by Lanyon, Josh
“Lift up,” Jack ordered. I raised my hips and he tugged on my jeans and briefs, helping me maneuver out of them. He kicked his own off in a couple of quick, limber twists, and I reached for him, the mattress sloshing beneath us. We kissed long and deep. I could feel the tension quivering through his lean body, echoing my own aching need. I dragged my mouth away, gasping for air.
“Jack, you’re sure about this?” I didn’t want to know if he wasn’t, so I was a little startled to hear my voice.
“Hell, yes,” he rasped. His eyes looked unfocused as they found mine. “Why? Changed your mind?”
I shook my head and he captured my mouth again, hot and hungry.
One thing about Jack, though, he wasn’t selfish. His hands were everywhere, lingering, exploring, fingertips teasing, tracing my mouth, ears, eyes; palms stroking my ribs and sides; hands cupping and caressing balls and buttocks, all this attention leaving me breathless and distracted. I tried to respond in kind, licking his nipples, nibbling his ears, sucking his lower lip.
“Mm. Nice. You taste sweet,” he whispered.
No way was this going to last long. I hadn’t been with anyone since Jack, and that had been over six months ago. His legs wrapped around me, I rocked against him, belly to belly. Caught between the press of our bodies, our stiff cocks poked and scraped against each other—part pain and part pleasure. It quickly switched from a gentle seeking for rhythm to something electric and a little desperate, bodies arching and grinding and thrusting toward release.
Jack came first. He gave a little shout and then semen shot between us, sticky and wet. He laughed, and I remembered that about the first time. He laughed when he came—a genuinely joyful sound.
Noticing that I was still writhing beneath him, he wrapped his hand around my straining dick, pumping me once, twice.
I sucked in a ragged breath and then I was coming too, Jack’s hand slipping on wet heat. Sweet pulsing relief rippled through me, sharp peaks of pleasure like sound waves singing through my nerves and muscles.
It was good, but it didn’t last nearly long enough.
Relaxed to the point of inertia, I rolled over beside Jack, listening to his breathing settling back to normal.
“That was great,” he said drowsily. He kissed my ear—I think he was aiming for my temple.
“Mmm,” I murmured. And it had been great, but I still felt a little let down. Probably nothing more than physical exhaustion; it had been a long damn day, and it was liable to be a long damn night—which was the last thing I needed, and more than likely to tempt fate.
But Jack turned his head on the black pillow and studied me with peaceful gray eyes. “Okay?”
“Yep. Great.”
“Okay if I sleep?”
So it had just been a mutual jerk off. I nodded wearily, sat up.
His hand smoothed over my back. “Hey.” He drew me back down. “Where’re you going? There’s room in this birdbath for two.”
I hesitated, remembering the last time—wondering if he’d forgotten.
“Turn the light out, Tim,” he said.
I turned the light out and gave in to the tug of his hand, settling down beside him once more.
“Night,” Jack said, his breath light and warm against my face. Judging by the sound of his breathing a few moments later he must have plunged instantly into sleep.
“Night,” I murmured, and dived in after him.
* * * * *
I opened my eyes to a long row of pristine and beautifully pressed shirts hanging in an open closet. It was clearly not my closet. There was a shoe rack on the floor beneath a second row of trousers and pants, and one of those belt caddy things. Jack actually hung up his Levi’s.
Lifting my head, I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Early still. Five thirty. Jack’s alarm wasn’t going to ring for another hour and forty-five minutes. I laid there in the rosy morning light and studied his sleeping face: the curve of black lashes against his purpling cheekbone, the relaxed line of his mouth, the stubborn jut of his bristly jaw.
I thought about kissing those softly parted lips, but things were liable to be different in the daylight.
Jack’s lashes quivered, lifted. His eyes—almost blue in the tentative sunlight—scrutinized me for a moment, then he smiled, a sleepy, sort of sweet smile. I felt my belly tighten with desire.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning.” He reached up and brushed the tiny gold stud in my ear with a fingertip. “Sleep okay?”
“I did.” I was a little surprised at that; I’d enjoyed the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time.
“Sore?”
I grimaced, glancing down at the bruises mottling my arms and shoulders. “He landed a few good punches, yeah. I’ll feel better after a swim.”
“I’ll swim with you.” He grinned, the dimple showing briefly. “But not just yet.”
Round two was lazy and loose, both of us taking time and trouble, trying this, that, and the other—we both seemed to like the other a lot. Jack had an instinct for what felt terrific, an astonishing delicacy and playfulness given his strength and vocation.
Before long I was in a state of screaming—and only Jack’s mouth on mine kept that from being literal truth—tension. He fingered my balls, weighing, teasing, fondling—then just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of it—he moved to my cock, tracing one finger along the cleft, running the circle of finger and thumb up and down my swollen length. I needed to feel his hand around me. Needed to feel that firm grip working me, needed to feel the blaze of friction grazing up, gliding down. I fumbled my hand on top of his, trying to guide him, moaning in abject relief when his fingers wrapped around me.
