Another Fine Mess Anthology

Another Fine Mess - 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of th...

Author: McGinley Syd

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Another Fine Mess - 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher. Another Fine Mess Copyright © 2008 TOP SHELF An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers PO Box 2545 Round Rock, TX 78680 Dragonwalker Copyright 2008 © by Lee Benoit, Blood Rubies Copyright 2008 © by Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks, Hunter’s Kiss Copyright 2008 © by Margaret Leigh, Finding Trouble Copyright 2008 © by Misa Izanki, Magenta Copyright 2008 © by Camilla Bruce, Unfinished Business Copyright 2008 © by Laney Cairo, The Alpha Bet Copyright 2008 © by Cassidy Ryan, Copyright 2008 © Unravel by Mychael Black, A Jolly Good Idea Copyright 2008 © by Syd McGinley, Bruised Knuckles and Bars Copyright 2008 © by Julia Talbot. Illustration Copyright © Rene Lyons Published with permission ISBN: 978-1-60370-312-3, 1-60370-312-8 www.torquerepress.com All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. First Torquere Press Printing: March 2008 Printed in the USA


To Papi, With love and gratitude


Table of Contents Dragonwalker by Lee Benoit - 5

Blood Rubies by Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks - 34

Hunter’s Kiss by Margaret Leigh - 42

Finding Trouble by Misa Izanaki- 68

Magenta by Camilla Bruce - 85

Unfinished Business by Laney Cairo - 95

The Alpha Bet by Cassidy Ryan - 116

Unravel by Mychael Black - 131

A Jolly Good Idea by Syd McGinley - 142

Bruised Knuckles and Bars by Julia Talbot - 166

About the Authors - 176


Dragonwalker

By Lee Benoit

It all starts with a blowjob. As it turns out, the blowjob itself isn’t all that important. In fact, it doesn’t even have all of my attention, or I wouldn’t have noticed the wings. I’m on my knees in Peter’s kitchen. I’d come to walk his dog at lunchtime, like always, and he’d popped home from his office in the next town over because he’d “forgotten something.” Yeah, to stick his dick in my mouth, that’s what he forgot. Not that I’m not happy to oblige. But there’s happy and then there’s happy, if you know what I mean. He smoothes his hand over my hair as I suck him off. He isn’t guiding me, or forcing me, no, he’s tidying me up. That’s Peter all over: his priority during fellatio isn’t getting off, or holding off, or controlling my technique, it’s subduing my unruly hair. How a guy like him can own a dog is beyond me. But the dog, not his dick, is why I’m there, and we both know it. Without letting up on my patented bob and weave technique, I swivel my eyes around to see if Blackie’s still in the room. Call me a freak, but I think it’s kind of impolite of Peter to get sucked off in front of his dog, especially since he says his dog is neutered. There’s Blackie, sitting in a shaft of noontime sun from the kitchen window, watching us without blinking, his yellow ear fur all lit up. Oh, yeah, Blackie’s not black; Black is Peter’s last name, arrogant jerk. In the light from the window, it looks like Blackie isn’t a dog, either. He dances his paws a little on the floor, flexing his shoulders, and I swear I see a pair of wings extend behind and above him, flap once, and fold back into nothing. It’s a good thing Peter’s just finished shooting down my throat because I spit out his floppy prick and sit back hard on the green linoleum. “Did you see that?” I yell. Peter chuckles and tucks himself away. “What, kiddo, did I make you see stars?”


I must have a pretty harsh look on my face or something because his face registers concern for the merest second. “Did I hurt you? Cut off your air?” I look over at Blackie, who takes my sprawled position on the floor as an invitation to play. He ambles over and I watch him every second, waiting for those wings to appear again. He sniffs my face and licks at my mouth, which is kind of gross if you think about what was most recently in my mouth. I stroke over his shoulders and down his spine, scratching a little. No wings. “Well, Endi, I better head back to the office,” Peter says, not offering to help me up off the floor. “Those homeowners’ policies won’t write themselves.” He chuckles smugly, as if what he does is so much more important than what I do. He pats his hair, which is perfect even after a blowjob -- I think he shellacs it every morning. I stand and check Blackie’s food and water -- taking one more look for wings -- and follow him out. “Next time, Endi,” he says with a wave. He never kisses me. You never know where my mouth might have been. I head home to have my own lunch and pick up Lomi for our afternoon rounds. It’s nice living in a tiny, little town all your life. Everybody knows you, and nobody locks their doors (except Peter), and every little thing, from the burl on the oak in front of the post office to the assortment of old fellas sitting outside Burgess General, is familiar. I wave to the old guys, missing my Grampy a little. No matter how many of the porch-sitters pass, there always seems to be four of them on the wide porch. I think they’re the only people left in town who walk their own dog. Just in case, I look for wings on old Sounder, their collectively-held dog, but there aren’t any. I think I see a wisp of smoke rising from his nostrils, but I wouldn’t put it past Milton and them to give Sounder a pull on their pipes, so I don’t think much of it. I go round the back of my house, open the kitchen door, and land on kitchen linoleum for the second time in thirty minutes. Only this time, I’m completely thrilled to be there. Lomi is the smartest and most beautiful dog in the world. She doesn’t need a leash but I use one anyway. Sets a good example for all the less perfect dogs out there. After lunch (roast beef and apples for me, roast beef and kibble for Lomi) we don our armor (jacket for me, leash for Lomi) and head out to patrol the streets of Endicott. That’s right; I have the same name as the town. I don’t want to talk about it. We lollop along saying hello to everyone, then nip in at the co-op to say hey to Butch.


“Hey, sexy guy,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back. He stacking kiwis and holds up two in his big palm, rolling them around

like they’re a pair of balls.

I giggle.

Butch frowns. He hates it when I act queeny. But I wrangle animals for a living and he fondles

fuzzy fruit, so I let it go. I make a peace offering.

“Peter came home while I was feeding Blackie.”

Butch’s eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline (not that it’s a long trip) and he leers.

“You’ll tell me all about it?”

“Sure. I was bent over the tub of kibble, digging around for the scoop, when -- ”

“Idiot! I meant tell me later.”

Lomi does that head cocking thing to show she doesn’t approve of Butch’s tone but is too refined

and polite to say anything. For a second I think I smell sulfur.

“And get that dog out of here before Walter sees it.”

I make a “pooh” noise.

Walter humps in with a crate of something leafy balanced on his head. He was in the Peace

Corps in Tanzania like fifty years ago and carrying stuff on his head is his way of keeping his

glory days alive.

“Hey, Walter,” I say. “Lomi came to visit you!” Preemptive strike. I don’t want to be accused of

smuggling a canine into a health food store.

“Hey, Endi. How’s my pretty girl?” He means Lomi. I’m not that queeny.

“We’re good. On our way to the park. You need anything delivered?” If it’s something heavy

Walter will make Butch carry it, and then we can walk together and I can tell him about

Blackie’s wings and Sounder’s smoke.

“Just some of the Sisters’ bread for the firehouse.”

“Think you can handle it?” Butch asks me. He really only wants to spend time with me if he’s

fucking me or I’m telling him about one of my adventures – that’s how I know he’ll be by later, to hear about Peter’s surprise inspection. Grammy would say I deserve better but this is Endicott, not San Francisco: boys who like boys are pretty thin on the ground.


“Yeah,” I say and heft the basket of bread Walter gives me.

“What’s that smell?” Walter asks as Lomi and I turn to leave.

“Sourdough?” I suggest.

“Smells like burning hair.”

I know what he means. Around the edge of the bread basket I catch sight of Lomi, squinting into

a little puff of smoke and glaring in her classy way at Butch. I blink hard. Must be dust or steam

from the bread. Lomi and I resume our patrol. It’s always nice to have a legitimate excuse to stop at the firehouse. Not that I don’t stop to say hi all the time, but if I bring something to eat I usually get invited to pal around with the firefighters and EMTs. If I’m there to work, I get stuck in the exam room with the pups and a pair of nail clippers. Not that that’s a bad thing, but what would you choose if your choices were doggy toenails versus firemen in suspenders? “Hey, Endi!! Not your regular day, is it?”

“Yikes! Jimmy, grab this before they knock me over!”

I’m about to go down under a wave of spotted dogs. I swear every stray in the county with more

than two spots on it ends up at Endicott’s firehouse. No Dalmatians, just spotty mutts. I’m caught

in the undertow.

Jimmy grabs the bread -- gotta admire the man’s priorities -- and shouts the herd into the run out

back.

“Got time for a slice of this? Maybe some coffee? Quiet day around here.”

“Didn’t you get the memo, asshole? No caffeine for Endi. Station policy.”

That’s the chief. He says I’m sensitive to stimulants.

Chief steers me into the kitchen by my shoulder and looks me dead in the eye. I practically melt.

Jimmy’s cute, in a just-scrubbed, greased-pole, fireman kind of way, but not even the sight of him sliding down the fire pole naked will ever get me revved the way one serious look from the chief does. Chief’s eyes are the same brushed-steel color as his hair. He’s pushing fifty, really tall, and has this bushy moustache and this huge grin and if he weren’t practically related to me I’d add him to my rotation of kitchen-floor blow jobs. “Everything okay, Endi?” I know what he means.

“I’m getting there, Chief,” I say. I try to hold his gaze when I mumble, “Still cry some nights.”


The chief’s moustache ripples a little, like a caterpillar on a branch. “Me, too, kid.” His smile is sad. Grampy was his best friend, and his boss back before Grampy retired. We knew he wouldn’t last long after Grammy passed, but I know we were both hoping for a little more time. I wasn’t finished yet, you know? We reach the kitchen and Jimmy starts slicing one of the loaves. We chat about my job, the pups, station gossip. Then Chief says, “That boy treating you right?” He means Butch. I shrug. “I guess so.” There’s a lot I don’t say, but Chief seems to hear it anyway. He nods with that sad smile again and pours me some juice. “Can Lomi have some water?” Lomi is so well behaved she gets to stay in the firehouse when all the other dogs have to go outside, and she loves me so much she doesn’t mind not getting to play with her buddies. Butch doesn’t understand that. I smell that sulfur smell again and look at her full on. Sure enough, little curls of smoke are rising from her nostrils. I look at Jimmy and Chief from under my hair to see if they notice. Surely firefighters would be the first to smell smoke. But they don’t wrinkle their noses or say anything; maybe they’re immune to the smell after years on the job. *** If you’ve never watched a half-grown puppy make war on a Frisbee, I feel sorry for you. The dog park in Endicott is out past the Perpetual Indulgence cemetery, fenced in and with a view of the bay. Lomi is running and leaping and tumbling over her own feet and landing on her belly, a joy to behold, when from the other side of the fence I hear the cry of someone in great and sudden pain. I look over and see a tall, skinny, older guy with his face pressed up against the bark of a maple, one arm wrapped around the trunk to keep his balance and the other stretched out against a golden retriever pulling hard on his leash. I tell Lomi, “Stay,” and vault over the fence. So I’m showing off a little, so what? I kneel down beside the dog and let him smell me. When he settles a bit, I take hold of the lead near his harness and ease him away from the tree. The man stumbles a little as he lets go the trunk and rubs his face with his free hand, the other hand still white-knuckling the lead. “Sorry to jump in without asking, Mister. You looked like you could use some help.” “He’s got a mind of his own,” the man says.


“That’s one relief, then, isn’t it?” It takes him a sec to work that one out, but when he does, he laughs. “You wanna let him run a bit? You could take a load off.” “I fear he would run and not return.” I sweep my arm in the direction of the dog park, where Lomi’s playing sniff-butt with a doublewide Newfie. “He won’t get out of the park. I’ll watch him, and Lomi will help.” “Park?” The guy hasn’t even turned to look at it, seems focused on something a meter or so past his dog’s head. All of a sudden the dog’s harness makes sense. I feel self-conscious, now that I know he can’t see the park. “There’s a dog park just here,” I explain. “Park within a park.” The guy looks dismayed that the answer to his problem is less than spitting distance away, and suddenly I don’t feel awkward about him being blind anymore. “I’m happy to take him in, introduce him to some of the other dogs,” I say brightly. “You looked like you could use a break, is all. What’s his name?” “Drake. It means -- ” “Dragon. I know. Very cool name.” I am educated, after all. “So,” I venture again, “you want me to take him for a bit of a frolic? Might help him settle, make it easier for you to get where you’re going later.” “All right.” The guy sighs and releases the harness handle, passes me the lead. “I’ll just sit…” He doesn’t move his head around from side to side the way a sighted person would who was looking for a place to sit. He just sort of stands there. “There’s a bench just outside the gate to the dog park,” I suggest. “I could show you. I mean, take you there,” I finish, hoping he can’t hear the wince in my voice when I say “show.” I don’t want him to feel self-conscious, either. He smiles a little and raises his hand, palm down as if in mid-tousle of an invisible child’s head. I take it in mine and lead him and his dog over to the bench, talking as we go. “I’m Endi. Short for Endicott.” “Like this town?” he asks. New people always ask. I try to inject an eye-roll into my voice. “Yeah, same as the town. The Burgesses were the other founding family, way back. I’m the last Endicott, but my dad wasn’t one so they used it for my first name.” I don’t add that Chief is the last Burgess, even if half the businesses in town have his


family name. “Here we are. The bench is about one step behind you and it’s about two feet off

the ground.”

I hold my breath and let the guy go. He sits carefully, as if something hurts, but maybe it’s just

because he can’t see and doesn’t know when his bum will land.

“Thank you, Endi. My name is David Espada. I thank you for your help.”

I walk Drake into the park and introduce him to Lomi, then go back to sit a spell.

“So,” I ask, “Drake is your guide dog?”

David laughs a little. “Drake washed out of guide dog training. The vet who ran the program

asked me to take him on.”

“Are you a vet, too?”

“I was a psychologist, before this.” He waggles his fingers in front of his eyes. “I’ve been trying

to train him to some basic commands, but he’s stubborn.”

“Oh,” I say. “I work with dogs, too. I walk them and train them and take them to the vet when

people need me to. Things like that. The dogs are the clients, though. The people are more like,

um, the dogs’ agents or appointment secretaries or something? Or maybe managers. They write

the checks, but I work for the dogs. You know?”

“You’re an unusual young man, Endi.”

“How’d you know I’m young?”

“Your voice has a lightness to it that I associate with youth. And the content of your conversation

is -- ”

“I know,” I interrupt. “Butch says I’m a chatterbox. But it’s only when I’m nervous or excited.”

“I see,” David says. “Is this Butch one of your clients?”

I laugh out loud, then I worry that he’ll think I’m laughing at him instead of what he said, so I

stop. “Butch is my boyfriend. A dog would never have told me I’m a chatterbox.”

“No?”

“Only because dogs don’t talk.”

“I see,” he says.


“You say that a lot,” I say. “You know, for a blind guy.” Immediately I feel stupid and glad

David can’t see my blush.

“I could say something deep about there being many ways of seeing, young Endi. But right now

I’d like to ‘see’ the inside of a coffee shop. Will you join me for a cup of something?”

I flash on Chief forbidding coffee, but shake it off. It’s not everyday you get to meet somebody completely new around here, so I say, “Sure. I’ll fetch the dogs.” David laughs. I guess the idea of a boy fetching dogs is funny when you think about it. There are two coffee shops in Endicott, but only Zorro’s has an outside patio out back where dogs can sit. And it has a cool name. I help David sit and get a latté for him, and fancy Italian soda (cherry vanilla) for me. Bennie, at the counter, gives me a bowl of water for the dogs and I grab two biscotti for us people and two biscuits for the pups. It’s exciting talking to someone new who doesn’t already know my whole life story. David frowns when I tell him about Grammy and Grampy dying last year, and smiles when I tell him my adventures keeping up the old house. By the end of the story about the new cellar floor he’s laughing and has stopped rubbing the scrapes on his face every few seconds.

“Leveling the concrete with swim fins was a good idea,” I insist. “How was I supposed to know

it was quick-dry? Stupid, huh?”

David wipes tears from his eyes. “Is that what this boyfriend of yours says?”

“Butch doesn’t have my imagination,” I concede. For some reason I don’t feel as defensive

talking about Butch with David as I do with Chief.

“What’s that smell?” David says, cocking his head.

I sniff. It’s the same burny smell as at the fire house. I look over at Lomi and, sure enough, there

are wisps of smoke floating around her, outlining -- wings?

“Um, smoke?” I hedge.

“Drake,” David says, “are you smoking again?”

At first I think he’s joking, but the tight expression on his face changes my mind. Drake gives a

tiny whimper and lowers his gorgeous golden head to rest on his paws, looking dejected.

I can’t just let him stand falsely accused, can I?


“No, David,” I say, real softly. “Lomi’s smoking a little.”

Drake’s head comes up and he sniffs in Lomi’s direction. David’s eyes widen and he sniffs the

air again, looking just like his dog. I decide to take another step.

“And her wings are showing.”

David nods in such a clichéd detached-psychologist way that I have to laugh.

“Second time today,” I add through my chuckles.

“The wings, or the smoke?”

I think for a second. Here’s someone I can tell about Blackie, too. “Both. Lomi was smoking in

the co-op when we went to see Butch earlier. And I thought I saw wings on one of my clients earlier.” There. I’ve said it. And David doesn’t think I’m crazy. Of course, you know what they say about psychologists. “Do you know what this means, Endi?”

I shake my head no before I remember he can’t see me do it. “No,” I say.

“It means you can call forth dragons.”

“Grammy always said I was meant for great things.” I mean it more as a joke than anything else,

but as soon as it’s out of my mouth, this thrill zings through me, like right before an orgasm, but

less imminently messy.

“Observe,” is all David says. He beckons Drake over to him, leans down, and whispers

something in his fluffy ear. Drake looks dubious for a sec -- he’s already been accused of public

smoking, after all -- but then, right before my eyes, he changes.

“What do you see, Endi?” David whispers, intimate as afterglow.

“Um, his fur is curling up tight into, um, scales?” I’m really not sure what words to use.

“And?”

“And his body is longer. His legs are drawing up and he’s -- oh, Gods, he’s got the most

beautiful wings!” They weren’t shadowy like Lomi’s and Blackie’s; they’re all golden and catch

the sun as they stretch and contract like a butterfly’s at the final moment of metamorphosis.

With one golden beat, Drake rises up into the air.

“He’s -- he’s flying!”


David’s face darkens. “Drake! Down, now!”

But Drake the dragon isn’t any more obedient than Drake the dog, and he keeps rising until he’s

level with the fence that screens the patio from the street.

“Endi, help me get him down,” David says desperately.

I’m so focused on reaching Drake I don’t give a thought to Lomi until she barrels into my

shoulders.

“Aw, jeez, David, Lomi’s airborne, too!”

Only she hasn’t transformed as completely as Drake. She’s still her usual shaggy self, only with

wings the color of her fur, black with whitish spots here and there. Her doggy body’s too heavy for them, and she zooms right and left crazily, bashing into the umbrella over the table. It topples, upending David’s chair and covering him. Drake must think he’s hurt because he comes fluttering right down and wriggles under the mess to get to him. I grab Lomi around her middle and wrestle her to the pavement. The wings melt away just as Bennie flies (and here I mean in the figurative sense) through the door. “What the hell?” she cries.

“Sorry, Bennie,” I say. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Bennie and I right the table, revealing David sprawled on his back, Drake standing over him

licking his face, doggy-style.

“You all right, mister?” Bennie asks.

“Just fine, young lady. More accident-prone than usual today, that’s all.”

“I’m so sorry, David,” I say. I help him up as I explain to Bennie. “I wasn’t paying attention and

the umbrella got knocked over.” I never lie, though I have been known to omit incriminating details. Once David and the table are both on their feet, I offer to walk him home.

As we leave the coffee shop Bennie hisses in my ear, “You knocked over a blind guy? Bad

karma, Endi.”

When we reach the sidewalk I realize David’s laughing his ass off.

“Charming,” I grouse as I take his arm, holding Drake’s lead myself. “Your place or mine?”


I take David to his house over on Maple. We don’t talk about dragons, though I have a zillion questions, minimum. David invites me in, and I’m sorely tempted but, even though I’m my own boss, I can’t just take the afternoon off, so I invite him over to supper the next night instead. That’s Chief’s usual night, and I hope he won’t mind sharing. As Lomi and I head down the front walk, David calls out, “Beware false friends, Endi. This is not something to share with everyone.” I go about my afternoon visits, keeping my eyes peeled for signs of dragon-natures in all my clients. When I get home Butch is waiting for me. I bounce up the walk and give him a kiss under Grampy’s grape arbor. The heavy, winy smell covers the brimstone stink seeping from Lomi. I’m starting to get the feeling she doesn’t like Butch all that much. Butch hefts two string bags full of supper fixings from the co-op, his fancy set of knives in a box under his arm. He’s saving up for culinary school and likes to use Grammy’s kitchen for his experiments. I get to eat the results. Then, usually, we fuck. Chief huffs but I tell him: don’t judge, this is more relationship than most people have. Chief never swears, but generally at that point in the conversation he huffs again. While Butch braises and tenderizes and sautés, I tell him about my day. The only parts he wants to hear about are the blow jobs -- did I forget to mention Roger came home early and I had already walked Puff? -- so I had two tales for Butch. We’re sitting at the big oak table eating something unpronounceable and delicious when I tell Butch about David. “New guy to blow?” “I don’t think so. But he knows a lot about dragons.” And that’s when I tell him about Lomi and Drake at Zorro’s. “Did anyone else see this miracle?” Sometimes I wish Butch could be a little less skeptical. “No. David’s blind, I told you. And Bennie got out there after they’d changed back.” “Riiiight.” “You don’t believe me?” I hate the pouty note in my voice, but really, I’m so disappointed. “Well, maybe if I saw for myself...” The way Butch leaves it hanging, it’s a challenge.


I take a deep breath and, well, Grampy always said I’m contrary as roses in December when my hackles are up. What can I say? I call Lomi over and ask her to change. She looks at me like she’d been waiting for that command all night! Right off, little puffs of smoke whoosh from her nostrils and her wings snap out like clean sheets on a line. “See!” I shout, triumphant. She’s changed a little more this time -- all her fur’s drawn up, not quite into scales like Drake’s, but short-short, like a summer buzz cut. “What the fuck!” Butch is screaming. And he calls me queeny? After watching for a sec I can almost forgive him. Lomi’s up in the air, flying awkwardly over the dining room table, straight at Butch. “Lomi, down, girl!” I cry, but for once she doesn’t listen. She dives right over Butch’s head and let loose with honest-to-Gods fire! It’s just a little fire, but it scorches Butch’s eyebrows and the tips of his hair, and he’s cowering behind his dinner plate. He must be truly terrified to ruin his food presentation like that. “Lomi, please!” I’m worried that Lomi might hock up a bigger fire loogie on her next pass. She turns in the air, bumping into the dining room doorjamb, and Butch is on his feet, running for the kitchen and screaming at me. “You crazy fucker, Endi! Whatever you did, you fucked up big time.” Butch heads out the door, leaving behind his precious knife set. *** Mrs. S. is my first stop next morning. Usually I take Lomi for a run before going over there, because I’m an early riser and Mrs. S says no one civilized is up before nine, but today it’s no problem to get there at a civilized hour. I spent half the night cleaning up from supper, coaching Lomi in company manners, and moping about Butch. Mrs. S. used to remember me two visits in three, but now it’s more like even odds. When the door opens, I can tell this is going to be one of her bad days. She’s still in her housedress and her hair is standing up around her head, its pink rinse and dark gray roots looking just as fuzzy and horrid as that mold I found on the leftover potatoes this morning. “Hi, Mrs. S.!” I say brightly. “Is Pushkin ready for his walk?” She peers at me blankly, then narrows her eyes and thrusts out her neck like a vulture. She’s one of those old ladies that gets skinnier and droopier with age. “You’re selling something!” she accuses me.


Well, I am, of course, but her nephew pays me by check every month so I guess what I’m selling is already bought. “No, Mrs. S. It’s me, Endi. I’ve come to walk the dog.” “How do you know I have a dog?” Some days I weaken and answer her and we go on and on like this for what seems like hours. But today I’m feeling strong and clever and quick, so when I see Pushkin dancing his pee-pee dance in the hallway behind Mrs. S. I call out, “Pushkin! Here, fella. How’s my brave boy today?” Pushkin has got to be as old as Mrs. S., but he carries his age better. I watch him closely with my new dragon-calling eyes but as I watch him wriggle and leak all over the stacks of unread Russian newspapers in the entryway, I can’t see a single dragon like thing about him -- no wings, no scales, no smoke. My relentless intention to walk Pushkin breaches Mrs. S.’s defenses. Muttering in Russian, she hands me the leash. Pushkin pees on the runner. I pretend not to see. Our walk is pretty normal, though Pushkin gets extra snippy every time Lomi blows smoke rings or shows her shadow-wings. If I didn’t know better I’d swear she was lording it over the little guy. I practice commands, and by the time we’re back at Mrs. S.’s, Lomi only does her dragon stuff on my say-so. Pushkin’s worked himself into a major terrier snit by that time, and I give him an extra cookie to apologize for paying him less attention than he thinks he deserves. Mrs. S. always offers me tea, and usually I decline, but today I accept because I still feel a little guilty about ignoring Pushkin. The way I figure it, while Mrs. S. crashes around with the kettle, maybe terrier breeding is like kryptonite to dragons, and that’s why terriers are so snippy and obnoxious-- so narrowly missing out on true greatness irks them. “Something on your mind, boychik?” She may not know who I am or why she’s fixing me gunpowder tea, but Mrs. S. is still concerned, in a grand-hostess, not a grandmotherly kind of way. “Bit of a falling out with my boyfriend,” I say after I’ve choked down a mouthful of the strong tea. “Perhaps he’s not the one for you.” Somehow she makes the platitude sound grand, and, even as abstracted as she seems, it’s easy to believe the rumors that she’s a deposed duchess. “I don’t know, Mrs. S. Not a lot of gay boys to choose from around here.” “Fah!” she scoffs. “So go somewhere else. Somewhere your talents are appreciated.” I flash on the only argument my grandparents ever had. Grammy wanted me to stay in Endicott and take


over her bakery. Grampy wanted me to go away to college. I finally had to step in. Well, what I did was I called Chief. He brokered a compromise, which is why I have a Liberal Arts degree from the community college over in Spencer. Selling the bakery to pay their medical bills was another decision I needed Chief for. Broke my heart, but by that time Grammy didn’t know the difference and Grampy was too frantic over losing her to care. “My Grampy used to say the same thing,” I say, blinking back the tears the memories have pushed out of me. Lomi scoots forward and licks my fingers. Mrs. S. narrows her wrinkly old eyes at me. “Then perhaps your talents are best applied close to home?” “I have a nice client base here,” I hedge as I think about being able to call forth dragons. “And someone you love, I think.” “I don’t know about that anymore,” I say flatly. I’m not sad about Butch, just disappointed. Mrs. S. snorts and drains her cup. The way she clunks it down on the worn Formica table makes it easy to believe those other rumors that she was a Bolshevik lieutenant. “Time, I think, for something a little stronger.” At first I think she means I need to grow a spine or something, but she levers herself up from the table and goes to the freezer, pulling out what looks like a very expensive bottle of vodka. She pours a measure each -- a healthy measure -- into our teacups, raises hers, looks me in the eye, and says something emphatic in Russian. When I give her my nod and smile, she squints and says, “I repeat for you in English. ‘Ask much, but take what is offered.’ Za vas!” Then she slams back her drink, thumps the cup back onto the table, and shoos me and Lomi out, my eyes still watering from the vodka. All afternoon I watch my clients for signs of dragons. Blackie, who I already knew about, responds beautifully when I ask Lomi to show him how to fly. Patch and Trouble are blowing fair smoke rings by the time I finished clipping their nails, and Lowbrow manages to get a pair of brown spotted wings to appear by the time we’re done with his bath. A basset hound makes a funny-looking dragon, let me tell you. I finish the day a lot less glum than I’d started it, and, even though shopping at Burgess General instead of the co-op gives me a little pang, it also gives me a chance to coax a little burst of flame from old Sounder. By the time Lomi and I turn up the driveway, I’m looking forward to supper with David and Chief.


I expected them to get along like a house afire, but by the time David was settled at the table and

the dogs were capering out in the run, I’m starting to have my doubts.

“Beer, Chief?” I offered, rummaging around in the fridge.

“Sure, Endi,” Chief says.

I’m sure there’s a tightness in Chief’s voice. “Everything okay at the firehouse?”

“Fine, fine,” he says, waving his hand dismissively and grabbing the bottle, popping the top with

his thumbnail. Gods, that move always makes me hot.

“So, Doc, you come to town to set up shop?” I swear Chief -- big, expansive, friendly Chief -has a note of challenge in his words.

“Seemed a good place to retire, Alex,” David says cautiously. Alex! Nobody calls Chief that.

“Seem a bit young for retirement. What are you, forty?” says Chief.

My knife slipped -- Chief’s suspicion is making me nervous -- and Chief wraps his hand around

my wrist, taking away the knife and cutting the tomatoes himself.

“I can do it,” I grouse.

“Wash the basil, Endi,” Chief growls.

What the heck? David continues the conversation like nothing’s happened. “Forty-two, since you ask. I left my practice because of philosophical disagreements with some of my colleagues. My specialty is not universally recognized.” “I thought you quit being a psychologist because you were blind,” I blurt. I don’t feel selfconscious with David, but Chief is still making me nervous with all this third degree. I almost cheer when the oven pings. “Crostini are ready!” I holler. Chief brings the tomatoes and basil and I help David sit. It feels weird to have someone new eating at the kitchen table. “Kitchen for family, dining room for company,” Grammy always said, but it just seems natural to have David there. And Chief, well, Chief is family. I try to ease the tension while we eat, but I’m not sure how Chief will take my dragon adventures, and I’m a little shy telling David about my fellatio sideline -- come to think of it, that always makes Chief grumpy, too -- so it goes without saying that my conversation suffers. Finally, desperately, I bring up Butch.


“‘Bout time you gave that one the heave-ho,” Chief grumbles.

“I take it you didn’t approve?” David hazards.

Chief snorts. “Not for me to approve or not. Just don’t like the kid. Not good enough.”

“I see,” David says in that way of his, and Chief’s eyebrows come down hard.

“How about I fetch dessert? Make some coffee, Chief?” I say, and skitter down to the deep

freeze in the cellar.

When I come back up I hear them talking.

“What’s your interest in Endi?"

“He’s a special young man,” David says cautiously.

“He’s an innocent,” Chief barked. “No match for your big-city seductions. Deserves better.”

David laughed. “Oh, Daddy!” he chuckled. “Your cub is safe. I’m gay, but I’m no chicken-

hawk.”

“You saying I am?” There was that note of challenge again. Did Chief mean gay or chicken-

hawk, whatever that was? Chief, gay? My knees nearly buckled and I stayed on the dark side of

the cellar door to get my coordination back.

“I make no judgment, Alex. Does he know?”

I’m really not sure I want to hear what’s coming next, so I push through the door. “Do I know

what?”

David smiles a tiny little smile and Chief hmphs.

“So what’s this magnificent dessert?”

“Key lime pie,” I say proudly.

“Butch make this?”

“I made it, thank you very much. Last weekend. Grammy’s recipe.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. Why was it down in the cellar?”

“I didn’t want it to go all funky,” I say, and cut the first slice.


Well, I would have made the first slice, but the thing is hard as a rock and the knife skates away across the counter. Chief was still laughing, and David smiling indulgently, when the doorbell rang.

Even if the knife hadn’t just jumped out of my hand like a magic sword the doorbell would have

made me jump. No one rings the doorbell. Heck, no one uses the front door.

I dry the whipped cream off my fingers and lope to the door.

“Endicott Thorne?”

“‘Course, Sam. Come on in. We’re just sitting down to some dessert. You’re welcome.”

I’m already heading back toward the kitchen, sure no cop’ll turn down dessert, when I feel a

hand heavy on my shoulder.

“What’s going on here, Sam?”

“Well, hey, Chief.” Sam shuffles from foot to foot but doesn’t let go my shoulder. “Had us a

complaint against young Endi, er, Mr. Thorne here. Gotta bring him in.”

“The hell you do. What’s the complaint, Sam? We’ll get this settled right here.”

“‘Fraid not, Chief. George Wilson swore out a complaint. Assault with a deadly weapon. Kid’s

eyebrows are all singed off.”

It takes me a sec to work out that ‘George Wilson’ is Butch. But what deadly weapon? Lomi? He

would never have said anything about that.

“Deadly weapon, Sam?” Chief’s voice is almost amused. “This is Endi we’re talking about. He’d

never, and you know it.”

Sam has the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Knife, that’s what Butch, I mean, Mr. Wilson,

said.”

“Pardon me.” David appears in the kitchen doorway and shuffles forward, his hand extended.

“Dr. David Espada. Are we to believe Mr. Thorne must be arrested for singeing a man’s

eyebrows with a knife?”

Just the way he says it has me choking down a laugh.

“Well, sir, not that you have any interest here, but --”


I shrug Sam’s hand off my shoulder and interrupt. “I can clear this up right now. Butch is pissed because Lomi burned him a little. But she didn’t mean to. She was mad at him for being mean to me and she let go with a little fire, is all.” David’s eyes close, and I look over at Chief. He’s staring like I’ve grown a third head. “Sorry I didn’t say anything at supper, Chief. I wasn’t ready.” “Not ready to sound crazy? Endi! What the fuck?” Did I mention Chief never swears? Sam jumps back in, trying to sound all official, but he’s not the brightest bulb on the tree, you know? “Now, fellas, young Mr. Wilson says Endi here assaulted him with one of his own knives, and we have to process him down the station. You fellas can come down if you like, but Endi’s gotta come with me. And them knives of his are evidence, so I’d better have them along, too.” Sam follows me into the kitchen to get Butch’s knife set, then steers me out the front door to the cruiser. “We’ll meet you at the station, Endi,” Chief says, but he’s looking right at Sam, steel eyes flashing. I nod, a little scared but not wanting to show it. “Look after Lomi for me?” Chief nods. “And help David get home?” “After we see to you,” he says, all gruff. What I wouldn’t give to hear that tone of voice under more intimate circumstances. Chief squeezes my shoulder. He watches as the cruiser takes me away. Like I do when I’m nervous or excited -- and I think getting accused of a felony and bundled into a police cruiser more than justifies both reactions -- I start to babble. “Listen, Sam, you know how Butch is. Real sensitive. He was pissed and probably a little scared. Not that he’d ever admit it. I mean, it’s not every day your boyfriend’s dog turns out to be a dragon. And he hasn’t exactly been keen on me having a dog in the first place. He’s jealous, is what I think -- ” Like a lot of folks do when I’m babbling, Sam interrupts. “Hold up, Endi. Did you say ‘dragon’?” “Well, yeah. Pretty amazing, huh? Turns out lots of dogs have dragon natures and I can call them forth. Like a dragon-whisperer!” A little voice in the back of my head, one that sounds an awful lot like Chief, is saying, ‘shut up, Endi,’ but do I listen? “Lomi’s learning so fast. Pretty soon she’ll be flying as well as Drake. And you should have seen Miss Maddie’s Lowbrow in the bath, just like a Chinese water dragon, but with those floppy ears!”


I would’ve gone on but Sam picks up his radio and I wait politely for him to finish. “...diverting to County General. And give whoever’s on psych a call.” We roll right past the Endicott police station. “Where we going, Sam?” I’m starting to get really scared. “We’re going to have our little chat at the hospital over in Spencer.” My stomach turns over queasily. “You don’t mean Butch is hurt bad? But Lomi only singed those bushy eyebrows of his, you said so! He’s making a big deal out of nothing.” “We’ll see what the doctors have to say about ‘nothing,’ Endi. For now I think you’d better zip your lips, ‘kay?” I know Sam’s being nice in his way. And I don’t suppose talking all about dragons and stuff is the best plan if you’re under arrest in all but name. But, honestly, the minute somebody tells me to be quiet, the words start piling up like a big-city traffic jam and I get real bouncy and if I don’t talk Right Now I’m going to explode. But like I said, Sam’s looking out for me, and so I keep quiet. That’s how I end up in the psych ward, which is really just two locked rooms at County General, talking my head off to the resident. He’s so cute in his scrubs and so earnest while he takes my history that I nearly forget about the whole "under arrest" thing and offer to suck him off. I have no idea how long I’m there, but it seems like hours. The resident makes a bunch of calls, gesturing and making notes while I watch through the safety glass of my little cell. That’s what it feels like, a cell. Especially when they bring me breakfast with just a spoon and won’t tell me anything except that I’m "under observation," which doesn’t sound as bad as "under arrest" but somehow scares me more. I want Chief. He’d never not been there when I needed him. After the notorious Treehouse Incident when I was eleven, Chief took over the job of rushing me to the emergency room when I got into scrapes. Grammy said my scrapes gave her white hairs and Grampy never could stand the sight of blood. For more than half my life, Chief’s been right there when I was hurting and scared. Boredom does the same thing to my brain that silence does to my voice, and I sure as shooting don’t like the way my thoughts are running. Maybe some horrible fire’s keeping him from coming to get me out. Maybe David has him convinced we’re both crazy. Maybe he’s finally fed up with sticking up for me.


Maybe Chief’s finally fed up with me. Fed up with me. Those four words chased each other around in my head like an ourobouros -- that’s a serpent-like

dragon that chases its own tail -Oh, never mind.

Just.

Never mind.

I’m shaking and scrubbing away tears by the time that door opens. As a doctor comes in -- not

the young, cute one, but an older woman with a clipboard and tape recorder -- I hear bellowing

from the hallway.

Chief! “Involuntary commitment my ass! This observation period stops now, damn it!” And then the door closes and all I hear is my hitching breaths. The doc has five million forms to fill in and at least ten million questions. Evidently headshrinker protocol is to ask everything twice. I answer as best I can, all the while watching for glimpses of Chief’s silvery head zooming past the little window. He was here! But why couldn’t he get me out? “...evaluation by a specialist in this sort of delusion,” the doc was saying. “He’ll want to see you. You’re a very interesting case, Mr. Thorne. Very interesting.” “When can I go home? I know my friend is here. Chief Burgess, from Endicott? He’s outside. I saw him.” See? Not delusional, I want to shout. The doctor pulls back from her little Oliver Sacks fantasy and really looks at me for the first time. “Mr. Thorne. I’m sorry. You’ve been remanded to us by the county. We’ll be moving you to University Hospital later today. Your doctors will decide what’s best for you. I’ll send the nurse with something to calm you down.” I had been calm -- well, sort of -- until she says that. Then I lose it but good, and by the time I ‘calm down’ with the help of a needle, I’m strapped to a gurney and the nurse says Chief’s gone. Called away on an emergency. Fed up with me.


***

They think I can’t hear them.

“He’s become intractable.”

“No communication?”

No, sir. He’s been refusing food since they brought him here.”

“Is he still sedated?”

“It should wear off completely within the hour. He’s groggy, but could communicate if

motivated.”

“Well, let’s see if we can’t motivate him then, eh?”

The door opens. If I look up, I’ll be trapped. I look at my fingernails.

That will be all, Mr. Phelan. Thank you for escorting me.” The door closes.

“Endicott Thorne.”

I look at my fingerprints.

“Endi.”

David? “David!” I’m airborne and, I must say, I’m better at it than Lomi, even without wings.

But David stops me before I can hug him. He must have felt the air displacement.

“Endi, listen. I’m the specialist they called in. Remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?” I

swear, he winks at me, like this is all some little prank. He tells me he can get me out in a couple

of hours. All I have to do is present an appropriate affect, whatever the heck that means.

“It means, remember your manners, Endi.”

I don’t want to ask, afraid of the answer, but, “Where’s Chief?” I want to know.

“There’s an emergency. Chief was called away.” These are the exact same words they used at the

hospital, two days ago, and I almost lose it again. Instead, trying to remember my manners, I shut

down.

“Now, now, Endi. Let Chief explain when we’re back in Endicott.”


I wish I could say I manned up, but I didn’t. I pouted. I still wouldn’t eat. “If I have more than

six bites of food I’ll have to stay here forever.”

“Wrong myth, Endi.”

We spend the time until my court-mandated observation is over with me trying not to bounce and

the esteemed Dr. Espada working up a very convincing report of how sane I am and how

‘contextually appropriate’ my ‘magical thinking’ is.

“My specialty,” he smirks when I whistle over it.

David calls the orderly who’s helping him get around and he disappears to deliver his report and

get me discharged.

When he comes back, he’s miffed. “They offered me a ride back the way I came, but you have to

go in an official vehicle. Now that you’re not crazy, you still have to answer assault charges. I’ll

be back in Endicott before you, and I’ll get in touch with Alex.”

Aw, jeez, I think. Butch is never getting another blow job from me, and that’s final.

“So how did you get here?”

“Medivac copter.” There’s that smirk again.

“I think I hate you,” I say blandly.

David laughs and I can tell he wants to hug me but we’re still playing at being strangers to fool

the staff here. When the time comes I shake his hand, and thank him -- remember my manners,

right? -- and we go our separate ways.

A Statie in jodhpurs and above-the-knee boots escorts me from the door of the psych unit to the

door of the clinic, where -“Chief!”

And this time, when I go airborne, I don’t come down until I’m all wrapped up in burly arms and

getting the kiss of my life.

Wait a minute.

Chief. In uniform. Kissing me. It’s puberty all over again, except this is real. I’m even about to

come in my pants.

“I thought you were fed up with me,” I mumble into his jacket. Chief and leather fill my head.


“You should know I can’t get enough of you.” He scrubs the back of my hair and gives me another kiss. “No more of that. I’m here in an official capacity,” Chief says, setting me apart from him with what I choose to interpret as a rueful grin. “You’re my escort?” I manage. “Yeah, and we need to get a move on. You’re never going to believe what’s going on back home. I’m gonna need your help.” He’s holding out a helmet, and straddling his Scrambler. Oh, gods above and below! Will you still respect me if I confess to creaming my shorts? *** “There really was an emergency?” I holler into my helmet as we cross into town. Chief just nods. I see the lights from every kind of emergency vehicle strobing. There’s fire everywhere. Smoke twists around buildings and flame flickers on lawns and in trashcans. I gape, which turns out to be a really bad idea because I suck in smoke and start coughing. Chief reaches back and pats my thigh but I’m still hacking as we approach the fire house. There’s smoke there, too, and little fires everywhere something’s combustible.

