tagSci-Fi & FantasyHarmony Cliffs Ch. 02

Harmony Cliffs Ch. 02


Author's note: All sexual acts portrayed in this story are between characters aged 18 or older. Any resemblance to non-fictional people and events is neither intended by the author nor inferred by the text.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy.

Chapter 2

"Blue Betty" was a powder-blue 1963 Ford Falcon. Eliza Munoz drove it around everywhere, ever since she inherited the Econoline van from her Uncle Miguel. He was the one who always told her, "Never buy a car you can't sleep in." She had been grateful for those words of wisdom ever since Kara kicked her out.

Having completed another boring shift at work, Munoz drove Blue Betty to one of the many local bed and breakfasts in town. By a stroke of luck, she had talked the owners into letting her rent a place until more permanent accommodations could be found. Even if it was only a little room in the basement (the rest of the house had to be kept ready for the summer tourists), and most of her minuscule living space was taken up by boxes, at least it was a roof over her head. And even a place like this would've been more than she could afford on a single income back in San Francisco's notorious real estate market.

Munoz descended the stairs into that cool, dark basement. She plugged in her cell phone, stripped off her uniform, and collapsed on the cot. Her first time at a bar in De Lilla didn't exactly go well (Did that guy's jaw ever heal right?) so Munoz took to sipping bourbon from a flask. She read the inscription: "Whiskey and beer are a man's worst enemies... But the man that runs away from his enemies is a coward!"

It was a gift from Kara.

Munoz knew it was over. Every last bridge had been burned until she didn't have a friend left in San Francisco. So she moved out to De Lilla, the closest place where she could find a job in law enforcement, even though she didn't know a damn soul in this tiny little town. Even after the move, she was still lonely. And horny. And just then, a little buzzed.

Sadly, there weren't any sex shops in De Lilla and Kara threw out all her toys. But at least the general store had some cheap lubricant in stock. Munoz coated her fingers in the stuff, slid that hand down her panties, put the other hand on her breast, and then got to work.

She pictured a woman in her mind. Short blonde hair, a cherubic face with great big dimples and a dazzling smile. Full curves covered in skimpy black lingerie -- an old birthday gift from Munoz.

Munoz could picture her dancing. She watched as Kara swayed her hips side to side, smooth as water. She shook her plump, shapely ass and felt up her copious tits, all to make Munoz feel better after a long day of work. Munoz could picture the dream girl straddling her -- a pair of firm young thighs rubbing against hers and a pair of spectacular tits in her face. The blonde grinded her hips into Munoz's lap as she reached back and slowly unclasped her bra. The girl coyishly held the bra in one place while letting the straps fall from her shoulders. Finally, with a smile and a small giggle, she tossed the bra aside to reveal a fantastic pair of C-cups.

Munoz rubbed herself harder at the thought of kneading such a beautiful pair. Taking hold of those breasts and licking those light nipples, to the audible delight of the girl grinding her hips against Munoz's upper thighs. Until finally, Kara would reach back behind Munoz, release the clasp, and set those caramel breasts free.

Munoz would move back up to her girlfriend's mouth, aggressively kissing her while the two had their hands free to explore each others' beautiful tits. And the rest of their bodies. The two of them kissed aggressively, with their tongues intricately dancing on top of each other, as their hands roved all over each others' supple breasts and curves. Finally, Munoz laid back as her dark brown nipples disappeared in Kara's mouth. Munoz was lost in pleasure as her nubs were licked and sucked with a warm and tender touch. And then she felt a hand on her waist, drifting ever downward along smooth mocha skin.

Munoz spread her legs further and cupped her own breasts, watching that mass of red hair drift down to between her thighs. She felt hot breath on the soaked fabric of her panties, and squirmed as the girl nuzzled her face against Munoz's crotch. The girl played with the elastic for a while, but she finally peeled Munoz' panties away from the dark brown cropped bush and glistening folds beneath. The girl took her time, rubbing Munoz's firm upper thighs and kissing her lower pubis, teasing a clitoris that was swollen with need.

