interesting. I yawned again, reviewed blackster21’s e-mail.

What do you know? Along with the usual offers of home loans, university degrees, and

penis enlargement, was an e-mail with the cryptic header: Your Question.

I studied it warily. No sign of an attachment. It had been sent by

darkwing@something.net.

I clicked. Immediately my entire screen went red.

“Shit!”

I hit alt+control+delete and jumped about a foot as someone right next to me screamed.

Heart hammering, I absorbed the fact that the scream came from my computer. As I stared,

the screen filled with an ominous Grim Reaper figure. Scythe in one skeleton hand,

hourglass in the other, it drifted slowly toward me, the hooded skull filling the monitor

screen. Then it disappeared. Ghostly shrieks of laughter vibrated my modem. My entire

screen went black. The computer turned off.

* * * * *

I was brushing my teeth when I heard Jake’s key in the lock.

Like I hadn’t enough excitement for one night. I scowled at my reflection. Foaming at

the mouth. How appropriate.

Then the front door slammed. It was like one of those goofy campfire tales: I’m on the

first step …

I bent over the sink, rinsed my mouth, and spat. I wiped my face on the towel draped

around my shoulders.

He was pouring himself a brandy from the liquor cabinet. He had discarded his jacket,

but he was still wearing his shoulder holster.

“Hey,” I said, leaning against the door frame leading into the bedroom.

“Hey.” He knocked back the brandy. Bared his teeth. He set the glass down, advancing

on me.

I held my ground. Studied him quizzically. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind, his

expression was kind of grim for romance. He reached me, his fingers digging into my

shoulders.

Pain is not my scene. I tried to slip out from under his grip. He pushed me back toward

the bed. I lost my balance, exclaiming, “Jeez, Jake –!”

He went low for a tackle, hoisting me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, surprising

a laugh out of me.

“D’you mind, asshole?” I protested, upside down.

No reply. We got to the bed in about three steps, and he flung me down. The pillows

bounced, the mattress springs squeaked in maidenly alarm. Jake’s hand went to his belt

buckle.

“Whoa. You mind disarming first, cowpoke?” I sat up, reached for the fastening on his

shoulder holster.

His eyes met mine. There was something unfamiliar there. I felt a prickle across my

scalp.

He yanked off his trousers and shorts, and pounced, pushing me back into the pillows.

His mouth covered mine hungrily. Toothpaste and brandy. I gave up on the holster,

preparing to give as good as I got.

What I got was a fast, fierce, mindless fuck: sweaty, bruising, and a little weird. I don’t

mean that in a bad way – I enjoy sex for sex’s sake as much as the next guy – but I can’t say

that it was exactly Chicken Soup for the Gay Man’s Soul, either.

We wrestled around some, Jake not hurting me, but not holding back either. He

flipped me over without much of a tussle, pinned me, pushed my legs apart and up, and then

shoved two slick fingers inside me. I jerked with surprise more than pain. He worked my

prostate with ruthless efficiency, taking my breath away, even if I’d wanted to protest, which

I didn’t particularly. I grunted in helpless, mindless response, and he withdrew his hand and

crammed his cock in my ass.

I rammed him, giving into the aggression and hunger – his and mine – and he shoved

back. We pushed each other, each time a little harder and a little further. It could have been

play, or it could have been the prelude to a brawl. He pounded into me, and I drove right

back at him.

The hardest part was the silence. Not just the lack of words, because Jake

communicated a lot of the time simply through touch. But tonight the touch felt distant,

almost impersonal. He brought me swiftly and adeptly to orgasm, and that I did resent a

little – as much as you can resent that kind of teeth-rattling sensation – and then he yelled

and came himself, in fierce surges of ropy semen.

When it was over, Jake sprawled on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

I studied his profile. I knew it so well: that unyielding jaw, the hard sensual line of his

mouth, the faint laugh lines spreading out from his eyes – not that he laughed a lot.

How’s Kate? I wondered. How’s that pregnancy thing going? Does she have any idea

what you do on Monday and Wednesday nights?

When is this going to end?

Filled with sudden, overwhelming lassitude, I closed my eyes.

Next I knew, the bed springs were pinging again. I opened my eyes. Jake sat on the

edge of the bed, his back to me, head in his hands.

The white bandages taping his ribs were stark against his skin. The last hours couldn’t

have done him much good, but I didn’t think his pain was physical.

I waited for him to get up and walk out, but the next moment the light snapped out. He

flopped back.

Within a minute, his snores were gently ruffling my hair.

Chapter Fourteen

“You feel okay?” Showered and dressed, Jake stood at the stove, turning bacon with a

spatula when I walked into the kitchen the next morning.

I shrugged the rest of the way into my shirt. “Fine. Why?” He’d set a clean mug out for

me on the counter, and I poured coffee from the machine.

I glanced his way. He turned down the gas on the stove. He looked more relaxed than

he had the night before – maybe it was the absence of firearms.

“You were restless last night. Tossing and turning. Talking in your sleep.”

I sat down with my coffee. “I hope I didn’t spill my girlish secrets.”

“Your girlish secrets are safe with me.”

That kind of line works better with a smile, but Jake was not amused by references to

my feminine side. He set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

“I feel fine,” I said, irritably this time.

Jake had this Nero Wolfe-ian attitude about food. He thought a growling stomach

signaled serious illness. In less than a year, I’d had more lectures from him on the importance

of breakfast than I had from Lisa during my entire childhood.