Second Chance

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part II

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part III

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

New Year’s Day 2033

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Prologue

Seraph, come!

The man’s voice reverberated from within the Havana shelter, echoing from one distant loudspeaker to another.

Responding to his master’s command, a peregrine falcon flew through an immense underground complex, where Cuban workers loaded supplies and weapons into covert transport vehicles. Seraph soared into a network of dimly lit corridors; his eyes acutely focused as he wove through his master’s domain, his ears honing in on increasingly louder sounds of electronic equipment emanating from a central control room. As the bird of prey approached, he slowed the flapping of his wings and entered a circular room with a white dome ceiling.

Seraph landed on a perch between a console of flashing machinery and a large flat-screen monitor. The bird remained still, wings tucked tightly against his body, tilting his head as he watched a man adjust environmental controls without touching the dials—an electronic sign language to initiate tasks. He moved his open hand a few inches left and closed his fist, producing a subtle wash of blue and green lights from the dome ceiling. A translucent glow paralleled his introspective mood as he watched the 3D images.

In early September of the year 2031, Hell’s Angel had just begun. For the next hour, the sixty-three-year-old man, Seth Macklin, viewed a satellite show produced in Boston by his niece, Angel. It amazed Seth to see how Angel and her guest, Brad, gloated over their mutual successes at his personal expense and humiliation.

Seth stared at the opening of her show, immediately recognizing the young male author he had forgotten over the passing decades. Initially, he found the coincidence amusing and savored a familiar feeling of seeing people as they grow and age. As Brad described incidents from his past, Seth felt a tinge of admiration for Brad’s cleverness to write a non-fiction novel about what had happened three decades ago. He kept all of our names except Angel’s! How convenient for her! Conceding to the irony of finding them together, basking in mutual success, he laughed.

Seth turned to his loyal flying friend and stroked his soft plumage. Seraph leaned his head back slightly and offered an affectionate chirp as they regarded each other with mutual respect.

Seraph, can you believe what they have been up to?

The falcon flapped his wings, as if acknowledging his master’s pained sarcasm. Seth’s eyes were frozen to the monitor, and he shook his head in disgust at each scene Brad Genova described from his novel, Twin Crossing, which portrayed Seth as the evil twin brother of Chance Macklin.

Computer: Omni View.

Triggered by the man’s voice command, a domed ceiling filled with a 360-degree panorama of 3D images from Angel’s show. Brad described a chapter about Seth’s six years in jail, an event completely wiped from Seth’s memory until Brad’s vivid narration. To the audience—the entire fucking world!—Brad read aloud a poem he claimed Seth had written in a prison journal, dated 1999. We’ve reached a crossroads, my younger twin / This battle may be yours, but the war I will win / On this plane, parallel lines don’t meet / Yet I overlap same, and my life is complete.

Seth sat back, his eyes narrowing as he fought to recall the words and the moment when he may have written them, but nothing registered. He felt exposed and betrayed. His anger rose as he watched the two stars banter back and forth like a coin flipping from heads to tails. As Angel spoke to Brad and into the camera, she loved to imagine herself reaching the world masses, with her golden blonde hair strategically draping over her right eye.

Brad, I feel I have come to know Seth a great deal more after reading your chapter about his incarceration.

Yes, relevant layers to his onion are revealed. Unfortunately, Seth always kept his guilt about the family abuse to himself.

Angel leaned forward in a leather chair as a camera zoomed in on her face. The images you convey are quite real and support Seth’s troubled nature. How did you obtain the record of his experience during his incarceration?

This piqued Seth’s curiosity—How could he know what I endured in jail? How could he know anything at all? Seth knew the answer: An opportunist such as Brad would stop at nothing to turn his story into a fictionalized farce. Brad’s reply surprised him.

Aside from Seth’s journal, I had the opportunity to interview the prison psychiatrist, the priest who took Seth under his wing, and several prisoners who remembered him. Furthermore, I spoke at length with Cassandra, who is an experienced psychologist. Although she hesitated for personal reasons, she proved vital to my research. It was difficult for her and Chance, but telling their story became a way to heal their wounds, and my own.

"Your wounds! Seth snapped, startling Seraph. You aren’t the one exploited for profit, Bradley!"

Into the camera, Angel said: I’m sure our viewers are interested in obtaining deeper insights into our antagonist. Tell us what happens next.

