Shadow Life

By Kris Sparks

Jonathan Birch fled for his life from the sex-and-drugs party scene that left his lover dead and Jonathan framed for murder. Hunted by powerful, dangerous men who want more from him than he's willing to give, Jonathan lives a solitary existence in a low-rent motel, always afraid his past will catch up with him.
Newly-released ex-con Peter Grant longs for the life he no longer believes he deserves. Convinced that everyone who looks at him can see his guilt, Peter hides away behind the safety of his locked motel room door and observes his small corner the world -- and the handsome young man who lives upstairs.

Their quiet lives come crashing down one snowy night when the worst of the men from Jonathan's past finds him. If they work together, Jonathan and Peter might stand a slim chance of escaping from men who buy and sell others like cattle, but first they have to do the hardest thing either of them has ever done: step out of the shadows and fight back.

Author Kris Sparks is an award-winning writer of mystery, suspense fiction, and crime fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thunder Valley Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465807830

Book preview

Shadow Life is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Kris Sparks

All rights reserved.

Published by Thunder Valley Press. www.thundervalleypress.com

Kris Sparks can be found on the web at www.kris-sparks.com.

For Archer

Contents

Copyright

Book

About the Author

Chapter 1

2006

He was known to a select group of people online as AngusHD8. The name amused him on many levels. Angus because it was a spit in the eye to the last man in his family who thought he'd amassed a fortune, a fire and brimstone tyrant who'd made his money exploiting the sinful ways of his fellow man. And HD8 because that was the way he'd made his own fortune.

Hard eight. A lucky roll of the dice. Or, in his case, many well-engineered rolls of the dice and a much, much bigger fortune.

The computer monitor on his desk in his darkened study was a 19-inch wide-screen. On the lower right corner, an open window displayed a five minute video playing on continual loop. The picture was the grainy quality of most amateur videos transmitted over the web, but this particular video would never be hosted by YouTube.

In the tiny window, naked men moved around a luxurious living room. Draped across chairs, on the floor, leaning against walls, the men fucked each other as AngusHD8 watched.

Off camera, he knew, would be a fully-clothed man passing out party favors that Angus, as one of the select group who had access to this video and numerous others like it, had bankrolled. The drugs reduced the inhibitions and increased the enjoyment of the naked men on screen, which in turn increased the enjoyment of the men watching and recording the party on hidden cameras.

The revelers thought the drugs were free. Everyone always wanted everything for free. Why were they so surprised when it came time to pay up their debts?

One man on the screen was clothed, and he wasn't one of the people in Angus's employ. Not yet. He stood off to the side, his pretty face carefully blank. He'd come to the party with a man currently the object of attention of several other men, but the clothed man wasn't participating. Angus had seen him before. He never participated, only watched. Unlike Angus and those in the circle who paid exorbitant amounts for the privilege of enjoying the show, the clothed man's body language said he wanted to be anyplace but where he was.

On his desk, a light on the phone blinked for Angus's attention. The line was private, the number billed not in Angus's name or that of his thriving business, but to a long-forgotten employee who didn't know a small thing like death wouldn't end his service to Angus.

Angus picked up the phone and listened.

I'll go seven thousand, he said, eyes never leaving the clothed man. He only paid five. It's a tidy profit.

The man on the other end of the phone laughed. He won't go for that. He says it's personal. He don't even want to fuck the guy no more, just wants to fuck him up.

He can't want him that badly if he can't find him, Angus said. Tell him I'll double my offer, or better yet, make it fifteen. That's triple what he paid. Cash in hand, or he can keep himself warm with revenge fantasies about a man he'll never catch.

Fifteen, huh? The man on the other end paused. Angus could almost hear him figuring his cut. What makes you think you'll find him?

AngusHD8 watched the video like he'd done every day for weeks. He'd never taken so long before to decide which one he wanted, but then again, he'd never wanted what someone else in their little online community had already purchased. He'd be making an enemy, not that he really cared. The very nature of their community meant that disputes were handled internally, and within their group, Angus ruled.

He wondered what the clothed man would look like now. He was on the run and hiding, but not from what really hunted him. Had he shaved his head, grown a beard, changed his appearance in some other way? What would he look like in Angus's guest room, chained naked to the bed? Would he beg? Angus bet he would. Sooner or later they all begged.

I'll find him, Angus said to the man on the other end of the phone. I always do.

Chapter 2

Jonathan always thought that by twenty-eight he would have more to show for his life. The sum total so far were the few clothes hung in the closet of a cheap Northern Nevada motel room half a world away from the place of his birth, a battered backpack, and an even more battered motorcycle that only seemed to run every other day if he was lucky. Which he usually wasn't.

