Ice Man (3 page)

Chapter Two

Brett raked his fingers through his hair, a common action when he was frustrated. And damn was he frustrated. It wasn’t just because it had been a few years since he’d been in a sex club, it had been a hell of a long time since he’d met a man and wanted to tear off his clothes and fuck in front of a room full of strangers. He’d applied for membership in The Catacombs six months prior. At first, he hadn’t understood what the big deal was. All private clubs required membership. He’d never had to go through background checks and then an interview with the club owner. Now he understood the confidentiality clause he’d signed and the high security. Shit, he doubted the CIA could do a more thorough investigation.

Which meant that the club owner knew everything about him. Pressure tightened his chest. He knew how he’d fucked up not only his life but also Karen’s and the kids’. His ex-wife was just as culpable. She’d been willing to accept that her husband was gay as long as it didn’t interfere with her social calendar. Hell, she’d been fucking her tennis coach twice a week for years. Brett hadn’t blamed her. The man had a nice ass and impressive bulge in tight white shorts.

He slipped off his shirt and hung it over the new leather couch. A new matching recliner sat in front of giant sliding glass doors leading out to a small balcony overlooking the city. Going to the kitchen, he grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Everything was new. New condo, newly divorced, new fucking life. He twisted off the lid to the beer. The cool drink slid down his throat. At forty-three, he was finally free to live openly gay and he was still hiding, unwilling to take Rowan’s offer of meeting outside the club.

Blame didn’t really lie with Karen or the kids. Karen was a thousand miles away in Texas. Both his kids were in college, both in military schools. Daniel was at Texas A&M so he could stay close to his mother. Brett had moved to Denver so he could be closer to Jennifer. She was in her second year at the Air Force Academy. When he and Karen had told them about the divorce, they’d also told them why. He groaned and set his beer on the counter. Why torture himself with bitter memories? That life was his past but he still had an obligation to Karen. Hell. She’d seen to it in the divorce settlement.
He leaves the state and I pretend my ex-husband isn’t a fag.
Her exact words. After all, her membership in the country club might be revoked.

Thinking of the country club brought his thoughts back to the bartender at The Catacombs. Not only had he been gorgeous but he’d held the attention of the bar crowd with his bartending style and flair. Flames, juggling, he’d been amazing. Muscles had carved his form. Not big and bulging but tight and corded. Wavy brown hair, tousled and sexy. Blond highlights lent a good-boy image to his bad-boy attitude. Fringe curled around his collar and the sides had been finger-combed behind his ears. A hidden strength simmered beneath the surface. Long lashes, green eyes—eyes that kept secrets and hinted at mischief—and an expressive mouth. Dark whiskers had shadowed his jaw and grown thicker around his lips and on his chin. Not a clean-cut goatee but a sexy-as-hell face.

Brett’s pulse kicked up a notch and blood rushed into his shaft. He brokered multi-million-dollar business deals. Had clients all over the world. He made decisions and played hardball with ruthless tycoons. Yet a man like Rowan could take him to his knees. Fire sparked behind his eyes.

Brett wasn’t stupid. Obviously Rowan was involved with the owner of the club, Tac. Why did that thought arouse him further? Maybe because he could imagine the two of them together. Both strong, virile men—a film of sweat glistening on Rowan’s washboard ads. He pictured him with his head thrown back, pleasure straining his face and Tac sucking his long, erect cock. Size wasn’t a problem. He’d felt his heavy tool pressing against his groin during the kiss they shared.

He opened the fly of his trousers and released his swollen cock. Ropey veins infused with blood lined the length. He wrapped his fist around the base and squeezed. Pearly liquid seeped from the slit.

He leaned against the counter and stroked the hot, velvety flesh over his solid erection. Felt good. Damn good. His balls tingled and pulsed, drawing closer to his body. Closing his eyes, he pictured the way Rowan had leapt onto the counter. Raw power and determination, he exuded sexual energy.

