Desperate Enemies 3 (2 page)

Indeed, both Lauren and LeeAnn, her companion and their friend, rushed up to Danvers, welcoming him, shaking his hand, plying him with wine. Russell just stood behind him, dutiful, silent. Converse waved off their attempts at sucking up to him, claiming he wasn't here to party. “In fact, I have come for business purposes only, and I believe it is one that will make our talented artist very happy—and wealthy.”

Danvers Converse's bold comment quieted the bustling room, and even Mrs. Whomever who had already placed her eyes on two of Marc's paintings drew a shocked breath.

“I'm not sure what that means, Mr. Converse,” Marc said, stepping forward, “but with all due respect, I would appreciate it if you just left. This is a private function. We are trying to enjoy ourselves and your presence here is not helping. Perhaps we could discuss your interest in my work at a later date, a meeting perhaps next week?”

Converse looked amused. “Mr. Anderson, I realize you are an artist and as such, are, uh, sensitive,” Converse said pointedly, “so I suggest you leave the business side of things to Ms. Healy; you too are a guest in her gallery. Shall we just keep things civilized?”

“No, we cannot.”

A fresh voice added itself to the growing mix. Aaron Walters, noticeably agitated, had joined the fray by squaring himself directly in front of Danvers Converse. He towered over the little bald man, but it was clear to all that Converse still wielded the power. In fact, Aaron, his face sweaty, looked a bit uncertain, or maybe drunk. Paolo tried to usher his lover away, saying, “Come on Aaron, now isn't the time. I know, this bastard just fired you from the Bayside Hotel, and now he thinks he can just party with us like nothing happened. . . but you know as well as I do, people like Danvers Converse get what's coming to them.”

“Well said, Mr. Bautista,” Converse said, “so, I will make my exit. But not before I come for what I wanted.”

Russell spoke up. “Ms. Healy, would you kindly inform your other potential buyers that there is no further need of their presence—or their checkbooks? Mr. Converse is the only buyer you will need.”

Marc sent a confused look Lauren's way. “What's he talking about?”

“Mr. Converse, we agreed. . . you could have what goes unsold.”

“I've changed my mind. I want them all.”

“Excuse me?” Marc asked. “You want to buy all my artwork?”

“Indeed,” Converse said, and this is when his sick grin widened to one of pure evil. He was clearly enjoying himself immensely. “Yes, I plan to hang your fine paintings all over the Wonderland Palaces.”

It was like he had slapped the faces of every resident of Eldon Court with his words, all of them reeling at the horrible irony. Their homes would be taken from them and converted into a luxury resort and a piece of them—Marc's paintings—would hang on their renovated walls like some beautifully crafted, cruel twist of fate. Marc was at a loss, and at that very moment he had never needed Rich more, and where was the bastard?

“I'm here, I'm here, what the hell is going on here?”

“Yeah, I thought this was supposed to be a party. Looks like a wake.”

The tittering, nervous crowd turned to watch as Rich North entered the gallery, nearly out of breath, and right behind him, surprisingly, was Parker St. John. Marc felt a lump lodge in his throat as he wondered just where these two had been, what they had been doing, and damn if his heart didn't already know, even if right now he didn't want to picture them sweating, heaving, thrusting, crying out as orgasms hit them. . .

“Rich, Converse says he's buying all my work, and. . .”

“It'll never happen,” Rich said, moving directly in front of the offending party. He poked a finger into Converse's face. “Since the moment you threatened to take our homes, you've been nothing but a fucking thorn in our sides. Using whatever tactics you could think of to scare us off Eldon Court, trying to bribe us, blackmail us. Well, I'm here to tell you, it's all over. The Wonderland Palaces will never happen. . .”

“Yeah, and I'm going to make sure.”

It was a tipsy Aaron who thrust himself into the confrontation, and he wasn't alone. He had somehow produced a silver-plated gun from his pocket, and he was waving it around with abandon. People screamed, the room parting with fear, the desire to protect themselves. As they scrambled away, only three people stood in the center of the room, Rich, Aaron, Danvers.

“Aaron, put the gun down,” Rich urged. “This isn't a solution.”

“Why? We kill him; it's over. He's come here, threatening us. It's self-defense.”

