Giving Chase

by Hill, Jamie

  Published by Phaze Books

  Also by Jamie Hill

  "Heads or Tails" from

  Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III

  "Let the Sunshine In" from

  413 Remembrance Lane Deep Obsessions Stocking Stuffers "A Night at the Inn" from

  Coming Together Under Fire Change of Plans Head Over Heels

  This is an explicit and erotic novel intended for the enjoyment of adult readers. Please keep out of the hands of children.

  www.Phaze.com

  Giving Chase

  a novella of homoerotic romance by

  JAMIE HILL

  Giving Chase, Copyright 2008 by Jamie Hill

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Phaze Production Phaze Books 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  To order additional copies of this book, contact: books@phaze.com www.Phaze.com

  Cover art © 2008 Debi Lewis

  Edited by Stephanie Balistieri eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-59426-819-9 First Edition –June, 2008

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 87 6 5 43 2 1 Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Chapter One

  Six hundred and five feet in the air, the flying saucer sat atop massive steel beam legs. Martin Benson stared up at the structure with awe. The outline had been a recognizable part of the Seattle skyline for the past fortyfive years, but he'd never seen the Space Needle up close. It was an amazing sight.

  People said the view from the top was even more incredible, but he didn't intend to find out. The twenty dollar price tag didn't put him off, though that would buy him a week's worth of lunches. The internal elevator took only forty-three seconds from bottom to top, so time wasn't a factor. The problem was his lifelong, irrational fear of heights. He broke into a cold sweat just thinking about ascending the tower. He'd been in town for three months, and had never actually visited the popular tourist attraction.

  Every weekend when he spoke with his mother in St. Louis, she asked what he did for fun. There hadn't been much to tell, and he felt a little guilty about it. She'd been so excited when he graduated college and took a job on the west coast. His family wanted to hear about the city, not the view from his desk and computer screen.

  It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday, so he decided to take advantage and see some sights. Summer would soon be over, and while it didn't get as cold in Washington as it did Missouri, he heard it could be incredibly wet and nasty at times.

  There was a lot to see, more ground than he could cover in a day. The Seattle Art Museum, with its outdoor branch on the banks of Puget Sound, interested him. It would probably require a day all on its own, so he left it on his list of things to do.

  Something drew him to Seattle Center, the large festive area around the Space Needle. There was plenty to do there, all within walking distance. There were dozens of souvenir shops in the courtyard, and he browsed through several. A lot of their stuff was on the junky side. Cheap tshirts, key chains, and shot glasses seemed the normal fare. He knew his mother and sister would like anything he got, but hoped to find something decent.

  The last shop he passed had some t-shirts displayed that seemed nicer than the others. He window-shopped for a moment, then went inside. The shirts were a better quality than he'd seen before, and reasonably priced. A pink one with the Space Needle logo looked perfect for his sister. He found a lavender shirt with Seattle embroidered across the front, and smiled. It looked exactly like something his mother would wear.

  Scooping up the two shirts, he headed toward the dark-haired man standing behind the cash register. Just as he got there, the phone on the counter rang. The clerk smiled at him apologetically. "Hang on one second?"

  "Sure, go ahead." He nodded, watching the man take the call.

  "Broad Street Gifts. Yep. Oh, hey." He turned his back to continue the conversation.

  A flash of irritation struck Martin, but as he noticed several very large tattoos on the man, irritation turned to intrigue. A tight black tank top didn't hide much; it was hard not to stare. He couldn't quite make out the design, but the ink spread from the man's upper back across both shoulders, and ended at his biceps.

  The muscles alone were stare-worthy. The guy definitely had the physique to wear the tank—the really tight tank. Martin looked away, self-conscious, then slowly back again. The clerk was still on the phone, oblivious to him, so what could it hurt to ogle a little? He was in the middle of a long, dry spell.

  Dating in a new town was always tough, but even trickier for a gay man. Office romances were out of the question. He'd done some nosing around and discovered a couple of gay bars, but both were sleazy as hell. They were the kind of places where men met in the bathroom for quick hook-ups. He wasn't interested in that at all.

