Desperate Enemies 3

by Adam Carpenter

  “This is getting complicated,” Paolo said, looking up at Parker with newfound interest, gaining a bit of insight into his motives. “So, Parker, all this time, you've been working against Danvers, even while you allowed us all to think you were our enemy. You've been playing both sides, and whoever came out the victor, that's where your loyalties would side?”

  “Yes, and no,” Parker said, “If I lost my claim, Danvers would be none the wiser that my true motives were to destroy his plan. If you guys lost your fight, I would have an inside track to Danvers, working for him, and as such I'd be able to wield influence from the inside. Trust no one, question everything.”

  Words like that, they silenced the room and it was broken only when Edgar spoke. “Okay, boys, this is enough for tonight, I think. Don't know about you, but my head is spinning from all these facts.”

  “Mine, too,” Jack offered.

  It was clear the party, such as it was, had reached an end. But Paolo wasn't satisfied, there was still one thing that had him curious. He said so.

  “What's that, my dear?” Rose asked.

  “The digging up of the lawn. . . what are you looking for?”

  “Gold,” Edgar said impulsively. “Right? That's the true secret of Eldon Court, it's where the Saunders fortune came from, that much I've been able to discover. Drew and his lover, they mined gold on this land their entire lives. But perhaps there's more waiting to be found somewhere deep within the bluffs.”

  “Ah, yes, the gold,” Rose said, “it's pure speculation at this point, and besides, that's not our immediate concern. . .”

  “Finding Elissa Saunders is, wherever she is,” Parker said, “and since nobody has seen her since that night, it's a no-brainer that she'd dead. I believe her body has got to be buried somewhere on the property, and I aim to find it.”

  * * * *

  Rich North's mind was swirling with all he'd absorbed tonight, like he'd just seen a three-act play with one of gay culture's most iconic actresses, a mix of high camp and family secrets that would make O'Neil blush and Williams turns to drink. But that drama was nothing compared to what he was facing is his own life. Marc continued to give him the cold shoulder, even as they walked back toward their house at Number Five, even with all the past sins revealed and the emphatic notion that if you stick together you can defeat anything or anyone. Together, that was their motto.

  “You want to talk?” Rich asked as they boarded the steps to their darkened house.

  “About what?”

  Rich heard the distance in his Marc's voice and it wounded him, more so than any bullet could. Reaching out, he took hold of Marc's hand, bringing them both to a stop. Darkness crept around them; even the half-moon was covered by clouds. All the light from their lives had been taken, leaving in its obsidian wake an empty void.

  “Marc, come on, we can't keep living like this, you not talking to me. . .”

  “What do you want me to say? That every word you've even spoken to me was a lie?”

  “Hey, that's not fair, Marc,” Rich said, “Everything I do, I do for us, even if I don't chose the right path.”

  Marc laughed with obvious disdain. “So that's how you excuse your behavior? Christ, Rich, you're something else, the way you explain away your indiscretions. I always used to admire how you carried yourself—your strength and determination, a take no prisoners approach to life. It made me jealous that I wasn't as sure of myself as you were. That cocky confidence, it's what led me to your bed that night we met at the gallery in New York, it's what's kept me in your bed ever since.”

  “But now?”

  “Now you went too far,” Marc said.

  “Because of Parker.”

  “Fuck, Parker,” Marc said a bit too loudly for a public display, “I mean, it's not who you had sex with, it's the fact that you swore your ever-loving devotion to me just that morning, on the day of the biggest night of my life. You said no more fucking around, no more cheating, and what do you do. . . not twelve hours after making love to me and promising me all your tomorrows, you're letting Parker fuck you. Nice, Rich, way to live by your word.”

  Rich had nothing to say, so he just let Marc enter the house first. He stood on the porch looking out over Eldon Court, watching as the lights dimmed in the houses of his neighbors, no doubt all of them exhausted by what Rose Emerson had just revealed. For a moment Rich eyed the verdant lawns that kept Eldon Court looking so beautiful, wondering if indeed a body was buried beneath it, ignored all these years while life was lived, lovers indulged their desires, all of them thinking they were immortal, that death couldn't possibly be in the plans for them.

