A Dangerous Thing
an excerpt
Blake switched off the light in the office and made his way down toward the factory floor. Break time; now he could head to the lunchroom and whatever the vending machines might hold. The metal stairs boomed across the cavernous expanse of disintegrating deco. Built in an era when even functional spaces served as art, the building now moldered in a graveyard of skid-row disrepair. A quick glance at the alien green glow from his LED watch told him it was eleven at night. Shit, everyone he knew was out partying, dancing through the streets of West Hollywood decked out in makeup and not much else. And he was stuck working factory security on Halloween instead of watching the parade of eye candy.
Not that he really liked the fluffy bunny kids who turned out in force. Strong, silent, mysterious types were more his thing. Older guys who knew what life had to offer. Blake's friends claimed he'd been born ten years older than he was. Whatever. Someone had to be responsible. Still, he'd like someone who could be a little responsible with him, understand why he busted his butt doing swing-shift security and missing out on "the good life." The good life wouldn't stay good forever.
He walked out onto the landing. Half a dozen plastic Jack-o-Lanterns shed their electric glow on the walkway. He shook his head at the fanciful grimaces before taking the stairs two at a time. Halfway down the risers it hit him hard. It really hit him.
Autumn had arrived.
Not in an intellectual gee-it's-the-right-time-of-year kinda way, but a visceral reaction of Blake's senses. Maybe there was something different about the quality of the moonlight filtering through the dingy, sagging windows high above him. Souls drifted in dust motes, their fleeting dances picked up by wan shafts raining to the floor. The smell of the air took on a faint copper edge. It seemed in an instant that the air dropped degree or six cooler then it really should have been. Maybe it was all or none of these things, but his body knew that fall had come. That was strange. Southern California and fall didn't mix much. Usually, the change of seasons was signaled an abrupt shift from hot as hell days right into freeze your butt off wet winter.
Not like he was going to meet someone who could snuggle warm by a fire while working this gig. That came later, after college and after his car was paid off. Still it would be nice. Blake couldn't remember the last time he'd gone on a date, much less gotten laid. Was it five months back, when he'd had an early summer a hook up in a bar on the beach?
Below, cloaked in shifting shadows, bulky outlines marched in rows. Consciously, Blake knew they were industrial sewing machines. Yet, with everything so empty and hollow he conjured up visions of hulking wolf-things girding up for war. Bangs and groans from beyond the wall filtered into to swell in his mind as their voices. They yammered for his attention with murmurs.
Holding his breath, Blake cut through their ranks, lest he rouse them further. The only presence sounded in his rubber soled footsteps across cement. A dank chill seeped up from the floor, nipping his toes and ankles. Just ahead loomed steel double doors; huge hinges and studded surfaces belonged more to a mausoleum than the plant where they rusted. Twisting flights of concrete cast angels, demons, maidens and skeletal knights supported a broad lintel. Etched into its surface, Men are mortal, only their bones and their works survive them. The saying always creeped Blake out. He guessed that some long dead manager thought it might inspire his workers to care. Probably didn't succeed it any better than the motivational posters tacked to the walls of the office upstairs.
Ghost fingers of cold wormed into his palms as Blake pushed open the door. It took nearly all his strength to move it enough that he could slip into the interior hall. Sliding through, Blake found his back to the downward sloping tunnel. Legend claimed they used to wheel great caskets of munitions down this hall to the loading docks. A factory once devoted to war now stitched together naughty bits of lingerie shilled in discount catalogs and cheap store fronts. The groan of aging metal protested as Blake pulled the door closed. A final booming echo shut him in and he turned. Blake started as his heart shot into his throat.
Bobbing at near shoulder height, a glowing orange ball of light danced near the middle of the corridor. Slowly, the baseball sized light dipped and came back up. It faded out, pulsing in time to the beat of Blake's heart. Seconds later the will-o-the-wisp winked back on. In the shadow he saw a form. Something, someone stood by the black carcasses of the coffee and soup machines.
The man turned. It was a man, holding large Maglight tucked under his arm. Blake remembered to breathe. The yellowish glow illuminated the shadows over the stranger's eyes, nose and mouth in a strange grinning countenance. Blake shook it off and dropped his hand to the mace on his belt. These were the times he wished he was bonded to be armed with something carrying a bit more stopping power.
"Hallo." A voice tinged with the amused brush of an Irish soul slipped through the darkness. "You look like someone walked over your grave."
"I just wasn't expecting to see anyone here." Cautious, Blake approached, his own Mag held high and left, spotlighting the man in a bright pool. The man wore clothing similar to his own. Black military style pants and gray t-shirt under a black windbreaker. "And why are you here?"
