St. Nacho's 4: The Book of Daniel (8 page)

“It’s not that stupid.”

“You’d think it was ridiculous if you’d ever met Bree. Taking Bree for a ride on a motorcycle would be like putting a leash on a tropical fish and dragging it for a walk through town. There’s never been anything more incompatible than the people Bree and I turned out to be.”

“Maybe that’s what brought you together.”

“Like opposites attract?” I shook my head. “When we met, we weren’t that different.”

Cam’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, I meant that you knew you’d never have to love her, or even
like
her. You probably thought if you didn’t care about her, it wouldn’t bother your conscience to use her like you did.”

Where the hell had that come from? “You need to choose between the muscle-bound party slut or the marriage counselor, because it’s really fucked-up when you try to do both.”

Cam turned a dull shade of red. “I should probably just go.” Despite his words he didn’t remove his hand from the Ducati’s saddle.
Ah, hell
. Cam couldn’t help himself; he had to tell the truth even if it was going to cost him something he wanted badly.

“Take the bike, Cam.” He lifted his gaze to mine even as his brows drew together. I pulled the keys out of my pocket and handed them over. “Let the wind blow some of the pain of this god-awful week from your soul. Get out of here.”

He took my keys and looked at them for a while before saying anything. “You could come with me.”

I shook my head and turned. If he looked too closely, he’d see I was paralyzed by fear. With only one arm, I doubted I could hold on properly, and the idea of more pain—more trauma to an arm that already hurt almost all day,
every
day was unbearable.

“I’ve only got the one helmet.” I called over my shoulder before I opened the door into the house.

“I have a helmet.”

That made me smile. “Good thing, since you have a head like a buffalo. You probably couldn’t fit mine over your left nut. Take the bike for as long as you like. As long as you need it. Do something for yourself for a change, Cam. I really want to see your smile again.”

“I… Thank you.”

“Take it and go.” My voice grew hoarse. “Ride it for both of us.”

I didn’t watch to see if Cam used my helmet or whether he knew what he was doing. The Multistrada was entirely electronically controlled. It had four different riding modes with endless permutations on those—all available to him at the touch of a button. Whatever he chose, I heard the bike start up and idle on the drive for a bit. I’d had a Harley once, and the Ducati purred like a sewing machine next to that bike. I imagined he was going through all the screens to see what she had on offer until he got the hang of things enough to take her out. He was a grown man. He didn’t need me peering out the window and worrying about whether he was doing it right.

I listened for a minute, waiting, and when I heard Cam ride away, I breathed a sigh of relief. After that I pulled a bottle of Zyr from the freezer and prepared to do vodka shots and watch
Headline News
until I escaped the tight bands of self-pity compressing my chest or I was no longer conscious, whichever came first.

* * *

I slouched into Bêtise that Sunday morning, praying for a quick and painless death. Muse was probably delighted to see me so miserable.

“Love the shades. Did we do a little drinking last night, Dan?”

“That.” I pointed to the huge copper cappuccino machine behind the counter. “Triple shots. Extra large. Whatever. Just lots.”

“Sit down before you fall. I’ll bring it out to you.”

I didn’t even question her kindness. I just flopped into a chair at a table as far away from the windows as possible. A few minutes later Jake sat down across from me.

“You look like hell. What happened?”

“Vodka,” I growled. “
Vodka
happened. And no matter how many times I go through this, I never fucking learn.”

Jake laughed. “I see. Well how about a nice
baveuse
omelet? Or maybe some greasy chicken sausages.”

My stomach roiled.

“I know. I could fix you up some lightly fried eel?”

I ran to the bathroom with Jake’s laughter ringing in my ears. By the time I returned to the table from getting sick, then cleaning up and splashing cold water on my face, Muse had delivered my coffee. I put my shades back on.

“You’ll never guess what I saw last night,” said Jake. “I saw a crotch rocket just like yours on the on-ramp to the 101 South with a man that looked like Cameron Rooney riding it.”

“In no way can that bike be described as a
crotch rocket
.”

“You loaned your bike to Cam?”

This was a tricky subject since I’d never allowed Jake to ride it. I could already tell he was building up a good head of righteous indignation. “Yeah.”

