Eclectic Mix Tape

By Rick R. Reed

The stories in this collection by best-selling author Rick R. Reed range from laugh-out-loud funny to tear-inducing poignancy, to get-your-hackles-up scary to fan-yourself erotic. Within the pages, you’re sure to find something to titillate, delight, provoke thoughts, and induce tears -- maybe all in one story.

As diverse as this collection is, each story speaks to the power of love -- how it unites us, how it can free us, how it can imprison us, and, most of all, how it redeems us.

Love speaks to our greater good, our most cherished dreams, and our deep need for connection. Revel in these fifteen tales and discover a world populated by people who want the most cherished of all human connections and who find it, often in the most unusual of places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685504625

Rick R. Reed

Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as "heartrending and sensitive." Lambda Literary has called him: "A writer that doesn't disappoint…" Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their two rescue dogs, Kodi and Joaquin.

Book preview

Eclectic Mix Tape

By Rick R. Reed

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2023 Rick R. Reed

ISBN 9781685504625

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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For the man who gave me my happy-ever-after, my husband Bruce. You inspire me every single day.

* * * *

Eclectic Mix Tape

By Rick R. Reed

Introduction

Dear Reader,

Welcome to this, my big book of love stories.

Love is always on my mind. It truly is what makes the world go round. It’s also at the center of all my writing—whether it’s a heartwarming story of two lost souls finding each other or a terrifying journey into the heart of darkness, love is always present as a redemptive force.

It’s the desire for love that unites us and makes us human.

In these sixteen tales, you’ll get a clear idea of my view of love.

Love isn’t always rosy, it’s often messy, and yet it can be the magic that makes the world bearable and that gives us hope.

You’ll find a range of stories here, from the sweet to the filthy, from the hopeful to the hopeless, from the sublime to the terrifying. That’s why the tag line for this collection is love stories light and dark.

I encourage you to jump right in and immerse yourself in the worlds I’ve created just for you.

Why? Because I love you.

Rick R. Reed

* * * *

Making Love Alone

He knows me, so he knows the best time is a quiet one. We stay in. Dinner, drinks, and of course, the last part, the best part.

He starts off casually, wearing a pair of faded Levi’s, a white T-shirt worn soft, bare feet, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a CD playing, soft, maybe Oscar Peterson conjuring up Gershwin from his piano. He’s got a few candles lit, but nothing scented. The air in his apartment is clean, with a trace of the soap from his shower lingering.

We sit on the couch and he makes me a drink. He already knows what I like, a dirty martini made with vodka, heavy on the dirt. We laugh about how I like things dirty, but not too much. We keep our minds out of the gutter, at least for now.

After the drinks, the music, the light fading to purple outside, we move to the dining room. Old oak pedestal table, mismatched chairs and cream pillar candles…used before. He makes a light meal, because he knows that later, we won’t want anything too heavy weighing on us. A simple salad, arugula, red onion, plum tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. There’s a chicken breast, poached in broth, lemon juice and walnuts, some rice. Strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar for dessert. A glass or two of white wine, an Alsatian Riesling.

We linger over the dinner; the candles burn down. The sky outside fades from purple to navy blue, a glow to the south…city lights. We move to the bedroom, taking our time to undress.

He knows how to touch me. Knows where to make the pressure slippery and where to make it rough. Knows when to move slowly and when to increase the tempo and when to slow it down again…he doesn’t want things to end too quickly. He knows that my nipples are sensitive and toys with them just hard enough, so I will feel the ghost of his caress in the morning. And all the while, music, orchestrated to ebb and flow, a soundtrack to our passion. We start off with Bach, Mendelssohn, end up with Crystal Method and Prodigy. Romance to filth. And he tells me, the whole time, about past lovers, knowing it excites me as much as his touch. Like the music, he starts off easy and romantic, telling me about his first love, Ron, how they were playful, in love, existing only for each other…so young. He tells me about a particular New Year’s Eve, in a darkened bedroom in Florida, high on pot and champagne and bringing each other the most incredible gifts. But as our passion rises, so does the depravity. He moves on to orgies, nights with strangers fueled by ecstasy, a frantic, furtive coupling with a Northwestern student in an alley by the L tracks one night in August, sweatily fucking each other while the train crackled and roared above, its human cargo oblivious. He tells me about backroom sex, the smell of poppers, leather, cum and spit in the air, groping, being groped, connecting with shadows. He tells me everything, moving faster and faster, until even his tales and touch blur and I offer up my seed; it covers my belly in viscous arcs.

