“Ow!” He tensed at Ash’s sudden grimace.
“I’ll go slower,” Ash mumbled.
“Just...get some lube, okay? And a condom.”
“Got none left. You think I’m diseased or some shit? You think I let those fags fuck me without one?”
Marc swallowed.
Ash made a show of spitting into his hand and lathering it over his cock again before spearing it deeper into Marc’s behind. It felt better this time. Steadier and smoother. Long, slow thrusts of Ash’s beautiful cock. The shape and size of it. He could feel Ash pushing right up against his gut. The firm head pushing against parts of Marc that made him gasp, breathing deeper, yet faster, gulping down air that seemed to swell to all his nerve endings outside and in. Ash’s once rough and careless touch didn’t hurt any more. Now, it made him feel desired and powerful.
Ash even seemed to be enjoying it. He ran a playful finger down the length of Marc’s hard, solid cock. Marc never stayed hard while he was being fucked. What was Ash...?
“Oh fuck!” He mouthed the curse right as Ash squeezed his cock, releasing the orgasm that had been building ever since Ash had found his rhythm. Thick, ropes of it shot over his belly, up onto his chest, and the scars that decorated it. The outline of a veve. The icon of a Voodoo spirit, etched into his skin. Guardians of the dead, now coated in his own life seed.
It felt fucking great.
Ash stopped thrusting into him and stared at the aftermath.
“You gonna come?” Marc asked.
He felt Ash shiver as he pulled out of Marc, his dick quickly losing its fat. Marc felt the tension grip his gut. “Please, Ash...”
It had been Ash’s idea to fuck.
“Later,” Ash grabbed a dirty white t-shirt and tossed it to Marc. “You feelin’ better?”
Marc shrugged as he wiped himself down. “Yeah.”
“Cool.”
Putting about a foot between them, Ash lay down on the mattress. For a while, all Marc could do was stare at his back, the smooth muscles of his shoulders. Even the muscled curves of his butt. He reached out a tentative hand and stroked Ash’s back, careful not to push too hard. When nothing happened, he let his hand slip down onto Ash’s hip.
Ash grabbed his wrist and tossed it away, pulling the sheet up over his nakedness. “Go to sleep.”
Marc rolled over to the other side of the mattress, staring into the darkness. “Goodnight, Ash.”
* * *
He’d fallen asleep at least once. He may have wavered in and out of consciousness, but the sands of sleep weighing down the corners of his eyes left him no doubt.
Perhaps the man had followed him back from his dreams. Or through the simple, black silence of sleep. Now, the man sat just out of moonlight’s reach, staring at him with dark, silent eyes. Marc could just make out the dark contours of his bare chest through the opening of a dusty black long-coat hanging around his shoulders. He held a walking stick in his hand, its shiny silver top the only other feature Marc could make out against the moonlit window.
Marc grumbled, closing his eyes and turning onto his back again. His head flopped back to one side, one tired eye peeling open, only to see the man standing there, still watching.
“What?” Marc whispered.
“If you want to sleep, you should sleep.” The man’s voice snaked its way through the darkness, whiny, high pitched, and full of mischief. It almost made Marc want to throw off the thin, hard sheet covering himself and Ash and go out. To find some blind-ass drunk john he could clip easily enough, then lose in the Quarter’s darkened streets. Nothing too serious. Nothing dangerous. Just mean. Infantile. The culmination of wicked impulses that gripped him when he heard the stranger’s voice.
“Are you watching me?” Marc’s voice was the voice of a small child talking to a monster in his closet, so timid and quiet he could barely be sure he was speaking out loud. Ash’s snoring, which he had fought so hard to block out on sleepless nights gone by, now offered a strange, grounding comfort, if only in knowing Ash was still asleep and wouldn’t see him talking to some random, half-naked negro just a few feet from their bed.
Of course, Ash wouldn’t see him. He’d see Marc talking to the fucking empty window. Talking in a dream. But this freak in the window was a damn fine, vivid hallucination.
