“Sure,” I said.
But I was less sure when we walked into my bedroom and undressed. For one thing, I knew sex wasn’t going to solve anything, but it might change things. For the worse.
As I watched Jake unbuckle his belt in a business-like fashion, I remembered that this was a guy who liked to do it with whips and chains — and strangers.
If we could have fallen on the kitchen table, swept away on a tide of passion … but the lag time of walking to the bedroom, stripping, lying down on the bed … it gave time to think. To reflect. To pause.
To remember the last time I’d had sex with a guy I didn’t know that well. Not exactly a joyride.
It was cold in the room. The light seemed too bright. I crawled onto the bed and wondered what the hell to do next. Had he ever done this without tying someone to the bed? Assuming he even did it in bed. My knowledge of the BDSM scene was sketchy at best — which was kind of the way I wanted to keep it.
Jake knelt on the mattress and slipped his condom on with a snap like a detective donning latex gloves to examine a crime scene. Not a romantic noise.
“Have you got lube?” he asked.
“Uh … no. I wasn’t planning …”
He glanced up and smiled. The smile disarmed me. He looked a little self-conscious. There was a flush across his cheekbones and his eyes were very bright.
I smiled back and he leaned forward and kissed me. The kiss reassured. His mouth was warm and already tasted familiar.
“I like kissing you,” he said softly. “I didn’t think I would. But I do.”
“Good,” I said. “I like kissing you too.”
We kissed again. I tasted the licorice-bite of the whisky on his tongue.
He kissed harder and said against my mouth, “I want to fuck you so bad.”
I nodded.
“Lie back.”
I stretched out. I wasn’t exactly sexually active these days but I wasn’t a virgin either. I knew what to expect and whatever Jake’s range of experience, I figured it would be okay. Probably not great for him, without all his little toys and costumes, and maybe not great for me either since he probably was not much into giving pleasure that didn’t involve the release of some serious endorphins. I’d do my best to make sure he enjoyed himself; I wanted him to see that it could be good without the improper use of kitchen utensils.
He touched my face. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Maybe a little puzzled that he seemed unsure about it.
I ran a light hand over the hard planes of his chest. Flicked one flat brown nipple with my thumbnail. He swallowed hard and I smiled. Teased the other nipple into a hard point.
He sucked in a breath, let it out slowly.
I’d had enough to drink that I should have been incapable of rational thought, but for some damn reason, the wheels were still turning. Way too fast. Spinning, in fact. I felt detached, a little distant as he bent over me, big hands denting the mattress, the muscles on his arms standing out like ropes. His cock looked like a warhead.
I remembered the last time — and flinched at the sudden stark vision of all that strength and frustration slamming into me. I stared up into his hard face. He was watching me closely. My stomach knotted with anxiety.
But that other time hadn’t been Jake. That didn’t have anything to do with … us. I wanted Jake. I did want him. And if I let myself think about that other time I was giving the memory power. And I’d been waiting for this moment for way too long.
He said, “What if I —”
“Maybe if I —”
Suddenly there seemed to be knees and elbows everywhere.
“Ouch,” Jake said.
“Sorry.”
He bent forward at the same moment I raised my head, and we banged noses.
“What the hell?” His voice came out muffled behind his hand.
“Sorry.”
“You’ve done this before, right?”
I don’t know why that hit me as funny, but I started to laugh, and Jake pushed back and said exasperatedly, “What the hell is so funny?”
I shook my head.
“You sure know how to break the mood.” However he didn’t appear to be giving up. His mouth found mine and he kissed me again, insistently. I felt myself quieting, giving in to the unexpected tenderness.
He drew back, licked my mouth, which was different, sort of playful. My lips parted, anticipating, but he softly bit the side of my neck — then harder.
I bit back a yelp.
“Going to behave?” His eyes were amused.
I said in my best hypnotic-subject voice, “Yeees … Maaaster.”
He nuzzled the bite mark and I shivered.
There was a lot of strength and heat in the body poised over mine. He smelled good, like my almond soap, and he tasted good, and he felt very good, his hand slowly stroking my belly.
I said huskily, “I’m having trouble believing this is you.”
He reached across to the nightstand with his free hand and picked up my sunscreen. “Nah,” he said. “You knew this was going to happen. Like I did. You called it right. I came after you. Every step of the way.”
He squirted a glop of sunscreen on his fingers and warmed it. I bent my knees, opening wide for him. Focused on relaxing my muscles. Jake’s fingers slipped along my crack, slick and silky. I’d wondered what those long sensitive fingers would feel like and now one of them was pressing against my hole.
