Desperate Enemies 3 Read online

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  Desperate Enemies

  by Adam Carpenter

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  Erotica/Suspense/Thriller

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  Ravenous Romance

  www.ravenousromance.com

  Copyright ©2011 by Adam Carptenter

  First published in 2011, 2011

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  * * * *

  * * *

  Desperate Enemies

  A Ravenous RomanceTM Original Publication

  Concept by Adam Carpenter

  Written by Adam Carpenter, Curtis C. Comer, and Jeff Wilcox

  * * * *

  * * *

  Part One

  “Guns and Rose”

  By Adam Carpenter

  This sun-dappled place they named Wonderland, despite its playful, whimsical name, was not without its share of tragedies, and today was no different. On days like this even the shining sky knew to stay solemn, the wind quieted, and the waves beneath it under-stated and calm, as though, like the rest of the bucolic village, they too were in mourning.

  Much had happened this summer in this normally peaceful burg situated on the Pacific Ocean, none more so than on the rocky bluff known as Eldon Court, where five Victorian houses stood proud against hues both verdant and azure, and where, inside those homes men who loved other men lived out their lives with passion, zeal, and at times, desperation. Whether threatened by the outside world or by drama of their own creation, these four makeshift families shared one very common bond: they knew the meaning of love. But it took the deep sorrow of losing one of their own to truly awaken their spirits and their hearts, to challenge all they knew, and ultimately, understand the powerful desire to overcome anything—or anyone—who tried to undermine their quest toward happiness.

  And what of that fifth house, empty all these years, invaded now by an enemy who used his extreme good looks and his voracious sexual appetite to get all that he wanted? Didn't he too deserve happiness, to enjoy the fruits of his labors? To love as he saw fit, to gain acceptance? It hadn't always been easy.

  Despite all this, Wonderland was a special place, with sunshine beaming down on its sandy shores daily, where wind and water met before the horizon's edge, creating an ideal land for sharing life. Yes, Wonderland was warm and it was welcoming, with neighbors sharing cups of sugar and alcohol-infused drinks on porches as much as they shared hopes and dreams. Yes, Wonderland was a village synonymous with the notion of home, of comfort and security and there was no question of its lucky residents contemplating leaving.

  Unless life's opposite forced such a decision upon them.

  Leaving Wonderland. Indeed, it was possible. One of them had already proven it, giving his life to ensure that others could thrive.

  But another of them would leave of his own volition, his heart heavy with loss, and soon, Wonderland and very definitely Eldon Court, would be forever changed.

  * * * *

  "Yes, fuck me, baby, fuck me hard."

  His legs were high in the air, and for some reason his eyes saw a ceiling fan spin it's cool breeze, even though he knew they hadn't gotten around to installing one yet. Red liquid dripped from it, its touch unexpectedly cold. Why, though, was he thinking about the chill, when he was enjoying this fierce, heated exchange, the feel of his lover's cock piercing him, thrusting in and out, hard, hard, harder still, his grunts so loud they shook the walls?

  He grabbed at his lover's back, nails digging into the muscular skin, slick with sweat. He'd been pounding him for hours, it seemed, and still he hadn't come, neither of them had. The dialogue was the same, an endless loop.

  "Harder, baby, fuck my ass."

  "Yeah, you want your hairy lover's cock, right, deep inside you?"

  "Never stop, never. . .. . ."

  He would grab at the thick blanket of hair that coated his lover's chest, the mat drenched from sweaty sex, fuller, darker, somehow hairier, and he could cry out now how badly he needed his furry, fabulous lover to fuck him, fast, furious, “yes, my fucker, fill me up, fulfill me,” he would cry, and then, finally, orgasm would build inside him, inside them, and he would shoot, they both would.

  An explosion would then rip through the room.

  It wasn't a powerful shot of white, ropey come.

  It would be thick, gooey, and red.

  It was blood.

  He would look into his lover's face, and it wasn't the one he expected to see. No, it was the other one, and he wanted him again, again, perhaps even more so than he did the man he loved. . .. . . no, this one he wanted him more, this one he desired with an inner quake.

