Encounters with Evil Pt. 01

Guy perused Tigger's main room with the thoroughness he usually reserved for a crime scene. There really wasn't much to see: odds and ends of mismatched furniture, including a couch that was covered in a horrible pink flowered slipcover. There was some interesting artwork on the wall—charcoal drawings of nude males, mostly unframed. They had the requisite entertainment setup with an old-style TV, DVD-player, and gaming console. They had a few CDs, most from bands he'd never heard of with covers that featured club-scene people. I'm too old for him, he thought with regret.

He tried the to steer his mind in a different direction, wishing not to think about the possibilities at all, but some hopeful part of him persisted. He's twenty-one. I'm not that much older than he is. Guy was twenty-nine, but sometimes he felt like Methuselah. He'd already lived through enough pain for six lifetimes. And that is why I can't get involved, he told himself. I will just bring him heartbreak, and he deserves someone who will love and cherish him—someone who will be here for him for a long time. That's not me. A great ache of loneliness and want welled in his chest. He sucked in a painful breath, feeling suddenly disoriented.

It doesn't do any good to want what you can't have. Put it aside, he told himself sternly. Pulling his familiar mantle of detached coolness around himself, he continued his perusal of Tigger's apartment. They had all the usual PS3 games: Grand Theft Auto, Tomb Raider, Call of Duty, and so on. There was a dirty sock—neon green and pink striped—peeking out from under the couch. The coffee table was strewn with magazines: GQ, Alternative Press, and a collection of gossip rags. There was also a bottle of blue nail polish on the end table. Nail polish?

Guy moved on to the kitchen area, which was spotless. He was just about to help himself to a glass of water when his augmented hearing picked up the sound of someone coming down the hallway. He was at the door in a second, dart gun drawn and ear to the door. It's not the vamp, his senses told him; the footsteps were too faltering—not the quiet glide of a vampire. He slipped the gun back into its holster as the footsteps stopped in front of the door and keys jangled. He could see the heat signature of a small person through the thick door and he caught a faint whiff of men's cologne, alcohol, and sweat. Tigger's roommate, obviously.

Guy stood off to the side where he wouldn't be immediately visible when the door opened.

"Tigger!" the roommate called loudly as he opened the door. "Tig—Oh!" The door swung shut as the young man came to an abrupt halt in front of the Harley. Guy took in his view of the boy's backside: a beautifully rounded butt in very tight low slung jeans, a tank top that was short enough to reveal an inch of gorgeous mahogany skin above his waistband, and shoulders and arms that were thin but not bony. His jet black hair was jelled into spikes with white-blond tips.

"TIG-GER!" the roommate shrilled as he draped the jean jacket he was carrying over the back of the couch.

Guy cleared his throat and the delicate young man jumped, startled, and then whirled to face Guy. His big brown eyes widened and he caught his breath. He reminded Guy of a startled rabbit, ready to take flight.

"Tigger is in the shower," Guy said in a low voice. Just then, as if to punctuate his words, the sound of the shower running shut off. "My name's Guy." Guy put out his hand.

"Oh," the young man said. His expressive face was an open book. Guy watched his fear give way to relief, and then as he thought about the information Guy had just given him, he said, "Oh!" again in surprise.

He's wondering what I'm doing here and why Tigger's in the shower, Guy thought. And he's drunk. He's also very beautiful in an erotic, exotic way—he's even tinier than Melvin.

The young man recovered himself and remembered his manners. "I'm Jon, Tigger's roommate." He put a cool hand in Guy's while he looked him up and down. Clearly he liked what he saw—his heat signature increased and his pupils dilated slightly. His tongue dipped out and licked his sensual lower lip, a move that was both highly erotic and seemingly natural.

"So ... Guy..." His voice was a purr. The handshake was over but instead of pulling his hand back, the young man let his fingers trail up Guy's arm, sliding them slowly over the pulse point on his wrist, then tracing the vein that ran up his forearm. Guy noted that his fingernails were blue. The young man looked up at Guy coyly from under thick dark lashes. "Are you, um, available?"

