Immortality Is the Suck (3 page)

unaccustomed warmth beginning in my chest and rising. “I was lucky the docs

were able to paste me back together. It's ugly, but it works fine.”

“It's not ugly. Bet all the ladies think your war wound is sexy.”

I let my gaze drop to my paper. “Listen, I've got to get this done.”

A pause. I could feel him gazing at the top of my lowered head. “I had stats

the last year of college,” he said. “So this time is like a review for me. Tell you

what. I'll help you with the stats if you give me a few pointers on the range?”

I looked up and he was giving me another one of those smiles. I found

myself smiling back. “Deal,” I said.

Peter was probably half the reason I'd made it to graduation. We'd stayed

in touch afterward. Even when we'd been assigned to beats on opposite sides of

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A. M. Riley

town, we still met once a week for a dinner or to watch a game. Peter was why

I'd headed straight for Homicide too, if I were to be honest. He and I studied for

the exam together and he was, once again, one of the main reasons I passed.

Don't get me wrong. I was a pretty good cop. The LAPD sets a standard,

just like the Marines. And, just like the Marines, I knew exactly how far I could

push it before it became a problem. I took care to never push it that far.

But Peter was always headed for glory. He was a supercop. And me, well,

the highlight of my career was those few years I partnered with Peter in

Homicide. Then, I drifted into Vice, where I found a calling working undercover.

And that's when it all started heading south.

Just to be clear, the LAPD does not indulge undercover officers in the use

and abuse of drugs. But over the course of the next five years, I became adept

at the utilization of loopholes, a line here, a snort there, until one day I woke

up and I was hooked. I still busted bad guys, but I was circling the drain. It all

came to a head one day when Peter dropped by my place unannounced and

found me on the floor with a needle in my arm.

Short story long, he gave me an ultimatum. Clean up and come clean with

the head of Vice, and he'd be there for me. Keep up what I was doing and he'd

walk away. He sat me through withdrawal and maybe he thought he'd

accomplished something. Maybe he had. I wasn't what you'd call clean, but I'd

kicked the crack and that was saying something.

The chief of Vice hadn't been what you might call
supportive
but they were

decent enough to treat me like they would any officer wounded in the line of

duty. I'd been on a three-month leave when the Bureau of Alcohol and

Firearms had approached the chief of Vice with a proposition. Same short story

even longer, that's what had led to me infiltrating the Mongol Outlaw

Motorcycle Gang. I was perfect. I knew the distributors; I was in trouble with

the law. The OMG embraced my evil ass. Which took me to the present day.

Thing was, between Peter and me, there was the
other
history. The one in

which I'd show up at his door, unannounced, and no matter what, no matter

Immortality is the Suck

13

when, Peter would let me in and we'd do it on the floor, against the walls, and

in the shower for a few days and then I'd split.

These days I guess they'd call us fuck buddies. Peter was the man you

called when you woke up in a jail in Tijuana, the one who came out in the rain

when your ride blew a flat on the 110. The two a.m. booty call.

Peter crying while yours truly met his justified sorry end? Was a

disturbing occurrence and one to contemplate with due consideration.

But then the bus halted at my stop and I jumped out instead.

Down by the Santa Monica Pier, along the bluff's edge, there's a walkway

that's always thick with pedestrians, dog-walkers, and bums. I blended into the

flow, moving southward toward Venice where Peter lived.

I was still hopped up, muscles tight and fast, and I was horny as an old

goat. Maybe it was the fight, maybe it was thinking about Peter, or maybe it

was the whole “nearly dead” thing, but my cock seemed to feel an imperative

need to shoot its proverbial wad, and so, as I cruised down the boardwalk, I

was also cruising the occasional tight little bit of flagrant fanny that walked by.

Finally a guy I was staring at stared back and held my gaze, and I was

doing a u-ey without a second thought and following him instead of heading to

Peter's.

He was young, maybe midtwenties. Long, messy blond hair, loose T-shirt,

cut short so I could see his ass twitch as he walked. Slacks loose and too big

for him, held up by a belt. Of course he knew I was following him. He idled at

the light, crossed, and walked slowly down the sidewalk, ostensibly window-

shopping, then quick as a wink, he hung a left and disappeared into a narrow

passage between two buildings.

I'll bet you're thinking how dangerous this is. How risky. See, that's what

I've always
liked
about tricks. I never know what might happen. And that little

bit of apprehension is all it takes to push me into the zone.

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A. M. Riley

This time when I came around the corner, I saw exactly what I was hoping

to see. Big recycling barrel, crumbling concrete wall, topped by barbed wire

fencing. And blondie, leaning against a railing so that his hips thrust forward

provocatively, grinning at me as I sauntered up.

“Hey,” he said.

I nodded, giving his lean body an appreciative once-over. “Hey,” I said.

Small talk accomplished, he unbuckled that big belt and dropped his

pants. He was commando, unshaved. I could see that the blond on his head

came from a bottle. His pubes were dark and glossy. From them, like the

stamen from the throat of an ebony flower, jutted a sweet little pale prick. I

licked my lips and undid my jeans. Watching him stroke himself, his prick

lifting and filling.

“I don't have a glove,” I told him, pushing my zipper away from my

straining dick.

He reached into a breast pocket and tossed me a foil packet. All right

then.

Then he turned around, showing me a high tight boy's butt, and I was out

and sheathed and pressing myself in just like that.