And I roll over and look at him…in the mirror.

He is me.

He is me.

* * * *

Locked Out of Heaven

Chapter 1

Seattle’s Elliott Bay, Beau thought, was a study in gray. With his artist’s eye, he could appreciate the gunmetal shade of the churning waters, here and there supporting the weight of massive ferries taking late afternoon commuters to Bainbridge and Vashon Islands. Beau thought the clouds appeared pearlescent in their pale tones of faded white, smoke, and touched with peach as the sun, all but invisible on this drizzly day, set over the water. Even the buildings, across the sound, and lining Alki Beach in West Seattle, appeared as colorless geometric shapes, stalwarts lined up against the approaching night.

Beau had been here almost all afternoon, just behind Pike Place Market, hoping even on this chilly and damp day, he would be able to attract tourist trade from the busy marketplace. After all, even Seattle’s tepid winters drew tourists and their favorite destination, equal to the Space Needle, was Pike Place Market and the Elliott Bay waterfront behind it.

But today, the blustery winds, constant drizzle bordering on mist, and oppressive dark skies more suited to night, kept most tourists pursuing activities indoor in nature.

Yet here Beau sat on his little collapsible folding stool behind the market, easel set up, and hoping to do a portrait or two to make enough money to perhaps get himself a room for the night in one of the fleabag motels lining Aurora Avenue farther north. He hoped for the added bonus of a little something extra to lessen the aching emptiness of his belly. The reality of the term starving artist was not lost on poor Beau.

His skin was moist and he had grown weary of smiling and trying to cajole those tourists that did walk down to the waterfront to let him try to capture their likenesses with charcoal and paper. Now, all he wanted to do was find a place to hole up for a while, to try and dispel this chill that had crept into his very bones. Seattle was like that in the winter—even though the temperature seldom dipped down to freezing, the damp caused the chill to seep in, thwarting even layers of flannel, wool, and fleece.

On better days, Beau sometimes walked away from this area with enough money in his pocket to treat himself to teriyaki and a room, if he was lucky, for more than one night. On better days, Beau engaged with the tourists and locals who posed for him, selling an original portrait for only ten dollars (the highest amount he found he could charge, to his dismay).

Packing up his art supplies, Beau tried to warm himself by remembering the praise he would get on those good days, when he would do several portraits. He remembered one woman, a regal looking, olive-complexioned lady with a mass of graying hair she had pulled sloppily atop her head, effusing over her portrait. In it, Beau had captured the beauty that shone from her, luminosity not immediately apparent to the casual observer. He didn’t think the woman was being conceited when she smiled at the drawing, tears springing to her eyes, and said, Why, it’s like you captured my very soul.

And that’s exactly what Beau tried to do when he drew someone—find their essence, some unique feature that made them them. He knew he was good, better than the hardscrabble existence he eked out, but aside from times being hard these days, he also constantly told himself that, albeit poor, he was free. He had no boss to answer to, save himself and his own biological imperatives—which were sometimes very demanding indeed—and no set hours around which he would be forced to fashion his life.

Yes, he had to admit, he was homeless, even though he usually made enough money to keep him off the streets most nights. Yet he had no permanent address, no real place to store his art supplies and to hang the straw hat he favored wearing. But when the fact of his aimlessness left him low, he could always remind himself he was free.

Free.

And alone.

Beau finished putting what he could in the large backpack that transformed him into a beast of burden. He folded up his easel, compacting it, and turned to look once more at the waters of the sound, now still and shiny, mirror-like, reflecting the last of the dying light of day. Below him, rush hour traffic rushed north and south. He checked his pockets, pulling out its meager contents. Today, he had five dollars and fifty-three cents to his name, barely enough to buy him a bowl of pho, the flavorful Vietnamese noodle soup that could be found in just about every neighborhood here in Seattle. It certainly didn’t leave him enough for shelter for the night.

