Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

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THE HELL YOU SAY

(An Adrien English Mystery)

Josh Lanyon

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www.loose-id.com

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This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered

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The Hell You Say (An Adrien English Mystery)

Josh Lanyon

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or

existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by

Loose Id LLC

1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

Carson City NV 89701-1215

www.loose-id.com

Copyright © December 2007 by Josh Lanyon

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of

this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing,

photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-582-1

Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Judith David

Cover Artist: Croco Designs

There is nothing new under the sun but there are lots of old things we don’t know .

– Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

Acknowledgements

To Nick (the other one), who keeps me on the straight and narrow. Well, on the

narrow, anyway.

Sincere thanks also to B.W.B. and Drewey Wayne Gunn.

And finally, special thanks to the readers who kept pushing and pleading for a new

Adrien English novel. This one’s for you.

Chapter One

The voice on the phone rasped, “Bones of anger, bones of dust, full of fury, revenge is

just. I scatter these bones, these bones of rage, enemy mine, I bring you pain. Torment, fire,

death the toll, with this hex I curse your soul. So mote it be.”

I handed the receiver to Angus, who was facing out the “We Recommend” stand by the

counter. “It’s for you.”

He took the receiver and put his ear against it as though expecting an electric shock.

He listened, then, hand shaking, he replaced the receiver and stared at me. Behind the blue

lenses of the John Lennon specs his eyes were terrified. He licked his pale lips.

“Look, Angus,” I said. “Why don’t you talk to Jake? He’s a cop. Maybe he can help.”

“He’s a homicide detective,” Angus muttered. “Plus he doesn’t like me.”

True on both counts, but I tried anyway.

“He doesn’t dislike you, really. Besides, you’ve got to talk to someone. This is

harassment.”

“Harassment?” His voice shot up a notch. “I wish it was harassment! They’re going to

kill me.”

A customer lurking in the Dell Mapbacks coughed. I realized we were not alone in the

bookstore.

I gestured to Angus. He followed me back to the storeroom that served as my office. So

far we’d had a grand total of three customers browsing the shelves on this gloomy November

day. I half shut the door to the office, turned to Angus.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” I sort of knew what the hell was going on, so I

added, “Exactly.”

I thought my tone was pretty calm, but he put his hands out as though to ward me off.

“I can’t talk about it,” he gabbled. “I mean, if I talk about it, if I reveal the secrets of the –”

He swallowed The Word. “They’ll kill me.”

“I thought they were already trying to kill you?”

“I mean physically kill me.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. I sounded like Jake.

Angus caught the skeptical note in my voice. “Adrien, you don’t understand. You’ve

never – they know where I live. They know where I work. They know where Wanda lives.

They know where Wanda works. They –”

“Why don’t you leave town for a while?” I interrupted. “It’s nearly Christmas. Why

don’t you…take a vacation?”

“It’s November.”

“It’s after Thanksgiving.”

Angus had worked at Cloak and Dagger Books for the past year, but I knew little about

him beyond the fact that he was finishing up an undisclosed undergrad program at UCLA

which seemed to entail an awful lot of courses in folklore, mythology, and the occult. He was

twenty-something, lived alone, and was a decent, if irregular employee. Lisa, my mother,

insisted that he was on drugs. Jake, my sometimes lover, was convinced that he was a

nutcase, but I tended to believe he was just…young. I studied him as he stood there in his

baggy black clothes, like an emigre from the dark side. He was shaking his head in a hopeless

kind of way, as though I still didn’t get it.

“Yeah,” I said, warming to the idea. “Why don’t you take Wanda and split for a week

or two? Let this all blow over.” I dug through the desk drawer for my checkbook.

Not that I believe throwing money at a problem solves the problem – unless the

problem is lack of money. And not that I ordinarily recommend trying to run away from

your problems, but this particular problem rang a few bells for me. Or so I thought at the

time.

Angus stood silent while I wrote out the draft. I tore it off. When I handed it to him,

he stared at it. He didn’t say a word. Then, as I watched, a tear slid down his face and

dropped on the check. He gave a great shuddering sigh, started to speak.

I cut him off. “Listen, kiddo, do us both a favor. Crank calls from the crypt are bad for

business.” I headed for the door.

* * * * *

“You did what?” said Jake.

I had been about ten minutes late meeting him at the car dealership on East Colorado

Boulevard. My ten-year-old Bronco was on its last legs, and Jake seemed to believe that I was

incapable of making an informed buying decision unless he was my informant.

