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L. A. Mischief

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L. A. Mischief

by

P. A. Brown

A novella featuring David Laine and Christopher Bellamere

Including a bonus: two David and Chris short stories

Halloween Pickup

Kidnapped

Bristlecone Pine Press * Portland, Maine

Bristlecone Pine Press, an imprint of Maine Desk, LLC

10A Beach Street, Suite 2

Portland, ME 04101

First Bristlecone Pine Printing, August 2008

Copyright © 2008 P. A. Brown

All rights reserved

Brown, P. A.

L. A. Mischief: a novel/ P. A. Brown

Halloween Pickup: a short story/P. A. Brown

Kidnapped: a short story/P. A. Brown

ISBN: 978-0-9817464-7-0

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America

Edited by Leslie H. Nicoll

eBook formatting and design by Joshua Tallent

www.kindleformatting.com

Cover design by Hannah C. Nicoll

Please visit Bristlecone Pine Press at

www.bcpinepress.com

Please visit the author’s home page at

www.pabrown.ca
Also by P. A. Brown

L. A. Heat

Dedication

To my family, who were there for me when I almost wasn't.

Acknowledgements

To my daughter, Victoria Bruce, who's really thinks I'm weird for writing this stuff, but accepts me anyway.

And to Neil Plakcy and Mark Jesko who have been there from the first iteration of Chris and David and always encouraged me to go further.

To Leslie Nicoll who gave new life to Chris and David and made this collection a reality.

And once more
to Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles
, the city of Angels, without which there would be no stories.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Other books by P. A. Brown

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Halloween Pickup

Kidnapped

About Bristlecone Pine Press

Chapter 1
Sunday, 9:20 am, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles

CHRISTOPHER BELLAMERE ROLLED over and bumped up against a solid wall of muscle. His fingers fanned through the thick chest hair and encircled a turgid nipple. He smiled.

“David,” he breathed and rose up on one elbow to greet his lover.

Only the muddy brown eyes that started back at him didn’t have that familiar green tint.

Not David.

His mind went blank. God, what was his name? Where was he? Who had he gone home with this time—a thick fingered hand closed over his semi-hard cock and worked him roughly into full hardness.

Not David.

“Hey, sexy.” Wet lips hovered over his face, breathing sour alcohol laden breath into his mouth. Belatedly he realized he was at home in his own bed. So he’d broken rule number one, never bring a trick home. Had he broken his other rule? His head was pounding, whether from too much booze or fear he didn’t know. He scrambled over to the side of the bed and peered into the trash can. Chills crawled up his spine and lodged behind his throat. No condoms. Not-David dragged him back and threw him onto his stomach, raising his hips off the rumpled bed clothes.

What the hell had he done?

Memories were slamming back into him with train wreck speed. He had finished off a ten hour job at Pharmaden configuring a new SAN that had been plagued with malicious gremlins that had turned what should have been a four hour job into a ten hour nightmare.

When he had finally stumbled out of Pharmaden’s subbasement he had desperately needed a drink—or three. He had driven the Lexus SUV he could no longer afford back to Silver Lake and hit the first bar he had passed. Just his luck it was the Nosh Pit.

He really had only meant to have a single martini. But the first one had tasted so good he had to have a second. It was only fair; he’d really gone above and beyond on this job. He was entitled to blow off some steam.

Not-David pushed his face into the damp sweaty pillows and shoved his thick cock into Chris’s already sore ass. Chris yelled and tried to throw the nameless man off him. When that failed he bit his pillow and closed his eyes.

“You like that, don’t you? I knew you liked it rough the minute I saw you looking all pretty and drunk trolling for me and trying to look so innocent.”

Had he really been that drunk? Apparently. He remembered the look of disgust on Ramsey the bartender’s face when he had staggered out of the john with not-David in tow, both of them looking disheveled and stinking of sex and poppers. Chris hadn’t done poppers since before David—

Abruptly his mind shied away from those memories.

