Myth and Magic: Queer Fairy Tales by Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman

Author:Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Gay
ISBN: 9781626392250
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2014-12-15T23:00:00+00:00

Sasha Payne ([email protected]) is an English writer of gay erotic fiction and romance. She is a lifelong speculative fiction and fantasy fan and most enjoys working within the genres of speculative fiction, fantasy, or historical fiction.

This story is based on “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

GOLDIE AND THE THREE BEARS

SASHA PAYNE

It was raining like the end of days. A constant downpour that turned distant sirens into the wail of lost souls and cloaked us all in heavy gray mist. I was glad of the mist that night, glad to be one more anonymous Joe wrapped in a rain-slicked trench coat. Private dick was always a job on the edge of respectable, beyond the edge some might figure. Sure, I sailed close to the wind, but I was no scum sucker, and that was one night I was paying for it. I needed somewhere to hide until the heat wore off and Titchy McGee decided to turn his wrath on someone else to cross his path.

From where I was standing, soaking wet and jumping at shadows, the Cabin looked like a mighty fine bolthole. It was closer to a dive than a nightclub—entry was through a back door off an alleyway—but that suited my mood. I’d never get into any high-class gin joint any way.

The beady-eyed gunsel behind the counter drank me in like I was a tall glass of cool water. But he was on duty and I was in a hurry to get into the thick of the action. I gave him a rain check and pushed into the club. The lights were low and a fog of smoke filled the air. Whatever kind of club you’re thinking of, that was the Cabin. Chippy boys in shorts and tight shirts swished around, selling cigarettes and their souls. The bartenders were dames with short, slicked-back hair and men’s suits. Up on the stage, a pair of canaries in low, tight dresses and killer heels were crooning to a dirty little jazz number. I knew the trombonist some, he was a switch-backer out of Brooklyn with a taste for cheap scotch and expensive card games. I’d met him in another club, another time, and I’d fingered his slider before he mouthed my piece.

I flicked a deuce at the nearest drink slinger and she sashayed across. She poured me a dirty martini and waved back my green.

“It’s been paid for.”

I followed her gaze to a booth by the band. My benefactor was a suit I’d seen around. Tall, broad, with long, dark hair and a beard I could have crawled into. I pegged him as a Russian, or maybe a Pole. A traveler from the ice looking to get warmed up. It would’ve been rude not to go over, so I did.

He grinned as he watched me walk across. I was glad to know my quality still held.

“Aren’t you going to drink it?” he asked as I slid into his booth.

“Figured I’d come thank you in person.”

I took a gulp; it burned like an angry lover.

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