To Be Where You Are, page 5
“Celia?” he said uncertainly as he walked through his front door. What the fuck? She never answered Adin’s phone.
“I should’ve known it was you. Adin’s not here.”
Jackson quietly closed the door. He leaned against the inner jamb as a deep frown furrowed his forehead. “Why would Adin leave without taking—”
His question was cut off by the sound of another voice, querulous and more distant. Adin’s voice. Both were abruptly muffled. Then the line went dead.
Closing his eyes, Jackson tilted his head back and sighed. “Bastard,” he muttered, thinking of Noah. Under normal circumstances, Celia would never have behaved like that. Never. She was always warm and genial, always respectful of this relationship she’d come to accept as an integral part of Adin’s life.
Jackson ambled into the kitchenette, just to the right of the front door. He poured himself a heavily iced, double shot of Jack, took a swallow, and leaned against the counter. The whiskey’s hazy heat filtered into his bloodstream. He pinched two fingers over his eyes, then straightened and wandered into the living room.
Immediately, his gaze went to the bookshelves at the far end of the open space. The bookshelves hadn’t become a shrine like Noah’s sideboard. They were simply a place where Jackson could catch glimpses of his absent lover from three different rooms. Pictures of the two of them together—one in which they were kissing, one in which they smiled side-by-side, arms around each other’s waist—were in the bedroom.
A paltry consolation throughout their weeks of separation, and certainly no substitute for closeness. But the photos helped sustain him.
Smiling wanly, he lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to us,” he murmured. “Come back to me soon.”
Every day Adin was gone, Jackson missed him more than he could bear. As those undeniable facts drilled into him, he suddenly saw Noah cradling that photo of Perez, losing himself in it.
You do understand. Your heart’s been scalded by the same water.
Jackson lowered his head. Yes, he understood. Did he ever. He couldn’t in all good conscience withhold his help.
He went to the couch and slumped into its worn, welcoming cushions, his legs splayed and the glass of whiskey resting on his belly. He still clutched the phone in his left hand. As Jackson glanced again at Adin’s images, he had a disturbing realization. It wasn’t just the agony of missing someone that he understood; it was the fear of age and infirmity and permanent loss.
Vampirism had its advantages.
“No,” he whispered, troubled that he’d begun thinking that way. His empathy for Noah was carrying him into territory he’d always shunned.
* * * *
Auntie Bechima’s scrutiny of Perez, bold and pointed to begin with, sharpened further. “Why you here?” she asked suspiciously. “What you want?”
The heat weighed on Perez. No central air conditioning in this abode. Lethargically, he shrugged and shook his head.
“Mister Lady from the North, you happen to be carrying or wearing something you didn’t start out with?”
Perez tried focusing on the question as he drank more tea. It seemed like his mind had been torched and reduced to a crumbling framework. He thought of Noah, who loved tea … and felt a keen pang of longing. “Could you explain?” he said distractedly. He’d already forgotten the question. He wanted to return to Noah, be with him.
Auntie Bechima leaned across the table. Perez turned his eyes to her. Why, he wondered, would she want her hair to be that color? A hideous, dull yellow-orange, like cheap brass plating, with black roots down the center part like a streak of heavy tarnish. The front and side hanks were wound around brush rollers. Perez cringed.
“Anybody give you anything lately?” she asked, impatient and snappish. “Think on it.”
An extraordinarily fat fly landed on Perez’s glass. Lackadaisically, he shooed it away. Without heeding Bechima’s admonition to think, his hand went to his neck. He pulled a cord from beneath his Majorelle-blue shirt. As his fingers took note of the cord’s startling texture, for he was used to feeling gold and silver at his throat, he remembered it was made of silk. Or something resembling silk. He also remembered how flattered he’d been to receive it. A pendant dangled from the loop, but Perez couldn’t recall what it was. He may never have really looked at it.
The unique piece of jewelry certainly made an impression on Auntie Bechima. She sucked in a breath as soon as she saw it and made a sign of the cross. “A man give that to you?”
