Hot Lava (3 page)

“What’s that, Will?” I asked, moving into the stall to my left, the turgid detective following close behind.

With the cubicle door locking us in, and with his arms wrapped tight around my waist, he told me, “Back on the plane, when you were worried about the...”

“Nonexistent terrorist and equally nonexistent bomb?”

“Yes, those. Well, to tell the truth, it was all I could do to not pull you into that bathroom with the nonexistent bomb.”

“Except that a bathroom on a plane wouldn’t be the ideal place for that sort of thing,” I commented, leaning up to place a warm, perfect kiss on his full, pink lips. “Plus, there was a bad guy chained to your arm at the time.”

“Yeah, except for that. And because of that, I couldn’t do this.” He pulled me in and mashed his mouth onto mine, his tongue darting forth, encircling my own in an oral tango. He smelled great, a heady mixture of both sweat and musk, and he felt even better, with my lithe little body melding into his great big one. And speaking of big, his massive prick was insistently pushing up against my belly.

“Hey, Will,” I rasped, breaking free from his lip-lock, “no pesky bombs to contend with in here.”

“Nope, just a pesky bathing suit.” He reached out and yanked it down, my prick springing out, pointing to his own like a flesh-seeking divining rod. “Yum,” he groaned.

“Looks great, tastes even better,” I informed him.

He took the hint and sank to his knees, his magnificent blue eyes staring up at me as he downed my cock in one fell swoop, taking me to his throat’s limit as a happy, gagging tear streamed down his cheek. “Yep,” he agreed, in between hungry sucks and slurps, “tastes great.”

“Can two have a go at this buffet?”

He laughed and stood up. “Plenty to go around.”

“Apparently,” I noted, staring down at the ample offering: meat and hefty potatoes for days. “But I’m more a
rump
roast kind of guy.”

“Ah,” he ahed, turning around, revealing a perfect little ass: two white mounds of muscled flesh and a hair-lined crack that begged to be spread apart. And then promptly was. “Dig in.”

I crouched down, face to ass-level, taking a deep whiff of his hole as I parted his cheeks, giving it a cursory lick before eagerly diving in. Then I reached between his hairy thighs, stroking his dick as I rimmed him out. He moaned and ground his ass into my face. “Not going to last too long if you keep that up,” he cautioned, his voice deep and hoarse.

Actually, with my free hand on my own prick pumping steadily away, I knew what he meant. “Okay,” I said, “then let’s finish together.”

I stood back up as he turned around, his lips once again finding mine. “You taste like my ass,” he told me with a chuckle.

“Lucky me,” I said, once again grabbing his thick tool.

“Lucky
me
,” he echoed, reaching for mine.

Our mouths mashed together, firm, insistent, as we picked up speed down below, our wrists working in overtime. “Close,” I groaned.

“Closer,” he moaned back.

And then we shot, both of us exploding in body-quaking spasms, our heavy loads hitting the tile floor below,
splat
,
splat-splat
, in one aromatic stream after the next, sending a million tingles up and down my spine before spreading out to all four limbs, releasing any shred of tension that still existed in my sweat-soaked body.

“Nice,” I whispered, our eyes still open, locked.

He laughed. “That the best you can come up with?”

I grinned and thought it over. “Incredible, sublime, rousing. Take your pick.”

He started to get dressed. “All three, Chase, and then some.”

“Sweet talker,” I said, lifting up my trunks.

We quickly cleaned up our mess and vacated our makeshift love shack, his barely-there luggage in tow. “Well,” he sighed, his smile briefly fading, “have a nice, um, vacation.”

“Oh,” I ohed, my own smile now faltering. “You, uh, leaving so quickly?”

“Just here for the night, Chase. Then back to DC.”

My smile returned in full force. “So we still have the rest of the day, then. And
tonight
. Why not join me and Brandon out on the beach?”

He looked down at his meager belongings. “Well, I did bring a bathing suit. You sure you won’t mind the company?”

