No Rest for the Wicked (7 page)

* * *

After I'd promised the services of “my” group—and wouldn't Betsy hiss if she heard me calling them that?—Nancy climbed into her old Buick Skylark and drove off.

Peter hadn't even gotten the latch secure before I'd pressed him up against it. Mouth on his neck, hand down his pants, cock pressed against his ass where I seesawed it up and down and whispered in his ear. “You're lucky I waited for her to leave.”

Peter was too busy to answer. Breathing hard through his mouth, wiggling his ass against me, unbuttoning his slacks, and lowering his zipper to give me better access. His ears were hot.

His neck was hot. I licked a line from his collarbone to his chin and said, “Bed.”

We made it halfway there. We got our clothes halfway off. But once I had him against the bed, one of his knees on the mattress, the other in my hand, my cock buried inside him, there was no halfway about it.

He was even hot inside. How long had it been? This couldn't be healthy for either one of us.

“There?” I said when he whimpered and clawed at my hand. I shoved again and again. I knew where “there” was like I knew my own navel.

Peter panted and moaned and at some point managed to communicate enough to get me to grip his cock, which was as hard and hot and wet as I'd ever felt it. And then I just got into my rhythm until he arched his head back, hair pushing into my nose and mouth, whole body shaking, and I felt an orgasm escalate and crawl up my spine in agonizingly slow inches.

When the room stopped pulsing, I noticed two things. One, we'd knocked the lamp off the nightstand again. And, two, Peter was still really hot. And he was wheezing.

“You okay?” I asked him.

He mumbled and waved two fingers of his hand feebly. “Yeah,” he whispered, “was great…” and then he was asleep, mouth open, snoring. Silly old bear.

I pulled the covers up over us both and wound myself around his hot little bod, pressing my face up against his neck where the vein beat steady and warm. I've pressed my face there, just smelling, so many times, I'd bet I could find Peter in a crowded room just by scent. A fact I don't plan on telling him anytime soon.

I dozed there for a while and then I got the munchies and rolled quietly out of bed to scrounge in the fridge for a little midnight snack. I took it to the garage and after sucking on it for a while I popped open my cell phone and dialed Drew.

“Hello?” Drew was on the night shift, of course. Working with the undead necessitates that. I could hear the noise of his fingers on the keyboard even as we spoke.

“You guys find anything on the blood that did Lake?”

“Betsy's pissed off at you, dude. She says you and she need to have a talk.”
Clickety clack
clack
went Drew's fingers.

“Who died and made her queen?”

Drew blew out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I wouldn't say that to
her
.”

“What's the problem, anyway?”

“You took off out of here like your ass was on fire.”

Close, though a little further to port.

“And then you called her from that cop's place. Betsy doesn't like to work with the cops.”

“She works with
me
.”

“You're no cop, man.”

“I
was
a cop.”

“From what I've heard, with cops like you we didn't need criminals.”

I dropped this fruitless argument. “Well, I've found out something that may or may not be related. The stiff had a girlfriend who I've got an intuition wasn't on the up-and- up.” I rattled off the address and the girl's name.

“You think she's the blood that did him?”

“Not exactly. Just, the place smells off. And the roommate's got antivampire crap all over her living room.”

“Okay, I'm on it.” Drew's fingers clattered away on the keyboard.

“Wait till the sun's up, geek.”

“I'm not an idiot,” said Drew, busily typing.

“Thanks.” I disconnected, tossed the empty blood bag into the bin Peter kept for that purpose, and headed back into the house.

On the way back through the living room, I saw a soft blue sweater flung over a chair. It looked like the sort of thing a teenage girl would wear. Upon inspection, I could see it was clearly a man's sweater. The kind preppy young men wore with their pressed khaki slacks.

And then there was Jonathan.

After a few tricky incidents, mostly the result of idiot moves by yours truly, it seemed to me that Peter had grown tired of Jonathan. He never mentioned him, and an entire summer went by without that lime green beach cruiser showing up anywhere outside Peter's condo.

And then one night awhile back, I'd shown up at Peter's place unannounced, as per usual, and Jonathan had opened the door.