“No, it's not, you're talking murder,” Parker said. “It's just like what happened all those years ago at Number Two. That solved nothing. It started. . . this.”

Aaron turned one way, another, jittery, pointing the gun at Parker. “And you, you selfish fuck, you're in on this with Converse or with someone else, you just want what's yours and you don't care about anything. . .or anyone. You screw my lover and expect me to sit back and let you have your fun?” Aaron lifted the gun, aiming it directly at Parker's chest. Aaron was drunk, more so than Marc thought, standing there in a daze, wondering what he could do to help. But his feet were frozen; he couldn't move.

“Aaron, don't!” Paolo screamed.

Maybe it was the sound of his lover's pleading voice or maybe a rational part of his mind, but just then Aaron's wrist went limp, the gun no longer aimed anywhere but the ground. That's when Rich rushed him, strong arms wrapping around Aaron's body. A jittery Aaron screamed out, panicked at the sudden move, and he and Rich went down to the carpet. Marc saw Converse shield himself behind Russell.

“No, no. Stop, someone. . . help them. . .”

Paolo was screaming helplessly.

Marc couldn't move.

What was happening before his eyes occurred in slow motion.

A blurry flash of a third person leaping forward caught Marc's eye. It was Parker, landing squarely atop the grinding bodies of Rich and Aaron, muscled arms struggling to pull the two men apart and somehow trying to wrestle the gun away from whoever had possession of it. But then an explosion rocked the room as the gun blasted, once, twice, a third time, shots ringing out, a splat of blood spurting all the way up to the ceiling fan, still turning, twisting in the air.

“Oh my God,” someone shouted as the wrestling match on the floor ended, bodies slack. Someone in the group fainted; Marc heard the body drop.

Hesitation hovered over the group, no one sure how to proceed. Then Dane and Sawyer burst forward, pulling Parker off, revealing the two bodies beneath him, neither of them moving. Marc saw all that red blood. . . draining, pooling. He saw the twisted tangle of limbs, the pale expression of death. That's when he too fainted.

* * * *

Two days after the disastrous gallery opening, the once young, sexy, vibrant Aaron Walters was laid to rest in a peaceful, sorrowful ceremony attended only by close friends and family. Only one member of the Eldon Court community could not be there to say good-bye, as Rich North was still recuperating from his gunshot wound, his collapsed lung still causing him to be listed in critical condition. Converse's team had taken a hit as well, as the persnickety Russell Allen had taken a bullet that would have otherwise hit his boss in the head; the taller man's heart had been pierced and Allen was dead.

Wonderland had been drenched with rain for days, as though the clouds cried for the unnecessary loss of life, for the pain and sadness which had been unloaded upon the residents of Eldon Court. For Dane and Sawyer, the shock of Aaron death changed them; Aaron was Dane's brother and he'd already once lost another. For Jack and Edgar, the loss of their friend brought a newfound determination to stop the so-called progress of the Wonderland Palaces. For Marc Anderson, he was saddened by Aaron's death, worried about his friend, Paolo, and how he would survive without the love of his life. But mostly he worried about Rich and his recovery, and, in the back of his mind, he still wondered about that tense moment at the gallery when Rich and Parker arrived at the same time. Had they been together? No confirmation, but he knew, in his heart, he knew.

Would Marc be able to trust Rich again?

Could life return to normal on Eldon Court?

Would Danvers Converse's plan to destroy them come to fruition?

Marc knew he could no longer hide inside the house. He had to face the future, and to do so, he had to face the truth of the past, no matter what it revealed. Finishing his morning coffee, the memories from the gallery and the fears that lurked inside his dreams buried for now, he realized he had only one destination in mind.

The hospital.

Rich was coming home soon.

Marc wondered if either of them was ready for that.

* * * *

Rich North hated hospitals, always had, even when he'd only ever been a visitor. Now that he was a patient and had been forced to call Wonderland Medical Center home for the past week, well, hate had taken on new meaning. There was only one exception to make his stay more comfortable: the cute young male nurse who gave him sponge baths.

It was nearly noon on this Monday, the start of a new week, the sun was shining inside his room, teasing him about being released, leaving Rich frustrated. He wished he could just be outside, perhaps on the beach, instead of sitting dirty in his bed all these days, the damn tubes still connected to him, the beeping monitor the doctor's form of water torture. When his door opened and he saw the male nurse, whose name was Christof, he smiled.

