Arresting Developments 1601680708

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Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Aspen Mountain Press www.aspenmountainpress.com

Copyright ©2007 by Buchanan, Lanyon, Picaro First published in 2007, 2007 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

WARNING This e-Book contains graphic scenes of sex and violence as well as adult language that may be considered inappropriate by some. Please store your e-Books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

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Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Arresting Developments James Buchanan Josh Lanyon L. Picaro Aspen Mountain Press

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Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Arresting Developments Copyright ©2007 Coyote Crossing by James Buchanan Copyright © 2007 In a Dark Wood by Josh Lanyon Copyright © 2007 Gamble Everything by L. Picaro This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations are from the authors' imaginations and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental. Aspen Mountain Press PO Box 473543 Aurora CO 80013 www.AspenMountainPress.com First published by Aspen Mountain Press, November 2007 www.AspenMountainPress.com This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book may be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. ISBN: (10) 1-60168-070-8 ISBN: (13) 978-1-60168-070-9 5

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Coyote Crossing James Buchanan Scraggly fingers of mesquite tickled the inky black underbelly of a New Mexico evening. Wheels crunching the sand, Senior Agent Ricardo Franco's Land Cruiser rolled to a stop. The two little gold supervisors' bars on his uniform earned him the privilege. Headlights switched off and Rick didn't hit the brakes; a flash of light under a moonless sky would give away his position. That just wouldn't do. He leaned over the steering wheel and sucked on his tongue, thinking. Then he grabbed a set of night vision goggles off the bench seat. Recently transferred out of California, Deming Station was Rick's new digs. The arid, open landscape suited him right now. San Diego's over the top and too many people in too little space lifestyle ground him down until not much remained. All Rick really wanted was to loose himself in his work. That couldn't happen in Southern California, not while all of his and George's former friends still lived there. Rick really didn't want to look at the faces of people who knew George was fucking other guys while Rick was on duty. Not telling him ... well, they chose their allegiance. Rick quietly backed out of their lives and arranged the transfer. The process had dragged on for months: months of packing, and yelling and drinking too much. 6

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Now he could start over. When this tip-off came, Rick had been on the New Mexico border all of a week. Get in and swim was his motto. Of course, he hadn't meant it literally. Sweat plastered the forest green uniform to Rick's back and left him dripping. Everything needed to go well on this raid. His team counted on him to pull them through. Tonight, Rick expected things to be rough around the edges, but the squad was professional. They knew their stuff. Rick scanned the desert. Looking. Waiting. Knowing. On the third pass he picked out close to a dozen glowing green shapes darting across the landscape. Agent Franco snorted. Always the same cat and mouse game; just like hunting. When would they ever learn? Snagging the handset without looking, he cued the mike. "Okay guys we got rabbits." He called out their position to the agents waiting in the darkness. The tip had paid off. Another four shapes, ones who'd been waiting, began to move forward. Rick directed them in their scuttling advance. Slowly they tightened their circle about the still moving group. As if on cue, all the hunted shapes dropped. Someone must have heard something out there. Rick smirked. Wouldn't do no good to hit the dust. It just delayed the inevitable. Figuring his men were closing in he tossed the goggles back on the seat and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck bounded down a short slope heading to where his men were. If he played it right he could herd them into the arms of the other agents. Bouncing over a rock, Rick flipped on the 4x4's headlights. The white glow blazed across 7

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

the desert. Ahead his beams picked out people scattering. Men, women and children; crap, he hated it when they brought kids. Ricky flipped on the speaker and keyed the mike. His voice boomed over the dark desert. "Alto! No correr. Haga este fácil en ustedes." Telling them not to run was like telling a river to stop flowing. Just wasn't going to happen. They hid. With a sigh, Ricky slid the truck into park and jumped from the cab. He could almost feel their frantic breath in his bones. Agents with flashlights roamed the desert. Disembodied voices drifted over the sand. "We know you're hiding." Some spoke in English others Spanish. "Ya sé que están escondidos." A few taunted, "Come here, bunny, bunny," and Rick made a mental note of the wise ass' voice. As the officer in charge he preferred to deal with people in a more respectful manner. The situation deserved better. "It's time to go home to Mexico." "Aha!" Agent Webber called out, waiving her flashlight over a stand of scrub. "Muchacos hoy!" Once caught, most of the illegal immigrants didn't fight, they just ran. A few agents in uniform often pacified large groups. Agents were known to single handedly detain up to a hundred illegals at one time. She and the other agents rounded up the rag-tag group. Agent Fullbreck gathered the stragglers Webber pointed out. "Escuchen!" he shouted as Rick slammed the door of the white truck with its characteristic green blaze down the side. 8

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Seven people, scraps of carpet sewn to their shoes to avoid leaving footprints, huddled together. "No van a trabajar. You're not going to get jobs tonight." Fullbreck snapped. They clung to water bottles, toothbrushes, toilet paper and maybe phone numbers. It was all most of them had to survive the desert trek. "Hey," Webber called out, herding three more men ahead of her, "I got a few more for you." They walked with hands on top of heads, their gate resigned to the inevitable return to Mexico. Fullbreck looked up, his flashlight tracking across the new faces, and smiled. The men blinked and looked away. Fullbreck's beam played over the face of the man in the middle. "Well, well, well, we don't need to ask who the coyote is on this crossing." Nabbing the coyotes, the guys who made their living sneaking people across the border, was a big coup. Normally, illegals wouldn't rat them out—their lives, the lives of their families depended on the shady dealers who knew the hidden routes through the desert. Border Patrol often ended up shunting the coyotes right back into Mexico with their victims so they could do it all over again the next night. Rick may have been a Senior Agent, but Fullbreck had been stationed on this stretch of the border for years. Since Rick didn't want to twist anyone's shorts, he let Fullbreck take the collar. "Look who we have here," the agent sneered. "Agustín Romero-Price." 9

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Rick couldn't have heard the name right. It snuck out of his past and slapped him. The assignment may have been new; the area wasn't. Columbus, New Mexico, forty-five minutes south, was his home town. Associated with the name and the area was a gangly boy. Augi, Agustín, baby bro to Javier, Rick's best friend at Deming High. Javier played center to Rick's running-back position. And Augi; Augi was the fucking kid who followed them around and worshiped the ground they walked on. Javier's mama would yell, Ninos, take Augi with you, sounding the death knell for two teenagers. The last thing they wanted was a fourteen year old to baby sit. They'd buy Augi a Manzanita, shove him in an out of the way booth, and tell him to shut the fuck up while they chased girls. Well, Javier chased them and Rick just pretended to. Deming wasn't a good place to be an eighteen year old, gay football player. "What does this make for you Augi, three times this year?" As Fullbreck's voice chided, Rick double timed towards the group of detainees. "You're probably looking at time now boy." Headlights picked out a squared off jaw set off by deep brown eyes. The subtle five-o-clock shadow softened the edges of his face. Hard set, the line of his mouth came off as a bad boy pout. Augi, his hands clasped behind his head, shuffled his worn hiking boots through the sand. The position pushed his chest out pulling his shirt tight. Where the flannel gaped a dusting of black curls enticed Rick. Thirteen years had filled out Agustín's shoulders and upper body. Broad and 10

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

muscular lines replaced the skinny teenage frame from Rick's memories. Augi still had the shaggy, wavy black hair: buzzed on the sides but long on top and flopping into his eyes. Rick sighed, "Ah shit, Augi." Even if they hadn't called out his name, Rick would have known Augi. It bothered him, just a bit, how excited he was at the prospect of seeing Augi. And it wasn't the prospect of seeing an old friend that lit Rick up. No. The gaping rents in the knees of Augi's jeans offered up enticing glimpses of hard muscled legs. Rick's hips were excited to see Augi long before his brain put two and two together. Fullbreck turned. "You know this piece of shit, Franco?" He swung his gaze from Augi to Rick and back again. "If he has a brother named Javier, I do." Rick hooked his thumbs through his wide duty belt and adjusted himself without being obvious. "Fucking-A, been close to twelve maybe thirteen years though. Used to be best friends with his bro." "Hey Rick," Augi smirked, "How's things? Long time no see." Warm and heady, Augi's voice had grown up with the rest of him. It didn't do anything to ease Rick's half-mast stance. Fuck, Rick needed to get laid. At least six months had passed since the last time ... the relationship had been over with George long before it had been finished. Hacking and spitting into the dust, Fullbreck considered Rick. "You want him, Franco?" For this group they'd caught, many more had probably slipped through their fingers. Family and friendship were big commodities in the Southwest. Combine those two random 11

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

facts and nobody would think Fullbreck's offer odd. What the authorities couldn't drill through a thick head used to slipping through the cracks, maybe a heart-to-heart could. Then the next time, if there was a next time, Augi got caught they could all say they tried. "Yeah, give him to me." Rick growled as he glowered at Augi. He shouldn't tempt himself, but he felt like he owed it to Javier and his family. "I'll see if I can't smack some sense into his skull." With a jerk of his head, Rick directed Augi toward his vehicle. The only sounds came from the agents behind them. When they reached the passenger side, Rick yanked open the door. "Get in the fucking truck, Augi." It came out somewhere between an order and a plea. Augi rolled his eyes and clambered into the cab. Rick headed round to the driver's door. The places you never wanted to meet friends and family. Sliding onto the bench, Rick looked across the dark interior. Augi slumped on the bench seat and stared out at the night. He really would rather not have been an agent at that moment. "Augi, what the fuck are you doing here?" An almost imperceptible shrug answered him. Then Augi added, "Making some cash." Rick sighed. "Where were you meeting them, your partners?" That got Augi's attention. He twisted in his seat and choked out, "Why don't you just bust me?"

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Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

"Come on Augi, you don't care, they don't care, it's all a cost of doing business." Rick drummed the steering wheel. "You don't want to be busted, do you?" How to get through to Augi? Rick wanted to be nice to the kid. It was more than a sense of duty from his friendship with Javier. It was certainly more than that rush of lust on seeing Agustín all grown up. Augi was good people. Not the best, not the worst, but as little brothers of friends went an okay guy to be around. "Besides, Pardner," that's what they'd called Augi as a kid, "We all know the transport won't be there. They'll know you got popped. Most that'll happen is we'll get another of your groups." Obviously some things had changed in the years since Rick blew out of Columbus. Still, he couldn't imagine Augi, the boy who cried when some stray dog got run over, as a cold hearted coyote. "What happens when the next pack shows up and the truck don't. No water, no food; how long will they last?" Augi stared at his big, rough hands, then looked out the window. He ran his fingers through his hair. Finally, he glowered and muttered. "I always hated it when you were right." Turning back to the window, Rick almost lost the next part. "Fucking, you and Javier, stuck in my craw every time." "Well, Pardner," Rick teased, "That's what happens when you have an older brother." "Don't call me Pardner. I ain't a fucking kid anymore." That was the truth in spades. No one would mistake Augi for a kid. Hell, those shoulders alone screamed big strong guy. Augi stewed in silence and Rick let him have the time. It 13

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

wasn't like they didn't all know the outcome of the whole situation. If Augi just bailed, left now, then the illegals who slipped past the Border Patrol would let the pickup know they'd been made. Any other groups would be left to hang. Those broad shoulders sagged. Resigned and pissed off, Augi muttered. "Five miles up the way, north and slightly west, there's a shack. It'll have an old red t-shirt tacked to the door. Now can I go?" "Nope." Rick twisted the key. "You're coming with me." "Fuck you!" Augi grabbed the Jesus bar on the glove box as the truck bounded over a dune. "Lodia's gonna be pissed at me." "Lodia is?" They bounced over more rises. "One of the guys I work for." A whump echoed through the truck as Augi's hand hit the roof of the cab. Well, if he couldn't figure out the seatbelt, Rick wasn't about to help him. 'Cause, God knew, Augi wasn't a kid. "He ain't a peach, but the guy's pretty straight up. Won't do drugs that kind of thing." Another bump and another thump from Augi's side. "Goddamn, can't you drive better?" Grinning from his position behind the wheel, Rick snorted, "Nope." The lonely, dark drive suffered intermittent interruptions. Augi stopped them periodically to get his bearings. Coyote trails moved from marker to marker ... a torn pair of panties, scraps of bags or an empty water bottle shoved on the end of a branch. Like tracking any other animal, you just had to 14

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

know the signs. Occasional stands of prickly pear or a downed yucca fine tuned Augi's navigation. Three Sisters Mountain, barely visible as shadows in the moonlight, hovered on the horizon. They jumped from barren desert to dirt track to back again. A coyote's path: never stay on the road for too long. Rick repeatedly thanked the US government for his four-wheel drive. Finally, Augi took him into an arroyo and back out. An oblong concrete box squatted amidst scraggly mesquite and weeds. Corrugated metal for a roof meant it would be an oven by noon. Parked on one side, an ancient moving van from one of those you-move-it places skulked. Augi squirmed in his seat. "Lodia's gonna fucking kill me." "That Lodia's truck?" Rick pulled the Border Patrol vehicle next to the truck. There was no way to block the other vehicle in. Still, it was strange that expecting people on foot, but hearing another truck approach, the driver hadn't cleared out. Augi popped the door. Before getting out, he mumbled. "Yeah." Seemed Augi didn't think everything was hunky-dory either. He leaned back in the cab. "Hey, Rick, you got a flashlight?" Rick nodded, pulled the big mag-light from under his seat, and slung it on his duty belt. Adjusting his Beretta 96D Brigadier on his hip, Rick debated on bringing the shot gun. Not knowing Augi's reactions settled Rick on leaving the Remington behind. Scatter guns scattered. And if Augi moved left instead of right at the wrong moment it'd be messy. Only the wind, Augi's footsteps, and the far off call of a coyote greeted him as he stepped from the truck. It was way 15

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

too quiet for his tastes. Rick decided not to turn on the light just yet. Best if no one knew exactly where they were. As he passed the truck, Rick laid his hand on the hood. Cold. Lodia had been there for a while. "Hey, Augi." Rick hissed. "What's Lodia's first name?" The dark shape signifying Augi's presence paused. "Why?" He whispered back. Because it's easier to convince someone not to shoot you if you use their first name. Rick knelt next to where Augi crouched along the wall. "Humor me." "Armando." Augi palmed his face before adding. "Something's wrong." Rick felt that the moment he left the truck. Still, he wanted to know why Augi felt that way. "How do you know?" "There's signals and stuff." He shook his head. "They ain't happening. The shirt's not on the door." Well, there wasn't, technically, a door on the place. But Rick guessed that Augi meant on the twisted frame. "Right, Pardner, I'll go first." As he inched forward, Rick heard Augi mumble, "I said not to call me Pardner." Fuck him if he couldn't take a joke. The concrete block wall radiated the lingering chill of a desert night. Rick really preferred not to go in by the front door. As far as he could tell, there weren't any other options. Still crouched down, presenting as small a target as possible, Rick risked a quick glance around the corner. No movement. No one took a pot shot at him. That was good, because even as dark as it was 16

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

outside, it was darker inside. Backlit, on a list of one to one hundred bad ideas, hit somewhere around ninety-eight. Grabbing a few small stones near his boot heel, Rick took a deep breath and tossed them through a gaping window frame. Nothing. The lack of response could mean one of three things. Everyone inside was so calm, cool, and collected that they wouldn't even react to a ruse. Possibly the occupants were drunk or asleep. Option three, no one was home. The third choice seemed most logical. Rick stood, un-holstered his automatic and keeping his back pressed to the frame, slid through the door. No sense in presenting a bigger target than necessary. Just because he took the more logical choice didn't mean it was the right choice. The shack echoed of empty. Off in one corner a few shadows loomed. Rick blinked, adjusting to the darker interior. Two of the shapes were roughly furniture shaped. The third looked like a man lying on his back on the floor. Okay, Rick made the wrong choice. Lucky for him, option two instead of option one. He pulled the mag from his hip, twisting the butt of the flashlight with his thumb. The beam sputtered then burned bright. Option four hadn't crossed Rick's mind: everyone was already dead. Rat shit and trash littered the bare concrete floor around the body. A mottled mural of greens and rust stained the once white walls. One broken down chair occupied the center of the room. Pocked with rust, an old metal desk sat beneath a long gone window. 17

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Next to the desk, a man Rick assumed was Armando Lodia, lay on his back, one hand resting on his stomach. New blue jeans were belted with a wide cowboy belt; the kind you bought across the border with your name stamped into the leather. Amazingly, Lodia's white polo shirt, with its chest width band of blue, seemed immaculate. Reason dictated that with the amount of blood splattered on the desk top, the wall, the chair, and pooling behind his head, some should have gotten on Lodia's clothing. "Hey, Augi," Rick called through the door. "Come here." A few seconds later the rolling crunch of Augi's boots sounded at the door. Belatedly, Rick swung the beam to a less traumatic portion of the room. "Don't come in." Augi paused. "Why?" He sounded confused. Confused was better than scared. It meant he hadn't seen anything yet. Stepping away from the wall, Rick let the light play against the far corner. "I'm going to need you to identify someone ... a body. Can you do that for me?" "Yeah." Augi swallowed loud enough Rick would have heard it at the station. "Is it bad?" "Depends, Pardner," Rick drawled as he swung the light toward the dead man, "on your definition of bad." "Shit, Lodia." Augi's hiss confirmed Rick's suspicion. Pale and shaken, Augi turned to Rick. "Is he dead?" Stepping carefully back the way he'd come, Rick tried not to contaminate the scene any more than he already had. "Let's see, half his brains are on the floor ... yeah, pretty much equals dead. Come on, I need to notify the Sheriff." 18

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

When he got back to the truck he called the scene in. Luna County Sheriff, not Border Patrol, handled suspicious deaths in the area. Lodia's death fell into the damned suspicious category. Suicides didn't normally choose smashing their own heads against desks as a method. That meant someone likely helped Lodia along. Rick sighed. He'd transferred to get away from insane crap and here he was plunked down in the middle of a murder. In law enforcement, shit like this was bound to happen. Rick had hoped for a little lag time as he got settled. No such luck. At least it wasn't drama over coming home at four a.m. smelling like some other guys cologne. Murder was preferable to relationship blowout. Questions, questions, and more questions came from a Luna detective wearing a loud cowboy shirt and two hundred dollar boots. That was at least amusing. No San Diego detective would show up to an investigation in Rodeo duds. Finally, it came down to one question. "How do we know we can get hold of Agustín? That the coyote isn't gonna bolt?" Only a week on duty and here he was pulling favors. Rick had to rely on the Border Patrol's cache since he had no personal ones stored up. "Because I grew up with him and his family. If he doesn't stick around, you can have my nuts in a sling." Rick cast a quick glance back at Augi. "You can't hold him for questioning more than a couple hours." Hooking his thumbs in his duty belt, Rick turned back to the sheriff and smiled. "The Price's were my second family. If you lock him up he'll blow back across the border as soon as he's out. 19

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

Deber. Obligación. If he's with me you may actually have a chance in hell of getting a hold of him in a couple of days." Debts of familial honor ranked high in the southwest. The detective groused his acquiescence. "Keep him on a short leash." "You got it." Rick nodded. "Call me when you want me to bring him to you for questioning." Earlier the thought had been to lock Augi up until they got around to interviewing him. Thankfully, that wasn't happening. Rick wasn't quite sure why he was thankful for that. A lot of things had happened in the years he'd been gone. Hell his last memories of Augi were when he'd come back to visit while he was in the Army. Augi'd been sixteen and followed Rick around like a puppy. Wanna get a coke, Rick? Do you want me to drive you over to see football practice? Hey, Rick, have you heard the new Tool CD? Shit the kid had offered to help Rick with his fucking laundry just to hear Army stories. Rick had figured he was just starved, like most teenagers, for life beyond their small home town. He'd humored Augi. Even responded for a while to the letters the kid sent when Rick went back to his post in Germany. Life got busy and Rick stopped answering. The letters finally trickled away to nothing. Augi dozed on the bench of the Border Patrol truck. Hell, maybe if he hadn't been a self absorbed ass, he might have seen this shit coming in Augi's letters. Maybe some big brotherly type advice could have steered him down another path. Naw, he stopped the self-flagellation, Augi's going down this road had nothing to do with him. Rick snapped his fingers 20

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

next to Augi's ear to wake him. "Come on Augi, move over, you're coming back with me." That didn't mean Rick wasn't willing to invest a little time to see if he could resurrect the old Augi. He kinda liked the puppy dog ... what twenty year old Army guy hadn't wanted a little hero worship. Augi sat up and yawned. "Where we going?" "My place, Pardner." Rick slid behind the wheel. "It's closer than the station and I can keep an eye on you until we find out what's up." "What makes you think I'm going to stay there?" "'Cause I'm betting you don't want to wind up like your pal Lodia." Rick steered the truck out onto the rutted dirt road. Beyond them the sun tinged the edge of the sky a yellowish pink. "You think if I let you go to wherever it is you go ... you'll last more than a few days?" Augi crossed his arms over his chest and slid down on the truck's bench. "I still hate it when you're right." "Get used to it." Rick laughed. Holding a job in possibly the most dangerous division of federal law enforcement; Rick staked his life on being right most of the time. Augi hadn't killed Lodia: the blood had been too fresh and Augi'd had a dozen alibis following him through the desert all night. That didn't mean he might not know shit. "Anybody you can think of that you've pissed off recently?" "You mean, like the entire U.S. Department of Justice." Rick stared at Augi. Augi rolled his eyes and chewed on his bottom lip. The smile trying not to break free told Rick he was teasing some. A little more serious, Augi continued. "There's always the people that don't make it across, get caught and 21

