“I’ll be damned.” He grasped Clive’s hand and pumped his arm as if he was trying to obtain water. “Mr. Damon, it’s a real honor to meet you! I’m a real big fan of your show.”
“Thank you.” Clive flexed his hand as if it ached. “May I also present Blake Danzig?”
“This is a real treat.” Hank gave Blake’s outstretched hand the same treatment he had given Clive’s. “How do you do, Mr. Danzig? Of course, I’m a real big fan of your show, too.”
Hank Duffy, an affable man in his mid-fifties, had founded the New Mexico Ghost Hunters’ Investigations thirty years earlier with his brother, Dan, and was the author of numerous books on the subject of ghosts. What impressed Blake most about Hank was that he initially treated his investigations with obvious skepticism, first viewing possible “hauntings” with a scientific eye. To Blake, this approach lent credence to the organization. Unfortunately, it also caused feelings of resentment from those who truly believed they were being haunted. Nevertheless, Hank Duffy was well-respected in the paranormal community for his guarded approach to the supernatural.
He led his guests to a large round wooden table in the middle of the room. The massive room seemed to have been torn directly from the Old West. Massive wooden beams on the ceiling ran from wall to wall, and the wooden floor planks were wide and rough-hewn, as if made by hand at a local sawmill. The wooden walls, too, were rough and covered haphazardly with whitewash, dotted here and there with old Western photographs. Thick rugs with ornate Native American designs were thrown on the floor in various spaces, and an old upright piano stood in a far corner. Blake found himself momentarily lost in a cowboy fantasy before he snapped back to the present and his companions.
A nearby wall was covered with more framed photos, these of orbs, shadows, and strange light anomalies. Blake guessed these were probably taken during previous investigations.
“So, Mr. Danzig,” Hank said, “I was expecting Mr. Damon, but you’re quite a surprise. What brings you to Albuquerque?”
“I’m here visiting my parents. I just happened to run into Clive on the flight down here and decided to tag along.”
“As I told you in my letter,” Clive said, clearly in no mood to be overshadowed by the younger ghost hunter, “I would like to accompany you to some known haunts here to get a feel for the locale and maybe put together a tape of my own show, sort of a U.K. visits the Old West.”
“That’s fine by me,” Hank replied good-naturedly. “It puts me in good company.”
Hank turned back to Blake. “And how about you, Mr. Danzig? Would you like to come along? We have plenty of hauntings in this area. I figured we could drive over to Los Lunas and Corrales tomorrow to start. They’ve each got some places that we found a lot of activity in. And we have quite a few spots right here in Albuquerque I can show you.”
“Thank you, but I should really spend time with my parents before I return to San Francisco this weekend.”
Hank thought for a moment, clearly disappointed. “Tell you what. There’s a place within walking distance from here that I could show you. You got time for that?”
“Sure. I’d love to.”
Their destination, a café located in a centuries-old adobe structure, was haunted by its former resident. The café, whose walls were a rough adobe texture and held yet more framed black-and-white period photos, was small and cozy. High-backed chairs, shellacked a shiny black, were placed around the smattering of small tables and, to Blake, it seemed more Latin in flavor than Southwestern. The smell of food, which emanated from a kitchen in the back, made Blake’s stomach growl, and he hoped no one else had noticed.
Blake spotted the café’s ghost almost immediately, after he and Clive had both been introduced to the café’s owner. He conveyed this information to his companions.
“I, too, sense a spirit,” Clive proclaimed.
Blake resisted the urge to roll his eyes and was grateful when the owner spoke. “That’s right,” she said. “Staff and customers alike have seen our former resident. I think she really just likes to keep a watch over the place.”
“She says she approves of what you are doing here,” Blake said, repeating what the ghost told him.
“Amazing,” Clive whispered.
Out on the street, their tour of the haunted café over, Clive agreed to meet Hank the following morning at the office of New Mexico Ghost Hunters’ Investigations for their drive out of town. Hank shook hands with them both and disappeared down the sunny street.