That was okay.

He was free.

He would find a doorway in Belltown, the close-to-downtown neighborhood, and curl up in layers of fleece and denim, and perhaps tomorrow would dawn a brighter day—and a more prosperous one.

He began trudging away from the waterfront and toward the market and Post Alley, looking forward to being away from his makeshift workplace, to eating some pho, and finding a quiet place where he could sleep for a while.

The walk toward food and possible shelter was all uphill and Beau wished he had not left it so late to attempt to find either. Quickly, as it did in winter, the sun beat a hasty retreat behind the mountains, barely noticeable anyway behind its thick shield of dark clouds—and now it had fallen to dull dark, the only illumination the artificial lights of the city.

Beau squared his broad shoulders, looking forward to sitting down for a while in the little Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Bac, near the downtown Greyhound station. He could practically taste the savory, star-anise-flavored broth as he trudged uphill toward downtown, imagining the steaming noodles wrapped around chopsticks, the Thai basil, bean sprouts, and mint leaves floating in the soup, the tender pieces of beef tendon.

Simple thoughts like these kept him going, kept his mind off the ache in his shoulders and back from lugging around virtually everything he owned.

He was so focused on food, as hungry people often are, that he almost didn’t notice the two strangers trailing him. They were young men about Beau’s own age, but lacking his delicate, fragile, yet manly grace and beauty. These two were thugs, apparent in the cockiness of their walks, the fierceness of their frowns framed by dark stubble, and their attire, which leaned toward too-baggy jeans, hoodies, and heavy, steel-toed boots.

Beau knew it was too late to do anything about avoiding them. He had already slipped down an alley, planning a shortcut to the pho restaurant, and the bricked pavement was barely visible among the claustrophobic shadows.

Beau was not too weary to tense. The men were too close, too quiet, to simply be passing the same way as he. He had lived on the street long enough to be able to tell the difference between ill-intent and coincidence.

He began talking to himself in his mind, trying to ward off the panic and the fear. Why would they bother you? You have nothing. You’re probably poorer than they are.

But Beau knew he had art supplies and a leather satchel that would be worth something in a pawnshop. And if these two were hungry for their next fix of horse or Tina, they might be willing to take him down, even though it would be easier to rob someone who had some cash on him or at least looked like he did.

Don’t let them know you sense their presence. Don’t hurry. Don’t run. Just walk at a normal pace. Maybe you will get to the mouth of the alley—and brighter light—before they overtake you. Perhaps they will see you for the bad prospect you are.

Perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they, fueled by whatever chemicals are thrumming in their systems, get off on pain and cruelty. And here you are—alone and isolated—just as beasts prefer their prey.

Beau tried to swallow, but found his mouth had gone dry. His heart was beating at twice its normal rate. In spite of the damp and the chill, he felt a crawly trickle of sweat run down his back on insect legs.

He was almost to the end of the alley when he sensed them coming closer, heard their throaty, whispered laughter.

Had one of them called him a faggot?

Was it that obvious?

At last, Beau started to run and that was when he knew—for sure—he was in trouble.

He heard their pace pick up to match his own.

The mouth of the alley, the streetlights, the buses and other passing traffic, were only a few feet away, but Beau would never get to experience them because it was then he felt the blow, hard, to the back of his head.

His vision blurred. He dropped to his knees and could hear only laughter. He braced himself for another strike before everything went black.

* * * *

Chapter 2

When Beau awakened, he wondered if he had arrived in heaven. No, there were no angels strumming harps, clouds underfoot, or St. Peter standing at the Pearly Gates.

But what was before his eyes was something unexpected and something, well, plush beyond Beau’s wildest imaginings. He sat up slightly in the large bed he was lying in. Rich, thick sheets slithered to his waist; a fluffy white down comforter was folded up at the foot of the bed. He surveyed the room he was in, despite the pain such movement caused to rise up in his head. It felt like a little man with an ice pick was wielding it behind his eyes, rhythmically striking again and again and again.

