“Thank you.”
“I’d have never thought you’d have chosen me; girls usually don’t.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. You’re special.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve got the most beautiful violet eyes I’ve ever seen.”
In the next room, Peter listened to the sounds of passion which drifted through the paper-thin wall. Curling up into a ball, he pulled his pillow over his head and cried himself to sleep.
Mark was in middle of a wonderful dream featuring the girls from the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit video when his phone started to ring. “Fuck,” he muttered as reality shattered his nocturnal fantasy. Snatching up the receiver, he snarled, “What ya want?” into it.
“Mark, it’s me, Peter.” Silence. “Mark, are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you, Mark. But you see, there’s something wrong with Chet and—”
“What!” Wide-awake now, Mark slid over on his bed until he was sitting on its edge. “What happened?”
“It’s, uh, kind of hard to explain. You’ve got to come see him, Mark. Maybe you can help him.”
“I’m on my way,” Mark said. He grabbed the shirt he’d worn the night before off of the chair he’d tossed it on when he’d gone to sleep. “Don’t do anything until I get there, you hear.”
Hanging up the phone before Peter had a chance to respond, Mark hurriedly dressed. As he did, all he could think about was Chet. The two of them had been the best of buddies ever since their freshman year of high school, where they’d first played football together. They were inseparable, pals forever, as close as two guys could be and not be fags. If anybody had hurt Chet, Mark intended to make them pay.
Mark was letting himself into the on-campus housing unit Chet and Peter shared less than five minutes later.
“I’m glad you came,” Peter said as Mark closed the front door behind himself.
As he entered the room, Mark gave Peter a quick once-over: He was unshaven, had dark bags under his eyes, and his hair stuck out in a dozen different directions simultaneously. Seeing Peter like this gave Mark a warm feeling inside; it was reassuring to know that even pretty boys looked like shit when they crawled out of bed in the morning.
“Where is he?” Mark asked.
“In his room.”
“Then what are we waiting for,” Mark grumbled. Storming past Peter, he crossed the room and pushed open the door to Chet’s room.
“I hope he’s okay,” Peter said as he followed Mark into the room.
Glancing over his shoulder, Mark saw the look of genuine concern on Peter’s face. Pretty boy’s got a crush on Chet, he thought. Shit, I ought to slap him around some for even thinkin’ thoughts like that about my buddy.
Restraining himself—if there was one thing Mark hated, it was fags—Mark looked down at his friend. Chet, wearing nothing but pale blue bikini briefs and a wistful smile, lay atop a bed which had quite obviously been used for more than just sleeping in the recent past. “Hey, Chet,” Mark said with forced cheerfulness. “How ya doin’, dude.”
“She’s so beautiful,” Chet said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mark leaned over the bed so that he could hear his friend better. “What?” he asked. “Who ya talkin’ about?”
“She’s so beautiful, and she came home with me.”
Peter crossed the room, moving to Mark’s side. “That’s all he talks about,” he said. “I came in a half hour ago to tell him that he had a phone call and he told me the same thing. He won’t talk about anything else.”
“Fuckin’ weird.” Frowning, Mark scratched his head. “Shit, man, I don’t know what to do.”
“Me, either. That’s why I called you.”
Mark’s face lit up as an idea hit him. “Where’s that chick he scored last night?” he asked Peter. “Maybe she knows what’s wrong with him.”
“I haven’t seen her since we got home,” Peter replied. “She must have left while I was sleeping.”
“The bitch probably dosed him,” Mark stated. “Nailed him with some bad shit, then cut out when he started actin’ weird.”
Peter ran a hand through his tousled hair. “You think that’s what happened?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, nodding his head as if he were agreeing with his own statement. “It had to be that.”
“She’s beautiful,” Chet said. “So beautiful.”
“I’ve got a buddy who’s been thinkin’ about gettin’ into med school,” Mark told Peter. “If anybody can help us, he can. You stay here while I’m gone. Make sure he doesn’t wander off or something.”
“She’ll be back soon,” Chet continued, totally oblivious to his friends’ presence. “I know she will. She loves me; that’s why she came home with me.”
Looking down at Chet, Peter shook his head sadly. “I hope your friend can help, Mark,” he said. “I really do.”
Mark was so caught up in his own thoughts as he hurried across campus to his friend’s dorm complex that he didn’t see the short, buxom brunette who stepped out from behind a stand of trees until he collided with her, knocking her, and her armload of books, to the ground.
Shit, Mark thought. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about already. “Sorry,” he said, reaching down to help the girl who lay by his feet. “I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Much to Mark’s surprise, the girl wasn’t angry. And she was a looker, to boot, a ten on his personal scale. The girl had a model’s face, just the right amount of meat on her bones, and, to top it all off, a great set of knockers. Mark, to put it mildly, was in heaven.
Flashing a perfect smile, her violet eyes atwinkle, the girl took Mark’s outstretched hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. There was a provocative lilt to her voice, a hint of pleasures to come. “It was my fault.”
Deciding that Chet could wait a little longer—Peter was watching him, so he’d be okay—Mark helped the girl to her feet.