“Gave him eight hundred bucks. Told him to take Wanda Witch away for the

holidays.” I gazed at the rows of sleek sports cars and rugged-looking SUVs gleaming in the

tequila sunset. Palm trees rustled overhead. Tinny Christmas carols issued from the

loudspeakers in not-so-subliminal messaging.

I watched Jake’s blond and buff reflection materialize behind me in the windshield.

“Eight hundred bucks? You have eight hundred bucks to throw around?”

I shrugged. “I’ll write it off as his Christmas bonus.”

“Uh-huh.” I felt him study my face. “Well, Mr. Trump, is there any point in our going

inside?”

“Did you never hear of the great American tradition of financing?”

He snorted. I met his tawny gaze. “How the hell is running away supposed to solve

anything?” he asked, and for a second, I thought we were talking about something else

entirely.

“I wasn’t looking for a long-term solution.” Before Jake could answer, I added, “I doubt

if I need one. They’re kids. They have the attention span of…what is it? One minute for each

year of life. We’re looking at twenty minutes of terror. Tops.”

Jake’s lips twitched, but he said, “These kids are all part of a witch’s coven based out of

Westwood?”

I stroked the hood of a silver Subaru Forester. “New meaning to the words ‘Teen Spirit,’

huh?” I studied the sticker price on the window. “From what I’ve picked up, they all took

part in a class on demonology or witchcraft about a year ago. I guess somebody inhaled too

much incense during the lab.”

“They went off and started a coven?”

“I’m guessing. It’s not like Angus has been forthcoming on the subject. Revealing

Count Chocula’s secrets carries a stiff penalty.”

Red and green Christmas lights strung across the lot flashed on. They reminded me of

glowing chili peppers, but maybe I was subconsciously influenced by the Mexican restaurant

across the street. I remembered I hadn’t stopped for lunch. My stomach growled. I wondered

if Jake could take time for dinner.

If I whined about being hungry, he’d make time. He was appalled by my eating habits,

being one of these fitness fanatics who believes the rule about three balanced meals a day is

engraved on a stone tablet. We hadn’t seen much of each other lately. I was willing to risk

another lecture on the benefits of complex carbs.

“You shop around, you compare prices, you get the vehicle right for you,” he observed,

watching me linger over the Forester.

“Sure.”

“You don’t need another gas guzzler. How about a coupe? How about pre-owned?”

“Used?”

At my tone, a muscle tugged at the corner of his mouth. Reluctantly I moved down the

aisle of cars to a blue two-door. Tinted windows, power sun roof, Bose speakers. The price

was right, too. Climate controlled. What did that mean? Air conditioning?

Jake said suddenly, grimly, “Believe it or not, this kind of shit can get way out of hand.

Hollywood PD turned up a Jane Doe in the Hollywood Hills about a month ago. Word is she

was the victim of a ritual killing.”

“You mean, like, devil worshipers?”

I was mostly kidding, but Jake said thoughtfully, “I kind of wish you hadn’t sent the kid

out of town. I’d have liked to talk to him.”

“You can’t think Angus is involved in that,” I protested. “He’s a bit odd, granted, but

he’s a decent kid.”

“You have no idea what he is, Adrien.” Jake, a ten-year veteran of LAPD, used that cop

tone when I exhibited signs of civilian naivete. “You’ve employed him for a few months,

that’s all. You hired him through a temp agency. You think they ran a serious security

check?”

“You think it’s necessary for working in a mystery bookstore?”

He wasn’t listening. “There’s this whole satanic underground we’ve been hearing about

since the ’80s. There might not be evidence of an organized movement like certain religious

groups claim, but we’ve seen plenty of injuries and deaths resulting from people taking this

stuff seriously. And plenty of people turning up in psych wards. It’s ugly and violent, but a

lot of kids are attracted to it.”

“So hopefully this scares the hell out of Angus, and he gets it out of his system.” I tried

to picture myself behind the wheel of the coupe, gave it up, headed back to the silver

Forester.

* * * * *

When I finished signing the loan docs, Jake and I went across the street to grab dinner

at the cantina. I had traded in the Bronco, and since the dealership was going to install a

stereo system in the new vehicle, I needed a ride back to my place. Jake let himself be

coerced.

While we waited for our meal, I watched him put away two baskets of tortilla strips.

