Pilgrimage Read online

  Readers Love Kim Fielding’s

  “The book is well written, the plot moves along at a quick pace, the situations are believable, and there were moments of cringe-worthiness, heart pounding lust, tears, frustration, fear, repulsion, and at last a HEA that was warm and fuzzy but so well deserved.”

  —MM Good Book Reviews

  “When I finished the last page of this book, I had to take a deep breath and attempt to get my wayward emotions under control. This is a powerful story, it had me crying, angry, frustrated and mad. It also had me laughing and smiling and happy.”

  —Hearts on Fire Reviews

  “Read this book. You will be a bigger person for having seen this story unfold in front of your eyes.”

  —My Fiction Nook

  “What a talent this author has in bringing us such a dark and sad topic and balancing it with light and sweet scenes. By talking about a subject that isn’t really touched upon too often in this genre and making us realize just how far we have come and just how far we still have yet to go. I thank you Ms. Fielding for writing such an inspiring story that I know I will never forget.”

  —The Novel Approach

  “Bill’s story is haunting and heartbreaking, but Colby and William are fun and heartwarming. The emotional extremes meld together perfectly and work together to raise this touching story to another level. I highly, highly recommend it.”

  —Reviews by Jessewave

  “A truly memorable love story which also reflects on a history that I hope never repeats itself.”

  —The Romance Reviews

  By KIM FIELDING

  NOVELS

  Brute

  Good Bones • Buried Bones

  Pilgrimage

  The Tin Box

  Venetian Masks

  NOVELLAS

  Housekeeping

  Night Shift

  Speechless

  Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Suite 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

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

  Pilgrimage

  © 2014 Kim Fielding.

  Cover Art

  © 2014 Paul Richmond.

  http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

  ISBN: 978-1-62798-543-7

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-544-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  February 2014

  Chapter 1

  “HEY, MIKEY-MIKEY. I’m waiting on those figures you promised.”

  Mike Carlson looked up from the spreadsheet on his monitor and tried not to scowl at his boss. “I’m working on it. Marketing didn’t get me their numbers until a half hour ago, and—”

  “Sure. I can see that you’re slaving away.” Dan Kennedy took a bite of apple and chewed noisily. He leaned against the wall of Mike’s cubicle as if he planned to stand there all day.

  “So if you’d just give me a little more time,” Mike began.

  Dan took another bite and spoke with his mouth full. “Yeah. Fine. But Monday we’re gonna have to work on the quarter-end reports, so we’re not leaving here tonight until I get that spreadsheet.”

  “I have plans.”

  “Yeah, so did I.” Dan shrugged and tossed the core at Mike’s wastebasket. He missed but didn’t bother to retrieve it. “That’s life in the big city, Mikey. I told you I needed it done this week.”

  “I know. And Marketing was supposed to get me their stuff ages ago. I’ve been on top of them for days.”

  Another shrug. “Yeah. Marketing sucks. And you know what? They’re all gonna head home at five tonight, and we’ll still be stuck here.” He gave a cheery little smile before wandering away.

  Mike pictured himself chained to his desk—shirtless and sweaty—while Dan stood over him, wielding a whip. Not that Mike was into that kind of scene, nor was the boss his type. Dan was slightly pudgy, and when he left work every day, he plopped a baseball cap on his head backward, possibly to hide his incipient bald spot from the larger world. Also, he was straight. Now, Paul in HR—that was more like it. The guy looked like he spent all his off-hours at the gym, and his hair had thick waves that begged fingers to run through them, and… and this wasn’t getting Mike any closer to finishing his work. Besides, Paul was straight too. And kind of a jerk.

  Dan came by Mike’s cubicle three more times, each time derailing Mike’s concentration and forcing him to recalculate a string of numbers. It was nearly eight o’clock by the time Mike attached the files to an e-mail and clicked Send. “Here they are!” he shouted across the office, his voice echoing among the empty cubicles. “I’m leaving now!”

  “See you Monday!” Dan yelled back.

  Mike felt slightly guilty as he shut down his computer—although he got to leave, Dan was going to be there a good while longer, going over the files he’d just received. Well, that happened when you were a manager. Mike had happily avoided such a fate.

  He left the building and stepped out into the warm evening. The rosemary shrubs that landscaped the islands in the parking lot made the air smell like an Italian restaurant. Mike was allergic to rosemary; he sneezed. One of the large overhead lights was burned out, and the others cast strange shadows across the tarmac. It wasn’t the first time he’d walked through the parking lot when it was dark and almost empty, but there was still something eerie about the place. A sudden rustle from one of the bushes caused him to jump slightly, then shake his head at himself. Probably just a cat or a rodent, maybe one of those huge black beetles that reminded him of tanks with legs. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched as he unlocked his Civic and climbed inside.

