The Trouble With Hairy, page 14
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
It was in the vicinity of Ruth’s garden that the clamor had arisen, but the screaming cat had thankfully decided to shut up. Gun drawn, Gertie approached it cautiously.
“All right, you,” she commanded. “You leave that there cat alone and come out with your hands up. I got a gun here, and I know how to use it!”
She heard a low growl, followed by the rustling of some large animal as it moved further back amongst Ruth’s flowers and plants.
A coyote, mebbe, Gertie was thinking when she was surprised to hear a distinctly human voice mutter, “Oh, shit!”
It was at this precise moment that Ruth, standing inside the closed screen door leading to the kitchen, flipped on the outside lights. Gertie blinked in surprise at the scene which was revealed.
There, in the middle of her lover’s garden amidst the furry wreckage of at least one cat, trying to hide beneath the sundial, was a dark-haired, young man, as naked as any Gertie had ever seen.
Chris and Troy arranged to meet Becky at nine o’clock on the patio of Montage Bistro, a charming little restaurant on the south side of Santa Monica Boulevard, a block west of the Boys’ Town Gym. Even though Montage was located a little too close to the gym for Chris’ taste, he figured the wall enclosing the patio would help keep Troy in line and prevent him from accosting passers-by, trying to charm them into sex with his dazzling smile, incomparable wit and those carefully calculated twitches of his rear end at which he was so adept.
Troy had, as was his habit, dressed carefully for a night on the town. He’d recently started going through a leather phase and Chris was sometimes appalled by the resulting outfits he put together, in a failed attempt to lend a certain Troy-ish quality to the standard Silver Lake S&M look. Tonight was no exception.
True, Troy was wearing leather pants. But they were white, with little rhinestones running up and down the outside seams of the legs and edging the pockets. He’d chosen, as usual, to go shirtless, the better to show off his well-proportioned chest and the line separating his pectorals, which Troy proudly referred to as his “cleavage.” And so, after several dozen shirts had been pulled out of the packed boxes, tried on, dutifully admired by Chris and subsequently rejected by Troy to be consigned to a growing heap in the corner of the bedroom, Troy had eventually chosen a powder blue leather vest.
“Blonds can get away with pastels,” he’d announced as Chris had shaken his head at the dubious vision of loveliness which Troy had presented once he was finally dressed.
“No one’s gonna be able to tell you’re a blond,” warned Chris. “Where in heaven did you get that?” He was referring to the pink and blue leather baseball cap that Troy had crammed down on his head over his lush curls.
“You like it?” Troy beamed with pleasure. “I got it at the Mad Hatter when I went to Beverly Center today. After I finished packing.” He started rummaging about in a small pile of shopping bags that had been plopped onto the floor next to the couch.
“I stopped at the Pleasure Chest and got you some stuff too.” He pulled several items of leatherwear out of the bag. “All in black, of course.”
Troy held up a set of black leather chaps and what Chris guessed was supposed to be a shirt made entirely from black rawhide thongs, artfully tied together. “What’s the matter?” he’d asked when he saw the expression on Chris’ face. “You can’t get into leather?”
“Actually,” Chris had replied absently as he began gathering up the store receipts, his eyes growing wider as he began to realize how much Troy’s little foray had cost him, “I think of myself as more of the brushed suede type.”
At the moment, Troy was happily ensconced at a table, working on his second frothy alcoholic concoction, whistling, flirting and making suggestive comments to every one of the passing gym boys who he found attractive. Chris’ only fear was that one of them would respond before Becky arrived to help him with Troy-Control Duty.
Just as Troy had caught the interest of a tall, lanky, muscular blond and was about to embark on a series of detailed descriptions of athletically intimate acts which would be impossible even for a Cirque de Soleil headliner to manage, Becky arrived. She passed through the bar to the restaurant proper, pausing to pop her head into the kitchen to say hello to Crystal, a six foot drag queen wearing a chef’s hat who stood slaving over the gas ranges in a red lamé gown, white apron and four inch heels, cursing at the sizzling entrees in bad French.
