d.a.m.n straight.

Chapter Two

"There you are, young man! We've been waiting all day for you. I knew the moment I saw him that he would be the one for you. Just look at his face!"

d.a.m.n. Some days, it was better to go anywhere but home.

Bree switched off his motorcycle and levered the kickstand down into place. Yeah, they'd b.i.t.c.hed at him about his ride at Money Now! too. He'd stood his ground about keeping the bike, because face it, even with a trade-in he couldn't afford a car.

Besides, the thought of a beige compact made his stomach do sick little flips. He could handle faking the clean-cut look, but no way would he sacrifice his beat-up Harley. Trouble was, it kind of advertised his arrival to the nutcases -- er, neighbors -- he lived with.

He could see Mrs. Jamison, who lived downstairs from him, waddling toward him fast as she could go, vast thighs rubbing together and a grin brighter than Times Square on New Year's Eve splitting the middle of her bulgy face. She always made him think of bread dough that had been left out too long: puffy, white, and kind of sticky-looking. Bread dough that had serious personal s.p.a.ce issues. And a fixation with small, furry animals. For some reason he had yet to figure out, she'd taken a shine to Bree.

He had learned by then to either back up slowly or run away whenever Old Lady Jamison came after him with that kind of manic glee and her hands full of ... something.

Okay, I can handle this. Not taking off his helmet, he made to hop off his bike and breeze past her. Maybe she'll think I'm just a visitor.

Unfortunately, Jamison had gotten wise to the trick he'd pulled a couple of times before. She wagged a segmented-sausage finger in his face with a giggle. She jiggled with delight, every roll of her. "Now, now, now, Bree! I know it's you in there. Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Yep. Bread dough. Crazy bread dough. Even though he felt positive he'd regret it, Bree lifted one hand and raised the visor on his helmet. He took a careful two steps backward, only to have her take two steps closer, wiggling with obvious glee. "Here!"

she declared, lifting her other hand. "He's perfect for you!"

Something furry, with way too many teeth, peered at him from a distance of one inch and started up a h.e.l.lacious chittering noise punctuated by screeching. Bree let out a yelp to match it, volume for volume, and stumbled back against his bike. "What the - - what the h.e.l.l is that thing?"

Jamison followed him, making playful jabs at his face with the Mini-Monster. "Silly boy! This isn't an 'it.' He's a ferret kit.

Best of his litter. Look at that face! How could you resist such a cute little woobie doobie doo ..." She broke off to nuzzle the thing, which now that Bree had s.p.a.ce to get a good look in, made him think of a stretched-out rat. Right down to the beady black eyes and the nasty teeth. It was just way, way longer than any rat he'd seen before.

"Ferret?" he said stupidly.

"Oh, yes! Ferrets make the peachiest pets, Bree! You know I've been after you for ages to get an animal for company.

Animals are much better friends than people," she said seriously, chins wobbling. "I saved this one just for you. Here!"

Bree managed to choke back his yelp, but didn't even try not to jump out of the way, safely onto the steps leading into the cut-up house full of apartments. "That's okay, really. You, um, you keep the ferret. Really."

"But he wants to go home with you!" She pouted.

"Yeah. See, problem with that is our landlord's no-pets clause, right? You know how he fines you every month because of all your animals?"

"Pish-tosh and pocket change. It's worth it for my babies. You'll see. Here, take him!"

"No! I mean, thanks, but no, and hey, you take it easy now; have fun with the ferrets and all, but I'm gonna go upstairs now, all right?" Bree dodged the furry bullet one more time and -- to h.e.l.l with dignity or 'tude -- made a run for it through the old, squeaky front door. He didn't stop until he hit the first landing, where a quick peek back through the window showed him Jamison having a serious conversation with the ferret and smothering it with messy lipstick kisses.

Jesus.

Bree shook his head and plowed back up the stairs without looking -- straight into something that yelped and went down like a pile of broken sticks. Startled, Bree yanked off his helmet and looked down at the ragged carpet to see ...

"Hey, Bree!"

Jesus, help me, Bree prayed, even though he hadn't spoken to the Person in question for about ten years. "Hi," he said shortly, deliberately not offering a hand to the guy he'd knocked down, who was as skinny as Jamison was fat, with skeleton ribs and a concave belly that showed even through his faded bowling shirt. A shock of sickly, mouse-colored hair cut into a pageboy still managed to fall into his eyes, definitely unwashed for a few days. A face not even a mother or a ferret-fanatic could love, with the same creepy little black eyes.

Eustace.

