Rogue

By Allen Renfro

There's something about evil that I want inside me...

By any measure Sean Tyler has the perfect life. He is a rising star in the FBI; he has a fantastic apartment in New Orleans and the pleasure of being one of the sexiest men alive. New Orleans is the ideal city for a man that loves wild nights and wild men. As a special agent of the FBI his job affords him the ability to indulge his dark fantasies of seducing criminals before arresting them.

When he is assigned a case in his hometown the past that he left behind comes flooding back. The secret that he still hides, a boyhood crush, his first love, his sexual awakening, all of it is still waiting for him. As he assists the local police in their murder investigation the secrets of his past begin to reflect in the clues of the case. It's only when he realizes that dealing with the demons in his own life will he be able to stop a serial killer.

This book contains graphic sexual content and is intended for mature audiences only.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Renfro
• Release date: Nov 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311718976

Allen Renfro

Allen Renfro is a native of Tennessee and a graduate of Tusculum College. A published poet and artist in the zine culture of the 1990s he considers himself a "fringe" artist. He is an admitted history buff, horror movie watcher and reader of fiction. He is the author of eleven novels.

Book preview

ROGUE

By

Allen Renfro

ROGUE

Copyright © 2015 by Allen Renfro

ARMSlength Publishing Ltd.

Cover Art: LLPix Photography

Editor: Beth Lynne, BZHercules.com

Smashwords Edition

Ebook Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please visit your preferred ebook distributor and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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

All Rights Reserved

www.allenrenfro.com

WARNING:

ROGUE contains explicit and graphic content. Intended only for mature readers.

All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older

Other Novels by Allen Renfro

The Raised

Snap

The Falling

Bridge Water

Ambiguity

Superstitious

Available in all ebook formats and paperback

Chapter 1

He tastes like sin.

I open my mouth for his venom; bitter and sweet. The sweaty aroma I inhale as my nose presses against his hair and skin; the wanting gag in my throat. I always swallow.

There's something about evil that I want inside me. The power I have over it, or at least evil letting me think I have power over it.

His legs quiver when he lets go; the rhythm that flows like a song in time with his breath. The few seconds he surrenders his body and spills inside my mouth. It's all I want. Standing up with a smile, I wipe my lips with a slide of my hand. The dark eyes and five o'clock shadow sheltered by the brim of a baseball cap only make me want to take him in my mouth again. Through the thin white button up shirt, I can see he has a dark hairy chest that I'd love to rub my skin against, but he's the no-touch kind of straight, curious guy; at least the bullshit wedding ring on his finger says so. My mouth, his dick; it's all that matters.

Evil tastes better.

I let my t-shirt slide back down to my waist and tuck my dick inside my jeans, making sure my boner isn't showing through. I reach over and flush the urinal where I just took a piss and ignore the cracked mirror image on the wall; the five of me reflecting back, ignore the grunting and breathing that comes from one of the stalls behind me.

He leans against the graffiti infested wall, still breathing hard. What's your name?

Like I'm really gonna answer that question.

I grin as I wrap my hand around his wet hard-on and squeeze. He moans as he closes his eyes. He wants my mouth again, but I walk away.

Flinching from the glare of the sun, I let the door at the entrance of the rest stop men's room creak closed. I raise my left hand and slide it through my short, dark hair, and feel the air that blows across my face.

My name isn’t really important, is it? It's not like I'm a person. I'm hot. I know it, you know it, everybody knows it. But believe it or not, I'm not saying it with the arrogance of some men who think they're hotter than they really are. I don't have ten thousand shirtless selfies posted on some social media app with five hundred likes a day. I'm saying it with confidence because it's one of the reasons I got my job. It's one of the reasons I get anything I want.

My job?

Let's just say that I get to wear a bulletproof vest and carry a gun. I hunt people down and arrest them. Sometimes, I have sex with them. How did they used to say it? It's how I roll. But really it's how I get off. I screw them before I fuck them. In other words, I'm an agent, an agent with the FBI, to be exact.

I don't have many friends. Do I have any friends? It's the blessing or the curse of being hot or so people tell me. I wear their jealousy like cologne. It was written in the stars, someone once said. I am destined for greatness. I always get what I want and I'm not afraid to take it. On my terms.

I watch the flow of predator and prey in and out of the men's room as I sit in my silver BMW Series 3 coupe, sheltering my baby blue eyes with Gucci sunglasses. I look at my phone and realize it took only thirty seconds to get him off. I study my t-shirt and the spot of DNA soaking in. I can't believe I missed a drop. Just another day in the life of a man touched by angels, as somebody once said.

