by Carol Lynne
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Different Suits
ISBN #978-1-907280-38-2
©Copyright Carol Lynne 2009
Cover Art by April Martinez ©Copyright October 2009
Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road
, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.
Poker Night
DIFFERENT SUITS
Carol Lynne
Dedication
For Angelo Cicatello.
Who knew such a wonderful man and friend could be the
inspiration for an entire series of books? Love you, Ang!
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Mercedes: DAIMLER AG CORPORATION FED REP GERMANY MERCEDESSTRASSE
Nike: Nike, Inc. CORPORATION
Harley: H-D MICHIGAN, LLC LIMITED LIABILITY COMPANY
Chevy Impala: General Motors Corporation CORPORATION
Spaghetti Os: CSC Brands LP
Los Angeles Times: TRIBUNE LICENSE, INC. CORPORATION
Blackberry: Research In Motion Limited CORPORATION
Corona: Cerveceria Modelo, S.A. de C.V. CORPORATION
Monte Carlo: General Motors Corporation CORPORATION
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company CORPORATION
Chapter One
Angelo Pilato yawned as he tossed his briefcase in the backseat of his Mercedes. He started the car and pulled out of his parking space. Maybe he’d just go home and drink enough wine to pass out on the sofa.
Three weeks earlier, he’d pushed Carl Blakely, the religious zealot who’d become the self-proclaimed defender of heterosexuality, down on the courthouse steps. That’s what was bothering him, not the fact it had also been the last time he’d seen a certain Neanderthal police detective.
He’d been hearing noises, feeling like he was being followed and getting fucked up phone calls in the middle of the night. See? Nothing to do with the detective. He tried to push thoughts of Moody Torrence from his mind.
The six-foot-six-inch detective wasn’t even his type. Sure Moody was sexy as fuck with that shoulder-length black hair and the body of a god covered in tattoos, but his damn feet had to be at least a size thirteen. The idea of those big, black biker boots made him shiver. Nope, definitely not my type.
Angelo made his way through the heavy rush hour traffic and pulled onto his quiet street. He waved at the neighbour’s kid as he grabbed his briefcase and headed towards the mailbox.
He noticed the flowers around the mailbox needed watering and groaned. He loved his flowers, but the thought of watering the front and back beds left him even more tired. Opening the front lid of the box, Angelo was surprised to see it stuffed full.
Confused, he reached in and pulled out the stack of mail. His breath hitched as he saw what was in his hands. Pamphlets. There had to be at least fifty of them, all proclaiming the evils of homosexuality.
Angelo wasn’t surprised to see the vile things were the product of Carl Blakely’s ministry. Fucker.
As he let himself into his house, something dawned on him. If one of Blakely’s flunkies had stuffed the pamphlets in his box, then they knew who he was and where he lived. He started to toss the vile literature into the trashcan but dropped them on the counter instead.
He reached for the phone and dialled 9-1-1. Despite what Trey had advised him a few days earlier, Angelo refused to call Moody.
After explaining the situation to the dispatcher, Angelo hung up and removed his tie. He retreated to his bedroom and carefully hung his suit and tie in the closet before placing his dress-shirt in the dry cleaning bag.
The dispatcher told him she’d send a car out, but Angelo knew without it being an emergency, he could be in for a bit of a wait. He quickly showered and dressed in his normal designer jeans and T-shirt.
His friends enjoyed teasing him about his wardrobe, but Angelo didn’t care. He’d grown up wearing used clothing purchased for pennies at the second-hand store in his rough Oakland neighbourhood. Now he had a good job, Angelo allowed himself to indulge in the things he’d never had as the kid of a single parent.
Opening his closet once more, Angelo stared at the racks of shoes. It was well-known he had a thing for sneakers, not only on hot men, but buying them for himself as well. He selected a pair of seldom-worn Nikes and slipped them on, tying them tight.
He wandered his way into the kitchen and selected a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the wine rack. After uncorking the expensive bottle, he poured it into the crystal decanter and left it to breathe as he began to prepare a salad.
In the middle of cutting up a tomato, the doorbell sounded. Angelo set down the knife and wiped his hands on a towel before making his way through the living room to the small foyer.
He opened the door expecting to see a uniformed officer and found Detective Torrence instead. It seemed every time he turned around lately, Moody was on his doorstep. The guy seemed to be his constant protector and it was starting to put Angelo on edge. “What’re you doing here, Juan?”
Moody gave Angelo a bored look and leaned an arm on the doorjamb. “Did or did you not call into the police station?”
“I called 9-1-1, not you.”
“If you mentioned Carl Blakely, you basically did call me. All things pertaining to the investigation into Overton’s death go through me, and the name’s Moody.” Moody leant down until he was nose to nose with Angelo. “Now, you gonna ask me in and tell me about it?”