“It’s a bad sign when the firehouse is on fire, Chief,” I manage, around the last of my hiccups.

Chief swings off the Scrambler and gives me this look as he wrenches off his helmet.

“We can’t get to the station, Endi. Can’t get to the trucks or the hoses or the EMT van. Those

vehicles we passed on the way in are from Spencer and the state.”

A breeze pushes the smoke away from the façade of the building, and that’s when I see them.

All the firehouse dogs, every last spotted one of them, are in the air, spitting fire all over the

place. They don’t look fierce or menacing.

“They look gleeful,” I say.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass how they look,” Chief growls. “I want to get in there and get my people

working on this mess.”

I give him a look right back. “This is why you came for me? You need me to deal with them?” I can’t say why, but knowing that sends my heart down into my shoes. Chief puts his gloved hand on the back of my neck, and the touch of leather and muscle makes me shiver.


“Focus, Endi,” he says. “Talk to Lomi.” We’re close now to the open bays of the ‘house, and I can just make her out, winging back and forth around the brass pole. “Lomi,” I call. She doesn’t respond -- there’s too much joyous barking and crackling noise from the fires. “Lomi!” I bellow, and the big breath I take starts me coughing again. I bend over to get myself under control, hands on my knees and tears streaming, so I don’t see Lomi fly up to me, but I sure as heck feel her as she thuds into me. I go sprawling, and she’s all over me, licking and yipping and covering me with smoke and little tongues of fire. I’m coughing and laughing and crying all at the same time. I missed Lomi almost as much as I missed Chief, but the tears are because she’s bursting with joy to see me for my own sake, not because I can fix some problem. I know that’s an uncharitable thought, so I push it away and look Lomi in her bottomless brown eyes. “Your scales came in!” I say, and give them a pet. They feel like sun-warmed seashells, all blue-black and gleaming, with the odd pearly white one flashing here and there. “You’re such a pretty dragon,” I say. I pet her wings, and croon over and over how beautiful, and what a good dragon she is, the best dragon ever. She keeps up her wriggling and licking until I say, “Now, girl, we’re gonna need to help Chief out, now. All these fellas have to turn back into dogs for a while. You gonna help me?” She gives me one last lick and flies over to where a clump of spotted dragons is taking turns blasting the floor with fire, chasing the flames as they flicker along the concrete and burn themselves out. With a yip, she clears a path for me and I start talking to them. I use my dragon voice, which is almost exactly like my dog voice, and they respond almost as fast as they usually do. When I’ve got them all down to earth and doing nothing more threatening than snapping at each other’s smoke rings, I turn to Chief and say, “Was there anything else? Should I head on back to the loony bin now?” Right away I regret it. Chief scowls at me and looks away, the color in his cheeks dark. Could be from the heat of the fires, but I don’t believe that. Chief gives this little, determined shake of his head and starts bellowing orders into his radio. In seconds his crews -- all three shifts, looks like -- are streaming in, dousing the fires with foam, and throwing themselves into the trucks. Sirens blaring -- you wouldn’t believe how loud that sound is indoors, even with the bays open -- they pull out. The sirens hurt the dogs’ ears, and they set up a very un-dragon-like howl.


“Come on, you lot, out back with you,” I say, still using my special quiet dog voice. That’s when I realize Chief didn’t ride out with his teams. He’s standing right there, watching me as I corral the pups in their run. I look back at him, still feeling stung, not knowing what to do next. He flips me his keys and jerks his thumb toward his red pickup. “I’d best go ride herd on all those crews.” I look at the keys in my hand. “The Scrambler?” I never get to drive the bike, even though Chief knows I know how. He’s the one who taught me. Chief reaches out, wraps his hand around the side of my neck, and says, “Need you, Endi. Need you to help fix this because you’re the only one who can.” “I know, Chief,” I say, ready to forgive him, thought I’ll admit that’s mostly because I get to drive the bike. I tighten my fingers around the keys. Chief doesn’t let go of me, though. No, now he’s got his other hand on me, roving from my shoulder down my arm and back up to rest over my heart. Then he says, “And after this mess is cleaned up, Endi, I’m going to need you.” I lean in, hoping for another kiss, but Chief stops me with four fingers against my lips. “Not while I’m on duty,” he rumbles, but his moustache does that caterpillar on a leaf thing and I catch a twinkle in his steely eyes. I twinkle back, earning myself a smack on the butt as I turn to the bike, tossing the keys in the air and catching them. I climb on, rubbing my butt, not because it hurts, but because it aches. Chief gives me one last look, hauls himself into the pickup’s cab, and we zoom off in opposite directions. The next few hours are a frenzy. David catches up with me and says he’ll stay at the firehouse to keep an eye on the pups there, so I give him a ride over. Drake is with him, flying openly, better behaved than I’ve ever seen him. “I think he just needed to be accepted for who he really is,” David says, in his mock-serious psychologist voice. I hear sirens all over, see the trucks here and there. I tear around on the bike, visiting every dog in town (except the terriers), talking them back into canine form, soothing the frantic owners , making apology after apology for starting this (I’m in a world of trouble, to hear most of them tell it). The worst is the crew of strays that have taken over the jewelry store and the bank. They don’t want to give up their treasure, and I have to promise them all homes before they’ll agree to turn back into dogs. I lead them to the firehouse, where David is listening to the radio while the dogs have their supper. “No one’s been hurt, and there’s almost no property damage,” he tells me. “Almost as if the dragons were making a statement rather than making an attack.” I head home without hearing from Chief, and as I maneuver the Scrambler up the drive I see the station’s red pick-up waiting for me. I park the bike under the arbor and fly up the back steps. At


the door, I hesitate. Everything’s changed, hasn’t it? I don’t know what to do next, so I just stand

there, half excited, half terrified, until the door squeals open and Chief pulls me inside.

He drags me into the living room and we catch each other up on what’s happened in the last few

hours.

“You put a blind guy on a motorcycle?” Chief asks at one point.

“I didn’t let him drive,” I reply.

During the whole conversation, Chief never lets go of me.

“Stay?” I ask, hiding my face in Chief’s neck in case the answer’s the wrong one.

“Under one condition,” he says, and his hand strays down to my belt.

Now I look right at him. He reaches around my waist and unclips the Scrambler’s keys from my

left belt loop.

“They don’t go there,” he says.

“I was going to give them back!” I protest.

“They go here,” and he clips them on my right side.

Oh.

“I’ll be in the shower,” he says, and he makes the keys jingle as he gets up and leaves the room.

I’m completely gobsmacked, but I’m not a stupid boy. I give Chief exactly one minute’s head

start before tearing upstairs and into the bathroom. Like magic, my clothes disappear and I climb

into the big claw foot tub, stepping through roiling steam right into Chief’s arms.

Chief’s got a hairy chest, and I amuse myself chasing rivulets of water around the whorls of hair

with my fingers and tongue, which Chief tolerates for all of two minutes before I’m on my knees

on the porcelain, faced with a masterpiece of a dick.

I suck happily for a long time, getting tastes of Chief and water and soap as he washes himself.

As soon as I realize what he’s doing, I grab some of his pubes and tug to get his attention. Most

guys are unable to multitask during my blowjobs.

Chief growls at the little pain and hauls me up, giving me a kiss with a lot of bite to it.

Before I can protest I’m on the bed, and some very evil things are happening to my nipples. I

keep my eyes open to reassure myself it’s Chief there with me.


I hear my yelps and pleas and try to reciprocate by wriggling, trying to touch everywhere, trying

to get at that amazing prick.

Chief is most definitely driving this bike, though, and soon my wrists are caught in one of his

huge hands. The other engulfs my balls and rolls them, not at all gently, but there’s joy in it.

“Chief, oh, are we going to fuck?”

Chief bites my lips. “Language,” he warns. “I’m going to take you, but not until you beg.”

“Please,” I wail.

And suddenly I’m on my belly, my wrists still pinned while Chief’s free hand explores my ass,

opens me up, eases inside.

“Oo-hhh,” I’m panting before he even bottoms out, and when he does he just freezes.

I try an experimental wriggle. I’m so full, it burns. I’m flying.

Chief sets his teeth into the nape of my neck and growls, “Settle.”

His hand holds my hip tight to the bed, so I can’t even rub off properly.

“Please, Chief,” I beg again.

And he starts to move. Very slowly. I’m screaming and coming before I can even get used to the

idea that it’s Chief with me, Chief inside me.

He rocks into me right through the aftershocks and just keeps going, never letting my wrists go,

never taking his mouth from the back of my neck.

I’m utterly, utterly caught. By the time his rhythm shatters and he drives into me with a seriously

feral groan, I’ve come a second time and I’m not exactly coherent.

“Sleep,” he says, and rolls onto his side still holding me, still deep inside.

I have no idea how we manage it, but I wake up with Chief still inside me, softer but still there.

We leave the house and take the Scrambler to meet David at Zorro’s. Chief drives.

The town, in daylight, is as speckled as the firehouse mutts. Grass and leaves look sooty and

limp, and windows are grimed. There’s a delicate creosote smell in the air. The fires didn’t do any lasting damage, but the bark of trees and the occasional stretch of siding will show the effects for years to come. “Hell of a show yesterday, Endi,” Bennie says when we pull up.


“I wasn’t even in town,” I say as airily as I can manage with Chief’s hand in my back pocket. Bennie smirks and pulls us two espressos, mine with sugar, Chief’s with a twist, and we head out to the patio. I beam at Chief, even though I suspect the brew in my little cup is decaf. David is sitting with a tray of muffins and fruit. Lomi and Drake are blowing gentle smoke rings and sunning their wings.

I munch on cantaloupe slices and watch the dogs, zoning on the sunshine and their reptilian

laziness and the sweet, sweet ache in my ass, when I realize David and Chief are talking about

me. I tune in.

I don’t like what I hear.

“I don’t need a second job,” I say, once I have the gist of their conversation.

“I know you don’t,” Chief says.

David jumps in. “You’re the only one who can manage the dragon population. You did it singlehandedly last night.”

I decide I will not be appeased. “Before all the dogs decided to change at once everyone thought

I was insane. I was locked up. It was awful.”

I let that hang in the air for a moment before looking up. I see guilt, in stereo, on their faces.

“We got Butch to drop his assault charge,” Chief offers. Then, more softly, he says, “We tried

everything to get you out, you know.”

“It was only when Alex came back to town on the call about the dragons that we figured out a

way to do it.”

“It could happen again, the minute something goes wrong” I argue.

“No,” Chief sounds adamant. “We’ll put it in your contract.”

“Anyway,” I say, “I never wanted a regular job.”

David laughs. “I’d hardly call being Dragon Wrangler for the Town of Endicott a ‘regular job.’”

“Can’t you do it?” I ask.

David shakes his head. “I can scarcely control Drake. I don’t have your gift.”

“But you know so much more about it than I do,” I persist.


“He can be your consultant, okay?” Chief offers.

“A lot of good could come from this,” David wheedles. He hasn’t even known me that long and

he already knows how to push my buttons. Note to self: practice opacity.

“How about David’s the Dragon Control Officer and I’m some kind of minion,” I ponder, stuck.

“Dragonwalker!” Bennie says from behind me, waiting with a full carafe of coffee.

Chief and David nod, pleased.

“I guess it’s not so different from the job I have now,” I concede. “Do I get an office?”

“Right next to mine,” Chief says. “Gotta keep an eye on you. There’s one more thing, Endi.”

I brace myself.

“No more blow-job roster.”

I blush and stammer -- he’s always been grouchy about that, and now I know why -- until Lomi

blows a lazy smoke ring, and I swear it wraps around Chief’s and my clasped hands.


Blood Rubies

By Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks

Blood Rubies takes place in the universe of Kestrel on the Horizon, a Torquere Screwdriver. Thomas Harrison had been in worse predicaments. He simply couldn't recollect any at the moment. Of course, being caged up in a cave behind bars of lashed-together bone, watching his turncoat thief of a beloved boy make sheep's eyes at the leader of the cannibal band that held him and his men prisoner, well, that situation did not lend itself to deep searching of his memories. It was all Samir's fault anyway. Harrison shot a murderous look at the pretty Moroccan, who gleamed in the firelight, his long black hair falling in a braid down his back. Samir had a taste for rubies, a lust for the stones that rivaled his desire for men or Harrison's own need for gold. When he'd heard the legend of the Eye of the Dragon, Samir had pursued it in every port, charming rough men and barkeeps alike, piecing together rumor, legend, and innuendo for almost a year until he'd come up with the coherent tale and a map. He'd convinced the crew, and Harrison had, as always, indulged him. Amazingly, the island was almost exactly where he'd plotted its location, leading Harrison to think that maybe Samir was being wasted as a lookout and would better serve the ship as a navigator. They had sailed in three days earlier, dropping anchor in a placid harbor. The schooner could sail into all but the shallowest water, and it wasn't much of a row in the jolly boats. The men had promptly gone hunting, the island yielding an abundance of wild boar and edible birds. Harrison and Samir had gone treasure hunting. The volcanic cave had been where the stories said it was, and so was the treasure as well. Harrison's black pirate heart had gone into raptures at the sight of the heaped sacks of coins and the chests of jewelry. But Samir had a goal he could not be swayed from, and ignored all the pearls and diamonds and bags of doubloons. He picked through the treasure hunting for the Eye, a ruby the size of a grapefruit. Privately, Harrison doubted the stone existed, or if it did, that it was as described. But Samir was determined and kept looking. Harrison had done a thorough picking-over of the loot, and swept what he could carry into a bag to take back to the ship. “Not here!” Samir snarled. “Not here! THIEF!” His last word was almost a shriek of fury. Harrison had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. They had come a-robbing yet Samir called another “thief.”


He held up a handful of fine rubies that he'd saved out of his own swag. “Beautiful boy, when you chase myths, you seldom find what you seek. There are many rubies here, even if the Eye of the Dragon is not.” Samir moved as if to strike the proffered rubies out of Harrison's hand, but changed his mind and seized them. “I take all rubies here. And I find thief who take my big ruby.” His lovely smile was wolfish and unpleasant. Harrison matched it. “I like you, wicked boy,” he sighed, and set his bag aside to embrace Samir. “My handsome captain,” Samir purred. His face showed he was not mollified, but willing to accept the kisses. Harrison kissed him, pressing his tongue into Samir's mouth, tasting the cloves he chewed to keep his mouth sweet, playing with the strong velvet muscle of his tongue. Samir nipped his lip gently and Harrison laughed. “Feisty,” he chuckled, lowering his boy to the ground and claiming more kisses as he stripped away Samir's shirt and loose trousers. “I'll give you a bit of something for your disappointment.” His hands indulged on Samir's smooth skin, and his mouth followed to taste him. Samir sucked in his breath when Harrison worried one large brown nipple between his teeth, but relaxed when the kisses kept moving lower to where his prick stood slim and tall. Samir shuddered under him when Harrison's mouth closed over the head. Harrison loved the feel of that. This wasn't his favorite act -- he much preferred Samir perform it for him -- but it was well worth the sacrifice to see his pretty pet act so wanton and sensual. Samir squirmed on the ground, lifting his hips to get more of his prick into Harrison's mouth, which retreated as much as he pursued. Harrison laughed softly and took it all, swallowing Samir to the root, and listening to him swear softly in Arabic. Samir always swore as filthily as any of the crew, but never in English. He claimed it was because the demons he swore by did not understand English. When he spent, Harrison spat it into a corner of the cave and kissed Samir, stroking his long black hair and smooth skin. “My own sweet boy.” “Well, well, ain't you a pretty pair of buggerers?” came a rude voice from the mouth of the treasure cave, its accent a mish-mosh of islands and England. Harrison turned to see half a dozen ragged men, not of his crew, watching him and Samir. He reached for his pistol and sword, which he'd left with his pants. They were gone, dangling from the hand of the uncouth spokesman, a squat specimen, with less yellow hair than yellow teeth. “He's really pretty, looks tasty too. The old one's too tough, he'll make better stew,” put in a lean, foul-looking man with a wicked scar that ran up under an eye patch.


“Take 'em back to the chief.” The buccaneers swarmed them and bound them in ropes plaited from the vines of the island. The path to their village was lined with clean skulls, smiling their spectral grins. More bones, long arm and leg bones, were lashed together to form a gruesome fence around the place. Harrison stayed as close to his boy as he could, and groaned when he was led into the encampment. He smelled it before he saw it. A pirate ship was not the sweetest-smelling thing on the face of the earth, but this collection of crude huts and middens positively reeked. A large cave formed the north side of the camp, and before the bone grate that turned it into a prison, sat the leader. He stopped fanning himself, and looked lazily at the captives. He twirled one end of his large black mustache and said, “Is that the end of the intruders?” His voice marked him as being from around the north of France. He wore a crudely made crown of beaten gold set with uncut gems. “Yes, your majesty,” said the leader of their captors. “Is the ship secured?” “Yes, your majesty,” said a man who had just come up a different path. Harrison recognized his rags as the remains of a French navy uniform. His accent put him closer to Marseilles. The king looked at Samir and Harrison. Harrison bristled under the scrutiny and squirmed in his bonds. “I am Captain Thomas Harrison of the Kestrel! Free me and my crew and all our cargo is yours.” The leader yawned. “Oh aye. We've already helped ourselves to it, and you've refreshed our larder as well.” He gestured to where a boar was roasting and to the cage. Harrison recognized the large hands hanging out the bars as Pete Ringrose's. “I am King Alexandre I of this Island. My men tell me you are trespassing, and the penalty for that is death. Do not worry, we are all fine cooks and will not roast you alive. The innards spoil the meat.” This was greeted by uproarious laughter. “You not eat my captain,” Samir protested. “And aren't you a spirited toy? I like him. Put the captain in the larder, and I'm keeping this one,” the king ordered his men. Samir fought them as Harrison was shoved into the cave with the rest of the crew. “Not for you, savage. You a savage even if you English.”


The squat man who'd found them hit him, stunning him into silence and shoved him to the leader. Samir caught himself against the Frenchman's chest. The crude man seized his long braid and jerked his head back, kissing him with a wide, bristly mouth. Samir bit him. The leader laughed. “Spirited,” he repeated. “But a bit too much. Bind this little fireball to a tree until I have time to deal with him.” Samir fought, but three men were too much for his dancer's strength. He found his arms pulled back and tied around a tree and more rope wrapped around his waist. As the make-shift tribe ate and sang, and got very drunk on the Kestrel's rum, he watched. “If you're very good, pretty one, I'll feed you,” called the leader. “Tomorrow,” he added to a roar of laughter. He watched as the sailors slipped off, one by one into the huts and some to hammocks hanging from the trees. At last, only the leader was left, staring into the fire, smoking Harrison's pipe and drinking the captain's private stock of rum. When all the men were gone, he pulled a large chain out of his shirt and let the ruby, easily the size of an orange, dangle, catching the light. Samir gasped quietly. The leader heard and turned to look at him “Not a legend after all, was it pretty thing? That's what you came looking for, isn't it?” Samir nodded. “It is. Dragon Eye, yes?” “Yes.” The leader tucked it back in his shirt. He got up and lurched over to Samir. He stank of sweat and dirt, food and unwashed body. His breath was foul with rum. “How badly do you want it, little one?” Samir looked up at him, hiding his disgust. “I give anything.” “Your captain and his crew as well? Would you stay here?” The leader bent his head for a kiss from the short dancer and Samir gave it, hiding his calculating look. “Anything,” Samir said, trying to reach up to embrace the chief, but finding his arms caught by the ropes. “You taste delicious, pretty liar,” the chief said. He kissed Samir again. “If I wanted to have you, here and now, against the tree, within sight of your captain, would you hate me?” “Not hate,” Samir smiled. “Not if you not eat me.”


The chief laughed. “Sleep. See if morning changes your mind. If not, I'll feed you. And we'll have some fun.” He stole a last kiss and Samir opened for him, teasing him with all the art he had. “Sweet boy.” He lurched into the darkness, toward the largest of the huts. “Lying little whore,” Harrison hissed from the cave. Samir said nothing. He knew what he was doing. His captain would understand in time. He knew Harrison was an American barbarian and didn't have the brains for long-term subtlety. He dozed lightly against the tree, waiting for morning. The cannibal tribe woke late, with large heads and many snarls. Samir watched them bumble about, and smiled when their chief came to him. “You look even better this morning, cher,” the man slurred. He bent in for a kiss and Samir gave it. He felt the Eye bang against his chest. A low growl from the cave drew his attention, but Samir tossed his head and made the kiss as convincingly seductive as he could. Alexandre looked thoroughly convinced. He cut the ropes on the tree, but left the ones around Samir's wrists and used those to tow him back to his hut. Samir looked around the little building and kept his contempt from showing. The place reeked. Skulls were neatly stacked like trophies, but a litter of bones lay about, some not quite clean of spoiled meat. The bed was a pile of palm fronds half-covered by a filthy blanket, and Samir was sure he saw something skittering amid them. It would be worth it, he decided and felt the Eye against him. He would make everything up to his captain in time. He went willingly as the chief pushed him to the heap he called a bed. *** It had been a most trying day, Samir decided. He had obliged the chief in all his whims, from the endless sucking to rolling onto his belly for the brute. He still ached a bit from that use. He watched the tribe set up the spits and was thankful it was only wild pig, although that was still haram, forbidden. He would eat as he had to. Fortunately, his captor was back into the rum and didn't notice that Samir stuck to fruit. He endured two more trips back to King Alexandre's hut, and two more rough and clumsy tumbles, each drunker than the last. His acting skills were truly put to the test, but Alexandre's drunkenness worked in his favor. Unfortunately, as the glares from the cave got longer and more hateful, he suspected Harrison was taken in by his act as well. Darkness fell and the pig was gnawed to the bones. Alexandre sent Samir to serve a portion to his captives. He leaned next to the bars and handed the meat to Ringrose, whispering, “I have plan. Tell Captain: we sail tonight.” As he hurried back to the chief, he heard a derisive snort from the cave behind him.


Harrison had no faith in him. Samir supposed it was to be expected, since he was a known thief who preferred to seduce his prey rather than overpower it. He would prove himself. He curled back into King Alexandre's lap at the chief's bidding. The make-shift tribe drank what remained of the Kestrel's rum, which led to loud singing and boisterous dancing to the accompaniment of ragged rhythms created by using arm bones on skulls. Samir, who had earned many a meal dancing in the street, was revolted by the sound and finally forced the drummer aside, and started his own rhythm. The degenerate sailors cheered and gyrated, still out of time, but enjoying the sound more. Alexandre laughed and matched the rhythm. Samir smiled and encouraged him. When the drunken king had found and held a steady beat, Samir left off his own drumming and moved into the firelight. He swirled through the crowd, clearing himself a space, and began. In Tangiers, he had been one of the best street dancers, preferring to earn money that way, rather than stealing or worse, selling his body for it. Here, he had no oil or gold dust to make himself shine in the gleam. But he danced anyway, catching the simple four-count and turning it into something sensual. He danced first to one man and then another, teasing each, trying to fill their rum-clouded heads with desire. Alexandre kept playing, but was scowling. Samir presented himself before the king and did a very clever floor movement that was both enticement and promise. His captor smiled again. Finally, Samir danced through the circle of men, flirting with each, before tossing a contemptuous kick toward the cave of captives. He made his way to Alexandre, unbound his long braid and tossed his hair back before going to the ground to tease, and then back to his feet to steal a kiss. He finished, half-kneeling, clinging to Alexandre's neck. The chief laughed and tossed the skull he was drumming on aside. “Come, pretty one,” he said loudly and hauled Samir back to his hut. Samir held onto him and kissed the man, his face eager. He allowed himself to be stripped and borne down to the bed of branches. He pressed against the chief, hard only by force of will. This man was not his captain. He stretched up for a kiss, hiding his disgust at the pig taste on the man's skin and the grease in his beard. The chief kissed him for a long time, until Samir was ready to fight for breath. A sudden snore alerted Samir that the chief had fallen asleep on top of him. He squirmed out from under the large man, and hunted about. He found his own dagger, shut away in the chief's sea chest, and smiled wickedly. King Alexandre I of the Island would not awaken to anything but judging angels.


Samir took the Eye of the Dragon, on its rude chain and crude setting, and stared at it for long minutes. He slung it about his own neck, his prize from this ordeal. He had more than earned it, but there was more work this night. He slipped through the shadows of the camp, seeking the bed of each of the cannibals in turn. Most slept like the dead, a comparison he was more than happy to make a reality. One or two opened his eyes as Samir stood over him. These, he curled up next to, kissing and soothing until his sharp blade could find a place to bite. These did not die so cleanly. The silver half-moon was just lighting the clearing before the cave when Samir stepped into it. Naked except for the ruby, his hair down, and blood dappling him like a leopard, he slipped to the bars of bone. “All dead. I free you now and we sail.” Harrison stood at the bars, blinking in astonishment at the vision of beautiful carnage before him. Samir set to cutting the vines that bound the bones. The other men helped by pulling away the freed bones and breaking the thinner ones if they could. “You -- ” Harrison stammered as he stepped out to freedom. “You didn't -- You killed --” “Killed all of them. For my captain.” Samir came to him and kissed him lightly, not pressing close or embracing him because of the blood that was drying all over his slim form. Heedless of the mess, Harrison pulled him close and kissed him hard. “My perfect boy. I should never have doubted you.” He clutched Samir until the boy gasped for breath, the ruby digging into his chest. “Captain is happier with Samir now?” Samir looked up, hopefully. “I thought I'd lost you. I had nightmares of you laughing with that brute, and then gutting me for roasting.” “Never.” They picked their way around the bodies, loading up what they could carry of the treasure. Harrison strictly forbade any of the filthy clothing or cloth items to be brought aboard. Jewels and gold and silver, edible food, not spoiled, and wood were all fine. Ringrose took a couple men and started checking the water sources, to see if they'd all been fouled. Six more went hunting to take fresh food aboard the ship. There was no help for the rum. They fired the reeking camp and the bodies, and made their way back to the ship. Harrison ordered all the men to strip and go swimming to wash the worst of the stench away. After they were dry, they tossed their clothes into a bonfire on the beach and changed into something cleaner.


As they sailed out of the bay, Samir stood at the rail clutching his prize. He rubbed the star ruby

until it shone and then kissed it.

“Some of the men think you got more than your share,” Harrison said, coming up behind him. “I

prefer to think of it as extra pay for combat duty.”

Samir laughed. “Call it bounty on forty louse-eaten cannibals.”

Harrison smiled. “I think you love that rock as much as you love me.”

Samir got comfortable in his arms. “It cold. You warm.”

Harrison kissed his neck. “I'm sorry I doubted you.”

“I always love my Captain first.” Samir looked up, his big eyes soft and reassuring.

“I was so afraid -- it made me say horrible things,” Harrison confessed, very softly, words he did

not want the crew to hear.

“Samir forgive.”

“Mmm, my darling boy. I want you to dance for me like that some day” Harrison pulled him in a

little more tightly and kissed him, his lips warm and gentle on Samir's sweetly cloved mouth.

Samir's arms went around his neck. “Shall we take it below?” At Samir's nod, Harrison scooped

him up and carried him over his shoulder, the dancer laughing all the way down to his cabin.


Hunter's Kiss

By Margaret Leigh

Chapter One Of all the near misses and close calls they'd had in their lives, this one had to have been the closest. Jack shuddered. He looked over at his partner slumped in the passenger seat of the car. Casey was groggy from loss of blood. Jack reached over and nudged him. "Hey, stay with me," he said softly. "We're almost home." "'M'awake," Casey slurred. "Okay." Jack nodded. He turned his attention back to the road and getting their asses to safety. *** Casey woke with a dry mouth. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and his body ached with a hundred and one different pains. He rolled his head on the pillow and took a deep breath. Something smelled delicious, intoxicating. He opened his eyes, nostrils flaring at the scent. Whatever it was, he wanted it. Thirsted and hungered for it. "Hey, you're back." Jack's voice came to him from somewhere nearby. The rustle of movement as Jack got up and leaned over him sounded loud to Casey's ears. Casey groaned. Jack's movement had unleashed another wave of the heady scent and Casey breathed it in, his body humming with need. He sat up and grabbed for his partner's arm, pulling Jack to him. "C'mere," Casey growled. "Want you." "Easy there," Jack smirked and tried to pull his arm free, but Casey gripped him harder. "Casey, take it easy!" he said a little more sharply. "You lost a lot of blood and -- " His words were cut off as Casey jerked him closer and smashed his mouth against Jack's, kissing him with a fevered hunger. Casey took Jack's breath and robbed him of the strength to resist. Casey felt his partner melt against him and he growled low, hunger, thirst, desire all rolled together in an intoxicating mix. He turned with Jack in his arms and slammed his lover's body


down on the bed. Jack grunted, shifting under Casey, pressing his hips upwards, letting Casey feel his arousal. The delicious scent grew even stronger, goading Casey into frenzy. "Need you," Casey grunted, his hands moving to the waistband of his partner's jeans, wrenching the button undone. He pulled the jeans down, watching as Jack frantically kicked out of them, his hot gaze raking over the straining cock that curved against Jack's belly. "Need…" Casey trailed off with a growl, dipping his head to kiss and nip at Jack's neck, tasting salt, sweat, Jack and -Casey moaned, the hunger in him rising until he could barely contain it. He wanted, craved, needed -- he didn't know what he needed. Jack thrashed under him, moaning with desire, and Casey pulled back, looking into his partner's eyes. Jack’s scent was overwhelming, hot and sweet and heady. Casey parted his lips, his breath ragged. "I need." Jack looked up at him, his hair tousled, eyes blown with passion. He ran trembling hands along Casey's arms, hips thrusting against Casey, his skin glistening with sweat. "Please, Case." Now Casey realized what he needed. He smiled, curling his lip back over his teeth and moaned low. He unfastened his own pants and shoved them down over his hips. Falling on top of Jack's writhing body, Casey growled. He shoved Jack's legs wider apart, smashing their mouths together as he shifted. He took Jack, hard and deep. A strangled cry rang against Casey's ear and Jack squirmed under him. Casey groaned, tore his mouth away from Jack's, trailed across his partner's cheek, and kissed and lapped at the vein in Jack's throat, feeling the thrum of the man's pulse. Something inside him blossomed and spread and Casey hissed between his teeth. He stilled a moment, then drew a sharp shuddering breath as he came. His lips drew back and he growled. Pinning Jack to the bed, Casey sank his teeth deep into the throbbing vein. "Casey!" Jack struggled. Casey pinned him, holding Jack’s arms down as his partner tried to fight him off. He growled, locking his jaws together, holding Jack still as hot, sweet blood welled into his mouth and he closed his eyes and drank.


Chapter Two Jack woke to darkness. He felt groggy, as though the sleep he'd just woken from had not been natural. He frowned. His head ached and he felt weak and shaky. He could see light edging through the heavy curtains. It had been night time when he brought Casey back to the apartment. Jack started at the thought of his partner. Fuck, Case was hurt. Jack moved to sit up and fell back on the bed with a grunt. His hands were tied to the headboard, separately, so there was no chance of him being able to work the knots undone. "Fuck," he muttered. He pulled at the ropes, but they were securely tied. Of course they were. His partner had tied them. His partner, who knew all the tricks Jack had taught him about how to get out of ropes. His partner, Casey, who had bitten him in the neck last night and drunk his blood. Jack groaned. "It's no use struggling, Jack." Casey's voice, silky and low and chillingly calm. "You won't get loose." "Case?" Jack turned his head, looking for his partner in the dark room. "Casey, why'd you tie me up?" He focused on a shadow near the darkest corner of the room, somehow knowing it was Casey. "I won't hurt you, you know that." "Hurt me?" Casey laughed. "You'd kill me." He stirred a little, shifting position, but didn't come any closer. "That's what you do. You're a hunter, and I'm the enemy." "I can get you out of this, Case," Jack reasoned, "if you'll let me." Jack sighed, twisting his hands against the ropes. "I'll just have to convince you to let me, huh?" "That would mean letting you loose," Casey noted. "Yeah, you think?" "And if I do that, you'll bolt the first chance you get, and return with backup." Casey sighed softly. "No," Jack said. "I wouldn't do that." "We both know you're not strong enough to take me down on your own." Jack swallowed hard. "I won't kill you. I want to get you out of this. Casey? Case?" He shuddered as Casey licked his lips and Jack could see the elongated incisor fangs. "I can smell you," Casey breathed out. "I can smell your blood." He took a step closer to the bed. A shiver wracked Jack's frame. He fought to keep his breathing even and not let panic take hold of him. He needed to keep a clear head here. "You gotta fight it," he whispered. "Don't let the bloodlust take you, Case."


"I tasted you last night," Casey said. His eyes flashed cold silver. "You have no idea what it was like. Raw and hot, with your fear as a topping." "I know it hurt like hell," Jack ground out. His breath quickened to ragged panting: Keep calm, damn it, he told himself. If he smells fear on you you're done for. "Anything that's worthwhile hurts a little, Jack." Casey smiled and those long, wicked fangs gleamed. Jack closed his eyes, twisting his wrists against the knots, testing how strong they were. "You taught me to hunt vampires, to take them out -- like hunting deer," Casey said. "And when I got hurt on those early hunts, that's what you used to say, 'Anything worthwhile hurts a little, Case.'" "If you feed from me again, I'll die. Is that what you want?" Jack looked up at his partner, forcing himself to meet those unearthly eyes. Casey stroked Jack's bare chest, a parody of comfort. "When you taught me how to fight. And the first time you fucked me." He bent close and whispered against Jack's ear. "Anything worthwhile hurts a little." Jack whimpered, feeling himself falling under the spell Casey had worked over him the night before. Despite his fear, or perhaps because of it, he felt his cock stir with arousal. "Please," he whispered. He shuddered when Casey's tongue flicked out to lick along his collarbone to his neck. "Casey?" Casey nipped at Jack's earlobe, letting him feel the sharp fangs. He nuzzled Jack's throat and his tongue licked across the puncture marks his fangs had made. Jack flinched as a jolt of fear flashed through him. "God, Case! Please no -- " "I only took a little, Jack." "Please -- please -- fight it, baby." Jack choked on a sob. "Case -- " He turned his head, shrinking from his partner when he caught the cold gleam of silver in impossibly dilated pupils. "You're afraid," Casey murmured. Jack closed his eyes, tugging at his bonds, wincing from the pain of rope burns on his wrists. He arched his back with a cry of fear and pain as Casey leaned in and sank his fangs into Jack's breast. "No!" He struggled for a moment as blind panic threatened to swamp him, but then reason kicked in and he forced himself to be still. Slowing his breath with an effort, Jack moaned softly.


Fear, pain and the first stirrings of arousal mingled within him to form a heady mix. He shuddered when Casey's tongue lapped his skin, tracing a circle around the nipple, sucking, drawing the blood into his mouth. He felt Casey swallow. God. He didn't want to die here, like this. Casey lifted his head, his eyes liquid, warm and dark again. He studied Jack's face for a long moment then leaned in and kissed him, his gentleness a stark contrast to the roughness of the night before. He reached up and untied the ropes, freeing Jack's wrists. Casey got off the bed, heading into the bathroom. "Son of a bitch!" Jack struggled to sit up, chafing one wrist with his other hand. He watched as his partner moved about in the bathroom. He could hear water running. Jack quickly scanned the room for something he could use as a weapon. There were no guns or knives in sight. He cursed under his breath. He didn't want to hurt his partner, but he knew he would defend himself if Casey attacked him again. He bit his lip. Casey came out of the bathroom, carrying a damp towel. "Let me see your wrists." "I'm fine," Jack said and then cried out with pain when Casey roughly grabbed his arm and yanked it forward. "Ow! Casey!" Wrapping the warm cloth around Jack's wrist, Casey met his eyes. "I don't think I have long," he said. Jack looked up. "I only took enough to stop the burn in my throat. It will wear off quickly." Jack began to shake, chilled and weak. Casey had fought off the bloodlust. That had to mean something, right? It had to mean that Casey wasn't beyond hope. He groaned. "Shhh," Casey soothed, he took hold of Jack's other hand, inspecting the rope burns. "I'm hungry, Case," Jack said. "I’ll need something to eat." He flinched when Casey palmed a hand against his cheek. "You can get something when you leave," Casey murmured. "What?" Jack frowned, confused. "You heard me," Casey dropped the towel to the floor and got up, moving to the far side of the room. "Get out -- just go." Jack shuddered, suddenly afraid to leave, but scared of what would happen to them both if he didn't. "Case, I -- "


"Just go, Jack!" "I don't want to leave you like this," Jack whispered. "There's nothing you can do by staying." Casey closed his eyes. "Go, please, before I do something I'll have to live with for eternity." Jack sobbed. He didn't want to go, but Casey was right. At least for now, there was nothing he could do for his partner. He had to get away, he had to survive, had to find some way to fix this, to set it right and get Casey back. He'd failed Casey on this hunt -- let the demonic bastard vampire get hold of him long enough to -- It wasn't that long, Jack thought wretchedly. It wasn't even that long! How could that filthy -how could he turn Casey so fast? He glanced at his partner, who bared his fangs. "I won't give up on you, Casey. You hear me? I won't desert you. I'll go now, but I'll be back." Casey growled, his eyes flashing silver from the shadows. "Go. Now!" "Stay here, okay?" Jack pleaded with Casey as he backed towards the door, grabbing for the car keys and his jacket. "Stay here, and don't hurt anyone." "I can taste your fear," Casey murmured. He raised his head, his eyes flashing from soft, warm brown to cold-steel silver. Jack fled from the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He stood blinking in the bright daylight for a moment and then bolted for his car. He slid into the driver's seat, pulling his cell phone from his jacket pocket in the same motion. Starting the engine, he roared out of the garage, thumbing the speed dial for Malcolm Quinn.


Chapter Three Jack sat on the sofa, clasping a cup of coffee between both hands. He palmed his face and looked up when a knock sounded on the door. "Come in," he called. Malcolm Quinn stepped into the room. "Morning," he said softly. He carried a duffel bag in one hand and dropped it on the floor just inside the door. He glanced around the room, and then looked at Jack. "You look like hell," he noted. "Almost as bad as you did the first time I saw you." He pulled a chair out from the table and straddled it, leaning his forearms on the back of the chair, and met Jack's eyes. "So you wanna tell me why you asked me to come here?" Jack sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. Where did he start? How did he tell a professional vampire hunter that Casey was a vampire? Jack closed his eyes for a moment. "You said you had some trouble on a hunt?" Malcolm prompted and Jack nodded. "Yeah, we were hunting a vampire," he said. "Three nights ago, we found the nest." Malcolm listened closely, his dark blue gaze never wavering from Jack's face. He said nothing, his expression neutral. "Fuck," Jack said. "Casey and I should have stuck to the paranormal investigations. We've only hunted vampires a couple of times before. We don't know as much about them as we should. We -- " He shook his head. "I should have called you from the start." "What happened in the nest, Jack?" "We went in there, but we couldn't find the son of a bitch. I was pretty sure it got wind of us coming and took off. We looked around, couldn't find anything, so we were about to leave when…" Jack trailed off, swallowed hard. "Damn thing attacked from behind. I must've been thrown into a wall. I was knocked out. I don't know how long -- God." "Go on." "So anyway, when I came 'round, the vampire had a hold of me." Jack closed his eyes. "It -- it was about to -- " He looked up and met Malcolm's eyes. "Then Case came out of nowhere and fought it off. Then we just got out of there. I got Casey to the car and brought him back here. He seemed okay, you know. Yeah, I could see he was beat up, and he was bleeding, but there wasn't a bite mark on him and he felt warm -- alive. I patched him up and he went to sleep." "And when he woke up, he attacked you." Malcolm said. His tone carried no question.


"Yeah." Jack nodded. He tore a hand through his hair again. "God." "Where is he?" Jack drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He was here. He let me go and I told him to wait here and I would be back, but when I came back again he was gone." Jack sighed. "I dunno where he is, I dunno how to track him. I called you 'cause I figured you might know -- you might be able to help me -- help us." Malcolm nodded. "You know I'll do anything I can," he said softly. "Have you seen a doctor? You probably lost a fair amount of blood." "No." Jack got up and went to the coffee pot. He refreshed his cup and held the pot up, looking at Malcolm. "Thanks." Malcolm drew a deep breath. "So, what do you need?" "I thought maybe -- I hoped you might know how I can help him. That you might know of a way to cure him," Jack said. Malcolm frowned and passed a hand across his mouth. He was silent for a time and then he let his breath out and met Jack's eyes. "I know about some theories," he said. "I've never heard of anyone using them." He shook his head. "And even the theories I've heard are not much more than a gamble anyway." "I hafta try, Malcolm." Jack handed the man a cup of coffee and sat down again. "This is Casey." Malcolm nodded. "Okay, first, we have to go on a hunt," he said. "We've got to find the vampire that turned him, and kill it." Jack gave a snort of bitter laughter. "Believe me, that was always on my list," he said. "But why do we have to do that first? Is it like breaking the blood line or something?" "Like I said, this is basically a gamble, but I'm willing to try it. Only because it's your partner we're talking about. Most vampires, I wouldn't give a second thought about taking 'em down." Malcolm held up a hand. "I know -- before you say it. I'm not gonna try anything on Casey unless there's no other alternative." Jack relaxed the defensive posture and nodded. "Okay," he said. "Then I guess we've got a vampire to hunt." *** Casey had forgotten how soft a woman could be. All perfumed skin, gentle curves and warm wetness. No resistance, just opening up to let him in. He groaned, the woman under him -- he


didn't even know her name -- sighed a response to his sound of pleasure. She arched, head thrown back, throat exposed as she thrust upwards, a mewling sound breaking from between her lips. Now. Casey struck, sinking his fangs into the major vein in her neck. He closed his eyes, drinking deep, his orgasm a muted complement to the pleasure of feeding. Warm, sweet, passion-heated blood filled his mouth, slipping down his throat, thick and vibrant with her life. Casey moaned. He felt her weakening. She wouldn't have felt any pain. He'd learned that he could feed without the victim even being aware of what was happening. He could drive them to such heights of passion that his fangs slipping through the skin felt like nothing worse than an overly vigorous love bite. Casey stopped when he knew that the woman was unconscious. There was no need to kill. That was another thing he understood. Killing would be a thrill, but it was not necessary to his survival. He was amazed at the things he knew now. Knowledge that came to him from nowhere, imparted by the kiss of fangs in his neck, and imbibed with his first feed from the one who brought him back from death. Mortals were so weak. Their dull minds unguarded, open to suggestion, vulnerable to the power he possessed. It was easy to seduce them, take them, feed on them and then leave them with nothing more than the memory of a pleasurable sexual encounter. Casey rolled off the still form and swiped his tongue across the wound, sealing the skin and stemming the flow of her blood. He rested beside her. Leaning on one elbow, he studied her face. She'd appealed to him because of her looks. Dusty blonde hair, hazel eyes, a ready smile and a sassy personality that reminded him of -- but Casey couldn't think of whom she reminded him. The madness would come back if he did. He had to keep his mind away from that subject. This feed would last him for days, as long as he was careful. Sitting up, Casey picked up the phone beside the bed and placed an anonymous call to 911. He was long gone before the paramedics arrived. The woman's state would be a puzzle for doctors. She would not recall what happened. No one had seen him arrive with her or leave.