Oh, and the cat. Mustn't forget the cat. Jonathan's sole companion, the cat was worth more than the rest of his things put together.

The grey tomcat that sometimes shared Jonathan's room was currently curled up on Jonathan's pillow studiously washing one side of its face over and over again. Jonathan had splurged on a few pouches of premium cat food for Tramp along with a few off-season oranges for himself.

The weather was threatening the first serious snow of late fall, with heavy, gray clouds hanging low over the crest of the mountains ringing the western edge of the Carson valley. Jonathan felt like both he and Tramp deserved a treat. Of course, that had been before his motorcycle died as soon as he made it back to the motel parking lot, the small bag of groceries stuffed in his backpack.

The cat had polished off half a pouch of the fairly expensive cat food in near record time. Jonathan was saving his oranges for later.

Hope you enjoyed the food, old man, Jonathan said.

The cat had battered ears and scruffy fur and scars across his nose, and somewhere along the line he'd lost the very tip of his tail. It was no one's idea of pretty, but then again, being pretty hadn't gotten Jonathan very far in life, so he didn't place much value on looks.

He leaned across the bed and scratched Tramp beneath one side of its face. The cat stopped washing and pressed against Jonathan's hand, eyes half-closed in kitty bliss.

Enjoy that? Not that he expected an answer, but talking to the cat gave him the illusion of carrying on a conversation. At least the cat never made demands on Jonathan for things he didn't want to do.

He gave the cat one last scratch then sat up to finish buttoning the white cotton dress shirt that was part of his waiter's uniform. Tips had better be good tonight. Weekly rent was due again in two days. Jonathan could never afford to pay for more than one week at a time, even though the motel gave a break in rates for a month paid in advance. He made just enough money to live hand to mouth but never enough get ahead, and now he'd need money for whatever parts he'd have to get for his motorcycle.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the concrete walk outside Jonathan's third floor door. He tensed, waiting to see if the footsteps would stop or if a shadow would cross his curtained window. Sometimes he wished he could open his curtains, let a little light into the room through the lone window, but even living on the motel's top floor, opening the curtains made Jonathan feel on display. These days he valued privacy over a view.

The footsteps stopped outside his door, and a split second later someone knocked. Jonathan relaxed as he recognized the rhythm. The motel night manager. He always knocked in the same bambam-bam pattern.

Jonathan opened the door without taking off the security chain. Marty, he said. Rent's not due yet, is it?

Marty was in his sixties and overweight in a sloppy way. He huddled against a biting cold wind inside a ratty gold and red 49ers football jacket that didn't quite close over his belly. His hair was white and looked like it rarely saw a comb. He wore jeans low on his hips and scuffed tennis shoes, the soles worn down at the heels. He had a plain gold wedding band on the ring finger of his left hand, but Jonathan had never heard Marty talk about a wife.

You got that cat in there again? Marty rubbed at his nose, red-tinged with the cold like his cheeks. You know pets ain't allowed here. How many times I got to tell you that?

Jonathan tried his most ingratiating grin, the one that got him bigger tips from the ladies. He's not hurting anything, he never does.

Most days Marty turned a blind eye to Jonathan's cat. Technically Marty was right — the motel had a rule against pets. The motel also had a rule against sleeping on the job. More than once Jonathan had come back in the early hours of the morning after his restaurant shift ended only to see Marty dozing in the office, feet up on his desk, a soft-core cable channel on the office's small television. There was probably a rule against watching porn at work too.

Owner's stopping by tonight, Marty said. He sees that cat of yours in the window, finds out I knew about it and didn't do anything, I'll likely lose my job. Ain't gonna get fired over your cat, no matter how much I might like you.

A gust of wind blew Marty's hair around his face, made him look for a moment like Albert Einstein after a hard night on the town.

I can lock him in the bathroom, Jonathan said. He didn't fancy kicking Tramp out for the night, not with a storm blowing in.

Marty shook his head. Not good enough. Just get rid of him, at least for tonight. Don't make me have to evict you, kid.

Jonathan's grin faded. There was no cajoling Marty, not tonight. Not even if Jonathan offered to bring him caramel cheesecake from the restaurant after work.

All right, Jonathan said, his mouth flattened into a thin line.

I'm serious, Jonathan. Marty stared at him from rheumy blue eyes. I didn't hike up here for nothing.