Finally, as Munoz bucked her hips and moaned her desperation for more, the girl held back Munoz's hood. She kissed, then licked, then sucked on that sensitive pearl. Munoz could feel fingers around, against, and finally inside the engorged lips of her pussy. Munoz arched her back. She grabbed her own breasts hard enough to hurt. Her breathing quickened, and came out as desperate squeals. As the tongue against her clitoris and the fingers in her slit kept firing rapid waves of pleasure throughout her body, Munoz let out a cry of incomparable bliss. She kept on rubbing faster and faster, pushing further and further, crying out again and again until she willed the dream girl to disappear and let the tremors of orgasm run their course. Munoz willed her mind to go blank and to let sleep take her.

Instead, she kept hearing a strange voice. Like a whisper, growing louder and louder.

Finally, she recognized a word: "Tommy."

Munoz was back in her chair. She looked down.

"Tommy," said the girl between her legs.

This wasn't Kara. Munoz had never seen her before. And she would have remembered such a striking redhead with a beautiful diamond-shaped face and skin so pale and flawless that it practically glowed.

"Tommy," the girl repeated.

Munoz tried to say something, but she kept opening her mouth and no words came out. The naked redhead looked directly at Munoz with unnaturally bright green eyes. It's like she was struggling to say something important, and simply getting a word out took effort.

"Tommy," she insisted, just before Munoz started to fall.


Munoz bolted awake. She was gasping for breath. Her sheets were covered in sweat and the stench of sex. What time was it? She looked at her cell phone's clock: 3:27 AM.

Munoz rolled over and shut her eyes. She eventually went back to sleep by thinking about an old lullaby. She had only heard it once before, but she couldn't remember where and she couldn't have told anyone the first thing about it.


There were only 23 teachers at De Lilla High. And that was before Mr. Moultrie died. Which meant that the other 22 were left struggling to fill the unexpected void and pick up the slack, even as they mourned their lost friend and coworker. It was a tough time for the student body, too -- even the students who didn't like him had to wait and see how this might affect homework and exams in those last few crucial months of the year.

But only a bare handful of those students had to deal with the bewildered stress of personally witnessing the strange final moments of Mr. David Moultrie. And then there was Clayton Dawes.

Clay had spent the entire day arguing with himself over whether or not he should go back to Harmony Cliffs. By the time he finally did arrive, the sun was setting in the late summer evening. He watched the colors as they danced around the clouds above and the waves below. So many shades of pinks and yellows and blues interweaving with purple shadows. And then he waited for something to happen. Anything.

He looked down to the tide pool, not sure if he'd even see anything. But he did. Someone was down there, splashing in that same tide pool. Clay ran down the slope and across the beach as fast as he could. Though Clay slowed his pace when a wheelchair came into view. He recognized this wheelchair immediately, from the large De Lilla High Dolphins sticker on the back. Strange that he hadn't seen it sooner, Clay thought.

Sure enough, there was Becca swimming around in the tide pool. She was incredibly good at swimming -- it was one of the first things she learned how to do after the accident. Becca swam another lap, powered entirely by her upper-body strength, and then sat at rest on a shallow, slanted side of the pool. Exactly where Clay had first met the strange red-haired girl. Where was she, anyway?

"Hello? Earth to Clay?"

Clay snapped back and turned to Becca. "Huh? Sorry, what was that?"

Becca pointedly waved hello. "Hi. Glad to see you here."

"Oh. Yeah, good to see you too."

Becca swam over to his side of the pool. Her smooth, bare legs trailed behind her, strapped together to stay out of her way. "Are you feeling okay?" she asked. "You seem out of it."

"I'm... It's just been a long day, you know?"

Becca flipped over to float on her back. "Yeah. I know. Had to come down here to try and unwind. What about you?"

Clay noticed how her wet one-piece clung to her slender curves. "Same here, really. Just needed to think."

"You want to talk about it?"

Clay sat down at the edge of the pool. "Well... I mean, I was there. When he died. Did you know that?"

Becca looked up at him with a sad kind of curiosity in her pale green eyes. "No, I didn't."

"I could tell something was going on," Clay continued. "I just knew that something weird was going on with him."

"How?" asked Becca.

"Well... he was acting weird. Sorta distant. Vacant. He never said a word, he just kept singing."

"He was singing?"

"Yeah, some random song. But he seemed completely out of it. Just walking in one direction, like a zombie. Do you know if it's even possible to sing and sleepwalk at the same time?"

"I dunno," replied Becca. "Doesn't seem that different from talking in your sleep."

