Friday, November 25, 2016


Happy Black Friday, friends! If you've decided to take time out from your mad shopping to read a bit, then I hope you enjoy the second portion of my NaNo novel. As you may have guessed from last week's intro, this story is pretty heavily sci-fi/fantasy. I promise it is LGBTQ, and there is extremely hot sex in it. But like all good things, you'll have to wait for it! I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving, and I wish you luck as you scavage for your holiday treasures.

* * * *

As expected, an unmarked Cuernos City police cruiser waited outside my gate. I triggered the security with a thought and followed the car inside. The yelling started before I'd even hopped out of the truck.

"Goddammit Daugh! You're a menace!"

Lieutenant Shawn "Brass" Braschelli had probably been on his way home when my little chase turned into the lead on the evening news feed. I keyed the security on the house and didn't pause on my way inside. He followed me.

"Broad daylight! During rush hour!"

I paused just long enough to open my weapons vault, Brass still behind me.

"Ignoring me won't make me go away, you know."

The safari rifle would've been a better choice, but the Remington 700 was ready to go with .30-06 silver shot. I plucked it from its rack and closed the vault door.

"Shooting me won't fix this either," he said. "The Chief will just appoint somebody else to sweep up after you."

I headed for my practice room. Brass actually growled.

"You rack up more property damage than a damn hurricane, you know that?"

I settled onto a stool and used the Remington to point at another. Brass sat down heavily, shoulders sagging. I regarded him and managed to keep the smile off my face.

"We don't get hurricanes here."

"One of the few pluses to living in The Horns." Brass pulled a vapestick from his pocket and held it up. "You care?"


He took a long pull off it and exhaled a plume of blue mist. We didn't talk for the next five minutes as he sucked relaxation from his adult pacifier. Finally, he sat up on the stool and squared his shoulders.

"Ricky told me you got it."


"I'll let the families know."


"You'll talk to the therries?"

"Yeah." I rested the butt of the rifle on my thigh. Brass scrubbed one hand over his face and sighed.

"There gonna be trouble over this?"

"No. They'd already named him rogue."

"Did you have to destroy the Freedom Mosaic?" Brass looked pained.

"It's replaceable."

"Every time you say that it creates another stack of paperwork for my desk."

"I'm the gift that keeps on giving."

"Oh yeah. Damage to city property. Damage to private property." Brass used the vapestick to tick my gifts to him off his fingers. "Medical claims, workers comp claims, psych claims, future psych claims." He assumed a mournful expression that could've earned him money a few hundred years earlier. "I may never dig out from under this one, Jon. Who knew one rogue therry could cause so m–"

Brass's voice cut off as I leveled the gun at his head.

"Don't. Move."

Brass's pupils expanded and the acrid scent of his sweat stung my nose. Time slowed to a crawl. I stared down the Remington's sights and fine-tuned my aim. A single drop of sweat beaded up on Brass's forehead as I increased the pressure on the rifle's trigger. My eastern-most wall imploded, wood splintering as the polymer and metal frame disintegrated. The booming of my gun, a good six inches to the right of Brass's skull, was swallowed up in the implosion.

A half-shifted wolf collapsed to the floor amid the wreckage of my wall. My security system blared. I projected the shut-off sequence and stood, surveying the damage.

Brass sat perfectly still, mouth wide, entire body shaking with his desire to run–but he didn't. He was the best handler I'd ever had, by far. I stepped around him, the Remington resting against my right shoulder. I pulled a Glock and turned this wolf into a twin of the last one.

"They mate for life." I glanced at Brass, who remained motionless. "The body count and amount of flesh missing from the kills was too high for it to be just one rogue." Holstering the handgun, I stepped over the corpse. "I haven't slept in three days. Take care of this mess and submit paperwork to have my house fixed."

I paused at the doorway and looked back at Brass.

"You can move now."

* * * *

Tarik Washington lived in Amanecer, the wealthiest neighborhood in Los Cuernos. I had to pass through three separate gates before I could even see the house, which sprawled out over an entire city-block. The rising sun hovered at the base of the mountains for which the city was named, reddish-orange beams creeping up the tall points of "The Horns" to reclaim the darkness. It had been a long night.

