by Riley, A. M.
him.”
“When you say you 'borrowed' my car, that implies that you asked and
received permission from me.”
“You were drunk and I didn't want to wake you.”
He made a noise that I had learned to interpret as “don't give me that shit”
and walked over to the Mustang to open the passenger side door. “I'll have
someone pick up the Cadillac in the morning.”
* * * * *
As we pulled into Peter's garage, dawn was oozing into the sky. Its light
illuminated Peter's face. He looked drained and in desperate need of rest. I
assumed my attitude of cowed bad puppy and slunk from the car to the garage
door. And had a nasty shock when my hand on the knob caught a warm ray of
sunshine and burst into flames.
Yes, you read that correctly.
I screamed and did what you should never do when your hand is on fire. I
waved it around in the air. Peter appeared and wrapped something around my
hand, yelling at me to calm down while he smothered my flaming hand in his
jacket.
Eventually the fire stopped.
Then I crouched around my hand, whining and whimpering. It hurt like a
motherfucker, as it should have, but then, very quickly it stopped hurting. I
peeled off the partially burned coat and saw that my skin was only pink. More
scalded than incinerated. And I could already flex my fingers.
“What the hell just happened?” Peter asked me. He looked worse than I
felt. Ash on his shirt and a smear of it on one cheek. His eyes wide and
bloodshot. The pupils pinpricks.
“I caught on fire.”
“I noticed that. How did you catch on fire?”
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“The sun seems to have caused some sort of spontaneous combustion,” I
said.
He didn't like that. He got that grim don't-fuck-with-me-Adam face. “The
sun.”
“Fine, don't believe me,” I said. I picked up a box top that had been strewn
on the floor and sidled out the door, using it as a shield. Happily, the garage
was attached to the apartment by a covered walkway so I could keep the sun
off me. Peter followed, wise enough to do so without comment.
Peter made it as far as his living room couch and then hurled himself into
it. He rubbed at his reddened eyes with the heel of one hand and I could see
the recent grief he'd been feeling. The pain I'd caused him. Was still causing
him.
“So now what?” I asked him.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands over his face. “Now we
call Stan.”
“No, Peter…”
“He's my partner.”
“He's a motard.” I crouched at his knees, put a hand on his leg and said,
“Don't you see, Peter, there's something wrong with all of this? The meet with
Starz, the CI who set it up found dead? Me found dead? More or less. One of
the kids at the gallery said…”
“You really do need to tell me what happened back there.”
“You won't believe me, anyway. Stan sure as hell wouldn't believe me.
Heck, I was there, and I don't believe me. But now I'm thinking, maybe I really
did die,” I said. “Maybe I'm dreaming this.”
Peter rubbed his eyes again. “Shut the fuck up, Adam,” he said quietly.
I squeezed his knee with one hand. I know it sounds kinky but I've always
thought Peter's knees were kind of sexy. “One of the kids at the gallery said I'm
a vampire. The living dead.”
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73
He looked at me. His hand closed over mine. “Maybe you are,” he said.
Then we both cracked up.
I straightened, still laughing, and said, “There's something else I need to
show you.”
Peter followed me dutifully out to the kitchen and when I brought the
cartons of blood out of the refrigerator and put them both on the counter he
blinked twice before he said, “Explain.”
“I found these near Freeway's body tonight.”
The way he looked at me, well, I'd say it broke my heart, except it was
reasonable and I should expect that expression on Peter's face by now. “And
you decided to bring it back here?”
“This is the thing,” I said. “It's a carton of blood.”
“Blood.”
“It looked like Freeway was trying to hide it when he was murdered.”
Peter stared at the cartons and very slowly his face went white. I knew
what he was thinking because I'd been a homicide detective too, and it's what I
would be thinking if I hadn't been busy thinking about how much I wanted to
drink the blood. He was thinking we had some group of whacked-out serial
killers here. And that I had something to do with it.
“Tell me everything you know,” he said.
“That's the thing. I don't know.”
“Don't tell me what you don't know, Adam. Start at the beginning and tell
me everything about your CI.”
“You knew him, Peter. He was the Sergeant at Arms for the Boyle Heights
Mongols. He fingered a homicide suspect for you guys last year when there was
that DB found in the trash bin on Mount Washington.”
“What else?”
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“What else?” Freeway and I had shared a very lucrative side business, but
I was fairly certain this had nothing to do with that.
“Was he your dealer?”
I managed to look quietly offended. “I quit, Peter.”
“Everything?” He held my gaze and I had to look away. “Jesus Christ.”
