Desperate Enemies 3

by Adam Carpenter

  He sat down upon the edge of the wooden porch, his eyes squinting against the harsh rays of the sun, closing his eyes to let the warmth of the sun touch his natural dark skin tones. He was dressed in his usual shorts and T-shirt, and the sun felt like a kiss upon his toned arms and legs. He stretched out, almost like he was sun-bathing. Now this was life in all its glorious simplicity, it's what living in Wonderland was supposed to be all about. This town was not a place in which you came to die.

  A sudden sound jolted him awake, almost like it was pulling him back from an abyss, and his eyes worked back and forth until he found the source of such a noisy intrusion. It was the turn of a car's engine down at Number Five. Paolo watched as Rich North, back home after his recovery from a gunshot at the gallery incident, pulled out of his driveway and zoomed down the street, not even noticing Paolo. Perhaps that was how it was supposed to be. Paolo, closed off for over a week, had been rendered invisible.

  Which just gave his powers of observation more. . . power.

  He'd seen the blowsy, glamorous red-headed lady at both Number Two with Parker, and visiting at Number Four, Edgar and Jack's, and he was no closer to understanding who she was or what her connection to Eldon Court was. But what most disturbed him was his friend, Marc, who had taken to jogging every morning, before and since Rich's return. His actions weren't fooling Paolo because he'd seen where Marc had jogged to, even if he was trying to be surreptitious about his destination—he's always ended up at Number Two, with Parker quickly letting him in, practically pulling him inside with hunger. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was going on. Now, with Rich having driven off Eldon Court this morning, Paolo had to wonder if Marc was going to head out on one of his jogs.

  Or maybe he'd already left.

  Paolo suddenly stood up on the porch and ventured forward, down his walkway. Feeling like every eye was cast upon his renewed presence, he began to walk toward the edge of the cul-de-sac, wanting it to appear he was just aimlessly going for a walk, a chance to clear his head of the cobwebs that had formed after days of being cooped up. What he did was circle back behind the yard of Number One, all quiet with Dane and Sawyer away. He crept along the connecting lawn to Number Two, discovering as he got closer several dug up holes in the ground, most notably around the side of the wraparound porch. He'd seen Parker at work, shirtless and showing off his muscular, furry frame, as he shoved the shovel into the ground, seeking, searching. . . but for what? The mysteries at Number Two continued to plague Eldon Court and now Paolo had to sidestep those holes so as not to get his foot caught and pitch forward.

  “What the hell are looking for?” Paolo asked, liking the sound of his voice. “Parker St. John, what are you up to?”

  He crouched down near the side porch, fingering the freshly turned dirt, peering into the latticed framework below the porch. He sniffed at the soil, smelled the pungent odor, his mind flooding with thoughts of what secrets the ground might hold, waiting to be uncovered. Number Two was of course the source of much speculation—none of them knew what had happened here all those years ago, just that violence had lived here, briefly, shockingly, and been covered-up. And then it had gone quiet, until the return of Parker and his claim to the land, to the Saunders name and. . .

  A sudden, urgent series of grunts caught Paolo's attention and he looked up, eyebrows raised while trying to discern their source. What those sounds were, that much he could figure out. Someone was getting their brains screwed out, and very nearby. Indeed, the silence of the morning had been breached, with the fresh new sounds of love and lust, of the urgent cries of coupling, dominating the serenity of the street. Peering cautiously over the lip of the window, he caught the familiar sight of Parker, naked, hard, his body thrusting, and the man beneath him was none other than Marc Anderson, both of them oblivious to all but themselves and their needs. Paolo felt transfixed, like watching a porn movie being filmed. His own cock thickened inside his shorts; this was not like those dirty magazines up in his bathroom, sexy but staid images that had helped him climax back during a rough stretch with Aaron, when the sex between them was as non-existent as. . . Aaron was now. A willowy memory.

  Paolo imagined he wouldn't soon forget what he saw before him, far from willowy; more violent, like a thunderstorm passing through.

