Bowie J P The Set Up

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

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First published in 2008, 2008

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The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

CONTENTS

THE SET UP
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
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The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

A Total-e-bound Publication

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The Set Up
ISBN # 978-1-906590-48-2
©Copyright J.P. Bowie 2008
Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright June 2008
Edited by Michele Paulin
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events

are from the author's imagination and should not be confused
with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events
or places is purely coincidental.

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

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illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2008 by Total-e-bound eBooks 1 The Corner,

Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire,
LN8 2DE, UK.

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content

which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been
rated Total-e-burning.

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

THE SET UP

J.P. Bowie

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Dedication

For Phil

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and

trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in
this work of fiction:

Harley: Harley-Davidson Motor Company
Kleenex: Kimberly-Clark Corporation
Tonto: Golden Books Publishing Company, Inc.
Oscar: Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences

Corporation

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Chapter One

The women prepared me for the fight to come. They

painted my body, placed feathers in my long black hair and
handed me the weapons necessary for what was to follow.
Around my hips, they placed a beaded belt from which hung a
breechclout of softened skin. With small smiles, they stood
back, watching as I left them to make my way to where my
assailant waited.

The tall grass hid me from his watchful gaze. I could see

him outside his cabin, slowly walking the perimeter of the
land he said was his. He was shirtless, and in his hand, he
carried a rifle. He was prepared for danger, but I did not fear
him, for I was a young warrior, strong and skilled in the art of
hand-to-hand combat.

The sun slowly sank behind the trees as I watched him

turn his back to me, pick up a dipper from beside the water
trough then take a long drink to slake his thirst.

This was my signal.
I sprang to my feet and bounded forward, tomahawk

raised to strike. He turned, parrying the blow with his
forearm, then gripped my wrist, forcing me to drop my
weapon. I struggled to free myself, but he tripped me, the
two of us falling heavily to the ground, the white man on top
of me. Silently, we wrestled, each of us straining to gain the
upper hand. He was heavier than me, his body solid muscle,
his flesh warm and covered with smooth skin...

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by J. P. Bowie

"Cut!" The cry rang out, and we stopped fighting. Sitting

astride me, and in no hurry to stand, my "opponent" looked
to where Blaine Harrington, the movie's director, stood with
the rest of the film crew.

"We're losing the light, Greg," Harrington yelled. "We'll

pick this up again tomorrow."

That was good news for me. As a film extra and occasional

stuntman, I could always use the extra day's pay. Greg
Mathis, the star of the movie, looked down at me ruefully.

"Hell, I was looking forward to roughhousing with you a bit

longer there. You look pretty authentic in that getup." He ran
a finger over my chest. "Does that colour come off?"

"No," I laughed. "That's real. My grandparents were both

Native American."

"The hair, too?"
"Yup." I smiled at him. I was proud of my long black hair

and had refused to cut it despite several requests from
wardrobe people and costumers. "You going to let me up?"

Grinning, he pushed off me then held out his hand to help

me to my feet.

"Say, why don't you come over to my trailer? Have a beer?

We can run over the moves we need for tomorrow. I don't
think I've got it quite right, do you?"

He was lying, and we both knew it.
We had rehearsed for the better part of an hour earlier in

the day, and it had left me in a fair degree of arousal. Greg
Mathis, a master of self-defence, had actually been the one to
show me what was needed in our short fight. Naturally he
was going to win—he was the star—and after a couple of

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by J. P. Bowie

deadly blows to my chest and chin and a knife through my
heart, I would be stretched out on the ground at his feet.

Now he wanted to play, and I wasn't about to argue with

him. He was, after all, six-one, one hundred ninety pounds of
solid lean muscle and one of the best looking men I'd seen in
a long time. His flaxen coloured hair hung over his brow in
waves. His blue eyes twinkled from a tanned and unlined
face. He was twenty-nine, four years older than me and the
epitome of male virility, reminding me of an early Robert
Redford.

I was young, single and fancy-free. There was no way I

was going to turn down his offer of playtime.

"Let me change, and I'll be right over," I told him.
"Don't be long. Hey, by the way, what's your name again?"
"John White Eagle."
"Right ... John White Eagle." He said my name slowly as

though he didn't want to forget it. "See ya in a few." As I
turned away, he added in a low sexy voice, "Nice butt, John."

Back at the wardrobe tent, I stood in front of a full length

mirror, and for the first time took a really good look at how
they'd decked me out for this part. It was definitely
Hollywood's idea of what a "Red Indian" should look like.
Feathers sticking out of my hair, war paint smeared over my
face, arms and chest, and a scanty breechclout that I had to
admit looked kinda sexy, though that probably wasn't the
intent.

I was proud of the fact that grandmother had been a full-

blooded Dakota Sioux, but this was no time for reflection.

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"Yeah, you're cute." Helen, the wardrobe mistress, slapped

me on the butt. "Now get outta that getup and let me have it.
It's gotten all ripped up. Your ass is hanging out of it."

I laughed and slipped off the breechclout, handing it over.

So that's what had stirred Greg's interest...

Helen shook her head. "You boys," she muttered, heading

for her sewing machine, while I went in search of the portable
shower. If Greg actually had in mind what I suspected, I
wanted to be squeaky clean for him. After I'd dried off, I
pulled on my jeans, shirt and boots then made my way over
to Greg's trailer.

He must have been watching for me. He pushed the trailer

door open, smiling that famous movie star smile of his, and
handed me a can of beer. Still shirtless and not yet changed
out of the buckskin pants he'd been wearing for our fight
scene, he waved me inside. I let the back of my hand brush
against his bare chest as I passed.

"Take a pew," he said, indicating the couch. He threw

himself down beside me, hooking a leg over my thigh. "So,
you're really a redskin."

"We don't like that term, Mr. Mathis," I replied, giving him

a cold stare. "If I was black, I think you'd be a little more
politically correct."

He roared with laughter and took his leg off mine. "Don't

be so uptight, John. I was just teasin'." He took a big gulp of
his beer, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he smiled at me.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You mad at
me?"

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by J. P. Bowie

"No," I said, looking away. His eyes were doing crazy

things to my libido. "Just don't use that redneck talk around
me."

"Redneck? Me?" He laughed again. "You're just too

sensitive, John White Eagle. You should have heard some of
the things I was called growing up."

"You?" I shook my head, not believing him.
"You'd be surprised, my friend." His eyes clouded briefly,

then he smiled again. It really was a killer smile—it took a
face that, when in repose, wasn't exactly classically
handsome, and transformed it into something truly
mesmerising.

"But, surely you had a pretty privileged life?"
"Don't believe what you read in the tabloids—ever. My

folks were dirt poor. I never had a proper education.
Everything I know I've learned from other people and from
reading. Lots of reading—plus, from life. 'Greg Mathis' is a
Hollywood invention. Know what my real name is?"

"Uh, uh."
"Al Camper." He grinned at me. "Can you see that on the

marquee?"

"Al's fine," I said, looking at him and somehow beginning

to see a different man. I put my hand on his thigh and
stroked it gently. "I like Al."

"So," he said suddenly, setting down his beer. "Let's get

down to business. The way I think it went was you're running
at me ready to brain me with your hatchet—I turn, parry the
blow, grab your wrist and we wrestle for a moment or two,
before I throw you to the ground. Right?"

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by J. P. Bowie

"That's right..."
"Okay, do it."
I put down my beer, stood and raised my hand as if to

strike him. He grabbed my wrist. I put my free hand behind
his neck and pulled him in close.

"Wait," he said, his voice strangely hoarse. "You shouldn't

be wearing that shirt ... gives me something to hold on to..."

"Um, right." I stepped back and pulled it off.
"Okay, go again."
I repeated my first move, and he grabbed my wrist again,

but this time he pulled me against himself. Our bare chests
slapped together, and I wrapped my arms around him in a
bear hug. For a moment, we stood locked in each other's
arms, his face a mere inch from mine. His warm breath
brushed against my lips and more interestingly, his hard cock
pressed against my crotch.

"So what happens now?" I whispered.
"You try to escape."
"I don't want to."
What I wanted was to kiss him, but he turned slightly to

one side so that my lips grazed his cheek. My cock raged
against the denim of my jeans, begging to be released. His
hand pulled feverishly at my zipper. My erection sprang free,
and he dropped to his knees, his mouth ready to take it all in.
He looked up at me as he greedily sucked. His eyes were
smiling at me. I let my head drop back in ecstasy as his
clever lips and tongue worked their magic.

He yanked my jeans down around my ankles, massaging

my ass cheeks with the palms of his hands. I held his face

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by J. P. Bowie

between my hands and ran my fingers through his amazingly
thick blond hair. He lapped at my balls, pulling each one into
his mouth, laving them with his tongue, while his hand
pumped my cock, making me want to come and scream at
the same time.

Jeez, but it was almost too much.
Not wanting this to be over all too soon, I pulled him to his

feet and he smiled, grinding his crotch into mine. I slipped my
hands inside the waistband of his pants and pulled them down
over his hips. I yelped with delight as his big, hard cock
slapped against my belly. I knelt, took him into my mouth,
sucking on that throbbing muscle as though it were my last
supper.

I knew for him this was no more than a moment's

diversion. I couldn't believe I was giving a blowjob to one of
the biggest stars in Hollywood, but he'd most likely done this
same thing over and over with all too many eager extras or
struggling actors. Still, live for the moment, I told myself.

I tasted the saltiness of his pre-cum on my tongue. I took

it all in, sucking and licking up and down his silken length. He
gasped and I knew he was about to come. I didn't want to
release him. I wanted to taste it, savour it as it pumped into
my mouth. But he pulled out and stepped back, his hand
working to bring his climax. I knocked his hand away,
grabbed his cock in my own hand, just as he shot his load
onto my chest.

"Aaah ... God ... oh Jesus," he moaned, his body writhing

in ecstasy. His face contorted into a rictus of pleasure. He
stood there, his perfect body shuddering in the throes of his

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by J. P. Bowie

ecstasy, the embodiment of every gay man's wet dream come
true. Then, as if this wasn't enough of a turn on, he dropped
to his knees, pushed me back onto the floor and went down
on me.

He took my cock and balls into his mouth, holding them

there, his tongue doing things I didn't know were possible,
until I thought I would literally come apart. I opened my
mouth, but no sound came save for a long breathy whimper
which I didn't recognise as any sound I'd made before. I
came into his mouth in great spurting spasms, and he held
me there until my convulsing and gasping had ceased. Then
he let my cock slowly slip from his mouth. He leaned over
me, his blue eyes filled with a sensuous lust he could never
have faked for the movie screen. He lay on top of me, holding
me tight in his arms, his head on my chest. It was a show of
affection that I had not expected. I put my arms around him
and kissed his forehead. He didn't seem to mind.

"Man, you were incredible," he whispered in my ear.
"You were okay," I told him.
"What?" He looked at me, shocked for the moment.
"Just kidding," I chuckled, holding him tight.
"Durned redskin," he murmured against my throat.
I would have been happy to have let him lie there, on top

of me, forever—but just then, the jangling of a phone nearby
brought him leaping to his feet, a curse on his lips.

"Yeah?" he barked into the mouthpiece. He was silent for a

long time as he listened to whoever was on the other end,
then he said, "Okay, okay ... see what you can do. Call me
when you find out."

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by J. P. Bowie

He hung up, and muttered, "Son-of-a-bitch."
"Something wrong?" I asked from my horizontal position

on the floor.

He looked at me like he'd forgotten I was there. "Uh, no ...

hey, listen ... sorry 'bout this. I have some calls to make."

"Oh, sure." I stood up, reaching for my clothes. "Hope it's

not bad news."

"No, nothin' like that. Sorry, uh ... John. You workin'

tomorrow?"

"Yes. We have to finish our scene, remember?"
"Right. Okay, see you then."
I'd hardly finished dressing when he opened the trailer

door. Nothing like getting the bum's rush right after blowing
your wad.

Funny, I thought, as I drove home, that I'd given in so

easily to the sex. Usually, I'm a little more reticent about
casual sex. I guess it was his star appeal that had gotten me.
"Star-fucker" was a term I'd never thought would apply to
me, but he was so cute and sexy, I'd made an exception this
time. It probably wouldn't happen again. I was fairly certain
Greg Mathis wasn't into prolonged relationships with extras—
male ones, at least. He had a reputation to maintain as the
macho Hollywood superstar every woman in America drooled
over, dreaming of torrid nights in his arms. Well, I could tell
them it was pretty good. Even if he didn't like to kiss.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Chapter Two

The following morning, I was on the set bright and early—

well, early anyway. I was already in my warrior getup when
Greg came out of his trailer. Before my scene with him, he
had one to do with Gloria Garnet, an up-and-coming starlet,
and the director wanted some close-ups of that beautiful
face—Greg's, not Gloria's.