I reached into my trunks and removed my room card. “Here,” I said, by way of an answer. “Go up to room 342 and get changed, then hurry back down. We’re easy to spot. Just look for one guy wearing the biggest smile ever and another wearing the littlest speck of material possible; that’ll be us.”

He grinned, a smile so beautiful as to take your very breath away. Then he nodded as he ran down the hallway, ass majestically swaying like the palm trees out back. “Order me a drink,” he hollered over his shoulder. “I’ll be right down.”

With a spring to my step, I hightailed it back to Brandon. A fresh drink awaited me upon my return.

“Took you long enough,” he said, sniffing the air around us. “Ah, you went to the bathroom inside, huh?”

My head moved from side to side. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“Oh, God no, nothing. Especially when it comes to cruisy bathrooms.”

“Especially,” I agreed. “But I do have a pleasant surprise for you.”

“What, does your trick have a friend?”

“He’s not exactly a trick,” I replied.

“And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

“Wait,” I said. “I know how you love surprises.”

“I hate surprises, Chase.”

“I know, but this one is a real doozie.”

Before he could argue any further the surprise came running over, his small suitcase slung over his wide shoulder. Brandon’s jaw dropped. “No fucking way,” he mouthed to me.

“I know,” I mouthed back, a radiant smile stretched from one ear to the other.

“Fellows,” said the new arrival, crouching down in front of us.

“Detective,” Brandon said.

“Will,” came the correction.

A chair was brought over and my so-called
trick
nestled in between us, his big feet digging into the sand as he winked over at me. “A guy could retire here,” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah, we’ve already been there and done that conversation.”

The three of us turned our attention back to the beautiful scenery set out before us. It was hard not to appreciate it: an extinct volcano looming to our left, the ocean sparkling in front, spectacular hotels on either side, and beautiful people scattered as far as the eye could see. Heaven on earth and a bar just off to our side. Utter perfection. Present company included.

“Anyone care for a dip?” Will soon asked, standing up and removing his T-shirt to reveal a densely packed chest and taut, ripped abs, all covered in a nice fuzzy down. Adonis had nothing on this fed. No sir, no how.

“I think you guys already had one,” Brandon replied, gazing up at him.

Will didn’t respond; instead, he ran headlong into the tranquil blue ocean. “Last one in is a rotten egg,” he yelled back.

Brandon looked over to me with a smile. “Well, Chase, I have to say I taught you well.”

I laughed. “Yep, Master. Grasshopper earned his black belt with that one.”

He stood and started to saunter on ahead. “
Pink
belt, my friend,” he corrected, pulling me with him. “Wear it proudly.”

Brandon and I dove in, the water warm and wonderful, washing over us in a salty embrace. We stood up, the sandy bottom soft as down beneath our feet, our heads bobbing above the water, the three of us staring down the Waikiki coast, Honolulu’s glory. Our hotel towered high in front of us, its majestic banyan tree spreading her protective limbs out and over the many guests. Will reached out his hand for mine just beneath the waves, holding on tightly, which sent a volt of adrenaline coursing through my body that made my vision go blurry for just the briefest of seconds.

“Perfection,” I sighed contentedly, breathing in the warm, salty air.

But perfection came with a hefty price. (I know, icky foreshadowing. But there’s no easy way to put it. If you have those pills and booze I was telling you about, now would be a good time to get them. Less than five minutes remaining for our bliss to turn to bust.)

We swam back in, eager to finish our drinks and soak in the sun. San Francisco, home base, is frequently sunny, but rarely warm. In other words, we had to take advantage of this now, while the getting was good.

Dripping wet, we returned to our starting point, sinking into our chairs like they were a second skin, the warm sand clinging to our bodies. “Alo-ha,” I said, raising my glass before taking a deep and satisfying swig.

“Alo-ha,” my friends repeated, toasting the ocean that peacefully rolled in not thirty feet in front of us.

The peace, however, was suddenly shattered by the sound of a muffled phone.

“Your luggage is ringing,” Brandon told Will.