Completely unfazed at being knocked off his feet, Eustace lay on the ratty stairwell tread as if it were an easy chair, beaming a huge, gap-toothed smile at Bree. "I'm so glad to see you! You know, I heard the bike pull up, and I was sure it would be you 'cause no one else here rides a chopper, and I knew that Jamison was down there, but I figured you'd give her the slip real easy, and so I thought I'd come down and grab you before you got up to your apartment because you never answer the phone or the door, you know, not even when I bring up a ca.s.serole or some parfait or want to watch TV, do you?"

No kidding. Especially when I know it's you. "I don't hear so good," Bree lied. He darted a glance around the stairwell, but d.a.m.n it, Eustace's scarecrow arms and legs had sprawled everywhere, blocking his path.

Eustace was still going. Did he ever breathe? "-- but, anyway, it's Sat.u.r.day night -- you do know that it's Sat.u.r.day, right? -- and I don't have any plans, and I know you never have any plans anymore after you dumped that GQ guy, and hey, way to go, slugger, I always knew he was no good for you, but anyway, I spent all day cooking stuff I've seen you eat, like fish sticks, only I used real fish and ramen noodles with some extra spices, and I even tossed a couple of hamburgers in a pan; plus I made these chocolate things that look just like snack cakes, and, oh, yeah, popcorn, and then I went and bought a few cartons of wine coolers because I don't like vodka, but that was the only thing I wasn't sure you liked, 'cause, you know, I keep an eye out on you, I mean for you, and there's a Queer Eye marathon on tonight, and I thought I could bring all the food up to your place, and we could watch it together, okay?" Beam.

Bree blinked. Half of his mind was still trying to translate the stream of nonstop babble, while the rest was telling him, Run, you f.u.c.ker, run! Step on him if you have to!

"Eustace, man," he began "Had a bad day, all right? I'm not --"

Eustace blinked. "See, that's why I told you not to take that job. I mean, I go by the mall almost every day you work, and I see you in there, and you just look so miserable, and you're starting to get all washed-out, too -- oh, which reminds me, are you taking those vitamins I left for you?"

"Yup," Bree lied again. Actually, he'd flushed the horse pills. "Do you wanna move? I need to get to my apartment."

"Move? Sure, I can move." Eustace scrambled up. Looked like a scarecrow come to life for Halloween. But instead of moving out of Bree's way, he latched on with one dirty-fingernailed hand and hung tight. "You know, you really are a big gloomy Gus, Bree, even if you don't feel like it. I know if we just hung out you'd loosen up, and maybe you'd start to smile even. I'd be good for you, Bree. I'd be anything you wanted. If you want me to change, just say so; I did that for my last boyfriend. I still have all the ties and that weird beanie yarmulke hat, too. Oh, hey, I could get something pierced, or we could get matching tattoos!"

Eustace's eyes gleamed. "That would be fun! We can ditch the food, and you can show me where you get your ink done, and afterward, let's come back and sit on the couch and have a good, long talk."

In. Your. Dreams. Your wet dreams, probably. Bree shook off Eustace's hand. "Sorry," he grunted. "Gotta go." Rude or not, he shoved past the skinny creep and vaulted up the stairs, two at a time.

Behind him, he could hear Eustace, still going. "So, okay, not tonight, but what about tomorrow? I could make a cake; I know you like cake; I've seen you eat cake through your window a few times, and --"

Oh, G.o.d. Bree paused to rub his shoulder, where Eustace had touched him, against the grimy wallpaper. I'd rather stick my d.i.c.k in a blender than that freak.

Yeah. Definitely time to get home. Just one more flight to go. f.u.c.k, he was so gonna lobby for an elevator next time the pet.i.tion went around. Who cared if there wasn't a place to put one? d.a.m.n landlord could f.u.c.king build an elevator shaft. He'd give up his parking s.p.a.ce to make room.

One more flight. And, hey, he hadn't dropped his keys or absently shoved them into a pocket, either. They jingled in his hand as he practically ran for his door. Never could tell when Eustace or Jamison might pop up out of nowhere again like the freakin'

ghosts of Christmas Present. How they did it, he had no clue. If he believed in any of that paranormal s.h.i.t, he'd be inclined to think they could teleport or some such bull.

But nah. Those two were just creeps. Ordinary, extra-creepy creeps, yeah, but nothing special. He could cope. He was Bree, after all.

He leaned against his door, battered and scarred from a thousand kicks and punches, some of them his own from when he was drunk and the lock didn't want to work. This time, the key slid in smooth as silk, the tumblers clicked over easy as pie, and he had his hand on the k.n.o.b, starting to turn it when -- "Monsters!" a voice bellowed in his left ear.