The guy plowed him hard, ignoring his cries of pain, finally emptying himself into Chris’s gut. Chris immediately fled to the bathroom where he tried in vain to clean himself out. He peered uneasily into the toilet. At least there was no blood. The guy hadn’t ripped him open.

He wrapped a silk robe around his shivering frame and forced himself back into the room. The not-David was sitting up in bed, smoking a joint.

“There’s no smoking in here,” he said stiffly.

Not-David let his muddy brown eyes crawl over Chris’s thinly clad body. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“Yeah, well, I said a lot of things last night. Put it out, would you?”

By the time Ramsey had delivered his fifth drink and taken his car keys Chris was feeling no pain and that was just fine.

Not-David shrugged and Chris winced when he stubbed the joint out on the Wedgewood plate Des had given him for Christmas last year.

“I’ve got to get ready for work,” he lied, looking around surreptitiously for the clothes he had discarded the night before. They were everywhere. Whatever else had happened, he had been in a damned hurry to get naked with this guy. His ass hurt, telling him exactly what he had done—several times, judging from the pain. He really had to stop drinking like that.

He studied the not-David from behind the screen of his eyelashes. He wasn’t David, but damn him to hell, he
looked
like David. How unfair was that? No doubt that was why he had glommed onto the guy so fast. What the hell did that say about him? David was so last month. In fact, hadn’t it been four weeks yesterday? That explained his trip down memory lane.

He tried not to think of the last time he had seen David. But the memories wouldn’t stop. The train thundered on. The morning he had told his lover of six weeks, the man he had sworn he loved to death, that it wasn’t going to work, and being crushed by the look of relief on David’s craggy face.

Darrel. That was it. Darrel Something... Poke. Darrel Poke. Chris was sure there was a joke in there someplace.

Chris had no idea when he’d actually shown up at the Nosh Pit. Late, probably. Darrel didn’t look like the usual Pit habitué. He’d probably run out of fuck prospects somewhere else and hit the Pit as a last resort. And Chris had been waiting. Hungry and eager to be taken for a ride.

He winced when he followed Darrel to the front door where he let the man out. No kiss. No flowers. What was romance coming to these days? Not even a smoldering look and a sly ‘Later.’ Just gone, jauntily strolling down Cove Avenue, toward the stairs that would take him to Glendale Boulevard where he would no doubt troll for a ride, or maybe another fuck.

Chris didn’t care. He shut and locked the door and dragged his sore ass back upstairs where he stood under a scalding shower long enough to empty the hot water tank. Finally he stepped out, shivering, onto the plush mat and toweled himself dry. He ached a little less and he didn’t walk like a refugee from the rodeo circuit. Downstairs again he put the water on to boil and readied the Melitta coffee maker.

Memories of David continued to crowd his mind. He slammed the coffee mug and his flavored cream down on the kitchen table with a curse. Damn David. Damn himself for still remembering.

It had been David who had made their relationship an impossibility. David who had clung to the closet even as he spent nearly every night at Chris’s place or Chris at his. They had fucked like rabbits in those first few weeks, unleashing a hunger neither of them had ever experienced.

But it hadn’t been enough, had it? David had sharply told him not to call him at work and when Chris broke that cardinal rule, David had exploded. Chris had to respect his work was off limits. What he did as a cop was not Chris’s business. He held nothing back about his own life, even his less than stellar past had been admitted to. David hadn’t been impressed but he had endured the telling.

Or had he? Had the seeds already been sown for their breakup. Face it, David had been dragged kicking and screaming out of the closet. That he had outed himself by calling his partner to the crime scene at Chris's house was in the end, immaterial. David hated the ridicule he endured from his enlightened brethren in blue. He had never been able to forgive Chris for being everything he wanted in a man.

Then two nights ago his sister called, asking about Thanksgiving. “Thanksgiving?” Chris had said. “We haven’t even had Halloween yet.”

“I know,” she replied, “but I’m cooking this year and want to make sure I’ll be setting a place for David.”