I drove slowly, taking in as much detail as I could. The best private security personnel money could buy dotted the property, openly armed, and psi-webs glittered in the dawn light. Washington was the last member of an old family, famous as much for his perpetual bachelor status as he was for the sculptures he created and sold. One thing was for sure, though. Tarik Washington was afraid of something. This place was an air-tight fortress. I turned my engine off and pocketed the keys.

Ike Vicente waited for me. I hadn't seen Ike since he gave up hunting for Pico Corto five years earlier. I'd heard he went into private security, but his phone call a few hours earlier had been a surprise. There's not a lot that a half human-half vampire–who used to hunt the largest city in the southwest–found challenging, much less unmanageable.


"Jon." He didn't offer a hand to shake and neither did I. We walked toward the double doors, each maintaining our personal space. "Thanks for coming."

I nodded. My eyes took in the tech. I'd never seen its equal on a private residence; it was better than mine. Anything that could penetrate the security on this place was serious. The spot between my shoulder blades tingled.

The entryway of the Washington estate had been built to replicate a cathedral commons room. Sculptures in every medium occupied the space: some of them floated in mid-air, others grew from the walls and windows. The effect was awe-inspiring and far more impressive than the CAM. I took in the ornate stone archways that led to the three wings of the house, and again noted the tech that should've made this place impenetrable. The tingle between my shoulders intensified, and I felt Ike's eyes on me.

"Amazing, huh?"

I nodded again.

A man emerged from somewhere down the main hallway. The lasers from the surveillance devices and psi-webs lit up his pale hair. It was a silvery sort of blond that didn't match his youthful features. I put him at about twenty-two years old. He was thin, and had the kind of build that could be deceptively strong. He moved like he owned everything around him, but I knew he wasn't Tarik Washington. Tarik was biracial, and this guy was very Caucasian. I caught the slightest twitch from Ike as the man approached us. Interesting. Ike didn't like him.

"Mr. Blagden," Ike said. "This is Jon Daugh, the man I recommended. Jon, this is Mr. Colgate Blagden." He paused, then added, "The fifth."

Blagden eyed me like I was a piece of bio-mech hardware he was considering for implantation. I remained mute. The silence stretched out, and that tingle between my shoulder blades became a burning itch. It felt like I had a thorn or cactus spine between my shirt and my shoulder holster. I ignored it.

Colgate Blagden the fifth finally nodded at me.

"Is Mr. Washington awake?" Ike asked.

"Yes. I'll take you back."

We followed Blagden to the main archway. He keyed us through the security webs and we headed down the long hallway.

"Who did the tech arrays?" I asked, voice low.

"I did." Ike motioned to the webs with one hand. "Cricket Cane did the installations."

Well shit. Cricket was the best psion on this side of the country. What in the world had I walked into?

We reached a pair of doors carved from a rich, vibrant hardwood. The detail of the intricate forest scene was stunning. As I watched, a sylph swam through the grain of the wood and vanished behind a cloud. I blinked behind the black lenses and focused. Psi-tech on the door dancing over the surface of the wood was ingeniously disguised as three-dimensional animated art. I tilted my head at Ike.


"My idea, her gift."

I nodded. I'd never seen anything like it. Then again, the government didn't have as much money as Tarik Washington.

Blagden released the security on the heavy double doors and pushed them open. Ike and I followed him into what turned out to be a massive bedroom. Bed chamber was probably a more accurate description. A huge stained glass bed dominated the center of the room. Its iron framework was as much sculpture as it was support for the mattress. Blagden rushed over to the bed, his pale face suddenly flushed. He scrambled up onto one side and reached for somebody buried under acres of snowy white linens.

When I finally got a look at Tarik Washington, my first thought was that he was dying. His milk chocolate-colored skin had an odd ashen cast, and it was shrink-wrapped to his skeleton. I'd seen nocturna-virus victims who looked healthier then Tarik.

"Baby?" Blagden used a completely different voice to speak to Tarik. "Are you awake?"

"Of course I'm awake." Tarik struggled to push himself up on his elbows. He collapsed with a wheezing curse. Ike moved with the scary-quick speed of a born-vampire and propped Tarik up with half a dozen of the pillows heaped at the head of the bed. Blagden pursed his lips.