He strode onto the set, looking so handsome and so totally

aware he had captured everyone's attention. Was it my
imagination, or had he deliberately avoided making eye
contact with me? Nah, I thought, he's just preoccupied with
the role he's playing. He was all business, and I kinda like
that in a man. I stood back in the crowd of extras and
technicians and watched him at work. He really was magical.
Gloria seemed to melt under that sexy smile of his, and rotten
actress though she was, the scene went into the can on the
first take. Who cared about an insignificant nobody when
Greg Mathis's beautiful face was filling the screen?

"John White Eagle on set, please!"
I tensed slightly as I heard my summons before the

camera. I hadn't been doing extra work too long, and my
sortiei into stunt work had happened kinda by itself. I was so
in love with the film industry that I volunteered for everything
that came my way. The movie we were doing was low
budget, and Al, or Greg Mathis rather, was only appearing in
it as a favour to the director, a long-time friend.

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by J. P. Bowie

Anyway, there I was in my war paint, and little else,

waiting for the director to yell action when again I felt Al
ignoring me. I mean, we were standing about five feet from
each other, and he couldn't even say "Hi" or "kiss my ass" or
any damned thing. Unconsciously, I started to tap my
tomahawk against my thigh in irritation. Blaine, the director
yelled, "Okay, Mr. Native American, can the impatience.
You're not the star of this movie, you know."

"I am only too aware of that fact, Mr. Movie Director," was

my knee jerk reply, and I immediately wished I'd kept my
mouth shut. Oh shit, I thought, there goes my pay check.

Blaine looked at me, his mouth open. "Excuse me?"
"Hey!" All eyes went to the real star of the movie. "Can we

just get on with this, Blaine?" Al said testily. "The redskin just
wants to get this over with, and so do I."

The redskin.
Yesterday, after we had indulged in all that sex, he'd said

it with a degree of affection, and I had warmed to it. Now, it
was as if he didn't know me, and the term "redskin" was just
another racial slur. Angry tears stung the back of my eyes as
I stared at him in disbelief.

"Okay," Blaine yelled, "let's take it from where the Indian

surprises Greg." He gestured at me. "Stand behind Mr. Mathis
with that axe-thingy raised and wait for me to shout 'action'.
You got that?"

I nodded and took my position. Greg, the star, turned to

look at me and muttered, "Let's get this right in one take,
okay?"

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by J. P. Bowie

I nudged his arm, and keeping my voice low, I asked.

"What's this all about? Why the big change in attitude?"

"Don't be stupid," he hissed at me, his eyes cold and not

really looking at me. "Just do what you're here for!"

"Oh, you better believe I will," I growled like an angry

bear. "Hope you're up for it!"

Before he could say anything else, Blaine the Pain yelled,

"Action!" and I leaped forward, ready to brain the guy who
had, only yesterday, let me come in his mouth. Just as well
the tomahawk was made of rubber!

He spun round, his arm blocking my down stroke, and then

there we were, rolling around in the dust, just like we were
supposed to—except I was mad and wanted answers.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" His eyes widened as

I shoved my hand under his chin in an unrehearsed
movement.

"You're being an asshole," I replied through gritted teeth.

"Now, your turn."

He grabbed my wrist, forcing my hand down and away. His

strong thighs gripped my torso in a numbing clinch.

"Ouch!" I yelped. "You son-of-a—"
"Shut up," he hissed close to my ear. "Just let me kill you

... I'll explain later."

"Huh?"
He brought his knife down into my chest. I bucked once

under him then lay still.

"Thanks." His lips on my ear almost brought me back to

life, but I remained "dead", as he stood and walked away.

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by J. P. Bowie

"Cut! That was great, Greg," Blaine crowed. "Really

realistic!"

I pushed myself to my feet, panting slightly and covering

my breechclout discreetly with both hands to hide the start of
the erection Al had inflicted on me. So, what the hell was that
all about? I wondered, as I trudged back to the wardrobe
tent. What was he so damned nervous about this morning?

Inside the tent, the wardrobe mistress gave some cold

cream to remove my makeup. I changed into my jeans, plaid
shirt and cowboy boots, tied my hair back in a ponytail and
headed for the cafeteria. I was stilled pissed about the turn of
events, Al being so cold and all, but I figured it was probably
the pressure of being a major star. With so many people
clamouring for his attention, he most likely didn't need the
guy he'd sucked off the day before joining the line-up. Why
should I, even for one moment, think that he'd given what
we'd shared any more than a passing thought—if that? After
all, I was the one who'd had sex with a movie star. All he'd
gotten was an eager young extra.

I grabbed a sandwich and some coffee at the counter then

strolled outside, finding a place to sit on the edge of the set,
away from the techs setting up the next sequence—and well
away from Al's trailer.

As I munched on my sandwich, I got to thinking about just

how rushed the sex had been but also how much better it
could've been if he hadn't had to take that phone call. Didn't
look like it was going to happen again though, I thought
ruefully. Ah well, I still had the memories.

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I wasn't needed again that day. My next call was in two

days. Yeah, I know, I had already been killed, but in a low
budget movie, extras are used over and over in different get-
ups. And with all that war paint who would know? Even
without the paint, who would know anyway? Unless you're a
star, you're pretty much faceless in Hollywood. Throwing back
the last of my coffee, I started to walk to where I'd left my
motorcycle.

"John, hold up!"
I turned at the sound of Al's voice and couldn't hide the

surprise I felt.

"Sorry about earlier," he said, looking unhappy.
I shrugged. "'S'okay. You having a problem?"
"You could say that. You got a minute?"
"Sure ... but don't you have a scene to do?"
"They're having some camera problems. Blaine's got

himself some cheap-ass equipment."

"Is this movie ever going to get released?" I asked.
"Oh yeah ... my name will guarantee a release."
This was said in a matter-of-fact way, without a sense of

ego. The name Greg Mathis had star-power, no doubt about
it, and even if the movie was a bomb it still wouldn't hurt his
career. He knew that and could afford the occasional misstep
now and then.

We walked towards the parking lot. "So, what's on your

mind?"

"I'm being blackmailed," he said quietly.
Another price he had to pay for his stardom—the

possibility of someone finding out about his sexual life.

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"Because you're gay?"
"Shit, no ... that I could deal with." He smirked at me.

"Nobody would believe it anyway!"

Now, that did sound like ego.
"What then?"
"Some guy, says he did time with me..."
"What?"
"Well, don't sound so shocked, John."
"You mean it's true?"
"Yeah, it's true. It was a long time ago ... I was a kid..."
"What did you do?"
"Robbed a convenience store."
I looked at him and shook my head. I couldn't believe he

was telling me this—why was he telling me this?

"Why are you telling me this?"
"Well, gee, John. I just thought after what we shared

yesterday, you might be kinda concerned that I'm in this
mess." He turned to go. "But I guess I was wrong."

I grabbed his arm. "Wait, wait ... I'm sorry ... I didn't

realise..."

"That's okay." He looked at me sadly. "I don't have too

many people I can talk to. I guess I thought you were
different. Kinda liked me."

"I do like you, Al."
He moved in closer. "Enough to help me get out of this

mess?"

"What d'you have in mind?"
"I thought I'd call the guy ... set up a meeting. But I don't

want to go alone. Not that I'm afraid, you understand. I just

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think it would be better if I had company. So, if you'd be
there with me, I'd really appreciate it." He slipped his hand
inside my shirt as he spoke and teased my nipple between his
thumb and forefinger. "Think you could find your way to help
me out?"

At his touch, I felt a rush of heat to my groin. "Keep doin'

that," I kidded, "and I'll do anything you want."

"Great." He gave me that killer smile. "Why don't you stick

around? After the shoot come to my trailer. We'll have a beer
or two ... see what comes up."

I knew exactly what was going to come up, and I was

ready for it. "You bet," I said, grinning. "I'll be there."

* * * *

I stood back watching the action Al and some supporting

actor were playing out in front of the cameras. It was from
watching him perform that I really appreciated his star power.
He was good, and you just couldn't take your eyes off him.
He made you believe his character—despite the really lousy
script he had to deal with.

"I will not be overruled in this," he ranted at the other

actor. "God gave me the right to own this land, and no one—I
mean no one will take that from me!"

"Cut! Fantastic, Greg," Blaine yelled. "You are the man!"
Well, I couldn't argue with that. Anyone who could make

this dreck work deserved his box office status. Blaine
Harrington had also written the script and, in his arrogance,
would not allow anyone to tamper with it, as he put it. The

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fact that it could've benefited from major improvements
didn't occur to Blaine.

I watched him as he walked over to Al, wiping the sweat

from his face with a towel one of the wardrobe assistants had
handed him.

Blaine was okay looking, I guess, young and fit, but

standing next to Al, he just didn't compare. According to the
publicity, he and Al were old high school buddies who had
stayed in touch through the years, and like a good friend, Al
had agreed to star in Blaine's first venture in directing. They
conversed in low voices for a few moments, then Blaine
patted Al on the shoulder and walked away.

Al looked around 'til he caught my eye. He winked at me

then strode off towards his trailer. My cue but I thought I'd
give him a few minutes. Don't want to look too eager, I told
myself, even though the thought of what was to come was
already straining the denim at the crotch of my jeans. I felt
like pinching myself. Having sex with a superstar is not
something that happens to me every day of the week—in
fact, until Al, it had never happened. Yeah, I'd had my share
of good-looking guys come on to me—there's a ton of 'em in
Hollywood—but one of Al's stature, uh-uh. He was most
definitely a wet dream come true.

Except today, he seemed a tad distracted, like his mind

was somewhere else as he went through the motions. Even
though he grabbed me as soon as I walked into his trailer and
started pulling at my shirt, I could tell he was worried.

"What's wrong?" I asked, stepping back to look at him

"You nervous about meeting this guy tomorrow?"

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"Kinda," he admitted, looking away. He pulled me in close

again, rubbing his crotch against mine. "Let's forget it for
now. Just let me fuck you, so I have somethin' good to
remember the rest of the day."

Okay, there was a compliment in there ... somewhere.
I tried for the kiss again, and again he turned his face

away.

"You don't kiss?" I asked, slightly irritated.
"Not my thing..."
Too bad it was very much my thing, but I guess a

superstar doesn't have to pander to another's needs, or feels
like he owes any kind of explanation.

"I wanna fuck you," he said, his voice strained with lust as

he pushed me down onto the couch.

"Where's that beer you promised me?" I asked. "I'm not

that much of a cheap date," I added, trying for some humour.

He tapped me lightly on the chin. "Comin' up..." He padded

over to the cooler and brought back two bottles. He took a
long swig then pulled me close, bringing his lips to mine and
letting the cold beer trickle into my mouth. He smiled at me,
pleased with himself, then pulled my shirt open and licked at
my nipples, the coldness of his tongue making me squirm.

"You're a sexy fucker, aren't you?' he whispered.
"I try," I said, grinning and teasing his left nipple between

my thumb and forefinger. He handed me a bottle, and we
both chugged our beer. "So..." I wiped my mouth with the
back of my hand. "Did you call that guy?"

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

A flicker of disgust crossed his face. "He's up for getting

together with me. Said he'd call later with a place we can
meet. I don't want him coming here, of course."

"Right."
The door to his trailer was suddenly yanked open, causing

us to jump apart like two guilty schoolboys caught with their
pants down—which we hadn't quite gotten to.

Blaine Harrington stood framed in the doorway. "Sorry to

interrupt," he said with just a trace of a sneer in his voice.
"But I need to go over some things with you right away."

From the look on Al's face, I thought for a moment that he

was going to tell the director to fuck off, but then his
expression cleared, and he nodded.

"Sorry, John," he said. "You'll have to give me your story

idea some other time."

Picking up on his cue, I smiled and held out my hand for

him to shake. "Thanks anyway for taking the time to listen,
Mr. Mathis," I said. As the door swung shut behind me, I
heard Harrington scoff, "He has a story idea?"

Bitch.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Chapter Three

Al called me early the next morning. There was no shoot

that day, and he'd arranged to meet his blackmailer at a
motel on Sunset.

"Why a motel?" I asked, not liking the arrangement one

bit. "Why not just a bar or someplace?"

