by _Anthology
"Where are we going?" I feel like I need to ask. Just to show some self-respect.
He shakes his head, mutters something. He glances in the side mirror, flicking the turn indicator and smoothly merging into the far lane. We speed up a bit now and he reaches over to punch a button on the stereo. The sweet strains of 'Queen' fill the little car.
He gives me an odd look. "I like retro rock," I say smoothly, still watching the lights, the string of boys walking slowly down the strip. "Gave it up for the first time listening to 'Queen'," I add. And I see the hands on the wheel beside me squeeze at the pigskin cover.
I think I hear him say "Samuel," again. And then he mutters something else in that odd language of his. His voice is so tired and he sounds so sad. If I listened, I think, I might even feel sorry for the guy. But I'm not in the mood to feel anything right now, so I let him babble to himself as I gaze out, watching the strip just flow by like a long colored ribbon of life. Lights skate over the polished black hood, the car transitioning from first to third with barely a jolt and god, what a sweet transmission this baby has, and we're up on Mulholland, broken free and shooting over the ridge of the upper Hollywood hills, stars above, asphalt as black as the night hissing under us.
It should be exhilarating, give me a feeling of freedom, but it just makes me feel more of a prisoner and all of a sudden, in the middle of nowhere in a car going about eighty miles and hour, I want to get out.
"Stop," I say.
He ignores me.
"I said," I shout over the wind and the clamoring in my head. "I said I want to get out now! I want you to take me back to the club!"
Drake shoots a look at me and slows enough to take a hairpin turn, but he doesn't stop and the car begins to descend. We're on the ocean side now. The air damp and salty. Cold. I am angry enough that for a few minutes I actually entertain thoughts of opening the door and leaping from the speeding car. Just to show him, I think wildly, that he can't just have his own way. Then I imagine how it would be, my body bouncing, like a bloody sack of potatoes, bones breaking, skull cracking. And I stay in my seat.
We are sailing down a nearly deserted Pacific Coast Highway now, past Malibu proper and heading up toward the private beaches.
Drake doesn't talk. The wind throws his too long hair around wildly, but he doesn't seem to mind. The air is so chill, it feels like ice against my skin and I find myself wishing that we had put the top up.
And then, as if on impulse, he turns sharply left, across the opposite lane, and onto the soft dirt at the edge of the road. About twenty feet between the asphalt and the edge of the cliff, he stops.
I don't know what to expect. Drake has parked on a singularly hidden section of the road. High hills on one side, a sharp bend in the road on the other. A spot no passerby could see if they weren't actually looking and I find myself wondering in that dull passive way of mine, if he is planning to kill me or kiss me.
Or give me another one of those unearthly blowjobs.
But as soon as the engine dies, he jumps from the car, swinging around the side and popping open the trunk with the remote button as he walks.
I jump from the car, too. You'd think I'd make my escape now. But instead I find myself following him. Coming around the raised hood of the car to find him leaning over the trunk, lifting a body from the back.
A bloody dead body.
I'm too shocked to scream or yell. My brain paralyzed completely. The only thought that seems to trickle through is, oddly enough, that the bastard has now gotten blood all over the interior of my car.
I grab the hood thoughtlessly and bring it down hard onto the back of his neck. It should have killed him. As I raise the hood, all I can think is that now I have killed him. But he merely slumps, then slithers gracefully to the ground, groaning. I run like hell. Halfway down PCH, it occurs to me that I'm in the middle of nowhere and he has a lethal weapon, my car. I turn and hitch and am lucky enough to get a trucker with a long haul in front of him and an eye for a pretty face.
He knows Club 24, he says, and is willing, after a few moments of shy smiles and innuendos from me, to detour slightly to get me back there. I show him my gratitude the only way I know how and then jog the rest of the way.
*** "Christ, where were you? The police came and talked to almost everybody. I've been stuck here for hours." Joshua is sitting at the closed bar with a can of Pepsi, grousing, when I pick my way back through the littered room. Most of the patrons have left. Been scared off most likely. More by the police than the murder.
"Anybody know who he was?"
Joshua shakes his head and sets down his can of coke. "No I.D.. Whoever did it robbed him, too."
