Geography of Murder (15 page)

Maybe he had. My hair was a rat's nest. I didn't even
want to think what my mouth tasted like. I ached in
places I didn't know I had. But over it all, I was tired
but sated, relaxed into a place I had never been. It felt
like home.

Not ready to face the world I crawled back under the covers and let myself drift in and out of sleep. The bed smelled so much like Alex that I dozed in a semi-permanent state of hardness. Memories of last night kept me that way.

I'd done some bondage play in the past when someone asked for it, but I had never really gotten into the scene. But last night ... surrendering so completely to another person had been totally liberating. I had felt and done things I had never imagined possible before. I'm pretty sure Alex had the same experience. Certainly his enthusiasm had burned through the night and I was amazed he could get up and go to work today. It was safe to say neither one of us got much sleep.

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As I drifted down into a deeper sleep I wished Alex would come home. I needed him.

Eventually I woke up, showered and went in search of something to eat. I wasn't up for anything heavy, so I settled for cold cereal and OJ. And coffee. Lots of coffee. I carried the fourth cup out to the neglected backyard. I had brought my Bushnell binoculars from home. I slid into the Adirondack chair and fell to scanning the shaggy crowns of white-limbed sycamores, twisted ficus and bare branches of cottonwoods that separated Alex's property from his neighbors.

In my search through the kitchen I came across a set of house keys. I pocketed them. Alex hadn't given them to me, but he hadn't specifically forbidden me to leave the house, either. As the day lengthened I grew restless. If I'd had my car, I might have driven into town. Instead I decided to take a hike, literally.

Along with my Bushnells I brought a pair of sturdy hiking boots. I rarely went very far without either.

I wasn't planning on going far today. Maybe some other time I could plan a more extensive hike. I knew Goleta was in the shadow of the Los Padres National Forest and someday I planned to visit it. For today I would be content to cruise some of the back roads, see if I could scare up anything interesting. Trying not to look like some sissified city boy, I threw on jeans and a flannel shirt over a plain black T-shirt. I hung my binocs around my neck, grabbed a bottle of water from the well-stocked fridge, tested the key on the front door, wrote a short note for Alex—I knew he'd be pissed if he came 144

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home and didn't find some explanation for my absence—and set off north, out of town.

Alex lived on the northeastern side of Goleta. It wasn't long before I left the last straggle of houses and small ranches and entered wilder country. Large treed lots and fields of tule and rabbit grass crowded along the lower areas.

Yellow willow bushes, cottonwoods and alders lined the road and on the distant slopes massive California live oaks and sycamores swayed in the gentle down slope breezes, before giving way to the evergreens on the upper slopes. It was mid-morning, so the bird population was hunkered down for the day. Still, I managed to spot a rufous-backed kestrel. I watched him hunt, hovering over the ground, looking for morsels in the grassy verge. An olive flycatcher flitted through the yellow willow, and I think I even heard the yick-yick of a Lewis's Woodpecker. I needed to get out a lot earlier if I wanted to do any serious birding. Not a likely prospect given Alex's nocturnal drives.

The day got away from me. The sun was dipping down over the distant ocean when I turned back. By the time I climbed the front driveway, passed Alex's Toyota, it was almost full dark. The door banged open before I could set foot on the front step.

Alex grabbed my arm and hauled me in to the foyer, which suddenly seemed a whole lot smaller than it had earlier. "You want to tell me where you went?"

I shook his hand off my arm. "I went for a walk. Or is that forbidden, too? I left you a note."

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"I saw it. You expect me to believe you were out all day
bird
watching?"

I lifted the binoculars and glared at him. "What the hell do you think I was doing? You think I was out there getting butt-fucked in the bushes?" He grabbed me again and I jerked away from him, stamping into the bedroom. "Think what you want. I think it's time I went home."

He came to stand in the doorway. "I don't want you to go,"

he said. It was probably as close to an apology as Alex was capable of. He stood, half-in, half-out of the bedroom, arms folded over his broad chest.

"I went for a lousy walk," I muttered, yanking off the heavy flannel shirt, leaving the T on. I folded the shirt and put it in my pack. "Am I supposed to be some kind of fucking prisoner here?"

"Of course not. But this isn't San Francisco or even Santa Barbara. Some folks up here might give you trouble if they find you walking out by yourself."

"You think I'm going to get gay bashed?"

"It's happened. Good ol' boys get a few beers in them and they're spoiling to find an ass to kick." He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. This time I didn't shake it off. "I just don't want yours to be one of them."

"You say the sweetest things," I muttered, too aware of the heat from his hand penetrating the cotton shirt. When he started kneading my shoulder I closed my eyes at the sensation.

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"I'm not going to fight with you," he said softly, stepping closer. His other hand closed over my collarbone and drew me against his hard body. His hands moved down to cup my ass.

"No? What are you going to do?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

My body clenched in response to his promise. I shivered when he lowered his mouth to mine. "You belong to me," he whispered. "Don't you ever forget it. Do you need me to show you again?"

I knew I should tell him I didn't belong to anyone, but the words wouldn't come. Instead I stared into his dilated eyes and tasted his tongue when he shoved it into my mouth. I reached up and stroked his unshaven cheek. "Yes, show me."

"Show you what?" he asked, twisting my nipple just hard enough to send a jolt of pain into my cock.

"Show me, Sir. Please, Sir."

"Strip." He left me while I obeyed, crossing over to his toy wall. When he came back he had a vial of oil and a thick acrylic dildo that must have been ten inches. I stared at the massive thing in awe. Did he really think I could get that inside me? He was going to tear me apart. Instead of scaring me the thought only sent a surge of blood to my dick, which swelled, jutting out of my hairless pubes. He stopped two feet from me. His gaze swept down me, stopping at my cock.