Loosening his grip, he stroked faster. Intense flares of pleasure streaked through his cock. Muscles in his arms bunched. Faster. He clenched his teeth and hissed. “Oh yeah, fuck yeah.” He teetered on the cusp of orgasm. If he hadn’t been fearful of acting on his desires, he could be pushing his dick past Rowan’s luscious lips and thrusting into his wicked mouth.

He spun toward the sink as hot cream spurted from his cock. Each pulsing jet convulsed through him. He jerked hard, squeezing his base and waves of pleasure rolled over him. His mind numbed as endorphins surged through his body.

Gasping for breath, he sagged against the counter. His weakened knees buckled. He’d come but fucking his fist wasn’t going to quench his thirst for a man. Rowan. Sparks of interest had flared between them. He wanted to see if he could fan the flames. The bartender was young, hot, and if Brett read him correctly, he was barely containing his need.

Turning on the tap, he rinsed his semen down the drain, washed his hands and headed for bed. A staircase led to the second-floor-bedroom loft. The bedside clock glowed the ungodly hour. He crossed to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. Controls on the wall adjusted the amount of light filtering through the glass. Blinds contained within the panes could be adjusted to blacken the room. The sun would be up in a couple of hours. Brett pushed down the lever. Blinds pivoted, blocking out the Denver skyline and plunging the room into darkness.

He stripped out of his trousers. Using the glowing numbers of the clock as a guide, he crossed the sparsely decorated room and sank onto the king-sized mattress.

Linen sheets were cool against his nude body. Fatigue washed over him. It had been a long day—a long month. Now this was home. The house was quiet and dark. Peaceful. He growled and turned onto his side.
I’ll be at peace when I’m dead.
Right now, he wanted adventure.

A deep sigh relaxed him into the bed and he drifted off to sleep.

* * * * *

Heavy lethargy weighted down his body. He woke slowly, pushing through the fog of sleep. An insistent ringing blared through his head. Brett snapped awake and jackknifed off the bed. He groped for the phone. Middle-of-the-night phone calls usually meant trouble. Grasping the clock, he spun it around and glanced at the time. It wasn’t the middle of the night but it was late. Had to be one of the kids.

Swallowing to moisten his dry mouth, he picked up the phone and checked the caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. He answered.

“Hello.” His voice, rough from sleep, echoed through the quiet room.

The line was silent.

“It’s too fucking early for chat. If you’re an obscene phone caller, start breathing. Anyone else needs to wait until a decent hour before phoning.”

“Were you sleeping?”

Brett tried to place the voice. “Yes.”

“Are you naked?”

“Rowan?” His heart started to pound in his ears. Sleepiness vanished, replaced with arousal. “How did you get my number?” The club promised anonymity and confidentiality.

“I’m resourceful.”

There was a moment with nothing but breath between them.

“You could be dangerous to me.” Brett lived in the real world of high finance and family. Rowan couldn’t be older than mid-twenties. He might not realize the risk he presented. Phone calls and meetings outside the club could cause Brett problems he didn’t need.

“I guarantee you’re dangerous to me. I still had to call.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“But you’re glad I did,” Rowan said.

Brett sighed then whispered, “Yes.”

“Is your cock stiff?”

“Jacking off didn’t help.”

“Do you still want to fuck me? Now that we’re alone, I’m asking. I definitely want to fuck you.”

“You know I do, but I have more concerns about how you accessed my telephone number and what you plan to do with the information.”

Rowan took a deep breath and blew into the phone. “Hopefully, I’ll still have a job.” He chuckled, low and seductive.

Brett felt a tug in his groin as his cock hardened. “You have amazing hands.” He snuggled back into his bed, bent his knees and put his feet flat on the mattress, tenting the sheet. “You could work anywhere.”

“I was hoping you were referring to something besides my skills as a bartender.”

“I wouldn’t know about those skills.” He reached beneath the sheet and stroked his shaft. “If you recall, I offered.”

“Come to the club tonight.”

That’s what he wanted too. “For a drink?”

“And more.”

