Night of the Himbo

Welcome to Chapter Two of

Night of the Himbo.

It will help if you read Chapter One first.

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This time, Mike woke to the sounds of the coast outside the window: seagulls, the crash of surf. He smelled salt and some expensive room scent. Sage? Incense? He must have made it to Cambria, then.

Except - he couldn't remember the drive up, or the outside of the hotel, or anything after getting into his car. He tried to sit up, and the worst hangover of his life hit him square in the everything.

He felt like he'd been beaten to a pulp by an MMA fighter. Every muscle ached. He could barely breath through his swollen sinuses. He was crusty all over -- his eyes, his nostrils, lips, ears, lower.

He reached down gently and felt his cock. Yeah, he had definitely had sex. A

lot

. But unlike that unforgettable night with Zuzu, he was still drawing a blank. And instead of feeling energized, he felt thirsty as the desert and beyond drained, like he was eighty and would never have an erection again.

Just as he was thinking about staying in bed for another week, he heard a sliding door shift in the bathroom, and the sound of a shower.

"Time to get clean, Roy!" came a woman's voice. "You have sixty seconds to get up."

Who the hell was "Roy"? And why did that voice sound so familiar-

Holy shit.

That was no woman. That was Maya Rankin.

Mike sat bolt upright and scrambled for his clothes. "Roy" might belong here, sexing up the woman who was Mike's boss's boss and a senior partner at ILTA, but Mike Deschelles definitely did

not

. He grabbed his clothes and scrambled for the door while terror did the job of black coffee and a handful of B vitamins.

Shitshitshit-

Mike looked up and down the corridor and spotted an elevator to the left. He ran toward it, grabbing towels and a pair of flipflops from a maid's trolley on the way.

He got into the elevator, twisting the towels into a semirespectable kilt as he hit the lobby button. There had to be a pool somewhere nearby, he thought; the hotel had that kind of vibe. Not that he had a pool body that he wanted to flaunt, of course -- but all he had to do was get to the valet, slide into his car, and drive back to LA so that Roy and Maya could get back to doing their thing.

A black thought slammed through his brain: Could

he

have been their thing? Had he been involved in a three-way with them during his missing hours?

No,

he decided. Even if he had been willing -- and the idea of another man in his bed had never appealed -- Maya Rankin was a dozen leagues above him in looks, power, and success, and she was too smart ever to go fishing in the company pond. If she had chosen to have two men for the night, Mike would not have been one of them.

But how had she ended up in Cambria, at his hotel no less-

The elevator doors opened on the lobby, and Mike blinked. This was no Cambria B&B it was the lobby of the Beachcomber, the hottest beachfront hotel in California.

Southern

California.

Mike wasn't in Cambria. He was still in Los Angeles.

He summoned all the sangfroid he could, ignored the stares from the hotel staff and other guests, and hobbled out to the valet station.

He showed the valet a $50. "No smirks and no questions, got it?" he said, describing his car.

"Yessir."

And a minute later he was pulling into traffic, the hotel's terrycloth the only thing between his butt and the Accord's cheap upholstery.

Half a mile north on Ocean Avenue, he pulled over and searched in the glove compartment for his spare glasses. For the first time, he realized that the clothes he'd grabbed were filthy and shredded, with the exception of his emergency bad-weather duster. It made no sense.

Well, he wasn't going to figure it out in his car, or at the office for that matter. Now that the shock had worn off, the weird hangover was back with a vengeance. He was stiff, sore, and massively dehydrated, with a migraine-sized headache and a heaving stomach. And worse, he reeked of sex. He called his assistant Kheops and told him that he'd be working from home; then he navigated his way carefully back to the Valley.

Three hours later, thanks to a pile-up in the Sepulveda Pass and curbside nap at the Mandeville Canyon trailhead, he was back at his place, showering away the stank and letting the water seep into his skin and down his throat. Out of the shower, he stretched, expecting to feel the pain from Zuzu's bite and scratches that had lingered for the last four weeks.

He felt nothing.

He stretched his arm, twisted his back, rotated his shoulders. There was the soreness that came from a workout, a massive headache, a queasy gut, but not the pain he'd felt from Zuzu.

He found a hand mirror and held it up to his mirrored medicine cabinet, and finally got a look at his back.