“Yes, come to think of it.” He smiled vaguely.
“Black and handsome? Built solid as a brick house?”
Perez smiled wider as the image floated back to him. Mounds of hard muscle. Sheen of sweat. A face older rather than younger, but not old. Mature. With flashing eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
“You happen to come here from Nawlins, Mister Lady? Or Savannah?”
Watching her curiously, Perez processed the question. New Orleans—that’s what she meant. “I’m pretty sure it was New Orleans,” he said. “I haven’t been to Savannah in years. And I think the man liked me.” Perez’s smile fell as he tried to recall if they’d been intimate. He didn’t think so. But other things had happened…
Bechima dolefully wagged her head. “Shoulda known soon as I seen you. Shoulda known.” She went on to mutter another word, repeatedly. It sounded like saints. Saints-saints-saints.
“What should you have known?” Perez asked.
“He likes you, all right. He likes you too much for your own damn good. And that’s why you here, pretty man.” Bechima rose heavily from her chair and trundled to the front windows. The screen on one had a gaping rent.
“My name is Perez, by the way,” he said to her back. He had no clue what she was talking about. That he was here because he wore a necklace some admirer had given him? He’d gotten a lot of nice things from a lot of men, but the gifts had never landed him in a shack in Mississippi.
“You gonna need that power of yours. What little you might have. No friends gon’ find you here.” Bechima turned to face him. Her sadness had an anxious edge.
“Why?” Perez again fingered the cord around his neck. “Because of this little—”
His voice pulled up short in his throat. Hand trembling, he lifted the necklace once more. This time he held it higher, so he could see it as he felt it. This time he felt it more carefully, more sensitively, training his befogged faculties on its construction. A fluttering went through his diaphragm.
The silken chain was made of hair, braided hair. Half that hair looked like his own. But the other half was unfamiliar.
“You bound to him now, Mister Perez.” Bechima turned back to the window. “Joseph be along shortly. Yes, I 'spect he will.”
* * * *
The phone startled Jackson out of his reverie. He nearly slapped it against his ear without flipping it open.
“God, Jackson, I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you earlier, but I never thought she’d answer my phone. Something really weird has—”
“Gotten into Celia?” Jackson sat up straighter. “Yes, I know. And I know why.” After downing the watery remains of his drink, he told Adin about his meeting with Noah. Everything about it. Other than uttering a couple of soft curses, Adin listened quietly. “So, is that what’s been bothering you?” Jackson asked. “How she’s changed?”
“Yeah, that’s it exactly.” Adin’s voice rose. “Whatever this son of a bitch did, can’t you undo it?”
Jackson tried to explain that whole business, too. “Remember when I had the big confrontation with Ivan Kurtz about five years ago, and I messed him up because he’d really been raising hell with my life?”
“I remember. How could I not, considering he won’t leave you alone?”
“Well, Ivan couldn’t undo what I did to him. If he’d tried, he would’ve really fucked himself up. I had to undo it—something that egotistical boob still doesn’t realize.”
“You’re such a tsadek, Jackson,” Adin said with affectionate humor. “But it’s wasted on someone like Ivan Kurtz. A chazer bleibt a chazer.”
“Oh, man, don’t start with the Yiddish.”
“Sometimes it just makes me feel good. It’s like the verbal equivalent of comfort food. I called you a saint and him a pig.” Adin sighed. He sounded as sick of all these hurdles as Jackson felt. “So you’re saying you can’t interfere with another Adept’s work?”
“I could,” Jackson said, “but not without risking some serious consequences.”
“Jesus, why the fuck is he doing this? I thought you were friends!” Adin’s frustration came shrieking through, even though he’d barely raised his voice. And there was the faintest implication that Jackson was partly to blame.
Whether or not that implication was justified, it filled Jackson with guilt. “Noah isn’t a vicious man,” he said. “Believe me. He’s in love and he’s desperate.”
Just as Jackson’s own words sent his stomach into a small flip, Adin said, “Well, so am I.”
