Desperate Enemies 3 (5 page)

Suddenly Parker pulled out, moving quickly to the ottoman positioned at the edge of the bed. He sat spread-eagle, pulling Marc down on him, impaling him with one fast motion. Marc cried out again at the impact of big cock into willing ass. He eased backward, Parker's strong arms keeping him from falling, and he bounced up, bounced down, repeatedly, on Parker's giant cock, hands twisting Parker's nipples, grabbing at the thick mat on his chest. Again, he felt orgasm ripping through his body, his second when Parker hadn't even achieved one. Feeling for that hairy chest again, begging that this fucking hairy beast fuck him hard, hard, hard, bouncing and taking each receptive thrust, Marc found himself overwhelmed by the entire experience and going on instinct rather than thought he leaned forward and kissed Parker on the lips. Their lips connected and their tongues entwined, and just then Parker thrust deeper into Marc's ass and that's when he bellowed so loudly it sounded like the doors in the house had slammed shut.

“Yeah, here I come. . . oh, man, I couldn't wait, but I did, I did, I never wanted it to end, I wanted to fuck you all night. . . but then, oh Marc, you kissed me, and. . . oohhhhhhhhhhhh”

Marc felt the cock inside him buck, felt it shoot, again, again, again, and how he wished that hot come wasn't being wasted inside the tip of that condom, how he wished that every drop was shooting deep inside him, settling inside him. But he took each explosion by bouncing on that cock more, all the while gripping at Parker's hairy shoulders, not wanting to let him go, not believing he'd kissed him, shocked that it was his kiss that had led Parker to finally climax.

At last, spent, their bodies separated, Marc found himself sliding to the floor while seeking breath. Parker leaned back against the bed, his massive chest heaving from exhaustion, from release. Marc got on his knees, took hold of the cock and slipped the condom off. He took the semi-hard cock into his hand and sucked it dry, tasting his sweet come and wishing for more.

“Oh, wow, I needed that,” Parker said. “You?”

“Obviously.”

“Regrets?”

“I'm sure I'll have them in the morning.”

“Morning's not for awhile.”

“You up for another round?” Marc asked.

Parker never got a chance to answer, as a noise downstairs distracted him.

“What the hell?”

He gathered himself up, tossing on a pair of shorts before making his way down. Marc followed, having slipped on his own shorts. A few more lights were on, more than they had left on before going upstairs to fuck their brains out. Someone had turned on those lights, and she was sitting on the sofa, staring up at the two men who had suddenly appeared, half-naked, their activity of choice obvious.

“Well, you boys have certainly been busy for awhile—and noisy.”

Marc couldn't believe someone else was in the house, a woman to boot, and by all means one who had heard every grunt, every thrust, every begging request to be fucked, hard, hard, the words echoing in his mind even as he looked at this fabulously dressed creature before him. She was couture up and down, and had the attitude to make it look even more expensive. On her face, along with perfectly done make-up and a cigarette with a tip stained crimson, was a smile that belied her amusement.

“My Parker, such an animal, isn't he?”

“Your Parker?”

Before she could answer, Parker stepped forward and planted a kiss on the woman's cheek. “Hello, Rose. You should have given me more notice, don't you think?”

She waved his concern away.

“So, let me guess,” she said to Marc, “you must belong to someone else, right? Because if I know anything about Parker—and I know everything about Parker—it's that he always wants what he can't have—who he can't have. Though from what I just heard, he got all of you. And you got all of him—of which there is plenty.”

“I'm sorry,” Marc said, clearly embarrassed, “but who are you?”

“Allow me to introduce myself, since Parker here seems to have lost his manners as much as he seems to have lost his clothes,” she said, “I'm Rose Emerson St. John.”

“St. John? As is. . .”

“Yes, dearie, I'm Parker's mother.”

* * * *

It was two days later when Rich North came home to Eldon Court, driven in a taxi. He was glad to be home, but uncertain about what he would find. He'd phoned Marc to tell him, and Marc had been noncommittal as to whether or not he would be there. But as Rich emerged from the taxi and stepped onto the walkway, he saw Marc waiting for him on the porch, the familiar cup of coffee at his side. That bit of normalcy gave Rich hope that he and Marc could weather this latest storm of theirs.

