Deux

By R. N. Jayne

"He dropped pretenses like fake smiles and bared his fangs."

The scent of fresh death fills LA’s streets as celebrity bloodsuckers Raiden and Gabriel begin production on Luna Sunset, Gabriel’s cinematic labor of love (and lust).

At the same time, Raiden’s estranged maker Justus and his wife/prisoner Naomi covertly track the costars’ location.

Unaware of their imperiled state, Raiden and Gabriel explore their altered alliance against the backdrop of palm trees and plentiful prey. A shocking discovery deepens the duo’s blood bond, their resistance crumbling as their desire crystallizes: Raiden and Gabriel abandon their defenses—and tragedy strikes.

***

Genres: LGBTQ/Horror/Dark Fantasy/Urban Fantasy/Paranormal/Undead

Warning: this book series is intended for adults only. It contains graphic violence and gore, explicit sexual situations, including rape and sexual assault, strong language, and other material readers may find objectionable. Reader discretion is advised.

Editor: Angela Brown
Cover Artist: George Cotronis

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. N. Jayne
• Release date: Dec 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798985419917

R. N. Jayne

Since R. N. first held a pen, she's been devising deviant ways to wield it. Crimson (MASTER, Book 1), her debut novella, won Best eBook in the 2009 Hollywood Book Festival Awards. She dabbles in poetry and experimental prose under pseud Inq Idly. A honer of the arts, R. N.'s an aural aficionado; a water-lover; a fleur-o-phile. Given her visual tendencies, she's especially fond of capturing fleeting moments in the natural world outside her doorstep. She resides in the idyllic countryside with her dashing husband, precocious children, and mischievous cats.Latest release: series ender Eien (MASTER, Book 7)Free reads on Tapas: https://tapas.io/RNJayneDreamstime stock photography portfolio: https://www.dreamstime.com/inqidly_info

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R. N. Jayne

Deux

MASTER: Book 4

First published by Inq Idly 2021

Copyright © 2021 by R. N. Jayne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

R. N. Jayne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

R. N. Jayne has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition

ISBN: 979-8-9854199-1-7

Editing by Angela Brown

Cover art by George Cotronis

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

For my muses—past, present, and future.

Contents

Half Blue

Hard Questions

Shot Caller

Indisposed

Flight

Starlet

Sandstorm

Good Boy

Pals

Too Late

War

Preview of Melancholia (MASTER, Book 5)

About the Author

Also by R. N. Jayne

Half Blue

West Bloomfield, Michigan

August 2009

Raiden did not resist as Gabriel pinned him to the wall. Extra heartbeats pummeled their rib cages in sync. Respiration was audible. Standing still, Gabriel scanned Raiden’s features, lingering on the long feminine lashes hiding the singer’s downcast eyes. He squeezed Raiden’s shoulders and insinuated a knee between his thighs.

Did you think I wouldn’t come for you?

Raiden shifted his weight. Let me go.

Gabriel released a frustrated sigh. I need to—

Don’t, the older vampire warned. Don’t tell me.

But I—

"Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it. Now let me go."

Gabriel removed his hands and shoved them into his pockets. I just want to have you once. Let me taste you.

Raiden looked up. You’ve tasted my blood before.

That was different. The first time you forced it on me. And the last time I—

Look, my blood isn’t available to the public. Raiden pivoted away from him. Consider it part of my private collection.

Gabriel pouted. I take offense to your suggestion that I’m part of ‘the public.’ Surely I merit special privileges, given my status: I’m your baby.

Ha! Raiden snorted. That’s twisted, Gil.

You made me. Therefore … Gabriel stepped in front of him. You’re like a sperm donor. He snickered. In this case the frisson between us is very taboo, Father.

Raiden balked. "I’d never call myself your father, and I won’t give you any more of my blood."

Gabriel wet his lips. What if I take it anyway?

Raiden’s eyes darted to Gabriel’s mouth. Don’t risk it.

Why not? Gabriel bent down to Raiden’s height. What would I stand to lose?