Jackson glanced at the bookshelf photos then fell against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. Seemed like the three of them were in the same boat. “Think you can help?” he asked, as much as he hated asking.
There was a pause before Adin answered, and Jackson knew what that pause contained—the same resistance to involvement he himself had felt. “You mean, with Rahenna and Rugh,” Adin said, his voice gone flat.
“Yes. Contacting them. Tapping into your old psychic connection or whatever it was.”
“I don’t know. It’s been over a year since my reversion. And I haven’t seen either of them since last fall. If I can establish contact, I sure as hell don’t want one or both of them showing up at my place. Not with Celia around.” Adin made a growly sound. “Goddammit, when is that shit going to stop haunting me?”
“I’m sorry,” Jackson said gently. “I’m not thrilled about it, either. They don’t have to go to your place. They can come here. Or at least give me a call. You’re just a go-between. That’s all.”
Another voice, Celia’s voice, cut through the ethereal strains of Debussy that had been playing in the background at Adin’s place. Jackson winced at the uncharacteristic hostility in that voice. He felt another flash of resentment over Noah’s meddling and tried to quash it. This situation didn’t need to be darkened further by negativity. All the individuals who got involved in tracking down Perez had to act in concert, and without ill will.
Jackson rose from the couch and wandered toward his bedroom. Exhaustion, more mental than physical, tugged him toward his bed. When he dropped onto it, he could’ve sworn he released Adin’s scent. Of course he’d changed the sheets since Adin’s last visit—grudgingly, as usual, because stripping the bed was like stripping away the last vestiges of his lover’s presence. But Jackson fancied he could still smell Adin in the blankets, the mattress, and, especially, the one pillow whose case he always left on until Adin returned.
He toed off his boots, unsnapped his jeans, and then bunched the pillow against his chest as he lay down. Inhaling, he noticed Adin’s scent was fading.
“I’ll do what I can,” Adin said rather curtly. “I have to go.”
“Thanks,” Jackson said.
The connection had already been broken.
Chapter Six
The fullness in Jackson’s groin came on suddenly, a blossoming of arousal he couldn’t ignore. Enrapt, he kept watching the tangle of naked men, his excitement mounting as they stroked and groped each other, their eyes closed and mouths open and dicks hard. He searched for faces he recognized. There was Noah, and a young man named Tucker, and a biker called Taz. Tucker occasionally helped Jackson with furniture deliveries. But he hadn’t seen Taz in years. There were two or three other men he didn’t recognize at all. He couldn’t quite discern the location, but he had a sense of it being a gay bar in Walker’s Point. He’d ventured into it once, out of curiosity, but he’d been too self-conscious to stay beyond a quick drink.
He’d never before been either a participant in or a spectator at the sport of orgy. His breath came and went hard as the arrangement of men shifted, their lean limbs inseparable. Perez Pei, wearing a bodysuit and cloak, glided around the perimeter of the group. He trailed a peacock feather over all the rolling shoulders and clenching asses and broad backs misted with sweat. Perez was both blessing and binding the men. It was some kind of ritual Jackson didn’t understand.
He was extremely grateful Adin wasn’t in the group.
The scene was unbearably provocative, much more so than the porn he and Adin sometimes watched. In that crap, the actors moved like dead-faced mannequins, continually thrusting round pegs into round holes. The videos were banal, emotionless, and ultimately boring. Not this, though. This scene boiled through his blood.
He tugged at his cock. The pull went deep, tightening his balls. A spangle of excitement shot into his belly and thighs. Suddenly, a brief, stinging pressure to his nipples shivered down his trunk to his crotch and further stirred the tension that had lodged there. Although he was stimulating himself—and quite enthusiastically, from all indications—he felt no embarrassment. Wanting Adin with him was his overriding feeling; after that, wanting to come.
His cock felt dense and heavy and his pumping, strong and regular … although he wasn’t aware of his erection in his hand. Curling his fingers, he tried to feel the thick resistance of his hard-on, the pulse of blood into tissue as it responded to his grip. But he couldn’t. He damned well knew his dick was there, but he couldn’t find it.