"Mr. Washington," Ike said. "This is Jon Daugh."

Whatever else was wrong with Tarik Washington, his eyesight was just fine. He looked me over with a critical gaze.

"Is that some sort of joke?" he asked. "John Doe?"

"A safeguard," I said. Washington's brow furrowed.


"Names are important."

Washington considered that, and finally nodded. He looked at Ike.

"Can he do anything you haven't already done?"

"If I didn't think Jon could help, I wouldn't have suggested we call him." Ike gestured to his suit-covered frame and then at me in my tactical gear. "I specialize in protection, sir. Jon specializes in hunting."

"Are you good at it?" Washington stared right at my lens implants. He was definitely direct, and I liked that.

"I'm still alive."

"Are you a halfbreed like Ike?" Blagden asked, one hand petting Tarik's arm.

I caught the slightest twinge from Ike as Blagden said, halfbreed. Mr. Colgate Blagden the fifth was a species purist, as I suspected.

"Col, that's so rude." Tarik's voice was weaker and his eyelids fluttered. He looked on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Stay awake, baby. Please." Blagden gripped Tarik's arm, and then looked at me. "Can you help him?"

"That's what I do."

* * * *

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Friday, November 18, 2016


Hey folks, welcome back. It's November, which means we're just past the mid-point of National Novel Writing Month. While I'm slightly behind on my word count, I decided sharing the work would be good motivation, so that's today's bit of free fiction. Enjoy!

* * * *

Traffic was jammed up tight on Alvarado. If this thing thought it could elude me by dashing into rush hour, it was about to learn the true definition of "bad decision." I leapt from car to car, both guns drawn as I pursued the rogue werewolf that I'd been hunting for a month.  

I got a good sightline and fired. The crack of the gunshot was very loud. My silver bullet sliced through fur and muscle to embed in bone. The werewolf slammed onto the top of a compact car with a roar of fury. Safety glass spider-webbed and bulged from the windows as the car's roof gave way under the beast's weight, and panicked screams from inside the vehicle joined the sounds of rush hour traffic.

"Hunter, are you still in pursuit?"

"Southbound on Alvarado."

"Brass wants you out of there. We have civilian injury reports incoming."

The comm implant was new tech. It had taken me several days to get used to hearing voices in my head, and several more to learn how to broadcast my thoughts in response to Cuernas Central Command's messages. The very first thing I learned, though, was how to ignore the damn thing, and that's what I did now. I'd tracked this rogue wolf for almost a month. Seven people were dead. That left a lot of grieving families and friends. No way was I giving up.

The shot to the werewolf's leg had slowed it some. I was gaining on it. As people bailed out of vehicles and ran for their lives, I took aim and squeezed off another three rounds. The werewolf jerked and yelped in pain as the silver bullets burrowed deep and burned. It landed heavily on the sidewalk, rolled, and turned down Revolution Boulevard.

"West on Revolution." I leapt, grabbed the pole of a street light, swung down onto the sidewalk, and hit the ground running. "Request air support."

"Denied. SWAT is inbound. Disengage, Hunter."

"Not gonna happen."

Yelling and screaming echoed off the downtown buildings. Terrified people scattered pell-mell to avoid the very large, rampaging werewolf and the gun-toting guy chasing it.

"Move!" I bellowed. I leapt over a downed civilian and kept running. My boots pounded against the concrete, the sun glinting off my silver toe guards.

I hit Revolution and rounded the corner in time to see the rogue plow through the intricate ceramic tile mosaic that framed the Cuernas Art Museum's main entrance. Shit. Brass was gonna be pissed.

"PWT has entered the CAM."

A familiar voice hit my skull like a bell's clapper.

"Goddammit Daugh! Stand down!"

"Hey Brass. Where's SWAT?"

"Five minutes out. Do not enter–"       

I dashed through the huge hole in the Cuernas Art Museum, the crunching of ceramic tile and glass under my boots obscuring the rest of Brass's mandate. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the lobby. Bits and pieces of sculpture were scattered everywhere and people huddled against the walls. Everything reeked of blood, terror, and chaos.