He looked at it, confused. “Who’d be calling me now?” he wondered aloud, opening up said luggage and removing his cell phone. “Detective Stevenson,” he said into it, and then nothing but “Uh huh” over and over and over again, his face growing whiter and whiter.

When he hung up, I asked, “What happened?”

He didn’t answer at first, too stunned to speak. “Fuck,” he finally uttered.

“What fuck?” I asked.

“Me fucked. I mean, I’m fucked. Royally.”

My stomach sank at the sound of his troubled muttering. “What is it?”

“The smuggler, the guy I just brought in, he escaped.”

“So?” Brandon piped in. “He was no longer in your custody.”

But Will wasn’t looking any happier.

“How, exactly, did he escape?” I thought to ask.

“Two cops were taking him out to their squad car on their way to the Halawa Prison. He was in front of them, still apparently handcuffed. They were holding his arms on either side, though, it seems, the handcuffs weren’t locked anymore. He raised his hands and punched them both in their kidneys, then smashed both of the officers in the face with the end of the cuffs. He was gone before either could get up and give pursuit.”

“How did he get out of his cuffs?” I dreaded asking.

Will held his head in his hands. “They found the metal part of a champagne top in his holding cell.” We all groaned audibly. “They don’t know how he got it, but he picked the handcuff lock with it; that much they do know.”

“And you can’t tell them how he came by it, right?” Brandon asked.

“Not if I want to keep my job. I was supposed to take a taxi, not a limo. Taxis don’t come with champagne. This is all my fault.”

“
Our
fault,” I corrected.

“Tangentially speaking,” Brandon amended.

I knew why Will had gotten into the limo; he wanted to see me again, of that I was now fairly certain. In other words, it was my fault, too, tangential or not. “We’ll help you get him back, and then they can’t blame you. Or at least fire you.”

“We will?” Brandon piped in. “I thought
we
were on vacation.”

“Come on,” I said. “Three days with nothing to do but lie around and you’ll be begging to get into some sort of mischief. This way, now you’ll have an excuse.” (As if he’d ever needed one of those before.)

“I can’t ask you to help me, especially since I’ll basically be going renegade,” Will chimed in.

“You’re not asking; we’re telling. That way, if your superiors ever get wind of it, you can deny any wrongdoing.”

“But it might be dangerous,” he tried.

“Danger is my middle name,” I countered.

“No, it’s not,” Brandon counter-countered. “It’s Simon.”

I reached out and held Will’s hand. “Just let us know how we can help. There must be something we can do.”

Will looked between the two of us, the smile briefly returning. “Well, I can’t ask the police for their help, not without getting in trouble myself. After all, it’s their case, not mine, as far as they’re concerned.” He paused and searched our faces. “Anyway, you know how the guy kept saying how he didn’t do it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember. And?”

“And, you see, I sort of believed him. Maybe our looking for him will shed some light on that.”

“
You’re
looking,” Brandon interrupted. “We’re only helping, from a safe distance.”

Will nodded, the smile now in full force. “Deal,” he agreed. “Now all I need to do is explain to my boss why I need to stay here a little bit longer.”

Other than to fuck me silly
, I thought. “Other than to fuck me silly,” I said. (Oops, sometimes these things just slip out.)

“Um, yeah. Maybe I’ll just tell him I need a vacation and leave it at that,” he said, a blush adorably rising up his neck, the color fast returning to his cheeks.

“Trust me,” I told him, “after a few days with the two of us, a vacation is exactly what you’ll need.”

“And a new liver,” Brandon added.

“Well, yeah, that’s a given,” I said. “But these Moana Sands are well worth it.”

Now if we could keep our other vital organs up and running, maybe we’d survive the next two weeks.

Just maybe.

No promises.

Chapter 2

Innocence Lost

The next day, after an incredible night of sex (outside of a bathroom stall), Will was given a leave of absence. He hadn’t had a vacation in quite some time and his superiors agreed that he deserved one. Score one in the old plus column for our little team. But then again, our little team wasn’t really much of one to begin with. Will was out in the field while Brandon and I were relegated to the hotel’s measly computer, trying to find out all we could about our smuggler, one Lenny Hallanah.