"Too?" "Yeah." Joshua looks up at me, his eyes dark and freaked out a little. "He was raped. Everyone in the bar had heard everything before the cops even got here. Guy who found him said he was naked. Said he could see..." Joshua trailed off. Swallowed. "There was blood splattered all over the men's room, I guess. Shit. Kid was..." Josh shook his head, words failing him for a minute. "Man, who does things like that?"
The room suddenly heaves sideways on me and I have to sit down on the stool next to him to keep from falling. I can't describe my sensations. Fear, I guess. Pain in my chest. A kind of displaced rage.
"Hey, you okay?" Joshua looks a little surprised. I must seem like one cold bastard to him, that he doesn't expect me to be affected.
"That guy, the one I left with? I think he might have done it."
"The one you left with?" Both of Joshua's eyebrows hit his hairline. He sort of falls off his stool, getting to his feet.
I stare. "Uh, yeah, I guess I freaked when everyone started yelling."
"So you took off with some stranger?"
Joshua is outraged, I think. Incredulous. And I can't think of any way to explain my behavior that he could possibly understand. So I move forward from that and into the really disturbing stuff.
"Stupid, yeah I know. 'Specially since I think he might have done it."
Joshua's little flare of righteous indignation, I wouldn't go so far as to call it jealousy, is doused by this revelation. "Holy Shit. Why do you think that?"
"He had..." I lean my forehead into the palm of my hand. Suddenly unable to tell him, tell anyone, what was hidden in the trunk of my car. "I think he had a gun," I finish weakly.
Joshua shrugs, his mouth pressed into a cynical grimace. "Yeah, well lots of guys have guns."
"He was a creep. A real ..." "But that didn't stop you from fucking him, did it?"
Whoa. That had come out of left field. Joshua was studying his coke can, pressing a line in the moisture with his thumb over and over. I don't know how to answer him.
"I didn't fuck him," I say finally. After a minute, he seems to let it go. Spinning around on the stool again, both elbows resting on the counter behind him, so that the wife beater he wears under his unbuttoned work shirt outlines his round pectorals and shows off the large dark aureoles around his nipples.
"Nothing much else to do here tonight. You heading home?" I say.
I think I see the tiniest glance in my direction.
"You ditch your friend with the gun?"
A shiver goes through me. "Geez, don't joke about that okay? I thought I was next."
The look Joshua gives me carries years and years of cynicism. "Okay, Bobby. Lemme take you home and kiss it better."
I think I can manage that. *** Like me, Joshua lives as close to the club as he can possibly afford. The place is small. A room with a foldout bed that I have reason to know is surprisingly comfortable. A kitchenette augmented with a stainless steel refrigerator, a deluxe microwave and a tiny Formica and pleather dinette set in the corner. The wall opposite the kitchenette is completely covered with a collection of CDs. On one of my visits, I noticed that the CDs were organized by artist and release date.
Beyond the wall is a floor to ceiling window overlooking a balcony. I know if I step out on the balcony and look to my right, I'll have a clear
view of the Hollywood sign, lit up in all its battered glory on the hillside above us.
Having a view of the Hollywood sign tacks an automatic two hundred dollars a month onto Joshua's rent, but, he told me, some things are worth paying for.
Joshua opens a cupboard and brings down two sparkling clean glasses. Joshua is a neat guy. In many ways. He looks up at me with those dark, dark blue eyes and an apologetic shrug for the empty refrigerator.
"Beer or water?"
I think, 'I'll have you, please,' but I say, "Water." We drink Pellegrino from real glasses and move to the foldout. Joshua pauses in front of his music wall. "What do you want to hear?" I watch him swaying before the shelves, one hand raised, two fingers extended, choosing his mood.
"Do you have any 'Queen'?" He snorts, "Course. What self-respecting gay man hasn't got 'Queen', but don't you want to hear something else?"
"Okay." Not really, but I'm mesmerized by the movement of his ass in those Armani slacks. Joshua and I haven't known each other long, really. We met at Club 24. I think he wasn't much of a club hopper until he met me. He's a careful guy, my Joshua. A gay man of the 21st century to be sure. He takes as great care selecting his dishware, his stereo system, his clothing, as he does his companions.
