Wake up hard as hell, my dick tenting the bed sheet like it's trying to pitch a friggin' camp. I peel off the sheet, strip of the PJs, and stare at the ceiling. It’s not even 10, and my room's already an effin’ oven, the damp August heat pressing down on me like a horny priest. An old table fan just pushes the hot air around and fills the room with a static hum. Everyone’s gone off to their 9-to-5, got the place to myself...

I need air, need to get fuck outa’ this effin’ store before I get my ass hauled outa’ here by security. I move quickly past the racks and the counters, up the escalator, through the main floor. I push through the revolving door, leaving Filene's behind me, and step back into the furnace of downtown Boston. The sun's high overhead now, turning the concrete into a goddamn griddle. The heat rising from the pavement matches t...

As I approach the lobby again, the ticket woman is no longer alone. Some guy’s leaning against her booth, one elbow propped on the counter, his body angled toward her like their best pals. He's tall and rangy, maybe fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair cut close to his scalp and a mustache that belongs in a 1970s cop show. He wears dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with a tie loosened at the neck—the uniform of a ma...