As you mentioned, this chapter is about Seth’s life in prison.

Each scene Brad described flooded into Seth’s brain, triggering images of a life long since gone, washed away in the rapids of trauma, now flowing over a waterfall of truth he could not deny. At one point, Seth succumbed to the urge to yell during Brad’s fabrications.

No, that’s NOT how it happened! You got it all wrong!

As her show neared its end, Brad described a great storm in 1999 and the destruction at the Macklin boathouse, where twin brothers faced each other in a battle, an event that had severed their bond forever. At the time, authorities declared Seth had drowned, but they did not find his body, and a follow-up investigation revealed no foul play by Chance or Cassandra. Brad’s novel retelling of the incident was like a spear thrust into him.

Computer: System Log TNC9812.

Deeply colored neon lights brought the system to life on the 3D domed ceiling. It signaled the birth of a digitally rendered biological life-form Seth had developed as a kind of game that progressed through stages of life and death. An alien-like organism began as a canvas of life-art with a single cell spinning and mutating, evolving to increasing complexity, mass, and size. Seth admired mechanical-looking limbs that sprouted within the rotating torso, propelling a digital creature from one part of his domed ceiling to the next. The evolving life-form filled the ceiling in a seamless morphing of biology and machinery, with pastel colors of early life degrading into gray and brown tones that decayed and broke apart. Coupled with bizarre visuals were strange sounds of rolling, squishing flesh like a blob of liquid meat. Slowly, as if in pain, the life-art dissolved from the ceiling, deconstructing to more primal elements. Soon, it died of suffocation and faded to flakes of electronic dust.

Seraph observed this visual ambiance of evolution and death in a trance. The falcon loved the VR system. It was a place where he could keep his skills and instincts honed, to experience any scenarios his master programmed for his entertainment—soaring and hunting in the technological land of make-believe. Seraph anticipated entry into the VR when high-powered lights and cameras moved their beams onto him, into the formation as a medley of color spectrums.

Seth positioned VR glasses on his head and savored the digitally rendered scenery. He smiled with affection toward Seraph, also incarnated into the strange electronic world. The VR system Seth owned possessed a unique feature—complete sensory response. It had the ability for a person to feel, smell, taste, and hear everything they visually experienced. Within it, one might theoretically die. However, manufacturers of the 2031IS had devised a solution to the death paradox, ensuring that any perceived death in the VR would not kill the physical body. They even had a slogan: You can’t die trying.

W: Launch Proceed.

A woman’s computerized voice politely spoke. Password, please.

TNC9812.

Welcome to SVR20. Your menu choice, please.

Family Library!

From deep within a central server and photo archive database, 3D holographic images of people materialized and casually stood in front of Seth: a smiling twin brother, Chance, with his loving wife, Cassandra, and a much younger Brad and Angel. Their digitally animated presence showed Seth that time, and circumstance, could be eternal. Seth cordially greeted his twin, whose brilliantly detailed image grinned back with the innocence of their youth. As they shook hands, Seth’s natural flesh intertwined with colorful digitized bits of Chance’s hand. For a moment, they were happy friends and brothers who used to explore everything together.

Seth turned and nodded an expression of detached politeness to Chance’s wife, Cassandra. He spoke to her image with calm words, but sensed he could never change her deep and justifiable contempt for him. Seth still had to wonder: could any of them ever come to realize who I am now?

As Brad had mentioned during Angel’s show, Seth was forced to take Thorazine in prison to treat what doctors called acute and chronic psychoses, delusions and schizophrenia. But Seth’s withdrawal did not happen gradually to eliminate severe and dangerous side effects. He often thought about what caused his deadly actions back then—the chemicals.

Cuba was Seth’s country, Havana his home. He spent most of his time in the historic and beautiful city, continuing his more philanthropic ideals against a tense backdrop of a corrupt military regime. As he watched Brad discuss the climax from Twin Crossing, he saw the outline of an idea forming in his mind—a game to be played by them all. Seeing his niece bask in camera floodlights and false accolades disappointed him. Angel appeared empty and pathetic, subconsciously crying out for help.

V-Mail!

A template for an electronic letter appeared. Address: Infinity. Topics. Subject: Mystery Unfolds. Ready to dictate a letter to her, he thought: such a shame.

