Blood Howl

by Alex Kidwell

  Jed’s fingers were combing back the soaked tangles of his hair. They were treading water—more accurately, Jed was, supporting him easily. “The… Jesus, fuck, I don’t care about the goddamn ball,” he murmured, half hysterically, running his hands along Redford, frantically checking him for injuries. “I’m so sorry.” Jed’s face creased in worry, nothing hidden now behind slick smiles or smug masks. “There wasn’t time for anything else. I was trying to get us to better ground, but they had us surrounded.” It seemed as though Jed hadn’t even noticed the gash in his left arm, the one that was bleeding brilliant streaks of red down his skin.

  They were moving toward a ladder leading out of the water. At Jed’s urging him to go first, Redford shakily climbed out, still taking in heaving, grateful breaths of air. He was never going to go swimming again. Jed climbed out after him. Redford wondered if they’d have to run anywhere right away.

  “You’re bleeding,” Redford pointed out, wrapping his arms around his chest in a futile effort to get warm. Redford was hardly an expert on bullet wounds, but it looked like one had grazed Jed, high on his shoulder. He didn’t know how Jed could be ignoring that. He went through agony every month on the full moon, and he didn’t bear it nearly as well as Jed did.

  “Yeah,” Jed agreed, distracted. Dazed, not quite absorbing what he was seeing, Redford looked over to their right. Off the pier, on the ground, there were bodies. Several of them. Guns too, lying strewn about like discarded pop cans. Jed moved to one of the corpses and unceremoniously stripped off the long jacket the man had been wearing, probably to conceal weapons. Drawing Redford in closer, Jed overlooked his own wet hair, the fact that his skin was covered in goose bumps, to wrap the coat around Redford’s shoulders, briskly rubbing his arms to get him warm. “Are you okay?” he asked again, searching Red’s expression. “You sure?”

  “They could have killed us,” Redford said numbly, unable to tear his eyes from the bodies. He’d seen them alive just a few minutes ago, breathing, walking. Trying to kill them. He’d only ever seen one dead body before, and it had been nothing like what he was seeing now. There was blood here, spattered around the corpses messily, their eyes still open, glazed over in shock.

  He wasn’t injured, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was okay.

  Ducking his head so that he wasn’t looking at the bodies anymore, Redford pressed his forehead against Jed’s chest, the shudders wracking his body growing stronger. His arms were starting to get warm, at least. He might be cold, but he wasn’t dead or kidnapped, so that was one good thing he could focus on.

  Redford could almost feel Jed frowning. “Hey.” Drawing back just enough to see his eyes, Jed ran fingertips along his jaw, brushing away some of the silt from the water. “No one is going to hurt you, Red. Not while I’m here.” Gaze darting to the bodies and then off down the deserted street, he murmured, “Come on,” leading them away.

  Five blocks later, going down side streets and alleys, and Jed finally let them stop. He leaned Redford against a brick wall behind a dumpster, wincing as he rolled the shoulder of his injured arm and looking around them. “Let’s just wait here for a few minutes,” he decided, focusing again on Redford. “I want to make sure we’re not being followed still.” The man hesitated, a strange sight on him, before reaching out to cup Redford’s cheek. “How you holding up?”

  “I don’t know.” Redford was pretty sure that honesty was the best answer right then. He needed something to focus on, so he lifted one of the sleeves from the stolen coat wrapped about his shoulders, pressing it to the wound on Jed’s arm. It wasn’t bleeding so badly anymore, and the water had mostly washed it clean, but it still didn’t look good. “I’m still scared out of my mind,” Redford admitted with a huff of a breath. Giving his attention to something else helped, though.

  The dubiously clean sleeve wasn’t the best thing to staunch the wound with, but there was no other readily available option, unless Redford wanted to walk into a shop and buy some gauze, which wasn’t the best idea right now. His life had become very, very scary lately. Redford was beginning to wish he’d read more books on first-aid techniques.

  “I know you are,” Jed sighed, thumb brushing along the curve of Redford’s cheek. “And stop fussing with my arm, you big girl. I’m fine.”