Guy didn't need to ask, "available for what?" It was clear from Jon's provocative stance and the way his gaze shifted to Guy's crotch what he wanted. Guy felt heat spike in his own body. Oh yeah! This one would be fun. And much less complicated than Melvin. He was just the kind of effeminate young man Guy usually picked up on the rare occasions that he went clubbing—someone who would have no expectations for more than a few hours of hot, steamy sex.

Guy heard the bathroom door open and Mel bounded into the room. "Hey, Jon," he called out before he'd taken two steps. Then he came to an abrupt halt, taking in their proximity and body language. For a brief moment such pain flashed in his eyes that it seemed he might be drowning. It was worse than when Guy had been pouring chemicals on the vampire acid on his chest. It was a deep emotional pain, like that caused by the loss of something cherished or a monumental humiliation. Seeing Mel's hurt caused a physical reaction in Guy; pain exploded across his chest. He jumped away from Jon, pulling his arm back as if he'd been burned.

Guy stared at Melvin as if seeing him for the first time. And I thought Jon was beautiful, he thought. No, he corrected himself, Jon is indeed beautiful. But looking at them side-by-side, Jon's dark sultriness didn't hold a candle to Mel's fair grace. Melvin's porcelain skin shone, and his light-blond locks, dark with dampness, had been combed back from his exquisite, fine-boned face. His unusual eyes, pale as sea foam, were framed by thick blond lashes. He only needed white feathery wings to complete his ethereal look. Guy drew in a ragged breath, suddenly feeling dizzy.

"I see you've met Guy," Mel said. The pain in his eyes had been replaced by fire and his voice had an edge to it.

Jon had turned to face his friend, and now he came to him, wrapping him into a tight hug. "Thank God you're okay! I was so worried about you. When I checked my phone I had a text from you that made no sense whatsoever and then you called but didn't leave a message. And after that—nothing. We found your jacket still over the back of your chair in the club, be we couldn't find you anywhere. I've been calling and calling, but you haven't answered."

He pulled away from Melvin and glanced between him and Guy. "I guess you've been busy." His tone suggested that they'd been doing much more than talking.

"Calling?" Mel asked, frowning. "I haven't heard my phone ring. I haven't even seen my phone since..." He broke off, dismay clouding his fair features. "It was in my pocket." He turned and raced into the bathroom. "It's not here!" they heard him cry.

Jon followed him into the bathroom and Guy tailed along behind, halting at the door. Melvin was holding his shredded jeans, looking like his world was ending. "I can't have lost my phone," he moaned. "It's my life."

"My lord, Tigger! What happened to your jeans?" Jon was staring at the tatters in Mel's hands. "How—?" He spun around then and set a caustic gaze on Guy.

"I was attacked on the way home," Mel hastened to explain. "Guy rescued me."

"Attacked?" Jon voiced his shock.

"Yeah, by a vam—"

"Melvin!" Guy's sharp tone cut him off.

Just then the opening bars of a rap song filled the small room. Jon whipped his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the display. "Oh my god! I forgot all about Paul." He pressed talk and put the phone to his ear as he exited the bathroom. "Yes, he's here. Yes, he's fine ... well, maybe..."

As soon as Jon was out of earshot, Guy spoke to Mel in a low, harsh tone. "You need to forget about what you saw. It was nothing more than a man with a knife. Don't tell anyone anything different."

Mel's eyes widened and he looked like he was about to protest.

"This is important!" Guy hissed. "You can't tell anyone what you think you saw. If you do, you will bring no end of grief down on yourself. Do you understand?"

Mel stared at him in silence for a few long moments while Guy tried to bore into his mind to impress upon him how critical it was that he tell no one. If his employers found out what he had seen, they would try to recruit him—or worse.

Finally Mel nodded. "I doubt anyone would believe me anyway, I was pretty drunk."

"Very," Guy agreed. "Now put your pants back in the bag and wash your hands."

"So, you're what? A cop? FBI?" Mel looked at him expectantly.

Guy knew these questions had been brewing, that it was only a matter of time before he was inundated with them. He didn't talk about his job to anyone. Ever. "No," he replied shortly. Seeing that Mel was about to press him, he spun on his heel and made his way out to the front room.

Jon was on the couch, just ending his phone conversation. The young man looked up at him and smiled, glowing. He exuded a sensuality that seemed as natural to him as breathing. As he took a breath, Guy realized he was about to launch into an inquisition even more pressing than Mel's.