Chapter Four It had to be the dingiest bar in town. Dark, smoky, with a clientele interested only in the booze, the women, and the shady deals that could be done under the table where no one had any business looking. Casey was alone, seated in the darkest corner of the darkest booth he could find, a beer clasped loosely between his hands. He'd come here because it suited his purpose. That purpose being to get drunk, only that wasn't working so well in his present condition. Beer, wine, spirits, none of them seemed to give him the same kick anymore that they used to. There was something else, something far more intoxicating that he craved. He could smell it in the air all around him. The scent of living flesh and rushing blood was everywhere. Casey closed his eyes, his delicate senses picking out individuals in the room. He need not see them to know everything there was to know about them. Each had a bouquet as real and unique as a variety of wines. He could smell the taint of sickness in some of them and his instincts warned him away from feeding there. Others were tarnished with drugs or too much alcohol. One smelled so sickly sweet of overindulgence in candy and fat that the cloying smell of him turned Casey's stomach. He curled his lip. None of them had the rich and spicy unique scent of the one he craved above all, though. Casey picked up his drink and sipped the flavorless liquid. He was hungry, thirsty, in need of blood. The only blood that truly appealed to him, however, could not be found here. He growled softly. Soon, the madness would strike him again and he would be forced to feed on someone to keep from returning and finishing the kill, to keep him from seeking out the hunter, Jack Stevens, and draining the life from him. He glanced up, looking around the room, taking the scent of each individual in the bar and his eyes fell upon a woman with long golden hair and a brazen grin. He looked into her hazel eyes and his lips curled in a come on smile. Suddenly, every hair on the back of Casey's neck stood on end. A new scent entered the milieu -cold, musky and deadly familiar. The woman forgotten, Casey turned eyes that flashed a frosty silver to scan the room. The shadows around his table seemed to come to life and then the one he scented stood next to his table. "I need not have wasted so much energy in seeking you." The tall, black haired man sniffed. "My nose would have led me to you eventually." He blinked and the black of his eyes settled to a more natural blue. "You!" Casey growled. He curled his lips in a snarl, revealing sharp fangs. "Me." The other man slipped into the booth opposite Casey. "Shiloh -- he who made you. By rights, you should call me sire or master." Shiloh shrugged. "I will excuse you -- for now. You were taken from me before I could commence your education."


Casey lunged across the table. "I'll fucking kill you," he snarled, his hands already reaching for the vampire's throat. Shiloh vanished in a swirl of shadows before Casey could touch him, and reappeared seconds later, sitting next to him. "You failed the last time," he smirked. "And in your present, weakened state, you don't stand a chance, Childe." The shadows around them seemed to deepen as Shiloh leaned closer. Casey's head swam and he shook it, weakly. The hunger in him grew harder to ignore and the presence of his sire only made him weaker. Trembling, he closed his eyes. He groaned when a cold tongue lapped at his neck, half leaning into that gentle touch before he shook himself and pulled away. "Go to hell!" "I made you, you're mine. You can't kill me, Childe." Shiloh chuckled low. "Especially since you're not even fully kin -- yet." "Look, just finish it, will you." Casey turned to him, eyes flashing silver. "You're dying, Casey. There is nothing left for me to finish." Shiloh leaned back against the seat, drawing a small dagger from somewhere amongst the folds of his clothing. "Dying?" Casey watched him. "Oh yes, assuredly," Shiloh said matter-of-factly. He sliced across his forearm with the dagger and offered the bleeding wound to Casey. "Drink, and then you will listen. There are things you do not know." "No." Casey turned his head away, shuddering, but the sweet, cold scent of Shiloh's blood made his nostrils flare. The burning thirst started in his throat, scalding hot like fire down through his chest into his stomach. He groaned. "Feed, Childe," Shiloh commanded. "It will sustain you." A hand rested on Casey's shoulder. "Come." Casey whimpered, the burning in his throat driving him mad. He turned and seized hold of Shiloh's arm, sinking his fangs into the flesh as he bit down, drawing the cool, soothing blood into his mouth. Shiloh hissed, baring his fangs. "Yes," he whispered. "The lust is irresistible, is it not? Three decades now I have lived with its call." Swallowing, Casey let the blood soothe his throat and calm the threatening madness. He closed his eyes, moaning as he felt his strength returning. The weariness faded. His mind became sharp, focused, and his tremors ceased.


"Enough," Shiloh said. He pulled away, gently prizing Casey's fangs from his flesh. "You can

take more after we hunt."

Casey unlocked his jaw and let go of Shiloh, lifting his head to look into his sire's eyes. "I'm not

going to hunt," he said as he got to his feet.

"You must, Childe. You will die otherwise." Shiloh licked the wound on his wrist, sealing the flesh. "You gained knowledge when I made you, but there is still much you do not know." He said. "You must hunt in order to survive." "Go to hell," Casey spat. "Why didn't you finish me the way you finished those other kids you attacked?"

"Hell would be welcome," Shiloh said. He lifted his gaze to Casey's face and his eyes turned a

deep, fathomless black. "Sit. Down."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say." Casey turned away, tears pooling at the corners

of his eyes. "I don't want this -- I almost killed my lover."

"Almost?"

"I…" Casey's voice trailed into a whisper. "I bit him. I drank. Twice. Fuck!"

Shiloh appeared in front of him, his lips drawn back in a snarl. "You should have taken him!" He

shook his head. "Fool!"

"What? No!"

"It is little wonder you reek of half-life! You must take him. He is your first blood. Unless you

take his life, you will die!"

Casey turned a bleak gaze to his sire. "Then I'll die."

"Fool!" Shiloh grabbed Casey's arm. "You think that death for our kind is easy? You think you'll

slip away without pain." He sneered. "Only mortals are granted such a death and you are not

mortal! You will die screaming in torment, mad for the only blood that can ever truly free you!"

Casey shuddered. "Then that's how it will be."

"Madness, Childe." Shiloh pressed his face close to Casey's, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"Every horror that ever haunted your dreams will wake to life and rend your mind and soul until

you howl for mercy.

"I won't kill my partner." Casey lifted his head, his chin firming with resolve. "I won't kill Jack."


"He will kill you." Shiloh let Casey go with a shove that sent him staggering against the table. "He and his kind, they'll never rest until they wipe us out of existence." He smiled a slow, sardonic and mirthless grin that never touched his eyes. "They're already tracking you. Stevens and Quinn." Casey bowed his head, letting his sire's voice wash over him, filtering into the deepest recesses of his mind. He knew Shiloh spoke the truth. Jack would kill him. Casey had seen his lover kill before. A garish picture of Jack flashed into his mind. His partner, panting, his eyes lit with a triumphant gleam, his face spattered with the blood of the kindred he'd beheaded. Casey moaned. "Murdered just for trying to survive," he whispered. "I will leave you, if that's what you want, Childe." Shiloh's cool voice cut through Casey’s thoughts. "But be warned. A week has passed since I made you. You have another week or two at best before that burning in your throat and belly starts to sear every nerve. His blood will call and call until you are mad with it. The lure of the kill will haunt you day and night. I could teach you, but I will not waste my time on a fool." "No." Casey looked up. "Stay." His knees buckled and he sank down into his seat. "Yes." Shiloh was beside him without ever seeming to have moved. "Come with me." Cold breath huffed against Casey's lips. "Join me, hunt with me. I can show you the glory of it." Shiloh said. "The power, the freedom, unfettered by law or mortality." He nuzzled Casey's neck. "You're weak, hungry. We will find and take, tonight. We will kill and you will feel stronger." He ghosted a kiss against Casey's temple. "Yes." Casey closed his eyes, allowing Shiloh to draw him closer, his sire’s words calming Casey's fevered mind. Shadows drew around them as Shiloh pulled Casey into his arms. Everything seemed to fade away and Casey didn't resist.


Chapter Five Malcolm and Jack sat in the kitchen of the small apartment. Jack had a 9mm pistol in pieces on the table. He held the barrel of it in one hand, rubbing gun oil into the metal. Frowning over his work, he glanced over at Malcolm who was casting bullets from molten silver. "So that's true, huh? All that stuff about shooting vampires with silver bullets?" He shook his head and bent over the gun again, rubbing at a stubborn mark on the metal. "You think I oughta pack some garlic, maybe bring along a bottle of holy water?" It was gallows humor and they both knew it. Jack bit his lip, meeting Malcolm's gaze when he looked up. "They won't kill the vampire." Malcolm poured silver from the small crucible he'd fashioned from a block of wood into the bullet cast. "At best, they'll slow him down. At worst, they'll piss him the fuck off and then we'll have a real fight on our hands." Jack shook his head. "You know, the first time I met you, when you started talking about vampires? I had you figured for a real head case." "Yeah, well, most people think that vampires are just a myth. Something made up to scare little kids." Malcolm looked into Jack's eyes. "I'll admit I expected you to be less skeptical. Fuck, your lover's a psychic for God's sake. You investigate the paranormal. I figured you might've encountered a vampire before you met me." "Nope. Up till then, the worst we'd ever had to deal with was a bitch of a poltergeist that did her best to take Casey's head off with a meat cleaver." "Huh." Malcolm broke open the cast and let a cooling silver bullet drop onto the table. "You wouldn't happen to have any holy water, would you? Couldn't hurt to wash these in it." "You're kidding me." "Vampire might, by a stroke of luck, be of the Tepes line. Holy water would burn like hell." "You know -- you really are weird, Mal." Finished with cleaning the gun, Jack reassembled it, tested the mechanism, and nodded with satisfaction. Malcolm chuckled and picked up the blow torch, dropping more silver into his makeshift crucible. He lit the torch and, for a few minutes, the hiss of the torch was the only sound as he melted the silver. The smell of scorched wood and hot metal filled the room. Jack coughed. "You know, it's not like a newly sired vampire to let its first blood go," Malcolm said. He glanced over at Jack with a thoughtful frown. "I don't know why he stopped. I figured I was done for when he bit me the first time. No one more surprised than me to wake up alive afterwards."


"I know you two are lovers, but usually that wouldn't matter. I've known new-turned vampires to take out their entire family in one night." A shudder ran the length of Jack's spine. "I thought, when I woke up, I thought, you know, he might've turned me." He shrugged. "But he was talking crazy stuff, like he could smell my blood, and taste my fear." He closed his eyes. "Then he bit me again, and let me go." Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Jack, is there anything else at all you can tell me about your partner?" "Not a lot you don't already know." Jack shook his head. "You know he's psychic." A smile touched his lips. Those psychic abilities were the thing that brought him and Casey together in the first place. Jack had been working a haunting in Minocqua, just your run of the mill cold spots, and things going bump in the night. The little old lady who owned the house called Jack to investigate, thinking maybe the ghost was her dead husband trying to reach her from beyond the grave. When Casey turned up as well, it was conflict on first sight. Jack thought the kid was pushy, and the kid called Jack an arrogant, hard-assed son of a bitch within five minutes of their first meeting. Jack believed in paranormal phenomena. After all, he spent a good deal of time, and more than a little money, on investigations, but he preferred the pragmatic, scientific approach: EMF readers, recording equipment to capture EVP, video cameras, thermometers. Casey talked in terms of vibrations, perceptions and psychic signatures. Jack told Casey he was a charlatan, robbing elderly widows of their pensions. Casey told Jack to blow it out his ass. It was a match made somewhere in the vicinity of hell. A chuckle rumbled in Jack's chest at the memory. He looked up sharply, coming back to reality when Malcolm cleared his throat. "Sorry." A sad smile fleeted across his lips. "I don't think there's anything important that you don't already know." Malcolm nodded and got up from the table. "I'm gonna grab a shower and then we'd better start making some plans." Jack nodded absently, reaching into his pocket as his cell phone signaled an incoming message. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he flipped it open and read the voicemail notification on the screen. He dialed his mailbox and waited while the robotic female voice announced the new message. Jack, Casey's voice came over the connection. He sounded tired. Jack frowned, pushing a hand through his hair. I don't know how long I've got. Jack, listen. There was a long pause, the muffled sound of conversation as though Casey had put his hand over the phone. Then his lover's voice


was back. He says I'm not really dead yet or something. I have to kill soon or I'll die. I don't understand it. It's confusing. I just -- I --. I have to go. I love you. Jack, don't come looking for me. Please. The connection went dead and Jack lowered the phone, staring at the backlit screen as though it could tell him where Casey was, what was happening to him. After a moment he closed his eyes, snapped the phone shut. Don't come looking for you? Jack shook his head with a sigh. Like that's gonna happen. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Not really dead. Jack dropped the phone onto the table. Maybe there was hope for getting Casey back, yet. He sighed. God, I hope so. "Why did I put the damn phone on voicemail?" He got up, pacing the floor while he waited for Malcolm to come back. *** Malcolm stepped into the kitchen after a few minutes in black jeans, slung low on his narrow hips. He was shirtless, his long black hair still damp, flowing over his back. He started to make a fresh pot of coffee. Jack glanced at him, his eyes tracing the protection sigils tattooed in black ink on the muscular shoulders. Malcolm glanced over his shoulder and a frown creased his forehead. "You okay?" "I got a voicemail from Casey," Jack replied. "He says he's dying. He needs to kill to live." Jack closed his eyes. "We have to find him before it's too late!" He scrubbed a hand across his face. "We gotta do something, Malcolm! We have to find that bastard who killed him." Malcolm turned and leaned against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. "Yeah, he's dying." He was maddeningly calm. "That's what I don't understand. Why he let you live. You're his first blood, Jack. To survive, he has to kill you." "Well, he had every chance." Jack shrugged. "What would have stopped him?" "I don't know, Jack. There are theories about love being strong enough, but I've known vampires to kill their partners. He'll still need to feed for the next couple of weeks. We should check the morgue and watch the papers for news of any mysterious deaths or hospital admissions for unexplained blood loss." He handed a steaming mug of coffee to Jack. "Wherever Casey is, I don't think the sire will be far away." "You said that you've heard theories about how to cure someone of vampirism." Jack took a mouthful of coffee and sank down at the table. "Yeah, there's one thing we could try. It's been rumored amongst vampire hunters for years. I don't know of anyone who’s tried it, though." Malcolm frowned. "We don't usually bother trying to cure them. If we get the sire, if we can kill him and get Casey to drink his blood, it might break the bloodline."


Jack closed his eyes, breathing hard against a wave of nausea. "Jesus." He looked into Malcolm's eyes. "I admit I don't know a lot of vampire lore. I've read some books, though. Isn't the blood of the dead supposed to be poisonous to vampires?" Malcolm nodded. "Yeah, which is why the theory is that the blood of a dead vampire will rekindle the life it took." "Sounds like a lot of hocus-pocus to me." Jack's heart sank. They were about to take an incredible gamble, and it was Casey's life they were staking on it. He sighed. "When Casey bit me, just before he let me go, it was like -- He was himself for a few minutes." Looking up, Jack met Malcolm's eyes. "If Casey was in his right mind, there's no way he'd wanna stay a vampire." "You're saying you want to let him have another go at you?" "If that's what it takes to have him sane and get him to take the cure, then, yeah, I'll do it."


Chapter Six The body was warm and soft in his arms. Casey pressed the youth against the wall, pushing his thigh between his prey's legs. The guy moaned, tipping his head to the side when Casey nuzzled his throat, one hand sliding down between them to rub against the guy's crotch. With a hungry moan, he sank his fangs into the pulsing vein. Blood, warm and sweet, flooded into his mouth and Casey closed his eyes. "Take him, don't relent." Shiloh spoke softly near Casey's ear. "Finish it, this time." "No." Casey drew back, letting the unconscious victim fall to the pavement. "I've had my fill." He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and dialed 911. Without leaving a name, he gave the location and details to the dispatcher and then cut off the call. "Such misplaced nobility is unbecoming of the kindred." Shiloh's lip curled in contempt. "I'm not one of you yet! If you don't like it, then kill me now, Shiloh, and stop playing games with me." "Find your first blood and take him! That is the only way you can complete the transition." Shiloh gestured to the unconscious form on the ground. "Or take him and at least you will not need to feed again so soon." He stepped closer and leaned in to lick a fleck of blood from Casey's lips. "Join me, Casey." Casey allowed Shiloh to take him in his arms. "You could be so strong, Casey. There is a darkness in you. It's why I took you in the first place. Listen to it, it calls you. Together, we could become masters of the kin." The thin wail of a siren cut through the air and Casey wrapped his arms around Shiloh's waist. "We should leave." Shiloh hissed and pulled Casey against him, calling the shadows to hide them. *** "We'll try to get the boy back." Malcolm looked steadily into Jack's eyes and shrugged. "If we can't, there isn't a lot anyone can do. If he's turned, it won't be your lover anymore. I figure we have maybe another week. He has to be feeding from the sire." He sighed and shook his head. "There've been two more victims since you called me in on this. No vampire needs to hunt that often as a rule. Unless it's losing blood itself." Jack scrubbed a hand through his spiked hair. "Where are they? We've been following the trail of attacks for two weeks and still no sign of them! How do we get them out into the open?" He got to his feet and paced the room, aggravation coming off him in waves. "Damn it, Casey, where are you?"


"We'll start in the vicinity of the last attack, a young boy in his teens. Maybe we can get Casey to come to you." Jack turned to him, slamming both hands down on the table in front of Malcolm, his face inches from the older man's. "I want the sire, too!" he growled. "I'm gonna take his fucking head off with my bare hands if I have to!" Malcolm didn’t flinch. "You done?" "Fuck!" Jack pushed away from the table. "The sire needs Casey to complete his kill to turn him. He must be just about desperate by now. There's only so long his blood will keep Casey alive, so it's time we put you up as bait. If that's what you want." "What I want is anything that will bring them to us. If I have to act as bait, then fine -- that's what we do." Malcolm got up and went to his bag, taking something from it, which he slipped into a pocket of his jacket. "What are we waiting for? It'll be dark soon enough. We should get ready." Jack nodded, picked up his pistol and shoved it into the back of his jeans. Then he took a silverbladed hunting knife, slipped it into a leather sheath, and put it into his pocket. "Let's go." "They've struck mostly on the Southside of town recently," Malcolm said as he followed Jack out to the car. "We'll head over there. There are a few seedy bars and some derelict warehouses there." Jack only nodded, slipping in behind the wheel and waiting for Malcolm to climb in before he started the engine. *** Casey stirred in his sleep, shifting closer to his sire, one arm reaching across Shiloh's waist and his head coming to rest on the elder vampire's shoulder. He murmured something and Shiloh opened his eyes. Scenting the air, Shiloh tasted the approach of night, sensing a shift in the city's mood from workday business to nightlife. He stroked Casey's cheek. "Waken, Childe. Night falls." With a sigh, Casey opened his eyes, blinking a few times as his vision slowly cleared. "Hungry?"


"I -- " Casey lifted his head and looked into Shiloh's eyes. Feelings warred within him and he frowned in confusion, the desire to mate with his sire dueling with the desire to feed. He didn't resist when Shiloh pulled him down and kissed him, nipping at his lips with barely concealed fangs. "Lie with me," Shiloh panted. "Casey -- " Moaning, Casey rolled onto his back, parting his lips to Shiloh's questing tongue. His cock stirred to hardness as his sire tongue-fucked his mouth. "I want you," Shiloh groaned. He moved, stretching his strong frame on top of Casey, one hand running down Casey's side as a deep groan of need broke from his throat. Casey arched his back, his heart beating raggedly and his breath quickening as he reached for Shiloh's hand and pressed it hard into his groin. "I have waited for this," Shiloh whispered as his fingers worked the buttons and zipper of Casey's jeans open. "For you to yield yourself to me." He closed long, cool fingers around Casey's cock, stroking him. *** In a dark alley between two abandoned warehouses, Jack pulled the car to the curb and cut the engine. "So, what do we do now?" He looked over at Malcolm. The vampire hunter got out of the car and closed the door, gesturing for Jack to follow him. "Give me your arm," he said when Jack came around the car. Jack swallowed hard and rolled the sleeve of his jacket back, baring the skin of his forearm. "Ready?" Malcolm pulled a small, silver knife from his pocket, holding it firmly as he supported Jack's arm in his other hand. The knife glinted in the moonlight. Jack gave a small, tight nod. "Do it." His breath hitched. A slight breeze ruffled Jack's hair and Malcolm nodded. "This wind's a good thing. It'll carry your scent a long way. He pressed the blade into the soft flesh of Jack's arm, drawing a long, thin line. Blood welled in the blade's wake, running thick and dark over the pale skin to drip onto the asphalt. Jack groaned, letting his head fall back, his eyes closed and his lover's name on his lips, as Malcolm sliced into his flesh. "Casey! Case!" ***


Casey writhed under his sire, moaning in pleasure as Shiloh caressed him, his strokes firm and sure, driving Casey to fever pitch with want. He thrust against the vampire's hand, eyes closed, breathing in short, sharp gasps. Then, something cut across his senses, sharp and spicy, a scent he knew. It called to him. His eyes flew open. He continued to thrust, not wanting the sweet pleasure to stop even though the scent of his first blood filled him. Shiloh looked down, his eyes flashing from blue to fathomless black. "Quinn, my old enemy." His lips curled in a snarl. "And your first blood with him." "No." Casey began to tremble, the pull of that blood, waxing strong, drawing him out of the throes of pleasure as his body began to ache with a new need. He sobbed. "Jack, no." "The battle is drawn," Shiloh said. He rolled off the bed and drew himself to his full height, reaching a hand out for Casey. "How? Where?" Casey stumbled to his feet, adjusting his clothes. "Come, Childe." Shadows gathered around them as Shiloh spoke. "It is time for the reckoning." He smiled coldly. "Time to complete what was started. We will go to them, since that is what they want." *** With a cry of pain, Jack dropped to his knees in the road when Malcolm squeezed the wound, making the blood flow faster. He nursed his arm, blood running freely. He hissed, closing his eyes, praying that this was enough to draw his lover out. "Now we wait," Malcolm said grimly. He hunkered down beside Jack and patted his shoulder. "Sorry, man." Jack could only groan, shaking his head. "I'll owe ya one," he grunted. A sudden shift in the air made them both look up. Shadows seemed to dance all around them, swirling, confusing. Jack moaned, head spinning, and fought to stay upright as the dizzying cloud coalesced and took on a solid form. The vampire that had attacked them almost a month ago stood in the alleyway, Casey held close against his side. Malcolm straightened up, putting himself between Jack and the vampire. "Shiloh," he murmured. "Can't say that it's a pleasure to see you again so soon." He shifted his stance as Jack stumbled to his feet behind him. "Took a while for that gash you put in my side to heal." The vampire bared his fangs. "This time I will not miss my mark, Quinn." Casey stepped away from Shiloh, staring down at the blood pooling on the ground in front of Jack, seemingly fascinated by the sight of it. He licked his lips and took a step forward.


"Casey?"

"Jack-- " Casey stepped toward him, his eyes flashing black and silver in the light of the moon.

"Wait!" Shiloh grabbed Casey and pulled him back.

"I need to complete the kill," Casey turned to look at his sire, fangs gleaming as he drew his lips

back.

"You do not just hand the hunter your head, Childe." Shiloh's tone was laced with warning.

"We're not here to hurt you, Casey." Jack held his bleeding arm up. "I swear we're not going to

hurt you. We're here to help." Jack edged closer to his lover and Shiloh pulled Casey back.

"What's the matter, Shiloh?" Malcolm taunted. "Afraid you're going to lose your mate?" He

made a swift lunge and knocked Casey out of the way, sending him sprawling. Shiloh leaped for

Malcolm. They scuffled for a moment, Shiloh clearly outmatching Malcolm for strength and

speed. Grunting with frustration, Malcolm staggered backwards under a blow from the vampire,

but he recovered quickly and made a grab for Casey, the silver blade coming swiftly to the

younger man's throat.

"No!" Jack yelled. "What the hell are you doing?"

Malcolm pressed the blade into the soft flesh of Casey's throat. "How much do you want him,

Shiloh?"

The vampire circled, Malcolm tracking with him, the knife steady in his hand.

"Have you had him yet, Shiloh? Is he worth the risk of me taking your head off? Was he good?"

"I could take your hunting partner," Shiloh sneered. "Is his life worth nothing to you?"

"Jack?" Casey shifted, struggling, and the blade pressed into his skin, drawing blood."

"You son of a bitch!" Jack lunged at Shiloh. "You won't get another chance at me." The vampire

vanished in a swirl of shadows. Jack grunted, spinning round just in time to see Shiloh reappear

behind Malcolm, grabbing for the hand that held the blade.

Malcolm was ready for him and he shoved Casey away, swinging around to drive the pure silver

blade into the vampire's chest. It wasn't enough to kill, but the silver burned, and Shiloh snarled,

stumbling backwards.

"I will kill you, Quinn!"

"I don't think so." Malcolm half crouched, spinning the knife in his fingers so the blade flashed

wickedly. "You're gettin' a little slow. Feeding your Childe is wearing you down."


Jack moved to Casey's side. Grabbing his lover's arm, he pulled Casey away from the fight. "Casey?" He cried out with alarm when Casey spun round on him, seizing the wounded arm and pulling it to his mouth. Casey's fangs sank deep into his flesh and he locked his jaw, his eyes rolling back as he fed. Around them, the fight between Malcolm and Shiloh continued, but Jack let that fade from his consciousness. He groaned, his heart pounding hard in his chest as he bent over Casey protectively, letting his lover feed. Strange sensations stirred in him and he half closed his eyes, moaning in mingled pleasure and pain. He felt his cock twitch as the strange enchantment Casey had woven over him weeks ago, began to swirl around them once more. He wanted this. Wanted it so much. How easy it would be to just surrender and let Casey take him. Jack whimpered and shook his head, struggling to hold onto his waning strength. "Casey, listen to me. We think we can help you." Teeth still locked in Jack's arm, Casey looked up at him, his eyes unearthly silver in the moonlight. Jack shivered. "Casey, have you killed anyone?" He stared into those ghoulish eyes, willing his lover to come back to him. Suddenly the spell broke and Casey released him, pulling away from him and stumbling to his feet. The sound of heavy breathing, scuffling feet and grunts of pain and anger reached them. "Casey, defend your sire!" Shiloh's voice cut through the air. Casey tensed, looking towards the fight. "No, listen to me!" Jack grabbed his lover's arm. Casey turned to look at him. "Jack--" He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "We think there's a way to get you out of this," Jack spoke hurriedly, not knowing how long he had before the madness he'd read in Casey's eyes returned. "Have you killed anyone?" Casey shook his head, frowning as an image of the young blond boy falling to the ground flashed through his mind. "I don't know." "Casey!" Shiloh yelled. "Sire!" Casey turned and started to his feet. Jack lunged for him, grabbing his arm and holding on for all he was worth. "Casey, no." "Let me go!" Casey fought him, sobbing. "You shouldn't have come here, Jack!" "No, please, stay with me." Desperation took over and Jack offered his bleeding arm to Casey again. "Take me."


A ghoulish scream rent the air, and the sound of two bodies hitting the ground reached them. Jack glanced at the fight, but quickly returned his attention to his lover. "Case -- " He pleaded. "Stay with me." Casey closed his eyes, drawn by the sweet scent of his lover's blood. He moaned, the familiar burning need starting up in the back of his throat. "Jack," he whispered and then he reached for his partner, pulling him close and dragging him to the ground as his bloodied fangs found the pulsing vein in Jack's neck. It only stung for an instant, and Jack closed his eyes, unresisting. He groaned softly, yielding to his lover. "Love you, Case," he whispered. "Love you so much." His head spun and the night seemed to dissolve into a cloud of swirling colors that darkened down into midnight blue and then black, as he slipped away. Casey moaned, feeling the steady pulse against his lips gradually weaken and slow. He closed his eyes, sensing he was on the verge of some secret thing that he couldn't describe, but he wanted it desperately. He growled, suckling and drawing more hot, spicy blood into his mouth. They would be joined, he thought, together forever, Jack's blood inside him, sustaining and strengthening. It was a bond closer than lovers, deeper than brotherhood. Jack would belong to him, and he to Jack, and nothing could ever separate them again. His first blood would forever live in him. "Casey, no!" The shout jolted him out of his reverie, and then hands were on his shoulders, pulling him away from Jack's unconscious body. Cold reality at what he had almost done, hit him hard and Casey struggled in Malcolm's grasp. "Jack? Jack?" Terror rocked him and he turned, desperately clawing at Malcolm's arms. "Fuck!" Jack!" He looked up at Malcolm. "Do something!" Malcolm hauled him to his feet and dragged him to where the beheaded corpse of his sire lay. He shoved Casey to his knees next to the dead vampire. "Drink!" His tone was firm, commanding, but not unkind. "I'll take care of Jack." "I --" Casey cast a glance at Jack. "I --" "Listen to me!" Malcolm shook him. "I have to help your partner. You drink your sire's blood before the lust comes on you again." Casey swallowed hard and looked down at Shiloh's corpse. His stomach churned and he shook his head slightly, everything in him revolted by the thought of that cold, lifeless blood, even though he knew it was all that kept him alive these past weeks. He sank to his knees, nodding slowly, and then looked up at Malcolm. "Tell him I'm sorry." He bent and sank his fangs into the lifeless body, drawing blood that tasted of dust and ash into his mouth. He swallowed, gagging at the cold, acrid flavor and congealing texture.


A moment later, he reared back as pain and fire seemed to explode into every cell of his body. He screamed, clawing at his throat. "Jack!" Casey rolled on the ground, convulsing, his eyes rolling back in his head as his entire being shook and the fires of hell tore through him. He arched his back, cried out as white hot light burst inside his head. Everything he'd known and learned and tasted in his brief time between life and death seemed to uncoil in his mind; information, knowledge, ancient wisdom rushing across his consciousness at blinding speed. Pain clawed him again, like talons slicing through his flesh and he howled, writhing on the ground. There was a brilliant flash of light, a stab of vicious pain, and then, darkness. *** Jack had listened to the steady beep of the monitor beside Casey's bed for days. It was the only thing that reassured him his partner was alive, somewhere inside the still, pale man who lay between crisp hospital sheets. Casey was in a coma, the doctors said, and it was just a matter of waiting until he woke. Sitting beside the bed, clasping Casey's hand in both of his own, Jack let his forehead rest on the cool white linen and closed his eyes. He was not a religious man, had never really felt that God or anything outside of himself could possibly care enough to help him. Paranormal investigation was one thing, but pleading for supernatural intervention in his own life? That was something he had never done. The only being outside himself that Jack ever turned to for help was Casey. He drew a shaky breath and let it out slowly, lifting his head to study his lover's face. "Case?" He squeezed his partner’s hand. "Casey?" He blinked away the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. "They say that maybe you can hear me, if I talk to you. I don't know if it's true -- " He gulped. "I just know I need to talk, and for once in your life, you have to listen." "We've been through a lot together since the day you showed up on my turf, tellin' me just how bad a job I was doin', haven't we?" He smiled and bit his lip. "I remember I didn't want anything to do with you, didn't want some pushy kid muscling in on my work." Jack chuckled. "Lifting his lover's hand to his lips, he kissed the cool fingers. "I guess I let you get under my skin, though, huh?" He nodded. "We're a good team, you and me. I know we've had our differences, and after this last one, I owe ya, big time and don't think I won't kick your ass as soon as you're recovered, cause I sure as damn intend to." He choked and fell silent for a time. "Casey, Malcolm told me that you asked him to say you were sorry. Baby, there's nothing you had to be sorry for. We shouldn't have even been there! If I'd called Malcolm in the first place this wouldn't have happened. Well, anyway, if that's what's making it hard for you to come back, I just want you to know, it's not your fault, okay? None of it was your fault." He studied Casey's face for a moment, searching for any flicker of response and sighed when nothing happened.


"The whole scene down in that alley's all squared away. Malcolm told the cops that Shiloh attacked us and we had to defend ourselves." He snorted. "I think they were glad to wrap up the case, put all the spate of killings down to Shiloh. So you don't have to worry on that score." Jack glanced up as a nurse came into the room. She smiled at him and took a chart from the end of Casey's bed, checking readings on the machines hooked into his lover's body. "Any change?" Jack raised hopeful eyes to her face and sighed when she shook her head. After she left, Jack stood up and leaned over his lover, pressing a kiss to Casey's lips. "You just take all the time you need, and I'll be here waiting when you wake up." He sat back down, still clasping Casey's hand. Bowing his head, he gently squeezed Casey's fingers. Slowly, softly, so soft that Jack had to wonder if it really happened, he felt Casey's fingers tighten on his for a moment, and then relax again. His head snapped up and he stared at Casey's hand. As he watched, one finger twitched. A minute movement, and probably able to be explained as a random reflex, but Jack clung to it and a smile lit his features for the first time in days. "I'll be right here," he murmured.


Finding Trouble

By Misa Izanaki

Kale and Dante also appear "Between a Fox and a Hard Place 1: When the Past Comes Back to Haunt You." “Stupid assholes!” Dante hacked at another lime and sent a spurt of juice over the bar. He needed to burn off some of his frustration before he snapped at one of the drink boys or worse yet a customer. Not that it helped any. Dante had sliced his way through an entire bag of limes and he was still pissed. He started to stab at the maraschino cherries with those tiny plastic swords, but it didn’t have the same effect. Maybe Kale would let him go to the store and get more limes. Speak of the devil -- as if summoned by Dante’s last thought, Kale stomped towards the bar. Dante sighed and tried not to blush too much. It was hard though, Kale always did that to him. Something about the way he carried himself or the way those ice blue eyes burned into him. He had to be the hottest boss Dante had ever had. Kale had the body of some gorgeous Norse god and a face to match. All wrapped in tight jeans, motorcycle boots and waves of dark, red hair that barely touched those broad shoulders. He looked grumpy, but that was nothing new. Besides, he made grumpy look awfully good. “Okay, Dante spill it, what’s eating at you?” Kale leaned against the bar eyeing the young bartender with curiosity. “Nothing.” Dante scooped up his limes and stashed them in the usual spot. He kept his eyes down, trying not to ogle too much at his boss. Oh, Dante wouldn’t mind getting in a little overtime with him -- not that Kale ever looked at him like that. Kale, like everyone else at The Body Shop, thought of him as a little brother and that was a serious bug up Dante’s butt, especially today. “Don’t, nothing me, boy!” Kale grabbed Dante’s t-shirt and pulled him closer, almost dragging him across the bar. “You don’t stab things like that unless you’re upset and your tail doesn’t do that twitchy, angry cat thing, either.” Stupid tail, sometimes that thing was more trouble then it was worth. Dante twisted out of Kale’s grasp and glared back at him angrily. “I’m tired of everyone treating me like a kid.” “What brought this on?”


“I -- nothing -- it’s stupid.” “I’ll be the judge of that, now keep talking.” Kale poured himself a drink and downed it in one pull. “I don’t know. It seems like every time someone even looks at me one of the other guys grabs them and drags them away.” Dante drummed his fingers on the bar in frustration.

“It’s part of their job. They are supposed to entertain the customers while they’re not on stage.”

Kale poked at one of the small goat horns peeking through Dante’s hair. “You on the other hand

are my bartender -- not a stripper or a whore.”

“It’s more then that though. Snapper tossed a guy out tonight just for flirting with me.”

“He’s a bouncer. He’s supposed to keep trouble away from my boys.” Kale glanced behind him,

surveying the club. “That’s what I pay him for.”

“Since when was flirting with me trouble?”

“I can’t have people distracting my bartenders. It’s bad for business.”

“Bullshit! I see guys flirting with Frankie all the time, and I know Ed takes guys in back on his

breaks.”

“It’s different with them.”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m the youngest one here?” Dante slammed his hands on the bar. “Damn it,

Kale! I’m not a fucking child! And I don’t need everyone in this fucking club trying to protect

me.”

“Watch that mouth, boy.” Kale glared at him. Usually that icy look was enough to settle things or

at least spook people into behaving themselves, but Dante was too pissed off to be scared.

“See what I mean!” Dante clenched his hands against the bar. “You all treat me like a kid and

I’m not! I’m old enough to work here and damn it, I want to get laid too!”

“Look, Dante, that sweet face of yours is a magnet for trouble.” Kale sighed and brushed some

hair out of the boy’s face. “You look like jailbait and the short shorts and tight little t-shirts don’t

help either. You’re just the type that attracts predators.”

Dante sighed, his tail swishing behind him. “Not everyone who wants to fuck me is a perv or a

predator, you know.”

“True, but why take the chance? We’re just looking out for you.” Kale patted Dante on the

shoulder. “No one wants to see you hurt or killed because you picked up the wrong guy.”


“It wouldn’t be a problem if you let me have one of the back rooms.” “I’ll think about it -- once you stop looking like jailbait. Maybe.” Dante rolled his eyes. “You know you’re my boss, not my dad, right? I can look after my own ass.” “Maybe so, but you guys are the closest thing I have to family, and I always take care of my own, whether they like it or not.” Kale ruffled Dante’s hair and headed back to his office. “Now behave yourself. I have paperwork I need to do.” “Yes, Dad…” *** It was a slow night, which gave Dante time to think on everything Kale said to him. The more he thought about it the more pissed off he got. Who the hell did Kale think he was anyway? If Dante wanted to sleep with someone he picked up at the club that was his choice. What did it hurt as long as he was safe about it? Dante was so deep in thought that he didn’t even notice the handsome blond standing in front of him. “Excuse me.” Dante blinked and looked up. Oh, hello! Mr. Tall and Blond was a little older and not as muscled as Dante usually liked his men, but he filled out those expensive looking clothes well enough, at least from what he could see, and he was handsome as hell. Something in those jade green eyes caught Dante’s violet ones, drawing the boy in. Dante opened his mouth to say something but his brain froze. “Are you all right?” “Um, yeah,” Dante’s brain started to work again, easing him into his usual bartender banter. “Ccan I help you?” “Yes, I think you can.” The man leaned closer, studying Dante intently. “Can I proposition any of the boys here, or just the dancers?” “Any of the boys on the floor can help you, as long as they’re willing.” Dante busied himself with a few drink orders while he talked. “If you get too pushy, though, the bouncers will throw you out quicker then anything.” “What about you?” “Me? What about me?” “Can I proposition you as well? You are technically on the floor too.”


Dante glanced around making sure Snapper and the other bouncers were out of sight. “W-why

would you want me?”

“Because you’re the prettiest boy here. I love your horns and the lion tail.” The man fingered the

ridges of Dante’s horns. “I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

“I kinda have a thing for body mods.” Dante stuck out his tongue just to show off the stud in it

and prove his point. “The more exotic the better. I’ve been saving up for wings too.”

“Those will look amazing on you.”

“I just can’t decide if I want feathered ones or bat ones.”

“Either one would suit you, I think.”

Dante blushed and looked away. If Kale got wind of this guy it would be all over. “Thanks.”

“Rolan.”

“I’m Dante.”

“How appropriate.” Rolan caught the bartender’s fingers in his own and kissed them. “So Dante,

would you be willing to keep me company tonight?”

Dante glanced at his watch. “If you can wait twenty minutes. I have to wait until my shift’s over since I’m not a -- ” Kale couldn’t do anything if he went with someone after work, could he? “Whore?”

“Yeah. We’ll need someplace to go too. Only the dancers rate private rooms and I’m really not

supposed to take, um, strangers up to my apartment.”

“That’s fine, we can always go to my place.”

“Cool!” Dante tried not to bounce, since it only made him look younger. Rolan was pretty

damned sexy and it had been a long time since anyone even tried to take him home. This was

shaping up to be an interesting night. “I’ll make it worth the wait, I promise.”

Rolan just smiled and licked his lips. “I’m sure you will.”