I bit my lip, trying to keep it quiet, trying not to scare him away.
He pushed in. Just a fingertip. “You’re so tight,” he murmured.
He pulled out. Dipped in, dipped out. Pushed further in. That friction felt so good. I moaned. I couldn’t help it.
“Yeah,” he said with slow satisfaction. “You need it bad. Worse than I do.”
I gasped, “Is it a competition? What do I win?”
“Shhh. Turn off for a few seconds, Adrien.”
“A few seconds? Is that all it’s —” I caught my breath as his finger moved knowledgeably, unerringly.
“There’s the off button,” he murmured.
I pushed back hard on his hand. Not like I’d never felt this before, and yet somehow I’d never felt it quite so intensely. It was like he was reaching right into me, stretching me open, finding every little secret place, stroking, smoothing, soothing the naked underbelly of need. I wanted to talk myself away from feeling too much, too keenly, but all that came out was a something unnervingly like a whimper.
So much for my theory on his lack of expertise. It was going to be okay. I was going to be more than okay.
“Baby, that little sound you made …” He stroked with two fingers. “What about this? Is this good too?”
Where had I got the idea he might not be experienced at this? He was in total control, perfectly gauging my responses and expertly bringing me to the edge with each electric — and deliberate — stroke across the gland.
No way was that beginner’s luck.
The pressure built unbearably. My eyes flew open. “I-I think I’m going to come.”
“You think?” His eyes were crinkled at the corner, like he was laughing inside.
“But …” It’s way too soon. I let the half-formed protest go. Too hard to form thoughts, let alone words. I strained against his hand, aching for more, trying to capture that maddening touch, draw it deeper into my body, ease that screaming tension.
“Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got you. Just let go …”
The wildness welled up inside me and began to pump hard, spilling through my body, sizzling along nerve endings, shooting out in creamy plumes. A half-sob of relief tore out of my throat.
“Whoa,” Jake murmured eons later. He traced some design in the sticky wet splash on my abdomen. I opened my eyes, blinked at him. He was smiling, looking as relaxed as I felt.
I managed a grin. He leaned over me, kissed me again, said quietly, “Yeah, I like that.”
I ran a hand over the top of his head, feeling the crisp texture of his cropped hair. It was the first time in our friendship I felt free to look my fill: the hard line of his cheek and jaw at odds with the sensual fullness of his mouth, the knowing gleam of his hazel eyes. My breathing had slowed back down, my heart raced happily along like the start of summer vacation. “You’ll like the next bit even more.”
He was still smiling. “There’s no rush.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said. I was tired, but it was a good tired. Loose and light. I sat up, but he pushed me back gently.
“On your back. I want to watch your face.” He met my eyes. “And you’ll like the … stimulation.”
We realigned ourselves, the mattress squeaking noisily, and I raised my legs over Jake’s shoulders, leaving myself exposed and vulnerable, but I wasn’t worried now. His warm hands slid over my ass, spreading me wider. His cock rested against my wet slick hole. Holding my gaze, he pushed in. “Christ, that’s sweet.”
I gritted my jaw, forced my muscles to submit.
He paused. Even stretched and prepped, my body needed a chance to adjust; he was a big man.
“Say my name,” he urged.
“Jake,” I said huskily.
Something lit in his eyes. He shoved the rest of the way in. I gasped, sphincter muscle spasming around his stiffness.
“Christ, you feel good. Like a glove.” He thrust against me, just once like he couldn’t help himself.
I panted, writhed a little, still trying to accommodate him. Making room for him in my head and in my body.
His hands covered my chest, tugging the nipples. I’ve never particularly got off on having my breast touched, but this felt weirdly good. I rubbed against his palm. He lowered himself, kissed me, hotly, hungrily, pushing his tongue in. I moaned into his mouth, wanting more, needing more.
His mouth ground down on mine, his fingers pinched my nipples. So much sensation distracting me from the massive cock crammed in my ass.
“What are you feeling?” Jake’s breath was warm against my face, my bruised lips tingled. “Tell me what it feels like with me inside you.” His hips thrust against me again.
What did it feel like? My legs felt weak and trembly, my belly soft and liquid; my channel felt scraped and burned with satisfying friction. It felt like invasion — the invasion that comes with a liberating army. I felt my face quiver with that mix of pain and pleasure, lifted my lashes. He was staring into my eyes.
