Chapter Five

Since the brochure at Hotel Provincial said, 'No trip to New Orleans is complete without a visit to Pat O'Brien's,' Frank's feet couldn't transport him there fast enough. At their outdoor patio, he'd ordered a red rum blend called The Hurricane as soon as he arrived. After his horrific afternoon, perhaps he should have ordered the infamous Hand Grenade—the ingredients a closely-guarded national secret.

Frank grabbed a table to the left of their signature fountain, ordered, and people-watched, hoping Rand's face would appear among the crowd. Abandoning the Hurricane twenty minutes later, Frank went for broke and ordered the Hand Grenade. A man with buff biceps and lean hips delivered the beverage in a green plastic glass at the same time Rand settled into a chair across from him.

"My meeting with Sister Francoise smacked of a history lesson from junior high."

Quicker than a fly loitering on the fringe of a spider web, the waiter appeared and looked at Rand. "What can I bring you?"

"I think," Rand paused and nodded toward Frank's drink. "I'll have one of those green things."

"Great choice." Frank put the glass to his lips and moments later said, "History class, huh? I assume you're talking about the background of the Ursuline nuns and the property the hotel sits on?"

"Don't get me wrong; the hours sped by and I found it all quite fascinating."

"Before you tell me, give me a visual on Sister Francoise."

"Okay." Rand looked off into the distance. "You said her voice reminded you of a little bird's? So will her physicality. Think mighty heart, small toes."

"You saw her toes?"

"She wore sandals." Rand graced him with his engaging smile. "Anyway, picture clear, wintry blue eyes and weathered skin softened by a roadmap of humanitarian wrinkles."

"No long robe to go with those sandals?"

Rand shook his head. "I never saw habits on the ones I met. Sister Francoise sported a dark blue blazer and a denim skirt. Other than the religious pins on their lapels and a gold cross around their necks, you'd never know the women at the Archdiocese were nuns."

"You're good. I liked the part about the weathered skin and the wintry blue eyes."

Rand picked up the drink the waiter had delivered, sipped, and smacked his lips. "I think after one of these babies, wintry blue might be bintry woo."

Frank snorted. Damn, the kid oozed charisma. "All right, lay it on me."

"Most of what you told me earlier was correct, with one exception. The Order moved uptown in 1824. They don't reside in the original convent where records dating back to 1718 are housed. Not only is the convent the only remaining building from the French colonial period in the United States, but it also survived the disastrous eighteenth-century fires that destroyed the rest of the French Quarter."

"And that's significant to this case why?"

"I seem to remember you talking ghosts and Close Encounters of the Third Kind shit."

Frank cupped his palm and with a forward motion. "More."

"The story about the fire blew me away. When all seemed lost, an elderly nun by the name of St. Anthony—yes, her name was St. Anthony—climbed the stairs to a second story window, placed a statue of Our Lady in the sill and prayed. At that very instant, the wind veered and the flames were blown back over their path of destruction and died out." Another thoughtful pause. "So I'm thinking nuns command Godly power. Thought it relevant if you're dealing with a dark force."

"Oh, I agree." Frank stroked his chin between his thumb and index finger. "How receptive was our formidable Sister Francoise to our assessment?"

"Very. It seems she's assisted several of the priests with exorcisms in The Big Easy with a ninety-five percent success rate."

"Impressive."

"Said she'll phone you tomorrow, plans to look through some files tonight concerning Lafayette Cemetery."

Frank tossed a twenty on the table and signaled the waiter. "I thought we'd head there next." When Rand frowned, he asked, "You had other ideas?"

He pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and read off the names. "I thought we'd hit Razzoo, Bourbon Street Blues and, I love the name of this one, the Funky Butt."

Frank smiled. "Two questions: Do you plan to remain standing after we hit all those joints, and where in hell did you get that list?"

"No on the first question," Rand said emphatically, and on the second, a little bird with long, black sleeves told me."

"You're shitting me?"

He shook his head. "Told you she knew a lot about the history of New Orleans."

"I made good progress today, and soon it'll be dark. Let's go."

