rented rooms, a collection of short fiction 

synopsis

Rented Rooms is a collection of previously published short fiction. The stories featured in Rented Rooms are an eclectic collection in both style and genre. Tales of mystery, love gone awry and characters who cross the line comprise the whole. Added to each story are author's notes. These commentaries range from the story's inspiration to its craft. Whether to entertain, inspire or educate, Rented Rooms is a primer for readers and writers alike. For an independent review, please visit: Tregolwyn Book Reviews For more reviews click here. 

To purchase some direct links are Amazon or Barnes and Noble or PayPal. A percentage of royalties from the sale of this book are sent directly to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. Book can be previewed at Google . Stories from Rented Rooms have been used in college-level creative writing courses and Advanced Placement English classes.

With a towel around his waist, T.J. opens the bathroom door of the motel room, walks out and pivots to the mirror. "Aren’t you getting up?" he says to the air around him.    

I see the back of him, his wide shoulders, narrow torso. The slight sheen of wetness glistens between his sharp shoulder blades that rise and ripple under his skin. He lifts an arm and runs his fingers through his sandy-colored hair, tweeded with gray. In his reflected image, he juts out his chin and turns his face slowly, passing his fingers along his taut jaw line. He appraises himself with hooded, sleepy eyes, vaguely reminiscent of James Dean, all edge and adolescence.    

From the mirror, he gives me a dry, uninspiring glance. "You taking the afternoon off?"    

"No," I say. "I got another ten minutes. Got here late, remember?"

He nods, steps around the bed and collects his clothes, bobbing for socks, underwear. He then walks to the chair, and lets the towel fall. The back of his long lean body is exposed: solid, compact. He bends over and slips up his boxers.    

My point of interest strays to the flocked wallpaper that’s mildewed and curling from the walls. Could someone be spying on us from a hole in the wall? They say it happens. I squint and look for a discreetly-placed blackened lens behind the many spots (mold, blood?) that could be harboring the peeping Tom’s camera, and his prying, darting irises. I lie very still and listen for a video camera, its groan and whir. . . . But there is none.

We must seem like a married couple (and we are of course, just not to each other) to whomever is leering behind the wall since we have the habit of having sex under the covers. No photo-shoot opportunity here. Not that it was always like this. We had our moments ensconced in his office when he’d call me in just before closing.