“So now somebody's trafficking in blood,” I said. “At least that's how it
looks to me.”
“Why didn't you leave it on the scene, Adam? Christ, I don't know how I'm
going to explain this.”
“I had to,” I said. “I needed it.”
“Needed it? For what?”
“I drank it,” I said.
“What did you say?”
I repeated myself.
Peter's eyes rolled and the whites showed. He seemed to suddenly need to
sit down and I got a kitchen chair under him before he ended up on the floor.
“It was good,” I said. Sometimes I can't help myself. I have to drive that
nail into that proverbial coffin.
Peter lifted his chin and looked up at me. He looked completely weirded
out. Three deep lines etched across his brow as if his brain was hurting him.
“I felt better after I drank it,” I explained. “So I knew I needed it.”
No response.
“Peter? You see, that's how I know something's wrong here. I mean, I've
never needed to drink blood before. Actually, it's a disgusting thought. But
then, Freeway and then those kids at the gallery with their Transylvanian
bullshit…”
“Adam, get away from me.”
“What?”
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75
Peter covered his face. He repeated himself quietly.
“I can't leave, Peter. You saw what the sun did to me.”
“I didn't tell you to leave. Just…get away from me. I can't look at you right
now.”
This hurt. Really hurt. See what I mean about people? When was the last
time a line of coke made you feel shitty? “Fine, I'll take a shower,” I said, and
went to do so.
* * * * *
When I emerged from the shower, the entire condo smelled of cacciatore
sauce. Peter's comfort food. I found him in the kitchen, standing over the pot
with a wooden spoon. I watched him from the doorway. He'd untucked his
work shirt and stood barefoot in his trousers, hair rumpled in the back from
his tendency to scrub at it when he was tired. A very light furze of golden
brown beard shaded his chin. His lower lip stuck out in that serious way it did
when he was thinking and he looked pensive. Peter's one of those bouncy men
who see the glass half-full, generally. I figured I could take credit for his
current mood.
“I might have used all the hot water again,” I said.
He shook pepper into the pot.
“At least you didn't try to shoot me this time.”
He frowned and tasted his sauce.
I looked around his kitchen. It looked like the sort of place an old grandma
would have. With pot holders and decorative canisters and all sorts of cooking
paraphernalia everywhere. I think I have a bottle opener and a microwave in
my apartment.
Once, a few years back, we'd had that big fight. When Peter had tried to
talk me into moving in and I'd laughed at him and told him I didn't need a wife.
I mean, the man's so fucking domestic, with his clean towels folded in his so-
called linen closet. And his immaculate cupboards and shelves. I'd been joking,
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right? He took offense, though, and there'd been a long Peter-free period. You'd
think I wouldn't care, but I'd gotten used to the guy and it irked me.
I kind of hoped we weren't going to have another one of those fights.
“Can you stand to look at me now?” I asked. “Because I need to know if
my hair looks stupid or not…”
“I didn't mean that before,” he said.
“Okay.”
“You should stay here until we get all this cleared up.”
“I don't want to put you out.”
He was silent, stirring. Then he asked, “You hungry?”
“Food doesn't agree with me lately,” I reminded him.
A flinch around the eyes, as if seeing something he didn't want to. He
nodded.
I decide to name the elephant in the room. “Wouldn't mind a pint of that
blood.”
He dropped the spoon in the pot and rested both his hands on the
gleaming stove top. Leaning there, with his head down. “Right.” He glared at
the pot of cacciatore.
“Listen, this is way out there, even for me. I'll handle it. It's not your…”
“We can explain the sunlight issue, I think. But the blood could be a
problem,” he said.
“A problem? Are you kidding?”
“There must be legal sources.” And he straightened and lifted his spoon
again.
You see? He was already thinking how to manage this. How to take care of
me. Damn it. Damn me and damn the situations I got the man into.
“I'm sorry,” I told him.
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77
He looked surprised. Which was no wonder. This may have been the first
time I'd ever apologized to him.
“I believe you are,” he said. I noted he didn't say I forgive you. Not that I
expected it. It's not that Peter's not a forgiving man. It's that the amount he has
to forgive is pretty extensive. It'll take more than one sorry to clear it.
Still, his mood had lifted a little and he bounced as he stirred. That's
Peter. Buoyant. It's one of the things that I liked about him. I could use a hit of
that juice, so I sidled up next to him and gave him a little hip bump.
He threw an easy arm around me.
It was a comforting feeling. Solid. In the midst of this weirdness, Peter's
warmth steadied me. It seeped into me. Into my legs, my balls. And there it was
again. I wanted him. I'd never been so horny in my life as I had been the past
twenty-four hours.
