Immortality Is the Suck (21 page)

door. I see little details I might not have recognized before and I see the actors

in my own mind and figure out my next move.

While I waited for Peter I saw the past few days playing out in my head

again. As I thought, my fingers wandered to my neck where the puncture

wounds still felt like deep bruises. When I pressed them, the hunger in my

belly, temporarily quelled at least, growled a low warning.

I wasn't the man I had been. That was clear. I wasn't sure what that

meant. The man I had been was a sorry mess. My death in the warehouse had

come as no surprise. The man I had been could not be a friend, could not be

trusted.

The man I had been had been loved by Peter.

Ay, there's the rub, as that Danish guy said.

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Right on cue I heard voices, the metallic clang of booted feet on the stairs.

Then a low rumbling voice that I could recognize three floors up, even without

being able to distinguish the words, as Peter.

Covering for me again.

Now the slow
tap tap
of his feet on the concrete stairs. A shuffle and the

pauses as he probably scanned every floor with a flashlight, looking for me. I

could only imagine what he expected to find. My body bled out on the floor

again? Maybe one of those piles of greasy ash that Aybie had become?

He expected to find Adam. And I wasn't him anymore.

Something weird, fluttery, and full of shadows took up residence in my

belly and I got off the mattress and started wandering the doorless, windowless

rooms. Like I would in a padded cell of a mental ward, probably. Like I was

trying to find an exit.

Tap. Tap
. The white lantern beam flowed down the bottom of the concrete

steps outside the door and slid up and around the frame. That seeking light

found its way along the wall until finally it shone fully in my eyes.

I heard Peter exhale, shakily. “Adam.”

I shook my head in denial.

The light still in my eyes, I heard his feet cross the floor, felt his hand on

my arm. Warm. Alive. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I shook my head and moved my arm away from him. The beam of the

flashlight dropped so he could scan my body with the light, checking for

wounds. His hand kept going to me. Stroking touches disguised as an

inspection. Opening my jacket, straightening the collar of the T-shirt.

“You son of a bitch,” he whispered now. His hand wandered up and gently

cupped my chin. I saw his eyes flash in the dark. He probably thought I

couldn't see him. Couldn't see the fear and longing there. Then he grabbed my

chin and pressed a kiss against my lips.

“What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?” he said.

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141

His kiss had opened some door and I needed him. I grabbed his shoulders,

turned him so his back hit the wall, and kissed him thoroughly. Hearing the

moan of pleasure, feeling it vibrate between our shared mouths. His tongue

pressing hungrily into mine.

I found his shirt buttons, his belt buckle with my fingers, as my mouth

kept up its assault. His hips rocked toward me, his skin shivering under my

hands. I heard my buckle open and zipper go down.

“Over here.” I broke the kiss long enough to grasp his hips and steer him

toward the mattress.

On his knees, slacks pushed down, shirt pushed up. He fumbled in a

pocket and tossed a foil packet in my general direction. I was going to ignore it

but then I thought about the new man I had become. And who knew how that

had happened? What I might be carrying in my blood and semen? I might have

escaped the HIV by the skin of my teeth, but any gambler knows not to push

his odds.

I slid the condom on and pushed myself into Peter hard and all at once.

He groaned and went down onto his elbows, cheek on the mattress. My

need for him was selfish and wild and I pounded away, reaching for release. At

some point, Peter found himself and I could feel him tightening around me, as

if egging me on.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and shoved hard. His torso

twisted slightly. He gasped and a shivering climax worked its way down my

spine and around my cock. The lights went off all around me like a proverbial

fireworks display for some time.

And then it was quiet except for the hard beat of Peter's heart against my

chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

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A. M. Riley

“Yeah.” I withdrew and tied off the condom. Lay my hand on his ass,

which still stuck up in the air. My cock gave a little twitch and I knew I'd be

good to go again soon. Wow.

Peter managed to get himself upright, dragging his slacks up and rubbing

his hand across his hair. He seemed to actually realize where we had landed at

that point and his face acquired a look of utter disgust.

He sprang to his feet and I rose also. “Sorry about that,” I said.

The flashlight had rolled off to a corner, its beam steady on a stack of

document storage boxes. From where I stood I could see “1986” on one of them.

Peter picked up the light and swept the beam around the room. Taking in every

square inch.

“I can see why you didn't bother to turn on the lights,” he said. “How long

have you been down here?”

“I can see in the dark,” I said. I saw his head lower at that. “I just ran

down here. Is the sun up yet?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then I guess I'm stuck here.”

Peter's flashlight found a chair with the back broken off. He righted it and

sat down, drawing a loop on the floor with a light for a minute until he clicked

the thing off and just sat in the dark.

“Can you see me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He was silent, thinking. “What the hell happened tonight, Adam?”

“I need more blood,” I said. “I'm going fucking crazy. Like worse than

withdrawal.”

“And, so…” He took a deep breath. “You…” He waved a hand toward the

general vicinity of upstairs.

“It was an accident. Is he…is he okay?”

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143

“He'll live.” Another of Peter's long pauses in which, I imagined, he

weighed and tested what he was going to say. “But we found another one.”

“Another one what?”

“Up in the Tips on Overland. Another DB with huge holes in his body,

exsanguinated.” Peter's voice was bleak, hopeless.

