Wherever Matt was, he had been stimulated past the point of arousal. The constant reverberation of the vibrator had left him desensitized, almost deadened. He’d burrowed deep within himself to shut out the sensations, leaving his hollow body behind.
::Matty.::
The name was a sob that tore at Vic’s heart as his hands clenched into fists of rage. When he found Matt, wherever he was, oh, sweet Jesus but he was going to kill the person responsible for this…this disrespect, this degradation. He was going to throttle whoever had done this to Matt, just close his fingers around Jordan’s fat throat until he felt that spineless bastard’s neck snap in his hands.
Jordan.
Jordan.
With a jolt, Vic sat upright. The connection between himself and Matt broke with an almost physical pain, but Vic didn’t need it to find out where his lover was. He knew…who was he kidding? He knew who had to be behind this. Who else knew of the powers that Matt’s semen granted? And who else would try to milk Matt for those powers?
That man was so dead.
* * * *
Chapter 23
Vic’s first instinct was to tear over to Jordan’s and save Matt. He knew where the bastard lived. What harm was there in a little vigilante justice? He stormed down the hall, shucking off his work clothes as he went, intent on changing into something more comfortable for a night spent kicking ass. But as he passed the kitchen doorway, the newspaper clipping Matt had stuck to the refrigerator caught his eye. He stopped in mid-stride, stepped back, and frowned at the front page of the morning paper. What would tomorrow’s headline be? Sometime Superhero on Murderous Rampage? Superman Gone Mad?
Fuck it. He didn’t care what the press said. For the first time since he’d received the powers, he knew what they were for—to protect Matt. They came from him; they were meant to keep him safe. The rest of the world be damned.
Another thought struck him as he dressed in his usual jeans and tank top. What if Jordan went to the cops? After Vic roughed him up and rescued Matt, what evidence would there be that it wasn’t a lover’s quarrel, or a vindictive crime? It would be Matt’s word against Jordan’s, but Vic suspected that after this ordeal, his lover wouldn’t want to be interrogated about it for some time. And Vic was sure the police wouldn’t let him sit in while they questioned Matt. His lover would have to relive each horrific moment in a steel room under the glare of a sterile light, while unsympathetic faces watched him impassively or worse, barked questions at him rapid-fire, making him stumble and doubt himself. If Vic rushed over there now, beat the shit out of Jordan, then brought Matt home to safety, would they wake to the sounds of a SWAT team kicking in the door in the morning? Would Vic even get to state his side of the story before they slapped a pair of handcuffs on him?
He didn’t think so.
Cops were wary of people who fit into their criminal stereotype. Who would they believe—Jordan, a man who looked harmless enough, dyed hair notwithstanding, who probably didn’t have a criminal record, and who had never been in the public spotlight? Or Vic, built like a mean motherfucker, tattoos all over his body and shaved head, piercings in his ears and eyebrows and nipples, with a glare that could stop a man at twenty feet and a penchant for cracking his knuckles in a menacing way when he got mad? Vic, who always seemed to be on the fringes of the crowd whenever the police arrived at the scene of a crime? Who never gave a statement for the record when witnesses claimed he was involved? Who took three bullets to the chest and walked away without a scratch? The police had a file on him downtown that filled one whole cabinet, he knew; he’d seen it in that female officer’s mind—
She would believe me.
Vic straightened slowly as he thought it out. Yes, she would believe him, if no one else. Because part of her wanted him, needed him, to be more than he appeared to be—he’d gleaned that much from the brief contact he’d had with her mind after the shooting. She wanted to believe there was a superhero hidden in the city, helping the cops in their duties, saving the world one person at a time. Someone working with the law, instead of against it.
After a moment rummaging through his memory, Vic found her name. Though she hadn’t mentioned it, some part of Vic’s mind seemed to warehouse such useless information, part of the reason he needed to control whose thoughts he entered when. But it wasn’t all useless.
Kendra Jones.
