Immortality Is the Suck (7 page)

also informed me that no other living creatures were close by. I shoved the gun

back into my belt and stood looking down at him.

Freeway had put on some bulk since that summer he'd won the

skateboard championship. His beefy neck twisted sideways, showing two

blackened holes and dried blood. His head lay in a pool of the same blood; his

T-shirt was rucked up at the bottom, where a shallow knife wound showed.

Immortality is the Suck

39

A disturbing sense of regret tried to manifest in my chest. A flash of

memory. Freeway's mama making me
sopa
in her kitchen one evening.

Freeway had traveled a bit more than a lot of kids his age, making it as far

as Venice Beach, which was more than a lot of Latino East Enders ever

managed in their lifetimes. He'd never graduated from high school, hadn't even

finished out his probation. He had managed, however, to marry and produce

an heir. Not necessarily in that order. Divorced. Killed a man in cold blood.

And now his body was lying in a dark equipment shed with two gaping

wounds in the neck. He was twenty-two years old.

I suppose you could argue that this had always been Freeway's fate; that,

given his actions and background, he was destined to die young and violently

in East Los Angeles. Many members of the Mongols accepted the likelihood of

their probably violent ends. Still, it was one thing to take a bullet for a brother;

it was another to be ritualistically slain by some psycho. I'd been part of the

club long enough to feel the outrage and desire for revenge that any Mongol

would feel in my position.

And then there was the likelihood that Freeway's murder and mine were

connected. That somebody, out there, knew a helluva lot more than I would

want them to.

There was anger, and a burning predatorial urge in my belly. Fight or

flight pounding in my temples. Tension in all my muscles, I could smell the

blood and death and it didn't disgust me, it ramped me up. It sent adrenaline

through my blood and a sharp focus into my brain. It put me into the zone.

I looked around, trying to quickly assess what had happened. The room

was dark, but a blue luminosity filled it. It occurred to me, in some statistically

cool part of my brain, that this was exactly what the darkened morgue had

looked like. Perhaps near death experiences endowed one with the ability to see

in the dark? Whatever. I could see every detail as I stood there.

There was a large rectangular clear patch near Freeway's body where, it

seemed, crate-sized objects had been stored long enough to let dust settle

40

A. M. Riley

around them. Scuff and drag marks and dozens of footprints were all around

the area. I tried to avoid the thick of the prints as I circled, looking around.

One of the workbenches, with a dismembered skateboard on it, has been

shoved out of kilter, and a couple of skateboard wheels and a screwdriver had

spilled onto the floor. Dark stains on the bench that I knew were blood by the

smell. Yes, you read that correctly.

And speaking of smells, now I was picking up that there was something

there besides Freeway's blood. Something with a different…tone is the only

word I can think of to describe it. It was like I could suddenly discern shades of

color in smells. So, I followed my nose, as they say, and there, behind the

bench and a subwall that had been used to hang tools, was a crate about the

size of a soda twelve-pack. The top was already loose. I used my shirt as a glove

and lifted the lid by one corner.

A compact plastic container, its sides insulated and its interior filled with

ice. The ice packed firm and still very cold around what at first appeared to be

half gallon white plastic milk bottles. I counted four. Each round white cap was

numbered and dated in neat black Magic Marker. However long they'd been

there, they were still ice-cold to the touch. Given Freeway's role with the

Mongols and the fact that he'd died with this in his possession, I assumed this

was some sort of new drug. I had no idea what drug it could be, though.

There'd been absolutely no whisper of it on the street. So I popped the top of

one and peered into the container. Ruby red and… I sniffed and immediately I

knew what it was. What it was, how old it was, how great it would taste going

down.

I set the container down abruptly, and backed right into the bench.

What the fuck was going on?

Because those were cartons of blood there.

Now, I've craved a few substances in my lifetime. Coke, meth, Peter's ass.

You know what I mean. But I've never wanted anything like I suddenly wanted

that blood.

Immortality is the Suck

41

I realized I was breathing hard. Sweating. The ravenous hunger in my gut

suddenly solved. This was what I needed. What I'd been craving. I couldn't have

explained why, but I HAD to do it. I picked up the opened container. I lifted it

to my lips. I drank the blood.

Oh. MY. God. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted in my life. I staggered

back against the workbench, holding myself up. It was like meth or horse,

without the nasty side effects. It was just good. God-awful, blessed,

thankyouJEEsus good. I closed my eyes and felt the stuff surge like white

candy-coated bliss through my brain.

The first rush passed and I felt bright and alive. Hard. And filled with a

sudden intense need to move.

Some part of me was counting on its fingers. Some slithering, hissing

serpent in my brain told me to grab the blood, stuff it into the trunk of the

Caddy, and
run
. I didn't even stop to consider my actions. I stuffed the carton

back into the case, lifted it, and ran out the door of the equipment shed,

dodging from shadow to shadow across the park, until I got to the Caddy. I

popped the trunk, put the crate inside under some rags Peter kept there. My

brain was focused and clear and all it would tell me was that I had to hide the

stuff so nobody could find it. So nobody could take it away from me. I was like

that Gollum character with the ring. “Mine mine
mine
.”

I was halfway back to Peter's place before I'd even taken time to think.