Okay, in my defense, I was starving. I hadn't gotten the hang of eating. It's not got the same rhythm as food, you know. And the hunger had stripped away whatever was left of my admittedly meager self-control, so when Jonathan answered the door and said, “Adam!” and didn't invite me in, I might have shoved him a little bit.

And maybe he hit the wall a little harder than I'd intended.

“Where's Peter?”

But of course Peter was right there, standing at the end of the hallway in his apron that said KISS THE COOK, a big fat red cooking mitt on one hand and an astonished expression on his face. “Did you just hit Jonathan?”

“What?
No
!” I grabbed Jonathan's shoulders and sort of straightened him out, brushed my hand down the front of his crisp cotton shirt. “He's fine.”

Peter sniffed, and I followed him as he went back into the kitchen.

“We were having dinner,” said Jonathan rather loudly, coming up behind me. “I only brought two steaks.”

“I don't eat steak,” I said to him. “But I'm starving. Peter, I thought you were working late tonight.”

“Davis ordered us to take the night off.” Peter's brow furrowed in that troubled way it did whenever I mentioned my need to feed. “Jonathan, we're out of beer. Can you fetch another six-pack?”

“Sure, babe.” Jonathan went to the back door, ostensibly heading to the cooler in Peter's garage where he kept his case of Millers.

Peter waited until Jonathan was out of earshot and then he said, “Under the tomatoes. Take it to the bathroom.”

I grabbed the blood bag but stalled. “What's he doing here?”

“What do you mean? He's just back and wanted to tell me about his trip to Thailand.”

“Trip?” I could hear Jonathan's footsteps coming through the walkway between the garage and the kitchen. “So you two are still fucking?”

I got the patented Peter eye roll. “Nicely put. Jonathan and I are just friends, Adam.”

I went off to sup, and when I reemerged, they were sitting at the table. It had been set with napkins, and there were two tapered candles lit in the middle of it. No kidding. Candles.

“Friends,” my great Aunt Agnes. Peter had a stubborn set to his jaw, and Jonathan had a surly expression that I took to mean they'd had a discussion about my presence and I had won.

There was an opened beer bottle on the table at the place where I would have sat, but no plate. Jonathan sneered, “You said you don't eat steak. Do you need a glass?”

I thought what a pleasure it would be to flash my other visage at him, but managed to quell that impulse. “Never mind. I know where Peter keeps them.”

“I'm sorry I didn't set a place for you,” called Jonathan while I was in the kitchen. “I didn't know you were coming,” he reminded me when I returned.

I was pleased to see Jonathan receive the patented Peter eye roll. I thought I was the only one who earned those.

“I'm not hungry.” I snagged the beer and went to the couch instead, picking up the remote.

“I'll just watch the news while I wait.”

Peter spread his napkin on his lap. “I recorded the game. Jonathan, would you pass the butter?”

“Sure, babe.” Peter kept his butter in its own little container, just like my grandmother had.

Jonathan passed the thing to him. The surly expression now seemed etched into his features. I considered that it was a good look on him.

“I'll wait till you're done with your steak and we can watch the game together,” I said to Peter.

“I brought my
Living Dead
DVD,” Jonathan told me. “Peter said he's never seen it.”

I couldn't resist. “Peter's seen the living dead.”

“You're kidding.” Jonathan poured dressing on his salad. It was the thin, watery dressing that women on diets use. “Do you mind watching it again, babe?”

I imagined Peter wasn't looking at me because he'd bust out laughing. He just shook his head, stuffing food in his mouth.

I said, “You can't have too much of the living dead.”

Peter struggled not to choke on his food.

I'll admit I dozed through most of the movie. Maybe someday I'll write a screenplay that'll clear up a few Hollywood misconceptions. Then Jonathan paused at the door. His evening plans had clearly been ruined hours earlier, but he couldn't relinquish the faint hope that Peter might ask me to leave first.

“Good night.” He shook Peter's hand at the door and gave him a look of such fevered longing it was all I could do not to growl.

Thirty seconds later I had Peter bent over a chair, his pants around his ankles, my aching dick buried deep inside him.

“God,” he moaned.

“Never. Thought. He'd. Leave,” I said, shoving hard on every word.