Vic glanced at the clock on his bedside table. He’d been home for about a half hour now, though it felt like a lifetime since he’d first realized Matt was not at home. But he had a pretty good idea of where Matt might be, and backup never hurt. So maybe he could spare a few minutes to call the police.
With that thought in mind, he hurried back to where he had left the phone in the living room.
* * * *
For a moment he debated calling the emergency number—this was an emergency, damn it. His Matty was out there suffering. But the average citizen didn’t call 911 and ask to speak to a particular officer. He dialed the number listed in the phone book for the dispatch, and almost dropped the phone when it was answered halfway through the first ring. Despite that efficiency, the bored female voice on the other end sounded anything but. “Richmond City Police.”
Vic switched the phone to his other ear. “Officer Jones,” he said. Then, realizing they probably had quite a roster of officers with that last name, he added, “Kendra Jones.”
If the dispatcher heard the anxiety in Vic’s voice, she didn’t pick up on it. Instead her lazy Southern drawl made him want to scream in frustration when she told him, “Please state the nature of your call.”
“I need to get in touch with her.” Vic spoke fast, as if making up for the time lost whenever the dispatcher talked. “It’s very important. My…my roommate’s gone.”
He stumbled over the word “roommate”—silently he amended, My lover, half my soul, the reason I draw one breath after the other. Gone, missing, stolen from me. As it was, Vic’s breathing seemed labored and time might have stopped for all he knew or cared. There was no future without Matt, nothing differentiating one moment from the next, and if he didn’t find his lover soon, Vic feared even the sun might refuse to rise when morning came.
But the dispatcher did not know Matt, and she failed to grasp the gravity of the situation. “Your roommate,” she said, as emotionless as if she spoke of a parked car. “I’m sorry, sir, but you want to file a missing persons report. Officer Jones is not in that department. I’ll be glad to transfer you to Officer Sloan—”
“No.” Vic resisted the urge to throttle the phone. “I need to talk with Kendra Jones. Tell her it’s Vic Braunson, from the 7-11 shooting. She’ll remember me.”
Patiently, as if he was just another dumb fuck hassling the police because he had nothing better to do, the dispatcher explained, “If your roommate’s missing, you need to file a report. Is he underage?”
Vic bristled at what her words implied. “What? No.”
“Elderly?” she continued.
“No, look—”
She spoke over him. “Mentally incapacitated?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vic growled.
In a kinder voice, the dispatcher explained, “Is he retarded?”
This was ridiculous. Here he was, fighting with some faceless, nameless bitch on the other end of the phone, when he should be halfway across the city by now, rescuing Matt. But no, he had to do the right thing. He had to call the police. And what the hell good was that doing him?
Through clenched teeth, Vic said for the last time, “Kendra Jones. Now.”
“Sir,” the dispatcher tried, “I am trying to help you—”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Without waiting for a reply, Vic slammed the receiver on the coffee table. The cracked casing split farther, a thin line spidering down from the earpiece across the back of the plastic. Then, remembering the phone was a cordless, he turned the receiver over and clicked the TALK button to end the call.
&nbs
p; He hoped the dispatcher’s ear rang from the blow, because if he could’ve figured out a way to reach through the phone and knock some damn sense into her, he would’ve. Insinuating…no, asking outright, if Matt were underage or…or…
With barely restrained fury, Vic threw the phone at the couch. It sank into the cushions as if they were as insubstantial as gelatin; he heard a spring deep within the sofa twang in protest. Then he stomped into his work boots and snatched his keys from the table in the hall. Fuck the police. He’d get Matt himself, without their help, and when they came to arrest him in the morning, at least the dispatch records would prove he had tried.
He got as far as turning the knob to open the front door of his apartment when the phone rang. The sound was dulled from the couch cushions, but Vic wasn’t surprised to hear it. You stupid ass, he chastised himself. It was the police, it had to be. The dispatcher probably thought him unstable or suspicious and had traced the call. He wasn’t the only one with that ability, was he? So now what—were a handful of squad cars speeding toward him right this second? Blocking off the street at both ends, surrounding his apartment, commandeering his car?
Maybe it’s Matt.