*** That had to be the longest twenty minutes of Dante’s life. And he spent most of it glancing around to make sure Kale or one of his ninja bouncers didn’t drag Rolan off. Luckily for him they all seemed to leave his new friend alone. Dante looked at his watch again, trying not to


fidget. He was seriously tempted to duck out early, but that might draw Kale’s attention and that would definitely put a damper on his night. Finally his shift was over. Frankie, the other bartender, took his spot and Dante ducked into the back room to clock out. He was home free and on his way to spend a hot and, he hoped, sweaty night with Rolan. Dante stepped back into the main room only to see Kale talking to his new friend. Damn it! Kale was going to give him the third degree, he just knew it. Dante took a deep breath and headed towards Rolan and Kale. He needed to calm down. Kale was his boss not his father and couldn’t stop him from going out with someone on his free time, even if he didn’t approve. Rolan grinned as Dante stepped into view. “There he is now.” “Wait, you’re taking him home?” Kale’s blue eyes narrowed and fixed angrily on Dante. “Boy, you better start explaining yourself.” “What is there to explain? Rolan thinks I’m cute and he wants to take me home.” Dante snuggled up against Rolan’s side and shrugged. “As I see it I’m off work and what or who I do on my off time is my own damn business.” “This is a bad time to be a smart ass, Dante.” Kale grabbed the bartender’s wrist and pulled him back. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into with him.” “You can’t tell me what to do, Kale!” Dante yanked out of Kale’s grasp and hooked his arm on Rolan’s. “So stop trying to be my dad, already.” “Dante!” “Come on, Kale, he’s a big boy.” Rolan grinned and slid his hand around a bare bit of midriff. “I’m sure he can take care of himself.” “Yeah, so there!” Dante stuck his tongue out at Kale. His tail started doing that swishy angry cat thing again. He really needed to get a handle on that. Rolan stroked the short velvety fur on Dante’s tail, making him shiver. Oh, that felt so good. It would have been even better if Kale wasn’t glaring at him. “At least use one of the back rooms.” “You told me I couldn’t have one, remember. I wouldn’t want to deprive one of your working boys.” “Fine! I give up!” Kale threw his hands up and headed back into his office. “I’m not rescuing you if you get your ass in a bind.”


“Good! No one asked you to, anyway!” Dante yelled back as Kale stormed off. He wasn’t sure if Kale actually heard the last part but it didn’t matter. Dante was home free and he had a date too. “Shall we go?” Rolan slipped a lean arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. He was unfazed by the whole thing with Kale, which impressed Dante even more. “I think I’ve waited long enough to get you home and out of those clothes.” “Sounds good to me. I’ll try not to disappoint you.” Dante winked and curled his tail around Rolan’s hip brushing the tip against the man’s groin. Rolan swatted at Dante’s pert little butt. “Nasty boy, keep that up and we may not make it to my place. That definitely piqued Dante’s interest. “Ooh, promise?” “Let’s go. I’d rather not throw you down in the middle of the club.” “Good point.” Dante nodded and followed his new friend out the door. Rolan led him to a big black truck. That was different. He’d kind of figured Rolan for a sports car kind of guy. “So, what’s between you and Kale?” Rolan opened the passenger door of his truck watching as Dante hopped in. “Or does he get like that with all his boys?” “No, just me.” Dante sighed. “Kale seems to think that he needs to protect me from all the pervs out there.” “Are you sure he’s not trying to keep you for himself?” Rolan started his truck and headed out into the street. “I wish -- then at least there might be the potential for more than long, boring nights by myself.” Dante glanced out the window watching the city lights whiz by. “Well, tonight’s an exception.” “I’ll try and keep things interesting.” They pulled into the parking garage of a tall building overlooking the ocean. Ooh, Rolan had fancy digs. Dante’s nerves started to get the better of him. Why the hell would someone as obviously well to do as Rolan be slumming at the Body Shop? Unless he had some kinks that the more expensive clubs wouldn’t deal with. Dante tried to shake that last thought from his head. Just because Kale thought everyone out there was a predator looking to eat him for lunch didn’t mean it was true -- did it? Dante’s tail started to thump nervously against the seat. “My loft is on the top floor. It has a great view of the city.” Rolan pocketed his keys and patted Dante’s knee, making him jump. “What’s wrong with you?”


“Nothing.” Dante slipped out of the truck and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. “You should keep better control of that tail of yours if you want to lie to people, Dante.” Rolan slipped closer and pinned Dante against the truck’s side. “It gives everything away.” He pushed Dante’s chin up forcing the boy to look at him. “You weren’t thinking of backing out on me, were you?” “No, it’s just -- I keep thinking of stuff and -- ” Before Dante could say anything else, Rolan kissed him hard. His tongue pushed into Dante’s mouth tasting him and teasing him. Oh, no one had kissed him like that in a long time. “Still having doubts?” Rolan grinned and rubbed up against Dante’s lithe, little body. Dante shook his head. His brain was too busy conjuring up sweaty images of Rolan tearing off his clothes and fucking him right there against his truck to actually answer with words. Any other doubts he might have had dissolved in another forceful kiss. Dante leaned into that one, almost crawling up Rolan’s lean body just to get more. “Come on, it’ll be more comfortable in my loft.” Rolan nipped at Dante’s bottom lip and led him into the elevator. Rolan had the coolest place ever. It was one big open space made up mostly of concrete and glass. One wall was all windows with heavy steel shutters for security probably or, Dante guessed, if Rolan felt like sleeping in. The rest of the space was sectioned off by sleek, expensive looking furniture. The leather sofa probably cost more than Dante made in a month and the huge flat panel TV worth even more than that. “So, what do you think?” “Definitely more comfortable then the parking garage. I’ll take a bed over concrete any day.” “Why stop at the bed?” Rolan tugged off his shirt and flopped on the couch. His eyes followed Dante hungrily. “There are so many other options. I could fuck you in the shower, on the couch, or bend you over my dining table and do you there. Of course, it would be much easier if you were naked.” “Ooh, I think I can manage that.” Dante stood just out of Rolan’s reach and pulled his shirt over his head. He wasn’t a stripper by any stretch, but he could still give Rolan a show. His hands moved over his chest tugging at the rings that pierced his nipples before sliding lower to slowly unbutton his shorts. “No more teasing, I want to see the rest of you -- now!” Rolan growled and hauled Dante up by his wrists. He yanked the boy’s shorts down, leaving him naked. Dante found himself pinned to the couch with Rolan over him. One of Rolan’s hands kept its grip on his wrists while the other trailed over Dante’s chest, tugging on his nipple rings.


“Hey, you can let my hands go.” Dante arched against Rolan’s wandering hand, just to prove how eager he was, in case his rock hard cock wasn’t evidence enough. “I’m not going any where. I just want to touch you.” The grip on his wrists loosened. Dante was starting to lose feeling in his hands. He flexed his fingers to get his circulation going again and trailed them over Rolan’s chest. His skin was smooth and soft to the touch but he was cold too. Everything about him was cold, his lips, his hands… Dante gasped as those icy hands slid against his hips and squeezed his ass. “You’re so cold.” “Don’t worry about it, I’ll warm up soon.” Soft, nibbling kisses trailed over Dante’s jaw and down his throat. Oh, that felt nice and it would feel even better if Rolan would kiss other places besides his neck. Dante tangled his fingers in Rolan’s soft hair, hoping to coax him lower. Sharp teeth nipped at his neck again, harder this time. It started to hurt and Dante wasn’t into that. “Hey! That hurts!” Rolan wasn’t letting up. He completely ignored Dante’s yelp of pain as his teeth sank deeper into the boy’s flesh. Dante started to panic. He twisted and tried to push the older man off him, not that it helped. Rolan was heavier then he looked and he wasn’t budging until he was good and ready. “Get the hell off me!” “Calm down, I’m just having a little taste.” Rolan sat up licking the blood from his lips. “You are delicious, by the way.” Dante pressed his hand against his neck. Blood dripped from his fingers, making his eyes go wide. He stumbled off the couch and backed away. As soon as he was out of Rolan’s reach he bolted for the door. A vampire -- a fucking vampire -- Dante tugged on the door trying to get it open. If he lived through this he would never mouth off to Kale again. Of course, that was a big if. “Ah, you’re not going anywhere, my tasty boy.” Rolan grabbed a handful of Dante’s hair and pulled him back. “I’m not through with you yet.” “Let me go!”


Rolan pinned him to the smooth bamboo floor and licked the blood dripping from his neck.

Dante struggled, but Rolan was way stronger then he was. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. Damn

it, he didn’t want to die like this!

“Shh, don’t cry. I’m not going to kill you, pretty thing.” Rolan pinned Dante’s arms and lapped

the tears that ran down his cheek. “I just want a little blood, and maybe to fuck that sweet, little

ass of yours.”

Dante clamped his eyes shut, bracing for the worse. Despite what Rolan said, Dante was pretty

sure he was going to die or, worse yet, turn into a vampire himself.

A loud crash echoed through the loft as the door was kicked in. An angry and all too familiar

red-head stood over them with the twin barrels of a sawed off shotgun pointed square at Rolan’s

head.

“Get off my bartender -- now!” Kale growled and pulled the hammer back on his shotgun.

“Kale, do you mind? I’m a little busy right now.”

“Get off him!”

Dante twisted out of Rolan’s grip and tried to push Kale back out the door. It was sweet of his

boss to come and rescue him even when he said he wouldn’t, but it was just going to get him

killed and Dante didn’t want that. “Kale, run! He’s a vampire -- he’ll kill you too.”

“Isn’t that cute, he’s trying to protect you?” Rolan sat back trying not to laugh. “The young ones

are always so melodramatic aren’t they?”

“Damn it, dad, this is serious!” Kale shouldered his shotgun.

“It’s always serious -- you never let me have any fun.”

“What did I tell you about feeding off my boys?”

Rolan rolled his eyes. “I only get to feed off the willing ones who know what I am. It’s not my

fault this one changed his mind half way through.”

“I-I thought I was going to get laid, not be someone’s dinner.” Dante blinked at both of them. He

was starting to feel a little woozy. “Wait a minute -- Kale, did you just call him dad?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story.”

‘I don’t know if I’m up for a long story.” It was all too much for Dante to handle at the moment.

His mind was swimming and the blood loss didn’t help things.


Kale caught him before he could fall over and glanced at the small wounds on his neck. “Dante, I’m going to take care of your neck before you bleed to death, all right?” “Okay.” Dante was in no shape to argue. Part of him did wonder if Rolan kept a first aid kit around. It wasn’t like he’d ever need it… “Good boy. Now just relax and I’ll fix you right up.” Kale brushed Dante’s hair out of the way and lapped at the holes in his neck. It was the weirdest feeling. Kale’s tongue kind of tingled against his skin and Dante swore he could feel the wounds close. “There you go. You’re going to have a bit of a bruise, but no permanent damage.” Dante blinked up at Kale still not exactly sure what to make of things. “What did you do?” “Vampire saliva has a healing quality to it. It’s to keep their prey from bleeding to death after a feeding.” Kale set Dante on the couch and draped his coat over him. “But you can’t be a vampire. I’ve seen you go out during the day and eat. Vampires don’t eat regular food, do they?” “He’s a damphyr, actually, which makes him only half vampire.” Rolan sat down beside Dante, totally ignoring the glare Kale gave him. “His mother was very human and a whole lot easier to get along with.” Dante rubbed his head. “I’m confused.” “If a vampire has fed enough, they’re basically alive and can do most things that a living person can and that includes getting someone pregnant.” Kale sat down and pulled Dante into his lap. “It’s not so bad though. I get some of the advantages like healing spit, and being tough and strong without the need to drink blood or the whole bursting into flames when I go out in the sun. It’s actually not a bad deal.” “Yes, he’s just impossible to be around.” “At least I’m not the one pouncing on poor innocent boys.” Rolan rolled his eyes at Kale. “You make it sound like I grabbed him off the street or something. I offered and he accepted. Nothing wrong with that.” “Except you forgot to tell him about the whole vampire thing.” Kale’s arm slipped protectively around Dante’s waist. It would have been a turn on if he and Rolan weren’t arguing about him like he wasn’t even there. “You know there are plenty of boys at the club who know what you are and would have been willing.”


“I felt like something different.” Roland shrugged and smiled at Dante. “Besides, he’s so cute. How could I resist?” “Dad!”

“Will you two stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Dante stood, ignoring the wobble in his

legs. His tail swished angrily as he glared at Rolan. “You almost killed me tonight.”

“Oh, please, I never kill when I feed. I would have taken a little blood and we would have had our fun and you would have been none the wiser.” Roland raked his hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s not my fault you had a panic attack.” “You should have told me what I was getting into!”

“Would you have believed me?”

Dante sagged against the couch. “Probably not.”

“Dad, leave him be.”

“Fine. He only went with me to spite you, anyway.” Rolan grabbed his shirt and shrugged it on.

“That’s not true.” Dante blushed brightly. “I thought you were hot.”

“And?”

Dante hung his head. “And I wanted to prove to Kale that not everyone who looked at me was a

predator or a pervert.” So much for that idea. It was just his luck that he picked up a vampire on

his first try.

Rolan sighed and slouched against the arm of the couch. “I guess I’ll be by tomorrow since I’m

obviously not getting a meal tonight. Will the twins be working?”

“Yeah, and I’ll let them know you’ll be in.” Kale wrapped Dante back up in his coat before

scooping him up. “I’ll send someone down to fix your door too.”

“Tonight I hope, unless you want me to be a small pile of ash come morning.”

“Yes, tonight. I’ll call Ripper in a bit. He’ll fix you right up.”

“Thanks.” Rolan waved them out the door. “Good night, you two.”

“Night, dad.”

“Night, Rolan. Sorry for freaking on you like that.”


Rolan grinned. “It’s okay. Maybe next time -- ” “There’s not going to be a next time, Dad.” Kale glared. “Dante is off limits.” “Fine, keep him all to yourself, then.” Kale ignored that last comment and carried Dante into the elevator. He set the boy down and pulled out his cell. Kale called the club and made arrangements with one of his bouncers to fix Rolan’s door. The call was quick and efficient, making Dante wonder how many times Kale must have kicked his father’s door in and had to fix it afterwards. The elevator went quiet after Kale’s phone call was done. If he had anything to say to the boy, he kept it to himself. Damn, silent treatment. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if Kale just yelled at him. At least then he would know how much trouble he was in. “So -- I thought you said you weren’t going to rescue me?” “I wasn’t. But then I thought about it and figured that this was easier then hiring a new bartender.” “Oh.” “It’s not that my dad would have killed you.” Kale stepped out of the elevator and carried Dante to a battered jeep. “But you might have freaked out and not want to come back to work.” He settled the boy in the passenger seat before climbing in himself. “And that would make things complicated.” “Because you’re half-vampire and you have elves and werefoxes hanging around the club. I mean the elves are common enough but everything else would need a little explaining if you hired some one new.” “Yeah.” “And here I thought it was because you would miss me.” Dante sighed and glanced out the window as they drove. It was raining again. Kind of fitting considering his mood. “Well, at least I’m convenient right?” Kale pulled his jeep over and turned the engine off. He shifted a little so he could look Dante in the eye. “You’re more than convenient. I would miss you a lot.” “Of course you would. You and the others all think of me as a little brother.” Dante glanced away. It was easier than losing himself in those pale blue eyes. “You guys would have no one to mother if I wasn’t around.”


“Damn it, Dante, listen to me for a second!” Kale grabbed Dante’s head and forced the boy to look at him. “I do like you and not as a little brother.” “What?”

Kale sighed. He looked like he was trying to find the words or getting really annoyed. Dante

wasn’t sure which. In the end, Kale just pulled him close and kissed him hard. He leaned back,

leaving Dante stunned and breathless.

“Tell me again. I might have missed part of it.”

“Look, you are a sexy, sexy boy.” Kale brushed his fingers over Dante’s cheek. “I’ve always

thought so.”

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought it would be better if I didn’t. I’m your boss and old enough to be your dad to boot.”

“You barely look thirty. Not that I care. I was going to sleep with your dad, after all.” Dante

crawled into Kale’s lap and nipped at his chin. “As to the boss thing, I could quit and that would

solve that problem.”

“Don’t you dare! You’re the best bartender I have.”

“Now you’re just kissing my ass. I’ll bet you tell Frankie or Ed that too.”

Kale slid his arm around Dante’s waist and pulled him closer. “I never wanted to fuck Frankie or

Ed.”

“But you want to fuck me?” Dante’s tail slid teasingly over hard, muscular legs. He just hoped

that Kale took the hint.

“Ever since that sweet little ass of yours wandered into the club. I just figured that I was too old

for you, too rough around the edges.”

“What? Kale, you’re a wet dream on two legs.” Dante lay his hands flat against Kale’s broad chest. “I love your muscles and the way your eyes burn into me.” He licked his lips hungrily. “I’ve been dying to see what you got hiding in those jeans too.” “Nothing’s stopping you.” Dante scooted to the side and tugged at the button of Kale’s jeans. He had been jacking off to this scenario for a long time -- it was hard not to be excited. “Ooh, can I taste too?” “Just a little, I’d rather take you home and then make out here.”


A flashlight shone into the jeep and a cop tapped on the window. Oops -- probably a bad idea to start feeling Kale up on the side of the road. Kale rolled his window down, looking perfectly calm. Dante sat back hiding the guilty look on his face with his hair. “Everything all right here?” The cop peered at Kale curiously. He lifted his flashlight, shining it on Dante. Dante clutched Kale’s coat a little closer to his body and tried to look calm as the cop looked him over. Boy, if he only knew. “We’re fine, officer.” Kale smiled pleasantly and looked the cop in the eye. “My friend here was a little car sick, that’s all.” “Okay, you should move along though. It’s not safe to stop here, especially with the rain coming down.” “Will do, thanks.” Kale started his jeep as the officer headed back to his patrol car. Dante sagged in relief. He couldn’t help but laugh, though. “That was a close one. We would have had a lot of explaining to do if he noticed that I was naked.” “No kidding.” Kale’s fingers slid over the boy’s bare thigh and gave it a squeeze. “We’d better get back before anything else happens.” “Totally.” Dante nodded and snuggled against Kale’s side. “I can’t wait to get you out of those pants.” Kale sped all the way back to the club. At least, he waited until the cop was out of sight. The last thing they needed was to get pulled over -- again. They got back to the club in record time and as soon as his jeep was parked, Kale scooped Dante up and carried him inside. Thankfully, Kale headed in through the back. Everyone saw Dante leave with Rolan and he didn’t want to explain himself, not tonight, anyway. They headed into the elevator and Kale punched his code into the keypad. “Um, your place or mine?” “I was thinking mine.” Kale tapped the button for the top floor. “But we can go to yours if you want.” “No, it’s fine. My place is a mess anyways.” Dante sagged against the elevator wall in relief. He didn’t really want Kale to see his place, at least until he had a chance to clean and hide his comics and his toys.


The elevator doors opened into a short hallway. Oh, so this is where Kale lived -- when he wasn’t in his office, anyway. Kale unlocked the heavy steel door and gestured for Dante to go inside. Dante glanced around. Kale had a nice place even if it was a little empty. One lonely looking couch sat in front of a good sized TV in the middle of the living room, bookshelves lined one wall, and that was about it. “Did you just move in?” “No, I’ve been here since the club opened.” Kale pulled Dante onto the couch. “I just never felt the need for too much stuff. I have my books and cable. What else do I need?” “You have a bed, I hope.” Dante snuggled closer and nipped at Kale’s ear. “I want to be comfortable when you fuck me senseless.” Kale grinned and pointed past the balcony. “It’s in there, you impatient thing.” “Ooh, what are we waiting for then?” Dante dropped Kale’s coat and headed to the bedroom. His tail swished back and forth with each shake of his ass. If that didn’t get Kale going, he didn’t know what would. Strong hands pushed Dante onto the bed. Kale crouched over him and kissed the bruise on his neck. Dante ran his hands over that hard, broad chest and down Kale’s sleek abs. He tugged Kale’s jeans open and pulled them down over that perfect ass. Good lord, Kale was gorgeous -Dante’s eyes wandered lower -- and well hung too. And he didn’t waste any time either. Kale was already sucking on Dante’s cock and making his toes curl in the process. Oh he was good at that. Before too long, Dante found himself rolled onto his stomach. Something cold and wet splashed against his ass making the boy yelp. Then Kale’s oh so nimble fingers were rubbing against his skin and warming Dante right up. They fucked for a good part of the night. Kale wasn’t much for foreplay but he made up for that with technique and endurance that just wouldn’t quit. By the time Kale came, Dante had popped at least three times. That was a new record for him, then again Kale was relentless. Dante just hopped Kale didn’t want him to leave after they were done. He could barely move, let alone find his way down to his own apartment. “Mind if I stay the night?” Dante yawned. It was rude but he couldn’t help it. He was worn out. “I don’t think I can walk anymore.” “I would prefer it if you did stay.” Kale pulled Dante against his chest and nuzzled his cheek. “Can’t have you wandering the halls in your condition.” “What condition is that?” Kale grinned and kissed Dante’s forehead. “Naked and well fucked. Now get some rest.”


Dante yawned again. He didn’t want to go to sleep yet. There was a lot more he wanted to tell Kale, but it was hard to think straight, as tired as he was. “But --” “What ever you want to tell me can wait until tomorrow, all right?” “Okay.” Dante snuggled closer and sighed contentedly. Kale was so warm and toasty. It was hard not to doze, especially with those hands petting his back. “G’night, Kale.” *** Dante stretched and rolled over. He was lying in a huge bed -- it definitely wasn’t his, unless the bed fairy came and replaced his double with a queen. Oh, nice sheets too. That’s right -- he was at Kale’s place. His boss had rescued him from a vampire, who also happened to be his dad. Then they fucked like bunnies until the wee hours of the morning. Or at least that’s what Dante remembered. It seemed all too good to be true. At least the part of him and Kale having sex. The rest of it seemed too weird to be true. Maybe he had dreamed up the whole thing. Maybe he was still dreaming now. Dante closed his eyes and pinched himself on the arm hard. He cracked an eye open and saw bare, pale gray walls instead of the anime and movie posters that covered his bedroom. Okay, so it wasn’t a dream after all. Kale peeked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his lean hips. Now that was a sight Dante definitely could get used too. “Hey sleepy, I was just about to shower. Care to join me?” “Hell, yes!” Dante bounced out of bed and tugged at Kale’s towel. “How could I say no to all this?” That made Kale grin. “I didn’t know you were so perky in the morning.” He pulled Dante into the bathroom and tapped the control panel for the shower, turning it on. “Maybe I should start scheduling you for the lunch shifts.” “I’d rather spend my mornings with you, and my evenings and -- ” Dante tapped his chin thoughtfully. “How long do you think the club could go without the two of us, anyway?” He stepped into the shower letting the hot water soak into his skin. Kale squeezed in behind him. It was a tight fit, but it also gave Dante an excellent excuse to rub up against his handsome lover. “Who knows? A week, a month, longer if no one messes with payroll.” Kale ran a soapy hand over Dante’s chest and nipped at the boy’s ear. “I wouldn’t mind keeping you all to myself.” “Oh, you’d really want me for that long?” Dante turned so he could look at Kale’s handsome face. “I didn’t think you’d be into anything long term.” “I don’t do this everyday, Dante. I wouldn’t have brought you home if I wasn’t serious.” “Really?”


“Really. I don’t do one night stands.” Kale stepped back like he was getting out of the tub, a hurt

look in his eyes.

“I’m glad.” Dante caught Kale’s hand before he could pull away. “I was hoping there would be

more between us. I’ve been lusting after you for a while now.”

He slipped his arms around Kale’s mid section and hugged him tightly. Kale paused for just a second before hugging Dante back. Warm, wet fingers pushed Dante’s chin up and Kale kissed him gently. Dante wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and deepened the kiss. “Now the question is, how do I talk you into moving in with me?” Kale nuzzled Dante’s cheek and stroked the boy’s tail.

“You don’t need to talk me into anything. I’ll have my stuff moved in by tonight -- if you give

me the day off.”

“Done. I’ll even take the day off with you and help you move.”

“Ah, that’s it.” Dante grinned teasingly. “You just wanted my apartment back.”

“No, I just figure someone else could take it especially since you’re going to be spending all your

free time here anyway.”

“You always think of everything, don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m the boss.” Kale pulled Dante closer and kissed his horns.

“Okay then, boss. What do you want to do for the rest of the day?”

“I’ll let someone downstairs know that we’re both taking the day off. Then I’ll help you move.”

Kale pulled Dante out of the shower and rubbed him dry with a fluffy towel. “But that’s after we

go back to bed so I can fuck you again.”

“Oh, I do like how you think.”


Magenta: The Romance of Scarlet and Red

By Camilla Bruce

Scarlet stood on top of the tall building, looking down to where Red's men were carrying a goodie bag between them. Or rather, a wooden box filled with Scarlet's favorite kind of sweets. Just the kind of things he liked: just shipped in, fresh from the sea. Scarlet wanted it. He was a hunter stalking his prey. A wolf waiting for the right moment. The moment to attack. He smiled to himself in the dark night. "I'll get to you Red, just you wait and see!" *** Scarlet had gotten his name from the color of his hair; Red had gotten his for other, bloodier, reasons. Reasons that made Scarlet's situation look grave now, when he woke up, dazed and confused from some unknown drug, and saw the other's face hovering above him. His ankles and wrists hurt from the tight leather cords that coiled around his limbs and bruised his skin. Black and strong were those cords, weaving a pattern like spider's web on milk-colored velvet. Naked, was what he was. Naked, tied up, and increasingly scared. Scarlet had reason to be scared; Red had reason to be cruel. Scarlet had played a game, played it high, and lost in the most ridiculous of ways. Should have known better, known better indeed. One moment was all it had taken, one moment where his mind drifted, his eyes drifted, away from his beer to the cute little boy's ass moving on the dance floor, fucking the white and blue lights with his moves. One moment and Scarlet had lost: His beer had been showered with white powder and he had drunk it down -- innocent as a virgin about to be raped. Cold sweat broke over the surface and poured from his skin -- sticky, chill glue. His heart worked like a tank engine, pounding steadily harder, faster! The taste of fresh fear on his tongue was like a piece of metallic candy, hard and raw. He still couldn't figure out which of the men by or behind the bar had been Red's boys, but it didn't really matter, not now. If he was lucky he would see another day, but if Red chose to live up to his reputation, he'd end up at the bottom of the nearest lake before dawn. Living another hour from now might not be the best of options either, considering Red's passion for violence. Being alone with him like this, all vulnerable and tied up was, safe to say, not safe at all. "I still can't figure out how you did it," Red said in his dark, husky voice. Scarlet silently agreed -- he didn't quite know how he'd managed it either.


"You must have balls of steel!" That was certainly not true. "You're afraid, that is good!" Red's nostrils flared. His slick black hair touched Scarlet's white chest, his strawberry nipple, just a sweep of cool silk. Like burnt cherry stones, crushed and cracked open, this fear. Rolling like slow waves, making him feel sick and dizzy. Wasn't supposed to end at his mercy. The game -- never supposed to end like this! "Red!" Scarlet's voice sounded hoarse. Not like his usual voice at all. He felt uncomfortably exposed, lying there with his limbs forced apart. His self-consciousness had finally awoken, kicked in, and made his cheeks color with shame. He could feel supple leather under his back; he was lying on a bench of sorts. Pipes of steel crossed the ceiling, traveled the walls, and helped keep his body immobile with hard knots of black cord wed to the metal. Such an uneven union, him and the leather; the pipes and the man. "Red!" he said again, and wanted to beg to be released. "I'm not afraid!" he whispered. Red smiled. Scarlet shivered. His enemy spoke. "Why did you fight me? Why did you cross me when you had a choice?" Then, just one finger, gently stroked Scarlet's bound wrist. Electrifying, horrifying, tingling like insanity. Red's face was so cold and serene -- all sharp angles with eyes like ice pale, blue and shiny, two frost-kissed suns. They made Scarlet's head spin and made it hurt. "To imagine such a thief so beautiful!" Another touch; a warm finger trailing his cheek. A smile; sharp teeth gleamed in the lighting. Scarlet turned his face away from the caress, breathing hot and scared. Damp air flooded the warm leather beneath him, and he closed his eyes and tried to drift, tried to escape by pretending not to be there. Yet his body ached, the ties cut into his flesh and forced his mind to stay in the room. He had lost, of that there was no doubt. Faint sounds; drums, bass -- he was in one of Red's clubs! He turned his head again. The man: white shirt, black pants, as if he'd been in a meeting or a business trip. On three of his fingers he wore thick rings of silver. There were garnets in one of them. Red was big. A big man -- broad and muscled. Tall as well. His hair was long and hung to his waist. Narrow hips, wide chest. Then, as he lay there musing, a rustling sound suddenly made Scarlet's eyes widen with terrible suspicion. He shook his head. There it was! By his ear, making sounds like tiny bells when he moved. He wanted to touch, to make sure, but his hands were still bound. Red had noticed his attempt though; he smiled again, lazy and arrogant. "I thought it appropriate," he said. "And that dark gold with the emeralds looks good against your


hair." "Gray," Scarlet whispered, and in a flash he saw an image of the old art dealer who had always been so helpful and made connections for him. "Dead." Red smiled politely. His fingers reached down again to play with the warm metal by Scarlet’s ears. The earrings were old and more valuable than anyone could imagine. They had arrived in the country just a week ago. Red had bought them most illegally. Scarlet had stolen them from him. He sold them to Gray, and Gray was dead. Red hung the ornate pieces of gold in Scarlet's ears as a mockery. "Why did you enter the trade anyway?” Scarlet asked. "You could have kept doing what you do best -- drug dealing, running your clubs." He shouldn't have said that -- he prepared and steeled himself for pain. For his skin to be marred, his body abused. Red's laughter was short and dry. "Does it matter to you? Why did you steal them?" he spat, still standing motionless by the bench. His gaze licked Scarlet's body, his expression just as calm as before. What was he picturing? Bruises and blood? How to sever Scarlet's limbs from his torso? "I warned you," Red said. "But you're such a child, aren't you? Had to see if you could win. Play the game. Who told you about these?" Red's fingers played with the gold by his ear again. "Who is your source, Scarlet?" Scarlet froze under the searching gaze. His limbs in their cords of black were still as well, so as not to catch Red's attention. Warnings, yes! There had been warnings! Notes attached to the items he'd taken. In a vase, inside a box -- all of them in the same bold hand writing: "I'll get you soon, "or "You cannot win!" Scarlet had thought he’d been safe though. Planned every adventure with care. He’d drugged the guards' coffee, fixed their cars, and even shot them if needed be -- all to get to this man's treasures. This man, his nemesis ever since the first time he saw him. Scarlet had been told there was a new player, a new buyer, who did his business without the established dealers’ help. He bought the goods outside the country and had the pieces shipped in privately. He was a drug dealer, they said. A club owner. Could become a threat, could become someone to look out for. Red had much money, that man, and a nose for the good deals. He wasn't a collector -- he sold his stolen antiques to the same people Scarlet did, through the same channels as him. Naturally, Scarlet wanted to see him -- this possible threat, this thief with lilywhite hands. Of course, later he would learn that Red’s hands were crimson, not white. But by then it was too late, and he was already ensnared. For Scarlet had gone to see the new player one night, standing in the shadows by the entrance to one of his clubs -- The Wicked Wolf -observing from the darkness, like a hunter. But now the hunter had been caught, had he not? Red had been hurrying from the back entrance to the waiting limousine. Scarlet could still


vividly recall it: the dark man, his broad shoulders under the coat, his tied-up hair. Was it with a leather cord? The icy coldness radiating from him. He had caught Scarlet's attention that moment. Caught it and kept it. It was a magnetic force, the force of Red. His presence could not be denied. It had shaken Scarlet somehow, just looking at him. Thrown him off balance, completely off guard, and the outlines of an obsession had been born in that single moment in time under a dark moon, by the black limousine. Such a power in that obsession! It would drive Scarlet from dock to dock, warehouses, storage rooms, trailers to take what belonged to this man. Red had asked him for his source, but there was no source; just Scarlet's own hacking skills that helped him break into Red's personal e-mail. Nothing interesting there though, not really. Just business stuff, and some rather scary 'missing person' reports. That was Scarlet's source. Red didn't know that yet. Earlier, before Red, all Scarlet's jobs had been done out of necessity, or because he wanted to -Scarlet was a clever boy and brilliant in his chosen sport -- then along came Red. Suddenly, to beat him, to beat this secretive, magnetic creature became a private goal, a hunt that knew no reason. Scarlet didn't quite know what he had wanted, why he'd become so obsessed with this game in the first place. Red's items-- bronze statues, marble, pieces of jewelry and amber -- were nice, but not extraordinary. Not for him, Scarlet, the master thief. No, it was personal. He'd wanted to tease and taunt this man and collect his victories like gems on a string. He'd wanted to alert the other of his existence, perhaps by taking what was Red’s on a regular basis. It was a challenge. It was more -- it was obsession! Every time Red went into a fury over a theft, every time he didn't catch him, every time a new shiny object ended up in Scarlet's keep, he felt the sweetest victory. Maybe it had all been a quest for acknowledgement? Did he hope that Red would pat his shoulder and say, "Gee, Scarlet, you're the best thief ever." What a sweet fantasy. In reality such aspirations could cost him his life; he was at Red's mercy now. Bound by his favorite target. The favorite target reached out a hand and spun the dimmer on the wall to increase the light in the room just a little. Suddenly, Scarlet could see his own face in the ceiling -- triangular shaped, pale. It should have been freckled, his colors considered, but it wasn't. His deep red hair was cut right above his shoulders. He could see his little nose and brown, big eyes. He could see the carpet as well; tiny hunters were woven into the fabric, shifting in gold, cinnamon, and burnt sienna. He knew where he was. The carpet and mirrors in the ceiling. The Wicked Wolf. There was no doubt. He was caught inside it now, no way out. Scarlet's body shivered. They were back at the beginning, where it had begun. Why was he naked, he wondered, so Red could better dump him? Why tied up like that? Legs lifted and parted and bound. So he could better -Scarlet gave a yelp of surprise when Red's warm palm landed on his buttock. Their gazes met in the mirror above them. Red cocked his head. "Look at you, Scarlet -- so helpless -- so open -- " His finger briefly trailed the crack between the


two white half-globes. Scarlet gave a shuddering breath. His cheeks instantly colored with shame and Red smiled viciously. "Are you afraid?" he asked. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Scarlet wanted the reply to be hostile, but instead his breathing came heavy and he fought not to move. "Yes." Red smiled again. To his utter shame Scarlet felt his own cock grow to a slender length on his stomach while Red's finger drifted next to it. Gentle, teasing, playing with the ginger curls. When the fingers disappeared, Scarlet gave a sigh of relief. He didn't expect it to be over though -- he could so very well see the reasons for his ties now. The knowledge made his nostrils flare and his stomach tighten. He didn't blink, at least not with surprise, when Red ripped his own shirt open and peeled the thin fabric from his sculpted chest. Scarlet swallowed hard and let his gaze take him in: Red was a strong man, tanned. His nipples were puckered kings of their firm, little hills. Dark hair ran from his navel in a thin line and disappeared under the waistband of his pants. Scarlet held his breath as Red got on the bench and straddled him, so close he could feel the heat, sense the cold. The scent of him was strong: a blend of coconut, honey and young, healthy man. Scarlet heard a whimper and knew it was his own. "Aren't you even sorry?" Red bent forward and caught Scarlet's gaze, straddling his slim hips with firm, black-clad thighs. "I will make you apologize, of that I have no doubt." Red smiled. "You will show me how sorry you are, with every inch of your body." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. Red's hair fell down around Scarlet's head like rippling silk. The feel of it was like cool, black water on his chest. Scarlet moaned and choked on the air. His trickle of quiet whimpers filled the small room with sound. Long fingers in his hair now, catching the fire, holding his head in place with a strong grip -- cupping it. A whisper so low it was almost not there. "Are you afraid now, Scarlet?" Red's lips touched Scarlet's like a snowflake melting on hot skin. And then it was wet, and then it was more: a slick tongue dipping into his mouth, taunting it, teasing his flesh. Soft caresses becoming hard and demanding. "So warm, Scarlet -- so warm." Breathing mingled with his own, heavy and eager, and their lips kept kissing. Ever kissing. Tasting. Touching. All wet and hungry. It was a shock to his whole body. As if he were being executed and resurrected on the spot. As if he'd swallowed electric cords down his stomach. Nothing -- nothing in this world! -- was quite like kissing Red. He felt himself mold against him, all warm and pliant now, sighing softly. "I'm not afraid." His voice sounded slurred and he blushed.


"You..." Red said softly. He sat up again, straddling his chest, depriving Scarlet of his body's warmth. His fingers drifted on the slender man's skin, tweaking his nipples, and made him moan low with small, mewing complaints. "When they brought you in here," Red's voice dropped to a whisper and his gaze seemed glazed over, distant. "You were drugged and out cold," he continued and smiled. "I wanted to have you. I took off your clothes and tied you up," he was still smiling. "But then I thought of everything you've taken from me, and I figured you should be awake -- and should work -- to make it up to me." His smile widened suddenly, feral and cruel. Scarlet whimpered and felt cold again. "Tonight, you are my whore, Scarlet. The most expensive lay I've had this year." Red cocked his head. "So be a good boy now," he warned. "Don't make me regret waiting for you to wake up. Don't make me regret keeping you alive." No smile now. No warmth. No softness. No hot kiss or murmuring voice. They both knew he didn't really have to say that. Scarlet was already willing. Scarlet was already his. Yet he did it, to prove his purpose. His revenge. His power. To crush his opponent with words as well as will. Scarlet froze. His heart was broken. He shrugged. "I'm not afraid!" he spat out. His gaze locked with blue fire, never faltering. Steady. "Bring it on," he dared Red. Red's laughter was deep and rich. It sounded sincere to Scarlet's ears. Red's fingers tangled in his hair once more and he bent down to take another kiss from him. "That's my boy," he breathed. "Pretty Scarlet-- " His tongue pushed inside and he ravaged Scarlet's mouth again and ate greedily at his lips and tongue. Scarlet's face flushed with heat and so did his body. More hot blood gathered in his crotch, and made his slender cock weep. Such a willing victim, such an easy target. Inwardly, he cursed. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and felt his nostrils flare when Red sat up and began fumbling with the buttons of his pants. When Red’s strained flesh sprang free, rich scented and hard for the occasion, Scarlet heard himself let slip one helpless moan. He had wanted this all along, hadn't he? What a shame. What a disaster. Scarlet let slip another moan just for that. Red arched over his chest. He held his thick cock with his hand, and the garnets on his fingers glittered when he guided the erection to Scarlet's lips. The big, thick head had a purple hue and the smooth, taut skin shone in the dim light. "Suck it, Scarlet." Red's other hand on his head urged him on. His erection was big, thick, and tasted faintly of salt. It slid smoothly inside Scarlet’s open mouth. The skin was soft, but the cock was hard. Silk-wrapped iron, leaking juices of exotic flavor; sweet and salt. Honey and musk. Red's hand was milking it into his mouth. "Do you like that, Scarlet? Does it taste good?" Scarlet moved in his bonds; he fought to breathe with the erect flesh in his mouth. He sucked at it. Oh yes! He followed every move Red made to keep sucking at it and hated himself dearly for doing just that. He let his teeth touch the blood-filled heat to scratch the surface lightly.


