Long Black Cadillac Read online

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Although he preferred something more private. “Start walking, man. I’m grumpy.”

  “Okay.” Somehow the fact the guy went easily made the hair stand up on his arms, on the back of his neck. What was the game here?

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He hated this—hated it back on the force, hated it worse now. “No games.”

  “If I was playing a game, I wouldn’t have run smack into you, would I?” Moving slow and smooth, the guy headed in the direction he’d pointed, just ambling along like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “All I’m asking is that you move on. You’re causing waves. My boss doesn’t like it.”

  “What kind of waves? I swear to God, I don’t get you people. Gators kill more of these folks than I do.” The guy turned, hands spread at his sides. “Who the fuck is your boss to care if I have a bite now and then?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. I just work for him.” Political details bored the living shit out of him, and for all he knew, the Colonel hated vamps because they didn’t pay taxes.

  Head tilting, the guy looked at him from under that big black hat, eyes glinting like a wolf’s in the dark. “You just take orders, huh?”

  “Just a beat soldier.” He didn’t look away, met all that will with his own. There wasn’t a bloodsucker he’d encountered that could charm its way through his pure fucking pissed-offedness.

  “So where am I supposed to go, honey? This is the best feeding ground I’ve had in an age. So we got a problem.”

  “I seem to be in that situation with your kind quite a bit.” So far, he was up ten to nothing.

  Sharp teeth flashed a moment, just bared like an animal’s. “You don’t know nothin’ about my kind, honey.”

  “I know how you die.” That was enough.

  “But you don’t even know why. Look, why don’t you just go back to your boss and tell him to suck my ass.” He could see those hands clench, see the shift in the guy’s body weight.

  Now, that would be entertaining. He tightened his finger on the trigger, forcing himself not to tense up, because fuck him that would hurt. “Sorry, buddy. The Colonel pays the bills.”

  The fucker could move. Like a blur. His gun hand flew up, knocked up by one of the guy’s hands. The guy’s other hand closed around his throat. Vance forced himself to relax, to go limp and not fight it. Focus on the legs, on the gun hand.

  “Shit!” His dead weight dragged them down, but a sharp correction had him flying down, hitting the ground hard, his back screaming. He was too fucking old for this shit. He slammed his hands up as hard as he could, remembering that bastard Leo Difuoro taking that razor to his skin, making him scream. Oh yeah. Fucking righteous motherfucking fury. That’s what he needed.

  Something crunched, but the heavy bastard barely made a sound, just pressed down on him, feeling heavier than a fucking neutron star, stealing his breath. Stars gathered in his eyes and he fought it as hard as he’d fought anything. Shit. Shit.

  “I should fucking kill you.” That voice seemed awfully damned far away. “You’re gonna be nothing but trouble. I can tell.”

  Chapter Five

  CLAY FIGURED he had to tie the man up.

  Not because he was into that, though it had its moments.

  No, this little foray into bondage was so he could sleep. Eventually the hunter would wake up, though he was sleeping like a baby right now, and he could move around in the sunlight. Clay? Not so much. It would suck to go to bed and wake up just before someone snuffed you out.

  He was just finishing the last knot on the feet when the guy started to stir, murmuring something grumpy and obscene.

  “… fucker. You cut me again, I’ll fucking tear your balls off.” God knew who the bastard was dreaming about. With all the goddamn scars, somebody made lots of enemies. Clay hadn’t cut the guy, so that wasn’t about him one bit.

  “Not gonna hurt you unless you make me, honey,” Clay said, just completely unable to resist stroking one rough cheek. What the hell was he thinking? He shoulda just noshed on the guy.

  Bloodshot eyes the color of moss popped open, stared at him with complete confusion for about ten seconds. Then the man jerked, fighting the ropes, his strength kind of amazing.

  “Stop it, honey. Just quit.” Clay leaned down, hands on those strong shoulders, looking right into the man’s eyes. “I need to sleep, and I can’t leave you free. Just relax and have a little nap.”

  “I don’t sleep.” The guy’s head was all loose on his neck, the blinks coming slower.