  Redford just frowned at that, because bleeding did not mean fine in any sense of the word. But it seemed to have slowed to a trickle, so Jed was safe, and Redford was left to concentrate on how very close they were, on how his heart was still pounding from adrenaline. Only the cause of his pulse throbbing had changed now, from fear to anticipation. The last time they’d been this close, they’d kissed.

  They waited. Redford knew they were hiding, finding a place out of the way in case the men had backup. Hiding was something he did well. Being silent was something he did even better.

  Minutes passed. Redford spent the time trying not to inhale too deeply, because their hiding spot might have been a good one, but they were also right next to a dumpster. He couldn’t help the shivers that kept shaking through his shoulders, causing Jed to frown and tighten the coat around him, even though it wasn’t really the cold that was making him tremble. Jed moved closer, and Redford tried not to keep thinking of those dead bodies. He tried to concentrate on Jed. The already-tight tank top Jed was wearing was soaked through, clinging to his chest, and Redford couldn’t help lifting a hand to splay his fingers over where Jed’s heart was beating.

  Jed touched his cheek, his jaw, watching the path of his fingers with some strange mix of dread and a naked longing. Like he was torn between two decisions and unwilling to give in to either. For several long minutes they simply stood there, sharing the same air, noses brushing against each other’s, eyes meeting with an electric need. With a burst of exhale, Jed muttered, “Fuck it,” wrapping his hand around the back of Redford’s neck and yanking him forward.

  The other kisses had been sweet, light, a hello of sorts. This one wasn’t. It was hard and bruising, hungry in a way that demanded an answer. Jed’s tongue slid along his, pressing and tangling together, his free hand running down Redford’s side to slide in under the wet fabric of his shirt. Harsh pants of air expelled between them when they had to pull away, but with a groan they were devouring one another again, completely unable to go without the touch. There was no hesitation anymore, just the need that had been growing hotter ever since Redford had set foot inside Jed’s apartment. Just a want that Redford wasn’t entirely sure how to express properly.

  The chill of their soaked clothes was forgotten completely. The roughness of the brick wall at his back was the last thing Redford was focusing on. All that seemed to exist was the warm press of Jed’s body against his own, the frustrating feeling that they needed to get closer. Jed had pressed forward, aligning them chest to chest, hip to hip, and Redford still grabbed at his sides because he didn’t understand why they couldn’t get any closer than that. Their hands slipped across wet skin, Redford doing his best to get his fingers underneath Jed’s shirt, to splay across the shockingly warm skin of the small of his back. His lips felt bruised with the force of their kissing, but it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.

  Jed’s hands were moving across his chest, moving downward, and Redford had to break away from the kiss to breathe in sharply when Jed cupped a hand over his cock. He was hard, achingly so, and even with a layer of sweatpants in the way, the contact still felt incredible. Jed’s name tumbled from his lips, a questioning murmur, cut in half by Jed tugging him into another kiss.

  Redford had never been touched like this. He’d experienced arousal, but it had been so much different. This was real, sharp and overwhelming, but he couldn’t get enough. Instinctively his hips moved into Jed’s hand, wanting friction, and he choked back a startled groan when Jed’s fingers tightened around him. They were in a filthy back alley and Redford didn’t care, he wanted, he needed more, he needed to touch Jed in return. Arousal had burned all of his hesitation away. He hooked his
fingers into the waistband of Jed’s pants—not confident yet, but getting there—fingertips smoothing over the soft skin of Jed’s hips, the jut of bone and muscle. Just a few inches more and he’d be there.

  He barely heard the sirens. Actually, Redford wouldn’t have even cared about them if Jed hadn’t jerked back away from him. It took him a moment to even figure out why Jed had moved back. Before it sunk in, Redford took half a step forward, thinking Jed had just wanted to relocate, when he saw the expression of Jed’s face.

  That conflicted expression was back, even while Jed’s eyes were dark with an arousal that matched his. Jed leaned forward slightly with soft bites at his lips, an apology of sorts, before he drew away completely. Running a hand through damp hair, Jed stared out at the street, watching the ambulances race past.

