locked the door behind her.
The air was hushed, heavy. Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Frank?" she called softly. There was no response. The click of the bead curtain was uncomfortably loud in the stillness. An empty teacup and a charred roach in an ashtray sat on the kitchen table. She headed up the stairway to the second floor, calling his name again.
On the second floor, she found two closed doors. The room to the right of the landing seemed to be storage. Piles of boxes littered the floor and were stacked against the walls. The window shades were closed. The air smelled musty.
She was shocked, though, by what she found behind the door on the left. Neat bookcases and filing cabinets lined the room. One corner held a huge desk with a twenty three-inch LCD monitor and keyboard. In the other, there was a compact lab bench packed with assorted glassware plus state-of-the-art chromatography and sequencing apparatus. There was a faint odor of solvent.
"What the...?" Kit's curiosity overwhelmed her sense that she was violating Frank's privacy. The shelves held mostly technical journals— Analytical Biochemistry , Drug Development Research , Journal of Chemical Research , Nature , Science —alphabetically arranged and going back at least ten years. There were also stacks of data discs, and several rows of reference books. Kit recognized many of them.
One wall was hung with framed certificates and photos. Degrees from Harvard—in Latin—and Berkeley, granted to Frank Morgenstern. Patent awards. A picture of a much younger Frank, his head an unruly mass of reddish curls, shaking hands with Jimmy Carter. Another, informal, photo of him, sweaty and beaming, sitting outside a thatched hut with a dark-skinned child on each knee.
Frank Morgenstern. Kit racked her brain. Then she had it: he was the guy who had worked for Pfizer and created one of the earliest AIDS drug regimens. Brilliant chemist, according to his reputation. Developed an innovative therapy for malaria, too.
Frank? Goofy, horny Frank? It couldn't be true. But apparently, it was.
All at once, she thought she heard something. "Frank?" Music, faint, coming from above her, the third floor. She tiptoed up the stairs. The eerie strains of a synthesizer filtered through the half-open door at the top.
The shades were drawn. Multicolored lights pulsed on one wall. Weird electronic melodies played in the background. The room smelled of Frank: earthy, musky, hints of cinnamon and pot smoke.
An enormous bed took up the center of the room. He lay there on his back, naked, his arms at his sides. His eyes were closed. Even in the dim light, Kit couldn't miss his erection, arrowing toward the ceiling.
Kit stepped to the side of the bed. He didn't move. "Frank? Are you all right?"
"Oh, hello, princess. Lovely to see you." He grinned crookedly. There was something wrong with his eyes; he couldn't seem to focus.
"Why are you up here, in the middle of the day? Are you ill?"
He paused several heartbeats before answering. "Oh, no! I'm just taking a little trip. I needed a break. Nothing like a tab or two of acid to give you a fresh perspective." He raised his head and looked at her, suddenly serious. "I didn't expect to see you again. But I was thinking of you. As you can see."
Lazily, he stroked his rigid organ. It rose proudly from the tawny curls at his groin, beckoning her. He gave a sensual sigh that sent a thrill through her body. Saliva gathered in her mouth. Before she could help herself, she was unzipping her slacks, unbuttoning her blouse, tearing off her underwear. Leaving her clothes in a tangled heap on the floor, she crawled onto the bed.
It wavered and flowed under her weight. She felt slightly dizzy. Everything seemed unsteady, unreal. The only reality was her overwhelming need to taste his fat, juicy cock.
Kit straddled him and bent over his hard-on, breathing in his oddly appealing smell. He removed his hand. His cock seemed to wink at her. She
The air was hushed, heavy. Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Frank?" she called softly. There was no response. The click of the bead curtain was uncomfortably loud in the stillness. An empty teacup and a charred roach in an ashtray sat on the kitchen table. She headed up the stairway to the second floor, calling his name again.
On the second floor, she found two closed doors. The room to the right of the landing seemed to be storage. Piles of boxes littered the floor and were stacked against the walls. The window shades were closed. The air smelled musty.
She was shocked, though, by what she found behind the door on the left. Neat bookcases and filing cabinets lined the room. One corner held a huge desk with a twenty three-inch LCD monitor and keyboard. In the other, there was a compact lab bench packed with assorted glassware plus state-of-the-art chromatography and sequencing apparatus. There was a faint odor of solvent.
"What the...?" Kit's curiosity overwhelmed her sense that she was violating Frank's privacy. The shelves held mostly technical journals— Analytical Biochemistry , Drug Development Research , Journal of Chemical Research , Nature , Science —alphabetically arranged and going back at least ten years. There were also stacks of data discs, and several rows of reference books. Kit recognized many of them.
One wall was hung with framed certificates and photos. Degrees from Harvard—in Latin—and Berkeley, granted to Frank Morgenstern. Patent awards. A picture of a much younger Frank, his head an unruly mass of reddish curls, shaking hands with Jimmy Carter. Another, informal, photo of him, sweaty and beaming, sitting outside a thatched hut with a dark-skinned child on each knee.
Frank Morgenstern. Kit racked her brain. Then she had it: he was the guy who had worked for Pfizer and created one of the earliest AIDS drug regimens. Brilliant chemist, according to his reputation. Developed an innovative therapy for malaria, too.
Frank? Goofy, horny Frank? It couldn't be true. But apparently, it was.
All at once, she thought she heard something. "Frank?" Music, faint, coming from above her, the third floor. She tiptoed up the stairs. The eerie strains of a synthesizer filtered through the half-open door at the top.
The shades were drawn. Multicolored lights pulsed on one wall. Weird electronic melodies played in the background. The room smelled of Frank: earthy, musky, hints of cinnamon and pot smoke.
An enormous bed took up the center of the room. He lay there on his back, naked, his arms at his sides. His eyes were closed. Even in the dim light, Kit couldn't miss his erection, arrowing toward the ceiling.
Kit stepped to the side of the bed. He didn't move. "Frank? Are you all right?"
"Oh, hello, princess. Lovely to see you." He grinned crookedly. There was something wrong with his eyes; he couldn't seem to focus.
"Why are you up here, in the middle of the day? Are you ill?"
He paused several heartbeats before answering. "Oh, no! I'm just taking a little trip. I needed a break. Nothing like a tab or two of acid to give you a fresh perspective." He raised his head and looked at her, suddenly serious. "I didn't expect to see you again. But I was thinking of you. As you can see."
Lazily, he stroked his rigid organ. It rose proudly from the tawny curls at his groin, beckoning her. He gave a sensual sigh that sent a thrill through her body. Saliva gathered in her mouth. Before she could help herself, she was unzipping her slacks, unbuttoning her blouse, tearing off her underwear. Leaving her clothes in a tangled heap on the floor, she crawled onto the bed.
It wavered and flowed under her weight. She felt slightly dizzy. Everything seemed unsteady, unreal. The only reality was her overwhelming need to taste his fat, juicy cock.
Kit straddled him and bent over his hard-on, breathing in his oddly appealing smell. He removed his hand. His cock seemed to wink at her. She
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