The wolf inside me didn’t care for this man one iota, and neither did I. I began to bristle, and the wolf softly growled. I was not one to cause trouble, by any means, but neither did I shy away from it, especially if it wasn’t of my own making. “Who’s we? You look like only one person to me,” I said, looking at him pointedly.
The redneck flushed but didn’t give an inch. “Me and the boys,” he said, jerking backward with one thick thumb toward his compadres, who huddled uneasily about the pool table for moral support. “There are ladies present, you know, and we don’t think it’s right that they have to see your disgustin’ behavior either.”
“Why is that?” Richard asked bemused. “’Cause we didn’t want to fuck them? I wasn’t aware that it was mandatory in these parts. Thanks for enlightening us.” He nodded his head genially as he began to back away from the redneck, still dancing and never missing a step as we moved immaculately together in the dance.
Billybob seemed somewhat at a loss for words. I don’t think his brain was processing very well at the moment, but of course he wasn’t one to leave things alone, and he was quickly back on the case, dogging our steps. “You two aren’t natural,” he continued, as if we three were in the middle of a very fascinating conversation on the ethics of gay sex, “you’re an abomination—”
“Abomination?” Richard repeated, never raising his voice, “can you even spell that?”
The frustrated hoosier, who had undoubtedly flunked remedial spelling at some point in his scholastic career, decided to change targets, turning his attention to me. Not a smooth move at all. The wolf inside was already on edge, and I was restraining him with difficulty as it was.
“I’m trying to be nice about this, fellas,” he said, “before this gets ugly. Or someone gets hurt. It’s nothing personal, but the Bible makes it clear that you fags ain’t natural, and that’s that. And you know what?”
That was it. I stopped moving and gave him a disdainful look. “If the next sentence out of your mouth contains the words ‘steers’ or ‘queers’, so help me I am going to shove my fist down your redneck throat and pull your intestines out,” I growled at him. I risked a glance at Richard, and, to my surprise, he was grinning his approbation. Paying no attention to the intrusive third party, he bent to my ear and whispered warmly, “By God, you are a feisty one. I’m betting you are in bed too!” which earned him a warm blush for his efforts, and a small smile.
By the time I pulled my gaze away from Richard’s again, I saw that we were no longer alone but were being circled by the silent friends of Billybob like sharks swimming about a bloody kill. I was not afraid of them, but I saw with some alarm that they carried pool cues in their hands, and I knew that this was not good. Every eye in the place was now riveted on the scene unfolding on the dance floor, and not one person to speak up in our defense. What a damn surprise that was. Not.
Billybob, emboldened by the presence of reinforcements, stepped closer to me, throwing out his chest in a peacock strut. “Brave words, little faggot, think you can back them up—” Before he had finished that thought, Richard’s arm closed about his throat in a viselike grip that threatened to squeeze his head off like an overly ripe zit.
“You call him that again and I’ll make sure that you don’t play for either team ever again,” Richard said smoothly, never batting an eye, “either pitching or catching, if you catch my drift.”
Billybob’s only response was a strangled gargle which sounded none too happy, his eyes darting to his friends for some sort of backup, but one glance from Richard kept them at bay.
“Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!” Busty squeaked in alarm, rushing at Richard and clawing at his face frantically in an attempt to get him to loosen his grip. One glare was enough to quell her spirit of rebellion, and she retreated to a safer distance. “I called the police. They’ll be here any minute. Why don’t you two just go?”
This seemed a sensible course to take, I had to admit. I had no desire to have our first night together occur under the auspices of the local authorities, under their watchful eye. Richard must have thought so, too, as he began to relax his grip on the plum-faced redneck… when all of a sudden one of his band of merry men did something incredibly stupid. He came up behind Richard and struck him hard across the back with a pool cue! Richard doubled over in pain, the other man wriggling out of his grasp. He triumphantly regrouped with his followers, chortling between grateful gasps of oxygen.
The wolf had seen enough and could no longer be denied. I lunged across the intervening space, grabbed the offending git by the scruff of his neck (I am far stronger than I look, especially when the wolf is aroused), and slung him as hard as I could against the nearest wall. He hit the wall with a thud, neatly catching one of the framed artist’s renditions of the infamous Southern Comfort bottle in his trajectory, and both picture and redneck collapsed together on the floor with a heavy crash. Instantly I was set upon by two more of the group; one pinned my arms behind my back while the other proceeded to place a few well-aimed blows to my face, busting open my lip, from which blood proceeded to spill into my mouth.
Enraged, I reared back, leaning against the man behind me for support, drew up my legs, and kicked out at my attacker in a blind fury. I caught him in the middle of his chest. With an ooompf of surprise, he staggered back, only to be caught by my partner in crime, who had meanwhile regained his equilibrium. He spun my attacker around and delivered a strong right hook that knocked the hick off his feet and straight into a nearby table, which he took out in his fall, the Confederate flag tablecloth blanketing him. While I parlayed the grip on my arms to my advantage to leverage the poor unfortunate over my head in the same direction, where he landed on top of his paisano, and they both grunted.
