She’s on a quest to find her missing brother in the aftermath of 9/11. Her only ally is a sexy hitchhiker who wants to keep her safe. She won’t give up, and he can’t resist . . .

Laugh, cry, and fall in love in this prequel to the rest of the MetroGen After Hours series!

The intense emotions, drama, intrigue, surprises and even a touch of romance fills the pages. Loved the characters and how they grew together to survive the aftermath.

-Amazon Reviewer JLH

Then they drove south and west of Firehouse 15, stopping near an old house converted into apartments across the street from newer rowhouses. Abby parked next to a turquoise Ford Contour, and they got out.

“My brother’s car is here,” she stated and felt under the back bumper.

“What are you looking for?”

“A key. He always thought having a fake rock was a dumb idea.” She went to the back of her car and opened the trunk, removing a tool kit and a crowbar.

“Do you have plans for the crowbar?” Hank asked when she hefted it.

“Yep. I’m gonna put it in the frame or lock or whatever.”

“That sort of thing gets you arrested for breaking and entering. Why don’t we knock first then try a credit card?”

As expected, no one answered.

The credit card didn’t work, but Hank’s next step, a paperclip and an Allen wrench, did fine.

Abby rushed in. “Noah!”

They entered a small studio apartment. It was on the first floor of the chopped-up house. There was enough space for a kitchenette, a futon, and a double bed. Weirdly, there was a pull-up bar fixed to the ceiling with a few free weights and a pair of boxing gloves.

Shoved against the wall sat a personal computer and several posters—Seven of Nine from Star Trek Voyager, a Seether poster, and a Cleveland Browns roster. All in all, it reminded Hank of his first apartment in Detroit. It had fewer beer cans and its own Nintendo 64, which Hank’s apartment had lacked. Still, the stacked washer dryer in the closet and the empty fridge were carbon copies.

Abby plopped down at the computer desk and booted it up. She started sorting papers and suggested, “Why don’t you take a shower?”

He blinked; he had not expected an invitation to shower while she typed nearby. “A shower would be nice.”

“Once I’m online, I’ll find you the numbers of nearby hotels,” she said.

That was more like it. She thought she was going to go on this quest by herself to New York. As if Hank would let that happen. After over nine hours in her presence, he understood she would never ask for help, even if she needed it. 

He had no reason not to take a shower, so Hank went into the small bathroom and its shower for one, complete with Star Trek shower curtain. That wasn’t the biggest surprise in the bathroom. 

Why did the missing Noah have ten open razors? There were four on the pedestal sink and six in the shower itself. He couldn’t come up with any earthly reason a firefighter would need to shave off his body hair. Soto had been pretty swarthy, so it seemed unlikely it was job related… 

Construction encouraged hair, as it was another buffer and protection from skin injuries, and, in general, much warmer while working outside. If Hank decided to shave his chest, he’d likely use ten razors on that alone. Finster genes tended toward thick dark brown hair on his chest, arms, and legs. He’d always been glad it didn’t include his back, or else he’d need a lawnmower.

Speaking of shaving, he rubbed his goatee. He hadn’t masked up for any demo projects lately, but if things panned out the way he envisioned, the goatee had to go. No mask would seal with large facial hair.

It would take work to get rid of the whole thing. Hank didn’t love razors for this work, but he’d have to deal. He wasn’t going to use any of the old razors, though. His grandmother had drilled into him the dangers of sharing razors and sharp objects. 

There was an entire pack of unused disposable ones in the medicine cabinet, and shaving cream. Hank lathered up his face and bid his goatee goodbye, courtesy of a fresh razor. Then he turned on the shower, stripped, and got in behind the curtain.  The stream of water and a bottle of Pert Plus did wonders on that grime from standing on the side of the freeway for an hour. 

He was about to get out when he remembered that he didn’t have any clean replacement clothes.

Or a towel for that matter. 

Eleven razors, no towel.

“Umm, Abby!” He wrapped the curtain around his hips.

She stuck her head in the door, squinting in the steam of the bathroom, “Hank? What the fuck?”

“No! Do not come in! This is not a pervy trick! There’re no towels in here. Or underwear. Or clothes. If you could find a towel and throw it in, it’d be great.”

She ducked back out. Seconds later, a towel landed on the floor.

Hank stepped out of the shower into the empty space in front of the sink. He had the towel in his hand and was drying off his legs when the door opened a second time.

Abby reentered with a pair of boxers and a navy-blue T-shirt in her hands. She came to a complete and sudden stop upon seeing him naked with his dick free.