Something snapped inside me, relented, freed itself. I began to move, contracting my muscles around him, trying to arch up against him. My fierce response triggered him. He made some exclamation, began to move, hips pounding against my ass, impaling me with each thrust. The relief was that I could be rough back; I could let go and take what I needed too.
The mattress springs squeaked, the wooden frame creaked. Jake’s hands closed on my hips. He redirected his efforts, thrust harder, deeper and hit the spot that sent exquisite sensation crackling through me. I cried out. Jake was grunting fiercely in time to the bang of the headboard against the wall. I gripped hard and felt him stiffen.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned. His body went rigid, his face twisting in distressed delight. I felt him come hard, hot seed shooting into me.
Startled, I realized that I was coming too. Twice in one evening. It had been a long time since that happened.
“Adrien ….” His voice shook. His arms slid under me, gathering me against him. I wrapped my arms around him, and we rocked together while our bodies played out, cocooned in warm and sticky closeness.
* * * * *
“Christ, you’re limber.”
I turned my head. Jake leaned on the doorframe of the long front room observing me going through my bi-monthly exercise routine.
“Tai Chi,” I informed him, palms resting on the floor. Last night he’d had plenty of opportunity to evaluate my limberness firsthand.
“Looks a lot like ballet.”
“I took ballet. This is Tai Chi.”
“You took ballet?” Jake sounded horrified. He stopped scratching his sun-browned belly. “Your mother is an example of why people should have to have a license to have kids.”
I straightened up. “Lay off my mother.”
“Ballet but not the Boy Scouts? It’s your mother’s fault you’re queer.”
I exhaled fast, serenity vanishing in a puff of morning breath.
“Listen, asshole — and I use the term deliberately — my mother is not the reason I’m queer. If she’d opted for the Boy Scouts or military school I’d just be a different kind of queer, okay? Secondly, I don’t know that ‘fault’ is the right word. This is how God made me. You are how God made you. All God’s chillun are how God made ’em. You think God made a mistake, take it up with Him.”
I scrubbed my face with my towel, threw it at Jake, and stalked off to the shower.
By the time I was bathed and groomed and feeling like my normal mild-mannered self, Jake had breakfast on the table. I don’t know if this was a peace-offering or he simply didn’t trust my cooking after the night before.
“French toast?” I said doubtfully.
“The breakfast of champions. You want jam or shall I melt brown sugar for syrup?”
That sounded fairly ghastly. I said, “Maybe just coffee?”
My much-maligned mater couldn’t have looked more disapproving. I got my coffee with a plate of French toast spread thickly with crab-apple jelly, and Jake sat down across from me, elbows propped on the table. He applied himself to his vittles as though someone were paying him a bonus to finish ahead of schedule.
I said, “I thought I’d do some research in town this morning.”
He nodded, not glancing up from his plate. “Watch your back.”
Now that struck me as a little too disinterested. I speculated on what Jake’s plans might be?
“Eat your breakfast,” he growled.
I washed the sweet toast down with a mouthful of hot coffee while I reconsidered. Maybe he was trying to ditch me, but these days the majority of detective work is done by computer. Let Jake try his way, and I’d try mine.
* * * * *
My first stop was the local newspaper. Back in the glory days, The Basking Express had been called The Basking Gazette. The first issue had been printed in 1887.
There was a newspaper morgue, but it only went back ten years. Everything earlier had been shipped to the library where it had been copied on microfilm.
That was the story at The Basking Express anyway. The library had a different story.
“We never got the funding,” Miss Buttermit, the rhinestone librarian informed me.
“So nothing is on microfilm?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad as that. We were able to copy the newspapers back to … well, circa the 1920s.”
“What happened to the newspapers before circa the 1920s?”
Miss Buttermit’s pale eyes flickered behind the kitschy glasses. “They’ve been preserved. To an extent.”
“To what extent?”
“To the extent that they are bound in hardcover in the basement.”
I asked tentatively, “Would it be possible to —?”
“Only library personnel have access to the basement,” she regretted firmly.
I thought this over.
“What was it you were looking for, Mr. English?”
That was the crux of it. I did not have a theory; I did not really even have a hypothesis. Basically I had a hunch.
Handing Miss B. some meaningless response, I headed for the computers, and spent the morning pouring over microfilmed copy of The Basking Gazette, getting the Gazette’s spin on such world-shaping events as Vietnam, Gandhi’s assassination, and the completion of the Cascade Tunnel.
I read my great grandfather’s obituary, and the announcement of my grandmother’s engagement to Thomas English. Rolls of 35mm film later I read my grandmother’s obit.
