Jumping at Shadows

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

382 NE 191st Street #88329

Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Jumping at Shadows

Copyright © 2011 by R.G. Green

Cover Art by Reese Dante  
http://www.reesedante.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61372-215-2

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

November 2011

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-216-9

Dedication

For Geo, who believed writing should be for the love of writing, and Shannon, who always offered brutal honesty in such a kind and gentle manner.

Chapter One

T
HE
Main Street Pub was packed, especially for a weekday night, with enough bodies crowding the floor space to force the nearly naked servers to slither and slide as they maneuvered between them. Brimming mugs and mixed drinks were balanced perfectly on scratched wooden drink trays, and the sheer act of pulling them away from the unexpected stumble—or merely raising them out of danger—created enough teasing displays of sweaty male flesh to draw a good number of eyes in their direction. Eric Geller certainly wasn’t the exception, and more than one sweat-dampened chest caught his attention as he worked his way closer to the sure-to-be-crowded bar at the back. The beat of some rock tune sounded grindingly over the burr of voices coming from every conceivable space—the tables, the corners, the overflowing dance floor—though Eric couldn’t hear enough to actually name the music, let alone dance to it. But that suited him just fine. Most days—or rather, nights—he enjoyed the dance floor as much as anyone; tonight just didn’t happen to be one of them. A cold beer and a warm body were about all he was in the mood for, and he knew he would likely find both at the bar, once he made it through the swarm.

The Pub wasn’t usually this crowded on weekends, let alone on Thursdays, but the recent, severe drop in temperature added to the number of people looking for a night out in a warm place, and the Pub certainly fit the bill. It didn’t hurt that Sparklers—Main Street’s chief rival in Breten City’s gay nightclub scene—had temporarily closed amid rumors that more than cold beer was for sale. The charges were true, of course, and everyone knew that tricks and hustlers were just as common here at the Pub, although this club’s management ensured their services were offered discreetly, and without the high-handed encouragement to accept. But still, they were present—they always were—and given the various stages of undress in the crowd tonight, Eric would have been hard pressed to distinguish the hustlers from the clients, and either from the guys just here to enjoy the beer and music.

Eric took a deep breath, which brought with it the smells of alcohol, sweat, and the tang of too many combinations of aftershave and cologne, but at last he could see the line that formed along the bar front through the crowd. He picked out the spot he would nudge his way into almost immediately. A jut of his elbow was all that was needed to slip him into place. Glancing down the line, he located Brian Mays, Main Street’s most popular bartender, as he moved from customer to customer, delivering drinks and conversation in equal measure. With his green eyes, thick, dark hair, and buff, firm body—compliments of a nearly religious gym regimen—Eric could only imagine the amount of tips and propositions the man was getting. Times like this made him glad he and Brian had never taken it upon themselves to compare income.

Sweat prickled under the worn bomber jacket and Henley shirt Eric was wearing, and the thin T-shirt he had put on under them both was already clinging to his skin. Outside, it may have dropped below freezing the moment the sun went down, but inside, the heat was oppressive, or it would be soon enough. The man seated on the black-cushioned stool to Eric’s right was no doubt smothering in his outdated wool dress suit, at least if his glistening, nearly bald head was anything to go by. The few strands of hair still clinging to his scalp looked like seaweed in the shaded lighting, although the sweat coating his jowls might have as much to do with the number of empty martini glasses in front of him as it did with the heat. Eric caught his eyes briefly in the mirror behind the bar, and the look the man returned was obviously appraising and more than a little suggestive. Eric gave him a brief nod, but nothing more. Bald and Sweaty was in no way, shape, or form the reason Eric had chosen this particular spot.

That reason was leaning on the bar on his left.

Tall, dark-haired, and leanly muscled under a faded gray sweatshirt, the man on that side of him was slouched low enough to rest one elbow on top of the bar and was turned in such a way as to make it nearly impossible to slip in behind him without brushing his denim-covered ass, something Eric hadn’t even tried to avoid when he’d taken up his position. The strong, cut profile reflected in the mirror completed the package nicely, and Eric felt his cock tighten in agreement.

