Harmony Cliffs Ch. 03

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 3

The sun was high over the Pacific Ocean. Clay was there to watch the familiar yet breathtaking sight from the vista of Harmony Cliffs. And suddenly, Clay realized that he wasn't alone.

To his left was a young man looking out at that same horizon while enjoying a cigarette. This was maybe a man in his twenties, with tousled brown hair and clothes that had a worn, retro, secondhand look to them. His face had a serene sort of calm to it. Underneath all the dirt and stubble, Clay could see features that were smooth and yet somehow hard, like a marble statue.

Clay didn't recognize this man, but he somehow knew that posture and that look in his eyes. Clay tried to speak, but he couldn't get a word out. Clay tried to reach out, but he couldn't move. What's weirder, Clay took a couple of hard whiffs and realized he couldn't smell the tobacco smoke.

Finally, the young man flicked his finished cigarette off the cliff. Looking out to the ocean, he took a deep breath and a deep sigh. He was just about to move again, until someone cleared her throat.

Clay and the young stranger spun around at the exact same time. And Clay could feel his eyes shoot wide open.

It was Her. She might have been wearing clothes (a plain blouse and a knee-length skirt), her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, her green eyes didn't have their usual glow, and her skin was pink and flush with life instead of ghostly pale. But there was no mistake. It had to be Her. And for some reason, she was carrying a lot of painting equipment under her arm.

"Oh! Sorry there, miss," said the stranger. "I'll just be outta your way."

"No, no," she interjected, reaching out to stop him. "Wait there, please."

He stood still while she circled around and back with an arm outstretched. Then she stopped to tilt her head this way and that. "Could you turn to your left a bit?" she asked.

He relaxed a bit and turned to the left for her. "Like this?"

"Yes!" she said excitedly. "Hold still, just like that." Even as she was talking, she was setting up her easel and canvas.

"Are we really doing this?" he asked her.

"Would you mind? I mean, this is wonderful. You should see how you look in this light."

The stranger shrugged and stood in place. All the while, she set up her paints and got to work. Clay marveled at her efficiency -- every move was practiced and deliberate.

"Just to be clear," the man ventured, "we've never met before, right?"

"I don't think so," she answered, without even slowing down at her work. "Are you new in town?"

"I'm... just passing through," said the stranger.

"Where are you headed?"

He paused. "Nowhere, really."

She switched brushes and attacked the canvas with broad strokes. "Well, De Lilla's a very nice place to stay."

"I don't plan to stay here," he told her. "I've never really been at home anywhere."

Instead of giving him a look, the woman gave it to his figure on the canvas. "Everyone belongs somewhere," she said, "you just have to find out where. Now hold still."

He held still and kept his mouth shut. They stayed quiet for another several minutes, which seemed to suit him just fine.

"Tell me," she finally said, without taking her eyes off the canvas, "do you know who John Courtis is?"

"Never heard of him, miss."

"Then I guess you've never been up north. He owns every major newspaper in the Pacific Northwest. The man," she continued, while going in for the finer strokes, "has so much money that he spent it on works of art. Then he got so much art that he needed a place to put it all. So he bought some cheap real estate nearby, built his own museum."

"Sounds like a rich asshole, if you'll pardon my saying."

"He's... eccentric, to be sure. But his museum brought people into town. Tourism dollars started coming in, Courtis hired people to make the town look pretty, and the whole cycle began again. It's a wonderful town, all full of artists."

"I'm no artist. Not like you."

"Everyone's got a talent. What's yours?"

He shrugged. "Well, I'm a good hand with a wrench."

"Uh huh. Uh huh." It was impossible to tell whether she was talking to him or to herself. But then, a couple of seconds later, she happily said "Done!"

The young man circled around to get a good look. And it's a wonder that his jaw didn't snap off, it dropped so hard. "How did you do all that in fifteen minutes?"

"Fifteen years of practice. How do the proportions look?"

The stranger raised his palms. "It all looks fine to me!"

"Thanks," she said. "Really. You can have it, if you like."

He took a step back. "Oh, no, I couldn't impose."

"Then buy me lunch."

"I... I'm completely broke."

The girl smiled and shook her head. "Fine," she said, extending the painting to him. "Could you just hold onto it?"

He gently took the painting while she folded up her easel and packed up the rest of her equipment.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"I'm Tommy. Tommy Jensen."