“What do you say we have a drink?” Clive asked.
Blake looked at his watch. “I should probably get back to my parents’ house.” Unfortunately, no taxis were in sight.
“Come on,” Clive said. “We’ll have a drink back at the hotel. Besides, it will be much easier to get a taxi from there.”
Blake realized Clive was right, so together they walked to Clive’s hotel. By the time they got there, however, Clive was sweating profusely.
“Let’s go to my room,” he said, “so I can freshen up.”
He led Blake through an adobe-walled archway and into a lushly planted courtyard. They passed numerous units, in front of which sat patio furniture, brightly colored lamps, and gurgling fountains, and finally arrived at Clive’s quarters.
“I’ll wait out here.” Blake said, tugging at a patio chair.
Clive opened his door. “Nonsense. Come inside where it’s cool. Besides, you simply must see this place.”
Blake reluctantly followed him through the door. The interior of the unit was spacious, with adobe walls, a fireplace in one corner, and large rustic furniture. Blake noticed a hot tub in an alcove. “Nice,” he said as Clive disappeared into the bathroom.
He could hear water running in the other room and was just about to take a seat in a large, overstuffed chair covered in a Southwestern-style fabric, when Clive called from the bathroom.
“There’s a complimentary bottle of wine on the table. Why don’t you open it?”
Blake found the bottle, with a bottle opener conveniently located nearby, and uncorked it. He was filling two stemmed wineglasses when Clive emerged from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a robe.
“Clive, I can wait outside while you dress.”
“Nonsense.” He took a glass of wine from Blake and sat in the large chair. “Sit. Let’s relax for a moment.”
Blake hesitantly perched on the edge of the bed since Clive had taken the chair, and he took a sip of the peppery-tasting wine. Hating himself for the thought, Blake had to admit that Clive Damon had nice legs.
“You and I should consider teaming up,” Clive said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, dear boy.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know exactly. It’s just a thought. You and I could be good together.”
Clive draped a leg over the arm of the chair, which opened the front of his robe, revealing a fat, uncut cock.
Blake struggled for words. “Clive.” He couldn’t look away from the growing erection. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Clive placed his glass of wine on the small table beside the chair and stood up, dropping the robe as he did so. At that point he was rock-hard, and he approached the bed. Blake was surprised at the extraordinary condition of Clive’s smooth, muscular body. Despite his reservations, his own cock was swelling in his tight jeans.
“Clive…”
Clive took the wineglass from Blake’s hand and placed it beside his own on the bedside table. “Don’t you fancy me?”
“Of course, but—”
Clive kissed him on the mouth and was tugging at the buttons on his jeans. Blake’s face flushed as his resistance crumbled. Sure, Clive Damon was a pompous fraud, but he was incredibly handsome and built like a god. And that dick… He took Clive’s tongue into his mouth and put his arms around him.
Clive pulled off Blake’s T-shirt, then his jeans, revealing his throbbing erection. “Ver
y nice,” he said. “I see that you do fancy me, after all.”
Blake felt mildly humiliated, betrayed by his erect cock. Oddly, however, the humiliation turned him on, and he suddenly only wanted to be used.
“I do,” he said. “I do fancy you. Do you want to fuck me, Clive?”
Without hesitation, Clive rolled Blake over onto his stomach, spat on his hand, and inserted a wet finger into Blake’s asshole.
Blake sighed and arched his back, giving Clive greater access. Clive worked the warm asshole, inserting more fingers. Blake, who usually played the top in sexual encounters, groaned at the sensation of having his ass played with.
Clive quickly retrieved a condom and a tube of lubricant from a bag. “Are you ready? I want to devour your sweet ass.”
“Give it to me, please,” Blake whispered.
Clive, ever the gentleman, slowly pushed his uncut cock into Blake’s tight hole.