  Just then Rich made his way into the house, found Marc in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine. He didn't let him take that first sip; he just grabbed hold of Marc and thrust him against the wall, his mouth kissing him, hands fondling him. Marc resisted, pushing back, but then Rich ground his crotch into Marc's, his thickening cock pushing against his pants and against Marc's cock. He could feel Marc responding. See, that's what he needed to do, assert his power, show his lover that his confidence was still there. Live by example, you want something you go for it, and what Rich wanted right now was Marc.

  He dropped to his knees and pulled Marc's shorts down over his hairy legs. Marc's cock popped out and Rich wasted no time in taking it into his mouth, sucking it with all his might, even as his fingers slid around and cupped Marc's tight little ass. He worked the buttons of his own shirt, opening it up and exposing his bare chest, thinking he would rub Marc's cock all over his fur, that's just how he liked it, but what he revealed was nearly hairless, the bandage from his wound dominating his muscled chest. Shit, shit, I want my life back, I want my lover back, he thought. As if to compensate for his unusual lack of manliness, Rich tried to murmur sexy words, muffled by the presence of the cock in his mouth. His mind heard those sweet nothings and they urged him on, determined, yeah, suck it, suck it, make me feel that hot come in my mouth, let me drink from the man of my dreams. . .

  Just then Marc pushed Rich away, knocking him to the floor with surprising force.

  “It doesn't work that way, Rich, you can't just suck me and think everything is going to be fine,” Marc said, sudden vehemence rising from his throat. “I'll be sleeping in my studio for awhile until I figure out what I want to do about. . . us.”

  Rich, panting on the floor, his cock deflated, feeling ridiculous in his half-dressed state, said, “Is that possible, Marc. . . an ‘us'?”

  “See, that's the problem, Rich,” he said, “To you it's always us, which in your world could mean more than just you and me, it could include any man you see and decide to fuck. What I would have loved to hear from you is whether there is hope for ‘we.'”

  Marc left him then, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs softening the further up in the house he went, until they were silenced. Rich was alone. He gathered himself up and grabbed at the glass of wine that Marc had poured and drank it down in one, needy gulp. Then Rich North retired upstairs to his room, uniquely alone in his big sprawling bed, the gap between him and Marc as wide as it had ever been, and he wondered if there was any hope for them.

  Maybe the bullet should have taken his life and spared Aaron's.

  For the first time since the shooting, Rich knew how Paolo felt, alone not just in bed but in this world.

  * * * *

  Paolo Bautista arrived at the Bayside Hotel that next Monday afternoon, surprised that he'd had the guts to make it this far. He had slept terribly, tossing and turning in the night and finally giving up, tossing on the DVD of Black Velvet, where he watched a younger version of Rose Emerson vamp her way across the silver screen with her deadly garrote, all the way to the final shot where she popped a cork of her beloved bubbly and, as she drank, winked at the camera before it all went black.

  The image had shattered whatever confidence Paolo had gathered over the past couple of days. He'd dared to venture outdoors, he'd met with his neighbors, he'd learned
there was a plan in place to enable them to keep their homes. . . and then the flashes of death, blood, the pop of the cork like a gun going off, and he was back where he'd been the day of Aaron's funeral. Lost, adrift, and tired of all the machinations. He finally fell asleep to taunting dreams, and when he woke he knew what he had to do. It took all morning to muster up the energy, the guts, but then he just told himself that if he was ever truly going to move forward, now was his chance to escape from his own purgatory, perhaps his one only chance.

  He dressed smartly in white Capri pants and a bright, flower print shirt, flip flops on his feet. He looked like he was going to have a relaxing lunch poolside, but in truth, he just wanted to feel like his old self, bitchy, flamboyant, and sexy. He'd left Eldon Court without a word to any of his neighbors, none of them about on the cul-de-sac. Not even the determined Parker, his endless digging perhaps as futile as the ground was fertile. Bodies, gold, whatever the land held, it didn't appear ready to give it up.