“Just the two of us? I was under the impression that wasn’t an option.” Tac had been clear. Rowan was already involved.

“I won’t pretend not to have a relationship with Tac. It’s complicated.”

“I want to say yes but I just got out of complicated. I’m looking for easy.”

“I’ve never been easy.” Rowan’s voice lowered. “I would be with you.” There was another moment of silence. “No pressure. If you come,” he inhaled, “you’ll
come
.”

Impossible to resist his innuendo, he simply agreed. “I’ll see you later.”

Brett hung up, knowing he’d never get back to sleep now. His hard-on had a purpose.

* * * * *

Rowan’s heavy tread echoed in the stairwell as he descended to the catacombs beneath the club, from which it had gotten its name. Tonight he felt none of the usual anticipation. Pressure built behind his eyes and a piercing pain stabbed into his temple like an ice pick. His veins felt engorged, swollen and throbbing. And flu-like symptoms. Without a vampire to drink the excess blood, he’d need to be leeched. Because Theron fed often, Rowan produced more than most.

Strange that a ritual he’d participated in for years could leave him feeling anxious and empty. The cinderblock corridor was cold. The chill settled on his flesh.

A wave of panic caused him to stumble on the step. Brett was coming to the club. Rowan didn’t want another scene at the bar. He wanted the chance to have Brett alone, to fuck a man, not a vampire. He didn’t want to share with Theron and didn’t want the vampire’s voice in his head. But he had to feed. Already, his body ached. The situation was impossible. Misleading Theron was impossible. His hands fisted.

“Why did I call Brett?” Because he couldn’t stop thinking of the man with the penetrating blue eyes. Lust still simmered close to the surface. For the first time, he’d met a man worth the risk.

There were problems—
complications
. Brett had made it clear he didn’t want complications. So somehow, Rowan had to keep the vampire out of his head and the only way to do that was not to feed him.

Impossible. No, he wasn’t ready to give up Theron. He might never be ready—especially for a man he’d just met. He simply wanted to explore the attraction that had overwhelmed him last night. After Brett had left, Rowan hadn’t been able to focus on work or the club. All he’d wanted was for the Zenith to fade and for Theron to go to bed—alone. As soon as sunrise broke the horizon, guaranteeing Theron rested in his chamber, he’d accessed the computer system and found out all he could about Brett. The search had been easy. He’d had his first name and his member number. Even if he hadn’t, tenacity happened to be one of his strengths. How else would he have managed to escape foster care and survive on the streets? Drugs had never appealed but then who needed narcotics when hosting brought such euphoric highs.

He weaved through the maze of hallways deep beneath the city. Muted lighting lit the way but he could find Theron’s sleeping chamber in the dark.

Pausing outside the door, he drew a couple of steadying breaths. Focusing his thoughts away from Brett was impossible. Why try?

He pressed against the door and slipped into the darkened interior. Vampires led secretive lives and Theron was more controlling than any other. That Rowan entered his private lair freely revealed his permanence in the vampire’s life. Of course, it was permanent. “Lights, low illumination.” Voice commands initiated the recessed lighting, bathing the rooms in a muted glow. Rowan stalked toward the bedroom.

Theron lay in repose, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted and breathing like the undead—barely noticeable. Hard lines carved his naked form. He had a strong jaw and long neck. Wide shoulders tapered to a trim waist. Muscle and tendon defined his sculpted torso. Taut skin rippled over his corded abdominals. The man was perfection. Power, intelligence and cunning. How would he react to Rowan’s betrayal?

Normally Rowan stripped before climbing onto the bed. Tonight he had plans and didn’t want to go to Brett with the scent of Theron and sex clinging to him.

After taking off his boots and socks, he stripped off his shirt, aware that when Theron woke, he’d be ravenous. Rowan didn’t want blood on his clothing. Emotion rolled through his gut. Anxiety frazzled his nerves. The bed dipped as he climbed on. Crawling on his hands and knees, he lay next to Theron and nestled close. The vampire stirred.