Free Blood Brothers by Keith Latch Page B

bastard went wild then. He screamed like Janet Leigh in
Psycho. Thrashing on the floor, it was quite evident to Michael
that he had but one thing on his mind, blood. And it sure wasn’t
his.
    Grabbing Trista’s wrist like a lifeline, he
tugged her away. Michael began running through the crowd, or at
least moving fast as possible, and she was right on his heels. They
burst through the front doors, leaving the bouncers looking around
stupidly. They took the steps two at a time and when they made it
to the sidewalk, they continued running. They didn’t stop until
they were about a hundred feet away from Club 312. The pedestrians
lining either side of Beale were, more likely than not, giving them
queer glances, but neither paid any attention. Finally they stopped
at the mouth of an alleyway. The air was alive with the aroma of
bar-b-que pork and draft beer.
    Michael was breathing raggedly and he saw
that despite the fine shape Trista seemed to be in, she too was
taking great pains to draw air into her lungs. About a minute
later, when both had sufficiently recovered, they looked each other
in the eyes…and burst out laughing.
    “That was one huge dude,” Michael said.
    “But you handled him like a golden
glove…GQ.”
    “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
    “Who was he?”
    Trista shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me.
Stopped me on the way back, said he wanted to hook-up. Told him I
wasn’t interested. Had something better waiting on me.” With that
she sidled up to him, her hands finding his chest which still rose
and fell rather dramatically. Still, Michael sensed that she wasn’t
being completely forthcoming with him. But what she did next
knocked that thought from his mind.
    Never leaving his side, she ushered him into
the alley. Besides the neon and the incandescent lighting of the
club and shop fronts, Beale had poor lighting. A few steps into the
alley and they were well concealed. She gently eased him up against
a wall, brick, cold and strong, and pressed into him. A second
later, her hot, moist mouth found his. Her tongue, teasing, darted
in then out, before his own could catch it. Trista kissed well.
Amazingly well.
    Her hands massaged his chest, traveled up and
down his arms and then slowly, moved down. He felt her thigh move
up between his legs. And he liked that, a lot.
    Suddenly she pulled her mouth away. With the
ambient light he could see her, though not very well. With one hand
she reached into the pocket of her skirt and then pulled it free
again. She brought that hand to her mouth and licked her palm.
    Damn. Michael thought he was going to explode
right then and there. As quickly as it had gone, her mouth was back
on him, attacking him.
    And again, she pulled away. How could he not
go mad? This teasing, this awful, delicious teasing?
    Trista brought her hand up, something small
held between the pad of her thumb and her index finger. Something
incredibly small, like a light-colored mini M&M. She offered it
to him; he found his lips opening automatically. She placed the
small thing—a tablet, maybe?—on his tongue.
    A twist of uncertainty began to churn. There
was no real way to know what he was taking. Speed, ecstasy,
anything. He could cheek it, hold it, and spit it out at another
time. But what Trista did next sealed the deal.
    She leaned into him, her exotic aura taking
his body up another degree. His internal heat built. Now, on the
night air he caught a vague scent of cinnamon. He could only
imagine how this woman would taste. He yearned to know. “If you’re
ready for the ride of your life…swallow it.”
    If Trista had been a Bible thumping
televangelist Michael would have completely emptied his bank
account on a nine hundred number to please her and reserve his
place in her heaven. He swallowed the offered substance, no longer
caring about the composition or contents.
    “Very, very good. Now…let’s…go…make some
love.”
    When Trista broke their connection this time,
the warm velvet