Her equipment stowed under each arm, she stood up. "Well, Tommy-Tommy Jensen, I think I might know someone who needs a good hand with a wrench. C'mon."

With a beaming smile, she led Tommy on the path away from the cliffs. For whatever reason, Clay wondered how much time had passed. And that's when he woke up.

***

Clay was disoriented and groggy, not to mention confused and bewildered by the dream. But he woke up in a hurry when he saw his alarm clock.

The alarm was never turned on. The clock read 10:24 AM.

"Oh, shit!" Clay leaped out of bed. "Shit shit shit!"

Within five minutes, Clay had thrown on some random clothes and he was out the door, running like mad down the street with his backpack trailing behind him. And then, as if the day couldn't get any worse, a police car pulled up behind him, flashing its lights and blaring its siren a couple of times.

Clay turned around. "Oh, for God's sake, what?!"

The driver stepped out. It was Deputy Munoz. "Morning, Clay. Where are you running off to?"

"I need to get to school and I'm already way late! So if you don't mind--"

"Wait, hold up" she interjected. "There's no school today."

Clay visibly deflated. "What? No, no, I know I'm late for class right now."

"De Lilla High is closed," Munoz flatly stated. "Indefinitely. They're calling it an 'inservice break.'"

"Wait, what... what does that even mean?" Clay stammered out.

Munoz opened a back door to the car and held it open for him. "I think we need to go back to the station. We can talk there."

Clay hesitated. "Am I under arrest?"

Munoz shook her head. "No, Clay, you're not in any trouble. But I would like to ask a few questions and bring you up to speed."

Clay deliberated a bit longer before walking toward the car. "I don't suppose we can eat somewhere first?"

"I'm sure we'll have something at the station."

***

After grabbing a cup of cheap coffee and a day-old bagel from the break room, Clay walked with Munoz toward the interview room. Chief Cobb was already there at the door waiting for them.

He smiled at Clay. "Hi there, son! How are things?"

Clay shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"Well, I'm sure this is a very hard time right now and I'm sorry about that. Is there anything at all we can get for you?"

"No, I'd just like to know why I'm here."

"Of course," replied Cobb. "But first, would you mind if I had a quick word with the deputy?"

Clay turned to Munoz. "Wait inside and get comfy," Munoz told him. "This won't take long." Clay closed the door behind him as Cobb walked with Munoz back to her desk.

"You had better know what you're doing," Cobb urgently whispered to her.

"I'm working a case, Chief," she replied curtly.

"You should know who that boy's connected to."

Munoz retrieved a file from her desk. "Everyone's connected to someone, sir. Especially in a town this small." They started walking back to the interview room.

"You're in over your head. One wrong word, even a hint of a false accusation, and we're all in deep shit."

They stopped outside the door. "I'm not accusing anyone, Chief. We're just talking. That's it." After a pause, she gestured to the door. "Now may I please interview the witness?"

He pointed a finger at her. "I'll be watching," he said. File in hand, Munoz entered the interview room and closed the door behind her.

"Thank you for waiting, Clay." She took a seat and handed him a paper from her file. "Now, tell me, do any of these names look familiar?"

Clay read down the list. Trenton Phelps' name jumped right out. He was there along with Danny Keyes, Jason Mayhew, Phil Davis, Peter Bates, and Adam Curry.

Clay nodded. "Yeah, I know them. We're all in De Lilla High. We've known each other since... whoa, since grade school. What about them?"

"They're all dead."

Whatever Clay had been expecting, that wasn't it. "What?" Clay picked the list back up and read the names again. "No. No way. They can't... They're not... All of them? How?!"

"The autopsies aren't done yet, but right now, it looks like six perfectly healthy teenagers all died of heart attacks at roughly the same time." Munoz leaned forward. "And this is just after David Moultrie and Aaron Prescott suddenly died."

"So what am I doing here?" Clay asked her.

"Well, you wanted to know why the school is closed," she gestured to the list, "there it is. Also, you just happen to know pretty much everyone who's died so far."

"Wait, you think I had something to do with this?!"

Eliza didn't, of course, but she gave him a suspicious look on the off chance that he'd spill something. When he didn't, she moved on.

"No, Clay, we don't think you killed them. Especially since that night you were at the beach."

Clay was struggling to keep up. "Sorry, what?"