  Marc's muscular legs were positioned high in the air, Parker holding them at the ankles. His rock hard cock was pushing into Marc with fierce, potent thrusts, and Marc was crying out in pain, even while he was urging Parker on, “deeper, further, give me every inch,” and Parker just smiled and thrust more, telling Marc, “love that you can take this big cock of mine,” and Paolo had to agree on that front, he'd had that cock himself, not in the ass but in his mouth, and it sure as hell was a lot of man to suck on. Marc, lithe, tight, took each thick inch of Parker's cock with surprising agility; Paolo guessed all that jogging kept him athletic. . . and flexible.

  Paolo knew he should move away, stop staring. . .

  But the violent act of sex fascinated him, especially between these two.

  He'd never have imagined Marc giving in to Parker's obvious but appealing seductions, but he supposed the night of the gallery opening had rewritten the rules. Rich had been late to the event, Marc had been pissed and drinking too much wine, and then when Rich and Parker arrived together just in time to stop Aaron from shooting Danvers Converse, something bad must have clicked inside Marc. And now here he was, at the receiving end of Parker's eager fucking.

  “Yeah, give it to me, fuck me you hairy beast. . . oh, I love it, I love it. . .”

  The words caught Paolo's attention and he refocused on the two men. Parker's chest was heaving with heat and energy, his hairy pelt dripping with beads of sweat. Marc reached up to run his hands through the coils of thick hair, grabbing, pulling, begging to be fucked harder, harder. Just then Parker pulled out and for a second Paolo got a look at that throbbing piece of cock wrapped in a condom, so thick, so long, and for a moment he wanted to be Marc, or at least switch positions with him. How he needed a release, from his own prison and his own demons and from the loss of Aaron and all that had gone wrong in his life since Danvers Converse had made his initial overture for the Victorian houses that lined Eldon Court.

  The idea of switched positions was rampant, as Parker tossed Marc hard against the sofa, before shoving that massive cock again deep inside him. Marc cried out with a hard pant, but he never lost momentum. Parker fucked him from behind, hands locked on Marc's shoulders, Marc grabbing at his own cock, rubbing it, eyes closed as he urged himself toward climax. Paolo had never seen Marc's cock before, and it was not bad for such a little guy, surrounded by a nest of curly pubes, nearly the only presence of hair on Marc's body. Parker was quiet the opposite, big body, big cock, his muscular body covered with a thick coating of hair. Paolo continued to watch, thankful that neither of them had discovered him. He rubbed at his cock through his shorts, wishing he could release it into the open, stroke it like Marc stroked his, imagining that hairy fucker deep inside him, yes, yes, yes, give it to me, that's what Paolo would be saying, but of course it was Marc's pleas he heard bouncing against the walls of the living room of Number Two Eldon Court.

  “Shit, Parker. . . oooh, I'm close. . . so close. . .”

  Parker pulled out and grabbed at Marc, turning him around, and just then Marc's cock erupted with ropes of come, all of it shooting onto Parker's chest. Generous drops of white come doused the coarse blanket of hair. That's when Parker let out a roar and Paolo knew that sound well, it was Parker reaching his own orgasm; he whipped off the condom. Marc dropped to his knees and hungrily took that big cock into his mouth, just as Parker erupted. Paolo blanched at the surprise move, never thinking of Marc as a swallower, but there he was, drinking in every drop of Parker's blow, his face buried in the thick pubes, fingers grabbed at Parker's hairy butt cheeks. The entire scene had Paolo's cock bursting inside him, and he let out a sharp cry of his own, thick spurts of come settling int
o his pants. It had been awhile since he'd come, making up for it now after having witnessed this hot fuck session.

  At last Marc pulled out, wiping at his lips. Paolo was doing the same.

  Then Parker pulled Marc up, planted a kiss on his lips.

  “I can't believe any of this,” Parker said, “All week long, every day, you've been mine.”

  “I can't get enough,” Marc said.

  “It can't last,” Parker said. “Even though I want it to.”

  “I want it to, also,” Marc said.

