Drowning in Broad Daylight: A Marti Starova Erotic Thriller

Drowning in Broad Daylight – Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

“Where the fuck are my cigarettes?” Marti’s voice cut through the office like a gunshot.

“Top left drawer,” Lori called from the other room, way too fucking smug about it.

Marti yanked it open, rifling past crumpled receipts and old case notes until her fingers brushed the pack. Half-empty. Of course. She shook one out, jammed it between her lips, and reached for her lighter. Nothing. Christ. She checked every pocket twice before shoving a hand through her already-mussed hair.

Her office felt like a relic of a past that never existed: Cyberpunk Detective, Now with Extra Poor Life Choices. The cracked leather chairs sulked in the corners, worn and abandoned, their usefulness long forgotten. Her mahogany desk was buried under enough printouts and file stacks to trigger an audit. A forgotten Slip Drive laid somewhere beneath the mess. There was a burner phone tucked in the corner; its old-school design seemed like a joke, except it was too old to track and therefore priceless.

Her name, Marti Starova, Private Investigator, in gold lettering on the office door because people had certain expectations. They would walk in, see Lori Harring, the stereotypical beautiful blonde bombshell of a secretary, and then become bitterly disappointed when they laid eyes on Marti.

Tough shit.

The news feeds ran on her holo-tab flickered with alerts: corruption in neon pixels, stories told through flashing images more than words. The headlines barely needed to be written. Just the grim faces of politicians caught in scandal and missing persons reports that overlapped, fed through the feeds, reminding Falls City it was falling apart.

Marti looked out the office window. Five floors up. Just high enough to still smell the dumpsters, feel the traffic and hear the screams. Not high enough to see past a single building.

Neon flickered outside her window, light smeared across rain-slick pavement where gutter water mixed with God-knew-what else. The city never slept, never stopped humming its slow, rotting song beneath all that glitter and grime.

“Another thrilling adventure in mediocrity,” Marti muttered around her unlit cigarette, slumping into her chair with an exhale that mixed exhaustion and disgust.

“Mediocrity is what you make of it.” Lori’s voice came from the doorway, warm but laced with something knowing, as if her patience made Marti want to crawl out of her own skin or push Lori against the nearest wall and kiss her just to shut her up.

Marti snorted, flicking at her empty lighter before tossing it across the desk. “That so?” She traced the jagged skyline through the window. “Seems to me we’re just hamsters on a fucking wheel, Lori, running ‘til we drop for what? A couple bucks? A black eye? Maybe one good night before it all turns to shit again?”

Lori shrugged and stepped inside like she belonged here, which she did because she was the secretary. “Beats stopping.”

“Does it?” Marti shot back, sharp enough to cut glass as she leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe stopping’s the only way off this ride.”

“Yeah?” Lori nudged aside a stack of files and perched on the edge of Marti’s desk like she had all the time in the world, as if she wasn’t standing in someone else’s slow-motion wreckage and refusing to move out of the way. “And then what?”

Marti didn’t have an answer for that. Just an old ache lodged deep in places she’d learned to ignore years ago. Her gaze drifted until it landed on something half-hidden near the papers: sleek, silver, whispering promises she didn’t need spoken aloud. Shadow inhalers looked too pretty for something that ruined lives so thoroughly.

She reached for it without thinking. Stopped herself just as fast. Fingers curled into a fist instead, nails biting into her palm as if pain could replace temptation.

Lori didn’t say anything this time. Just waited until Marti sighed through gritted teeth and leaned back again like it didn’t matter either way.

“Forward,” Marti muttered, voice dry as old whiskey and twice as bitter as she ground out an unlit cigarette against the desk edge instead of lighting it up like she wanted to. “Moving forward.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop letting this city chew you up and spit you out.” Lori’s voice was soft, her eyes full of something Marti didn’t want to name. “You’ve still got fight left in you. Don’t let your demons win.”

“Demons,” Marti scoffed, flipping the inhaler between her fingers before setting it down like it burned. “Funny. I like it when they eat me. They just don’t have the decency to stay full.”

Lori crossed her arms, undeterred. “Ignoring them doesn’t make them disappear. Eventually, they catch up.”

“Thanks for the therapy session,” Marti said, turning away from the window. “I’ll be sure to write you a glowing Falls Talk review.”

Lori smirked as if she knew something Marti didn’t. “Not looking for five stars, just trying to keep you upright.”

Marti exhaled something close to a laugh. “Optimism is a disease.”

“And yet here I am, terminal.” Lori bumped Marti’s arm with her elbow before stepping back toward the desk. “Now, if you’re done drowning in self-loathing, we’ve got work to do. The city isn’t going to save itself.”