  “’Course not. You’re a stud, awake twenty-four seven. Well, you just rest, then. Me? I need some sleep.” Clay could get the guy on the bed, sleep next to him so he’d have a chance in hell of waking up in case the guy got loose.

  Those eyes, they looked like hell. Hell, Clay’d almost believe the son of a bitch didn’t sleep. “Yep. I’m a stud. You sure you don’t want to go have a picnic?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to eat.” Grinning, Clay bent and hoisted the man up, making sure he wasn’t gonna struggle and unbalance them. The guy’s back felt weird as fuck against his hands, ridged and ropy. The muscles underneath that, though, were solid, strong. The urge to strip off clothes and look was strong, but not only would that require untying, it would be an invasion of privacy. Or something. “You got a name, honey? Feels like I ought to try and remember it this time, seeing as we’re sleeping together.”

  “Vance.” Oh man, that was a too-calm face. He checked the knots again.

  Nothing moved. “I’m Clay, honey. Now, you be a good boy and get some rest. I don’t want to have to strangle you again. Eventually that leads to dead brain cells, even if it gives you a woody.”

  “Well, we couldn’t have that, could we?” That was all the warning he got before the son of a bitch headbutted him. Fuck! Jesus, that had him seeing stars. Clay growled, the sound low and feral, and rolled on top of the man, knowing Vance would feel like he weighed as much as an elephant.

  “Uhn.” Vance tugged, fighting the ropes and Clay’s weight. Clay could feel the man’s heart pounding against him, could smell the blood, right there under the skin.

  Oh Lord. His mouth watered. “You don’t stop it, I’m gonna eat you, man. You smell like supper.” He was so damn hungry. And it was this one’s fault.

  “I’m old and f… fucking stringy.”

  “No. You’re hot. Strong. I can fucking feel it, man. For all you claim to know about me, you don’t know shit.” It wasn’t just his stomach taking an interest either. Other parts of him were perky.

  “I know enough to do my job.” Every time Vance moved, they rubbed together, and it heated him up that much more.

  Finally, Clay just pressed down against the man’s belly, his cock a hard, obvious ridge. “Stay. Still.” Vance growled, or tried to; there wasn’t that much air the fucker could pull in. “You just don’t give up, do you?” He set his canines to the vein that ran along Vance’s neck. “God, I want some of this.”

  “I’m poisonous.” Bullshit. Bullshit. Vance was heat and need and more fucking passion than an asshole should have.

  Licking right at the pulse point, Clay hummed, the need just rising until he thought he’d explode. He couldn’t resist this one, and he didn’t really understand why. “I think you want it, Vance.”

  “Fuck you.” Feel that heat. It made his eyes roll.

  “I’m not a little bottom boy. Isn’t that what you said you liked? I think you were lying.” Hips rolling, Clay started humping, needing the friction more than he needed to feed.

  “Bastard.” Vance groaned and bucked, twisting until those dull teeth fastened onto his shoulder, hard enough to make the muscle scream. Clay’s eyes opened wide, sightless, his whole body twisting and shaking. That was foreplay to him. A prelude to the real deal. Didn’t Vance fucking know that? He got another bite and one more; this time Vance held on, shaking him a bit, like a dog with a toy. Clay lost it. Well, not completely,
because he didn’t bite down on the big vein and bust it open to drain Vance dry. But he bit down, breaking skin and bringing hot blood to the surface for him to lap.

  Fuck. Fuck, yes. He could feel Vance, wild and fierce and so close to the edge of humanity it didn’t make sense. That taste could be an addiction. It really fucking could. Clay sucked harder, knowing the shallow bite wouldn’t yield much more. The hard body beneath him relaxed some, the bite against Clay’s shoulder loosening, the harsh breaths edged with needy moans.

  Jesus. Like the man was made for him. That was what it felt like. Clay reached between them, groping at Vance’s crotch, knowing what he’d find there. Thick, hard, leaking something fierce—Vance was feeling it, was right there with him, like it or not. Biting a touch harder, Clay licked up more droplets, just growling and rubbing, needing to smell Vance when he came. It was a fucking compulsion.