Through a wave of nausea and vision that went from clear to blurry with no warning, he managed to take in a gorgeous, sun-dappled bedroom. He lay in a sleigh bed of rich mahogany wood, carved at the top corners with a delicate oak leaf pattern. Light streamed in through plantation shutters at each of the two windows. The floor was highly polished hardwood, stained black, a wonderful contrast to the faded parchment color of the walls. Across from the bed was a little sitting area, with a loveseat, small table, and two overstuffed chairs, all covered in a deep velvet, the cushions so fluffy they begged to be sat upon. The table was piled with books, leather-bound.

On the walls were black and white framed photos of Seattle—the famous elephant of the Pink Elephant car wash, the Needle, a neon sign in the window of a bar called the Five Point where someone had blocked out the words cook on duty to read cock on duty, the Crittenden locks in Ballard, Gas Works Park, Mt. Rainier, sunrise over the Cascade mountains. Yet, Beau noted there were no mirrors on any of the walls.

He was curious to see how he looked. Was he bruised? Did he have one or two black eyes? He gingerly touched his head, which pounded, and felt layers of gauze.

How bad off was he?

And where was he?

He tried to put his feet to the floor, but that same floor tilted when his feet connected with it and a wave of nausea rose from his belly, bile he imagined as a sickly yellow shooting up the back of his throat, burning.

He lay back down, panting, trying to remember the last several hours of his life, so he could figure out what had brought him here—wherever here was…

But all he could see in his mind’s eye was himself set up on the Elliott Bay waterfront, his art supplies at the ready, should a tourist want to take him up on his offer of a portrait for the bargain-basement price of only ten dollars.

Everything after that was a blank.

Beau tensed as he heard footsteps approaching. His gaze moved to a heavy oak door opposite the bed. The footfalls sounded heavy, indicating someone large drawing closer, closer. Beau felt a sudden flash of irrational fear course through him and he pressed his back against the bed’s headboard, eyes intent on the brass doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

He found it hard to breathe.

Only seconds passed as he listened to the silence created by the footsteps stopping outside his door. As he had imagined, he watched the slow turn of the doorknob. He felt like he was in some kind of horror movie and the notion made him panicky and giddy all at once—the absurdity of it causing him to restrain a hysterical giggle lodged deep in his throat.

Whoever was out there, opening the door—Beau did not want to see. What he wanted, really wanted, was to know where he was and how he had gotten here.

The door opened and a large figure, clothed all in black, stood for a moment, framed in the doorway. His massive shoulders were so broad that Beau wondered if he would have difficulty making his way across the threshold. The man—and Beau was sure it was a man despite not being able to see his face—stood well over six feet tall, perhaps closer to seven. In the form-fitting black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, the stranger had a pumped-up body in which the muscles were piled on like slabs. His hands dwarfed the silver tray he clutched, a tray containing a ceramic teapot and several bowls and plates.

Breakfast? Dinner? What time was it anyway?

And—more importantly—was he a prisoner?

The last thought came unbidden, but bolstered by the logic of the most mysterious and disconcerting aspect of the man standing before him—his face was completely covered.

And it wasn’t merely covered, but covered in a most unusual fashion: with a mask made of rubber that looked surprisingly realistic—the visage of a wolf. The salt and pepper fur crowning the top of the mask blended perfectly with a mane of salt and pepper hair that hung halfway down the man’s back.

Who are you? Beau managed to stammer.

His words seemed to propel the man forward, although he offered no response. His silence was equal to his appearance in eeriness.

Beau caught his breath as the man approached the bed, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood. Beau wanted to ask more, but suddenly lost the power to form words. He could only stare.

The man paused at the bed and stooped over, holding the tray with one hand as he outstretched the other. Beau imagined he was going to touch him and recoiled, drawing back.

But all the guy did was push the Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table over a few inches so he could set down the tray. Once he positioned it just so, he clasped his hands together, staring down at Beau.

Even though Beau could not see his face, he had a certainty that this man, creature, whatever was hiding behind the mask, was smiling.