"You collapsed for unknown reasons that night. Just like everyone else who's died. The only difference is that so far, you're the only one we know about who survived. So you might be able to help us find a connection and figure out what's going on."

Munoz waited a few moments for Clay to sort all of this out. She didn't hear something click into place the way Clay did, but she could see it on his face.

"Twice."

Munoz leaned forward, even further. "Sorry, what's that?"

"I think I survived it twice."

Now it was Munoz' turn to be surprised, though she kept a straight face as she wrote down some notes. "When? What happened?"

Clay leaned forward, steadying himself on his elbows while trying to put everything in order. "Do you know... When they died, did they seem... I dunno, out of it? Were they singing or humming something? Sleepwalking? That sort of thing?"

Munoz had read the witness reports. Some of them, she had even taken herself. And she had seen the cell phone footage of Jason Mayhew trying to sleepwalk through a wall. "Why do you ask?" she curtly inquired.

"That's what happened when Moultrie died. I was there, I saw it. He just started walking around like a zombie, but he was singing the whole time. And before that..." Clay trailed off.

"Go on."

"Well... look, I don't know what happened. I just blacked out. But everyone said that I was singing something and I was out of it, like..." Clay trailed off again as another lightbulb turned on. Frantically, Clay picked up the list again and scanned the list. He was right.

"They were all there!" he exclaimed. "Every single one of them was there when it happened! And Moultrie, we were there in his class!"

"So that's the connection?" Munoz asked him.

"No. No, there's something else." In his head, Clay could hear a familiar lilting melody. "It's the song. That's the connection. I heard it on the beach, then you came in." He gestured to the list. "They all heard the song and they wound up dead. And Moultrie."

"I heard that song from you," Munoz pointed out. "So why am I still alive?"

Clay shook his head. At this point, Clay didn't even know he was talking about, but every word he said felt right somehow. "I don't know. But if I'm right, you need to get to John Peele and Travis Nolan. Now."

"Why them?"

"They were with me in detention when Moultrie died. They heard the song, just like I did. Except I had already heard it, so it didn't affect me."

"And why are you still alive? I mean, I know I saved you the first time, but what saved you the second time?"

Clay couldn't think of anything else to say, but he was too wound up and all of this sounded crazy enough anyway, so fuck it, why not? "I think she needs me."

"Who needs you?" asked Munoz. "For what?" But Clay was already digging around in his backpack. He pulled out a notebook and pointed to the picture inside.

"This is the woman I saw at the beach. I saw her again when I blacked out, and she was asking for help. And just last night, I saw her in a dream with some other guy. He might know more."

It was lucky for Munoz that she had such a stony poker face. It was hard enough to keep breathing normally upon recognizing the same face she had last seen in a dream between her legs. "What other guy?" she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

"I don't know. Tommy Jensen, that's all I've got."

For the first time since that dream, the name Tommy echoed in Munoz' ears and something else in her head came crashing into place. After a glance toward the mirrored window -- no way Chief Cobb wasn't back there, listening in -- Munoz evenly asked "Tommy? Jensen?"

"Right. Do you know anything about him?"

She shook her head. "I really don't."

***

That stupid pencil-thin mustache looked even uglier when Cobb smiled. "Thank you for your time, Clay. It's always a pleasure."

"You will call if you think of anything else?"Munoz asked him.

"I still have your card," Clay answered.

Cobb held the door open. "Have a nice day, son. And do give my regards to your family."

Clay blanched. "Yeah. Sure." After he was gone, Munoz joined Cobb as they walked toward his office.

"Are we sending anyone to keep an eye those two boys?" asked Munoz. "John Peele and Travis Nolan?"

"Well, we have to do something," Cobb stated. "And it's not like we have any other leads to go on."

"What about that woman he drew? And whoever Tommy Jensen is?"

"Nobody is chasing down any dreams or fairy tales. We don't have the time or the resources, especially not while Phelps is on leave."

"Any word on how he's doing, sir?"

"The man just lost his son. How do you think he's doing? Wilson!"

At Cobb's call, Deputy Wilson stepped over from the bullpen. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"The two of you will be keeping an eye on a couple of local boys. John Peele and Travis Nolan. Get Morris for support if you have to, just work something out."

Just as Wilson said "Yes, sir," Munoz stepped forward with "Sir, you can't take me off this case!"