The redneck roams across the sidewalk and white-lined pavement to an eighteen-wheeler that's resting like a sleeping elephant under shade trees. He's looking for more. He's looking for me. Right now, he doesn't care that I'm a Fed and I'm supposed to be watching him from a distance, more interested in the stash of cocaine in the back of his truck than how much head he gets.

Staring in the rear view mirror at the glint of my blue eyes sparkling in the sunshine and the perfect dark hair, I understand why he wants to find me; the bragging rights, the gloating. He doesn’t want to know me. He wants everyone to know what just happened, that he was in the mouth of the hottest man he'll ever be in. Just like at the clubs when guys come up and think for a drink they can take a selfie with me to show on Facebook or Twitter as if we're friends with benefits or worse—real friends. I'm a trophy they make just for their image. Being seen with the perfect man isn't really true unless you can prove it. How do they say it? The proof is in the pudding? I eat a lot of pudding—vanilla, chocolate, banana—and in the end, the only difference is the taste and the color. It's still pudding. So yeah, I know what's going on and it doesn't really get to me. I like pudding.

I'm just laying the groundwork. That's what I'll tell the boss if he wants to know why I'm following a suspect on my own on my day off. It has nothing to do with getting my fix of wickedness. Tired of watching his predictable meandering, I back the car out of the parking space and speed down the on ramp to the interstate highway.

I'm just getting into the music on my Pandora station and enjoying the breeze blowing through the open window when my cell rings. It's the boss.

Tyler, I answer, always with my last name. Doesn't matter who it is, I answer with my last name.

He replies. Where are you?

Riding around, I say.

I need you in the office.

What? Fuck!

Can it wait until I get a workout first? I say, adjusting my sunglasses with the glare of the sun burning through the window.

No, he says. I need you here right now.

Damn, I reply. Not even a day's break?

No, this one's too big, he says, and I wonder if the pun is intended. It can't wait.

Fine, I say with a long sigh. I'll be there in twenty minutes.

Good.

He hangs up.

I'll ask him for a few days off after I solve the case. Hopefully, I won't be partnered with another loser. I know. I sound arrogant. But I'm really good at my job. I'm really good at everything.

* * *

Corner office, floor-to-ceiling windows, contemporary, simple but cool; the best mahogany your tax dollars can buy. I always want to ask the boss if he's ever read any of the hardback books perfectly stacked in the wall of shelves, but I already know there's more dust than learning there. The amazing view of the French Quarter distracts you from the lack of green potted plants.

Alright, boss, I'm here, I say as I burst into the room like the arrogant ass that I am.

For a minute, I picture a scene on Pornhub dot com. My boss, John Crawford, fits the role: older, hair turning just a little gray at the edges, a gentle, innocent face on top of a smoking hot muscular body. Always in charge, he's a real man's man. He looks good in the suit he's wearing and he looks even better in jeans and a t-shirt. I'd let him tell me what to do. Hell, he already tells me what to do for work; doing it naked would be a bonus. I slide my hand into my pocket to disguise my erection.

He finally looks up at me.

So what's so important? I demand.

The boss acknowledges me with a disapproving look. T-shirt and jeans are inappropriate. His eyes are roaming over me, sizing me up, not for sex, but wondering what I've been doing. I wonder if he sees the cum stain on my t-shirt; would he even ask if he did?

Sorry, boss, I reply with a hint of anger. Didn't have time to change.

Right, Crawford replies with a stern tone I'm not accustomed to. I like it.

So what's up? I ask, my arms folding across my chest as I sit down in the comfortable chair facing him.

My mind races. I picture my boss coming around the corner of the desk, the black suit, the blue tie, his slacks sliding down to his ankles. Get on your knees, open your mouth…

I received a call from the sheriff of Meade County in Mississippi a couple of hours ago, he says as he tosses me a thick manila file.

Meade County. I nearly spit the name, the words hanging against my lower lip like vomit and dread. Meade County, Mississippi, bordering both Arkansas and Louisiana state lines. The middle of nowhere; the middle of two hundred years ago.

Yes, he replies with almost an evil grin. He's enjoying the repulsion in my voice. That's where you're from, isn't it?

I open the file folder to a stack of Xeroxed pictures printed on 8 x 10 paper that obviously were faxed, a sign of how primitive Meade County is.