Neither of them moved, though unbidden, blood flow was flowing elsewhere. His penis was quite aware that a woman’s eyes were giving it a hard stare.

A very, very, hard stare.

A getting harder by the second stare.

Hank glanced down and confirmed that his cock was standing up for attention.

“Aww, shit,” he growled and pulled the towel over his hips. Then he discovered it was one of those half-sized towels because it didn’t make it around his waist.

At least it wasn’t a dish towel.

“Abby,” he said.

“Yes?” She was still staring at his crotch.

The stupid towel was too small to cover everything, so he decided to sacrifice his butt for frontal coverage. He struggled to rearrange it over his front while pointing his back away from the door. “Thank you for the clothes.”

“Sure thing.” She dropped them on the floor and backed away, closing the door behind her.

Hank decided to have a word with his dick. “Off-limits. You met her today. No one is interested.”

Good thing his cock couldn’t talk because it wanted to hold up a sign that said ‘interested.’

Ignoring his flagrant erection, Hank shoved the shirt and the boxers on.

And the shirt immediately tore in the back when it passed his shoulders. He checked the tag. Her brother must have been small if he wore a medium.

Unable to reverse his course, Hank finished ripping it apart. He put back on his new Kmart shirt; it, unlike his undershirt, should have been clean enough. Fortunately, the boxers didn’t shred the same way. Legs were a bit more forgiving than the shirt. 

Then he spent a few minutes thinking about the least sexy possible parts of his job. Snaking drains, assessing buildings after sewer backups, exterminating termites and roaches.

That worked well enough.

He came back out, but Abby was gone. Was she calling the police? She hadn’t been giving him the eyes like she had never seen dick before. She was thirty-four, and blushing virgin didn’t come to mind about her.  The woman discussed the relative size of her rack to him, a stranger.

Crap, now he sounded like a prude. It was fine. Everyone was an adult.

If she wasn’t calling the police, she wouldn’t abandon him at her brother’s apartment. She was certainly desperate to see her brother, but not desperate enough to drive off in the middle of the night.

She came back in carrying her duffel bag and his wet clothes. Once she toed off her ballet flats, she started laughing maniacally. “Oh, your face when I came into the bathroom. Priceless.”

“I thought you’d stop at the towel.”

“You said you needed clothes. I didn’t expect you’d be packing heat. Good for you.”

She unzipped her bag and removed a tank top and pair of pajama pants, setting them on a new towel. He caught the flash of pink lace. Sternly warning his brain to not think about her underwear, Hank tried to not look directly at her.

Abby had other ideas. She took a long step with her clothes into the bathroom and kicked his clothes out. “I’m showering. You’re in charge of laundry. Set everything on permanent press.”

The minx didn’t bother to shut the door before she tossed her shirt, capris, socks, bra, and panties in the living room.

His stupid cock, fully ignoring the previous warning, got stupid interested again in what Abby wore underneath her clothes.

No. The last thing this woman needed was a one-night stand. She wasn’t asking for it; she was proving that she was independent and didn’t need help.

And Hank was an honorable guy. He’d made mistakes in his past, but he’d learned a lesson from his parents. The right choice didn’t always win, but the wrong one invariably screwed you over.

Closing his eyes, he used one foot to sweep everything into a pile. His two sets of clothing could hide her smaller, daintier, more feminine clothing. As a precaution, he kept his eyes anywhere but on the clothes on his way to the closet laundry.

Interestingly, the computer was off, and the papers he’d seen on the desk were gone. Noah had a Gateway computer and an attached printer, but the paper was blank. Abby hadn’t even written down any hotel phone numbers for him to call. And she asked him to wash the clothes. That meant he wasn’t going anywhere for a couple hours.

A yowling sound came from the closed bathroom door.

Abby was singing in the shower. Lots of enthusiasm, not a lot of skill. It was the type of thing forgiven at a karaoke bar because of a sunny attitude and fearless nature of the performer. Musical talent might not have run in their family. Though he noticed a guitar was now sitting on the futon. Abby must have found it in the closet since there weren’t many possible hiding places.

He picked up the guitar and strummed it once. It was in tune. It wasn’t even tuned to open G, the way the Rolling Stones did to simplify playing.

Placing his left hand on the neck, Hank strummed the strings over the sound hole. This was a beginner’s guitar, a Fender Hellcat. No way was he playing any Destiny’s Child on this. An 80s power ballad felt more appropriate, or possibly some Aerosmith. No, he needed a more uplifting song.