  So he strode in to the Bayside Hotel, where a few of the employees welcomed him and asked how he was doing, how devastated they were by what happened to Aaron, “he was the life of this place, our regular guests already miss him as much as we do,” and Paolo accepted all condolences in the spirit they were given. Then he made his way to the bar. He'd only made it through the night at Edgar and Jack's with those tequila shots, and now knowing what he was about to do, well, a shot of Patron was in order.

  “Silver,” he said, and watched as the bartender poured from the squat bottle.

  Paolo accepted the shot glass, knocked its contents back with one gulp. The burning liquid felt so right oozing down his throat that he slapped the glass on the bar, indicating another. As he waited for his drink, he looked to his left and noticed another man at the bar, young, cute, with a thick shock of curly dark blonde hair, watching him curiously. Paolo acknowledged his flirtatious smile with a lift of his fresh shot, then went about his own private business without further thought toward the obvious advances of the guy. Still, as he made his way away from the bar, Paolo felt as though he knew that guy, that they had met somewhere. . .

  Oh well, he had business to attend, that was the priority, and so he headed down toward the hotel's offices until he came to a door marked, “Private.” He didn't knock, instead just turned the knob and walked into the office unannounced to the utter surprise of the man behind the desk.

  “What is the meaning of this. . .?” Danvers Converse asked, his wiry frame jumping up with surprisingly agility. His hand reached inside his desk drawer, but Paolo held out a hand in an effort to stop the man from doing something foolish.

  “I mean you no harm,” Paolo said, “so there's no need to reach for your gun. Which I assume, is new. . .”

  “Indeed, seeing as though your doomed lover chose to steal from me and try to use my own gun on me.”

  Paolo winced at the brutal honesty, but said nothing further on the subject. Right now the last subject he wished to discuss was Aaron, what Danvers had done to him, what it had all cost him. Cost, yes, that was the key word here, it's all Paolo wanted to discuss. He closed the door, stepping forward and easing himself into Danvers’ guest chair. Danvers too settled back down, fingers laced like a church steeple, a crocodile's smile on his lips.

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

  “You want my house, you can have it,” Paolo said, “for the right price.”

  “Well, you're certainly direct, Mr. Bautista,” Danvers said, intrigued, “but without the others, your house is worthless.”

  “I think you're wrong.”

  “Oh, how is that?”

  “Gold,” Paolo said, playing his hand because he had nothing to lose.

  Danvers’ smiled widened, like he was getting ready to attack and was enjoying the moment of anticipation. “Someone's been doing his research. Should have dealt with that snitch Miller more effectively.”

  “What you want, it's not just about building a resort, that's just a front for what you really intend to do—to excavate the land around Eldon Court for gold—and in the process you get to destroy the Saunders family legacy.”

  “George Saunders told me he loved me, then he sold me out for the security of his regular life,” Danvers said, “and then they crazy loon betrayed me.”

  “I don't care about your motives, Danvers,” Paolo said, “I've got nothing left here in Wonderland, not after Aaron's death. . . it's time for me to move on. So if you want my house and my property, here's the price.”

  Paolo unfolded a piece of paper he had been holding in his hand, slid it against the cherry wood desk, waiting anxiously for Danvers to pick it up. He did, finally, of course he did, he was a businessman first, fueled by his endless quest for money and power, but also to fulfill his plan for revenge. The man raised his eyebrow at the amount.

  “A hefty price,” he said.

  “It's nothing compared to what I've lost,” Paolo said.

  “So I pay for the house and the land, and the rest is. . .”

  “Collateral damage.”

  “I'll have to think about your offer,” Danvers said.

  “You have two days,” Paolo said. “If you don't buy it, I'll sell it to someone else.”

  Danvers eyes narrowed. “And who would that be?”

  “My neighbors,” Paolo said, “They'll all come together and buy Number Three from me, thus strengthening their hold on Eldon Court. Just makes your job even harder.”

  Danvers Converse said nothing for over a minute, and the silence and warmth in the office brought beads of sweat to Paolo's forehead. But he wouldn't wipe at them, not when he had the upper hand. Or did he? Had he overplayed it? But just when he was getting ready to speak, Danvers broke the silence.