I zeroed in on the blood trail. It led through the lobby and over to an impressive set of marble stairs leading up. The second floor overlooked the lobby area. Shrieks bouncing off the vaulted ceiling combined with wood splintering, metal groaning, and glass shattering to form a symphony of destruction. I holstered my Glocks and took the stairs two at a time.

I reached the top as a sickening crunch cut off a shriek. Every hunter knows what bones sound like when they break; few know what a rogue in a feeding frenzy sounds like, though. Not many live long after hearing it. The growling and slurping as the wolf tore into his victim made my mouth go dry. Devouring humans was strictly taboo among the therianthrope communities. It was a crime punishable by death. Sweat trickled along my hairline and dripped onto my ear, and my lungs burned from the chase. I pushed the fatigue down. If I didn't finish this now, then when the moon rose tonight, the shifters would take over the city and hunt the rogue themselves.

Crouching behind the upper banister, I reached into my breast pocket and removed a small diaphragm. I slipped it into my mouth intending to moisten it, but my mouth was still dry as dust. I sucked at the thing until I had enough saliva to use it, and then got it situated behind my teeth against the roof of my mouth. The wet gulping sounds had subsided some. I was running out of time.

I scanned around and spotted blood on a nearby column. A body lay motionless on the floor in a pool of blood.

"Second floor CAM, at least two DOI." I sent the thought to CCC as I drew my heavier guns.

"Hunter, Brass is on his way down there."

I rolled my eyes. By the time Brass got here this would be all over save for the cleanup. The museum's air-conditioning kicked on with a thrum and I swore silently. If the rogue hadn't already scented me, it had now.

Stepping free of cover, I raised my 45s as I took a deep breath. I exhaled hard through the mouth-call. Its whistle rent the air. The werewolf dropped a partially eaten, mangled body to the floor, threw its head back, and roared in agony, paws over its ears. I blew another blast and it howled, whirling to face me with its teeth bared.

"Engaging PWT."

"Wait for–"

The werewolf charged.

I emptied both guns, twenty-two rounds of silver hollow-points punching into the wolf's center mass. With one last very human-sounding bellow, it staggered sideways and tumbled over the second floor railing, dropping fifty feet to slam into the lobby flooring. Blood splattered wetly and a cloud of dust billowed up.

I stared down at the mess and ejected my empty clips. Reloading, I watched for any movement. I couldn't really tell from up here. Better safe than sorry. I holstered the HK45s and vaulted over the railing. For one brief blissful moment I experienced the rush of free fall, and then I landed hard. The marble floor cracked under my boots and the force of terminal velocity rolled up through my body, which absorbed it the way it always did. The same jump would've maimed or possibly killed a normal human, but I wasn't normal. I was a hunter.

I approached the mangled pile of fur. Instinct took over. I pulled a Glock and the head disintegrated. The empty magazine sprang free and I reloaded. When nothing twitched, I holstered the gun and removed the mouth call. Crunching drew my attention to the main entrance. SWAT had finally shown up.

As soon as Ricardo, the leader of the ten-man team, saw the downed rogue, he lowered his weapon and his gaze. A lot of people had lens implants these days, but I'm told mine look especially sinister. They hid my bio-eyes, and that was more important to me than ultraviolet light protection.

"Hey Ricky," I said. "You're late."

"Daugh." He nodded at me in greeting. "You're causing all kinds of headaches today."

I shrugged. Small talk wasn't my thing.  

"All clear?" he asked.

"At least two dead or infected on the second floor."

"Lefferts. Mendez." Ricky signaled with his free hand. "Secure the dead or infected." Two members of the team headed for the stairs. "The rest of you secure the first floor. DOIs are our first priority."

Castlerock, also known as "Rook" and Ricardo's partner, strolled up, surveyed the remains, and whistled low through her teeth. "It hasn't reverted to human form."

"Rogues don't." I checked my weapons, and then nodded to Ricky. "Scene's all yours." I turned toward the massive hole in the entryway.

"Orders are for you to stay put."

"You want to try to detain me?" I directed the full force of my stare onto Ricardo. The red and blue lights from beyond the entrance danced and skittered across my black lens implants. I shifted my weight just enough to draw attention to my hands resting on the 45s at my waist. He took a step back.