Rand rose from the table and headed for the door with Frank close on his heels. "I want to hear about that progress on the way."

* * *

Frank indulged Rand by hitting every bar on his list, saving the best for last. A mammoth painting of a naked woman smacked them in the face upon entering their last stop on Rampart Street. Off the beaten path, but renowned for its world-class jazz and blues, the Funky Butt seemed the perfect place to cap off their evening.

Against the trumpets blaring out When the Saints Come Marching In, Rand ordered a pitcher of beer, a basket of crawfish, and chicken strips with honey-mustard on the side. His eyes heavy, his words slurred, he leaned in. "Frank, when in Greece, talk like the Grecians."

"Stupid ass," Frank said and shook his head. "It's when in Rome do as the Romans do."

"Whatever. Anyway, we're in "N'awlins, so why'd ya quit drinking three bars back?"

"Rand, you're in mother-fucking la-la land right now and I am on a case in N'awlins in case you forgot."

He waved him off. "Be fine once I eat."

"Oh, yeah? Just to make sure, I'll flag down a cab when we leave here."

His question came out of the blue. "You ever get it on in the back seat of a taxi, McGuire?"

The waiter plopped down the pitcher in front of Rand and hustled off again. "We agreed not to discuss what came down before you, remember?"

Rand shouted above the din. "What about what came down for me before you?"

Frank felt a muscle in his jaw tic. "You want to eat those chicken strips or wear them back to the hotel?"

"Speaking of chicken, here it is. Thanks, man," Rand said to the waiter and dove in. "I'm starving, so you best help yourself before I clean house." He passed the basket of crawfish across the table.

Still mulling over Rand's comment about prior partners, Frank had a hard time dismissing images that not only summoned his jealousy, but stiffened his cock. He'd never seen a man more stunning than Rand, and everywhere they went, heads turned. Men, women, it didn't matter; the kid's ebony hair and jade-spoked eyes drew long, lust-filled stares.

The three-piece band left the stage, granting them a few precious minutes of relative silence. The place held about seventy patrons now, enough to pitch the chatter into a dull roar.

Rand held the basket in the air between them. "Chicken?”

"What did come down before me?"

Rand cupped a hand over his ear and smirked. "Huh, can’t hear ya!"

"You're a prick, you know that?"

"You gotta speak up, too much noise." Pointing to the crowd behind him, he added, "Did you say something about your prick?" When Frank flipped the basket through the air with a flick of his wrist, Rand's eyes widened. "A stupid joke, Frank, that's all."

"Fucking stupid joke must have gone over my head." Almost tipping the small table over, Frank came to his feet. "Party's over. Let's go."

"You jealous, Frank?" Another smile. "Hey, you are jealous."

"And you're enjoying it too much. I'm not asking you again to get up from that fucking chair."

Despite Rand's handicapped state, he rose and worked his way through the crowd toward the front door. Outside, Frank hailed the nearest cab, opened the back door and waited until Rand collapsed into the seat before climbing in.

"Where to, Mister?" the cabbie said.

"Provincial Hotel." The cab pulled from the curb and Frank looked down the street, keenly aware of Rand's subdued demeanor beside him. "Hang a left at the end of this block?"

"That's an alleyway, sir."

"Perfect," Frank said. "Take it."

"It's your dime." The man turned left, brought the taxi to a halt in the middle of an alley surrounded by abandoned buildings, and reached for something under his seat.

"You won't need that pipe wrench," Frank said. "My buddy's a little sick to his stomach and I didn't think you wanted him barfing all over your cab." Frank dug into the pocket of his jeans and passed something over the seat.

"Two hundred dollars and your driver's license?” The man’s eyebrows met in the middle. “What the fuck—?"

"How about you take a little walk?" Frank's dick grew harder with every passing second. "Pick out one of the neon signs I saw flashing on that last block and have dinner on me."

"Hell, I'll stay away long enough to have breakfast for two hundred dollars but I have to take the keys."

"No problem. I think my friend will feel lots better in, let's say, thirty minutes."