Guy's defense was a fierce glower. Jon's great dark eyes widened and whatever he'd been about to say never made it off his tongue. They stared at each other in awkward silence for several long moments before Mel came into the room.

"I can't believe I lost my phone!" he whined, dropping onto the couch next to Jon. "My parents are going to kill me for losing another one. Actually, they said they wouldn't replace it if I lost it again and I'll die without a phone! I know it was in my back pocket. It must have fallen out somewhere along the way."

"I'll retrace our steps and look for it for you," Guy offered. He thought it most likely that it had fallen out of his pocket in the alley, in which case it would be irretrievable.

"Could you?" Mel's eyes were imploring.

How could I not? "Of course."

Guy wandered into the kitchen area, wanting that glass of water. The open design of the room allowed him to observe the boys while he filled water glasses. They were quite the pair: light and dark, yin and yang, innocence and sin.

"You were attacked?" Jon asked, his big brown eyes rounder than usual.

"Yeah—some dude with a knife. See?" Tigger pulled up his T-shirt to show Jon his cut.

"Oh my God, Tigger!" Jon squealed. "Oh my God! Are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No, no, I'm fine. It's not deep. Guy got there just in time and he fixed me up."

Guy had filled water glasses for the two of them and now he handed them out. "Drink lots of water before you go to bed," he ordered. "You both have too much alcohol in your system."

The boys murmured thanks and dutifully took long pulls of their water.

Guy fixed a stern eye on Melvin. "You shouldn't drink at all if you run to excess like this. It's dangerous to drink so much—you lose your ability to make rational decisions. You make dangerous choices."

"Like bringing you home?" Jon asked slyly.

"He didn't have a choice about that," Guy snapped, "but walking down a dark alley in the middle of the night was a bad choice."

Mel shivered and Jon put an arm around his shoulders, giving him a quick hug. The blond snuggled against him. Even though there were no sexual overtones to their actions, something deep inside of Guy protested. That's my job. I should be the one holding and comforting him. He's mine!

What the hell? Guy thought. I need to get out of here. The boy is driving me seriously bonkers. "You'll be okay now?" Guy asked. He stepped over to his bike and pulled his helmet out of the back.

Mel nodded. "You're leaving?" His voice quavered slightly.

Guy looked at him curiously. Mel swallowed and then he smiled at him sweetly. Guy's heart melted. For some reason, it was hard to walk away from him. A small panic started in Guy's gut. If he's already affecting me like this and I've only known him a few hours, what kind of hold is he going to have on me if see him again? Best for everyone to end things now before they get started.

"Yeah, I've got to go," Guy said, glancing out the window. "It's light out now. You'll be okay." He put on his helmet but raised the faceplate.

Melvin was up, standing a few feet in front of him, looking up at him with big, wistful eyes. Damn! "Will I see you again?" he asked.

The first thing that popped into Guy's mind was that if he did see Mel again, it would most likely be as a corpse. That image was so horrifying that "God, I hope not!" flew out of his mouth without sensor

Hurt flashed across Mel's expressive face and a pain so acute as to take his breath away shredded through Guy's gut. He backtracked quickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I ... I just thought the most likely situation for me to see you is if you got attacked again, and I wouldn't want that."

Mel nodded, his expression now carefully guarded. "Thank you for saving me," he said quietly. There was something vulnerable in his voice—something tender and exposed. It called to Guy, begging him not to leave. Guy clenched his fist, pushing his emotions down, fighting his every instinct that told him to stay and protect.

"You take better care of yourself." His eyes flicked to Jon. "Both of you."

"Yes, sir," Mel said and a shiver went up Guy's spine. He's perfect, the voice in the back of head told him again. It would be disastrous, he reminded himself firmly. He wheeled his bike to the door. Mel jumped to open it for him.

As he pushed the bike out he paused in front of Melvin, breathing deeply of the young man's sweet scent. Without any direction from his brain, his hand came up and touched Mel's pale cheek tenderly. "Good-bye," he said, his voice rough with emotion. What is wrong with me? He couldn't deny that he had a lump in his throat.

Mel's eyes were enormous. He blinked and swallowed.

Turning and walking away was one of the hardest things Guy had ever done. And that scared the hell out of him.