"Just passing it along."

"Uh huh."

"It was pretty." Rook gazed wistfully at the demolished mosaic and shook her head.

"It's replaceable."

I strode through the lobby. When I hit the street I double-timed it back to my truck. A black-and-white had parked in front of me. I wasn't really surprised. I'd jumped the curb pursuing the rogue and was parked on a patch of sidewalk in front of prime downtown real estate. The cop, who I didn't recognize, gulped audibly when he saw me. His ticket book disappeared.

"Thanks for handling traffic," I said.

"I'll move the car."

"Sure. I'd hate to have to drive over it."

He scrambled for the cruiser and I chuckled. I had a special license for the vintage Land Cruiser FJ40 truck I drove. It ran on diesel gasoline and a lot of it. I figured my work as Las Cuernas's resident hunter more than made up for my truck's contributions to the city's air pollution problem. I swung up into the driver's seat. It started up with a rumbling purr and I headed for home.

* * * *

Once again, thanks so much for reading! Comments are, as always, craved and appreciated. 

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Friday, July 22, 2016


Welcome back to Free Fiction Fridays. Though it's a little later than I planned, I hope you enjoy Part 2 of Capturing Dominus.

* * * *

Micah drained the Stolichnaya vodka bottle. He dangled it over the passenger seat before dropping it. The thunk as it hit the floorboard wasn't half as satisfying as the growl and rumble when he revved the engine. Despite downing all the alcohol he could find, he wasn't anywhere close to thrashed. He needed to be fucked up. He needed drugs. 

As the automatic garage door slowly rose, Micah revved the engine again. The Ferrari purred like a big cat. Tears leaked from the corners of Micah's eyes. He ignored them. He'd known Dominus had sex with people at the club. Hell, other doctors called him "Dr. Fuck" because of his specialty as a clinical sexologist.

Knowing something and seeing it were two different things.

Micah eased his foot off the clutch and gave the Italian sports car gas. It lunged forward like a hungry panther. Despite his tears, Micah grinned. If Dominus wouldn't give him a ride, Micah would take one. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and ignored the painful twinge in his heart.

"Fuck him."

The car shot out of the garage. Micah had driven numerous other cars, but never a Ferrari. It was black, like all of Dominus's favorite toys. Micah whipped it around the long driveway and out onto Broadway, narrowly missing several other cars. He laughed crazily. The Ferrari cornered like it was on rails.

Micah shifted like a pro and accelerated along Broadway. The speed helped; the further Micah got from Pacific Heights, the better he felt. He hung a right on Hyde Street and roared down to Market at a ridiculous speed. The tires squealed as he hooked a hard left, heading for whatever dealer he could find.

A quick stop at 4th and Howard put a bundle of magic in his hand. Micah didn't even pull over. He opened one bag, jammed a straw in it, and snorted hard as he drove. He tore open a second little envelope. His eyes were tearing again, but this time it was accompanied by a warm, stinging rush of euphoria. At the very next stop light, Micah did his second bag of coke.

By the time he made it to the Tenderloin, his entire face was numb.

Micah at 14

Cruising in the Ferrari was a trip. Micah ignored the shouts, whistles, and catcalls. Plenty of hookers, hustlers, dealers and thugs roamed this area. He knew most of them by name.

Micah had been a ward of the state before he was out of diapers. He bounced between his mother and various foster homes until she overdosed when he was five. Micah ran away for the first time at six; by the time he turned eight, he'd spent more time on the street than anywhere else. Sticky fingers landed him in front of a family court judge at ten. Subsequent arrests for theft, delinquency, truancy, drug possession, distribution, and soliciting assured his spot on the California Youth Authority rolls. Hell, he was still on probation for his last solicitation rap.

Dominus hadn't cared about any of that. He brought Micah home, cleaned him up, treated him like a human being. Micah waited to be hit, or fucked, or turned over to others for one or both, but it never happened. Gregos Kalogeros didn't want anything from him, and the more time Micah spent in the man's house, the deeper Micah fell. He was fully, totally, terribly in love with Dominus: the only man who didn't want him. The scene from the club flashed through Micah's mind and despair almost crushed him.