"Because I don't want to be seen in public with him—and if

he gets nasty, I can't be involved in a public squabble. In a
motel room, I can control him if he starts to get out of hand.
Especially with you there—you will go with me, won't you?"

"I said I would. What time and where?"
"The Parks Motel at one o'clock. Meet me in the parking

lot. I've already told him the number of the room I've
reserved. He'll meet us inside."

"Okay." I glanced at my watch. Nine. Plenty of time to get

in my gym time. "I'll see you there. Bye."

"Bye, John ... and thanks for doing this for me."
"No problem." I hung up, feeling uneasy. I didn't like this

one bit.

My grandmother had been a full-blooded Dakota Sioux,

and she'd always seemed somewhat mystical to me. When I'd
visit her on the reservation where she'd lived all her life, she'd
talk to me about the power of the shaman. How shamans
could heal, could talk to animals, but most importantly, how
they could foresee the future. She told me that, like her, I
had the shaman's touch. She could see it in my eyes, she
said. I had the gift and the sight.

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by J. P. Bowie

As a kid, I'd listened, my eyes and mouth wide open, but

of course as I grew up I got a little more sceptical. That is,
until I began to realise there were times when I could most
definitely tell when something was about to happen. Most
times, it would be on a personal level—knowing when a friend
or someone in the family was in trouble, before they told me.
That kind of thing. But occasionally, I'd get a flash of
something that would knock me sideways.

Like the time I'd been on the set of a mystery movie...
The action was in a restaurant. I was the waiter and had to

serve the two actors in the starring roles. As I pretended to
take their order, the young female lead looked up at me—and
her face looked ... dead. I got such a shock, I stumbled
backwards and fell over my own feet. The director yelled
something about me being a lousy, fuckin', two-bit, useless
jerk, and did I think that maybe if we did this again, I could
get through my thirty second appearance without falling on
my ass?

The next day, she was found in her apartment, dead from

an overdose of cocaine. That had been my worst experience,
apart from the time when my grandmother died, and I could
hear her voice calling to me as she passed. I'd woken in a
sweat to answer the phone and heard my mother tell me
Grandma was gone.

So, this uneasy feeling I had after talking with Al made me

think his meeting with his ex-jailbird acquaintance wouldn't
go too well. That feeling persisted the entire morning.
Usually, working out helps me get rid of the gremlins that
might be bothering me, but this day nothing seemed to help.

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by J. P. Bowie

Even the good looking dude eyeing me from his shower stall
didn't put me in a better frame of mind—much to his
annoyance. Sorry, dude, I'm kinda preoccupado at the
moment...

What my Grandma's blood had passed on to me wasn't all

scary—there's usually an upside to most everything in life,
and the good thing about her "gift" was that I had the ability
to enhance the sexual awareness of whoever I was making
love to. It was a kind of empowerment, an almost spiritual
experience, that would leave the other guy feeling like he'd
had the greatest sex of his life. I couldn't help wondering if
my Grandma had ever used this part of the "gift" on my
Granddad or on some of the men who'd lain with her after he
died. It gave me a kind of vicarious thrill thinking about her in
her youth, so slim and beautiful, urging the man in her bed to
ecstatic heights he'd never dreamed possible. I had wanted to
share this experience with Al, but the sex was over so fast
and hadn't even happened our second time together due to
Blaine's unexpected arrival. Maybe next time.

Finding the Park Motel was easy, finding a space to park

my Harley was not. From the look of all the cars filling the lot,
this place was obviously a hot spot for daytime hooker
pickups. I hate leaving my bike in tight spaces—there are way
too many assholes who don't give a shit about other people's
property, and I couldn't afford to keep getting the dings on
the chrome mufflers fixed. Complaining with a few choice
words under my breath, I pushed my Harley round the side of
the building in search of a likely parking place.

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by J. P. Bowie

I heard Al call my name. I looked around. Where the hell

was he?

"John! In here..." He was standing in one of the rooms,

staring at me through the window.

"You said to meet you in the parking lot."
"I know. Just get in here, quick."
Grudgingly, I leaned my bike against the wall. This had

better not take long, I thought, but from the room window I
figured I could keep an eye on anyone lurking near my
machine. Al opened the door and hustled me inside.

"Where's your buddy?" I asked.
"He's not coming," he said, starting to unbutton my shirt.
"Huh?"
"He called..." Al put his lips on my neck and nibbled gently.
I got an instant hard on.
"He's postponed the meeting ... said he'd call me later..."

His hands were inside my shirt, teasing my nipples. "So, I
thought, why waste the room when I have one hot stud about
to arrive any minute?" He handed me a cold beer, already
opened. "Cheers," he said, tapping my bottle with his. "Here's
to you'n'me, John."

We chugged our beers, all the while, running our free

hands over each other's body. The beer gone, we tore at each
other's clothes, then fell on the bed in a tangle of legs and
arms. For the next hour or so, I forgot all about my bike, and
the real reason I was in that motel room. He was all over me,
nuzzling my armpits, scouring my chest with his lips and
teeth, tugging and pulling at my clothes like a hungry animal.

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by J. P. Bowie

"I want you to fuck me," he said, his voice sounding

strained and edgy.

"Okay..." I hadn't figured him to be a bottom man, but I

was happy to oblige. He produced a condom and slid it over
my erection. Man, was he ever in a hurry to get laid. He lubed
himself then sat astride my hips, guiding me inside his tight,
tight hole. A look of pain and zero enjoyment creased his face
as I arched my pelvis upward, driving my dick inside him.

"Oh ... shit," he whispered, sweat beading on his forehead.

"It fuckin' hurts ... I'd forgotten how much it hurts."

"I'm sorry ... try to relax. Is this your first time?"
He shook his head, gritting his teeth, his face a mask of

pain and regret. I started to pull out.

"No ... no." He massaged my chest. "Keep goin'. I think

the pain's easing."

I ran my hands up the sides of his torso, trying to bring

him the added sensations I knew I could through my gift of
ecstasy. It seemed to work. He began to move up and down
on my cock's length. His breathing became steadier, his
expression clearer. A tight smile flickered at the corner of his
lips.

"Oh, yeah ... feels good, John..."
I had to admit the sensation of his tight ass muscles

closing around my throbbing erection felt really good. I raised
myself up and hugged him to me as I thrust upward, pushing
deeper inside him. He clung to me, long low moans escaping
his lips as he rode me, joining in the rhythm I'd begun. He
was finally getting into it. His head fell back, his body arched
in ecstasy, but I started to feel sleepy...

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

What the hell?
I felt the power slipping away from me. That had never

happened before.

Fighting the drowsiness creeping over me in draining

waves, I started to thrust harder. Jeez, how embarrassing to
fall asleep while fucking a superstar.

I felt myself coming, but the crazy thing was, I couldn't

have cared less.

* * * *

I woke up in the darkened room, wondering where the hell

I was. Oh yeah...

The smell of sex permeated the air. I lay there for a

minute or two trying to remember what had happened. I
must have blacked out. I reached out to touch Al, and
encountered an empty space. Had he gone to the bathroom?

"Al?" I switched on the bedside light. He was gone, and

from the looks of things, so were his clothes. Funny, I hadn't
heard him leave ... and why hadn't he said something before
he left? I felt a stir of anger inside me, along with the
uneasiness I'd experienced earlier in the day.

Something didn't feel right.
I sat up, my head swimming with pain. I felt as though I

had a hangover, but I'd only had that one beer. I swung my
legs off the bed and padded into the bathroom. Grimacing at
my reflection in the mirror, I ran the hot water and started to
remove the vestiges of dried semen from my chest. Hell, I
thought, might as well shower. I pulled back the shower

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

curtain and yelped with shock. I stumbled back, ramming my
butt on the sharp edge of the vanity.

"Ow ... Shit!"
There was a naked body in the tub—a very dead naked

body from the looks of all the blood caked on his head and
face. Someone had battered the crap out of his head with the
heavy tire iron that lay beside him in the tub. I took a quick
look to make sure it wasn't Al. No, definitely no one I knew.

"Jesus..." My first reaction was to call the cops. Wait! How

would I explain this to them? What was I doing in a motel
room having sex with a movie star while a dead body lay in
the bathroom tub? Of course, I couldn't tell them I'd been
with Greg Mathis. They'd never believe that—and would he
admit it?

Of course not.
I was on my own, and I'd better get the hell away from

this motel as fast as my trusty Harley could take me. My bike!
God ... In the heat of the moment, I'd forgotten all about
leaving it unattended. Anxiously, I ran to the window and
peered out, heaving a sigh of relief as I saw it's dark shape
still leaning against the wall.

Okay ... time to go. Hastily, I pulled on my clothes, looking

around the room for any tell-tale signs of Al's and my
presence. Al ... Why had he left me here with a dead body in
the tub?

My uneasiness grew as I considered a possibility I really

didn't want to even imagine. I had to get out of here before—

A pounding on the door made me jump out of my skin.
"Police! Open up!"

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Shit! I ran to the window. It was locked up tight as I

struggled with the lock, the door burst open and cops poured
into the room. A terrible realisation flooded over me.

I had been set up..

* * * *

Detective Mark Rossi, sitting on the other side of the table

from me, stared at me with some exasperation. He'd been
with the uniforms when they'd barged into the room, made
straight for the bathroom, verified there was indeed a body
there, and after reading me my rights, had cuffed me and
taken me downtown. I'd been fingerprinted, photographed,
peed into a little cup—all the fun stuff of being arrested.

"Okay, John..." Rossi loosened his tie, ran his hand

through his dark curly hair and leaned back in his chair. "You
still maintain you had no clue there was a body in the
bathroom."

I nodded yes.
"And you were in that room, why?"
"I told you ... I met this guy, we clicked. He said he had a

room at the Park Motel and would I like to go back with him. I
said yeah, we had sex—and when I woke up he'd gone."

"And you had never seen this guy before?"
"No ... we'd just met."
"You make a habit of going with strangers to their motel

rooms, John?"

"No, I don't, as a matter of fact." I met his eyes full on.

Nice blue eyes, I thought, with a momentary twinge of regret.
"Look, I didn't kill that guy. I don't even know who he is."

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

"You're saying he's not the guy you had sex with?"
"Right, that's what I'm saying. The guy I had sex with

disappeared."

"And you're saying the guy you had sex with was the one

who rented the room?"

"That's right."
"So, why does the motel manager have your name

registered to that room?"

"What?" I looked at him in complete amazement. "No, I

didn't reserve that room. The guy had already signed in."

Rossi shook his head. "Your name, John White Eagle—a

little hard to miss—is the one in the register."

"I don't understand..." But of course, I did. Al had reserved

that room in my name—the son-of-a-bitch!

"What aren't you telling me, John?" Detective Rossi asked.

He leaned forward in his seat, his blue eyes holding some
sympathy. "If, as you say, you were set up, who was the guy
who set you up?"

"I don't know."
"I think you do, John. Are you protecting someone?

Because if you are, you're making a very big mistake. You're
facing a murder one rap—that means the death penalty, or at
the very least, life imprisonment. Is that what you want?
You're a young guy—a film extra, right? Everything to live for
... maybe a shot at the big time. Why fuck it up for yourself?"

My shoulders slumped with despair. He was right, of

course. I was protecting someone—a someone who obviously
didn't give a shit about me. Someone who'd very carefully
manoeuvred me into a situation where my explanation would

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

not be believed. Greg Mathis, the superstar, having sex in a
sleazy motel with a film extra while there was dead body in
the bathroom. Yeah, everybody was going to believe that.
And if I knew Mr. "street-smart, ex-con" Al Camper like I
thought I did, he would have an air-tight alibi for his
whereabouts at the time we were together.

"John?"
I looked up at Rossi and shook my head. "I really don't

know any more than I've already told you," I said.

He sighed then looked at the door as it opened a smidge,

and he was beckoned out. Now what? I wondered. I had
waived my right to an attorney in the stupid belief that they
would realise I wasn't the murderer and release me before
too long. Rossi was gone for what seemed eons. I needed to
go to the bathroom. I needed a shower—I felt dirty,
humiliated.

Rossi was gay. I could tell—my gaydar was infallible.

Probably closeted ... very cool looking ... thirtyish. If our
meeting had been under different circumstances, I'd have
asked him for a date. Yeah, like he'd go out with someone he
thought jumped into the sack with total strangers at the drop
of a hat.

