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Authors: Andrea Speed
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nauseating and enticing), and any sex involving blood play was kinky beyond belief.
He knew he’d bit Dylan’s lip as well, but he had to double-check it to make sure he hadn’t bit a chunk of it off. As he cleared away some blood on Dylan’s lip with his thumb, he noticed it was starting to swell, like he’d been punched in the face. “Shit. Did I hurt you?”
“Too many endorphins. I’m not feeling any pain right now,” Dylan replied. Then, after a moment, “It is throbbing a bit.”
“Shit, what about work?”
“What about it? If anyone asks, I’ll say I took a hit while sparring, just to see the look on Trevor’s face.”
“Trevor the maître’d?”
“That’s him.”
“Figured. He looks like a Trevor.”
Dylan gave him a lopsided grin, and wiped some of the blood off Roan’s chin. “I missed you, you know.”
“How? I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Yes you have. Stop keeping me at arm’s length, Ro. I signed up for this crazy ride, you can’t scare me away.”
“You should be scared. This was fucking freaky.”
“And yet, pretty amazing.”
“Yeah, well….” He was saved from further response by the ringing of the phone. It had actually rung before, while they were having sex, but they’d both ignored it. He didn’t have that excuse now.
Dylan got up, stepped into his yoga pants, and said, “I’m gonna go get some ice for the lip. Maybe you should answer that. Although I won’t accept any excuse that keeps you away tonight.”
“Why, what’s tonight?”
“Gallery showing, remember?”
“Oh shit.” One of Dylan’s art school friends, a guy named Dominik Loncar, was in town tonight for a showing of his art photos. Dylan said they had to go, because he’d promised he would, but he also warned him that Dominik had been pretentious as hell back in school, and that condition had worsened since graduation. Since he had guessed Roan wouldn’t be able to be on his best behavior for more than thirty minutes, he had also agreed they’d make an appearance, look at Dominik’s photos, and leave reasonably quickly. At least now Dylan had the excuse of work. Also, Roan was convinced most of Dyl’s arty friends hated his guts, which Dylan always denied, but he knew that, since he was an ex-cop, most of Dylan’s arty friends thought he was a fascist. Hanging around with a hockey team hadn’t helped.
Roan sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, feeling truly crazy. His boyfriend now had to cut himself so they could have sex without the lion trying to turn it into a slaughter. This was fucking bizarre and it couldn’t continue, and as good as it had felt, he thought he should really pull his SIG Sauer out from his dresser and blow his brains out. But first, he answered the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Hello Captain Sunshine,” Seb replied sarcastically. “Do I take it this means you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“The thing down in Tacoma.”
“What thing down in Tacoma?”
He sighed heavily. “Shit. The cat freak-out is no longer an isolated incident.”
Wonderful. The universe just kept churning out these reasons to live. “What now?”
“A lion went on a rampage near Commencement Bay. The cops down there are still trying to piece together the whole story, but he caused a shitload of damage. Charged a wedding party in a church, killed three, mauled six, ate someone’s yappy little purse dog—the only good thing that happened—and three tranquilizer darts couldn’t put him down, so the rapid response team just blasted his ass back to the stone age. Took twelve shots to drop him, and by that time he was a red smear in the vestibule. We have a tentative ID as Philip Roland, best man’s brother.”
“Fuck. Did he have that chemical in his system?”
“That’s the working theory, although there may not be enough of him left to test. I’ve been going through some of the old reports on weird cat behaviors and other oddities, and I’ve found a couple that
He knew he’d bit Dylan’s lip as well, but he had to double-check it to make sure he hadn’t bit a chunk of it off. As he cleared away some blood on Dylan’s lip with his thumb, he noticed it was starting to swell, like he’d been punched in the face. “Shit. Did I hurt you?”
“Too many endorphins. I’m not feeling any pain right now,” Dylan replied. Then, after a moment, “It is throbbing a bit.”
“Shit, what about work?”
“What about it? If anyone asks, I’ll say I took a hit while sparring, just to see the look on Trevor’s face.”
“Trevor the maître’d?”
“That’s him.”
“Figured. He looks like a Trevor.”
Dylan gave him a lopsided grin, and wiped some of the blood off Roan’s chin. “I missed you, you know.”
“How? I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Yes you have. Stop keeping me at arm’s length, Ro. I signed up for this crazy ride, you can’t scare me away.”
“You should be scared. This was fucking freaky.”
“And yet, pretty amazing.”
“Yeah, well….” He was saved from further response by the ringing of the phone. It had actually rung before, while they were having sex, but they’d both ignored it. He didn’t have that excuse now.
Dylan got up, stepped into his yoga pants, and said, “I’m gonna go get some ice for the lip. Maybe you should answer that. Although I won’t accept any excuse that keeps you away tonight.”
“Why, what’s tonight?”
“Gallery showing, remember?”
“Oh shit.” One of Dylan’s art school friends, a guy named Dominik Loncar, was in town tonight for a showing of his art photos. Dylan said they had to go, because he’d promised he would, but he also warned him that Dominik had been pretentious as hell back in school, and that condition had worsened since graduation. Since he had guessed Roan wouldn’t be able to be on his best behavior for more than thirty minutes, he had also agreed they’d make an appearance, look at Dominik’s photos, and leave reasonably quickly. At least now Dylan had the excuse of work. Also, Roan was convinced most of Dyl’s arty friends hated his guts, which Dylan always denied, but he knew that, since he was an ex-cop, most of Dylan’s arty friends thought he was a fascist. Hanging around with a hockey team hadn’t helped.
Roan sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, feeling truly crazy. His boyfriend now had to cut himself so they could have sex without the lion trying to turn it into a slaughter. This was fucking bizarre and it couldn’t continue, and as good as it had felt, he thought he should really pull his SIG Sauer out from his dresser and blow his brains out. But first, he answered the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Hello Captain Sunshine,” Seb replied sarcastically. “Do I take it this means you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“The thing down in Tacoma.”
“What thing down in Tacoma?”
He sighed heavily. “Shit. The cat freak-out is no longer an isolated incident.”
Wonderful. The universe just kept churning out these reasons to live. “What now?”
“A lion went on a rampage near Commencement Bay. The cops down there are still trying to piece together the whole story, but he caused a shitload of damage. Charged a wedding party in a church, killed three, mauled six, ate someone’s yappy little purse dog—the only good thing that happened—and three tranquilizer darts couldn’t put him down, so the rapid response team just blasted his ass back to the stone age. Took twelve shots to drop him, and by that time he was a red smear in the vestibule. We have a tentative ID as Philip Roland, best man’s brother.”
“Fuck. Did he have that chemical in his system?”
“That’s the working theory, although there may not be enough of him left to test. I’ve been going through some of the old reports on weird cat behaviors and other oddities, and I’ve found a couple that
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