Beau was struck by the intensity of the eyes peering out from behind the holes in the wolf mask. Not only was the gaze fixed and passionate, but also the eyes themselves were remarkable. They were a pale green, the palest shade of green Beau had ever seen on a person, almost a kind of aqua-marine, and they were rimmed by long black lashes.

They were the kind of eyes, Beau thought, that had inspired that careworn cliché for the eyes: the window to the soul.

Just this connection with the man’s eyes calmed Beau somewhat. Something in those eyes told Beau he was safe and that the man meant no harm.

Beau cocked his head and repeated his original question, Who are you?

But the man said nothing. He gently patted Beau’s leg beneath the sheet, then pointed to the tray, nodding. Then, just as silently as he had entered the room, he turned and left it, closing the door with a barely audible click.

Beau’s heart rate and breathing had returned to normal levels and he found he felt marginally better, well enough to at least sit up and look at what the creature had left for him. The tray contained two soft-boiled eggs in cups and a pot of Earl Grey tea that Beau could recognize because of the delicious aroma of bergamot wafting up. There was also a linen napkin in a sterling silver ring, and a plate upon which rested two slices of golden buttered toast, cut into thin strips for dipping. A small silver bowl held a sectioned orange.

This could all be poisoned. He could be trying to kill me or at least put me out so he can do God only knows what kind of unspeakable acts and I won’t fight.

Beau shook his head. The man’s green eyes, the kindness in the way he touched him, reassured Beau—he knew it wasn’t logical, but he felt a kind of warmth and trust for his savior.

The name—savior—had come to him without conscious thought, and suddenly seemed right.

Beau could not recall what had happened to him. But he knew it was bad and something deep within his mind—no, make that his heart—told him with no doubt that the man who had left him breakfast had played a role in his salvation.

Beau breathed easier when he realized he could turn toward the bedside table, placing his feet on the floor.

With a hand trembling only slightly, he poured himself a cup of tea and added a couple of sugar cubes. He then lifted a spoon with which to crack the first egg.

Suddenly, he was ravenous.

* * * *

Chapter 3

The food must have calmed something deep within him to allow him to sleep. When Beau next awakened, the light coming in through his windows was wan, watery, the shadows long. The house, as before, was silent all around him, as if he had come to alone—as if the place, indeed, had some sort of supernatural life of its own.

Beau found he could now sit up with no pain other than a slightly annoying headache. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. So far, so good. Testing himself, and keeping his hands braced on the mattress behind him, he tentatively stood.

And it was all right. The floor did not tilt; the room did not spin. The contents of his stomach stayed put.

Another urge came upon him, with a vengeance—the need to pee. He glanced around the room, searching for another doorway aside from the one through which his mysterious visitor had entered and exited. And there it was—a similar door to the main one, standing open upon a darkened room.

Beau hurried over and flipped on the lights, confirming his suspicions—and hopes—that the door led to an en suite bathroom.

The room was done in shades of ochre, cream, and black, the floors polished marble and the walls a darker shade of beige, almost brown, with a hint of yellow. There was a large, glass-enclosed shower with a rain showerhead, and a garden tub, surrounded by candles of varying hues and sizes, big enough at least for two.

But enough of admiring the plumbing, Beau’s own plumbing urgently reminded him. He hurried to the toilet and sighed as he relieved himself, one hand braced on the wall above him.

Finished, he headed to the sink to wash his hands and here is where he finally had an encounter, face-to-face, with himself.

Here was a mirror.

The silver glass, bordered with a scalloped gilt frame, threw back a surprising—and horrifying—image. Yes, all the usual parts were in place and Beau recognized himself—the shock of amber hair, wavy, that often fell fetchingly or annoyingly, depending on his mood, over his right eye. His eyes were the same, a slight almond shape, filled with hazel irises. His cheekbones, chin, and nose remained where they always had.

But there, the difference between what Beau saw in the mirror before and what he saw right now, became apparent.

Those same features, once handsome, youthful, vibrant, with a kind of artsy allure, had been twisted almost beyond recognition. His piercing hazel eyes, once rimmed by long black lashes, were now bordered by swelling and bruises, in shades of deep purple, lavender, and yellow. The bridge of his nose was swollen and wore the same violent shades as the bruises around his eyes. With a shaking hand, he touched the nose, wincing at the pain a gentle prod created. Still, he had to know, so he pinched his nose at the base and moved it cautiously from side to side. At least it appeared not to be broken.