He doubted it, but he couldn’t take the chance of not answering. What if Matt had escaped? Or broken free long enough to call him? Or what if Jordan was on the phone, calling to give Vic ransom details? Though the power to route through to the end of the line hadn’t worked with Matt’s cell phone, Vic could try again, maybe find out where Matt was being held.
Who was he kidding? He knew—Azalea Road.
Still, he crossed the room and picked up the phone. Clicked it on, put it to his ear. Listened to someone on the other end of the line breathe into the receiver. Directed his mind down through the connections, seeking an address, seeking confirmation…
9th and Broad. It was the police.
Dimly Vic wondered if the power worked only with land lines, or maybe only if someone answered the phone. He didn’t know, but he saw the messy desk of a beat officer: a computer monitor whose screensaver rotated cute pictures of kittens in frolicking poses; a framed picture of a gruff man holding a little girl on his shoulders, the two of them smiling at the camera; long feminine hands tipped with French manicure nails, a well-chewed pencil turning between the slim fingers. When the images on the monitor screen faded to black, Vic caught a glimpse of long blonde hair escaping a tight bun.
Kendra Jones.
“Hello?” The voice was much younger than the dispatcher’s, and filled with the same underlying nervousness Vic remembered hearing after the hold up. Officer Kendra Jones sighed, then tried again. “Mr. Braunson? Hello?”
Vic kept his voice even, his words clipped. “What?”
With a derisive snort, the officer said, “I should be asking you that. You called for me?”
Now that he had her on the phone, Vic didn’t know what to say. Or rather, how to say it, without her thinking it was some sort of joke. He wanted—no, he needed—her to believe him. “Listen to me. I have to make this quick. The guy I was with that night I was shot? Matt diLorenzo?”
“So you were hit,” she murmured. “I knew it. How—”
Vic shook his head and raised his voice to drown out hers. “Listen. I don’t have time to answer your questions right now, all right? Matt’s gone.”
He waited for the weight of that statement to settle in, but Officer Jones didn’t get it. “You mean he left you? The dispatcher said something about a missing roommate…”
“He’s gone,” Vic said again. His throat threatened to close but he forced himself to explain. “Kidnapped, I guess you’d say. I’m certain I know where he is, who he’s with. I’m going to get him—”
“Are you sure he didn’t leave you?” the officer pressed. “Maybe he found something better?” At Vic’s stony silence, she added, “It could happen. I’m just throwing out ideas here. Who did you say he’s with?”
Vic hated to admit, “An old boyfriend of his.”
“See?” Officer Jones crowed. “There you are. Maybe he just—”
Something in Vic snapped. “Shut up. You aren’t listening to me. You don’t understand.”
“Help me, then.” Her voice was soft, almost pleading. “Why would an old boyfriend kidnap yours? What’s his name, Matt? Why would someone show up out of the blue and steal him away from you?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Vic admitted.
Officer Jones wasn’t satisfied. “Then why bother to call me about it? Unless…” Through the connection he had with her via the receiver, Vic could feel her mind working out the answer to her own question. In almost a whisper, she asked, “This has something to do with the shooting, doesn’t it? With why you didn’t get hurt from the gunshots, right? And why you were on the scene of that house fire downtown last week. Yeah, I know about that.” When Vic didn’t respond, she asked, “What are we dealing with here, Mr. Braunson? Where do you get these…these powers of yours?”
With a short, quick laugh, Vic muttered, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” she countered.
Vic was tempted to try and explain, but it would take too long. Though the clock on the VCR showed that less than ten minutes had passed since he’d made the first phone call, he couldn’t help but feel he’d already wasted enough time. Either she would help him, or not. He didn’t have time to dick around with the details.
“I can’t. Just trust me on this, please? I’m…” He sighed, an aggravated sound that ended in a angry roar of frustration. “I’m going to get Matt back, with or without your help. But it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if I have the police on my side instead of fighting me every step of the way. When this is over, you and me can sit down and I’ll tell you everything I know, how’s that sound?” Before she could speak, he added, “Off the record. I’m not kidding when I say you won’t believe me. Writing it out will make it sound worse.”