Oh, man! That was an awesome kiss! Ken’s speakerphoned tenor chirped.

Gabriel shook himself out of the erotic daydream he had repeatedly (and falsely) promised himself he would not repeat. Best laid plans. Sorry. What was that? he asked Ken.

I was talking to the TV, his friend replied. Aren’t you watching the show? Mike and Luce just swapped spit.

It’s rather difficult to keep track of the plot and remember who’s into who. Most of these white men look alike.

Ken guffawed. Says the whitest man I know.

You aren’t entirely incorrect. Still, I do possess a tinge of swarthiness. Gabriel slipped into his lowest vocal register. "A certain mystique."

Ken blew a raspberry into the receiver. If you weren’t a tall, handsome francophone, you’d lose your edge.

Fair enough. Gabriel rubbed his temples. I apologize for my wandering attention.

Long-distance binge-watching isn’t the same as doing it in person. Ken sounded disappointed. "You’re usually so into Gay For Pay."

Maybe we should put a pause on binge-watching until I return.

Which will be when? This place is too quiet without you, Ken complained. I know we’re megastars and can afford our own houses, but I like living together. It’s cozy.

I’ll return in a couple of weeks.

Thank God. I was so shocked when you decided to stay in Detroit for the summer! Two whole months down the drain. God only knows what you see in that sweaty jockstrap of a city.

West Bloomfield isn’t Detroit—it’s the suburbs. White picket fences. Faux fine dining. Immaculate gardens. You know all this, Ken: you were momentarily a denizen of Metro Detroit as well. This rental property—the one you temporarily shared with me—is without reproach. You remarked upon its worthiness yourself.

"I was a visitor, not a denizen, and I was bored out of my fucking gourd."

Gabriel examined his nails. It’s been pleasant catching a break from the spotlight. People do recognize me here, but I can travel much more freely without fear of harassment. I don’t miss the paparazzi.

Yeah, yeah. I hear that. Anyway, Tinseltown’s interminably dull without you. Though not as dull as that Midwestern hellhole. You’re not mad at me for leaving, right?

Which time?

The final one. I just couldn’t take it. When the apocalypse hits earth, or the aliens take over, I’ll vote for Michigan as the first state to go.

Indubitably.

Is he gone yet? His Mesmerized costar’s voice reverberated off the tile floor.

Who? Gabriel asked.

Your crush. That hot lil half-Japanese blond you’re so smitten with. The ruler of your wet dreams.

Raiden’s not my crush. Gabriel’s voice rose in pitch. He’s a colleague.

Gabe! I literally walked in on you jerking off to his picture, Ken reminded him.

He was glad Ken could not see him blush. Can’t you stop talking about that?

Only if you can stop thinking about it. Ken chuckled. So are you gonna check out one of his lives? He’s supposed to play in LA, right?

Gabriel side-stepped his question. The tour’s almost over.

Already? That was quick.

Was it?

Hm, do I detect seismic waves in homoerotic paradise?

You mean homoerotic hell.

Are you still in touch?

Not anymore.

What happened?

Gabriel stared at his lap. We grew weary of each other.

You sure you’re still gonna work with him on the movie? You know how long and drawn-out shoots can get.

I’m sure. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to conjure images of his quasi hookup with Raiden. Though he was desperate for Ken’s take on the event, he could not bring himself to confess to the permitted hand job. If I start talking about that, I might not be able to stop. Before I know it, I’ll have told him I’m a vampire. No!

Are you getting feels?

Gabriel was puzzled. Feels?

Like, feelings. Emotions. Heart eyes and birds singing ballads through the open window and all that shit.

I take offense at your implication.

You would.

Really, the teasing’s gone too far. We’re missing the TV show. With his pinky, he crushed a fly idling on the table.

Gabe! Ken sucked his teeth. You weren’t paying attention in the first place.

