Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  “Don’t go out alone,” Simon cautioned, blinking a few times to assure himself that his vision had cleared. “Don’t be home alone. Please. This guy is dangerous.” He paused. “In fact, I’m going to call a cab. Just in case.”

  “Thank you,” Tasha said, laying a hand on his arm. “I appreciate what you did.”

  “I just want you and your friends to be safe,” Simon emphasized. “So don’t take any chances.”

  She managed a wan smile. “Same for you.”

  Simon climbed into the cab, feeling self-conscious about calling a ride to go such a relatively short distance since it wasn’t even past ten. But he had no doubt that the attacker had been the Slitter, and no desire to meet up with a frustrated serial killer who blamed him for spoiling the night’s “fun.” The pain of the pepper spray had mostly faded, and Simon hoped that the stranger had gotten a much more potent dose that would keep him from trying again, at least for tonight.

  Knowing that the man with the cap had been in Grand Strand Ghost Tours made Simon’s throat tighten. The cab pulled up to his house, and Simon hesitated before he paid the driver, trying to see whether anyone lurked in the shadows. He palmed the small knife from his ankle holster as he got out and sprinted to the door, not caring what the cabbie thought.

  Once inside, Simon locked the door and then collapsed against it, feeling reality sink in. He and Tasha had eluded the Slitter, a man who had a string of murders to his name. Simon knew he was shaking, and barely had enough time to make it to the bathroom before he fell to his knees and threw up into the toilet.

  Fuck. We faced off with a serial killer.

  Simon felt the sudden need to get clean, to be rid of any taint left behind from the pepper spray and especially from the dark energy he’d sensed from their attacker. He stripped off his clothes, deciding he’d need to figure out how to remove the residue later, and stepped into a cool shower, letting the water sluice over him, cleaning away the sweat and fear. His hand trembled when he reached for the soap, and he steadied himself against the wall.

  I’m not cut out for this hero stuff.

  By the time he had toweled off and changed into sweats, Simon had regained most of his composure, though he still felt off-kilter. He walked to the kitchen, lit a bundle of sage for cleansing, and poured himself some whiskey. When his phone rang, he saw Vic’s name, and relaxed, just a little.

  “Hey. You home?” Vic asked, his voice low and sultry.

  “Yeah,” Simon replied. “It’s been…quite a night.”

  “You don’t sound good. Did something happen?” Vic’s tone shifted immediately to concern.

  “I’m pretty sure Tasha and I fought off the Slitter.”

  The phone was silent for long enough that Simon thought Vic had lost the call. “I’m coming over,” Vic said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m definitely in for the night. And yeah, I was going to call you, as soon as I caught my breath.”

  Simon wasn’t surprised when his phone rang again fifteen minutes later. “I’m outside,” Vic said tersely. Simon still checked, then unlocked the door and stood aside for Vic to enter. He had barely gotten the door shut when Vic pushed him against it and held him pinned with a hand against his chest, checking him over from head to toe.

  “What happened? Are you hurt?” Vic’s voice sounded angry, but the look in his eyes was pure worry.

  “I’ll have a nice bruise on my back from hitting the pavement, and I’ve been reminded why pepper spray is no fun, but I’ll live.” Simon locked the door, then let Vic take his hand and lead him to the couch. Vic sat on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, to look right at Simon.

  “Tell me.”

  Simon recounted the whole adventure, from Tasha’s call to the cab ride home. He left nothing out, hoping he was doing the right thing by trusting Vic to believe the paranormal elements of the story. When he finished, Vic was watching him with the analytic stare Simon thought of as “cop face.” “Say something, please,” he muttered, not sure how to take Vic’s scrutiny.

  “You said that the attacker picked you up off your feet and threw you onto the road, which was at least a yard away?”

  Simon nodded.

  “But your impression was that the man was shorter than you, and not some kind of crazy weightlifting hulk. How is that possible?”

  “He didn’t touch me. He just threw me,” Simon replied. “I’ve suspected for a while that the Slitter has some kind of abilities. Apparently I was right—and I think he’s choosing victims who also have gifts.”