The hallucination didn’t budge an inch. “Watching over you, little boy.”
“Watching? What’s that mean?”
“Go to sleep. The time will come for you, soo-ooon.”
Marc could feel the cold sweat soaking his body. He peeled away the sheet and looked down at the scar on his chest.
The figure held a bony black finger to its lips, leaning on its stick as it gently rose to its feet and moved to his side. Marc swallowed, more nervous sweat beading on his forehead as the man stood over him.
But what kind of man dressed like this?
Marc had seen the moonlight bouncing off the wavy, girlish black hair. It glinted on the dangling, crucifix earrings that shone with tacky gold. He wore bright purple panties, and long black stockings that stretched beneath them along slender, smooth, yet powerfully masculine legs. The foul smoke from the faggot’s cigar broke over Marc’s face, and it took him every ounce of self-control not to cough with disgust.
Like this girly faggot could care less. He wasn’t even looking at Marc now. He was looking at Ash.
“Beautiful, in his way, don’t you think?”
Marc’s gaze flicked over his friend. Ash had already rolled over, pulling the extra sheet Marc had vacated over himself. “I guess.”
“He trusts you.” The faggot’s hand passed through the air above Ash’s sleeping form. “It has taken time, but you have his faith. It is what you wanted, yes?”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Marc shook his head, desperate to avoid being dragged into a shouting match with some spook hallucination. “What do you want? Damn it, why am I talking to you? I’m dreaming this shit.” His every word sounded mumbled and half formed, just like a man talking in his sleep.
“Ah, but that is good. Good that you do not remember or believe. You will know when the time is right.”
“What the fuck do you mean by that? What time, damn it?”
The thing grinned, shining white teeth peering out from his dark face. “You have his trust. What does he have from you, little boy?”
“Have? I don’t know.”
“Trust? Faith?”
Marc startled as the man snatched up his stick and brought it down in one fast movement toward Ash’s head. Marc caught it in both hands before he could think, straining as he held it firm, inches above his sleeping friend’s skull.
The intruder’s grin grew even wider. “Love?”
“Are you crazy? You could have killed him,” Marc snapped, unable to deny his relief as the intruder withdrew his stick. A stick that had felt all too solid. All too real.
“That, I cannot do, little boy. Answer my question.”
“Ash doesn’t want my love. Fuck, man. We turn tricks together, that’s all.”
“Yet, you will defend him? Fight for him?”
“I... I just....”
The creature grinned at him again, backing off toward the window. “Soon, little boy. Soon, you will have everything you wanted. All that you deserve.”
The insidious hand of sleep had regained its hold before Marc could watch the man go.
KYLE
Kyle didn’t know why walking into a cop precinct should make him nervous. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet looking over the wood paneling that separated the front desk from the rest of the precinct, watching the odd officer flick his gaze up at him before returning to work, made Kyle uneasy. More than a few of the other dancers at the bar had records for this or that, after all. Usually low grade substances or hustling. Blaine had told him about the one guy who’d done time for putting his girl in hospital for three months. But whatever. None of it was his problem.
So why did t
he steely gaze of the plumpish blond sergeant behind the desk make him feel like he was about to be read his rights?
“Help you with something there, sir?”
Shit. She’d actually called him ‘sir.’
“Umm…yeah,” he said, emboldened as he approached the precinct desk. The NOPD merchandise for sale on the neighboring table seemed to mock him. Sure, plonk down twenty bucks for a t-shirt and show the world how proud you are of the Crescent City’s finest. “I’m looking for some information.”
“About?”
“A murder.” The word was even harder to get out than when he’d rehearsed it.
“Uh-uh. You a reporter?”
“Yeah. I mean, kind of. College paper.”
“Uh-uh.” Her stare gave him nothing. “Which college would that be?”
“Uh...Tulane.”