Interesting but not germane. If my hunch was right, the answer I was seeking was buried in the distant past, buried deep with the crumbling foundations of the early days of Basking Township.
I went out for a cup of coffee and returned to the library.
“Who do I have to talk to about getting access to the volumes in the basement?” I asked Miss Buttermit.
“You would have to call the Head of Reference and make an appointment. We have to know why and to what purpose you wish to examine those old and fragile research materials.” Her faded eyes blinked suspiciously at me from behind the cat’s-eyes lens.
I said, “I’m a writer. I’m researching a book.”
She repeated as if by rote, “If I knew exactly what you were looking for?”
A voice behind me exclaimed, “Adrien, what are you doing here?”
I turned at this interruption to find Kevin standing there looking surprised and delighted all out of proportion to the circumstances. He wasn’t the only one; Miss Buttermit’s expression was close to beaming.
“Hey, Mitty,” Kevin greeted her.
“Why, Kevin!”
I answered Kevin’s question, glad to see that he was still at large, at least for the moment. “I’m trying to get access to the old newspapers in the basement.”
“No problem,” said Kevin. Then he caught Miss Buttermit’s eye and looked guilty. “Oh. Is it a problem?”
“Apparently.”
“Now, Kevin,” Miss Buttermit cautioned. “You know there are channels.”
“Yeah, but Adrien is …” Kevin seemed at a loss how to classify me. “How about this,” he suggested suddenly, “I’ll go downstairs with Adrien and take responsibility for the papers?”
I opened my mouth to say that wasn’t necessary, but shut it again. Maybe it was necessary. I sure wasn’t having any luck on my own. I watched Kevin work that hopeful puppy dog look for all it was worth.
“This is a great responsibility, Kevin,” Miss Buttermit observed after a moment, but she took a key off her Mrs. Danvers-like key ring and handed it over.
I followed Kevin past the water coolers and restrooms down two flights of stairs. Kevin unlocked the basement, and we stepped into a room as crisp and smelly as the vegetable bin in a refrigerator. I waited till Kevin pulled the chain to turn on the ceiling bulb. Garish light bounced off faded green walls and a cement floor discolored by water stains.
“Holy —” I didn’t finish the sentence. There were filing cabinets, a few broken shelves, a chair minus a caster, but mostly there were books. We were surrounded by boxes and boxes and boxes of books.
“I think the newspapers are over on those metal shelves.”
I stepped over a box of books stamped “Discard,” steadying myself with one hand on the metal shelf stacked with hardbound volumes. The shelf wobbled alarmingly. “I wouldn’t want to be here in an earthquake,” I remarked.
“Yeah, really. But nobody ever comes down here.”
I opened the cover of the nearest book.
A glance verified that we were indeed looking at the earliest editions of The Basking Gazette.
“These aren’t indexed,” Kevin announced. “What are we looking for?”
“Any reference to the Red Rover Mine.”
He looked up, interested. “Why’s that?”
“It’s just an idea.” I studied him. I liked Kevin, but I respected Jake’s opinion. Jake had a lot of experience when it came to bad guys. “Kevin, did Livingston call at all during the time he was supposed to be away from the dig?”
His jaw dropped. “He was dead,” he reminded me.
“I realize, but what I mean is, did anyone call saying they were Livingston? Or did anyone at the site claim to have heard from Livingston?”
Kevin had a weird expression. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “He did call in — or at least we thought he did.”
“Who took the calls?”
Kevin shook his head. “Amy? Marquez? I’m not sure. There were written messages a couple of times.”
“Whose writing?”
“I’m not sure. No one questioned the notes.” His eyebrows drew together. “Shoup seemed to be in contact with him. That’s what we all thought anyway.”
I tried another approach. “What’s the deal with this mine? Why is everyone so interested in it?”
Kevin spluttered, “You’re the one who wants to look through old newspapers. Don’t you have a — a —”
“Plan?”
“No. A — a —” He gestured over his head.
“Theory?”
“Yeah, a theory. Do you honestly think one of us killed Livingston? Why? Because of some mine we couldn’t even know we’d find?”
“Did anyone have any problem with Livingston? Anyone argue with him?”
“No. We all admired the man. We all liked him.”
“Who didn’t?”
“Nobody! He was …” Kevin shook his head. “He wasn’t the kind of person who gets murdered.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was a … a scholar and a gentleman. I guess that sounds corny. Archeology was his passion, but he loved teaching. He loved sharing his knowledge, and he made the past come alive. He made archeology a lot more than old bones and broken pottery.”