Bree nearly jumped out of his skin. "What the f.u.c.k!" he yelled, corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around, hands already clenching into fists. Enough was e-d.a.m.n-nough! Then he saw who had yelled and wilted. Aw, h.e.l.l. He could live with a lot, but not pummeling on a guy old enough to be his grandpa -- and a veteran, to boot.

Crazy Pete peered at Bree through his one good eye, the other long ruined by some kind of sh.e.l.ling damage. Vietnam, Bree remembered Pete bragging once. The old man leaned on his huge cane, one pants leg dangling empty below the knee. He wore one of his old uniforms, hanging off his bones, chockfull of medals, including a Purple Heart. His face reflected the serenity of wisdom, gathered through the years, and the knowledge that he spoke the truth.

It was all a little negated by the triangle hat made out of tinfoil, complete with antennae.

"Monsters," he rasped, nodding emphatically. "Whole city's full of them today. I heard it on the CIA broadband. The newspapers have been calling, but I don't give a rat's hindquarter about those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Let them get eaten, for all I care. You, on the other hand, I'm warning to be careful."

Pete liked Bree, even if he did have a habit of pulling on his labret to see if Bree's lip would come off with it. "Monsters,"

Bree repeated, hand twitching on his doork.n.o.b. "You not been taking your meds again, Pete?"

"Meds, schmeds. They mess with my brain and block out all the signals. I can't be having that. You gotta keep a sharp eye and ear out for what's going on in this world."

"And, apparently, now it's monsters." Last week it had been your standard aliens. Pete was moving up -- or down -- in the world.

"Monsters! Whole s.h.i.tload of 'em. Visiting tonight, one-night-only special. You'd better stay in and go to bed early. That's all I've got to say." Pete waved Bree aside before he could speak. "Oh, I know, a young guy like you wants to go out and get some tail on a weekend night, but you'd be better to jack off in the shower. I got some naked photos of Bette Davis, if you want. I beamed them from my brain to the copy machine. Good stuff, too. Nice shot of her s.n.a.t.c.h." Pete leered. Bree gagged.

"Thanks, but no, thanks, Pete," he said, turning his k.n.o.b. "I have plans with a bottle of vodka. You, um, keep an eye out for the monsters, okay?"

"d.a.m.n right." Pete twiddled with an antenna. It snapped off in his fingers. "s.h.i.t!"

"Better go fix that," Bree suggested. "Night, Pete!" And with that, he made his escape. Slamming the door behind him, he took in a few deep breaths and decided that 1) as soon as he had enough cash, he was moving as far away from there as he could; 2) if he ever got old or went crazy, he'd get someone to shoot him; and 3) he gave up on humanity. Screw the whole wacko race.

Christ, what a day.

Okay. Home, and thus relatively safe. Might not be home for much longer if he couldn't come up with rent money, but for a few more days, still his own private s.h.i.t hole. His kingdom. The place where he could do what he d.a.m.n well pleased. Far, far away from Money Now!

Speaking of which ... Bree glanced down, plucking at his turtleneck. He narrowed his eyes. Okay, first things first. He yanked the disgusting shirt out of his slacks and pulled it over his head. He kicked off the polished shoes and got a thrill out of the sound they made hitting the far wall. His cargo pants joined the turtleneck, then the stupid black socks. Last of all, his no-creases tighty-whities.

Bare of any st.i.tch, Bree kicked his discarded yuppie gear out of the way and stomped toward his cubbyhole kitchen, made straight for the special cabinet, and jerked it open. Two bottles stared back at him, both vodka. One plastic, labeled Cousin Boris's Special Recipe! and one gla.s.s, Grey Goose. He reached for Cuz out of habit, then paused, hand in midair.

f.u.c.k that.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the bottle of Goose, not bothering with a gla.s.s, wrenched off the cap, and tilted it back. The vodka hit him like an eighteen-wheeler, wham! A stream of fire down his throat and an instant explosion in his stomach. Shaking his head, he took another chug, swallowing half a dozen gulps before his gorge rebelled. He eyed the bottle sourly. Well, he had time. Plans with a bottle? You betcha.

Carrying Goose by its neck, he headed back for the den. To do that, though, he had to pa.s.s through his bedroom. His closet doors hung open where he'd forgotten to close them that morning. A dozen cotton turtlenecks winked out at him. If clothing could laugh, he'd swear the d.a.m.n things were cackling at him.

Bree glared at the corporate-casual c.r.a.p. Took another few swigs of vodka, enough to turn his vague thoughts into a solid, good idea.