  “Fine, two days. I'll give you my answer,” he said, extending a hand across the desk.

  Paolo refused to accept it, and Danvers just nodded with understanding.

  “Well played, Mr. Bautista,” Danvers said, standing back up.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Converse, nothing about this entire mess has been well played,” he said, and then without another word he exited the office, finally letting out a hefty breath he felt he'd been holding since the moment he'd boldly stepped inside Danvers’ inner sanctum. But now that he'd done what he'd done, set in motion something he knew his neighbors would disapprove of, Paolo felt finally free, of Eldon Court and of Aaron, even if briefly, and that's when he made his way back toward the bar.

  The guy was still there, and the first thing Paolo allowed was to have him buy a drink.

  It wasn't the last overture he would accept.

  * * * *

  “Oh shit, fuck, fuck, give it to me. . .”

  The cute, sexy man from the bar thrust hard above him, his hard cock pushing itself deep inside Paolo's smooth ass. He felt every push and he welcomed them, urging the man on, more, more, don't stop fucking me, that's what he begged for, his voice swirling inside the hotel room. His eyes locked not on the man screwing him but on the bare ceiling, it was like he was staring at a blank slate, the remainder of his life unwritten, this little sexual interlude just what he needed to release him from the hold of Wonderland, of Eldon Court.

  “Oh, yeah, Paolo, you're so sexy, yes, take it, take it. . .”

  It had happened as naturally as anything, the intent clear in both sets of eyes as they had cheered over that first drink, the gentle touch of hands upon hands as they agreed to a second round, an initial kiss while they finished their third and final drink, a tease of what was to come. Properly liquidated, libidos loosened, inhibitions unleashed, they made their way to the man's room on the seventh floor, Room 713, neither of them saying anything, neither needing to. This was just going to be pure sex, what each of them wanted, what Paolo desired, this cute young sexy guy with the hot smile that had so drawn him in. He reminded him of a younger Aaron.

  Paolo had easily slipped out of his Capri pants and flowered shirt, showing off his fine body, his olive-
toned skin, his hard, hungry cock. The man had removed his shirt, displaying a surprising coat of chest hair, and then he'd dropped his pants, revealing an even more impressive cock, thick and already dripping with anticipation. Paolo had dropped to his knees and taken the cock deep inside his mouth, the man pushing it back to his throat with a hard thrust. And so Paolo had sucked it, and he'd sucked more, and just then the man quickly shuddered and his cock shot forth a thick load of come. Paolo allowed drops to spill out onto his face, dripping off his chin.

  “Nice,” he'd said.

  “You need to come,” the man had said.

  “No, I need you to fuck me,” Paolo had said.

  And so the Paolo had planted himself on the bed and positioned his legs like he'd seen Marc do for Parker, and then the man had come to him, prepared, ready, sliding himself easily into Paolo's desperate ass. Now, the man continued to thrust hard at Paolo's hole, even as he felt himself distanced from the actual act, like he was watching from afar, perhaps in the darkened room, alone with the flickering images. In his mind he was Rose Emerson's character from Black Velvet, he was enjoying the sexual experience even though he knew the plot, the garrote waiting under the pillow, ready to wrap itself around her lover's throat just as he climaxed, dying in a moment of erotic strangling. But that's not what he had planned for himself, this wasn't a revenge fuck or a prelude to death. This was life.

  “More, more, keep going,” Paolo begged.

  That was the thing about youth, they had the relentless stamina to keep going, especially when they'd already come once and had to dig deep into their reserves for that second, heady orgasm. Paolo dug sharp nails into the man's back, wandered down to a patch of thick hair at the small of his back, fingering the furry trail as it disappeared inside the crack of his ass. Yes, he felt good, his cock and his hard body and the light coating of hair on his body, Paolo was enjoying it so much but he also hated himself for loving it. . . but wasn't that the point? Wasn't that why he'd accepted the man's offer to “come upstairs and let me fuck your brains out,” because he was disgusted with himself over his deal with Danvers Converse, over what it would mean to the neighbors of Eldon Court?