"It's Halloween." The guy's tone said the reason should be painfully obvious. His name tag read John Sahvan. "Lot of mischief happens on Halloween." Blake's pulse settled down to something closer to normal. Extra security. Of course. This old factory was just the kind of place that tempted teenagers with too much time and too few brains to hold drunken séance/party/gang-bangs. John must be extra security put on shift for the night. Vaguely, Blake remembered a memo about high-risk locals and extra bodies'although he only skimmed internal memos before trashing them. Most never applied to his beat.
"So, John, you on this gig?" He used the man's name so John would know Blake had studied him, marked him and judged him. It drew any interaction onto a personal level. That might diffuse any trouble before it began, if Blake read the situation wrong.
"Sure I am, and they call me Jack not John." Shifting the light to his belt and confirming Blake's less toxic suspicions, Jack grinned. "I'm only in this place for the one night." Jack didn't comment on how Blake knew his name.
"Really?" Without realizing he was still holding it, Blake let out his breath. "No rest for the wicked?"
"Something like that." Jack grinned. "I never stay in any one place too long." Then he turned back to the vending machine. "Although that means I don't get to learn things like this infernal contraption doesn't like my coins. I was thinking a cup of apple cider on a cold night might sit fine."
The guy had to be Irish, from Ireland Irish not a forth or fifth generation American transplant. Bright eyes, a strong cut face and reddish-brown hair cut a little sloppy and long placed him in his thirties or so. But the way Jack spoke'it was like listening again to his best friend Mike's granddad spin yarns about the old country. When he turned and held out his hand, well Jack's body moved with the restrained energy of rangy muscle. Their security company liked to hire tough guys or big guys, preferably big tough guys. One of the few fringe benefits of a ten-dollar-an-hour gig was a nice selection of fresh meat to ogle on occasion. Blake never dared take it past the mental drooling stage.
Blake shrugged. "It doesn't like coins for some reason." This had been his beat for going on two months now. Not that he minded. The office had heat, air, and a TV. No one bugged him. He could read his graphic novels or science fiction paperbacks in peace and not have to explain why. Once every couple of hours he hauled himself up to make the rounds. Hell, the owners didn't care if he caught a little shut eye on the cot'so long as he turned the watch keys on schedule. Most of the other guys claimed the old factory gave them the willies and didn't like to work the nightshift. Fine by Blake. The place was creepy, downright spooky when the wind blew and rattled the old tin roof, but Blake didn't scare easy. Too many real terrors existed to get worked up over bumps in the night.
Fishing a dollar out of his pocket, Blake offered it over. "Give me your money and use the paper." For a moment Jack eyed the dollar as though he wasn't sure what it was. Then he grabbed the bill and dropped the heavy silver bit in Blake's palm. "Well, shit." Blake pocketed the coin without looking at it. The weight alone gave it away. "No wonder it didn't like it. There ain't a vending machine outside a post office that'll take a dollar coin."
Appearing sheepish, Jack fed the bill into the hopper. As he punched up his choice, he explained. "It's all I have on me. Just moths in my pocket otherwise." The cup dropped into the feeder, liquid drizzled in, and the scent of spiced apple filled the hall.
"That all you're having for lunch?" Blake stepped across the hall. The old wooden door fought him, but he finally managed to wrench it open. Somewhere in the whine of un-oiled hinges, Jack's reply was lost. Old grease and stale chips warred with the smell of the cider in Jack's cup. Twisting the tiny key in the slot, Blake turned on one bank of lights. Dim fluorescents flickered to life. Brushed metal tables caught the sputtering glow.
Pulled cotton spiderwebs and day-glow horror cutouts glared down off the walls, watching him cross the room. Blake's boots shushed along a tile floor as he headed back behind the counter to the industrial refrigerator. Popping the large lever lock, Blake reached into the cooler and drew forth the long metal box holding his lunch. It wasn't much, a couple of pre-made sandwiches he'd grabbed on his way in.
Jack already sat at one of the tables spinning an apple between his palms. For a moment Blake wondered where the fruit came from. Then he rationalized it, likely from Jack's pants. You could carry an entire salad bar in the patch pockets of those damn uniforms. Jack looked up and bounced the apple in one hand, taunting Blake. "Want a bite?"
"Sure." Now that they had light, Blake could appreciate getting stuck on shift with Jack. Lean and hard, just the way Blake liked his guys. Jack's hair caught orange and gold highlights as he moved. It wasn't brown, it wasn't orange, but somewhere shifting in between. "By the way, I'm Blake Gatti. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier."