The glow of the computer screen cast everything in sickly blue light. The old machine wheezed as she plugged in the camera: another relic from better days. The lens had once captured murder scenes and crime lords; now it dealt in cheaper betrayals.

She flicked through the images: shadows draped over tangled limbs and desperate hands gripping at things not meant for them. A husband who thought he was careful but wasn’t as clever as he believed. Mrs. Fischer had suspected; now she’d know for sure.

With a few adjustments, Marti sharpened the frames, pulling detail from darkness with surgical precision. A face half-hidden became unmistakable. A wedding ring caught the light in just the right way: undeniable proof that promises meant nothing under neon haze and cheap motel sheets.

“Lori!” Her voice cut through the quiet like a gunshot.

Footsteps. Then Lori was leaning over her shoulder, close enough that Marti could feel warmth radiating off her skin.

“What have you got?”

Marti smirked and tapped the screen. “Mr. Fischer being a very bad boy.”

Lori’s eyes widened as she scanned the shots. “Holy shit, you literally watched them screw?”

“It lasted three minutes,” Marti said, taking a sip of coffee before adding, “Four if we’re generous about foreplay.”

Lori let out a low whistle. “Brutal.”

Marti dragged the damning images into an already-bulging case folder and started drafting an email, brief and detached, but stopped short of hitting send. She never handed over evidence before confirming client surety first; rule number one in this line of work was simple: make sure they want what you’re about to give them.

With a sigh, she minimized the draft and leaned back in her chair, stretching stiff muscles as she eyed the blurred figures on her screen one last time. Another night in this city: another secret waiting to burn everything down.

Marti rolled her neck, joints cracking like static, and glanced at the inhaler sitting next to her keyboard. Shadow stared back, patient as ever.

Fuck it.

She grabbed the metal cylinder, pressed it to her lips, and inhaled deep. The burn hit first: sharp, acrid. Then came the crash, a full-body sigh as Shadow flooded her system. The office dimmed around the edges, as if reality itself had decided to back off for a minute.

Warmth spread through her limbs, heavy and sweet, numbing the sharp angles of exhaustion. Her nerves dulled, tension unwound. The air itself tasted different: thicker, richer, as if she could sink her teeth into it and swallow oblivion whole. Colors deepened. Sound softened. Time stretched like taffy.

Her mind drifted loose from its moorings, buoyed by euphoria, floating near blissful detachment. Thoughts unraveled in slow spirals; memories, ideas, nonsense tangled with clarity in a way that almost made sense for once. Shadow promised everything: a break, a breath, a fucking moment of peace in a city that never let up.

But peace was a cheap lie with an expensive price tag. And Marti already owed too much.

The high smoothed out into something manageable, edges softened but not gone, and she blinked herself back into focus.

Right. Business now.

Mrs. Fischer’s name glowed on the screen like a bad omen, though Marti knew the truth was that she was the bad part of it. Her thumb tapped dial.

Marti exhaled. “This is Marti Starova,” she said, keeping it cool despite the lingering haze in her head. “Your husband? We’ve got him.”

Mrs. Fischer didn’t miss a beat: “You better have bulletproof evidence, Marti! I can’t believe that cheating bastard! I need to nail his ass to the wall in divorce court.”

Marti smirked and nudged the case folder with her knuckles. “Oh, I’ve got proof.” She flicked through the incriminating photos on her screen: time-stamped, crystal clear, damning as hell. Mr. Fischer in bed with someone who was not his wife and very much blonde. “You’re looking at a solid payday in the divorce settlement.”

“Good,” Mrs. Fischer snapped, sharp enough to cut glass but shaking under it all if you knew how to listen right, which Marti did. “Thank you, Marti; you’re a lifesaver.”

Marti leaned forward and hit send on the email draft: attachments included, no refunds accepted. She lit a cigarette as she propped her feet up on the desk. “It’s what I do,” she muttered around the smoke before dropping the call and tossing her phone aside.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere distant: a song this city never stopped singing. Lori’s voice drifted from the adjoining room:

“You getting high again?”

Marti smirked and took another drag before answering.

“Been there, done that.”

Marti exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, watching it curl like a ghost looking for an escape. She flicked ash onto a week-old case file; printing everything was a habit from her days with Falls City Police. She spun her chair toward the office door.

“Lori, get in here.”

A beat, then the shuffle of shoes against cheap carpet. Lori leaned in, one brow raised, half amused, half bracing for impact.

Marti gestured at the monitor. “We’re padding Fischer’s bill. Add another $2,500.”

Lori’s expression didn’t change. “Feeling generous today?”

