VAMPIRES OF CAIRO
Vampires of the World
Geoffrey Knight
Vampires of Cairo © 2020 Geoffrey Knight
Self-published in the USA Geoffrey Knight 2020
Previously published as Cairo Curse 2013
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Published by Geoffrey Knight
Cover Design by Geoffrey Knight
Books by Geoffrey Knight
SERIES
FATHOM’S FIVE
The Cross of Sins: Fathom’s Five Book One
The Riddle of the Sands: Fathom’s Five Book Two
The Curse of the Dragon God: Fathom’s Five Book Three
The Tomb of Heaven: Fathom’s Five Book Four
The Temple of Time: Fathom’s Five Book Five
The Dame of Notre Dame: A Fathom’s Five Adventure
MY BILLIONAIRE
The Billionaire’s Boyfriend: My Billionaire Book One
The Billionaire’s Wedding: My Billionaire Book Two
The Billionaire’s Wish: My Billionaire Book Three
THE BUCK BAXTER MYSTERIES
Buck Baxter, Love Detective
Buck Baxter and the Disappearing Divas
VAMPIRES OF THE WORLD
Vampires of Rome
Vampires of Miami
Vampires of Cairo
Books by Geoffrey Knight
STANDALONE NOVELS
ROMANTIC-COMEDIES
The Chocolate Works
ROMANCE
One in a Million
The Pathfinders
The Pearl
ADVENTURE
Drive Shaft
Scott Sapphire and the Emerald Orchid
MYSTERIES
To Catch a Fox
THRILLERS
Harm’s Way
To the End of the Line
Books by Geoffrey Knight
STANDALONE SHORT STORIES AND NOVELLAS
A Cousin to Kiss
Anchor of My Heart
And the Beagle Makes Three
Be My Valentine, Bobby Bryson
Behind Our Eyes
Chained To You
Hotel Pens
The Boy from Brighton
The Declaration of Love
Untangling Tristan
VAMPIRES OF CAIRO
Vampires of the World
Geoffrey Knight
Chapter One
The sun melted into the desert like a ball of butter sizzling and disappearing into a scorching hot pan. As the sky turned from burnt orange to bright pink to deep blue, the stars—like far-away, untouchable, unkeepable diamonds—came to life, shining down on the Egyptian landscape.
“Some say the beings who built the pyramids came from up there, you know.” Nash was staring up at the stars, watching them appear one by one, mesmerized by how bright they seemed. So much brighter than the ones over Manhattan.
“Who says?” Ryan scoffed. Even a mocking smirk made his face handsome, in a scoundrel kind of way. “You mean that crazy old lady-friend of yours back in Tennessee? The one with all the stray cats?”
Nash had been standing at the entrance to the make-up tent, looking up at the stars. Now he made his way back inside, wearing nothing but a tattered shenti, the traditional loincloth of the ancient Egyptians. The theme of the shoot was Slaves and Pharaohs. Nash was a slave. Ryan, on the other hand, being the one on the brink of male model superstardom, was adorned in a crisp, white shenti, an elaborate gold neckpiece—fake, of course, courtesy of the props department—and gold-flecked serpent armbands twisting tightly around his bulging biceps. He looked more like a god than a pharaoh. He knew it too, and so did Nash, who—after one sideways glance at Ryan—had to take a seat in front of one of the many mirrors in the tent for fear of showing off what was underneath his shenti.
“Leave Mrs. Beauchamp out of this,” he warned good-naturedly, shifting his thoughts back to the conversation. “She’s not a crazy old lady. She may be eccentric, but she’s an incredible woman. Refined. Elegant. And still beautiful in her own way. She taught me a thing or two when I needed someone to watch over me.”
“Yeah, like how to earn a quick buck off those boyish good looks of yours. And why not? We’re here for a good time, not a long time, right, amigo?” Ryan was sitting in front of his own reflection, plucking at his spikey black hair in the mirror. “Although with looks like these, who wouldn’t wanna live forever, huh?”
“Everything comes at a price,” Nash cautioned.
“Is that one of the things your crazy Mrs. Beauchamp taught you?”
Nash didn’t answer.
“I guess she’d know,” Ryan probed. “So how much did she pay you, anyway?”
Nash grinned back, accepting Ryan’s playful prying. In fact, he found the truth-or-dare nature of his questioning somewhat arousing. “Enough to get me to New York. She knew that’s what I wanted to do, be a model. She encouraged me.”
“She encouraged you to sleep around.”
“I had no money. No family. How else do you think I got here?”
“Jesus, you must have cleaned out every last cobweb in Nashville!”
Nash lifted one eyebrow, registering Ryan’s crude remark. “Not quite. But I left a smile on a few faces. It made them feel young, that’s what they told me.”
“Who?”
“My clients,” Nash shrugged. “Believe it or not, Ryan, people need love. Everyone needs love.”
“Love? Tell me, Nash from Nashville,”—Nash was proud of the nickname he’d been given in the industry, probably because it was Ryan who had given it to him in the first place—”just exactly who did you give your ‘love’ to? Men or women?”