  Vic bowed his head and laced his hands behind his neck. “Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t even know what to do with this.”

  “Believe me?” Simon asked, hating that his voice sounded vulnerable.

  Vic looked up and took both of Simon’s hands in his. “I do believe you. That’s what’s eating me. You could have been killed tonight. I don’t know how to protect you.”

  “Apparently, pepper spray is a good start,” Simon replied, trying for shaky humor. “And I think Tasha might have cut him with the steak knife she was carrying. It proves the Slitter is human.”

  “Human? Was there another option?” Vic’s eyes went wide.

  Simon managed a wry smile. “You’re talking to a folklorist. You don’t want to know how many creatures fit the Slitter’s description.”

  “Okay,” Vic replied, drawing out the syllables. “I’m not gonna go there. You both saw a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses. Could you give a description to one of our sketch artists, down at the precinct?”

  Simon shook his head. “Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Had a beach towel around his neck in the store, so I never got a look at his face, and Tasha said he kept a newspaper up when he ordered at the diner. When he attacked, it was too dark to see much of anything.”

  “Shit,” Vic muttered. “So this guy knows who you are and where you work, same with Tasha, and where she lives.” He threaded his fingers with Simon’s. “Probably knows where you live, too. I want you to leave town, Simon. Far enough away this guy won’t follow you.”

  “I can’t do that,” Simon replied. “I’ve got a store to run. It’s my livelihood.”

  “That won’t matter if you’re dead!” Vic’s heated gaze stirred something deep inside Simon, as he realized that what sounded like anger in Vic’s voice was protectiveness and fear. It felt nice to be on the receiving end of that, comforting in a way Simon had never known.

  “Tasha and the others, they can’t run away,” Simon reminded him. “And with Gabriella gone, I’m one of the people with the strongest gifts left.”

  “That makes you even more at risk.”

  Simon closed his hands around Vic’s and forced the other man to meet his eyes. “That means I’m responsible. With great power, and all that stuff.”

  “You aren’t a superhero. You’re a civilian,” Vic ranted. “And talking to ghosts or getting visions—that doesn’t protect you in a fight. You’re not safe here.”

  “No, I’m not,” Simon said quietly. “But I have a job to do. I might be the puzzle piece you need to catch this guy. Your job isn’t exactly safe, either.”

  “That’s different,” Vic argued, looking away. “I’m a cop.”

  “Doesn’t mean I like it any better knowing you’re in danger whenever you’re working,” Simon confessed, and realized what he had just admitted.

  A smile touched Vic’s lips. “You worry about me?” He looked surprised and inordinately pleased.

  “Maybe,” Simon replied, feeling a blush color his cheeks.

  Vic reached out to trace Simon’s jaw with his fingertips. “I like that,” he said, meeting Simon’s gaze.

  Simon shifted in his seat and winced.

  “What’s wrong?” Vic asked sharply, coming to sit beside him on the couch, so close that their legs touched from hip to knee.

  “Nothing,” Simon said, wincing. “Just, my shoulder’s sore where I landed. It's
the same arm that got shot.”

  Vic reached for him, running his hand through Simon’s loose hair, still damp from his shower. “You scare me,” he said quietly, and Simon wasn’t sure whether that meant tonight, with the attack, or something deeper. “I worry about you, too. Especially now. I try to understand the psychic stuff, but it’s hard because I can’t imagine what it would be like, to be able to do that. And this thing…us…scares me too.” Vic’s voice had grown low and husky, and Simon couldn’t decipher the mix of emotions he saw in the other man’s eyes.

  “Why does it scare you?” Simon asked, just above a whisper.

  “Because it’s more than I bargained for,” Vic replied, letting the pad of his thumb skim over Simon’s cheekbone, and gently trail down the scruff to his jaw. “You’re more than I expected.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” Simon found himself holding his breath.

  “No,” Vic replied, quickly enough to ease Simon’s concern. “Just, different. More. It’s been a long time since someone mattered like this.”

  Simon slipped his hand up to cup Vic’s face. “You matter to me, too.”