She left Crystal to indulge her culinary artistic temperament and moved out onto the patio. She dropped her bulk into a chair and artfully motioned to the waiter, who rushed over to the table. “The usual?” he asked with a smile and a none-too-subtle glance at Troy.
Becky looked at him, unbridled lust in her face as visions of a Keoke Coffee with extra whipped cream danced through her mind. Then, she remembered her diet and managed to choke out, “No thanks, Gus. Just mineral water.”
She patted her ample waist. “Watching the weight,” she added ruefully.
Gus’ astonishment was evident as he walked back toward the bar. Becky tried not to look at the two middle-aged gentleman, sitting two tables over to her right, lustily enjoying Montage’s scrumptious chocolate Kahlua cake.
“Still dieting?” Chris asked, sympathetically. Becky nodded, glumly. “I’m proud of you,” he added.
“So am I.” Becky’s voice was void of enthusiasm.
“Just think,” Troy quipped, “soon you’ll be able to fit into a size eighteen. Then we can go shopping together. I know a fabulous boutique for bigger girls.”
“I await the day,” said Becky dryly.
“Speaking of bigger girls…” Troy said as his attention was caught by a stunning barrel-chested young man passing on the sidewalk.
“Daddy! Daddy!” he cried, waving wildly.
Chris grabbed his hand and shot a look of apology at the pedestrian. “Sorry,” he called out. “Sometimes we take him out in public and forget that his knees have different zip codes.”
The young man laughed and waved back with a good-natured grin.
“Does he like Mexicans?” asked Becky, sotto voce. “We could send him into the kitchen to bother one of the bus boys.”
“I heard that!” Troy replied.
“Either you both behave or…”
Fortunately, Gus arrived with Becky’s mineral water. As he set it down in front of her, Becky was surprised to see him give her a private wink. It wasn’t until he’d gone on to the next table and she’d taken a sip that she understood why. Gus had laced the carbonated water with a healthy tot of anisette, and the licorice taste did wonders for her mood.
“I didn’t know anyone could enjoy water so much,” said Chris at her look of bliss. Becky blushed slightly and decided not to reply.
“So,” he continued, “what’s all this about a full moon?”
Becky reached into her bag and pulled out her autopsy reports on Peter Kaiser, Jeremy Lucas and Bobby Falberg. As an afterthought, she added the stack of pet massacres and Chris’ eyes widened.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “only three of them are people. But one of them’s a sheriff’s deputy. The partner’s still in shock.”
Chris read silently for a few minutes and then looked up, puzzled.
“Make me happy,” said Becky. “Tell me it’s a ghoul.”
“Are you kidding? A ghoul? Committing murder? Please!” He gave her a look of disdain. “You should know better. Remember Scotty? They’re all like that. Timid. Scared of their own shadows. Nope. It’s a werewolf, all right.”
“Ugggh!” said Troy, making a face. “Not a werewolf! They’re the worst!”
“Thank you for sharing,” said Chris as Becky’s face fell. “He does so try to be helpful.”
Troy turned away in a mild snit, catching Gus’ attention and miming bringing a glass to his lips, indicating that he wanted another drink.
While Troy was distracted, Chris leaned forward across the table and whispered to Becky, “He’s allergic.”
“Chris!” Troy burst out in dismay, his head snapping back around, “That’s private!”
Chris shrugged an apology and returned to scanning the reports once more. “What I can’t figure out though, is why?” he said after a moment. “It seems so arbitrary.”
Becky looked puzzled, so he explained.
“They’re intelligent people. Dull, but intelligent. They need an awfully good reason to kill a human. To protect the pack, for example, or for revenge though sometimes, very rarely, if they’re given money.”
“You mean like The Sopranos? You can pay one?” Becky’s look of disbelief was obvious.
“Well, not quite.” Chris shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But, that’s the general idea.”
“And they’re always killing each other,” Troy added. “They’ve got this macho thing going on. The young ones are always challenging the pack leader.”