“Hi,” Rich said. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Where else would I be? This is my home.”

Rich made his way up the stairs. “Our home. That's sounds nicer.”

He made to kiss Marc, who turned his head slightly so Rich got his cheek.

Okay, baby steps, we'll see how the rest of the day goes. Rich was about to ask Marc about their neighbors and if there were anymore threats from Danvers Converse when out of the corner of his eye he saw new activity at Number Two. A woman emerged, and from where Rich stood she was dressed like a lady on the Champs Elysees, walking with an attitude that dripped money.

“Who the hell is that?” he asked Marc.

But Marc gave no answer except the barest hint of a smile. Rich looked from the woman to his lover and back again. She looked like she was headed their way, her dark hair bouncing with her every step, as though she hadn't a care in the world, and truth be known it had been sometime since anyone on Eldon Court had walked with such carefree ease. Suddenly she veered off the sidewalk, her destination clear: Number Four Eldon Court, the home of Jack and Edgar. She knocked on the door so loudly Rich could hear it from his porch.

“What the hell?” Rich asked.

The door opened and Jack appeared, and the moment he saw who was standing at his front door, his smile widened as he opened his arms to warmly embrace her. Rich looked over at Marc, whose mouth had similarly dropped open.

“Oh, I don't like this at all,” Marc said. “She said nothing about. . .”

Rich shot Marc a questioning look. “You know her? Who is she and what is she doing coming from Number Two—Parker's home—and why does she know Jack?”

Questions indeed, too many.

So, it appeared that further change had come to the little village of Wonderland, a fresh breeze had brought with it a lady who dressed to the nines and danced to her own drummer. Her connection to Eldon Court, however, was one that would rock their world, not just that of Rich North and Marc Anderson, but all of the boys who called Eldon Court home. Because with her arrival, the mystery of Number Two had deepened.

What next?

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Part Two

“Fool's Gold”

By Curtis C. Comer

Edgar Newcastle peered out the bay window of Number Four Eldon Court and had the funny thought that, just as they had been the first among the current inhabitants of the Eldon Court enclave to move in, they might also be the first to leave it.

Of their own volition, that is. Their poor neighbor, Aaron Walters, had no choice, and would now rest for eternity in Wonderland, in nearby Queen's Cemetery.

Both disgusted and saddened by recent events, Edgar looked out onto the rainy street for a moment longer before letting the curtain drop from his hand, once again shutting out the meager light that somehow made its way through the clouds.

“You're pacing again.”

Edgar turned almost absently toward the sound of the voice, coming from the sofa behind him.

“Hmm?”

“I said you're pacing again.”

Edgar's partner, Jack, was sitting on the sofa, his bare feet tucked up under his body and a leather-bound book in his lap. A floor lamp behind the sofa cast an almost halo-like aura around Jack's head as he looked up from his book and their black and tan dachshund, Ollie, regarded Edgar with a mixture of confusion and anticipation. Edgar merely nodded at his partner's assessment of the situation, his face grave.

“Sorry,” he said.

The truth was Edgar
wasn't
sorry. He was restless, bored, tired. It was driving him crazy. And, as with everything else in his life thus far, when Edgar got bored or restless, his first instinct was to flee, to leave, to simply be
gone
.

But Jack was quite the opposite. Where his partner was willing to give up easily (although Edgar would disagree as to the ease with which he would capitulate), Jack was filled with a stubborn determination to never give in, to never let another person take advantage of him. Edgar, of course, knew this. You don't spend twenty years with someone without learning a little bit about them, not if you're paying attention. And it was this difference between the two men that sometimes made it impossible for Edgar to communicate his true desire to leave Wonderland and Eldon Court forever and that was part of the reason he was feeling so crazy.

“Eddy,” pressed Jack, “do you want to talk about it?”

He closed his book and placed it on and end table, and then patted the sofa next to him as an invitation. Ollie, the dachshund, scooted to the far end of the sofa in response and Edgar reluctantly took a seat next to Jack.