Chet dozed off shortly after Mark left. Not wanting to leave his friend alone, Peter grabbed a chair from Chet’s cluttered desk and settled down to watch over him.
The knock on the door caught Peter by surprise. Starting, he sat bolt upright in the chair.
Hoping that the sudden noise hadn’t woken Chet, Peter shot to his feet and hurried from the room. As he crossed the tiny square which the student housing pamphlets referred to as a “spacious living room,” there came a second knock, louder and more insistent this time.
Wondering why Mark didn’t just let himself in—he had his own key, for Christ’s sake—Peter opened the front door.
Standing on the front porch was a stunningly attractive woman with long, luxuriant red hair.
Stepping out onto the porch, Peter pulled the door closed behind himself. “Can I help you?” he asked the woman.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” the woman said. Like Bacall in her prime, circa The Big Sleep and Key Largo, she had a voice which was deep, gravelly, and very, very sexy. “I’m looking for Peter Whaley. I was told that he lives here.”
His expression deadpan, Peter nodded his head. “I do.”
“Mark Andrews sent me,” the woman purred. “He told me to tell you that he’s going to be late.”
“Thanks for passing on the message,” Peter said, his voice as cold as a winter morning.
Raising her hand, the woman touched Peter’s cheek with her fingertips. “Mark didn’t tell me that you were so cute,” she said as she traced the line of his cheekbone.
Peter stepped away from the woman, moving so that his back was pressed against the door. “I’ve got to be going,” he told her as he reached for the doorknob. “I’m in the middle of something right now.”
White teeth gleaming, violet eyes aglow with passion, the woman moved in closer to Peter. Her firm, perfectly rounded breasts pressed up against his chest, pinning him to the door. “Don’t you find
me attractive, Peter?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” Peter replied.
The woman stepped backward, away from Peter. “All real men find me attractive,” she told him. “Chet did. Mark, too. They were real men, Peter, unlike you.” Her perfect lips twisted into a cruel sneer. “But then, you’re not a real man, are you Peter?”
Peter’s face flushed red with anger. Eyes blazing, he glared at the woman. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he demanded.
“Whoever I want to be,” the woman replied, smiling mockingly as she did. Then her face began to shift, to flow like quicksilver. Constantly moving and changing, a steady stream of faces flowed before Peter’s startled eyes. All were beautiful, and each had the same violet eyes.
Peter’s face drained of all color. He grasped the doorknob with a trembling hand.
As swiftly as it had begun, the flow of faces ceased. Her features once again the same as they had been before, the woman fixed Peter with a cold stare. “Good-bye, Peter,” she said. “We’ll meet again someday. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or even a month from now; you’ll never know until it’s too late.”
Pushing open the door, Peter retreated into the safety of his house, slamming the door on the woman’s mocking laughter as he did.
In the other room, Chet stirred. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful.”
The weeks which followed were pure hell for Peter. Chet withdrew deeper into himself. No outside stimulus, not even food, could hold his attention; he just stared off into space, mumbling about how beautiful she was and crying.
Distraught over his friend’s rapidly worsening condition, as well as the sudden disappearance of Mark, Peter finally broke down and called the school’s doctors who, in turn, summoned Chet’s parents. They arrived the next day to take their son home where, they said, he would be treated by “real” doctors.
Even though they never said anything to him about it, Peter sensed that Chet’s parents blamed him for their son’s condition. The few times he had met them before they had been warm and friendly; now they were cold and distant, their eyes filled with barely concealed loathing.
Two days after Chet was taken away, Mark reappeared. According to the reports Peter read in the papers, and the gossip he heard around campus, Mark walked into the cafeteria in the student union during the lunch hour rush, headed for the center of the room, climbed up onto a table, placed the barrel of a .38 Special in his mouth, and calmly pulled the trigger.
Numerous eyewitnesses quoted Mark’s last words as being, “I love you, baby. I can’t live without you.”
Mark hadn’t left a suicide note, so the circumstances surrounding his death were shrouded in mystery. Nonetheless, Peter knew what, or to be more specific, who, had driven Mark to end his life. The only thing was, he couldn’t tell anyone; if he went to the police, they’d just dismiss him as some crackpot.
Peter’s schoolwork began to suffer. He couldn’t concentrate in class; every time he started to lose himself in a lecture, he felt violet eyes watching him. Any laughter he heard was directed at him. Hauntingly familiar faces peered out of crowds, jeering at him as he hurried past.
One day three weeks after Mark’s death, Peter was in the school library halfheartedly attempting to work on a paper he knew he would probably never finish on time when a pretty blond girl sat down in the chair across from him. Smiling shyly, she placed her books on the table. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice hesitant. “I don’t know if you recognize me or not, but my name’s Jennifer and I’m in Brit Lit with you. I was wondering if you could help me with yesterday’s assignment; it’s got me baffled.”
The sound of the girl’s voice roused Peter, who had been staring, half-asleep from exhaustion, at the textbook which lay before him. “Whuh,” he muttered as he slowly raised his black-ringed, bloodshot eyes.
When he saw the girl’s pale violet eyes, Peter screamed.
A shocked look on her face, the girl half rose out of her chair. Throughout the library, heads turned and eyes stared.