“I didn't do that.” Did he think I could? “Christ, Peter.”

“You were seen, Adam. Witnesses identified your bike.”

“I was set to meet him, but he was dead when I got there.”

“Like your CI.”

“
I didn't do it
!” I screamed. My voice echoed, several throbs of the last word

seeming to pulse in the air around us. “You have to believe me,” I added

desperately. “He'd been dead for a while when I found him. When the ME gives

you TOD, check it out. A waitress there will remember me. She had a tab that I

didn't pay and there'll be a time on it.” Odds were good, of course, that the

same check would prove that I had been in the vicinity in the correct time

frame. TOD was a wacky thing to establish. Sometimes I'd swear the coroner

did it with a divining rod and I Ching coins.

Peter leaned over, elbows on knees, head down. He looked defeated and

tired. “Okay,” he said.

“He never gave me his name,” I said. “You find out who he was?”

“No ID yet. But he had the Mongol tat on his forearm.”

The Mongols would never let anyone but their own crew wear that tat. And

no tattoo artist with half a brain would agree to ink one that wasn't earned and

authorized.

“That ass was a one percenter?”

He looked utterly disgusted. “Not up to their high standards?”

“You know what I mean. There'll be a war when they find out. First

Freeway, then what's his name.”

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“And you.”

“Yeah, and me.”

He shook his head. There was four feet of space between us and it may as

well have been four hundred feet. Four hundred thousand feet. “Adam, you

have to turn yourself in.”

“You know I can't.”

“You're a murder suspect.”

“I didn't do it, Peter. Listen, I've fucked around a lot but have I ever out-

and-out lied to you?”

It took him longer than I would have liked to answer. “No,” he finally said.

“I'm not lying now. I haven't killed anybody. I've thought about it. I'm

going bats, but I haven't done it.”

Peter stood, flicking on his flashlight. “I've got to go.”

There was a finality to that statement. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I

felt that he was taking leave, as they say.

“See you later?”

He shook his head. “Leave town, Adam. Just. Go.” Peter stood and placed

something on the chair that I'd later discover was my new ATM card. His

flashlight picked out the door and the path across the floor to it.

“Peter?” I said when he had reached the doorway. He paused, back to me.

“Yes?”

“I didn't kill anyone,” I said.

“I hope so,” he said. And left.

* * * * *

eight hours were. Sitting in a dark room with nothing but my own thoughts

and impotent to do anything about it.

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145

I tried Albert's cell a couple more times. It still went straight to voice mail.

God knew where the phone was or in whose possession, so I didn't leave a

message.

I'd worked homicide and gang task force and I'd worked undercover with

OMG's for years. I knew how long it could take to get to the bottom of an

operation like the one Whitey had hinted at. Years, maybe. It had taken us

three years to make a case against El Diablo.

Three years without Peter was a long time.

Because I knew Peter and I knew that he might turn a blind eye to a lot of

my shit. But he'd never have relations with a homicide suspect.

Obviously it was up to me to find the bastard at the bottom of this. For

Peter's sake. Because that poor guy? Would never have sex again if I didn't

make him.

Okay, I'm going to tell you that I felt the sun set and you're going to roll

your eyes and think I went buggy down there in the dark. Fine. Think what you

want.

I felt the sun set. I pulled my shit together and I left.

My bike was where I'd parked it. Knowing Peter, he'd probably cruised by

a couple times to check on that. I thought it had a ticket, but when I opened

the ticket envelope, there was another envelope and inside of that, a new debit

card from my bank.

Fuck. After everything that had happened, that fucking debit card was

what brought a tear to my eye.

So I had my maudlin moment there in the parking lot of the Dunkin'

Donuts. Then I climbed on my bike and rode.

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A. M. Riley

Chapter Fourteen

I think best when I'm cruising.

You know, if my parents had been the kind who noticed, or cared, that

their kid was having trouble in school, or that he got confused and frustrated

with detailed tasks, I might have been diagnosed with ADD or something early

on.

As it was, I found my own way. And considering some of the side effects

I've heard about from the drugs they gave kids back then, maybe I'm better off.

On a bike, you have to focus or you'll wind up a smear on the asphalt.

That same concentration kept my thoughts simple and linear.

I had to find blood before I went amok again. Everything else was

secondary to that. The issues with Peter couldn't get better if I was mowing a

bloody row through the streets of Los Angeles.

I tossed the cell, bought a new one. At the gas station I stopped and tried

Alberto's number again. The call went straight to voice mail. Then I rode to the

spot Peter had told me that they'd found the Hummer, just north of the 210

overpass on San Fernando.

There's a stretch of empty gravel and scrub there. I got off my bike and

looked around. Sure enough, near a property fence, melted rubber and

blackened gravel, sagebrush, and mud all around, mixed with something that

looked like fire retardant foam. Our anal crime scene people had removed the

Hummer probably, because not a scrap of debris remained.

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147

The surrounding ground was a chaos of tire tracks and footprints. But

this particular turnout was frequented by motorcyclists and pedestrians of all

sorts, so the various tracks weren't of much use to me.

I perched my ass on my bike, lit a cigarette, and contemplated my next

move.

I wanted to call Peter. I told myself I needed someone to bounce ideas off