“What about another rogue?” Becky asked.
Chris shook his head, slowly. “My kind lives for centuries. Being around that long can do strange things to a person’s mind. Also, we’re born human, but when we change, our friends and neighbors become…well…” He paused, uncomfortably. “…potential entrées. Most of us adjust,” he hastened to add, “and realize killing isn’t necessary or advisable. But for people like Castillian who were born in a more violent time…”
Becky shuddered at the memory.
“Rogue werewolves though…” He shook his head again. “It just wouldn’t be in character. They generally lack enough imagination to go mad.”
“Horrible creatures,” Troy shivered, dramatically. “They look like overgrown Wookies. And they smell!”
“Wookies?” Becky didn’t get the reference.
“From Star Wars,” Troy chirped.
Chris continued, ignoring the blond boy. “They’ve got a pretty restrictive culture. Actually, they’re insufferable people. Personally, I try not to get to know many of them too well.”
“Me neither,” added Troy. “They don’t like us ’cause we’re gay.”
“Pack animals. Family values and all that. There’s a little Jerry Falwell or Jesse Helms in every werewolf I’ve met.” Chris handed back the reports. “One thing I do know. They do not kill normal people without a reason.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “At least not in this part of the country. Go into the Appalachians or the Rockies and you may find some packs that haven’t quite made it into the twenty-first century but, this is LA.”
“We’ve got Gay Pride coming up in a few weeks. A couple of hundred thousand tourists’ll be in town. We’re talking smorgasbord for our furry friend. What are we gonna do?” Becky asked.
“We?” Troy’s tone was ominous. “Where do you get this we stuff, paleface?”
Becky looked at Chris for help but was met with a bland stare. “I thought…”
“Becky,” he said gently. “When we needed help last fall and Sylvia called everyone she knew, the werewolves turned us down flat. They don’t like us. The rest of us don’t like them. We had a whole network going last time. But this time…well, let’s just say this isn’t something we want to get involved with on our own.”
“But…”
“No buts,” Troy said. “A werewolf is as dangerous to Chris as it is to you. I absolutely forbid it!”
“Wait a minute,” Chris said to forestall Becky’s look of dismay. “I’m not saying we won’t help. Just that we’ll have to be careful. Look before we leap.” He turned to Troy. “And, monkey, I know how you worry about me but, if you don’t mind, I’d like to make my own decisions.”
“Listen Myrtle,” Troy said, “Since when don’t your decisions have anything to do with me? If you’ll be so kind to remember, which one of us ended up hanging like a side of beef in an elevator shaft last time? I still haven’t replaced those shorts I ruined!”
“Shhh. Let me think a minute.”
The table grew silent. Becky sipped at her anisette-laced mineral water, trying not to stare at Chris too intently as his brow wrinkled in thought.
For more than two centuries, Chris had carefully avoided letting normals in on his secret. It was the merest stroke of accident that Becky had discovered his unusual dietary habits. Less than a year ago, she’d walked into the Harper apartment while he was sleeping after Troy had left the front door unlocked. Circumstances soon dictated that his nature also be revealed to Clive Anderson and Pamela Burman. However, despite their proclamations of friendship at his birthday party last November, and their very touching ceremony, welcoming him to West Hollywood and asking him to stay, Chris was unable to get over his discomfort at so many normals knowing his private business.
Of the three, only Becky seemed to accept him absolutely for what he was. As she was his closest human friend, he couldn’t help a certain feeling of relief when she’d finally stumbled upon him lying lifeless in his coffin. Lying to someone about whom he cared so much had never sat well with him. However — and Becky made this abundantly clear at every opportunity — she had difficulty dealing with Troy and the picture he presented to the world. What Chris considered whimsical behavior, Becky called flamboyant; comments that Chris heard as cute, Becky felt were obnoxious.
Ah, well, Chris thought, At least her problems with Troy are based on his human characteristics.