“So, what's next?” I asked, thinking if I played my cards right I might talk
Peter into a blowjob before dinner. I watched him taste the sauce, and felt a
tingle when I thought of those lips around my dick. Can you believe it? Over a
decade and I still got turned on by this man's mouth.
“It's time to call Stan,” said Peter, pouring beer into his sauce.
Any thoughts of sex I was having moaned and covered their eyes. “God,
no,” I protested.
Peter's lower lip poked out and he dropped his arm from around my waist.
“Stan has a right to know,” he said. “He's my partner.”
“He's an uptight prick.”
“So'm I, then,” said Peter. And his face got a hard look.
Right. Because Peter and Stan were partners. Comrades-in-arms. All for
one and one for…
“Fine,” I said, stepping away from him and turning and opening the door
that led to the garage. “I'll be out in the garage drinking blood. Call me when
your boyfriend shows up.”
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Peter tsked. “Adam…”
But I'd slammed the door behind myself.
* * * * *
Okay, you don't need to say it. I may not be introspective but even I'm
sharp enough to know that I'm jealous of Stan.
Not like that. Sheesh. You think the LAPD is a bunch of closeted middle-
aged men all lusting after each other? Man, you read too much gay porn.
No, it was just that Peter and I were partners down in the Hollywood
Division Homicide department. And then he got offered the position at
Homicide Special.
“You want to stop for a steak?” Peter said, drawing on his jacket.
I shot him a surprised look. Peter had been moody and quiet all day. I'd
figured I'd stepped in it again somehow. “Sure.”
But at dinner, he was still moody and quiet. Poking his fork at the meat
instead of shoveling into his mouth like he normally would. And he passed on the
alcohol. “I've got something to tell you,” he said. “I've been promoted.”
That feeling you get just before a life-altering experience set its spur in my
gut. “A promotion.”
He'd been studying his plate; now he looked up at me. “Homicide Special.”
I managed to recover. “Congratulations.”
“I wish we were going together.”
I made the smile spread across my face. “Maybe if you tell them we're very,
very best friends.”
It didn't fool Peter. “This won't change anything.”
No. Except who would work with me but Peter? No one, as it turned out.
And I didn't have a taste for it anymore, anyway. Within six months I'd
transferred to Vice. Much more my style.
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79
I met Stan about a month after Peter had transferred. Came cruising by
Parker on some excuse and dropped by their combined desk, trying to look
casual. “Hey, you the guy that stole my partner?” I stuck out my hand.
Stan looked at my hand as if he doubted I washed in the men's room. One
hard firm shake and then he let go, turning back to his work. “Peter, you see this
evidence log?” he said. And Peter, after a quick smile at me, just picked up the
report Stan was holding and sat do
wn next to him on the edge of his desk.
I don't know how long they continued that way, discussing their special
little case, because after five minutes, I left. That night I showed up at Peter's
place around midnight.
He opened the door, smiling. “Adam. You left this afternoon without saying
anything.” The last word was cut short as I'd grabbed him by both shoulders
and shoved him against the wall.
It was a possessive kiss, and I barely gave him time to breathe while I
muscled him into the bedroom, stripping his sleep shirt from him. Pushing him
onto his belly and holding him down while I bit at the back of his neck, rocking
my hard dick against his backside.
He moved uncomfortably, trying to free his arms which I held down by both
wrists.
“You're freaking me out,” he whispered. I could feel his hips twisting under
me. His voice husky. “I like it.”
“Shut up,” I whispered in his ear and nipped at the lobe for emphasis. “Lie
here and let me fuck you.”
He groaned softly and his legs moved farther apart.
It was fast and hard and I said some pretty demanding and possessive
things while I did it.
Mine.
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That was one of the infrequent occasions when I spent the night. Hands
and arms laced around Peter, lips pressed to the hickey I'd raised on his
collarbone.
The damned alarm went off at six a.m.
“Christ.” I covered my head with a pillow. “Why do you need to go in so
early?” Peter and I usually had worked the ten-to-six shift. But I'd heard that the
Homicide Special guys worked their own hours.
“Stan and I meet for breakfast.” He'd crawled over me and hopped out of
bed, grabbing a towel and then heading down the hallway.
That woke me up. Literally and metaphorically.
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Chapter Nine
I was sitting in an easy chair, nursing a beer and my grievances, when the
buzzer rang and Peter let Stan in.
Stan had that cement face he got when he was really pissed off. Like all of