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

stuff. Drug dealers, that's a love/hate. We fuck up their trails but then they use ours and use us for cover. You know, wait until a bunch of cattle are going over and then send their mules." "They'd kill Lodia?" Augi shook his head. "I don't think he's done anything out of the ordinary to piss them off." The whump of the tires became a steady hum as they hit pavement. Graded sand shoulders extended back from the black top. Mile after mile of barb-wire fence paralleled the road, only broken by an occasional cattle grate. Beyond that stretched acres of mesquite, cactus, and yucca. The monotony of the landscape freed Rick's mind to wander. Bad and good. Wandering minds meant being all too aware of whatever brand of aftershave Augi used. After a night in the desert the scent had faded to a spicy note layered over Augi's natural musk. It filled the cab, teasing out random thoughts of getting closer. Rick pulled his mind back to more relevant musings. There were probably ten thousand reasons someone might want to take a coyote out. Rick needed to weed out the most obvious. "Anybody threaten you?" The question roused Augi from his own highway hypnosis. "You?" Augi yawned and stared across the cab. "Collectively you?" Clarifying it further, Rick added. "Anybody threaten your partner recently?" After a bit of silence, Augi answered. "About a month ago," he paused, resting one boot heel on the dash, "there was this guy, blew up in his face at a bar. Chuy Viviero or Pizarro—I 22

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

don't remember the last name. Only reason I remember his first is 'cause it's the same as my uncle." Rick glanced over and then wished he hadn't. Denim stretched tight over Augi's package. Ah, hell, it had really been too long since Rick had been out and about. Even considering what that package would look like without the denim ... it was so wrong. This was Augi, Javier's little bro, Pardner. No way should Rick be having thoughts about whether he wore boxers or briefs. Oblivious to Rick's mental torture, Augi finished the explanation. "Bunch of guys tossed Chuy's ass and he didn't come back." "Why was this Chuy guy pissed?" Rick managed to keep his voice from betraying his thoughts. "Got his wife and kid across." Augi leaned back. One strong arm rested on his bent knee. The other extended across the back of the pickup's bench seat. Ever so lightly, Augi's fingertips brushed the back of Rick's shirt. Rick tried like hell not to notice the inadvertent contact. "Apparently she was beating feet away from him. Chuy though Lodia knew where she was." "And did he?" "No," Augi laughed, "he brought them across, but I drove the truck that night ... took them into Arizona." Hell. That left another evil possibility. "Do you think Lodia would rat you out to him?" "I ratted him out to you." Augi's voice was matter of fact, almost calm. 23

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

At least Augi didn't have any delusions about the people he worked with. "Fair enough." Rick passed the local school bus on its morning round and turned onto his street. A ways down on the left stood a pinkish box. Metal stairs ran up either side. Rick pulled the Border Patrol truck through the opening in a three foot tall concrete block fence. At the foot of the right side stairs he parked. Not much more than beaten dirt made up the lot, so Rick figured it didn't matter where he parked. Assuming Augi would follow, Rick headed up the stairs and unlocked the door. "Welcome home." His words echoed back. There wasn't much beyond white walls and brown carpet to Rick's apartment. Half a dozen unpacked boxes took up the center of the front room. Otherwise the place was empty. "Holy shit," Augi teased, "where's all your crap?" Rick abandoned his furniture with George. He'd bought all of three things when he'd moved in: coffee maker, microwave and a mattress set. That lay unadorned in the eight by ten bedroom. Not feeling in the mood to expound, Rick growled, "I travel light," and headed into the bedroom to forestall more personal questions. He kicked the roll of foil used to cover the lone window to one side. "I'm going to grab a shower. There's only one place to crash and it's in here." Snagging a pair of sweats and a t-shirt out of his suitcase, Rick added. "Augi, if you're not here when I get out ... don't think I'm not going to hunt you down and kill you." Augi laughed. "Yeah, whatever." 24

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

"Don't, just don't." Rick shot Augi a paint-peeling glare as he walked out the bedroom door and headed to the bath. Like everything else in the apartment the room was tiny. Rick shrugged out of his olive drab uniform. Shirt and pants he folded neatly on the toilet tank. The big, basket weave gun belt he set on top. His gun went on top of that. Then he kicked his boots between the sink and can. Rick twisted the knob to warm up the shower before grabbing his toothbrush. What the fuck was he doing? Helping out a friend's little brother, he reminded himself as he brushed his teeth. Deep down, Rick knew it was just an excuse. Lying to himself was a bad habit ... one he'd perfected in his years with George. One Rick didn't want to fall back into. Tired brown eyes set in a dark face stared back at him from the mirror. Shit, he looked thirty ... that's what life in the law did to you. The pseudo-military buzz cut didn't do much to soften the image. No way a kid like Augi would see anything but an old man. Hell when he was in his early twenties thirty seemed ancient. After the rinse-spit routine, he climbed into the shower. Hot spray needled Rick's skin. Rick leaned back against the cool tile and sighed. Honestly, Augi interested him. Augi interested him too much. The throbbing between his legs proved that. If Augi hadn't been so God damn good looking, Rick probably would have let him go cool his heels in lockup. Rick's hands wandered down. As his fingers worked over his skin, Rick's mind conjured up the ghosts of Augi's hands. He shivered despite the heat. Okay, he needed to just get it out of his system. If he didn't the fantasies would eat him 25

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

alive. Rick wrapped his hand around his prick. Subtle pressure from his fingers pulled the foreskin back. The angry red head slid from the fold of flesh. Rick hissed as the water danced across it and bucked into the spray. Reveling in the sensation, he closed his eyes. Augi. Damn, how did he get so fine in twelve years? Rick snorted at the thought. Augi'd blown past his brother Javier. Buffed and lean in a similar way, Augi's eyes held a hunger that gave him a dangerous edge. They promised Rick a bad boy. One who knew what he wanted and went for it and damn the consequences. In Rick's fantasy, Augi was going for it. He'd shuck that torn shirt so deliberately and try to turn Rick on. Broad shoulders kissed by the sun, rolled seductively while he smirked. Augi'd smell like sun too, sun and that spicy aftershave he wore. Slow and easy, Rick started the hand over hand dance on his prick. He slid his palm along the shaft. What would Augi's grip feel like there? Rick rocked into his own touch: palm just lightly skimming over his cock. When he hit the base, Rick gripped it, keeping his head exposed. Then he'd repeat the stroke with the other hand. Dropping his pants, the vision of Augi smiled at him. Boxers; yeah, Augi seemed like a boxers kinda guy. Then he'd help ease them off his lean hips. A thick hard cock, roped with veins, would beg Rick to touch it. Rick picked up the pace on his own prick. Rick could invite him under the shower, taste his mouth. As he imagined the feel of Augi's kiss, Rick ran his tongue over his lips. Demanding, gentle or shy: what kind of kisser would Augi be? With that delinquent's 26

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smirk, he'd better have the cajones to back it up. Demanding then, Rick decided. It was his freaking fantasy and he liked demanding kisses. Finally, he couldn't take the gentle torture. Imagining fucking Augi's fist, Rick jacked himself in earnest. Not satisfied with that particular delusion, he jumped to the thought of Augi sucking him. Rick's hand was a blur. Balling a willing mouth, Augi could take him all again and again. Rick would grab a fist full of hair and slam between those lips. Augi would gag, but keep going. The kid would be hungry for him. His balls throbbed. His prick ached. The head of Rick's dick went from red to purple. Head rolling back against the wall, Rick bit down the moan as he erupted between his fingers. The sound of the shower drowned out the rest. He shuddered, milking up the last of his spunk. Damn, he'd come hard. Worse, he'd come hard from a freaking stroke dream. Rick twisted the knob and cold water shot icicles over his skin. A rough cloth and soap couldn't scrub the lingering thoughts of Augi out of his brain. Still, by the time he finally toweled off and pulled on the sweats, Rick managed some semblance of calm. He stepped into the bedroom to the greeting of soft snoring. A wedge of light from the bath illuminated Augi balled up on the mattress. That solved, at least for now, what to do about his house guest. Okay, he could do this. Rick had crashed many times at the Price house in various states of undress and sobriety. Sleepover—that was all this was. Flipping off the bathroom light, Rick eased himself over to the bed and under the single sheet. His back to Augi, Rick scrunched himself onto less than 27

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four inches of mattress. It wasn't quick enough for Rick not to notice. Augi wore boxers. It took Rick forever to fall asleep. Part of it was the strain of an all nighter. Augi's presence in his bed, the scent of him, worked its way under Rick's defenses to muddle that farther. He closed his eyes and the cocky smile from across the truck bloomed. Kicking himself for getting involved, wondering who the hell had offed Lodia—Chuy was good bet—and dreading what his superiors would think if they saw him with a coyote in his bed; swarmed and bit at his consciousness. Sheer exhaustion finally won out and Rick slipped into a restless sleep. Warm and heavy, the smell of coffee woke Rick. It took him a moment to process why his apartment smelled like coffee. Augi. Rick sat up and groaned. At least he'd made it through catching some shut eye without embarrassing himself. A glance at the alarm clock resting on the floor told him it was two in the afternoon. He'd managed a good six plus hours of sleep. Crawling out of the bed, Rick headed toward the siren song of coffee. Even mid afternoon, it was what he needed to shake off the last of his dreams. Augi sat cross legged on the living room carpet. Next to his hip, he'd stacked photos out of one of the boxes. Spread across his bare knees was Rick's senior year book. All he wore was his boxers. Damn. Every muscle in his back flexed as Augi lifted a mug from the floor and Rick stifled a snort. One of his Car 54 collection. What was the use of being in law 28

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enforcement if you couldn't keep a sense of humor? "Traveling down memory lane?" Twisting, Augi turned to offer a smile. "Well, you don't have a TV." "TV rots your mind." Rick countered, stepping around Augi, heading for the kitchen. Older in style, there was actually a wall between kitchen and the rest of the apartment, although it sported an archway opposed to an actual door. Set up galley fashion, the kitchen ended in a pantry with plumbing hookups, one of the reasons Rick had taken the place. He hated hauling his laundry out into public. Vaguely mechanical whirring and a definite sloshing emanated from the closet. Augi, apparently, had found the old washer/dryer combo the previous tenants had abandoned. Rick called through the opening into the living room, "Thanks for making coffee." "No problem. Hey, who's this?" After grabbing another mug, Rick looked back at what Augi held. He sighed. A nice wood frame held a picture of two guys and a white dog sitting on the beach. One of the guys was Rick. The other had red hair and green eyes. Freckles danced over the bridge of his nose. "George. He was my partner." Why did Augi have to find that picture? "Wow." Augi flipped the photo in his hand and stared down at it. "You guys spend a lot of time off duty together?" Rick thought of a lie and then discarded it. What was the use? Columbus was a tiny town. Deming wasn't a whole hell of a lot better. Sooner or later everyone would figure it out. "Not that kind of partner, Augi." 29

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He poured some coffee, not wanting to look at Augi's reaction. Some things you didn't want to know about people. The first reaction to an old friend finding out you were gay, that could pass without notice. "I kept the picture because it's the only one I have of our dog, Pepper." All that mattered was how Augi handled it after that initial shock. For a moment Augi didn't say anything. Rick busied himself in the kitchen and let Augi have his time. Finally, Augi spoke. "So you wanted to keep the memory of y'all happy together?" Rick's tone was quiet, subdued. Yeah, I know kid, you just found out you're high school idol is queer. "No," Rick grinned as he turned to face Augi, "I wanted to keep the picture of Pepper. She got hit by a car." Knocking back a swig of coffee, Rick propped his butt against the counter. "I often wish George was hit by a car; would have made things easier on everyone. Anyway," Rick set the mug behind him and crossed his arms over his chest. Augi raised his eyebrows as Rick shot him a cop's don't-yank-me glare. "Enough of my fucked up love life; what the hell happened to you? This is fucking scary shit you're doing. Just the sneaking across the desert in and out of Mexico is dangerous. And that's not figuring in the drugs and nasty ass people you got to deal with." "Why do you care," Augi dropped the picture on a stack of frames. Shifting, he stretched his legs out in front of him and cocked his elbows behind him. As he did that, his abs went tight. Rick masked his drooling with another swig of coffee. "We used to do these routes all the time." 30

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Rick shook his head and tried not to lecture too much. "Augi, fucking around as kids, sneaking across the border to buy booze, is not the same as being a coyote for ten other people." "No shit," Augi barked out his laugh, "that don't pay a thousand bucks a freaking head." Walking to where Augi lounged on his floor, Rick dropped and rested his butt on his heels. He searched Augi's eyes for some sign that he was salvageable. Dark chocolate stared back at him. It was so hard to resist leaning in a few inches more and kissing that smirk off Augi's face. Instead, Rick asked, "Why don't you get a real job?" "I had a real job." Playfully, Augi reached out and swatted the side of Rick's head. "Used to make parts for air conditioners at this factory in El Paso. But the place closed down. Anyway, it was too much stress, and the money here is better. I can make a couple thousand a week even after the bribes and everyone's cut." "What the fuck happened to you, Augi?" Rick shook his head trying to wrap his brain around what went wrong. "Where's that kid who got all freaked out that time when we lifted a couple candy bars?" "People grow up, they change." Augi looked down at the picture on the floor. An odd look swept so quickly over his face that Rick couldn't be sure he saw it. Well, Augi would just have to work that out by himself. The rest of it Rick wasn't about to let drop. "You know, Javier's gonna kill you if he finds out." 31

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Augie shrugged. "Who cares?" He grunted. "Nobody wants me 'round anyway." "What are you talking about?" Rick stood and headed back toward the small kitchen. It was time to think about some food ... whatever was cheap and delivered. Other than some peanut butter, a few frozen burritos, and a box of crackers, Rick's cupboards were pretty bare. Just before he stepped into the kitchen he added, "You were your mom's baby." "She has a nasty, little yappy dog for that now," Augi called to his back. "Hey, look, I'm going to grab a shower. I dropped my clothes in your washer-dryer thing." His voice moved off in the direction of the bedroom. "Can you throw them in the dryer? They should be done in a bit." If the dryer didn't work, Augi would be relegated to his boxers for the rest of the day. If he was stuck in just boxers, Rick would get to watch him wander the apartment like that. For a second he toyed with asking Augi for his shorts as well, 'cause then he'd have to walk around naked. Half the blood from Rick's brain rushed south at that thought. Rick prayed the dryer worked. "No problem." He yelled just before the bathroom door slammed. Rick rummaged the pile of flyers and bills on the counter by the phone. He knew he'd seen an ad for the local pizza joint. Rick yanked the red, white, and blue sheet out from under his phone book. The taped together record of everyone he'd ever known slipped off the counter and landed at his feet. Rick rolled his eyes and scanned the flyer. Damn, the place was in Deming proper, a good thirty miles away. No one 32

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would deliver this far out. Why did he ever want to live in the boonies again? Balling the paper, Rick tossed it in the general direction of the trash. Then he knelt to retrieve his phone book from the floor. It'd landed face down and open. When Rick picked it up, the page was on the P's. Scribbled in faded pencil, the Price's number jumped off the paper. Fate must be telling him something. Rick stood and grabbed the phone. Once Rick started dialing, the number came to his fingers through memory. As he punched the keys, the washer whined and clunked to a stop. Rick jammed the cordless unit between his shoulder and ear. A step got him to the washer where he flipped the lid. After two rings a warm, feminine, "hello," greeted him. Hesitant, Rick asked, "Señora Price?" The voice was familiar but he couldn't be sure. "Yes?" Javier's mother paused. Rick was pretty certain she recognized the voice although she probably couldn't place it. Hell, it'd been a long time. Finally, she asked, "Who is this?" He laughed, pulling the clothes out of the tub and shoving them in the over head dryer. "This is Rick Franco." Slamming the door, he twisted the knob to high. "How are you?" Rick added as he punched the start button. "Ricky Franco?" She was shocked, that carried over the line. "Oh my God, how are you niño?" Color him surprised as the damn thing started. Rick rested his ass against the combo unit. The faint shudder massaged his butt. "I'm fine. It's been a long time." Ages in fact. 33

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"Javier's not here you know." Rick could barely hear her over the dryer's rumble. He walked in to the living room while it nattered on. "He's still in the army, overseas." "Still? Iraq?" He and Javier had joined up at the same time figuring they'd do it all together. Their first orders ... boot camp on opposite sides of the Mississippi. Rick hadn't seen Javier in almost as long as he hadn't seen Augi. "But that's okay, I wasn't calling for him." "You weren't?" Her confusion carried over the line. "No, actually, I'm back in the area with Border Patrol..." He was about to add more when she broke in. "You come for dinner then? Maybe next weekend. Javier sent me pictures of his family." Wow, Javier had a family now. "I'll think about it." The news caught him off guard, but didn't really surprise Rick. Years had passed after all. "Actually, I was calling about Agustín, he's in some trouble." Nothing. No response. For a moment Rick wondered if the line was dead. Then, "I don't have a son named Agustín," hissed across the connection. The line went dead. Rick stared at the phone. The Prices had disowned Augi? Agustín, who could do no wrong? Shit, his mom forgave Augi everything. Maybe Augi'd gone worse than Rick figured. Drugs? Booze? Or, possibly, they'd found out about Augi's new occupation. Rick figured they'd still want to know about him. "Hey, Rick." Rick turned to the sound of Augi's voice. Hips wrapped in a towel, Augi stood in the kitchen door. Damn, he didn't need to see Augi like that. 34

Arresting Developments by James Buchanan, L. Picaro, Josh Lanyon

"Shower cleaned you up good." Rick swallowed and tried for a smile. Augi sidled by Rick to pop the dryer open and throw his soaking boxers in with the other clothes. As he did, he studied Rick's eyes. Jamming the button to restart the cycle he asked. "What's wrong? You look like someone told you your dog died." Rick thought about a lie, something about George. Then he dumped the idea. He didn't want to start lying to people. Rick had enough lies fed to him to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. "I talked to your mom." Augi glared. "I'm a kid in need of my mommy." Anger, hurt, and betrayal screamed in his tone. "Look Augi," Rick shrugged and leaned against the counter, "I thought maybe if I couldn't talk some sense into you, she might." And Augi was about as far from a kid as five-nine and muscles could get. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, Augi snapped, "Productive phone call then?" The snide tone stung. Rick'd moved wrong and it'd cost him some of Augi's friendship. "No. Not at all." Considering he hadn't gained much back in the few hours he'd been back, it was a blow. "What the fuck happened?" Augi sucked on his lower lip and stared somewhere beyond Rick's shoulder. About the time Rick figured he wasn't going to answer, Augi spoke. "I got busted at this place called The Ranch in Albuquerque a few years back. Big raid, a lot of drugs were involved. One of my uncles is a cop up there. He called dad and the shit hit the fan. Told me if I wanted to live 35

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like that he wasn't going to have anything to do with me. Got a lot of crap about not being a good boy like Javier. Mom, she won't go against dad." He spread his hands as if that solved everything. "So, there you go." "I'm sorry, Augi. I didn't mean to go poking in your life like that." Rick pushed away from the cabinets. "Look, I'm starved." He headed out of the kitchen. "Let's go find some grub, okay?" "Sure, I guess. So now you know." Augi didn't move. "Does it change anything?" "No, you're still Augi." Shaking his head, Rick tried for a reassuring smile. "Augi who needs to get his life fucking straightened out right now, but Augi all the same." Rick headed towards the bedroom. He called over his shoulder, "I've got some clothes I can lend you." Although he wasn't sure his jeans wouldn't slide right off Augi's hips, Rick scrounged a pair that might work. "You can drop me by my place." Augi's voice behind him startled Rick. Damn, he couldn't believe he'd let Augi get the drop on him. "I got stuff I need to get done. I'll eat later." "Look, I said I'd keep an eye on you." He stood and handed over the jeans. "My professional reputation is at stake here. I mean..." While Rick fished a t-shirt out of the closet, Augi wriggled into the jeans. Rick tried not to look and pretty much failed. "I won't take off on you, Rick." Augi grabbed the shirt. Fabric muffled his voice as he yanked the shirt over his head. "I'll give you my cell phone and everything. Heck, you'll know where I live." 36

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It didn't sound like the best plan or the worst. Still, he couldn't keep Augi locked up in his apartment ... even as much as he wanted to. "Okay, I'm going to get my uniform." Heading into the bath, Rick snagged his gear off the tank. His sweats he left on the bathroom floor. Pants, boots, and shirt went on in record time. Border patrol learned to dress on the fly. Sometimes they got less than fifteen minutes heads up on a call out. "I'll run you home then head by the station so I can drop off the truck and get my car." No sense going for grub. If he was eating alone again, Rick figured a PB&J would work well enough. Augi snorted. "You have to wear your uniform to drive the truck." "Well, technically, I shouldn't have driven it home." Rick headed out buckling his belt around his middle. As he checked his side arm, he explained, "I'm not supposed to drive it in civvies." Gun loaded and holstered, Rick buttoned his shirt as he pushed past Augi. Disheveled would be excused so long as your piece was ready for action. "And I have to log my AO." Juggling his keys, phone, and wallet, Augi asked, "AO?" He fell into step behind Rick. Augi's possessions found their way into various pockets of the borrowed jeans. "Administrative Overtime." Grabbing his own keys, Rick waited for Augi to get through the door and then locked it behind them. "You know, the time spent babysitting your ass at the murder scene. The wonders of the Border Patrol. Eight hours field work, two hours mandatory AO for paperwork, alien processing, and shift change." 37