He munched steadily, as though he were being paid by the chip, gaze fastened on a wall

planter bristling with plastic bougainvillea.

Still crunching, he paused mid-reach for his Dos Equis. “Sure. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem preoccupied.”

“Nope.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer, eyes on mine. “Everything’s cool.”

Our relationship was not an easy one. Jake was deeply closeted. He claimed it was

because he was a cop – that the job was tough enough without having to go to war with the

guys who were supposed to be on your side – but I’d come to believe that it was more

complicated. Jake despised himself for being sexually attracted to men. Though he had been a

good friend to me and was a physically satisfying lover – when he was around – there was a

certain tension between us that I sometimes feared could never completely be resolved.

Which was a damn shame, because I cared for him. A lot.

When we’d first met, he’d been active in the S/M scene. I thought – hoped – maybe

he was less active in the clubs these days.

What I did know for sure was that he was dating a woman, a female cop named Kate

Keegan. He’d been seeing her longer than he’d known me; I didn’t think it was just a cover

relationship. But he didn’t discuss it much with me.

“So I hear Chan’s writing a book.”

A few months earlier Jake’s partner, Detective Paul Chan, had joined Partners in

Crime, the weekly writing group I hosted at the bookstore.

“Yeah, a police procedural.”

“Is it any good?”

“Uh, well…”

Jake laughed, shoved the basket of chips my way.

* * * * *

The next day, Friday, I had to prepare for a book signing with bestselling author

Gabriel Savant. Savant wrote the Sam Haynes occult detective series, sort of an update on the

old Jules de Grandin and John Thunstone pulps. I’m not a big fan of horror, but I had

skimmed Savant’s latest in an effort to facilitate discussion should the question-and-answer

session peter out too fast. Not that I expected a problem. After an initially lackluster career in

the ’80s, Savant had reinvented himself and his work and was now a media darling. Hustling

around in anticipation of a significant turnout that evening, I wished ungenerously that I had

delayed rescuing Angus till after the weekend.

I was arranging the front display of Savant’s latest, The Rosicrucian Codex, wondering

if I had enough bottles of four-dollar champagne, when I received another call from the dark

side.

“Speaking of pricks,” I interrupted, “You’re wasting your time. Angus doesn’t work

here anymore.”

“Wh –?” He – the voice was male – caught himself. There was a pause, then a click as

the receiver slammed down.

I tried *69, but the number was blocked. Not a surprise, I guess. I knew, of course, that

it wouldn’t end there.

Sure enough, later that afternoon I got another caller requesting “Gus.” This time the

voice was feminine, dulcet-toned. In all the time Angus has worked for me, I’ve only known

one female to call him, and that was his girl friend, Wanda. Wanda is not dulcet-toned. She

sounds like she was weaned on unfiltered Marlboros.

“Sorry,” I said in answer to the query. “He’s not here.”

“Oh, gosh,” she fretted. “I’ve got to talk to Gus. It’s, like, an emergency.”

“Like an emergency, but not?”

“What?”

“Forget it.” I said, “Look, he’s gone. For real. Spread the word.”

A pause. Then she faltered, “I’m not sure…?”

I decided to try a different approach. “Can I get your name? Maybe he’ll phone me

once he gets settled. You’re a friend of Angus’s?”

She laughed a tinkling laugh, a party-girl laugh. “Well, ye-aah! Of course! And I’ve got

to talk to him. He wants to talk to me, believe me.”

“Oh, I do,” I said with equal sincerity. “But he’s gone. Skipped. I’d like to help,

but…hey, why don’t you leave your name and number, and if he gets in touch with me, I’ll

let him know you called.”

Another hesitation. Then she said coolly, “Sure. Tell him Sarah Good called. He knows

the number.”

666?

She replaced the phone gently. I followed suit. I caught a glimpse of my rueful

expression in the mirror across from the counter. Sarah Good. One of the first of the Salem

witches to be hanged. Cute.

Well, on the bright side, at least the kids were getting some history at school.

* * * * *

By six-thirty, it was standing room only in the store. I realized I had seriously

miscalculated both the champagne and how much help I would need. I’d never seen so many

teenagers in black lipstick – boys and girls – or chainmail jewelry on middle-aged men who

didn’t ride Harleys.

Not that it wasn’t great to see people reading. Especially people who looked as though a

book would be their last choice of entertainment. I just hoped the evening wouldn’t end

with broken furniture or the building struck by a lightning bolt.

