Quicsand

This story is a gay romance/thriller that will appear in 5 parts. As a novella (101 pages), it lacks the non-stop lurid sex of many Literotica stories yet has several steamy scenes.

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Part 1

I read bout my neighbor on the front page of the morning paper. He had been gunned down in his car outside a bar, his body riddled with bullets. Eleven of them. 9mm. I'm guessing from a Glock. Not that I know about such things, but on TV it's always a Glock.

That explained all the activity next door. When I had first stepped out to get the paper, there had been a cop car in the street and a dark-colored SUV in the driveway. Undercover car, I'm guessing.

I don't know much about my neighbors. I moved into this golf course community two years ago following my divorce and they were already living there. A gay couple, they seemed very ill-suited. One of them was a big, rugged-looking man. Lucas was his name. He struck me as thuggish and foreboding. In two years he'd never spoken more than a dozen words to me but his scowl spoke volumes. Lucas was the one who had been gunned down.

The other was Evan. He was a small man, maybe five eight, with a gentle demeanor and slightly younger than my thirty-two years. He was strikingly handsome, almost pretty, and affable when his partner wasn't around. On the rare occasions that we crossed paths, Evan's smile lit up his face and he became animated as if he was dying for company. His soft green eyes were almond-shaped and accented by eyebrows that any woman would envy, lush yet trimmed in a perfect arc. As we chatted on the lawn, those magnetic eyes were never still. He kept casting anxious glances over his shoulder and I sensed that Lucas was the jealous type. Obsessively so.

Our condos had a common wall. It was a dense, double-thickness of brick, still, I heard some things. Usually angry shouts and pleading cries that made me cringe and wonder about the mayhem transpiring on the other side. I almost called the police one night. I probably should have and am not proud of my reluctance to do so. Reluctance? Let's call it what it was, cowardice. I did not want to get crosswise with a man like Lucas and, short of gunshots, I was going to mind my own business.

I ran into Evan in the supermarket one day and it was a rare opportunity to chat with him outside of Lucas's looming shadow. I mentioned that I had heard the sounds of fighting several times.

"Arguing," an embarrassed Evan claimed with a reassuring pat on my chest, "not fighting. Lucas can be rough, but he would never hurt me." He spoke crisply, without sibilance, and just a hint of Oklahoma twang. His hands were as articulate as his diction, with slender fingers and curated nails.

"Well, if you don't mind my saying, you seem like an odd couple. Are you sure you're safe?"

Evan's voice crackled nervously. "No. I mean yes. Perfectly safe. Lucas is a sweetheart of a guy. Really."

"A sweetheart? But you just said he can be rough. Look, I don't mean to stick my nose into your business, I just want you to know you can always come to my door if you need to get away. That's all I'm gonna say."

"Thanks for your concern, Alan. I'm fine though. Perfectly fine. And safe. And he's a nice guy. Really."

That night the walls shook with the sound of yelling, then the crash of something breaking.

When I finished reading the newspaper account of Lucas's shooting, I googled the bar where it occurred. It was a strip joint, a titty bar as we called them in my fraternity days. There was an archive of news articles reporting various nefarious occurrences there. Violence, gambling, even prostitution. I wondered what a gay man was doing there.

Then my doorbell rang. It was a detective named Hardesty and a uniformed officer. The cops had never come to my door before and, I confess, I felt a bit of a thrill. Inviting them in, I put on a fresh pot of coffee.

"I really know very little about them," I told the detective. "Lucas especially. He was very stand-offish."

"Did you notice any people coming and going?" The detective was curt and sat sphinx-like and inscrutable. Not the sort of man to trifle with. The uniform was trying to stare me down. They seemed to be a parody of TV cops. I just wanted to be as helpful as possible, so I played my role straight.

"No. They didn't seem to entertain or have visitors. All I can tell you is that Lucas seemed to be a very volatile person. Ominous, even."

"Was their lifestyle ever an issue?" the uniform asked to the obvious annoyance of the detective.

"Their lifestyle? If you mean their fighting, yes. That worried me. But I'm not a homophobe. I don't give two shits about their 'lifestyle.'"

"You heard fighting through that wall?" Detective Hardesty continued. "That's a thick wall."

"I heard yelling, yes." In my head, that cop from the old TV show kept repeating: Just the facts, Sir, just the facts. "They could be awfully loud. And I heard something break once. I'm guessing it was something smashing against the wall. But I never heard Evan crying out in pain or yelling, 'Don't hit me. Don't hit me.' Nothing like that."