Peter mumbled something and found my hand. “Touch me.”

I obliged, feeling him swell against my palm.

“This what you want?” Copious cum drooled from his dick and greased my movements.

Peter wriggled his ass on my cock, squeezing it so I gasped. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want…yeah, that…”

Then for about ten minutes we didn't say anything, and I waited until Peter had come back from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel before I said, “Did I ruin your date?”

“Jonathan's just a friend.”

“He doesn't think so.”

“Are you jealous?”

“That's a stupid question.”

“That's not an answer.”

I flicked the remote to the DVR command. “Where's the game?”

He took the thing out of my hand, set the commands to playback, and we sat, listening to the pregame synopsis until the first commercial break.
But I couldn't let it go, could I
? I muted the sound and said, “I don't want to tell you what to do, Peter, but…”

“Don't you?”

In retrospect, I should have gotten a clue from his tone and just dropped the whole topic.

But I didn't. “It's just, I know you, Peter. You can't have recreational sex…”

“Can't I?”

Christ
. There was no way out of this.

“I wish you wouldn't,” I admitted.

He didn't answer, and I was a little afraid to look at him. “Okay, Peter?”

“You realize what a hypocrite you sound,” he replied flatly.

Of course I do
. “I don't know what you mean.”

Silence. I could feel him looking at me.

“Yeah, I know. I have no right to ask.”

Still no answer.

I turned my head then and met his gaze. Serious, somber, dark blue eyes, like he could see inside my skull. “I know what you're thinking,” I told him.

He raised his eyebrows.

“What's good for the goose, huh? I'm surprised at you, Peter.”

His eyes narrowed a little, but otherwise he didn't comment. We use the silence technique in interrogations. It makes the suspect sweat and blurt out things they might not say otherwise.

“I'll try,” I blurted. I could have bit my tongue off, but then Peter smiled. A satisfied, smugly victorious smile, and a second later his hand slid up my thigh and made my dick grow again.

This time I waited until I'd dragged him into the bedroom.

So, I found myself on the wagon, so to speak. Any time I might rethink that decision, I'd remember Jonathan. Like a specter hanging over me whenever I thought to stray.

I stuffed the sweater behind a cushion on the couch, then went into the bedroom, where I crawled under the covers again with Peter, wrapped my arms around his hot little bod, and pressed my nose into his neck. His heartbeat was like a shuffling dance step.
KA thump KA
thump thump
that lulled me and soothed me and I drifted off into the coma I call sleep.

* * *

When I woke Peter was coughing up a lung.

“You can't go into work.”

Peter raised his head from the sink to look at me in the mirror. Since he couldn't see me, it was weird and he turned around. His eyes were red, the rims a pink color. His nose was red and swollen. His lips were chapped, and he'd only scraped half the shaving cream off so he looked like a moldy old ceramic garden gnome standing there in his boxer shorts.

God help me, I wanted him anyway.

“I hab to go,” he said. He turned back to the mirror and continued with his shave. “Nancy needs me.”

“I'm sure she can handle it. We can't move until dark anyway.”

“It's nod that,” snuffled Peter. “I jus' hab to go, Adam.”

“You have a fever.”

“I toog some pills.” He wiped his face with a towel and pushed past me, thumping back down to the bedroom, sniffling and wiping his nose with his arm as he went.

Okay, I'll admit part of my motivation was making him break his lunch date with Jonathan.

“You need bed rest.” I got up close behind him. My fingers tangled with his while he tried to button up his shirt. “Lots of bed rest,” I growled against his ear. Then I unzipped his pants twice before he slapped my hands and said, “Adam…” in a tone of voice I knew better than to argue with.

So I withdrew to the living room. Some time back, Peter had taken the trouble of having louvered wooden blinds installed in the big picture window. It turned the room into a virtual cave. So yours truly could sprawl on the couch with the remote in hand and sulk.

Peter followed me, looping his tie with practiced fingers and saying, “Stop sulking.”

“Spend all my time in the dark waiting for you to stop working,” I groused.

Peter ignored this, going to the hall closet and bringing out his trench coat and hat. It was for the rain, of course, but it made him look like a real honest-to-God Dick Tracy.