“Keep away from me!” Peter yelled. Pushing away from the table, he shot to his feet. His chair fell to the floor behind him with a loud crash.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked. She reached out for Peter, who stood, trembling with fear, across from her. “Do you want me to get a doctor?”
Like a deer which has caught the scent of the hunter stalking it, Peter bolted the instant the girl’s hand moved toward him. Abandoning his books and papers, he sprinted for the nearest exit.
As he approached the doorway and freedom, Peter glanced back over his shoulder to see if the girl was following him. He caught a glimpse of her, a concerned look on her face, gathering up his belongings. Then he ran into something and blacked out.
Peter awoke in an unfamiliar room. He lay fully dressed on a large, comfortable bed. Peering down at him was a handsome young male face, one with dark, brooding good looks: a cross between a young Al Pacino and Richard Gere.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” the young man said. His voice was warm and friendly, his blue eyes full of kindness and humor.
“What… what happened?” Peter asked. His words came out slurred, as though he’d had too much to drink. He felt weak and tired and had difficulty concentrating. “Who are you?”
“You had some sort of fit in the library,” the young man said. “You were running for the door when you ran into me.”
Peter’s face flushed. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, feeling like a total idiot.
The young man smiled. It was warm and open, without a hint of malice. “Forget about it,” he said. “We all have bad days.”
“Where am I?” Peter asked.
“My apartment,” the young man replied. “After the collision, they dragged you and me to the campus doctor’s office. You were really out of it—the doctor said you were suffering from exhaustion—so they pumped you full of drugs to help you sleep.”
Peter nodded his head; that explained why he felt so groggy.
“Anyway,” the young man continued, “they didn’t want to send you to the hospital, you weren’t sick enough for that, and they couldn’t keep you because of some lame insurance thing that I didn’t understand, so I volunteered to take you home and watch over you until you woke up.”
Peter’s limbs felt like lead. He fought to keep his eyes open, to stay awake. “Why?” he asked.
“It’s kind of my fault you got hurt,” the young man told him, an embarrassed look on his face. “If I’d been paying more attention to where I was going, then maybe you wouldn’t have run into me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Peter mumbled. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he let them close. “What… what’s your name?”
“Robert.” The young man took Peter’s hand, held it between his. “Sleep,” he said. “You need it.”
“I’m so glad I ran into you last week,” Peter said as he led Robert into his bedroom. “I appreciate you taking the time to help me with my problems.”
“No problem,” Robert replied.
Pulling Robert close, Peter kissed him long and passionately. When he broke off the kiss, his heart was pounding like a jack-hammer in his chest. “I want to repay you for all your kindness,” he said, pulling off his shirt as he did. “But first I have to make a quick trip to the bathroom.”
Robert let his eyes play over Peter’s torso, scanning every inch of his smooth, muscular chest and flat abdomen. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, smiling.
“I won’t be long.”
Robert sat on the edge of Peter’s bed as the bathroom door closed. Reaching up, he popped the blue contact lenses out of his eyes and tossed them to the floor, where they were soon buried beneath a pile of clothing.
Turning off the bedside light, Robert sprawled on the bed, a satisfied smile on his face. It had been so long since he’d toyed with his prey that he’d forgotten how exhilarating the thrill of the chase could be.
The ba
throom door opened. A band of light flowed from the doorway, illuminating both the bed and the naked figure upon it. “You’ve got a beautiful body,” Peter said.
There was an edge to Peter’s voice which made Robert wary. Something is wrong here, he thought. “I try to make myself as beautiful as possible,” he said, squinting his hungry violet eyes, peering at his latest lover.
Peter was standing in the open doorway, backlit by the bathroom light, a revolver clasped tightly in his hands. “Miss me?” he asked.
Drawing upon over a century of experience, Robert altered his face so that it showed surprise and shock. “Peter,” he gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Cut the crap,” Peter snapped. “I know who you are.”
In the blink of an eye, all traces of expression vanished from Robert’s face. “How?” he asked.
“I’ve known all along,” Peter told him. “Right from the start. You were too perfect, too good to be true. Nobody’s that benevolent, that kindhearted, not even fucking Mother Teresa.”
Robert sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You don’t want to do this, Peter,” he said, his voice calm and reasonable. “I can give you pleasure the likes of which you’ve only dreamed of.”
Sweat broke out on Peter’s brow. His hands began to tremble.
“I can be whoever you desire,” Robert said as he slowly rose to his feet. His features shifted, changed. Tom Cruise, Jeff Stryker, Luke Perry, Robert Smith, and a host of others passed before Peter’s eyes. “Anyone.”
The weight of the gun seemed to increase with each passing second. Holding it up, keeping it aimed at the figure standing before him, took all of Peter’s rapidly fading strength.
“Let me satisfy your every need,” the figure said. Smiling, arms outstretched, it stepped toward Peter, becoming a double for Chet as it did.
Deep in his heart, Peter had always known that his love for Chet was a futile one. It would never have worked, was never meant to be; if they’d become lovers, it would never have lasted, would have destroyed their friendship in the process. That didn’t stop Peter from dreaming, though. Without dreams, what use was life?
Love in Vein Page 29