"You weren't there, Becca. This wasn't like that. He was gone. Half a dozen people in that classroom and we were all afraid to go near him. We could've done something -- we should've done something -- but we didn't."

"You're sure that nobody there had idea what was happening?"

Clay opened his mouth to tell her the truth, but the words stopped in his throat. Clay realized that even if what had happened to Mr. Moultrie was also what had happened to him, he didn't even know what had happened to him or how to explain it. After some deliberation, he took the simplest choice.

"No," he lied. "I didn't."

"Was he in any pain at all?" Becca pressed on.

"No," admitted Clay. "Aside from acting a bit crazy, he seemed fine."

"So there's nothing you or anyone else could have done. Just 20/20 hindsight, that's all. It's not your fault. It's okay."

Clay responded with a mirthless smile as Becca went back to reclining at the edge of the pool. She looks so much like Her, Clay thought. Though Becca's features were much softer and her hair was much darker, she had the same kind of serene beauty. Plus, her breasts were about the same size. He could see them just above the water, the way Becca's swimsuit clung to the curves of her chest. He could even see the outline of her nipples as they pressed against the wet fabr--


Clay jolted to attention. "Huh, what?"

Becca arched an eyebrow. "You were staring."

"What? Oh, I... uh..." Clay stood up and tried to look in every direction except for hers. "It's just... I mean you're... No. Ugh!"

Becca looked on with a bemused smile, watching Clay stammer until he ran out of words. Finally, Clay took a deep breath. Then he took another, just to be safe about it.

"Do you mind if I join you?" he asked. "I brought my own swimsuit."

Becca shrugged. "It's a public beach. Just remember," she added, with two fingers toward her heart-shaped face, "eyes up here."

"Right," Clay agreed, taking off his clothes down to the swim trunks he wore underneath. He waded into the warm salt water and sat at the edge of the pool. He kept a healthy distance from Becca. After the two of them had soaked for a relaxing amount of time, Clay thought it safe to continue.

"I finally got through that book," he ventured.

"Edith Hamilton?" asked Becca.

"Yeah, that's the one. You think about Greek mythology often?"

Becca paused. "As much as anyone else, I guess. Why?"

"Well... I went back and read that stuff about the sirens."

"Ah, yeah. Beautiful women who sang to people and drowned them."

"So, basically mermaids."

Becca thought for a moment. "Kind of, I guess."

"Or maybe a rusalka."

"A what?"

"It's a Russian thing," explained Clay. "A beautiful dead woman who lures men to the water and then drowns them. Found it online."

"Are you doing another research project or something?" asked Becca.

"No, it's just..." Again, Clay was scrambling for an explanation. "Don't you think it's weird that we have all these different versions of beautiful women who sing to people before drowning them?"

"There are a lot of horny sailors out there," Becca pointed out, "who haven't seen a woman in months."

"So you don't think that mermaids exist."

Becca gave a short laugh. "No, I don't."

"Hey, it's a big ocean. And there's still a lot we don't know about what's down there."

"I guess that's true," admitted Becca.

"And you still don't think that of all the people who ever talked about mermaids or sirens, maybe one of them might have been on to something?"

Becca gave him a disbelieving look. "That's like asking if vampires or zombies are real."

"Well... maybe they are, I don't know!"

"Clay, why are you going on about this?"

Clay raised his palms. "I was just... thinking that this looks like the sort of place where a mermaid would hang out."

Becca looked around at the tide pool and gave a short laugh. "Yeah, it kinda does."

"You could be a mermaid." Clay had meant for that to sound cool, but of course he sounded like a dork. So Clay went on with "I mean, I was thinking you just had the tail -- no offense about your legs of course -- but you were just sitting there with the light like that and you look so amazing but I'm not trying to come onto you--"

Clay abruptly cut himself off. This time, he could finally spot the bemused look in her eye. Lucky for Clay, his naturally bronze half-Korean complexion made it hard for anyone to tell when he was blushing. But he buried his face in his hands anyway.

"That sounded way more smooth in my head," he explained.

"I'll bet it did," replied Becca.

"I'm sorry. I really shouldn't have said that while you're going out with someone else."

"You're thinking too much," Becca advised him. "Don't go making things any more complicated than they already are."

"Right. So anyway, what really is going on with you and Trenton?"

"It's complicated."

"Oh." Awkward pause. "It's just... you both seem so perfect."