Micah gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. He swallowed several times to force the bitter cocaine drip down his throat. Fuck Dominus.

Micah scanned the sidewalk. He was really fucking soaring. Blinking repeatedly to clear his eyes, he thought he saw a friend walking down the other side of the street in the opposite direction. Without a second thought, Micah ran a red light and whipped the Ferrari into a tight U-turn.

He never saw the truck in the intersection, or the SUV parked near the convenience store. He definitely didn't see the store employee wiping fingerprints off the market's door. All Micah saw were the stars when his head hit the windshield.

* * * *

"Try not to move."

Dominus's voice reached out and caressed Micah's ears like a swatch of velvet. He licked his lips and had to work very hard to open his eyes. As he did, his head exploded with sharp, throbbing pain. The whimper slipped free before he could bite it back, and Micah swore.

"Micah?" Dominus reached out and took Micah's hand. "You're at SF General. Stop moving."

"I'm not!" A wave of nausea swept over him and he tried to roll. Vicious pain took his head and chest at the same time, and Micah vomited spectacularly.

"Twenty-five milligrams of Phenergan, please."

"Do you want restraints?"


Hands were everywhere. Somebody wiped Micah's mouth and body. His body came up, dirty linen vanished, and he settled onto clean sheets. The fouled gown disappeared and cool air swirled over Micah's entire body before a warm gown covered him. Whatever Phenergan was, Micah was glad for it. The nausea vanished and some of the throbbing in his head eased. He made the effort to open his eyes again.

"Hospital?" he asked. His mouth tasted terrible.

"Yes. You're at SF Gen. You need to hold still."

Dr. Fuck

Micah managed to focus on Dominus's face. His foster father looked as serious as Micah had ever seen him. Serious, beautiful, and untouchable.

The ache in Micah's chest grew almost unbearable.

Dominus lifted a cup with a straw and Micah took a few sips of tepid water. It wasn't enough to wash the awful taste from his mouth, but it helped. 

"What happened?" he whispered.

"You tell me."

"I–I took your car."

Dominus said nothing, though he picked Micah's hand back up and held it in both of his.

"Did I hit something?" Micah's eyes drooped, but he squeezed Dominus's hand like it was all he had in the world.

"Several somethings." Dominus's voice was even and calm. "Also several someones."

Micah's eyes snapped open and found Dominus's face again. The answer to the question Micah wanted to ask, but couldn't, was right there in Dominus's eyes. Now in addition to his pounding head and aching heart, Micah had an awful emptiness in his gut.

"You have a serious closed head injury." Dominus reached up and gently wiped Micah's tears away. "Seven fractured ribs. Two fractured metacarpals. Four fractured phalanges. Thirteen stitches in your scalp. Extensive contusions to your torso." Dominus brushed his hand down Micah's cheek. "You're very lucky to be alive."

"Sure. Lucky."

"Rest. You're going to be here for a day or two."

Every breath Micah took hurt like he was being stabbed. His left hand was splinted and wrapped, but he wasn't aware of it. All his pain receptors were maxed out. He surreptitiously moved his feet, and then frowned at Dominus.

"No cuffs?"


"Why not?"

"Are you going to run?" Dominus's eyes bored into Micah. "Would you…run from me?"

A long moment passed as they stared at each other. Micah finally broke the silence.


Dominus raised Micah's uninjured hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the bruised skin of his knuckles.

"We have many things to discuss. For now, rest."


"I'm not going anywhere, Micah."

Micah closed his eyes, held on to Dominus's hand, and wept.

* * * *

Once again, thanks so much for reading! Comments are, as always, craved and appreciated. 

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Friday, June 3, 2016


It's Friday, June 3rd. This means two things: a new flash fiction piece, and the release of Stardust, Always this weekend! 

June 5 is Cancer Survivor Day, and the Alan Rickman/David Bowie tribute anthology is set to release the same day. All proceeds from sales of the book are going to St. Jude's. Over 80 authors, poets, and editors contributed to this anthology, inspired by the lives and creativity of Alan Rickman and David Bowie. If you've lost somebody to cancer, if you have a survivor in your life, if you or a loved one is currently fighting the disease, please consider purchasing a copy. You can learn more about the book HERE.