Blake felt so dirty for what he was doing, something he knew was wrong, but his shame propelled him forward, riding Clive’s dick with a passion. “Fuck me,” he yelled. “Use that tight asshole.”
Clive quickly came, shooting his load in Blake’s ass.
Blake stroked off his own meat and forced Clive to keep his dick inside him as he did so.
“Fuck,” he groaned, shooting his load across Clive’s Southwestern-print bedspread.
*
Blake had horribly degraded himself. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the sex or that Clive hadn’t looked as good out of his clothes as Blake had imagined. Blake had allowed himself to be fucked by someone he truly despised. And he had enjoyed it. He quickly dressed and politely declined Clive’s offer of another drink. As he departed, he promised to consider Clive’s vague proposal and headed to the front of the hotel, searching for a cab. Once he had given his parents’ address to the driver and settled in, he couldn’t help but smile. What had he just done? If anyone had ever suggested such a pairing to him, he would have laughed. So why had he enjoyed sex with Clive Damon so much? As he headed towards his parents’ house, Blake again felt very alone.
Chapter Eleven
Before Blake knew it the week was over and he was once more telling his parents good-bye. Given his mother’s obvious dislike for Clive, Blake had decided not to tell them he had spent time with him while in Albuquerque. Besides, Blake still wasn’t sure what to make of what he had done. Sure, he had slept with lots of guys, especially since breaking up with Brian, but sex with Clive Damon had almost felt degrading, worse than being called a fraud by the redheaded waiter. Blake found the feeling oddly exhilarating, somewhere between filthy and titillated. If he couldn’t figure it out, he sure as hell wouldn’t mention it to his parents, even minus the sex. He did, however, tell them about all of the spirits he had seen in Old Town, a phenomenon his mother once again attributed to the ley lines.
With the first draft of his manuscript completed, Blake promised his parents he would seriously consider a return visit in the fall, something that seemed to greatly please them. After a quick ride to the airport, Blake boarded the plane and approached his seat, but spied a plump, fortyish redheaded woman seated in his assigned spot. He quickly checked his boarding pass to confirm his seat number and was about to ask the woman if she had the correct seat when she vanished.
Blake sighed and took the recently vacated seat. It was the first time, to the best of his knowledge, he had ever seen a ghost on an airplane. It made sense, though. Maybe the poor spirit had died of a heart attack on a previous flight. Maybe she had been a flight attendant on the plane. Whatever the circumstances, Blake was grateful that she had vanished before he had struck up a conversation with her. Nobody, after all, wanted to be stuck on a flight with a lunatic, and Blake certainly had no desire to be detained by airport security.
Fortunately, San Francisco was sunny and warm when Blake returned. As he vacated his cab, he realized that he was happy to be home. The buildings atop Nob Hill seemed to reflect the brilliant sunlight, and tourists milled about in front of the nearby Fairmont Hotel and in the park across the street. Inside his building, Blake was greeted by Mike, the affable doorman, who welcomed him back.
“How was New Mexico, Mr. Danzig?” he asked.
Although he had asked Mike on numerous occasions to address him by his first name, Mike simply refused to do so. Blake supposed that it was a matter of personal ethics for the doorman, as if deviating from his training was tantamount to failure, and Blake had stopped pushing him long ago.
“New Mexico is beautiful. But it’s really good to be home.”
“It’s always nice to come home after being away on a trip, sir.”
He pressed the button to call the elevator and, once Blake was inside with his bag, bade him good day. The door was just about to close when Mike, remembering something, stuck his hand inside the doors, staying them.
“I almost forgot, Mr. Danzig,” he said, apologetically. “A young guy was here to see you while you were gone. I told him you were out of town, but I saw him hanging around across the street a couple of days later, like he was waiting for you.”
Blake frowned and stepped back out of the elevator. “What was his name?”
Mike shook his head. “That’s the weird thing,” he said. “He didn’t tell me his name. I asked but, instead of answering, he turned and walked out the door.”
“What did he look like?”
“Average height, blond, probably in his twenties.”