Plunking the bottle down, he made for the closet and threw the doors open wide. He grabbed first one, then two, then all of the shirts and pressed beige pants he could hold, dumping them into a pile on the floor until he couldn't see another one through his early-stage vodka haze. For good measure, he went burrowing through his dresser drawers next, hunting down every d.a.m.n BVD and pricey sock to add to the mess.His breath came in hard jerks as he stood over the pile, glowering at it. There it lay, a messy icon for all he'd done the past couple of years. They smelled like detergent, but he was no dummy. Underneath the April Fresh, they stank of every idiot customer, every run-in with his manager, every time he'd been felt up or cussed at or spit on. A costume he'd been forced to wear to hide who he really was.

No more.

Bree reached for his c.o.c.k, half-wishing he could p.i.s.s on the pile of clothes. Then he rolled his eyes and sighed. He'd cleaned up enough puddles for one day, thanks. Vengeance was one thing, being stupid was another.

But better yet ...

Bree's hand lingered on his genitals. Maybe ... maybe.

He stroked his c.o.c.k, mostly out of curiosity Soft. He tried again, this time picturing the latest movie star. That got a slight stir of interest, but no big hurrah. Fine. Not like he didn't have plenty other w.a.n.k material.

One of the guys from the Brotherhood? Nah. Pansy a.s.ses, all of them. Except Liam, maybe, and he just wasn't Bree's type.

Creeped him out, for one.

His d.i.c.k went a little limper.

Uh-uh. You're gonna work with me, here. Bree pumped himself harder, ignoring the slight pain of insistent work on soft flesh. Hey, brain! Come up with something for me. Something good.

A visual flashed across his mind's eye. He paused, surprised. Dark red hair. Kind smile. Eyes like he'd never seen before.

His c.o.c.k began to swell.

Oh, yeah. Yeah, there we go. Bree tilted his head back. What was that guy's name again? Julian. That was it. Julian.

f.u.c.k, he was gorgeous.

In his imagination, Julian smiled at Bree. Reached out to touch his face again, so cool and soft.

Bingo. Instant erection. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about," Bree muttered. "Up, up, and f.u.c.kin' away, man! No one does this better than me, right? I'm the best there ever was. Oh, h.e.l.l, yes. Yeah!" His c.o.c.k throbbed in his hand, almost tingling as he imagined Julian's fingers running over the silky skin, his cool thumb circling the head. Catching a drip of precome and bringing it to his mouth for a taste.

Oh, man. Good, yeah, definitely good. Julian would be the kind of guy to do that. He wouldn't stop with just a little jack- and-tease, either. He'd take Bree all the way. Play him like a violin and not stop until the big finish. Ah, ah, ah -- he could feel the man's hand around him, tugging at his Prince Albert, slipping down to fondle his b.a.l.l.s, tugging at the guiche hidden behind them.

Making him beg for mercy.

Bree let out a groan from somewhere deep in his gut. This was amazing. Didn't even feel like his own hand on his c.o.c.k anymore, never mind fantasy. He felt Julian's cool touch and the softness of his fingers. Could all but see the man across from him, smiling that mysterious little smile, refusing him a kiss until he'd melted Bree into a puddle. Pushing him on, hard and fast, just the way he liked his hand jobs.

It'd been a long day. Too long. Whole lot longer since he'd gotten laid. Bree wasn't any stranger to jerking off, but this felt different. Like he was actually with someone, not just pretending.

A cool breath of wind blew across his forehead. Startled, Bree let his half-shut lids fly open. For a split second, he saw -- not imagined, saw -- Julian's eyes gazing at him from midair.

"I'll be seeing you, Bree," Julian murmured. Bree heard a soft chuckle. The eyes disappeared.

Bree stood frozen, on the very edge of climax. His mouth worked silently before it came up with: "What -- the -- f.u.c.k?"

In the utter silence that followed, the phone rang. For the second time since he'd gotten home, Bree almost jumped out of his skin. The surprise lasted all of three rings, and then, then, then -- he got p.i.s.sed.

He reached for the cord in the wall, ready to jerk it out, socket and all.

Then, he hesitated. Didn't know why.

Tried again.

Couldn't do it.

Baffled, skin p.r.i.c.kling with a definite sensation of weird, Bree hesitantly reached for the receiver. Moving slowly, he lifted it to his ear. He meant to bark "Bree!" but to his amazement, found his lips forming: "h.e.l.lo?"

"Oh, good, you are at home," an accented voice answered pleasantly. "I had feared you might be caught up at work. But what a pleasure to find you there!" Bree scrambled to place the voice. His mind swam from vodka and p.r.i.c.kled with a bizarre sort of fear. "Yeah. Guess so."

The caller chuckled -- no, giggled. "Bree, you've no idea who this is, do you?"

"I -- uh -- I --"