Don't act like you didn't know that, I say as I begin flipping through the pictures.

A beautiful young male, muscular with thick, dark hair; his pale bluish naked body is tied to the base of a large tree in a sitting position, his legs outstretched in front of him. A strange-looking wire cuts into the skin of his forehead, chest, and upper arms. Massive amounts of blood that poured from gashes in his neck stain the left side of his chest, his groin, and left thigh, pooling on the ground around his legs. A thick, black material of some kind is stuffed into his mouth. He suffered.

This is the second murder victim they've had in the last four days, Crawford says as I continue to flip through the gruesome photos. Same M.O. Looks like the work of a brand new serial killer. I've already checked our database. No other known cases in the United States match this M.O.

I don't say anything as I study a close-up of the victim's face. The glassy-eyed, bloodstained stare, pleading, as if he wants to tell me who did this to him. I study the victim's hair, his muscular, lean body. It's me ten years ago.

What kind of wire is he tied with?

It's fishing line, Crawford replies. Very strong, really hard to break. He suffered head trauma.

From hitting his head against the tree?

No, possibly from a hammer.

What's stuffed in his mouth?

His underwear.

I flip through more of the pictures. He's in the middle of the woods. In my hometown. I know where he is. I know exactly what he was doing out there in the woods.

Well? What do you think? Crawford asks me, his face looking more angry than curious.

Four days is fast between killings, I say, studying the face, feeling a tinge of sadness. Were the victims raped?

Crawford shakes his head. Not confirmed, but it looks like the intention of the meeting was probably for a sexual encounter, don't you think?

So we got a sadist that beats his victims and ties them to a tree before stabbing them in the throat, I say as I look at the pictures of the stream of dried blood down the left side of the young man's body from his neck to his thigh.

They're not sure it's stab wounds, Crawford replies, his stare still boring holes through me. His seriousness makes me uneasy. It may be bites.

I flip to pictures of the victim's neck. Gnarled, mangled red flesh; I can almost smell the rot of death that begins to blossom in just hours. The shreds of skin dangling from a gaping hole nearly make me gag.

I look up, holding back the urge to vomit in disgust. This isn't bites, boss. It's a jagged blade. The victim was stabbed quite a few times in the throat with a knife that has teeth.

He lifts up his hands as if to surrender but more to assure me. I know, but apparently, there is some bruising on the first victim's neck that resembles bites around the wound.

And the first victim looks like this? I ask, holding the picture up so Crawford can see.

Apparently.

I study the picture. If these are bites, then our killer isn't just biting. He's eating.

Or probably drinking, Crawford says, folding his arms across his chest, making him look a little tougher. Eventually, he's going to give it up to me.

The blood? I say to his nods. Okay, so we got a lunatic who thinks he's a vampire or a zombie.

And gay, Crawford says gently but with emphasis.

I look up from the pictures of the life ended and stare at my boss with a wide grin.

Not necessarily, I say. We suck off men. We don't usually eat them.

He just stares at me blankly.

The victim was found by a hunter around seven this morning, Crawford says. I feel his eyes staring at me while I thumb through the pictures.

Yeah, a hunter. I know better.

The sheriff asked for you personally, Crawford says.

Fuck! No! Shit! I whine. Can't you send somebody else?

He just stares at me.

Isn't the Memphis office or Little Rock office closer? I nearly shout.

Why would I send anybody else? He shrugs. You know the area, you know the people and…

And I just happen to be queer? I interrupt him angrily.

Your words, not mine. He grins, angry that I'm trying to push his buttons. And that's not what I was going to say. Sheriff Mark Mason is expecting you this afternoon. His phone number is on the last page. I'm sure you remember where the sheriff's office is, don't you?

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Mark Mason? I ask, surprised by the blast from the past name. Sheriff Mark Mason.

You'll want to pack a bag or two, he says, ignoring my repetition as he leans back in the leather swivel chair with his arms folded across his chest. This one isn't going to be a simple overnighter.

I stare at him, not moving from the chair. My charm isn't working; maybe a threatening look will.

There's a few pages of notes scribbled in the dossier, Crawford says with a nod toward the file in my hands.

I examine the pages of alleged notes, like the crayon markings of a two-year-old. Does this cover only the second victim?

Yes, Crawford replies. Look, you know how backwards it is there. You're lucky you have this much material to review. The sheriff will fill you in on all the information they have as soon as you get there. Then you can decide on whether or not we need to add more resources. I don't want to overwhelm them with a half dozen agents, at least not at first. You know how sensitive these country sheriffs can get.