Blake ran through a mental list of everyone he’d met over the course of previous months, but nobody came to mind.
“I didn’t call the police,” Mike said, “in case it was somebody legit. But, if you want me to, I’ll take care of it.”
Blake slowly shook his head. Could he have a stalker? “No, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s fine.”
He thanked Mike and reboarded the elevator. Upstairs, in his apartment, thoughts of the mysterious visitor plagued Blake. Certain it was nothing to be concerned with, he pressed the replay button on his answering machine, which announced that he had two new messages. The first was from Donatella.
“Welcome home,” she said. “Meet me in North Beach tomorrow for brunch. Make it eleven o’clock, at Caffe Roma. I can’t wait to see what you’ve written. Ciao.”
Blake chuckled. Donatella’s messages were always to the point. The next message was from Brian. The sound of the familiar voice instantly filled Blake with melancholy, and his heart ached with yearning and bittersweet nostalgia.
“Hi, Blake,” he said. “Melody said you were in Albuquerque visiting your parents, so I didn’t want to call your cell phone and risk bothering you. Listen, when you get back give me a call. There’s a case I think that you can help us with.” There was a pause. “I miss you.”
Brian’s final statement cheered Blake a little. At least, he told himself, the feelings surrounding their breakup seemed to be mutual. Still, he decided to wait and call Brian on Monday. After all, he was still attempting to process what had happened between him and Clive, and seeing Brian certainly wouldn’t do anything to help clarify the way he was feeling. Was he even the same person? Or had he crossed some sort of invisible bridge, one that took him to a different sexual level, one on which he allowed himself to be used by other men with no regard for the possibility of a real relationship?
As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Blake wanted to be with Clive again, if only to feel what he had in Albuquerque. Even the humiliation of fucking Clive Damon had provided Blake with the feelings he so desperately longed for, an attachment in some way to another man. He shrugged off the notion and quickly dialed Melody’s number.
“You’re back,” she said, by way of answering.
“Just a few minutes ago. Anything going on I should know about?”
“Brian called. He said something about a case.”
“I know. He left a message on my machine. Did anybody else call?”
“Hmm. Nobody important, why?”
“Did anybody come by looking for me? My doorman, Mike, said a guy was hanging around the building.”
“No, nobody.” Melody laughed. “Think you’ve got a crazed fan stalking you?”
“Not funny, although the thought did occur to me.”
“Listen, if Brian has a new case I can wait and take another week off.”
“No, enjoy some time off. I’m sure I can handle whatever Brian has for us. Besides,” he added, teasingly, “when was the last time you got laid?”
“What year is it?” Melody deadpanned.
Although Melody knew Blake was joking, she seemed to be immune to long-term relationships. Her last girlfriend had been hot enough and was certainly interesting. Unfortunately, she had never been quite comfortable with the whole witchcraft thing, an attitude that Melody had found quite puzzling coming from a dominant butch lesbian into S&M. And she wasn’t alone. Another one, so into her space as an alternative lesbian painter, might as well have been a Baptist minister by the way she reacted when she learned Melody was a witch. Even a lesbian performance-artist extraordinaire had run screaming for the hills. Where the hell were all the lesbian goddess worshippers, anyway?
Nevertheless, Melody had never run from a challenge, and she planned to do a little barhopping during her week off. She wished Blake a good night and made him promise to call her if he needed anything.
Her cat, Pyewackket, rubbed against her legs and she picked up the sleek Siamese male.
“Want to help Mama find her soul mate?” she asked, stroking the cat’s head.
Pyewackket, whose whiskers were fanned out, purred in reply.
Melody walked to the small table she used as her altar and put Pyewackket on the floor. From a drawer in the table she retrieved a map of the city, which she folded in such a way that only a section of the Mission District, her neighborhood, was visible. Because it was also home to most of the city’s lesbian bars, the Mission was the focus of her magic, and she pulled a crystal attached to a small length of silver chain from the drawer.
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