"Good luck, sir," Mel called after him as he wheeled his bike onto the elevator. The doors swished shut behind him and he let out a huge sigh. His hands were trembling. What the hell has gotten into me? Chapter Five

Tigger stared morosely at the wall behind the television set, ignoring the rerun of NCIS that was playing out in front of him. He had an unrelenting ache in the pit of his stomach.

What the hell? I feel almost as bad as when Harold dumped me. Tigger was not used to being depressed. Normally, other than the cynical voice in his head that liked to chime in occasionally with dreary platitudes, he was a cheerful person. He lived his life moment-to-moment and didn't dwell on an uncertain future. As far as his past, his childhood had been almost ideal—nothing to stew over there. With the exception of his parents' divorce when he was twelve, he'd had no major bad experiences. Even the divorce hadn't been so bad. Both parents had stayed close to him, offering love and support, and once he and his sister had gotten used to shuttling weekly between their residences, his spirits had recovered.

It hadn't been easy to come to terms with being gay—even now he occasionally wished he wasn't—but he'd survived it relatively unscathed. High school had been a little difficult because he wasn't in the "in" crowd and so wanted to be, but he'd had his group of friends who shared his passions for science, computers, video games, and comics. For the most part, he was shy and sheltered but happy.

So it was unsettling for him to feel despondent, and he didn't understand why. At first he thought it was just the aftermath of being attacked. The encounter with the vampire was enough to have unhinged anyone. But as the hours went by, he thought less and less about the demon and more and more about Guy. It had only been one day—correction: thirty-four hours—since Guy had left, but during that time he'd already jacked off four times to vivid fantasies of his dream guy tying him up and taking him. He couldn't seem to get Guy out of his head and it was pointless to think about him. He had no way to contact him—he didn't even know his last name. He would probably never see him ever again. Why am I still thinking about him? Why is there an ache in my heart as if part of me is missing?

Vampire aside, Guy was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. He couldn't forget what Guy looked like and what he'd felt like during that wild motorcycle ride. He went over in his head everything Guy had said and done during the time they'd been together. He didn't think it was his imagination: Guy was larger than life. There were even things he'd done that bordered on supernatural. Even if he disregarded his first impression that Guy couldn't possibly be human because he moved too fast—perhaps that had been his mind playing tricks on him because of his terror—there were still a number of unexplained incidents. For example, Guy had known someone was coming to the front door well before Mrs. McGruder knocked. How could he have known? He also knew Mrs. Gruder was an old lady before he opened the door. There is something extraordinary about him other than his godlike good looks.

I guess I'll never find out what.

He forced himself to focus on the television set, rolling his eyes as McGee pressed a few keys on his computer and, voila, had the answer to a search that in real life would have taken days if not weeks to perform. He had given up on studying; his mind was wandering too much to even start to comprehend quantum mechanics. He'd hoped that he'd be able to immerse himself in some mindless television, but that was proving to be a struggle too.

Jon sauntered into the room, dressed in skinny jeans, short boots, and a tight white T-shirt that read, "Real men eat meat." Tigger had always thought the T-shirt was ironic because Jon was a vegetarian. When he'd asked about it, Jon had replied, "not that kind of meat," which had caused Tigger to blush to the roots of his hair. Now he couldn't see that T-shirt without smiling.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with?" Jon asked, looking Tigger up and down. By the expression on his face, he clearly disapproved of Tigger's current state. He was dressed in baggy gray sweats and a ragged T-shirt and, without looking, he could tell his hair was sticking up every which direction. "Are you still moping?" Jon sat next to him and patted his knee.

"I'm not moping. I just need to study."

"I can't believe you're taking summer classes," Jon said, his voice taking on a tinge of whine. "I mean, I'm an art major and even I decided I needed a break over the summer." This was not the first time Jon had told him this. In fact, every time he brought up his classes, Jon complained. He suspected that his friend felt guilty because he should have been taking summer classes himself in order to graduate on time.

"I know. I'm a hopeless geek."

"Don't study too hard," Jon teased, his eyes flicking to the television. He paused for a moment to watch a scene where Michael Weatherly took off his shirt. "I see you won't," he added dryly. "If you change your mind about joining us, just call and we can meet up."