light, but it’s dark between the other end that’s lit and me. I rev my bike and glance at Cruise. He nods and takes the lead, riding ahead of me. Once we reach the end, we stop under the lamp rigged to the side of the building.

I cut the engine and pocket my key. “This is it,” I say, looking up at the dark red door. A paint job couldn’t save this door. The wood is rotted, the handle barely hanging on by a screw. There’s not a lock in sight, so I open it before I can talk myself out of it. Cruise follows me inside, but his hand hits my arm and he takes the lead.

The building appears abandoned as reported by the guy who tipped us off, but I’m not dumb enough to believe that. My gut feeling says we are not alone. The screech of a cat causes Cruise to jump, but I remain steady on our quest, as I know this tip will pay off.

A lamp on the far side of the room illuminates a worn-out sofa with exposed springs and spider webs. A woman lies on top of it in a ragged dress. I would wager she’s no older than my father, but with skin that’s peeked into death’s door, she looks well over seventy. Staring at her eyes, they’re wide open but vacant. “April?”

Her light-colored eyes pivot my way as I shine my phone down, using the flashlight to get a solid look at her. She mumbles, “Did you bring me something?”

“What do you want?”

“Anything to take away this feeling.”

“What feeling is that?”

“Life.” She sits up, hunches forward on her knees, but keeps her eyes on me. “I’ve seen you.”

“You know me?”

“No. I’ve only seen you.”

“Where?”

“You look like your father when I knew him.”

“You know my father?” I ask, shocked.

Sitting back, she laughs as well as an empty shell of a person can. “I know him. Why are you here, rich boy?”

I’m intrigued that she knows anything about me, much less seems to actually know my father, when I just heard her name recently. “I was told you might have some information on my mother.”

Her smile disappears, and she drags her dirty forearm across her lips. “I don’t know anything about her.”

“How do you know my father?”

“You got anything?”

In high school, I had friends and made connections between buyers and sellers, though I was never a dealer. That knowledge helped when I started searching for my mother’s killer. I was around addicts enough to know what she wants. “No.” I hold firm in front of her, needing answers.

She stands and walks around the couch. Her hair is matted and hasn’t been washed in a long time; the stench is either coming from her or the sofa. It’s indistinguishable. “Did he send you here like the last guys?”

“Last guys?”

Leaning against a broken doorway, she faces me, but her eyes shift quickly between Cruise and me. “He tried to kill me. More than once.”

“Who?”

“You look so much like him. What’s your name?” I hesitate. She holds her fingers to her mouth like she has a cigarette between them. She doesn’t. With a grin that lifts easily on one side, she says, “You don’t have to tell me. I know already. I know. I know you. I used to see you as a baby. He even let me hold you once.”

Reason is hard to hold on to when you’re looking into the eyes of a crazy person. “Why would he do that?”

“You should ask your father.” She taps her imaginary cigarette, and asks,

“Why are you really here, Alex? Do you go by Alex like your dad?”

“Why did my father try to kill you?”

“For your mother.” Her voice is too steady, too comfortable, speaking of my mother as if she would harm a fly much less a human. “I need money.” She slinks closer. “You’re so handsome.” When she tries to touch my face, I back away. “Discount for your friend if you have cash.”

I dig out a hundred-dollar bill and toss it on the couch. “Don’t waste it. What is your last name, April?”

“How did you find me?”

“Your drug dealer.”

“Kingwood,” she replies, her eyes growing heavy as she slumps back down on the couch. “I know you. Alex Kingwood.” Alex Kingwood. She knows my name. “Bring me food.” For someone so drugged, she certainly seems to have lucid moments.

Cruise hits me on the arm. “We should go.”

I should be mad over the lack of real answers, but she’s a mess and I’m lucky I got what I did from her. “I’ll bring you something next time. Take the money and get yourself something to eat.”

I turn and start for the broken door but stop when she says, “She said you were a good boy.”

When I turn back, her eyes are closing, her body sinking onto the couch until she falls sideways. Running back, I try to catch her before she passes out, but I’m too late. Her chest is rising and falling. Her sleep is deep. “Fuck.” I ask Cruise, “What do I do?”

“She can’t ride a bike in that condition.”