  “Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  The scream shook him awake, and that's when Marc Anderson shot up in bed to find his body sweaty, the sheets drenched. This was not an overly unusual occurrence, not when you shared your bed with the sexy Rich North, whose thick cock was always the first to awaken, poking at Marc's butt, wanting him, pushing into him. What would follow would be acrobatic, energetic sex, urgent grunts that would greet the day, Marc relishing the touch of his lover's hairy body atop him while waiting for his own delicious orgasm. At the thought of glistening, hot sex with Rich, heat washed over Marc's lithe frame and his eyes darted about.

  “Shit,” he said to no one.

  He'd had the dream again, which alone could account for the sweat-drenched sheets that were tangled around his naked self. But there were other reasons. Rich was not here, not in their king size bed and not anywhere in the house they shared at the edge of Eldon Court. Things had changed, life had.

  Marc got out of bed, just as he had all this past week, with little enthusiasm and no desire to get anything accomplished. Life would never be the same, and not just for him and Rich. But he rose and went through his morning routine as best he could, starting with coffee. With a fresh, steaming cup in his hands, he made his way toward the outside porch, where he noticed his neighbor, Parker, down the street shirtless, his powerful chest on full display, thick with dark brown hair, clad only in cut-off shorts, the muscles of his thick, furred forearms bulging as he dug in the garden beside the house. That was odd, why do work on a house that wasn't even officially yours? Not wanting to catch his attention, not after his recurring dream, Marc went back upstairs, all the way to his artist's studio on the third floor.

  Truth be known, this was his first visit to his studio since the gallery showing last week, and as he opened the door he was hit with a musty smell. Like it had been closed off for years, not just a mere week. He lifted the shades to allow the bright morning sunshine to spread its rays on the hardwood floor, then opened the windows wide to let in the briny smell of the ocean. Again, he caught sight of Parker, and this time he watched from behind the curtain. Since his arrival in Wonderland, Parker St. John had been flirting with Marc, toying with the obvious heat between them. But as hot as Parker was, with his chest coated by a thick dark pelt just begging to be stroked and a noticeable bulge in his pants, Marc knew he just wasn't the cheating kind. Unlike Rich, the player. But Rich had promised no more playing around, they were in this life together, alone. He had made that promise just hours before being shot.

  Shot. Christ, what w
as becoming of Wonderland?

  Gazing about his empty studio, a remorseful Marc Anderson could hardly believe what had happened was reality; couldn't it have been a dream—a nightmare, actually—like the one that soaked his sheets and woke him scared and alone in the middle of the night? For one second Marc looked out another window that faced Number Three, knowing that the person inside felt alone too. As much as Marc had reached out to him, his friend remained closed down. Just like the house itself, shades drawn for the better part of the week, the car remaining in its garage, as though life had been drained from inside its walls.

  But in truth, hadn't they?

  Marc shuddered.

  It was supposed to have been a party celebrating this new direction in his life, his arrival in Wonderland, not just as Rich North's cute piece of eye candy but an individual unto himself, and instead the event had brought utter disaster. It had all started with the insidious threat to turn peaceful Eldon Court into the tourist-driven Wonderland Palaces at the hand of that bald bastard Danvers Converse. Converse's inner desire to seek revenge against a past sin had led neighbor to turn on neighbor, and things like trust and loyalty, they were as dead to them as. . . Marc tried to shut the image from his mind, but the blood he saw was crimson, the screams he heard loud, the fear he felt in the room palpable.

  Marc's mind drifted back to that fateful night at the Healy Gallery. Darkness had begun to fall on Down Wonder, the local business district, and as he nervously paced the upstairs office in anticipation of his first-ever gallery showing, all Marc could think was. . .

  * * * *

  “. . . where the hell is Rich?”

  “Easy boy, have another glass of wine to calm yourself.”

  “Sure, and be drunk for my first show?”