Handing me the oil he said, "Show me how much you want me. Touch yourself."

I poured a few drops of slick, sandalwood scented oil on my hand and smoothed it over the head of my cock. I closed my eyes at the sensation, imaging him doing the same thing.

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I took up the familiar rhythm, pumping myself, slipping down to pull and tug at my balls, then back up to stroke my cockhead. My chest hitched and I pumped more fiercely, seeking relief. Viscous precum smeared my belly. I opened my eyes to watch—

"Stop."

My hand froze, dropping away from my cock in silent protest. Not fair. I was so close. I focused my glazed eyes on him. He simply stood there, watching me through hooded eyes. Every nerve ending in me screamed for release, but I dare not finish it. The anticipation was killing me. I opened my mouth to beg him but a stern look silenced me. He circled, pausing every now and then to brush warm fingers over me: hips, thighs, chest, nipples, open mouth, each whisper of flesh touching me sent shards of exquisite pleasure straight into my already straining cock.

I rocked my hips forward. He slid the tip of the dildo between my ass cheeks. I clenched the cool object when it poked me. "Relax," he said.

I obeyed and he pushed the lubed-up acrylic tube up inside me. It was ridged perfectly to catch my prostate.

He leaned forward over my shoulder and breathed in my ear, "Let the games begin."

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I left him in the bathroom cleaning off my spunk and
went in to the kitchen. I had picked up a couple of
steaks and baking potatoes at Mediterra. When he
came out I'd get him to work on the salad and setting
the table. No way he was getting anywhere near my
steaks, though I might show him the right way to do
them. Jason was proving to be a pleasure to have
around, even outside the bedroom. I knew I needed to
kick this thing to the curb, before it caused me trouble,
but I wasn't ready to just yet. Surely in time I'd grow
tired of him and he'd go off to someone else. That
thought bit at me unpleasantly. I wasn't ready to share
Jason with anyone. Until I was, I was keeping him
close.

He came into the kitchen wearing skin-tight jeans and the black mesh shirt that showed off his delicious body to perfection. I paused in putting the cracked pepper on the thick strip loin, lightly salting it with sea salt I also picked up at the market.

He brushed by me, rubbing his packed groin against my ass. His hand brushed my hip. I swung my hand up and pinched his nipple, twisting the ring in it. He gasped.

I use the nipple ring to pull him closer to me. "Don't tease if you don't plan on following through."

He opened his mouth to speak and I pushed him back. "I'll take care of you later."

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"Now." He rubbed against me like a cat in heat.

"Brat." I smacked his ass, hard. He yelped and took at step back, rubbing bruised skin. "Don't push me, Jason. Make the salad."

I left him to cut up tomatoes and cucumbers. I already had the grill hot and soon the sizzle, pop and smell of cooking meat filled my property. He came out carrying two plates and utensil.

"We eating here or inside?" He kept his eyes averted.

I noticed he was shivering in his short sleeves and jerked my chin at the house. "Set up the table in there. See if you can find some candles. I'm sure I have some in one drawer or another. Then check on the baked potatoes. They should be done soon."

He nodded and vanished back inside.

The steaks were cooked to perfection, the potatoes, a dieter's nightmare with dairy butter and sour cream. The salad provided an excellent balance. This time, he cleaned up right after supper. One lesson learned well.

I selected the movie we watched that night. After studying each title long enough to have the younger man squirming in impatience, I picked A Streetcar Named Desire, causing Jason to mutter, "Don't you have anything in color?" I was feeling too laid back to punish his insolence. Sometimes I wonder if he uses his mouth to get me riled up so I
will
punish him. I'm sure he'll do something again in the future that will warrant a severe penalty. That was okay. I had some new suspension cuffs I hadn't yet had the chance to try. Jason would like those.

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The movie was almost over when I remembered the dead bird sitting down in forensics. No telling how long it would take them to get to it. We weren't exactly a high-profile case.

It could easily be weeks, if not months.

I left the room and went into my small, rarely used study where I kept my computer. Except for the odd download of porn or purchase of toys I didn't spend much time on it. I opened my email program, ignoring the rush of several hundred emails that promised to give me inches on my dick, sell me a Rolex for a song and entice me with all the millions I had already won in the Euro Lotto. I went straight to the folder I had set up to collect Nancy's emails. The one with the images attached to it was there. I didn't have a color printer so I needed Jason to come in here and look at them.

Fortunately I had splurged on a twenty-one inch monitor—the few times I watch porn online I liked to have the bigger images.

I left the monitor on the first image and returned to the living room for Jason. He padded after me, his bare feet soft whispers on my carpeted office floor. He stopped when he saw the screen images.

"What is that?"

"You tell me." I swung the monitor around to face him. He leaned over my shoulder and peered at the image of the shiny black bird in the box. I forwarded to the next one, then a third. There were five, from every angle. In some you could see my gloved hand holding the bird up so it was easier to see.

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"What is it?" I asked. "And don't tell me a bird. I know that."

"It's a raven," he said.

"Raven? Not a crow?"

"No way." He pointed at the image. "See the beak? It's a lot heavier in a raven. That beard on the breast is only found on ravens.
Corvus corax
." He must have caught my look because he said, "Latin name. They're a passerine, in the crow family." His enthusiasm for the subject showed in his voice. "Did you know they have images of ravens playing, something they used to say animals didn't do. But I saw these videos of ravens sliding down an icy hill on their backs—and they kept going back again and again. Like kids sledding. Tell me that's not playing." He stopped as though he realized I didn't share his enthusiasm. "Why do you want to know? What is this picture?"

"Somebody sent it to the son of a dead man."

"Jesus." He looked at me sharply. "Not Blunt? Did he have a son?"

"No, not Blunt at least not that we know of. Another guy."

Then in case just maybe he knew the guy, I said casually,