Part 2 (2/2)
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 s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+rts 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-wis.h.i.+ng 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. Pus.h.i.+ng 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 --”
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