  “Jed—”

  “I have to go to work, sweetheart,” he rumbled, distracted. After a beat, he turned back to face Redford, face impassive again. He reached out to brush a strand of Redford’s hair back, sighing quietly. “Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter Six

  Jed

  JED was damn good at his job. He might not have a lot else; his career in the military had gotten shot all to hell. He didn’t have a family of any sort, no relationship lasting longer than a couple of nights, and he sure as hell didn’t have a retirement plan of any kind. All he could hang his hat on was his professional reputation and a room full of heavy artillery. Really, that was all he needed.

  Being as good as he was at the types of jobs he tended to get handed, today wasn’t the first day he’d left some bodies behind. Those stiffs down by the docks, those were just collateral damage so far as he was concerned. Someone was going to try to kill him? Well, hell, he was going to return the favor, tenfold. Whoever this Fil was, he clearly didn’t realize who he was dealing with if he thought five guys who couldn’t even keep their heads down were going to turn into more than a speed bump for him.

  Redford wasn’t nearly so calm about it though, which was understandable. Redford was innocent, like so few people in Jed’s world ever got to be. And really, while Jed was more insulted at the attack than worried, when he thought of how scared Redford had been, how close he’d come to getting hurt, it wasn’t nearly as amusing.

  Any other time, Jed would try to find some kind of truce, some way of walking away with the least amount of trouble on his part. It was annoying to have to keep killing people. The cleanup alone wasn’t worth the effort. But they hadn’t just come after him. Those bullets, those thugs, they were meant for Redford, and Jed wasn’t going to let that one drop. Fil was going to get the holy hell kicked out of him, and Jed was going to enjoy every second.

  Normally, he’d call his usual cleaners, have them take care of the bodies however they did such things—Jed didn’t like to ask questions. This, though, wasn’t about keeping the seedy underbelly quiet and hidden. Jed wanted to plant a big red flag. Fil was about to get a greeting card, straight from the heart. Five dead goons on the docks, like some perverse nursery rhyme.

  Except they weren’t there anymore. Jed had gone the long way around, duster flapping around his thighs, concealing all manner of illegal weaponry on him. The plan had been to watch, to wait, to see who the first responders would be. Even if the cops got there first, dollars to fat sugar doughnuts said Fil had a comfortable number of them in his pocket. He wouldn’t have been so bold in the attack if not. Whoever took care of the bodies, that was whom Jed got to have a chat with.

  Only when he arrived back at the dock, he almost started to second guess his sense of direction. Everything was pristine, as if it was just another early spring day. No signs of a struggle, no blood, no dead bodies all in a row.

  Whoever Fil was, Jed had to hand it to the bastard. He was fast. Jed honestly doubted even his cleaners would have been finished by now, and they were the best. Squinting from behind a nearby storage unit, he tried to see if they’d missed anything. Something was glinting in the faint sunlight, right out in the middle of everything.

  Right. They just happened to miss something where Jed would be exposed to five or six different decent sniper’s perches. Somehow, he didn’t think Filly boy was that lucky. Instead of taking the bait, Jed turned his attention to the rooftops. Nothing was moving, no hint of anyone waiting. Then again, that was probably the point.

  Spending a few more minutes considering, Jed determined which roof he’d use. A brick storage facility about a hundred yards away gave the best angle and view of the dock area and most access points. Other options were available, sure, but snipers took the easiest route as often as possible. There was enough working against you without worrying about bad wind angles or things blocking the trajectory.

  Quietly, Jed worked his way around to the back of the storage facility. Using a dumpster, he climbed his way up to the roof, unholstering his Glock and moving as silently as he could around the ventilation system. And there was his dance partner. The man was in dull camo, rifle scope resting lightly against his cheek as he scanned the area. He wasn’t moving, ever the good little soldier. He didn’t even flinch when the barrel of Jed’s gun pressed into the back of his neck.

  “Howdy.” Jed grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Whatch’a lookin’ for?”