“Yes. Yes. Yes…”
The pull and pump sped up, and I thrust fiercely against Jack’s fist. I’m not sure why it was so much better than jerking myself off, but it was. Something about handing over that control, letting someone else drive. And Jack had a real sense for what felt great, that mix of imagination and empathy—or maybe it was just a hell of a lot of experience.
I wanted it to last forever, but a few more knowing tugs and I was coming in creamy surges, reduced in moments to boneless satisfaction.
“Oh…wow,” I breathed as Jack finally rolled over onto his back. He turned his head and grinned at me.
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Is that Richter scale? Cities toppled.” I eyed him, lying there, legs splayed, thick cock still stiff and erect.
I listened to the soothing rustle of water beneath us, and all I wanted was to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but I made an effort and pushed up, positioning myself between Jack’s long brown legs.
“What are you up to?” He smiled a languorous smile.
I touched the sticky pearl at the head of his cock. “Speaking for yourself, yeah?” And I took him into my mouth. Salty taste, familiar scent…oh, Jack…
He groaned, “Oh, yeah!” And his back bowed.
His shaft was very straight, thick, strong—beautiful as it jutted out of the dark nest of curls. It deserved my full attention, and I gave it to him, sucking hard, then soft, taking him deep inside and then barely grazing the slick head with my tongue.
Jack encouraged me with throaty noises and soft shivers.
His eyes were shining and warm, his hands gentle as they locked on my shoulders, drawing me closer, urging me on. I kissed his cock, his balls—nuzzled lower and he bucked. I smiled, rose, and fastened my lips around his shaft again, probing beneath the crown with my tongue.
“Oh. My. God,” he groaned.
I began to suck him hard, pursuing, insisting, and I felt surrender well up and flow through him—the white flag spilling into my mouth.
At last he showed signs of returning life, shifting, urging me up beside him, folding me into his arms. We drifted there for a time, snoozing lightly while the waterbed lulled us.
We woke the next time when the air conditioner kicked on. It was going
to be another scorcher of a day. I pulled away from Jack, my skin sticky and damp where I had rested against him.
“A swim sounds good,” he mumbled.
I nodded, sitting up and looking around for my jeans. “I’ll meet you downstairs?”
“Or we could just shower and have breakfast.”
I glanced over my shoulder. He looked supremely relaxed—and content.
“I need to work the kinks out,” I said.
He smiled—a very sexy smile. “I like your kinks.”
Well, one thing was for sure: he wasn’t one of these guys who couldn’t wait to kick you out after getting his rocks off—not normally, anyway. Our first time he hadn’t showed much interest in lingering.
I said, dragging my Levi’s on and standing up, “So…what other problems do you think I have?”
“What?”
“Last night you said my not talking about my epilepsy indicated other problems.”
His brows drew together. “Come on, Tim. I didn’t know you.”
“You don’t know me now, but you’re willing to sleep with me again. What changed?”
All the easy contentment was gone from his face, his gaze was unwavering, and his mouth unsmiling. His game face. At least I wasn’t going to hear a bunch of platitudes to coax me back into bed.
“All I knew about you was that you used to be a reporter and that you were on disability.” His eyes met mine directly. “You didn’t seem disabled, and in my line of work I’ve known a lot of people who try and take advantage of the system. You said you were estranged from your family and you didn’t seem to have any friends or outside social life.” He shrugged.
I listened to this with mounting anger. He was so exactly what my wounded self-confidence didn’t need. I said, “My parents—my mother—didn’t take the news that I was gay very well. In fact, she pretty much gave me an ultimatum. I could have my family or my ‘lifestyle.’ And my dad, though he didn’t agree, just went along with her. Then when I got hit, suddenly she—they—decided all was forgiven, and I should move home—after essentially not speaking to me for five years, they want me to move home.”
“Sometimes it takes a close call like that to wake people up.”
What I really didn’t need to hear was Jack taking the part of my parents. I said, “So you’re right. I don’t get along with my parents and I cut myself off from most of my friends after the accident. So, if that makes me a loser—”
Jack didn’t look away. “You asked me, I’m telling you. I didn’t think you were a loser, but I thought you had some problems and my professional life is stressful enough without looking for complications in my personal life. But you were smart and funny and cute as hell, and I wanted to go out with you anyway.”
I was so nonplussed by the cute as hell comment that I couldn’t think of how to respond.
“But it was obvious to me right away that you were hiding something.” I opened my mouth to object and he qualified, “That you weren’t really open, weren’t really candid.” He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of experience with people not being candid.”
“I’ll bet. You’re a judgmental prick.”
Jack acted like he didn’t hear that. “And then I found out what it was—and it wouldn’t have been that big a deal except that you seemed to think it was.”
I turned my face and stared at the sunlight filtering through the slats of the blinds. The shadows looked like a ladder climbing up the wall. A long way to the top of that ladder.
He added flatly, “And it still worries me that you take the risks you do. Stupid risks. Like swimming alone and walking down a deserted back alley. Not wearing a Medic Alert bracelet or necklace or something.”
I faced him, but couldn’t read the expression I caught on his face. That mix of tenderness and disapproval—what did that mean? That he didn’t want to feel whatever it was he felt? I turned away again.