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Augi clattered down the stairs. "Sounds like a crappy job to me." Sometimes it was. Other times Rick wondered how he got so lucky. "You get used to it." Augi told him where he lived, described the neighborhood a little. Then he gave Rick his cell number. At Rick's prompting, Augi dug his own phone out and looked up the numbers of two of his friends, guys who could find him if need be. Augi wasn't all too happy about that. Rick promised not to use them unless absolutely necessary. The way to ensure it wasn't absolutely necessary was for Augi to keep in contact with him. Rick rattled off his own phone numbers; cell, home, and station, and watched Augi program them in. They drove in silence, heading into Deming. Long stretches of highway came with the New Mexico landscape. Every so often, Rick would glance over. He wondered what thoughts drifted through Augi's head. For his part, he thought about the last time he'd seen Augi. It was just before they'd shipped him out to Germany. They'd gone out drinking. He shouldn't have taken Augi, but you did stupid things like that when you were young. "Hey, Rick?" Augi's voice had been whisper soft in the darkness. Laying on his back, Rick nursed a beer. Augi was already on his third. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor, Rick hadn't been in the mood that night to drink alone. Both their parents would have been royally pissed if they'd ever found out. Hell, at least Augi was tying one on with a good friend, someone who would see that he got home okay. "Yeah, 38

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Pardner?" Rick remembered staring up at the sky. Brilliant, brilliant stars sprinkled the heavens. An explosion of twinkling confetti ... he'd forgotten how bright they shone in the desert. "You ever like someone a lot and not know how to talk to them about it." Rick smiled, glad that Augi couldn't see. The how to talk to girls talk. Damn, Augi really did think of him like an older brother. That really had pleased Rick, more than he could wrap his mind around. Two beers of his own had muddled his thoughts. It made him too relaxed to think hard. "You know, just not know what to say. How to figure out if they like you back." Rick tipped his beer back and took a swallow. "About a hundred times a day." "See," Augi slurred slightly. Kid was a damn lightweight. "I would have thought you'd never had that problem. Everyone liked you. All the girls would always pester me about who you liked. Or who Javier liked. Like, just because I was Javier's brother, I'd know that shit." Augi tossed the bottle and it landed with a hollow thump somewhere off in the sand. "You could have had any girl in high school." And I hadn't wanted any of them, Rick mused. "It really wasn't that easy." At that point he'd figured it was time to pack up Augi and take him home. "Doesn't get much easier." Rick stood and slapped the sand off his ass. "Rejection sucks, but you just gotta jump in and swim sometimes." Augi had stared up at him a goofy grin on his mug. "I like hanging out with you Rick." 39

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"Yeah, me too." He held out his hand for Augi. The kid's smile got bigger or maybe it was a trick of the moonlight or his memory. Rick figured he must have been lonely for Javier. When Augi grabbed his hand, Rick hauled him to standing. Then he'd yanked Augi into a head lock and rubbed the top of his head with his fist. Laughing, Augi struggled. "You're as much my kid bro as Javier's." The struggling stopped. Rick hoped Augi wasn't getting sick. He'd sucked down three brews in pretty quick succession. Augi pushed away and Rick backed off. "Little brother, huh?" Well, he'd sounded tired but not sick. "Yeah, I guess so." "Okay, Pardner," Playfully, Rick thumped Augi's shoulder with his fist. It earned him a weaker version of Augi's bright smile. Yeah, the booze had hit Augi, that had to be it. "Let's get you home before your mom finds out and whoops my ass." Augi nodded. "Home, yeah, I should go home." He'd mumbled into the night. "That's my home." Augi's adult voice snapped Rick out of his reminiscing. "Huh?" Somehow Rick had managed to find Augi's place. He must have been on autopilot. Not like he didn't know the Deming area like his own skin. "You passed my trailer." Augi twisted on the seat. "Here, just let me out." Rick figured Augi wouldn't want his neighbors to see him pull up in a Border Patrol truck. He couldn't really be blamed for that. A liquor store lot offered some cover and Rick swerved across a gravel shoulder to 40

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park. Augi jumped out of the truck. Holding onto the door he grinned. "I'll check in everyday, mommy." Rick almost reached across the cab to smack him. Like he knew Rick's thoughts, Augi teased in a porn-star voice, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." Rick snorted and Augi laughed. Then he slammed the door. Rick watched Augi walk off down the street before cutting between a couple of trailers. He sighed, put the truck in gear and rolled back out onto the street. Paperwork would conveniently kill the rest of his evening. Rick liked that well enough. Not like he had a brimming social calendar to worry about. Blocks went buy as he pondered the situation. Work, home, home, work, he'd already developed a rut the depth of the Grand Canyon in his life. First he'd tackle the routine stuff from the desert raid. Once that was finished, Rick could start the reports on Lodia's murder and see if he could track down that Chuy guy. Records might show whether they ever processed him. Maybe he'd convince one of the other agents to grab him a taco or something. A four-way stop gave Rick more time to think. What he didn't want to do was dwell on Augi. That road dead ended in disappointment. The mental images of Augi's tight ass in boxer shorts Rick tucked into the late night stroke fantasies portion of his brain. Enough guys populated that area for Augi to fit right in. Like all his unrequited flirtations, Augi'd never fit into Rick's life. Lust from afar. Rick could live with that. Rick pulled into the intersection. He caught movement at the edge of his vision. A kid on a ten-speed shot in front of 41

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the truck. "Shit!" rang through the cab as he slammed on the brakes. A fist sized missile flew off the seat and struck his knee. It dropped to the cab floor with a clatter. Rick regained control of his breathing. He looked down. Augi's cell phone rested near the gas pedal. How the fuck was he supposed to get a hold of that idiot if he didn't have his phone? Cursing under his breath, Rick swung the truck around. Fourteen or four-B, which had Augi said was the trailer number. He turned into a gravel drive. Weather beaten trailers hunched among broken toys and discarded cars. No grass, trees or even fences broke the expanse of flat sand. Somehow Rick doubted the security bars on many of the units actually functioned. What addresses Rick could find were numbers not number letter combos, so he stuck with his gut feeling of fourteen. A yellow and brown monstrosity occupied the correct slot. Huddling against one side, a car port cobbled together from cast off plywood and two-by-fours sheltered a dust covered jeep. One of the tires was flat. The screen door hung drunkenly off its hinges and the front door seemed open. Parking the truck at the edge of the road, Rick stared at the trailer. Rick had never been to Augi's place, but something was wrong. It just smelled wrong. The feeling crawled up his neck, raising every hair as it went. Rick sucked on his tongue and thought. It was too weird. Rule of thumb, better to be thought an idiot and call for unneeded backup than not call and be wrong. He keyed the mike and relayed his position to his dispatcher while asking for local police response. Then he popped the door. Drawing his gun as he 42

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slid out of the cab, Rick headed toward the trailer. The only sound he made was a slight protest from the metal stairs. The door stood open about half way. Damn, that meant he couldn't be certain who or what might be behind it. A crash from the back of the trailer sent him into auto pilot. If he thought too much, he'd be dead. Rick popped the safety on his weapon. Rarely did he draw his pistol. Most times illegal immigrants went without a fight. This, he figured, wasn't going to be that easy. He brought his gun up, said a small prayer, then eased open the door the last few inches with his foot. Rapid blinks accustomed his eyes to the dark interior. Rick eased through the door. Rust brown carpet and dark paneling were all Rick really noted of the décor. Only a break in the carpet separated the kitchen to the right from the living area. Rick's quick scan confirmed no one hiding at that end. The steady bang-thump-rattle of a large object being thrown or pounded against a hollow core door echoed from down the left hand hall. That held his attention. Threats and curses of Spanish laced with English chilled him. It wasn't Augi's voice. Rick reached down with his left hand and hit the voiceoperated transmit button on his radio. That left his hands free while letting his dispatcher hear what was going on. Stiff armed and crouched low, Rick moved silently along the wall. Left and left in an L got him to the opening leading back to a single bedroom. Rick's home-town memories were full of trailers with similar floor plans. Two deep breaths centered him. He spun into the hall, dropping to one knee. Sighted down the barrel of his pistol 43

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was a broad back in a white t-shirt. "Alto!" he ordered, falling naturally into Spanish. "Manos atras de cabeza!" At the sound of his voice, the mike kicked in, transmitting the situation. The guy's fists were balled into the back of Augi's t-shirt. Given the place, the situation and Lodia's death, Rick made a wild guess the suspects name was Chuy. Chuy straddled Augi's legs, pinning the coyote with his bulk. Augi twisted and scrabbled, trying to throw the man off. The asshole lifted Augi by the shirt and slammed his head against the door. It swung back into the bedroom to bang against the wall. That solved the issue of the sound. It didn't explain why Augi wasn't dead from that kind of abuse. "Asshole," Rick barked, "I said hands in the air!" Augi grunted. "Get him off me!" Well at least he was still coherent enough to speak. Chuy responded to both by slamming Augi's head again. So he was deaf or stupid or stoned. Rick voted for stupid and stoned. "Hey Cabrone!" Rick yelled. "Manos atras hoy!" Approaching siren wails peeled a layer of tension off Rick's lungs. Thank god he'd called in for back up and switched on the VOX. "Off him, now!" No acknowledgement, no movement, nobody even breathed. Sweat pooled under Rick's arms and ran down his back; he could feel it sticky in his uniform. His arms trembled from checked adrenaline. The guy stank of hate, booze, and cowardice. Somewhere in his brain Chuy must have realized he was fucked. "Come on, let's not make this worse." Rick coaxed. "You don't want to waste your life on this scum. Este 44

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cabrone no está digno." Closer, closer the police were almost there. A growl from Augi answered him. "Thanks ass." "Shut the fuck up, Augi." Rick hissed. "I'm not talking to you." His next words were for the suspect. "This guy. He and his partner fucked you, huh?" Chuy grunted, but he didn't move. "Come on, let's talk. Just us? Usted y mi?" The radio on his shoulder crackled telling him local units were on the scene. "Come on amigo," He added for the benefit of his dispatcher, "Tengo una pistola, you don't want to go down in the hall of a crappy trailer." Outside, behind him, Rick heard the arrival of at least one squad car. He backed up slightly. Visibility and space, Rick wasn't keen on getting mowed down in a narrow hall either. He caught movement on the edge of his peripheral vision. Two officers, in the grey and black of Deming PD, entered quietly. Both had weapons drawn. Rick held up one finger and pointed down the hall. As he took another step back, Rick kept up a patter to distract the man. "Let Augi go. You come easy. Hablaremos." He watched Chuy still on the ground with Augi and the two officers edging along the wall. "No quisiera que fuera esto lejos." They crouched at the corner. Rick kept talking. "Por qué no usted déjelo ir y hablar con mí?" One cop, his name tag read Bruber, holstered his gun and rolled his shoulders. His partner jerked her chin signaling ready. "Entiendo cómo son las cosas difíciles." Rick nodded in response. She tapped her partner's shoulder. 45

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He charged. Grabbing Chuy's grimy work shirt Bruber yanked and twisted. Chuy came up with a roar, his fists still tangled in Augi's shirt. The gal stepped in. Rick remained as cover ... let the partners work like the team they were. She brought her elbow down across Chuy's forearm. Another yell. His grip gave and, with a shove and a twist, Augi broke free of the hold of Chuy's other hand. Augi stumbled past Rick. Rick couldn't watch both Augi and the pair wrestling with Chuy. He kept his gun trained on the mess of arms and legs until the officers subdued the suspect. When Chuy was firmly handcuffed, Rick looked around for Augi. Augi wasn't in the trailer. Holy shit! The fight that must have preceded Augi's whooping in the hall was a hum dinger. Rick traced the path of it from the seventeen inch T.V. knocked off a rickety stand through the small room. Pieces of a cheap coffee table spread across the carpet. Chairs lolled in drunken disarray throughout the kitchen area. Why had Augi been headed back to the bedroom instead of out the front door? Unless Chuy had the drop on him, it was an insane place to run. He'd have been cornered, trapped in the bedroom. Clearing the call with dispatch, Rick switched off VOX and headed outside. Still no Augi. If he'd fled ... well Augi wouldn't want to be caught, not by Rick. Chuy's beating would seem like a cake walk. Shaking his head, Rick turned to his truck. The driver's door gaped open and Augi leaned against the seat, one foot on the running board. Blood oozed under the hand cradling his chin. Other cuts and bruises spread across Augi's face and 46

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arms. A few looked as though they'd need stitched. Augi nodded and mouthed some words Rick couldn't hear. Behind Augi, looking over porch-rails and standing on the edge of the pavement, Rick noted the crowd of curious the commotion had drawn. Augi turned to the sound of Rick's steps. "Uh-hu, yeah I know." Rick spotted the errant cell phone pressed to Augi's ear. "No, it's not that bad. We can keep this going." Whoever he spoke with said something Augi didn't like. The line of his mouth went tight and his shoulders tensed. "I know. I understand." Augi huffed. "Tomorrow, I'll come in." He flipped the clamshell shut and glared at the ground. "What's up, Pardner?" Rick settled into the classic cop stance: wide legged and arms crossed over the chest. "I hope you're not doing something illegal in a border patrol vehicle." Whatever Augi was about to say was cut short by Bruber herding Chuy out of the trailer. The man looked pissed. "Hey," Bruber called to them, "My partner, Lewis, is going to need to talk to the victim." "Shit," Augi hissed as Lewis clattered down the steps. "Agent Franco?" The dispatcher must have given Rick's ID when she called out. "We'll send you our report, will you do the same?" Rick nodded. She smiled at Rick, before turning to Augi. "Sir, it'll take five minutes at most. Easier if you'd just step over to the car." Augi looked to Rick for support. "Hey, Pardner, just get it over with." Augi shrugged and stepped out of the vehicle. Rick moved around him and popped the glove box. He 47

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snagged a small digital camera. Then he shut the truck up tight. "I'm going to head back inside. When you're done, we're going to have a long talk." With a, "Thanks for the help," to the Deming officers, Rick went into the house and busied himself photographing the living room and kitchen. Crime scene technicians would probably be out sometime in the next couple of days to take prints. If he recorded the chaos now, Augi could at least straighten up some. Drawing the layout in his notebook ate up more time. Rick paced out the dimensions since he didn't have a tape measure. Perfect it wasn't. Given that Chuy had likely killed Lodia and Rick witnessed a good portion of Augi's beating, he didn't have to be one-hundred percent accurate. The TV and coffee table were goners, but Rick righted the kitchen chairs. He sat in one and began to organize his notes. It seemed like an awfully long five minutes. Finally, Augi came through the door. He still looked pissed. "Hey, Pardner." Rick looked up and grinned. "Get the cute gals phone number?" "No, why would I?" Augi growled and stalked to the fridge. As he pulled out a six pack of soda, he added. "She's not my type." Augi dropped into another rickety chair and hissed, "Fuck." "It's not too bad. You can clean up." Using his pen like a pointer, Rick indicted the living room mess. "I've already mapped it out. Just don't wash the walls or carpet or anything." "Won't matter." Carbonized air hissed when Augi popped the top on a can. "I'm out of here." 48

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"Don't run on me Augi." Rick leaned in over the table. "You still have to answer questions about Lodia. My reputation is at stake. If you run my word is shit." Augi snorted his first swallow of soda. "I ain't planning on running." After a moment of choking, he finished the thought. "I'm just not going to be in this dump much longer." He set the can on the table and rolled it between his palms. "It's over. They're shutting me down. Things are too hot, I'm too hot, and they can't take the risk." Little to none of that really made sense. "Think of it as a good chance to start over." He reached out and squeezed Augi's bicep. This was his chance and Augi just needed to see it. "You don't get it." Augi palmed his face and rolled his eyes. "They're shutting down my operation." "So take the opportunity to straighten things out." God, Rick sounded like an older brother. He wanted to come across as a friend. "I was this close," Thumb and index finger marking off a short space, Augi held his hand before Rick's eyes to illustrate, "to the big guys on this side of the border." Then he slammed his fist onto the table. With an added, "Fuck!" he did it again. "Who cares? You have a chance at a new start. Take it." Rick saturated his voice with all the persuasive confidence in his soul. "You don't have to live like this. Go straight and leave all this shit hole criminal crap behind. I know you; you're not that kind of person inside." 49

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Augi stared at him. He blinked. Rubbing his face with the heels of his palms, Augi snorted. He laced his hands over the top of his head and propped himself on his elbows. Then he looked up into Rick's eyes. A bemused smile toyed with his mouth. "Rick," his voice was patient, like he was trying to explain a difficult concept, "who was my hero growing up?" Oh hell, the everybody who let me down speech. Rick didn't want to hear excuses, but this was Augi, Pardner. He took a stab at it. "Javier?" "No, Javier treated me like an annoying kid brother, 'cause I was an annoying kid brother." He grinned and dropped his hands onto the table. Picking at his cuticles, he took a moment. "You were my hero." Rick waited for the hammer of dashed hopes to fall. He could think of half a dozen ways he'd probably let Augi down. "I wanted to be exactly like you." Rocking back in his chair, Augi snorted. "Although Javier's stories about the army made me not want to go that route. But, I got to hear all about you and Border Patrol from your mom. You know, after you stopped writing." "I'm sorry I failed you, Augi." Rick was so sorry. "You didn't fail me." Augi smiled. "Border Patrol wasn't hiring when I got out of college ... at least not unless you had police background." "You wanted to follow me into the Border Patrol." Wow, he hadn't realized he'd made that much impact on young Augi. Part of him was immensely proud that Augi venerated him that much. The other half was totally devastated on how it 50

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had all turned out. "God, where would your life have been if you had made it in?" "Want to know what I was doing at The Ranch when I got busted by Albuquerque PD?" Augi kept jumping from subject to subject. Rick figured he wanted to avoid the hard topics. "Drinking," Rick shrugged, "picking up girls? With a shake of his head, Augi dismissed that guess. "The Ranch is not that kind of pick up bar by the way. No, I was buying drugs." "Shit, Augi, don't tell me this." He needed to, but didn't want to, hear it all. After chewing on the inside of his cheek for a bit, Augi said one word. "Undercover." "What?" Undercover what? That made no sense. "I couldn't get into Border Patrol." A wicked grin lit up Augi's face as he leaned in. "But with my BA in Criminal Science and being fluently bilingual, I managed to hook up with the State Police." Undercover, holy crap, it clicked. "You're a cop?" "I am a cop." Augi said it slow, obviously enjoying Rick's shock. Then he smacked the table in frustration. "A cop watching six months of undercover narcotics work shot to hell, because Lodia took some idiot's wife across. You guys always caught me when I made runs, but I always had an excuse and they thought I was new at the game. I kept telling them I'm a loner. A coyote herding sheep was not my thing." Of course Augi would have to get caught. An undercover agent couldn't actually engage in any real criminal 51

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undertakings. "I was feeling out the heroin trade, getting close. Lodia was going to introduce me to a middle man in Truth-or-Consequences." The tone of his voice went soft. "Lodia was a scum bag, but he didn't deserve to die like that." A brief moment of reflection and Augi was back to bravado. "He deserved to have me put his ass in the can but not get beat to death." Rick took a wild guess as to recent events. "So what happened when you were on the phone earlier out at the truck?" "My captain and sergeant, they're pulling the plug." Frustrated, he blew out his breath, "Basically my best contact is dead and Chuy got too close. They say they can't cover me, but I knew that going in. They were making that noise earlier. I checked in this morning while you were in the shower." Another deep breath, this one held far more resignation in it. "I felt like a complete moron that Chuy got the drop on me. I guess they're right. It's too hot." More to himself than for Augi, Rick repeated, "You're a cop." "And I'm gay." "What?" "I mean, I kinda figured you might be in high school. Maybe hoped is a better word." Augi gave a half shrug and swallowed. Obviously, this conversation held more pitfalls for him. "I tried to tell you once; that time you got me drunk. I know I muddled it. Still, your letters then, they really meant a lot to me. Although, I really thought I'd guessed wrong. 52

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Apparently I didn't, at least not the first time. But you stopped writing so I figured you weren't interested in me." "Ah, well, I was kinda." Shit he had let Augi down. After twelve years, all those missed cues and desperately friendly letters suddenly made sense. "You were sixteen and I was twenty-one. I may have been a horny fucker then, but I didn't rob cradles." Augi stood and stepped in close. Resting his butt on the table's edge, he let his hand drift across Rick's shoulder. "I'm not sixteen now." Flares shot down Rick's spine. He willed himself not to lean into the touch. "Are you hitting on me, Agustín?" "Maybe." Augi walked his fingers up to run along Rick's chin. "It's," Rick tried not to sound as horny as he was, "just memories talking." "Well then, my memories wanted so bad for me to yank those sweats off last night and blow your brains out." Augi chuckled. He didn't stop touching. Rick didn't want him to stop touching. "I was hotter than hell for you. I haven't been that horny for anyone in ages. I'm surprised you didn't see the tent in my shorts." Rick swallowed and gave him the truth. "I was avoiding looking at your shorts." Standing brought him closer to Augi's body. He could almost see the charge crackling between them. Augi's hand ran down his uniform shirt. He hooked his fingers on Rick's duty belt and tugged him closer still. "Really?" 53

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"Yeah, you have a fucking nice ass." Rick bent down the few inches and kissed him. God, Augi's mouth was hot. He tasted like chases and night air and a little bit of desperation. Before deepening the contact, Rick mumbled. "Kept distracting me all night, you know, thinking about it." Augi stood and moved hard into the kiss. His tongue forced itself between Rick's lips and teeth. Hot, hard and demanding, all the things Rick liked. Their tongues tangled. Rick reached behind Augi's head, fingers gripping his skull and holding him close. Strong hands roamed over his body. The electricity of the touch sparked even through the thick cloth of his uniform. Finally, they had to breathe. Augi pulled back panting. "I do have a nice ass for fucking." He used his body to push them into the living room. "Wanna?" Although he was asking, Rick realized Augi wasn't figuring on the answer being no. "Right now?" He also realized that he wanted that, bad. "Yeah," Augi stumbled over a remnant of his coffee table, "console the poor helpless victim Agent Franco." Rick didn't have to be a rocket scientist to guess Augi steered them to bedroom. Rick stopped. He put his hands on Augi's chest and pushed him back. All that hard muscle felt good under his fingers. "That victim should see a doc about some of those cuts." Breaking the mood, Rick didn't want to do it. Still, he also didn't want Augi to get hurt ... worse. "You might need stitches." Augi stared at him hard. "If I did, they'd use one knot at the most and I've had worse." Closing the gap, sandwiching 54