Dear Hell’s Angel,

Congratulations on your entertaining show I just watched. I should point out there are two errors to correct. I am not the only one abused by our grandfather, and Chance knew all along. Ask your father. Chance feels I am still alive. Twin brothers sense this from each other. As you delete other prank letters from psychotic fans of your show, you will come to know that this letter is, indeed, authentic. Only I, your long-lost Uncle Seth, would know about Chance’s birthmark on his left shoulder. Give my regards to Brad!

Signed, FrgtnGhst

Seth moved his hands to shut down the system, defiantly saying, Computer: Transmit! Log Off! Exit!

Part I

Forgotten Ghost

Chapter 1

On clear and starry-filled nights such as this, the young bird loved to fly in a light breeze and coast on the wind. She gazed at bright lights emanating from tall buildings and neighborhood apartments. Too high up to hear sounds of evening traffic, she floated toward one of her favorite spots to rest and enjoy the view, liking the food the people left for her in a small bowl on the veranda. From a distance, she could see a glow from their bedroom, like a beacon guiding her to the food offering. She landed on a glass table and took a few quick bites, hearing the familiar moaning sounds from within the room.

In the dimly lit room with a lingering aroma of rose petals, a cool, comforting breeze blew through the drapes, drawing a flicker of motion from candles set upon two end tables on either side of the bed. Perched high above the din of traffic, the bird ate breadcrumbs, her ears focused on the increasingly loud sounds of a woman with golden hair.

When the breeze blew drapes wide open, the bird saw entangled lovers gasp for air between groans of primal energy. On a nearby end table were stacks of books, a laptop with Post-it notes, and a few childhood photos of the young lovers when they were kids, playing on a swing. As the woman straddled him, sweat glistened on her body, dripping onto her man’s chest. The breeze tickled her as she thrust with him deep inside her.

I’m close, I’m . . .

The man gazed up at her in awe. Her blonde mane whipped her shoulders as she swayed, hair swatting his face as she lunged forward, her hunger insatiable. She leaned back with her hands planted behind, the patterned ceiling a blur as sweat trickled into her eyes. He grabbed her thighs and raised his knees to lock her into place. The ecstasy they shared never ceased to overwhelm him, nor the beauty of her magnificent body.

Angel thrust forward and burst into convulsions, her nails digging into his flesh and drawing a speckle of blood. Brad always found the pain to be erotic as he served his ravenous and demanding queen.

Oh my God! Angel gasped.

She fell on top of him, breathing heavily like a marathon runner seconds after crossing the finish line. For a long moment, they lay together in the breeze that cooled their flesh. Angel inhaled deeply, smelling Brad’s hair, drenched in sweat and his scent.

Hmm, she hummed and smelled him again.

Brad flailed his hair at her. Too bad mine’s not long enough to whip you.

Oh, you love it when I do that. Angel inhaled more of his aroma, the connection traveling to her brain and grabbing hold of her memories. We did it . . .

Of course. Brad laughed. Each time is more amazing than the last.

I know, she said, idly slapping him. She rolled to her side, severing their connection with a tiny squeak. "I meant we did it! We reached the world, Brad."

He sighed with contentment, reflecting on her show and the interview portraying his debut novel as the must-have book of the decade. He also reveled in the glory of their success. Within this singular moment of bliss, the rest of the world had stopped. Could it all be so easy?

Of course, she said, as if hearing his thoughts, as long as we keep our little secret about being married, we can ride this wave.

I just hope the show doesn’t hurt sales. I revealed quite a bit about the story, and, well . . .

Angel put her finger to his lips. Trust me. We left out plenty. She sat upright and stared out into the darkness beyond her window, grinning as she noticed a covert observer. She whispered, Brad, she’s back. Eating on the table. Shh.

Angel always giggled like a girl whenever the sparrow paid them a visit. The bird took a few more bites, turned to the sky, and disappeared. Angel stood up, naked and cooling in the breeze, her body the shape of a toned athlete, her buttocks firm, and flowing with confidence that Brad always admired.

* * *

When darkness passed into a bright dawn, Angel awakened and immediately reached for the phone.

Can I speak with Richard?

One moment. A stagehand went to locate her director.

Hi, Angel. Everyone loved last night’s show.

That’s great, she said, winking at Brad, who nudged closer. Say, Richard, I know this is last minute, but I’m not feeling all that great this morning and was hoping to work from home today.