  “Fine. Be sober and crazed. Me, I like the buzz I've got going.”

  His friend, Paolo Bautista rarely took anything too seriously, so for him the idea of the art showing was just an excuse for another party, not unlike the pool parties he and his lover, Aaron Walters, threw at Number Three Eldon Court. Except no one tonight would be dressed in Speedos—or so Marc hoped. In fact, Paolo looked downright dressy for him, which meant he was wearing long pants. His button-down shirt was opened halfway down his chest, exposing smooth, naturally tan skin. Marc thought his neighbor looked sexy, as opposed to himself who just looked a hot mess. That would be Marc. He'd already changed shirts once; he'd sweated through the first one before arriving at the gallery.

  As Paolo poured himself another chilled glass of Napa Chardonnay, Marc nervously looked back down from his hidden perch at the growing, mingling crowd, the din of their conversation wafting upwards, only to be sliced by the motions of the ceiling fan. It seemed half of Wonderland had turned out for the event, maybe some wealthy tourists too, all of them eager to get a look at this promising new artist on the scene. Count Rich among the other half who were a no-show. Christ, he'd just left him back at the house, and he'd promised to be right behind him. But this was typical Rich, no matter the promise of enduring devotion he'd made this morning, no matter the proclamation of fidelity he'd shared just moments after they'd climaxed and kissed, Rich was Rich. Which meant Marc really didn't want to know what Rich was up to this moment. Or who he was up.

  Marc was snapped out of his reverie at the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs.

  “Hey, Mr. Artiste, you thinking of making an appearance at your own show?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, Lauren. How's it going down there?”

  “Let just say the air of mystery around you in thinning faster than Paolo's hair.”

  “Bitch,” Paolo said. “But listen to her.”

  So Paolo pushed him forward, and Marc followed between his friends down to the main floor to a shower of enthusiastic applause. And so began the night, Marc's head dizzy with excitement as Lauren whisked him around, introducing him to a bevy of Mr. and Mrs. Whomevers, down from S.F., here to buy something new for their summer home in Monterey, Carmel, up in Sonoma, etc, so forth and beyond. All seemed eager to buy something. Even his neighbors on Eldon Court were impressed with his previously hidden talent, with Dane and Sawyer—both artists in their own right, in film and fashion—complimented him on his use of color, of expression, and Jack and Edgar, his direct neighbors and good friends, appeared ready to take out their checkbook. Paolo stuck close to Marc, which he appreciated, but Marc had to wonder: what was going on with Paolo's lover, Aaron, who was spending most of the night hovering in the corner, drinking too much wine and acting very anti-social. Paolo waved it off, saying he'd explain later, let Aaron have his mood.

  “It Rich doesn't get here soon, I'm going to have my own mood,” Marc said.

  The door to the crowded Healy Gallery opened, and Marc, eager, anxious, turned, only to be disappointed when he saw the new arrivals. That pig Danvers Converse, with his constant aide Russell Allen.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Jack asked, sidling up next to Marc and Paolo.

  “Beats me.”

  “Lauren probably had no choice but to invite him,” Edgar offered. “We may be opposed to what he's trying to do to us, but she's a businesswoman in Wonderland and so she has to play nice.”

  Indeed, both Lauren and LeeAnn, her companion and their friend, rushed up to Danvers, welcoming him, shaking his hand, plying him with wine. Russell just stood behind him, dutiful, silent. Converse waved off their attempts at sucking up to him, claiming he wasn't here to party. “In fact, I have come for business purposes only, and I believe it is one that will make our talented artist very happy—and wealthy.”

  Danvers Converse's bold comment quieted the bustling room, and even Mrs. Whomever who had already placed her eyes on two of Marc's paintings drew a shocked breath.

  “I'm not sure what that means, Mr. Converse,” Marc said, stepping forward, “but with all due respect, I would appreciate it if you just left. This is a private function. We are trying to enjoy ourselves and your presence here is not helping. Perhaps we could discuss your interest in my work at a later date, a meeting perhaps next week?”

