Bliss

  Bliss

  By Gordon Phillips

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 Gordon Phillips

  ISBN 9781646560134

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For Harold, who loves mystery stories.

  * * * *

  Bliss

  By Gordon Phillips

  Chapter 1: Discovery

  Chapter 2: Cops

  Chapter 3: Interrogation Room

  Chapter 4: Hypnosis

  Chapter 5: Inner Sanctum

  Chapter 6: Oxygen

  Chapter 7: Diary

  Chapter 8: Trio in Trouble

  Chapter 9: Missing Pieces

  Chapter 1: Discovery

  Having knocked three times, I stood outside Quentin’s door, waiting with diminishing expectations for a response. I was regretting both my decision to make an impromptu visit and my having entered the building without buzzing first. Someone coming through the street door when I arrived had presented me with the opportunity, and I had taken it. With Quentin you just never knew. I stood a better chance of seeing him if I made it to the door of his condo.

  It was now with little hope that I knocked yet again, louder—and was startled to hear, from beyond the door, something that might have been a response. Actually, it was just a vague noise.

  I considered. It might have been someone calling, “Come in!” On the other hand, it might not. It was, therefore, with some hesitation that I tried the door handle.

  It turned. I pushed the door open and saw a vestibule and a long entrance hallway.

  “Hello?” I called.

  This time there came a definite response, though I wasn’t sure whether it was a word, or merely a grunt. Either way, it seemed reasonable to interpret it as sufficient to my entering.

  So, I slipped in and closed the door behind me. Now I looked around, and was struck with the impeccable state of the vestibule, with its floor-to-ceiling mirrored closet doors that lined one side wall. The parquet wood floor gleamed and the walls were a subtle and beautiful shade of pale peach. From the end of the hallway diffused daylight streamed.

  Going down the hallway I found myself in a large and airy living room, painted a cream color. Decorated with simple elegance, suffused with a glow of sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains that covered the windows, the effect was one of peace, suggestive of sleep.

  It was therefore not surprising that the room’s sole occupant was a man sitting, motionless and sprawled out on an exquisitely made off-white couch. His head rested against the back of the couch, eyes half closed.

  I took a step towards him, and it struck me that it wasn’t just the couch that was exquisite. He was large and muscular, with the build of a weight lifter, and had blond hair. I was slightly entranced by his beauty.

  As I stood there, drinking in the sight, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes opened fully, and startlingly pale blue eyes gazed at me in a somewhat vacant manner, from underneath butter-colored eyebrows.

  He was, I realized, even more beautiful than I had thought. Even his clothes contributed to the overall effect. Barefoot and wearing only gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, both loose-fitting, I realized for the first time how hot, how teasing such clothing could be. Free-flowing folds of cloth, when they rested here and there against the man’s skin, indicated the contours of the body, reflective of muscles that were exaggerations of the usual curves of the masculine body. Broad shoulders were emphasized by prominent, cannon-ball-shaped shoulder muscles, the massive chest sported huge pecs and tapered down through washboard abs to a narrow waist. Below this, two long, powerful legs extended, bulging the fabric at mid-thigh and ending with exquisitely formed feet.

  Certainly, a physique built to stir the libido. But there was something more, something residing in the person himself that produced an overall effect of profound beauty. The face was too rounded to be classically handsome, yet it fairly radiated this beauty, perhaps due to the personality that shone through it.

  The man’s expression was one of slight puzzlement, making him look innocent and faintly vulnerable. This produced a desire in me to protect this guy. But more than that, more than any erotic interest, I wanted just to interact with him, to learn about him, and just plain be with him.

  As I watched, he seemed to come to himself. He sat up straighter and seemed to see me for the first time. He blinked several times, the motion of his pale eyelashes sending shivers of aesthetic pleasure through me. His expression, was not hostile, only curious.

  “Who—are you?” he said quietly, his voice deep and resonant. It wasn’t a challenge, merely a question; he just wanted to know.

  “I knocked,” I explained. “I thought I heard someone say to come in. The door was unlocked.”

  “Oh.”

  I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner, and found that the smile was genuine.

  “My name’s Ian, Ian McQueen. I’m a friend of Quentin’s. I came to see him. Uh, is he in?”

  The big man blinked again, another distracting display with the eyelashes, and he lifted his arm and jerked a thumb to his left, indicating a second hallway.

  “At the end. On the right.”

  I nodded and left with a sense of deliberately wrenching myself back to business. As I walked down the hallway, I fantasized about sitting next to the big man, putting an arm around those massive shoulders, maybe rubbing his belly—

  I had to shake my head to dispel these images as I reached the last door on the right. It was slightly ajar. I knocked.

