by Riley, A. M.
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A. M. Riley
“Just remember, anything happens to her and I'll hunt you down.”
“I believe you.”
We joined the others again. Albert showed them through the kitchen,
explaining some of the apparatus there. Peter and I went down the long
hallway, stopping when I indicated the cubby area I'd lived in for all those
weeks. Not much had been touched since I'd dug through the chest of drawers
for Caballo's sword.
Peter's a detective. He looked down at the pile of clean boxer shorts still
lying on the floor and asked, “What happened to your roommate?”
“Last I heard he was somewhere on the streets of Los Angeles.”
He absorbed this without comment. We moved on, through a door that
had always been locked, to a wide lounge area. A blood cow… Christ, excuse
me, a woman lay there, a thermal blanket covering her and an EMT in
attendance. She was shaking violently with the cold, but alive, an IV dripping
liquid into her arm. Her skin so pale it was almost blue.
Well, we'd saved one of them, at least.
“There was a family,” I said to Peter. “Mother and father and two kids.”
“They were here in the back too. Multiple bite wounds, but alive.”
I felt the relief wash through me and had to sit down. A tossed ottoman
lay in a puddle of muddy water. I flipped it upright, thinking, as I sat, that I
was going to have the stain on my slacks forever. The ash doesn't wash out.
Maybe because it's evil. I don't know.
“You feel okay?” His hand on my back. Thumb lightly stroking the nape of
my neck. Peter had never been openly affectionate in public places, especially
surrounded by his peers, but he didn't seem to even care about the EMT
personnel or the smattering of officers stalking through the room.
Maybe it was the warmth of his hand, maybe the fact that I'd been sure I'd
never see him again. Maybe I'm just a horny old leatherneck and I'll never
change.
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“Can we get out of here?”
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Chapter Twenty-four
There's no excuse for what happened next. But there were circumstances,
as they say.
I followed Peter's Mustang to his house and went to park my bike where I
always did. But there was a fucking beach cruiser there.
“Peter! Some brat parked his bike in your yard.”
He came around from where he'd locked the Mustang in the garage. “Oh,
that's Jonathan's beach cruiser.”
A lime green, fat-assed kiddy trike, with a handlebar basket, was parked
in the spot reserved for my Harley. I mean, you understand, right? Because
Peter didn't.
“Don't start,” he said, and walked right past me to open the back door.
I didn't even wait for him to lock the back door.
“Mrmph,” he said, when my mouth covered his, door banging as I
slammed him against it, trying to feel every inch of him at once. “Adam,” he
gasped. “Stop.”
Of course I ignored him. His buckle came loose in my hands, then the
button at his waistband. The skin of his neck was salty and I could smell his
cinnamony blood up under his left earlobe.
His hands found mine and impeded me when I tried to pull down his
zipper. “Stop,” he said again.
“No,” I said, and stuck my tongue in his ear. He groaned; his hips moved
toward my hand, and I pushed down the zipper, feeling one of his hands sliding
up the back of my neck and into my hair.
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“Adam,” he moaned. “Please…”
“God, yes,” and I dropped to my knees, drawing his thickening cock from
his boxers.
His hand covered himself, gasping for breath he said, “Adam. No. Stop.”
The blood I'd drunk after the fight was pounding in my ears, my chest, my
cock. I stared up at him, trying to understand what he was saying. He smelled
like musk and something clean, and of the earth, and blood…
“I need you,” I said.
“No you don't.” He zipped up his pants.
This was incredible. Beyond belief. It simply couldn't be happening. I rose
and grabbed him with both hands and stuck my tongue down his throat. He
responded. I could feel the groan, feel his tongue battling mine. I lifted him and
carried him in a half circle into the hallway where I pressed him against a wall
and humped myself against his stiff erection.
“You want me,” I whispered in his ear. “Tell me you want me.”
Before he could say anything, I covered his mouth with mine again. When
I pulled my mouth away, now, he surged up to meet me, his hands grabbing
my neck and turning my chin to give him greater access. I pulled off his slacks
and dumped him on his bed, legs spread in only white socks and the partially
opened dress shirt.
I don't remember pulling off my clothes.
I pressed the lube in and he opened up to me easily, almost sucking my
fingers in, fucking himself on my hand while I fumbled with the condom. My
cock felt like it would explode before I could even get myself inside him and
then I was lost in the sensation of pushing myself into Peter over and over and
over.
I came and then rocked on the afterswell of the orgasm for a while. When I
pulled out I could see that he hadn't come. He was still semierect, his balls
swollen.
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I kissed the back of each thigh. “Roll over,” I said.