I sat down in the broken chair, which tilted drunkenly, and began to thumb through the pages of the volume I held.
Kevin said suddenly, “Did anyone ever tell you that you sorta look like that old actor?”
“Old actor?”
“Well, I mean he wasn’t that old. Not back then. He played the priest in that Hitchcock movie.”
“I remind you of an old priest …”
Kevin chortled. “You know who I mean. He was really good looking.”
“For an old priest.”
“Yeah.” Still chuckling he pulled a volume off the shelf and sat down on a box across from me.
“Hey,” he said after an hour of silent reading, “This is about the sinking of the Titanic. ‘Mr. Hubert Duke, a resident of Basking, was aboard the doomed vessel,’” he read aloud. “Pretty cool.”
“Chilling.” I glanced up. “When was the Titanic? 1912? You’ve got to go back a couple of decades.”
“Basking was founded in 1848.”
“Royale came west in 1849. We’re probably looking for something circa the 1850s. When did Royale die?”
“Beats me.” Replacing one volume on the shelf, he pulled out another. “This could take forever,” he muttered.
I was afraid he was right.
Another hour passed, and Miss Buttermit brought us coffee in foam cups and a plate of Fig Newtons.
“What’s this mysterious hold you have over Miss Buttermit?” I asked Kevin, brushing crumbs off my hands.
“Hmm? Mitty? She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she? She’s one of us.”
“One of us?”
“Gay. Well, lesbian.” He grinned at my expression. “She’s not out or anything. People of her generation can’t be.”
“They can’t?”
“Not in a small town.”
I was still mulling over that as Kevin lowered his gaze to the page before him. “Listen to this, Adrien. ‘Abraham Royale dead at forty-five.’”
“What’s the date?”
“September 11th 1860. Have you noticed, that there are editions missing?”
“I was hoping it only seemed that way because they’re not indexed.”
“No, look how the dates jump around in this volume. It looks like someone tore out an edition.”
I examined the volume. Sure enough it appeared someone had taken a razorblade to several pages.
“Where else might there be copies of this paper? The local college?”
Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe not everything was saved. Maybe some copies were lost or destroyed. This stuff is pretty fragile.”
Gently I turned another yellowed page. History was literally turning to dust beneath my fingertips.
“These pages were here. They existed and someone removed them. Why?”
“It could have happened years ago, Adrien.”
I took the volume from Kevin and scanned it. In brief, Abraham Royale had died after sustaining a head injury in a fall down his grand staircase. There had been no witnesses to the accident, and Royale had never regained consciousness. He was survived only by his estranged wife, Alicia Royale, née Salt.
“Salt.” I looked up. “Where have I heard that name before?”
Kevin, his mouth full of Fig Newtons, shook his head.
“‘Estranged wife?’ Weren’t they divorced? She ran off with the blacksmith, didn’t she?”
“Maybe he wouldn’t give her a divorce,” Kevin replied thickly. Jake was right, he did have freckles on his nose. Like gold dust. Kissable.
“Maybe. Maybe she pushed him. It sounds like he left a considerable fortune.” I chewed my lip thoughtfully. “Salt! That’s it. Barnabas Salt was the name of Royale’s partner in the Red Rover mine. Alicia must have been his daughter.” I considered this. “That must have made for some awkward moments around the sluice boxes.”
“Salt was already dead by the time Royale married his daughter.”
“How do you know?”
“It said so in the obit.”
I continued reading. Kevin was correct. Salt had been killed a couple of years earlier in a shootout with Mexican bandits. “This would be interesting to read about,” I said. “See if you can find the story of Salt’s shootout with the banditos.”
“It might be one of the missing editions.”
“It might not be.”
We searched through the remaining volumes to no avail.
“Here’s something,” Kevin said, breaking another long silence. “A trapper was found mutilated in Senex Valley. Where the hell’s Senex Valley?”
“Hmm? Senex Valley is what they used to call Spaniard’s Hollow and the area surrounding it.”
“When did they change the name?”
I answered absently, “I’m not really sure. It seems like it followed Salt’s gun battle with the bandits.”
“Spaniards aren’t Mexicans.”
“When you figure both Mexico and California were still under Spanish rule as late as 1821, I think it’s safe to assume some cultural overlay.”
Silence broken only by the scrape of turning pages.
“This is pretty gruesome,” Kevin commented, still glued to The Gazette.
I glanced at my watch. “Jesus! It’s five o’clock!”