“First friendly face today,” Rich said.

“Yeah, Margo and Tricia sent me in, they said you respond better to me,” Christof said, his thatch of white-blonde hair and bright smile a highlight of his winning bedside manner. He moved to the edge of the bed, checked the chart and laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“The doctor's note. Says she can't wait until you're released.”

“Well, finally she and I agree on something.”

Christof pushed the discarded food tray out of the way, brought over his own tray of sponges and warm water he'd rolled in with. He helped Rich with his gown, sliding it down his torso, exposing his chest, still partly covered with bandages. Dipping the towel in the water, Christof wrung out the excess before he began to wipe at Rich's skin. Beneath his underarms, on his face, Rich sighed with newfound pleasure, like this was the best feeling in the world. Maybe not the world, but here in this hospital, Christof's touch was a definite highpoint. Rich felt his cock begin to stir. Thank God that part hadn't been shot.

Still, Rich didn't like the way he looked. He needed a shave; he'd let his beard grow as a reaction to the doctors having had to shave his chest. The damn bullet had entered his chest beneath a rib, nicked his lung before exiting out the back, completely and fortunately missing his heart. And, he thought again, his cock, which now was hardening thanks to enticing motions of the sponge in Christof's hand. He dipped it again in the water, the warm sensation nice against his bare chest.

“You know, you should keep it this way,” Christof said.

“Keep what what way?”

“Your chest. I can see all the hair starting to grow back. Too much.”

“Don't let my boyfriend hear you say that.”

Rich scratched at his chest, feeling stubble. Marc would be pleased to know his hair was growing back; he loved luxuriating in the thick mat. Hey, where was Marc, anyway? Usually at this time of day he was already itching to get home, tired of Rich's mood. Itchy, that's how his chest felt. He'd been hairy since his late teen years and now it was almost like he'd regressed to being that naive fifteen-year-old again. Fifteen, when he'd gotten his first blow job from another boy at summer camp. . . what had been his name. . . Johnny Lee? Yes, had a Southern accent, said he'd always wanted to be a cowboy. He'd been real cute, dark-haired and with a hot body and Rich had come in his mouth before reciprocating.

“Uh, Rich, something on your mind?” Christof asked.

“Huh?” Rich asked, but then he understood. His cock was so hard his hospital gown was tented. “Oh, well, guess the sponge bath is causing a certain reaction. . .” Rich shifted slightly in his bed, his gown lifting to expose his thick, hard cock. “Like what you see?”

Christof actually laughed aloud. “No wonder the female nurses went running away, thing that size.”

Rich wasn't sure if he'd overplayed his hand, if he'd offended Christof or even guessed wrong about his sexuality. Saying nothing else, Christof took the sponge and rubbed the warm water against Rich's cock, drenching his thick pubes. A thrilling sensation he hadn't felt in more than a week got his blood flowing, his cock growing to its full, impressive size. Christof stroked it, first with the sponge and then he let it slip away, using his hand instead.

“Yeah, that's it, stroke it,” Rich urged.

“I think someone's feeling much better, huh?”

“Yeah, better, better. . . oh yeah, more, more.”

Christof leaned down and opened his hungry mouth, taking the cock inside. Rich thrust fast, pushing inch after inch of hard cock deep down Christof's throat, grabbing his head and holding it down. Christof sucked and sucked, easily devouring Rich's cock with sudden energy. Briefly the cute nurse looked up.

“The door, it's not locked.”

“It's okay, I like to live dangerously,” Rich said, “besides, I'm close, so close. . . come on, suck my cock, you know you want it—and I mean all of it.”

“Yeah, it's so big and thick, tastes so good,” Christof said, his head dropping back down, mouth sucking hungrily at the thick shaft, bobbing up, down, up, slurping with an intensity that would have Rich climaxing in no time.

True enough, Rich cried out as felt his cock pulsing, and that's when Christof lifted his head, clearly not wanting to suck down a heavy load of come. Instead, Rich watched as gobs of come shot out the red tip of his cock and shot all over Christof's face.

Falling back against the soft pillows, Rich sighed heavily. “Wow, I think you just healed me in one fell swoop.”

Christof looked away.

“Hey, no regrets, okay? This is our little secret...”