The scuttlebutt on Lenny, as we quickly discovered, was pretty much everything we already knew. He had worked for Aloha Airlines for six years, flying mostly inter-island with occasional trips to California and Nevada. When a raid on a local, penny-ante drug dealer turned up a larger than expected cache of cocaine, Lenny’s name was offered up for a lighter sentence. Corroboration came with the testimony of several of his work associates and the subsequent finding of eighty-thousand dollars on his person on a recent trip from Honolulu to Oakland. Lenny denied any wrongdoing, but a medical exam had found, well,
yuck
, what Will had already told us.

Several additional items of note were that, as we suspected, he was a gay man; he was from Oahu; his lover, apparently, vacated their house after the arrest, disappearing to points unknown; his family believed he was innocent (don’t they always?); and, much to the relief of the great state of Hawaii, further drug arrests had been made since the capture of the man for whom Lenny allegedly smuggled drugs. All in all, a happy story, though not for Lenny. Or Will, of course. Or now us.

“Something doesn’t sound right,” Brandon said after the initial read-through.

“Yeah, the whole rectum thing is really gross.”

“No, not that. If guys can stick gerbils up their asses, why not pounds of coke? No, I mean the dealer gave Lenny’s name first in exchange for leniency. I always thought you gave your boss’ name, not a subordinate’s. Granted, smuggling is a no-no, but the chief of the whole operation holds the power and the wealth -- not to mention is usually wanted more by the cops. But then, soon after the arrest, that guy, the boss, was captured anyway, according to the articles we read.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “The investigators did their jobs properly.”

He scratched his head. “I don’t know; something’s missing here. If Lenny is innocent, like he says he is, then he was just a scapegoat. And if he’s guilty, then why, after supposedly smuggling for at least a year, does he all of a sudden start flashing money around like the other flight attendants said he did? If he was that stupid, he would’ve shown his cards a lot sooner, seems to me. Plus, why did the lover all of a sudden skip town?”

“Embarrassment? Fear of being implicated? Fear of retribution from the dealer or the dealer’s boss?” I offered.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Those all make sense, too.”

“But?”

“But why does our new friend, Will, think he’s innocent? And, for that matter, why do I?”

“Because Lenny’s cute and gay? And cute gay guys don’t smuggle drugs; they take them at clubs.”

“An unfortunate stereotype, but okay, I’ll give you that. Just one more question, then. What was your first impression of Lenny?”

I paused and thought about it, eventually replying, “No way is this guy a criminal. Heartbreaker, yes. Drug smuggler, not a chance.”

“And your first impression of me?”

No pause necessary. “An asshole. One hundred percent, Grade A bona fide.”

He nodded, sagely. “See, always go with your gut instincts.”

He had me on that one. In any case, Will had eight years on the force under his belt. I’d go with
his
gut instincts over our own anytime. Still, Brandon was correct; I
felt
like Lenny was telling us the truth, despite what the evidence pointed to. And the evidence seemed shaky at best. For instance, whoever was selling the drugs to Lenny in California had yet to be captured. In fact, there were no clues as to who was doing the selling. Only the dealer in Hawaii who eventually received the drugs had been caught, and then, afterward, his boss. Why didn’t the dealer just turn over the name of the source for even greater leniency? Unless, of course, there really was no mainland source to implicate.

“Okay,” I relented. “I agree. It’s not an open-and-shut case. Still, what can we do?”

A Cheshire cat grin spread like wildfire across my friend’s impossibly handsome face. “Well, now, I think I know how we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Can we leave the word
kill
out of this for the time being, please?”

He nodded. “Fine. What I meant to say was perhaps Lenny’s lover can shed some light on all this, either about Lenny’s current whereabouts or his guilt or innocence. Since that guy wasn’t a suspect, and since no drugs turned up in their home, the police stopped their search for him. Perhaps we can continue where they left off.”

“I see,” I said, knowing where he was going with all this. “In other words, we ask around at the gay beaches and bars, right? Your kind of stomping grounds.”