"So you heard arguing? Not actual violence?"

"If I had heard violence, I would have called y'all."

"No strange people coming and going? Activity like that?"

"No, but I'm not the type that's always looking out the window. The guards at the gate would know more about that than me." Just the facts, Alan, just the facts. "Really, all I can tell you is that Lucas was an ominous guy and Evan seemed very cowed by him,"

"Okay. Well, that about covers it."

"Was he connected?" I asked.

"Connected? To who?"

"Like the mob? Or gangsters? Doesn't this have all the markings of a mob hit?"

"We don't have organized crime here in Tulsa like you see on TV."

"But we have an element of that, don't we? I mean, people you don't cross?"

"You don't strike me as the street-drug type."

"I have a medical marijuana card, that's all."

"Then let's just say if you only borrow from the bank and always pay off your bets, you're perfectly safe in this city."

"Good advice."

They rose to leave, but the detective paused for one last question. "Mr. Eberson, I notice you have a picture frame on your mantle with no picture inside."

"That's right." I wracked my brain for a response that wouldn't reveal too much. "I couldn't bear to look at the photo any longer."

The uniformed officer spoke up again. "Then why do you keep the frame there?"

"To remember."

"Remember what?" the cop asked.

"With all due respect, gentlemen, I don't think that's germane to your investigation."

"You're right," Detective Hardesty snapped with a cutting glance at the cop. "I apologize. Here's my card. We'll contact you if we have any further questions."

________

The next afternoon I rang Evan's doorbell to offer my condolences. We sat in his kitchen, and he poured me a glass of sweet tea.

"How are you holding up?" I asked.

"Okay, I guess. I feel stunned mostly. I keep waiting for the crying and grief. I guess it hasn't hit me yet."

"I've read it can take time. Everyone mourns differently."

"The truth is, Alan, my feelings are more akin to relief than mourning." He averted his eyes shamefully for a moment before looking directly into mine. "Is that a terrible thing to admit?"

I flailed about for a proper response. "I'm a money manager, not a psychiatrist, and certainly not a priest. I'm guessing that there was considerable stress in your relationship judging from the commotions I heard."

"Stress is an understatement." A faint snort issued as he rolled his eyes. "In fact, you were right the other day in the market. I was often afraid. Actually..." I watched his pride wrestle with the truth, "I was always afraid."

"How long had the two of you been a couple?"

"God, I would never call us a couple."

"Okay," I stammered, "well then, how long had you lived together?"

"I can't remember exactly. It's not like we ever celebrated an anniversary or anything like that."

"I don't understand."

"It's embarrassing to explain."

"Look, I don't mean to pry."

"It's okay. I mean, who am I kidding?" He took a deep breath and plowed headlong into his story. "The truth is, we started hooking up maybe three years ago. I've always gone for Alpha types - we call them Doms - and Lucas was definitely a Type-A dom. I 'hosted' him, meaning he came here for our hook-ups. It got to be a regular thing. Oh God," he seemed to cringe down to his toes, "you don't really want to hear this, do you?"

I was cringing, too. In those few sentences, he had offered the merest glimpse into an alien world I'd never been tempted to explore. As the maps of the ancient mariners used to say: Beyond this point, there be dragons. Still, I felt obliged to empathize. "If you need to talk, I'm listening. But I don't mean to pry."

"Well, like I said we got to be fuck buddies." He shook his head in dismay, uncertain whether he should continue. "My god, I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"It's okay. You've been through one hell of an experience." I smiled and gave a sympathetic shrug. "You've got a lot of shit to unload."

"Unlucky you, being the one to hear it. Anyway, it started out with Lucas being assertive but not rough or anything. In fact, at first he made sure the satisfaction was mutual, so why not? At first.

"Then one day he says, 'I'm hungry,' and he starts rutting around the kitchen. He never asked, mind you. Lucas wasn't the type to ask. He just informed me."

Evan knew it sounded incomprehensible and he struggled to explain. "What I hadn't realized was that he was sizing me up. Trying me on. Checking the fit. Next thing I know he was expecting me to feed him after every hooked up. I'd serve him as he watched TV or a movie." Even shrugged at his own complacency. "Then one day he came over and we fucked and he just never left."

I was incredulous. "He just assumed possession of your home?"

"Yes. He just sat down, put his feet up, and acted like this was his place."

"How does that happen?"