“Good one,” Richard nodded approvingly.
This left only Billybob and one of his friends to deal with, but neither looked inclined to continue the fight. I drew nearer to Richard. “You okay?” I asked with concern, gently touching the waitress-inflicted scratches on his cheek.
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah, fine. Is this what you do on all your first dates?” I couldn’t help grinning at him.
“You think this was something, just wait for the second one,” he joked easily.
I was about to make a rejoinder to this when my sharp lycanthropic hearing kicked in. Sirens—in the distance, but definitely heading this way. I grabbed Richard’s hand in my own. “Why don’t you tell me about it on the road?” I suggested, and he understood immediately.
We wasted no further words on the fools, who made no move to stop us as we headed out the front door and back to Richard’s ride. We were in the car and on the road, heading in the opposite direction, when we saw the revolving lights of the patrol cars behind us, the sirens screaming their warning message as the officers answered the distress call. Too late, we were definitely outta there.
Richard looked at me with amusement as he pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator. “You wanted to see her in action? Just watch!” He floored her, the car quickly jumping from thirty to sixty, the needle on the speedometer reaching skyward as we zipped down the open highway. Good thing Illinois highways tend to be exceedingly flat, for the most part; it makes visibility that much better and lessens the risk of topping a hill and meeting someone head-on.
Within a very short time we were on the 270 bridge and crossing the mighty Mississippi, back into the Show Me State once more. He was forced to drop his speed as we were now merging with other traffic, but that was good, too, because now we blended in with them, and I knew we were safe from pursuit. Richard turned off one of the first exits, onto a small side road that twisted and turned in a very serpentine fashion through a sparsely populated area. There was still some farmland left in North County at that time, before the developers bought out most of it and replaced the fields with litters of prefabs and custom-built monstrosities before they realized that the population was steadily heading westward into St. C
harles. No one was around us now, and there was a dearth of street lights, our headlights being the only illumination.
Suddenly, he turned the Chevelle off the road into an abandoned field. We had obviously not been followed, a good thing. He parked the car and without saying a word, got out, me quickly following his lead.
We were both in a state of some euphoria after our exertions at the bar. Richard doubled over, his full rich laugh ringing out in the otherwise silent night, while I threw back my head and howled exultantly, indulging the victorious wolf within. Richard glanced up at me sideways, a bemused expression on his face, and something else as well. Before I knew what he was about, he had swiftly caught me up in his arms and pressed my body insistently against the door of the Chevelle. I felt the door handle digging into the small of my back, but I barely noticed the pain, too intent on what he was doing.
He had my body pinioned while he gripped my hands above my head against the Chevelle’s hardtop, breathing heavily into my face. “So, my little wolf,” he murmured, “there is much about you I need to discover, isn’t there?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I whispered back. His hips were digging into mine, his erection as well, and I became aware all over of how much I wanted him, a feeling with which the wolf heartily concurred.
He knew very well what he was doing to me, grinding his pelvis into mine, hard. “Damn, I want you so bad,” he breathed into my lips, his breath ghosting over them as he continued to thrust. “I can’t wait ’til we get back; I’m about ready to come now,” he admitted.
“Then you should come,” I gasped, knowing that I was on the verge of doing just that myself.
“We can always take a shower and start all over again when we get there,” Richard suggested. “I want to be inside of you, Max. I want to fill you and make you feel goooooooood….”
I didn’t answer, but my movements made any reply superfluous as I continued to push back against him. In the back of my mind, I knew that I should probably stop and explain to him the technicalities of mating with a werewolf, but my hard cock told me not to worry about it at the moment, and I have to admit that I listened to my second brain, said nothing, and just enjoyed the feel of him.
I wanted it to last longer, to hold this moment forever, but of course this couldn’t be….
“GodohGodohGodohGod,” I moaned, clutching at his hips as my orgasm washed over me, shuddering out of control, my whole body vibrating with the force of my ejaculation, even as I heard him echoing my cry, his coming mirroring mine, his beautiful body trembling against me. He leaned on me heavily when he was done, and I in turn leaned against the car, which held us both up, otherwise I think we’d have found ourselves in the grass at our feet. Had anything ever felt that good? I wondered as I gazed blissfully into those beautiful eyes. “Damn,” was all I managed to say.
“Double damn,” he replied with a smile. “I have to tell you I usually last longer than that, but you’re so… damn… hot….” He pulled me closer to him, his arms encircling my waist, his lips warm against my own. I simply melted inside at his touch, utterly lost forever. I knew then there would be no other for me; Richard Burke was it.
“You know,” he said as we flew down Highway 270, heading toward his friends’ house and the promises of other joys to come, “I’ll always wonder if that wine was any good or not. Think we should go back sometime and find out?”
I turned my head to look at him sharply, saw that he was jesting. “Sure, we can do that. Wearing our best dresses, of course.”
“Of course.” He nodded solemnly in reply. We both burst out laughing at that, feeling rather giddy in our happiness.