The two sets of stairs up to the walkway for the third floor was a hike to Marty. Jonathan had a longer walk to the bus stop on the days when his motorcycle wasn't working. But Jonathan didn't have Marty's bad knees or beer belly, or his extra thirty some-odd years. Walking up two sets of stairs didn't make Jonathan's breath come in short wheezes.

Marty hmphed. Nothing personal, he said. He wheezed in another deep breath. You're a good kid or I wouldn't let you have the cat in the first place.

Marty didn't wait for a response, just turned around and shuffled toward the stairs. Jonathan shut the door after him, shivering in his thin shirt against the cold air that had blown in through the open doorway.

Looks like I'm going to have to kick you out for a while, Jonathan said to the cat. Not that I think for a moment I won't be the one minding this the most. You're probably fine with it. Give you a chance to chase the ladies.

The cat looked at him with inscrutable green eyes. Tramp's tail flicked once, twice, and then the cat started to wash the other side of its face.

Tramp never seemed to mind what happened. It was a good philosophy, just to roll with life's punches. God knows, Jonathan was trying.

He hoped the snow would hold off until he got back from work. If Tramp was still around, he'd bring the cat inside no matter what Marty said. He didn't think the owner would come traipsing in while he was here and asleep, and he could always put Tramp in the bathroom and shut the door. What Marty didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Jonathan smoothed down his shirt sleeves and slipped on a black vest, then stood up and pulled on his worn black leather jacket. The jacket — and his motorcycle — were a few of the things he still had from his old life. That, and the rings he carried with him in a small leather pouch hidden in a special pocket he'd sewn in his trousers. He never left anything of value in his room. Food could be replaced, so could the few clothes in his closet. Memories couldn't.

His faded canvas backpack sat on the seat of the room's lone chair. Jonathan shrugged the strap over one shoulder, pulled a knit hat over his unruly hair. He grabbed the keys from the top of his dresser, turned off the television, and murmured an apology as he picked up the cat.

Jonathan shivered as he stepped outside. He could smell the storm in the air. Grady had always said Jonathan was mad — no one could possibly smell snow on the air — but then again Grady hadn't believed a lot of what Jonathan told him, even the important things. Grady used to say—

Fuck, Jonathan muttered. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about Grady anymore. The past was the past and Jonathan couldn't change any of it. All he could do was make the best of the present and not worry too much about the future.

Annoyed with himself, he slammed the door to his room a little harder than he meant to, and Tramp leapt from his arms. With an affronted flick of its tail, the cat trotted down the steps, along the second floor walkway, then down another set of concrete steps to the parking lot.

Jonathan did his best to keep up with the cat. He never felt good about leaving Tramp outside. He would worry until the cat had cleared the parking lot and was safely hidden in the knee-high dry weeds that choked the vacant lot next to the motel.

Jonathan walked so fast that he almost didn't see the subtle movement of the curtains in the second floor room, the one directly beneath his. For a moment fingers held back a small sliver of curtain, then as Jonathan passed the fingers let the curtains fall back into place, shrouding the occupant of the second story room as effectively as the curtains in Jonathan's room allowed him the illusion of safety and privacy.

He'd never met the person who had the room beneath his. Not that it really mattered. It wasn't like he was about to knock on his neighbor's door and introduce himself. Everyone was entitled to their privacy.

After Jonathan saw Tramp race into the weeds next door, he went to check on his motorcycle one last time before he walked to the bus stop. Because Jonathan was a longtime resident, Marty let him park the motorcycle in the alcove by the ice and soda machines. Jonathan had to wheel it out into the parking lot before he could start it, but it was a small price to pay to keep it out of bad weather.

The alcove was out of the way at the back corner of the motel, out of sight of most of the motel guests. Unfortunately, that made the motorcycle a target for people with time on their hands and a lack of respect for other people's property. Jonathan had lost track of the number of times he'd come out to find something wrong. Usually it was just a rude word or two spray-painted on the metal.

Tonight it was a flat tire.

Fuck!

Jonathan squatted down to examine the rear tire. No need to check for a rock or imbedded nail that would cause a slow leak. The slash marks across the rubber were easy to see. He was going to have to buy a new tire on top of everything else.

As if that wasn't enough, rough words were etched into the chrome wheel cover, presumably with the same knife used to slash his tire.

Fucking faggot.

A shiver ran down Jonathan's spine. The words were probably just mindless, anonymous hate, but it took time and effort to etch words into chrome. Especially words that didn't seem entirely random.

You don't know me that well, mate, Jonathan muttered under his breath. While he might be queer, he hadn't fucked anyone in months.

