Bone Rider (7 page)

Still, he followed the interstate out of the city past where it curved up north toward the New Mexico border before he took an exit and found a gas station. Fatigue really hit him when he was filling up the tank. Probably the lack of movement. He’d been up and about for more than twenty-four hours, stressed out beyond belief for the past six, and even though he’d been perfectly all right driving he was starting to seriously long for a bed. He’d noticed a few big chain motels while coming down the exit ramp and headed for the nearest one as soon as he was done at the gas station.

Within twenty minutes, Riley was riding the elevator up to the fourth floor and almost staggering down a long, empty corridor to a nice, quiet room. He locked up, dropped his duffel on the dresser next to the TV set, and made a beeline for the bed, shedding clothes as he went. He fell asleep on top of the covers, naked and grimy, his body still humming with the echo of driving and the lingering not-quite-memory of pain.

H
E
DREAMED
of Misha.

That in itself wasn’t surprising. Misha had been a permanent fixture in Riley’s dreams pretty much since they’d first met. Wet dreams, funny dreams, bizarre dreams, soul-chilling nightmares; he’d had them all. Riley had gotten used to it, had resigned himself to revisiting Misha for as long as it took to relegate this particular mistake to the back of his mind with the other skeletons of his past. What Riley wasn’t used to, though, was the location of the current dream. He didn’t fantasize about outer space. Ever. Riley was a down-to-earth type of person; he preferred to keep both feet firmly on the ground. He wasn’t even tempted by the Mile High Club. Yet here he was, in an empty, spacious room made of what looked like metal but felt warm under his bare feet, staring through a glass wall into the star-dotted nothingness beyond. It creeped him out.

“You’re shivering,” a voice said from behind him. “Are you cold?”

It wasn’t Misha’s voice, but when Riley turned around, there was Misha. Or not. It looked like Misha—tall and strong, short hair, that once-broken nose that added so much character to an already unreasonably handsome face, even the faint outlines of Misha’s skull-and-stars tattoos—only it was a Misha made of the same silvery metal that made up most of the room. It was such an odd combination of right and wrong Riley couldn’t do anything but stand there and stare. The metal Misha stared back for a moment, then gave him a slow, thorough onceover, taking in every inch of Riley’s naked form.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, something close to awe in his unfamiliar voice. “Inside, too. You fit me perfectly. This is amazing. It’s so
easy
. I never thought I could
want
to touch. I never realized I could
feel
so much.”

Riley resisted the urge to cover himself with his hands and conceal his cock’s instinctive reaction to his hungry regard and Misha’s proximity. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t his Misha, not even one of the usual dream versions of him. Riley hadn’t gotten laid since New Orleans; it didn’t take much to get him going. No reason to be ashamed or to hide from what he assumed might well be his own subconscious. Who cared if he popped wood in the privacy of his own mind, right? Though, honestly, he’d never had such a weird dream before. He could’ve sworn he was wide awake even though he knew he was sleeping soundly.

“What the hell is happening here?” he asked, somewhat relieved to find at least
his
voice was still his own.

“Does it matter?” the figure wearing Misha’s face whispered, stepping right up to him. “You’re dreaming.” Lips brushed Riley’s, sleek and cool. “So warm,” the stranger breathed. He touched Riley’s face with one hand and put the other on Riley’s hip to pull him closer, tight against that sculpted, silver body. Not Misha. Definitely not Misha. Same size, same form, same scars, and yet so different. It felt a little like cheating, which was… yeah. No.

“You taste so good. Let me in,” not-Misha coaxed when Riley balked, tripped up by conflicting emotions and innate cussedness. “I’m sorry I hurt you before. It was necessary—I needed to connect—but I didn’t realize it’d be so painful for you. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make you feel so nice. Please, Riley. Let me in. Give me access. I won’t hurt you again, I swear.”

Riley wasn’t sure what the apparition was talking about, but the fingers trailing down to cup and squeeze his ass distracted him and the gentle rub of a smooth cheek against his own soothed some of the tension out of him. God help him, he wanted it. This wasn’t Misha, no matter how much it looked like him, but the desire was real. He could almost taste it in the air and it turned him on, made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t since he’d left Misha.