Shit. He was right. I was fucking everything up.
I groaned and buried my face in my hands as a feeling of

dark despair swept over me. I found myself thinking of my
Grandma and how she'd always been so proud of me—what
would she think of little Johnny White Eagle now?

I glanced at the door as it opened, and Rossi accompanied

by a police officer entered the room.

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

"Okay, John. You're free to go," Rossi said.
I looked at him, startled. "I am?"
"Yes. There's not enough evidence to hold you. But we

may need to talk to you again."

Not enough evidence? I was alone in a motel room with a

murdered man, and no one else but me registered to that
room. But hey, who was I to argue? I stood up, already
looking forward to getting home and having the shower to
end all showers.

Rossi walked me to the police station exit doors. "You need

a ride home?" he asked.

"I'm hoping and praying that my Harley's still at the

motel," I said. "If you could drop me there, I'd appreciate it."

"Okay, let's go." He put his hand on my shoulder as he

opened the door. It felt nice. I looked at him quickly as we
walked to his car, admiring the fullness of his mouth, and
wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Like I'd ever find
out...

We drove in silence for a while, then he cleared his throat

and asked, "So, you workin' on a film right now?"

"Yeah ... a western. I'm an Indian warrior."
He grinned at me, showing white, even teeth. "Type-

casting, huh?"

"I guess. It's kinda low-budget, but I really like the work."
"Who's the star? Anyone I'd know?"
"Greg Mathis." His name sounded bitter on my tongue.
"Oh, yeah? He's pretty big. What's he doin' in a low-budget

movie?"

"A favour for a friend ... the director."

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

"So, are you working tomorrow?"
"Yeah ... although for a while there I thought I was going

to be a no-show on the set."

"Where are you shooting?"
"Back lot at Empire Studios. You know it?"
He nodded. "I know where it is. Okay, here we are." He

pulled into the motel parking lot. "Where's your bike?"

"On the far side there." I pointed to the end of the

building, and he drove over slowly, parking alongside my
bike. I truly couldn't believe someone hadn't stolen it.

"That's a fine looking machine," Rossi said. "Not a good

place to leave it."

"Right. I've been worried for hours. Maybe my Grandma is

still watching over me."

He chuckled. "Your Grandma?"
"Yeah. She was a shaman—very powerful. She told me

when she passed that she would always protect me from all
harm."

He stared at me for a long moment without saying

anything, his eyes searching my face. I gazed back at him,
admiring the strength in his features, the curly black hair, the
trace of stubble on his cheeks and chin, the fullness of his
lower lip. Jeez, but I wanted to plant one right there.

He cleared his throat. "Okay, John. Stay out of trouble.

And if you hear anything you think might be useful, call me."
He pulled a card from his inside pocket and handed it to me.
It was warm from being close to his chest. I pushed it into my
shirt pocket. He held out his hand, and I grasped it in mine.

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

"Thank you, Detective," I murmured, not wanting to let go

of his hand.

"Mark."
"Mark." I turned to go then sat back again. "I know this is

going to sound crazy, what with everything that's happened,
and the way we met, but I was wondering if you'd ... uh ...
like to ... uh..."

"Yes," he said, smiling. "Yes, I'd like to see you again."
"You would? That's ... that's great!"
"Call me when you get off work tomorrow. If there's no

craziness going on, I'll meet you for a drink."

"It's a date," I said happily.
He waited until I'd revved up the Harley and headed for

the parking lot exit. He tooted his horn then sped off into the
night. Despite every rotten thing that had happened, I was
grinning all the way home.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Chapter Four

Sleeping was impossible. All night, I tossed and turned, my

mind churning with the various possibilities as to what had
taken place in that motel room. A man had been murdered—
obviously before I'd ever arrived. Al had been there alone
waiting for his ex-con blackmailer who hadn't shown—or so Al
had said. But what if he had shown and his demands had
been more than Al had wanted to shell out. They'd gotten into
an argument then a fight—and Al had killed him. Maybe not
deliberately, more in self-defence. But why implicate me?
Why not just say, "Gee, John, the guy was loony toons. He
wanted way more than we'd agreed on—we argued, fought,
and I hit him with a tire iron"?

Yeah ... a tire iron. Where the hell had that come from?
Had Al gone there with the intention of killing the guy and

leaving me there as the one to take the rap? Were my first
instincts correct—that this had all been a set up? God, but I
didn't want to believe that. He'd seemed so genuinely turned
on by being with me. Letting me fuck him—practically
begging me to do it, even though it obviously wasn't his bag.
Was he nothing more than a lying, conniving, sack-o-shit
who'd do anything, use anyone, to save his own skin, and the
hell with everyone else?

And why could I not remember all the sex? Had he

drugged me somehow? The beer? Come to think of it, there
had been no sign of the beer bottles in the motel room.

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by J. P. Bowie

Groaning, I tried to shut the whole mess out my mind. I

concentrated on Mark Rossi and the fact he wanted to see me
again, despite knowing what I'd been involved in. Why in the
hell couldn't I have met him before all of this had happened?
If I had, I wouldn't have been so damned eager to fuck Greg
Mathis, superstar—but then, if it hadn't been for what
happened, I might never have met Mark at all.

I groaned and buried my face in my pillow. Go to sleep

John, I told myself. And I did, but not before I'd sent up a
silent prayer to my Grandma, asking her not to forget her
promise.

* * * *

On my way to the studio that morning, I couldn't but help

wonder how Al would react to seeing me walk onto the set—a
free man. If my hunches were right, he would be a mite
surprised the cops hadn't locked me up and thrown away the
key.

"Not enough evidence," Mark had said, and somehow that

just didn't sound right. Of course they still hadn't identified
the dead man. I was only guessing it would turn out to be Al's
blackmailer. Would the trail lead back to Al once the police
identified the body? Unlikely. Why would the police connect
an ex-con to Greg Mathis, the movie star? And even if they
did, celebrities have an uncanny knack of beating the rap, no
matter how lurid.

Arriving at the studio, I went straight to the call board and

looked for my name. I was there on the list of extras under
the heading, "Indian Warriors—attack on homestead".

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by J. P. Bowie

Wardrobe call was at eight. I had ten minutes to spare, so I
strolled over near Al's trailer, but after a few minutes, it was
obvious he wasn't there. Maybe he had a later call.

I joined the other guys in the wardrobe tent all trying on

their skimpy outfits. There were one or two nice butts on
display, but I found myself wondering what Mark Rossi would
look like in the buff. Nice, I'd bet. I pulled his card from my
jeans pocket. I had already memorised his cell number and
couldn't wait to call him. A date with a cop ... how cool was
that? This time though, I would take it nice and slow. He
didn't strike me as the type who would haul me into bed on
the first date, though if he did, I promised myself I wouldn't
struggle too much. Smiling, I took my "costume" from the
wardrobe lady, then found a spot to shuck off my clothes and
wrap the breechclout around my hips.

Looking through the tent flaps, I saw Al and Blaine arrive

in a limo. They were in deep conversation as they walked to
Al's trailer. My mind worked overtime, my gift of premonition
kicking in. The two of them...

As always, we extras were kept waiting for most of the

morning before we were needed, but finally, the call came:

"Indian warriors on set!"
I kept in the middle of the "savage horde" storming Al's

ranch house for what was to be the climax of the movie. He
and his co-star, Gloria Garnet, were going to annihilate all of
us screamin' Injuns and then live happily ever after—as if! I
found myself wishing I had another hand-to-hand wrestling
match with Al, just so I could look into those beautiful eyes of
his—and spit in 'em!

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by J. P. Bowie

"Action!"
I joined the charge, running the few steps as directed,

then clutching my stomach, toppling over and falling face first
into the dirt. Damn, but I was good! The crack of rifle shots
filled the air as I rolled over and stood up, once the tracking
camera had passed me. I watched as the other warriors were
mowed down one by one.

Al and Gloria emerged from the ranch house, stepped over

a couple of prone bodies, then kissed and embraced in front
of a painted-on-canvas setting sun.

The End.
Thank you, Jesus!

* * * *

As I removed my war paint and struggled into my tight

jeans and boots, I wondered if I should show Al I wasn't
behind bars. Couldn't hurt, I decided, and I really wanted to
see just what kind of reaction he'd display on seeing me. So
after dressing, I ambled over onto the set where he and
Blaine were going over their schedule for the following day.

He looked up as I approached them. "Hey John, how's it

goin'?" he sang out. Blaine looked at me with irritation then
tried to direct Al's attention back to the file in front of them.

Not the reaction I'd expected. Had I been completely

wrong about all this?

"Uh ... good, A ... I mean, Mr. Mathis."
He grinned at me then looked away, pointing at the

document in front of him and talking to Blaine in a low voice.

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by J. P. Bowie

I turned and headed towards the parking lot. Man ... I

couldn't believe my instincts could be that off-kilter. I sat
astride my Harley for a while, thinking things through. Okay,
it could be that all of this was just one big coincidence. Maybe
Al hadn't known there was a dead body in the bathroom.
Maybe he'd just up and gone, not wanting to wake me,
knowing he'd see me the following day at the studio. Maybe—
but wait. Why was my name in the motel's register? That part
made no sense. Al had said he'd rented the room. Had he put
it in my name so as not to give away his identity? Possibly
but wouldn't he have mentioned that small detail at some
point? I mean, come on. It still felt like a set up to me.

I gunned the engine and coasted out of the parking lot,

still deep in thought. By the time I got through the usual
traffic snarls on the freeway and stopped at the market to
pick up some groceries, it was almost six when I got to my
apartment. I called Mark.

"Hey, it's John. You still up for that drink tonight?"
"Sure am."
He sounded pleased I'd called. My heart quickened a little

as I asked, "Uh ... you wanna name the place?"

"How about Sam's on Melrose? You know it?"
"I know it. Eight-ish? We can get a bite there, too."
"Sounds good. Gives me time to go home and change. See

you there."

I put the phone down, happy as a clam.

* * * *

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Talk about timing. As I drove into Sam's parking lot, I saw

Mark get out of his car. Whoa, I thought, he looks incredible.
He was wearing a pale blue tee that I knew was going to
accentuate the blue of his eyes, white chinos and rope
sandals. Man, but he'd be great for undercover work. No one
would believe this hunk was a cop. He could have been a
movie star, but I was glad he wasn't. I'd had my fill of them.

"John..." He smiled at me. "You look great."
"Thanks. You, too," I murmured, glad my extra care to my

appearance had gained his approval. I had tied my hair back
into one long ponytail so that my high cheekbones and dark
eyes weren't hidden by my hair falling over my face.

He put his hand on my shoulder as we walked to the

entrance of the bar. It felt as nice as I remembered. I leaned
into him slightly, and his hand slid to the back of my neck
giving it a gentle squeeze. Man, I was going to enjoy this
evening.

He ordered us up a couple of beers, and we found a table

in the corner where we sat and looked at each other for a few
moments without saying anything at all. Yet, there was no
discomfort in that silence. It was a happy moment for me,
and I think for him, too.

"Crazy day?" I asked finally.
He smiled. "They're all crazy. How about your day?"
"Well, it was the last day's work on that particular movie,"

I told him. "It went okay, so unless they have problems, I
won't hear from them again. My agent's looking for
something else for me."

"Did the Indian warriors win?"

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by J. P. Bowie

"Are you kidding? The paleface wasted us in the best B-

movie tradition."

He grinned. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Just about a year. I'll give it a few more months, then I'll

look for something steady."

"Like?"
I chuckled. "I really don't know, Mark."
"How 'bout law enforcement?"
I looked at him with wide eyes. "Are you serious? Don't I

have a record already?"

He laughed. "No, you don't. We released you, remember?"
"Yeah, you did." I gazed into his beautiful eyes for a

moment, then asked, "And why did you release me, Mark? I
was the only one there."

His eyes held mine for a long moment. "Because I believed

you," he said quietly. "I don't know if it was a set up, but I
believed you when you said you didn't kill that guy."

"Thank you." I touched the back of his hand with my

fingertips. "D'you know who he is yet?"

"No. Forensics is still working on that. It can take a while—

not like on TV unfortunately, where they solve the whole case
in one day." He paused for a moment. "I shouldn't really tell
you this."

"I swear I won't blab," I said, smiling at him.
"Looked like he'd had anal sex before he died. There was a

condom in his rectum."

"Wow..." My mind raced a mile a minute. Had Al had sex

with the guy before I got there?

Mark was looking at me intently. "What are you thinking?"

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"I don't know. It just gets more bizarre. Here I was in this

room with a guy who may have had sex with the dead guy.
Shit..."

