Desperate Enemies 3 by Adam Carpenter (latest ebook reader .txt) 📕

and determination, a take no prisoners approach to life. It made me jealous that I wasn't as sure of myself as you were. That cocky confidence, it's what led me to your bed that night we met at the gallery in New York, it's what's kept me in your bed ever since.”

“But now?”

“Now you went too far,” Marc said.

“Because of Parker.”

“Fuck, Parker,” Marc said a bit too loudly for a public display, “I mean, it's not who you had sex with, it's the fact that you swore your ever-loving devotion to me just that morning, on the day of the biggest night of my life. You said no more fucking around, no more cheating, and what do you do. . . not twelve hours after making love to me and promising me all your tomorrows, you're letting Parker fuck you. Nice, Rich, way to live by your word.”

Rich had nothing to say, so he just let Marc enter the house first. He stood on the porch looking out over Eldon Court, watching as the lights dimmed in the houses of his neighbors, no doubt all of them exhausted by what Rose Emerson had just revealed. For a moment Rich eyed the verdant lawns that kept Eldon Court looking so beautiful, wondering if indeed a body was buried beneath it, ignored all these years while life was lived, lovers indulged their desires, all of them thinking they were immortal, that death couldn't possibly be in the plans for them.

Just then Rich made his way into the house, found Marc in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine. He didn't let him take that first sip; he just grabbed hold of Marc and thrust him against the wall, his mouth kissing him, hands fondling him. Marc resisted, pushing back, but then Rich ground his crotch into Marc's, his thickening cock pushing against his pants and against Marc's cock. He could feel Marc responding. See, that's what he needed to do, assert his power, show his lover that his confidence was still there. Live by example, you want something you go for it, and what Rich wanted right now was Marc.

He dropped to his knees and pulled Marc's shorts down over his hairy legs. Marc's cock popped out and Rich wasted no time in taking it into his mouth, sucking it with all his might, even as his fingers slid around and cupped Marc's tight little ass. He worked the buttons of his own shirt, opening it up and exposing his bare chest, thinking he would rub Marc's cock all over his fur, that's just how he liked it, but what he revealed was nearly hairless, the bandage from his wound dominating his muscled chest. Shit, shit, I want my life back, I want my lover back, he thought. As if to compensate for his unusual lack of manliness, Rich tried to murmur sexy words, muffled by the presence of the cock in his mouth. His mind heard those sweet nothings and they urged him on, determined, yeah, suck it, suck it, make me feel that hot come in my mouth, let me drink from the man of my dreams. . .

Just then Marc pushed Rich away, knocking him to the floor with surprising force.

“It doesn't work that way, Rich, you can't just suck me and think everything is going to be fine,” Marc said, sudden vehemence rising from his throat. “I'll be sleeping in my studio for awhile until I figure out what I want to do about. . . us.”

Rich, panting on the floor, his cock deflated, feeling ridiculous in his half-dressed state, said, “Is that possible, Marc. . . an ‘us'?”

“See, that's the problem, Rich,” he said, “To you it's always us, which in your world could mean more than just you and me, it could include any man you see and decide to fuck. What I would have loved to hear from you is whether there is hope for ‘we.'”

Marc left him then, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs softening the further up in the house he went, until they were silenced. Rich was alone. He gathered himself up and grabbed at the glass of wine that Marc had poured and drank it down in one, needy gulp. Then Rich North retired upstairs to his room, uniquely alone in his big sprawling bed, the gap between him and Marc as wide as it had ever been, and he wondered if there was any hope for them.

Maybe the bullet should have taken his life and spared Aaron's.

For the first time since the shooting, Rich knew how Paolo felt, alone not just in bed but in this world.

* * * *

Paolo Bautista arrived at the Bayside Hotel that next Monday afternoon, surprised that he'd had the guts to make it this far. He had slept terribly, tossing and turning in the night and finally giving up, tossing on the DVD of Black Velvet, where he watched a younger version of Rose Emerson vamp her way across the silver screen with her deadly garrote, all the way to the final shot where she popped a cork of her beloved bubbly and, as she drank, winked at the camera before it all went black.

The image had shattered whatever confidence Paolo had gathered over the past couple of days. He'd dared to venture outdoors, he'd met with his neighbors, he'd learned there was a plan in place to enable them to keep their homes. . . and then the flashes of death, blood, the pop of the cork like a gun going off, and he was back where he'd been the day of Aaron's funeral. Lost, adrift, and tired of all the machinations. He finally fell asleep to taunting dreams, and when he woke he knew what he had to do. It took all morning to muster up the energy, the guts, but then he just told himself that if he was ever truly going to move forward, now was his chance