  Vic pulled him in for a kiss. It began slow, but deepened quickly, as Simon drew Vic closer, and Vic’s tongue slid between his lips, tasting, claiming, teasing. Vic crawled into his lap, running his hands all over Simon’s arms and chest as if assuring himself once again that there was no blood, no new wounds. Simon returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around Vic’s back, holding onto him like an anchor to ground himself to reality.

  “What do you want?” Vic breathed, lips brushing lightly over Simon’s cheeks.

  “I want you to fuck me.” The words seemed to surprise Simon as much as they did Vic, but once he said them, Simon knew it was true.

  “You sure?” Vic asked, pulling back far enough to meet Simon’s gaze. “You’ve had a rough night—”

  “Remind me that I’m alive,” Simon replied, refusing to look away. “Make me feel something that isn’t fear.”

  Vic kissed him, and the passion and hunger sent a surge of heat through Simon’s body. “I can do that,” he growled. “He can’t have you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. God, yes. I just want to feel you. Please, Vic. I need this.” Simon knew he should have felt embarrassed at the plea, but being with Vic made him feel like he had found a safe harbor, something he had never sensed with any other lover. Simon had always been proud of being able to take care of himself, and he knew he could—he had fought back a killer just tonight. But now he craved connection, a reminder that he wasn’t alone.

  “Come on, then,” Vic said, as he stood and reached out for Simon’s hand. “Show me what you want.”

  Simon led the way to his bedroom, his stomach tight with anticipation and nerves. Vic’s hand was warm in his, the grip reassuring. He felt oddly glad he had bothered to make his bed that morning and tried to remember if he’d left clothing on the floor. There was lube and condoms in the bedside table, though it had been so long since he’d needed the condoms that perhaps they should check the expiration date.

  He flicked the switch, and a corner lamp provided soft light. Whew. No dirty laundry.

  Vic tugged Simon toward him, until they were standing close, face to face. He put his hands on Simon’s hips, slipping his fingers through the belt loops. “Are you sure?”

  Simon nodded. “Very. Please. I need this. I need you.” Tonight. Maybe forever.

  “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.” Vic tilted his head down and brushed his lips across Simon’s forehead, his nose, and finally his mouth. His hands came up under Simon’s t-shirt, gentling it up and off, careful with his sore shoulder and arm. Warm fingers slid down Simon’s back, then teased around the waistband of his sweats, as Simon gasped and pressed his hips against Vic.

  Simon slipped his arms around Vic, deepening the kiss, as Vic tangled his fingers in Simon’s hair.

  “I like your hair long,” Vic murmured, edging away from Simon’s mouth to kiss his chin. They moved together, ending up with Simon on the bed, bare-chested, his erection obvious beneath his sweatpants, as Vic stood at the bedside.

  “Take them off,” Vic growled, never breaking eye contact. “I want to see you.”

  Simon blushed as he shucked off the soft fleece, and saw the heat in Vic’s gaze when he planted his foot on the comforter and drew one knee up, letting the other leg fall open, offering himself up for inspection. “Like what you see?”

  “Very much.” Vic took off his holster, and set it and his gun and phone on the nightstand. Then he wriggled out of his shirt, finally giving Simon the view he had been waiting for of Vic’s chest and those mysterious tats.

  Black ink against Vic’s naturally bronzed skin stood out in a full sleeve of symbols on his right arm, blocky curls and geometric designs than ran from his bicep down to his wrist. On Vic’s left shoulder the same symbols formed a whorl that wrapped around his upper arm like a snake. On his left forearm, a tribal band of repeating angles and arrows complimented the other tats. Simon wanted to learn the story behind all of them.

  Vic pushed his jeans down in one move, and his cock sprang free.

  Commando. Nice touch, Simon thought, feeling his own dick beading with pre-come.

  Vic crawled up the bed toward him, feral and hungry. Simon wasn’t sure where to look. Vic’s eyes were dark with lust, and he licked his lips as if Simon were the perfect meal. His powerful shoulders and arms rippled sinuously with every move, and Simon couldn’t wait to trace those intricate tattoos with his fingers and his tongue. Then again, he’d gotten a good look at Vic’s package, and his thick, cut cock was every bit what Simon had imagined in his fantasies.