Becca shook her head. "Nobody's perfect, Clay. We all have our battles, some just hide it better than others." Clay nodded, thoughtfully, and they both sat in silence.

"It's getting dark," noted Becca, pushing herself up on her hands. "I should get home."

"Yeah, me too," agreed Clay as he stood up.

"Could you bring my chair over?" Becca suddenly asked as she swam to the shore.

"Yeah, sure," replied Clay as he wheeled the chair over to face her.

"Just hold it there, like that," she instructed him as she climbed into her chair and positioned her feet just right. Then he watched as she unbuckled the straps from her legs, running her practiced hands all over those smooth wet thighs. She put the straps in a side bag, then pulled out a towel and got to drying herself.

After Clay had gathered his own belongings, the two of them made their way back to Harmony Cliffs together.


Deputy Wilson walked through the cramped bullpen, holding a cup of coffee in each hand.

"I brought you some coffee," he told Munoz.

Without even looking up, Munoz pointed to a random spot on her desk. "Thanks. Just put it right there."

Wilson looked around, searching for a place where he could set down the cup on the tiny desk without disturbing the files spread out on top. He gently nudged open a place between the files on David Moultrie and Clayton Dawes. A file on Aaron Prescott was open in her lap.

It occurred to Wilson that despite his plans to do so, this wasn't exactly the best time to ask if Munoz was doing anything for dinner that evening. So instead, he just asked "Have you found anything?"

"Hm?" asked Munoz, while switching Prescott's file for Moultrie's.

Sgt. Phelps stepped in before Wilson could repeat himself. "Do you even know what you're looking for?" he asked her.

"A connection," said Munoz. "There has to be a connection."

"What makes you say that?" inquired Wilson.

Munoz put down her papers and gave him a look. "Three unexplained deaths in three days. Do people just randomly drop dead every day in this town?"

Phelps pointed to Clayton's file. "Clayton's not dead."

"If I hadn't been there, he probably would be," she retorted.

"And I thought Prescott killed himself," added Wilson.

Munoz closed the file she was working on and flopped it onto her desk. "It doesn't add up! He doesn't fit the profile of a suicide, and none of them should have died that suddenly."

"David Moultrie was an old man," Phelps pointed out.

Munoz glanced at Moultrie's file. "Fifty-eight? That's way too young to die of a heart attack, especially with his medical history. And also when we have two other random people collapsing within the past couple of days. What part of that are you not getting?"

Wilson took a seat. "There's nothing that links all three of them together."

"It's a town of 900 people," argued Munoz. "Everyone here is connected somehow."

Phelps pulled up a chair. "Look, I know you were a homicide detective back in Frisco. But that doesn't mean you have to look at every case as a homicide investigation."

Munoz turned to face him. "I never said it was a homicide. There's no sign of foul play. The only suspect we have is Prescott's wife, and she has a rock-solid alibi."

"So you're not asking her any more questions?" interjected Wilson.

"No point. And anyway, Cobb would've shut that down."

Phelps leaned forward. "So what's this about? I get that you're the newbie here, but you don't have to go try and impress everyone."

Munoz gave Phelps her most withering glare. "With all respect, sergeant, you had damn well better hope you're right and I'm just chasing windmills. Because if I'm right, and there's something here we're missing, the next one to die is on us."

Munoz had just turned back to her files when Phelps' phone rang.

"Sergeant Phelps," he answered. "Wait... hold on, honey, slow down. What's happening?" Munoz and Wilson watched as Phelps turned pale. "Stay with him, I'll be right there!" Phelps disconnected and ran out the door.

As Phelps left, another phone in the bullpen rang out. Then another, and another, and another, until the De Lilla Police Station was flooded with emergency calls.


Trenton Phelps sat at the dinner table with his mom and his little brother. But his mind was somewhere else entirely.

I'm not an asshole, Trenton thought to himself. I just screwed up. There's nothing to be ashamed of. I'll make it up to her somehow and we'll be fine.

Trenton had been thinking along these lines all day, thinking back to what happened and how it all went wrong. Nobody had noticed or cared at school, of course -- everyone was walking around in a shocked stupor for a totally different reason. But at the dinner table, it was much harder for Trenton's family to ignore his vacant glassy-eyed stare. Especially as he fiddled around with his food. And faintly started humming a weird new song no one else had heard before.

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