"Don't you dare." Red's fingers tightened their grip on his scarlet hair. Their gazes crossed, met, challenged, like blades. Then it was over: Scarlet yielded and let Red's hand in his hair guide him, opened up to let more of him inside, licked at the taunt skin, the soft sac, the full head, and lapped at the slit -- oh yes, he did! His hooded eyes looked up at the other man, and stole glimpses of blue eyes, black, damp hair and sweat-slick shoulders. Tanned skin and parted lips. Red sighed and Scarlet loved him. Red moaned and Scarlet was ecstatic. He moved on the bench, and pulled at his bonds. Loved the cock in his mouth even more. Caressed it with his lips and massaged it with his tongue. His own cock twitched with compassion every time Red's leaked another clear bead of fluid. "Yes," Red purred. His eyelids fluttered. "I think you like that!" His hair had become wavy from the moist heat of their bodies. His voice sounded strained, sounded hoarse. He began fucking Scarlet's mouth gently. Not hard nor rough and difficult to keep up with, but deliberate and slow. All the way deep inside of him. Scarlet moaned now. Red didn't hold back but let hoarse sounds rise from his throat. In the mirror, Scarlet could see the top of Red’s buttocks clench and unclench, as his hips shoved his cock steadily deeper down Scarlet's throat. He opened up. He let him. He didn't gag, didn't choke. He relaxed his muscles and let him sink inside. Inwardly he was proud: so much cock. So much man. And he could manage. Red's thrust became faster, harder and Red was heaving for breath. It was exhausting and arousing at once, being at the bottom. Scarlet wished that Red would touch him. That he could touch himself. That someone, no matter who, would bestow some mercy upon his sinful body and please touch his cock before he lost his mind! The pace quickened some more. The world narrowed to these few things: the cock in his mouth, the man, and the movement. His own aching hunger, the sweat, and the sounds. Raw taste in his mouth now; he'd been fucked sore. It didn't matter. Red's cock twitched and Scarlet prepared for the taste of warm semen. It didn't come. Suddenly Red withdrew his cock -- the garnets were glittering again as he pulled it from Scarlet's lips with a wet sound. He was still breathing heavily. "No," Red said. "Not yet." He was leaning on his elbows and suddenly he bucked his head. His teeth sank into Scarlet's pale skin. The younger man screamed with surprise and danced in his bonds. Another movement and Red bit down again, letting his teeth mar the soft skin of Scarlet’s stomach. One more time, and again Scarlet screamed with pleasure and pain. To feel his warm breath, his wet lips, his soft hair -- yes! But the fire of the bite was hurting. It was pain. He couldn't stand it. But Red did it again. And again. Finally, Red's head was resting against Scarlet's inner thigh. The tall man's gaze seemed distant and on the edge of insane. He'd done it not to come, Scarlet realized. To cool off the steam and regain control of his body. His breath still touched Scarlet's skin, warm and heavy. Red moved a little, and angled his head so his breath tickled Scarlet's cock. It was twitching, and acknowledging the attention. Yet Scarlet couldn't help a slight worry Red would bite that as well. He didn't. The tip of his tongue snuck out to touch it, circled the wet head, and cleaned it of


pooling pre-come. Scarlet sighed. He licked his lips. He bit his lips. He gasped. He fought with all his might not to lose it right there. Not to let go and spill his seed all over Red's wicked tongue. So teasing that tongue -- rough and slick at once. Scarlet moaned again; his head buzzed with the effort of controlling the excitement. His body jerked and pulled at the leather, and he whimpered loudly and let his eyes roll back in his head. It was a relief when Red let him go. Was a relief until he pushed a saliva-slicked thumb inside his ass. The temperature was so high in the room that breathing would have been hard under normal circumstances. Scarlet couldn't imagine that he had thought the room chilly just an hour ago. The air was so damp he swore he could see the droplets on the pipes in the ceiling. Swore he could see the steam rise from their skin. His own face seemed flushed, his eyes huge and dark in the misty mirrors. Red's eyes were dark too with the blue color like shards of ice or glistening steel. Red’s gaze was fixated on his rear, on his entrance, on watching the thumb slide in and out of Scarlet. Breathing was hard again. Gasping was more natural. Shivering. Panting. Begging for more with all of his body. "You want me," Red said. He used two fingers to prepare Scarlet, to force his flesh apart and reveal the tiny hole, making it bigger. His other hand reached down to his pocket. There was a tube of lube there. Scarlet caught a brief glimpse of it before Red uncapped it with his thumb and pressed the whole tube to his rear, smearing him directly with fruit-scented slickness. Not too much, just enough. He realized Red thought further preparations unnecessary. Oh god, Scarlet thought, feeling Red's fingers plunder inside of him. He is going to fuck me. He is going to fuck me! Without further ceremony, Red positioned his dripping hardness against Scarlet's entrance and recklessly pushed his thick, throbbing cock inside. Scarlet screamed, Red sighed, and the big head of his member slid deeper and deeper inside Scarlet's slick channel. It didn't hurt, not at all. He was prepared. He had fallen. He had lost. This was the price -- and still, somehow he felt he had won too, as there was no triumphant expression of revenge on Red's face. No cruelty, no mockery. No matter what happened next, in this moment, Scarlet had won too. Red was with him, games forgotten. The jingling sounds from the earrings meant nothing. Red was just fucking him, wasn't he? Yes! Deeper, harder, faster. Fucking. Leaning on his forearms on Scarlet's chest, working with his hips, letting his cock slide in and out of the tight, lube-slick rear. Touching Scarlet's little gland of great pleasure every time he went deep. Red was groaning. Scarlet whimpered. Now Red was leaning on just one arm, and the other went between their bellies so his fingers could curl around Scarlet's cock. Scarlet's cock wept with hungry pleasure and needed just a few strokes of silver and garnets before it convulsed. Scarlet


screamed while his slender member pumped hot, eggshell-colored ecstasy all over Red's long fingers. He moved like a puppet whose master was tripping, tugging at the strings, riding off the pleasure. Red rose to his knees between Scarlet's thighs, lifted his hand to his lips, and his tongue dipped in the fresh cream. He ate it from his index finger, and Scarlet watched it and wanted to come again. Instead, he lay still and loved it. Red bucked on top of him, and the warm, heavy weight settled on his torso, and Red’s hot semen flushed his insides with liquid passion. "Oh God," Scarlet murmured. "Goodness." he breathed. His limbs hung limp in the loops. "Scarlet." A blue gaze sought his. "Red." He was still just breathing the word. He wanted to say that he loved him, but didn't. He bit into his lower lip and looked away. "I'm sorry," he said instead, with the voice of a very young boy. "I'm sorry that I stole from you." Red laughed but he sounded tired, sated. It was a pretty sound. "Take this as your warning." He smiled almost playfully. "And don't cross me again!" Their gazes met once more like blades. Like swords. Challenging. Measuring… Red withdrew his cock, slipping out of Scarlet's body. He sat up on his knees, fished a tiny pocketknife from his pants, and cut the cords that held Scarlet's hands in place. His hands fell to his chest, temporarily dead and useless. "You're letting me go?" he whispered. Red swung his body off the bench, and buttoned up his pants. He undid the ties that kept Scarlet's legs separated. "Yeah," he said with a thin smile. He crossed the small distance to the high stool in the corner, lifted a bundle of dark fabrics, and put them next to Scarlet on the bench -- his clothes. They seemed to be whole. "But you've cost me a lot of money. Better keep your playthings to yourself next time, so I won't have to track down your dealers." He smiled dryly. Scarlet wrinkled his nose. "No fun," he complained. "Too many rules!" He rose from the bench to try his feet and pull on his jeans. "Brat." Red smiled affectionately and gave his butt a little slap. Then, with his shirt in his hand, he crossed the floor and disappeared out the door. *** Scarlet stood on top of the tall building, looking down to where Red's men were carrying a goodie bag between them. Or rather, a wooden box filled with Scarlet's favorite kind of sweets. Just the kind of things he liked: just shipped in, fresh from the sea. Scarlet wanted it. He was a hunter stalking his prey. A wolf waiting for the right moment. The moment to attack. He smiled


to himself in the dark night. "I'll get to you Red, just you wait and see!" His eyes shone with anticipation, hunger, and savage glee.


Unfinished Business:

An Undercover Blues Story

By Laney Cairo

The ute rattled over the rough track, the suspension shuddering with each pothole. Behind Ryan, the new and ugly suburbs sprawled over the sand dunes, but the shopping malls and spray-on turf hadn’t reached where he was heading, right on the coast. Gum trees leant alarmingly over the shack, providing some protection from the summer sun, making the fiberboard hut livable. Blackie, faithful watchdog, motley pooch, dog of his heart, bellowed and threw herself at the car as he parked it, yanking on the chain that stopped her roaming during the day while Ryan and Jason were both at work. “Shut up!” Ryan shouted, and Blackie dropped to the ground, moaning in protest at being told off. “Silly,” Ryan said affectionately, and once he was out of the ute, he bent over and patted the dog. “Where’s Jase?” he asked. Blackie flapped her tail hopefully, pleading with her eyes, so Ryan unclipped her chain from her collar, sending the dog bounding up into his arms. He was too tired to argue with the dog any longer, so he carried her to the shack and dropped her on the dilapidated couch on the porch, beside the front door. The front door of the shack was pushed open, so Jason had been home from his job loading trucks at the wharf. Where he’d gone, and why he hadn’t waited for Ryan to get home was a mystery. That he’d left Blackie behind worried Ryan. Ryan dropped his cap on the table in the main room and unthreaded the heavy belt that carried his security guard paraphernalia from his trouser belt loops: torch, radio holster, utility pouch that held a first aid kit, and stun stick. No gun holster; he was working low risk security, checking industrial premises' alarms and dealing with outbreaks of larceny in the confectionary aisles of supermarkets. He dragged the Adept Security blue polyester shirt over his head and tossed it through the open bathroom door, at the floor, for Blackie to molest. He kicked his heavy boots off, then added the


work trousers to the pile on the bathroom floor. Ryan retrieved a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the bedroom floor, dragging them over his sweaty skin. No Jase in the bedroom, or the kitchen. A letter, half out of its envelope, rested on the counter, beside the toaster, and Ryan picked it up. It was addressed to Jason Cooper, and the return address on the back was from The Daily News, Sydney. Fuck, some journo had written to Jason. Ryan put the envelope and letter down again, right where he’d found them. Ryan pulled the shack door shut behind himself, and with Blackie hurtling around his knees, he padded barefoot through the scrub, towards the beach. Jason was sitting up the beach, knees up and head down, and Ryan let Blackie bound up to him, but stayed where he was. Jason wasn’t a moody man, or prone to introspection, but Ryan knew that the violent death of his beloved half-brother still gave him low days, when regret and grief were all he could feel. When those days came, Ryan let his lover be, gave him the time and peace it would take for him to heal. Ryan suspected that the scars networking his own shoulder, left over from a shotgun blast, would heal and disappear before Jason stopped grieving for his brother. Blackie leapt on Jason, sending him sprawling sideways in the sand, and when Jason picked himself back up again, he lifted a hand to Ryan in welcome. Safety Bay, south of Rockingham, was not a surf beach, just a gentle bay where the ocean slopped against clean sand and the banks of sea grass waved under clear water. Ryan walked along the edge of the water, letting the warm sea wet his feet with each wave, the salt water seeping up the legs of his jeans. Ryan settled his sunglasses securely on his face to stop Blackie from dislodging them, and sat beside Jason. Jase slung an arm around Ryan's shoulder. “I saw you had a letter from a journalist,” Ryan said. “What did the journo want?” Jason hadn’t changed out of his khaki work shirt and shorts, and he smelled of a hard day’s sweat when Ryan leaned against him. “He wanted to interview me about Harvey, some crap about wanting to let Harvey’s family speak for him in some new book he’s writing.” Ryan nodded. “You going to talk to him?” he asked.


“Harvey’s dead. I don’t care if Harvey was some crime lord, running a gang of crooks, dealing and stealing. I didn’t even care about that when Harvey was alive; I just didn’t want to get involved with anything.” Ryan, as a former police officer with the organized crime squad that had investigated Harvey Cooper, had possibly known more than Jason about Harvey’s criminal activities, and was less inclined to be so forgiving, but he didn’t need to tell Jason that. If Ryan hadn’t been investigating Harvey, he wouldn’t have been sent in undercover to get close to Jason, and they wouldn’t be together, but he and Jason had never really agreed on the finer points of Harvey’s character. “Sounds reasonable,” Ryan said. “The journo must have been tenacious to find us here, on the other side of the country.” “All journalists are wankers,” Jason said, pushing Blackie away and standing up. “Let’s go find some dinner; I don’t want to talk about that reporter anymore.” Ryan stood up, stretching and rolling his neck so it cracked. “Tinned or frozen?” he asked. “Forget that,” Jason said. “I brought home steak.” Ryan grinned. Jason must have unloaded a meat truck and been given some freebie steak by the abattoir workers. There were many good things about not being a cop and stolen prime porterhouse was possibly the best. *** Jason seemed to forget about the journo. The letter disappeared that evening, and Jason went back to being his usual, cheerful self. Ryan was less happy; for a start, he’d like to know how the journo had found Jason in the first place. Jason hadn’t changed his name, but it was hardly a distinctive name and they were thousands of kilometers from Jason’s home town, working in different jobs and leading very quiet lives. When Ryan spotted the surveillance car, it was conspicuously anonymous. Battered paintwork, peeling bumper stickers, license plates from the nearest large city; it was exactly the car Ryan would have chosen for a stake out. The person behind the wheel of the car didn’t look up from a newspaper when Ryan pulled in at the staff gate at the wharf. Ryan leant across the ute and undid the passenger door, and Jason clambered in. “Hey there,” Jason said, tossing his lunch esky under his feet and leaning across to kiss Ryan. “Hang on,” Ryan said tersely, his gaze on his rear vision mirror, watching the person in the parked car. “What’s up?”


“We’ve got a tail,” Ryan said. “Have you spotted the car? It’s a white commodore, about ten years old.” “Thought it looked familiar,” Jason said, reaching for his seatbelt. “You gonna lose him?” Ryan looked at Jason for a moment, then started the car. “Jase, hon, we’re not criminals, and I can’t justify the effort of losing a tail. Think about it for a moment: either he’s the journo, in which case he knows where you live, or he found you the same way the journo did, however that was, and knows where you live.” Jason squeezed Ryan’s leg, through his work trousers. “I wrote to him, told him didn’t want to speak to him.” Ryan didn’t bother pointing out this would have confirmed their location to the journo. “Then it’ll be trespassing the moment he comes near the shack,” Ryan said instead. When Ryan drove home from Jason’s work, his gaze in the rear vision mirror; the car didn’t follow them, so maybe they were both being over-reactive that time. Or maybe the person doing surveillance didn’t need to follow them, because he already knew where they lived. *** Saturday afternoon, they were sprawled on the couch on the porch, the TV dragged into the open front door so they could watch the cricket match in comfort. Ryan was mostly asleep, after working an extra shift the night before, at an open air concert. He had his head in Jason’s lap, while Jason stroked Ryan’s hair, growing in after a buzz cut. “And England are in all sorts of trouble,” the voice of the commentator droned. “Australia’s spin has them pinned down, and the ball is moving off the seam. This over, Reynolds has the ball from the stadium end. England is three for fifty three, off seventeen overs.” Jason popped a tinny, and Ryan let himself fall a little further asleep, then Jason’s hand, cold from the beer dropped onto Ryan’s bare shoulder. “Wake up,” he hissed as Blackie began to bellow, deep and threatening. Ryan jerked awake, blinking and swearing, and Jason yelled, “Blackie, heel!” Blackie backed her way to the porch, still yammering her protest at the man hesitating on the track. The stranger was tall, with stooped shoulders under his creased shirt, and the persecuted look of a crime reporter that Ryan recognized from his time as a police officer. “Commodore man,” Ryan said.


“Excuse me,” the man said, his hands held in front of him. “I’m looking for Jason Cooper, and I

can see I’ve found him.”

“Leave the property now, or we’ll call the police.” Ryan stood, Jason behind him. “Jase, go find

my cell phone,” Ryan added, under his breath.

Jason moved, beginning to push past the TV and into the shack, and the stranger said, “There’s no need, really. I just want to talk to Jason, off the record. I’m trying to make sense of why Harvey died.” When Ryan glanced at Jason, he was stunned to find defeat in the creases of Jason’s frown and the slump of his shoulders. “Jase?” Ryan asked, and Jason shook his head.

“He knows where we live. I either talk to him, or we have to move again, and I like it here,”

Jason said.

The stranger didn’t move, despite Jason’s words, not until Jason said, “Blackie.”

The dog, attention firmly on the stranger, slunk over to Jason, who bent down and patted her.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Brave guard dog. On your blanket.”

Blackie licked Jason’s face, and trotted indoors to find her blanket, happy now she’d seen the

nasty stranger off, and willing to let the new friend onto the property.

Jason stood up again, rubbing at the dog saliva on his cheek with the back of his hand.

“You got a name?” he asked the stranger, who was cautiously approaching the house.

“Aaron Lindsay,” the man said. “Investigative journalist with The Daily News. And you must be

Jason Cooper.”

Jason nodded. “And this is Ryan.”

Aaron’s face creased in a smile Ryan knew was insincere. “The elusive Detective Constable

Ryan Hadley, last seen at Harvey Cooper’s funeral.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan said, then he turned to Jason. “This is a really bad idea.”

Jason shrugged. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“He’s not going to be able to tell you anything you don’t already know,” Ryan said.

“Just a few questions,” Aaron said, reaching into his shirt pocket for a notebook. “Mind if we sit

down?”


They sat, the three of them around the kitchen table, the light on Aaron’s recorder flashing accusingly. “Why have you found me?” Jason asked, his voice so raw that Ryan reached across the table and took his hand. “There’re so many questions,” Aaron said. “Like why Hadley left the force, for a start. Were you the police force’s sacrifice in this case, Ryan? Or did you see something that made you leave?” Ryan kept his mouth resolutely closed. Even if he’d been stupid enough to want to answer, he knew what a confidentiality agreement looked like, and he’d signed one when he’d joined the force. “All right,” Aaron said. “Different subject. What really happened at Cooper’s house, when the other gang broke in? Jason?” “They killed Harvey,” Jason said. “The police mopped up. I hid in the kitchen. Nothing to tell, really.” Not quite the truth, but Jason and Ryan never even talked between themselves about how Jason had shot one of the gunmen to save Ryan’s life. Aaron flipped a page on his notebook. “According to a lawyer, who was in the house at the time, multiple shots were fired, from automatic weapons, shotguns and hand guns. Doesn’t sound like just an assassination to me. What really happened? Did Harvey Cooper fight back? Did either of you shoot anyone?” Jason shrugged. “I was hiding, and I didn’t see anything.” “I’m not sure I’d want to trust a lawyer who could differentiate between weapon classes by sound alone,” Ryan added. Flip of the pages in the notebook again. “According to one report, a tactical response officer received a shot gun blast to the chest, from Mrs. Cooper. Is that true?” Jason slammed his free fist on the table, rattling the recorder and making Aaron jump. “I do not want to talk about my brother’s death. Change the subject or leave.” “Tell me about you and Ryan,” Aaron said. “How did you meet?” Ryan looked down at where his hand was twined around Jason’s, and it was all too much. “There’s personal, and there’s none of your fucking business,” Jason said, and he sounded as pissed off as Ryan felt. “Get out now.”


Aaron nodded, scooping up his recorder as he stood, then dropping a business card onto the chipped laminate. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been helpful. That’s my cell phone number, if either of you want to say anything else, either on or off the record.” Jason followed Aaron out, standing at the doorway, where the TV still muttered to itself, for a few minutes. Ryan stayed where he was, staring at the smears on the kitchen table. Jason disturbed Ryan’s gloomy thoughts. “I’m going to take Blackie for a walk. Back later.” *** After the reporter had left, Ryan ran through the options for trouble, turning the situation over and over in his mind. The world of organized crime was a shadowy place, with shifting allegiances, double and triple crosses, and informants. One lone reporter, asking stupid questions, was not enough for Ryan to identify where the trouble was coming from, and he really didn’t want to call any of his old police contacts, looking for information. And then there was the prospect that the journo was genuine and really was researching a book on Harvey. There’d be enough material there for several books. What he hadn’t predicted was the newspaper banner, the following Saturday. "Love story for our times!" the banner screamed, with photos of Ryan and Jason at each end. Ryan picked a paper up from the pile at the supermarket checkout, pulling his trolley of dog food and toilet paper aside to let other shoppers past. Saturday Magazine, center pull out. The glossy color insert slipped out, and the front cover had a photo that Ryan hadn’t realized had been taken, of Jason embracing him at Harvey’s funeral. The cop and the crim who gave it all up for love, page 3. “Fucking hell,” Ryan swore, and some old dear with a trolley full of potting mix glared at him disapprovingly. He glared back at her and opened the magazine. Ryan Hadley, former Detective Constable with a regional organized crime squad, and Jason Cooper, brother of Harvey Cooper, head of a major drug importation and distribution network before dying in a hail of bullets, were on opposite sides of a police investigation into the Cooper empire. Something happened during that investigation. Now the pair can be found in a small seaside settlement on the other side of Australia, living in a rundown hovel, where they hold hands at the kitchen table or cuddle together, watching the cricket. How they got from the scene of Harvey Cooper’s assassination, eighteen months ago, to this small house isn’t clear, unlike their devotion to each other, which shines through the poverty and ordinariness of their lives. Did Hadley’s superior officers know about their love affair, or did


Hadley change sides? Did Harvey Cooper know his brother loved a cop? The absence of a corruption enquiry into the relationship by the police, and the lack of retaliatory killings within the organized crime underworld, indicate that this might just be what it appears: a love affair for our times, a story of two people who found love amongst death and danger. Ryan crumpled the magazine, then smoothed the pages again to peer at the photos on the page. A police service photo of him in uniform, and one of his commanding officer, Detective Inspector Longbottom, wearing the insignia of his recent promotion, but no recent photo of Ryan. Photos of Jason, one taken with a telephoto lens of him leaving work at the docks, and the ubiquitous photo of Jason and Harvey walking out of the Supreme Court, wearing matching dark suits. “This is bad, Jase,” Ryan muttered to himself. “Real bad. Anyone who was ever looking for either us has been given a fucking road map.” *** Ryan parked the security company patrol car, and reached for the radio. “Tango Four to base,” he said. “Responding to an alarm, at the storage lockups on Clive Street, behind the panel beaters.” “Copy, Tango Four,” the radio crackled. “When you’re done there, Ryan, the supermarket at Rockingham Central has a shoplifter. Could you drop in there, do a report and scare the shoplifter a bit?” “Got that,” Ryan said, scribbling the details onto the job sheet on his clipboard. “Give me five to turn this alarm off.” He clicked the radio back into its holder, settled his cap on his head, and slammed the car door shut. No need to lock the car; the GPS locator wired into the electrics made it unusable as a stolen ride. The siren wailed, but no one seemed to be around the panel beaters, or the row of rented storage lockups down the alley behind. Ryan hitched himself up on the chain link gate and keyed the alarm off, then ambled around the back to the lockups, through the weeds crowding the sandy lane. It’d be kids, or a feral cat. Ryan made a mental note to tell control to tell the owners to adjust the sensitivity of the alarm sensors. He was paid to be precise, so he walked the length of the row of lockups, testing each roller door to make sure it was locked. At the end lockup, bending over to check the padlock on the door, something thudded against Ryan’s head, hard and solid, sending him sprawling. A hand pushed his face into the sandy gravel, and the cell phone was wrenched out of its holster on his belt. Cold metal, smelling of gun oil, pressed against his cheek, and a voice said, “Let’s not have a scene here.”


Ryan stopped struggling, falling limp onto the dirt. If this was an execution, this would be his last moment, as someone economically put two rounds into his skull. No execution, and hands hauled him to his feet while he tried to work out how to make himself keep breathing through the fear. There were three men dressed in track suits, tight T-shirts, and joggers, and they had all the smooth look of killers hopped up on amphetamines, human growth hormones, and steroids. None of the faces were familiar. The gun against his face was a .357 magnum, a messy gun to take a round from, and the other two men had .38s shoved into the waistbands of their track pants. Ryan lifted his hands and kept silent. One thug held up the insert from The Daily News and peered at the photos. “That’s him, only without the poncy hair.” “Nice,” one of the other men drawled. “You play nice, mister lover boy, and you’ll go back to your boyfriend in one piece.” Ryan didn’t believe in arguing with people who had the jump on him, so he meekly let the thugs guide him around the back of the lockups, to where a hotted-up Holden, garnished with spoilers, lights and flash paintwork, waited behind a straggling oleander bush. His odds of staying alive just kept improving: the car was some thug’s pride and joy, not a stolen ride, and the upholstery would be protected at all costs. No blood would ever touch that precious vinyl. Ryan was shoved onto the back seat, across the foot well, and two of the thugs clambered into the back with him, feet planted securely on Ryan’s knees and shoulder, stopping him from causing any grief. The car started, bumping across the rough ground with squeaking suspension, then rolling up the laneway, past where Ryan’s work car was abandoned. “Take care of it,” the thug with his feet on Ryan’s shoulder said. The driver hopped out, the car shifting a little with his weight gone, and the Ryan could hear the creak of the trunk opening. A gun barrel appeared in Ryan’s field of view, just in case. Ryan wasn’t planning on taking on three professionals with handguns, but he was still doing what he could.


With his hands squashed under him, he tore at a fingernail, ripping it off, then worked the nail clipping into a groove in the floor mat. He pinched his hand hard, driving the edge of another nail into a finger, hard enough to bleed, then pressed his finger against the floor mat, leaving blood and prints. Nothing like some solid forensic evidence. The smell of petrol filled the car, and a solid whoomp rocked the car, just as the driver jumped in and dropped the clutch, taking off with spinning tires. They’d torched his work car. He knew that there was nothing like a burning car body to attract the attention of the fire brigade and police, and in five minutes time the police would know that Ryan had been driving that car, and was missing. The Holden, a big V8, roared away from the fire. Ryan kept track of the turns the car took; he’d done enough security patrols around Rockingham to know the lay of the land, the main streets and the cul-de-sacs. The thugs were definitely well-trained, heading to the freeway on-ramp by the shortest route, while the floor beneath Ryan vibrated and shook, becoming warmer and warmer where the metal floor curved over the drive shaft. The freeway was a long straight road, linking Rockingham to the nearest city, providing easy access for the hordes of commuters who had brought the suburban sprawl to ruin what had once been a quiet seaside town. Half an hour later, the car slowed, taking a freeway off ramp, somewhere south of the city, in an area Ryan didn’t know at all. No way to trace his route there. Eventually, the car skittered into a driveway, braking hard, sliding into a garage, the garage door closing automatically and plunging the interior of the car into darkness until someone opened a car door, switching the interior light on. Gun metal, against Ryan’s neck, and a voice said, “Climb out of the car, nice and steady. You try anything fucking fancy, I’ll shoot you.” Ryan pushed himself up slowly, keeping his hands in sight, then slithered across the back seat, out into the garage. A face he knew, at long last. “Mad Andy,” he said. “What a surprise.” Mad Andy had been a bit player eighteen months before, but he’d obviously changed cities and worked his way up the food chain. Mad Andy smiled, elbowing the thug beside him. “See, I told you the jacks knew who I was.”


Ryan knew, from hours and hours spent doing the grunt work research for the organized crime squad, and from watching endless recordings of inane interviews with thugs, that it would be a mistake to assume this bunch of thugs were any less clever or nasty than any of the others he’d had professional contact with, no matter how dim they seemed. The fact he was still alive, that he had not just been shot in the head, was the best news he’d had in a long time, and was almost enough to stop him from panicking. Almost, but not quite. A hand shoved Ryan forward and down onto a drum of chemicals. He was sitting on a drum of Suzie --pseudoephedrine--one of the precursor drugs of methamphetamine, and one of the most expensive substances on the planet. He must have gasped, because one of the thugs struck him across the face with his .38. Oh yeah, he was so very fucked now. No way was he ever going to be released, not when he’d seen the Suzie. Mad Andy handed Ryan back his phone. “Phone Cooper,” Mad Andy said. “Not sure I can call Harvey, he’s dead,” Ryan said. “You want me to phone Jason?” “Of course I mean Jason, you wanker,” Mad Andy said. “Call him; tell him I want a word with him.” Ryan took the phone from Mad Andy, and a thug behind him said, “Oi! Don’t you go calling anyone else, you loser, or you’re dead.” Metal prodding against his shoulder, ironically, the shoulder he’d been shot in last time. “There’s a problem,” Ryan said. “We only own one phone, and I’m holding it. Why don’t you tell me what it is you want Jason for, and I’ll see if I can help?” “Depends,” Mad Andy said. “Do you know where Harvey kept his cash? He owes me four hundred.” Ryan sighed, and the safety clicked off the gun sticking in his back. Four hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money. “You gotta show respect for Mad Andy,” the thug said, taking the phone out of Ryan’s hand and brandishing his gun with his other hand. “You not respecting him?” “I have the highest respect for a man who represents as well as Mad Andy does,” Ryan said. “He is a man of considerable class and means. I’m sure he’s a gentleman.” He put earnest sincerity into his voice, though he doubted Mad Andy would identify sarcasm if he heard it. Mad Andy pursed his ugly lips, obviously thinking. “So Jason fucks you, right? We are talking about the same Jason Cooper? Big bloke, scruffy, related to the deceased Harvey Cooper?”


“Sounds like Jason,” Ryan said. “Why?” “How much do you think Jason would pay for you?” Mad Andy asked. “Money?” Ryan said, and he would have laughed if he hadn’t been so terrified. “Do we look like we have that kind of money?” “Information,” Mad Andy said. “I know that the jacks and the lawyers never found all of Harvey’s estate; there’s assets waiting to be collected, and he had an outstanding debt with me. Your Jason is going to help me collect.” Ryan nodded, taking the chance to look around the garage. One car, enough storage space for some of the essentials of drug manufacturing, but no sign of a drug kitchen or a pill press. He couldn’t smell ammonia; so this was a warehouse, not a lab. Mad Andy looked at Ryan, speculation in his eyes. “So how much does Jason love you? Enough to ring you up, once he misses you, see how you are?” Ryan wasn’t sure that Jason loved him at all; he’d certainly never used the word. Loved fucking him, sure, but Ryan wasn’t certain that would translate into a willingness to trade with killers. “I’m sure Jason will call, once he realizes I haven’t come home from work, sometime after eleven,” Ryan said, since there was no need to share his uncertainty about Jason. It would buy him time, though he wasn’t sure what he could do with the time. Say his prayers, perhaps? It might be time to make peace with the world. Mad Andy nodded. “Then we’ll keep you alive until midnight. Charlie, restrain him and keep him silent.” Four guns trained on Ryan, and he lifted his hands slowly, holding them out in front of himself. “Not doing anything stupid,” he said, as one of the thugs, presumably Charlie, put his gun on the work bench behind him, well out of Ryan’s reach, then approached him cautiously, roll of duct tape in his hands. “You did something stupid when you shacked up with Jason,” Mad Andy said. “And it’s been downhill since then, right up to the point where the papers decided to advertise where you were and who you were fucking.” Once his face, hands, and feet were taped, Ryan let himself go limp. He’d put on some weight since leaving the force, and it was much harder to move a relaxed body, so he might as well make things as slow for the thugs as possible. Two of the thugs dragged him up the concrete steps, into a house empty of furniture, grunting and swearing, then tossed him on the carpet of what had once been a living room.


Chairs were dragged in from elsewhere in the house, and Mad Andy sat himself down on a folding lawn chair, Ryan’s hand in his phone. “Watch him, boys,” he told his thugs. The tape across Ryan’s mouth was secure, mashing his lips against his teeth, and he had to start running through breathing exercises learned while a police officer, focusing on combating the waves of fear, just to stop himself from hyperventilating. Ryan’s phone rang, making Ryan jump, sending yet more adrenaline rushing into his bloodstream, his heart banging wildly in his chest. Mad Andy peered at the phone, then poked at a button and lifted the phone to his ear. Jason’s voice was tinny, and Ryan couldn’t make out any words, but Mad Andy smiled beatifically. “Jason, me old mate. It’s Mad Andy here. Young Ryan is a little indisposed right now, but I can pass on a message.” The phone squawked, and that time Ryan could make out the words. “Andrew, you fucking wanker. You hurt one single hair, make one mark on Ryan’s skin, and I will come after you with a meat cleaver, you useless arsehole.” “Ah, I’ve missed you,” Mad Andy said, his eyes twinkling at Ryan. “You and whose fucking army?” Less squawking and Mad Andy settled the phone back against his ear. “What I want is the location of Harvey’s lockup, the one where he kept his personal supplies. Tell me.” Indignant noises that time, and Mad Andy took his gun out of his waistband and waved it at Ryan. “See, I’m holding this phone in my right hand, so this shot isn’t going to be aimed.” The gun went off, hitting the wall above Ryan and showering plaster over him, making him scream against his gag. Mad Andy chuckled, brandishing the gun wildly, the phone against his ear. “Proof?” he said. “You are a suspicious man, Cooper, but I can oblige.” He put his gun under his chair, and walked over to kneel beside Ryan. “Talk nicely,” he ordered Ryan, and he tore the duct tape off Ryan’s face, ripping the top layer of Ryan’s lips off, and Ryan shouted obscenities at him. “That’s not nice,” he told Ryan. “Be nice to your boyfriend, or he might not pay to get you back.”


He pressed the phone against Ryan’s face, and Ryan could hear Jason calling for him, sounding heartbroken, Blackie in the background shouting her red alert bark. Strangers, hopefully cops, at their house. “Jase,” Ryan croaked. “Stretch--” He wanted to say ‘Stretchyarse’ in the hope that Jason would recognize the nickname and work out to contact Detective Inspector Longbottom for help, but Mad Andy wrenched the phone back, taking Jason’s voice away. “Hear that?” Mad Andy told Jason. “That’s the sound of your boy. Now, let’s work on the location.” Mad Andy listened, rolling his eyes, then said, “The departed Harvey was too far under his missus’ thumb. You’ve got four minutes to ring her and get the info.” Jason babbled, and Mad Andy shrugged and said, “So find her fast. Ring Bali or wherever she’s spending all the proceeds, and find her.” “Mad Andy,” Ryan began, but Mad Andy had walked back and retrieved his gun, which was pointing at Ryan’s head with a steady aim. “Shut up,” Mad Andy said. The tape went back on Ryan’s mouth, and Ryan closed his eyes. The adrenaline was burning through him, and if this wasn’t resolved soon, he was going to have the worst post-adrenaline crash ever. He lay there on the scungy carpet, while the thugs took turns watching him, the sun lowering to shine directly through a window in the adjoining kitchen, then paling as the sun dropped further. Two hours, three hours, Ryan wasn’t sure. Long enough for Ryan’s guts to have turned to concrete and for his dehydrated throat to have started burning. After dark, one of the thugs went away, the car outside roaring and disappearing, then eventually coming back, with the double bips of the car alarm system disarming and arming. The driver walked back in, arms piled with pizza boxes. These boys weren’t dumb; they knew not to get pizza home delivered. One of the thugs looked up from gorging himself on pizza and peered through the slats of the blind, out the front window. “Boss?” the thug said, and the window shattered, along with the thug’s face. Ryan curled up as small as he could, tucking his knees up and lifting his bound hands over his face to protect himself. It was too much, under the circumstances, for the universe to expect him to go through a second underworld shootout in one lifetime.


More shots, from something meaty like a submachine gun, with the thugs returning fire, then the kitchen window exploded inward and guns fired inside the house. Mad Andy and boys scrambled, spreading out through the house, as other windows smashed in too, then the front door crashed, banging open, as the lights went out in the house, leaving the pervasive smell of cordite and burning gasoline. Ryan crawled, creeping his way through the glass that littered the living room, towards the door that he’d been dragged in through. He wanted somewhere to hide, somewhere that he wouldn’t be shot. The last time had hurt too much. Footsteps pounding through the house, and Ryan tumbled down the concrete steps, into the garage. So close, so fucking close, then as people shouted and more shots sounded, shotgun blasts that echoed through the house, Ryan rolled himself under the car. He was cut to ribbons, so no matter what happened, he’d left a hell of a lot of forensic evidence behind. The exhaust of the car was unpleasantly hot through his polyester work shirt. It was pitch black in the garage, and no one moved nearby. Ryan’s breath was hideously loud in the confined space, gasping and roaring against the duct tape as he tried to drag the tape off with his bound hands. Police sirens in the far distance, and Ryan might have been crying, which would have been stupid because the salt water hurt like fuck on the cuts on his face. Whatever had gone down in the house, whichever faction or group had contested Mad Andy for power, Ryan had no clue. He didn’t care; in fact, he rather hoped the shotgun blasts had been for Mad Andy. The tape wound around his face and scalp wouldn’t let go, so Ryan lifted his hands up, trying to find something sharp in the undercarriage of the car. Footsteps, pounding through the house, and Jason’s voice shouted, “Ryan! Ryan! Where the fuck are you?” Trapped under a car, with tape still gagging him was not a good answer, not with the police sirens closing in. Car alarm. The car had an alarm. Ryan’s feet were under the motor, and the car was an old Holden, from the seventies, with room around the engine block for Ryan to get his feet up and thrash them around, until he hit something electrical and the alarm wailed. Ryan shouted against his gag, from the shock of the piercing wail of the alarm so close to him, but Jason’s voice called back, shouting, “Garage! He’s in a car!” The thunder of heavy boots resonated, then torchlight sliced through the darkness, down near the car, and someone nearby shouted, “Suzie!”


“Grab the drum and get the garage door open, before the jacks arrive,” a gruff voice called. The torchlight moved down, under the car, then hands reached under the car, snagging hold of Ryan’s clothes and dragging him free. The door rumbled open, and someone very large scooped Ryan up in his arms, against stinking leather and lengths of chain wound around his chest, and they ran, out into the suburban night, where flames from the house lit the night. Ryan was thrown into the back of a van, people piling in after him, and the motor gunned, so that someone had to grab wildly at the doors to close them. “Ryan!” Jason shouted as the van cornered hard, tumbling the people in the back around. Hands found him, and the tape was dragged off his mouth, then Jason was right there, hanging onto Ryan tightly, while someone cut the tape off his hands and feet. “GnghhGnghh,” Ryan gasped, but as soon as his hands were free, he hung onto Jason tightly. “Wha?” he managed to say, through a mouth as dry as the summer, against Jason’s neck. “It was the quickest way,” Jason said, over the road noise. “The jacks would have wanted warrants. The Death Heads aren’t worried about niceties like permission and proof.” Ryan’s hands around Jason’s back, found solid metal and hard wood, on a harness. “Don’t,” Jason said. “It’s a crossbow, and you don’t want to accidentally shoot a bolt off in a confined space full of Death Head members.” Ryan couldn’t take any more; he’d been kidnapped, threatened, bound and gagged, shot at, and then rescued by a posse of Death Head bikies. He couldn’t deal with the idea that Jason was armed with an illegal, ranged weapon, or that half the police in the state would be after them. It was too much. Jason held him close, patting his back and murmuring affectionately to him, while Ryan cried. “Hush now,” Jason whispered. “It’s all over, and you’re safe. Don’t think about it.” The van slowed to a roll, rattled over a grid, then came to a halt. The doors popped open, letting artificial light in, and the bikies clambered out slowly, one of them hefting the drum of Suzie. Jason had to help Ryan out, and when Ryan got his feet under himself and managed to straighten up, he became painfully aware of how much of a mess he was. His forearms were gouged and bleeding, from where he’d protected his face, and glass had ripped through his work clothes, leaving blood seeping dark into the blue material.


“Medic!” one of the bikies shouted, and Ryan found his feet were not steady after all. Jason and a burly man with a long beard grabbed at him, stopping him from hitting the concrete of the bikie enclosure. A woman bustled out of the clubhouse, pulling latex gloves on, first aid kit under her arm. “Go, all of you,” she shouted. “Get those weapons secured, and get off the property. Baz, get that man out of sight and into the garage, now.” Hands scooped up Ryan, lifting him and carrying him through a sea of leather-clad figures who were unbuckling bandoliers and pulling hand guns from holsters. The garage, full of rows of gleaming bikes, chrome, leather and polished aluminum, also held a huge couch, which Ryan was lowered onto. He was relieved to see that Jason had shed the holster holding the crossbow, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have a long and loud word with Jase on the subject. “Scram!” the medic called out, and the men around them dispersed in the night, then she turned her attention to Ryan. “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “I’m Bobbie. Fuck, you’re a mess.” Ryan closed his eyes. He just wanted to be somewhere safe, not in a bikie enclosure, while a woman called Bobbie poked at his sore bits. “Ryan?” Jason asked, squeezing the hand Bobbie wasn’t working on. “You still here?” Something antiseptically pungent was painted onto Ryan’s forearm, and his eyes jerked open involuntarily. “Hang on, sweetie,” Bobbie said, and a pair of tweezers swam into Ryan’s field of view, then one of the sharp points of pain finally stopped. “Glass is a bastard,” Bobbie said. “You did a good job of protecting your face. Do you want some analgesia? I’ve got some smack indoors, and that’ll stop you from feeling anything.” “Fuck, no,” Ryan said. “I’d rather feel the pain.” Bobbie shrugged. “It’s an opiate, hon, that’s all.” “Don’t,” Jason said. “He’s tough, he can take the pain.” Ryan thought, through the haze of misery, that he could hear pride in Jason’s voice. It took endless minutes of pain while Bobbie pulled glass slivers out of Ryan, disinfected each wound, then stuck butterfly tapes across each cut, but she finally sat back on her heels and nodded approvingly. “A couple of them could do with sewing up,” she said. “If you’re in a position where you can go to a hospital, that would be a good thing, or else I can give our doc a ring, see if he could fix you up.”


“Hospital, later,” Jason said. “Right now, a large number of jacks are looking for us, and we

should get well away from here.”

Bobbie nodded. “Moose said to tell you to tell Mrs. Blue that we won’t be calling in payment for

this, since we picked up a drum. You’ll let her know?”

Jason nodded. “I’ll pass the message on, and I’m sure she appreciates the gesture of continuing

goodwill between the Coopers and the Death Heads.”

Bobbie pulled her gloves off, then stood up and shook hands with Jason. “How you getting

home?” she asked.

“Could you drop us at a taxi stand?” Jason asked.

Bobbie nodded. “No problems,” she said. “I lifted a car, while the boys where doing the raid, in

case you needed some transport.”

Jason bent over, to help Ryan stand. “Don’t say a word,” he hissed, and Ryan reluctantly nodded.

He wasn’t a cop anymore, and he didn’t have to know a damned thing about anything.

Bobbie dropped them at a train station in a non-descript ancient Corolla, then drove off, smoke

belching out of the stolen car’s exhaust, and Jason helped Ryan hobble through the train station to the taxis on the other side. The cabbie peered at Ryan in the rear vision mirror, then craned his head to watch Ryan and Jason clamber into the cab.

“Footy training,” Jason said.

“Where you going to?” the cabbie asked, flicking his meter on.

Jason gave their address, in Rockingham, and the cabbie grinned. “Long way to Rockingham,”

he said knowledgeably. “That’ll be a twenty dollar surcharge.”

Jason dug through the pockets of his black jeans and found his wallet. “Here’s a couple of

hundred, mate, just so you know you’re going to get paid.”

The cabbie tucked the money into his top pocket and flicked the meter off again. “Sorry,

officer,” he said to his steering wheel. “I’ve not seen any men matching those descriptions.”

Ryan groaned. No wonder the organized crime squad found it so hard to make any headway; the

Death Head gang retrieved kidnap victims, and cabbies were so damned cheap.


Jason slid his arm around Ryan. “We’ll be home in less than an hour. Close your eyes, you need to rest.” His lips pressed against Ryan’s forehead, right where the post-adrenaline headache from hell was ripping though Ryan’s brain, and Ryan closed his eyes. The taxi dropped them up the road from the shack, and they walked through the night, down the rough gravel track. The yard was swarming with police, red and blue flashing lights painting the house, with two Adept Security patrol cars in the mess. Officers charged up the drive, radios crackled and hissed, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Blackie howled despairingly. Jason held his hands up, and Ryan lifted his bandaged arms slowly too, until a high-powered beam on a car swung up the drive, to light their faces. “Stand down!” someone shouted. “That’s the missing persons.” A uniformed officer stepped forward. “Detective Sergeant Nolan, Major Case Squad,” she said. “We are relieved to see you both, Jason and Ryan.” The radio on her shoulder crackled, and she lifted it to her mouth and said, “That’s right, both here, sir. Relatively unhurt.” She smiled at Ryan and Jason. “That’s the organized crime boys. They’ve been panicking, seems you’re both exactly the sort of people they should have known were living in their patch.” Jason tightened his arm around Ryan. “Can we get into our own house? It’s been a long night.” “Not over yet,” Nolan said cheerfully, and paramedics ran towards them, first aid kits in their hands. “At least you’ll get sewn up now,” Jason said. *** Blackie was distraught, locked in the back of a paddy wagon, presumably to stop her from biting police officers. When Jason let her free, she launched herself at his chest, wriggling and squirming, then howled again when Jason clipped her chain onto her collar, for the safety of the state’s finest. The detectives from the organized crime squad sat around the sticky kitchen table, and Jason and Ryan stared mutely back at them. “Let’s try again,” a man in a dark suit said. “Ryan Hadley, former detective with another organized squad was kidnapped by a third party, one Mad Andy and associates, and his work car torched. He was knocked unconscious, and remained that way while a fourth party, identity unknown, contacted Jason Cooper, brother of deceased organized crime figure, Harvey Cooper. Fourth party indicated that, if Jason was looking for Ryan, he could be found at a location elsewhere. Jason goes there, in a taxi, the details of which he has forgotten, and retrieves his unconscious, injured and partially repaired friend. Ryan recovers consciousness, but has no memory of the incident, and the pair of you walk in here.”