That’s when he told her that he would be there alone. She had exploded. How had he managed to fuck up this relationship so fast?

“David was the best thing that’s ever happened to you and you screwed it up? Where’s your head at, little brother?”

“Up my ass,” Chris had muttered before getting off the phone. He needed his sister’s censure like he needed another asshole. Like he needed anyone telling him how bad he’d messed up.

His landline phone rang. He shambled over and lifted the receiver. “Yes?” he barked.

“Where the hell were you last night?” Des’s normally soft voice was edged in anger and hysteria. Oh shit, Des was having another panic attack.

“Last night? What—” Then it hit him. He had been scheduled to meet with Des and his therapist at the abuse counselor’s office. Des was having lingering problems with his horrific rape at the hands of the Carpet Killer only a few months ago. His lover Kyle had been killed by the man who had then gone on to brutally violate Des and damn near killed him in the process. Chris was supposed to be helping him get over it.

Instead he was out getting drunk and stoned and fucked by a total stranger. Oh this day couldn’t get any worse.

He was wrong.

“I saw him,” Des whispered. “He came to my room last night and told me what he had done to K-Kyle. Then he said he was going to do so much worse to me. His voice... his voice... I’m so cold, Chris. I can’t seem to get warm anymore.”

Chris squeezed the phone in his hand. “You’re safe, hon. He’s gone. I—he’s gone.” He had been going to say ‘I killed him’ but he still had problems facing that knowledge himself. “He can’t hurt you anymore—”

“Don’t you think I know that? He’s dead. I know that. It doesn’t matter. You heard Dr. Weiser.”

“Are you breathing, Des? Focus on that poster we talked about. The one with Lauren and Humphrey.” At one of their sessions Dr. Weiss, his therapist had suggested that one way Des could help himself through a panic attack triggered by his PTSD was to pick out a favorite movie poster in his living room and examine it in minute detail. Focusing the mind like that could divert it from its destructive path.

“I’m sorry, Des—”

“You forgot?” Des’s voice rose. “How could you? You promised.”

“Something came up.”

“I don’t believe you. I needed you—”

Chris shut his eyes against the pain in his friend’s voice. “Des, hon.” He wanted to beg for Des’s forgiveness but he knew from talking to Weiser that would only escalate Des’s fear. Instead he said, “I’ll be right over.”

But Des was past being soothed. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and Chris didn’t need to see to know Des was clutching the phone with white knuckled ferocity and his skin would be clammy and cold.

“Breathe, hon,” Chris felt his own panic threatening him. He hated to see his best friend going through this. Hate what that monster that he had brought into their lives had done to Des. It was pure luck that he hadn’t met the same fate.

“Oh God, oh God, I can’t breathe.”

“Sit down, Des. Where are you? In the living room? Sit down on the love seat. Look at the wall. What do you see?” Chris was glad Des had gotten rid of the furniture that had been in the house when Kyle died. He had tried to convince Des to sell the Beverly Hills bungalow, but Des had refused to take that final step.

“I’m going to hang up now, Des,” Chris said slowly, hoping Des was hearing him. Understood. “I’m going to call you back on my BlackBerry.”

“All right,” Des said dispiritedly.

Chris bolted upstairs and threw on clean clothes, slipped on some Dockers and ran out the door. He clipped his Bluetooth earpiece on and dialed Des before he had even backed the Lexus out onto Cove. Des was slow to answer and he was sweating by the time his friend picked up.

“Jesus, Des,” he cried. “Don’t do that. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty. You hanging in there?”

“No, I’m not ‘hanging in there.’ Why did I bother calling you? Can you tell me that, Chris? I thought we were supposed to be friends. What was so important that you couldn’t make my appointment? Was it a guy? You spent the night getting fucked?”

Chris winced. No way he could tell Des the truth. Yes he’d screwed up royally, but all he could do now was try to fix things. Like anyone could fix Des right now. Only time and lots of love would do that. And Chris wasn’t sure he had enough of either to give.

BOOK: L. A. Mischief
2.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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