Running next door, I bribed the girls closing the travel agency to lend a hand with the

crowd control.

By seven-fifteen, our illustrious author was officially late, and the natives were getting

restless. There was a line of women waiting to use the washroom and a nasty argument about

the origins of the swastika brewing near the “cozy corner.” A local reporter tried to

interview me about my involvement in a murder case the previous year. I resisted the

impulse to finish off the last of the drugstore champagne and hide in the stockroom.

At seven-thirty, there was commotion at the front door. Several people, clearly part of

an entourage, entered the store. Three leggy ladies dressed more like succubae than minions

of a reputable publishing house entered. A plump, bespectacled man drew me aside and

introduced himself as Bob Friedlander, Gabe’s handler.

Handler? Nice work if you could get it, I guess.

I didn’t catch most of what Friedlander said, because the next instant, the Prince of

Sales had appeared. Gabriel Savant stood over six feet tall and was built like a male model –

in fact, he looked like the male half of the illustration on a historical romance: unruly raven

hair falling over his tanned forehead, piercing blue eyes, flashing white smile. Were there

rhinestones in his teeth? Certainly something shone in his right earlobe. He wore leather

jeans and a black cape. Amazingly, nobody laughed.

“But this is charming,” Gabriel assured me, as Friedlander navigated his star in my

direction. “Of course, it’s not Vroman’s, but it’s nice.”

“Ambiance,” Friedlander said quickly. “Wonderful ambiance.”

“We try,” I said.

“Of course you do,” Gabriel encouraged. He glanced at his handler. “Bobby, what is

there to drink? I’m parched.”

Friedlander cleared his throat uneasily. Along with that musky aftershave of Gabe’s

wafted a mix of mouthwash and bourbon. Mostly bourbon.

“There’s brand-X champagne making the rounds,” I said.

You’d have thought I’d offered milk to a vampire. Gabe blanched. Swallowing hard, he

said, “Oh, God, let’s get this over with.” He strode over to the antique desk I had set up.

Enthusiastic applause from the waiting audience echoed off the dark beams.

“This book tour has been grueling,” Friedlander told me by way of apology. “Twenty

cities in thirty days…radio interviews at four in the morning, cable talk shows, book club

luncheons; often we’re doing three bookstores a day. Gabe is exhausted.”

“I bet you both are.”

He laughed. Behind the glasses, his mild eyes were unexpectedly alert. “A little. I

understand you write also.”

“A little.” Not enough, thank God, that anyone wanted to send me out on the road.

“You’re too modest. I’ve read Murder Will Out. Very witty.”

Either this guy did his homework like nobody I’d ever met before, or he was gay. My

books don’t attract many mainstream readers.

“But you need a hook,” he said. “A platform.”

“You don’t think a gay Shakespearean actor amateur sleuth is enough of a hook?”

“No. No way. Look at Gabe. He wasted years producing beautifully written, critically

acclaimed literary fiction that no one wanted to read, and then what happens? He comes up

with Sam Haynes, the occult detective. The rest is history.”

History, occult, and romance all spelled out in purple prose, I thought as Savant read

aloud from his latest masterpiece. He kind of reminded me of a hunky Vincent Price, but the

audience loved it. They stayed silent as the proverbial grave while he read. Not a whisper,

not a snicker. When he finished reading, he took questions. Lots of questions. His fans

wanted to know everything from Where He Got His Ideas (at which he turned up his elegant

nose, beckoning for the next question) to Was He Seeing Anyone.

“I’m seeing everyone,” Savant drawled and tapped his forehead, either to indicate the

Third Eye or that his busy social life was giving him a headache.

Maybe the bubbly helped, but the fans drank it right up.

Friedlander listened and ate pizza rolls like they were going out of style. Every so often,

as when Savant graciously referred to me as “Andrew,” he would smile nervously in my

direction.

And then a customer asked what Savant was working on now. Apparently this was the

question he’d been waiting for. He rose to his feet, shaking back the cape.

“As you know, I’ve made a fortune telling stories about the occult and its practitioners,

but my current project is not a mere work of fiction. During my research, I’ve uncovered

evidence of a real-life, secret cult, a sinister organization which has preyed upon the young

and naive for the past two decades. A cult right here in this very city . In my next book, I

plan to expose that cult and its leaders to the world.”