Shameless plug out of the way, I hope you enjoy a bit more "behind the scenes" action from the Dust & Ash series. Part 2 will follow, of course. 

* * * *


by Tucker McCallahan

"He's in the main room again."

Dr. Gregos Kalogeros, better known as Dominus, paused in the act of skinning his honey-colored hair back into a short ponytail. Irritation and amusement warred on his face. Amusement won, and he smiled as he secured his hair with a rubber band.

"Have Ayana make sure nobody touches him."

"Yes, Dominus."


Club D's manager paused and raised an eyebrow as he regarded the owner.

"Is he dressed?" Dominus asked.

"That would be open to interpretation. He's covered…but not by much."

"He's a fucking minor."

"I know exactly how old he is."

"I'll be out in thirty minutes." Dominus took a deep breath as Kel left the room. Micah was going to drive them all insane.

A 14-year-old Micah

In the main room of Club D, Micah James perched on a padded leather barstool, body angled so that every inch was on display. His hair was a sooty mess of black that carelessly fell over his forehead. Frosty blue eyes that looked at least a decade older than his fourteen years scanned the room restlessly.

A couple approached, fit, trim, and in their thirties. Kel intercepted them before they made it to Dominus's new ward and steered them toward one of the club's employees. Brad might not've been as beautiful as Micah was, but he was nineteen and legal.

Nothing about Micah was legal.

Kel shot Ayana a look, his eyes flicking to Micah. She nodded from where she worked behind the bar. Kel fully intended to return to his duties and ignore the little bastard who had made his life miserable since moving into Dominus's house a month before, but as usual, Micah had other ideas.

"Where's Dominus?"

"With a client."

"So he's fucking somebody."

"Doctor Kalogeros is with a client. If that's too difficult for you to understand, perhaps you should consider attending the school in which he enrolled you."

"How many people do you fuck every night?"

Kel clenched his jaw to keep his mouth shut. He forced himself to turn and walk away to the sound of Micah's laughter.

Alone again at the bar, Micah swiveled around on the stool, wise eyes flickering around the room before they settled on Ayana.

"No TVs."

The pretty Latino girl pushed a red drink garnished with fruit and a little paper umbrella toward him.

"Nope. No TV." She dropped a straw into the fancy drink. "I'm sure there are several very nice TVs in the main house."

Micah sipped the drink and nodded.

"Oh yeah. Six high-end flat screens plus all the shit in the media room." Micah set the drink down. "But it's all bolted down."

"Dr. Kalogeros is wealthy."

Micah studied the girl.

"You don't call him Dominus. How come?"

"That isn't who he is to me."

"But it's his name."

"So is Dr. Kalogeros." Ayana wiped the bar with a clean cloth. "We can all only be exactly who we are." She held up a glass of water. "Even if I call this wine, it's still only water."

"That's pretty deep for a girl."

"Thank you." She looked past him. "Good evening Mr. Kristopoulos, Mrs. Kristopoulos. Scotch?"

"We'll have whatever this young man is having."

"Of course. Have you met Dr. Kalogeros's ward, Micah James?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Kristopoulos put a hand on her husband's arm. "This is the boy Dominus is adopting?"

"Nah." Micah eyed her jewelry before dropping his gaze appreciatively to her breasts. "I'm not the long-term type."

Ayana pushed two drinks identical to Micah's toward the pair.

"Micah will be starting high school soon."

The Kristopouloses grabbed their drinks and damn near fled the bar. Micah glared at Ayana.

"I thought you were cool."

Ayana's gaze was full of pity as she looked at the beautiful, troubled boy.

"As I told you, I can only be what I am."

Micah leaned up onto the bar, his face twisting into an ugly sneer.

"Got news for you, babe. You're a paid whore, just like everybody in this joint. Pretty it up all you like, but you fuck for money."

"You won't win him this way."

"We'll just see about that." Micah hopped off the barstool and almost collided with Dominus. Dominus's face was utterly blank as he wrapped a hand around Micah's arm.

"You cannot be here."