  There was no response. I knocked again and, pushing the door open, stuck my head around it.

  Quentin was lying in his pajamas, on his back on a big bed. He looked asleep. Sheer curtains covered the room’s window. Only indirect sunlight filtered in, so the room was darker than the living room had been. It was almost like twilight, and the sense of stillness was even stronger here.

  I pushed open the door and went in, approaching the bed.

  “Quentin?”

  There was no response, and when I stood beside the bed, looking down at him, I felt something icy go down my back. Something was wrong here.

  The room gave a feeling of claustrophobia. I went and opened the curtains and the window too. Immediately, I felt the warm, humid air of the city drift in. A sense of freshness came with it, despite the slight smell of pollution.

  That’s better, I thought, and surveyed the room. It was as understatedly elegant as the living room, the walls the palest blue, with just a tinge of turquoise—which I remembered was Quentin’s favorite color. The effect of elevation—the condo was a corner suite on the top floor, after a
ll—was so complete that I almost could imagine the bed floating amid clouds in the upper atmosphere, far above the cares of the world.

  I returned to the bed to get a better look at my friend, and didn’t like what I saw. But I steeled myself, reached out and took a gentle hold of his wrist. It was cool—not warm but not cold either. And no pulse. I shifted the position of my fingers several times.

  But nothing.

  As the realization took hold, there came a dull roaring in my ears and I felt momentary dizziness. The room was feeling claustrophobic again, so I let go my friend’s wrist and left.

  Back in the living room, I saw that the blond bruiser had not moved. He looked at me questioningly.

  “Seen him?” he said.

  What? I stared at the man.

  “He’s dead!” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

  The big man blinked stupidly, which didn’t strike me as nearly as beautiful as before. Then he frowned in a puzzled fashion.

  “What?”

  “He’s dead!” I half-shouted.

  The man winced at this, then covered his face with his hand.

  “Don’t!” he murmured, rocking slightly.

  A moment later he got to his feet and I stepped back, not knowing what the guy would do. But he just turned left the room, disappearing down the hallway. There came the sound of a door closing, then water running, and finally the white noise of shower spray.

  He’s having a shower? I felt confused by this, and vaguely outraged. I had thought he was going to check on Quentin. I shook my head to clear it, and became aware of the same sense of claustrophobia I had felt in the bedroom. Going to the window, I reached through the curtains and opened it.

  Immediately, air flowed past me, pressing the curtain against the screen. I pulled the curtain aside, which let in the bright sunlight, and a breeze out the window. Clearly, the air was entering through the bedroom window and out here, producing a cross breeze because the two windows faced different directions. It made me think about the other rooms, other windows. They must have all been closed—not surprising with on such a hot, humid day.

  The next moment, however, I felt a cool breeze hit me from the side. I raised my hand and felt the air, then spotted an air conditioning vent near the ceiling. My opening the windows must have set it off. I looked around and spotted an unobtrusive control panel on the side wall.

  I went over and examined it. It was set to 72°, humidity 30%, filtering on, in a closed-cycle configuration. I was about to turn the thing off, but then stopped myself.

  Touch nothing, change nothing. Other than the curtains and the windows, I had followed that dictum. I thought of the waste of energy having windows open and the air conditioning going, then decided that at the moment it wasn’t important.

  Which reminded me. I pulled out my phone, and called 911.

  I have always found the mundane tasks associated with any tragedy to have meaning, and by the time I ended the call—having given the location, situation, and my identification—I felt somewhat better. The shower was still running, so I went back to the living room window and stood there, looking out.

  I was lost in my own thoughts, turning over memories of Quentin and my feelings about his death at such a young age, when I was brought back to myself by an awareness of the big bodybuilder standing next to me.

  I turned and saw that, having only had a towel wrapped around his hips, he was displaying a large amount of skin and muscle, still glistening with moisture.

  To distract myself from the effect of this, I said to him, “Did you know?”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “That Quentin was dead,” I elaborated. “Did you know he was dead?”

  The man continued to stare at me. Then his eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned. “How could I?”

  I stared at the man, puzzled at his response. He turned to look out at the city, and I thought I saw a bleakness in his expression.

  After a long silence, the big man cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “He would have loved that sky.”

  I looked out the window. The sky was the pale blue of summer, with just a few tufts of white cloud here and there. Memories came back of how Quentin, during warm days, had loved lounging, usually with a drink, in the back yard of the student residence we had lived in, just staring up the sky.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “He would have.”

  The silence between us seemed to change then, becoming easier, more companionable. I turned to the big man.

  “I called the police. They’ll be here soon. Can we talk before they arrive?”

  The big man looked at me with a wary expression, searching my face. But then he shrugged.

  “Sure.”