Jack smiled and pulled out a black horn pocket knife. He tapped the plastic badge with the brass butt of the folded knife. "Not a problem, that's why we have nametags''case we might forget who we are, right?" Caps on either end held the greenish patina of long use. With deft precision, Jack flicked it open, nicked the top of the apple with the blade and spun the fruit by its stem. A long, deep red, almost blood red, peel wound to the table's surface in thin, unbroken line. It seemed endless. Then Jack set the apple on the table between them. A quick cut sliced it neatly in two. The halves parted falling back onto the metal. "You know you've done it right when you see the star."
"What star?" Blake glanced up from rooting in his lunch pail.
"Look." Jack used the tip of the knife to point out the five pips. "They center, the seeds and membranes, they make a pentagram."
As he dropped a can of diet soda on the table, Blake shook his head and snorted. "I never noticed that before."
"Lots of things you probably never noticed." Jack studied him with eyes of burning amber. The light in their depths shifted like dancing flames. Jack's gaze captivated Blake. Hypnotic, it held him, reached deep inside and caressed him. Blake found himself lost in those eyes. Ages of loneliness confronted him, ceaseless wandering and never belonging. It burned itself into his soul. Blake blinked and shook himself.
Jack looked away before biting into his half of the apple. Blake messed with his food. Awkward silence filed the room. As much as he liked the nights alone, having company on this evening was nice. If he'd mucked it up by being too obvious' Trying to ignore the gnawing suspicion, distract himself from it, Blake dug out the two triangular sandwich packs. "Hey, you want one?"
Biting into the apple again, Jack mumbled around chewing, "What?"
"I got two, couldn't decide." Blake picked them up, one in each hand, and acted like he weighed a mortal choice in his palms. "One ham and one roast beef. You're welcome to one."
"Which?
Blake shrugged. "Don't care; whichever you want."
"How 'bout we each take half of one." Jack offered up another one of his wide, toothy grins. "Then we don't have to choose."
Relaxing, like a looming weight had been pulled off his shoulders, Blake managed a smile of his own. "Great!" He tore into the cello-wrap and pulled out a section of each. Quickly he offered them over. "Here you go."
Jack's fingers brushed Blake's as he reached in. A little electric shock danced across his nerves. Again, Blake found himself riveted to Jack's stare. "Let's see, no ring so not married." Jack's voice hissed like coals popping in a fire. "The maiden offering cakes to the crone then?"
"What?" The question burst forth in a rush of breath.
Still not quite touching Blake's skin, Jack licked his lips. "Legend. Gaelic. It's the death of the year. The married woman swaps places with the hag, who will give it to the virgin come spring, the matron steps takes her place in summer." He took the sandwiches and set them on the table before him. "The virgin gives her food to the crone."
Blake snorted and grabbed one of his own halves. Shoving the sandwich into his maw, he shook his head. Almost not bothering to chew, he swallowed what turned out to be ham. "I ain't no virgin." Another bite earned the same treatment. Blake used the remaining bit to point at Jack's chest. "You ain't an old hag either."
That earned him a chuckle from Jack. "Thank you for that." Comfortable silence flowed while they ate. It didn't take long for the apple and sandwiches to disappear. Jack gathered the trash while Blake swigged the last of his soda. Surreptitiously Blake watched the other guard move around the table, letting his eyes linger on how Jack's rangy frame moved. Just before Jack turned back toward him, Blake looked away. The sound of boots on linoleum drew close and then paused.
Blake slid his gaze to the left to find Jack at his shoulder. Blake stood. His legs were trapped between the table and attached benches. Twisting, he lost his balance. Jack's hand on his hip and Blake's hand latching onto Jack's shoulder stopped the fall before it really began. It brought them close. That close, he could smell Jack. Spicy and warm like mulled cider, baking pumpkin and candle wax. The scent, the touch, the nearness of Jack's body, hit Blake's hips hard. Blake swallowed. "Uhm," he stammered. Not certain what to do with his other hand he let it light on Jack's forearm. The same arm almost circling his middle. "You know." Another swallow didn't quite clear the lump in his throat. "I think I saw some cupcakes in the fridge. Leftovers from a Halloween potluck, it looked like."
Jack's free hand came up and moved Blake's hand off his shoulder. Since he didn't move the one cupping the curve of Blake's ass, it wasn't defensive. "I could go," Jack purred and did a slow burning once over of Blake, "for something sweet."
Oh hell. There was no mistaking that look. Blake was getting propositioned in the lunchroom of a factory he was guarding. It was so fucked up. So wrong. And so'damn'just what he needed right then. He knew better. Screwing around could get him canned. Trouble was, Jack was his type. Well, as much as he knew of Jack, Jack was his type. A little older, definitely world wise, but no sugar daddy. Blake didn't need one of those. Still, someone who knew that life wasn't all parties and pills.