“I’ll leave that to your imagination,” Nash teased back.
This time it was Ryan who grinned and raised one eyebrow, admitting proudly, “I don’t ask my imagination to do a damn thing. That’s what experience is there for.” He crossed the make-up tent, and laid his hand gently on the brown skin of Nash’s muscular bare back. He looked into the mirror in front of Nash and grinned at his own reflection, his handsome face just above Nash’s. “So tell me, how much would you charge me?”
Nash swallowed, feeling his pulse begin to race, feeling his stomach begin to tighten nervously, excitedly. “It depends what you wanted.”
“What are you offering?”
Ryan’s comeback was too quick. Nash couldn’t think straight.
At that moment the searing night wind picked up strength outside, and the walls of the tent billowed. Nash barely noticed. All he could feel was Ryan’s hand lingering on his bare back. The touch of it sent a cool thrill through his entire body.
In the years they had known each other—ever since their first modeling job together in Aspen when they froze their asses off, each wearing nothing but a pair of skis and jockey shorts on a snow
y mountain peak in an effort to make a new line of designer underwear look So hot, you won’t even notice the temperature outside, or at least that’s what the slogan said—Ryan Thomas and Nashville Sommers had grown to become fashion’s favorite pin-up boys. They were both beautiful; Nash was blond, Ryan dark, with individual looks that complemented each other but didn’t compete. They both had amazing physiques, smooth, supple, muscular, as well as a reputation for working well together. Indeed, there was a chemistry there, perhaps too much for Nash’s liking. The truth was, Nash longed for Ryan. He considered him nothing short of perfection. Funny, confident, intelligent, gorgeous, charming—if he had one flaw, it was that Ryan knew he was all of those things. But Nash didn’t care. Vanity could be a turn-on in the right doses. A short stint in Florida. A shoot in Palm Springs. A video clip for some Latin diva down in Mexico. Every time the two of them were called in for a job together, Nash had to use all his focus, all his concentration, not to let Ryan distract him from his job.
Unfortunately for Nash, Ryan knew this. And he played up to it. He loved subtly teasing his co-model. A light touch here. A flirtatious comment there. A hand resting on his skin just a little too long for it to be anything but intentional.
Like now.
Nash felt the warmth generated by Ryan’s palm. He felt those long, splayed fingers begin to move. To dance just a little on his skin. As though they wanted to explore his body further. Nash’s heart was hammering so hard, there was no doubt Ryan could feel it thumping against the back of his ribcage.
Boom-boom!
Boom-boom!
Ryan smiled at Nash’s reflection in the mirror, and leaned in so close to his ear that his lips could have kissed Nash’s lobe. Then in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, he said, “Why don’t you ask me?”
Nash thought his chest was going to explode. “Ask you what?”
Ryan’s smile turned to a smirk. “Which bed I want. Back at the hotel. We’re sharing a room, remember?”
Nash held his breath and discreetly forced his hands into his lap, trying desperately to keep his throbbing cock from announcing itself. The shenti was not offering much coverage.
Suddenly, there came a sharp clapping from the entrance to the tent. It was the photographer, Phillipe Dupont, a French asshole with whom Nash and Ryan had worked on a shoot in the Seychelles a year ago. He was a short man with a large hooked nose, and disconcertingly high forehead. Clapping was his way of summoning the talent, as though he was trying to round up a pack of dogs. “Come, come!” he bellowed in his French accent. “You keep me waiting!”
“We’re on our way,” Ryan said, rising to his full masculine height before adding sarcastically, “sir!”
Dupont picked up on the tone, ignored it, and swirled out of the tent, the canvas flapping behind him.
Ryan chuckled, then turned to Nash. “You coming?”
“Ah, yeah, sure,” Nash mumbled. He stood slowly, and although he’d managed to quell his raging hard-on a little with thoughts of tax bills and dentist drills, the meaty presence under the shenti was still more than evident.
Naturally, Ryan’s taunting gaze went straight to it. His perfect white teeth shone as his smile widened even further. “You know there’s only one way to deal with that.”
From outside the tent, Dupont clapped and angrily shouted something in French.
Ryan shrugged. “Unfortunately, amigo, you’re out of time.” Then he winked. “Perhaps we’ll sort out that problem of yours a little later, huh?”
With that, Ryan left the tent.
Nash gulped anxiously as he felt himself begin to stiffen once more. It seemed this Cairo catwalk would be one to remember.
Chapter Two
The pitch to the agency was “modern chic meets the mystical past.” Smoke machines sent eerie, ethereal clouds rolling across the catwalk, which was a long platform raised above the dunes, constructed especially for the shoot, the Sphinx watching guard over them in the background. It seemed to Nash that the creature was forever caught in mid-metamorphosis, suspended in stone somewhere between man and cat, now drenched in warm amber spotlights like a lion basking under an artificial sun.
Billowing sheets of satin and silk puffed and danced across the runway, making the atmosphere all the more exotic and erotic, while Dupont’s camera whirred in a frenzy of flashes. He snapped continuously, taking hundreds of sequential photos of his two male models making their way down the catwalk.