  He stuck his key into the ignition but didn’t turn it. Instead, he sat in the stuffy silence for a moment, thinking. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and brought up Jeff’s number.

  “Hey, Mike! Where the hell are you?” There was a lot of noise in the background, and Jeff was shouting.

  “Sorry. Got tied up at work.”

  “Again? Well, look. We’re just finishing dinner, but we’re all going to head back to our place for a card game, so why don’t you meet us there?”

  Mike was tempted. He’d met Jeff and Cleve the previous year during a ski trip to Tahoe. Mike had gone solo and ended up sharing a table with them at a busy bar. They chatted, and when they discovered they lived near one another, they’d traded contact info. Mike still got together with Jeff and Cleve pretty regularly, usually with a small group of other people. He alway
s had fun with them, but tonight he was tired. “Will you take a rain check? I’m wiped.”

  “Sure. I know how it is. Maybe next weekend, okay?”

  They said their good-byes and disconnected the call. Mike still had that itchy-shoulder-blades feeling of someone watching him. He looked around, but the only other signs of life in the parking lot were the moths spinning in the lamplight. He probably just needed a good night’s sleep.

  There wouldn’t be much to eat at home, so he did a quick drive-through on the way. He wasn’t a kid anymore—thirty was a couple years behind him—and he was going to have to run an extra mile or two in the morning to work off the bacon burger and fries. At least his stomach was satisfied.

  The parking lot at his apartment complex was well lit and full of cars but still managed to feel a little creepy tonight. Instead of stubby little rosemary shrubs, it was ringed with full-size trees, any one of which could have camouflaged something bigger than a cat. Hell, Mike’s assigned parking spot was close to the dumpster corral, and you could probably hide a small army platoon in there. Or at least a good-sized street gang. Jesus. He wasn’t normally jumpy, but he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling tonight. Walking the short length of sidewalk to his front door, he felt like he was onstage with an unseen audience riveted by his every move.

  “Security cameras,” he mumbled as he unlocked the door. That was probably it. They definitely had them at work and probably had them here too. The apartment complex had a pair of nighttime security guards who zoomed around in an electric golf cart, keeping an eye on people’s cars and making sure nobody used the pool after hours. Maybe watching weary residents trudge home after work gave the guards their evening thrill.

  Mike felt more secure once he was in his apartment with the door locked and chained. He went into the bedroom long enough to remove most of his clothes. He was a lot more comfortable after he’d stripped down to his briefs. Not for the first time, he vowed that someday he’d find a job that didn’t require a tie. He’d love to show up for work in jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of comfy sneakers. Flip-flops and shorts when the weather turned really hot.

  He detoured into the kitchen long enough to fetch a can of beer from the fridge and pretend not to see last night’s dinner dishes still in the sink. He also ignored the little pile of bills on the kitchen table. After a long day crunching numbers, the last thing he wanted to do was deal with his own finances. Instead he headed for the living room, where he plopped down on his slightly ratty but oh-so-comfy couch and reached for the clicker.

  It took him three beers, ninety minutes, and four or five trips through the channels to decide there was nothing on. A couple of shows held his interest for a few minutes—some spy thing with George Clooney and a travel show set in Scandinavia—but they ultimately bored him. He paused again in the middle of Magic Mike to stare at Channing Tatum’s pecs, then decided he might as well give up the whole thing and switch instead to honest-to-God porn.

  He powered off the TV and settled back on the couch with his laptop open on the coffee table. He logged in to his favorite site, the one he used when he wasn’t dating anyone regularly and when a quick hookup seemed like too much work. Over the past couple of years, his right hand had been his best friend a lot more often than he’d like to admit. Fucking random guys was less satisfying than when he was younger, and he hadn’t yet found someone to settle down with.

  But tonight he wasn’t feeling angsty about it. The beer had mellowed him out, the couch pillows propped him comfortably, and he enjoyed the squeeze and rub of his hand down the front of his underwear. In a while he might take his briefs off, but for the moment this was good. The two guys onscreen were really hot. The hunky one with the shoulder tats was licking the blond’s asscheeks as if they were a favorite dessert.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  Not in the porn video. If the doorbell had rung in the porn video, it would have turned out to be a cute pizza delivery guy or a muscular repairman, and then there would have been a spirited threesome, and that would have been great. But no, this was Mike’s irritating buzzy doorbell.

  “Hang on!” he shouted as he paused the video. He jogged to his bedroom, where he slipped into the khakis he’d previously discarded. As he was buttoning up, the bell buzzed again. “I’m coming!” And not in the fun way either.

  He fumbled with the locks and swung open the door. The woman standing there blinked. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “You truly are—” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “We need to talk.”

  Mike looked at her quizzically. She was taller than his five foot six, and she tended toward plump, with a face that made it hard to guess her age. If pressed, he would have said fortyish. Her light-brown hair was done up in a complicated braided bun, and she was dressed like an escapee from a Renaissance faire.