"Nobody's taking you off anything, Munoz. Just take a day or two, long enough that we can tell the higher-ups we've done our due diligence."

"Chief, due diligence would be following up on these leads."

"There are no other leads!" Cobb interjected. "There is no dream woman, and there is no Tommy Jensen. Now is that entirely clear?"

After a beat, Munoz nodded. "Yes, sir." Cobb dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and Munoz went to her desk to write down a phone number.

***

Meanwhile, in her office roughly 90 miles away, County Supervisor Diana Mun was sitting on her desk with a man's head between her thighs. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist, her panties were on the floor somewhere, and her ample double-Ds were bouncing freely inside her unbuttoned blouse. The potential dangers of getting caught, and the challenge of getting off as quickly and quietly as possible, made things so much more thrilling for the both of them.

Ronnie was a godsend. Just when her marriage started going downhill, along came this new intern -- a bona fide black stallion, 22 years old with a taste for older women. Especially older women who looked half their age. So it was that Ronnie had his tongue swirling all up and down and around the rim of that sweet honeypot between two smooth and golden brown burnt cream legs.

Because the two of them had to be fast and quiet, Diana and Ronnie had worked out a sort of sign language. So when Diana stroked off an imaginary dick near her mouth, he took that as the universal sign for "I wanna suck your cock."

In response, Ronnie looked deep into her eyes while flitting his tongue all over her engorged pearl: "You're gonna have to beg for it."

Diana arched her back and furiously bit her lower lip, shaking the imaginary dick harder: "Please let me suck your cock. Please, please let me suck your big black beautiful cock."

Ronnie put his lips around her clit and sucked on it hard: "How bad do you want it?"

Diana bit her finger as her eyes rolled backward, and she shook her fist as hard as she could: "So bad. Oh, God, I want your cock so bad, so fucking bad!"

Finally, Ronnie relented. As he stood, Diana climbed off the desk, got to her knees, tore off his belt, and set that erection loose. His length was massive, far too much for Diana to take into her mouth all at once. So she licked all up and down his shaft, dribbling onto his head, coating his entire penis with spit. So lubricated, she sucked off his head while cranking the rest of his shaft with both hands. He was hard before, but she felt him grow even harder as the veins and ridges all over his manhood started to inflate with lust. She knew every sensitive point on that penis, every last spot that would make his knees weak and his spine shiver, and she hit every last one of them to get him good and hard in no time flat.

Finally, when Diana felt like she had a railroad spike in her hands, she looked up at Ronnie with her big brown eyes, made a circle with her thumb and forefinger, then moved the circle up and down his cock: "I want you to take this and fuck my brains out with it."

Ronnie nodded and Diana stood with her back against the wall (the desk was too noisy, not to mention messy). She held her skirt up with one hand, and spread her swollen pussy with the other: "Right in there, baby. Fuck me right there, just like this."

Diana was not a young woman, and her vagina had a fair bit of mileage on it. But Ronnie's manhood stuffed her so full that she felt tight as a teenager all over again every time he plowed that long, thick, hard rod right into her. With both hands firmly grasping her ass, and with her legs wrapped tight around him, Ronnie held up Diana and pressed her against the wall as he slammed his cock into her over and over again with unrelenting rhythm and speed. Diana bit her bicep to keep from crying out: "That feels so good. Oh my god, that feels so fucking good!"

Diana's eyes were screwed shut as overpowering bliss surged through her in unyielding waves. Her creamy golden skin turned pink and flush with life. Her abundant breasts were sent quivering and shaking and bouncing with every thrust. The sight of it aroused him further, even if the strength in his toned arms was starting to fade.

Ronnie pulled out, set Diana down, and turned her to face the wall: "Can I take you from behind?"

Diana planted one hand against the wall as she bent over. Her pussy was slick with arousal, trickling juices in a stream down her pantyhose, but she spread those lips open: "Fuck me right here, just like this."

Ronnie took her fingers and licked their sweet juices clean off. Diana planted both hands against the wall as Ronnie grabbed her waist with both hands and eased himself in. Again, Diana had to bite her lip to keep from crying out at the feeling of his huge cock stretching those velvet walls tight. His hands moved from her waist to her breasts as he picked up speed, and Diana felt every inch of his warm steel rod slamming into her over and over again.