I can understand your exhaustion, Richard said in a comforting tone. We’re installing a new server, so you’ll need a little help getting into the network. I’ll transfer you to Stan to set up a new password.

Angel winked at Brad again, who kissed her back, causing her to squirm. Stan Mathews was the only person at work who knew she was married to Brad. Yesterday, a deliveryman handed him a bouquet of flowers with a card: Congratulations, Brad and Angel. Love, Mom and Dad—aka Cassandra and Chance.

Into the phone, Stan joked, Hi, Angel. How’s Brad?

Stan, she huffed, you swore to protect my little secret. I’d be careful if I were you! For ethical reasons, as well as the obvious conflict of interest, Angel needed to maintain the secrecy of their marriage from everyone at work. During Brad’s caresses—as Stan walked her through logging into the secure network—her concerns drifted to other thoughts, with Brad’s touch sending tingles through her body. After hanging up, she realized that fatigue attacked her most.

I think I need a nap, she said, yawning. Be a dear and check that my mail downloaded, okay?

Your wish is my command, said Brad, glad to have the day off following last night’s appearance on her show.

Brad adjusted environmental settings and requested her wake-up call for an hour later. Angel lay curled up under a satin sheet, her hair cascading over the pillow and long eyelashes resting on her cheek. He stood by the bedroom door, watching her doze into a peaceful sleep, rested and free of all professional obligations.

Back in the living room, Brad booted up his laptop. He took a moment to scan a headline about the escalating crisis in Iran and the newly developed synthetic fuel that severely damaged their economy. He reflected on a recent conversation with Angel about buying an electric car, or one that ran on synthetic fuel. At the time, she had a surprising opinion on the subject: "Electric cars are ugly and inconvenient."

As Angel’s e-mail downloaded, Brad’s thoughts drifted to his own sleepiness. In the kitchen, he said aloud, Coffee: two cups, light cream, two sugars. In seconds, piping coffee automatically brewed. As it poured into his cup, he admired the setting and comfort of their home.

In their twentieth-floor luxury condo in Boston’s Back Bay, Angel took charge of contemporary-style decorating, with Brad offering input she would politely consider. He did not mind; she made all of the right choices and impressed him with her style. Visiting friends would first pass through a thick, darkly stained oak door, and step into a sunken living room with a brown leather couch. Matching chairs were arranged in a horseshoe, contemporary end tables with clear glass tops supported halogen lamps with twisting legs and spiraling booms.

A large window with sliding doors overlooked Boston. Their quaint veranda was ornamented with two wrought-iron chairs and a small table for moonlit evenings in the breeze. Angel’s open kitchen stood off to the right, not too large, but with all the amenities. Its marble countertop had four stools for people to face the kitchen or turn to the action in the living room. Off to the side was a breakfast nook that also functioned as their dining table. In the far corner of the living room stood the entertainment center, this part of the man cave in full regalia: large 3D TV, surround sound speakers, and numerous gadgets even Brad struggled to figure out. Brad’s pride and joy in the living room was an oak bookshelf that held a collection of classic novels and first editions by Poe, Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway.

On the veranda, Brad scanned a variety of sender names Angel received from work. Several with the same subject heading caught his attention.

FrgtnGhst? Clever!

Brad opened the first of three letters from FrgtnGhst and read the callous remarks, laughing at the person’s lack of originality. The phony words disintegrated into cybertrash. He nearly deleted the other two, but curiosity stopped him. When he opened the third e-mail from another would-be Seth impersonator, a subtle chill overtook him. Its biting tone and emotion resonated too personally for him to shrug it off as a random correspondence.

Brad felt the clamminess in his hands, a burst of nausea, and his skin turned white. He sat in disbelief for some time before printing the letter and deleting it from the system, realizing the terrifying possibility—the authorities never found Seth’s body. He remembered his fear when, at age ten, he had been responsible for protecting four-year-old Angel as they hid in an old natural gas tank at the Macklin’s New Hampshire cottage. Should I tell her? She would freak out! Think . . . He nervously paced while periodically glancing at the computer, as if a solution to his puzzle resided within a network of wires and circuits.