  All those muscles went tight, slapping against him over and over as the hot little son of a bitch lost it, humping against his hand, throat right there. Clay couldn’t help it. He came hard, biting deep, the hot blood just flowing over his tongue, feeding him like he hadn’t been fed in years.

  When the red cleared from his eyes, Clay had himself a relaxed, sleeping man, the ropes keeping all that rage nicely trussed. The scent of sex and feeding was satisfying as fuck.

  So Vance didn’t sleep, huh?

  Some folks were just wound too tight. Clay figured he’d loosened the man up good.

  And he wasn’t feeling so bad himself.

  Chapter Six

  “FUCKING VINNIE DiMarco, huh? You little fuck? Did you think you’d get away with it? Pig?”

  Vance/Vinnie kept breathing, kept his eyes closed, his abs tensed. It hurt less that way. Pop, pop, pop—they’d been taking turns for a couple of hours, he guessed. Couldn’t be longer than that; he still had most of his teeth.

  “Answer me, fuckface. Answer me! Did you think you’d get away with it? Stupid fuzz piece of shit bastard!”

  Well, yeah. Obviously he hadn’t taken the assignment from the captain thinking, wow, I’m gonna die in the basement of a steam laundry with a bunch of goons hammering the living fuck out of me before I am turned into a grease spot on the floor. Oh, yeah, my thirty-two grand a year is so worth that….

  Something hit the back of his head, something hard enough that he missed most of the next part, the part where they called the Butcher to come work him over.

  Vance woke up, confused as hell, blinking into the dark. Where the fuck was he, and why the hell was he tied up? His hands were caught, so were his feet, and he just started rolling, heading for the edge of the….

  Wait.

  Wait, he knew he wasn’t remembering.

  Vance closed his eyes and counted to ten. There was no way he’d turned bloodbag and let a bloodsucker have him.

  No way.

  It was a fucking dream.

  “Whoa, Nellie. No rolling off the bed and making like a pancake on the floor.” Jesus fucking Christ. That was the damned bloodsucker, all right, hands holding him in place.

  He swallowed hard, trying to get his fucking head together. “If it wasn’t pitch-fucking-black in here, I could manage better.”

  Fuck. Fuck him. How had his whole world gotten so fucked-up in such a short amount of time?

  “You want some light, honey? We can do that.” A soft light clicked on, the lamp heavily shaded. “Better?”

  He blinked a little, nodded as he looked around and tried to get his bearings. Where did bloodsuckers sleep? Was he in a crypt or something?

  The room seemed fucking normal enough. The walls were painted a bloodred, and the fixtures looked early Old West bordello….

  The bed was pure decadence, though. Pure fucking decadence. Vance started working at the ropes, nice and slow. Careful.

  “Now, honey, you’re working up a sweat. And I was nice. I could have used chains.” Goddamn, the man had good hearing. A good sense of smell.

  “Chains would be easier.” They got slick, slid on the skin.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Be nice or I won’t let you go piss.”

  Oh, bastard. He hadn’t even known he had to, ’til the bastard mentioned it. “You’d hate to have your bed fouled.”

  “Well, that’s true enough, but I can always wash sheets….” That grin made him want to kill the man. Wait. He already did want that.

  “Fucking untie me.” He needed to— Shit. To get another motherfucking gun.

  “Hold still.” He blinked, because the guy, Clay, stretched and yawned and came right over to untie everything but his hands.

  His legs were cramping, and he rolled up, walking it out, trying to tell himself that the image of that big motherfucker coming like a load of bricks was not a memory. Certainly not a good one.

  Clay watched him like a hawk, looking like he wasn’t having any kind of sleep hangover or sore muscles. The asshole could take him at this point. Easy.

  Goddamn it. “Where’s your bathroom, man?”

  Somewhere private.

  With a toilet.

  A razor. A mirror he could break….

  “Right in there.” One big hand waved, pointing toward a door off to the side of the room. Vance made a beeline, locking the door behind him and working his jeans open with his fingers—which were beginning to go numb, damn it. He did his business, looked around for a blade, a weapon, preferably both. There wasn’t even a mirror. Or a window. The place was a cave. No shower curtain or rod, just a big whirlpool bath tucked against the wall. Goddamn it.

