Immortality Is the Suck (12 page)

looks to me.”

“Why didn't you leave it on the scene, Adam? Christ, I don't know how I'm

going to explain this.”

“I had to,” I said. “I needed it.”

“Needed it? For what?”

“I drank it,” I said.

“What did you say?”

I repeated myself.

Peter's eyes rolled and the whites showed. He seemed to suddenly need to

sit down and I got a kitchen chair under him before he ended up on the floor.

“It was good,” I said. Sometimes I can't help myself. I have to drive that

nail into that proverbial coffin.

Peter lifted his chin and looked up at me. He looked completely weirded

out. Three deep lines etched across his brow as if his brain was hurting him.

“I felt better after I drank it,” I explained. “So I knew I needed it.”

No response.

“Peter? You see, that's how I know something's wrong here. I mean, I've

never needed to drink blood before. Actually, it's a disgusting thought. But

then, Freeway and then those kids at the gallery with their Transylvanian

bullshit…”

“Adam, get away from me.”

“What?”

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75

Peter covered his face. He repeated himself quietly.

“I can't leave, Peter. You saw what the sun did to me.”

“I didn't tell you to leave. Just…get away from me. I can't look at you right

now.”

This hurt.
Really
hurt. See what I mean about people? When was the last

time a line of coke made you feel shitty? “Fine, I'll take a shower,” I said, and

went to do so.

* * * * *

sauce. Peter's comfort food. I found him in the kitchen, standing over the pot

with a wooden spoon. I watched him from the doorway. He'd untucked his

work shirt and stood barefoot in his trousers, hair rumpled in the back from

his tendency to scrub at it when he was tired. A very light furze of golden

brown beard shaded his chin. His lower lip stuck out in that serious way it did

when he was thinking and he looked pensive. Peter's one of those bouncy men

who see the glass half-full, generally. I figured I could take credit for his

current mood.

“I might have used all the hot water again,” I said.

He shook pepper into the pot.

“At least you didn't try to shoot me this time.”

He frowned and tasted his sauce.

I looked around his kitchen. It looked like the sort of place an old grandma

would have. With pot holders and decorative canisters and all sorts of cooking

paraphernalia everywhere. I think I have a bottle opener and a microwave in

my apartment.

Once, a few years back, we'd had that big fight. When Peter had tried to

talk me into moving in and I'd laughed at him and told him I didn't need a wife.

I mean, the man's so fucking domestic, with his clean towels folded in his so-

called linen closet. And his immaculate cupboards and shelves. I'd been joking,

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A. M. Riley

right? He took offense, though, and there'd been a long Peter-free period. You'd

think I wouldn't care, but I'd gotten used to the guy and it irked me.

I kind of hoped we weren't going to have another one of those fights.

“Can you stand to look at me now?” I asked. “Because I need to know if

my hair looks stupid or not…”

“I didn't mean that before,” he said.

“Okay.”

“You should stay here until we get all this cleared up.”

“I don't want to put you out.”

He was silent, stirring. Then he asked, “You hungry?”

“Food doesn't agree with me lately,” I reminded him.

A flinch around the eyes, as if seeing something he didn't want to. He

nodded.

I decide to name the elephant in the room. “Wouldn't mind a pint of that

blood.”

He dropped the spoon in the pot and rested both his hands on the

gleaming stove top. Leaning there, with his head down. “Right.” He glared at

the pot of cacciatore.

“Listen, this is way out there, even for me. I'll handle it. It's not your…”

“We can explain the sunlight issue, I think. But the blood could be a

problem,” he said.

“A problem? Are you kidding?”

“There must be legal sources.” And he straightened and lifted his spoon

again.

You see? He was already thinking how to manage this. How to take care of

me. Damn it. Damn me and damn the situations I got the man into.

“I'm sorry,” I told him.

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77

He looked surprised. Which was no wonder. This may have been the first

time I'd ever apologized to him.

“I believe you are,” he said. I noted he didn't say
I forgive you
. Not that I

expected it. It's not that Peter's not a forgiving man. It's that the amount he has

to forgive is pretty extensive. It'll take more than one
sorry
to clear it.

Still, his mood had lifted a little and he bounced as he stirred. That's

Peter. Buoyant. It's one of the things that I liked about him. I could use a hit of

that juice, so I sidled up next to him and gave him a little hip bump.

He threw an easy arm around me.

It was a comforting feeling. Solid. In the midst of this weirdness, Peter's

warmth steadied me. It seeped into me. Into my legs, my balls. And there it was

again. I wanted him. I'd never been so horny in my life as I had been the past

twenty-four hours.

“So, what's next?” I asked, thinking if I played my cards right I might talk

Peter into a blowjob before dinner. I watched him taste the sauce, and felt a

tingle when I thought of those lips around my dick. Can you believe it? Over a

decade and I still got turned on by this man's mouth.

“It's time to call Stan,” said Peter, pouring beer into his sauce.

Any thoughts of sex I was having moaned and covered their eyes. “God,

no,” I protested.

Peter's lower lip poked out and he dropped his arm from around my waist.

“Stan has a right to know,” he said. “He's my partner.”

“He's an uptight prick.”

“So'm I, then,” said Peter. And his face got a hard look.