“Uh-uh. Really not the world’s best liar, are ya? Everyone down here knows the girl who covers the precinct for Tulane—pronounced too-lane, just so you know. She drives us nuts half the time. Dresses a bit nicer than you, too.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Shit, what was he doing here? What did he expect them to tell him that he didn’t already know, exactly? Antoine was dead. No shit. They hadn’t caught the guy. Double no shit. “Sorry I wasted your time.”
“Christine, I’m heading out,” one of the cops called, retrieving his jacket from a line of hooks behind the desk.
“All right, see you in a bit,” the sergeant replied.
Kyle waited for the man to go before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to leave.
“Which file were you after, son?”
He paused, trying to read the woman. But she was more than making up for his lousy poker face. “Antoine Lavolier.”
The sergeant let out a low, silent whistle. “I’m guessing the two of you weren’t friends?”
“No. I mean yeah, yeah, we were.” He bit back the details.
“All the facts we can share on the Lavolier case are a matter of public record. I can get you those. Anything beyond that remains confidential at the family’s request.”
“Wait, confidential? But he was murdered. That’s gotta be public interest, right? It was in the papers, goddamn it.”
“All right, sir. Calm down, please.”
He huffed a couple more times, clenching and unclenching his fists, but he relented. Getting worked up right in front of a cop wasn’t going to do him any favors. “I’m sorry.”
Finally, her neutral expression broke into a frown, then a grimace that also seemed… Shit! She wasn’t giving him sympathy, was she?
“Friends, huh?” she said before he could call her on it or turn and leave.
He just nodded.
She grimaced again. “Yeah, it was in the papers, all right. Page sixteen. That wasn’t an accident. You know how they found him, right? You know what he was wearing?”
He nodded again. Of course, he knew. Antoine wouldn’t have censored himself for anybody.
“Well, reporter or no reporter, you do not pass this on to anybody. The family paid good money to push the story back to page sixteen. They want this kept quiet.”
Kyle clenched his fists again. More worried about their precious name than their only son. Assholes. Fucking rich Catholic assholes. “You gonna catch the bas—the guy, right?”
“Hopefully. Like I said, the family wants this kept quiet. But to be honest with you…”
Kyle didn’t need her to finish. He could read between the lines.
“You still want me to get you those public files?”
“No. That’s okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to leave.
“Three o’clock, tomorrow,” the sergeant said quietly after he’d turned his back. “St Louis Cemetery Number Three. You didn’t hear that here and don’t go making a big show of yourself.”
He turned back to her, offered just a quick smile of thanks, then left.
MARC
“Quit fuckin’ countin’ it, will you?”
“I’m not,” he shot back, tucking the miserable wad of singles and fives deep into the bottom of his bag.
“Don’t let Dan catch you doing that shit, either. Jesus, Marky! Could you at least try to make it look like these guys want you? Keep your jock full.”
“This crap itches like hell.” He took out another wad of crumbled bills. “Look at this shit, will you? Nothin’ but singles. Ash, we got rent coming due.”
“You won’t be payin’ for shit if Dan catches you not turnin’ in your tips.”
“I cover my spot.”
“Yeah? Well your spot is fuckin’ waiting. You were on five minutes ago. Hey, you’re in luck. That fat ass nigger chick who likes you just came in. Horny bitch’s tongue was practically hangin’ between her tits.” Ash pulled out the front of his singlet and mimicked licking madly between his hard, shallow pecs.
Marc toweled himself off, wiping the sweat off his shoulders and back, drying his pits. “Why you gotta be such an ass?”
For the first time that night, Ash’s smile disappeared. It hardened into the well-practiced sneer that earned scorn from Dan and the other guys, wary discomfort from a lot of the johns, and massive tips from the sickos who got off on it. Guys turned on by a lover they knew would give them a black eye for using the word, then kiss them before they ever knew what had happened.
“Ash—”
“Listen to me, you ungrateful fuck,” Ash sneered. “She got money?”
Marc said nothing, only to be rewarded with a strong forearm pressed against his throat.
“Bitch, I said, ‘she got money?’”