Zuzu's bite and scratches were fully healed scars, pale white teeth marks and fine white lines, as though they'd been made years ago.

This was too weird, even for LA. He washed down two Advil with the emergency bourbon he kept underneath the sink, and then decided there was no reason to stop at just one shot. He poured another two fingers over ice, and took a lawn chair outside to the courtyard of his bungalow complex.

The sun was already near the horizon when he woke up, feeling better, but hungrier than he had in weeks. He called up his favorite Argentine place and ordered in one, two...three steak sandwiches, all medium rare, with chimichurri sauce, potatoes, and greens. He finally slowed down in the middle of the third sandwich and checked his phone for messages.

Five from Alice.

"Mike! Thank God! Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm fine. I just decided to work from home today. What's the emergency?"

Alice hesitated. "I...I was talking to Lisa at the resort. She told me you hadn't shown up, and you weren't at work, so I was worried."

"I'm touched. Really. But they do make you wait 48 hours before you file a missing person report." Maybe

touched

wasn't quite right.

Surprised at her reaction --

yeah, that was better.

"Well hah, hah," said Alice. "But you're okay? Just same old, same old?"

Mike hesitated. He

did

want to talk to someone. But waking up in two strange beds in less than a month was too much for him to admit to any woman, let alone a colleague like Alice. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him as some kind of...of himbo.

And she was hiding something. He was sure of it. He wanted to see her hand before he revealed his own. "It's all good."

"Well...okay. But if you feel weird, call me."

Too late for that.

"Sure."

He hung up and glanced out the window. The sun had just set. Some of his neighbors were out in the courtyard, chatting on the grass. He grabbed his lawn chair and reached for the doorknob. The moon was rising just above his bungalow's lone palm tree.

The moon.

Last night, it had been the full moon...

And it all came back.

He had decided to take Alice up on her offer. An olive branch was an olive branch, it was a beautiful drive up to Cambria, and he could get some work done while he was there. Besides, he'd been feeling more and more...antsy? Twitchy? Damn, call it what it was,

horny

this week. He was practically crawling out of his slacks, which frankly felt tighter in the crotch than they ever had before. It was all he could do to stay professional in front of the female staffers. Two days prior, he'd found himself ogling Maya Rankin, senior agent and very much a power MILF, and he'd had to run to the bathroom to relieve himself before she noticed.

It was midweek, but Cambria would be a great way to get his head straight. He left work early, drove home, and packed. He figured he'd get some dinner in town, then drive up the coast after the traffic had thinned. He was driving north through Burbank, the sun still in the sky, when the full moon rose.

For him it was like looking at the sun, that powerful, that bright. The silver light seemed to penetrate his eyes to his brain and then the back of his skull. It tingled down his spine like a rush of cold, clear water, shocking his neck, his back, the base of his spine with energy. The energy suffused his back, then his chest, abs, shoulders, limbs -- and when it reached his hips, his crotch, it began to heat up. He felt a flush across his face and then his entire body. He started to breathe heavily. Suddenly he was blue steel, as his granddad would have said. A cat couldn't scratch it. He pulled into Brace Canyon, parked, and stumbled out of his car.

"What...what is-" He fell to the ground. His body was changing, shifting, his muscles knotting and untying, his bones lengthening, his legs rigid, his face reshaping itself, his hair growing, his cock-

He screamed.

The pain was terrible. The pain was

wonderful.

It became more and more intense, a fire raging in his muscles and bones, until he howled with pain-

-And he came. And came. And came.

He didn't know how long he lay there. When his eyes opened, his clothes were rags hanging like banners from his torso. The pain was gone. He sat up with an ease that he hadn't felt since college, combined with a feeling of...more weight, maybe? More power. He swayed as he stood. He felt different. His balance was off. He looked in the Accord's side mirror.

He had to bend far down to do it, like some joker had lowered the whole car.

"Holy shit!"

The face looking back at him wasn't Mike Deschelles. It was Mike at thirty,

maybe,

but also Mike as drawn by a cover artist for romance novels. He had never had those cheekbones. He had never had that perfect three-day stubble. His hair- It was

all

of his hair. His college hairline.

He looked at the arm holding the mirror. His bicep bulged. His whole body -- he was as ripped as the star of a superhero movie.

He was

tall.

He was

cut.

And he was

hard.