"Cause I'm jailbait and it'll get you in trouble?" Micah slid his free arm around his guardian's waist and stepped close enough to rub against him. Micah's voice dropped to a sexy purr. "Or cause I'm jailbait, and I'll get you in trouble?"

"Because my club is licensed by the City of San Francisco to allow only adults over the age of eighteen through its doors. I employ over two dozen people; I will not allow you to put them or this establishment at risk."

"So yes…and yes."

"We're leaving."

Dominus escorted Micah from Club D without another word.

Theo Theodoridis, the inspiration for Dominus

Vasilis Kalogeros chuckled as he plucked an olive from the platter on the table.

"A dick, eh?"

"Dildo," Gregos mumbled. He poured more ouzo into a glass he'd already emptied twice.

"Éna megálo?"

"Yes. A big one."

As the senior Kalogeros roared with laughter, a smile spread across Gregos' face. In short order he was laughing with his father over Micah's latest stunt: the ruination of a Dimitris Mytaras sculpture. Vasilis lifted his linen napkin and wiped his eyes.

"How did he…"

"Super glue. He super-glued a big black dick to my favorite statue."

That started the laughter up all over again. When the chuckling died away, Vasilis eyed his only child.

"Perhaps this one isn't meant to be your son."

"He's fourteen."

"Age is merely a number, and numbers are only important where money is concerned."

"I can't take a boy as a lover."

"This boy sounds exactly like you at that age."


"Do I lie?"

"No," Gregos groaned. "But he can't consent. He's still a child; he needs love, guidance."

"A firm hand and a hard dick, that's what it sounds like he needs."

Gregos rubbed his eyes.

"You aren't helping."

Vasilis sat forward, his face serious. Eyes the shade of the Aegean Sea locked onto an identical pair in Gregos' face.

"How much of your life will you let him destroy? If he were truly a child, you would already have dealt with him. You want him, Gregos."


"Handle it."

"How? I can't take my foster son as a lover."

"Why not?"

"It's illegal!"

"So take him where it isn't."

Gregos sighed and shook his head.

"I can't take him out of the country."

"Adopt him."

Gregos mumbled something around the lip of his glass as he finished the ouzo.

"What was that?"

"I'm working on it."

Vasilis pushed back from the table. He stared at his son.

"Work harder."

The Ultimate... Dominus

Micah, a few years older

The sub was belly down, arms stretched out and restrained. His legs were spread wide, knees bent and feet up. Cuffs around his ankles attached to pulley lines. He hung from the ceiling, upper body resting on the table and his dick pointing toward the floor. He couldn't have escaped even if he wanted to, which of course, he didn't.

Dominus stood between those spread legs, fingers tracing and pinching the swollen, reddened marks on his sub's glorious ass.

"Was it a good spanking?"

"Yes Dominus."

One hand strayed down to lightly caress his sub's cock and balls.

"You're quite aroused. Would you like to come?"

"Yes, please, Dominus."

"A please. You must be very close."

The sub remained mute. He was nearly perfect. Working him was never a chore, and given Dominus's level of sexual frustration lately, this session was necessary for them both.

Dominus rolled a condom on. Two lubed, practiced physician's fingers slid inside his sub, who moaned and squirmed. Without another word, Dominus replaced fingers with cock and set a hard, deep, punishing rhythm.

"Come!" Dominus barked.

His sub cried out, jets of milky white semen pouring from his dick to splash onto the floor.

The door slammed opened.

Dominus turned his head. Micah stood two feet away. His icy blue eyes were trained on Dominus's dick still buried in his sub.

"Dammit!" Kel arrived at a flat run, breathing hard.

Lust, betrayal, and fury filled Micah's face. He shoved Kel to the floor and fled the room the same way he'd barged into it, slamming the door behind him.

"Gamó tin tréla mou gamó," Dominus muttered. He slid free and caught sight of Kel, picking himself up off the floor. "Are you injured?"

"Just my pride. Little shit packs a punch."

"See if you can catch him before he leaves the club."

Kel opened the door and dashed out of sight. Dominus ripped the condom free, tossed it in the bin, and got down to the business of apologizing to a sub, something he never did. His father was clearly correct about Micah, and Dominus had a very bad feeling about where this situation was headed.

* * * *

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