His tone turned frosty. “Yet you never let me ride it.”

“I’m sorry.” I came clean. “I’ve been having a hard time letting it go.”

“Just because you can’t ride it now doesn’t mean you never will ag—”

“I can’t think that far ahead anymore. I really can’t.” I swallowed hard.

“So, what? Cam happened to admire it and you thought, what the hell? Even though I’ve never let anyone touch my bike, ever, I’ll give him the keys?”

“Yeah.” I took a sip of coffee even though it was hotter than molten rock. “That’s about it.”

To my very great surprise, Jake flashed me a huge grin. “Yeah right.”

“What?”

“He came in here this morning, and for the first time in days, he didn’t look like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. You did good, brother mine. Good call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved his compliment off, but it secretly delighted me to hear that Cam might be feeling better. “Like I care what the abominable fireman is feeling.”

Jake got up and flipped me off. “Kippered herring.” He headed back toward the kitchen, turning every so often to call out some repulsive breakfast food. “Cheese grits…biscuits and gravy…black pudding…” He went through the kitchen door. All eyes seemed to be on me. Had no one ever seen a hungover man before?

Chapter Eight

The cryptic note I’d gotten from Muse that morning bore the same mark she put on my coffee sleeve. She asked me to meet her outside Nacho’s Bar at nine p.m. I have to admit, I worried I was being set up, in Stephen King’s
Carrie
fashion, to expiate the sins of all the voracious capitalists of the world. It turned out being the person who put a smile on Cam Rooney’s face—I guess my brother told her I loaned him the Ducati—went a long way toward elevating my status in her eyes.

“You wanted to see me?” I waved the little note.

“Yeah. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I’ve been giving you such a hard time. Yasha told me what you did for Cam. I guess I just wanted to say how nice I thought that was.”

I tried to think of something to say to that.
You’re welcome
didn’t seem appropriate, and I wasn’t exactly bursting with small talk. “All right. You couldn’t say that this morning?”

Muse’s small face always bore a hint of something slightly impish, and it positively glowed with mischief now. In the light of the mercury vapor streetlamps, her hair had a blue cast and her heavily lined eyes looked like bruises. “I want to show you something.”

“Okay.” I went along.

“It’s a tree.”

I nodded. “Ah…Okay. Cool.”

She indicated I should follow her, and so I did, even as I prepared myself for an elaborate practical joke. She walked about fifty yards and stopped at the base of a really big, really healthy-looking tree whose branches were so thick and low that even though Muse wore a short dress and a pair of lug-soled boots with towering heels, she easily climbed to my eye level in no time.

“What are you doing?”

“Climb up here,” she urged, and I froze where I stood.

“I can’t climb up there, are you kidding? With only one arm?”

“You can. I tried it out this afternoon. You can mostly do it with your feet. This is the best climbing tree in all of St. Nacho’s.”

I took my first step up onto a low branch. “Did my brother put you up to this?”

“Nobody put me up to this. I just want you to see something.”

“Can’t I see it from down here?”

“You have to come up. It’s the best way.”

Maybe because she was a mere slip of a girl in a dress and high heels, and maybe because I was a man and I didn’t want her to think I was a fucking coward, even though I was, I took one step up, then another, and it turned out she was right. It was easy. I held my injured hand close to my chest, protecting it against possible bumps and scrapes but getting up into that tree was really a nearly effortless combination of gripping with my good hand and stepping from branch to branch. By the time I got to where Muse sat up in the loftier branches, her eyes sparkling with happiness, I was probably doing a little sparkling myself. I’d always loved climbing trees.

“This is actually fun,” I said breathlessly. “What am I supposed to see from here?”

“Well. For one thing, the clouds are moving fast, and you can see the moon,” she pointed out.

“Nice. Too bad you can’t see many stars.”

“Some nights you can.”

“I’ll bet. I’m going to keep this in mind for when I can’t sleep.”

“Do that.” Her nose wrinkled when she laughed. She started to swing down.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. It’s getting late.”

“All right.” I started to move too, but she put her hand up to stop me.

“Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean you should. Being in a tree is spiritual. It helps you get in touch with nature. Izzie may not be able to see your aura, and Minerva might think you pose a threat to St. Nacho’s, but I’ve been wondering if maybe you just need a little nudge in a more organic direction.”