Mark gripped my hand. "Were you careful?"
"Oh, God, yes. Always."
"Good."
"Mark..." I really wanted to square this away with him.

"Look, I know it sounds sleazy—my being there with this
guy—but, I swear I don't do that kind of thing. I don't know
why I did it this time. It just kinda happened."

"Hey, we've all been there."
"You have?"
"Like you, not often, but I can be tempted by a pair of

beautiful dark brown eyes."

My dick hardened at his words. Did he mean what I

thought he meant? "Are you ... uh ... tempted right now?" I
asked, my voice sounding strangely thick to my ears.

"You have no idea..."
"Your place or mine?"
"Mine."
So much for taking it nice and slow.

* * * *

His apartment was nice—at least what I saw of it before he

pulled me into his arms. My interest in the colour of his
drapes faded immediately. He was just as I had imagined him
to be—only much, much better.

"I hope you like to kiss," I said as I snuggled against him.

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by J. P. Bowie

"Who wouldn't want to kiss you?" he murmured. "Your

mouth is irresistible."

Well, I can name one movie star, I thought, then quickly

forgot Al as Mark's lips closed over mine. Nothing, and I mean
nothing, could turn me on faster than this. His lips were soft
and moist, his arms hard and strong around me, his body ...
well, let's just say it was everything I could have wished for—
warm, solid, sensual, and yet, at the same time a wall of
comfort and reassurance.

He breathed a long sigh after our first kiss. "You are so

fine, John," he whispered against my ear. "Your body is so ...
so beautiful." He ran his hands up under my shirt and over
my torso as he spoke. "Your skin feels so incredible ... so
smooth..."

I kissed him to shut him up. "Stop with all the

compliments," I said, my lips fluttering on his. "You'll give me
a swollen head."

He grinned. "You've already given me a swollen head," he

said, guiding my hand to his crotch. I murmured my
appreciation feeling the hardness under the soft fabric. I
pulled down his zipper and slipped my hand inside his fly. His
cock rose to meet my touch as I pulled it free of its
confinement. As we kissed again, even deeper this time, I
massaged his cock gently, running my thumb across the slit,
smearing his pre-cum over the velvety head. One-handed, I
unbuckled his belt, and peeled his chinos over his hips. His
butt was round and smooth under my hand. He pulled my
shirt off, none too gently. Mmm, I liked his eagerness. He

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tasted so good. I could have gone on kissing him all night,
but there was something else I wanted to taste.

His cock was a thing of beauty—not huge, but thick and

curved, the head glistening with pre-cum just waiting to be
tasted. I heard him gasp as I licked at the slit, gathering up
the juice on the tip of my tongue. I gave him a sly look as I
made a show of relishing the pungent saltiness, then I took
the head of his cock in my mouth, sliding my tongue around
the throbbing flesh. His hips arched forward. He caressed my
face with his fingertips as he slowly, rhythmically moved over
me, fucking my mouth with long, smooth strokes. I ran my
hands up over his thighs, massaging his butt, slipping my
fingers into the warm moist cleft between his buttocks. There
wasn't a part of him I wanted to leave unexplored, unclaimed.
He groaned as my probing finger found his sweet spot.

"Oh God," he murmured, clenching down on my hand.
I looked up at him and saw his head thrown back in

ecstasy, the muscles of his torso shown in sharp relief as the
throes of his orgasm overcame him. He started to pull back,
but I held him imprisoned in my mouth as he came in great
jolting spasms, his semen pouring over my tongue. I
swallowed all of his salty sweetness, licking at the last
vestiges I squeezed from him. His body shuddered, and he
fell to his knees, holding me in a crushing embrace, his face
buried in my neck.

We sank to the floor in each other's arms. His mouth found

mine. His lips were moist and scorching hot. I moaned into
his mouth as my need overtook me.

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"Yeah," he murmured, his hand closing around my aching

erection. "I feel you, John..." His lips scoured my chest,
nibbled at my nipples, making them rise to the occasion in
small stiff points. He kissed his way down the length of my
torso then took the head of my cock into his mouth. His
tongue lapped at the underside, making me feel like I'd
explode any minute. A murmured protest escaped my lips. I
wanted to hold onto this feeling for as long as I could. I
scooted down so I could reach between his legs. He was hard
again, his cock pulsing in my hand.

"Fuck me," I whispered.
He raised his head and smiled his eagerness. He jumped to

his feet, and I was treated to the eye-popping sight of his hot,
muscular ass as he strode into the bedroom, returning in a
flash holding a tube of lube and a foil packet. He knelt
between my legs and tore open the wrapping. I leaned
forward so I could stroke the fine covering of curly dark hair
on his chest, and tease his nipples as he slipped the condom
over his raging erection. He smiled down at me, then
wrapped my legs round his waist, gently pushing his lubed
fingers into my anus.

"Oh ... yeah..." I breathed out a long sigh of sheer

contentment and anticipation as his fingers stroked my
prostate, making my cock jump and spill a puddle of pre-cum
into my navel. He bent down, licking at it, then at the head of
my cock, savouring my juice. His eyes bored into mine as he
pushed his way inside me, slowly at first, then as I raised my
hips to give him better access, he went deeper. I kept my
eyes on his, clutched at his muscled shoulders and bit down

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by J. P. Bowie

on my lower lip to detract from the fiery pain that enveloped
me.

He touched my cheek with his fingers. "Okay?" he

murmured.

"Yes," I gasped. "Feels good." I pulled his head closer,

kissing his lips. His mouth opened over mine, our tongues
meshed and I felt his hunger for me ooze from every pore on
his body. His eyes locked on mine and burned a brighter blue.
Every muscle in his body trembled with ecstasy. This is what
the gift does—it takes every sensation, every touch of the
lips, every caress and magnifies it tenfold. I knew at that
moment, Mark's senses would be on overload, filled with a
rush he'd never had before. Just looking at the intense
ecstasy on his face was a total turn on for me. He felt
amazing inside me, filling me completely with his hot, hard
flesh. His steady, pulsing movements over me took on an
almost hypnotic motion, sweeping us both into its sensual
rhythm.

"Jesus, John..." His voice was muffled against my lips. I

held him tight as his rhythm increased and his breathing
became harsh and laboured. He shouted my name as he
came in violent, jolting spasms, and I buried my face in his
chest as my own orgasm ripped up from my balls, shooting a
stream of semen between our bodies, coating our skin with its
hot stickiness. He collapsed on top of me with a groan, and I
tightened my arms and legs around him to keep him inside
me for as long as I could.

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by J. P. Bowie

His breath was warm against my ear as his lips brushed

the side of my face. "John," he murmured. "What did you do
to me there?"

I smiled and turned my head to kiss his lips. "I think you

were the doer, Detective. I feel well and truly done!"

He kissed me, hard, then raised his head to look at me.

"No, it was you. You took me somewhere I'd never been
before ... in my mind ... you and me ... I can't describe it, but
it was beautiful."

"You're right. It was beautiful." I stroked his face, and he

caught my fingers in his mouth, sucking on them gently.

"I never want to let you go." He pushed his hips higher,

keeping us joined. "I wanted you from the moment I saw
you."

"In that motel room, looking scared to death?"
"Well, maybe a little later when we were looking at each

other across the table in the interrogation room."

"Yeah, you gave me a hard on, the way you were looking

at me."

"I did?" His hand strayed to my crotch. "How about now?"
I grinned at him and nodded. I could feel his cock inside

me thicken and harden again. Wow, this guy was gold.

Much later, he pulled me to my feet and held me pressed

tight against himself. "Wanna shower?" he asked, his lips on
my ear.

I chuckled. "We are kinda sticky."
"C'mon then." He took my hand and led me through his

darkened bedroom.

"Hey, you actually have a bed, then," I kidded him.

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by J. P. Bowie

"Yep, and if you're a good boy, you might get to spend

some time in it tonight."

"Oh, I'll be good," I murmured, rubbing my hand over the

smooth swell of his ass. He turned on the faucets then
stepped in under the hot spray, pulling me in after him. His
body looked even sexier when wet, his light olive-coloured
skin glistening under the fine sheen of water.

"That's some tan you have," he said, soaping up my chest.
"It had a head start," I told him, smiling.
"Right. Turn around, and I'll wash your back."
I leaned into him as his hands massaged my neck and

shoulders. "Mmm ... you could moonlight as a masseur," I
said.

"I'd be very expensive," he murmured, slipping his arms

round me. His hard cock nestled between my butt cheeks.

"You'd be worth every cent." I arched my neck so I could

take his lips with mine. Our kiss was long and hungry. I was
falling in love with him, and the sensation filled me with
warmth and apprehension. It's too soon, I told myself.
There's so much more to be resolved. So many loose ends in
my life right now. So much more that I have to find out...

His tongue swirled inside my mouth, setting my senses on

fire again, making me forget my caution. All I knew was I
wanted this man in my life, for better or for worse, and all I
could see right then—was better.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Chapter Five

I woke around noon in my apartment, my mind in a total

daze. The night with Mark had been the most amazing night
of my life. If I'd thought sex with a movie star was the
epitome of fantasy, Detective Mark Rossi had blown that
particular scenario right out of the water. The man was,
purely and simply put, fantastic. Every part of him was
spectacular, but more importantly, he was real. No artifice, no
ego—well, no super ego. Hell, if he looked kinda smug after
our love making, he deserved to be. He had rocked my
world—over and over and over—and what's more he made it
look like I'd done the same for him.

"Stay," he'd said. "Stay with me tonight."
And I had, and I would have still been there if he hadn't

had a darned early morning meeting at headquarters. Even
while rushing around getting ready, he'd found time to make
me some coffee and get me all worked up again with a kiss
that nearly lifted my head off my shoulders. Dang, but he was
terrific. I was not going to let this one slip away. Greg Mathis,
be you saint or sinner—you have dwindled in my affections.
Big time!

Just what did Al leave me with in that motel room? Was he

innocent, or did he get me to that motel with the full intention
of dropping me into a pile of doo-doo?

Still, his seeming nonchalance at seeing me yesterday had

surprised me. I had expected a look of horror or, at the very

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by J. P. Bowie

least, consternation. But nothing—just "Hi, John." Was he
that good of an actor? Or had he nothing to hide?

One way to find out. I knew Al would be at the studio

today. There was still a bunch of work to do on the movie,
and it looked like Al had taken over some of the production—
Blaine being Mr. Useless. If I could get him alone and
confront him with my suspicions, he'd either combust or have
a reasonable explanation for what happened. Mark was no
doubt doing his own thing, checking with forensics, getting
the body ID'd and the like, so any little help I could give him,
I was sure he'd appreciate.

* * * *

The guard at the studio gate waved me in after I'd flashed

my expired pass—a friendly smile works wonders. I headed
for Al's trailer and knocked on the door—no answer. I pulled
on the handle, and it opened. Taking the opportunity, I
stepped in and looked around. I knew I'd be in deep shit if he
arrived and found me there, but I figured I could handle that.
I'd just take a quick look around for any clue and I'd be outta
there.

My skin prickled with unease as I moved to Al's desk. It

was littered with papers, and I was hesitant to touch them.
Chances were I couldn't make it look like they hadn't been
rifled through—but, what was I there for if I didn't sneak a
peek? A quick scan revealed nothing more than pages of a
manuscript—the movie he was making with Blaine—and some
other scripts—hopefully better than the one he'd been stuck
with for the past few weeks. Then I saw it. A receipt for the

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by J. P. Bowie

Park Motel made out to John White Eagle. Paid in cash. Of
course, he wouldn't use a credit card, especially as he didn't
have one of mine. I felt a slow anger build inside me at the
knowledge he had used my name when he was making the
reservation. It had to be because he wanted to incriminate
me in some way. And of course, he'd been able to act all
casual when he saw me the day after we'd met in the motel.
He was an actor—and a damned good one at that.

I looked at the receipt again—would his fingerprints still be

on it? I pulled a Kleenex from the box on his desk, wrapped
the receipt in it then stuffed it into my jeans' back pocket

Maybe I could get Mark something more to go on. Al's

daily schedule was lying on top of the pile of papers. Most of
it was stuff at the studio, but at seven he had pencilled in,
"Dinner at La Ronde with Blaine and Monique." Monique was
Blaine's wife—muy rica and according to the tabloids, that
was the number one reason Blaine had married her. From
what I'd seen in the glossies, it wasn't for her looks—she had
no chin and could have been the anorexia poster-child.