I'm amazed and pleased to have made the cut.
He selects something from the "B" section and sits down next to me. Some kind of saxophone music floats out from the satellite speaker system he has mounted on the walls.
"This is nice," I say, trying to be agreeable. Joshua still has that serious look on his face. The one he gets when I've disappointed him somehow.
"He's the Itzhak Perlman of saxophone players," says Joshua. He sips his water.
I don't know who that is and I don't want to ask. Joshua is so well educated, made it all the way through college. And he has supplemented his schooling with a steady diet of culture.
I feel sometimes like I grew up too fast, missed all that. It makes me feel stupid and slow around Joshua and his friends. But I'm eager to learn, eager to let him teach me.
"So," says Joshua, frowning at his knees.
"I'm sorry I just took off like that," I say fearfully.
He sets his water down on a coaster. "How long have we been friends, Bobby?"
"Months."
He's nodding, not meeting my eyes. "We get along well. Have the chemistry and everything," he says.
Yeah. We do. We have so much chemistry it makes me ache. "But, I don't know, I just feel like we're stuck at a plateau, like you don't want to take it to the next level."
"Level?" I say.
"I'm looking for a serious relationship, Bobby."
"I... I can do serious," I say eagerly. I am so all about long term and serious.
"Bobby," he sighs and averts his eyes again, color rising high on his cheeks. "You won't even fuck me, Bobby," he barely whispers it.
"I told you, Joshua, I can't..."
"Yeah, your mysterious disorder. But you're not Positive?" "No. I swear." "And you..." he dips his head and bites his lip delicately, as if trying to think of the way to phrase this. "You seem to be stuck on this idea that gay men have to be promiscuous."
"No. No, I'm not really, Joshua..."
"I understand," he says patiently. He laughs shortly. "Believe me, I do. But this isn't the eighties anymore, Bobby."
I nod, miserable. "I'm sorry," I breathe.
"You're younger than I am. I tell myself that it's a phase, something you have to go through." Joshua sounds so sad, so hurt.
"I've done it. I'm done," I say positively.
Joshua does that thing where he squares his shoulders and clenches his jaw with resolve. "Listen, Bobby, maybe we just don't want the same things." But he's wrong. We do. He wants all the right things and I want him. I try to think of a way to say this. A way to explain that it's more than the sex, it's the way he lives his life, the perfection and passion he brings to it. I try to think of a way to say this, but all I can do is gaze at him beseechingly, tears pressing at the backs of my eyes.
He dares to meet my eyes and the hard resolve in his face wobbles. "Bobby," he sort of whimpers, "the way you look at me..."
I reach for him.
And then he's up close against me, his arm around my waist, pulling me in, his mouth on mine, hot and wet, the cotton of his shirt collar pressing into my throat. I react with the hunger I barely control most times and cannot control at all with him. My tongue reaches into his mouth and he sucks at it, moaning, his hands grabbing at my back. I topple us backwards onto the sofa, eating his face, trying to touch everything all at once.
I love Joshua's clothes but right now there are far too many of them. "Off," I rasp, tugging stupidly at buttons. I seem to no longer have any blood in my brain, the process of disrobing Joshua is way too complex. "Please, off," I whine like the needy Neanderthal I am. He chuckles against my lips, twisting his face to gnaw at my chin. His fingers have worked their way down the back of my jeans, wriggling like hot eager worms against my ass. He yanks them out fast, plants them on my chest and pushes up hard.
"Get naked."
We strip wildly, flinging clothes around the room. Our eyes hot and on each other. When he is down to just one sock I jump him.
The foldout cries a protest as our weight hits it. The tight soft skin of Joshua's ass gives under my palms. Springy with muscle. He makes a desperate sound and thrusts against me. "Bobby," he whines. "Please. Need you." "I'm here," I pant, sucking on a nipple, brushing my hand over the other. We rock together. He grinds up again. "Need you inside me."
I begin to protest.
"No," he cuts me off. "Please, Bobby, please. There's condoms in the drawer there. I need you, Bobby. Fuck me."
