UPDATE: The winner is…Colleen C!
*~*~*

“Secret Garden” by A.J. Harris — Hired by werewolf matriarchs to track down a bad-boy photographer, a private investigator discovers a deep connection with her past—and a secret garden of unspoken, sensual pleasures

“The mask is me, but not me.” Just a few days ago, I saw a brilliant lecture/performance on crossing borders and Italian commedia dell’arte. One of the performers put on a mask and literally transformed themselves. They embodied this big, exuberant character—a man who hid within the performer, until the mask freed them.

I’ve always loved masks, and the idea of hiding yourself, yet being even more open about your nature. Masks remove fear. Masks allow you to channel parts of yourself you can’t show in daylight hours. Masks grant us passages to realms beyond, and to secret places where nothing can be taken at face value.  You have to delve.

This idea of layers of identities, masks upon masks, is at the core of “Secret Garden.” A bad boy image is a mask. A werewolf’s human identity is a mask. Which mask is true? Or is there something more beneath the surface. It may take a private investigator, wearing masks of her own, to find out.

Snippet from “Secret Garden”…

Making yummy noises as your arranged date enters the café and gives you a wave is unseemly. Unprofessional. And nearly impossible when your date is the werewolf definition of “ruggedly handsome.” Hector Gallegos—the bad boy of western Maryland photography. Glossy black hair with a few flecks of silver around the beard, brown eyes with just the right amount of lycanthrope gold shine, and a sun-kissed glow on the skin. He wore a tight button-down denim shirt, blue jeans clinging in all the right places, and brown work boots.

I gripped my watch cuff and pulled the leather straps until they squealed. He wore a similar watch cuff, cherry brown leather tight against his skin. An old spark awakened. One I thought I’d doused for good. One that led me to Garden parties, and the creak of rope against—

Focus, Mina. No assumptions, just observations. Be professional.

I stood and waved back. He sat in the chair across from me. Hector’s nose twitched, and he said, “I’m sorry—is that Dektol?”

Not the opening line I had expected.

“You can smell that through the baked goods and coffee?” I brushed my hair back. “Oh, God. Hope you can’t smell the highlighter I used this morning.”

Hector smirked. “No, you’re fine. I’m used to smelling photo development chemicals on myself, not others. You a photographer?”

“A hobbyist.” I cupped my chin. “I work with digital photos all day. Hand-developing film is meditative. I even do some glass plate work.”

“Wow.” Wolf-boy whistled, impressed. “Do you have your own darkroom?”

“You mean the spare bathroom in my condo? Yep. Saves me driving to the community labs in Frederick or Hagerstown.” I ran my finger through the milk foam atop my coffee. “My teacher, Mr. Hoskins, insisted everyone in his class learn old-school development—start to finish, film to print—just to appreciate digital cameras.”

“Mr. Hoskins? Jed Hoskins, at the Frederick Arts Center?” His eyes brightened. “He taught me, too. Having only twenty-four shots made me think before I hit the shutter.” Hector waved over a waitress and ordered a large espresso, mirroring my choice.

“That why you decided to use vintage cameras for your book? I’m surprised none of the bikers grabbed your equipment. A classic like your Hasselblad goes for at least two thousand online.” Until a few months ago, Hector was the go-to “car and mecha guy” at Sherman Photography. After the CEO of DyneTech had caught his work at the Cumberland Classic Car show, Hector had photographed his restored 1974 Pontiac Firebird in all its golden glory. Impressed, the engineering firm responsible for turning Frostburg University into a robotics powerhouse gave him an exclusive contract to photograph the company’s latest autonomous war machines.

And then, out of the blue, had come Pack Life, a photo collection of Western Maryland/West Virginia “motorcycle clubs” and their machines—all on film. Everyone understood the bikes, but portraits of the bikers? For a man with machines dominating his portfolio, he’d captured a lot of feral life in his organic subjects.

“They’re not all dangerous. Most are just passionate about their machines. They talk about motorcycles the way we talk about lenses.”

“Well, the Frederick Wheelers, maybe, but not Los Murciélagos Vampiros or the Pagan Brothers of the Wheel.” I sipped my coffee. “I’ve seen their records.”

“Records? Like criminal records?” He sat back and tightened his wrist cuff. “You with the police?”

“Nope,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”

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About the Author

A.J. Harris is a native of the Washington D.C. metropolitan area who indulges in photography, spends entirely too much on books, and uses social media to comment on old movies. A.J.’s spicy romances have been published in Stranded, Silver Soldiers, The Big Book of Orgasms 2, and most recently, Sexy Strangers.

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