“Yeah!” he choked. “She’s got money. You know she’s got money.”
“That’s right,” purred Ash. “So you keep her drinkin’, and when she slips you a five or a ten or she offers you a shot, you take that shit. When she wants to take things more private, you keep her there, and when she wants to put those big, luscious lips around that sweet white prick of yours—”
“Jesus Christ, Ash!”
“Then, when you’ve clipped her half a grand? Maybe all the way? When you’re both fine and wet, and the smell of that big ol’ black pussy’s filling that room? You tell her ‘next time,’ then come right back to me.” Ash kissed him, hard, strong and deep. No warning. No fanfare. Just the sweet warmth of Ash’s tongue on his. “And we’ll make ourselves a show that’d soak her dreams for weeks.”
Marc was hard. He could feel it straining against his shorts. He’d broken out with a fresh sweat, precum leaking to the front of his shorts. He knew it because he could feel it, just like Ash could feel it, with his hand cupped around Marc’s crotch.
“Jesus, Marky,” Ash grinned, squeezing Marc’s cock. “Hold it back, will you? You got four hours on shift yet.”
He couldn’t help the massive smile that broke across his face. He didn’t know how long Ash had been dancing. But for all the bullshit the guy had put Marc through, he’d still looked after them both, in his own way.
He barely heard Jimmy, the meth’d out twink call to him, “Marc? Get on the fuckin’ bar, man. Dan’s bitching me out.”
Marc flashed Ash one last smile as he turned to leave. The same, familiar sneer was right back in place. “Ash?” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Ash blew him a half-hearted kiss, expelling the smoke from a fresh cigarette. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Not bothering to towel off again, Marc did.
* * *
Jimmy, Alex, and Blaine were on the bar already, grinding for the pleasure of any john that might shake loose a few bills. Blaine’s fifty-megawatt grin lit up the bar as he accepted a lusty hug and ten bucks from a pair of Tulane jocks who probably, by the look of their solid biceps and trim waists, had better bodies than Blaine. Still nothing next to Alex, whose every twice-daily gym-toned muscle shone under the lights. The finished package was at that moment being enjoyed by that five-foot-nothing, white-haired actor guy who’d been coming in a lot the
past couple of weeks.
Jimmy snapped his jock around a five from the black chick, who looked less and less interested as she stared at a mojito that was putting way too small a dent in her sobriety.
Marc pursed his lips. Was Dan getting stingy on the pours again? Way to fuck with their tips.
Once she caught sight of Marc though, Jimmy didn’t exist. Her full, dark face broke into a massive smile as she ordered up another cocktail.
Marc saw at once where the money was at.
So did Rafael.
Son of a bitch!
The woman edged closer to the well-built Cuban as he sidled up to her, not caring about the humidity raining down his unspoiled olive skin. She whooped with pleasure as his perfectly proportioned six feet of muscle, smooth black hair and cocky, testosterone-soaked machismo charm hopped onto the bar in one smooth, athletic movement.
Marc felt his stomach sink. With Rafael on shift, all the rest of them could hope for was scraps. He swore under his breath as he caught Ash shaking arms at him from the doorway, silently screaming, ‘what the fuck is wrong with you, bitch?’ He’d heard it aloud enough times to know the face. He huffed as Jimmy jumped down from the bar with a defeated grimace.
Fine. If they had to fight over slim pickings, he’d be sure to get his goddamn share. He leaned across the bar, almost mocking Rafael’s opening moves as he smiled at the black chick.
“Hey baby!” She beamed as he recaptured her gaze. “How you been?”
He mumbled something about missing her every night or some such way over the top shit, then jumped up onto the bar.
Rafael’s hand was on his shoulder before he could stop it. “Like that is it, stud?”
Catching Ash’s nod in the corner of his eye, Marc tossed a sly smirk at the Cuban, which turned into a wide, playful grin as he recaptured the black chick’s attention. “Like what?” He’d barely turned his back when Raphael wrapped a solid, muscle-stretched arm around his chest.
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