For as long as he could get away with it, Boris had a plan, however lame and ill-conceived it truly was.  His genius idea was to stall as long as possible in having his Anatoly meet<i>Shadow Queen’s </i>Candace.  That way, his theory limped along, he could put off in having to deal with those BDSM shenanigans.  Though secretly, a part of him was kinda looking forward to it (and we all know what part<i>that </i>was).  It was inevitable, he knew, that she would come calling sooner or later.  Well, he was determined to find out how far her threshold extended.  Besides, he already had an excuse.  It went something like,<i>Oh, I didn’t know.  I thought we were still fleshing out our characters.  </i>Yeah, good luck with that.<br/><br/>And speaking of their characters, they at least recognized what the other did by day.  Staying close to home, Anatoly would be a motorcycle mechanic.  He wasn’t a bike customizer like in real life, but one who worked on various brands, such as The Big Four Japanese manufacturers, Suzuki, Yamaha, Kawasaki, and Honda, with the occasional Ducati thrown in.  Italian seasoning always spiced things up.<br/><br/>Candace, on the other hand, was a Physician's Assistant, or PA.  On the clinic’s letterhead, her name would read Candace Frost, PA.  Not quite an MD, but still knowledgeable and competent enough to be in healthcare and looking after patients.  Well, that’s just great, Boris thought.  So she pokes and prods people for a living<i>and </i>for pleasure.<br/><br/>Somewhere down the line, it might be necessary for Anatoly to clean her carburetors, or in more modern bike-speak, calibrate her fuel injection.  Boris found it far too easy, and entertaining, to think of motorcycle terms in a sexual manner.  Her front and rear suspension might also be in need of some tweaking.<br/><br/>A familiar semi-rumble just outside his shop’s front door immediately whisked him away from those naughty motorcycle analogies.  All he saw from his seat in front of his laptop was scarlet, and a very recognizable scarlet at that.  Soon after, a beaming Emily bounded through the door, a matching red<i>Shoei </i>flip-up helmet in one hand, and a tin of sorts in the other.  This, he reminded himself, would more than likely be the last time he’d be in contact with her.