  The surprise exchange of words were perhaps more shocking to Paolo than the sexual hijinks he'd just witnessed. This wasn't just about sex, this wasn't about getting back at Rich or of indulging their desires, here was some real stuff. Shit, Parker and Marc had feelings for each other.

  “I should go,” Marc said.

  “You said Rich had a doctor's appointment. . . a check-up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Doctor's are never on time for appointments. Means we've got time. . .”

  A smiling, eager Marc feel back against the cushions of the sofa, lifting his legs again as Parker made his way toward him. That thick, hard body smothered Marc as they began to kiss, deeply, passionately, Marc's wandering fingers slid across Parker's strong but hairy back and shoulders. Damn, Paolo knew Marc liked his men hairy; they'd talked about it andhe knew he had such a man with Rich. With Parker he had something more, a man that when naked was like a beast unleashed.

  “Fuck me again, my big, hairy lover,” Marc pleaded, his voice scratchy from his cries, his pants, his urgent thirsts, obviously still unquenched.

  As Parker slid another condom down his thick hard shaft, Paolo turned away. He'd seen this show already, heard the dialogue, knew how it ended, and so he left Number Two, still undetected. So many feelings swept over him he didn't know what to think or what to believe in anymore. Already Eldon Court was under siege from outside sources, but now the insidious threat from inside had taken things further, deeper.. He'd known not to trust Parker St. John, even as attracted to him as he was and even as he'd given in to those attractions down on the beach. Now Parker had done the unthinkable, he'd penetrated the moral center of the street. Marc Anderson—literally.

  Paolo was forced to think there was no hope for any of them on Eldon Court.

  The Wonderland Palaces Resort was going to become a reality, there was no way now to stop its development. The gallery incident had been a blip in Danvers’ plans, and with its creation the inevitable circle of life and death would be complete. Paolo's treasured, once-perfect world would be fully destroyed, his home and his love gone, as well as his long-held belief that the good guys always won.

  * * * *

  “What about sex?”

  “Thanks, but I'm married.”

  “Haha, Doc,” said Rich North, not laughing at all as he sat up on the edge of the sterile examining table. He was dressed, or perhaps undressed was more accurate, in one of those horrible gowns, now pulled down around his waist, exposing his torso to the open air. His state of dress made sense, as Dr. Henry Montgomery had needed to change the dressing on Rich's upper chest, where he'd been injured. Now, with new bandages and having been issued a clean bill of health, the doctor was tossing away used gauze when Rich posed his suggestive question. “Seriously. . . I mean, I got shot, doc, my lung collapsed.”

  “And you've recovered, nicely and quickly, a credit to your otherwise overall health,” Dr. Montgomery said, scratching notes into his chart. He was fifty-something, handsome, in great shape, but with that ring on his finger and his very apparent hetero vibe, Rich had not made any move on his healer, content during his hospital stay with the ministrations of the cute male nurse. Still, it was one thing to lie back in bed and have your cock sucked till it exploded, it was another to engage in active sexual intercourse, especially an aggressive top who liked to hold off orgasm as long as possible. “Look, Rich, a wound like the one you suffered would give any man pause about even walking up a flight of stairs, let alone. . . engaging in sexual activity, so if you're concerned about your stamina or your breathing, then maybe you're not ready.”

  “Not like I've had an opportunity,” Rich said, more to himself than to his doctor.

  “Your partner may be afraid, too. . . you know, of injuring you,” the doctor said matter of factly, “so just give it some time, don't push things. You've only been home a week. You're not going anywhere, and I presume neither is he, so it's all good, isn't it? You both had a big scare. But tomorrow is another day, and after that another. . . you get the picture.” He paused, the intent behind his words clear. “It's more than your friend Aaron can say. Learn from him.”

