LITMIR.BIZ

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was bound.

      Then Dorian would start all over again, while I writhed, begging him to please, please, please let me finish.

      Eventually, he would acquiesce.

      As long as I did what I was told.

      I remember.

       Chapter One

       Strangers On A Train

      ‘And lilies are still lilies,

      Pulled by smutty hands,

      Though spotted from their white.’

      Elizabeth Barrett Browning

      ‘You’re late, Lily.’

      ‘I know, I’m sorry. It was just –’

      ‘Tell me later.’ Gwen slipped her Charlie card into the slot and held the gate open for me, like we always did. Rebels. We pushed our way through the crowd, dashed down the dirty grey steps and waited for the next Orange Line to 4024 Boylston, home to Apollyon LLC.

      Yep, that Apollyon. The fitness emporium that put SFX Incorporated out of business, not to mention taking down smaller equipment chains along the way. We have a chain of gyms along the East Coast, and a couple years back bought out Planet Fitness. Apollyon’s ruthless approach to finance – search, destroy and takeover – led us to be tagged the ‘Wal-Mart of Workout’ in Forbes’ January issue, which, rumour had it, had a negative impact on sales. Go fig. Owned by Holder Enterprises, some monstrous Dark Force of finance in Denver. Among many other things, I was a copywriter for the evil empire of exercise equipment. I also dabbled a bit in the PR department.

      ‘No more Patron, ever.’ I couldn’t stand tequila, anyway. ‘So much of never. Hangover, day two. Totally missed the first train.’

      ‘Get over it, and I apologise for the bitchy message. Obviously I overdisclosed to you on your very own life. My badness. Hey, what would you have done with Troy even if he had gone home with you?’ She smacked my arm. ‘Prude-y Princess. Lily-White.’

      ‘I’m not a prude.’ I glared at her. ‘Chastity is a choice. Why did I ever tell you, anyway?’

      ‘Good question.’

      I knew exactly why. A few months prior Gwendolyn and I had an unfortunate conversation about the longest we’d gone without doing the nasty.

      I won.

      This is not a brag. Far from it. Just a fact. I made her swear never to mention ‘Father Gerald’ again to me, and she didn’t, though she was annoyed I’d kept him a secret for so long.

      ‘Are we really talking about my lack of a sex life at eight in the morning?’

      ‘Yes, except it’s eight thirty, and double-yes, your whole “celibacy is power” thing is creepy.’ Gwen glanced over at an older gent who appeared far too interested in our conversation. ‘You got something to say about it, Midlife Crisis?’

      He averted his eyes.

      ‘We’ll discuss another time, Gwen.’ I ducked my head. ‘Like, say, never.’

      ‘That’s cool.’ She fiddled with her moonstone necklace. Gwen worked in graphic design and wore whatever the fuck she wanted. Over the past two years I had never once seen her in anything serious. Nor have I seen her without some sort of boyfriend on her arm, also never anything serious. She wore whatever the fuck she wanted, she fucked whatever the fuck she wanted as well. And yes, for the record, I was totally jealous. ‘Sorry, Lil.’

      ‘Forget it,’ I said, then pointed to a Boston Ballet poster hanging on the opposite wall. ‘Gwen! Oh, my word. The Sleeping Beauty. My all-time favourite.’

      ‘Of course it is.’ She glanced at her watch, then back at the poster. ‘So let’s go. Buy yourself a belated birthday present. I can be your plus one.’

      ‘I wish. Like I can afford.’

      She pointed at the date. ‘Just started last weekend, and runs all summer. You can save.’

      ‘Broke as a joke. End of story.’

      ‘Hey, don’t I owe you a birthday present better than a two-day migraine?’ She gave my bicep a squeeze.

      ‘Gwen, you don’t get to buy me a ticket.’

      ‘Oh, shit. Run.’ She grabbed my arm, yanked me as the T rolled in, and we practically dived as the doors squeaked open, along with all the other tardies. Squish. A bunch of alewives, swimming upstream into Monday.

      Gwen and I each grabbed a loop, staggering as the train sped away from the leftover people I always felt so sorry for. We fell silent, out of respect for the unspoken rule that no one interacts on the ride to work, rather stares coldly and glumly at nothing in particular. Gwen pulled my braid again, smiled and raised her eyebrows.

      So I followed her stare to find a perfectly built gentleman in an Armani suit, leafing through the Wall Street Journal, long legs crossed most elegantly. Since his head was buried in the newspaper, I couldn’t even see his full profile. But from what was visible, I kind of wanted to.

      Very much wanted to.

      What? I mouthed at her, knowing full well what.

      ‘Seeley Booth,’ she whispered, bugging her eyes. ‘Wait till he looks up.’

      ‘Shut up.’ I always had a thing for David Boreanaz, ever since his Vampire days, for which I blame my mom. On her night off, we watched Buffy religiously, though I was far too young to be up so late. Or watch anything as scary as latex-faced monsters, for that matter. She loved Spike, and I loved Angel.

      So, in case you haven’t noticed, Gwen has this foolish thing where she’s convinced she sees celebrities everywhere. Case in point: ‘Jack White’ was playing at Zuzu’s, right?

      But what if she was right this time? David Boreanaz. Right here in Boston.

      ‘Look. Look now!’ This time she didn’t keep her voice down, and I spun around again.

      Dear God.

      OK, he wasn’t Angel or Agent Booth, because he was even hotter.

      No, really.

      And about five years younger. Maybe ten? I can never tell how old people are after they hit 30, and I was pretty sure he’d hit that at some point.

      To this day, I still can’t figure out how old Dorian Holder is.

      Not that it matters.

      Not that I care.

      Evil shapeshifter is what he is.

      Anyway, so there we were on the T, eyeballing this beautiful man who practically had a magical glowing aura around him. Apparently, we were staring too hard. Sensing Gwen’s and my unladylike leering, the object of our admiration glanced up, neatly folding his newspaper as though choreographed.

      He smiled.

      Wow.

      Not a smile so much, if I’m to be honest, but one corner of his mouth definitely lifted into a flirty smirk. Not a cruel smirk, because he had an adorable dimple, which softened the seriousness of his square jaw, high cheekbones and flashing eyes. Deep down, Adonis was very sweet, I was certain. It was a flirty smirk, and was already embedded in my memory bank, an image I planned to revisit over the few precious minutes before falling asleep at day’s end.

      Our eyes met.

      No shit.

      His – brown eyes? Hazel eyes? Green eyes? I couldn’t tell. Anyway, his eyes twinkled for

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