  He was going to have to improvise.

  Vance tugged the ceramic top off the commode, wincing as it grated on the way off.

  The knock on the door didn’t really startle him. Bat-ears man had to have heard that. “Okay, honey. You’ve had plenty of time. Come on out.”

  “Give a guy some privacy, would ya?” Okay, okay, put the top down. He didn’t have shit for leverage with his wrists bound.

  “No. I can hear you thinking, honey. That’s never a good thing in a big old redneck like you.” Oh, that fucker was laughing at him. Laughing. Like he was the joke of the century.

  He considered just hauling off and beating the bastard with the toilet lid, but fuck his ribs were sore, and if he could just get that lever to come up out of there….

  The door popped open, the latch just coming right away from the kickplate. “No. Just no, honey.”

  Jesus fucking Christ on a Popsicle stick. “You got a twitchy toilet.”

  “Uh-huh. Out.” Like a big old cat, the guy just leaned against the doorframe, those dark, dark eyes watching his every move. He set the lid back down, leaving it crooked enough that next time it wouldn’t snarl. Goddamn it.

  “So what next, man?”

  Those eyebrows rose, one shoulder going up and down in a casual shrug. “I have no idea. I saw, I wanted, I took….”

  “Bullshit. You got lucky.” He’d been tired.

  “Maybe I just decided you needed a nap.” Oh hell no. Tell him that bastard wasn’t in his head.

  Vance growled and spun. He might not be able to do much, but he could bash the fucker with the top of the commode. The thing made a very satisfying noise when it crashed into the bathtub and shattered, but it didn’t look like it had done much damage to Clay’s arm.

  “You know, you’ve shot me, bit me, and now tried to beat me with my own toilet. I would have killed most folks for that by now.” The guy seemed genuinely baffled.

  Vance was really getting a headache. “You know, this isn’t usually so difficult.”

  “I do know that, honey. I do indeed.”

  That little smile just made his veins throb at his temples. Vance closed his eyes, counted to thirty. Twice. Okay. Okay, first things. Get the hands untied. Then kill the big monster. Collect paycheck. Retire to Fiji.

  “So how does someone get into the hunting business, anyway?” Grabbing his bound hands, Clay tugged him back out into the bedroom, leading him like a goa
t on a rope.

  “It’s like the Army. You fuck up bad enough in real life, they recruit your ass.”

  “Yeah? So what did you fuck up? You want me to order you some food, honey? I’m afraid I’m fresh out of human noshes.”

  Hey, maybe he could get extra garlic or something.

  “You got any whiskey?” Pizza would be good. Or steak. Oh man. A nice juicy steak.

  “That I have.” The man had Jack, among others, and poured him a glass. “You never answered my question.”

  “Which one?” It burned so good going down, eased his head like a lover’s touch.

  “What did you fuck up?” Clay poured him another glass, the bottle tipping easily. A bottle. Now there was a weapon.

  “I was an undercover cop. My cover got blown.” In a big, big motherfucking way. And what business was it of tall, dark, and fangy? Why was he spilling his guts?

  “Is that where you got the scars?” Clay took a swig of the whiskey too, which sort of blew the Colonel’s list of things bloodsuckers couldn’t do to hell.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t want to talk about those—the web of scars across his back, his chest, on his cheek.

  “Huh.” That look turned damned considering. “You must have the constitution of a bull moose, honey. So you want steak, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Wait. Had he said that? Shit.

  “I’ll get someone to bring it in. You sit and be good.” Clay walked out, closing the bedroom door behind him. Leaving Vance alone.

  Sit and be good.

  Well, now, there were two things that didn’t go with him.

  He was much more the “disassemble the furniture and make a stake” type.

  Chapter Seven

  CLAY COULD hear Vance in there, grunting and cussing, no doubt looking for some way to bash his head in when he came back. He kept half his attention on that while he called Remy.

  “’Lo?”