Kevin slapped shut the cover. “No wonder I’m starving.” As I stood up he asked way too casually, “Can I buy you dinner?”
“No can do.” I shoved the volume back on the shelf, held my hand out for Kevin’s. “Besides, shouldn’t you be getting back to camp?”
He handed me the tome he held. “I’ve been asked to take a leave of absence until I’m cleared.” The green eyes could not meet mine.
“Cleared?”
“Of Livingston’s murder.” His smile was morose.
“Who’s idea was that?”
“Dr. Shoup’s. But even Dr. Marquez agreed.” His gaze rose briefly to mine. “See, you’re not the only one who thinks I’m capable of murder.”
“Kev —”
“No, it’s okay. I mean, why not me?”
“Because you didn’t do it?”
“Do you believe that?”
Before I could answer, he turned away. Turning out the light, he locked the door to the basement. As we started up the stairs he said, “I hear it was your friend who discovered Harvey’s body in that cave.”
“Uh, right.” I had to wonder at the number of fibs my former Boy Scout was telling these days. Not that I didn’t appreciate his running interference for me. I could imagine what the sheriff would have said if I’d discovered another body.
Over his shoulder Kevin asked, “What was he doing up in those caves? Was he looking for Harvey?”
“No.” I tried to get my mind (and gaze) off the trim butt in the tight jeans moving at eye level as we continued back up the stairs. “Aren’t the sheriffs questioning everybody?” I inquired.
“That’s what they say, but they’re just waiting for the damn ballistics match so they can arrest me.”
We kept coming back to this. “Why should they think you killed Livingston?”
“I wouldn’t have. I had no reason. He was a great guy.”
“Somebody didn’t think so.”
“Then it was somebody who didn’t know him.”
I wished I could see his face as I asked, “Are you sure Livingston didn’t argue with anyone? Were there any problems between Livingston and Shoup?”
“No.” He qualified, “Not that I know of.”
“Do you know if Livingston ever met Ted Harvey?”
“I think he came around a couple of times when we first set up camp. There was never any confrontation.”
Upstairs Kevin returned the key to the basement to Miss Buttermit’s stand-in. As we walked outside into the spring evening he put a hand on my arm.
“Adrien, about yesterday …”
I laughed. “Forget it.”
His fingers tightened. “I don’t want to forget it.” An internal struggle seemed to take place while the old-fashioned street lamps came on one by one around us. “It’s not easy being gay in a town like Basking.”
“It’s not easy in a town like LA. It’s not easy.”
“I just wish —”
I almost said, “me too,” which would have been a mistake, not least because it wasn’t true. I had all the complications in my personal life I could handle.
Instead I gave his shoulder a pat, got in the Bronco and drove away leaving Kevin standing on the boardwalk in the shadow of a swinging sign in the shape of a boot.
* * * * *
I made a small detour on the drive home. Yesterday’s exploration of the cave had not turned up exactly what I’d expected; that meant the proof I needed was still out there — and I thought I had a pretty good idea where.
An hour and a half later of prowling hilltops, crawling through bushes, and sliding down hillsides, I wasn’t quite so sure.
I was rethinking my brilliant plan as I rested on a flat-top rock formation overlooking the archeologist’s strangely silent camp when I spotted some peculiar dents in the worn surface. The pockets in the granite outcropping meant that the flat-surfaced rock would have functioned like a metate or quern. For decades Indian women would have sat here chatting and grinding acorn for bread by using manos or grinding stones.
I knew I was on the right trail — literally.
In fact ….
I shifted my weary arse, hunting down among the weeds and supporting boulders, and sure enough, before the sunset, I had my proof in the form of the latest Japanese technology.
Not that it gave me any pleasure.
* * * * *
It was nearly dark by the time I reached the ranch. Dusk’s muted heather shadows stretched long across the mountains. Frederick Remington might have painted the distant sunset slashing the sky with Confederate blue and firebrand pink as I drove through the Pine Shadow gates. My headlamps picked out Jake striding purposefully across the yard, keys in hand. I parked and got out.
“Where the hell have you been?” From the drill sergeant bark, you’d have thought I’d overstayed my 24-hour pass. Then he added, “I was coming to look for you.”
Well, that sounded kind of nice. It would have been nicer to have been kissed hello, but Jake stayed at arm’s length
“I lost track of time.” I hedged, still not having made up my mind what to do with the item in my jacket pocket.
“Doing what?”