The sound of voices outside the trailer made me jump. Shit

... I can't be caught in here, I thought. If I used the excuse
that I was waiting for him, looking for more sex, the son-of-a-
bitch might just take me up on it—and the last thing I wanted
from him was that. His hotness had cooled to lukewarm in my
book.

I peeked out the window and blew a sigh of relief when I

saw two techs standing gabbing outside. I just hoped they
weren't waiting for Al. In a moment or two they moved on,
and I beat a hasty retreat, walking quickly to the parking lot.

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by J. P. Bowie

So here was my plan ... I'd hang around the restaurant

and follow Al home, get him to let me in then ask him point
blank if he'd known about the body in the bathroom. Yeah, I
know it was risky, but I figured I could handle myself if the
going got rough. I mean, what was he going to do—shoot
me? He couldn't afford that kind of publicity. Of course, he
could always claim I was a stalker or a burglar, and he was in
fear of his life.

Hmm ... maybe I should call Mark. Now, there was a better

plan!

"Hey," he said, after I'd gotten him on his cell. "I was just

thinking about you."

"I bet you say that to all the guys," I kidded him.
"Only the ones I want to see again."
"You free tonight?"
"Sorry ... I've a shit-load of paperwork to plough through

before I leave here. Tomorrow maybe?"

I hid my disappointment. I didn't want to sound like a

whiner this early on. "Tomorrow's great," I said. "I'll call you
in the afternoon."

"Wait ... what if I dropped by your place when I'm done

here? It'd be kinda late."

Oh, I like this guy, I thought, smiling. "That would also be

great. You got a pen handy?"

"I know where you live, John," he said quietly.
"Right. You guys know everything, don't you?"
"You okay with that?"

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"Uh huh." I deepened my voice to give it an inviting sexy

edge. "But I'm relying on you to make me feel a whole lot
better about it!"

"I can do that."
"I know you can." Oh boy, do I know you can. "Are you

getting hard?"

A loud clearing of the throat sounded in my ear. "All right

sir. Ten o'clock it is!"

Click.
I chuckled as I turned off my cell. I loved this guy.

* * * *

La Ronde was the kind of restaurant I could only dream

about having a meal in. From what I'd heard, though, the
food wasn't that great. It was the ambience and the guest list
that drew its clientele night after night. Chances are, you'd
see some pretty famous people there—Greg Mathis for one—
and as I watched the entrance from my vantage point in the
shadows, I thought I saw Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, her
hubby, going in along with Daniel Craig and some bimbo I
didn't know. There was a time when I'd dreamed of mixing
with the likes of those celebrities, but after a year in the
"business" I knew only too well that the chances of a movie
extra becoming a major star were next to zero. That only
happened in books—and movies.

Al, Blaine and Monique had gone in earlier. I figured that in

about two hours they'd split and head for home. That's all I
wanted tonight. Just to find out where Al lived. Mark was
going to be at my apartment around ten, and no way was I

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by J. P. Bowie

going to miss out on seeing him again. I'd be there with open
arms ... and everything else.

There was a coffee bar catty-corner from the restaurant,

so I slipped inside, ordered a coffee and sat by the window
where I could easily watch the goings-on outside La Ronde. I
didn't have long to wait. Suddenly Al stomped outside with a
face like thunder, Blaine running behind him. For a minute or
so, they stood arguing, then Al jumped into the cab the
doorman had obviously ordered for him, leaving an open-
mouthed Blaine alone on the sidewalk. I shot out of the coffee
bar, and leaping on my bike, took off after the cab as it sped
along Sunset heading west. Somewhere in the Pacific
Palisades the cab made a left and cruised up to what I should
have expected, of course—a gate-guarded community. I
pulled over and parked, watching as the uniformed guard
checked out the cab then waved it through.

Okay ... problem. No way was I going to get past that

guard without some kind of invitation from someone on the
inside. Of course, I could call Al. And say what? "Hey Al, it's
John White Eagle. Wanna fuck?" The son-of-a-bitch might go
for it, but I doubted whether he'd want me in his house. He'd
probably suggest another motel ... or my place. Hmm ... that
could work—not that I wanted him anywhere near me, but to
get the information I needed to hand over to Mark, I might
just have to go that route. I glanced at my watch. Time to
head home, but at least, I knew now where Al lived.

* * * *

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by J. P. Bowie

I was stepping out of the shower when my doorbell rang.

Wow, Mark's punctual. I tied back my hair, wrapped a towel
round my hips and ran to the door—and there he was, a kind
of a shy smile on his face and looking even better than I
remembered.

"Hi," he said, hesitating just a little.
"Don't you want to come in?" I teased him.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do." He stepped towards me. "You look

great."

I kissed him. "So do you. Why so shy?"
"I'm not really ... I was just thinking that after last night

you might have had second thoughts."

"About what?"
"You know ... seeing me again..."
"I called you, didn't I?" It had never occurred to me that

this macho cop would be insecure around me. I held him tight
and kissed him again. "I've been longing for this moment all
day."

"Me too." He kissed me long and hard. "You smell good.

Mind if I use your shower? I'm kinda sticky."

"I think I might like you sticky," I said, not letting him go.
"No ... really. It's been a long day. I'd feel better..."
"Okay, go shower. You hungry? I could make us a

sandwich." Truth to tell I was kinda hungry myself.

"That'd be great," he said, stripping off his shirt. Staring at

his bare chest with its covering of dark curly hair, it took all
my self-control not to leap on him and ravish him on the spot.
He followed me into the bedroom, where he took off his
pants, socks, and briefs. Jeez, but he was hot.

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by J. P. Bowie

I got him a clean towel.
"You'd better jump in that shower real fast before I pin you

to that wall and have my way with you," I kidded him.

He grinned at me. "Just hold that thought. I won't be

long."

I pulled on a pair of shorts and ambled into the kitchen to

fix us a sandwich. Funny, how this short time with Mark had
made me forget all about lusting after Al. I was beginning to
wish I'd never had sex with Al. Yeah, the rush had been
great, but the fact he didn't like kissing was a bit of a turn off.
I knew I was being a bit of hypocrite—I'd been eager enough
to fling myself at him the first time he'd asked. The star
allure, I told myself again, feeling just a tad ashamed. I didn't
think Mark would judge me too harshly if he found out it was
Greg Mathis I'd fucked in that motel room. He was a cop—
used to all kinds of situations. Still, I would rather he never
had to know about it.

The shock of his shower-damp arms around me and his

warm moist lips on the nape of my neck gave me a million
goose-bumps.

"Mmm..." He kissed the back of my ear. "You have no right

to look that sexy in the kitchen."

I chuckled and turned in his arms to face him. God, but he

was gorgeous. I gave him a big wet one on his lips.
"Detective," I murmured, "is that an arrestable offence?"

"You bet it is. I may have to handcuff you and take you

in."

"I won't resist arrest," I told him, brushing his lips with

mine.

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He groaned and pulled me tighter against himself. "You're

so easy—just the way I want you."

"I could struggle."
"I might like that, too." Laughing, he put me in a bear hug,

lifted me off the floor then charged through to the bedroom
where he threw me onto the bed, diving in on top of me.
Sitting astride me, he ripped open my shorts. I lifted my hips
so he could pull them off me. He was already hard, and I was
right there with him. He went down on me, taking all of my
cock into his mouth, down to the root. I arched my hips,
thrusting up into his mouth. His hands slid under me, cupping
my butt, pulling me up even closer, even deeper down his
throat.

My body shuddered, and I moaned in ecstasy. I wanted to

give him as much pleasure as he was giving me, so I shifted
position, manoeuvring my head between his legs. I reached
for his cock, grasping the hard flesh and guiding it into my
mouth. I heard him gasp and groan as I licked up and down
the length of his throbbing shaft. His pre-cum spilled onto my
tongue, and I lapped at it, loving his sweet salty taste. His
balls, a tantalising inch from my nose was too much to resist.
I pulled each one gently into my mouth, sucking on them,
running my tongue around the soft skin. His body writhed
over me, shuddering from the pleasure my lips and tongue
brought him.

He released my cock from his mouth and gasped, "John ...

oh, John..."

"Yes, baby," I murmured, dragging my tongue up the

sensitive path between his balls and his anus. I soaked the

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by J. P. Bowie

entrance to his hole with my saliva, before pushing the tip of
my tongue deep inside him. He squirmed and moaned as I
fucked him with my tongue. His musk was an aphrodisiac to
my senses, driving me wild with desire. Suddenly, he pushed
himself off me, reversing our positions, burying his face
between my butt cheeks. My body arched up as his tongue
entered me, swirling past my sphincter. I clawed at the
sheets under me as he drove me insane with ecstasy.

"Condom," he whispered, his voice hoarse. I reached into

the nightstand drawer and pulled one out. He fumbled for a
moment then I felt the head of his cock push its way inside
me. I groaned from pain and pleasure as his shaft slid in with
one long, smooth thrust. The combination of him deep inside
me, filling me completely, and the sensation of the moist
warmth of his lips on my spine was as good as it ever could
get. Just let me remember this night forever, and I'll die
happy.

He rolled onto his back, holding me on top of him with his

arms and legs locked around me. One hand reached for my
cock, and I pumped slowly inside his fist, matching the
rhythm of his hips as he thrust upward. My eyes rolled back
in my head, a million stars swam before them as he wrenched
my orgasm from me with his hand's hot strokes. I felt his
body stiffen under me, and he cried out as he came in long
shuddering spasms.

When our breathing had returned to almost normal, he

whispered, "You're the best, John ... the best ever."

"Funny, I was thinking the same about you."
He slipped out of me, and I felt empty somehow.

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by J. P. Bowie

"See, I miss you already," I teased him.
His kiss was long and sweet. He held our faces close

together, his eyes gazing into mine as if to see what lay
behind my dark eyes. I only hoped that all he could see was
my love for him.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

Chapter Six

The following day, mid-afternoon, he called. "I have to see

you, John." I could tell by the tone of his voice this wasn't
going to be that kind of visit.

"Want to tell me what's wrong?" I asked.
"I will, when I see you," he said and hung up.
He showed up at my door around three o'clock. He did not

look happy, nor did he return my smile. "Come on in," I said,
reaching for him. I wrapped my arms around him and tried to
kiss his lips. He turned his face away. "What's wrong?"

"We got the DNA results on the sperm found in the

condom that was in the dead guy's anus."

"Oh yeah..." I didn't like the tone of his voice. I stepped

away from him. "And?"

"The tech in the lab's a friend of mine. He called to give

me an early heads-up. A preliminary report says it's a match
with your DNA."

"What? But that's impossible, Mark," I yelled at him.

"That's fucking impossible! No way could it be mine. I never
saw that guy before I saw him in the shower. I swear to you,
I'm telling the truth. Mark." I grabbed his hand. "Please
believe me."

"Then how did it get there, John?"
"I don't know. Someone put it there. Oh my God..." I could

feel myself grow pale. I started to shake. "How could he have
done this?"

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

"Who, John?" Mark held my hand tight in his. "Who are

you protecting? Tell me. Let me help you. Because if you
don't, I'll have to arrest you."

I stared at him, my eyes filling with tears. "Mark ... just

say ... say that you believe me, please."

He looked back at me, his beautiful eyes filled with

sadness. "I want to believe you, John. I really do. But you've
got to level with me. Who was with you in that room, if it
wasn't the dead guy?"

"Oh, shit..." I pulled my hand from his and slumped down

on the couch. "You won't believe it when I tell you."

He sat beside me and put his arm around my shoulder.

"Try me," he said softly.

"It was Al ... I mean ... Greg. Greg Mathis."
"The Greg Mathis?"
I nodded. "Yes. He said he was being blackmailed and

arranged to meet the guy there in that motel. He asked me to
be there, as a kind of back up, I guess. Anyway, when I got
there, he said the guy was a no-show, but as he'd rented the
room why didn't we ... you know. He wanted me to fuck him."

"And you used a condom of course..."
"Yeah. When I woke up, I didn't even think about where it

was. If I had thought about it, I'd have figured he flushed it
down the toilet or something"

"So you didn't go in the bathroom until after you'd had sex

with Mathis."

"Right. I'd showered before I met him, and now when I

think about it, he was all over me so fast, I didn't have time
to think, never mind go to the bathroom." I leaned into him a

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little. "I should've told you I figured Greg Mathis was the one
who'd set me up. I just didn't think you'd believe me. I mean,
he's a major star—everybody loves him. Who would believe
he'd get caught up in this kind of sleaze?"