  “Um… do I know you?” he asked. Maybe she was a neighbor. Oh, shit! What if she was the person who drove the Prius with the “Coexist” and “Globalize Peace” stickers all over it, and what if she’d backed that thing into his car? He did not want to deal with insurance companies and body shops.

  She shook her head. “Not yet. But we must talk. There’s an angry god, you see, and—”

  “I’m not religious.” Her phrasing was odd, and she sure wasn’t dressed in regulation Jehovah’s-Witness-wear, but that didn’t particularly matter. Mike was solidly, comfortably agnostic, and the last thing he wanted was for someone to attempt to convert him. “I’m not religious and I’m also a great big flaming homo, so please take your evangelizing somewhere else. I bet the guy in 3B would love to hear it.” The guy who still occasionally stole Mike’s Sunday newspaper.

  Mike started to close the door, but the woman looked upset. “No!” she said. “I have to speak with you. Michael Albert Carlson.”

  He was a little weirded out that she knew his name—including his detested middle name—and he was therefore even more determined to get rid of her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go away, please, before I call security.” He shut the door very firmly and made sure to lock it.

  He waited a few minutes, but the bell didn’t ring again. When he glanced through the kitchen window, which looked out at the building’s front, nobody was in sight. Good. Maybe this was some kind of new sales technique. He wouldn’t put it past those satellite companies that were always trying to get him to switch from cable, and he’d noticed the carpet-cleaning outfits had been getting more aggressive lately too.

  It took some time to settle down after that. Another beer might have helped, but he was out. Since his erotic mood was thoroughly broken, he flipped through the channels twice, finally watching the second half of one of those cooking competitions. The winner was a short guy who managed to make an edible dessert out of haggis, black licorice, and soy sauce.

  Midnight was near, and Mike knew he should go to bed. He even went so far as to brush and floss. But he was twitchy and just sort of… off, so he ended up back on the couch in his underwear. He clicked on his laptop and watched the hunky guy and the blond go at it for a while. The blond was admirably flexible.

  Mike’s cock was hot and hard in his hand, slick with precome, and his balls throbbed with the beat of his pulse. He was good at this. He could jerk off quickly or make it last, according to his mood. Tonight he aimed for making it last, pausing his strokes whenever he got too close to the edge. Sweat dripped down his face and chest; it tickled his ass under the cloth of his briefs, which he’d never gotten around to removing. The guys on the laptop screen both shot their loads—messily—and the video ended, but Mike just closed his eyes and imagined a few of his favorite scenarios. A big man with a hairy chest bending over and waving his muscular ass invitingly. That same big man spooning behind Mike, broad chest against Mike’s back, nibbling on Mike’s ear and slowly, exquisitely working Mike’s cock.

  “Oh God, yes,” Mike moaned. He was very close. Now if his imaginary man would only twist h
is wrist like so and do this with his thumb—

  “We must talk, Michael Albert Carlson.”

  Mark screamed as he launched from the couch and landed in a shocked heap on the floor. His underwear was pulled down around his thighs, hobbling him, and his brain had pretty much cut all communication with his body. The Ren-faire lady stood very close by, looking down at him. Her face was sternly set, but amusement glittered in her eyes.

  “How?” he finally managed. It was as close to coherent as he could get.

  “You invited me in,” she answered primly.

  “I… I did not! I told you I was gonna call security!” With some difficulty, he got to his feet and pulled up his briefs. He was aware of his racing heart and shallow breathing.

  “And then you called me. I heard you.”

  “I didn’t— I don’t even know your name!”

  “Oh, the title will do nicely.” She took a few steps closer to the coffee table and bent her head to look at the laptop, which Mike had knocked somewhat askew during his panic. He must have also pressed a button inadvertently, because a new video had begun. The hunky tattooed guy was now enthusiastically sixty-nining with a dark-skinned man. “Well, that’s interesting,” said Mike’s unwanted guest.

  Mike was struck with a revelation. “My sister put you up to this, didn’t she? Well, ha-ha. You can tell her she really got me this time. And while you’re at it, you can tell her I’m not speaking to her anymore, and next time Mom’s on one of her Why doesn’t Marie get married and give me grandkids? rants, I’m not stepping in to save her ass. Now, hand over the keys and get out of here.” Why had he ever thought that giving Marie a set of his house keys was a good idea?

  The lady’s attention was still on the porn, but she flapped her hand. “This is about my sister, not yours.”

  “For God’s sake, who’s your sister?”

  She glanced his way. “Yes, exactly.”

  Mike’s ass hurt from landing on the floor, and his balls hurt from the orgasm-that-wasn’t, and his head hurt, and he was tired. Maybe this lady was just plain old nuts… which didn’t explain how she’d gotten into the apartment through a locked door. A locked and chained door. “What do you want?” he asked, knowing he sounded pitiful.