Most of his hair was hidden behind a turban of gauze that had been wrapped around his head. Near the top of his forehead, a splotch of blood had seeped through, now dried to an almost chocolate brown. He touched the bandages and wondered if the stranger in black had been the one who had wound the fabric so tightly around his skull, stopping the bleeding of whatever wound hid beneath.

Beau stood back, looking down at his body, clad only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, both new and neither his. Below the neck, he seemed to have fared better, with only a dull ache around his midsection. He lifted the T-shirt and saw that the side of his torso and his belly both bore red, purple, and yellow signs of violence.

Beau turned away from the mirror, feeling like weeping. It was obvious he had been beaten and he wished he could recall who had done this to him. Was it his mystery man?

He wandered into the bedroom, which had now grown dark—winter’s pale light had a way of fading quickly.

He located the lamp on his nightstand and pulled the chain to illuminate it, flooding the room with warm yellow light. He sat on his bed, tired again, the newly discovered bruises on his face and body aching like bad memories.

He scanned the room once more and was depressed at what he didn’t see—anywhere. His clothes. His art supplies, if they were here, were nowhere in sight.

All it seemed he had was this clean white T-shirt and these pale blue boxers with a repeating design of navy ducks on the cotton.

Had his mystery man beaten him in order to kidnap him, to keep him a prisoner? Were unimaginable sex games planned for when the bruises subsided? Panicked, Beau sprung from the bed and hurried to the door the wolf-masked man had used, certain he would find it locked from the outside.

But the door opened easily. Beau peered up and down the length of a hallway with the same black hardwood floors as his bedroom, covered with long, tasseled Oriental rugs. Candles burned in wall sconces, dispelling the gloom, but causing the ends of the hallway to vanish into shadow. All up and down the corridor were doors similar to his, all closed.

Did those rooms also hold young men, also showing recent signs of abuse?

Beau retreated into the relative safety of what he now thought of as his bedroom, shutting the door once more. He was not ready to explore the house further, especially not clad so vulnerably. He went to the windows and opened the plantation shutters farther.

The twilight outside, shades of navy and deep purple, pressed against the glass like heavy velvet. The darkness was so complete, Beau could find no clues to his whereabouts. All he could discern was that he was no longer in the city. There was no ambient light from building and streetlights; no sound penetrated the window panes. All Beau could see was a constellation of stars, so bright, dazzling, and crowded, it confirmed his belief he was now far outside Seattle.

Tomorrow, perhaps you can admire the view.

The voice startled Beau, coming from behind him. It was deep and somewhat raspy. The man stood there, holding yet another tray. He was attired the same—in his funereal clothes, topped with the wolf’s head mask—that made Beau both want to laugh and shriek at the same time.

But at least now, he had spoken.

Beau could ask him some questions. Beau took the tray, glancing at the silver-covered plates and cutlery, the smell of something rich and savory wafting up to his nose, igniting his hunger.

He set the tray on the bedside table—its predecessor, he now noted, had been taken away while he’d slept—then sat himself on the bed. He would have preferred to stand, but his legs still felt weak, his mind still muddled, and the fear nipping at the edges of his consciousness was easier to keep at bay if he sat.

He looked at the beast—he had never thought of him this way before, but what else do you call someone built like a linebacker and wearing the menacing face of a wolf?

The beast turned away. Beau surmised that since he had made his delivery, his services were no longer required.

Well, he was wrong about that. Beau needed answers and he had waited long enough for them, even if he was not entirely certain just how long long enough had been.

Wait a minute, Beau said, his voice coming out tentative, soft. He would need to remedy that. If he was being held against his will, if he had, in fact, been beaten and abducted, he would have to play his cards carefully—and the most important card to play was the one that told him not to show any fear, to be strong.

Hold it. Beau’s voice was stronger now, clearer; he’d put some breath and bass behind his words.

The monster, beast, whatever he should be called, stopped in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around. Yet Beau could tell from his body language that he had captured the man’s attention.

