Read Online All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars - Free Book Online Page A

habit of pushing things too
far had just turned into shoving them completely over the edge and
gleefully watching them fall.
    “Look, I already said this a dozen times,” my
friend spat in reply. “Ya’ got the goddamned warrants right there
in your hand. Read ‘em!”
    I barked in return as I waved the sheaf of
legal documents in the air, “And, I’ve told you every time you said
it that I already did and they don’t tell me a fucking thing.”
    “Well, try readin’ ‘em again!”
    Ben stared back at me, grimly silent on the
heels of the shouted order. I had to keep my head tilted back to
meet his gaze, as he stood six-foot-six and was, therefore, better
than a head taller than me. He carried himself on an overtly
muscular frame that often made him seem larger than life, and in a
sense, almost heroic.
    His classic, angular features, which not only
broadcast his pure Native American heritage but also served him
well in forming his handsome visage, were now creased into a hard
scowl. The deep lines made him look less like my friend and more
like the stoic “Injun on the warpath” from an old Western. All he
needed were some feathers and face paint to make the caricature
complete.
    In fact, a travesty is all that was left of
him in my mind, for at this particular moment, even though his dark
eyes were betraying his own turbulent mix of emotions, any sense of
heroism I envisioned in him had long since fled. To me, he had
become no more than a threatening obstacle standing dead in the
middle of my path.
    He sighed heavily then shook his head and
cast his eyes toward the floor. Out of reflex he reached up with a
large hand to smooth his jet-black hair. This was a mannerism I’d
seen countless times, and it was something he always did whenever
he was thinking hard on a subject. I stood watching him, and in the
wake of the motion, I could see salty flecks of grey that I knew
for certain had been there for quite some time but now seemed to be
appearing right before my eyes. It was as if he was visibly aging
as he stood there.
    Under the circumstances, I think perhaps we
both were.
    I waited for a healthy measure, or at least I
think I did. I know I tried. Unfortunately, my patience was as thin
as the dry, paper-like skin of an onion right now and even more
brittle. I wasn’t interested in giving him time to think about
anything. I wanted answers and I wanted them ten minutes ago.
    “Tell me what’s going on, Ben!” I repeated my
demand for the umpteenth time.
    “GODDAMMIT, ROWAN! I CAN’T!” he shouted then
suddenly slammed the heel of his fist hard against the doorframe
before repeating in a near whisper, “I just…can’t.”
    Whether we were getting somewhere or not, I
couldn’t say, but this was the first time he had given me a
response other than “you know” or “read the warrants.”
    My friend looked over his shoulder through
the glass of the storm door as it slowly worked its way toward
obscuring the view by fogging over with condensation. After a
second he looked back at me and muttered, “Jeezus fuckin’ Christ,
Row…don’tcha think I wanna tell ya’?”
    I didn’t let up. “You sure as hell aren’t
acting like it.”
    “Sonofabitch! Dammit…I…Jeez…I…It’s…Shit! Fuck
me! Dammit, Row, I just can’t!” He stuttered through the sentence
as his morose tone ramped back into anger.
    Mine, however, had never ramped down. “That’s
not good enough!”
    “Well it’s gonna hafta be for now!”
    Ben Storm was probably my second best friend
walking the face of the planet—period, end of story. However, at
this instant I was within a hair’s breadth of planting my fist
square on his chin replete with every last speck of strength,
anger, and unfettered malice I could muster. Never mind the fact
that it would probably be the one and only shot I would get before
he pummeled me into the middle of next month, or even that he was a
cop with a gun and a similarly armed partner sitting in a