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Rick's hands between them, Augi growled, "You're stalling. Answer my question." "Are you sure," Rick could barely breathe, "this is what you want, Augi?" "Damn it, Rick." Augi's voice smoked with lust, "I've wanted it since ... well since I can remember." He worked his mouth up Rick's neck. "When you came back that time, when you were in the Army, God I wanted you." The whispers against his skin, burned through Rick's nerves. Everything was rock hard and ready. "And I knew you thought I was just this stupid kid. You were so nice to me though. I jacked off so much that couple weeks I think I rubbed my dick raw." Rick pushed against Augi's hips. A thick, stiff prick matched his. "You were never a stupid kid." It was his turn to pull them towards the bedroom. Rick wanted it. He wanted it like he hadn't wanted anything in a long time. Fumbling with his duty belt and the mike clipped to his shoulder, Rick managed to untangle himself from his gear. He let them drop somewhere in the short hall. They bumped into the bedroom door and it banged against the wall. "Yeah, I was." Augi groaned. Yanking his t-shirt over his head, Augi managed to stay pressed up against Rick. "And this stupid kid wants you to shut up and fuck me." Rick's knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat down hard and Augi tumbled next to him. Rick ran his hands over Augi's strong chest. "I can do that." 55

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Quickly, before Augi changed his mind, Rick unbuttoned his shirt. As the material slid off his shoulders, he caught Augi staring. Augi ran his teeth over his bottom lip and smiled. Pent up desire, a little longing, there was so much emotion buried in that stare. God, he hoped he didn't disappoint Augi. The real world didn't always live up to the fantasy. Shit, now Rick was getting a case of nerves. Trying to break the tension a bit, he laughed. "You know what always kicks me in the teeth?" Augi rolled his eyes. "No, what?" he drawled. "Check the tag in my shirt." He pitched his shirt at Augi. Augi flipped the collar so he could read the sewn in tag. "US Border Patrol, Hecho en Mexico." He snorted. "Oh, that's rich." Balling up the shirt, Augi tossed it behind him. "The whole olive drab thing just doesn't float my boat though." Predatory, Augi scooted the few inches between them toward Rick. The look in his eyes sent sparks flying down Rick's spine. "You look better in jeans and a t-shirt." Rick moved back an inch. "I can't comment on you. Never seen you in your uniform." Oh crap, he was in Augi's bedroom about to get naked and do the bump and grind routine. Maybe this wasn't the hottest idea. Why did he keep having doubts? He'd never been the unsure type. Of course, he'd never slept with the kid brother of his high school pal. Looking over at Augi, Rick knew he had to stop thinking like that. Augi was anything but a kid. He was sexy. He was interested in Rick. He was running his hands up Rick's thighs. "You're stalling again." Augi chided. He popped the button on Rick's uniform trousers. 56

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The clawing grind of the zipper drove remaining doubts out of Rick's brain. Fuck, he wanted Augi. He wanted Augi before he really knew that hot guy was Augi. Rick rolled over and managed to unlace his boots. What a time to be wearing combat boots. Twin thunks sounded as they landed on the floor, then Rick shoved his briefs and pants down. Augi mimicked the clothes shucking moves. Although, Rick mused, he was far more seductive about it. Hips lifted off the bed, Augi eased his jeans and boxers down. A thick cock throbbed against his belly. Rick reached out and let his fingers wander over rock hard silk. Augi groaned. Rick groaned when Augi wrapped his fist around his own aching prick. Leaning in, Rick kissed Augi again. He was just as demanding and desperate as before. A hot tongue in his mouth, a hot prick in his hand; fire worked through his frame and sent Rick reeling. Slow, but hard, Augi's hand worked his cock. Rick found himself grunting, thrusting into that tight fist. Okay, everyone was naked. They were going to fuck. And Rick had to stop for a moment. "Where do you keep the important things?" He managed to pant. Augi didn't seem to be put out. With a sly smile, he rolled and reached across the bed. Whoa, damn, his ass really was meant for fucking. Bubble butt cheeks clenched tight. Rick's cock begged him to let it pound that sweet ass. Licking his lips, Rick twisted his fist around his own prick. Augi dug condoms and lube out, then twisted onto his back and pulled Rick down into another searing kiss. As their mouths 57

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devoured each other, Augi sheathed Rick up and slicked him down. Another deep taste of Augi and Rick reared back. Augi lay spread before him. Damn, it was a fine sight. Augi's thick, dark cock throbbed along his belly. It reared out of a thatch of black curls. Rick hooked Augi's legs over his arms and Augi's body opened for him. Heavy balls almost hid his hole from view. Rick chuckled, shifted Augi's ankle to his shoulder and reached in to squeeze them. Soft weights rolled in his hand. Augi moaned. Then he moaned again as Rick turned his head and licked the line of Augi's instep. Rick pressed his slick head against that tight hole. Then he held it there, rubbing his cock over the spot. Augi writhed, trying to get Rick's cock closer to that hot puckered opening. Spread like he was, Rick knew that was about all Augi could manage. It was beautiful torture teasing Augi like that. For a bit, Rick played with him; rubbing his balls, licking his foot, teasing his ass. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. Rick rocked and watched as his crown disappeared into that warm body. It felt so good. Augi was tight. "Geez Augi," Rick panted, "how long's it been?" "A while." Those dark chocolate eyes drowned Rick as Augi reached up and wrapped his big hands around the back of Rick's neck. "Shallow dating pool when you're undercover." Augi pulled Rick down, meeting his mouth with an insistent kiss. Opening his lips, Augi teased Rick's tongue in. The kiss was as hot and desperate as Augi's ass. Augi's legs slid down along Rick's arms. It still left him wide open to Rick's prick. 58

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Slow and easy Rick thrust. Augi's body swallowed his cock and their tongues danced with each other. Each push earned little desperate sounds of pleasure from Augi. Rick could die listening to that. Augi's ass opened further for him, letting him slide deep inside. As his prick grazed that little spot, Augi shuddered and hissed, "Rick!" against his lips. He bucked as Rick pounded. Rick dropped one of Augi's legs off his arm. Then he reached between them and grabbed Augi's cock. It felt so solid and warm in his hand. Augi's body was so hot. Stroking in time to his thrusts Rick worked them both. Augi moaned and writhed beneath him. His hands wandered, almost aimlessly, over Rick's toned body. Everything was too intense. Rick felt his orgasm building in his balls. He shook as his knees went weak. The fire boiled through his hips and with a shudder he was over. "Oh fuck." He couldn't move. Augi laughed. Aftershocks lit Rick's frame. As he slid from Augi's body, Rick licked his lips. Somehow, he'd managed not to let go of Augi's cock. Rick bent over and licked the drops off the head. Augi groaned and thrust against Rick's tongue. Oh yeah. Rick parted his lips. His tongue danced over thick veins and soft skin as he took Augi in. The hard cock in his mouth tasted like sun and sweat and sex. Augi bucked as Rick swallowed him down. Playing with Augi's sac, Rick worked two fingers of his other hand into Augi's hole. Hot, wet velvet sucked his fingers in. "Goddamn!" rewarded him. Augi's hands twisted into Rick's hair. 59

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As Rick finger fucked his ass, Augi fucked Rick's mouth. Both of them moved with twelve years of desperation. With a grunt, Augi came up off the bed. The cock between Rick's lips got harder and hotter. Augi's balls went tight. Then Augi filled his mouth with salty, sweet cum. Reveling in the taste of Augi, Rick took it all. He milked and swallowed until Augi was exhausted. Augi collapsed back onto the covers. His hair was a mass of sweat tangled curls. Half lidded eyes stared up at Rick. Augi's chest rose and fell in a satisfied rhythm. Rick chuckled as he disposed of the condom. "Javier's gonna hunt me down once he finds out I fucked his kid brother." All overcome, Augi looked even finer than before they fucked. It was Augi's turn to laugh. "He won't care. None of them talk to me anyway." "Why?" He crawled back up on the bed and snuggled down next to that warm brown body. Teasing, he walked his fingers along Augi's ribs. "Because they think you're some drug dealer?" Augi grabbed his wrist. "No 'cause I got ratted on by my Uncle," Augi turned against Rick. His cock, still a little hard, grazed Rick's thigh. It sent another round of shocks spinning through his system, "when he found out I was at The Ranch." "Okay," Rick sighed. "I'm really out of touch with New Mexico nightlife." It felt good just to lay next to Augi and talk. George never wanted to talk. He was the consummate, roll over and go to sleep and stick your partner with the wet spot kinda guy. "What does The Ranch have to do with it?" 60

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Warm and contented, Augi laughed. "It's a gay cruising spot. So beyond thinking I'm a druggie, my family thinks I'm gay." Rick poked his side. "You are gay." He turned to Augi and smiled. Those lips begged for another kiss. Rick gladly obliged. This time he savored it. Slow, but not gentle or hesitant ... Augi kissed exactly the way Rick liked. That alone would have sealed the deal. "Point taken." Augi grunted as he pulled back. "They think I'm a gay drug dealer." His hand drifted along Rick's hip. It was strange, although really good, letting Augi explore his body. "I haven't been able to speak to anyone long enough explain away the drug portion of it." Tracing the line of Augi's shoulder, Rick asked. "So if you're not on undercover assignment any more, does that mean you might be available for dinner sometime?" They had a lot of catching up to do: twelve years worth. It might take along time to catch up. "Aren't we going about this a little ass-awkwards, Rick?" His smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. Rick liked that. It gave Augi character. "Usually the dating comes before the fucking." "Well," Rick shrugged, "go with the flow. Of course, I'm assuming you're stationed local." Augi sat up. "I'm district twelve ... that covers Deming." He scrawled little designs across Rick's abs with his fingers. "Despite appearances to the contrary, I'm not a cheap date." "Just a horny one." Reaching up, Rick pushed the hair out of Augi's eyes. He could drown in those eyes ... happily. 61

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"Fuck you." Augi grunted. "Look, it'll take me a week to get debriefed and all that. After that I'll have some time off. Think you could grab a couple of days and head to Ruidoso with me?" Other than it was in the mountains, Rick drew a blank. "What's in Ruidoso?" God, he had been out of New Mexico too long. Hands spread on either side of Rick's chest, Augi leaned in. His grin was wicked. "A really comfy bed at the Inn of the Mountain Gods." "And the bed's what matters?" If Augi was thinking along the same lines as Rick, then Rick would beg, borrow or steal the time off. "Yeah, 'cause if you come with me," Augi's lips brushed Rick's. They were definitely on the same frequency. "I don't plan on getting out of it for two days." The End

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In a Dark Wood Josh Lanyon "We're lost." Luke came up behind me. I pointed, hand shaking, at the cross carved into the white bark of the tree. "We're going in goddamned circles!" He was silent. Beneath the drone of insects I could hear the even tenor of his breathing although we'd hiked a good nine miles already that autumn afternoon—and no end to it in sight. My head ached and I had a stitch in my side like someone was jabbing me with a hot poker. I lowered my pack to the ground, lowered myself to a fallen tree—this time not bothering to check for ant nests or coiled rattlers—lowered my face in my hands and lost it. I mean, lost it. Tears ... oh, yeah. Shoulders shaking, shuddering sobs. I didn't even care anymore what he thought. "Tim..." He dropped his pack too, sat down next to me on the log. He sounded sort of at a loss. After a minute he patted my shoulder. Awkwardly. I turned away from him and tried to wipe my face on my shirt sleeve. Feeling him fumbling around with his pack, I watched him through wet lashes. He pulled out his canteen, unscrewed the top and offered it to me. 63

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I took the canteen, swallowed the warm stale water, handed it back. Wiped my face again. Perfect. My nose was running. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like I had a shred of dignity left. First dates. You've got to love 'em. But I mean, what kind of fucking sadist chooses camping for a first date? Fast forward to the end of this one: we'd shake hands at my Brownstone door—assuming we got out of this field trip into Hell alive—and he'd promise to call, and with equal insincerity I'd say I looked forward to it. I'd never see him again—and that was the only bright side to this whole—literally—walking nightmare. Luke pulled a cloth out of his pack and wet it with the canteen. "Here, look at me." I looked at him. He wiped my face with the wet cloth, shocking me into immobility. His own face was serious, his hazel eyes studied me. I closed my eyes and he gently swiped my eyelids, washing away the sweat and tears. "Better?" I lifted my lashes, got my lips steady enough to form words. "Oh, sure. Great." "I thought you were a travel writer?" "I'm not an explorer! I write about comfortable hotels with clean sheets and hot water. My idea of roughing it is a two star restaurant!" The corner of his mouth tugged as though, against his will, he found this just a little bit comical. What the hell could be funny about any of this? 64

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"Listen, we're not lost." I opened my mouth and he said, "I don't mean I know where we are. But I can get us out of here, if that's what you want. I've got a compass and we can start walking east and be back to civilization within a few hours." I swallowed hard. First off, there was no place in New Jersey that even remotely qualified as "civilization," but that was beside the point. Luke said, "And, for the record, we're not going in circles. Look again at that carving on the tree. It's not a fresh cut. Look at the edges. They curl, but they're worn. It's not your mark. At least, it's not the mark you made today." I blinked at him stupidly. He said, "I think it's your mark from twelve years ago." **** Flash back four days ago to a dinner party at my best friend Rob's place in Manhattan. Rob's gone all out: Chinese lanterns hang over the table, shadows bobbing against the wall, we're all fumbling around with chopsticks, and the Peking Duck from Chef Ho's is exquisite. I've had three cocktails too many and Rob is egging me on. "Tim, tell the story about the skull house, come on!" I laughed, shaking my head. "Come on," Rob urged. "Luke wants to hear it. Luke! Tell Tim you want to hear about the skull house in New Jersey." Across the table and two faces down there's this very attractive guy, a few years older than me, with dark hair and crinkly hazel eyes. He gives me a wry grin. 65

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This is Luke, the cop who Rob keeps trying to fix me up with. "A cop?" I always say doubtfully. "I don't know." "He's a detective, not a beat cop," Rob always replies. "He doesn't give speeding tickets." Speeding tickets being kind of a sore subject with me. "I'm not really into cops," I always say. "You're not into anybody," is Rob's standard answer. "And nobody is into you, which is your problem. One of your problems." And that's where the conversation ends, except tonight Luke is actually present, and can speak up for himself. "Sure, Tim," he says. "I'd like to hear." He has a nice voice, not at all the voice cops use when they're slapping a parking ticket on your windshield or asking you to pull out your vehicle registration. He has very white teeth and a very nice smile. Does he know Rob wants to set us up? Er—fix us up, I mean. He probably does, and he's probably been resisting just as hard as me. He's certainly kept a polite distance all evening. I give Rob a look that promises all kinds of retribution that I won't remember once I sober up. He just laughs and pours me another scorpion. "Come on, Tim," someone else urges. Someone else I don't know. Rob knows everybody and everybody knows Rob. Most of them don't know Rob as long as I've known him, which is since we were the two most unpopular guys in Trinity School. I gave in to peer pressure—not for the first time—with a sigh. 66

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"I was thirteen and I was staying with a friend in the Pine Barrens for a couple of weeks during the summer. There wasn't a lot to do. Mostly we went swimming in this little lake and we spent a lot of time prowling through woods." I glanced over at Luke. He set his glass back down, but his lashes lifted and he caught my eye. I couldn't look away. He didn't look away either. It's like traction beams locking on. People are going to notice. My face felt hot, but that was probably the spicy Sea Dragon bass. Managing to tear my gaze away, I said, "Anyway, one day we wandered further into the woods then we were supposed to go. We get really turned around. Totally lost. Oh wait, I'm forgetting. There was supposed to be this house, see, where—I don't remember what the exact story was now—the Boogey Man or somebody like that was supposed to live in the heart of the woods. And when hikers or nosey kids like us disappeared, The Forester was supposed to have grabbed them." "The Forester?" Luke asked. Everyone else chuckles, reaching for glasses or forks. Only Luke is paying close attention. I focused inward. "Uh, yeah. I think that's right." Weird. I'd forgotten that he was called the Forester. "So, anyway, we wander around, lost. We're afraid we're going in circles, and it's getting dark. I start marking the trees, making a little cross with my penknife in the bark, which is all white and shimmery that time of evening." My heart started to thud against my ribs as it came back to me: the deepening shadows, the ghostly trees, the 67

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creeping chill of the woods closing in on us. "And then all at once there's a house right in front of us. Two stories, really old, falling down. There's a tree growing out through a big hole in the roof." I gesture with my hands trying to make them see this creepy old house being claimed by the woods. "It has an ornate portico thing and little gable windows. Some of the other windows are broken, some of them are still there. The front door is hanging off its hinges...." I stopped. For a moment it was like I was back in the woods. The smell of moldering house and weird animal scents and ... the woods. The hush of evening—even the crickets are silent. Too silent. Rob laughed. He'd heard the story before—always when I'm drunk. I don't tell this story sober. I couldn't help stealing another look at Luke. He wasn't smiling anymore, his brows were drawn together like he was studying me from a distance and not sure about what he was seeing. "I took a step forward and something crunched under my foot. When I looked down it was part of a skull." Laughter, some expelled breaths, Luke still stared, still frowning. "Skull or a bone?" "Skull." "Human?" someone else asks. "I don't know," I admit. "At the time we thought so, but we kind of wanted to think so, you know? I don't think it was." 68

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I do think it was human, actually, but I sure as hell don't want to admit it. "So what happened?" a woman asked. The light from the blue lanterns bounces off her glasses and makes her look blind. A blind lady insect. "Nothing. We freaked out and ran home." I laughed. It wasn't a convincing laugh, but everyone else laughs too. Everyone but Luke. "Did you tell anyone?" I shake my head. "We weren't supposed to be there. We were afraid...." We were afraid all right, and getting into trouble was only a little part of it. "Did you ever go back?" the woman asks again. Even her voice has a kind of insect whine to it. It hurts my head. I reach for my glass. "No." "Do you think you could find the house again?" Rob asks slyly, looking from Luke to me. "If you had to?" "No." Luke asks, with a funny smile, "Would you want to try?" **** I should have known the weekend would be a disaster when Luke told me later that evening that he would pick me up Saturday at 6:00 a.m. "Morning?" I said uncertainly, hoping against hope that he'd got the a.m. and p.m. thing mixed up. "Well, yeah. We'll need to get an early start. There's a lot of ground to cover, especially if we don't know where we're going." 69

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He was smiling. He had a great smile: his hazel eyes tilted at the corners and his mouth—he had a very sexy mouth—did this little quirky thing. I felt a powerful tug of attraction— something I hadn't felt in a long time. Still, I know myself pretty well by now, and I'm not at my best and brightest before noon on the weekends. Or any day. "Uh ... I'm not much of a morning person." "Mornings can be the best part of the day," Luke said softly, and it was clear he wasn't talking cornflakes. His gaze held mine; I literally couldn't look away. My heart did a little flip. "Do you have a sleeping bag?" he added. "A ... sleeping ... bag?" "We'll be spending the night, right? Camping?" "Uh ... probably. Yeah." Oh. My. God. Did he mean—? Were we going to—? Don't sweat it," he said. "I've got you covered." His eyes actually twinkled. A cop with twinkly eyes? How much had I had to drink? I checked my glass. So, yeah, the upshot: I went to dinner at Rob's on Thursday night and somehow walked out with a date—my first in over a year—for the weekend. "Isn't Luke hot?" Rob demanded, when he called on Friday afternoon. "He's pretty cute," I admitted, massaging my throbbing temples. I tried to focus on the monitor screen. "Cute?" Rob exclaimed. "That's like saying Tom Cruise has nice teeth. He's gorgeous! That grin. Those eyes. That ass." "Enough with Tom Cruise." 70

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"I'm talking about Luke!" I rubbed my eyes. Tried to read back what I'd written. Garbage. I mean, really, who gave a flying fuck about Scenic Hudson? "I didn't even catch his last name," I said. "O'Brien." "Swell. He probably comes from a long line of Irish cops." "Sure, and don't you know the way of it, boyo," Rob returned in a tooth-peeling brogue. "I don't think he's my type." "What are you talking about? He's attractive, smart, funny—and he has a steady job." "He carries a gun." "He rarely shoots people on the first date." "I may beg him to; he's taking me camping." Against my will, I was smiling. "Camping?" Rob recovered quickly. "Camping is a great idea. You'll love camping. Fresh air, sunshine, exercise...." "I hate fresh air, sunshine and exercise. I haven't been camping since I was thirteen." Rob ignored this. He knows me pretty well by now. "Where are you going camping?" "New Jersey." "Jersey?" "Yeah, we're staying with the Jersey Devil." Rob snickered. I added, a little uncomfortable because part of the evening—including the part where I'd agreed to go camping— 71

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was fuzzy, "I think he just wanted an excuse to get me to take him to the skull house." "You're taking him to the skull house?" My head was really pounding now. I was going to have to take more painkillers. A lot more painkillers. My poor liver. "I don't think I could find it if my life depended on it. But Luke seems to think it would be fun to try." Luke. His name felt alien on my tongue. Like it was the first word I'd learned in a foreign language. "Wow." Rob's single word seemed a little inadequate. I'd have phrased it more like ... WTF? "Well, for the record," he said, "He wanted to meet you before he ever heard about the skull house. He loves that column you write for the New York Blade. Against my will, I was flattered. "And," Rob added, "He said you were really cute." "Cute? That's like saying Marcelo Gomes has nice legs! I'm gorgeous!" **** At 5:59 a.m. on Saturday morning, my doorbell rang. I stared blearily into the peephole. A tiny Luke stood at the end of what appeared to be an inverted telescope. As I studied him, he raked a self-conscious hand through his hair. I stepped back, unlocked the slide and the three deadbolts, and opened the door. "You're early," I said. He laughed. He had a very nice laugh. I laughed too, although I was still convinced the weekend was a mistake. It 72

