For Love of the Dead

by Hal Bodner

  Pain!

  Different this time, frustrated and raw, it gripped his groin, slamming down the orgasm that he had thought was unstoppable, unavoidable. It left him empty, unfulfilled, the ache in his balls and dick as excruciating in its own way as the initial penetration had been. He whirled around, confused, his asshole involuntarily puckering and unpuckering, striving to feel a friction which had inexplicably ceased to exist. Tears of frustration washed down his face under the shower’s spray and whirled down the drain at his feet. It took him a second to realize what had happened.

  Mark had finished, and with no respect for Jake’s needs, the selfish prick had simply pulled out.

  “I’m done.” His disdain was clear. “Just jerk off if you need to.”

  At that, Mark slid open the shower door and left the stall. Slinging a towel over his shoulder, he strode out of the bathroom. Jake’s last tormented view as he slid down the side of the shower to sit in the wash of the draining water was of his creamy, smooth ass twitching invitingly as he slammed the door behind himself.

  CHAPTER 4

  Exhausted, aching, filled with misery and barely stifled rage, Jake sat uncomfortably on a barstool, nursing his third scotch. He wanted to get as drunk as he possibly could, to wipe the stain of his experience from his mind forever though he knew it was an impossible task. The way he’d been violated— used—would undoubtedly haunt him for the rest of his life.

  He’d emerged from the shower after ineffectively coaxing a few driblets of sperm from his aching dick and balls to find Mark had already donned a pair of Jake’s jeans. Lounging on the couch with a cold beer in front of him, his only reaction to the scene in the shower was a knowing and cruel smirk, followed by a mockingly blown kiss. Jake sprang forward, ready to beat the son of a bitch into a bloody pulp for what he’d done but found, strangely, though the anger remained, his spirit was too drained for him to muster the effort.

  “Go out,” Mark commanded as if dismissing a servant whose attentions were no longer wanted or desired. “Have a drink. Take a load off. Pick someone up. I don’t really care. Just...” He frowned. “Leave me alone for a few hours. I need to think. Oh! By the way...” He raised his index finger to cover his evil, sneering lips. “You just keep things between us. For now.” Unconcerned, he turned to face the television set and seemed to retreat within himself, gazing at the darkened screen without really seeing it.

  Jake dressed without bothering to dry off, furious at his impotence to do anything to the devil in angelic form who taunted him, and stormed out. He briefly debated stopping into the main house to warn Lucy about Mark but he found he was too embarrassed by his encounter in the shower.

  Besides, Lucy knew him too well. She’d sense his dismay and with a few perceptive questions, she’d worm the details out of him. The last thing he needed right now was for Lucy to work past his anger to the helplessness he felt beneath. He’d be too ashamed of himself if he were to melt down into a blubbering mess in front of the older woman he respected so much.

  He signaled the bartender for another drink—a beer this time. Though he sought the oblivion of alcohol, he didn’t want to wrap his car around a tree on the way home. He barely noticed the tall and extremely good-looking black guy who slid onto the stool next to him and ordered a Cuba Libra.

  Lost in his own thoughts, many of them consumed with fantasies of revenge against Mark Hartner and the things he’d like to do to his beautiful body in order to wipe the perpetual smirk from his face, Jake was startled when the tall man spoke to him.

  “You got problems, man.”

  It was a statement, not a question, offered with a slight accent, and pronunciation of the word “man” as if it were “mon.” Jake immediately picked up that the guy was from one of the islands in the Caribbean.

  “Don’t we all,” he muttered, not meaning to be ungracious but unable to keep his emotions from coloring his tone.

  “Mark Hartner.”

  Even the lilting musicality of speech couldn’t hide the venom. Jake started with surprise and paid more attention to the man. He quailed at the look in his eyes, a deep smoldering hatred which did not merely mirror Jake’s own view of Mark, but which seemed to reflect it, intensified a hundredfold.

