What would you do to stay young and beautiful?
Melissa will do whatever it takes.
She has the wealth to buy eternal youth and destroy anyone who challenges her. Then she meets a young artist with a secret . . .
I’m offering my new short story Catalyst free to all subscribers of my newsletter. Here’s a short excerpt:
The young man in Melissa’s parlor stank of mildew and tobacco. The stench kept her from inviting him to sit, but she couldn’t stop looking at him. He was beautiful. His black hair fell in loose curls around his face. Wide blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones, full lips — an angelic face. “Do you smoke?” she asked.
“My girlfriend did.
“She quit?”
“We’re not together anymore, but the smell gets everywhere.” He studied the painting on the wall above the sofa. “That’s a Rothko. An original?”
“My husband acquired it not long before he died.” Melissa smiled. “You know something about art.”
“I’m a painter.”
Which explained why he needed money. The artists and writers were the saddest of all those Gerard brought to her. Doomed to awaken from their dream in a dark place, youth and hope gone. Nobody cared about their creations except family and a few friends. She felt a stab of sorrow for him. “What’s your name?”
“Chad. What’s yours?”
“You’re twenty-two, is that correct?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat with a phlegmy rattling that alarmed her.
“Are you ill?”
“No, it’s just sinus. Allergies.” He spoke too fast.
“You’re sure?”
“That and the pollution. The air feels good in here. Pure.”
Something in his voice, a mix of bitterness and yearning, twisted her heart. She stopped the pity. It was one luxury she couldn’t afford. “I want you to take a hot shower. Would you like that?”
“Yeah, why not.” His nonchalance amused her, touched her a little. He couldn’t possibly afford a place in the city, not on his own. No doubt he lived in a cramped apartment with several others, and they all shared a slimy little bathroom half the size of her shower stall.
“Then Gerard will —”
“First I want to know what I’m getting.”
“Twenty thousand. Cash. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Not the money. The blood.”
Melissa studied her hands. Emerald polish gleamed on her shapely fingernails. No freckled spots yet, but the skin was starting to crepe. The hands of a middle-aged woman. The treatment would plump and smooth them. “Standard, from a blood bank. The donors were screened for disease.”
“How old were they?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “All ages, I suppose.”
Both of them knew better. The young sold to a more lucrative market than blood banks. Only the old and desperate traded a measure of their precious lives for a few dollars.
“So I should bounce back pretty fast?”
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I hope you enjoy the story!
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