Still.

Whoa.

What was going on? He tried to put the pieces together, but he couldn't. And it wasn't just because it was so crazy. It was like there was a warm fog in his brain. It was hard to put things together, and why try? Wouldn't there be someone who could just explain it to him? Sure, there had to be. People were nice. Somebody would talk him through it, he just had to think of who. His neighbor Dave? No. His doctor? No. His assistant? His ex-wife Becky?

Becky!

That had to be it. Becky had always been smarter than he was. She had always known what to do, what was best. That's why he'd put her through medical school. And that's why she'd left him. At least, that's what she said, that he wasn't going anywhere, and it would be best for both of them.

Funny. That had hurt once, but he couldn't remember why. Didn't matter. She'd be able to explain this.

He relaxed. He'd made a decision. It felt good. He felt good. And it would be good to see Becky. He hadn't in so long. Why not? Wouldn't she be happy to see him? Of course she would. And he wanted her to be happy. Except for the divorce, she'd always been nice to him.

Where was she again? Santa Monica. Right.

He pulled off the last rags of his chinos and polo shirt and wiped himself clean. Then he slid back into the car, adjusting the seat and putting his glasses in the glove box. He didn't need them now. He grinned at himself in the rear view mirror as his head brushed the ceiling. He felt

great.

He drove west through the Valley and then cut over the hill to LA. He turned...right on Wilshire, that was it...it was tough to remember, but he was sure it was a right turn to Santa Monica. Still, he felt better when he passed under the freeway and knew that he was headed the right way. Wouldn't Becky be happy to see him! And-

Wait.

He looked around. He was in Santa Monica, and Santa Monica was tiny. But this place looked nothing like the area Becky lived in. He was on Ocean Avenue, across from a trim white and blue hotel that looked out onto the beach.

Beachcomber

read the low sign under the palm trees.

Well, maybe they could give him directions. For a moment he thought about using the GPS on his phone, but one look at the menus and icons was enough to make him want to do it the old-fashioned way. And he could use a drink before he saw Becky. Maybe get one for her too.

The valet's jaw dropped when Mike stepped out of the car and tossed him the keys.

Oh, right.

He needed clothes. "Sorry, bro," said Mike. "I've got an overcoat in the trunk." He took back the keys, opened the trunk, and pulled out the long duster he kept for trips out of state. It still fit, pretty much. He shoved his wallet in a pocket. "Better?"

The valet blinked a couple of times before he said "Uh, sure. Yeah."

Mike clapped him on the shoulder and walked in.

The lobby was filled with well-dressed people, meeting and mingling. There were two bars, one on each side. Both looked out over the ocean, where a big orange sunset was giving way to a starry night over the sea.

And something else was going on. Something in the air. He breathed deep. He could smell alcohol, and fruit, and cooking seafood. But underneath all that, something else. Not just the hotel smells of air conditioning, woody incense, and leather furniture, but sweat, perfume, make-up, and musk, all blended together in the background of his nose to make him think of one thing...

flesh.

It hit him like a sledgehammer to the base of his brain, and then crawled down his spine to his crotch.

"Whoa," he said.

He was harder than a steel pipe. This was the smell of sex. All these people were here for a reason. And so was he.

No,

he thought.

I have important things to do. I have to find Becky. I have to get an explanation.

"Well, hello. I haven't seen you here before."

Mike looked into the eyes of a very familiar woman. He was sure he'd met her before -- he'd never have forgotten that face -- but he couldn't say where.

She was elfin, elegant, blue-eyed. In her forties, maybe. Her black hair had a dramatic streak of pure silver, and was cut short in locks that framed her eyes and draped around her ears. She wore a black silk blazer over a dark shirt opened to the third button; the shadow between her breasts looked deep and soft.

"What's your name?"

He gaped like a fish hit with a club. He was about to say

Mike,

but something made him change his mind. "Uh...uh...Roy, ma'am."

She frowned for only a moment. "I'm Maya, Roy. You can't call me 'ma'am,' but you can buy me a drink." Then she looked at his duster and smiled. "Or I can buy you one. Come."

He followed her into the bar on the left, hobbling as his cock pushed against the confines of the coat.

The bar was packed with stylish people, most of them somewhere between his age --

his age?

- and Maya's; but Maya didn't hesitate.