I didn’t need to be invited to take my place beside him this time. We were now sitting so close that it would have been difficult to pass a knife blade between us. I leaned my head against him tenderly while our entwined fingers lay against his right leg. I could feel the muscles ripple each time he moved his foot from the gas pedal to the brake.
“Richard, there’s something I think you ought to know,” I blurted out suddenly. “I’m a werewolf.”
“Are you, darling?” he asked, a mischievous grin on his handsome face. “I knew you were different, didn’t I say so? Do tell me more….”
And as we drove on into the night, heading for Kirkwood, I began to tell him my story. That was when I knew that my life would never be the same again. Nor would I want it any other way…
Living life to the max with Richard.
Chapter 3
Some Stones Should Be Left Unturned
IT’S NOT that I don’t ever go into the office—don’t get that impression—’cause I do. Just not any more than I can help. I have my own desk and all that goes with it inside the city room. Well, it was Auntie Claire’s at one time, but I have managed to wipe out every vestige of that awful woman’s existence, with Rachel’s help. And added a few of my own touches: photos of Juliet and Rachel, and Richard and me. I succeed in finding my way there at least once a month, more often if I happen to be meeting Rachel there for lunch. I even attend the occasional staff meeting, which I have to admit I avoid like the proverbial plague. Richard and I try to outdo one another to come up with creative reasons why I can’t be there. Nothing so mundane as a flat tire or a case of the flu for us. Our excuses range from delivering babies for passing motorists to being stricken with rare tropical diseases with unpronounceable names, to emergency flights to third-world nations to help feed the starving children. It works for us. Don’t complain.
The Tribune may be relatively small in size, especially compared to the Post-Dispatch, but they do try hard to make their employees feel at ease, I have to admit. The dress code isn’t stringent; the atmosphere is relaxed. Everyone is encouraged to actually have an outside life, as long as they don’t forget what they are there to do as well. Creativity is fostered, and anything less than the truth is not tolerated. Working with my darling Rachel is merely the icing on the cake. Not that she would let me get away with anything or allow me to do less than my best work; it was Rachel who brought my columns to the attention of other people in the publishing world when I first began to write, and lo and behold, before I knew it, I was not only a columnist but a syndicated columnist at that; fifty different newspapers nationwide—a number that is steadily increasing—as well as going global. I do believe that To The Max is also available in the UK and the Netherlands, maybe even in Japan. Quite flattering, really. And not hard on the pocketbook, hence enabling me to travel when I wish and spend my time and energy upon my sexy Richard, in turn enabling him to concentrate on me as well as on his photography.
What photography? I can hear you ask now… I’m getting there; don’t worry, all in due time. I told you this tale was not a linear one, by any means. For the moment, suffice it to say Richard Burke is a freelance photographer and be satisfied with that.
Anyway, back to what I was saying. At the Tribune, the editors work closely with the staff, as does the owner, a rather jovial fellow who acquired the paper from his father shortly after I began to work there. He isn’t more than a few years older than me, Daniel. Happily married to his childhood sweetheart, he has a very sweet disposition for a businessman and is very easy to talk to. He and Juliet get along like gangbusters, as well, and she has attempted to make him part of her conspiracy-to-see-Max-settle-down-with-the-right-girl. Somehow she thinks that the right woman will encourage me, nay inspire me, even, to forsake my gay ways and become heterosexual, no matter how many times I tell her that it isn’t going to happen and despite Richard’s crude rejoinders about “Well, maybe if the woman has a dick,” which earns him a rap upside his head from me. But luckily, Daniel hasn’t fallen into her trap and accepts Richard and I for the way we are, which is undoubtedly homosexual. As for my co-workers, I consider myself lucky in that they all seem to be nice and we have a great working relationship, which is the way it should be. Ideally. In a perfect world, that is. Is this a perfect world? I don’t think so.
Today is one of those days. For April, it is unseasonably warm already, a sure sign that summer is almost upon us. I am not complaining, mind you. The warmth of the life-giving sol is most beneficial to these tired old bones, and some days I simply lay outside in the privacy of my yard and bask in Apollo’s rays. Not that I think that I am old, but being a lycanthrope can be terribly hard on one’s body, and some days I feel older than my years. Richard and I have been sunbathing today, stretched out together on a blanket in comfortable nudity, playing silly word association games and generally nattering until it’s time for us to leave. He whines a bit that he doesn’t want to get up, but I remind him that we are going to be fed, and he settles down. And I promise him that we can come home and nap in the sun after we eat, which doesn’t hurt either.
The Tribune Building is located in downtown St. Louis, directly on Market Street. I find the building itself to be most fascinating. It was designed by architect Louis Sullivan in the late nineteenth century. He also designed the Wainwright Building, as well as the Stock Exchange Building in Chicago, and at one time he employed up-and-coming architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Sullivan’s buildings are primarily known for their beautiful ornamentation and attention to such artistic details as flowered cornices and the use of terra cotta fascia. It’s like walking into a little piece of history, which alone is enough to stir my interest.
To the Max Page 4
