Escaping Solitude Read online

  A NineStar Press Publication

  Published by NineStar Press

  P.O. Box 91792,

  Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87199 USA.

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Escaping Solitude

  Copyright © 2018 by Sara Dobie Bauer

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at the physical or web addresses above or at [email protected].

  Printed in the USA

  First Edition

  October, 2018

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-949909-03-6

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers.

  Escaping Solitude

  The Escape Trilogy, Book Two

  Sara Dobie Bauer

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  To all the Johnlock and Charmie shippers who inspire me every day.

  And to Chris, my nasty boy.

  Chapter One

  MY SAILOR IS getting very good at nightmares. In the bed of our rented hotel room in the New Orleans French Quarter, he thrashes against me in the dark and whimpers. When Edmund is lost in the thralls of passion, I adore that noise—but not when he’s afraid like this. I pull his naked body hard against mine and press kisses to his clammy forehead. He claws at me for but a moment before allowing himself to be enveloped in my embrace. He murmurs my name and falls back asleep.

  We’ve only been on dry land for a day after an oceanic journey that felt interminable. Perhaps it’s my having been alone for so long on my island of exile, but I now abhor the presence of so many other people. Edmund said I acted like a she-wolf with her pup, my hands on him whenever anyone drew near. Yes, I’m territorial of my dearest, but he doesn’t yet know how other vampires can be.

  He’ll find out soon. Michelle demanded we appear at my old vampire coven. I’m to present Edmund to my old friends, but I plan to make it clear that no other immortal will even breathe on my sailor without getting a fist to the throat. Monsters are not to be trusted with something so beautiful, and God, is Edmund ever beautiful.

  He danced on the harbor as soon as he set foot on American soil. I didn’t miss the way Michelle’s eyes glittered as she watched. Although he requested to immediately explore, I refused to let him walk New Orleans barefoot in my hand-me-down, bloodstained clothes. I carried him, laughing, away from the harbor before remembering myself. The way I love my sailor isn’t appropriate to many small-minded Southerners. After so much time spent alone, we have to alter our behavior. I can’t very well grab him and kiss him in the middle of a Bourbon Street afternoon, can I?

  At our hotel, Edmund marveled at the crystal chandeliers, and although we received several strange looks, my coven’s money guaranteed us a room on the top floor. First thing we did was bathe together in a tub practically the size of our island lagoon. I requested a barber and watched as the white-haired gent shaved Edmund and trimmed his hair. Skin once again soft, Edmund hurried the barber away so we could make love. He has done nothing but sleep and eat since, but in the morning, we will visit a tailor.

  It’s been four years since I left. Will old man Peters still be alive?

  Edmund shifts beside me. His fingertips press against my chest, and he hums. “You’re awake.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Your breath changes.” He kisses the edge of my jaw. “I know you don’t need to breathe, but you do it anyway, as though your body won’t give up the habit.” He must notice how tightly I hold him. “Did I have another nightmare?”

  “Mm. Do you ever remember what they’re about?”

  “Water. I think. Lots of water.” He yawns and rubs his legs against mine.

  “Don’t tell me you’re now going to be scared of the sea.”

  I feel him smile against my skin. “Never. I’d just rather not be dragged under it in a sinking ship.” He sits up and stretches his arms over his head. His back makes a slight popping sound when he twists his ribs and stands, walking naked to the pitcher of water in our gilded basin. Most of the high-ceilinged room is painted gold. A huge bouquet of white magnolias sits on the table by my side, although the sweet, floral scent doesn’t cover the New Orleans odor of sweat, salt, and sewer.

  Of course, if I focus, I smell only Edmund. It’s hard to not focus on his bare skin as he drinks straight from the water jug before wiping his face with the back of his hand. The long, angry scar on his back shivers in the moonlight, and the bandage on his arm glows white. I suppose it’s my fault he earned a new scar during our time on the island. His blood was a gift to me that managed to save his life.

  He rubs at his shoulder as though sore. “My body is confused,” he says.

  I lean up on my elbows. “How so?”

  “It’s accustomed to hard work.”

  “I’ll work you hard.”

  He laughs, and the sight of his lean stomach contracting has me half hard already. He flops into bed on his belly. “Do you even listen when I talk?”

  I run my fingers through his dark hair. It’s shorter now than when we first met. “I love listening to you talk.”

  “I’ve spent years living at sea. When I wasn’t busy playing sailor on deck, I walked through wild forests and fought cannibals and pirates. Now, I’m here in this bloody posh hotel, eating pastries all day—”

  I steal a kiss. “They’re called beignets.”

  “And, if we’re not careful, I’m going to end up fat and lazy like all the other British dukes.” His eyes go wide in the darkness. “Jesus, Andrew, I have to write my mother! She might think me mad, but she doesn’t want me dead. And the trading company. Their ship is at the bottom of the sea!”

  I tackle him and put my hand over his mouth. “Quiet. Are you trying to wake the entire hotel? It’s nowhere close to morning yet. Your letter writing will have to wait.”