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sort of worried me that I was looking forward to it so much. Looking forward to seeing Luke again. He really was good-looking: just over medium height, wide shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. He wore faded Levis and a white T-shirt that read, OK, so I like donuts!! The tee emphasized the rock-hard muscles in his arms. "Ready to roll?" "I guess." His mouth twitched at the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. He nodded to my backpack. "That it?" "Yeah." I gave him a doubtful look. "You said you'd bring the gear..." He picked up my bag. "Yep. We're good." Were we? I followed him out, locked the door with shaking hands and tottered down the street to where he'd parked. He unlocked the passenger side and I crawled inside, slumping with relief in the front seat. He stowed my gear in the back of the SUV, came around to his side. "Buckle up." He smiled, but he was obviously serious. I fumbled with the seat belt. He started the engine and Springsteen's We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions picked up where it had left off on the CD player. I was a little surprised. I'm not sure what I was expecting. The Stones? The Seeger Sessions was a good sign; hours of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" would have been daunting. 73

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Somehow the close confines of the car heightened my awareness of him. He smelled like he had just stepped out of the shower. There was another smell too, straight from my idyllic childhood—Hoppes gun cleaner. And here I'd hoped I was kidding about his carrying. I asked, "Can we stop and get coffee or something?" He glanced at me. "Rough night?" "Late night." He nodded like that's what he'd thought. He found a Starbucks and we got coffee and pastries to go—which Luke insisted on paying for. I felt a little better after the coffee and sugar. We started talking. It had been a long time since I had to make dating conversation. Maybe the effort showed. Luke asked, "How's the hangover?" I glanced at him. "Wow," I drawled, "you really are a detective." He lifted a shoulder. "Hey." Hey yourself, I thought irritably, but I let it go. He probably didn't miss a hell of a lot. "How long have you been a detective?" "Nine years. In New York, detectives are the equivalent rank of police officers." He added very casually, "I'm a Detective Second Grade now." I gave him another look. He wasn't a lot older than me in years, but in experience ... light-years. "What's that like: being a queer cop?" "I don't think of myself as a queer cop. I think of myself as a cop." 74

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"Sorry. You know what I mean, though. Is it tough? Or are you not out at work?" "I'm out." He drove with one hand on the wheel, very relaxed, and one hand resting on the seat behind me. My skin felt alive to the possibility of the brush of his fingertips. If he flexed his fingers he could stroke my neck or touch my shoulder. "But you're right. Law enforcement is a macho gig. I don't go out of my way to stress that I like to sleep with other guys." "Have you ever shot anyone?" He laughed. "Why does everyone ask that? You know how rare it is for a cop to actually shoot someone?" "Have you ever wanted to shoot someone?" "All the time!" We both laughed. When we reached the Garden State Parkway I began to reluctantly dig through my mostly forgotten memories of that long ago summer. My friend, Ricky, had lived outside of Batsto, that much I remembered, but how far outside, I couldn't seem to recall. Nothing looked the same. We stopped for a late breakfast—or early lunch—at a little pub called Lighthouse Tavern and had a couple of thick, juicy "Alpine" burgers and a couple of beers. By now we were getting along pretty well, having discovered that we had a few vital things in common, namely love of Cuban-Chinese food, Irish music, and really, really bad kung fu movies. I mentioned digging the Springsteen track on Jesse Malin's new album, and he suggested—very off-hand—getting tickets for Malin's Bowery Ballroom concert if I was interested. 75

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I said, equally off-hand, yeah, I was probably interested. I ordered another beer. Luke again declined on the basis of driving. He seemed thoughtful as I finished my drink. "So what's the deal with you and cops?" he asked. "Huh?" "Rob said you had this thing about cops. You get nailed for a DUI or something?" What the hell was that supposed to mean? I set my mug down and stared at him, instantly offended. But he just seemed curious. "Hey, for the record, just a couple of drinks can put you over the legal limit if you haven't eaten." "Sure," he said peaceably. "So that's it then?" "Not really." I gave him a sheepish grin. "I mean, I guess everyone is a little intimidated." "Some people are turned on." Our eyes met. I said casually, "That too." He grinned. **** Just outside of a little hamlet we stopped at the 150-yearold general store and picked up German sausages, smokecured bacon and insect repellent. On our way out of the market I noticed a glass-fronted bulletin board. Tacked on top of the faded flyers and browned cards was a recent poster of a smiling girl: Elizabeth Ann Chattam. Twenty-one years old, freckles, brown hair clipped in big daisy barrettes, blue eyes, last seen hiking in Wharton State Forest. "Something wrong?" Luke asked. I shook my head. 76

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Historic villages and blueberry farms gave way to cranberry bogs and cemeteries and ghost towns as we wound through the deep oak-pine forest of the Pinelands National Reserve. We left the SUV at Parkdale, an old ghost town with only a rusty railroad bridge and a couple of stone foundations to show civilization had ever made it this far. We loaded our gear on our backs. Luke checked his cell phone. His mouth did that little wry quirk. "No reception?" "I didn't really think there would be." He put his phone away. Pulled out a compass and then checked the sun. "We've got plenty of time before it gets dark. Any idea of which direction we should head out?" I had exhausted my small store of memory getting us this far. I shrugged on my pack, shook my head. "Even if I—" I realized what I was saying, and shut up. "Even if you ... wanted to?" "Hey, this was your idea. I'm just along for the ride." I caught his expression, played my comment back in my head, and felt myself reddening. He grinned that devilish grin. We hiked the sugar sand road for a couple of miles, then moved off onto one of the narrower trails. I knew Luke was hoping that something would trigger my memories, but Ricky and I had been lost for hours when we stumbled on the house. It could have been just a mile or so in, or it could have been a day's walk—we had spent a day 77

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walking, but that was as likely due to having lost our sense of direction as necessity. "Let me know if anything looks familiar," he requested when we paused to drink from our canteens. I gave him an ironic look, and he grinned back. When Irish eyes are smiling, I thought ruefully. I still couldn't believe I'd let him talk me into this. We kept up a brisk pace until it started to get dark. Then Luke set about finding a good spot to camp. I left it up to him. I was out of shape and feeling it. My feet ached, my calf muscles ached, my back ached. I was just glad I'd done enough walking tours in my time to know how to avoid blisters and heat rash. I looked forward to sitting down and having a drink. I wished we could have just ... gone away for the weekend; I knew a wonderful little historic bed and breakfast in Crown Point. But I didn't kid myself after miles of splashing through creeks and climbing over logs; the main attraction for Luke was not me, it really was the skull house. That was okay. We could still have some fun. I just hoped the ground wasn't too hard and the night wasn't too cold. Or wet. Luke found a nice little clearing that already had a campfire ring. I was glad to see the campfire ring, glad to have proof we hadn't traveled too far off the map. It was weird how a few miles could take you so far from civilization. It was like another world out here. He made up a campfire and we spread our bags out. He unwrapped the brats we'd bought at the little market. 78

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I made my own preparations. "Cocktails, anyone?" I pulled the carefully-wrapped bottle of Bushmills out of my pack. Luke raised his eyebrows. "So that's what was sloshing around. I thought you'd brought an awful lot of mouthwash for the weekend." **** We dined al fresco on barbecued brats wrapped in toasted French rolls, washed down by beer and a whisky chaser. I'm not big on picnics or barbecues, but even I had no complaints that night, not once I'd had a chance to catch my breath. "What's for dessert?" I asked, kidding. Luke wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I laughed and raised the bottle, offering it to him. He took it, drank, handed it back. He was still smiling at me. Nodding to our sleeping bags lying a friendly distance from each other, he said, "It's going to be cold tonight. Should I zip our bags together?" It took me a second to get it. I felt my face warm, but I tried to sound indifferent. "Oh. I guess so. Yeah." He zipped the bags, turning them into one giant bag, and before long we were stretched out on our sides, not touching, but within arm's reach. "Where do you come up with the ideas for the stuff you write?" "Things I see. Things I hear." I shrugged. "Stuff strikes me funny, and I write about it." "I laugh my ass off reading that column you do for the Blade. It's such a kick the way your mind works." 79

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I was insanely flattered, although I tried to hide it. I watched him under my lashes to see if he was serious. "And you've written books?" "Two." I lifted a negligent shoulder. "Travel books, that's all." "That's all? That's amazing." His smile was genuinely admiring. "Travel books about where?" "Italy. France." I stopped myself from shrugging again. It's not like I was being unduly modest, I just don't think it's a big deal. I haven't written the Great American Novel or anything. Not yet. Probably not ever, if I want to be realistic—which I rarely do. It didn't matter. The alcohol was singing in my bloodstream, and I was the life of the party. And it was a lovely party: firelight and starlight and the wine-crisp night air, the smell of pines and wood smoke and lube and latex. We were lying next to each other on our doublewide sleeping bag, feet brushing, knees brushing, arms brushing. Gradually we shed our clothes as we passed the bottle back and forth. More back than forth, but then I was more nervous than Luke. He was smiling and relaxed, reaching over to brush the hair out of my eyes as I talked. I totally forgot what I was saying. Luke prompted me by asking about the trip to France, and I answered that it would have been better with someone with me—and maybe he should come next time. "Oh, yeah? Where are you going next time?" "Ireland." I said at random, guessing that with a name like O'Brien, he might like to go to Ireland. 80

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He was amused. His eyes sparkled. "When are you going?" He licked his thumb and reached out to circle my left nipple. I caught my breath, tried to catch his hand and press it to my chest. "I might like to come." "You can come," I promised, leaning over him. I ran my hands over the broad expanse of his chest, the wide shoulders ... communing. I could feel the warm flush beneath my fingertips, the damp of perspiration. I loved the language of his bare skin, the delicate punctuation of freckles and a tiny velvety mole on his rib cage. I liked the contrast of bristly face and hard jaw with the softness of lips and flickery eyelashes. I scooted closer still, savoring the solid rub of our erections. "Are you an innie or an outie?" he inquired huskily, his hand resting on the small of my back, pressing me closer. I glanced down at my flat belly, and then chuckled, meeting his eyes. I'd never heard it called that. "I want you to fuck me," I told him. "I need you to fuck me." "Happy to oblige." He's in great shape, and I like that too, Rock hard pecs, the balls of muscles in his arms; what would it be like to be in that kind of shape? There's a lot of strength, a lot of power there. Big hard hands rest on my hips as he helps me ease onto that straight rigid cock. I cried out and I could see he liked it. He likes it vocal. Oh, he's truly Irish with his love of the blarney. "Oh, fuck, you feel so good. You're so big," I told him, throatily. "You beauty," he whispered. 81

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That's not something you hear everyday. I chuckled again. Settled more fully on him, adjusting to his size and length. It had been a good long while since I'd had a real live partner and not a silicone rubber substitute. He raised his head and kissed my breastbone, and I bent forward latching onto his mouth. All this and kisses too? I kissed him until I thought I'd pass out from lack of oxygen, and his mouth parted reluctantly from mine. I liked his reluctance. The wet smack of his lips letting me go. I liked the taste of alcohol in his mouth. "God, that's sweet," he muttered. I rocked back and forth ... gently ... rising up and scrapesliding down. The smooth swooping glide of a merry-goround, that's what it reminds me of, and the merry-go-round pole driving up my hot little hole. We're just playing, but I start to feel that urgent aching need. I plant my hand in the cushion of solid pecs and I work my hips more frantically now. Luke matches my rhythm easily, bucking up against my ass, thrusting deeply. His grunts excite me even more. I arch my back, go wild, beg him to fuck me hard, harder, harder. I need so much. There's such a big gaping emptiness in me. I need him to fill it with heat and hungry demands; I want his need to overwhelm my own. I almost sob as he reaches up and takes my solid erection in his fist. He pumps me. Sweat breaks out across my back. I'm on fire. I looked up and the sky was spinning, the stars rolling across the night, trying to drop into the little pockets. A dizzy 82

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swirl of stars and tree tops and the sliding moon, faster and faster and faster.... Luke shouted and I felt that funny squish inside the condom, the rush of hot release. My hole pulsed in response to his orgasm, like a pink mouth trying to find the words. There are no words for this. I reached for the low-hanging stars and yelled right out loud as my own release shivered through me. Like the cork popping on champagne, spumes of white shoot out. Emptied, I slumped forward on Luke's sweaty chest. Closed my eyes. His arms fastened around me. The sparse hair tickled my nose pleasantly. His heart was thumping from a million miles out ... echoing across the universe... "Christ Almighty," he moaned. "Please tell me you're just the same sober." The merry-go-round slows ... slows ... glides gradually to a stop. It's nice to lie here like this, skin on skin, listening to the faraway chirp of crickets and frogs. His words finally registered. I laughed and lifted my head. "It's moot. I'm never sober." His mouth was a kiss away. He said wryly, "You think you're joking." That startled me. "I am joking." I shook my hair out of my eyes. "Listen, I like to drink, but I do not have a problem with alcohol." "Okay, okay," he said, in the tone of someone who doesn't want to get in argument. 83

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It was like he dumped a bucket of ice water over me. I felt bewildered. Hurt. I pulled out of his arms and sat up. "Maybe you should work on your after-play technique." "Sorry." He tugged me back down. "That really was amazing." I didn't have an answer for him. He'd spoiled it for me. I lay there, head on his chest, more hurt than angry—but a bit of both. He stroked my hair. His touch was light, almost tender. I couldn't think of the last time someone was tender with me. "Tim," he said quietly. That was all. I raised my head and he kissed me, his mouth warm and surprisingly sweet. And we did it all again, only slowly, lingeringly. **** The house loomed before me. Ten stories tall. The windows flashed red in the setting sun. The hinges of the broken front door shrieked as the door swung open... I jerked awake. It was freezing. My head throbbed. My mouth tasted horrible. I needed a piss. "Bad dream?" Luke asked softly. Confused, I realized that we were somehow in the same sleeping bag, and I was lying plastered on top of him, my sweaty head resting in the curve of his shoulder. He was dressed again; we both were, although I didn't remember pulling my clothes back on, didn't remember zipping ourselves into the bag.

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"I ... No. I ... don't remember." I answered in a whisper, responding to his own hushed tone, even as I wondered why we were whispering. Somewhere to the left, a twig snapped. I shivered. He pulled the sleeping bag—wet with dew—over my shoulders, and slipped one arm around me again. It felt very good to be held. Even like this, in jeans and flannel shirts, I could feel and was comforted by the heat of his body. His hand slipped under my shirt, absently smoothing up and down my spine. Despite the soothing touch, I heard the steady, swift thump of his heart beneath my ear. His other arm, I slowly realized, rested on top of the sleeping bag—and he was holding a gun. "Is something wrong?" "Not sure. I think someone might be out there." I sucked in a sharp breath, starting to pull away. He held me still. His put his mouth against my forehead. "Shhh. Don't let on." I made myself lie still. Stared at what I could see of his profile in the dark. "What do we do?" "Wait." Wait? For someone to pick us off as we lay by the cooling embers of our campfire? And I thought I had to pee before? My own heart was ricocheting around my ribcage. I felt for the zip of the sleeping bag, gently pulled it down. Luke nodded infinitesimal approval, continued to stroke my back in that 85

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automatic way, his eyes watching the line of trees surrounding the clearing. We lay there not moving for what felt like an hour. Then I heard an owl call: not the drowsy nocturnal hoot, but the screech they make when they hunt. A dank, damp breeze scented with the tangled undergrowth washed over my perspiring face. And all at once the night was alive with sound. From silence to deafening racket; I could practically hear ants marching up and down the grass blades, the dew drops crashing from the leaves overhead. Even the stars overhead seemed to crackle brightly in the black and bottomless sky. Too bright for my eyes... **** I woke up sick and shaky, head pounding, my ass feeling thoroughly kicked. "Morning, sunshine," Luke remarked in answer to my groan. He squatted next to the smoky campfire and held up a sauce pan. "Coffee?" I muttered assent, crawled carefully out of the bag. Everything was wet, as though it had rained during the night. The smell of frying bacon made me want to puke. I staggered into the bushes and relieved myself. As I wove my weary way back into camp the empty Bushmills bottle caught my eye. It lay near the ring of campfire stones, a tablespoon of amber glistening in its belly. Why the hell had we finished the entire bottle? Now there was nothing left for today. 86

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My gut tightened remembering Luke's comments. Well, fuck him. Oh yeah. I already did. I took the lightweight aluminum cup he offered, picked up the bottle and tilted the dregs into my coffee. He watched in silence. "Hair of the dog," Against my will, I heard myself making an excuse. "Sometimes it helps a bad hangover if you have a little drink." He eyed me for a long moment, then rose and went to the sleeping bags, unzipping them. He re-zipped his own bag and proceeded to roll it into a tight neat bundle. I drank my coffee and tried to stop shaking. He tied his bag with a couple of quick yanks, and said flatly, "My old man was a drunk." It was like getting punched in the chest. I couldn't get my breath. He can't really think.... "He was what you'd call a functioning alcoholic," he added. Maybe he's not talking about me. Maybe he's just ... lousy at making morning after conversation. I said, "I ... thought he was a cop?" "He was. For thirty years. He drank and he did his job and he came home and drank some more. He was a decent cop and he tried to be a decent husband and a decent father, but he basically lived his entire adult life in a bottle. There's not a lot of room for other people in a bottle." "I'm not ... I don't have a drinking problem." Luke didn't say anything.

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"Look, I admit that I've gotten in the habit of drinking too much sometimes, but I'm not ... I'm not an alcoholic." I offer him a twitchy smile. "Really. I'm not." "I'm not judging you, Tim. It's an illness. It's like heart disease or HIV." "The hell you're not judging," I said. "Not that I give a damn what you think. I just hope you're a better detective than you are ... whatever this was supposed to be." I threw out the rest of my coffee and went to tie my own sleeping bag up. **** Which leads us to current events. I stared at the ragged cross in the pale bark, my chest rising and falling. "You couldn't be happy with dinner and a movie, could you?" I ask bitterly. "This is really all you dragged me out here for, to find this goddamned house. Why did you pretend it was anything else?" "Look, I didn't kidnap you. You agreed to come. I assumed you wanted to." "I wanted to see you again." It sounded pathetic, but I was so far beyond pride at this point, what did it matter? His eyes flickered. "I wanted to see you, too." "Oh, please." Now it was my turn to be disgusted. "You were never interested in me. You're just looking to solve some big imaginary cold case. You're just ... bucking for Detective First Grade." I mimicked the quiet pride in his voice when he'd told me his rank. 88

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He flushed. "That's bullshit. I wanted to ask you out before I ever heard about this skull house of yours. Rob said you weren't interested." "I wasn't. I'm not." Now I was just being childish, but I didn't care. I hated him for dragging me out here, for seeing me break down sobbing, for making me face things I didn't want to face. His mouth tightened. He said, "All right. That story about the Forester? That happens to be an urban legend that every cop in the northeast is familiar with." "I didn't make it up!" "I know." He was cool again. "The night of the party ... I watched your eyes when you were talking. You weren't making it up." What the hell had he seen? I had no idea. I stared sullenly at the carvings in the tree trunk. "Whatever you saw all those years ago ... it still scares you. And I thought if I offered you a chance to face whatever that was, you'd ... take it." "In other words, this is just a job opportunity for you." "I already told you..." He stopped. Shrugged. "I thought maybe we'd have a few laughs while we were at it." "A few laughs? It's Lost Weekend. In every fucking sense of the word." "Hey—" But he didn't finish it, which was probably just as well. Instead he said, "It's your call. You want to turn back or you want to see what's ahead?" I wanted to start back, no question about it. I looked at him. He met my eyes. I knew what he was thinking. I knew 89

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what he wanted. We'd come this far. I stared again at that little cross in the tree. "After you, Jungle Jim," I said bitterly. We continued walking. And walking. And walking. The markings on the tree were mine, but now Luke led the way like he knew where we were going. It was all I could do to put one stumbling foot in front of the other. Maybe there was a path, but to me it seemed like an obstacle course of poison oak and sharp stones and snake holes and buginfested logs and things that slithered and skittered reluctantly out of our way. Miles of it in the humid, autumn heat. My head pounded nauseatingly with each step; I felt my heart hammering in my side. I took one step and then another, and I stopped, slid off my backpack. My head swam. I was coated in cold sweat, dizzy... I dropped down on my knees, fell forward onto my hands. I was trying to decide if I would feel better or worse if I let myself throw up. I probably couldn't afford to get any more dehydrated than I already was. Luke squatted down beside me. "You okay?" I raised my head with an effort. "Of all the stupid questions..." I didn't have the energy to finish it. "I'm sick," I whispered. "I know."