42

A. M. Riley

Chapter Six

Peter lay almost exactly as I had found him.

I sat on the bed next to him. His back rose and fell slowly, that one freckle

on his shoulder blade riding the swell like a ship on the sea. The rush of

adrenaline and rage that had followed drinking the blood had an element of

lust as well, and I wanted to lick his freckle.

I had enough presence of mind, though, to know that I was sweaty and

probably bloody. I'd dribbled a bit from the carton down the front of the

sweatshirt, and God knew what my face looked like. So I opted for a shower

instead.

I sing in the shower.

I lathered up and launched into “
Der Rosenkavalier
” for a good ten

minutes, using most of a bar of Peter's deodorant soap, my fingers slithering

down around my hard cock and then slithering back up as I fantasized about

just what my cock would be doing in a few minutes to Peter's ass. You get

older, you learn. Yeah, even me. Sometimes waiting is half the fun.

I scrubbed a towel over my hair, wrapped another around my hips and

stepped out into the hallway, clouds of steam issuing with me.

“Hold it right there.”

Peter, in boxers, sleep-sticky hair askew all over his head. Bright red face

and blue eyes staring, holding a Glock trained right at my head.

I raised my hands and dropped the towel.

Peter's a rock in a crisis. But, obviously he still thought I was dead.

Because he screamed and jumped and the gun went off. Happily he thought to

Immortality is the Suck

43

jerk his arm sideways as it did so, so a bit of molding flew through the air

instead of half my brains.

“I know you've warned me not to use all the hot water,” I said. “But don't

you think that's a little extreme?”

* * * * *

babbling like something possessed for all of ten minutes. And then I had to

make him stop slapping himself in a pathetic attempt to wake up from what he

thought was a horrible dream. I got him propped up in a chair in the living

room, and then we had a conversation that went something like this:

“You're dead.” His eyes went teary. Christ.

“Touch me,” I said.

He did. His hand warm on my upper arm. My cock, once more safely

buried under the towel, raised its head in interest.

Peter's lower lip sort of trembled. “I
saw
you die.”

“Well, here I am, so…”

“No, you're dead.”

“I'm sitting right here!”

“But I
saw
you. You were dead. They zipped up the body bag.”

“Obviously, medical science still has a lot to learn.”

Peter buried his head in his hands. “My head is splitting open.”

So, I went to make some coffee. When I came back, he took the cup

without comment and sipped at it. And I took the opportunity to just sit back

and enjoy looking at him.
À la dishabille
, as they say.

Even unshaven, his dark blond hair looking like he'd combed it with a

blender, Peter was a handsome man. And he was across from me in nothing

but his boxer shorts. That hard body with its golden fur all over it was more

44

A. M. Riley

and more of a distraction. “Wait a minute.” Peter pointed at me. “Your neck

had two holes in it as wide as my thumb.”

“It did?” The disturbing image of Freeway's corpse flashed in my mind's

eye.

“Yeah.” Peter leaned over and studied my neck closely. Touching it with

the pads of his fingers. “Not even a scar,” he breathed.

For a guy who'd drunk a full bottle of bourbon and hadn't bathed yet,

Peter smelled really good. He looked up at me.

I grinned.

And then he punched me in the mouth.

I fell over the arm of the chair I was in and crashed across a magazine

rack, more surprised than hurt.

“You asshole,” he said, standing over me and jabbing that finger again.

I touched the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and didn't

answer. He was right.

“What kind of bullshit are you into now, Adam?”

“
Me
?” How did this become
my
fault?

“What were you doing in that warehouse?”

“Hey, I was supposed to meet a guy. What were
you
doing there?”

“Watching you stage your own death, you bastard. Tell me this, did you

know I'd be the one on the scene or was it just my good luck?”

“Peter, I didn't stage anything. Somebody wanted me dead.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” If I told Peter how sexy he looked when he

was pissed off he'd deck me again. So I kept my stupid mouth shut and tried to

look innocent. I must not have pulled it off because he just looked more

irritated and said, “Last week, we found a Mexican Mafia-associated dealer

dead. Two puncture wounds to the throat, just like you, as it happens.”

Immortality is the Suck

45

My face must have registered something because he narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

“It's a very long story, Peter. Who was the dealer?”

“Paolo Spence.”

“I thought ICE picked him up a few months ago.”

Peter walked into the kitchen, letting his heels hit the wooden floorboards

like a little kid throwing a tantrum. I trailed behind him. “Is that the case you

were working with the DEA?”

Peter parked that fine ass of his on a kitchen stool and crossed his arms.

“The DEA has been building a case against the 'M' for a couple years. You knew

that, right?”

“Everyone knew,” I said. “That was the fucking problem. I wouldn't go near

that operation with a proverbial pole, and I told them so.”

“See, and I figured the only reason you might have been in that warehouse

was because you'd changed your mind and were involved in the sting.”

Hmm. This sounds like the blame is rounding the corner and coming right

at
me
. “You got anything to drink here, Peter?”

“How
were
you involved, Adam?”

I opened the refrigerator, just to have a place to hide my head. While I was

in there, I grabbed a bottle of water. He was glaring at me when I emerged. “I

might have been looking for a new distributor,” I said.

“Narcotics said they knew nothing about it. They said you were supposed

to be moving out of town. And, by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up.”