  Converse looked amused. “Mr. Anderson, I realize you are an artist and as such, are, uh, sensitive,” Converse said pointedly, “so I suggest you leave the business side of things to Ms. Healy; you too are a guest in her gallery. Shall we just keep things civilized?”

  “No, we cannot.”

  A fresh voice added itself to the growing mix. Aaron Walters, noticeably agitated, had joined the fray by squaring himself directly in front of Danvers Converse. He towered over the little bald man, but it was clear to all that Converse still wielded the power. In fact, Aaron, his face sweaty, looked a bit uncertain, or maybe drunk. Paolo tried to usher his lover away, saying, “Come on Aaron, now isn't the time. I know, this bastard just fired you from the Bayside Hotel, and now he thinks he can just party with us like nothing happened. . . but you know as well as I do, people like Danvers Converse get what's coming to them.”

  “Well said, Mr. Bautista,” Converse said, “so, I will make my exit. But not before I come for what I wanted.”

  Russell spoke up. “Ms. Healy, would you kindly inform your other potential buyers that there is no further need of their presence—or their checkbooks? Mr. Converse is the only buyer you will need.”

  Marc sent a confused look Lauren's way. “What's he talking about?”

  “Mr. Converse, we agreed. . . you could have what goes unsold.”

  “I've changed my mind. I want them all.”

  “Excuse me?” Marc asked. “You want to buy all my artwork?”

  “Indeed,” Converse said, and this is when his sick grin widened to one of pure evil. He was clearly enjoying himself immensely. “Yes, I plan to hang your fine paintings all over the Wonderland Palaces.”

  It was like he had slapped the faces of every resident of Eldon Court with his words, all of them reeling at the horrible irony. Their homes would be taken from them and converted into a luxury resort and a piece of them—Ma
rc's paintings—would hang on their renovated walls like some beautifully crafted, cruel twist of fate. Marc was at a loss, and at that very moment he had never needed Rich more, and where was the bastard?

  “I'm here, I'm here, what the hell is going on here?”

  “Yeah, I thought this was supposed to be a party. Looks like a wake.”

  The tittering, nervous crowd turned to watch as Rich North entered the gallery, nearly out of breath, and right behind him, surprisingly, was Parker St. John. Marc felt a lump lodge in his throat as he wondered just where these two had been, what they had been doing, and damn if his heart didn't already know, even if right now he didn't want to picture them sweating, heaving, thrusting, crying out as orgasms hit them. . .

  “Rich, Converse says he's buying all my work, and. . .”

  “It'll never happen,” Rich said, moving directly in front of the offending party. He poked a finger into Converse's face. “Since the moment you threatened to take our homes, you've been nothing but a fucking thorn in our sides. Using whatever tactics you could think of to scare us off Eldon Court, trying to bribe us, blackmail us. Well, I'm here to tell you, it's all over. The Wonderland Palaces will never happen. . .”

  “Yeah, and I'm going to make sure.”

  It was a tipsy Aaron who thrust himself into the confrontation, and he wasn't alone. He had somehow produced a silver-plated gun from his pocket, and he was waving it around with abandon. People screamed, the room parting with fear, the desire to protect themselves. As they scrambled away, only three people stood in the center of the room, Rich, Aaron, Danvers.

  “Aaron, put the gun down,” Rich urged. “This isn't a solution.”

  “Why? We kill him; it's over. He's come here, threatening us. It's self-defense.”

  “No, it's not, you're talking murder,” Parker said. “It's just like what happened all those years ago at Number Two. That solved nothing. It started. . . this.”

  Aaron turned one way, another, jittery, pointing the gun at Parker. “And you, you selfish fuck, you're in on this with Converse or with someone else, you just want what's yours and you don't care about anything. . .or anyone. You screw my lover and expect me to sit back and let you have your fun?” Aaron lifted the gun, aiming it directly at Parker's chest. Aaron was drunk, more so than Marc thought, standing there in a daze, wondering what he could do to help. But his feet were frozen; he couldn't move.