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He opened his pack and pulled out a silver flask. "Medicinal purposes," he commented, measuring out a stingy little dose. "I think this qualifies." I eased the rest of the way down and rested my head on my knees. I wanted to tell him to shove his little silver cup up his tight ass. There was no way that I could. "Here." I looked up and he handed the cup to me, steadying my hand with his own. I was a caricature, a movie drunk. I could hardly manage to get the cup to my mouth. "Jesus," he said softly. I drank. Put my hand still holding the flask cap over my eyes. Like the magic potion in a fairytale, I felt it begin to work, burning through my system, snapping on the lights, warming, calming, illuminating.... Maybe it would make me invisible to Luke; I didn't want him to keep looking at me like that. I wiped my face on my sleeve. "I'm okay." Oh, yeah. Superb. Sick and shaking—but for God's sake: I was exhausted and sleep-deprived and out of shape; it wasn't all withdrawal. I didn't bother telling that to Luke, though. I'd already told him three times that weekend—possibly more— that I didn't have a drinking problem, so there was no point telling him again. Even I knew by then that I was lying. Follow the signs to journey's end: I couldn't get through the day without a drink. I was an alcoholic. A drunk. "You can have another shot," Luke said. "But you may need it more later." "I can wait." I didn't even know if that was true or not. 91

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I didn't look into his eyes because I couldn't bear to see the reflection of what I already heard in his voice: attraction and liking replaced by pity—and distaste. I heard myself say, "I've tried to stop. I can't." I listened in shock to the echo of those words. Silence. He said finally, "Have you ever thought about getting help?" "You mean like ... A.A.?" "There are other organizations, but yeah, like A.A." "I ... can't." "You can't what?" I swallowed hard. "I can't go and talk to a bunch of people about ... my problems." I couldn't believe I was talking to him. Just imagining standing up in a room full of strangers made me feel lightheaded: Hi, I'm Timothy... I looked at him shame-faced and said, "Besides, I don't ... think it would work for me. I don't think I can stop on my own. I have ... tried." I dropped my head on my folded arms. Why was I telling him? And yet, as humiliating and painful as this was, there was a terrible relief in just ... saying it. Admitting it once and for all. Luke rested his broad warm hand on my back. "What about getting medical treatment?" "You mean ... a hospital?" "Rehab, yeah." Voice hushed, I admitted the real truth. "I'm afraid." 92

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"Of rehab?" I moved my shoulders. "Of giving up control of my life." He said gently, "Tim, you already gave up control." **** The house leaned crookedly behind a wall of forbidding trees. I didn't remember the gingerbread trim. Those frivolous curlicues sweeping up and down the edge of the roof above the wall of trees seemed incongruous with the house of my memory. The vines and tree branches seemed to be all that was holding it rooted into place; I heard the old boards groaning like the building was ready to topple over any moment. One or two of the upper story windows still had glass panes. The others gaped blackly or had been boarded up. The double wide front entrance was also boarded up. I couldn't remember if there had been a door before; I didn't remember the baby blue posts holding up the sagging portico. There was no giant tree growing out through the peeling roof; my imagination must have supplied that. But there was no question it was the same house. "There must have been a raised porch that ran the length of the house," Luke said, studying the high windows. If there had been stairs they had disappeared with the long-ago porch, and the windows were too high to climb through unless one of us boosted the other. The building creaked ominously in the breeze, like the laughter of some demented old crone. The sound snapped me out of my trance. "We have to get out of here." 93

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I tried to brush past Luke. He said something, and reached for me, and I struck at his hand, ducking back when he lunged for me again. He swore. His foot caught on a tree root and he went down on one knee. I slipped out my pack and ran like a deer. Only it wasn't running so much as trying to plough through the brush and bushes and trees. I didn't get more than a few yards when Luke caught me up. He grabbed my shoulder, and I turned around and swung at him. He blocked me without particular trouble, not letting go of the steely grip he had on my shoulder. I tried to slide out from under this hand, and when that didn't work I tried to slug him. He grasped my fist, yanked me forward, throwing me off balance, and I crashed against him. He still had hold of my arm and he twisted it behind me, turning me away from him. The pain was instant and startling. I cried out. "Don't struggle," he said, breathing fast. "I don't want to hurt you." "You're breaking my fucking arm!" "Then hold still, damn it." His other arm locked across my shoulders in a restraining hold that stopped just short of actually choking me. "Tim—stop." I stopped. My arm felt wrenched out my shoulder socket. I clenched my jaw against the pain, and nodded. After a moment he let go of the arm twisted behind my back; it dropped limply to my side. I tried to move my other arm to rub my shoulder, but he kept me pinned against him. 94

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"You asshole." I hated him like I'd never hated anyone in my life. Luke ignored my trembling rage. "What happened here, Tim?" His breath was warm against my ear. "Something happened twelve years ago. What was it?" I shook my head. "Nothing." I made another half-hearted attempt to wrest free. "Look, this was a bad idea. We need to get out of here." His arms tightened. "Talk to me. What happened the first time you found this place?" "I don't know. Please. Let me go." I started shivering from head to foot—and the weirdest part was, I wasn't even sure why. I thought my heart was going to tear out of my chest. Maybe Luke felt it banging against his arm, because his grip changed, turning to support, comfort if I wanted it. I resisted it. I couldn't trust him anymore. This was all his fault. "Where would you go, Tim? Think for a minute. You can't go barging through the bushes. If you go tearing out of here you'll just get lost or injured." "I'll take my chances." "I can't let you take that chance." "Jesus, who died and made you John Wayne?" He didn't bother to answer. I thought how strange it was that at this time the night before we'd been settling down to sex and maybe the start of something. In twenty-four hours everything had changed. I sagged against him. "Luke ... I don't remember." "The hell you don't." 95

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I shook my head hopelessly. He just waited—like we had all the time in the world. I said, finally, so quietly that he had to duck his head to hear, "There were pieces of bone all over the ground ... like peanut shells or sea shells. Like gravel. Broken animal skulls and ... human. I know they were..." Luke's arms tightened. "You're okay. Go on." "I picked up a little piece of a jaw. I could see where the ... teeth were supposed to go." I swallowed dryly. "Ricky wanted to see if we could climb inside through one of the broken windows. We snuck up to the side of the house." I took a deep breath, trying to get control. "We got to one of the windows, looked up, and—and suddenly there was a man standing there." "Inside the house?" I nodded. "He just ... stared at us. Straight at us. And we stared back. Frozen. Like a pair of rabbits. And then he raised his hand like he was waving hello." My voice broke. "It looked black. He pressed it against the window ... and it left a bloody handprint." My voice gave out as though I had run out of oxygen, which is how I felt. I stared up at Luke, stricken. "What did you do?" he asked after a moment. His voice sounded thick. "He turned away from the window ... and we ran." The dark woods of my memory opened up and swallowed me. That terrified scramble through briars, crawling and wriggling under when we couldn't push through, running blind 96

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as the night settled on the roof of treetops—and always the knowledge that he was behind us.... Luke said so calmly it was like a slap, "What happened when you got home?" My mouth worked but I couldn't remember the words. "You made it home safely," Luke said. "What happened then?" "Nothing." He let me go. "You didn't tell anyone?" I shook my head, massaging my twisted shoulder. I could see the lack of comprehension on his face. "We were afraid. He saw us. We thought he would come after us." "Then why the hell wouldn't you tell your parents?" "Ricky—we weren't supposed to go into the woods. His dad said he would get the belt if he went back in there. We couldn't decide. We thought no one would believe us. And it's not like we could lead them back. We got lost so many times that day. I don't know how the hell we did finally get out." Luck. And the fact that we were small enough to wriggle through places our pursuer couldn't. Mostly luck. "But—" "And my parents came the next day. I went home and it ... all seemed like a dream. I told myself we imagined it." Luke didn't say anything; I read condemnation in his silence. "We left him free to keep killing, didn't we?" I said dully. "Everyone who disappeared after that ... it's our fault."

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"Let's get one thing straight," Luke said. "Nothing this sick fucker did is your fault. You were thirteen-years old. And teenage boys don't have the greatest judgment in the world." "I just ... forgot about it," I whispered. "I let myself forget." He said dryly, "Yeah, well, maybe you tried. I don't know how successful you were." "That girl on the poster in the store..." "Let it go, Tim. You have no idea what happened to her." He reached inside his shirt. He was wearing a shoulder holster. I already knew that. I'd felt it when I was leaning against him. He pulled out his gun, checked the chamber. "Do you know how to handle a gun?" I nodded wearily. My assent seemed to catch him by surprise. "You do?" "Yeah. My dad is ex-army. I know how to shoot. I grew up shooting." I understood his hesitation. In his shoes I wouldn't give me a gun either. He knelt, opened his pack, pulled out a tightly-wrapped triangle, which, when unwrapped, turned out to be .38 revolver. He offered it to me. I stepped back. "Don't. I'm not going back there. I'm not going with you." His dark brows drew together. He continued to hold the gun out to me. "I can't. I can't. You can't ask this of me," I said. "I am asking you." 98

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"Luke ... you of anybody knows that ... there's a limit of what you can expect from me." "I'm not asking anything more than you're capable of." I gaped. "Are you ... you can't be serious. Were you here five minutes ago?" His hazel eyes met my own. "Tim, it's one thing to run away when you're thirteen. No one can blame you for that. But you're a man now. You have to stop running." I blinked a couple of times, trying to focus on this idea. "But there's no need for us to go back. The Forester's dead by now," I rushed along, trying to convince him, convince myself. "The guy's dead. He has to be. He's not even there anymore. He can't be. We could just ... call the cops." "I am a cop. I have to check this out before I call anyone else in. Anyway, you don't believe that or you wouldn't be this frightened." "Yes, I would! I am." I gulped. "If you want to go back ... that's up to you. I'll ... wait for you. I'll try to. But I can't..." He just kept staring at me. This is the face he wears when people try to talk him out of arresting them. "You have to. I can't leave you." "Yes, you can, because I'm not going with you." "Tim, for your own sake—you've got to face this before it destroys you." "Jesus Christ. Stop it! You don't know me. You don't know what you're talking about." "I know you this well. I need your help." I couldn't look away from those hazel eyes. Finally, hand shaking, I took the gun, checked to make sure it was loaded, 99

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shoved it in my back waistband under my flannel shirt. I said unsteadily, "What the hell is this supposed to be? Intervention by serial killer?" To my astonished rage, his mouth twitched like he actually found that funny. I practically stuttered, "You laugh at me now, O'Brien, and I swear to Christ I'll deck you." "You just keep channeling that anger and we'll be fine." His eyes assessed me. "Do you need a drink?" "Is that a trick question?" "If it'll help you hold together..." I couldn't hold his gaze. I looked away and nodded, and he got out the flask he'd brought for medicinal purposes and handed it to me. I didn't bother with the little cup this time, I just tilted the flask. **** From the cover of a thicket of berry bushes we studied the row of boarded windows. "Let's try the other side," Luke said, his voice low. "If he was watching us last night, he could still be watching us. He could be following us and waiting for dark." Luke glanced up at the fading sunlight. He nodded. "Stay frosty." Stay frosty? Was he for real?

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"Frosty the Snowman, that's me," I muttered. I moved around him, kneeling to pick up something white in the weeds. I handed it to Luke. He studied the bone. "Animal. Not human." I nodded, but I wasn't reassured. Luke started toward the front of the house, skirting the bushes. I followed closely, watching the boarded face of the house. It didn't look like anyone had been there for years, and yet ... it didn't quite feel dead, either. If anyone lived in that wreck, he wasn't coming and going through the front entrance, which had been secured with thick planks. We picked our way around broken boards and tree roots, ducking under the sagging portico. I saw a snake slither into the underbrush a few feet ahead. The first story windows were boarded on the other side of the house as well, but the trees grew closer to the foundation, and I saw that it would be possible to climb up and get in through one of the open second story windows. I kept this thought to myself. I was still hoping Luke might give up and decide we were wasting our time. "Let's try the back," Luke said. "Let's not and say we did." He threw me a brief grin. We scooted around the corner of the house and paused in the deep shade. Something crunched behind us. I froze, staring at the moving wall of bushes a few feet away. Was it the only the breeze stirring the leaves? "Do you have your cell phone?" I whispered to Luke. 101

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He didn't bother to turn. "It's back with my pack. There's no signal out here." Maybe not, but I'd have been willing to try. My phone, unfortunately, was in Luke's car. "The back door's not boarded up," Luke said. He started forward across the carpet of autumn leaves. I hesitated, still watching the bushes. The dusty purple berries hung in heavy clusters. I looked skyward. The sun looked distorted through the ragged tree-tops, splintered light glanced off the dark foliage and flaking paint of the house. White flakes in the weeds, too. I stooped. Picked up a sliver of white. Not paint. A bone chip. Bone chips dusting the grass. I swallowed hard, straightened. We didn't have a lot of daylight left, and I didn't want to try and find our way out of the woods by flashlight. And I sure as hell didn't want to spend another night here. "Tim." I glanced back. Luke was at the rear door of the house. He gestured with his chin. I threw one last uneasy look at the bushes and moved out from the shadow of the house. Blood-red autumn leaves blanketed the ground, crackling underfoot. Just like that, the ground gave beneath me with the shriek of rotten wood and corroded hinges. I crashed down through a pair of crumbling cellar doors and slammed into the hardpacked dirt floor. Stunned, I lay on my side for a few seconds trying to process what had happened while dry leaves floated gently down around me. 102

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In a dark, dark wood ... The words from the old children's song ran through my mind in dazed refrain. There was a dark, dark house... My ankle hurt. My knee hurt. My hip hurt. My wrist felt broken. Somehow I'd managed to protect my head, but that had been hurting before I ever fell through the broken doors—and this wasn't helping. Thank God I hadn't fallen on my back and shot myself. And in that dark, dark house... Light from the hole in the doors above me illuminated burnt and jagged timber—thank God I hadn't landed on any of that-wooden shelves with dusty jars and dusty cans, some broken furniture. A kerosene lantern swung precariously over my head, creaking on its rusty hook. "Tim, can you hear me?" I realized Luke was calling to me, that he had been calling for some time now. "Tim? Can you answer me?" "I'm okay." That was a slight overstatement. "Tim!" "I'm okay," I called more loudly. Gingerly, I made an effort to push up. My muscles screeched protest. Maybe my wrist was sprained, not broken. I cradled it against my chest, tried flexing the fingers. "Jesus Christ," Luke's voice echoed with relief. "I thought ... look, don't move. I'm coming down." Don't move. Right... I stared up. It was about a twelve-foot drop. Several steps led up to the broken doors, but they were blocked off by the 103

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broken timbers. The room itself was twenty feet long. Another set of stairs, probably leading up to the kitchen, vanished into the shadows. Luke's head withdrew from the broken opening in the cellar doors. A moment later a shadow flashed across, and then was gone. What...? Was that a bird? I heard a thud. Swift, hard. And then another. Hair prickled on the back of my neck. I yelled, "Luke?" Nothing. No answer. I listened tautly. Listened ... and heard something like ... a sodden dragging sound. I opened my mouth to shout for Luke again, but something held me silent. I swallowed hard, and crawled out from under the opening in the cellar doors. Grabbing onto one of the broken timbers, I painfully pulled myself upright. Okay, I was still in one working piece. Now I needed to focus on getting out of here. I could try climbing through the debris blocking the cellar doors and breaking out that way, but that might be what someone was expecting. I picked my way across the junk-strewn floor and hesitated at the foot of the stairs. And in that dark, dark house... Maybe I was ... confused. Maybe everything was fine topside, and I needed to wait for Luke just like he told me to. The inner door was probably locked anyway. Luke was pretty damned tough and pretty damned experienced. Nothing was going to happen to Luke that he couldn't handle. Me, on the other hand... 104

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My gaze fell on the shelf of dusty mason jars next to me. I stared. Picked up one of the jars. Wiped the grimy front on my shirt, studying the murky contents. Not peaches. Not tomatoes. I shook the jar gently and something small and round and unmistakable floated next to the glass, staring back at me. I dropped the jar. It smashed on the floor, liquid mush spilling out. "Oh, sweet Jesus..." I reached out to steady myself on the shelf, and pain from my sprained wrist twisted through my nerves and muscles, snapping me back to awareness. I fumbled under my shirttail for the comforting weight of Luke's .38. I went up the short flight of stairs and tried the door. It creaked open onto a short dim hallway. Faded wallpaper and moldering carpet gave way to an old-fashioned kitchen. A sweetish sickly pall seemed to hang in the dead air. It was hard to see. The only light came from the small window in the door that led out to the clearing behind the house. I could just make out dingy wallpaper, a grimy wall thermometer in the shape of a fish, and some filthy decorative plates on the wall—all in shocking contrast to piles of empty jars, broken dishes and bones. A meat cleaver lay on the counter. A butcher's knife lay on the floor. There were bones of all different sizes and shapes: like a macabre soup kitchen. Giant kettles sat on the cold stove and in the sinks and on tables. There was a table in the center of the room. Feeling like I was sleepwalking, I moved over to it. The wooden top looked 105

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ink-stained. There were sheets and sheets of butcher paper covered with the crayon scrawls of a berserk child. Pictures of somber and serrated woods, tormented figures, and fire—fire or fountains of blood? I crept over to the back door and peered out the grimy window. It would be dark soon. The clearing behind the house looked empty. No sign of Luke. No sign of anyone. But a shovel lay in plain sight on the bed of red and gold leaves. A shovel where there had been no shovel before. I tried to hear over the thunder of my own heart beat. Evening sounds. Crickets. Birds. Frogs. What the hell was I supposed to do? I had no idea. Even if it were possible for me to escape into the woods, I couldn't leave Luke. Not until I knew ... for sure. I looked across the kitchen, across the boiled bare carcasses and glass lanterns and knives, to another doorway leading into another dark room. Would he have had time to drag Luke inside the house? Or was he butchering him out in the woods right now? Or was he hunting for me? I glanced back at the cellar door. It gaped blackly. I picked up one of the candles from the table, scrabbled around till I found matches, and stepped inside the adjoining room. Leaves and branches were strewn over the wooden floor, but otherwise the room looked startlingly normal: oldfashioned moth-eaten furniture, tattered draperies, china. There was a fireplace with the burnt remains of clothing and a shoe. Over the fireplace hung a large, framed photo of a WWI soldier. 106

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At the far end of the room stood another doorway and a staircase beyond. The upstairs windows were not boarded. I'd have a better chance of spotting Luke and his assailant from the second floor. Glancing down at a little pie-shaped table my attention was caught by the small pile of odds and ends: coins, hair barrettes—large daisy barrettes. I stared at them for a long moment. No worse than any of the rest of it, right? If I was responsible for this, I was responsible for all of it. All of it. All of these things had belonged to someone: buttons, keys, a silver pen ... and one boy's bone-handled pen-knife. I reached out automatically. I recognized that knife. I'd lost it twelve years ago in these woods. Picking it up, I was surprised to see that my hand was steady. Nothing like the anesthesia of total shock. I slipped it in my pocket, started warily up the stairs, gun at ready like I'd seen in a million TV shows. For all I knew there was a whole house full of these murdering freaks. Halfway up the staircase I heard the kitchen door bang. I heard voices. An unfamiliar mumble and a groan that sounded like Luke. He was alive. My heart sped up with a hope I hadn't dared entertain until then. I snuck back down the squeaking staircase and darted over to the kitchen doorway. I had a quick glimpse of long gray hair, a massive back, giant hands the color of mahogany. He was dragging Luke by his hair and collar across the floor. I could tell Luke was only partially conscious; he struggled feebly, kicking out like he was trying to get to 107

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his feet. His hands struck ineffectively at the powerful arms hauling him towards the cellar. The Forester slid him like a sack of potatoes across the floor. Luke groped blindly, and his hand found the butcher's knife on the floor, closed on it. The Forester, still muttering that incoherent litany, kicked the knife out of his hand, and then reached for the meat cleaver on the counter. I stepped into the kitchen, thumb-cocked Luke's revolver. "Stop," I said breathlessly. He tossed Luke back down, and turned, cleaver in hand. His face was seamed with scars and grime, tanned like old leather. There were leaves and twigs in his hair. His eyes were muddy and lifeless. I saw that there was not going to be any reasoning with him, but I said, "Don't do it." He stepped toward me, and I instinctively stepped back, which I knew was a mistake. There was no way I was walking out of here while he was still standing. He lumbered towards me, and Luke grabbed for his ankle. The Forester slashed down at him with the cleaver—like you would swat at a mosquito. I fired. Saw the muzzle flash in the dim light, felt the gun kick in my hand. The bullet hit him in the shoulder. I'd been aiming for dead center, so that wasn't so good. But I'd been distracted by my abject relief that he hadn't cut Luke's head in two, the cleaver crunching into the table leg, and missing Luke by inches. 108

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The bullet didn't seem to faze the Forester. He yanked the cleaver free and flew at me, and I clamped down on the trigger and emptied the remaining five bullets into his chest. He piled right into me, heavy and hot and stinking like a bear, and I banged into the door frame and then crash-landed on the floor—with him on top. The coppery smell of blood was in my nostrils; it was too dark to see him clearly anymore, just a black bulk crushing me. Wet warmth soaked into my jeans and shirt. I felt his teeth snapping against my throat, as I wriggled and kicked frantically to try and get free. Every second I expected to feel the meat cleaver chop into my bones. I swore and prayed and fought for my life. I managed to get out from under him; he didn't come after me. I backed up along the floor. He just lay there twitching and shuddering, his breath rattling in his throat. Blood drenched my clothes, but I was pretty sure none of it was mine. "Tim?" Luke reeled into the doorway. "Hi," I said faintly. He staggered forward, nearly fell over the Forester's body, and then dropped down beside me, feeling me over blindly. "Are you okay? Did he get you?" "No. I mean, yes, I'm okay. He didn't get me." I put my arms around him. I needed contact with someone alive and warm and reasonably sane. I needed to reassure myself that Luke really was alive. He hugged me back. Hard. "You're covered in blood. Are you sure—?" 109

