Disclaimer: The Bee owns none of the characters or products named in this story.
Warning: This story contains mention of prostitution, group sex, violence, m/m orgies
and one wild raccoon.
Summary: Xander is a male prostitute. It is his chosen occupation and he is very
happy with it. One night he takes on a group of clients with a friend and things
do not go as planned. When his friend is found murdered, homicide is called in.
Spike is a brilliant detective with OCD issues. When he is told to hide out in the
woods with the witness to protect, he gets more than he could have imagined.
Special thanks to Petxnd for the wonderful banners, the story idea and for holding my
hand during the writing.
The darkness slipped in and around them like a thief in the night, quietly,
subtly and almost unnoticed. They had eaten till they could hold no more
then, with wine in hand, had settled in by the warm comfort of the fire.
One tall oil lamp sat on the mantle and another on a small table by the
door. Their spacing had been strategically discussed and voted on as
to how they would provide the most amount of illumination to the small
area. Both agreed that the selection was perfect.
Spike sat in the recliner to the left of the fire. He had personally been responsible
for the near total draining of the surprisingly pleasant bottle of port and was
now feeling it's effect. Unaccustomed to more than one glass in an evening,
Spike justified the excess by telling himself that he had no where to go,
there was no chance he would be driving and he most certainly wouldn't
be called out on a case. No, tonight was for letting time flow.
Xander, too, was floating on a pleasant, clouded, alcoholic buzz. He drank
4 bottles out of his 6 pack and helped Spike work on that rascally wine.
He wasn't worried about running out. He had a funny feeling that anytime
Spike called, Andrew would come on the run.
Unlike Spike, Xander was used to the feeling. It was an everyday thing
in his life. He didn't drink to gain the courage of a bottle in order to suffer
through his occupation. No, unlike most prostitutes, that was his choice. He
loved sex and he loved it with men.
What he didn't like was the loneliness that went with it. The lack of emotional
connection that came with the physical detachment. In the last few years,
Joey had been his only real friend, his family, and now that was gone.
As he sprawled on the uncomfortable sofa, Xander refused to think about
Joey. He knew the full tank of alcohol he was running on would make him
morose and weepy, and tonight was too lovely a night to spoil.
They had talked easily and quietly about everything and nothing. They repeated
and chuckled over the Andrew incident. They discussed the trip up, the
tasks they needed to tackle tomorrow and they discussed the contrasts of the
city vs the country as though they had lived here for years.
Neither would touch the subjects that would cause the other pain.
By 9, Spike finally rose, lifting his sluggish, clumsy body from his chair.
He stumbled, caught and corrected himself and chuckled.
"Well, that's it innit? I'm going to sleep. You better do the same."
Xander smiled. He had taken great pains earlier to clean the bedroom till
there was no spot of dust to be found. The old cedar chest at the foot of the
bed held clean, fresh sheets and he had tucked the corners in hospital tight.
He couldn't wait for Spike to see.
When he saw the detective head for the front door, Xander laughed.
"Wrong way Charlie Chan. The bedroom is over there."
Spike snorted and tripped as he crossed the room. When he got to the door
he took the lantern in one hand and the door knob in the other. Afraid to turn
his face back around for fear of making himself even more dizzy, Spike
called back over his shoulder,
"Don't be daft. I'm sleeping in the car. I couldn't possibly share a bed with
you. See you in the morning."
To Spike it was a simple logical statement of fact. He was a detective and
Xander was a witness. This was a job and his assignment was to protect.
More importantly, Spike's attraction to the boy may cause the blankets to tent
in a telling and embarrassing way.
To Xander, the quiet words were a slap in the face. His interpretation was
that Spike could never sleep with a whore.
Xander was stunned. His brain called out "Fuck you!" but his lips stayed
silent. After banking the fire, he took his lantern and his memories of Joey and
he went to bed.
The minute he stepped from the warmth of the cabin, Spike was smacked with the
sobering sting of the cold night air. His dick screamed at him that his bladder
was overfull and about to soak his new, scratchy denims but the thought of the
outhouse was simply not an option so, with the excuse of too much drink,
Spike went to the nearest tree and unzipped.
He had often heard the saying 'the quiet of the woods' but apparently they weren't
talking about these woods. The strange and unidentifiable din that surrounded
him was a cornucopia of screeching, clicking, rustling and, somewhere off
in the distance, was what Spike prayed was a dog howling. He refused to think
the word, 'wolf.' Damn, now he thought it.
He quickly shook off and hurried to the car where he jumped in the back seat,
setting his lantern just outside on the ground. There, he tried to get comfortable.
The seat was too short. Spike was surprised that he hadn't taken that into consideration
when he purchased the vehicle. He wished now he had. Next, the pants were too
tight and rough, so he removed them, neatly folded them and placed them in front.
Within minutes, his brain began forming bizarre fatal scenarios. The most prominent
of these was suffocation. The small, confined space was claustrophobic and as
he continued to considered it, he could feel his lungs struggle for oxygen and his
brain cells begin to die. With a choking gasp, he rolled down a window.
Now, he was cold. In nothing but boxers and a flannel shirt, Spike curled up in
a fetal position as the wine finally, compassionately, knocked him out.
"Skritch, skritch, skritch."
Spike wasn't sure what had awakened him, but he knew from the remaining, strong influence of the alcohol, he hadn't been asleep for long. With his eyes still closed, his
detective's ears listened for what had disturbed him, expecting it to be the wind
or one of those incessant, fucking crickets.
"Skritch, skritch, skritch."
This time, when the sound came, Spike's eyes popped open as the fear shot
through his body like a stun gun.
THERE WAS SOMETHING IN THE CAR WITH HIM!
His body remained immobile as his cop's instincts took over. He reached for his
side only to curse his negligence at leaving his gun inside. His ears strained
while his brain tried frantically to put a name to the strange sound.
For a few minutes, while he pulled himself fully awake, it was silent and he
was beginning to question whether or not he had even heard it. Then, just
as he was beginning to relax, the sound came again, this time louder and
punctuated with a series of squeaks and clicks.
Every muscle in Spike's body snapped to attention and his brain screamed
'BEAR!' His breath came in gasps as the terror gripped him.
'Sweet Mother of God', he thought, ' I'm about to be midnight kibble for
Yogi and Boo Boo'.
Cautiously, slowly and silently, Spike began to unfold his legs. He knew his only
hope to prevent being eaten alive was to escape the death trap with expensive
leather seats. Careful, he placed his feet on the richly carpeted floor and he
began to lift himself up. His heart was pounding so hard, he was certain it would
Then, as his hand felt for the door handle in the dark, Spike made his move. He
sat bolt upright like a shot and as he did, he came face to face with death. The
beast had also popped his face up and was now just inches from Spike's nose.
The beady, black eye's scrutinized Spike as he stared back.
The creature had a long snout, an estimated 500 razor sharp fangs and a face
that appeared to be wearing the black, concealing mask of a burglar.
The raccoon screamed.
Both took off running.