  Now see, Jed was suffering from quite a case of blue balls. He’d left Redford at home with all those fucking conflicting emotions and the wondering and the fact that he really wanted, more than anything, to just drag Redford into bed and forget the rest of the world completely. All of that was percolating back at the apartment, and he honest to God had no idea what to do with it. So he might have been a little enthusiastic when he hauled the sniper up and slammed his head into the concrete a few times. But damn him straight to Alabama if it didn’t make him feel just a tiny bit better.

  Shoving the guy up against the wall, Jed smiled at him, slightly crazed, bracing him up with his arm across his throat, the gun shoved very neatly in under his chin. “Now, I’m only going to ask you once, because I’m kind of having a day. I really want to shoot something off, if you catch my drift, and since I didn’t do the one, you may be the recipient of the other. So why don’t you do us both a favor and cut out any crap and just answer and we’ll both go trotting on home, okay?”

  Mr. Handlebar—seriously, he had a mustache that looked like it’d be more comfortable tying a buxom blonde to some train tracks—met his eyes in a steely gaze. Sadly, the sane so very rarely knew what to do when met with the full force of what Jed was packing. Eventually he looked away and nodded carefully, jaw working in what might have been fear. Or maybe he was chewing gum. Who the hell really knew?

  “Who’s your boss?”

  Handlebar hesitated, then answered, with a faint Hispanic accent, “Mr. Fil.”

  Mister Fil, now. Well, wasn’t he fancy. “He in town?” Jed asked, lightly tracing the barrel of his gun along Handlebar’s jugular.

  Another long pause before he gritted out, “Yes.” Jed was guessing his new best friend was from El Salvador region. He’d spent a couple of months there one night. Nice people. Great food. Excellent revolutions.

  “And if I were going to add Mr. Fil to my Christmas card list,” Jed mused, arching an eyebrow, “where would he receive his Feliz Navidad?”

  Grunting, Handlebar nodded him closer. Jed leaned in, wondering if it really was going to be that easy. Which, of course, it wasn’t. What was this, a fairy tale? Handlebar hocked one right in his eye, raising his knee at the same time to catch him, hard, in his little soldier.

  Oh, poor Winston Churchill. A crueler fate was never known.

  Jed stumbled a moment, just long enough for Handlebar to elbow him across the jaw, sending him sprawling with a low grunt of pain. Jed rolled over and started firing, cursing as the other man took off running across the roof. Struggling to his feet, he chased after him, looking for his shot. Handlebar darted around the corner to the edge of the roof, Jed hot on his heels, and….

  He jumped.
The nutty bastard jumped off the goddamn roof, straight into the back of a pickup truck, which burned rubber right the hell out of there. Jed emptied the rest of his clip in their general direction, more of a therapy thing since all he managed to do was blow out the back window, shouting curses after them.

  Well, shit.

  Wiping blood out of his eye from where he’d scraped his face against the stones that lined the roof, Jed huffed an annoyed sigh and stared at the road where the truck had disappeared. It hadn’t been there before, and the sniper didn’t get a chance to call for help. Which meant that he’d been followed. By people eminently better at it than the first five.

  Fil had done a staffing change. Bully for him.

  The motherfucker wanted them to know he was around. He wanted Jed to know that he was close enough to reach out and touch him whenever he got in the mood. Now Jed still knew next to nothing, and he had the bruises to prove it.

  Also, his cock might be broken. Which was the really bad part of all of this.

  Limping slightly, he went back to grab the sniper rifle, disassembling it with expert motions, glancing at the pieces. Stock rifle, silencer, but a custom scope. That might be useful. Tucking it all away in his jacket pockets, he lowered himself back down the wall with a grunt and hobbled his sorry ass home.

  “Red?” Shoving open the door with his hip, Jed wandered in, dumping the rifle parts out onto the coffee table and grabbing a sketch pad from his desk. “’M home. You doing all right?”

  Flopping onto the couch, Jed propped his legs up on the table and spread as far apart as possible. Winston and the two boys—Margaret Thatcher the lefty and Rambo, the True American Hero, debuting as righty—needed some healing space. He used a pen he dug out from under a couch cushion to start doodling. He frowned in concentration, focused on what he was doing, wondering if he could train Knievel to have a beer waiting out when he walked in the door.