Misha had spent months dismantling Riley’s protective barriers, had chipped away at his walls until he’d managed to worm in, and he’d done damage that couldn’t be repaired in a few short weeks. Riley didn’t have his self-control back yet, couldn’t distance himself from his passions the way he used to. The sheer force of the silver man’s want bulldozed over the brittle remains of Riley’s defenses with an enthusiasm that was hard to resist, all hands and soft lips and need. So much need. It certainly didn’t help that Misha had spoiled Riley, the sex with him too easy, too readily available, and too damn good. Intimacy could be a drug, and Misha had been a ruthless pusher. Riley had gone cold turkey the past two months and this was a dream, after all: no actual danger, no consequences.

He could have this. It wasn’t real.

“That’s right,” the fake Misha breathed, nuzzling Riley’s throat right where it made Riley’s knees go weak and almost cooing in delight when he noticed Riley’s reaction. “Oh,
oh
, I felt that, that was
sweet
. You are so… why isn’t this filthy with you? Why is it so….” Riley tensed a little and not-Misha immediately pressed closer, distressed. “It’s okay. It’s all right. Nothing bad will happen to you, I swear. I won’t let it. I’ll protect you. Just… let me… let me… please. Never wanted anything so much. Let me
in
.”

Riley didn’t answer verbally, but he took a deep breath and made himself relax, allowed himself to reach up and hug back.

Just a dream
.

Nothing could happen except maybe waking up to wet sheets. This was safe. It was nothing but a dream. And he wanted it so much, needed to be touched, needed to touch.

Not-Misha’s skin was flawless and warmed under his fingers as they moved against each other, exploring and caressing. He felt solid, not like any dream Riley had ever dreamed, but he didn’t smell like anything and when Riley finally opened his mouth and slipped his tongue between those glossy lips, he tasted nothing. It was like licking a knife, only without the cutting edge. Judging from the greedy way the silver man kissed him back, the same wasn’t true in reverse. Riley had never been so thoroughly tongue-fucked in his life. His knees buckled and he let them, let the stranger ride him to the ground and rut against him with an eagerness that was kind of funny, kind of endearing, and more than a bit flattering. Riley’s dick was happy between their bellies, squeezed and rubbed rhythmically by the flex and grind of their hips against each other, and Riley gave up thinking and focused on getting off.

Which he did. Spectacularly. Repeatedly. On the floor with not-Misha above him, under him, around him, in him, all over him. Against the wall, blind to the bleak vastness beyond. On his knees, getting rimmed and blown and fucked until he screamed. Between not-Misha’s legs, panting into unnaturally smooth skin, rutting into slick heaven. At some point, the odorless, tasteless body moving against his developed a scent and a flavor. It took Riley some time to realize it was his own, mirrored back at him as if it was the best thing ever, rich and addictive. It might’ve freaked him out if he hadn’t been so busy coming again.

He lost himself in it, let it happen. For once, he lowered his guard and allowed himself to believe this wouldn’t turn into a nightmare. And it didn’t. It wasn’t whom he really wanted, but it was good. Mind-blowing, actually. Also, completely absurd; and that made it even better. He couldn’t have let go and let it happen if it had been real. He had too many issues, was too screwed up for casual sex, no matter how amazing. With the walls melting around them, outer space turning into Texas hill country, what should’ve been stony earth warm and satiny under his back and the sky above spinning slowly into a velvety dreamscape, he felt secure. He could tolerate it when, at the end of it, the silver man pulled him closer, not to initiate another round of fucking but to hold him tightly, as though he cared. There was a knot in Riley’s chest and it hurt, but this wasn’t real, nothing but a dream, so he let it happen, let himself cling back for a little while.

He finally drifted off into deeper slumber, worn out and completely satisfied, his limbs tangled up with not-Misha’s and his head resting on not-Misha’s broad chest as if it belonged there. The last thing he felt was the gentle press of lips against the crown of his head while he listened to the absence of a heartbeat.

R
ILEY
woke up by himself later that day, no eighteen-wheeler necessary. He didn’t experience any disorientation, either. He knew exactly where he was and how he’d gotten there. The curtains were closed and the A/C unit turned off, so the room was dim and hot. It smelled like sex, a blend of salty sweat and musky spunk that was pungent, but not unpleasant. Forcing himself to stay still for a while, Riley took stock of his surroundings and the less tangible aspects of his overall condition. Unsurprisingly, he was alone. Unfortunately, the feeling that he wasn’t had intensified. He was well rested, which meant he’d gotten at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. He was also stuck to the covers and sore in places where he most definitely shouldn’t have been sore.