“Looking through old newspapers.” I debated whether to mention Kevin’s presence, and decided that on this point honesty was the best policy. “I ran into Kevin.”
“Coincidence?” asked Jake. “I think not.”
“I think so.”
He followed me up the porch steps and into the house. I peeled off my jacket watching Jake shrug out of his own, wincing. I queried, “How’s the arm?”
“Not so stiff.” He lifted his shoulder like he was winding up to pitch a hardball. “Itches like hell. I think that’s a good sign though.”
“Not if it’s infected. So what did you do today?”
“Made a few calls,” he said vaguely.
That sort of clinched the quandary of fair exchange of information. “Oh yeah? What’s to eat? All I’ve had since breakfast is coffee and cookies.”
I homed in on the kitchen where I discovered grilled steaks cooling on the stovetop and baked potatoes with all the trimmings on a couple of plates.
“Wow. A man could get used to this,” I remarked.
No comment from Jake.
While we ate I filled him in on what I had learned — most of what I had learned, that is. He listened impassively as though he sat on the opposite side of an interrogation table.
“Let me see if I understand you. You think something that happened over a hundred years ago connects the deaths of Harvey and Livingston?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Uh huh.” He chewed ferociously, swallowed and inquired, “What about the werewolf?”
“Laugh all you want, but this is one weird place. Do you know that over the past hundred-plus years over fifteen mutilated bodies have been found in the woods?”
“Do you know how many mutilated bodies have turned up in the Angeles Crest Forest over the past hundred years? Plenty.”
“That’s not a reasonable comparison, Jake. This is a small, relatively secluded area.” I laid my fork and knife down. “They used to call this place Senex Valley. Senex is Latin for old. The Old Ones. The First Ones … get it?”
Jake rubbed his forehead as though he felt a headache coming on.
“Maybe that’s beside the point,” I said hastily.
“Maybe?”
“But something about this Red Rover mine that isn’t quite kosher.”
“Like?”
“For starters, Royale and his partner Barnabas Salt abandoned the Red Rover. They thought it was worthless and they moved on. Then for some reason they came back to the mine and hit a vein.”
“So?”
“That’s not typical. It’s practically unheard of.”
“But it’s possible, right?”
“It’s not impossible, I’ll give you that. But here’s another bizarre thing. After Royale’s death, they tried mining the Red Rover. The mine was played out.”
“They who?” inquired Jake, getting down to brass tacks.
“I guess the ex-wife hired …”
“But you don’t know.”
“I don’t know who, I do know efforts to mine the Red Rover after Royale’s death failed. That’s why the mine was abandoned and then finally lost track of.”
“This means something to you?” He absently stroked the gold stubble on his lean jaw, as though just noticing he needed a shave. I remembered the tickle of those whiskers against my bare back. It took effort to redirect my thoughts.
“Why all this interest in a mine that played out so long ago?”
Jake pushed his plate aside and tilted his chair back, linking his hands behind his head.
“Like your pal Shoup says, it’s historically interesting. You think only things of monetary value are of historical interest?”
“Of course not, but according to Marquez, Shoup’s interested in the mine because it would be a significant find. I just don’t see how a played-out mine could be a significant find.”
“Hard to say, what with funding and grants and nutty professors in general.”
“You don’t think it’s interesting?”
“I guess it’s interesting.” He shrugged.
By now we had finished eating. Stars twinkled through the windows. I rose, started piling dishes in the sink, wondering about our sleeping arrangements. Had last night been a once-off or had we been setting a precedent? Nothing in Jake’s behavior or attitude had changed, either for better or worse.
He sat unmoving as I made my trips to and from the table. Other than a floorboard that squeaked every time I crossed it, the kitchen seemed uncannily quiet.
The four feet of his chair hit the floor with a bang and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s with you?”
I shook my head sheepishly.
Jake grinned and shoved away from the table. “Let’s leave the dishes,” he suggested.
* * * * *
Sober it was different: slower, sweeter. Jake explored my body with a thoroughness that would lead one to think he was investigating for clues. Or perhaps he was doing a comparison check, inspecting what wasn’t there, inspecting what was.
He tried a couple of things, watching my face to see how I took it — and I took it like a man, encouraging him as best I could without making him self-conscious.
“This is enough for you? Just … this?”
“Enough …?” I gasped, humping against his hand. He had wonderful hands, long strong fingers and a delicate touch despite the calluses. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t like … oh, God that’s nice …”
I closed my eyes, savoring the sustained caress, then opened them as his words sank in. “Is it not enough for you?” I wasn’t sure what we were talking about. The sex itself or the fact that for him sex was all it was? Did he want to put a cock ring on me or did he fear I wanted to put a wedding ring on him?