Knowing he wasn’t going to win, Angelo stepped back and gestured Moody inside. “The pamphlets are in the kitchen.”
He walked back down his hallway, aware of Moody’s big body behind him, the heavy tread of biker boots sounded unusually loud on his pristine hardwood floors. Angelo motioned to the stack of papers as he poured himself a glass of wine without offering Moody any.
Angelo peered over the edge of the glass as he took a much needed sip. Moody didn’t even bother reading the pamphlet. The big man tossed them back on the counter with a grunt.
“You gonna share some of that with me?” Moody asked, gesturing to Angelo’s glass.
“Aren’t you on duty?” Angelo countered, taking another sip.
“Nope. Dispatch called me at home. I just got off an eighteen hour stakeout.”
It was then Angelo noticed the dark circles under the detective’s big brown eyes. He suddenly felt guilty. Turning towards the cabinet, he withdrew another glass and poured a generous amount of the crimson liquid before handing it to Moody.
&
nbsp; “So…who were you staking out?” Angelo asked, trying to make conversation.
“I can’t really divulge that information.” Moody emptied the glass of expensive wine in three swallows.
Angelo was appalled at the total lack of consideration for such a fine bottle of wine. When Moody held out his glass, Angelo rolled his eyes. “If you’ll promise to savour it. This isn’t grocery store wine.”
Moody grinned and took a sip of his filled glass. “So, you wanna fuck?”
Angelo choked on his sip of wine, turning to finally spit it out in the sink. Not since he’d left Oakland had anyone dared speak to him in such a way. He wiped his mouth and turned back to the Neanderthal. “Is that the only reason you’re here? Don’t you even care that Blakely knows where I live?”
Moody set his emptied glass on the counter and reached down to rub the bulge pressing against the front of his jeans. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Sure. And asking me to fuck was a spur of the moment decision,” Angelo snorted the reply. He couldn’t believe the nerve of the guy.
Moody shrugged and grabbed the pamphlets from the counter. “It’s been a while. Thought I’d take a chance. Forget it. I’ll file a report about these and set up a patrol to swing by routinely. If you see anything out of the ordinary, give me a call.”
Moody picked up a pen from the counter and scribbled a number on one of the pamphlets, handing it to Angelo. “Sure you don’t want a cock in your ass instead of that prissy salad I see you’re fixin’?”
“Quite sure, thank you,” Angelo retorted. He considered telling Moody about the noises he’d been hearing at night, but decided against it. The guy was obviously horny and slightly out of his mind after putting in an eighteen-hour shift.
He walked the detective to the door, but before he left, Moody surprised him once more by reaching out to cup Angelo’s cock. He was dismayed to feel a semi-erection pressed against the detective’s hand.
“I think you’re not as immune to me as you’d like to pretend.” Moody gave Angelo’s cock a squeeze before turning and walking away without a word.
Red-faced, Angelo slammed the door. “Fuck!”
* * * *
Chuckling, Moody roared out of Angelo’s driveway on his Harley and headed towards his downtown apartment. As the loud motorcycle roared through traffic, he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.
He’d done his research and knew where the man came from. It didn’t matter to Moody that Angelo acted all high and mighty, he knew the truth. The guy was from a neighbourhood known for heavy gang activity. Although he was impressed as hell that Angelo managed to break out of the slums, he thought he needed to be taken down a notch or two.
Moody pulled into the secured parking garage and turned off his bike still thinking about the hot little Italian. A good hard fuck by someone Angelo saw as beneath him would most likely do the trick.
By the time he reached his third floor apartment, Moody felt like the walking dead. The two glasses of wine hadn’t helped the fatigue that had begun to set in over six hours earlier. He quickly stripped and crawled under the covers.
Carl Blakely was definitely up to something. Although Blakely wasn’t even from San Francisco, he was still in town. Why?
An informant had told him Blakely and a few of his minions were renting a house on the south end of the city. The news would have been bad enough on its own, but Moody knew the area, and that’s what had him troubled.
Since the stabbing death of William Overton while in police custody, something had been bugging him. A year earlier, Moody had been proud that his nephew, Rico, had chosen to follow in his footsteps and become a cop. Hell, Moody even pulled what few strings he could, and helped Rico get a job at the jail.
The realisation Rico lived only two blocks from Carl Blakely’s home away from home struck a wrong chord. He’d dropped in to visit his oldest sister and her family shortly after the stabbing. When he’d tried to strike up a conversation with Rico, his nephew had suddenly remembered something else he needed to do.
Moody rubbed his tired eyes. Jake, his partner on the case, had always been a good friend, but spending eighteen hours in a car together had put them both on edge. He’d had to listen to Jake go on and on about his sex life.