  "Thanks for calling." The clerk hung up, then smiled at him again. "I'm really sorry about that. Hope you weren't in a hurry."

  "Not at all." He forced himself to speak coherently. The man was even better looking from the front. His thick, shaggy black hair framed his face, hitting just above his collar. When he brushed the bangs from his eyes, Martin noticed a silver bar pierced through the guy's right eyebrow. "Wow. Did that hurt?" "What?" "The eyebrow thing." He touched the bar absently. "Shit, I forget about it. Nah, it didn’t hurt. Not as much as this one." He stuck out his tongue, where a round silver stud shone from the center. "Jesus!" Martin muttered. The other man laughed. "I'm not afraid of a little pain." "Apparently not!" His eyes darted to one bicep, where from the front he could make out a hunter with a bow and arrow.

  "I love tattoos." The guy grinned. "I have eleven. Some in places that might surprise you."

  Martin felt his face flush. "Eleven, wow. I'm impressed." "That's why I do it, to impress the guys." He chuckled. Martin tried to read the meaning behind the comment, but couldn't tell if it'd been sarcastic or not. This guy was gorgeous—a little out there, sure, if he really did have eleven tattoos. But his eyes were dark brown saucers, deep and soulful looking. There was a cleft in his chin. Martin didn't know exactly why, but it was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. He was sure most women thought the same. This fellow could have anyone he wanted, no doubt about that.

  "You ready to check out?" The clerk glanced at the t shirts.

  "Oh, yeah." Martin laid them on the counter. "You have nice stuff in here. Some of those other places were pretty cheap-looking."

  "Thanks." He folded each shirt, ringing the prices into his register. "That'll be thirty-two fifty."

  Martin handed over his credit card, and the man completed the sale. "Sign please, and here's your receipt. Thank you." "Yeah, thanks." He took his card, reinserting it into his wallet. Reaching for the bag, he hesitated, not in a hurry to leave.

  Seeming to sense it, the man asked, "Where you visiting from?" "I, uh, live here now. I'm from St. Louis." "No kidding? What brought you all the way out here?" "I got a computer job here after college." "Ah, Silicon Valley. They suck a lot of people into their

  w
eb—I mean—they hire lots of folks." Martin smiled. "They pay pretty well, though the cost of living is higher out here. I can't believe the price of soda pop."

  "I can't believe you called it soda pop." He rolled his eyes, grinning. "Sorry. You can take the boy out of the Midwest…" "Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. So what are you doing in the

  tourist district, if you live here now?" "I've never done any sight-seeing stuff, and I figured it was about time. Decided I'd make a day of it. I went to the Science Fiction Museum—" Nodding, the man asked, "Go up in the Needle?" "Not yet. I was going to go 'Ride the Ducks'." The World War II amphibious vehicles were huge, and painted yellow. It was a little cheesy, but supposedly a pretty good tour of the area.

  He made a face. "That's lame, man. Unless you're ready to say 'quack, quack' all through town."

  Martin's face drooped. "They make you say 'quack quack'?"

  "Or pay two bucks for a quacker. They're big on group interaction, kind of a kiddie thing. If I were you, I'd skip the ducks. What else do you have planned?"

  "Well, there's Pike's Place Market, and I haven't been to the art museum yet."

  The man made a motion like he was strangling himself. "You've got to be kidding! Who are you with, your eighty-year-old grandma?" "I'm alone." He shrugged. "If you want to get a feel for the real Seattle, you need to take in some clubs, hear some bands. You know we're the home of grunge rock music, don’t you?" "I thought grunge rock was dead." "Are you crazy? Pearl Jam released a new album not

  too long ago, and Nirvana will never go out of style." "Nirvana? I know Kurt Cobain's dead." "Cobain's like the Beatles, man. Dead or alive, the music lives on. Those are just some mainstream names. We've had some great local talent here, too. Alice in Chains, Green River…classics."