"Let’s just talk about something else, d’accord? Gabriel swept what was left of the fly into the wastebasket. For instance: who had work done while I was away? The other evening, when I was watching Reach for the Stars, I noticed Jeremy Baker’s nose seemed much straighter than when he was on the cover of Populous."

Pfft, that’s old news. Ken’s volume dropped. Can I tell you a gory detail in confidence, though?

You can.

Jeremy Baker’s nose may be straight, but he’s as gay as a fucking rainbow singing Lady Gaga songs.

Gabriel cracked up. I don’t believe you! I thought he was hooking up with Shelby Cole. They made quite the stir, carousing about town.

Gabe, you know their PDA is bullshit. How can you still be this naive after your Hollywood initiation?

It’s part of my whimsical charm.

True.

They stayed on the phone gossiping for another twenty minutes before Gabriel ended the call with the excuse that he needed to take a powder. In reality he needed a hit of blood. Grimacing, he slit the throat of the hours-old possum he had caught rifling through the garbage bin. He heated the animal’s blood in a nonstick pot and cursed when he burned his tongue during a taste test. The excruciating wave of cramps with which he had become familiar began ten minutes after he had consumed the entirety of the pot’s contents and lasted until all hours of the night, when he finally surrendered to his body’s rebellion and upchucked every last drop—as he had done most nights since he had left Raiden’s dubious care. Suffering violent convulsions, he bit down on the fleshy pad of his palm and self-soothed.

At least I’m not murdering people to appease my cravings … yet.

* * *

Las Vegas, Nevada

Summer had slipped from Raiden’s grasp like a sweaty hand. The tour prep had not mattered: Raiden was as much a fish out of water on the road as he had been since the LA concert catastrophe five years prior. Despite his track record of youthful summers spent at his father’s home in North Carolina, his comfort level with American culture had since taken a nosedive. The tour was a montage of forgettable moments from the first night in Detroit to the third-to-last predicted snooze fest in Vegas. He was willing to bet a week’s supply of blood that tonight’s experience would not elevate Scent’s Feeling the Way Tour.

Fumbling to Second Base When You’re Wasted and Having Trouble Getting Hard would have made a more accurate title, he thought as he struck a match against the gate that led to The Railhead’s backstage entrance and lit one of Kai’s leftover Marlboro Reds. Coughing, he held the glowing cancer stick away from his face and tried to catch his breath.

The tour mostly sucks because of me.

Nine times out of ten, Raiden had phoned in his performances. Kai grumbled about his sloppy timing in half sentences that usually ended with ellipses. Yoshi did not explicitly express concern; instead he made small talk about how he neither understood nor appreciated certain elements of American road trip culture—such as powdered eggs, a staple of the free continental breakfasts hotels offered. Taro conveyed his extreme disapproval of Raiden’s listless lyrical delivery in daily texts while they prepped in the dressing rooms of their venues du jour.

Taro’s current text was the most venomous yet:

Your onstage demeanor is appalling. As long as we’ve been friends, you’ve never been this uncommitted to the band. We have money riding on these shows and are risking losing American fans. Our label will ream us a new one if word gets back you’ve turned into a busking zombie. They might even drop you as Scent’s lead singer. There are plenty of other talented front men out there who’d kill to be in your shoes.

Raiden jammed a thumb at himself. Talk to my face, Taro-kun. I’m literally two feet away from you.

Taro white knuckled the sides of his chair. We have a show to do.

"Bakayarou," Raiden cursed under his breath. Asshole. In a louder voice: Then stop blowing up my phone and let me get in the zone.

You haven’t been ‘in the zone’ since we came to the US, Taro sniped.

Raiden-san! You may be tired, but your fans still love you! his manager piped up from the couch. Matsuda continued chattering to bolster him with motivational platitudes and verbal cheer-a-thons, but Raiden was having none of it.

His BO smells like day-old McDonald’s fries.

Fuck this country! Yoshi exclaimed in an uncharacteristic outburst. We should’ve done an Asian tour instead. The drummer tossed his hair into a man bun as he rattled off his pet peeves about