  “I know many things,” the man said, not unkindly, sensing the question before it could be uttered. His face split with a warm smile as he held out his hand. All traces of anything angry or dangerous vanished to be replaced with almost irresistible charm.

  “Tyler Deauxfines,” he introduced himself.

  Jake couldn’t suppress a grin. Tyler’s sudden friendliness was infectious. He took the proffered hand in a firm grip and shook it.

  “Jake...”

  “Marshall, I know that too.”

  Jake frowned. Puzzled, not angry. “Have we met?”

  “Yes. But not so that you would remember.”

  Deauxfines took a sip from his drink, smacking his thick lips with gusto. Jake found himself wondering how Tyler’s mouth would taste if Jake were to lean forward and lick the rum from, but no. He had enough on his plate already to worry about. Still, he had to repress a sudden urge of desire. A waft of warm spice seemed to tickle his nostrils: coriander and cumin spiked with cinnamon bark drying in the sun and tinged with the salty tang of the sea washing up the beach, overlaid with the sweet, oily scent of coconut oil and—

  Jake caught himself abruptly. He doubted his dick could stand any more anyway.

  Again, Deauxfines seemed to possess knowledge he shouldn’t. His grasp of Jake’s hand turned into something akin to a caress and when their eyes met, it was clear that Tyler’s interest in him, though suffused with some as yet undisclosed purpose, also held a note of the erotic.

  “We may speak of that later.” He took back his hand, releasing his grip reluctantly with a last gentle squeeze and a sweep of his eyes across Jake’s body. “It is Hartner who concerns us first.”

  “A friend of yours?” Jake hazarded, pretty sure of what the answer would be.

  He was not disappointed. Tyler’s face twisted in a grimace of revulsion. “Bah! I despise him!”

  “I figured that.” He swiveled on his stool so they were face to face. “Normally I’d say I’m sorry for your loss but, from your reaction, I’m guessing you threw a party. And, besides...” His voice trailed off, uncertain how he might, or whether he even should, broach the subject of Mark’s miraculous resurrection.

  “He is not lost after all.” Deauxfines’s blunt statement took away all doubts. Somehow he already knew what had happened. He confirmed Jake’s suspicions. “I have made sure of that. Though I must give my apologies. I knew he was a wicked man, a very dangerous man. I did not stop to think about what he might do upon waking with the first sight in his eyes such a handsome fellow as you.”

  Jake’s jaw dropped. How could Deauxfines possibly know the details?

  “A fellow like you who has...” Tyler Deauxfines narrowed his eyes, critically examining Jake’s face the entire time. Though he felt nothing physically, he got the distinct impression the likeable young man was probing him, measuring him, seeking to discover something inside which Jake would rather remain hidden. The examination went on for long moments before Deauxfines grunted, seemed to have found what he was looking for, and finally completed his sentence. “Who has such an affinity for the Dead.”

  Normally, the comment would have explained where they had met before. Perhaps Tyler had been a mourner at a funeral Jake had hosted. Though the ceremonies were most often hushed and respectful affairs and not at all conducive to meeting attractive guys, Jake had a healthy libido. He would certainly have noticed someone like Tyler—tall, dark, and gorgeous—but would never have been so importune as to actually cruise him. Not only would it have been inappropriate, but Lucy would have had a fit.

  The first time he’d felt a stirring in his loins at a funeral had been in his early tenure at Gentle Rest not too long after Devin had died. The deceased’s brother was an extra
ordinarily good-looking young man of about twenty-five. Short and olive-skinned, he had amazing long eyelashes above hazel eyes and the compact, muscular body of a gymnast. When Jake first met him, while greeting the bereaved family, they shook hands and the feel of the youth’s warm palm pressing against his had caused his dick to stiffen with a mind of its own. He’d felt his face grow warm and, mightily uncomfortable, had spent the rest of the viewing consciously avoiding contact with the brother.

  Lucy had noticed and just before the funeral started, she’d taken him aside into the casket showroom for a private talk.

  “Keep it in your pants, Jake,” she’d warned, concerned rather than angry.