Clive Anderson was another story. He was always friendly and polite whenever they met, but Chris couldn’t help sensing a vague feeling of unease lurking beneath the surface of Clive’s cordial exterior. When he and Clive were left alone in a room together, Clive’s eyes involuntarily roved toward the exits, as if seeking a quick means of escape should Chris suddenly turn into a slavering, bloodthirsty monster and attack him.
As for Pamela Burman, she was an entity unto herself, and Chris couldn’t help liking her. True, she was louder and more obnoxious and abrasive than even Troy could ever possibly hope to be, but she was always rooting for the underdog, and Chris, with his long-standing dislike of bullies, had always admired her for that. Burman also had a penchant for accepting everyone she met for whatever they happened to be and treating them equally. However, since Pamela’s notion of equal treatment had to do with the level of her disdain, her non-discriminatory policies were, in some people’s eyes, not a good thing. She reminded Chris of a sergeant he’d admired during the American Civil War; she might bark orders like a junkyard dog, but she meant well.
However, the experiences of last Halloween had not left her unscarred. She was an elderly woman, rather frail though she refused to admit it, and the invasion of her home and the wanton destruction of her most cherished keepsakes had affected her severely. Although she’d ranted and raved in typical Burman fashion about who was going to be responsible for the damage, Chris had noticed a tear in her eye as she knelt, when she thought no one was looking, to pick up a broken piece of Sevres China that had belonged to her mother. It had touched him deeply.
What a vampire she would have made! he realized with astonishment.
But Burman was mortal and, in ten or fifteen years, would go to her grave like most of the other creatures inhabiting the earth, her existence confirmed only by her memory, good or bad, kept in the minds of those remaining behind. Every time they met, she would look at him with envy and resentment; she had so much more to accomplish in her life and so little time in which to do it. Chris tried to get to know her better, but he suspected Pamela’s mind simply could not cope with the reminder that, long after she, her many nieces and nephews and their children were gone, Chris would still be around. It wasn’t Chris himself, but the fact of her own mortality that made her so uncomfortable in his presence.
But now, his friends — and they were all his friends despite the difficulties inherent in their different natures — were in trouble. There was no doubt in Chris’ mind that a werewolf was stalking the streets of West Hollywood. As Troy had said, a werewolf was quite capable of ripping his head from his body, causing him to precede even Burman on to the true and final death. Was he willing to sacrifice his own safety to help protect them? Even more importantly, was he willing to sacrifice Troy’s?
The lycanthropes could easily move about during the day, and they were excellent trackers. And though even a full-grown werewolf might think twice about tangling with someone of Chris’s age and experience, Troy possessed no such immunity. It was made abundantly clear last fall that someone trying to warn Chris off might seek to injure, and perhaps even kill, his beloved mate.
Yet the rogue werewolf, in itself, posed a great danger. Long ago experience had taught him that once humans discovered one supernatural creature in their midst, they left no grave unearthed seeking out others.
“We’d have to keep this very quiet,” he began, tentatively.
“Oh, boogers!” Troy exploded while Becky looked hopeful.
“If this gets out, people are likely to get hysterical. It’d only be a matter of time before one of our new neighbors notices that Troy and I have some very strange habits. I have no desire to face a teeming mob of peasants with stakes.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Chris. We’re right next door to Beverly Hills. You’re much more likely to wake up with a tennis racquet or a golf club pointed at your chest.”
Chris smiled grimly. “That would be just as fatal.”
“Oh yeah? Have you been to Big Six Sports recently?” Becky asked. “Everything’s aluminum.”
He considered carefully, weighing the pros and cons as his companions watched. What finally decided him was the injustice of the situation. A werewolf and a normal were not evenly matched. For such a creature to prey on those more defenseless than itself was simply, to Chris’ mind, intolerable. He mentally came back to his friends with a start and looked Becky in the eye.
“Okay. Where do you want to start?”
Becky’s expression held silent thanks. Troy let loose with a snort of derision and, making his movements as obvious as possible, began once again to try and get Gus’ attention.