“Don’t
nudge
me. I’m in a tree,” I teased. “I’ll fall.”

She grinned at me. “I know, but don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe up here.”

She scampered down and took off, and once again I was left wondering if everyone in town was batshit crazy.

The problem was I liked it there up that tree. The branches were thick, and the bark soft. Nothing dug into my back or my ass. The leaves were green and moist, and they felt cool and soft when the wind blew them against my skin.

I could hear the ocean and the strains of dance music from Nacho’s Bar. I could watch as clouds whispered across the circle of light cast by a nearly full moon. There was no downside to being up in that tree until the thick limb I sat on shuddered.

Something had hurtled up against my tree.

What kind of a place was St. Nacho’s that a man couldn’t hide in a tree without somebody coming along and ruining the moment?

I glanced through the thick branches and tried not to make a sound when I realized it was Cam resting against the trunk of my tree—shoved there by some man I’d never seen before.

That figured.

It would take slamming something the size of Cam to nearly shake me loose from where I sat among the highest branches that would hold my weight. I had to stay perfectly silent and still and pray neither man looked up until they were through with whatever they planned.

And wasn’t that just peachy.

It’s not like it’s unprecedented for a guy to find a quiet spot to contemplate a difficult problem or make plans for the future, but most people wouldn’t expect to see me doing my thinking in the branches of a tree.

A moan escaped from someone, and I realized that my new favorite haven was about to get awkward. Cameron Rooney was getting a blowjob—and it looked to be a really good one—not fifteen feet below where I was sitting.

Any one of a number of men I’d met at Nacho’s Bar or in town could be braced against the tree below me, legs spread wide—pants open and belt dangling—making needy little moaning noises as the man on his knees took him to the back of his throat and gagged a little from the size.

Why did it have to be Cam?

My theory that bodybuilders had to lose something in order to gain all that muscle was being blown all to hell right there too. I was perched directly above them, and I could see the whole, choking length of Cameron Rooney’s cock. It sprang from a bush of pubic hair that in the moonlight looked dark, but I thought might just be red, because if he wasn’t a Viking fucking god, I didn’t know who would be. I could just imagine it, a vast ripped expanse of tan belly, gleaming Adonis belt defined by a heady ridge of muscle, a fiery red treasure trail, and a thatch of rusty pubic hair.

The guy who was blowing Cam took his time, and since there was nothing I could do at that point to reveal myself that wouldn’t be asinine and embarrass the hell out of everyone, I stayed frozen in stunned silence—all the while getting turned the fuck on. Because yeah. That was hot.

Somewhere in my head there was a voice that said, “This is wrong. You must alert them to your presence.” But there was a much louder voice saying, “
Fuck yeah
. Take that, you bad, bad boy. Let me see you come. Let me have it, Cam. I want to watch your face when you lose yourself down somebody’s throat.”

I’m conflicted like that.

On the one hand, I always know what’s right.

On the other hand, I don’t always do it.

Cam grunted and shifted as his knees got weak, and I felt and heard him brace against the tree again. His big meaty hands clamped onto his lover’s head, and his hips started to pop. The guy whose face he was fucking made motorboat sounds in his throat like a purring cat, and Cam…he was panting now, no doubt thinking they were alone and he could let the happy fuck noises rip. His was the sexiest voice I’d ever heard anyway, and now it slid over my spine like hot cream. Silken and smooth. Deep and rich and perfectly musical. I’d have bet my car he could sing.

His cries grew deep. Rough with anticipation and vibrating with need. It made the fine hairs stand up all over my body, and my cock throbbed in response.

What a man
. I knew how gorgeous he could be, but I never even imagined him like this.

Oh fuck, who am I kidding, of course I had. I had imagined him exactly like this—but with my mouth wrapped around his cock. The reality was so much better. He was the picture of masculine perfection—all power and sinew and sweat. I couldn’t take my eyes away as he signaled his lover he was ready. He suddenly jerked wordlessly, soundlessly, and froze. He tilted his buffalo head back and that big, chiseled jaw of his tipped up and up… It was only a matter of time before he—