Bob Friedlander dropped his paper plate. Pizza rolls scattered across the hardwood

floor. I stooped to help retrieve them and saw out of the corner of my eye that Bob was

shaking. I glanced up. His round face was white, perspiring; he looked terrified.

I turned. Gabriel Savant beamed at his audience, most of whom were smiling and

chattering, delighted to learn that another of those pesky cults was soon to be history – and

a best-selling book. At the back of the room, however, stood a small group of young women.

They were dressed in black, lots of leather and lace, makeup and hair inspired by Halloween.

Elvira: the Early Years. They appeared to be hissing at Savant.

* * * * *

“I love this house,” Lisa sighed. “I’ve been so happy here.”

The first Saturday of each month I had brunch with my mother, at the ancestral ruins

in Porter Ranch in the North San Fernando Valley.

The brunch tradition began when I left Stanford and broke it to her that I would not be

returning to the nest. It shouldn’t have come as a shock – or even as bad news – but as she

had chosen not to remarry after my father’s death (despite a legion of eligible suitors), I was

all Lisa had in the world. As she rarely failed to remind me.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I agreed.

The house smelled of pine trees and cinnamon and apples. It felt warm and

Christmassy. In some ways it still felt like home. I’d taken my first steps in the marble foyer

(an initial attempt to make a break for it). I’d learned to drive in the quiet surrounding

streets. I’d experienced my first fumbling sexual encounter in the upstairs bedroom beneath

the fake open beams and poster of a boyishly grinning Robert Redford in The Natural.

“Although it really is too large for one,” she said, as though she had suddenly noticed

those additional sixteen rooms.

“Maybe you should think about moving,” I said heartlessly.

I had underestimated her as usual. “If I were to…move…do you think the house would

suit you and Jake?” she inquired innocently.

I inhaled my white-chocolate pear tartlet and spent the next moments wondering if the

last thing I saw would be the mental picture of me and Jake picking china at Neiman Marcus.

“Darling,” Lisa gently protested when I could breathe again. “You shouldn’t talk with

your mouth full.”

“You’re not serious about Jake and me moving in here,” I said.

“Why not? You seem awfully fond of him, and he’s…he’s…” I could see her searching

for something nice to say about Jake. “He’s a very efficient sort of person.”

The “why nots” were so many that I was speechless. The worst part of it all was that for

one split second I seriously considered it.

Seeing my moment of weakness, she moved in for the kill.

“It’s wonderful that you’re feeling so well these days, Adrien, but it doesn’t do to push

yourself too hard.”

“I’m not.”

She shook her head as though it were all no use. “The economy is so dreadful right

now, especially for small businesses.” As though Lisa had the foggiest idea about the

challenges of running a small business. “And when you talk about needing to expand, I

simply can’t help worrying about the stress and strain of an additional mortgage on you,

darling. Whereas this house is paid for free and clear.”

Like a fool, I said, “Even so, there’s no way I could begin to afford the upkeep.”

Her violet eyes widened at my naivete. “You’re going to be very wealthy one of these

days, darling,” she chided. “I know I could prevail upon Mr. Gracen to arrange something

with your trust fund.”

“Don’t start that again.” Funny how that money was absolutely untouchable when it

was for something I wanted that Lisa didn’t approve of, but right there at my fingertips if I’d

give in to whatever she wanted for me.

“If your poor father had realized that you would end up sacrificing your health

struggling to make ends meet –”

“Lisa, where is this going?” I broke in. “Are you thinking of selling the house? Is that

what this is about?”

I was amazed to see her turn pink.

“Um, sort of,” she said. An un-Lisa-like comment.

When she didn’t continue, I prodded, “And?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of getting married.”

Chapter Two

In the silence that followed her words, I heard one of the Christmas ornaments fall

through the branches of the ten-foot noble fir taking up a quarter of the dining room.

“Come again?”

“I’m thinking of remarrying.” Prettily blushing.

“Anyone I know?”

“Councilman Dauten.”

My fork clanged against the brass charger plate.

“Councilman? Is that what you call him? Doesn’t he have a first name?”

“You sound rather waspish, Adrien,” my mother observed. “Do you not like the idea?”

“Of Councilman Dauten? I’m not sure. Have I met this one?”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed. She said carefully and clearly, “Do you have a problem with the

idea of my remarrying?”