Brad walked out onto the terrace overlooking Boston, wondering if his city was also Seth’s home. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, exhaling the warm September air until his pulse slowed. While gazing across Boston’s collection of tall buildings, Brad felt the bite of Seth’s letter gnawing at him, forcing him to read it again—praying the words would somehow be different, but knowing in his heart that Seth hid somewhere like a ghost in the machine.

He turned left, seeing the bedroom terrace where Angel had stood the night before, now terrified Seth had been watching her the entire time, assaulting her with his penetrating eyes. He realized at this moment that there were no promises in life. Within this bright morning, darkness shrouded them—as if a permanent eclipse had captured the sun, offering only a hint of solar prominence to tease him.

Angel’s alarm startled him, and he spilled coffee onto the glass table, some of it landing in the bowl of bird food. His breathing intensified as he waited for her to shut it off, which seemed to take an eternity. The alarm reverberated loudly inside his mind, sending off other alarms that their world had changed in unknown ways. Seconds seemed to tick down from ten to zero, forcing him to decide what to do before Angel exited the bedroom, innocent and carefree.

All rational thinking had escaped for Brad to fathom the limited choices, or if he even had any to choose from. Seth had, once again, seized control and forced his hand. Brad tucked the letter into his pocket, walked into the kitchen, and brewed more coffee. He gazed in a mirror by the door, shaking his head in disgust upon seeing his distressed reflection. He turned on the kitchen faucet and splashed cold water on his face, doing little to cool his emotions.

Brad’s mind raced in a blur of panic, knowing he needed to hide Seth’s letter. He walked around the living room, wondering if he should throw it away, but deciding to keep it for the time being, and stopped at his bookshelf. He gazed at a row of thick novels and reached for one that held meaning to the man who had sent the letter. Brad opened Moby Dick, secured the folded letter between the pages, and sealed it shut, placing the book back and hoping it would somehow fade away into flakes of dust.

Angel entered with her bathrobe seductively open, revealing her figure. She yawned as she said, You let me sleep a bit longer.

I know. Two cups coming right up.

She gave him a hug, but his body felt stiff to her embrace. You okay?

A bit groggy.

You’re such a dear. She tried to look into his eyes, but he avoided her. What’s up?

Been thinking about the fuel situation in Iran.

Really? I’m sure they’ll figure something out. Sensing something else buried within his exterior, she said, Is that all?

Umm . . . No. The sequel. My publisher wants an outline soon. I haven’t given it much thought.

"What? You just published Twin Crossing and now they’re demanding an outline? That doesn’t seem fair."

He playfully tweaked her chin. You know bosses. Always demanding, never understanding.

Well, I might as well get the work part over with. Like the Angel she was, his wife floated her way toward a window that overlooked Boston Harbor. 

Angel gazed out at fishing boats in the distance, imagining what the world beyond hers was doing at that moment. She opened her computer and skipped over a headline about a potential war in the Middle East, her mind focused on more pressing things. She stared at a dozen messages from production personnel discussing upcoming projects for her weekly show. Angel sighed and lowered her head to the screen, focusing her energy on the machine that fed her dream of worldwide fame. Occasionally she would glance out to the veranda, hoping her flying friend would pay her a visit and distract her from the tedium.

As Angel flipped through business correspondences, Brad sat on the couch contemplating his options. He heard her typing replies and knew he had some time to review the Seth Situation that had abruptly fallen into his lap. His excuse about a literary deadline was only partially accurate. He did have trouble deciding how to approach the sequel but felt he had plenty of time to organize his ideas. Gradually, he saw the only way out of this distracting dilemma—an immediate reply to Seth to diffuse the situation.

On paper, he wrote random ideas, but his garbled sentences covered the gamut of rage, caution, and disgust. Frustrated by his lack of focus, Brad obliterated words, cursing aloud as he found no easy way to begin this unwanted project. Another half hour had passed before he heard Angel yawning and stretching. He froze as she stood from the chair and approached.

She winked seductively and whispered: Honey, I need a break.

Brad closed his eyes, hoping to remove all thoughts of Seth. He gazed at her figure, her hair and glistening eyes, but saw only a haze of confusion. He wanted to be desired by her, but internal distractions overpowered him. Praying his body would respond, his blood flowed with only anxiety and fear.

All he could say was: I think I could use a nap.