  “Come here,” Simon managed, hoping his voice wouldn’t fail him, that Vic wouldn’t notice the slight tremor. He shouldn’t be nervous. This wasn’t his first time, not by a long shot. But it was the first after a long, voluntary dry spell, and it was Vic, dammit, and that mattered. Maybe more than it should, perhaps more than it did even to Vic, far more than was safe.

  “I’m here,” Vic said, hovering over Simon, then lowering his mouth to land light kisses on Simon’s shoulders, his collarbones, and sensitive neck, and to lap at the hollow of his throat, drawing an involuntary groan in reply. “That what you like?”

  Simon could only nod.

  Vic grinned, continuing his downward trek, drawing first one of Simon’s nipples into his mouth and then the other, taking turns at running his tongue over the sensitive nibs, rolling them between his lips, lightly plucking at them, and then giving a slight tug with his teeth until Simon bucked beneath him.

  “Going to make you feel good,” Vic promised in a voice like sin and whiskey. He settled onto his elbows, into the V of Simon’s legs, his chest pressing against Simon’s straining erection, a sweet friction that had Simon panting as Vic intentionally shifted to increase the connection. He chuckled and began to kiss his way down Simon’s abdomen, following the happy trail of chestnut hair until he moved backward to give himself access to Simon’s engorged cock.

  “So beautiful,” Vic murmured, licking up the pearl of clear liquid that beaded from the slit, looking up to make sure Simon was watching before he licked his lips and took him down to the root.

  “God, Vic! Fuck! Oh, please. I’m not gonna last,” Simon warned, afraid he would shoot too quickly.

  Vic pulled off with a pop and grinned. “So, come. I’m the one fucking you, remember?”

  Simon shook his head. “Not like this. Want to come with you inside me. Please, Vic.”

  “And you will. I promise.” Vic lowered his head again, but this time, he only favored Simon’s sensitive shaft with a long, slow lick and a twist of his tongue around the head before he nipped and kissed at the hollows of his thighs, then pushed his arms under Simon’s legs, lifted him up, and buried his face in his balls and taint.

  Simon tried for words, but only managed a groan that egged Vic on, exploring his sac and then his taint as if it were a fea
st and Vic was a starving man. Strong arms held Simon in place, giving Vic full access as he gently rolled first one of Simon’s balls and then the other in his hot mouth, sucking lightly, just enough to make Simon’s pulse skyrocket. Vic’s tongue slipped lower, stroking along Simon’s taint, and then even farther, to rim his tight hole.

  “Fuck. Vic. Please.” Simon’s post-doctorate vocabulary failed him, and he was left with a primal language of panting and moaning as Vic ignored his pleas and laved his tongue over his pucker, broad strokes and then kitten flicks, then the tight point of it tracing the sensitive ring of muscle as Simon writhed in his grip.

  “In the nightstand,” Simon gasped. “Top drawer.”

  Vic lowered him gently, moving up between his thighs and spreading his legs wider as he reached over Simon for the nightstand and pulled the top drawer open, then settled back with a foil packet and a tube.

  “This still what you want?” he asked in a husky voice that went right to Simon’s bloodstream like good scotch.

  “Yes. Fuck, yes. Now!”

  “Bossy bottom,” Vic chided, his voice warm. “I like that.” He rose up on his knees, so Simon was sure to watch as he gloved up, then ran a lube-slicked hand over the latex and drizzled more of the slick substance onto his fingers.

  “You’re tight,” Vic said, lowering himself again. “Need to get you open.”

  “I don’t care,” Simon panted, too far gone to worry about it.

  “I do. Gonna make this good, remember?” Vic lowered his head and began to suck Simon’s cock again as one finger found Simon’s furl and gently worked its way inside. Simon bucked impatiently, but Vic kept licking and sucking, first with a single digit and then two, scissoring them and stretching him open, until three fingers could fit easily.

  “Vic!” Simon begged, then gasped as Vic turned his fingers just so to stroke his spot, and Simon saw stars. Vic clamped a hand around the base of Simon’s cock just when Simon was sure he was going to shoot.