Jason nodded. “That’s it.” “Do you have any idea why a fourth party, identity unknown, would retrieve your friend from a location belonging to Mad Andy, who we’ve been after for years?” Jason shrugged. “I’m Harvey’s brother, and I guess there are folks who still owe Harvey favors, even beyond his death. Maybe they’re scrupulous payers of debts.” Jason wasn’t managing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as well as Ryan had earlier. “I’ve seen some of the first Scene of Crime photos from Mad Andy’s house, and it’s a mess,” the detective said. “Is there anything you’d like to say, in anticipation of a full forensic assessment of the scene?” “Some of Harvey’s business associates were fond of what they called ‘homicidal merriment’,” Jason said. “I’m so sorry about that, but I’m sure it couldn’t happen to a nicer crim than Mad Andy. Are we under arrest?” “What for?” the detective asked, and he sounded exasperated, something Ryan completely understood. “Having a dodgy cover story? Last time I looked, that wasn’t an offence.” He stared at Ryan directly. “How could you?” he asked. “You used to be one of us. You know exactly what information we need to wrap this up, unknown fourth parties and all, and you’re not saying a word.” Ryan resisted the urge to rub at his face; it would only hurt his hand. “I’m not a cop,” he said, mostly to reassure himself. “Not any longer. Please leave, unless we’re being arrested.” The detective stood up, managing to give the impression of completely filling their drab kitchen. “If you want to talk, Hadley, even off the record, then you know where to find me.” Ryan stayed at the kitchen table, while Jason supervised the police and security vehicles leaving, then walked the property with Blackie, making sure everyone was gone. Jason sat back at the table and Blackie sprawled underneath it, her weight heavy across Ryan’s feet. Jason set a bottle of Jameson whiskey on the table, along with two coffee mugs. Ryan had intended explaining to Jason exactly what he’d done wrong, and why leading a team of armed bikies to rescue him was stupid, but Jason covered his hand over Ryan’s. “I know,” Jason said. “I know it was dumb and risky, and could have landed me in jail, but if I’d called the cops, they would have dithered over warrants and rules, and you might have died. “When Keith from Adept Security turned up here, saying your work car had been torched and you were missing, I guessed someone had snatched you. Then Mad Andy answered your phone. I knew the local Death Head chapter would know where Mad Andy was based and be keen to wipe him out, and that if I asked Blue to help, she’d guarantee the payment of the job.”


Ryan’s anger melted away. He was too tired, and too grateful, to argue with Jason. “I’ll have to

thank Blue, next time she calls,” he said weakly.

Jason smiled smugly. “Look at it this way: there aren’t many people can say that their partner has

proven his devotion by arranging an armed militia as a gift.”

Ryan lifted Jason’s hand, grubby against the dressings covering Ryan’s hand, and kissed

painfully raw lips against Jason’s knuckles. “I told you the newspaper interview was a bad idea.”

“Aren’t many people that can say their partner has declared his love for them in a color spread in

The Daily News, either,” Jason said.

“You what?” Ryan said.

“I rang the journo up, told him that I loved you, and that I didn’t care if the whole world knew.”

“Bloody hell,” Ryan said, reaching for the coffee mug with his free hand, the whiskey sharp and

welcome. “You could just have told me.”

Jason grinned wickedly. “I seem to have the same flair for drama as Harvey.”

Ryan studied Jason’s face carefully. “Is there a hidden store of Harvey’s wealth?”

Jason shook his head. “Not anymore. Blue and Harvey’s missus cleared it out just after he died.

It’s all been converted to cash and taken out the country, so I had nothing to give Mad Andy.”

“You didn’t get any of the loot?” Ryan asked, even though he could see no trace of a lie around

Jason’s eyes.

“Why would I need money?” Jason asked. “I’ve got you.”

Jason kissed Ryan, gentle against his sore mouth, where the tape had removed skin and left

lumps of adhesive behind.

“You could just have told me,” Ryan repeated, but he let Jason guide him towards their bed,

Blackie underfoot.


The Alpha Bet

By Cassidy Ryan

West turned over in bed, his body seeking out the heat of his partner in spite of the warm comforter bundled around them. His hand collided with a smooth expanse of skin, and he smiled sleepily, snuggling closer, wrapping his arm around Grey’s waist and pulling them as close together as it was possible to get. A soft mumble reached his ear, and West’s smile deepened. He tucked his head under Grey’s chin and prepared to settle in for a nice sleep in. Grey slipped one long, hard leg between West’s and draped his arm around West’s shoulders. West sighed happily. Oh, yeah, they could definitely see out the winter like this. “Mmm, how about some breakfast?” Grey’s voice was a puff of warm air at West’s ear, ruffling his blond hair and sending a little shiver of pleasure along his spine. “Sounds good.” West let his fingers draw small circles at the bottom of Grey’s back, but neither of them made any move to get out of bed. Grey rubbed his chin over the top of West’s head. “Scrambled eggs?” “With smoked salmon?” West nuzzled his nose into Grey’s neck, smelling sleep-warmed skin and soap from last night’s shower. He felt his body begin to stir to life and rubbed at the thigh between his legs. “Champagne and orange juice.” West snickered. “How very decadent.” He laid a hand on Grey’s hard chest. Even after three years together, he still loved the way his pale skin looked beside the rich chocolate of Grey’s. He stroked the pad of his thumb over one dark nipple and smiled when Grey gasped. Grey placed a hand over West’s. “No time for that now. Breakfast first.” Huffing in disappointment, West let his hand rest on Grey’s chest. They lay quietly for a few moments, the only sound that of a boat engine out on the lake. “Well?” Grey’s voice broke in just as West felt himself drift.


His head popped up in surprise, eyes blinking owlishly. “Hmm? Yes? What?” A very unmanly shriek escaped him when he felt a stinging slap on his left buttock. “What the hell?” “I want my breakfast, boy. Jump to it.” Suddenly wide awake, West sat up and looked at his lover in disbelief. “Boy? Did you just call me boy?” Grey rolled onto his back, brought his arms up to rest under his head. He lounged, comforter down around his hips, broad, naked chest tight with muscle. A small smile quirked up one side of his mouth. “You have a problem with that?” West stared at Grey for a long moment, eyes wide with incredulity. “Uh… yeah!” Grey levered himself up onto his elbows and cocked his smooth-shaven head to the side. “You’re not backing out of our deal, are you?” His head still feeling thick and muzzy from sleep, West narrowed his eyes. “Deal? We had a deal? A deal that involved you calling me boy?” Grey’s smile took on a shit-eating quality. He collapsed back against the pillows again, hands folded behind his head, and just watched West. Waited. It was with an increasing sense of foreboding that West searched his mind for the answer to his own question. He didn’t have far to look before he felt heat invade his body. “The casino.” It was barely more than a whisper of dread. His eyes closed as the clouds of sleep parted and it all became painfully clear. Last night. The blackjack table at the casino. West had been on a roll, Grey leaning indolently beside him. West could tell that Grey was starting to get bored -- he had never been real big on gambling, but would occasionally indulge West. He had leaned over to Grey and whispered, “If I win this next hand, how about we find somewhere more private and I blow you?” Fire had flared in Grey’s dark eyes, and his tongue had come out to wet his lips. West had grinned, self-satisfied, but the grin slipped when Grey leaned in close and whispered back “How about if you lose the next hand, you spend all day tomorrow catering to my every little whim?” The gleam in his eye when he pulled back had been positively feral. West had gulped audibly. “Every little -- ”


“Whim.” Grey mouthed the word, but he might as well have screamed it for the impact it had on West. He got so hard so fast that he didn’t have enough blood left in his brain to do more than nod stupidly. He was only dimly aware of the sound of a card turning, and the words, “Dealer wins.” West looked down at Grey, still sprawled on the bed. “You were serious last night?” “What do you think?” Grey cocked an eyebrow, smug little smile still firmly in place. West saw the glitter of challenge in his lover’s eyes and had to fight back a smile of his own. He got off the bed, grabbed his robe and slipped it on. “All right. I’ll never be accused of not holding up my end of a deal. For the rest of the day your wish is my command, oh Lord and Master.” Grey grinned happily. “Sir will do.” Laughing, shaking his head, West headed downstairs to make breakfast. As he descended the stairs to the living area he felt a sense of contentment settle on him. The vacation at Lake Tahoe had been Grey’s idea, and a truly fine idea it had been. They had spent the last year up to their necks in work taking the online auction site they had started nearly three years ago public. Too many sixteen hour days had started to take their toll, so when Grey had come home one night the month before and presented West with plane tickets and the rental agreement for the condo on the lake, West had just about cried. They hadn’t had near enough time together that wasn’t about work, and, too often for West’s liking, they had been too tired by the time they got home at night to do more than curl up in bed and sleep. West grinned as he entered the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator. They had certainly gone some way to make up for that dry spell in the last couple of days. Last night at the casino had been the first time they had set foot outside the door -- hell, it had been the first time they had put on any clothes since closing the door behind them on that first night and all but tearing each others clothes off. He got the breakfast ingredients from the refrigerator, marveling at the way things had changed since they had moved in together three years ago and decided to give up their jobs to start their own business. Back then they had been lucky if they could afford mac-and-cheese and had subsisted on noodles more often than West cared to remember. Now it was smoked salmon and champagne. West snorted a private laugh. It was so sappy that he would never admit it out loud to another living being -- not even Grey -- but he would gladly eat mac-and-cheese for the rest of his life if Grey were there to share it with him. He was cutting the salmon when Grey entered the kitchen, his big, hard body wrapped up in a blue robe. He sat in a chair at the table, lounging idly, gaze moving over West. West felt his body heat under Grey’s regard. Damn, never in his life had another man gotten him as hot and ready as fast -- and as easily -- as Grey.


“We need some rules.” Grey’s deep voice cut across his thoughts.

West looked over his shoulder. “Rules?”

"Rules." Grey nodded.

West paused in his preparations, leaned back against the counter and looked at his partner. "For

example?"

"For example, for the rest of the day you will call me sir and I will call you boy." Grey crossed

his arms over his chest, his smile a slash of white across his handsome face.

"Okay." West managed to stretch the word out to at least four syllables.

Grey nodded, satisfied with the answer, as doubtful as the tone had been. "Next, you should

choose a safe word."

West's eyes widened at that, and when he spoke his voice sounded small. "Safe word?" What had

he gotten himself into here? “Sir,” he added quickly.

"Think about a word. We'll discuss it more later."

The ease of his demeanor and the quiet confidence in his voice suggested to West that this was

not a situation that was as new to Grey as it was to West. West just nodded his assent.

"Throughout the day I'll set you tasks. If you complete them to my satisfaction, you’ll be rewarded. If not, you’ll be punished." West found that breathing was becoming a little more difficult, and he felt his groin stir unexpectedly. He didn't ask Grey to elaborate, just waited for him to continue. "We'll take it one step at a time. Breakfast first." Grey made a little shooing motion with his hand, directing West back to his preparations. Oh yes, Grey knew what he was doing. It occurred to West that he should be perhaps a little concerned that there was a side to his lover that he was unaware of, but oddly, he found that he was far from worried. Rather, he discovered a small knot of excitement in his stomach, and his body was starting to make its interest very clear. When it was ready, West placed breakfast on the table, a plate for each of them. He made to sit down opposite Grey, but the look his lover threw him made him pause.

"I eat first. You can kneel beside me until I finish, then you eat. Put your plate in the oven to

keep warm."


West, feeling more heated by the second, nodded. As directed, he placed his food in the oven on a low setting, and moved to Grey's side. He was about to lower himself to his knees when Grey held out a hand, halting him. "Lose the robe." There was a gravelly timbre to Grey's voice that West had never heard before, and it caused a shiver to run through his body. His hands went to the belt of the robe. He untied it, slipped the soft material from his shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. The condo was comfortably warm, but West's skin broke out in goose bumps. "You will remain naked for the rest of the day -- unless you're cooking. Don't want to damage any of the fun bits." A smile tugged at the corner of Grey's mouth. "You can kneel now." Without waiting for West to comply, Grey picked up his fork and started to eat. West sank to his knees beside his lover. He listened to the clink of fork on plate as anticipation unfurled in him. Grey's threat of punishment echoed in his mind, and he felt his cock tighten. He was being given a glimpse into a side of Grey that he had not known existed. But what surprised him more was his own reaction to it. The day ahead was a mystery, but West found himself eager for it to unfold. *** West placed his fork on the side of his plate, the food barely touched. His stomach was so tight with nerves that he simply had not been able to force the food down. Especially with Grey watching him so intently. "Not hungry?" Grey asked, a dry smile on his lips. West shook his head. "Not really." Grey cocked one eyebrow, a clear question. Puzzled, West could only look at him. "Not really, Sir." Grey leaned across the table, took West's chin in his hand. "Don't make me repeat myself." A shiver ran over West's naked skin, and he nodded. Grey smiled. "Good boy. Now, come here." He leaned back in his chair, loosening the belt of his robe and letting it fall open. West got up and rounded the table. When he reached Grey, his lover gestured with one hand, and West complied with the silent command, lowering himself to his knees between Grey's thighs. West gasped when Grey took hold of his own rigid cock, that beautiful, long thick muscle, and stroked himself slowly. Mouth dry, West's tongue came out to lick his lips.


"You want this, boy? You want my cock?" Fire burned in Grey's near-black eyes. West could only nod. He wanted. Fuck he wanted. "Tell me," Grey commanded. West swallowed with some difficulty. "Pl-please, Sir. I want your cock. I want to taste it so badly." Continuing to stroke his shaft lazily, Grey appeared to consider West's reply. He ran his index finger around the tip of his cock, briefly pulling back his foreskin to reveal a bead of moisture. West couldn't hold back a moan, his own dick straining almost painfully. Grey lifted one foot, ran his toe along the length of West's cock, causing West's eyes to drop and his pulse to race. "Okay then," Grey said in a magnanimous tone. "You can suck me. If you do a good job I might even let you come." West's eyes shot up to meet Grey's, wide with surprise. Grey responded by trailing his finger along West's cheek bone. "Rewards are earned, boy." He reached behind West's head, tangled his fingers in his hair, and pulled him forward. The scent of Grey’s arousal just about fried West’s brain. He pressed a soft kiss to the tip of Grey’s dick, parted his lips and took in the crown, used his tongue to push back the foreskin so that he could taste the small drops of fluid gathering there. He hummed and smiled when he heard Grey’s soft gasp of pleasure. West moved lower, took in more of Grey, licking and sucking his way down the beloved shaft until he could feel it nudging at his throat. Grey’s hips were starting to move, and as West bobbed his head slowly up and down, Grey tangled his fingers almost painfully in his hair. West reached down and cupped Grey’s balls, causing his lover to groan long and low. West’s own cock was aching, his balls tightening by the second. “Don’t you come now, boy. You hear me?” Grey’s voice was rough. West tried to ignore the need between his legs and tried to concentrate completely on Grey’s pleasure. He massaged Grey’s balls, rubbed a knuckle over the smooth skin between his balls and his ass. That was all it took. Gray’s fingers clenched in West’s hair, his thighs pressed in on West’s shoulders and he exploded in West’s mouth, every throb releasing a pulse of hot come down his throat. West swallowed eagerly, milking Grey dry, using his tongue to lick him clean. When Grey released his hair, West raised his head and looked at his partner, satisfied at the look of bliss on Grey’s beautiful face.


But his own body was still tight with the need for release. “That was very nice, boy.” Grey pulled his robe back around his body and retied the belt. “You look like you want to say something.” Was he kidding? Could he not see that West was either going to come soon or do himself permanent injury? It was on the tip of his tongue to snap off a sarcastic reply, but something held him back. He was reluctant to break the atmosphere. He was too curious to see where this was all going to lead. And damned if he wasn’t already more aroused than he had been in his entire life. “I want -- I need to come. Sir. Please.” His eyes lowered automatically, and he looked at his knees while he waited for Grey to respond. He felt a hand smooth over his hair and raised his head to look at Grey. His lover had a small, indulgent smile on his face. West felt his own mouth turn up in response. “I think you can wait a little longer, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, and seemingly oblivious to the near-desperate gleam in West’s eyes, Grey added, “Now, I think I would like to take a long soak in that marvelous tub. Be a good boy and go and run the water.” West looked at him, open-mouthed with shock. A bath? He wanted a bath? “Are you having some kind of problem understanding me, boy?” There was an edge in Grey’s voice that West had never heard before. It was almost enough to make him come there and then. He got to his feet as gracefully as he could with a raging erection. “No, Sir, no problem.” He turned and headed for the bathroom. He was so hard it hurt, but he never seriously considered taking care of matters himself. Something told him that things were just starting to get interesting. *** “So, did you think of a safe word?” From his kneeling position beside the massive bath tub, West paused in the middle of running the soapy sponge over Grey’s chest and looked at his lover. Grey was sprawled out, relaxing, big arms stretched out along the sides of the tub, head resting on the rim, eyes hooded as he watched West, waiting for an answer. West shook his head distractedly. He wanted him to think? How the hell was he supposed to spare a brain cell when everything he had was concentrated on not coming until Grey gave his permission for him to do so? “What was that? I didn’t hear you, boy.” Grey’s voice was a low rumble, a slight reprimand.


West felt his heart skip a little at the thought that he might have displeased Grey. Hot on the heels of that thought came the sure and resolute knowledge that he wanted more than anything to please his lover. Perhaps he should be shocked that his submission to Grey was coming so easily, but West realized that in some ways he had always let Grey take the lead in their relationship. Grey was always taking care of him, making sure that he didn’t push himself too far, pulling him back from making decisions which would lead only to trouble. West had never fought Grey on anything -- had never considered that there was anything to fight about, because he trusted Grey, with his life, his heart, and his body. He knew right down to his bones that Grey would never do anything to hurt him. It was for that very reason that West knew he would always be safe on his knees before Grey. Grey would never demand of him more than he was able to give, would never push him beyond his limitations -- Grey probably knew better than West what his limitations were. West felt his spine straighten a little, and he smiled at Grey. “No, Sir. I didn’t think of a safe word.” Grey raised an eyebrow in enquiry. “Why not?” His smile deepening, he resumed the task of bathing Grey. “Because, Sir, I really don’t think that I need one.” “Is that right?” Grey watched him for a moment from under his lashes, then his wide mouth curved up and West felt real pleasure at having Grey’s approval. “You may come to regret that.” There was a playful tone in the warning. West smoothed the sponge down Grey’s chest to the hard ridges of his stomach. “I don’t think so, Sir. I really don’t.” When West had rinsed the soap from Grey’s body, his partner opened his eyes, looked right at him and smiled. “Stand up.” Immediately placing the sponge on the side of the tub, West rose to his feet, groaning when his cock brushed the side of the bath on his way up. “While it pleases me that you have so much faith in me, I must insist that you pick a word, if only for emergencies.” Grey touched West’s face lightly with the tip of his finger. West leaned into the touch, smiling. “Well, if you insist, Sir. How about -- SpongeBob?” “That’s kinda disturbing, but I doubt it would come up in the natural course of things, so it’ll do.” Grey smiled indulgently and dragged his finger lightly along the length of West’s shaft. “Starting to look a little uncomfortable there.” “Ya think?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.


Grey’s eyes flashed an admonition. “Watch what you say, boy, or you’ll be forbidden to speak altogether.” West flushed. “Sorry, Sir.” Grey nodded, then moved his eyes back to the source of West’s discomfort. “Why don’t you take care of that -- and slowly. Put on a show for me.” Flushing deeper by the second, unsure if it was from embarrassment or intense arousal, West gingerly wrapped a hand around himself, afraid that the first touch would set him off like a bottle rocket. He closed his hand tighter around the aching length of his cock and began to stroke, biting the inside of his bottom lip to stifle moans of pleasure. A gasp managed to escape when he touched the very tip with his thumb and felt how slick and ready he was. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to last very much longer -- the atmosphere Grey had created, the memory of their little encounter in the kitchen, and the knowledge that his lover was watching him with hot eyes were all conspiring to send West over the edge. He felt his balls pull up against his body, felt a bead of pre-come slip free and run down his dick. His hips began to move of their own volition in time with his strokes, and his free hand reached down to cup his tight balls, massaging them with increasing pressure. His skin felt like it was super-heated, and it was becoming progressively more difficult to drag air into his lungs. "Sir." One word. A ragged plea. In spite of the desperate need tearing at him, he wanted to hear Grey give him permission to let go. He wanted the words. His lover didn't let him down. Keenly attuned to West's needs, Grey took the hand that was on West's balls and moved it until West was cupping the end of his own cock. "Come. Now." It was all that was needed for West to shoot his load into his hand. His body jerked with the sheer force of his release, and his knees gave out, taking him back to the floor beside the tub. Grey stroked his hair gently as he came back to his surroundings. Finally able to raise his head and open his eyes, West smiled at his partner, still feeling a little dopey. "Thank you, Sir. That was..." He was forced to let the sentence trail off. There simply were no words. Smiling, Grey dragged his knuckles over West's cheek. "Yes, it was. Now this water’s starting to get cold. Go and clean yourself up, then bring me a towel." West got up on unsteady legs and walked to the sink where he cleaned himself, then collected a thick blue towel from the heated rail and took it back to the tub. Grey stood, the water rushing over his sleek body. West felt a stir of interest in his groin at the sight, in spite of the fact that he had just come harder than he could ever remember.


He rubbed Grey down briskly when he stepped out of the tub, dropped the towel into the laundry hamper and waited, hands clasped behind his back, for further instruction. "God, you're a fuckin’ natural at this." West looked at Grey and a thrill ran through his body at the admiration and love he saw reflected in those dark eyes. "Thank you, Sir," he replied simply. Grey leaned in and placed an achingly tender kiss on his lips. When he straightened again Grey smiled slyly and a mischievous light entered his eye. "Now, boy, fetch me my robe; it's time for your first task of the day." “My first task of the day?” West asked with a raised eyebrow. “So, what was breakfast and the bath?” “Those were your duties, boy. Serving my basic personal needs are a given. Tasks are to be performed at my whim, for my pleasure.” Grey raised his own eyebrow in answer to West’s. “Now, I believe I told you to fetch my robe.” With a tingle of expectation, West nodded and got the robe from the back of the door, held it up for Grey to slip it on, resisting the compelling urge to run his hands over the smooth cocoacolored skin, and followed his partner out of the bathroom. *** In the plush living room of the condo, with the huge butter-soft leather sofas and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the lake, West stood before his lover, hands still clasped and resting on his tailbone, eyes slightly lowered, waiting for his task. A knot had formed in his stomach, equal measures of anxiety and impatience. Grey was on the longest of the sofas in his familiar loose-limbed, graceful sprawl. He had been looking intently at West for several minutes, and West knew that he was quite deliberately dragging the moment out. "Okay, we'll start with something simple." Grey stretched and crossed his long legs at the ankle. His robe slipped, gaped open, but not far enough to grant West a view of the really good bits. "I'm going to relax here for a little while, maybe read that ski magazine. While I'm doing this, you will display yourself for me." West frowned, a little puzzled. "Display myself? Sir?" The last was added hastily. "Give me the magazine, then go over to the other sofa." Grey held out his hand and waited for West to place the magazine in it. That done, and still a little confused, West went to the sofa


opposite Grey's and sat on the edge. "Lean back," Grey instructed. West complied. Grey nodded. "Now, part your legs, raise your right leg so that your foot is resting flat on the sofa, and let that leg fall to the side." Again West followed Grey's instructions, a blush rising in his cheeks when he realized that the position left him completely open to Grey's eyes. Nothing hidden. Grey smiled and opened the magazine, letting his head fall back against a cushion. Without looking at West he said, "Stay like that until I tell you otherwise. If I look up and I can't see you spread out in all your glory you will be punished." Gulping almost audibly, West felt heat settle low in his belly. Was it wrong to be so excited by this whole scenario? If it was, then it must surely be ten times worse that he was contemplating disobeying Grey just to see what the consequences might be. He had no idea how long he sat there, brazenly exposed to Grey, but every time his lover looked at him over the top of his magazine, West felt his body grow hotter and harder. "You're liking this, aren't you?" Grey asked, a light teasing note in his voice. It didn't occur to West to even try to deny this. His body was flushed with arousal, his cock getting fuller by the second. It would have been a blatant lie. "Yes, Sir. I am." Grey let the magazine fall onto his chest and focused his full attention on West. "Stroke yourself. Get nice and hard for me." Face flaming, West wrapped his fingers around his shaft and stroked lightly. He was rigid embarrassingly quickly and was soon ready to explode. "Play with your balls." Grey turned on his side, leaning up on one elbow to enjoy the private show. One side of his robe fell open and West was given a glimpse of his partner's half-hard cock. West bit back an agonized groan and slipped his hand down to curl around his balls, rolling and squeezing, tormenting himself. Grey slipped a hand between his own legs, cupped his dick and rubbed it with the palm of his hand. West could not suppress the moan that rose in his throat at the sight of Grey pleasuring himself. "Don't come until I tell you to," he reminded West. West could only nod in response as higher brain functions became a mere memory. "Now, wet your finger and run it around your opening -- I want to see that pretty little hole winking at me." Drops of pre-come leaked from the tip of West's cock as he slid his finger in and out of his mouth then lowered his hand to tease at the little pucker. A sound like a sob broke free. He


looked directly at Grey, and the heat and desire in his lover's eyes took his breath away.

"Sir, please I'm going to -- "

"No, you're not, boy. Not until I say so."

The warning was clear, but West was too far gone to pull back. Letting his head fall back against

the sofa, he let out a long, tortured groan and shot his spunk all over the sofa.

He fought for control of his breathing and was gradually able to raise his head and look at Grey.

A shiver of apprehension ran through his body when he saw Grey's narrow-eyed gaze.

"I -- I'm sorry, Sir," West said in a small voice.

Grey just looked at him, his silence ominous. Finally, Grey threw his legs over the side of the

sofa and sat up, the magazine falling unnoticed to the floor.

"Come here." His voice was unnaturally husky.

West got slowly up from his seat and moved to stand before Grey, skin tingling with something

not unlike fear.

"Over my knee."

Eyes widening in shock, West could only stare open-mouthed at his partner.

"Want to rethink that safe word?" Grey asked, arching one expressive eyebrow.

Did he? Was he ready to be this submissive? West knew without doubt that Grey would stop

immediately if West asked. Did he want to stop?

"No." West barely recognized the sound of his own voice. He didn't know if he was answering Grey or his own silent questions, but in the end it all amounted to the same thing. He wanted this. Embarrassment tinting his fair skin a deep shade of red that contrasted starkly with Grey’s darker tones, West positioned himself over Grey's strong thighs, knees resting on the sofa on one side, elbows on the other, hands clenching and unclenching. Grey's first touch on his ass was a gentle caress, but West sucked in a breath of surprise anyway. "Tell me why you are about to be punished, boy." Grey lightly continued to stroke the skin of West's ass, almost as if he had never felt it before. "For -- for coming, Sir?" West could feel the ridge of Grey's arousal pressing into his ribs. "For coming without permission, boy," Grey elaborated. "You disobeyed me. That deserves


punishment, yes?" West nodded jerkily. "Yes -- yes, Sir. I disobeyed. I should be punished." Raw sexual desire tore through West. Why hadn't they done this before? Why? The first loud crack of Grey's hand connecting with his ass ripped a yelp of pain and surprise from West. Three more sharp slaps followed in quick succession, each drawing a similar reaction from West. The skin of his ass was tingling and sore, but the heat in his body was pure pleasure. Another three swats, then Grey stopped, and stroked West's heated skin for a while. "Now, thank me, boy." "Thank you, Sir," West replied breathily. When Grey nudged him he got to his feet, wincing as the skin of his ass pulled, as if sunburned. He placed his hands behind his back again, resisting the urge to rub at the inflamed flesh -- something instinctively telling him that would be the wrong thing to do. "Go to the bedroom, boy," Grey said, voice thick with arousal, cock pushing at the front of his robe. "Get on your hands and knees and wait for me. I want to fuck that sweet ass while it's still hot." West moved quickly to comply, stunned at the renewed desire coursing through his veins. Had he ever been this aroused in his entire adult life? Would his heart take the strain? In the bedroom, he crawled onto the bed, got into position and waited for Grey. He didn't have to wait long before he heard the squeak of the door hinges. West allowed himself a small private smile. Grey was as eager for this as he. There was a muffled thump as Grey's robe landed on the floor, then the bed dipped behind West and he felt Grey's hands grip his hips. It pleased him to note the slight tremble in Grey's fingers. Without being instructed, West parted his legs to make a space for Grey -- who immediately tucked himself up close to West's body. His cock pressed insistently at West's ass, hot and rigid, hips moving sinuously, grinding himself into West. A groan of pleasure drifted to West's ears, and he curled his fingers into the sheet under his hands. "You've been such a good boy today," Grey rasped, inserting his dick between West's cheeks and rubbing with increasing pressure. West closed his eyes and pushed back against his lover. "Tha -- thank you, Sir." His voice seemed to fracture when he felt Grey cup his hot ass in his big, work-roughened hands. One hand moved, parted his cheeks, and a lubed finger began to tease West's hole. West wondered when Grey had gotten the lube, but all thoughts suddenly fled, and he gasped.


"Tingles, Sir!" Grey barked a laugh. "Surprise! I brought it with us. Thought you might like it." "Fuck, fuck! I like. I like, Sir." West rolled his hips as Grey pushed one finger, then two into him, coating his channel with the special lube. He growled in disappointment when the fingers were removed, but sighed when they were replaced with the thick, hard rod of his lover. "Aww, fuck yeah," Grey exclaimed as he sank balls deep into West, hands gripping his hips tightly. "You have the sweetest ass on the fuckin' planet." He pushed until he could get in no further, then pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. West rocked forward with the force of the thrust, had to reach out and brace a hand against the headboard as the pounding really began. The room was filled with the sounds of Grey as he took his pleasure. West wished that he could see his lover's face. He loved to watch Grey in the throes of passion. But this position -- new for them -- did not allow for that. It did, however, allow Grey to penetrate him deeper than he ever had, and West relished the thought of Grey being so completely connected with him. Grey's hips snapped faster, harder, until suddenly he stopped. West heard Grey drag in a long breath, and then his partner was coming inside him, with more heat and power than ever before. Body still pulsing with aftershocks, Grey collapsed on West's back, sending them both to the mattress. West was still half-hard, but he didn't care. All his senses had been -- and still were -focused on his panting lover. This was what Grey needed. This was what West wanted Grey to have. Grey moved off West, settled against the pillows and pulled West tight in against him. His chest was still rising and falling with the effort of breathing. "Why didn't you tell me this is what you like?" West asked quietly, stroking a soothing hand over Grey's sweaty chest. Grey turned his head to look at him. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers gently through West's hair. "I didn't want to scare you off." He leaned in and touched their lips together in a soft kiss. "You're the best damn thing that ever happened to me, and I had to keep you." "So you buried your true needs? Just to keep me?" West felt a little thrill run through him. "Like I said." Grey shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but the sincerity in his eyes belied the movement. "Best damn thing." West stroked the muscled chest under his fingers, felt a sting at the back of his eyes. "So, the bet -- if I hadn't accepted, or if I had balked, you would have laughed it off as a joke, never said


anything again. Wouldn't you?" It was a question, but West already knew the answer.

"I have to keep you," Grey said simply, quietly.

Snuggling closer, West smiled up at his lover. "Today has been something of a revelation to me.

Not just you, but myself. I think we have a lot to talk about."

Grey pressed his mouth to West's, his tongue sneaking out to lick along West's bottom lip.

Pulling back, he smiled, dark eyes alight. "Yes, yes I think we do."


Unravel

By Mychael Black

In twenty-five years, if I’ve learned anything, it’s to never trust someone who says: "Dude, cover for me," while running like his ass is on fire. I really should have learned to say no at some point. *** It was a normal day -- just like any other. I was working on a new set of sketches, pretty certain that I had a cohesive jumble of ideas for my latest collection. A full pot of coffee, a quiet niche in the otherwise vacant dressing room. No assistants, no publicists, no diva princesses bitching about this, that, or the other. Just a nice, relaxing morning. Until my assistant burst into the room. Troy took one look at me, nestled safely in my little corner, and made a beeline right for me. “Dude, I gotta make myself scarce. If anyone asks, I -- fuck, I died or something.” Before I could answer, he spun on his heel and ducked out the other door. What the hell? A moment later, the first door opened again and a huge hulk of a man scowled in my direction. “Where’d that little prick go? I saw him come in here.” “Uh -- ” I really, really did not want to get involved in whatever trouble Troy’s dumb ass got himself into this time. “Um, can I help you?” The man looked me up and down, then smirked. “Who the hell are you? Only employees are allowed in here.” I bit the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. This had to be Dan, the new lighting guy. He was muscular, tall, and gruff as hell -- just as Troy described him. So why the hell was Troy running from him? I started to tell him who I was, but something about the way his muscles tensed made me want to goad him, see how far I could push it. I wondered which side of the fence he sat on, or if he’d be willing to straddle it. Or me. I wasn’t picky. “Cat got your tongue, boy?”


Oh, now there was some serious potential behind that growly voice. The man’s stare was lethal. I sat back and kicked my feet up onto the counter top, fingers linked behind my head. Normally, I sucked at nonchalance, but I think I managed to pull it off fairly well this time. The growly papa bear stalked up to me, towering over my chair in all his glory. I wondered if his cock was as big as those damned biceps that threatened to bust out of his rolled-up sleeves. He crossed his arms, and when I looked up, I found him watching me with an unreadable expression. “See somethin’ you want?” I let my gaze slide slowly down his body, stopping for a second on the bulge in his tight-as-sin jeans, then back up to his face. “Maybe.” One dark brown eyebrow rose. “I see. Then maybe I’ll just take Troy’s punishment out on your hide.” Please? Resisting the urge to grin, I managed a somewhat coy expression. “What’d he do?” “Aside from being a little pain in the ass?” Broad shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “He has a

bad habit of taunting the bear, as he puts it.”

“Sounds...” I met his gaze and realized how familiar those blue eyes were, the shape of his jaw,

his nose -- all seemed a bit like Troy’s. I felt like a damn light bulb went on over my head.

“He’s my kid brother.”

I nodded. It made sense. Despite our closeness in age, I never felt any sort of attraction to Troy’s

boyish, youthful appearance. His brother was an entirely different story.

“You never answered my question.”

This chance was too good to pass up. If I told him who I was, it might very well put an abrupt

halt on things before we even started. I pondered the options, then grinned up at him.

“Who do you want me to be?” I dropped my feet to the floor and turned, face just a little above

crotch-level with that fine body. “Want me to beg?”

A firm grip seized my chin, lifting my head to see his face. “You want that ass busted, don’t you,

boy?”

I couldn’t begin to stop the shiver. Common sense fled at the prospect of those big hands landing

on my ass. It wasn’t one of those fantasies I regularly indulged in, but when the opportunity

presented itself...

“I’m waitin’.”


“Where? When?” “Here and now. Drop your pants and bend over my knees,” Dan ordered as he sat down. The momentary thought of "what the fuck am I doing?" jumped into my head, but lust quickly replaced it when I caught sight of the mouth-watering bulge in his jeans again. Before I could chicken out, I got up and undid my pants. Standing before him, I let my slacks fall to the floor. Dan pulled me down until I was draped over his knees, my ass in the air. I still had my briefs on, but the twinge of sheer vulnerability was there. Even though I’d known Troy for over a year, I knew nothing about his brother. Except that Dan was hot as hell and had big hands. “You still ain’t tellin’ me who you are?” he asked, one palm making slow circles over my ass. It took all I had not to moan and spread my legs. I could feel him under me, his cock pushing against his jeans, my own trapped and rubbing on his thigh with every slight movement. Either I was really lucky at having found a guy who’d do this, or I was getting into more eventual trouble than I could handle. His other hand rested on the small of my back, keeping me down. Then the hand on my ass disappeared. It was all the warning I had. The sound of his palm landing on my backside was loud. I jerked and grunted, cock twitching as I tried to gain more friction. Another blow to my right ass cheek sent heat through me, my thighs parting in response. I closed my eyes and let go, not caring anymore who might come in and see me draped over the lighting manager’s lap while he spanked my ass. “Like that?” he rumbled, smoothing his hand over my left cheek. “Yes...please...” I knew I was begging, but I couldn’t help it. I needed more. No one else ever seemed to get into it like this, not like him. He was rock hard beneath me, and God, all I wanted was for him to make me burn then fuck my mouth. Dan chuckled and landed several successive blows to my ass until I writhed, crying out at the burn. Fuck, it felt good -- hot and aching. So out of it, so lost in my own little world, I was barely aware that he’d lowered my underwear. “Mm, would you look at that?” I hissed when the coolness of his palm touched my abused, heated skin. “Nice and red, just ripe for fucking, wouldn’t you say?” I groaned. Fuck, yes. Oh, fuck yes, please. I tried to spread my legs more, but yelped when he slapped my ass hard, the pain sharp as fuck on bare skin. It was enough to bring tears to my eyes, enough to nearly make me come right then and there. “Please!” “Please what?”


Dan spread my cheeks and I felt myself blush from head to toe, humiliated as fuck and cock so hard, it hurt. I waited for him to do something, but he just kept me there, one hand spreading my ass cheeks, letting the cool air of the AC vent overhead blow down onto my hole. “Is this ass as sweet as it looks?” Mister, I’d coat myself in powdered sugar and shove a lollipop up my ass if it would keep you doing that. “You’re welcome to find out.” I left off the ‘sir’ despite the urge to say it. I wasn’t sure how far this would go, though I certainly hoped to get my ass -- oh, sweet fuck... One thick finger circled my hole, then pushed inside, surprisingly slick. “How -- where -- oh, God...” I moaned, hips lifting. “You think I go anywhere unprepared?” Dan twisted his hand, finger grazing my gland and sending sparks shooting up my spine. I jerked and he chuckled, strokes relentless as he rubbed the small mound inside me. “I love a responsive boy.” “Yes,” I groaned. “Oh, God, yes...” Another finger joined the first and Dan spread them, opening me up. I cried out, arching off his lap, only to be pushed back down roughly with his other hand. “Didn’t tell you to move, boy,” he snapped. He shoved both fingers into my ass and I lost it. Fingers digging into his calf, I shouted, bucking wildly, fucking myself on those thick fingers as I soaked his jeans and my underwear. Dan pulled his fingers out and slapped my ass. “Get up.” Legs shaky, I stood, the blush returning when I saw the wet stains on his thigh and my underwear. Jesus, that was... Damn. I pulled up my pants and refastened them just as Troy came into the room. “Whoa! Uh...” He looked between me and Dan, eyes narrowing. “Dude, bro...please tell me you didn’t...” I groaned and dropped into the nearest chair, only to bite my tongue when I remembered just how sore my ass was. “What is it, Troy?” Troy’s grin was positively wicked, like a kid who knew a secret his big brother didn’t. He glanced at Dan. “Do you always make it a habit of nailin’ the boss?”


“What?” Dan’s confusion would’ve been funny if it weren’t for the "I’m going to beat your ass again" look that he gave me. “Excuse me?” He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and glared at me. I chewed on my bottom lip. “Who are you?” Troy snorted and before I could say anything, he strode up to Dan’s chair and hit his brother’s shoulder with what could only be my professional dossier. Dan took the binder and opened it. A few minutes later, he looked up at me. “Troy, give us a minute alone.”

Soon as Troy was gone, Dan stood and pulled me to my feet, my dossier still clutched in his

other hand. “Why am I torn between wanting to walk out of here while I still have a job, and

wanting to kiss some sense into your head? Why the hell didn’t you tell me who you were when

I asked?”

“Because you would’ve walked away.”

“Yeah, I probably would have if I had any sense of my own,” he muttered.

“You pissed?”

Dan sighed. “Honestly? No. Tell me something, though -- and this time, I mean it.”

“What?”

He tossed the binder on my chair and hauled me up against that hard body. “Do you always beg

for strange men to spank you?” he whispered close to my mouth.

“No. I -- ”

Dan’s mouth crashed down on mine and I moaned, arms sliding around the man’s neck. He bit

my bottom lip and soothed it with his tongue before plunging inside. I sucked on his tongue and

he reached down, grabbing my ass in both hands and tugging me up against him.

“So if I wanna fuck the boss, I’m not gonna get fired?”

“God, no,” I murmured. “By all means, fuck the boss.”

Just as Dan leaned in for another kiss, Troy burst back into the room. We both growled and

glared over him. Troy had the decency to at least look sorry for the interruption.

"Yes?" I asked, one eyebrow lifting.

"Uh, we still gotta fix the sleeves on the jersey dress to fit Kate."

Shit. I sighed and nodded, letting Dan go. "All right. Meet me in the workroom."


When Troy was gone again, Dan laughed. "No wonder you aren't attached. It's a miracle you have time." I rolled my eyes at him. "No kidding. Besides, I'm not the relationship type -- don't feel like dealing with the bullshit that comes with it." "I can understand that," Dan said, though he didn't look entirely convinced. I wanted to ask what he thought, but then he just smiled. "I need to get things set up for the show anyway. Catch you later?" "Sure." I gave him a quick kiss then headed out of the room before either of us took it any further. Soon as I got to the workroom, I closed out the rest of the world. No temptations, no nosy assistants, no – The door opened and I twisted to see Troy. To say he looked smug was an understatement. It was then that it hit me. He set me up. “You ass!” Troy laughed and slapped my shoulder. “Oh, c’mon. You would’ve run the other direction if I’d told you the truth about who he is.” Scowling, I turned away from him and back to the mannequin. At least the damn thing couldn’t smirk and laugh at my expense. I was happy as a bachelor. Really, I was. I pinned the top edge of the left sleeve to the left shoulder and smoothed the jersey down. I refused to give my assistant the satisfaction of knowing that he was right. I kept myself out of relationships because, quite frankly, I was sick of the emotional bullshit attached with them. Not that I actually had a relationship with Troy’s brother, but still. “Hey, Boss man, the models just arrived. Where you want ‘em?” Speak of the devil. I took the other straight pin out of my mouth and exhaled. “Um, send ‘em to the dressing room for right now. I’m altering this piece.” I risked a glance over toward the door just in time to catch a grin and a quick wink from Dan before his head disappeared back out. “Give him a chance?” Troy prodded from where he sat on a nearby stool. “Why?” I stepped back and tilted my head, studying the dress. “What do you think?” “About the dress? Or about your unfounded fears that my brother will break your fragile heart?” “Fuck you,” I muttered.