He ran a hand over the motorcycle's worn leather seat. He wouldn't be sitting there again anytime soon.

He had to get going if he didn't want to be late for work. He walked to the motel office, poked his head in the door and interrupted Marty's late afternoon date with Oprah.

Somebody slashed a tire on my motorcycle, Jonathan said. Sometime in the last few hours.

Marty turned away from the television and started his spiel about how the motel wasn't responsible for personal property left on the premises. Jonathan held up a hand to interrupt him.

I'm not claiming you are, Jonathan said. Just thought you should know someone around here doesn't mind using a knife on someone else's things. In Jonathan's experience, it wasn't that big a leap from slashing property to taking that same knife to a person.

He left the motel office before Marty could say anything else. Jonathan didn't have that many possessions he could call his own. He hadn't expected Marty to commiserate with him, but it would have been nice. Jonathan missed having nice in his life.

He yanked the collar of his jacket up around his neck, pulled his cap lower over his brow and put his sunglasses on. The sun had long ago disappeared beneath the advancing storm clouds, but sunshine wasn't why he wore the glasses.

Jonathan walked the two blocks to the bus stop faster than he normally would. He refused to look over his shoulder no matter how much he wanted to. Instead he listened to the footsteps of the few other people on the street so he could hear if anyone came up behind him. Behind his sunglasses, he scanned the street without moving his head. He didn't want to give the impression that he was frightened. He didn't want to admit to himself how much he was.

Whoever had vandalized his motorcycle had done it in the few hours since Jonathan had ridden it home from the grocer's. The person who did it could still be around. Could still be watching him. Waiting for an opportunity to take out the fucking faggot instead of just his bike.

He'd thought he would be safe here. No one knew him, not really. He had acquaintances at work, a couple of people he was even friendly with, but no one he would really call a friend — not what he used to consider friends, anyway — and he spoke to no one except the managers at the motel. He hadn't had a fuck much less a relationship since he moved here. On those rare occasions when he needed release and his own hand wasn't satisfactory, he went to a club on the southern edge of town where no one knew him as Jonathan. But no one at the club knew where he lived. He never rode his motorcycle there — he always took the bus — and no one had ever followed him off the bus to the motel.

Maybe the tire and the insult were just random acts of vandalism, these two words a favorite slur that just happened to hit home. Jonathan knew he wasn't the most macho looking of men. It wasn't a stretch to imagine he'd be the easy target of simple anti-gay aggression. Somehow though, it didn't feel random. It felt like someone was playing with him. Like the parts of his old life he wanted to forget had finally caught up with him.

He got to the bus stop just in time. He'd never been so glad to see a bus in his life. Dirty and noisy and belching diesel, the bus was an enclosed space in which he could conceal himself behind the wildly decorated windows. This particular bus advertised the virtues of milk. The irony was not lost on Jonathan, lactose intolerant as he was.

He was the only one who got on at his stop. He sat down in a seat by himself midway back, glad to be away from wide, open spaces.

It wasn't until the bus rolled away from the curb and into traffic that Jonathan finally allowed himself to relax.

Chapter 3

Peter had long ago stopped thinking that life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. Thinking like that was about as productive as it isn't fair or if only I had, and did him no more good than staring out the open crack in his curtains at his upstairs neighbor.

He let the drapes fall shut before his neighbor could turn around. Peter tried to make sure no one saw him, at least no one who lived at the motel on a permanent basis like he did. It was bad enough that anyone with his name and internet access could find out the area in which he lived, worse still that residents in the neighborhood around the motel had been warned when he'd moved in. At least his picture wasn't on the internet along with his name. Or so he'd been assured. Peter couldn't check for himself. Internet access was one of the many things denied to him.

Still, a part of him craved some sort of companionship. He'd been by himself for a long time now — eight years on the inside, six months on the outside — but that didn't mean he liked being alone. He supposed that was why he spied on his upstairs neighbor.

The young man was lithe and beautiful and moved with supple grace. Peter longed to talk to him, to be able to ask him out for a cup of coffee and an offer of friendship. To see if friendship might lead to something more. But he couldn't. Friendship implied a sharing of lives and experiences, and Peter would never be able to do that. Not with a man as young and beautiful as his neighbor. He looked about as old as Thomas would be now, and that was a dangerous path for Peter's thoughts to take.

The television was on in Peter's room, an old movie showing on a local channel, but Peter ignored it for the most part. He had a stack of books from the library he was working his way through. The television was on for noise, a low, background drone of voices and music. A way for Peter to pretend he wasn't so alone.