Ryan made the most of it. As he devoured the catwalk with his manly, mesmerizing stride, his hands slid across his chest and ran up and down his stomach, his finger tracing invisible, tantalizing lines down to his shenti. Nash couldn’t decide whether Ryan was a consummate professional, or simply so in love with himself that he couldn’t help but exude sensuality and sexuality. And who could blame him, with a face so perfect. With a body so—
“You! Focus!”
Dupont furiously snapped the stubby fingers of his left hand while the camera continued to click away in his right. He was shouting at Nash who had missed his cue, too busy gazing at the sublime sight of his co-worker—just as he feared he would.
Beside the catwalk, a young Egyptian stagehand standing out of sight quickly reached up, grabbed Nash’s ankle and shook him awake. “He’s talking to you! Hurry!”
Nash caught a glimpse of the young man’s face—handsome, the dashing Saharan kind, with dark skin and glimmering green eyes— before he muttered his thanks and quickly jumped to attention, slipping into model mode, pacing his way up the catwalk, turning, crossing paths with Ryan who let slip a mischievous chuckle. Nash wondered what the hell he was laughing at, unaware of—
“What on earth is that!”
Dupont had stopped shooting altogether now, and was staring wide-eyed and horrified at Nash’s slave loincloth. Only it wasn’t the loincloth he was gawking at; it was the thick, erect cock that had appeared from underneath it.
Nash glanced down, sucked in a mortified gasp, and desperately tried to cover himself with his flimsy costume. Unfortunately, he was simply too much man for the loincloth. He staggered back down the catwalk, trying to hide behind one of the billowing sheets, tugging at it so hard the entire sheet tore loose from its stand, slipped out of his grip and flew into the desert night like a mythical winged creature.
And all the while, all Nash could hear was Dupont screaming, “You’re through! You’re through! You’ll never work in this business again!”
* * *
“I’ll never work in this business again.” Nash shook his head, staring stunned into a nearly empty glass of vodka, his seventh in less than an hour. It was late, and he and Ryan were sitting at the bar in the hotel lobby. Aside from the bartender who was busy wiping glasses and a pianist tinkling on a piano in the corner, there was nobody else around.
Nash drained his glass and ordered another round from the bartender. Their drinks arrived and Ryan took a sip, then slapped Nash on the back with a casual, kind-natured shrug of his shoulders. “Forget about it! Don’t listen to him. The guy’s an asshole. He’s not the only photographer in the world. Besides, you’re too good-looking not to get work.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No, I’m saying it because you’re hot, dude. You wouldn’t have a career as a model if you weren’t.”
“What career?” Nash’s words started to slur a little, now. The alcohol was starting to take effect. “After tonight I don’t think there’s much left to call a career anymore.”
“I told you, forget it! Take a look at yourself, you’re fucking gorgeous, Nash.” Ryan pointed to the mirror behind the bar and made Nash look at his own reflection. “You’re handsome, you’re young, you’ve got eyes to die for and lips you just wanna—” Ryan stopped and smiled.
Nash couldn’t tell if he was teasing him again, or if in his own drunken state Ryan was finally about to say what Nash had always wanted to hear. “Lips you just wanna what?” he probed carefull
y, honestly.
Ryan made direct eye contact. “Lips you just wanna fuck.”
For a moment, Nash thought his heart was going to stop beating altogether from the hit of adrenalin it just received. His head spun quickly, fueled by alcohol and anxious, hungry delight. The thought of his lips being fucked by Ryan Thomas—the thought of his cock in his mouth, his nipples in his fingertips, his hot cum in his throat—gave Nash an instant hard-on, and a rush of lust so powerful, it nearly dropped him off his bar stool. He wanted to say a thousand things at once—
Let’s go to our room.
I’ve always wanted you.
Tear my clothes off now.
My lips just wanna fuck you, too.
But before his trembling mouth could form a single word, Ryan polished off his drink and said, “Come on, let’s blow this gig. I need to go—”
To bed, Nash prayed he would say. I need to go to bed and fuck you right now!
But instead the words that came out of Ryan’s mouth, past those moist, drunk lips, were, “I need to go to a place with a faster beat than this.” He was talking about the piano twinkling in the corner. He wanted something heavier. Something harder. Someplace a little more—
* * *
“Pumping!” Ryan shouted in Nash’s ear over the thump-thump-thump of the nightclub’s pounding heart—or was it Nash’s pounding heart? Ryan had one hand on Nash’s shoulder to pull him close, his face brushing beside Nash’s close enough that Nash could tell how long it had been since Ryan last shaved. “This place is great!”
“Yeah,” Nash lied, wishing they were back at the hotel bar continuing their last conversation, or better yet, in bed fucking. He watched the heavy thump of the DJ’s chic East-meets-West techno music pulsate through Ryan; he found himself mesmerized by the slight nod of Ryan’s masculine chin, the cool shimmy of his shoulder, the subtle sway of his hips in time with the beat.
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