"Why was the guy blackmailing him?"
"They'd been in jail together when Al, I mean Greg, was

younger. He'd robbed a convenience store he said, and the
guy was threatening to go to the press with the story. I guess
he'd just got out and was pressing Greg for money. The day
after all this happened, I was at the studio, Mark. I walked
right up to him and Blaine, the director, and he just looked at
me and smiled, and said 'Hi, John' like nothing was wrong."

"He's an actor," Mark said.
"Right. So I went back yesterday and searched his trailer. I

found the receipt for the motel. I was going to show it to you
last night, but somehow I got distracted." I gave him a little
smile, then asked, "Do you believe me? It's really important
to me that you believe me, Mark."

"I believe you." He paused and his eyes flicked away from

me for a moment or two. He cleared his throat, then said, "I
haven't been entirely honest with you, John."

"What d'you mean?"
"When we released you from the precinct the other night, I

told you it was because we didn't have enough evidence to
hold you. That wasn't exactly true. We could have held you
with what we had, but I had a feeling you were lying when
you said you weren't protecting anyone, and that you didn't
know the guy you'd been with. I figured if we released you,
you'd lead us to that person, and if you were indeed an

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accomplice to the murder, we'd get both of you at the same
time. The DA agreed with me and—"

"And you released me still thinking I had something to do

with the murder," I interrupted, staring at him with a quiet
anger. Shit ... did this mean all that had happened between
us meant nothing to him? Hot tears welled up behind my
eyes.

"Listen to me for just a moment, John." He tried to take

my hand, but I pulled a way and stood up.

"Okay, I'm listening."
"You're mad."
"Of course, I'm mad. Now it feels like I've been used

again. First by that rat-fink movie star—and now by you, who
I thought really liked me. Man, I feel like a fool."

"You're not a fool ... and I do really like you. Sit down and

let me explain."

I sat, folding my arms over my chest in a this-better-be-

good attitude.

"You have to understand," he began quietly, "that when

we arrested you in the motel room, it looked pretty damning.
In the minds of the other officers, you were the suspect,
without a doubt. I have to admit I thought so too until I
started interrogating you. Then my gut said you were
innocent, even though you were the only guy in the room
apart from the deceased and the room was registered in your
name. There was just something about you..."

As he spoke, I gazed at the earnest expression on his

handsome face, and I felt some of the tension ease from my
body.

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"Go on."
He gave me a small smile. "What? With the rest of 'there

was just something about you', or why I let you go?"

"Both," I said, returning his smile. He held out his hand to

me, and this time I let him take mine in his warm, firm grasp.

"The only way I could present my argument to the DA," he

continued, "was to tell him that I figured if you were guilty, or
at least an accomplice, you'd contact the other guy right
away. He agreed, but only if I'd put you under surveillance."

"That's why you agreed to meet me the following night?"
"Yes. And the fact that by the time I'd driven you over to

get your bike, I was pretty sure I was right about you. I did
have a car follow you to the studio the following day, but
after ... uh ... our night together, I lifted the surveillance."

"So when the forensics lab called you about what was in

that condom—"

"I freaked. I couldn't believe it. When I told you they'd

found a condom in the dead guy's rectum, I did it for a
reason. I wanted to see your reaction, and again, you passed
my gut test. When the lab called me with this news today, I
had to go with the evidence. If you had just told me what had
happened in the motel room..."

"Yeah, I know that was dumb of me. I should've told you

the first time we were together."

"Yes, you should have." He pulled me close and kissed me.

"But the evidence is still stacked against you. Where's the
receipt?"

"I'll get it," I said, running to the bedroom. "Maybe his

prints are still on it."

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"Maybe. They're easily smudged on paper. Somehow we've

got to get Mathis to confess."

"I followed him home last night. I know where he lives." I

handed Mark the wrapped receipt. Without opening it, he
slipped it into his inside pocket.

"But I can't go there without a warrant—and there's not

enough here for me to get one."

"I don't need a warrant," I said. "What if I call him—tell

him I need to see him? That the sex was so great I have to
have more. I know he'd go for it."

Mark looked at me for a long moment. "Was it that great?"

he asked finally.

My face grew hot. "It was ... okay, I can't lie to you. It was

good, but most of it was because of who he is and how it
happened, you know? The spur of the moment, the allure of
the star, the unattainable wet dream, that kinda thing. With
you, it was different. With you it was more than great, Mark.
It was everything I ever wanted." I took his hand in mine,
and he squeezed it gently.

"John, I don't want you putting yourself in any danger." He

pulled me into his arms. "You're everything I've ever wanted,
too," he murmured, his lips touching mine. "I don't want to
lose you now."

"But if we plan this carefully, you could be right there,

close by, ready to leap in and save me if the going gets
rough. I mean, I can look after myself, but he is a martial arts
expert. I'm more your grapplin' man."

He grinned at me. "That's for sure ... and I'll grapple with

you anytime."

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"You're makin' me hard, Detective Rossi," I said, nibbling

at his earlobe.

"I just have to think about you, and I get hard. It gets

kinda embarrassing at times."

"Wanna get nekkid?"
"I'm on duty."
"That's right. You came here to arrest me. Wanna get

nekkid? I promise I won't rat you out."

"Okay."
Al sounded pleased to hear from me when I called ... much

later. "John! Hey, I was just thinking about you. Sorry I had
to run out on you the other day."

The son-of-a-bitch.
"I was just wondering if you'd like to get together

sometime," I said. "Like tonight ... maybe at your place?"

"Uh ... yeah. That'd be good. Say after eight? I have a

couple of meetings 'til then." He gave me his address. "Uh,
don't come through the main gate though. Good lookin' young
men coming to meet me at night only fuels the rumour mill."
He gave a fair imitation of a light-hearted chuckle. "Don't
need that kind of publicity."

"Of course not," I agreed. Just as well he couldn't see the

expression of disgust on my face.

"'There's a gate all the way around on the other side," he

said. "Leads to the tennis court. I'll meet you there at say ...
eight-thirty. How's that?"

"Perfect," I said, pushing a smile into my voice. "I can't

wait."

"Me either."

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I hung up and looked at Mark. "What d'you think?"
"I think he's hot for you, and I'm not so sure I like this."
"Don't worry." I kissed the tip of his nose. "I won't let him

sully my honour."

He didn't laugh. "This could get ugly. Are you sure you

want to go through with it?"

"Yes, I'm sure." I looked at him, grimly. "What's the

alternative? I get arrested because my cum is up some dead
guy's ass, and I have no alibi for any of what's happened? I
was there in that motel. You took me downtown for
questioning. And now you have evidence—my jizz in a
condom! Christ ... I can't believe any of this is happening."

"Okay, okay..." He pulled me into his arms and held me

tight. "You're right. We have to get Mathis to either say he did
it or knows who did." He glanced at his watch. "There's still
time for some last minute detective work ... let's head over to
the precinct. I'm gonna ask for some favours."

"All right, let's get going." I clung to him for a moment,

afraid to let him go. If things went badly—No! I wasn't going
there. Everything would be just fine. Just fine.

* * * *

I kicked my heels at the gate for over twenty minutes

before Al arrived. Just as I was beginning to think he'd stood
me up, there he was, looking apologetic and slightly out of
breath.

"Jeez ... sorry, John," he muttered, swinging the gate

open. "Those meetings take forever sometimes."

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"That's okay," I said, giving him a sunny smile. "You're

worth the wait."

"C'mon..." He grabbed my arm and hustled me through

the lush grounds. On the way, his hand found its way onto
my butt, squeezing each cheek hard. Man, he really seemed
into this. Could I have been totally wrong about him?

He unlocked the gate that led to his house. As we passed

the swimming pool, shimmering with silver light, I said, "Hey,
how 'bout a dip?"

"Later. Right now I need a drink—and your dick in my

mouth."

Okay...
Just how was Mark going to react to that little scene? I had

a really bad feeling about all this.

We passed through the back door into the kitchen, then

into the living room. Al headed for the bar. "Beer or Scotch.
You name it."

"Just a beer, thanks," I said looking around. "Nice place."
"It's okay for now, but I need a better address." He

handed me a beer. "Let's go upstairs."

"Can I ask you something first?"
He looked at me funny. "What?"
"Ever hear from your blackmailing buddy?"
"No." He pulled on his beer, then shook his head. "Haven't

heard a word from him."

"Why d'you suppose that is?"
"I guess he had second thoughts about the whole deal.

Didn't want to take the chance of going back in the slammer,
maybe."

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"Or maybe he's dead."
He grimaced. "I could only get that lucky."
I took a deep breath. "That deal in the motel room. Did

you know there was a dead body in the shower?"

He gave a half laugh. "A body? What—you kidding me?"
"No, I'm not kidding you. After you left, I went in the

bathroom and found a body in the shower. Two seconds later,
I'm surrounded by cops and taken downtown for questioning.
You saying you didn't know about this?"

"That's what I'm saying, John!" He looked angry. "What?

You think I did it?"

"I didn't want to think you did. You really had me fooled—

had me liking you, a lot. Then I found out my name was on
the motel's register, and that a condom with my sperm in it
was up the dead guy's ass. Now how d'you suppose that
happened?" I took a step nearer to him. "How did a fucking
condom filled with my sperm get anywhere near the dead
guy, huh?"

"How the fuck should I know?" he growled at me.
"Because you put it there, you son-of-bitch," I yelled in his

face. "You had me fuck you, drugged me, took the condom
and put it in the dead guy—the guy you killed before I got
there. I knew you hated every moment of having my dick up
your ass, but it was the only way you could get what you
needed to incriminate me, wasn't it? I bet you were one
surprised bastard when I showed up on the set the next day.
You thought I'd be in the pokey, didn't you? I have to admit
you covered up really good—Oscar nomination time, Greg!"

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For a long moment he looked at me in silence, and I

started to feel as if I had just accused the most popular movie
star in the world of something he had no clue about, but
then...

"Well, well, well..." He glared at me through narrowed

eyes, his handsome mug taking on a mean and ugly look. "So
the redskin's not so dumb after all." He turned and shouted
into the hall. "You'd better get in here. Looks like Tonto
figured it all out."

I clenched my fists, ready to slug him one, then I gasped

with surprise as I recognised the man who sidled into the
room. Blaine Harrington, movie director, carrying a gun, no
less, and pointing it right at me.

"I hope that's a prop," I quipped.
"Sorry," Al sneered. "It's got real bullets."
"So, what—you're going to kill me, too? Right here on this

pretty white rug? How are you going to explain that one."

"You were breaking and entering," Blaine said. "You'd

given Greg some trouble on the set—threatened him, found
out where he lived—yada, yada, yada. I just happened to be
here for a business meeting."

"Fine, but there's a flaw in your story," I said. "The cops

knew I was coming here tonight."

"Oh, right!" Blaine giggled like a girl and rolled his eyes at

Al. "This isn't a movie. No cops are coming to rescue you,
asshole."

"Wait up." Al looked me for a moment. "The cops took you

in for questioning, right? Why'd they let you go?"

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"Not enough evidence, they said, but I think it was my

innocent appeal that got 'em."

"Quit the smart-ass crap," Blaine hissed.
"And tell me," I said ignoring him. "Was it you Al, or your

side-kick here, who called the police and told them they'd find
a murdered man in that motel room—along with a possible
suspect?"

The look that passed between them said it all.
"So," I continued, "I told them my theory. That the great

Greg Mathis, and the not-so-great director, Blaine Harrington,
were the real culprits" I threw that last part in just to piss
Blaine off. "At first, they weren't convinced, but then it
started to make sense, so I said I'd come here tonight—see if
I could get you to 'fess up, as it were."

Blaine looked suddenly nervous. "Is he wearing a wire?"
Al reached for me and ripped my shirt open. "Nope, no

wire. He's lyin'. There are no cops on the way. Look..." He
shoved his face close to mine. "I don't know what you think
you're gonna get out of this. If you think you can blackmail
me—"

Al's cell phone jangling somewhere in the room made us

all jump.

"Shit..." He ran to grab it and barked, "Hello?" As he

listened to whoever was on the line, an angry frown creased
his face, and his eyes flicked at me. "Thanks Bob, appreciate
the call." He closed his cell phone and looked at Blaine. "That
was the gate guard. There's a Detective Rossi on his way
here."

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Blaine was red-faced mad as he glared at me. "You stupid

asshole. Now we have a cop getting in the way. Al, what do
we do?"