He grabbed the top book on the stack, another non-fiction, this one about early exploration of the American northwest. He used to read novels, used to devour them almost as quickly as he bought them. These days he couldn't make himself concentrate enough to lose himself in a fictional world. It figured. Just when he could use the escape from real life, his mind wouldn't let him. The vestiges of former middle-class guilt kicking in, he supposed.

He read for a while as the movie ended and a mindless sitcom came on. The wind picked up outside, and now Peter could hear the snick of icy snow against his window. He put the book down on his bed and got up, walked to the window and held the curtains open a crack.

Prison had turned him into something of a peeping Tom, peering out at the rest of the world. He didn't feel comfortable anymore in the world beyond his window, no doubt due in large part to the system's determination to label him a dangerous felon with the potential for wreaking further harm on an unsuspecting civilian population. He was out of prison but he still wasn't allowed to fit in. Even though he wore street clothes now instead of his prison jumpsuit, he still felt the weight of it on his shoulders pulling him down, marking him as someone unsavory, someone to be avoided at all costs.

Safe inside his room, Peter looked out on the little community that was the Downtown Motor Inn, the motel he'd been living in for the last five months. It was clean, more or less. Most of the residents didn't stay long enough to even see him once, much less learn his name. The exception was Peter's upstairs neighbor. He'd moved into the room above Peter's three weeks after Peter checked in.

Tonight the world of the motel was quiet, blanketed in a thin layer of icy snow. The snow made the motel's garnish red and green neon sign almost pretty, like the outdoor Christmas lights his parents strung in the lone pine tree centered in their front yard. A few cars drove by on the street in front of the motel, but none turned into the parking lot. Peter doubted the motel would have any new guests tonight. The Downtown Motor Inn might be close to the center of town, but it was a few blocks off the main drag and was quieter — and cheaper — than most. That had factored into Peter's decision to live here.

Another big reason was that the managers treated him decently. That went a big way in Peter's book these days.

Not that the managers didn't watch him. He thought it was just a matter of covering their own asses in case something went wrong. They could say they tried to prevent it.

The night manager, Marty, had knocked on Peter's door earlier in the day to let him know the owner would be by sometime tonight. Refinancing, Marty had said. Wanted to personally make sure the place was in good shape before the appraisers paid a visit.

It all sounded reasonable, but Peter knew that wasn't the real reason for Marty's visit.

The motel office had been notified of Peter's status soon after he'd checked in. When Marty had come to see Peter the first time after that, Peter was sure Marty was going to tell him to hit the road. Instead Marty had asked him point blank if anyone at the motel had anything to worry about. Peter had told him no, that he'd paid his debt to society and learned his lesson, and Marty had seemed to accept that. Still, he kept an eye on Peter and stopped by his room from time to time. Checked up on him. Made sure Peter knew someone was watching.

Peter wondered if Marty knew he was watched as well.

From his window Peter could see into the corner of the manager's office. On the ground floor next to the street, the office was a beacon of light in the dark, snowy night. Through a momentary lull in the snow, Peter saw the soles of Marty's feet propped up on the counter. Marty had a bar stool in the office, a substantial piece of furniture with a heavily padded burgundy leather seat, back, and arms, and a round brass foot rail — something that looked like it belonged in a casino lounge in Las Vegas, not in a cheap motel. Marty would sit in that barstool, prop his feet up on the counter, and watch the office's color television most of the night. Peter doubted the owner was actually coming around tonight. Marty wouldn't have his feet on the counter if he expected his boss to show up at any minute. The guy probably canceled due to the weather.

Peter was about to close the drapes when he saw a streak of gray against the snow — the cat Peter's upstairs neighbor fed. He watched it race up the concrete slab stairs outside his window on its way to his neighbor's room. Only his neighbor wasn't home from work.

He thought he could hear the cat crying at the door to be let in. Peter's imagination supplied him with an image of the cold, wet cat pelted with icy snow. It was still early. Peter knew his neighbor wouldn't be home for hours yet.

Just a cat, Peter muttered to himself.

He let the drapes fall back in place, flopped back on his bed and tried to interest himself in his book. By the time he'd read the same two paragraphs over again for the third time, unable to wrap his mind around the meaning of the words, he knew what he was going to do, whether he wanted to or not.

Grumbling, Peter jabbed his arms into his denim jacket, shoved his room key in the pocket of his jeans, and went outside. He ducked his head against the snow as he climbed the stairs. He was careful not to trudge. He didn't want to spook the cat.

He needn't have worried.

The cat saw him coming up the stairs. Instead of bolting, it ran over to Peter