The guy grunted and grabbed hold of the brick wall with one hand and the

railing with the other. It was so good, I disappeared into it. Holding his hips in

both hands so that he was up on his toes, my hips pumped like a piston, like a

locomotive, hard and fast.

God it's the best, absolutely the best, fuck I've ever had.

“Jesus Christ,” the guy said. And I realized I had him up off the ground.

Then I was coming up that tight bum, so hard I saw the proverbial light.

Christ. Gasping for breath, I staggered back and heard blondie curse.

Belatedly, I realized that I'd just dropped him. He was sprawled there, pants

down, half holding himself up against the wall. Staring at me like I was crazy.

Immortality is the Suck

15

“Sorry,” I said. I helped him stand up, looking him over. His prick was

limp and spunk drooled down his right leg. He looked dazed.

“Jesus,” he said again. “What are you
on
, man?”

“Did I hurt you?”

“
Hurt
me? Fuck.” He shook his head as if to clear his brain. “I think my

prostate saw
God
, man.”

I decided to take that as a compliment. “Okay, then, see you around.”

Because I'd remembered Peter by that time, so I took off down the alley. When I

looked back, he was still staring at me.

* * * * *

eat something. I was so hungry my stomach felt like a live animal was in there,

gnawing away at me. I had those shakes you get when your blood sugar is

crashing and, weirdly, I was horny again.

Peter's condominium was in one of those old mission-style courtyards,

with a security gate installed in the original arched doorway. I pressed his

number on the call box installed outside.

“Hello, it's me,” I announced to the machine. “Let me in, man. I need to

talk to you about the situation I'm in.”

Nothing.

I jogged around to the back where the garages are lined up on an alley.

Through a grimed, painted shut little window, I could see Peter's Mustang,

parked next to the old beat-up Caddy he used when he went to those places in

Los Angeles the 'Stang was too pretty to go. So I went around to the front and

pressed the bell again.

“Peter, I know you're home.”

Even if he didn't pick up, Peter would press the buzzer to let me in. Under

almost any circumstances. So I pressed the bell again.

16

A. M. Riley

“Peter, fuck it, man. Let me in.”

The buzzer didn't sound that would release the lock on the gate, but a

minute later, footsteps thundered on the concrete stairwell off to the left of the

door and Peter appeared. Red in the face, he hit the gate and yelled, “What

the…” Then he staggered back, staring.

There's a fountain set into the wall opposite the gate. One of those jobbies

you might see in Mexico, with multicolored tiles and a bowl shaped like a fat

flower, and Peter almost fell into it, backing away from me. One of his hands

went out and grabbed the lip on the fountain, splashing water, and his mouth

opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

I waved.

Peter kept going whiter and whiter, gasping as if he couldn't catch his

breath. He looked like shit, quite honestly. In his boxers and a filthy T-shirt.

Looked like he hadn't shaved. His eyes were red and swollen and when he

wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he swayed a bit, like he'd been

drinking.

“You going to let me in?” I said.

“
Who are you
?” he whispered.

Now it was getting ridiculous. “I'm cold. I'm hungry. I haven't got a sou on

me and you're the only person I could think of.”

The look on his face as he opened the gate was one I'd never seen before. I

didn't know if he was going to hit me, kiss me, or throw up on my shoes. He

chose none of the above. Just put his hand over his eyes, turning and

stumbling up the stairs to his apartment.

“Peter!” I yelled to his retreating back. But he ignored me.

When he arrived back at the door to his condo, he slammed it in my face. I

waited a minute, but he didn't come back to open it and when I tried the

handle, I found it locked.

Immortality is the Suck

17

I knocked on the door for a long time. Peter finally came and opened it. He

just stood there and stared at me and then he said, “Figures,” and turned

around and walked back into his place. I followed.

Peter's a meticulous kind of guy, but the place was trashed. Beer bottles

all over the living room, blanket on the sofa like he'd been sleeping there. Peter

went over to his little kitchenette bar and picked up an eight-ounce glass with

what looked like Scotch or bourbon half filling it. Judging by the almost empty

Johnnie Walker bottle standing next to it, I'd guess bourbon. No ice. Now

Peter's a beer drinker. Almost exclusively. It was a wonder he could walk.

Over there on the dining table, I saw a couple boxes and a bunch of old

photographs spread across its surface. Damn if they weren't most of them of

me. Or of me and Peter.

I picked up one that went back to the fishing trip we'd gone on, right after

graduation. In retrospect I could see it all there. The way I looked at him, my

arm draped over his shoulder. The glorious smile on his face as he grinned at

the photographer.

Two horny guys in denial. It made me laugh. “Can't believe you saved

this,” I said to him, tossing the photo back into the box and walking over to the

refrigerator. “You got anything to eat?” I asked.

He looked at me with swollen eyes. “I should have known you'd haunt

me.”

I brought stuff out of the refrigerator and built myself a four-inch tower of

roast beef, ham, and tomatoes. My stomach was rolling and creaking like a

ship at sea. I stuffed half the sandwich in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed it

before I realized that it tasted like mushy paper.

“You got any spicy mustard?” I asked.

Peter laughed into his glass. It wasn't a happy laugh. Then he stood,

pitching off the stool, snatched up the glass and bottle, and staggered into the

18

A. M. Riley

living area where he threw himself facedown on the sofa. I rummaged through

his kitchen until I found Tabasco sauce.

Now the sandwich tasted like mushy paper with Tabasco sauce on it.