Right. Because Peter and Stan were partners. Comrades-in-arms. All for

one and one for…

“Fine,” I said, stepping away from him and turning and opening the door

that led to the garage. “I'll be out in the garage drinking blood. Call me when

your boyfriend shows up.”

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A. M. Riley

Peter tsked. “Adam…”

But I'd slammed the door behind myself.

* * * * *

sharp enough to know that I'm jealous of Stan.

Not like that. Sheesh. You think the LAPD is a bunch of closeted middle-

aged men all lusting after each other? Man, you read too much gay porn.

No, it was just that Peter and I were partners down in the Hollywood

Division Homicide department. And then he got offered the position at

Homicide Special.

“You want to stop for a steak?” Peter said, drawing on his jacket.

I shot him a surprised look. Peter had been moody and quiet all day. I'd

figured I'd stepped in it again somehow. “Sure.”

But at dinner, he was still moody and quiet. Poking his fork at the meat

instead of shoveling into his mouth like he normally would. And he passed on the

alcohol. “I've got something to tell you,” he said. “I've been promoted.”

That feeling you get just before a life-altering experience set its spur in my

gut. “A promotion.”

He'd been studying his plate; now he looked up at me. “Homicide Special.”

I managed to recover. “Congratulations.”

“I wish we were going together.”

I made the smile spread across my face. “Maybe if you tell them we're very,

very best friends.”

It didn't fool Peter. “This won't change anything.”

No. Except who would work with me but Peter? No one, as it turned out.

And I didn't have a taste for it anymore, anyway. Within six months I'd

transferred to Vice. Much more my style.

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79

I met Stan about a month after Peter had transferred. Came cruising by

Parker on some excuse and dropped by their combined desk, trying to look

casual. “Hey, you the guy that stole my partner?” I stuck out my hand.

Stan looked at my hand as if he doubted I washed in the men's room. One

hard firm shake and then he let go, turning back to his work. “Peter, you see this

evidence log?” he said. And Peter, after a quick smile at me, just picked up the

report Stan was holding and sat down next to him on the edge of his desk.

I don't know how long they continued that way, discussing their special

little case, because after five minutes, I left. That night I showed up at Peter's

place around midnight.

He opened the door, smiling. “Adam. You left this afternoon without saying

anything.” The last word was cut short as I'd grabbed him by both shoulders

and shoved him against the wall.

It was a possessive kiss, and I barely gave him time to breathe while I

muscled him into the bedroom, stripping his sleep shirt from him. Pushing him

onto his belly and holding him down while I bit at the back of his neck, rocking

my hard dick against his backside.

He moved uncomfortably, trying to free his arms which I held down by both

wrists.

“You're freaking me out,” he whispered. I could feel his hips twisting under

me. His voice husky. “I like it.”

“Shut up,” I whispered in his ear and nipped at the lobe for emphasis. “Lie

here and let me fuck you.”

He groaned softly and his legs moved farther apart.

It was fast and hard and I said some pretty demanding and possessive

things while I did it.

Mine.

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A. M. Riley

That was one of the infrequent occasions when I spent the night. Hands

and arms laced around Peter, lips pressed to the hickey I'd raised on his

collarbone.

The damned alarm went off at six a.m.

“Christ.” I covered my head with a pillow. “Why do you need to go in so

early?” Peter and I usually had worked the ten-to-six shift. But I'd heard that the

Homicide Special guys worked their own hours.

“Stan and I meet for breakfast.” He'd crawled over me and hopped out of

bed, grabbing a towel and then heading down the hallway.

That woke me up. Literally and metaphorically.

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81

Chapter Nine

I was sitting in an easy chair, nursing a beer and my grievances, when the

buzzer rang and Peter let Stan in.

Stan had that cement face he got when he was really pissed off. Like all of

his muscles were frozen into an expressionless mask and only his eyes and lips

moved. “Adam, I'm so happy to see you still alive.”

Stan didn't like me any more than I did him. I have to say that anyone

who knew and liked Peter would probably not like
me
, but Stan was Peter's

partner and so had a vested interest in Peter's mental health and physical well-

being. So Stan
really
didn't like me.

I'd guess that, in some dark recess of Stan's mind, he knew of Peter's and

my more intimate relationship. And I'm fairly certain this was just another

distasteful facet to the whole “unhealthful association” issue. But Stan didn't

need to know that Peter and I were fucking to dislike me.

I wasn't the kind of cop that good cops liked.

We all sat at the dining table. Stan had brought the combined files

regarding my homicide and that of Sergio Armante, the DEA agent. The “book”

was already encyclopedic in its breadth. Peter brought coffee for Stan and a

beer for me.

I needed the beer. The blood I'd consumed in the garage had me as keen

as a tuned Kawasaki, buzzing and horny and focused. So tight my edges

showed.

Stan gave me a narrow-eyed, discerning look, and I knew what he was

thinking. I'd be thinking it too, if I were him. I surmised that telling him it was

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the blood that pumped me up, not drugs, was unwise, so I let him think his

thoughts. “Evidence released your personal effects,” he said. He tipped a heavy

manila folder and my wallet, keys, cell phone, watch, and shield spilled out.

“Thanks, man.” But before I could snatch up the shield, Stan's hand

landed on my wrist.

“I don't think so.”

I'd never shown a lot of respect for the job, so I was surprised by how