“I didn’t say that.” Then, strangely, he said, “I heard you with Green that night.”
It took effort to concentrate on his words rather than his touch. I didn’t understand what he meant at first, and then I did. I blinked up at him, not quite knowing what to say. The night he referred to, the night I had discovered who had killed two of my closest friends — and why — was something I still couldn’t bring myself to think about. At first I’d been too shocked and sickened. And now … it felt safer not to look back.
“He hurt you.”
“I don’t remember. Maybe.”
“You let it happen.”
Again I didn’t have an answer. It weirded me out to think of Jake listening to Bruce fuck me, but that was hardly the weirdest part of that particular evening.
And that evening was hardly the weirdest part of my relationship with Bruce.
“You let it happen, but you didn’t enjoy it.”
“Well, no.” I asked carefully, “Did you enjoy it? Hearing us, I mean.”
“No.” All at once his face looked older: tight, bleak. “You were afraid. And I was afraid. I thought you were going to die.”
I had thought I was going to die that night too. It was strange looking back from the safety of Jake’s arms. Bruce, who said he loved me, had fucked me over in every possible sense. And Jake, who only spoke of fucking, never caring, had already proved to be an unselfish lover.
I said — and I thought I was kidding, but somehow it didn’t come out like that, “I knew you’d save me.”
The pain in his face closed down my throat. He seemed about to add something, but changed his mind. Instead his mouth found mine with sudden hunger.
My turn to stroke and soothe.
A couple of things were already clear to me: he needed to be in complete control all the time — so much for the theory about sexual role playing being inverse to real life dynamics — and he was a much more generous lover than I had imagined.
In fact, I couldn’t ever remember being with anyone who concentrated so hard on what I was feeling and experiencing.
It filled me with tenderness and the desire to lavish some of the same attention on him.
“Roll over.”
“Me?” The surprise in his voice made me grin.
“No, the werewolf under the bed. Yeah, you.”
He heaved himself onto his back, watched my face warily as I bent over him. Maybe he ordinarily had to command someone to do this.
I ran my fingers through the springy gold curls of his crotch. Like the curls on a baby’s head.
“What are you smiling at?” he growled.
“Just taking a moment to appreciate what you’ve got here.”
He grunted — but the sound changed abruptly — went soft and startled — as I took him into my mouth. His whole body tightened. I ghosted down the fat length of his cock, buried my nose in that soft nest, breathed him in. His hips shook beneath me.
He smelled wonderful. Tasted wonderful too. Strong but clean. Like freshly mown hay or new leather.
I sucked the head of his cock, a wet hot deep kiss, drawing him in. His hips rocked up and for a moment the hard planes of his stomach pillowed my face. I inhaled his warmth, worked him. Traced his slit with my tongue, pressed.
Jake’s head tossed on the pillow, his hands tangled in my hair, tugged me closer.
“Adrien …” The abject pleasure in that single word made it easy to ignore my own increasing discomfort. This was all about Jake.
I took my time. He was thrusting down my throat, his lean body arching, hips pumping. I sucked him hard. Then nibbled soft and sweet. Then increased suction. Then slow and easy.
“Don’t stop,” he got out, his voice harsh and unsteady.
I smiled around that rigid thickness, reached beneath and gently fingered his balls.
Jake’s head fell back on the pillow and he groaned. He began to come, shivering like he was in high fever, shooting streams like silly string, enjoying the little party I’d thrown him.
Beautiful to watch.
After a time he quit blinking at the ceiling and turned his head my way. Gave a funny sort of half-smile.
* * * * *
I woke several hours later to a room illuminated by moonlight. For a moment or two I lay there listening.
The silence had that freshly broken sharpness.
I rose on an elbow.
Had I really heard that distant howling or was that eerie recollection part of my uneasy dreams? The ringing emptiness in my ears now was so much dead air.
Jake made a sound between a snore and a grunt, and rolled onto his side. A werewolf would have to be hopping up and down on the foot of the bed for him to notice.
I pulled the blankets up, rested my head against Jake’s back. His bare skin felt warm and smooth against my face. Comforting. I kissed him beneath his shoulder blade.
Sex wasn’t everything. There were other things: someone to see you through sickness and in health, someone to wake up with on Christmas morning, someone to bail you out of jail. Companionship counted. Sex wasn’t everything — but it was a lot.
Jake began to snore.