Did I? I wasn’t sure. Whatever I felt – and it was sort of a brakes squealing, glass

smashing, horns blaring reaction – it wasn’t logical. Whereas Lisa marrying was perfectly

logical. She was still young, considering the fact that she was my mum, and beautiful,

considering the fact that she was my mum.

“No, of course not,” I said. We both listened to my tone of voice. I said with more

energy, “No, I mean, if you’re happy. It’s…it’s kind of sudden, isn’t it?”

“It is!” she chirped, like that made it all the more wonderful.

* * * * *

I woke to a giant shadow looming over me. I started up, half asleep.

“Easy, easy. It’s me,” Jake said, sliding between the sheets. His hands and feet were like

ice as he pulled me into his arms.

I subsided, heart thudding hard. “I thought you couldn’t make it tonight?”

“Yeah, well.” He was silent.

The far wall was patterned in snowflake shadows thrown by the street lamps through

the lace window coverings. I heard flecks against the glass panes.

“Is it raining?” I half-lifted my head from the pillow of his chest.

“Just started.” He stroked his cold hand down my back, and as I shivered, gave my ass

an absent squeeze. “They found another one.”

Not fully awake, it took a while for his words to register. “Another what one?”

“Another DB.”

Cop-speak for dead body. Since Jake worked homicide, I knew that it had to be more

than just another body. I finally remembered our conversation of a few days earlier. “You

mean, like a ritual killing?”

He nodded. “Maybe. This one was older. Maybe a year old. Badly decayed. But there

were markings on the tree he was buried beneath.”

“Markings?”

“Symbols. We’ve got people working on them.” He stroked my back again, fingers idly

tracing the links of bone and cartilage. “It’s not like I haven’t seen weird shit. Decapitated

goats, disemboweled cats. Once I saw a cow’s tongue nailed to a tree.”

“Those wacky Baptists.”

Jake snorted. “You’re a funny guy.”

“Funny boy is the way I remember it.”

I felt rather than saw him smile at the memory of our recent vacation in the land that

time forgot, the northern Mother Lode country.

“They estimate there’s like fifty thousand Santeria devotees in LA County. But this

is…different.” He was quiet. I hated to imagine what he was remembering. “Adrien, do you

honestly not know where Angus went?”

I rolled on one elbow, tried to read his face in the gloom. “You’ve got to be kidding me.

Angus ?”

“I’d just like to talk to him.”

“Jake, no damn way was he involved in anything like this. I know him that well.”

“I’m not saying he’s involved. But if he’s on the fringe of that scene, maybe he’s heard

something.” He asked neutrally, “Did you send him up to the ranch?”

“No!” In fact, it hadn’t occurred to me to send Angus to Pine Shadow, the ranch I had

inherited from my grandmother many years before. I wondered why I’d missed such a

simple solution.

At last I said, “I don’t know where he is. I gave him the money and told him to leave

town.”

“Could you take a guess?”

I shook my head. The rain drummed down harder now. We listened to it for a while.

He tugged me back down. I rested my cheek against his chest, listening to the thump of his

heart.

I said, “If he calls, what do you want me to tell him?”

“Whatever you think will get him back here to talk to me.”

We lay like that for a time. I started to relax back into drowsiness, lulled by Jake’s lazy

caresses.

“How tired are you?” he asked, breaking the silence.

I chuckled.

The weight and warmth of our bodies moving in the tangled sheets. The pleasant

friction of rough jaws, and hairy legs and arms, and lightly furred chests brushing against

each other. The softness of mouths and eyelashes and silky hair…

He guided me onto my belly, and I spread my legs, shivering as Jake spread the warm

gel in the cleft between my buttocks. He worked the tip of his finger, pressing against that

first instinctive resistance, always careful, always taking his time, although it wasn’t

necessary these days which I seemed to spend primed and ready for his cock’s penetration.

I sighed, pushing back, and his finger slipped inside the dark heat of my body. I

murmured approval. “More, Jake.”

He eased the second finger in, teased a little, and I caught my breath.

“Good?”

“You know it is.” I drew my knees under me, raising my ass in invitation. Please,

Jake…”

Instead I got a slow, tantalizing third finger working me with maddening, delicious

deliberation. I groaned. “Will you just do it?”

“Do what?”

“Fuck me.”

He murmured, breath against my bare back, “Not sure I caught that.”

“Jake,” I pleaded, humping against his hand. “Fuck me. Please.”

Ah, the magic word.

We shifted around, bed springs squeaking, I got on my hands and knees, and he knelt