She walked right up to the bar, where the bartender, in a silk shirt and man-bun, came to her in an instant and poured two cocktails without Maya saying a word.

Maya handed one of them to Mike -- a martini glass with something dark red over ice -- and then kissed her fingers at the bartender, who almost bowed before he left.

"Try it," she said.

Mike was about to say he preferred a cold beer, but Maya was being nice to him, so he lifted the glass to his lips. It was delicious, he had to admit, not too sweet, the taste of pomegranates and lemons, and a cold, slow burn that started on his lips and lit up his tongue and throat and belly before it was through.

"Wow, that's good, ma- Maya. Thank you."

"It's my own recipe, Roy. It's always a pleasure when I can share it with someone special."

"Oh, I'm not special."

"Never turn down a compliment, Roy." Her finger traced his cheek for just a moment, so lightly Mike wasn't even sure it happened. "Tell me about yourself. What do you do?"

"Uh, well..." Maya was wearing just a hint of perfume, like flesh, like oranges, with a clean, bitter undertone. It was the most arousing thing Mike had ever encountered. It was hard for him to think, to remember what he did. "Uh, I don't know, Maya."

He had thought that might sour things. Instead, Maya almost purred. "You know, you have wonderful bone structure. Have you considered acting?"

"Oh, hi!"

Mike turned. A pretty blonde girl in her twenties bumped up against him. "Didn't we meet at that audition yesterday?" Her hand was on his arm, squeezing.

Maya smiled and leaned into the girl's ear. She whispered something. The girl went pale under her tan and left.

"What did you say to her?"

"If I'd wanted you to know, Roy, I would have said it out loud."

"Oh."

"Tell me more about yourself."

"Well, I-" Mike struggled. He couldn't remember anything. Or rather, he

could

remember things, film cameras, student loans, piles of screenplays, coffee houses -- but none of it fit together. None of it made sense. And how could he explain that to the elegant, beautiful, somehow scary woman who was leaning into him, breathing in his breath, waiting for an answer?

"I'm not very interesting, I guess...Maya. I'm just one more person trying to make it, I guess."

"You don't have to be good at conversation to be interesting, Roy. In fact, sometimes it's the opposite -- especially when it's clear you have other things to offer."

And maybe by luck, maybe not, the crowd shifted and her thigh grazed his crotch. Mike fought to keep his eyes fixed on hers and not rolling up in his sockets. The wave of excitement was almost more than he could stand.

Her hand was on his shoulder, traveling lightly up and down his arm. It was like a cat made of electricity running across his skin.

"We'll finish our drinks," said Maya. "And then go for a stroll."

It wasn't a question or a suggestion. "That sounds good, Maya."

"I know." She glanced down between them and gave a little smile. "Sit up a little, Roy. You look uncomfortable."

Roy glanced down and saw what she was smiling at -- the massive bulge in his duster. For a moment, the spell was almost broken. That wasn't him. He had never been that- that-

And then the happy clouds came back.

He looked directly at her. "

You

are making me uncomfortable, Maya. Sitting here, I mean." His throat was dry with desire.

She took his arm. "Let's go."

He followed her through the crowd out onto the veranda. The full moon was high over the ocean, gleaming off the sea foam and the waves and the pale sand of the beach. Maya backed him up against the railing, one slender hand on his shoulder, the other on his crotch. She tilted her neck and guided his mouth to it. He licked her skin; she tasted of salt and orange blossom.

"That's it," she breathed, as other couples moved past them. "Just there." She eased them both against the railing -- so that more people could see them. Maya liked to be seen; she liked to show off what she had.

She had him.

He moved up to her ear, gently nibbling her lobe around its tiny bronze stud. She gasped and pulled him closer, moving her right hand up to play with the nape of his neck. Her fingers ran through his hair, tugging, guiding, emerging to stroke his temple, his ear.

She kissed him then, her lips already moist on his, her breath, still tasting of the cocktail, in his mouth. Her tongue found his, thrusting confidently in, then circling around his, teasing, retreating, finally advancing in a deep, languid rhythm, claiming him.

He felt her torso against his, her breasts against his chest even through her jacket, her belly against his own. He let one hand drift down her back to rest on the swell of her bottom. As he did, as her tongue became part of his mouth, he felt her clutch him, and shudder.