Two hundred miles away and two hundred years ago, I think to myself, my boss' words dribbling in and out of coherence. And I've spent my whole life trying to get away.

I just… Words stuck in my throat; so much to say, so much wrath to spread.

You better get going, Crawford interrupts. I expect a weekly call, daily if necessary. Let's set it at 6 pm and of course call if you need any assistance. Call me when you get a chance tonight.

Well, at least it's just me going, I think to myself. That's the biggest plus so far.

* * *

My high school yearbooks. They immediately come to mind the minute I sit down in my car and rev the engine. God, high school was ten plus years ago, but something nags me about it as the tires squeal and I loop around the circular parking lot of headquarters to the congested street.

I hate memories. Certain ones anyway; any memory connected to the Bible beaters in my family and in my school. Those memories are angry stalkers standing behind trees, waiting to spring out, lurking around every street corner. They follow me like my shadow. Light always brings dark. And distance brings peace.

But then, there are other memories that are a completely different story and, sitting on my living room couch, flipping through the pages of my freshman yearbook, the pages transform into a porno mag and memory lane becomes the red-light district.

It doesn't surprise me that I kept all four editions from freshman to senior, all of them stacked neatly beside me on the couch. Each one has its own story and memories worth savoring in the shower. Like four seasons of a prime time soap opera, some characters come and go and others are front burner stories throughout. And like any good storyline, there are heroes and villains, friends and enemies, and some of them, one in particular, I know would love revenge even after ten years.

Mr. Adcox. I linger on his picture, then quickly flip over to the pages of the baseball team, staring at him in the tight baseball uniform, the baseball cap, sunglasses hiding his secret. He still lives there, still teaches there, still hates me there, still fucks me there in the place called the past. Memories to keep me company on the drive back to hell. Remembering gets me hard…

* * *

Chapter 2

Thomas Adcox. Other teachers call him Tommy. He likes it when I call him sir. In my freshman year, he's my science teacher and baseball coach. Jet black hair, his skin a soft brown from the years in the sun as a coach and athlete, a dark trace of a mustache and beard that he can't quite shave away, almost like a permanent five o'clock shadow. He's a little over six feet tall—my favorite size and height—not overly muscular, nearly perfect.

After the first day of class, I move from the last row of tables in the science lab to the front row. The waist-high lab tables are perfect for hiding the sticky bulges in my jeans. He always wears khaki slacks and a button-down shirt, white or blue, with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his hairy arms. His thick, black eyebrows make him look like he's glaring at you. His grainy voice grows deeper the more he speaks and it always makes my skin tingle with excitement.

When he's lecturing, he sits on top of the lab table that serves as his desk, his legs spread wide, his hands constantly pulling and adjusting himself. He seems oblivious to the habit of adjusting his cock. The girls never complain about it. And I only want more. I make sure that I am sitting closest to the wall, avoiding the staring eyes of my classmates, adequately hidden behind the lab table. I worry about being directly in front of him where his hawk-like eyes could catch me doing what I do often in his class. So I watch him from an angle, consumed with his every word, every movement of his body, his hands always near his cock, the tent that grows in his khakis when he sits. In his classroom, I perfected the stillness of my body over the months and years as I rubbed my hard-on through my jeans and, in silence, I would cum—my underwear soaking up the sperm—bathing in the sound of his voice and lusting for the bulge in his pants. I never noticed if anyone ever picked up on my trembling body, the flush of my face, or the gasps of breath. I was a pro. In fact, I still am.

In the spring during baseball season, I wait every day after practice in the locker room, hoping to watch him shower and change clothes, hoping his body looks like the fantasy in my head. But I don't get that pleasure during the first couple of years. He is a hard-nosed coach who wants to win. It's only when he changes my fielding position from left field to shortstop that I think maybe he sees in me what I want in him.

I make sure that I sign up for every class that Mr. Adcox teaches. In my sophomore year, it's biology, then advanced science, and then chemistry, which isn't really a chemistry class at all. Always the same classroom, the same lab tables, the same seat, the same him, the same me, only the time is different.

I know I'm one of his favorites, acing every test, an all-star on the baseball team, but up until then, I think the lust only belongs to me. The ring on his left hand tells me so. He rarely calls on me in class, he doesn't offer me assistance, not that I need help with homework or even baseball. His focus in the classroom always seems to