"This!" Before I could react, he karate-kicked me in the

middle of my chest, sending me flying across the room. I lay
there, unable to move, all the wind knocked out of me. "Tie
him and gag him. I'll get rid of the cop."

Dazed, I couldn't raise a hand to stop Blaine from

wrapping something round my wrists, then gagging me. He
pulled me across the floor into another room where he
dumped me, slamming the door behind him as he left.

This wasn't good. Mark was going to walk up to the front

door any minute now. Why the hell had he let the guard
announce his arrival? Despite the pain in my chest—I was
going to have a bitch of a bruise there—I managed to wriggle
myself closer to the door so I could hear what was going on.
So far, the doorbell hadn't rung.

"Maybe he got lost." That from Blaine. "It shouldn't take

him this long to get here."

I heard Al say, "Dumb cop. Okay, when he gets here,

we're having a business meeting. If he asks about the
redskin, we vaguely remember someone by that name. 'Oh
yeah,' I'll say. 'One of the extras—bit of a troublemaker—
always breathing down my neck. I guess he had some kind of
a fixation on me'. There's absolutely nothing to connect me to
the motel room. I made sure of that."

"Where the hell is that cop?" Blaine was getting antsy.
"He might be checkin' the outside of the place," Al said.

"I'll take a look-see."

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A hand on my shoulder made me jump out of my skin. I

gave a startled squawk through the gag. In the dark, a figure
loomed over me. The gag was pulled from my face, and
fingers fumbled at the knots on my wrists.

"It's me..."
"Mark. How did you...?"
"Later," he whispered, pulling me to my feet. I winced as

the pain in my chest stabbed me like a sharp knife. "I told the
guard to wait a couple of minutes before calling the house."
His whisper had turned fierce. "I saw what happened in
there."

"What now?"
"They've separated for the moment. I'll take out the one

with the gun first—"

"Let me!" I wanted to use Blaine as a punching bag.
"No. Stay here, 'til I say it's clear."
"But..."
"No buts. Stay!"
"Yes, master."
He gave me a warning look then opened the door quietly

and slipped into the living room. Blaine stood looking out the
big windows into the pool area, watching Al scope it out. Mark
was fast. Even though Blaine caught his reflection in the
window, he had no time to react. He went down without a
sound, the rabbit punch to the back of his neck knocking him
cold. Mark bent down and pulled the gun from Blaine's lifeless
fingers.

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Al walked back into the room. "No sign of the flatfoot—"

His eyes widened as he saw Mark standing there. "What the—
"

"Greg Mathis?" Mark palmed the gun so Al could see it,

then slipped it into his pocket. "I'm Detective Mark Rossi."

"You broke into my house?" Al looked suitably outraged.

"I'll have your job for this. Do you know who I am?"

"You're Greg Mathis, the movie star," Mark said easily.

"This guy, whose gun I now have, is Blaine Harrington, a
would-be movie director—and this..." He motioned for me to
come in. "This is John White Eagle who I just found bound
and gagged in the other room. Care to explain that?"

"Yes, I can explain that," Al rasped, advancing on Mark. "I

caught this son-of-a-bitch on my property. He's been stalking
me for days—threatening me—and tonight, while Mr.
Harrington and I were having a business meeting, he came
busting in here, yelling about how much he loved me, and—"
He glared at me as I let out a sharp burst of laughter.

"How did he get past the guard?" Mark asked.
"How the hell should I know? Bob, that asshole at the

gate, probably let him in."

"I doubt that," Mark said. "He gave me the third degree

even after I showed him my badge. Not without an invitation,
he told me. I had to call his boss to get the okay. So why
would he let John in if you hadn't invited him?"

"I don't know why, but he got in. That's all I know."
"And you tied him up and gagged him. Why?"

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"I told you why. He broke in. We were going to call the

cops, then Bob called to say you were on your way here, and
we figured there was no need to call."

"Okay." Mark took a step towards Al. "Now here's my next

question. Why did you feel it necessary to kick John in the
chest, when Mr. Harrington already had a gun on him?"

"I ... I thought he was going to attack me. He's a

screwball. You shoulda seen him on the set ... always comin'
on to me."

"With no encouragement from you, of course."
"No! What d'you think? I'm a faggot or something?"
"That's exactly what I think, Mr. Mathis." Mark flicked his

eyes at me for a second. "See, John came to me with this
story that, at first, I found really hard to believe. So I did
some checking, and I found that you had done time some
years ago for armed robbery. A guy named Sam Furman and
you robbed a convenience store. You both got time, but
Furman landed a longer sentence for being the one who
carried the gun. When you got out, you got lucky, screwed
the right people, got a break in the movie industry—became a
star—and covered up your past. Furman thought when he
was released, you'd take care of him, seeing as how you were
such close friends and all. But, of course, you had moved on
and wanted no part of Furman in your life. So you told your
director buddy here all about it, and to save you and his
movie, he agreed to help you, by framing someone else for
the murder."

"I don't have to listen to this," Al sputtered. "You have no

warrant, no right to be here!"

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"You're only half right. I have no warrant—but I have a

right to be here. Three reasons. One, I heard you confess to
John that he'd been correct in thinking you set him up in that
motel room, and I saw you assault him while Harrington held
him at gun point. Two, John gave me a receipt for the motel
room, and I had a rush job done on the prints. Not only is
there a nice thumbprint belonging to you on there, but your
partner-in-crime Harrington's prints are all over it. And three,
John's drug test showed traces of a narcotic in his system.
Looks like you guys planned this whole thing together. That's
enough to put you both under arrest."

"No fuckin' way," Al roared, lunging at Mark. The two of

them crashed to the floor, Al on top, flinging wild punches at
Mark's head.

"Shit!" I sprang on top of Al, pulling him off Mark, only to

find myself tackled from behind by Blaine, who had obviously
only been faking unconsciousness. He hooked an arm around
my neck. I elbowed the rat in the gut, and the four of us went
down in a sprawling heap, Blaine screaming at Al to get the
gun.

Mark was on his feet. He hauled Al off me and punched

him on the jaw twice—hard. Blaine and I rolled around on the
floor, but he was soft. A knee to the groin had him doubled
up, holding his balls and crying like a baby.

Al rubbed his jaw and glared at Mark with hate-filled eyes.

"You can't take me," he sneered. "I'm gonna break every
bone in your body."

"Give it your best shot," Mark muttered.

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I stood back, ready to wade in if Mark needed my help. He

didn't. Al might have had martial art instruction, but for the
last several years, he'd only needed to use it in movies,
where the stunt men took the blows and made him look good.
He was all show, while Mark, skilled in police style aggression
and self defence, was all business. When Al jumped in to
deliver the same kind of kick that had almost cracked my
sternum, Mark was ready, grabbing Al's foot in both hands
and twisting sharply, bringing a yelp of pain from the movie
star.

"Mother fu ... Ow!" Al screamed as Mark held on, applying

more pressure until Al was forced onto his back. As Al lay
floundering on the floor, moaning with pain, Mark pulled his
gun from his shoulder holster and held it pointed at the
stunned star's head.

"Call 9-1-1, John," he said. "Time we put these guys where

they belong."

* * * *

"I don't know about you," I said, hours later, as I let Mark

into my apartment. "But I need a drink."

"And a shower..."
"'Scuse me?"
"I was talking about myself." He grinned at me and pulled

me into his arms, kissing me long and sweet.

"Mmm..." I snuggled against him and kissed his neck. "You

are the best."

After the cops had arrived and carted Al and Blaine

downtown, we'd had to sit there giving statements and filling

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in the arresting officers on what the two of them had been
trying to pull. There were a lot of raised eyebrows as the
subject of Al's sexuality became the topic of conversation.
He'd been right, almost. Everyone had a hard time believing
Greg Mathis, superstar, was gay. I guess they don't get out
much.

Of course, once his team of lawyers had gotten there, we

had to take a back seat while they began punching holes in
our story. Still, at the end of the day, it didn't look good for Al
or Blaine—especially Blaine, who Al was more than ready to
throw to the wolves, blaming him for the whole thing. In a
particularly bitchy tone, Al said Blaine owed him big time for
putting up with all the crap Blaine dished out on a daily basis
on the set of the worst movie he'd ever been involved in.

The look on everyone's faces when Blaine then yelled that

Al had been everybody's bitch in prison was a picture I'll
remember forever.

"Beer okay?" I asked, opening the fridge. "Or I do have

some Scotch..."

"Scotch rocks, sounds good," Mark said, following me into

the kitchen.

"I'm still finding it hard to believe that Al was ready to

have sex with me when Blaine was right there," I remarked,
finding a glass for Mark's drink. "I mean, what did he think
Blaine was going to do—knit a scarf 'til we finished?"

Mark grunted. "I don't think our movie hero really cared

too much what other people did. Don't forget, Blaine was
guilty of blackmail, too. He used what he knew about Greg

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Mathis to get him to star in his movie. That was no love
match."

Handing Mark his Scotch, I said, "Not like you and me."
"You love me?"
I kissed his full, soft lips gently. "You bet I do."
He took a long swig on his drink. "You don't wanna think

about it?"

"No."
He leaned in and kissed me. "Good."
"Despite the fact that you had your doubts about me in the

beginning..."

His forehead puckered in a frown. "Doubts?"
"Yeah. You said my story was hard to believe."
"Well, wasn't it? I'm a cop, John—therefore, a cynic."
"And now?"
He winked at me. "I will never doubt you again."
I moved closer. "Hurry up and finish that drink. I have

other things for your mouth to do."

"Hmm..." He put his glass down and started to undo my

shirt buttons, kissing me at the same time. "You taste better
anyway," he murmured.

I ground my crotch against his, revelling in the feel of his

hard cock pressing into mine. I slid my hand around to cup
one half of his butt and pull him even closer. He made a little
whimpering sound in the back of his throat.

I chuckled. "What was that?" I asked, my lips still on his.
"Need," he said hoarsely. "I need to take a shower, but I

don't want to let go of you."

"Then don't. I'll give you a tongue bath instead."

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

"Aw, John..." He went limp in my arms. He thought I was

kidding, but my desire to touch him, to taste every inch of his
skin was real. I wrenched his shirt open and started licking
his chest, pushing my way into his armpits. He groaned
aloud, half in protest, but I ignored him, holding him tight
with one arm, and at the same time, pulling his pants down
with my free hand. He smelled of clean sweat, with a faint
trace of his morning cologne. Enough to get me harder than
an iron rod.

Once I'd gotten him naked, he gave in and began tearing

at my clothes. His fingers strayed into the cleft of my butt,
lightly stroking the puckered hole. My knees grew weak at his
touch, and I reached between his legs, grasping his cock and
stroking its hot, hard length. We were both moaning now,
breathing into each other's mouths. I opened my eyes and
gasped as I met his brilliant blue gaze. Grabbing my arm, he
hurried me into the bedroom where he threw me down on the
bed then climbed on top of me.

He grasped my cock at the base while he leaned over me,

taking my mouth in a bruising kiss that had me panting and
begging for more. He smiled down at me, then kissed me
again.

"I love you, my Indian warrior," he said, brushing his lips

against mine.

My heart jumped with happiness, and I wrapped my arms

around his broad, muscled back, pulling him tight against my
chest. Thanks Grandma. I sent up a little prayer to her. She
sure was looking after me.

* * * *

The Set Up

by J. P. Bowie

All that happened a year ago. Eleven months ago, I moved

in with Mark, and so far, everything is terrific.

Al beat the murder rap. What a surprise—but his career

took a distinct downward plunge after all the "gay" publicity
and the fact he'd readily blamed Blaine for the whole thing.
Guess Blaine's being everybody's bitch now. Last I heard of
Al, he was appearing in an off-off-Broadway production of
Bent. 'Nuff said.

I thought of becoming a cop, but they wanted me to cut

my hair, and I said, sorry, no can do. I think Mark was
secretly pleased with my refusal. He says he loves the feel of
my hair on his chest—and other parts of his anatomy.
Besides, I've been getting quite a bit of film work, so I'm able
to come up with my half of the rent.

Mark, being a cop, and in his own words, a cynic, didn't

quite believe me when I told him about my "gift", and how it
enhanced the sexual chemistry between us. At least, he said
he didn't believe it. He told me that without evidence it has to
be proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt. Darned guy
has me demonstrating it to him over and over—then when
we're lying there in each other's arms after having had the
greatest sex ever, he just smiles and says he's not quite
convinced. Maybe one more time?

Sometimes I get the feeling it's a setup—but one that this

time I'm really happy to be caught in.

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