Staring at her, I run my fingers through my hair. “I need to get home and talk to my father.” I have to leave her here, even though the place is every shade of vile. “Send her some food tomorrow and every day after.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

My Harley hides in the night—the matte black sleek, the price point just as high-end as the custom-built bike. It’s not meant for neighborhoods like this, neither are Cruise and I. It makes me wonder if we’re in over our heads, or in too deep, like I told Sara Jane.

Sweet Sara Jane. She’s going to be the death of me if I don’t get myself killed first. The woman’s got me by the balls and heart, and I think she’s finally figured that out. I speed down the alley and round onto the street. Cruise is next to me as we head to the bridge.

Looking over, I see his smile and roll my eyes. That situation may have been a mess, but after years of research and dead-end leads, it’s good to have something to chase down. I feel victorious. I enjoy the wind blowing through my hair, the chill of the night coursing through my veins, and the anticipation of returning to Sara Jane.

Shelly took her to the manor when I left. She wanted to go to bed, be there for me when I return. Maybe that’s how we are now—open and honest—with everything out on the table. No more secrets. A weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I float toward the light, allowing the weight to sink to the dark.

I like this feeling. Floating to the surface instead of drowning. Peace. It brings me peace that I don’t have to do this alone, behind a cloak of deceit. Together we’re strong enough to make it. My father was so wrong. “Part of not shutting me out is trusting I can be more to you now I have some idea of what you need. I love you, both the dark and light.” Fuck, I’m a lucky bastard.

When we cross the bridge, I lift my left hand and wave once. Cruise nods and takes off down a side street that leads to the penthouse. I drive straight. I have a lot of shit to deal with when it comes to my father, but that’s nothing new. Our relationship is complicated, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve entered the prestigious neighborhood that my family’s manor anchors at the end. The gates of the driveway open, and I speed up until I reach the garage. It opens and I pull inside, parking the bike.

I hurry inside, my anger tempered by thoughts of Sara Jane. Taking the stairs by two, once I reach the top, I rush down the corridor to my quarters. The house is quiet, the hour just going on five. I open the door quietly. My sweet angel is asleep on the bed, the room tinted blue from the moonlight filling it.

Unzipping my leather jacket, I let it slide down my arms and toss it on the couch. I toe off my shoes while unbuttoning my shirt. I drop it on the floor and walk into the bathroom. Whipping my undershirt off, I toss it to the hamper, and miss, but I don’t care. I leave it and strip down my jeans. After brushing my teeth and taking a piss, I walk back into the room and climb into bed, hoping I don’t wake her.

I’m too restless, my body wide awake, my mind reeling with everything from confessing to Sara Jane to April and her connection to my father and me. “I know you. Alex Kingwood.” What did April mean?

Lying next to Sara Jane, I see the freckle she has just above her upper lip on the right side near the center. She didn’t have it when I met her. It’s something that became a part of who she is, a lot like me. A lot like she is to me as well.

When I was little, I once caught a firefly and ran to the terrace to show my mom. When I opened my hand, it was dead. My mother took the bug from my hand and held it in her palm. She cupped her other hand around it and said, “Life is delicate. Hold your hands together but not so tight that you smother it. Let it breathe. Let it live.” We walked to the closest flowerbed and buried the bug. I remember her closing her eyes and saying a silent prayer.

The next night I caught another firefly and cupped it in my hands. When I opened them, the firefly flew away, and I started to cry. My mom held me, and told me to open my eyes. When I did, the light of the firefly was within reach. I didn’t try to catch it, though I could have. Instead, I stayed in my mom’s arms, watching it do what it was made to do—create magic. Fly freely.

I cup the delicate skin of Sara Jane’s cheek, and her eyes open. The hazy look in her eyes only adds to her peaceful beauty. Her hand grasps my wrist and she turns to kiss my palm. My firefly has brought beauty to a life that had lost it, created magic by showing me how to love. I have to let her breathe to let her live. And if she strays too far, I have to trust she’ll return.

She whispers, “You came back to me.”

“Always.”

A sleepy smile graces her lips.

“Go to sleep, Firefly.” I kiss the freckle, her lips, each one of her eyelids, and the softness right under her left ear.

The hold on my wrist loosens, and her hand rests against her chest. I pull the sheets up and cover us to our necks. Though my thoughts weigh heavily, my heart is light just from being near her.