"I can't." I whimper the words against his chest. My hips have a mind of their own, though, and keep rocking into him. Joshua's eyes are glazed and his fingers run rough and insistent up and down my ass, rubbing at my opening, grinding into me. His mouth is open, his tongue floating in there, just curling at the tip. He moans and wriggles against me. Begging.
"Please please please, god, I want you, need..."
"Stop Joshua," I whisper. "I can't."
In a quick move, Joshua arches his legs up, spreading, and I feel his ass pulling up against my balls, feel that enticing entrance sliding up, begging for me.
Oh. God. "Fuck it." I lurch up and lunge for the drawer in the little table. Pull a handful of condoms out and let the mess fall all over the floor as I tear one open and clumsily snap it over my dick.
There is an absolutely enormous tube of lube in there and I squirt a big dollop into my palm and wipe it sloppily across his entrance, smearing whatever is left onto my cock.
Then I just press in. For an eternity we are frozen there. I am inside unbelievably tight heat. I swear I can feel his heartbeat in my cock. Feel the vibrations of his voice there also. Because Joshua, my careful Joshua, is completely out of control, moaning all sorts of shit. Need and love and god so good and my name. Some of the words aren't even words, just sounds like an animal would make, maybe a big dog chewing a meaty bone. Hungry and really into it.
I have to move. I have to push into that. I curve over, carefully rocking in and out, trying not to hurt him. I bend over to kiss him softly, lick all the freckles on his chin. His eyes are dark and wild and he thrusts against me and I naturally lick down across his neck, feel his pulse jump in the vein there as he moans again and says my name.
I press my mouth against that heat, my pelvis sliding in and out faster and harder. He gasps and groans some more, his hands on my ass urging me on, his hips shoving up to meet me. I nuzzle that throat, nip at the vein. I bite down.
Rich, rich hot blood. At first it shoots straight up into my sinuses. I cannot even describe the first taste of good clean human blood.
Joshua gurgles beneath me, his hands scrabbling at me. I force my mouth off of him. Still thrusting hard inside him. "Fuck," I say, gasping. "Shit." Joshua screams, bucking up against me,
shooting hot cum all over both of us.
As I'm banging into him, his ass muscles clenching around me, my hips pistoning, I gaze down at Joshua and see that he has gone rigid and stiff. He is staring at me with his mouth and eyes wide open, one hand clasping at his torn and bloody throat. The other pushing at me as if trying to get away.
He's afraid of me. With a roar of fury and pain and unrequited longing I fling myself away from him, stumbling backward off the couch and onto the floor. I crouch there, watching him. Unable to run off and leave him. Unable to do anything. My cock still hard with need. So hard I start to stroke it.
"I'm sorry, Joshua," I say. "I guess I kind of lost control..."
"What the fuck?" Joshua stands also, stumbling a bit. Points at me shakily. "Look at your face."
I shrug. "I can't."
"What?"
"I have no reflection, Joshua. You have no idea how hard it is to do this hairstyle without a mirror."
He is staring, just gaping. His mouth hanging open, that beautiful cock still dripping, hanging loosely before him. "I'm a vampire, Joshua. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before." I'm still stroking myself. My need so urgent I can't control it. His blood has made me hard and the want is bigger than anything. "God, I need to come." I grit my teeth, hand speeding up.
He is still staring, then his gaze drops to my cock. "Oh, shit man, I'm sorry," he says.
And he falls to his knees and finishes me off.
*** "So, let me get this straight," says Joshua slowly. We have Chai tea and are sitting at the little dinette. "You are dead and you live off of other people's blood." He begins enumerating these items with his raised fingers. "You can't turn into a bat or a wolf, but you CAN see in the dark." He ticks off another finger. "You don't have to sleep in grave dirt, thank God, because, eww. You DO have to avoid sunlight and stakes and pure silver weapons and holy water." He cocks his head. "Did I miss anything?"
I nod encouragingly. "You've got it so far."
"Uh, huh," he says. "Okay then. Other than those things you're pretty much invulnerable AND -- bonus! You have those uber sexy fangs that retract at will."
That is a surprise. A mind reeling amazing surprise. "You think my fangs are sexy?" He leers.