“Don’t swing that way, Boss. As for the dress, it works. Too bad we lost Daniella, but I think Kate’s a better walker anyway. More swing to her step.” I set the last of the pins down and nodded. “Yep. Okay, I’m gonna go deal with the divas. I need you to re-sew this sleeve back onto the dress. I did the other side last night.” “Yeah, I know.” Troy jumped off the stool and took the garment off the dress form. “Go do your thing; I got this.” Leaving him to it, I headed out and downstairs to the dressing room. I tried to push Dan out of my head, at least long enough to deal with the impending show, but the more I fought against the thoughts, the stronger they barged in. Before I realized it, I stood before the Technical Room -instead of the dressing room. I started to turn and walk away when the door opened. “Not gonna say hi?” I stopped, back to him, and bit my bottom lip. “I-I went the wrong way, but hi.” “Okay, so I did fuck up earlier.” “No!” I spun around, only to find us closer than I’d realized, my face nearly pressed against his sternum. Jesus, the man was fucking tall. And huge. And, fuck, he smelled good... “Dan, I -- ” I licked my lower lip and lifted my gaze slowly. Just looking at those blue eyes made me weak in the knees like a damn virginal schoolgirl. He was so close -- right there, waiting. I felt the heat, the strength, the power behind those acres of muscles. I wanted to spread him out and lick every inch, ride his thick cock, then lick some more. One dark eyebrow rose and I knew my fantasies might as well have been written on my forehead in permanent marker. But he wasn’t moving, wasn’t offering me the least bit of help while I floundered like a fish out of water. I was a grown man. Grown men don’t get tongue-tied and weak-kneed and... Oh, God, I wanted to kiss him. “Yes?” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Raking a hand through my hair, I exhaled in frustration. “Okay, let’s try it this way. I like you -- a lot. Hell, just looking at you makes me wanna bend over and beg. I’m not used to that, though. I’m not the kind of guy to drop to my knees and pledge everlasting devotion, even if I do get off on having my ass bright red and burning by the time I’m fucked.” “Hey.” Hands cupped my head, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Chill. Okay? Yeah, I wanna fuck you into the nearest surface, but I’m not gonna push you into anything.” How the hell did I get into this again? I blinked, stared into those eyes. What was I saying? Dan smirked and then I was moaning into his mouth, his lips over mine, tongue thrusting between


them. I didn’t know what to do, where to put my hands. I felt like a teenager again -- quite

literally tongue-tied and breathless. When he pulled back, I licked my lips, still tasting him there.

“I gotta go,” I muttered. “Gotta -- um -- models, that stuff.”

Dan nodded and let me go. “The show starts at five, right?”

Show. Show. Oh! “Uh.” I glanced at my watch. It was two o’clock. “Yeah, five. Show starts at

five. I need to go get the models ready, brief ‘em on the show, get ‘em to makeup...” I knew I

was rambling, but I couldn’t stop. And I didn’t want to go.

“Philip.”

“Huh?”

“Go. Get the models taken care of, then come back here.”

“Okay.”

Dan grinned and leaned down to kiss me again. Then he slapped my ass. I left in a daze, on

autopilot as I focused on the tingle from the light smack. Was I really going to come back up, let him have his way with me? Stopping in the hallway, grateful it was empty, I reached back and rubbed my ass cheek where his palm had hit. It hadn’t been that hard, but I still felt the warmth seeping into me. I’d firmly kept myself off-limits to staff, even though a few had tried their best to gain my attention. So why was he any different? Was this really something I wanted to pursue? “Oh, give up,” I mumbled to myself. “You fucking want it.” Sighing, I continued down the hall toward the models’ dressing room. *** That evening's show was a success. A glowing, brilliant success -- if the crowd was anything to go by. I couldn’t begin to hide my smile. When Daniella left for Milan, I thought we’d be hardpressed to find another like her. Then Kate waltzed in. With her long legs, that cool attitude, and a strut that would make any seasoned alley cat envious, she stole the show. The applause as she

headed back down the runway was deafening.

“Damn good show, if I say so myself.”

Oh, shit. I swallowed and looked over at Dan. “Uh, thanks.”

“You didn’t come back.” He crossed his arms, those huge muscles flexing. My mouth went dry.


“I – um -- got busy -- pre-show stuff, ya know.” Jesus. Why did I get so tongue-tied with him

around? He was just a man. A very tall, very big, very sexy man -- but still a man.

Dan looked around. “Show’s over. Reception isn’t for another hour.”

An hour was a long time to -- um... I argued with myself as he got closer. By the time he reached

me, my cock could’ve cut glass, my heart was beating my ribcage into dust, and my ass already

felt the sting of those hands. I stepped back, putting a little distance between us again.

“I can’t...” I shook my head, feeling defeat settle heavy in my chest. God, I wanted him, but to

get involved -- with an employee -- would no doubt lead to trouble.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” I protested. “I just -- aw, hell. Look, I’ve seen what can happen when someone

gets involved with an employee, okay? I’ve heard the accusations of favoritism, the glares, the

rumors flying rampant. It’s just not a good thing to get into.”

Much to my surprise, Dan nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”

I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “God, it’s not that I don’t want you. Far from

that. It’s just that -- ”

“I quit.”

“What?”

Dan stepped up closer, crowding me until my back hit a wall. “I said: I quit, Philip.”

“But, why?” So, it was a stupid thing to ask, especially when presented with the possibilities, but

I couldn’t think. All I wanted was to touch, to kiss, to worship every damn inch of the huge body

in front of me. I looked up at his face. “Why is it so important that you’d quit?”

“Because there’s something about you that makes me want to keep you, to never let you go. I’m

not the mushy, romantic type, but I know what I want in a man.”

“I’m just a fashion designer,” I said quietly.

“You’re talented as fuck.”

“I can get emotional sometimes.”

“You’re also hot as hell when you beg.”

This wasn’t working. “I hate football and beer.”


“I don’t drink, and I prefer baseball.” I groaned. “You’re not playing fair. You’re supposed to call me a pansy and go find someone more manly.” Dan chuckled. “Give up already, will ya?” I scowled at him and poked a finger in the middle of his chest. “What the fuck is it about you that makes you so -- ” I didn’t get a chance to finish. His mouth came down on mine, Dan’s tongue pushing between my lips, making me moan. Yeah, this was it -- this was why he was so irresistible. The way he kissed, the way he tasted, the weight of his hands on my hips; it all scrambled my brain until nothing existed but sheer need. What was I talking about? Dan pulled back and grinned. “You done arguing?” “Uh huh.” “Good.” He leaned down and kissed me again, tugging our bodies together. “Want you,” he whispered on my lips. “Want inside, Philip.” “Please. God, please...” I rubbed on him like a cat in heat, one leg going up to wrap around his hip. When he popped the button on my jeans, I thanked God we were back amidst the racks of clothes and relatively out of sight. “Dan.” A big, warm hand circled my cock, taking my breath away. “Oh, fuck, yes...” “Gonna come for me, baby? Take the edge off before I fuck that sweet ass?” Dan’s breath was hot on my neck, his words searing me from the inside out. He stroked my prick, thumb pressing into the slit. I hissed, hips jerking. “Dan. Fuck, don’t stop,” I panted. My head fell back and I moaned, thrusting into his fist. Dan bit down on my neck and I saw stars, biting my tongue hard to keep from shouting as I came. He soothed the bite, then pulled back. I drew his hand up and sucked his fingers clean, watching his eyes darken. “Either get your ass somewhere private, or I’m fucking you here,” he growled. I let go of his hand. “Fabric room.” I tucked myself back in and grabbed his shirt. A quick look around and then I led the way quickly down the hall toward the fabric room, where we kept spare fabric samples. Soon as the door was closed and locked, Dan spun me around and bent me forward over one of the worktables. He shoved my jeans down to the floor and landed a hard slap to my right ass cheek.


“Please! Oh, fuck, need it, Dan...” He chuckled and spread my ass cheeks. Moaning, I pressed back when I felt his hot breath on my hole. I heard him move, then came the sound of his jeans dropping. Then everything else faded as two slick fingers circled my asshole and slid inside. I whimpered and wiggled, hoping for more. Dan took his time, peppering my back with kisses as he finger-fucked me. "So hot," he murmured. "Ready for me, baby?" "Yes, now. God, please, now." I didn't have time to feel empty. Dan's fingers left and then he filled my ass, his thick cock stretching me open. I felt him everywhere -- above me, inside me. He took it slow, keeping the strokes deep. I dug my fingers into the jersey on the table, bunching the dark blue fabric in my fists. Every thrust threatened to drive me insane, each one ratcheting the need for release higher. I never realized I was close until it hit me. So lost in the in-and-out slide of Dan's cock, I cried out when my orgasm surprised me. Dan grunted and grabbed my hips, picking up the pace. He got faster and harder, pumping in and out. "Philip, fuck!" He shouted and drove his cock deep, hips grinding against my ass as he came. Breathless, I collapsed onto the table, panting. "Holy shit." He rubbed a hand up and down my back and withdrew slowly. I heard him take off the rubber, then he kissed my shoulder. "Oh, yeah." I stood and turned, chewing on my bottom lip. When I looked up, I found him watching me. I didn't remember post-sex moments being quite so awkward before. "Dan, I -- " Dan put a finger on my lips, quieting me. "Philip. No explanations are needed. I want this to continue. Hell, I'd love to make it more than just casual fucking, but if you don't want that, I'm fine with it." Smiling behind his finger, I lowered his hand. "I was gonna say that I suck at relationships, but I'd like to give this one a chance." "Oh." He grinned. "Cool." I draped my arms around his neck and tugged him down for a kiss, whispering on his lips. "I'm grouchy in the mornings and tend to steal the covers." "I leave the top off the toothpaste most of the time." I laughed and kissed him hard. "I think we'll manage."


A Joy Good Idea

By Syd McGinley

A Jolly Good Idea is a sequel to “Not Sir” which appeared in Put Some English on It. It’s been a year since Hugh’s dad died. Hugh was horribly stoic about it, but I was on eggshells for months. He never mentioned his dad except in business related matters, but Hugh had a hair trigger about other things. I’ve never once dared tease him by addressing him as Sir Hugh now that he’s inherited the title. I think the last year has been worse for me than him, but that can’t be so. I know he’s grieving. I’ve been doing my best to serve him and pamper him without letting him think I pity him. He went home at the time and got a lot sorted. I missed him like crazy, and wanted to be there to support him -- what else is a boy for? -- but I took his point that a funeral wasn’t the best time to introduce a new partner. Even if his family accepted him being gay in principle, an actual boyfriend was a different kettle of fish. And showing up just when successions and inheritances were being discussed would be pretty tacky. Not that I want any part of it. I’m enough of a leftist still to think titles -- unearned ones -are a crock. He’s my sir, but I think his baronetcy is a burden, and I wish he could renounce it. Even if it is the lowest hereditary title you can have. It’s one of the things Hugh likes about me -he’s sick of monarchy-struck Americans swooning over his title and not seeing him. I see him all too clearly and still stick around. Now that we’re together, he’s decided against having a child with a surrogate to make his mum happy. I couldn’t handle any of it for a start: bringing up a son, Hugh being a father, and the kid being more his family’s than mine. He needed little persuading. He’s not much for the rugrats and was mostly considering it as a sop to his parents. So it wasn’t as if he was making a huge concession to me. Nonetheless, I’m kind of hurt about the heir thing as I’ve been his boy for three years now. We have joint accounts and joint property, and suddenly his nephew is his heir. Hugh tells me not to fuss. He says he has a watertight estate plan and I’ll be fine. I’m stressed as hell over not knowing about the contents, and, frankly, I think he’s being a prick, not a master. We’re traveling to England next week to see his mum and family for a whole bloody month and I’m ready to puke with nerves. Hugh arranged it all before telling me about it, and he was just lucky I could get that much time off work. He just growled and said: “Boy, you haven’t used your full vacation since I’ve known you. Of course you have the days.” I’d tried to say that


wasn’t my point, but of course, I did have the days, he knew it, and it wasn’t my decision to make. I know he’s my master, but he’s so high handed about my external responsibilities sometimes. I’m doing my best to be excited about going to England. I’ve agree to not say anything about being anti-monarchy, and Hugh has promised we’ll get some time to ourselves to tour around. I’m utterly overwhelmed by imagining a whole family of Hughs. And I’ve never left America before. I hope and hope that my passport will be delayed, but it arrives in time. Hugh tells me to stop worrying, that I have perfectly acceptable table manners, and after three years of serving him, I’m in decent shape for company. I swat him grumpily at that, and get one hell of a spanking for “dumb insolence.” I’m still sprawled over his thighs sniffling when I feel a familiar pressure against my belly. Hugh has never much bothered about distinguishing sex from punishment -- it’s all service as far as he’s concerned. But today I still feel sulky enough to want to ignore his hard cock. As if it were my choice. He pulls me off his steely thighs -- he may not play rugby any more but he’s still in great shape -- and positions me between his knees. I sigh. He’s still gorgeous even if he is pissing me off. I kiss the scars on his knee to help me get into a kinder mood, and then run my tongue up his thigh. I snuffle my nose around his hairy balls enjoying his musk and lack of manscaping, and then settle into a diligent blow job. Even after three years, I love to play with his foreskin -sticking my tongue under it and swirling and then rolling it back with my lips as I start to suck on him. Hugh lets go of my hair and lies back on the sofa once he sees I’m cooperating. Even though he’s not holding my head, I don’t back off when he starts his hip thrusts. He’s been training me to tolerate some minor breath control this way and although it freaks me still, I know it’ll please him a lot if I let him stop my airway for a little. Besides, I dare not piss him off twice in one day. Recently, his riding crop use has become harsher. He backs off again and I gulp some air. His eyes are closed as he approaches orgasm so he misses my brief panicked expression as he lunges in again. I clutch his hips as he shudders out deep into my throat. Breath control is one thing, but drowning is another. He’s in a good mood now though and I remember why I love him -- we have a good evening together. There’s some rugby on the satellite, I’ve bought his favorite Newcastle Brown ale, and Hugh let me order pizza in for a change. Hard as I try, time doesn’t stop, and soon we’re suffering through the flight to London. Even first class -- his treat, although a lot of the upgrade was from my frequent flyer miles but I didn’t complain about privilege for a change -- it was an exhausting trip. Puddle jumper to D.C. and then the transatlantic jet, and then a line an hour long through immigration. Hugh had already breezed through, got the luggage through customs -- one minor advantage of not being his partner was that we had separate arrival forms and at least I could schlep through customs with just my carry-on -- and had settled in with a drink by the time I caught up with him. He just humphs when I bitch and says, “What do you expect me to do about it, Ryan? Stop fussing. It’s the same for every one. Thought you hated special classes and exceptions? And I did get all the luggage.” I don’t point out that when he travels he doesn’t suffer as much with U.S. immigration since green cards get to go through with citizens.


We still have the drive across country to deal with, but at least I can nap as Hugh drives the rental. I have to shut my eyes – being in what I think of the passenger seat and seeing cars come at me is terrifying. I keep trying to stomp a brake pedal and Hugh gets pissed with me. “Don’t you trust my driving?” I scowl. He knows I do. He’s always the fucking driver when we’re out together. I’m just freaked by being on the wrong side of the road. I do doze after awhile and Hugh’s temper has eased by the time I wake up. I still love my man, but the last year has been hard, and I’ve been re-thinking how much he gets away with under his master mantle. I gawk at his home as the rental crunches up the private gravel driveway. It is an old house in the Palladian style with stables, orchards, and paddocks. There’s even a kitchen garden and huge greenhouse with vines and oranges. A rose garden and a croquet lawn. A trout stream and woods beyond. Hugh laughs at my dropped jaw. “What, my little American federalist -- got a Tory bug? It’s not old family land. It was grandpa’s wedding present to mum so long as she signed away in return any claim on his estate so it would go to her brother.” Hugh winks and whispers, “Nouveau riche, you know! And it was never Father’s. Grandpa endowed a trust fund to care for it and to make sure it stayed Mummy’s. So it’s not mine, and may never be if Sis’s son breeds before mum dies.” I am absolutely fucking terrified. Hugh has insisted that his family is not wealthy, just comfortable. I guess they are land rich, not cash flow rich, but still. Hugh’s house in America is nice, but nothing out of line with his professional income, and we live well with our two salaries. This is way out of my league. His sister Kate and her children are waiting to meet us along with his mum, and they surround us, babbling in the hallway, kids tugging at Hugh’s sleeves for attention while he hugs his sister and then politely pecks his mum on the cheek. I feel lost. Hugh suddenly seems bigger and more foreign and, despite his jokes about his sibs bullying him, he’s quite clearly the head of the family. Hugh’s mum breaks up the friendly greetings by offering me her hand and giving a chilly handshake. She says we should all go through to the sitting room, and not stand around in the hall like a herd. The kids giggle and storm away bellowing “moo -- herd -- moo” and Hugh’s mother gives Kate a look that should have any daughter quailing. Kate cheerfully says, “Just good spirits mum, they’re just happy their uncle is here.” She pauses. “And his friend.” “Partner,” I mumble when Hugh says nothing, and I want to hit him when he just follows his mother out of the hall. Kate gives me a measured look and ushers me into the sitting room. Thank God, it’s more of a family den, not a formal lounge. The kids are sprawled on a rug with a game, and they beg Hugh to join in. To my dismay, he does lower himself down, only wincing a little as his unrepaired knee bends. (God, getting his one knee fixed was a trial, and I dread his second knee surgery.) Although I’ve never seen him like kids at home, he dotes on his niece and


nephew. I sit, miserable, on the edge of a sofa and watch Hugh play some pirate board game. Kate passes me a cup of tea. “You wouldn’t get how to play any way,” she says. I wonder if that’s a slam disguised as comfort. “We have special family rules for it,” she adds just to rub the salt in. Hugh’s mother is polite – I may be American and gay and despoiling her one and only son, but I am a guest. She makes conversation about the flight, the drive, what I think of the scenery, have I ever been to England before, what state am I from -- it’s excruciating. Kate joins in and makes some lighter remarks about how horrid air travel is these days and how much she liked New York when she was there last, and we stumble through a reasonable facsimile of a conversation. Nigel is shouting in triumph and doing an "in your face, loser" dance to his little sister, Polly. Polly is sniffling. Hugh raps him sharply on the skull with his knuckles. “Disgraceful, young man! We don’t mock the defeated. Where’s your sportsmanship? I hope your brother Henry is picking up better manners at school. Polly -- don’t cry when you lose, miss. Congratulate the winner.” I expect Nigel to fly into a rage at being rebuked or even at being measured against his big brother, but instead he stops dancing. Polly has controlled her incipient tantrum, and says, “Well done, Nigel.” Nigel apologizes to his sister. “Sorry, Polly. I forgot you’re a girl and shouldn’t be teased.” “That’s not quite what your uncle said,” says Kate. “And besides, you beat Sir Hugh as well – are you calling him a girl?” And I give her a look. Maybe she’s not so bad. Hugh and Nigel are both glaring, and Polly is giggling and repeating the story all over to her grandmother. “I was right here, darling,” says Hugh’s mother, but she lets Polly carry on with her “and then Uncle Hugh saids!” Kate and Lady Barstow seem more human now, but I’m shaken by hearing Kate call her brother Sir Hugh. I’ve still not dared, but it is who he is. I continue to feel left out, but I work hard at being the nice American uncle. It seems to be working on the kids – Polly will chatter to me and Nigel has showed me his “war room” -- he has a huge table covered with military models but frowns at me when I ask if it’s Warhammer -- but I’m trying too hard with the adults. We’ve been there a few days and Kate, Hugh, and his mum have relaxed into joshing each other and family banter. I try to be jolly in the way I think they’re being -- and perkily say to his sister Kate in the pub as I try to squeeze on the bench next to her, "Shift your fanny."


Kate slaps me hard in the face. I don’t know what I did, so I gasp “sorry” -- since I obviously did something – and make as dignified an exit to the john as I can. Hugh is still coming back from the bar carrying drinks and I just hurry past him. I don’t even pretend to piss, but sit in a stall and brood. At least I don’t cry, but I’m so fucking homesick, and so out of place with these guys. And Hugh’s distant. And his mom, oh face it Ryan, she hates you, and is a patrician bitch. I was just trying to be pally and maybe I was over familiar, but I still don’t think a slap in the face was called for. I try not to get all dizzy about it -- Hugh hates my minor drama queen tendencies -- which were never strong to be fair -- and I’ve trained myself out of them. But Hugh knows I’m sulking. He taps the door, and when I don’t open it right away, he rumbles, “Boy, open it.” I reach forward and unlatch the door, but I stay seated. Hugh swings the door open and stands in the entry. He fills the whole fucking space. “Come out, boy. This is my family’s local. I want no rumors about us in the bathrooms.” I shuffle out and wash my hands to at least pretend I was using the john. Hugh has his “I’m waiting” expression on. I know better than to make him ask. “I said something wrong to Kate. She slapped me. I’m really sorry, Hugh. I didn’t mean to offend her. I was just trying to fit in with the teasing. Oh please, Hugh, let’s go home. Please. I’ve tried. I just don’t get England and your family.” “What did you say?” Hugh is standing a safe distance away from me. I wish he’d give me one of his rib creaking hugs and say, “All right boy, we’ll go home,” but I already know that won’t happen. We’re here for the whole damn arranged time. I repeat what I asked Kate to do, and Hugh looks amused for a fleeting second, and then his grim face and tone take over. “Ryan, fanny doesn’t mean ass in England.” He pauses. For a rugby player Hugh is remarkably clean-mouthed. I mean he swears and all, but he can’t quite do the translation aloud. “Begins with c, ends in t. Four letters.” “Oh fuck! I said that to your sister? Oh, God. Hugh, I’m so sorry.” He sighs. “Okay, boy, come on out and face the music. I’ll buy a you strong drink and you can apologize to sis. I’ll back you up that fanny is American for bum.”


“Well, it is,” I mutter. I’m still hurt that Kate thought I’d say that to her unprovoked. And damn, she slapped hard. Harder than Hugh has ever hit me. No wonder he says his sibs made rugby seem gentle. Hugh buys me a brandy and has me drink it before we go back to the family table. I man up, look Kate in the eye and apologize. Hugh adds his coda about UK/US vocabulary. Kate accepts my apology, but makes no reciprocal move about slapping me. She’s her brother’s sister all right. His mum just gives me a frigid look. I can almost hear “damn colonial” running through her brain. When we get home from the pub, I go right to bed, and no one tries to stop me. At least Hugh has insisted we share a room. His mum is surface-polite, but chilly about it, but I don’t think I could bear this trip without being able to curl up against Hugh’s chest at night. He’s a bit Brit repressed about sex when his mum is on the same floor, but I’ve snuck in a few bjs. I’m getting kinda horny though – I need to get laid. I meant to stay awake and get Hugh to fuck me, but I must have fallen asleep before he came up because here it is morning – I’m bone hard and Hugh’s already in the shower. Damn. I know I’m out of luck. He never fucks after he’s just got clean for the day and I’m not in the mood to just blow him. I’m fighting a mixture of lust and grumpiness as I go down to family breakfast. That must be why I nearly pass out when Hugh strides into the kitchen tapping a riding crop against his thigh. I nearly go to my knees and ask, "What did I do?" but it’s counteracted by my other attempt at speech. “For God’s sake -- your nephew and sister are right here!” And as a result, I just gasp like the landed trout I got all city soft over yesterday. “I’m not faggy,” I’d said crossly to Hugh who bellowed at me for dropping his fish back in the water. “I’m a city boy editor. I’ve never seen a hooked fish suffocating before.” It’d been the first hour we’d spent together alone out of the house and I didn’t want to spoil it. Hugh’d been so busy with estate matters, and I’d been left to my own devices a lot. And I liked fishing right up until Hugh caught something. I’d only been watching as fly fishing is tricky and I’ve never even pole fished. Hugh sits down to join us for coffee, and says, sotto voce, “Ryan. Look at what I’m wearing, you ninny.” I gulp and get a grip. Just for a moment though because his riding breeches and boots have got me just as flustered as his crop. Oh god… thigh hugging buff pants, and polished tight boots… Hugh pinches my thigh under the table. I know he means me to shape up, but it makes it worse. I shake my head feebly when he asks if I want to come to the stables. “Are you scared of horses, Uncle Ryan?” “Um, no, Nigel. Or at least I don’t think so -- I’ve never met one.” “Polly is,” says Nigel smugly.


“Polly is seven,” says Hugh sternly. “And we don’t tease girls for being nervous, young man.” “Or Ryan,” says Kate, rather unkindly I thought. Hugh gives her a look as well, but she just sips her coffee. I rather like Kate despite the slap and her snipes… she’s funny and takes no shit from anyone. I wish she liked me, though. And I wish Hugh would defend me more. He gives looks, but that’s it. Although, apart from Kate’s slap, no one has openly insulted me. Just silent disapproval and constant patronizing from his mum, and amused tolerance from his sister. Nigel seems to like me though, or at least he calls me Uncle Ryan and shows me his soldiers, and I think Polly has a crush on me. She’s a sweet kid. In her own little world and full of jokes only she finds hilarious and made up nonsense songs. Henry, Kate’s eldest, is a weekly boarder at the local prep school and I’ve only seen him on the weekend. He’s supercilious, but he’s that way to his brother and sister too. He’s twelve and spends as much time as he can in the tree house, reading. I spend the morning reading and no one bothers me. I stroll around the perimeter of the house to loosen up before lunch so I see Hugh come riding back into the stable yard. Oh dear God! He’s a vision of manhood on that horse. He’s riding so naturally even though I know it’s been years since he’s ridden a horse. His legs in those britches are enough to make me hard, but the boots! Oh fuck…the shiny leather wedged into the stirrups...I hold my book in front of me like I’m back in fucking eighth grade. Hugh dismounts and disappears into the stables. I follow him in and watch jealously as he unsaddles and grooms his mount. “No need to drool, boy,” he says. “You can come upstairs and help me off with these boots.” I all but scamper to our room and kneel down to help my beloved ease his boots off. I rub my face against his leather calf as I cradle his heel and start easing it free. I breathe deeply to catch the delicious Hugh aroma and he laughs. When both boots are off he undoes his britches and his cock leaps out so eagerly it hits me in the face. I catch his head in my mouth and gobble. Hugh pushes me away and I fall back on my heels and whimper. What can I have done wrong? “Start a shower, boy. I’ve a mind for you, some soap, and some steam.” I’m more than eager. My ass needs his cock so damn much. He joins me in a few moments, his cock so hard and drooling that I know he’s fluffed himself. My prick bumps the shower wall as he gets in behind me and moves under the water. “Sir Hugh,” I whisper daringly as I kneel and let the hot water stream over my face and his cock. He doesn’t rebuke me, but fills my mouth, then throat for a torturous moment.


“Stand, boy,” he orders, his voice thick with desire, and with no more foreplay he jams his cock into my ass. I spread eagle myself against the shower wall and let him ram away. I have longed for him to be in me. Hard and deep. He’s snarling now with passion, and I yield more and more under him. He’s too tall and too rough for this position -- my ass may tear from the rough sex and lack of lube, but I bite my fist and think: Sir. Sir Hugh. My sir. Surely he’ll let me call him sir now he’s inherited his title? I must have earned the right by now. And then he growls, and I feel wet heat in me easing the burn and he’s pulsing and roaring, and I see my own come hit the shower wall as I buck under him. We stay in the shower until we are clean again and go down to lunch. As the afternoon progresses, Hugh moves more and more painfully and Kate teases him mercilessly. At last he yells at her, “Okay Kate, I’ve not ridden in America – happy? I’m as stiff and knotted as mother’s morals, okay?” Kate and I both snort, and then check to see if Lady Barstow is around. “A soak in a tub, baby brother – and then perhaps Ryan will be kind enough to massage you.” Hugh and I don’t dare look at each other, but I hear Hugh grunt at his sister. But the next day, I’m back to lonely and bored. Everyone is so busy as well. They’re at home, and have their routines and occupations, and Hugh’s dealing with all kinds of business. As usual, he doesn’t see fit to include me in what he does and decides. I feel left out. Sometimes Hugh takes me to a pub lunch or we get to ramble around the grounds, but mostly I’m stranded and lonely. Their house is in the middle of freaking nowhere and then down a long gravel drive. Some days Hugh asks me to sign some papers and after the first time of trying to understand British legal writing, I just sign whatever it is. I trust Hugh after all. I am curious, and ask once and he just says, “It’s estate stuff, Ryan. I’m looking after you as I said I would and making sure my U.S. property and U.K. property are separate. My family can’t claim my U.S. stuff -- that goes to you, and it acknowledges our joint ownership of the U.S. stuff -- and you are signing away any claim on the U.K. stuff.” It seems fair enough to me, and I’m not that interested in the details. Besides I don’t want to think about Hugh dying, and I also don’t want to know what I signed away. I’m only human and seeing how much it is might make me bitter. Nigel and Polly have been deputized to take me on a walk around the grounds. Lady Barstow has finally realized how neglected I am while Hugh is doing business, but she can’t quite manage to spend time alone with me. “I have my own business to attend to!” she says and I believe her. She is always on the phone talking to some poor tradesman in her managerial tones, and Kate is always disappearing into town on mysterious errands. Polly grabs my wrist and says, “Come on Uncle Ryan, I want to show you my favorite place at granny’s house.” “I thought you lived here?” “No, we live about ten miles away,” says Nigel, “But we stay a lot since daddy travels. We have our own rooms here, and mummy has her old room still.” “We’re here right now ‘to help granny through a trying time,’” says Polly innocently.


“To see Uncle Hugh,” corrects Nigel, “and meet Uncle Ryan.” Hugh would have been proud of his manners at that moment, but he’s not here, so I just smile at the kids and say I’m glad they are here. I wonder whether Polly was quoting her mother or grandmother, Nigel is most interested in showing me the stables and paddock -- he has his own pony here -and Polly wants to show me her fairy garden -- a funny little gazebo covered in wisteria and half falling down behind the orangery. It looks like a good private spot and I remember it for later. We pass by Hugh’s mum in the rose garden -- she has on a huge straw hat, gardening gloves and is pruning rather efficiently. She says good morning back to me, but then the kids are right there. Nigel is showing me the garage when I have a revelation: everything is rather shabby even if it is well maintained. And Hugh’s mum isn’t just puttering in the roses. She is the gardener! It’s taken me a week to realize that Hugh wasn’t lying at all when he said his family is not rich. They have a huge, old house and some lifestyle privileges, but everything is old. Not like antique old, I mean out of date and still being used. Sending your children to boarding school, keeping horses, and maintaining a two-hundred-year-old house means having old cars, faded upholstery, “classic” clothes and doing your own weeding, I suppose. “This was grandpa’s car,” says Nigel proudly, and gives the leaping cat hood ornament a polish with his sleeve. I see he is doing a stiff upper lip thing and obviously still misses his grandfather. Polly is too young to truly remember more than a year ago. “Hello, Uncle Hugh,” pipes Polly’s little voice and Nigel and I both jump. Hugh strolls in and I shiver. This may not be his estate, but he’s sure got a proprietary air about something. He looks at the Jag too, and says, “I can remember mum and dad arguing about this car just before I left for America. Dad wanted something fun now the last sprog -- me -- had finished college and left home. Mum wanted a new Volvo.” “I see your father won.” Hugh laughs. “Sort of. Mum got a Volvo too -- it’s the estate car she still drives.” He pauses. Nigel and Polly are dashing across the stable yard to the house. They know Hugh being back means it’s nearly teatime. “We get the best and keep it,” says Hugh, patting the Jag and then me. That passes for romantic and mushy in his world. I see an opening and slide my hand onto his ass and smile. “Hugh -- we’re alone.” Hugh frowns. “It’s teatime, boy. You do not want to try being late for my mother.” “Christ! Your priorities!”


“Boy! Watch yourself.” “No! Hugh, I’m getting so fed up with not ranking in your life. I’m just ‘boy’ and I don’t get to call you sir, even though you are Sir Hugh. And your mother…” I break off. Even upset, I know the line. “My mother?” says Hugh far too calmly. “Is charming,” I snap. “I see where you got all your lovable qualities from…” Hugh grabs me, bends me over the hood of the jag, and lands two mighty wallops on my ass. Damn, they feel good, and snap me right out of my pissy mood, and back into wanting Hugh. I squirm round, slide to my knees, and undo Hugh before he can complain. Although the garage door is open, the car is hiding me from the house. I know that once Hugh’s cock is in my mouth he won’t argue. “Christ,” he says and leans his hands on the hood and thrusts in. It’s like he’s doing push ups into my eager mouth. Even though we spend each night together, I’m missing my man so much. I suck and nuzzle, tongue and lick frantically. Because I want him to come and because, actually I don’t want to see his mother’s reaction if we’re late to tea. “You can’t go in sporting wood. Do yourself, boy.” I don’t need telling twice. My cock is in my hands in a second, and I thrash away at it. There’s an intense few minutes of silent motion and then I hear Kate calling. “Hugh -- mummy’s on her way down stairs! Quickly!” Hugh muffles a groan and shoots. I don’t know want to know if Kate’s call triggered him, but I work on my own load and come neatly into my cupped hands. Hugh hands me a clean handkerchief. “One for blow, one for show,” he says and laughs. “Come on, boy -- hurry. We’ll talk about Sir later on -- at the weekend.” I’m wondering why it has to wait until the weekend, but I’m mollified when I overhear Hugh one day defending me to his mum. I’m hiding in Polly’s fairy garden pretending to read, but really I’m sulking and feeling homesick. It’s a Saturday and Henry is home. He’s an okay kid, but his hauteur is too much for me today. He says I’m loyal and kind, and she has to get used to me because we’re going to be together. It’s not the most undying declaration I’ve ever heard but


from gruff Hugh to his ice queen mum, it’s quite something. I just wish he’d stick up for me publicly. Hugh finds me there half an hour later. He gives no sign of wondering how long I’ve been there, but says he was looking for me: he wants me to play some rugby with Henry and Nigel. I smile gamely, but my heart plummets. This just seems like more disaster. Hugh sees my anxious face and gives me quick squeeze. “Show them what you can do, hey, boy?” Henry and Nigel are already passing the rugby ball back and forth. “Pick Nigel,” whispers Hugh to me. “He could use the boost.” I doubt being teamed with me is a compliment in either of their eyes, but Hugh meant it kindly. I also doubt that Nigel and I will hold our own against Hugh and Henry. “Come on, Nigel,” I call cheerfully. “Let’s show the big ones what fast wings and backs can do.” Henry sneers something about American football and throws the ball hard and fast at me. I catch it easily and sprint off calling to Nigel. I pass just in time -- Hugh has taken me down in a tackle, but I hear Nigel yell in triumph as he catches my pass. “Hugh,” I gasp. “Get off -- we look indecent.” He’s lying half on top of me with his arms still around my thighs. “We look like rugby players,” snorts Hugh, but he gets off me and lumbers away to direct a disconsolate Henry in a new play. We pass and tackle, and Henry gets off his high horse when he sees I can play proper rugby. Hugh actually says, “Ryan’s a decent back when he concentrates. He doesn’t play American football, chaps. He’s a real rugby player.” I’m still glowing from that when Lady Barstow storms around the side of the house. “For heaven’s sakes boys -- not on the lawn! Can’t you thunder around in the paddock?” We get scolded for a good five minutes standing a row in front of her, all of us shuffling our feet. We are filthy with mud, and we have taken chunks out of the grass. I get the same earful from Lady Barstow as her son and nephews, and we are all sent for baths. At least she doesn’t send us to bed with no supper. If anything Hugh is in the most disgrace as the boys are children and I’m a guest. I feel happy for the first time in days. I was equal in her eyes for one wonderful moment. Hugh glares at me. He’s genuinely chagrinned at the muddy gashes in the lawn. He rejects my attempt


to wash him in the shower, and mutters, “Mum pampers that lawn. She even pays for a mowing service and sprinkler system. How could I have been so thoughtless?” I expect it to be unmentioned as are most awkward things here, but when we go downstairs Kate is fussing about whether the torn up spots can be patched before… she breaks off when I come in. It’s not as if I’d question their household affairs, but I am getting puzzled at the number of private errands, phone calls, and calendars being consulted recently. And the silences when I enter a room. Henry and Nigel slink in and apologize to their grandmother. Henry offers his quarterly allowance for repair fees and Nigel gamely offers to be her garden assistant all summer. To my mild surprise, she accepts. I see Henry and Nigel gulp. I’m not the only surprised one. I give Hugh an imploring look. I’ve got no idea what to offer, or whether a guest offering would annoy her even more. “Nonsense, mother,” says Hugh brusquely. “I’m proud the boys offered, but there were two adults there, and it was my idea. We’ll pay for the turf company to visit and the mower fees for the summer. The boys have apologized, that’s enough.” Lady Barstow glares at all four of us again, and then shrugs. “Boys will be boys, I suppose.” Her glance lingers on me as if surprised I am in that category. I’m just tickled that Hugh said "we" and she accepted. “Pirates,” cries Polly, dragging out the game. “There’s time for a quick game before dinner,” concedes Kate. “Come on, Ryan -- we can play with Polly against the boys.” Despite knowing Hugh will tease me later about girls against boys, I join in wholeheartedly and listen attentively when Polly explains the special family exceptions and add-ons to the official rules. Hugh has to take his own advice about being a good loser when we resoundingly defeat him, Henry, and Nigel. It’s a pleasant evening, but the next week is exhausting. Hugh is hardly ever around; Kate, despite signs of beginning to like me, is very busy with something; and Lady Barstow is in the study on the phone all the time or else gardening in such a determined manner that no one, much less I, would dream of interrupting. Polly and Nigel are at school in the day, and Henry is back at his boarding school. I am worn out with morosely pottering around their estate. I had no idea being lonely and bored could be such hard work. But then I am bitten in the ass by a huge influx of visitors. Shit. On Wednesday evening, all Hugh’s sisters arrive. If I thought Kate, the baby of the sisters, was Amazon tough, then Amanda, Veronica, and Eleanor are the Valkyries. “Why are they here?” I ask Hugh, almost panicking. “To meet you, nitwit,” says Hugh.