He touched his finger to his nose. “Bingo.”

“That’s amazing how you did that,” I said, truly in awe.

“Did what?”

“Worked all that out, and all to your own distinct advantage.”

“Practice makes perfect, dear one. So let’s go shopping to look our slutty best, then have dinner, then find ourselves a nice gay bar to camp out in?”

I grinned, still stunned at how detective work could be made to be such fun. “Agreed,” I agreed. “Though don’t you already have enough slutty outfits?”

“How can anybody have
enough
slutty outfits, Chase?”

It was a rhetorical question, and one not meriting a reply. Again. Instead, I walked out of the hotel and back into the sun-kissed early afternoon. The sky was a beautiful azure blue, the Moana a brilliant white, and the street an array of every color of the rainbow. The sidewalk was lined with trees that sprouted odd-shaped flowers and leaves, all tropical, all exotic. It was, of course, beautiful to behold, despite the heaping bucket of shit we now found ourselves knee-deep in.

I stopped to sniff a plumeria blossom, the fragrance pure Hawaiian. Then we headed across the street past the first of hundreds of ABC Stores -- Waikiki’s version of 7-Eleven meets miniature Target, each one selling every kind of cheap island gift you can imagine, from macadamia nut pancake mix to Kona coffee to cigarette lighters in the shape of volcanoes with rims that light up red when you flick them on. Pure kitsch. Needless to say, in time, we bought one of everything. Sometimes two.

But our goal was just down the street and to our left: the International Marketplace, with well over a hundred shops and stands in an open-air setting. A strip-mall in paradise.

We entered beneath its massive wooden sign and came face to face with a (fake) waterfall containing (real) koi splashing about, all under a resplendent banyan tree. On either side were tourist shops galore, and along the cement paths sat dozens of kiosks selling absolutely nothing we needed but everything we wanted just the same. After all, you can never have too many plastic ukuleles, synthetic leis, or, best of all, hula men car ornaments, complete with swaying hips. (Not that either one of us owned a car, mind you.) Oh, and wooden frogs that croaked when you rubbed a stick across their backs. Oh oh, and friendship bracelets in hot pink. Naturally, we had to get those.

Amazingly, this craptopia went on and on, one booth of junk after the next, until we couldn’t carry any more of it. Brandon and I, after all, truly are the ultimate demographic: half-drunk, gay men with mucho disposable income -- which we happily disposed of with wild abandon.

And those slutty outfits? Only Brandon can pull those off. I settled on a nice floral Hawaiian shirt, somewhat form-fitting surfer shorts, and a lovely pair of emerald green flip-flops. Slutty? Nope. Comfortable? Yep. And Brandon? Well, now, within minutes he was strolling about in a too-tight tank with
Ride My Longboard
stretched across his bulging chest and a pair of shorts so snug that I could’ve sworn his voice went up two octaves after he tried them on.

“Lunch time,” he eventually proclaimed.

I looked at his outfit and replied, “Where will you put it? One extra calorie and that ensemble is gonna go
boom
.”

It was then that our plan hit a fortuitous glitch. The food court, with over a dozen fast-food restaurants of every nationality, sat in the back of the marketplace. And in the corner of all this, his tiny ass resting along a metal railing, stood a very young, tall, thin Hawaiian in flesh-hugging clothes that showed off his lean, hard body. He was a junior Brandon in Hawaiian bronze.

“Drug dealer or prostitute?” I asked.

“Why do you say that, Chase? He looks just fine to me.”

I shook my head. I’d obviously asked the wrong person. In any case, the guy saw us staring and nodded our way. “We’re being hailed,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

“What should we do?” he corner-mouthed back.

“Beats me. You’re the expert.”

He pinched my arm. “I pay for neither drugs nor sex, Chase.”

I pinched him back. “I meant the, um, sexy side to all this, Brandon.” Which is not what I meant at all.

“Ah, okay. Then I say we go over and talk to him. He might be our
in
to finding Lenny’s boyfriend. I mean, how big can this island be, anyway?” (Five hundred and ninety-seven square miles and just under eight hundred thousand residents. I, too, read the guidebook on the plane. And you caught me just in time; another five minutes and I surely would’ve forgotten all that.)