The writhing knot of men had disappeared, swallowed by darkness. Then, as if heaving a great sigh, the air produced light. It was dull, but it filled the space around him. He cracked open his eyes. Immediately, his hands flew to his crotch. He was on his side, curled forward, his hips making sleepy thrusts.
Somebody was sucking his cock. Somebody was taking in the whole length of it, with ease and finesse.
“Adin,” he croaked, his hand relaxing as it slipped into those satiny curls. “Jesus. Adin.”
A smooth, sure hand cupped his balls and bobbled them as two fingers slid along his perineum.
“Welcome back,” Jackson whispered.
Adin’s lips slid to the head of his cock and repeatedly flexed and relaxed just beneath it. His suction became more rapid and abrupt, made irresistible by the flickering of that strong, moist tongue.
Jackson broke. He let himself cry out as his neck arched backward and his hips bowed forward and his throbbing release slicked Adin’s throat with cum. The thought of it alone intensified his orgasm, pleasure lapping far into his shuddering body.
Adin rose to his feet. He was naked, an erotic vision, a dream come true. He gripped his erect cock in one hand. With the other, he gave Jackson’s shoulder a shove, forcing Jackson to topple onto his back. Adin bent one knee onto the mattress, his eyes fixed on Jackson’s body. Then he too began to shoot, the strong contractions sending jets of cream onto his lover’s chest.
“I could’ve just rolled onto my belly, you know,” Jackson said with a half-smile. It came nowhere near displaying the pure contentment he felt. Damn, awakened by a blowjob from the man he loved but certainly hadn’t expected to see. “My ass hasn’t sealed up.”
“No time for that,” Adin said breathlessly. He tried matching Jackson’s smile, but his final few pelvic jerks and dribbles of cum made it clear his attention was elsewhere.
Jackson curled forward, cupped one of Adin’s butt cheeks, and urged his crotch closer. He pulled that beloved, nearly-spent cock into his mouth and coaxed out another drop or two. It was enough for him to savor. Withdrawing his mouth, he wrapped his arms around Adin’s hips and pulled Adin’s body against his face, nuzzling and kissing the springy mat of pubic hair and smooth plane of skin above it.
Adin bent over, his upper arms bracketing Jackson’s head and his hands sliding down Jackson’s back. “This feels so right,” he murmured into Jackson’s hair, then began kissing it. “I want this all the time.” His kisses continued. His hands kept up their fondling glide.
Jackson closed his eyes as he held Adin to him, as he sank into the musky warmth of Adin’s skin. Faintly, he felt a buried pulse against his cheek. He turned his head and kissed the spot. All the time is for later, he thought. At this moment is good enough.
Their visits always began like this—with an explosion of love and lust and gratitude. More than anything, Jackson wanted them never to take each other for granted. So far, they hadn’t. Even when their exhilaration waned, they lapsed into a quiet bliss that came from being together, from enjoying the simple blessing of each other’s company. Jackson truly felt that Adin completed him.
“I’m tired,” Adin said quietly.
Small wonder. He’d probably gotten a few hours’ sleep, if any, and then driven half the night. Jackson didn’t ask what had prompted this unexpected visit. They could talk about it later.
“Lie down, baby.” He eased Adin away from himself and guided him onto the bed. “Lie down and sleep. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll have brunch ready when you get up. Right now I need to shower anyway.”
“I want to be with you.” Adin yawned behind his hand. “In the shower.”
“No. You need to be right here. Don’t worry; the city won’t run out of water.”
Adin crawled to his side of the bed. “Where’s my pillow?” he asked, twisting to look for it.
Feeling a blush rise, Jackson pulled it from beneath the covers on his side. It had been there, scrunched against his body, all night. He plumped it up. Swiveling on one hip, he tucked it beneath Adin’s head and pulled the covers higher over Adin’s chest.
Adin grinned at him. “You getting friendly with my pillow, Jackson?”
“It takes up less space than a blowup doll. Maybe I’ll paste one of your pictures on it and shove a bratwurst through the case.”