  Martin smiled. "So grunge isn’t dead, Seattle's just hiding it from the rest of the world." "You got it. I could take you places you wouldn't

  believe." No truer words were probably ever spoken. He glanced at the man wistfully. It was crazy thinking about going out with a perfect stranger. And going out where? Seattle was a big city, he wasn't used to the same things this guy obviously was. He could find himself in a bad situation.

  The man eyed him, seeming to get that he was wrestling with himself. "Tell you what. I'll give you an address. If you feel like listening to some music, be there about nine o'clock. I'll leave your name at the door; you won't even have to pay to get in. It'll be fun, I guarantee it. My friends are great."

  "Maybe." It sounded simple enough, perhaps he could consider it.

  Picking up a business card from the stack on the counter, the clerk wrote a name and address on the back. He handed the card over. "Here's the address. Easiest thing to do is take a cab. There's my name. Ask the bouncer for me."

  He glanced at the card. "Chase Reed." Then he looked up. "That's you?"

  "That's me. How about you? What name should I leave at the door?" "Martin Benson." He shuffled his feet nervously. "Okay. So, whaddaya say, Marty? Think you'll be

  there?" "Nobody calls me Marty." Chase grinned. "Nine o'clock?" Until that moment, he hadn't been sure about going. The whole idea made him nervous. For some reason, Chase's smile reassured him. "Yeah, nine o'clock." * * * * Just before nine, the cab pulled to a stop. Martin paid the driver and got out, scanning the front of the club nervously. It looked dark and old, but a lot of people were paying to get in. Most of them appeared normal, so he joined the line. A sign indicated a ten dollar cover charge, and he pulled a bill from his pocket. "I'm meeting Chase Reed," he told the broad, balding man at the door. "Name?" "Martin Benson." He nodded, flipped Martin's hand over and stamped

  it, ignoring the cash. "You'll find him up front to the right." "Thanks." Shoving the bill back into his jeans, Martin made his way through throngs of people to the stage. A band was warming up—at least he hoped they were warming up—because the music was bad.

  Dozens of people milled around by the stage. Just when he wondered if he'd be able to spot Chase, he did. The man looked different than earlier. His hair was gelled into a spiky, messy style. He wore a white tank top, tucked into low riding jeans with a thick, chain-like belt buckled tight around his hips. "Hey." Martin stepped behind him. Chase turned to face him, and for a moment his eyes

  were blank—glassy, and unfocused. Martin took a short breath, wondering if showing up had been a good idea. "I, uh," he hesitated, trying to decide if he needed to introduce himself.

  The other man's eyes crinkled, his mouth melting into a smile. "Marty's here! Hey everyone, this is the guy I told you about."

  "Hey, Marty." A woman with long red and black streaked hair slipped an arm around his shoulders. "So glad you could make it." She pressed a kiss on his cheek.

  "Thanks. No one calls me Marty…" He stopped talking. She'd moved on to someone else, her arms wrapped around another man's shoulders, and obviously wasn't listening. He watched the woman for a second, admiring the leather top which pushed her breasts up high. Her pants were tight black leather, and they sculpted her ass nicely. He normally didn’t check out women, but this one was hard to ignore.

  "Marty." Chase moved closer. "You made it. The band's getting ready to start."

  "Good." He glanced at the stage. They had, thankfully, been warming up. Please let the music be decent. He wasn't sure he could stand so close to the stage if it was horrible. Turning back, he smiled. "You look different."

  The multi-tattooed man held his arms up. "You approve?"

  "Sure," he mumbled, wondering if his opinion really mattered. "You look great. I like the hair."

  Chase ran one hand through Martin's short, brown hair. "Next time we'll do you up right. Tina's in beauty school. She does everyone's hair before we go out." He nodded to the red and black tressed woman who'd greeted him.