"Here's what you have to understand. Lucas had a gift for cruelty. It was his craft. I bet he's even buried a body or two. Once he leeched on to me, my choices were to be his punching bag or his fuck toy. What was I going to do? Go to the police? Let me tell you something, homophobia has a home in every police station."

Evan seemed to read my dismay and continued in exasperation. "Alan, there are government programs for abused women, entire networks for battered spouses, but there are no safe houses for abused gays. Go to the police? Detective Hardesty had an absolute disdain for me. That uniformed cop wanted to wipe his boots on me."

"I don't doubt it," I admitted grudgingly. "But there are always the courts..."

"You're right. Maybe I could have gotten a protective order, but then what? Lucas was the kind of guy who would wipe his ass with a court order, then rub it in my face. He'd always be out there somewhere, waiting for me. Lurking. Biding his time. Parasites don't go away."

"That sounds terrifying. What did he do for a living? Where did he get his money?"

"When I asked, I never got a straight answer. Detective Hardesty thinks Lucas was making a move into big-time drug trafficking. All I know is he sometimes sat lopsided there was so much cash in his wallet. Other times, he shook me down for two or three hundred at a time."

I was dumbstruck. I tried to imagine what it must have been like and simply couldn't. But Evan is five-eight and maybe a hundred sixty pounds soaking wet. I'm six-two and two-twenty. Reality looked different from his vantage point.

He could see me struggling to comprehend. "Do you know what erotic asphyxiation is?" he said.

"I've heard the term."

"Lucas took the erotic out of it. He did it playfully a couple of times and it was kind of a thrill. Not my favorite thing but it was all part of our sexual game. One time he was doing it and just stopped the sex part. He slowly choked me until I passed out. I mean, really slowly." Evan clutched his own throat for emphasis. His fingers dug deep and his face reddened. "Like a cat toying with a mouse, until I fucking lost consciousness. Another time, I was just sitting in a chair, and out of the blue, he did it again. I think he got the same thrill either way."

"Oh my god, Evan, that's horrifying."

Suddenly, he burst into sobs and turned his face away. "I'm ashamed to even admit these things."

Reaching out, I patted his hand. There was a tremble there. "Don't be. I'm not judging you. You were the victim of a brutal monster."

It took a moment for him to gather himself. I thought it was over, but he started up with more.

"And then there were the guns. Waving them in my face. Aiming them at me. He had a gun safe, but it wasn't a safety measure. It was to keep me from getting my hands on them and blowing his ass away in his sleep."

Something brushed up against my leg, I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Oh, it's just Lucy," he said as he reached under the table and extracted a sleek black cat.

He placed the cat in his lap and started rubbing its neck. Lucy instantly started purring like a low rider with straight pipes. Her purrs echoed off the walls. The sound calmed Evan.

"I can't believe she went right to you. She's so skittish these days."

My heart slowed its hysterical pounding as I stretched out my hand. Lucy craned her neck forward so I could scratch between her ears.

Evan was amazed. "Look at that. She likes you. Cats have such good instincts about people." Incredibly, she purred even louder as I petted her. "Her full name is Lucy Fur. Get it? Like a fur coat?" He chuckled at his own wit.

"No, I get it. Black cat. Lucifer." I gave Evan a scowling appraisal. "You really are gay, aren't you?" For the first time, I heard his laugh. "I mean, you couldn't be gayer if she had a bow tie for a collar." That made him guffaw. "That is like the gayest fucking name for a cat ever." It wasn't great humor, but he howled and tears of mirth began to fall from his eyes.

"I know, right? Thanks, Alan. I needed a good laugh."

We sat for a moment. I watched his laughter dissipate and become forgotten as the weight of events returned. He continued his lament.

"Lucy hated Lucas. I'd go days without seeing her. She'd be hiding in a closet somewhere. Lucy has such good instincts about people."

Evan lifted Lucy, nuzzling her nose to nose, then returned her to his lap. "Lucas came home drunk once and tried to pet her. His petting was more like mauling and Lucy scratched him. Lucas went absolutely berserk. He pulled out a fucking gun. Can you believe that? Chased her through the house with a fucking semi-automatic pistol trying to get a clean shot at her. I was right behind him, screaming and crying, hoping I wasn't the one who got shot. I'm sure you heard us that night."

"He sounds like a monster. I know I'm supposed to say 'every death is a tragedy' but you're lucky he's gone."

"Thanks for saying it, Alan. I need to say it, too. I really am better off with him dead. I'm just so ashamed. How could I have let it all happen?"