Although he was in no way a prude, the last thing he wanted to listen to was how good a pussy felt wrapped around Jake’s dick. Moody had been forced on more than one occasion to tell his friend to shut the fuck up.
It wasn’t a secret within the department that Moody was gay, and it seemed every detective he got partnered with tried to convert him to the heterosexual way of thinking. He knew it was his own problem that he let the bullshit get to him, but he hadn’t expected it from Jake.
Dammit. He’d already been put through enough hell from his strong Catholic family, the rough fuckers in his neighbourhood growing up, and his early years in the department. If he wasn’t going to suddenly change his sexual appetites after all that, why did Jake think talking for hours upon hours about pussy was going to change him?
The game with Angelo Pilato was more a distraction from his other problems than anything else. He enjoyed pissing off the uppity Italian. The way Angelo’s bright blue eyes narrowed behind those designer glasses when he was mad went straight to Moody’s cock every time. The guy may look like a pencil pusher, but Moody could tell there was a badass in there trying like hell to get out. The way Angelo had stood up to him on more than one occasion was proof of that.
Since he was old enough to go to the gym by himself, people hadn’t messed with him. He’d spent the entire summer between his junior and senior year of high school at the local Y, pumping iron. It had quickly become an obsession once he saw the results.
Although he’d cooled a bit in the previous few years, Moody still loved the look of fear he received when he entered a room. It was a power issue for someone who’d grown up different in a rough neighbourhood.
He knew the tattoos, the Harley and length of his hair only added to the badass image, and that’s the way he liked it. To let people get close was to let your guard down enough to get hurt. He’d learned that lesson from his family and friends when he’d come out of the closet.
Moody fell asleep thinking about his mom. Although they’d gone several years without speaking, they’d finally gotten their shit together in the past fifteen years and had reconnected. They’d both come to a mutual agreement not to discuss that portion of his life.
It didn’t really matter to him, it wasn’t like he’d ever planned to bring one of his fucks home to meet the family.
* * * *
After Detective Torrence left, Angelo finished off the bottle of wine and managed to eat the ill-prepared salad. His mood sucked, and he knew just whose fault it was. As the sun started to set, he realised he hadn’t yet watered. “Shit.”
Angelo eased his way out of the big leather chair and went through the back French doors to the deck. He turned on the water and methodically began spraying down his plant beds.
The nerve of that asshole, treating him like a handy fuck. He may not have had a date recently, but it had absolutely nothing to do with Moody, that was for damn sure. He just hadn’t found anyone who flipped his switch. That was all.
Once he’d finished the backyard, he turned off the hose and walked around the side of the house towards the front. Maybe I’ll go out…
That was as far as he got before noticing the words Die Fag spray painted on the side of his luxury sedan. Angelo’s hands fisted at his sides as he looked up and down the quiet residential street. No fucking way.
Sometime within the last two hours, someone had been close enough to him to vandalise his pride and joy. The flowers forgotten, he raced inside. What he found in his living room chilled him to the bone. How could I have not locked the front door after Moody left?
Shit! What if someone’s still in the house?
Angelo grabbed his cell phone and car keys from the coffee table a
nd ran back outside, stopping to lock the front door.
He started the car and pulled out of his driveway, heading south as he punched several numbers on his phone.
“Hello?”
“Trey? You mind if I swing by?” he asked, his heart racing.
“Don’t mind at all. Is something wrong?”
Angelo gripped the steering wheel. “Someone fucked up my car and left me a little present in my house while I was there.”
“What! Did you call Detective Torrence?” Trey asked.
“No. He was by earlier because of some shit I found in the mailbox and it didn’t go well.”
Trey sighed. “The two of you can’t seem to be in the same room without comparing dick size. Call him.”
“I…I can’t. And when did you start cussing?” Angelo was, quite frankly, appalled at the idea of the sweet man using such words.
“Sorry. I guess I’ve been around you guys too long,” Trey replied, seeming amused at Angelo’s outrage.
“I’m still about fifteen minutes away, but I’m beginning to feel shaky. I think I’ll pull over and calm down before trying to fight the traffic on the expressway.”
“Good idea. Do you want me to come and get you?” Trey asked.
“Yeah. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I’ve had too much wine to drive anyway, but I had to get away.”
“I understand. Find a parking lot.”
Angelo pulled in to the nearest shopping plaza and gave Trey the address.
“Lock your doors,” Trey reminded Angelo before he hung up.
Once he put the car in park and turned off the engine, Angelo closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. “Man up,” he whispered to himself.
All he could think about was someone being in his house. He’d only been in the yard about fifteen minutes before he’d seen his car. How could someone slip into his house so fast unless they were watching him?