I am nearly hyperventilating when yet another car pulls up. I really start to freak when Hugh’s Canadian second cousin, Roger, gets out. Is this some huge family reunion I’m caught in the middle of? I don’t think I can bear it. Hugh alone is plenty overwhelming, but all these different versions of him are going to make me flip. I gulp: Pete, my rugby coach and Rog’s husband has just got out too. I feel ridiculously delighted to see another American, and another non-Hugh relative. I give Pete a hug, but Rog is oddly wary of me. Does he not want to be seen with me in front of family? Pete sits next to me at dinner and that helps. It’s the first formal meal here, and I’m in agony. Lady Barstow has already thrown up her hands saying, “None of you girls brought your husbands, and none of you men are….” She trails off. “And an odd number! How am I meant to do a proper table seating?” Hugh calms her, “Mother, I’ll take the head and you, the hostess position. Ryan on my right and Amanda as my oldest sis on my left. As usual, split up the only married couple and put them opposite each other -- so Pete next to Ryan and Rog next to Amanda. Ronnie on the left, Ellie on the right -- same level away from the head so no squabbling about precedence you two, and then baby Kate on your left hand.” “It’s still odd,” snaps Lady Barstow just as Ellie says, “but there’s no one beneath me. That’s just as if Ronnie is over me!” “I’m not done,” booms Hugh. “Since Henry is away, I think Nigel is quite old enough to be at Mother’s right hand to make up numbers and as Kate’s son quite appropriate to be under his Aunt Ellie.” No one says anything. I am dizzy -- they are bickering about a damn table seating and places of honor and no one -- no one! -- has argued about me being Hugh’s right hand. Only Nigel could be more thrilled to be at the big table than I as we settle down to our positions. Not only am I recognized, but I have Pete next to me even if the terrifying Amanda -- the eldest of the siblings - is opposite. I briefly hanker for the significance of sitting opposite Hugh, but then realize it wouldn’t work anyway -- he’s the head of his family, and his mother is still alive. Right hand is my best shot. Pete is not much of a talker off the rugby field at the best of times and is even quieter than usual, and Hugh is engaged in monitoring the whole table. Rog is diligently chatting to Ellie and Ronnie – almost ignoring me and poor Pete. I am left to the tender mercies of Amanda. Boy, does she grill me. Pete gives me a pale, overwhelmed smile every so often and I take what comfort I can from knowing even my coach finds this bunch too much. I take some small pride in having survived this long when I see him quail under a barrage of queries from Amanda. My heart sinks again though when I hear the husbands are expected on Friday night for the weekend. I take the chance to down my burgundy while she’s not probing me. Hugh atypically takes my hand under the table and squeezes. I review what he’s told me about her: she’s his oldest sister, pushing fifty, the one who skipped college for Swiss finishing school so she could catch an ambassador. She did marry a minor


diplomat and he’s attached to a consulate in Europe. He can’t leave his duties, but she’s flown home to meet me. Her son is Hugh’s heir. She’s turned her attention back on me. We’ve exhausted my family, education, and career to date and now she’s ready for the meat of her questions. “So, Ryan,” she trumpets, “How did you get to be Hugh’s fiancé?” There’s a long silence. “Good God, sis,” says Hugh at last. “How on earth are you an asset to Piers at the consulate dinners? To my surprise, Amanda bops Hugh on the head with her soup spoon. “Children!” roars Lady Barstow. “The British gentry,” mutters Pete just to me. “Overgrown children running the Empire…” I snigger. Pete doesn’t share my left-wing politics, but he is steadfastly republican -- with a small r -- about aristocracies. And his husband is Canadian and has been known to mutter disparaging remarks about the Commonwealth. In all the fuss, I write off Amanda’s word choice as just another faux pas among many as this family try to cope with their Sir Hugh bringing home a “damn colonial.” The next day I try to find Rog and Pete to spend some downtime with fellow gay, non-Brits. I’d like their company, even if Pete did ruffle my composure last night by saying I sounded Brit -I’ve just picked up some swear words from Hugh is all -- and I guess they seem more obvious to Pete now he’s also a “foreigner.” Rog hedges and then disappears. I feel hurt out of all proportion. Pete gives an apologetic shrug, and dashes off after him. I wander around the garden and peer morosely at the scars in the lawn. I look in through the French windows to the sitting room and see all four of Hugh’s sisters in full feather as Hugh would say – all talking at once, all waving their hands – and I feel a massive wave of homesickness and loneliness wash over me. I don’t want to be on my damn best behavior another minute. Hugh’s family will tolerate me at best, and I’ve had enough of knuckling under. I don’t even have the compensations of serving Hugh on this bloody trip. A few quick fucks after dark and stolen blow jobs is not the damn deal. Clandestine only stays fun for so long and then it becomes repression. I start walking -- just to shake my mood -- but I’m headed down the driveway. Once I realize, I keep going away from the house. “Just a beer at The Queen’s Arms,” I mutter. “Alone!” I check my pockets -- Hugh, bless him, has made a point of giving me British money on a daily basis. No matter that I never get to go anywhere or do anything. What he imagines I need it for is beyond me. Still, I have plenty of


cash for drinks, a pub lunch, and, if I want or need it, a taxi back from the pub. I leave their driveway and stamp along feeling more secure about the project but just as irritated with the whole bloody set up. If I’d been pissed about Hugh’s autocratic ways before, then this trip has just magnified the whole damn issue. Without the compensations of serving him I really have to question -- oh fuck! -- what the -- I’m flying through the air -- higher than any rugby tackle and I land in a hedge. Jesus Christ, that hurt! The branches are still vibrating above me when I hear a car door slam and cut-glass tones calling my name. Oh no. Oh no no no. Lady Barstow has hit me with her Volvo! I must have fainted when she moved me. There’s no other way to explain why I am on the back seat of the car being driven pell-mell through cobbled streets. “Hold on, young man,” she yells over her shoulder. “We’ll be at the County Casualty in no time!” “But…” I manage feebly. “I’m all right… “Nonsense! Of course, you’re not all right. I hit you full tilt as you wandered into the road.” I ignore her implication that I caused the accident and continue. “And I can’t afford medical bills -- I didn’t get travel insurance.” She snaps at me. “We don’t leave injured people in the road, young man. This is England. Even foreigners get medical care.” I shut up, recognizing from long battles with Hugh just where the fruitless quixotic point is. I even stay quiet when she tells the ER staff, “This young American crossed the road as if he were at home…” It’s just not true, and Hugh has told me how his mother is a holy terror in the country lanes and has had several speeding tickets, but I can’t argue anymore. The hospital staff are cosseting her and saying “poor Lady Barstow, what a terrible shock for you” and “how brave you were” and “who can we call?” and “do you want a nice cup of tea?” I am suddenly past my shock and realize that I hurt like all fucking hell. “Excuse me,” I say politely. “I think --” “Wait your turn, please,” snaps a nurse and I blanch. I give Lady Barstow an evil look, but I suddenly see her through the hospital’s eyes. She’s seventy and bird-thin and just hauled a healthy young man into her car and dealt with an emergency that would have had many in a dither. “I have her son’s phone number,” I say assertively. That gets me some attention, and Hugh is called. I sigh in relief. I know he’s going to yell at me, but he’ll look after me, too.


I don’t have to wait that long -- Lady Barstow demands loudly to know how her son’s guest is and suddenly I get attention. I’m taken down to radiology in a wheelchair, and Lady Barstow insists on coming with me. They pop her in another chair and we are parked side by side while I wait my turn. I wonder whether she’s expecting me to apologize for getting in her car’s way, when she comes right out and says, “Of course, I’d rather Hugh were straight. After all my work to have a son the estate is going to a nephew.” She sighs and I feel bad for everyone -- me, Hugh, his discounted sisters, and even his mum. “But I know it won’t change and you do seem to make Hugh happy. Just please stop being so bubbly and cheerful and friendly and..." She trails off and looks frail. “American?” I ask weakly. “Yes, thank you,” she says briskly. “Hugh has read me the riot act about calling you a Yank.” I realize she means Yank as an insult, and that Hugh knows exactly how she means it so, even though it hadn’t occurred to me to be offended before, I start to bristle. Her next words take the winds out of my sails. “My son spends quite a lot of his time defending you, you know. Tone it down please so he can focus on arranging his affairs.” I gulp and ignore that once again it’s my fault. “That sounds like Hugh is writing his will.” “He is. He’s the head of this family. He can’t just have things willy nilly, you know. Especially if the title is going to have to descend collaterally.” She sighs. “I suppose you’ll stick out no matter what.” I remember what Hugh has said about my looks. I see basic, corn-fed, Midwestern, blue-eyed blond, and Hugh says: twit, you’re exotic in a Brit village. You stand out as American before you even speak -- your tan and perfect teeth scream USA at us. I mumble something about trying harder to Lady Barstow and then berate myself for being a wimp. But you know what? She’s too hard to take at the best of times, and I’m pretty sure she’s broken my arm and some ribs with her crazy driving. I drift a bit, and I’m sure I hear Amanda and Hugh bickering as I’m wheeled away at last. The radiologist is nice. He moves me around gently and apologizes when I yelp at the position he places my arm in. When he’s done he says he needs me to wait outside the lab while he makes sure the exposures are okay. He asks if there’s any one I want to wait with me. “Hugh,” I mumble before I think about it. I don’t really, but perhaps he’ll get his irritation vented with me while I’m still here and then the trip home won’t be so bad. My eyes well up. Have I really been reduced to thinking about my beloved Hugh in those terms? Some one not to please, but someone whose temper I tiptoe around and manage? Oh crap, here he is and I’m sniveling.


He offers me his handkerchief and sits next to me. “Boy,” he begins. “I’m sorry!” I blurt. “I’m sorry I traumatized your mother!” Hugh looks disconcerted. “That’s not… damn Ryan, stop crying, please. How much are you hurt?” I wave my good arm at the radiology door. “Waiting to know.” Hugh nods and takes my hand. “Ryan -- I know the last weeks have been hard for you. You’ve been very good. My family do approve of you, you know. And the reason Kate and mum have been so busy -- well, it’s my fault. I asked them to plan a reception at the house for us. For after our civil union in town. It’s this Saturday. It’s all set.” All I want is to be married to Hugh. I’ve been hinting about going to Canada for the last year, but suddenly I’m really, really pissed off. “I think you forgot something, Hugh.” I snatch my hand away. He looks genuinely perplexed so I help him out and hiss: “Asking me!” “Christ, Hugh! I told you to propose to him, not tell him he’s getting married.” Amanda pops out from around the corner. “Bloody hell, Amanda! I told you to drive mother home! Where is she?” “Right here,” snaps Lady Barstow and wheels herself around the corner. I carefully reverse my wheelchair back into radiology and listen through the door as they argue. They don’t notice me leave. The radiologist comes up behind me with my charts and I put my fingers to my lips and we both listen to Hugh rant at his family. I learn a lot: He’s been arguing with his mom about the wedding. The sibs are on his side. Hugh wants to marry me and can’t imagine me refusing after all my hints about going to Canada. He really thinks this is a wonderful gift to me. He also doesn’t want a fancy wedding, but agreed to a party afterwards. Apparently, Hugh wanted the whole wedding to be a surprise to cheer me up because I’ve been moping around like a week of wet Wednesdays. He and Amanda rehash their whole argument about a surprise wedding being romantic. “It’s a jolly good idea,” insists Hugh. “Ryan wants me to be romantic and prove my love. And this will make Ryan an honest man.” “Yes, but Hugh, I told you he’d like a proposal more! Honestly! Men!” “I did propose,” yells Hugh.


“You did NOT,” hollers Amanda. The radiologist behind me stifles a giggle. “Ryan,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, but I have to get them to quiet down, and get you back to a doctor. You’ve got a broken arm and a cracked rib. Want to get a pathetic face on?” I put on my best orphan in a rainstorm face and get wheeled back out. Hugh’s expression softens, and Amanda shuts up. Lady Barstow pokes Amanda. “Take me home, girl. Hugh can look after Ryan. They don’t need us here.” I blink. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time she’s used my name. The radiologist gives Hugh directions and lets him wheel me off in another direction than Amanda and their mother. I think I hear: “Sorry, boy” but I’m not going to push it by checking. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” says Hugh as we get closer to the waiting room. “I thought your not having to worry about the planning would be a nice present. I know you hate that sort of thing.” “Hugh,” I say quietly. “You’re right, I don’t like fussing over social events, but my own wedding would be different. And I heard you say to Amanda that you thought I’d get over-excited and annoy your family. And I heard you say you slipped the application and consent forms into the stacks of estate papers for me to sign.” I take a deep breath and hide a whimper as my rib complains. “A surprise might be sweet and romantic, but this was disrespectful and dishonest.” Hugh gives my chair a final push into the waiting room and then walks on out through the exit. To my shame, I burst into tears. I’ve never sassed my Sir like that before. And worse, I meant it. A different nurse is on duty now -- not the one who rebuked me in front of Lady Barstow -- and she takes a peek at my chart and clucks over me. “Poor lamb. That’s a nasty break. Don’t you worry -- we’ll be ready in a jiffy to set it and give you nice shot. Cheer up now, lamb.” I give a brave smile, but I want to wail. I adore Hugh. I want to marry him. His family is showing up for it. His mother has been part of the surprise reception -- all those phone calls fall into place now -- so do Kate’s myriad errands. And even poor Rog avoiding me. He’s notorious for blabbing secrets. And now I’ve screwed up and told Hugh -- Hugh of all people -- that he’s dishonest and disrespectful. I try to be stoic through having my arm set, my rib taped, and my injections, but I’m filled with anxiety that Hugh has truly left. I confide in the nurse, and she steps out and spots him pacing under the entrance canopy.


“He’s still there, sweetheart,” she says, “And he looks that worried!” I puzzle over how worried she means until I recall that can be used to intensify in Brit, and I smile at her. Hugh comes back in silently when she summons him, and goes to get the car. He’s driving his dad’s Jag, not the rental, and I reluctantly enjoy the ride back. He still hasn’t spoken when we get back to his mother’s house. I’m worried the silence will persist and that either his family will provoke us more or we’ll go to bed in deadly silence. “I know you meant well,” I mutter as we sit in the parked Jag. “I did,” he replies. We exchange cautious looks, then Hugh leans over and kisses my mouth. We neck for a little, like teenagers, in the car until my arm and rib complain through the pain meds. “Will you marry me?” asks Hugh. An old Jag in a converted stable garage with me full of pain pills is not really more romantic than a radiology lab, but he’s asking this time. “Yes, please,” I say enthusiastically. “Oh thank God,” he says, which isn’t really very romantic either, but we’ve cleared the air and we sneak into the house as if we’ve missed a curfew and make it up the stairs before Hugh yells, “We’re home. Safe. Wedding is on. Good night!” He knows none of them will dare open our bedroom door so we are safe from interrogation until the morning. We fall asleep cautiously entwined and in the morning, we make careful love. It’s not fucking or blowing him or giving him a hand job. It really is smushy old love making. Hugh is tender with my battered body -- I have one hell of a set of bruises as well -- and won’t let me exert myself. He massages me, kisses me, and jerks off as he strokes my cock. I can hardly believe it -- he rarely does me -- but I’m sure not complaining. I lie back and think of my Englishman. Hugh comes first and I worry that he’ll stop, but he uses his come to lube my cock further and by the time I come, I’m worried my poor rib will pop from its taping. The pain is lost in my ecstasy as I shoot -- I yell Hugh’s name -- and lie shuddering in his arms afterwards. Hugh kisses my forehead and ruefully says, “Now my sibs will think I abused you this morning too. They’re quite protective of you, you know.” “They just met me.”


Hugh snorts. “I assure you, Ryan, Kate has been on the phone to them daily since you got here. So has mother. They can read between the lines. They know what mum is like. Any one she bitches about as much as you must have some good qualities. All the sons-in-law went though this.” “Oh,” I say quietly and squirm: son-in-law. I never thought those words would apply to me. Hugh is looking at my arm cast. “Well, there’s enough of your hand sticking out to get the ring on.” I try not to squeak or get all over-excited, but I’m getting a ring! “Up, boy. We have a house of pre-wedding women to face, so courage mon brave!” I get up and wash as fully as I can at the wash basin musing all the while: this Saturday! The day after tomorrow! I’ll be married to Hugh. I’ll have a wedding ring! I’ll be Ryan Green-Barstow. I feel a flutter in my diaphragm, and I realize I need food and a pain pill. At breakfast, I see Ellie and Ronnie whispering together, and after breakfast, I see Ellie peel off and pursue Hugh. He walks faster and faster but won’t run from his sister, and I suspect she catches him before he reaches the stables. Kate has cut Ronnie off at the pass -- she was headed for me. “Ronnie -- I need you to go into town and see the marquee people for me. They’re giving me some nonsense about not being here until noon on Saturday and that’s just not acceptable. The wedding party will be back by then! Please, Rons, you’re so good with tradespeople…” She ushers Ronnie off and winks at me. Amanda gets up from her final cup of coffee and beckons me. “Come along, Ryan. I know just the spot for you to take a book and lounge in the sun. We want you to do nothing except relax until Hugh gets a ring on your finger. After that, you’re on your own!” Clearly Amanda and Kate have one agenda and Ronnie and Ellie another -- and since Kate and Amanda seem to want me to be left alone, I’ll follow their lead. I spend a happy morning snoozing in a deck chair in front of the greenhouses. I think I read a whole page. The pain pills from the hospital are fantastic. I don’t hurt at all and I can drift off as soon as I shut my eyes. Hugh comes stamping around the corner later. I’m half asleep and confused as he rants at me. I can’t follow what he’s saying, but he’s pretty clearly backing out of his proposal. “It’s the decent thing, Ryan,” he says. “You only said yes because you had to. So -- ” What the fuck? My arm is throbbing and my rib feels like it’s trying to pierce my lung. And now Hugh is reneging on me. I’m fed up with him and his family. Every time I think I’m going to be happy,


something snatches it away. It’s like Eduardo and his family all over again. I thought the last few years with Hugh had exorcised that fear, but his family has brought it all rushing back. These macho traditional guys will always do what their mothers want in the end. Too bad I have a broken arm or I’d steal their precious Jag, head for the airport, and trade in my first class return ticket for the first flight out. I brush past Hugh knowing he won’t grab an injured boy no matter how mad he is. I blurt something about "if that’s how you want it to end," and I head upstairs and slam the door to our room. Pointless, I know. There’s no lock and Hugh can come right in -- it’s his home and his room. I do start packing though and plan to call a taxi. Or ask Lady Barstow to drive me to the train station. I bet she’d help me leave her precious son. There’s a tap at the door, and I ungraciously yell, “I can’t stop you.” But it’s Ronnie, not Hugh. “Don’t go,” she says. “Why not? Hugh changed his mind. If I leave now I can have my friends move me out of his house before he gets back, and I won’t bother him any bloody more.” Ronnie wrings her hands. “Ryan, Ellie and I screwed up. We thought he’d fucked up the proposal and we wanted him to try again. Ellie was mad that he asked you when you were injured and alone overseas in hospital. With mummy right there! We thought he’d bullied you into saying yes, because lord knows we wouldn’t marry him! So Ellie told him this morning that he had to offer you the chance to say no. And to ask you again properly.” I have no idea where to begin. First, I’m boggled that Hugh was bullied by Ellie so effectively -I’d never quite believed him when he said they ruled him -- and that his sisters are such total meddlers, and -- well, fuck. “But he did ask again,” is all I manage. “That’s what Ellie said Hugh said too.” “Because he did,” I scream. “And now he un-asked and I said okay again because I thought he was backing out and I always try to do what he wants!” I must be crazy looking because poor Ronnie steps back, but she’s a good sister because she perseveres and says, “We want Hugh to be happy, Ryan. He’s our baby brother even if he is head of the family. Mum and dad were still hoping, but sisters know. And now we’ve met you, we can see he loves you.” “You can? How? Sometimes I’m not sure.” She giggles. “Honey, he lets you get away with loving him. That’s how we know. He’s so awful to try and pamper and you do it without being eaten alive.”


I give her the stink eye, but I stop trying to one-handedly throw things into my suitcase and sit down on the edge of the bed. She sits down at the other end of the bed. “We were talking and decided it’s a good thing our brother isn’t straight. He’d be an awful prick, and I can’t see him with a wife -- but it seems to work for you.” She looks at me hard for a long moment, and I crumble. “Yes,” I whisper. “He wouldn’t let me call him sir, but…” I look at Ronnie to see if she gets that I don’t mean her brother’s title, but something else. She has a wicked grin on her face, and I remember all Hugh’s jokes about the British upper classes and BDSM. She grins. “I knew it! Don’t worry, baby boy, we sibs are far happier knowing Hugh’s found a niche than being bothered by that.” As usual, I’m an afterthought, but at least she adds, “Oh, and if you are happy too.” I nod. I’ve fallen into a stupid habit of placing my self second to Hugh so why should his sibs be different? We’ve really screwed up this Sir thing all on our own without help from anyone, I realize. I wonder what he was going to say about Sir this weekend? Or if I’ll ever learn now? “Mum’ll settle to it once Rupert gets married next year. He’s got a fiancée with good hips so mum’s already excited about being a great-grandma. As soon as Hugh’s heir breeds, the ice will thaw. Mum adores his fiancée.” “She does? How can you tell?” Ronnie laughs. “She hasn’t eaten her!” I groan. His mum is devouring me. Politely with sterling silver cutlery. But still. And she was a little nicer today after having knocked me over with her Volvo yesterday. “Ryan -- she’ll get used to you. Really. Even though she and dad approved Ellie’s wedding they didn’t warm up to her husband for a while. Something about his father being too high church -he was a vicar -- lace in the services or something.” I knuckle my eyes and moan. I’m a total heathen. I’ve skipped every Sunday service since we’ve been here no matter how much Hugh or his mother glared. A damn lefty. A big old fag. And, most damning of all apparently, American. I’m not sure I want his mum to get used to me. Ronnie sighs and gets up to go. “Ronnie -- I told Hugh it was off. What do I do? I can’t ask him to marry me. That’s not how we work.”


“I don’t know, Ryan. Ellie and I have fucked up enough. Now I’ve told you our part in it, we want to step back.” I see her point. Hugh and I wouldn’t be unengaged if they’d stayed out. But oh God, what a mess! Hugh backed off because Ellie convinced him he’d bullied me -- and to be fair, Hugh is a bit of a bully to me and he knows it so it wasn’t an unreasonable doubt for him to have harbored except usually I like being bullied by him -- and I thought it was what he wanted and I try to please him even when it’s not what I want. Oh, fuck. We are like those idiots in sitcoms who won’t say what they want or try to hide secrets and get into crazy muddles. I flop on the bed and wonder what on earth to do. I want Hugh with my whole mind and body. Can I go home and resume my Canada hints after this? Can we pick up and carry on without a wedding this weekend? I wonder if Rog and Pete will help me get home. I can’t even imagine traveling next to Hugh if we can’t figure this out. But Rog is his cousin even if Pete is my coach. They’ll take his part even if we are not actively fighting. After a bit I stick my head under the cold tap to try and stop my brain racing, towel my hair, comb it and mutter, "Big girl panties, Ryan," and go downstairs. Every one is having tea in the kitchen. I get the feeling they are huddled round the big table having a family war meeting, and I nearly back out, but Rog and Pete stand and motion me to the table, and have me sit next to Hugh. They stand behind us. There’s a long silence and then Ronnie, despite her stay out of it announcement not half an hour ago, blurts out, “Will you both just cut the crap?” I see Lady Barstow’s eyebrows disappear, but Ronnie is carrying on. “Ryan, for God’s sake stop thinking about what Hugh wants and just say what you want for a change. Do you want Hugh to be your husband? “Yes,” I mumble. “Hugh, you rotten excuse for a brother, will you make this sweet little American boy an honest man?” “Yes,” bellows Hugh. “I’ve been trying to all month!” Polly giggles and yells, “I now pronounce you!” “Sorry,” says Kate. “She was a bridesmaid just after Christmas and that’s stuck.” “And a bridesmaid on Saturday too,” I say and grin at our niece, who is skipping around the kitchen yelling, “Hugh and Ryan! Kiss the bride!” Hugh has my good hand under the table and says quietly, “I told you it was a jolly good idea.”


“Kiss!” demands Polly.

Hugh looks straight on at his mother, turns to me, and crushes my mouth against his.

Polly is whooping, and her delight covers Hugh saying, “You call me Sir from now on, boy.”

I look straight at Hugh, then his mum, and say clearly, “I will, Sir -- ” I pause long enough to

tease him, and add, “ -- Hugh.”


Bruised Knuckles and Bars

By Julia Talbot

Jed Thatcher stared at the grimy telephone in the back of the Delta Sheriff's Department, trying to decide who to call. His younger brother Ross stood next to him, one blue eye swollen almost shut, his bottom lip still swollen and bloody. "You should call Tank," Jed said finally, referring to Ross' mountain of a lover. The big Texan was the most understanding of all of the available family. And would probably come and bail them out. "No way." Ross waved his hands in the air, flashing scraped up knuckles. "He's slaving away in the kitchen on God knows what. This would just make him grumpy." Jed sighed. "Well, we can't call Mom and Lloyd." Their mom and step-dad were having some big anniversary party the next day. Jed couldn't for the life of him remember which anniversary it was, as drunk as he'd been before the fight broke out. "Nope," Ross agreed, all too readily. "The most reasonable thing to do is to call Eli." "Ha. Eli's never been reasonable when I get myself hauled into jail and you know it." Didn't matter how long Eli Marshall, Jed's lover, was part of his life. The man was too much of a straight arrow. Eli just didn't get bar fights, or the fact that the Delta country Sheriff had it in for the Thatchers due to some old grade school bullshit. That had been Ross' fault, but damned if it didn't leak over onto Jed, where the Sheriff was concerned. "Call him anyway," Ross urged, holding out his handcuffed wrists. "I'm kind of at a disadvantage." Damn. Jed nodded, finally picking up the receiver and dialing his house, hoping Eli was even there. "'Lo?"


Oh, thank goodness. "Hey, Mister. You got a minute?"

"For you, Thatcher? You bet. What's up? Too drunk to drive?" Eli had that indulgent tone he got

when Jed and Ross were out on the town, such as it was in rural Western Colorado, and couldn't

get home.

"Something like that. Uh. We have a little situation here."

"A little one?" Now he could just see Eli starting to frown, those dark eyes going all stormy.

"What kind?"

"Well, we're not broke down on the side of the road or stuck at the bar."

"Uh-huh. Where are you?"

"Down in Delta." That was the truth, at least.

He heard a long, drawn out sigh. "Where?"

"At the jail." Jed kinda held his breath, hoping Eli wouldn't explode. The man had a temper and a

half sometimes.

"No shit? Well, at least that has a bed and I don't have to worry about you freezing to death

outside. Sounds like a good place for you."

"Now, Eli…"

"Nope. You're in jail, it means you were drunk and disorderly, which means you can just damned

well stay there overnight. I can't believe you two would ruin Nancy and Lloyd's party this way."

"Hold on, Mister. We didn't start it. You know Ross can't sit still for name calling and shit."

"Uh-huh. And I know you just have to help. You know what? I think you and Ross ought to

sleep in jail tonight and think about how disappointed your momma is gonna be. 'Night."

The phone clicked, and then a dial tone sounded, making Jed sigh and hang up.

"Not coming, huh?" Ross shook his head. "I swear, you old married couples."

"Shut up." If Ross wasn't still handcuffed, Jed would have decked him. "Your turn. Who are you

calling?"

"I'll try Brodie."


Brodie was an old friend, one of their mom's cowhands, and an all around good guy. Problem was, he'd gotten married not too long ago, and was on baby number one, which meant the man never slept. And when he did, he slept like the dead. Jed dialed for Ross before handing over the earpiece, crossing his fingers. "Hey, honey. Can I talk to… Yeah, this is Ross. No, no, I'm not. Well, yeah. I'm in jail. I just

need him to… No? Okay, honey. Yeah, you get some rest. 'Night."

Damn. Shot down again. "No, huh?"

Ross shook his head. "Nope. Baby's sick. Throwing up all over. Looks like we're on our own."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a good while, both of them thinking hard. "We'd best get on out of

here on our own, then," Ross finally said. "Before they actually put us in a cell."

"Good idea."

At that time of night, the Sheriff's department was pretty damned quiet, so they had to be careful,

but the fact that no one had come for them yet indicated that the front desk staff were either busy or asleep. Probably busy, to be fair to the dispatcher, Sheila, who was a good'un.

"Get in that desk and see if you can't find me a key to these," Ross said, waving his hands in the

air again.

"I ought to leave them on you, see what Tank thinks of a little trussed turkey."

"Don't make me beat you."

It took three desks and a filing cabinet, but Jed finally found a set of keys and got Ross uncuffed. "So, we can't just slip out the back, can we?"

"Well, they haven't actually booked us yet." Ross's one good eye twinkled. "We'd just have to

hitch a ride back to the truck without anyone seeing us."

"Sounds like a plan."

Lord knew it wasn't the first time he and Ross had snuck out of the Sheriff's backyard. The

streets of Delta were damned deserted after one a.m., the buildings dark and locked. Main Street looked like a ghost town, and he and Ross stuck to the shadows, knowing it was the quickest way


through town, but also the worst. Damn, Jed didn't feel like walking all the way out to the bowling alley where they'd left the truck. It was halfway to Cedaredge, which meant it was a good three-four mile walk. It was Albert Austin who stopped and gave them a ride, on his way back from the farmer's market in Grand Junction by way of a few beers. Man had lost his license ten years ago to drunk driving, but managed to get around on the back roads. "Thanks, Mr. Austin," he and Ross said in unison when the old man dropped them off at the truck. "Stay out of trouble, boys." They glanced at each other as soon as he drove off, beginning to chuckle, then outright laugh. They just hooted and hollered, hanging on to each other, both of them shaking with it. Tears streamed down their faces, and Jed thought his belly might eat its way through his backbone, he laughed so hard. Finally, they wiped their eyes and hopped in the truck, heading home. By the time Jed dropped Ross off up in Mesa and came back over the mountain to get home, it was damned near four in the morning. He tried taking off his boots and sneaking into the house, but with four dogs there was no way. He ended up sprawled on his ass, Gargantor licking his face, Spot licking his toes. The kitchen light came on, the light all but blinding him, and Jed looked up blinking. "Hey, Eli." "Hey, Thatcher." Eli stared down at him, hand on his hips, that big body set in lines of disapproval. "Mad at me, huh?" "Get your ass off the floor." Eli offered one big, scarred hand, and Jed hauled himself up with it. "Sorry, Mister." What else could he say? He was sorry he'd gotten into it with the big bunch of rednecks at the bar, sorry he and Ross had done their daddy proud once again. Kinda. Mostly. Sorry, that was. "I know." A grin spread across Eli's face. "Been awhile, huh?" "Since Ross and I tied it up? Yeah." "Yeah. So did the Sheriff let you go?" The smell of coffee hit him all of a sudden, like a switch had been turned on and his senses had opened back up. Meant the beer was wearing off.


"Not exactly."

"Huh." Eli handed him a steaming cup, just enough cream in it to fight the bitter. "So you snuck

out, yeah?"

"Yeah. They hadn 't booked us or anything. I don't think Lou really wanted to. Just the Sheriff."

"Well, I guess that's okay then."

Jed tilted his head. "You're not gonna stay mad at me all night?"

Eli's grin faded. "When was the last time I did that? 'Sides, the night is nearly over." The big guy

turned on his heel and started to march out of the kitchen.

Shit. Jed let his coffee cup thump down on the table and lunged, grabbing the back of Eli's

sweats and yanking. The damned things stretched in his hands, like some weird rubber toy or

something. Yoing. Eli damned near kept going, leaving him with a handful of cloth, but Jed

managed to catch one hip, fingers curling around Eli's hipbone.

"Stop, Mister. Come on. I was just having guilt, okay?"

"You should." Turning, Eli pulled him close, hands sliding into the back pockets of his jeans.

"You know they'll show up on the doorstep in a few hours to take you in, and I'll have to make

nice."

"I can make nice now, if that would help." Draping his arms around Eli's neck, Jed swayed like

they were dancing, loving up on his man, making it up to him.

"That might help a lot. Even if I am an old man, and you're disturbing my beauty sleep."

"You're not that old, Mister." Jed took a kiss, slow and easy, tasting Eli for the first time in days.

Sometimes when the whole family came to visit he got a little sideways, forgot what he had at

home. It was good to remember.

Eli's hands moved out of his pockets and down to squeeze his ass. "Show me?"

"You know it. Want my mouth?" He knew Eli loved that, had since they'd very first met and Jed

had made a chancy, off-hand comment about a man's mouth on his dick…

"For now, yeah. Then I want you. Right here on the kitchen table. Think you're up to that,

Thatcher?"

"Oh, man, is that a challenge?" Hell, yes, he was up to it. They had oil. "You just wait."


Okay, so these days his knees creaked a little when they hit the tile floor, and the dogs were a little too curious about what they were doing and had to be run off. (And wasn't that a sight, Eli with his sweats down, cock bouncing as he ran around the kitchen with a fly swatter.) They got it figured, even if he did have to use his hands on Eli's fine prick to get it to rise again, get them back to where they'd started. Didn't make no never mind to him, he liked to touch, to feel Eli get hard for him. When he had Eli all worked up, Jed leaned in and licked, pressing his tongue against the slit at the head. Goddamn, that was a better adrenaline pump than a bar fight, for sure. Eli moaned, pushing up at him, and Jed gave the man what he wanted, pushing his lips down over Eli's cock, sucking hard. The flavor of hot, salty man washed the rest of the beer taste out of his mouth, and Jed closed his eyes and went to town. God, yes. "Jed. Yeah." Eli was humping now, asking for more with every roll of his hips. Giving it all he could, Jed sucked and licked, remembering to use his hands, too. He got one up under Eli's balls, the other around the base of that cock, moving them in time with each other. Muscles tight, skin flushed, Eli rocked for him, really giving it up, now. Salty drops fell on his tongue, and Jed moaned, trying to get more, tongue working the whole shaft, searching for what he needed. Which was when Eli pulled him off, staring down at him, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. "Want inside you, Jed," Eli said, smiling just a little, features tense. "Been too long." Oh. Damn. Yeah. "Okay, Mister. Whatever you want." Jed climbed to his feet, surprised to find his knees shaking a little. He was out of breath, his cock so hard he ached, and he hadn't even noticed it. Stripping off his jeans and boots, Jed pulled off his shirt before he lay back on the table, offering himself over. "Christ, Jed. I… Damn." Eli reached for the oil, coating two fingers before reaching between his legs to stretch him. It had been too long. His body felt tight, hot, and Eli's fingers felt scratchy and huge. Jed rode the feelings, breathing deep, loosening his muscles one by one. Each second saw him a little more easy, a little more relaxed. Eli worked him mercilessly, opening him wide, fingers curling to touch his gland. He shouted when the blunt, callused tips hit his sweet spot, his belly going hard as a board, his cock starting to leak something fierce. "Babe. Come on. I'm ready."


"You sure?" Eli asked, staring down at him, hips nudging the insides of his thighs. "Never been more sure. Come on, lover. In." Nodding, Eli drew a deep breath, pulling those two fingers free and reaching to grab Jed's hips. The head of Eli's cock pushed against his hole, far heavier and wider than Eli's fingers, and Jed bucked, his body trying to fend off the attack, even as he opened up to it. Eli slid home with one more thrust, hips flush against Jed's ass, skin hot as a brand. "Jed. Oh, God. Jed." Listen to that man. He'd put that gravel in Eli's voice; he'd made Eli breathless and growly. Sometimes it still amazed him that he could do that. Moaning for him, Eli started moving, pushing into his body over and over. Jed pushed back, begging with words and motion, his hands clenching on the table beneath him, the edge of the wood digging into his palms. It gave him leverage, gave him something to use to push himself up, to get Eli deeper inside him. "Harder, Eli. More." Panting, groaning, Eli pushed harder, gave him more. Those lean hips snapped, Eli's strong thighs rubbing along the insides of his. So hard and fit, even after all these years, his Eli. Still so much a damned fireman. Jed fucking loved it. His cock reminded him it was there when Eli bent to kiss him, rubbing against Eli's belly, the scrape of it making him cry out. Eli took his cry, tongue pushing into his mouth, lips sealing against his. When Eli stood up straight to start thrusting in earnest, Jed reached down and grabbed his prick, stroking it in time to Eli's thrusts, feeling like the top of his head might just come right off. "Jed. Goddamn. Gonna. Soon." "Uh-huh. Come on, Eli. I'm with you." He was. Jed was so close that he could feel it in his back teeth clenching, in the way his muscles jumped and twitched. It rose up his spine like a damned tidal wave. Maybe like a wildfire, since they lived in a landlocked state and Jed wouldn't know a tsunami if it bit him on the ass. The thought made him chuckle, and Eli pinched his hip. "Focus, Thatcher. More focus, less laughing."


"Not laughing at you. Come on, Eli. Give it to me." Closing his eyes, Jed bit his lip and clamped down as hard as he could with his body, trying to pull Eli into him, trying to get the man to come for him. Eli did shoot for him, just like that, hips snapping against his ass, wet heat filling him up. One big hand closed around his cock, jacking him along with the last few jerks of Eli's prick inside him, and that was all Jed needed to come like a ton of bricks, his legs wrapping around Eli's hips to hold him still. They stayed right there for a long time, Eli braced on locked arms, leaning on the table. Jed kinda hung there with his ass off the table, legs locked around Eli's hips, his breath coming in great gasps. Eli finally moved, shifting slowly away from him, pulling out gently. They didn't say a whole word while they got their respective pants back on and got the dogs inside, gave them treats, and cleaned up the kitchen. They went to bed arm and arm like the old fucking married couple they were, and Jed set the alarm for the next day, wincing at how few hours of sleep they'd get before they had to be up and out the door for his mom's party set up. Snuggled under the quilts, dogs all around them, Jed and Eli curled together, warm and good, and that was when Jed finally apologized. "I'm sorry, babe. Sorry I worried you and that Ross and I were acting like stupid teenagers." Chuckling, Eli grabbed his hand, bringing it up to kiss his scraped-up knuckles. "That's okay, Thatcher," Eli murmured. "You'll make it up to me. Again and again." Oh, yeah. He could live with that. *** The next morning came way too damned early. Jed had worked off most of the hangover with Eli the night before, burning it right out of his system. He still ended up with a dry mouth and a pounding head, though. He sure wasn't as young as he used to be. The dogs set up a furious barking about the time Jed hauled his ass to the bathroom, and he heard Eli grumble and mumble, the sound of the bedroom door slamming open making him wince. Eli needed his beauty sleep. Always had. He hated being woke up before the alarm went off. Pulling on a robe, Jed headed out to the front room, peering over Eli's shoulder. Damn. He sighed, poking Eli's butt.


"Morning, Lou," he said to the Sheriff's Deputy, who never seemed to get any sleep. "Want some coffee?" "Sure. Thanks." Lou came in, doffing his hat, giving Jed a wry look.

"So, you picked up Ross yet?" Eli asked, heading to the kitchen to make the coffee. Eli made

way better coffee than Jed did these days, having finally learned from Lloyd.

"No. Figured I'd visit him after I did you. Sheriff's pretty pissed that you two ran out, Jed."

Eli went about the motions of making coffee, and Jed had to admit, he was paying more attention

to Eli's fuzzy legs, hanging out from beneath the tiny PT shorts, than he was to Lou.

"He never shoulda hauled us in, Lou," Jed finally said when he realized everyone was staring at

him. "It was all over time he got there, and we didn't break nothing. Hell, Eddy and Kyle didn't

even want to press charges. They knew who started it."

"Hell, I know that, Jed."

"You know it’s my mom's anniversary, too, right? You really want to have her on your ass for

ruining her day?" Nancy Thatcher was a force to be reckoned with, and most everyone Jed's age

and younger in the Grand Mesa area was scared to death of her.

"Hell, no, I don't," Lou said. "I reckoned I would tell the Sheriff I left you in Eli's hands, made

him promise me to keep you out of trouble."

The coffee finished brewing in their little two cup dispenser, and Eli handed Lou a cup with two

sugars and a cream. Said something about how much Lou came around, that Eli would know

that. Bless him, Eli didn't mention that, he just nodded.

"I can do that, Lou. I'll keep him busy, I promise."

"Thanks." Quickly, blowing on it to cool it off, Lou finished up the coffee. "I got to go see Ross

and hope I don't see your momma. You be good, Jed."

"I will. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Lou left them, and Eli grinned over, setting his cup of coffee next to Lou's in the sink and

coming over to grab Jed around the waist.

"Remanded to my custody," Eli said, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Whatever will I do with

you, Thatcher?"

Laughing, Jed wound his arms around Eli's neck. "I don't know. Whatever it is, it's sure bound to

be less of a mess than if you left me to my own devices."


"Hell, yes. You're trouble looking for a place to happen."

Jed nodded, kissing Eli full in the mouth. "Good thing I love you, then, Mister? Makes up for a

lot."

Eli just nodded seriously at him, kissing him back, tongue tracing his lips. "You know it,

Thatcher. Love you, too."

Hell, Eli showed him that every day, but it was nice to hear it out loud.

Especially after Eli wouldn't come bail him out of jail.

He figured sometimes a man just had to clean up his own messes, no matter how much it stung.

Then Eli was kissing him again, and Jed gave up worrying about it. He had all the proof he

needed that Eli gave a damn, right there.

Who gave a damn what the Sheriff thought of him?


About the Authors Before dawn and after dark, Lee Benoit is a writer of gay fiction, some contemporary, some speculative, some historical. During the daylight hours Lee is a professor of sociology, and round the clock a two-spirit, single-by-choice parent of two. Find Lee at http://leebenoit.livejournal.com Angelia Sparrow has written a number of short stories, both alone and with Naomi. She has just sold her third novel. She is a truck driver, living quietly in the mid-South with a husband, four kids and two insane cats. She enjoys science fiction conventions, reading and crochet. Naomi Brooks has co-written several stories with Angelia. She is a former return to vendor clerk, who once entertained herself by feeding the stockboys lollipops for the purpose of making notes on their mouth techniques to later be written into blow jobs. She also fantasizes about sleeper cabs and trucker porn. Her secret ambition is to grow up to be Orlando Bloom. Margaret Leigh lives on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland Australia with her partner and two cats. She has been writing stories since she learned to hold a pen and form letters and her first Novel is due out with Bareback Angels in 2008. Find Margaret at http://margaretleigh.com. Originally from Hawaii, Misa Izanaki has been writing since she was twelve. She has a fondness for cats, squirrels, and anime. Most of her stories come from her muses, the constantly evolving group of pretty anime-style men who live in her head, and she is constantly poking at them for new ideas. When she’s not writing, Misa can be found painting war game miniatures or trying in vain to catch up with her backlog of comics and books. Camilla Bruce is a Norwegian writer of m/m erotica and romance of the yaoi variety. She was first published by Torquere Press in 2004 and has contributed to various anthologies. She also writes comic scripts and fairy tales in Norwegian. During a misspent youth, Laney Cairo had the opportunity to meet some acquaintances of dubious legality and morality. She'd like to make it understood that she would never, ever use those acquaintances or experiences in her stories. Everybody clear on that? Laney has also spent too much time reading true crime books about the Australian criminal underworld. She should stop doing that too. Visit Laney at http://laneycairo.com/ or at http://laney-cairo.livejournal.com/ Cassidy Ryan lives in Scotland and passes the cold, wet hours by emptying her mind onto paper. Other Torquere stories include: Fortune's Favor, Have a Little Faith, Sleeping with the Past, and Another Fine Mess - 176

a story in Taste Test: Chocolate and Power Tools II. Visit Cassidy at http://cassidyryanwrites.tripod.com. Mychael Black has been writing gay erotica for several years. When not writing, he can usually be found researching or brainstorming. Mychael’s favorite subjects of research are: Medieval history, Welsh history, Welsh culture, Welsh language, swords, castles, archaeology, Celtic history, Celtic mythology, vampires and vampire mythologies, Magick, Christian mysteries, angels, and other such topics. He welcomes feedback and will gladly answer all messages. He can be reached at: mychael_black@yahoo. Syd McGinley thought editing this anthology would be a jolly good idea! Syd is an ex-pat Brit living in Ohio. Syd’s writing can be found in several Torquere anthologies such as Torqued Tales, Eternal Darkness, Men in Uniform, and Play Ball, as well as a single author Taste Test, Put Some English on It (where Hugh and Ryan first appear). Syd also has several Sips available and an Arcana story: Until the End of Time: The Chariot. Visit www.sydmcginley.com for more queer erotica. Julia Talbot has been assimilated by Texas, where there is hot and cold running rodeo, cowboys, and smoked brisket. A full time author, Julia has been published by Torquere Press, Suspect Thoughts, Pretty Things Press, and Changeling Press. She can most often be found in coffee shops and restaurants, scribbling in her notebook and entertaining other diners with her mutterings. Find her on the web at http://thegates.net/juliatalbot


Another Fine Mess Anthology

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