  He mumbles against my skin.

  “What was that?” I pull my hand away.

  “Are we going to see the city in the morning?”

  “Yes. I have plans.” I think of my tailor, Peters…and a possible nocturnal enticement.

  Edmund’s callused palms run up the sides of my biceps. “I’ll have to pretend I don’t adore you, won’t I? Out in the city. Two men together is frowned upon. I won’t be able to do this…” He cups my head in his hands and pulls me closer until his open mouth finds mine. He sucks on my tongue, and I grind against his hip.

  I pull away and press my forehead to his. “Will I ever stop wanting you?”

  “No.” He smiles. “Men rarely do.”

  “Cocky.”

  He grabs my hand and presses it to the hardness between his legs. “Very.”

  Chapter Two

  IN THE MORNING, Edmund skips the pastries but drinks tea, although he says it doesn’t taste right.

 
I call him a snob.

  “No. I’m British, you tit.” He demands we visit a proper teashop.

  First, though, we must get clothes. I drag him past the spectacle that is New Orleans, even in the morning. Already, the streets crawl with sailors, businessmen, women of class and of ill repute. In the four years I’ve been gone, everything has grown. Buildings are higher. Streets are busier. Gardens are lusher—and the men. Oh, the men. There are so many men. Old, young, fat, thin, handsome, ugly, gorgeous. I smile at my Edmund in his worn breeches, linen shirt, and coat that doesn’t fit. No one compares to him.

  His gray eyes flit back and forth over everything as though devouring my city with his gaze. Lips parted, he sucks sea air into his lungs and almost falls over his own feet when he passes a grand theater playing Faust.

  I chuckle.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “You’ve always made me laugh.” I turn down Bourbon Street. If I keep staring at Edmund, I’m liable to stumble, too, but his enthusiasm drips from his face like afternoon sweat.

  We step aside as a horse carriage passes. Women on a balcony wave at Edmund and I, and Edmund waves back. They continue to shout at us as we walk, so I grab his arm to keep him moving.

  “This city oozes sex,” he says. “And it’s not even lunchtime.”

  “Wait until the sun sets.”

  “Must I?” He elbows me as I steer us toward St. Anne Street.

  Tucked quietly away from boisterous Bourbon, I see the sign for “Peters Clothier” in swirling, black script. Either the old man is still alive or someone has bought out his business. Either way, the shop will have what we need.

  A tiny bell rings when we walk inside. The air around us feels dry, unlike the late summer damp of outdoors, and smells cool, clean, with just a touch of earthy eau de cologne. I know that scent, so I’m not surprised when Peters—with his fluffy white muttonchops and bright blue eyes—pokes his head around a pedestal filled with fabric.

  He puts on a pair of wire rim glasses and squints. “Andrew? I thought you were dead. Shame to lose such a good customer.”

  “Not dead.”

  “Good. Come in and spend your money.”

  He never was one for conversation.

  Peters remembers my favorite fabrics—the deep blues and purples I used to wear before my exile. He probably even remembers my measurements. I go first so that Edmund can wander around and find fabrics of his own choosing. I have no idea what colors he prefers or, frankly, if my sailor has a sense of style at all. I have so much learning to do, but luckily, I also have time.

  Once Peters and I have gone through the familiar rigmarole, I order two suits: one black and one gray, along with a variety of waistcoats and cravats. Peters offers to show me corsets—apparently they’re all the rage for men nowadays—but I refuse. That’ll be the day…

  I buy a sensible suit off the rack so I have something nice to wear until the old man finishes with my order. Standing in front of the mirror, I run my hands down my sides and hips. It feels so good to be clean and properly dressed after years spent sweating and filthy on an island.

  I find Edmund bent over some deep crimson, patterned silk. “That will look perfect on you,” I whisper.

  He smiles and rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “I haven’t worn a bespoke suit in a very long time.”

  “Well, the time is now.”

  With pieces of fabric in hand, we return to Peters. I tug the coat from Edmund’s shoulders and give him a little shove. My aging tailor goes right to work, measuring, writing notes, and mumbling to himself.

  “This one doesn’t require a corset,” Peters says to me. “Broad shoulders, and I can nearly fit my hands around his waist.”

  I almost say “I know” but stop myself. I’m out of practice at keeping secrets.

  Peters grabs Edmund by the chin and stares up at him. I see Edmund in the mirror’s reflection, staring back.

  “New around here?”

  “Yes,” Edmund says.

  “The girls are going to love you. That red is perfect with your coloring, but I’ve got something else too. Been saving it for the right gent.” Peters hustles away toward the back of the shop as Edmund again touches the red fabric he chose on the table nearby.

  It takes all my resolve to not nuzzle my face in his hair. “What color suits would you like?”

  “One black and one green. Those were my colors in London.”

  “Two suits. Waistcoats, cravats—”

  “I don’t wear them.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I don’t wear cravats.” He winks at me because he knows how much I adore his neck and he plans to have it out for show on the decadent streets of New Orleans for everyone to see.