Can you just come back and talk to me? Why the silent treatment? I need some answers. Even though it was a betrayal of his idea not to show fear, Beau said, I’m afraid. That was honest—and maybe it would appeal to his captor/savior’s sense of right.

The man came back. Beau was surprised when he sat on the bed, leaving a space of about a foot or so between them.

I wanted to let you rest, the man began. That’s why the ‘silent treatment.’ I thought you would talk when you were ready. It appears you’re ready. The man’s voice was deep, mellifluous, like honey with a hint of grit. It was a very manly, calming voice.

Will you take that stupid mask off? Beau asked impatiently.

Not yet.

Beau sighed. Well, at least give me my back story, because I am not remembering much. Most of all how I got here.

The man let out a long exhalation. You were lucky I found you. I do not go into the city more than a few times a year and I go only when I need to stock up my reserves of food. I had just finished a shopping trip when I spotted you at the mouth of an alley. You were covered in blood, groaning, and it was obvious someone had beaten you horribly.

So you brought me here? Where is here, anyway? And why didn’t you just take me to a hospital?

One question at a time. The man paused, as though he were pondering which question to answer first, prioritizing them. I thought about taking you to a hospital, but I don’t like to have much contact with other people. It’s a long story, but let’s just say I don’t have healthy memories of my time among them. I did, however, examine you, right there in the street, checking to see how severe your cuts and bumps were. I was able to determine, best I could, that while you looked like hell, nothing had happened to you that couldn’t be fixed with time and care.

The wolf’s face turned to Beau and he could feel the man’s gaze. "I still don’t know if I made the right choice. Your admission that you don’t remember what happened to you concerns me; perhaps I need to reconsider.

In any event, I checked you over and determined that you needed help, so I brought you here, to my home. We are in a remote area east of Seattle, in the foothills of the Cascades. I had this house built for me to meet my need for solitude. I did not bring you here to keep you against your will; let me make that clear. You are free to leave whenever you like.

Beau looked around. He had never, in his whole life, been ensconced in such comforting and comfortable surroundings. Still, this was weird. My things? Where are my things?

The man put a gentle hand on Beau’s knee. You had nothing, just the clothes on your back, and those were torn and bloody. He paused. I had to throw them away. We’ll see that you get some new ones when you want to go.

The man said nothing for several moments, then went on. I think you should stay with me for a few more days. Get yourself more properly healed and then, when you’re ready, I will not only see that you are clothed, but that you have safe transport back to Seattle. And if you need, we can also get you to a doctor. I suspect, though, you’re still in a bit of shock and that’s affected your memory.

Why would you do this? Beau wondered.

Why wouldn’t I? What kind of beast would I be if I left you all alone, bleeding and hurt, in that alley? I only did what I would want someone to do for me if the tables were turned.

But all of this… Beau gestured with his hand. All of this seems above and beyond the call.

Perhaps for some. I suppose I could have left you at some emergency room and washed my hands of you. But that’s not me. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to bring you here.

I don’t know what to think. I wish I could remember what happened. But Beau wasn’t so sure he wanted that wish granted. Already, shadowy images were swirling around in his memory, hooded figures, cold—and they filled him with dread.

You will. The man stood. Now, I think you should eat before everything gets totally cold. There’s roast chicken there… He took a few steps toward the door. In the morning, I’ll bring you some clothes and we can go outside, if you feel up to it.

The man stepped into the hallway and was closing the door behind him.

Wait! Beau called. Who are you? You haven’t told me who you are.

The man gestured toward the mask. Just call me Beast. He chuckled, but the sound carried no mirth, only despair. It’s what I am anyway.

Before Beau could say anything else, Beast had closed the door.

* * * *

Chapter 4

The next day, Beast awakened Beau early, bearing another tray of food. Beau sat up, feeling much better than he had. His sleep had been heavy and dreamless, reparative. He smiled. You, sir, are going to spoil me.

Beast set the tray of food—oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup, a pot of tea, a sectioned grapefruit—on the bedside table. The pleasure is mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to care for.

Beau wondered why the man stopped speaking so abruptly,