  She barreled on, overriding his feeble defensive protests that he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “It’s normal, son. You’re only human, after all. There’s been no one serious since Devin, has there? Just regrets about the boys in your pictures. The ones you never met while they were alive. The ones you can’t help wondering about.”

  Jake nodded, a little embarrassed at the confession.

  “I thought not. But keep hold of your sense of occasion. This isn’t the time or place for that kind of thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean...”

  “I’m not angry.” She waved away his apology. “Like I said, it’s natural. In our profession, we don’t get out to socialize much. Yes, I know you go to that damned bar. And half the time you’re there, you probably measure the guys you meet up against Devin or, worse, your imagination of what might have happened if you’d met one of the ones in your pictures before they died. In any case, a bar is no place to meet anyone of substance, as I’ve told you a hundred times. Maybe you’re finally ready. It’s been six years since Devin died and it’s about time you stopped fantasizing about dead men, about possibilities you missed, and came to terms with the fact that funerals are where people like us meet people, living people. Hell, I’m not criticizing. People in glass houses and all that. I met my Walter—may he rest in peace—at his aunt’s funeral. A week later, he showed up with his father to take care of the final bill and...well...”

  She blushed and Jake could see in her face the echoes of the handsome young girl she must have been.

  “He asked me out. I didn’t know what to do! I was so flustered, I ran out of the office as soon as I could. My mother was still alive then and when she saw me in the hall, she knew right away what must have happened. Turns out, she met Daddy the same way. ‘He’s a nice young man,’ she told me. ‘You march your little fanny right back in there and say yes, you hear? But only if you think you might like him once you get to know him.’ ” She smiled with melancholy at the memory. “On our first date, the adorable fool took me for a picnic in the cemetery. He had some silly idea I’d feel more comfortable with him there. I thought it was macabre but...sweet and considerate of him. Two years later, we were married right here in the funeral parlor where we met.”

  She clasped Jake’s hand. “I want what’s best for you, honey. You know that. And who knows if short, dark, and hunky out there might be The One? But trust me on this, if you show any interest in him here and now, he’ll head for the hills. Don’t worry. If he feels the same way you do, he’ll find an excuse to be back. And the best part? He’s alive. Not safe like some ghost of a guy you never met but can’t help mooning about. Memories are fine. Here.” She touched him above his heart. “But it’s high time you took a chance. Learn to love the living.”

  She’d been right. A short time later, Thomas was riding his bike past Gentle Rest and caught Jake weeding the flower beds along the front path. The mortician was stripped to a pair of too-small cut-off jeans and covered with dirt; Thomas was wearing nothing but spandex bicycle pants, sneakers, a safety helmet, and a coating of suntan oil. They stood talking for a while on either side of the short picket fence bordering the property along the curb, both of them conscious of the electricity between them but uncertain how to proceed.

  Again, Lucy Graymare came to the rescue.

  She came out of the front door of the funeral home, intending to call out some long-forgotten reminder to Jake, and had immediately sized up the situation. Fussing like a mother hen about the heat of the day, the great work Jake had already done on the garden and a host of other innocuous things, she’d told him to take the rest of the day off.

  “I’m sure you and your friend can find something more exciting to do today than puttering about in the garden. Go on! Shoo! You can finish the weeding this weekend.”

  Their affair had been nonetheless passionate for its brevity. The entire time, Lucy had walked around with a self-satisfied smile on her face, proud of her matchmaking abilities. But in the end, Thomas couldn’t seem to work past Jake’s employment. Moreover, the pictures on Jake’s living room wall creeped him out. Jake even went so far as to take them down for a few weeks, though it gave him more than a pang of regret to do so. But, in spite of the wild sex the two of them had, frequently leaving Jake’s bedroom in a shambles of discarded clothing and rumpled sheets, Thomas always seemed to be holding something back.