Shrugging his jacket from his shoulders wasn’t easy, but he managed it without too much intrusion into Martini Drinker’s space. Eric kept his eyes aimed left, however, to make sure there would be no misinterpretation of an accidental bump. Apart from the image in the mirror, Eric’s view was limited, and he couldn’t see much of the flesh-and-blood man he had his eye on beyond the strong, veined forearm displayed beneath a pushed-up, heather-gray sleeve, and the defined, long-fingered hand curled lazily around the barrel of a nearly empty mug almost floating in the rings it had left on the bar top. The foamy remains appeared to be one of the Pub’s premium light lagers—Firebrick would have been Eric’s guess. Not Eric’s personal first choice—he preferred the flavor of dark brews over the malty taste of that particular Minnesota brand—but he could drink it if he had to, and had even done so on occasion.

A subtle shift of fleece and denim to Eric’s left as his coat slipped off his arms signaled that he had been spotted in the mirror, and the flash of heat in his cock the shift inspired reminded him that an intellectual discussion of beer varieties was
not
on the agenda. Eric’s lips curved in a slow smile as he tossed his jacket over the top of the bar, overlapping the almost identical jacket that already lay there.

Brian appeared in front of him, and Eric’s call for a dark draft barely reached his own ears over the noise around him. Making himself heard wasn’t really necessary, though, since he had been a customer long enough that the bartender knew what he wanted without asking. And judging by the wink, the lewd smile, and the not-so-subtle glance at the man on Eric’s left, Brian was equally aware of
whom
. A frosted mug of dark brew landed in front of him in short order, and Eric returned a wink of his own before Brian moved on down the line. Several heads turned to watch him; the flex and sway of perfectly toned flesh would undoubtedly work miracles when it came to tips. Eric was tempted to increase his own in thanks for the show, but that could wait until later. The beer was here, and it would do for now.

Eric sighed with pleasure as the first sip of the toasted, grainy dark went down. As he swallowed, he finally took in his own reflection in the mirrored wall in front of him. His image was a little blurry through the streaks and smudges smearing the surface of the glass, but what he saw was clear enough. It wasn’t flattering. His dark sandy hair, short on the sides and a little longer and spikier on top, was still tousled from the winter wind, making him look more like he had just crawled out of bed than walked in from the street. His eyes, usually a warm, rich hazel—or so he had been told—were bloodshot, and the narrow scar under his left brow stood out clearly on his wind-burnished skin. His long, straight nose, which he usually considered one of his best features, suffered from the distraction of a dark shadow of stubble, and his wrinkled Henley certainly didn’t improve his appearance. It had been a long day, and one he was glad to see the end of.

With a heavy sigh, Eric raised a hand to shove it through his hair, and felt the bump as his elbow met the solid body on his left. It might truly have been an accident, but it didn’t go unnoticed, and Eric was rewarded by a delicious shifting of weight that ended with the brush of a firm ass against his hip. A glance at their reflection in the mirror told him that the flirting was intentional, and Eric grinned as he returned the favor with a light brush of his hip against the other man’s back pocket. Eric’s smile widened when that tight ass pressed back a little harder.

The touch and feel was fun, and it went a long way toward relaxing Eric’s tired nerves, but he left off his flirting long enough to take another appreciative swallow of his heavy, dark beer. He couldn’t resist a lick at the condensation forming on the side of the mug for good measure, however, just in case the man was still watching him in the mirror. He
wasn’t
surprised to find that Bald and Sweaty on his right was observing him attentively, and judging by the leer on the man’s face, he was obviously assuming that swipe of the tongue had been for his benefit. Lecherous wasn’t a good look on him, and drunken lechery was even worse. Eric shook his head slightly at the reflection, and watched the leer turn to a sneer as the man raised his martini glass sharply at the rebuff. Eric almost pitied him but left him to his own devices to concentrate on the healthy flavor of the dark beer and the way it warmed his stomach.

A nudge from his left brought his attention back to his other side. His body was so close to the dark-haired man’s now that Eric could almost smell the heat from his skin. If the man were to stand up straight, he would top Eric’s height by almost two inches, and at 6’1”, Eric certainly wasn’t considered short. The dark hair at the nape of the other man’s neck was just long enough to begin to curl—the perfect length for tangling fingers into, and Eric could picture himself doing just that before the night was over. The man had also waited until he was sure he had Eric’s attention before he tilted his head back, draining the remnants of his beer in one long swallow, giving his Adam’s apple prominent display in the mirror. That was enough to change the picture in Eric’s mind from tangling his fingers in the man’s hair to licking the sweat from that solid knot in his throat, preferably while the man was naked and stretched out under him, and after Eric had ridden him through the mattress. The temptation to grope in hopes of speeding things up was strong, but he took another sip of his beer instead and listened in on the ongoing conversation led by a blond guy on the man’s other side.