He rolled onto his side, facing away from me. “No. I'd rather you didn't.”
“You didn't come.”
“I don't want to.”
Okay, you're with me here, right? Because obviously Peter had lost his
mind.
“What do you mean, 'I don't want to'? Who doesn't want to come?”
So I pushed him over and swallowed him in one gulp. Well, he pushed at
my head a little but then he spread his legs and arched his hips and obviously
he'd come back to his senses because his cock swelled in my mouth and pretty
soon he was moaning and gasping and gripping my hair like the reins of a
horse while riding my mouth to orgasm.
I sat back feeling pretty damned pleased with myself. Peter looked
properly fucked. His body was pink and glowing, his heart still thumping hard,
his nipples little brown knots in the midst of his hairy chest. His eyes were
dark and narrow and shining and he yanked the sheets up over his lower body
and said, in a voice that sounded weird, “Leave me alone, Adam.”
Am I nuts or did that not make any sense?
“What?”
“Go. Watch the game or something. The news. I'll bet the bust is all over
Channel 4. Just leave me alone.”
“What?”
“Get out of my bedroom and shut the door behind you!” said Peter. He
didn't shout, Peter seldom shouts, but he had a shouting attitude. And then he
gathered up his sheet and rolled onto his side so that he was facing the wall.
“Okay.”
So I did what he asked. I found a beer in the refrigerator, I sat down on
the sofa and channel surfed until the “Special Bulletins” started showing up on
<
br /> the news. Then I watched the sports recap and about twenty minutes into that,
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Peter's door buzzed. Peter was still sulking, I guess, in his bedroom, so I
hopped up and said into the intercom, “Yeah?”
“Um, it's Jonathan. Is Peter there?”
I almost said no, but hey, I didn't, okay? I pressed the buzzer and when
Mr. Lime Green Beach Cruiser showed up I let him in the door. Then I went
back to my spot in front of the set with the remote.
“Peter's in bed,” I said.
Jonathan looked toward the bedroom door and then back at me. “Um,” he
said.
I flicked past a couple more channels. He was still looking at me. “What?”
I asked him.
“Um,” said Jonathan. Christ, for a college kid he didn't have much of a
vocabulary, did he? “It's really none of my business, but…”
Okay, I just have to say, when has anyone ever prefaced a statement with
“it's really none of my business, but” and then said something nice? I mean,
has it ever happened to you? No, I didn't think so.
“What?” I snarled.
The kid did a blinky thing like I had threatened him or something. Geez, if
he only knew.
“Um, I mean, seeing as we're both friends of Peter.”
“Really? How long have you and Peter been fucking? Or, sorry, I mean,
how long have you and Peter been friends?”
Now he understood where I was going; his jaw got a hard look to it. “A
month.”
“Wow, well that definitely puts you and me in the same position as regards
Peter. I've only known the guy for fifteen years.”
“And what does he have to show for it?” asked Jonathan. “Except a lonely
bed and a lot of heartache?”
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I flicked off the set. “What did you say?”
I had to give the kid credit. Even not demonic, I outsized him by about
fifty pounds and a good four inches. But when I stood up and towered over
him, he planted his feet there and stretched out his skinny little neck, chin
thrust up, and said, “What kind of a life do you think Peter would have liked to
have? His sister and he are close. She's married, with a couple of kids. His
parents are still together. He still corresponds with his tenth-grade English
teacher. Would you expect a man like that to be living alone in a one-bedroom
condo at this point in his life?”
That set me back on my heels. I'd never thought about it.
“I never thought about it,” I said.
“Of course you didn't,” sneered Jonathan. “Peter deserves somebody to
come home to. Somebody to share his life with. Instead he has…”
“That's enough, Jonathan.” Peter stood in the entryway to the living room.
He'd thrown on that shabby flannel robe of his and stood bare-legged, one
white sock hanging a little too long in the toe.
Jonathan took it in in a glance. “I can't believe it,” he said. I swear to God,
the kid's lip actually trembled. “I can't believe you actually had sex with him
again.”
“It's not his fault,” I said without thinking. “He tried to stop me.”
This didn't seem to make it better. On the contrary, Jonathan's eyes
widened dramatically, his mouth dropped open, and he pointed like the
proverbial accuser at a witch trial. “You let him force you?”
Now you can do a lot to Peter, but he doesn't take well to humiliation. I
could have told Jonathan that, but he was in full melodramatic song by then
and could not be stopped. “Have you no self-respect?” he cried.
“Now, hang on a minute,” said Peter.
“It's like you welcome abuse!” said Jonathan.
Peter's eyes got that glint. “Jonathan…”
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“Hey, this wasn't abuse. He enjoyed it,” I said.