Carefully keeping his mind blank, he got himself unstuck and turned around to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. He assumed it was probably beige. Hard to tell in the gloom. His nipples felt tender when his fingers skimmed over them. He swallowed. There was a little crack in the plaster next to the light fixture. His dick was soft and sensitive to the touch, which was to be expected, but…. The curtain rod needed dusting. The curtains were clean, though, as far as he could tell. He lifted one leg and gently traced a finger over the aching, yielding entrance to his body. Definitely not his own doing.
Curtains
, he thought quickly. Dark. Dark curtains. Man, he needed a shower.

The mattress barely squeaked when Riley got up abruptly. He went to the dresser and rummaged through his duffel for his toiletries bag and a change of clothes, then made his way to the bathroom. The neon lights activated with a buzz when he hit the switch, but Riley barely noticed the brightness in his effort not to look in the large mirror. He dropped his stuff onto the vanity, pissed, washed his hands, then grabbed his toothbrush and one of the small bars of generic soap and stepped into the bathtub. The water was cold when it first hit him and he was grateful for the distraction it provided. The “not thinking” thing had never really worked for him, and he was having trouble staying in the zone. It helped to concentrate on the essentials.

He adjusted the temperature and brushed his teeth while the water warmed and cleansed his sweaty skin and soaked his short hair until it was plastered to his skull. He spat and rinsed, then stuck the toothbrush between his teeth while he washed himself quickly and efficiently. He chewed on the plastic grip a little, bounced it up and down, up and down, got a rhythm going that served to both distract and calm him. It worked until he got to cleaning between his legs; the lather burned just enough to make him extremely aware of how well used his body was. He closed his eyes, focused on the hard plastic between his teeth.

Up, down. Up, down. Don’t think. Don’t think.

He finished up swiftly, turned off the water, and snatched a towel from the rack. Dried off, stepped out of the tub. Stuck his toothbrush into one of the complimentary plastic cups, put on underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt. Grabbed his shaving kit; shaved. Everything was done calmly, methodically, with great care and diligence. He needed the time to get a handle on his situation, work it through without thinking too loud, because there might just be something listening in. When he was done both with his morning rituals and the underlying data processing, he slowly lifted his head and finally met his own gaze in the mirror.

His eyes looked back at him solemnly, slate gray in the harsh, artificial light, nothing unusual about them. No marks on his face. His throat didn’t feel raw anymore. He looked normal; you couldn’t even tell he was spooked.

He stared at his reflection for a few minutes, trying to see if anything had changed, wondering whether he’d gone off the deep end. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t feel insane, but he figured most crazy people didn’t or there’d be more of them checking themselves into proper care facilities. There was a watchfulness in him now that he didn’t think was entirely his own, a tension that was seated at the base of his skull instead of his belly. A tickling, barely noticeable scritch-scritching against his collarbones and hips. He tried to wait it out, but it soon became clear nothing was going to happen until he did or said something to get the ball rolling. Well, if he was wrong, the worst thing that could happen was that he’d make a fool out of himself where nobody could see. Riley could deal with that, so he leaned forward a little and cleared his throat.

“I know you’re there,” he said.

No response.

“I know you’re there,” Riley repeated. “I can feel you. Listen, I just want to talk to you. I won’t freak. I just wanna talk.”

No response, but the watchfulness slowly shifted into a vague feeling of indecisiveness that was at once promising and disconcerting.

“Come on,” Riley coaxed quietly, trying to project a non-judgmental attitude. “Show yourself.”

He had sensed something in the back of his mind, at the edges of his consciousness, since he’d woken up face down on the road. He’d suspected something was going on with him that couldn’t be dismissed as another facet of his current Misha-induced paranoia. He’d been almost certain he hadn’t worked his body open himself, because that was something he didn’t do in his sleep, and the door had been locked, and he was almost positive he hadn’t been drugged so he’d let someone in and not remember. Yet when his eyes suddenly flashed silver, he still damn near pissed himself.