Angel affectionately pushed him in the direction of the bedroom, saying she would give him two hours of uninterrupted sleep. Brad lay down on the bed, where his eyes remained wide open, his mind preoccupied with Seth. Reaching into a night table, he removed a pencil to attempt another version of his letter, recalling how Chance had kept his disturbed twin brother a secret from Cassandra when they were courting online over thirty years ago.

But those hard lessons he had written about in Twin Crossing failed to connect with him now.

* * *

That evening, Brad stared at the computer and understood what Chance must have gone through years ago.

Seth Macklin,

This is Brad Genova. I intercepted your letter to your niece. You should know that Angel is my wife, and I will go to any length to protect her. Tell me what you want. Perhaps I can help. Please do not write to Angel again. She remembers nothing of you and what happened.

Brad

In his peripheral vision, he saw Angel bringing him a glass of wine. She approached the monitor just as he hit the send button. Brad distracted her with a kiss and sighed as the computer automatically went into sleep mode—something he greatly envied.

The next morning, Angel grabbed her briefcase and darted out the door, barely catching the elevator. Brad, who was watching the escalating conflict in Iran on TV, did not notice her departure.

He opened his computer, needing and fearing Seth’s response.

Hello lying author,

How wonderful you have married my niece. What would she think of you reading her personal mail? Shame on you, Bradley.

Well, my young friend, you have convinced me to change my motivation. I no longer desire to share with Angel the experiences of Uncle Seth’s life. She, I am afraid, is a lost cause. It is you I am most eager to catch up with. Let’s start with your novel. Non-fiction? I think not. What a bunch of crap! You have no imagination, and the dialogue between Chance and me is annoying and phony. I want my just rewards for listening to your slanderous words. Where is my share? This story is, after all, about me!

Seth

Brad reread Seth’s letter in disbelief. Money? That’s all he wants? Careful, he’s baiting you. Ignoring a scattering of thoughts, he subconsciously sensed his story sequel lay buried within the mind of Seth Macklin—a cold antagonist his readers loved to hate.

Brad then saw how Seth could justifiably turn the tables on him. His purportedly deceased adversary could materialize into the world with the snap of a finger and publicly ruin his career. He knew he had stretched the truth about Seth’s actions in his novel, exercising literary improvisation to heighten story tension. Anxiety expanded from his obligation to protect Angel to the urgency of safeguarding his reputation. Brad needed to form a clear strategy to regain the upper hand, while exercising extreme caution with this dangerous ghost from his past. What does he really want?

Seth,

I am grateful you will leave Angel alone. She need not know
anything about this. You may be interested to know I have been commissioned by my publisher to write a fictional sequel to Twin Crossing. I want to interview you about your thirty-year absence as the basis for the sequel. If you agree, I will send you 35% for the advance and for all future profits earned. I think your story would make for great reading—based on your facts.

Brad

Chapter 2

Later that afternoon, Brad read Seth’s reply.

Greedy Brad,

I got 0% from the first novel and could take legal action against your slanderous lies! A sequel is exactly how I will tell my story—and for half the profits. All interviews are to take place through my encrypted network deep in the Web. And I reserve the right to edit the final manuscript. With the cards now on the table, let’s proceed.

Seth

For the first time since Seth’s reincarnation, Brad smiled, thinking he had turned the tables, even if only by the slightest degree. Moving ahead was just what he intended to do.

Writing always provided him with a welcome distraction from the complex problems of the world and any issues he might have been having at home. For weeks he had been lost like a kid in the woods, trying to find the path to lead him back into the flow of inspiration and creativity. Twin Crossing was a non-fiction story based on actual events he had experienced firsthand, with no inspirational obstacles or looming deadlines breathing down his neck.

Creating a powerful and compelling sequel, however, proved to be a different matter entirely. He had no idea how to begin, completely devoid of an enticing invitation for his muse to join him. He hated to admit it to himself—and would never do so to anyone else in the entire world—that he needed Seth. The man had just materialized from some wizard’s magic wand of fate, capturing—kidnapping!—his inspiration and muse.

Brad spent the remaining hour before Angel’s return from work drafting Seth’s online interview. At six thirty, Angel returned from work, her face excited.

Good news! Richard wants you back when you finish the sequel.

Great. I made progress with the outline. I can’t share any details, but I like the direction.

She smiled and handed him a bottle of champagne. Let’s celebrate!

As they enjoyed a candlelight dinner of sushi and Caesar salad, Brad’s thoughts wandered