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"I'm sure." And then neither of us said anything. After a time the thing on the floor stopped moving. Stopped breathing. I wondered if I should be feeling guilty about that too. Head buried in Luke's shoulder I thought that somehow we were going to have to get back to Luke's car, drive to where we could call for help, lead the police back here, spend the rest of the night giving our statements. I would probably be arrested, self-defense or not. Not held for long, hopefully, and I was pretty sure Luke would help me every way he could, and if I was lucky it wouldn't even come to trial... "You're sure you're okay?" he said, and his hands felt kind and familiar, once again running over my arms and back, checking for injuries because what other explanation could there be for the way I was clinging to him. I didn't misread him. He was guilty as hell that he'd nearly got me killed, and grateful that I'd saved his life, and worried about what this was going to do to me seeing that I wasn't exactly the Rock of Gibraltar. I wondered if killing monsters was a strong-enough foundation for building a friendship. We could be friends, right? Because friends were good, too. "Timmy?" The gentleness in his voice got me. I had to blink back the sting in my eyes. "Yeah. I'm fine," I said muffledly. "I just ... picked a really bad day to stop drinking." **** I was dreaming that Luke was kissing me. His lips, a little chapped, pressed warmly, sweetly against my own. My mouth 110

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quivered. I wanted to kiss him back, but already he was withdrawing. "Tim?" I opened my eyes. Luke leaned over me. "Hey," I mumbled, sitting up. Apparently I had been sleeping against his shoulder, which was more than a little embarrassing. It was late afternoon, and we were sitting in Luke's car on the street outside my Brownstone. The sun shone brightly. The street was full of traffic, the sidewalk crowded with pedestrians. For a moment, I wondered if I'd dreamed the entire thing. I glanced at Luke, who looked as battered as I felt. He had a funny look on his face. "How are you feeling?" "Oh, you know. High on life." My neck felt broken and every muscle in my body felt bruised. I had a sprained wrist and a wrenched knee. I felt groggy, disoriented—and as always—thirsty. But ... actually ... it did feel very good to be alive. "Sorry for flaking out on you." Luke said seriously, "Hey, you were there when I needed you." I gave him a tired smile. I realized he was waiting for me to say goodbye and get out of his car. I said, "Thanks for convincing the troopers not to arrest me" "Nobody wanted to arrest you. It's a clear case of selfdefense. I don't think it's even going to come to trial. Although there will probably be a hell of a lot of press." "Yeah. Well." I reached in the backseat for my blood-stiff clothes. I wasn't sure why I'd brought them home; I was 111

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never going to wear them again. I stared at the gorestreaked bundle and hazily remembered stopping at a campsite with Luke, and showering, and changing into our spare clothes. After that ... a comfortable gray blank. I didn't even remember climbing back into the car. "Um..." I glanced back at him. "I can't promise that every time we go out we'll have this much fun, but ... I'd really like to see you again." I blinked. "I mean," he said awkwardly, "If you're not too fed up about ... everything." "Are you serious?" "Hell, yeah." He gave me that heart-stopping grin, but there was just a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. "Maybe next time we could just ... I don't know ... go to dinner." I stared at him. He was serious. I still had a chance with him. He knew ... and he still wanted to see me. He had seen me at my absolute worst and he was still interested. Still attracted. He knew what to expect, and he was still willing to give it a try. I so did not want to blow this second chance. But I didn't want to be the guy responsible for taking the twinkle out of those eyes. I didn't want to see the affection and attraction die out—to be replaced with weariness and disgust when I slipped up and fell off the wagon—and there were going to be a lot of slips and falls ahead of me. As much as I wanted to believe I'd never let him down, I knew I was 112

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going to let us both down before I got better. If I got better. If I was strong enough. It wasn't easy, but I said, "I'd like that too. But I ... probably shouldn't answer till I'm ... sober." His gaze held mine and there was no disappointment, no impatience. In fact, his smile grew a little warmer, a little more confident. "Okay. I can respect that." I realized I wanted his respect—among other things— almost as desperately as I wanted my own. All at once it was hard to control my face. I turned towards the door, and he put a hand on my arm. "Listen, Tim. Sometimes it helps if a friend goes with you the first couple of times." Oh. He meant to A.A. or wherever. I already knew I was going to need more help than that. "I don't need someone to go with me, but it would help to know I had a friend ... waiting." "You have a friend waiting." He leaned forward and kissed me, his mouth warm and insistent. His eyes met mine. "And just so you know, that's hello." The End

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Gamble Everything L. Picaro "Robert-three. Sixty-eighth and Patterson," Adam Coventry replied in response to a call from dispatch. "I'll be there in five." He hit the lights and sped through the semi-dark streets of Highland Park. At one in the morning, the streets were fairly empty. Snow banked high on either side of the road from the latest storms hindered his view and he slowed going through the intersection. Once through, he whizzed past abandoned vehicles stuck in the snow. In this section of town, at least, there'd been no reported fatalities of motorists being trapped in their vehicles and either freezing to death or being asphyxiated trying to stay warm. Officers from his district had run continual sweeps to rescue stranded motorists and deal with accidents. They'd all worked long hours and were exhausted. Late at night there'd be far fewer accidents than there had been during rush hour thus making the remainder of their accident alert patrols a bit easier. With lights swirling, he pulled up behind the latest SUV in distress and punched the license number into his on-board computer. Cautiously, he left the warm confines of his cruiser, pulled out his flashlight, and walked up to an already lowering window. The driver must have seen him coming. "Did you call in?" 114

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"I did, Officer," a deep, sexy voice responded. Adam glanced into the red vehicle, arcing the light through the window and checking the interior. The driver was alone. "What seems to be the problem?" "Other than the fact I crashed into the snowbank? Someone shot at me." Adam's eyes widened in surprise. "You didn't mention that when you called, did you?" Damn Heather if she sent another cop out without all the pertinent information they needed. Highland Park wasn't large enough to be ultra picky about their three dispatchers, but he'd have her head if there was a loony out with a gun taking pot shots. "No." That was odd. Why wouldn't he? "License and registration, Sir." The man reached over to open the glove box and pulled out his registration. Silently, he handed the document and his license to Adam. "Would you mind stepping out of the car and showing me what happened, Mr. Doane?" "No problem, Officer." Adam stepped back. The door opened and the dark-haired man, well over six foot, got out. Broad shouldered, he wore a red down vest that allowed his blue flannel-covered muscular arms free movement. He looked vaguely familiar but at the moment Adam couldn't place Marc Doane. "Any idea why someone would take aim at you, Sir?" The man frowned. "This little burg isn't too crazy about gays." 115

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That got Adam's attention. Gay himself, Adam hadn't encountered any violent prejudice in Highland Park, although he and Jon had tried their hardest to avoid undue attention. Thinking of Jon an all too familiar ache spread through his chest. "You think someone took a shot at you over your sexual preferences?" "I know it. I left the Lyon's Lair a half hour ago. On the way out the door I was called a 'fucking faggot'. At the time, I shrugged it off, but after I got in my car and stated driving I had the feeling I was being followed." Adam had never been to the Lyon's Lair, but everyone in town knew it catered to the homosexual crowd. He'd wanted to go on occasion but memories of Jon loomed like a castle wall, holding Adam back from making a step forward in his life. Besides, protecting his job was paramount. If guys like Marc Doane hung out there, Adam just might have to visit the bar and see if he couldn't hook up with someone. Looking at Doane again, Adam was surprised he didn't have an attack of conscious for his wayward, unfaithful thought. The information Marc Doane shared was disturbing and Adam frowned. In his time on the force, he'd never heard of or been called to the watering hole for any sort of altercation. In fact, the establishment had gone out of its way to be circumspect and kept a fairly low profile. He'd never heard of straight guys hanging out there either and the thought of anyone uttering epithets like Doane claimed was highly unusual. 116

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Doane led the way to the front of the car. Antifreeze dripped onto the snow. "Hit the tire first, and then the radiator." Squatting, Adam examined the radiator damage. "Did you see what direction the shots came from?" Doane pointed across the street at a parking lot. "The assailant would have to know you were passing this way, get ahead of you somehow. Unless the assailant worked in tandem with someone else." Adam stood. "Any idea how a person might get that sort of information, Mr. Doane?" "Marc." He extended a large hand. When Adam took it, hot currents of desire shot through him. Adam removed his hand from the strong grip as fast as he could. Months had passed since he'd had such a visceral reaction to another man. What would Jon think of this irrational reaction to the motorist Adam was supposed to help? He hoped he hadn't appeared rude to Doane. The department didn't need another insensitive cop story to feed the news vultures. The muscular brunette man shook his head, curly locks of hair falling onto his forehead. "I'm not the most popular guy in town, as I said." "Still, to take a shot at you. I think this is a coincidence." Probably one of his jilted lovers. This guy had to have left broken men all over the state. Adam shifted, trying to quell his own reaction to the man before him. "Of course, we'll file a report, and investigate, but, I don't think the slur and the shooting are related." "Great, there are two problems out on the street." 117

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"Sir, why don't you come back to the station and we'll file that report." He returned Doane's license and registration, then watched him lock up his vehicle. "Yeah, okay." Adam led the way back to his cruiser. In the car, he radioed dispatch. "I'm on my way in." He glanced at his watch. Once he finished filing the report, his shift would be over. "Buckle up." He turned off the lights and headed back to the station. **** Adam filled out the report. "That about does it, Marc." He saved the document and both men stood. "We'll have an investigator get on this right away. Despite your fears, we don't tolerate bigotry of any sort in Highland Park." "Look, I know this may be a bit out of the ordinary, but," Doane shuffled. "Would you mind going back to my place with me to make sure I don't encounter any more issues?" It didn't take a genius to appreciate this as an opportunity to get to know a sexy man better. Adam glanced at his watch. "No, I don't mind. According to the information on your license, I have to pass by your place to get to mine. I can take a look around if that would make you feel more comfortable." "Thanks, Officer Coventry." "Adam," he requested. "You're welcome, Marc." They walked together into the station lot. The cruiser would be used by another officer going on duty so Adam opened the door of his grey, extended cab Ford truck instead. 118

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Adrenaline pumped through his veins like oxygen to a wildfire. Marc Doane made his body sexually long for release. Jacking off in the shower once he got home would be his best shot for the night. Marc chit-chatted in the truck on the way to his residence, telling stories about his carefree days in California. "What sort of work did you do out there," Adam asked. "I generally don't say much about it. People don't like the answer." Curiosity aroused, Adam couldn't let the subject drop. What if it had something to do with why someone shot at him? "It could be related to tonight." Marc frowned. "I've been here almost a year now. The fewer people who know about me and my work, the happier we all will be." "Sounds mysterious. Were you a hit man or something?" Doane shook his head. Once more those curls fell against the man's forehead. Adam's hand itched to smooth it back into place. "Nothing like that at all." "Then what?" Adam tried to figure out what sort of work would be embarrassing to a man. "Porn star?" In response, Marc's face flushed. Suddenly, Adam realized who his passenger was. "Oh, my god, you're—" "Rod Shaftem." Rod Shaftem had been the biggest bi star of the last decade. When he suddenly dropped from sight, most fans assumed the man with the foot-long rod had developed AIDS. 119

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"Marc is my real name. I've been out of the business a while now." "A lot of people think..." "I have AIDS. I know. A lot of my friends were dying, have died, from AIDS. I wanted to avoid their fate. I was clean when I left ten years ago and I'm still tested regularly." A lump formed in Adam's throat. He understood all too well the pain of losing someone you loved to a merciless disease. When Jon passed four years ago, it had nearly destroyed Adam's life. Since Jon, he hadn't thought about developing an intimate relationship with another man. Until tonight. "Me too." There, he'd made his opening bid with his 'I'm available' hint. "Next street, take a right." Adam did as Marc directed. The road turned bumpy from the icy mounds of snow left by the plows and they bounced along inside the pick-up. What was Marc thinking? Hell, what was he thinking? Shit. He knew. He knew he hadn't been with a man in a hell of a long time. Hadn't been with anyone out of sheer fear of growing close and losing another lover. If they'd had more money back before the illness wrecked Jon's immune system they could have gone out of the country for experimental drugs and treatment. Acted a lot sooner than the FDA had in finding a treatment to keep Jon from ever getting so desperately ill. Marc's frank answers as they filled out the police report, his subtle snaps of wry humor brightened the end of Adam's 120

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long night. Now, knowing who Marc was and what his body was capable of doing filled Adam with the intense need to come at this man's hands. Suddenly, his king bed was too big, too empty, too lonely. "Three blocks, turn left, then the first street after the stop sign. I'm the colonial monstrosity with the wrought iron gate about halfway down that street." Conversation halted and Adam drove, following Marc's directions precisely. In no time at all they were at the colonial. Both men got out of the truck and Adam followed Marc up the sidewalk to the front stoop. The man had a tight ass. How would it feel to have his cock driving deep between Adam's cheeks? Nah. He shook his head. No way would a worldly, experienced man like Marc want a straight-laced upholder of the law for a one night stand. Even though he was gay, he was as vanilla as a gay man could be. What Marc deemed a colonial reminded Adam more of a southern mansion. Three large windows looked onto the porch and across the lawn from each side of the double doors. A light switched on at their approach. "Do you see anything out of the ordinary?" Marc glanced around. "No." He opened the doors and Adam entered a large foyer. "Holy shit, this entry is as big as my bedroom." A wan smile crossed Marc's face. "Sometimes it's a little too big for one person." Was that an answer to Adam's invitation? They went into a sitting room, a dining room, the kitchen, slowly touring the 121

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lower level of the house. Marc flooded each room with light as they entered it. The house was so well lit it struck Adam that perhaps the infamous star was afraid of the dark. Marc kept up a running monologue about different topics as they shifted from room to room. Unfortunately, only half the information deposited itself into Adam's consciousness. He was busy trying to hear footsteps, rustling branches, creaks, anything out of the ordinary. Before he knew it, they were back at the foyer, having just exited Marc's spacious office. "Do you want me to check anything upstairs," Adam asked. Marc stepped closer and for Adam, time suspended itself. This was it, the moment where they'd shake hands and never see one another again. One of those chance occurrences in life, the two ships passing in the night he'd so often heard others talk about. Hell, it felt more like the chance occurrence of the Titanic striking the iceberg, an all too familiar sinking feeling of helplessness and loss. "No," Marc whispered, staring at Adam. "I hope I'm interpreting this right." He leaned forward and kissed Adam full on the lips. Surprise engulfed Adam and he opened his mouth with a groan. Marc's tongue swept inside and the sinking sensation intensified, reviving the physical desire Adam had experienced earlier in the night, his flaccid cock reviving. This was wrong. He was supposed to protect Marc, go home, and whack off, thinking about the sexy porn star and the things he'd seen the man do with his tongue and cock in 122

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the numerous movies he'd watched him in. No, scratch that. He was supposed to go home and think about making love with dear, sweet Jon. Adam flattened his palms against Marc's chest and pushed him away. "Look," he gasped. "We just met. I don't think we should go where we both know this will lead." "I want to go there—with you. I haven't been this turned on in ages. We can fuck and walk away, no one hurt, both of us satisfied." He dropped to his knees and licked Adam's groin through the heavy material of his uniform trousers. "Oh, fuck," Adam groaned. He didn't want to give in to the temptation of sex with Marc Doane, but it'd been too damn long and he knew he'd take what the man offered without much hesitation. "Yes, please. Say you'll fuck me." Marc stood and kissed Adam again, rubbing his considerable erection against Adam's. Adam's hands reached around Marc's neck and he kissed him back with equal intensity, his tongue taking Marc's mouth, licking and teasing the way he'd take the star's cock later. At six foot, Adam was still shorter than Marc; outmuscled too. Inside his tee shirt, Adam's nipples hardened and rubbed against the cotton. Marc pulled Adam into his office, jerking Adam's shirt from his trousers. Adam released his holster and belt and laid them on the desk. Cop time was over. Play time was commencing. The rasp of the zipper being lowered preceded his briefs being pushed off his hips, releasing Adam's burgeoning 123

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erection. Marc wasted no time at all taking the length into his mouth. A throaty moan left Adam's throat. This felt too damn good, the warm wetness surrounding his cock. He swelled within Marc's mouth and he couldn't stop the instinctive thrust of his hips, driving deeper into the offered heat. Marc surrounded Adam's staff with his fist, stroking up and down. He pulled back and flicked his tongue around the purple head. "Damn, this is a beaut. I can't wait to feel you fuck me with it." "Is that what you really want?" With a nod, Marc continued. "I've kept to myself these past few years. Rosy Palm has been one of my better friends." "Are you sure," Adam asked again. No way did he want to be accused of forcing sodomy on someone of Marc's influence and stature. Marc sucked Adam's prick inside his mouth once more. The wetness, the warmth of a mouth around him-God, it felt so damn good. Sliding home into Marc's body would feel even better. Marc released his mouth and stood, his hand wrapped around Adam, stroking his balls with his fingertips until the skin around them puckered. "Oh, shit," Adam moaned. He wanted what he believed Marc wanted ... to be filled by another man who knew what to do, who wasn't playing around, testing out his sexuality. He wanted a man who knew what he wanted, the way Marc did. 124

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"I'm sure." Marc kissed Adam, his tongue demanding entrance into Adam's mouth. The big man bullied Adam against the desk, grinding his pelvis against Adam's exposed penis. The rub of material against his naked member brought Adam close to the edge. With a sweep of his arm, Marc cleared the desk. "I want you ... this..." he ground against Adam again, squeezing his balls lightly, and then stroking his cock, "in my ass." No clearer invitation could be offered than that. He toed off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. Marc pushed his boxers to the floor and Adam stepped out of those too. Adam's fingers fumbled with the belt on Marc's trousers, then found the zipper. A moment later, he had Marc face down on the edge of the desk, legs spread wide, teasing the rosette with his forefinger. "Lube," he gasped, excitement taking control as he wiggled his finger ever so slightly into Marc's ass. "Where is it? Tell me you have some handy. And a condom?" Marc reached to the side and partially opened a drawer. "In here," he gasped, moving deeper onto Adam's finger. "No condoms." Adam pulled his index finger from Marc and toyed with the tight hole while he squatted and fumbled with his trousers, feeling for his wallet. Long ago, he'd begun storing a condom in his billfold. With condom in hand, he found the lube, opened the tube and lubricated Marc's anus as well as his own finger. He leaned forward, stroked Marc's ass, kissed his neck, caressed his back while he tore open the condom package and slipped it over his penis. 125

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Once the lube lost its chilly quality, he teased Marc again. "God, please," Marc begged. "Get on with fucking me." Adam let the tip of his shaft tease the puckered hole waiting for his possession. Beneath him, Marc writhed. Squeezing more lube onto his index finger, Adam teased and stretched Marc's entry. He slipped his finger in, pulled out, testing how well Marc would handle his girth. More lube, another finger, then another. Adam's cock was rock hard, waiting to take Marc, ride them both to heights they hadn't climbed in ages. "Damn it," Marc groaned. "Just fuck me already." "As you want it." Adam pushed the head of his cock into Marc, gradually opening him wide. "You're too fucking slow." Suddenly, Adam's cock, to the root, was encased in Marc's backdoor. Adam nearly exploded at the tight heat engulfing his member. "Oh yeah, baby," Marc moaned, "give it to me." With care Adam withdrew, then pushed in again. Each stroke grew in intensity and speed until Adam's balls slapped against Marc's ass. Pure pleasure shot through Adam, little electrifying sensations that bore a vague resemblance to an adrenaline rush. Adam tried to reach around and grab Marc's cock, but it was trapped between the man's large body and the wooden desk. Instead, he latched onto Marc's hips and drove his cock home. Heaven, this was heaven being able to fuck a willing, attractive man. Each stroke a tight caress that reminded him of all the satisfaction he'd missed over the years. 126

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Friction heated him, brought him to overload and Adam yelled when his release exploded in Marc's rectum. "Fucking A! God damn!" A shudder left his partner, bringing Adam a little closer to reality. He withdrew, his juices coating his encased, softening cock. He leaned over and whispered in Marc's ear. "You didn't come, did you?" He really didn't need an answer. He knew. "It's your turn. How do you want to take me?" Marc reached out and grabbed a condom from the open drawer before he pushed away from the desk, his ass pushing back against Adam's groin. He turned and fixed Adam with a lust-filled gaze. "How do you want it?" Considering the driving force he'd just used on Marc, he figured turn about was only fair. "As hard and as rough as you want to give me." They switched positions and Adam found himself face down on the desk. "I'm serious, rough and hard." A broad finger pushed into Adam's ass. "You're too tight," Marc complained. Adam gulped and pushed back the memories of Jon fucking him the first time. Everything about Jon had been slight except the monster between his legs. "You won't hurt me. My last partner was big too." Marc's cock rubbed against the seam of Adam's cheeks. The porn star had liberally lubed up and Adam barely felt the presence of the condom. With Marc's dick positioned, Adam reached back and spread his cheeks, a silent plea to his partner to get on with the fucking. He wasn't disappointed. With a shove, Marc entered Adam, the tight ring of muscle 127

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tensing before quickly relaxing against the familiar feeling of being stuffed. With slow, deliberate strokes, Adam took more and more of Marc into his body. Grasping the edge of the desk, Adam lifted and dropped his hips, increasing the tempo, forcing Marc to stroke into him deeper and harder. God, it felt so damn wonderful. Even though Adam had come minutes before, his cock returned to full attention. With the pace they were keeping, he'd come again, this time against the side of Marc's wooden desk. A groan ripped from Marc and hot streams of semen shot deep into Adam's body, held in place by the rubber. His own orgasm followed a moment later. Marc collapsed against Adam's back. He'd never made love with Jon in an office, even a private home office like this one. They'd always been in the bed and only once had Jon given him a hand job on the couch. Adam liked Marc's creativity, liked the feel of the man's heat against his skin, liked the equal give and take he'd just experienced. "I've got to get off your back before I hurt you." Marc's gentle words accompanied his move away from Adam. "That was ... amazing." Adam stood and turned to look at the man who'd just satisfied a long standing itch. "Indeed." He pulled the condom off his cock and tied it, then tossed the small package into a trash can at the back of the desk. Semen coated his now shriveled penis. "I know this might sound a bit forward, but I was wondering if I might use your shower?" 128