“Talk to me,” said Jack, placing his arm around Edgar's shoulders. “Are you thinking about Aaron?”

“Aaron, Rich, Danvers Converse. . . everything,” replied Edgar, his voice rising. “I'm just frustrated, Jack. . . I'm tired of all of the intrigue.”

Jack couldn't help but laugh and he immediately felt bad for having done so.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “Since when is my intrepid investigative reporter tired of intrigue?”

Edgar knew that Jack was trying to make him feel better by recalling the days when Edgar had worked as a reporter for the
San Francisco Chronicle
, but there was no consoling him.

“We tried,” continued Edgar. “We really did. But this time it looks like Converse wins. . . I'm not willing to sit by and watch another neighbor be killed before I realize that I'm beaten. I say we move back to the city and call it even. . . before it's too late.”

Jack was never one to anger quickly but, when backed into a corner, he had his moments. This was apparently one of them because he stood up from the sofa so quickly that Edgar nearly fell over.

“I can't believe what I'm hearing,” he said, his green eyes flashing. “You're willing to give up your home. . .
our
home, because some crooked business man is bullying us? Well, that is
not
the Edgar Newcastle that I fell in love with!”

“Jack,” replied Edgar, his voice tired and weak, “people
died
. Don't you
get
that?”

Without waiting for a response from his partner, he arose and swept his hand, gesturing to the room in which they were standing.

“Yes,” he said passionately, “I love this house. . . it's the first home we ever owned together but, Jack, there will be other homes and I'm not willing to risk losing you over a stupid house.”

He looked around their living room, so tastefully decorated with all they had amassed over the years. Nice furniture filled the cozy room, whose fireplace gave off a warm glow on an otherwise gray and damp day. Sparse yet tasteful artwork hung on the walls and photos rested on a long table behind the sofa and, to the right, a wide oaken staircase led to the upper floors and, beyond that, a large dining room and a fully stocked kitchen. Yes, they would be giving up a lot to leave this house, but what they managed to save would be far more valuable.

Jack walked over to Edgar and put his arms around him.

“But, Eddy,” he said, his voice even, “we can't let them win. Yes, I know that Aaron died but, honestly, it was his fault. He brought it on himself.”

Jack felt Edgar bristle at this suggestion but he held up a hand to silence him.

“I know that sounds awful, but let me finish,” he said. “If he hadn't brought that gun he would still be alive.”

Edgar's face turned red at the mention of the gun. . .
his
gun, the one that had been taken the day their house was broken into and Edgar had been knocked unconscious by an unseen assailant. But how had Aaron come to possess it? These were questions that would perhaps never be answered, although nobody even remotely suspected that Aaron had had anything to do with the break in and attack, despite suggestions to the contrary by the police officer who had come to visit shortly after the shootings. And, of course, the gun's serial number had been easily traced back to Edgar, who had reported it missing after the break in and attack. But the question as to who took the gun and how Aaron had come into its possession was a mystery that haunted Edgar and he couldn't help but feel a little guilty over Aaron's death, simply because it had been his gun. Still, there had been other incidents of violence besides Aaron's death and the attack on Edgar.

“It's not just the gun,” Edgar said, almost to himself. “Remember the boulder that almost killed us at the beach? And what about the attempted arson next door?”

Jack was silent and, for once, seemed at a loss for words.

“Jack, what happens if someone hurts you? Or, god forbid, decides to hurt Ollie?”

The dachshund, who had been content to remain on the sofa, seemed to understand this and jumped down and retreated behind Jack.

“Let's not forget,” he concluded, retaking his seat on the sofa, “we may have lost a neighbor and ally in our fight against Converse but Dane lost his brother. . . can you imagine how he must feel?”

“No,” agreed Jack. “No, I can't.”

Although he didn't want to say it, there was another element at play on Eldon Court that had been bothering him for awhile, and that was the rampant promiscuity among his neighbors. It was no wonder that they as a neighborhood were falling apart, being torn asunder by lies and deceit, not by any outside forces, but from within. This wasn't anything he wanted to say aloud, however, for fear that he would sound like an old curmudgeon. It was as if Jack read his mind.