  I bite hard on my bottom lip to keep myself from biting his.

  Peters returns. “Here we are.” He carries what appears to be liquid silver over his arm but is actually a swatch of fabric.

  I hear the sharp intake of Edmund’s breath. Then, he moves, reaches out to touch. “You brilliant man.”

  Peters actually appears to blush.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “An Italian trader. He brought it over from Catanzaro. I reckon it’ll go with your eyes.”

  Edmund chuckles. “Oh, you’re good, aren’t you? I’ll take it.”

  Like me, my sailor is forced to choose a suit off the rack before we depart, but something about the cut of current fashion fits him perfectly. The black suit might as well be tailored, and instead of traditional breeches, he chooses trousers that go all the way to his ankles.

  “I do believe he’s going to be even more fashionable than you, Andrew.” Peters winks, and I think my tailor is not only onto us but one of us if the way he studies Edmund is any indication.

  I buy a tall hat; Edmund does not. We promise to return in two days’ time for our orders as we step out into midday. The city is fragrant, ripe—and loud. As we walk down the streets, it’s just as I imagined on that ship days ago: my Edmund in a fancy suit, smiling at the people we pass. He still wears a bandage on his arm, but other than that, any evidence of the shipwreck, the cannibals, is erased. He is a wealthy man of leisure with callused hands and scars. He is a scientist who studies monsters—and loves them.

  We make several stops as the day wears on. Edmund writes letters to his mother and to the trading company. He requests we walk the harbor and wants to see both cemeteries and museums. He chooses to lunch not at a fancy restaurant but at a small seaside inn that promises the best pasties on American soil. By the time the sun sets, I have become reacquainted with the city that I love and Edmund has learned it brand new.

  On several occasions, I reach out to hold him but stop. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to taste his smile or perhaps nibble on that exposed neck. Instead, I spend the day treating him as friend not lover, but my need to take, touch, fuck…well, my need will have to wait a bit longer because I have plans.

  After dark, I lead Edmund to the back of the French Quarter, away from the society folks and their theaters. I tell him to stay close on Gallatin Street, but Edmund laughs at me.

  “I’d rather you not get stabbed,” I mutter.

  “Andrew, do you know how many knife fights I’ve survived in my life? This one arse—Jesus, where were we?—some island off the coast of Africa, I think. He had a sword the size of my arm. I thought I was done for, but then, some native shot him in the face. I had brains all over me.”

  I snort and laugh because only Edmund could talk about a man’s head exploding and sound mildly annoyed instead of disgusted.

  “Where are you taking me, anyway?”

  I grab his hand and tug him down an alley. Rank with the scent of rotting garbage and probably a dead body or two, nothing but a flickering gas lamp lights our way. We need not go far. Below the gas lamp is a red painted door. I knock—the special way—and the door opens.

  The sweet scent of sex replaces that of refuse. Sex and
incense and opium smoke. I tug Edmund to me and kiss him hard on the mouth because we’re safe here. Here, men dress as women and women dress as men. Mouths and hands wander wherever they may, and services are purchased.

  I sent a note earlier to the brothel’s Irish madam, May, who I spot as soon as we enter the candlelit bar. She saunters toward us, wide skirts flowing, and exhales sweet smoke toward the ceiling. “Andrew. Thought someone had finally killed you.” She wears too much kohl around her eyes, half her pale face painted black. With the hand not holding a cigarette reeking of hashish, she grabs Edmund by the front of his coat. “My, my, where do you find such pretty things?”

  “Deserted islands, my lady,” he says, studying her face.

  Her smile reveals crooked teeth. “Haven’t thought to search there.” She glances at me. “Your room’s ready, Andrew. Rum and the rest. Pay when you’re finished. And if there’s time, I wouldn’t mind the pleasure of a drink with your pretty British thing. I could use some news from the old country.”

  I put my hand on Edmund’s shoulder and squeeze. “Perhaps, although Edmund is going to be very tired after tonight.”

  May’s words are tinged with smoke as she exhales. “Aye, he certainly is.” Her skirts billow as she turns and walks back to the bar.

  Very little has changed at my favorite brothel. The wood floors are still stained and creak as though they might break. The hallways still glow gold with dancing flame. And my favorite room, at the back of the second story, still waits quietly. I press Edmund against the door and kiss his neck. I kiss and suck until his fingertips dig into my shoulders.

  “Bed,” he mutters.

  I hum and kiss his jaw.

  His hand must turn the knob, because the door opens. I suck his lower lip into my mouth and walk him backward farther inside. Then, I stop. I pull away, and when he reaches for my lapels, I tut-tut. I shake my head and gesture with my chin toward the bed.

  He glances over his shoulder, and there they are, kissing in the largest bed in the brothel: the beauties I requested. It was with shock and relief when I learned earlier that my two favorite whores were not only still alive but also still working. Being a New Orleans prostitute did not guarantee a long life, especially for men catering to men—yet, here they are, my powerful Haitian and pale Creole treat.