  The caress felt wonderful, but he forced himself to temper his enthusiasm. He needed to find out about Chase, and decided to try a roundabout question. "Tina? Is she your—" Chase simply stared. "What?" "Girlfriend?" "God, no!" He laughed. "Tina is Naomi's girlfriend." Martin noticed Tina’s arms around another woman,

  and they were kissing. He glanced away, embarrassed. "Give Naomi her tongue back!" Chase called, and the

  group tittered. At least they're open-minded. He still needed to determine Chase's sexual orientation, but that would have to wait. The show was starting.

  To his surprise, the music wasn't half bad. Since he wasn't driving, he had a couple of drinks and tried to relax. By the time the band wrapped it up, he found he'd actually enjoyed himself. "So, what did you think?" Chase called over the din. "I liked it!" "There's a party not too far from here, we're all going.

  You can ride with us." "I don't know." His cautious disposition reared again. "It'll be fine. This was good, wasn't it?" Martin thought about it, then nodded. "Why not?" "Great." Chase scooped an arm through his, and led

  him through the crowd and out the door. About ten people joined them. He'd spoken with one guy named Eric, but besides the two girls, he didn't know anyone else. Everyone hung all over everyone else, to the extent that he couldn't tell if they were gay or simply drunk.

  "Marty's with us." Chase kept an arm though his, leading him to an old gray Dodge Charger. "This is Eric's car." "Nice," he said politely, ignoring the rusted tire wells. "Piece of crap." Eric grinned, looking over the hood. "It gets me where I need to go, and a few places I don't." He winked and got in.

  Three people piled into the back, and Chase pushed him into the middle front. "Okay?" He glanced over as the car moved.

  "Sure." He wanted to loosen up and have fun, while staying aware of what was going on. It seemed prudent, given he really didn't know these people.

  They pulled in front of a large, old house with groups of people standing in front. Loud music spilled out the open windows. "Come on." Chase tugged his arm, and he followed.

  Chase spoke to lots of people on the way in and seemed to know just where to go. A makeshift bar was set up in the dining room, an
d he got them a couple of drinks. "Here you go."

  "Thanks." Martin took the glass and sipped, looking around. The music came from a stereo with several big speakers. Some people danced, others stood in groups talking. Two men were making out on the sofa, while a man and a woman groped each other in the corner. "Interesting." He hadn't realized he was staring at the sofa, but must have been.

  "Yeah." Chase muttered in a loud voice, "Get a room, Joe."

  One of the two men on the sofa opened his eyes, flipped his middle finger at Chase, then resumed kissing.

  He snorted, and grinned at Martin. "We're old friends."

  "I see." Actually, I don't. Still trying to figure out if Chase was gay, he took another drink.

  "This is awkward." Chase studied him over the rim of his glass. "I've been trying to find out all night, with no luck, so I guess I need to come out and ask. Are you gay or straight?"

  " You've been trying to find out?" Martin laughed. "I guess you didn't do any better job of it than I did." "You mean—?" Chase's eyes sparkled. At that moment, he knew. It wasn't easy for a gay man to put himself out there. Some guys were so homophobic, there couldn't be friendship once the truth came out. Every time he made his orientation known, he took a risk. Martin could tell by the look on the other man's face, they were in the same situation. "I'm gay," he confirmed.

  "Praise Jesus!" Chase whooped, and downed his drink. He set the glass aside and took Martin by the hand. "Let's go where it's quieter, to talk."

  He set his glass down and allowed Chase to drag him up the stairs. The house had three floors, and not finding an empty room on the second level, they ascended to the top. One room was open and Chase snagged it, drawing him in, and closing the door behind.

  It was sparsely furnished. A single bed with a filthy mattress, and a ratty wicker chair were the only things visible. "Whose house is this?"

  "Some friend of a friend of Eric's, I think his old man rents it out, or something. Come to think of it, I don’t really know." He stepped forward, pressing Martin against the wall. "Come to think of it, I don't really care. There's only one thing I care about right now." His mouth covered Martin's, and both men sighed as they came together.