Peter's gaze snapped to me, dark and dangerous. “Shut up, Adam.”
“Well, you did.”
“I didn't want to enjoy it,” said Peter to Jonathan.
“But you let him do it anyway. Oh my God! You let him fuck you, didn't
you?”
Peter was mad. I could tell by the way his mouth got small and tight. That
tension just below his eyes. “I really don't think that's any of your business.”
“Oh no? Because I think it is. You haven't allowed me to touch you like
that, have you? But this bastard shows up after weeks away God knows where
without a word—”
“Hey, only saving the city from bloodsucking—”
“Shut up,” they both said to me in unison.
“And you let him fuck you,” Jonathan finished. His high cheekbones were
flushed pink.
“Really?” I said to Peter. “You haven't let him…?”
“Shut up, Adam,” said Peter and Jonathan in unison.
Peter faced Jonathan with an expression that made homicide suspects
weep. “You think you've been cheated out of something?”
Say no, I mentally counseled Jonathan.
Stupid kid crossed his long bony arms across his chest. “Something like
that.”
Peter spoke, distinctly and slowly. “Maybe you just don't do it for me.” He
jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Out.”
Jonathan looked flummoxed for only a second. “Fine.” I swear to God he
flounced as he exited the room. “Call me when you decide to kick your
addiction, babe,” he called out, slamming the door behind himself.
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I was left alone in the room with the remote in my hand and a very, very
angry Peter standing in his stocking feet with his arms crossed, glaring at me.
“You really didn't let him fuck you?” I couldn't help it. I wanted to bounce
and do a little dance.
“You know what, Adam, Jonathan was right. You're selfish. You are a
selfish son of a bitch. And I must not have any self-respect to let you keep
coming back here again and again.”
“You love me, Peter. You know you do.”
Okay, I knew better than to say that, but the stupid territorial hyena in
my soul was still doing that little dance. Yay yay, Peter fucks only me…
His expression was as if I'd slapped him.
“Peter, I'm sorry. I'm… I don't know why I say these things…”
“Get out of here,” said Peter. “Get out of here, Adam, and this time, don't
come back.”
I heard him lock the door behind me.
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Chapter Twenty-five
Not to belabor the obvious, but I'm not given to carefully considered
introspection. On the contrary, what would pass as “thoughts” in my head
would probably read as wildly bouncing Ping-Pong balls to most.
Even the monster growl of dual carbs between my legs, working her
through the traffic, couldn't calm the wildly careening thoughts; I think it's fair
to say that my emotions, not my misfiring brain, drove us all the way up the 1
to the bluffs overlooking the Malibu surf.
If I had died that night in the Marina warehouse, Peter would have been
better off. I swear this had not occurred to me until that moment. Or, better, if
I had died in Iraq. I think the only reason I didn't drive i
nto the sea or just sit
there waiting for sunrise was I wouldn't allow myself to damage my Harley.
The old bitch didn't deserve me any more than did Peter.
Instead I made my way back to Hollywood, parking in the spot I'd found
and diving into the corner of the lower subbasement of the Motion Picture
Academy Archive building like an animal going to ground.
I was down there for a while.
Okay, if there are any undead reading this, a word to the wise. Don't try to
starve yourself to death. The survival instinct kicks in and your ability to
discriminate erodes with every passing minute. Pretty soon you'd suck blood
from a rat if you could catch one. So when I heard footsteps on the concrete
stairs coming down to my level, I didn't even consider who it might be or why; I
only considered how to immobilize them quickly enough to feed.
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Whatever he was carrying fell to the ground when I grabbed both his
wrists and twisted them behind him, shoved him against the wall, and planted
my fangs on his clean neck. Clean, cold neck. Clean, cold, undead neck.
“What, no kiss hello?” rasped Caballo.
I drew back. I could drink from him, but it wouldn't satisfy me for long. “I
smell blood,” I said.
“On the floor.” Caballo was able to work his way free. He pointed at the
containers that had rolled over by the mattress.
About fifteen minutes later, I swam up from the haze to find myself lying
on the mattress, two empty blood containers and a smiling young man beside
me.
“Shit, man. When did you last eat?”
“The night of the big bust.”
Caballo made a face. “Idiot. You should have called me. I'd have hooked
you up.”
His skin was sleek and plump. He'd lit the candles that I still had standing
along the wall and his round muscles shone like a young god's in the light. He
lay a hand, experimentally, on my thigh, but I moved away. I might be ready to
drink blood, but sex was still too remote and painful for me to think about.
“Where have you been getting your blood?” I asked him.