So we headed over, the stranger’s smile glowing like a lightening bug’s ass. “Aloha,” he said.

“Aloha,” we also said.

“You here for lunch?” (Groan, small talk before business.)

“Yep, what do you recommend?” I asked.

He smiled. “The Wendy’s down the street. Food here is crap.”

Brandon paused, clearly weighing his options. “And what’s the alternative to food?” he asked.

The guy smiled even more widely, glad, it seemed, that he didn’t have to broach the subject first. “What
alternatives
are you looking for?”

Again Brandon paused. Surprisingly, even for him, he was somewhat out of his element here. Apart from his pill popping, Brandon didn’t do illicit drugs. And if he ever did pay for sex, it wasn’t out of necessity. “Um, how about we talk about that over lunch?”

“You buying, dude?” he asked.

“Lunch, yes,” I chimed in.

The stranger rubbed my head. “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

“Chase,” I replied, grabbing a seat as far away from the masses as was possible.

“Mine’s Anakoni.” He also took a seat, as did Brandon. “Just call me Koni.”

“And I’m Brandon,” Brandon added. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, you should know, we’re not looking for sex or drugs.”

“Not
actively
looking,” I added.

“Yes, right,” Brandon continued, shooting me a nasty-ass glare. “In any case, we do need help in finding something. Or, well, someone.”

Koni tapped his fingers atop the metal table. “What makes you think I was selling either sex or drugs? Are you guys cops?”

Again I laughed, seeing as that was the one profession no one would ever think we were associated with. (Despite the lovely fact that I’d just recently slept with a federal agent.) “No,” Brandon replied. “We’re just looking for some information.”

“That you’re willing to pay for,” Koni added.

“That we’re willing to negotiate payment for, yes,” Brandon told him.

Koni giggled, a boyish chuckle that only added to his overall cuteness. “You guys are in luck, then. I was going to sell you baking powder that would’ve burned your noses something fierce. The sex, however, would’ve been primo. But the information will come cheaper than what I would’ve charged you for that. Provided that the lunch is all you can eat.”

“Not a problem,” Brandon told him. “Get whatever you like.”

And get he did. One, it appeared, of everything. Mounds of it. And he ate it all with gusto. He’d either not eaten in ages or had a tapeworm the size of Cleveland. In any case, after a hundred dollar
tip
, he was willing to talk while Brandon and I ate our healthy, slimming salads.

“So, you guys are looking for someone. What makes you think I can help with that?” he asked, wiping the spaghetti, chow mein, burrito, and ice cream off his face.

“Do you know about the drug arrest of Lenny Hallanah?”

The smile at once left his face. He burped and shook his head. “Bad news, dudes. No can help.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I asked.

“Little bit of both. You know that blow I was gonna sell you, the stuff you can clean your fridge with?” We nodded, and he continued. “See, a month ago, I would’ve been able to get you the real stuff. Crappy, but real.”

“And now?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, not until Brandon slipped him another twenty. “And now, my dealer’s been busted. And his boss has been busted, too. And all I know is that it’s got something to do with this Lenny Hallanah dude.”

“So you know Lenny?” I asked, eagerly.

Again, no response. Not until another Andrew Jackson joined the first. “Never heard of him before he made the news. Then again, other than Makani, my
ex
-dealer, I didn’t know anyone connected to the shit I sold. And Makani never mentioned anything but drugs and cash.”

“So you don’t know if Lenny smuggled for Makani, then, like it’s being reported?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know, don’t care. Better to be ignorant than dead.” (If such was truly the case, Brandon was certain to live a long life.)

“And do you know why Makani would turn Lenny in and not his boss? I mean, wouldn’t the cops have been more lenient on him then, given him a lighter sentence?”

Koni snickered. “Small island, dudes. Nowhere to run to. You turn in your boss around here, you’re one dead motherfucker. Better to serve your sentence, whatever they give you.”