"The same way we all let mistakes happen," I assured him. "We assume our lives are on solid ground but they're not. We're on quicksand. By the time we recognize that, it's too late. The quicksand has already got us. We start flailing but that just makes things worse. We just sink deeper and deeper."

Evan canted his head and his look deepened in a sort of revelatory moment.

"Maybe," I continued, "when we realize we're sinking, we have something solid to grab onto, a lifeline. Then, maybe, we can pull ourselves out. Otherwise, we just get sucked deeper and deeper until either the Lone Ranger passes by and saves us, or we sink out of sight."

Evan considered me like I was the Buddha or Yoda. "Go on, Alan. I want to hear more."

"I'm not judging you because we all make mistakes but maybe the quicksand had you before Lucas ever came along."

Several moments passed as Evan mulled this over. "You could be right."

"Look, Evan, I have no idea what your scene is. But it's possible whoever murdered Lucas was your Lone Ranger in disguise. Or maybe now you will find something solid to grab onto. All I know is that quicksand is a motherfucker."

With that look of revelation on his face, Evan contemplated what I said. "You're right. Quicksand is a motherfucker."

Finally, I asked, "What's next?"

"Autopsy is tomorrow to determine the legal cause of death."

"I'm guessing it was getting shot eleven times."

"Ah, but which bullet actually did the deed? It seems insane but that's what the law requires. Then the funeral two days later."

"Next of kin?"

"The police tracked down a couple of sisters. I'm staying out of that."

"Well, let me know if there is anything I can do. Or if you just need to talk." I handed him my business card. "Call or just knock at my door."

Evan walked me out. "Alan, it's been such a relief to talk. Thank you."

I knew he needed a hug so I gave him one. It was a firm, supportive hug that I allowed to last too long. Evan sighed as he sank softly against me. It was the most human contact I had had since my divorce. Two years of penitent isolation. Now empathy compelled me to hug this tragic man. The longer he held me, the more the gesture transformed from consoling into something deeper. I lingered a moment longer, then broke away.

Back in my condo, I poured myself a whiskey and kindled the gas fireplace. My body sank into an old familiar chair. As I let my thoughts drift with the flames, Evan's tale replayed in my mind, the tortuous abuse and constant fear. Then the feeling of his body pressed to mine. It was still tangible, his softness and warmth. My eyes drifted upward to the mantle. The empty picture frame seemed to stare back at me like Edgar Allen Poe's raven croaking "Nevermore." I crossed to the mantle and turned the picture frame down.

__________

Two days later, I stopped by Evan's door before making a supermarket run, offering to pick up anything he needed. He invited me in for coffee. I was seated at the kitchen table for mere seconds before Lucy hopped onto my lap. She immediately commenced purring.

Evan set my coffee in front of me saying, "I should commend you on your sleuthing skills."

"What do you mean?"

"It was a bullet that killed him."

We laughed at that, then had a pleasant conversation without another mention of Lucas. I finished my coffee as Evan made up a grocery list and I left. Later, when I dropped off the few things he requested, gentle music was playing. Chopin I think. Evan was more relaxed than I had ever seen him.

"Lucy and I are going to take a nap," he said. "For the first time in years, I can sleep in peace."

"I'm glad. You're overdue for some chilling."

We hugged again. His body melted against mine as he took deep resonant breaths. He felt wonderful. I had to get away.

That evening I got a text from Evan inviting me over for a glass of wine. Accepting would be the proper thing to do. Despite his relief at being rid of that ogre, I knew misbegotten emotions roiled within him. He needed company but I worried what behavior might be manifested in his state.

An invitation? It had been years since I had received an invitation. My wife, Jenny, and I used to get them all the time and we often entertained as well. Not that we were a whirlwind couple, but we had a cohort of friends who gravitated into a tight nucleus by the end of college. The eight of us had turned the corner of thirty together and we all had solid careers with framed MBA and law degrees adorning our office walls. Solid, almost stolid, lives.

After the divorce, the invitations continued for a while. Persisted is a better word because I turned them all down. Shame will do that, cause you to sever all ties with even the most faithful friends. I managed to maintain business relationships with only the briefest "rough patch" that happens in almost every professional career. Those perturbations are tolerated so long as reasonable comportment is maintained. A few hangovers. Even a brief sob session behind closed doors. Though my life had been utterly shattered, I managed to keep my wardrobe tight and my hair regularly styled. When you manage portfolios of hundreds of millions, appearance matters.