  We sat down, him on the couch, me in an armchair.

  “As I said, I’m Ian McQueen, a friend of Quentin’s.”

  “I’m Horst.”

  He gave me beautiful, captivating smile. Standing up, I held out my hand—simply out of a desire for tactile contact.

  Horst held out his own hand and we shook, at which I felt another, stronger thrill from his touch, which was both strong and yet oddly gentle. I let go reluctantly when Horst’s clasp released mine. We looked at each other in silence.

  “You’re a friend of Quentin’s,” he said. It was both a statement and a question.

  “That’s right.”

  The man frowned slightly. “Funny. I never heard him mention you, and I’ve been living here for over a year.”

  “Oh. Uh, we kind of had a falling out. It’s been a while. I knew him since college.”

  The big man considered this, then nodded.

  Damn! I thought, every movement he makes is transformed into something beautiful. At the same time, I felt annoyed with myself. I had just found out that my friend was dead. Part of me argued that Quentin and I hadn’t seen each other for several years, but still, it didn’t feel good that I was so diverted by Quentin’s roommate. Or was it condo-mate?

  I reminded myself of the times Quentin and I had gotten drunk together, had endless conversations about life, the universe, and everything. And how there had always been something elusive about him. It was part of his charm.

  “Did Quentin know you were coming today?”

  “What?” I blinked. “Oh. No. I wanted to surprise him. I just recently heard he had moved back to the city. Like I said, we had lost contact.”

  “Huh.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “What was it like, living with him?”

  Horst smiled sadly and shook his head. Then he frowned.

  “Actually,” he said, his voice cracking momentarily, “it was—kind of wonderful. He was a really special guy.”

  To my surprise, I saw that the big man’s eyes had become shiny with unshed tears. Clearly, Horst was upset over Quentin’s death. Still—he seemed to have accepted the idea a bit too easily. He hadn’t even gone to look at him. Something didn’t make sense.

  “You said you didn’t know he was dead.”

  The big man stared at me blankly, blinked several times.

  “That’s right,” he said, frowning slightly, and sounding annoyed. It seemed genuine.

  I hesitated to ask the next question, not wanting to come across as an interrogator. What do I want, then? I knew the answer: I wanted to—befriend Horst.

  “Uh, did you know him well? I mean, were you friends—or just roommates?”

  “Oh.” Horst blinked again. He drew in a deep breath—which, I noted, made his chest expand magnificently—and let it out. “I met him when he started coming to the gym where I worked. I became his personal trainer. We ended up in the hay several times. Then he invited me to move in here, since he had an empty bedroom.”

  The man’s face became sad and he added in a mournful tone, “We were never more than friends.”

  Again, this sounded genuine, and so poignant that I found myself saying, “Well, his loss then.”

  Horst gave me a shy smile.

  “Tha
nks,” he said, his face reddening slightly. “I would have liked it. But I’m not pushy. I mean—I didn’t really have a lot to offer someone like Quentin.”

  Feeling a rush of compassion, I asked what he meant by what he had said.

  He shrugged. “Well, I’m not that smart, right? I mean, he really was intelligent. He just plain liked thinking. He said he liked to think about things.” The big man chuckled, his eyes still bright with tears.

  I nodded. “Yeah. He was like that in college. He was essentially a dreamer.”

  Horst nodded. “He said something like that once too.”

  “You know,” I continued, “he could have done really well in college, but he didn’t seem capable of applying himself. He got average grades. Some nights I’d come back to our room and he’d be lying on his bed in the dark, hands behind his head, gazing up at the reflected light on the ceiling from the streetlamp outside.”

  Horst nodded. “Yeah. He’d sit like that on the couch, or on the balcony, for hours at a time. But mostly he lay on his bed in his bedroom. He called it his inner sanctum.”

  This brought me back to the matter at hand.

  “There are—what—four bedrooms here? Are there other people living in them?”

  “Oh, one of them is a work room, with weights and that. Then there’s Ted, but he’s not here much.”

  “Is he a friend of Quentin’s too?”

  “Yeah. Quentin wouldn’t rent a room to someone who wasn’t a friend. He was always particular about who he let into the apartment. And we had to be careful about bringing people back, too.”

  “Really!”

  “Yeah. I mean, he wasn’t bossy about it, but we knew he didn’t appreciate any tricks coming here.” He sighed. “And yet, there he was—doing just that.”

  “Who? Quentin?”

  “Naw. Ted. Only I don’t think it was tricks, exactly. I mean he had his own idea about playing the game.”

  “The game?”

  “Oh, sex. Quentin called it a fetish thing. Sometimes Ted brought back more than one person. But I don’t think it was strangers; they were people he knew.”

  “Fuck-buddies?”