“You’re saying I’m right.” There was a faint touch of pride in the officer’s voice, as if she’d just been told her suspicions had panned out. “There is something going on with you, something unnatural, something superhuman, right? You really do have powers, somehow. Where do they come from? Radioactive spider bite, an alien cousin on your mother’s side, the byproduct of nuclear waste? What—”
Vic cut her off. “After I get Matt back. You’ll help me?”
Without the slightest hesitation, Officer Jones asked, “What do I need to do?”
“Meet me at Azalea Road,” Vic explained. “Alone. No flashing lights, no radio communications, no partners. If I’m wrong, I don’t want half the police force to know about it.”
“Can I at least bring my gun?”
Ignoring the sarcasm that colored her voice, Vic said, “If I’m right, you’re gonna need it.”
* * * *
Chapter 24
In the front seat of his car, Vic clicked on the overhead light and rummaged through his glove compartment for an old, worn map of the city he’d bought years ago, when he first went to work for the Transit Authority. A lot of the newer subdivisions and shopping malls weren’t on the map, but Vic had a rough idea where he thought Azalea Road might be—somewhere near Broad and Libbie, was his guess. Matt’s half of their mental connection had a very small range, no more than two blocks or so. Vic wouldn’t be surprised to find that Jordan’s house was close to the bus stop where he first picked up on his lover’s duress.
But none of the streets in that part of the map were labeled Azalea, and that section of the city was old and well established—Vic was pretty sure nothing new would’ve been added since the map was printed because where would they put it? Pissed at his error, he flipped the map over and scanned through the list of street names on the reverse side, looking for the right one. Maybe Matt could transmit farther in extreme circumstances, when he was in pain or stimulated to the point of orgasm. Vic scoffed at the idea, but it explained why he’d connected with Matt throughout the day,
and again this evening, once he managed to clear his mind.
Still…every time he comes? Vic shook his head—wouldn’t he have figured that out before now?
Well, to be honest, no. Since they’d been together, the only time Matty came was when he was with Vic. There was no denying that during sex, their entire beings seemed to open to each other, mind and body and soul, a response Vic had never felt with another, ever. So who knew if Matt wouldn’t seek a connection with him each time he got off?
Though he’d promised to tell Officer Jones all he could about his powers and where they came from when Matt was safe and this ordeal over, Vic suspected she was going to be pretty disappointed about just how much of it he didn’t know and couldn’t answer.
Azalea.
The word caught his attention, written in tiny, italicized print. There were a half dozen Azaleas listed, but only one marked Road. He noted its quadrant, then flipped the map over to pinpoint it—well away from where he’d originally looked. It was one short street in a subdivision in the far West End, near the YMCA where Matt used to swim before he began dating Vic and switched to the gym. Vic knew right where it was.
He clicked off the overhead light and started to fold the map, but the paper crinkled in the car’s small front seat and he couldn’t seem to refold the creases the way they were supposed to go. With a growl of frustration, he balled the whole thing up in his hands and tossed it into the back seat. At the rate he was going, the damn cop was going to get there before he did. With a hard twist on the car key, already in the ignition, he jerked away from the curb and took off down the street, tires squealing into the night.
During the drive, Vic stretched his mind out ahead of him, seeking contact with Matt. But his thoughts were full of distance and emotion; looking for Matt through all that static was like trying to tune in a station on a radio without an antenna. Only once did Matt come in, a moment of clarity so startling that Vic stood on the brake and ignored the car behind him, whose driver hit the horn and swerved to avoid a collision. Again Vic was trailing along, looking for his lover, when his mind snapped into Matty’s like two magnets locking together with an instant attraction. One moment he drove through a busy intersection; the next, he felt a hard hand clench around his dick and tug. Vic bit the inside of his cheek as he struggled to keep the car on the road, an erection chafing inside his jeans. ::Hold on,:: he whispered into Matt’s numbed mind. ::I’m heading your way right now, Matty. Just hold on until I get there.::
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