  Excusing himself in favor of another patient, the doctor left Rich to get dressed. Rich found that he was staring at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the door. A clean bill of health? He sighed, wondering why then he felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Was it the reference to Aaron, or was it the lingering doubts that had plagued him since that time in the hospital when Marc had angrily walked out on him. Sure, he hadn't fully left him, he was still home on Eldon Court, not that Marc had been all that welcoming since his return. Cool was a kind word, distant was more accurate, meals silent except for the scraping of silverware over china. Maybe the doctor was right, they had all been through a tough time and then needed to recover. Sometimes the physical wounds were the first to heal.

  Hefting himself off the doctor's table, Rich slipped off that flimsy gown. In short order he'd donned his boxers and blue jeans, tossing on his button-down shirt but leaving it unbuttoned for a moment. Moving closer toward the mirror, he examined the bandages on his upper chest, considered what his wound would look like when fully healed. How much of a scar would it leave? His chest was naturally hairy, now still mostly bare, shaved as a result of the surgery. Dark sprigs of hair had begun to grow back between his pecs and at his collar bone, where the hair was densest; would his scar prevent him fully growing back his dark mat? Would Marc come to him at night still? Would his fingers still easily and giddily glide over his chest, or would he find the scar repellent? Rich North had always felt immortal, that nothing could topple him, and yes he'd fought off a gunshot wound and lived to tell about it, so wouldn't that reinforce his notion? For the first time since he'd been told he would be fine, he felt anything but.

  Quickly he buttoned up, then made his way out of the doctor's office and into the bright sunshine of the day. Checking his watch, he saw that it was just after one o'clock and almost on cue his stomach growled. The Wonderland Medical Center was located at the far end of Down Wonder, the so-called downtown area of his hometown. He left his car in the parking lot and started down the sidewalk, making his way to the Mad Hatter, the local pub, which had a placard placed on its front patio advertising brunch. Endless mimosas or Bloody Marys.

  “Perfect. Just what I need,” he said earnestly, and soon found himself sitting outside with the first of his juicy, bubbly beverages at his side. The waitress had taken his order for eggs, French toast and link sausages, and then he sighed with contentment. Tossing on sunglasses, they helped cut the glare of the hard mid-day sun, gave him a better view of the laid-back activity on Main Street. Yes, this was perfect. . . well almost, all he was missing was Marc at his side, that would have been perfect.

  Taking out his cell phone, he dialed Marc on impulse, got voicemail.

  “Hey, it's me, just out of the doctor's visit. . . he was good enough to see me on a Sunday, since he plays golf on Mondays, and, well, all is good. I'm enjoying brunch at the Mad Hatter, if you want. . . well, I'm sure you're busy, nevermind, forget I called,” he said, ending the call suddenly. Why was it so difficult for him to ask his lover to join him for a meal? Where was his confidence? He'd always been able to talk to Marc about anything. . . almost anything. The issue of Parker St. John still divided them, what Rich had done the night of the gallery opening. He downed the remnants of his mimosa and the waitress
immediately replaced it with a fresh one. Keep that up, she'd get a good tip.

  That's when he noticed that he wasn't going to be alone on the outdoor patio, two new people were making their way from the sidewalk to the restaurant and damned if he didn't have to resist the urge to get up and confront them. Danvers Converse, and at his side. . . Lauren Healy. The uncertainty he had felt while leaving the message for Marc washed over him again. Their arrival had ruined his otherwise genial mood, and he felt his eyes darkening at the sight of the pathetic little man. Didn't Lauren have too much class to be with this creep?

  “Rich. . . my goodness, hi,” Lauren said, coming over to his table. “So good to see you up and about. . . you know, after. . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Kind of hard not to,” Rich said.

  Lauren, as though sensing his hostility, looked first at Danvers, then back at Rich. “Uh, it's not what you think. . ..”

  “I don't know what to think anymore, Lauren.”

  “It's just business,” she said, as though those empty words explained it all.

  “Not with me, it's not,” he said through clenched teeth, sunglasses removed, his dark eyes focused on Danvers’ ugly, pug face. “Are you proud of yourself, Danvers? All the fucking damage you've caused? Your relentless pursuit of our homes and your need to fulfill some sick notion of revenge, look what it has wrought. One of our neighbors. . . our friends, is dead.”