“Feeling underpaid.” Marti stubbed out her cigarette in an empty coffee cup. “She’s walking away from that marriage with a settlement big enough to buy this whole fucking building. I deserve a cut for sitting through those surveillance tapes. You ever see a man sweat through silk sheets? Because I have, and I can’t unsee it.”

“There’s no coming back from that,” Lori said, shuddering. Then she grinned. “Before I forget: I’m taking the afternoon off.”

Marti tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Do I even want to ask?”

“City Council’s trying to ban the queer flag from government buildings. Again.” Lori folded her arms, her weight shifting to one hip. “I’m going to remind them we exist.”

“Election year?” Marti drawled.

“Bingo.” Lori smirked. “Every four years like clockwork, the moral panic machine starts churning.” Her expression softened. “Come with me?”

“Nah.” Marti waved her off. “Go be queer enough for both of us.”

“I always am.” Lori tapped her fingers on the doorframe before heading to her desk, invoices forming in her head.

Marti watched her go, then slumped in her chair with a sigh that felt like surrender. Once, she would’ve been on the front lines: megaphone in one hand, zip-tie bruises on both wrists. Those days felt like someone else’s life now. The fight still lived beneath the nicotine and drugs; it just wasn’t hers anymore.

Outside, neon lights smeared across rain-slick pavement while Falls City hummed its usual dirge; car horns, distant sirens, muffled yelling that could’ve been laughter or worse. Marti let it wash over her as exhaustion crept in like high tide, pulling her under before she could think better of it.

***

The clock read too-late-into-fuck-it when Marti surfaced from sleep with a grunt and a crick in her neck that screamed poor life choices. Leather stuck to sweat-damp skin as she swung her legs over the couch and scrubbed at her eyes, trying to remember when she’d passed out and whether Shadow had played a part in it.

Probably.

She blinked until the room settled around her: same cluttered desk, same empty takeout containers threatening a takeover. She reached for the cigarette pack beside last night’s unfinished coffee.

A voice cut through the static in her head.

“Rough night?”

Lori stood in the doorway as if a smirk had become flesh and bone.

Marti lit up instead of answering.

“You were dead to the world for hours,” Lori added, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

Marti exhaled smoke and eyed Lori over it. “And yet you survived without me.”

“Barely.”

Lori wandered closer under false pretenses, grabbing a file off Marti’s desk, but lingered for a delicious view.

Marti took another drag and pretended not to notice.

Lori grinned like she knew better.

Maybe she did.

“Am I not allowed to sleep?”

“Sure you are,” Lori said, flipping through the stolen file as if it contained anything she cared about. “But you didn’t leave the office. I figured I should check before you started to stink worse than you already do.”

“Hilarious.” Marti rolled her eyes, the irritation tempered by something close to fondness. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

“Work” was a generous term. Once, Marti had been someone: badge, commendations, enough grit to chew bullets and spit out justice. Then came the mistake. Then drugs. Now she was a PI with enough bad habits to serve as a walking cautionary tale.

Lori sighed as if giving up, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she let her gaze roam over Marti’s office; the chaos of cigarette burns and half-empty coffee cups and case files buried under takeout containers.

“I’ll be outside,” she said, dropping the file back onto the mess and heading for the door.

Marti waited until she was alone before pushing herself upright with a groan. Her desk fought back when she reached it: a knee slammed into wood, an elbow knocked a pen to the floor. Somewhere in the wreckage sat Augmented Reality glasses that hadn’t worked in years but still made itself useful as a glorified paperweight.

She shoved aside old receipts and something suspiciously sticky before yanking open a drawer. The inhaler sat inside like an old lover waiting for her return. Sleek. Waiting. Shadow’s promise curled at the edge of her mind; not relief exactly, more like absence, more like drowning while whispering finally.

Her fingers trembled around it. One second of hesitation. Then none at all as she raised it to her lips. “Come to me, my beauty.”

“Talking to yourself again?”

Lori’s voice snapped through the haze like a blade between ribs: sharp, knowing, just amused enough to be infuriating. She stood in the doorway watching with that smirk that meant trouble was coming whether or not Marti was ready for it.

“Go to hell,” Marti muttered.

Lori stepped inside instead of leaving, which figured. “Maybe later,” she said. “But first? We’ve got a job to do.”

Marti let her eyes drift toward the inhaler one last time before tucking it away again; out of sight but never out of reach. “Yeah,” she said.

Lori didn’t move. She watched her before nodding as if she’d decided something Marti wasn’t in on yet. “Good,” she said as if they were talking about something else entirely.

She turned on her heel and strode back into the main office without looking back, because Lori never looked back first, and let the door swing shut behind her with finality that didn’t stick when Marti fished out the inhaler again and took a hit.

Shadow flooded through her like ink spilling into water, blotting out everything sharp and bright until only weightless black remained.

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