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A deep laugh rumbled from Marc's throat as he followed Adam's lead. "Sure." **** Adam returned home, the image of pounding into Marc burned into his brain. The session had been a nice end to a long night, but the chances of it happening again were slim. He was an officer and his reputation had to be above and beyond that of an ordinary citizen. Guilt ate into him too. How could he have been unfaithful to Jon? Jon had suffered, died, lost everything to that horrendous disease. Besides, Adam had a definite fetish. He liked to be dominated. Maybe it was because in his job he was always the one in charge and he needed that respite, but the kink was one a lot of people did not understand. There was a fair amount of BDSM in the community based on the articles he'd read on the Internet, but he had yet to find someone in Highland Park who was both gay and a dominant. When he'd met and fallen in love with Jon, he'd settled for the security of a long-term relationship and forced his truest desire as far from reality as he could. But now? Maybe the porn king could scratch that itch as well. If they got together again. Walking away had been what they'd agreed to. A good fuck, both satisfied. Only Adam wasn't satisfied. Not entirely. He'd come, twice, but he wanted more. He wanted to please Marc. Laying in bed, he thought of ways the big man could subdue him, how he'd ache to be possessed by that 129

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monstrous shaft, how Adam would take it deep down his throat, how he'd be punished for not satisfying the will of Master Marc. Despite two intense orgasms, Adam was hard all over again. Wrapping his hand around his penis, Adam squeezed and stroked and rubbed until his release shot into his palm. **** "Dispatch." Adam spoke into the hand held microphone. "Robert-three en route to CR71 and R48." "Code Zero. Robert-two is en route as well." There was a moment of silence. "Be careful Adam, shots have been fired." "Thanks, Heather. Robert-three out." Adam pulled into the parking lot of the post office as twilight began to descend, opened the door and raced to the trunk. He didn't like wearing the heavy flak jacket, but he liked being a target even less. He closed the vest over his shirt and grabbed a helmet. From the post office to the intersection took five minutes. A red SUV laid cockeyed, nose dipping into a ditch at the side of the road. Damn. The vehicle looked like Marc Doane's. Two weeks had passed and the man hadn't been far from Adam's mind. But they'd agreed to a one nighter, no strings attached and neither had contacted the other. Adam pulled his cruiser behind another cruiser and jumped out. A shot whistled through the air and smashed into the bumper of Adam's car. "Fuck." He dashed around the front of the car to the far side of his vehicle and crouched low to look over the cruiser's hood. In 130

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the distance, he saw the top of a grain storage silo, the body obscured by defoliated trees and evergreens. The silo was too far away unless the shooter had a powerful sniper rifle. The town was small enough that if a Special Forces individual had moved into the vicinity, the police department would have known about it. No, he'd take a calculated risk. The shooter was in one of the trees. Cautiously, he made his way over to the other squad car, Robert 2. Lester Nighthorse was slumped against the front passenger door. "Hey Adam," he whispered, holding a hand over his shoulder. "Bastard got me. Hit something big and it hurts like a muther." Adam depressed his call button. "Dispatch, Robert 3. Officer down. Hostile fire. Extreme caution advised." "Robert 3, back up, ambulance on the way. Keep apprised." "Affirmative. Out." Lester's usually dark face had a sickly pallor. The officer was weak and wouldn't be able to give Adam help, but he hoped for some more information. "What can you tell me, Lester?" "Shooter is in the second bank of trees, nearly perpendicular to the SUV. I didn't get a visual on the occupant. He did communicate orally and has been wounded. I advised he stay with his vehicle." Adam's gut twisted. Marc said he'd been shot at. Circumspectly, Adam tried to follow the detectives' progress on the case. A natural degree of interest was acceptable since he was the original officer called, but Adam didn't want to 131

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raise anyone's curiosity as to why this case bore special scrutiny. "Dispatch, put me through to Detective Mike Aguilar." After a moment of static, the connection went through. "Mike? I think this is our sniper we've been looking for. What have you found out in the last couple days?" "We're most probably looking at a military weapon. I'd say your shooter is ex-Army and is using an M24. Cartridge is definitely a .338 Winchester, designed for longer range." "Shit. He's a pro then, knows what he's doing." Adam paused. This situation wasn't one the small town of Highland Park could handle. "We need Springfield's SWAT. He's got us pinned. SWAT needs to come out R46. There's an old silo behind the trees they can use as staging." "Right, Adam. I'll have them contact you as soon as they can. Out." A long sigh left Adam. Why had it taken them so long to realize the threat to Marc Doane's life was credible? He turned to Lester. "Let me take a look at that." Blood soaked the shoulder and arm of Lester's shirt. "It's nearly dark. I should be able to move around more and get some of the first aid stuff from the trunk." "Don't count on it, Adam." Lester's words were barely audible, indicative of his blood loss. Damn and double damn. The ambulance with EMT's needed to get here ASAP if Lester were to survive. "What makes you say that Lester?" "The guy is too good. I'm betting he has night vision." 132

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Adam nodded. "SWAT is on the way. He'll have his hands full soon. That should allow enough of a diversion to get you to the ambulance and let me check on Doane." "Doane?" "I responded to a call for the same vehicle a couple weeks back." Before the conversation went further, Adam's radio crackled. "We're in position, Coventry. Anything more?" Adam turned and peeked over the hood of the cruiser. "No movement that we're aware of. We do have an officer down and a civilian injured. We need to get them out of here, fast." "Keep an eye out. 10-4." "10-4." Adam continued to peer over the car. Suddenly, a bright light flared, followed by the sound of semi-automatic fire. Adam scrambled to open the driver's door and popped the trunk. He grabbed a blanket and the first aid box, then pulled the deck lid down until it was nearly latched. Stuffing gauze into Lester's wound, he wondered how Marc was doing. Was he conscious? Bleeding badly? There was only one way to find out. He finished wrapping a long length of bandage around the cotton and tied it tightly. "I'm going to see how the other guy is." Another bright light flared in the forest and Adam ran to the red SUV and yanked open the door amid the background of additional weapon fire. The dome light blinded him and he blinked rapidly until he could focus. Doane was prone on the seat, his head toward the passenger door. "Marc? Marc, it's me, Adam." A soft moan was the only response Adam got. Shit! 133

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A rifle report echoed across the road, the bullet singing through the air and into the field behind them. A frisson of fear stole over Adam. Who was this sniper and why was he so intent on hurting or killing Marc? Adam pulled out his flashlight and used the barrel end to demolish the dome light. "We've got to move you, get you to lower ground." Another groan. At least Marc was alive. "Okay, buddy. I'm pulling you out." And praying I don't make anything worse or that the sniper takes another shot. He grasped Marc under the shoulders and heaved. Marc's big body slid toward Adam, balanced on the edge of the passenger seat. A warm, sticky liquid covered Adam's palm. He wanted to take out his flashlight and search for Marc's wound, but Adam's hands were full and the sniper knew how to use light to his advantage. "One more time." Adam jerked harder and braced for the impact of Marc's weight against his body. The movement jarred speech from Marc's mouth. "God, I'm shot." The agonized sound tore at Adam, revealing he might have deeper feelings than he cared to accept just yet. "Where?" "My arm." A shudder ran through Adam and he forced down the thoughts of Marc dying. "Can you walk some?" Marc nodded. Savagely, Adam slammed the SUV door shut. Adam helped Marc back to where Lester sat a bit taller against the fender of the cruiser. An unnerving quiet settled over the area. Was the sniper still in the tree? Was the SWAT team tightening the 134

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perimeter? Was the situation near an end? He kept his questions to himself and focused on Marc. "Let's take a look." Slipping a hand to his utility belt, Adam fingered the cool handle of his flashlight and pulled it from the loop. Keeping the implement aimed low, he switched on the beam. Carefully, he brought the torch up, keeping it focused on Marc's body until the shaft of light rested on his plaid covered shoulder. Nothing. Adam swiveled the beam to Marc's left shoulder and there he saw a large dark stain spreading down his arm and pectoral muscle. "Jesus, Marc. Who wants you this bad?" The only answer Adam got was a shake of Marc's head. "Lester, can you hold this for me?" When Adam got Lester's nod, he handed him the flashlight. "I'm going to look at this, Marc and it will probably hurt like hell. Brace yourself." This dilemma he hated. Did you go slowly and try to disturb the wound as little as possible, create as little pain as possible, or did you rip the material away and hope the speed would compensate for the momentary, he hoped, agony and the potential for reopening any natural healing the body had already commenced? During daylight, the choice was easier to make. You could see more, see if the blood had started to clot, congeal, dry. Free-flowing blood, well, you just pulled the material away because the cloth wouldn't be sticking to anything, at least near the wound. Adam reached into the first aid box and pulled out a latex glove. Covering his hand, he placed it near Marc's injury, feeling for moving blood. 135

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Damn. He just couldn't be lucky tonight could he. The blood beneath his gloved fingers wasn't dry but he couldn't tell if it continued to flow. Taking a deep breath, Adam unbuttoned Marc's shirt and then quickly pulled the collar back. A short gasp left Marc's mouth and then he was silent. For a moment, Adam thought the man had passed out. "That ... wasn't ... so ... bad." Silently, Adam lifted a prayer of thanks. "Glad you're still with us, Marc. Lester, can you aim the beam a little higher?" The light lifted and Adam saw more of Marc's injury, but not enough to know if the bullet had traveled out the back of his shoulder. "Can you lean forward a bit, Marc?" The actor followed Adam's instructions. Lester pointed the flashlight at Marc's back. No blood appeared to seep through the shirt. "Okay. I'm going to put some pressure on this and then wrap it. After that we'll have to see what the docs have to say." The next few minutes passed in a flurry of concentration. Adam's mind though, wasn't far from the problem at hand. Who would want to do this to Marc? How had Marc been set up? "Marc, why were you out here?" "I got a call from an old friend." He looked into Adam's eyes as if he were trying to send him a telepathic message. "A really old friend." Someone from the porn industry? "From before your retirement?" Marc nodded. "The last ... project." 136

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Super. He had a lead he could follow up on as long as they were able to get through the night. Knowing the suspect was involved with Marc's last movie as Rod Shaftem would help considerably. Suddenly, the night exploded with sound. A large volley of shots rang though the trees, followed by a scream, and the noise of branches thrashing and breaking. Tires sang on the roads, brakes screeched to a stop behind Adam's cruiser. Lights from the ambulance swirled in the dark. He stood and waved his arms to direct EMT's to the injured men. The technicians checked vitals and then loaded Lester and Marc onto stretchers. Adam exhaled. The worst was over. From the trees more EMT's emerged, along with members of the SWAT team. "Wait." The single word, spoken with surprising strength came from Marc. "I want to see..." Yeah, so did Adam. He never understood, as many times as he'd seen violence, what drove people to such heinous acts. Call it curiosity, but he did understand where Marc was coming from. The sound of metal and the legs of the stretchers hitting the road crossed the pavement now lit by swirling red, blue, yellow and white light. The stretcher wheels squeaked, the sound cutting through the loud dissonance of noise on the road. Adam kept a close eye on Marc as the stretcher neared. How would Marc react to the person who'd tried to kill him? Before he could ponder longer, the perpetrator, surrounded 137

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by a small army of blue, rolled past. EMT's and cops formed a human wall and Marc's attacker couldn't be seen. "Damn. I wanted to see him before I died." Marc's weak whisper chilled Adam. He feigned a confidence he didn't have. "You're not going to die." He wished he believed his own words, but in the dark it had been nigh on impossible to see how much blood, how much damage had been done by the would-be assassin. Changing the direction of his thoughts, he concentrated on keeping Marc talking while he was pushed toward the ambulance. "Who were you going to meet?" "Cory Rhodes," Marc responded as he was lifted into the back of the emergency vehicle. Good. He had a name to give to Aguilar. **** The remainder of the night was filled with a mountain of paperwork. Every form served to remind Adam of the incident. Every request for detail took him to the moment when he realized Marc was wounded in the SUV. Every muttered word in the station brought back Marc's weak whispers. Beneath the heavy blue of his uniform, chills broke out on Adam's body, shivers ran through his arms, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. Marc Doane couldn't die. That's what Adam prayed for anyway. Miracles happened all the time. Maybe God or some other benevolent deity would grant one of them a boon ... not because Marc or Adam were particularly good, but because God was in a good mood. It was the sort of miracle Marc needed if the initial reports 138

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he'd gotten were accurate. It was the sort of miracle Lester Nighthorse had received. God, please, let there be two in there for Highland Park. World weary, that's what Adam was tonight. The paperwork was done, he was free to go. He needed to go home, get some rest, maybe even pray, before he tackled a new day with old worries. Someone once used the expression 'rode hard and put away wet'. Even though he wasn't entirely sure what that meant, he'd felt as if he'd been driven past his emotional endurance level and then twisted through one of those old-fashioned washers that wrung the water from the clothes. He knew what he needed, but he was powerless to give in to his body's needs right now, just as he was powerless to stop himself from going to the hospital and seeing Marc in person. Getting into his truck, he headed out of the parking lot, driving as if on auto-pilot to the sprawling one-story building that housed Highland Park's medical complex. Each step down the hospital's chlorine scented hallways echoed in the early morning silence. It wouldn't be long before the phlebotomist made her rounds and like a bloodsucking vampire zapped vials of blood from her victims they way they had with Jon. At the nurses' station he flashed his badge, got the number to Marc's room and then continued his trek. At the door, he paused, sucking in a deep breath and stealing himself for the possibilities that lay within the room. Beneath his palm, the door handle was cold. He turned the 139

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lever and pushed, his breath arrested in his chest, and stepped into the room. Inside, soft whirs and beeps drifted through the air. A dim light glowed above Marc's head from the panel mounted to the wall where various cords were plugged in. Only one seemed to go directly to Marc. That was good, wasn't it? God, he hated hospitals. People died here. His mother died here. Jon died here. A muted grey, padded chair sat next to Marc's bed and Adam sank into it. What the hell was going on with him? He'd had one casual night of sex with Marc, nothing more. So why did it feel like this was a lot more? Why did he care so damn much? Because, a little voice in his head responded, he was great in the sack and you don't want to miss seeing where that could lead you. It was a one night stand, he argued back. We agreed it wouldn't go anywhere. Yeah, and wasn't that stupid. Look, you've been alone too fucking long. Just tell him you made a mistake and want to see him again. What's the worst he can say? No. And I don't think I'm ready to hear that. Coward. He just might say "yes"; did you consider that? Why did the voice of his conscious have to be right? Marc Doane could as easily say yes as he could no. Exhaustion forced Adam's eyes closed. He didn't have to make a decision this second. **** 140

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"Adam," a weak voice said. "Why are you here?" Adam glanced at Marc, relief coursing through his blood like a creek filled with the spring thaw runoff. He shrugged. "I was concerned." "Was I bad?" "Yeah, you were." Adam was done hiding his thoughts and feelings. Honesty, honesty was always the best policy. You didn't need to flaunt the truth, but you sure as shit needed to live up to it, face it, tell it when it was required. "You were shot in the shoulder. The bullet didn't go through but it chipped up the bone." That was an understatement. Shattered the bone was a more apt description. According to the scuttle, bone fragments ripped into the muscle like broken glass. "What about..." "The shooter is on life support." Adam leaned forward. "Marc, we got an ID. Do you know a Dick Phillips?" It shouldn't have been possible for a chalk white face to pale further, but the little bit of color in Marc's face evaporated. Adam leapt to his feet. "Are you okay?" He watched Marc's throat move as if he were trying to speak, but no words came out. It didn't take a Holmes to deduct this, but Adam needed confirmation. "Was it Phillips who called you?" Marc nodded. Why would Phillips want Marc dead? They'd starred in skin flicks together, so did that mean they had a prior relationship? Had something gone wrong on the last movie? Adam opened his mouth to ask Marc, but the injured man's 141

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eyes were closed and his chest moved in the shallow rhythm of sleep. There was only one other thing to do. Ask Phillips directly. **** "Is he conscious?" Adam asked a doctor examining the chart at the end of Dick Phillips's bed. "Blood relative?" the doctor asked, nonplussed, continuing his perusal of the chart. Adam reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his badge holder. "No." He flipped it open in the narrow space between the doctor's eyes and the paperwork the man was so intent on studying. "Police. This man is a suspect in last night's shooting." The doctor looked up and snorted. "He's not doing much talking." Adam glanced at Phillips. The man was connected to twice as much tubing and machinery as Marc Doane. "Anything I should know about his condition?" "He's dying. Even if he survives the twelve gunshot wounds." "What do you mean by that?" Adam shouted, his frustration level with this particular MD climbing as rapidly as the heat did in Phoenix during the summer. Flipping the chart shut and replacing it, the doctor finally looked directly at Adam. "He's in the final stages of AIDS." ****

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Dick Phillips also known by the stage name of Cory Rhodes died seven hours and twenty-six minutes later, never regaining consciousness. Marc Doane fared better. Intensive Care gave way to a private room and ten days later, Marc was declared fit enough to complete his recovery at home. Marc's release left Adam and his emotions in a world of confusion. He'd spent a lot of time, while Marc was in the early stages of recovery, at the hospital. With each passing day, Adam eased away, remembering Marc's declaration that they could have sex and walk away. But Adam couldn't just walk away. He'd never been a love 'em and leave 'em type of guy; he valued what a steady relationship offered; loyalty, companionship, shared interests, and yes, sex. Even the Lyon's Lair hadn't uncovered another potential love interest for Adam. No, all he'd found there was a closet fag trying to pretend he was a straight guy who hated gays. When the jerk took a swing at another patron, Adam took a nearly perverse delight in arresting the prejudicial son-of-a-bitch and hauling him in for assault. The man would have a fun time explaining to his family why he was at a gay bar attacking a gay guy. Adam took a chunk of his accrued vacation time and put his latent energy into puttering around his house. He replaced the dripping faucet in the kitchen, the hose for the sprayer nozzle, re-caulked the seating of the sink. Jon had been the handyman in their relationship, the ultimate fixer-upper. Every time Adam had to twist the wrench, pound with a hammer, or seal a seam, a part of him let go of his past with Jon. 143

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Clarity hit him at the end of his first week off. The tears flowed, freely, for the first time since Adam had buried his lover. "Fuck, Jon. I really miss you, but you're never coming back." **** Spring arrived, the new green of the grass and leaves a herald of hope for the future. Adam smiled, enjoying the afternoon later shift he was nearly finished patrolling. Beat the hell out of graveyard. All around him the newness of life revitalized his attitude and that of the citizens of Highland Park. At home, taupe and tan paint waited to be applied to the living room walls. He'd repainted the bedroom, boxed up Jon's clothes and given them to Goodwill. He sold the waterbed and replaced it with a four-poster. Life was good, getting better every day. A call interrupted his musings. Motorist in distress. "Robert-three en route, I'll be there in less than five." A few minutes later he pulled up behind a familiar red SUV with the hood lifted. His stomach twisted into a painful ball. Marc Doane. Adam tried to remember when he last thought about the sexy porn star and grimaced. Last night, in the shower, his cock gripped firmly in his hand as he replayed in his mind their one and only time together. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. He could face Marc, keep his thoughts in check. Couldn't he? Adam rounded the bumper. "Hello, Marc." 144

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Marc jerked, his head hitting the hood. "Ow! Adam. What are you doing here? I didn't call for help." Seeing Marc in the flesh again quickened Adam's cock. He shifted on his feet trying to get into a more comfortable stance. "Motorist called you in." Wiping a greasy hand on his forehead, Marc nodded. "Maybe it's a good thing. I'm not having any luck." He frowned. "I should just retire this thing. Been through a lot." All Adam could manage to do was nod. "Mind giving me a lift home?" Adam's tongue thickened in his suddenly too dry mouth. Buying time, he glanced at his watch. His shift was officially over in ten minutes. "Ah, well, if you don't mind stopping at the station and picking up my truck." "Not at all." **** Adam pulled his truck up Marc's driveway. "Here you are," he said with more joie de vivre than he felt. But Marc Doane didn't move, didn't say a word. Adam reached across the seat and opened the door with a shove. "You're home, Marc." Suddenly, Doane's strong hand gripped Adam's forearm and Marc's gaze bore into Adam. "Am I? Am I really? A wacko tried to murder me because he thought I was the one who infected him. I've been alone for the better part of a decade, nothing more than a reluctant caretaker in a house that already has servants." His grip eased. "Come in," Marc swallowed hard. "Let's—" 145

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"I'm not doing this, not to you, not to me," Adam interrupted, taking his hand off the door. "You wanted a onenighter and I gave it to you, to me. It wasn't good enough. I'm not wired that way." A shuddering breath left Marc's lips. "Good." He leaned over and switched off the ignition, pulling the keys from the steering column and pocketing them with a jangle. "I've spent a lot of time trying to escape my lucrative past. It's time to leave that behind and start a real life." A tiny tendril of hope sprouted in Adam's chest. Go for it, gamble everything. "I'm not your everyday commonplace gay. I have more complicated needs." Marc lifted an eyebrow. "Such as?" "I enjoy being dominated in the bedroom from time to time." The cards were on the table, the stakes as high as any he'd played in the past few years. Marc laughed, opened the door and got out. "You really need to see my playroom." The response wasn't one Adam expected and he sat behind the steering wheel stunned. "Are you coming?" Marc laughed. A deep rumble left Adam's mouth as he considered the double entendre. "Not yet." he finally managed between guffaws. The End

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