The alarm rings too early. Sara Jane ends the torture, but she begins a sweeter hands-on one when she rubs my cock. Her breath blows across my skin when she whispers, “You want me.” Not a question. A fact. Tender lips kiss my face and down my neck before she goes lower, under the sheet, dragging her nails along the inside of my thigh while taking my boxer briefs with her.

Her lips embrace me, her tongue caressing, the whole of her engulfing me. “Fuck,” I moan, my eyes squeezing closed as my head presses back into the pillow. I find the top of her head and steady her as she pulls me into her warmth.

The pressure intensifies, and her hair is wrapped around my fingers. With each suck, lick, bite the tension is twisted tighter and tighter. I don’t make announcements. She can tell when I’m going to come. Her mouth grips, her hand covering the gap, and the speed picks up as my body jolts beneath her.

Both my hands hold her as she takes me, swallowing around my dick until she’s drunk me down. My body gives in, and my muscles relax. Sara Jane lifts and crawls up my body. Her lips are swollen with desire, red tainting them like I’ve tainted her. She kisses me, and I kiss her back twice as hard.

When she falls to the side, and lets out a sigh, I say, “Oh no, baby. My turn.”

I don’t bother with the sheet and let it fall to the bottom of the bed. I like seeing her naked and exposed, sexy and squirming just for me. Her body is open, her pussy delectable as it glistens for me. With two fingers, I spread her open and dip down to taste.

“You’re fucking incredible.”

“You like to tease.”

“No, baby, I like to savor.” I don’t bother with fingers. I fuck her with my tongue. Her body wiggles in reaction, so I pin her down by her hips.

“Alexander,” she moans, her back arching off the bed.

I can’t handle it when she sounds so taken, when my name rolls off her tongue in so much pleasure. When her legs trap me in place. I do this to her. I. Alone.

Fuck.

My pleasure from power overcomes me and I lift her leg up and rest it on my shoulder. I’m not able to resist the calling of her body to mine and drop down to kiss her tits and collarbone. Pressing into her core, even deeper, I look up, and into her eyes. The depth of trust found in her gentle blues pushes my pride down while I press into her. I’m overwhelmed by the privilege that she’s mine and she only wants me. “Fucking hell you feel amazing, Sara Jane.”

“Say it again,” she pleads. “Say my name like it’s the only name that matters.”

I stop thrusting, my body stopping from her request. My breath comes harsh, but I look at her, making sure she’s looking me in the eyes. “You are all that matters, Sara Jane. All. Everything. The only thing.” The only good thing.

Her hands slide up over my shoulders and neck until she’s holding me by the face. “Will you give up this search? For me?”

Searching the flecks in her eyes, the wings of her words as they fly like a whisper to my ears, my gut reaction responds, “I can’t.”

She lets me remain in my unrequited stance. “Will I ever be enough?”

I drop to the side and roll onto my back. My arm drapes over my eyes, and I release a long, deep breath. “You and my need for answers aren’t one and the same.”

“But we’re equal.”

“No, but it’s parallel.”

Lying back, she sighs. I’ve disappointed her . . . or hurt her feelings. I could smooth the crinkle in her emotions I’ve caused, but that damn promise about no lies needs to be kept. She needs to know where my loyalty lies and that’s in two places—in the past with my mother and the present with my firefly. “What are you thinking?” I dare to ask.

“I’m thinking if you can’t give this search up, then I’ll just have to help you.”

“How?”

“By supporting you.” Lifting up, she strokes my cheek. When I move my arm, I cover her hand, and she adds, “I may not be able to help find who killed her, but I can be here for you.” Her kisses come and I devour her, just like I consume her each and every time I’m with her.

She’s the sky.

I’m the earth.

Together we make up our own universe.

Capturing her orgasm, I kiss her lips and fuck her until I lose myself to the blackness and bright flashing lights. Sitting up abruptly, I hold her even closer by wrapping my arms around her back, and kiss her so hard she never has to wonder what she means to me again.

Our union brings a deep blush to her cheeks. Lying back, I bring her with me. She’s wrapped around my body, her heart pounding against my side. I chuckle at how much she enjoys sex. Takes control even. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

She sits up, her hand against my chest. Not laughing, but instead, determination owning that glint in her eyes, she says, “You didn’t create a monster, Alexander. You created a queen.”