  In the end he’d confessed. He liked Jake, he really did. But every time they made love he felt like he was being watched, that the eyes of the dead were looking on. Jake proposed they meet at Thomas’s house at least once in a while but the boy was reluctant. He still lived with his parents and though they knew he was gay and were very supportive, he was afraid they wouldn’t be able to handle the fact that their son was dating a mortician. Knowing that night was to be the last time they would be intimate together, Jake and Thomas spent most of the time lying naked in bed simply holding each other, kissing and caressing but not engaging in their usual sexual gymnastics. The sadness of their parting was already upon them, even before they took their leave of each other.

  For a long time, they’d stayed friends, meeting at the bar occasionally and a few times even going to dinner or a movie. But they both were wise enough to know their physical intimacy was a thing of the past. Eventually, Thomas met and fell in love with an architect from out of state. Jake still heard from him once in awhile and in spite of his regret that things hadn’t worked out between them, he always offered a silent prayer of thanks for Thomas’s happiness.

  As for himself, he’d re-hung his shrine of memory in his living room. And the next time some forgotten young man died alone and wound up at Gentle Rest, Jake felt the old sorrow and regret at lost possibilities come flooding back. So, he took his photos, absorbed himself in work once again and re-established his routine of picking up the occasional hottie from the bar, hoping this one would be the right one and unable to get past the thought that perhaps, had he only been in time, the most recent of the young men he and Lucy had prepared might have instead been his true love. Unable to stop himself from comparing the living trick with his fantasies about the dead, he was always disappointed, and until Mario had come into his life and some long buried spark was re-ignited, he was beginning to fear he would always remain alone.

  “That is not your fate, Jake Marshall.”

  Tyler’s baritone, with its slight musical, singsong accent, seemed to come from far away, bringing Jake back to the present. Jake looked down to find a dark hand covering his own.

  “There are many paths ahead of you but, none do I see ending in solitude. Some hold much sorrow, some hold great joy. All of them hold...” He smiled sadly. “All hold...endings in one of Father Death’s forms or another. But for you, that is natural, is it not?” The pressure on Jake’s hand increased slightly, offering some comfort.

  “None of them, I promise you Jake Marshall, none hold loneliness for very long.”

  The hand withdrew.

  “In the meantime, you and I, we have more dire things to worry us. Come!”

  Tyler drained the rest of his rum in a long pull. Jake couldn’t help admiring the muscles of his neck and throat as he swallowed. When he was finished, he slammed the glass onto the top of the bar and threw down a
scattering of bills.

  “This is not a good place to discuss these matters. There may be listeners here, listeners who we cannot see. My home is much safer, protected against their ears.”

  He stood and Jake realized how damned tall he was, probably six three or four but, so slim and well proportioned that when sitting, his height hadn’t been as noticeable. Jake smiled shyly.

  “I don’t normally leave bars with guys until after I’ve talked to them for a while.”

  “This is not a normal situation, is it?” His look was stern but was immediately broken by a kind and concerned smile. “I require trust from you to solve your problem. To solve my problem. Trust should grow like a flower in a garden but I fear, my friend, we have not the time to water it and nurture it. You must have faith.”

  His brown eyes darkened even further and Jake felt a warm flush starting in his chest and spreading to fill his brain. It was dizzying but not at all unpleasant; rather like the feeling he had on a roller coaster as the car approached the first drop. It made his head spin with exhilaration but he knew the tracks were safe and there was no real danger of sailing off into space.

  He rose from his seat and allowed Tyler to fling a companionable arm across his shoulders and guide him out of the bar. Later, he would remember admiring the shiny waxed finish of Deauxfines’s Porsche, not a new model but meticulously maintained. He’d recall the smell of the leather interior and the brief pang of trepidation as Tyler locked the seat belt around him, as if he were being restrained for a purpose other than safety. He could bring to mind the calypso beat from the CD player, a jolly and twangy rhythm, infectious and uplifting, conjuring images of tiny-waisted women in brightly colored skirts and slim-shouldered men twisting and gyrating in some primitive ritual of dance, beads of their sweat flinging out to dampen the faces of audience of dark-skinned elders and fascinated children.