“But besides being smart and funny and cute as hell, you’ve got guts and discipline and the meanest right this side of North Central Avenue.”
My mouth twitched, but I didn’t really feel like smiling. I understood where Jack was coming from, and I appreciated his honesty in a way, but I also felt hurt and a little disillusioned. I was glad I’d asked him, glad that he’d been candid—before things went any further between us. Hearing the truth had…tempered my enthusiasm, so to speak.
“Last night was good, wasn’t it?” he said softly.
I nodded.
“So we’re friends again?”
“Sure.” I found my T-shirt, pulled it on.
“After all, even if I am a judgmental prick, I do make damn good chicken wings.”
I did laugh then.
Chapter Eight
We swam together that morning, and then Jack went to get dressed for work and I went inside to have breakfast and read over Bud Perkins’s private file.
Stephen Ball’s party at the Garden of Allah had started around eleven o’clock, following the premiere of Ball’s film The Professional. Over thirty Hollywood luminaries had been in attendance. Eva Aldrich had arrived late and alone. Having just publicly broken off her engagement to mobster Tony Fumagalli, she was the object of a lot of speculation, and her movements throughout the fateful evening had been easily tracked and verified. There were a number of stunning photos of her; she had been at the peak of her beauty, and if her heart was breaking, it didn’t show in Kodak color.
Eva had danced three dances and retired to the powder room for a long chat with Gloria Rayner. She had danced a fourth time—this one with Stephen Ball—drunk a champagne cocktail with the director of Danger in the Dunes, and then slipped outside at approximately two o’clock. Stephen Ball had discovered her lifeless body in his villa at three fifteen, and the authorities had been summoned.
The only reason Ball hadn’t been instantly arrested was that he had been observed walking from the hotel itself to his villa—followed almost immediately by his horror-stricken exit—by guests in the hotel swimming pool. Ball had not been inside the cottage long enough to commit murder—nor was there enough blood on his tux to account for having stabbed someone to death.
But Bud Perkins had theorized that Ball could have slipped away from the party earlier, met and killed Eva in his villa, then showered, changed into another tuxedo and returned to the party. True, there was the problem that these theoretical bloodstained clothes had never been found, and that no one had seen Ball make an earlier trip to the villa, but then no one had seen Eva heading for Ball’s villa either. And, more interestingly, no one could verify seeing Ball at the party after Eva had left.
It was clear to me, deciphering Perkins’s faded scrawl, that he had believed Ball was guilty, but he had also noted that Gloria Rayner had been MIA shortly after she and Eva had exited the powder room. Also there seemed to be a difference of opinion as to the nature of Eva’s and Gloria’s discussion. One witness reported they had been arguing, two others stated their conversation had seemed “serious but friendly.” Gloria herself claimed that she had been comforting Eva over her recent breakup with Tony Fumagalli.
Somehow I had to wrangle an interview with Stephen Ball. Not that I expected him to confess to me or anything, but I felt that speaking with him would maybe give me the direction I needed to take in the book.
If I couldn’t get an interview with Ball, I’d have to rely on whatever I could glean from my conversations with Gloria and Roman Mayfield—assuming Mayfield would hold true to his promise of another interview. I had the impression that Gloria had once had a thing for Ball, but since he wasn’t numbered amongst her many husbands, it must not have been reciprocal.
Either way, armed with Bud Perkins’s notes, I felt I had the necessary ammunition to move the next interviews into deeper water.
* * * * *
After breakfast I caught a bus for Isabel Street and spent a few depressing hours scanning mug shots in the hope of spotting Mr. Clean.
One thing for sure: there was no p
articular criminal physical type. Crooks came in all sizes and colors—everyone looked the worse for wear in this particular class photo. Even movie stars and solid citizens looked like the dregs of society in their booking photographs. I’d been flipping through pages of drawn and mascara-smeared faces when a uniformed officer brought me what appeared to be a printout of a composite sketch.
“What’s this?”
“Detective Brady also gave us a description of the assailant.”
I studied the printout. Nodded slowly. “It’s not quite like I remember him but…it’s not really wrong either.”
The officer nodded. “Close enough in the details to enter into a facial recognition program and run it through the database of criminals we have on file?”
“You can do that?”
“We have the technology,” she agreed. “Even if we’re not CSI.”
“Yeah, it’s close enough.”
She left me with the mug books and a Styrofoam cup of terrible coffee. Forty minutes later she was back with several printouts of digital photos. “It’s an all-star lineup,” she announced. “Any familiar faces?”
I studied the rogue’s gallery of photos, all of them blunt-featured and bald Caucasians. They were a scary-looking crew. They all looked familiar—and they all looked foreign.
My gaze lingered over an arrogant, almost handsome face. Something about the shape of the head and the alignment of features…
“Who’s this?” I asked.
The officer examined the photo. “Clyde Wells.” She looked impressed. “Is this the dude?”
I shook my head. “Maybe. I can’t be sure. Maybe.” I tried to read her face. “Who is he?”
“He works for Frankie Fumagalli.”
“Tony the Cock’s son?”