Rand looked as baffled as a coonhound chasing his tail when he turned to him. "Frank, I'm not going to throw up in the cab. Promise."

Frank waited until the man cleared the alley, and his voice a papery whisper said, "Tell me, Rand, who came before me?"

* * *

Rand swallowed the lump in his throat with his eyes riveted on Frank's face. Dark didn't begin to describe the man's demeanor right now. A shiver of fear and excitement mingled, ran down his spine and shot into his groin. Frank would never do him physical harm, but he had a way of making him pay—in spades—if he chose to. The thrill of never knowing what Frank might do drove him crazy. And left him hornier than a toad during mating season.

God, when would he learn McGuire always stayed one step ahead of him? Damn good thing he didn't ask him if he'd ever fucked a man while riding a horse. With the corner of his right eye on Frank, he looked into the rearview mirror. Yep, the cabbie had disappeared into the night like smoke.

Yanked by the rim of his t-shirt, a hard body shoved him back and pinned him up against the window of the cab. Frank's knee forced his thighs apart, and used the weight of his body to press his lower spine into the door handle. Caught up in a frisson of emotions, Rand barely noticed the pain.

A distant streetlamp threw a beam of light over the cab, illuminating Frank's dark blue eyes. In their depths resided a cauldron of conflict Rand had trouble deciphering, except one.

Lust.

Drowning under his heated gaze, Rand drifted between intense sensations, the gentle touch of Frank's thumb tracing his mouth and his knee pushing against his hard staff. Rough and gentle. Soft and hard. Dark and light. Every analogy that always described McGuire.

"How do you want it? Soft like this?" He ran his thumb over his bottom lip. "Or hard like this?" He added pressure to his balls with his knee.

A groan left his lips before Frank claimed them with his. Victory reared its head. Frank had kissed him again, on his own, without Rand's initiation. In the back of his mind he knew the pressure on his groin had lessened, and the top button of his jeans had eased open.

Frank shoved his hand in, grabbed his cock and stroked. His hand lingered near the crown. "Ah, good boy, no boxers." He dragged his nail across the wet slit, his motions slow and languid. Another animal-like moan came from Rand when Frank squeezed, tugged and spoke into his open mouth. "Who came before me?"

In a dazed stupor, Rand shook his head. "No one, I swear."

Frank's hand dove lower to cup his balls. Rand squirmed when he kneaded the aching sacs, and arched his hips up when Frank squeezed. A master at seduction, Frank applied just enough force to open his zipper and mingle the pain and pleasure again.

How Frank managed to push two fingers inside his hole he didn't know, but with the jolt of pure bliss surging through him, he wasn't about to ask.

Rand bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out the, "Oh, God," he choked back.

Frank worked the tight muscle around his entrance and plunged deeper while Rand bucked beneath him. He failed this time at stifling his cry when Frank found the spot that rendered him dizzy. Rand's inside muscles contracted and clasped Frank's fingers, his groin launching into a spasm that froze his limbs.

"Yes, don't stop. Harder, Frank, harder." Recovering his ability to move, he wound his fingers through Frank's hair, forcing him into an urgent kiss.

Rand's tongue matched the strokes of Frank's wicked digits driving into him. Breathless with uncontrolled pants, he whimpered. "Do it, Frank, please. I'm so ready, so ready."

"Oh, we're just getting started."

Rand couldn't help his miserable groan or the series of shivers prickling over every inch of his hot flesh. A cool breeze through the open window kissed his skin when Frank rolled the jeans from his hips to bunch around his ankles.

Frank slid down his body without removing his fingers from his ass. A warm mouth enveloped the tip of his cock, the sensation pitching his body into a new series of tremors. He couldn't remember the last time Frank had sucked him off.

Rand looked down. The image of Frank's deflated cheeks and his lush, full lips wrapped around his dick sent him hurtling into uncharted territory. A protest broke from his throat when Frank removed his fingers from his ass and cupped his butt cheeks with both hands.

After swallowing the entire length of his pulsing shaft, Frank worked him hard and rough. He sucked and nibbled, slid up and down the length and scraped his teeth across the engorged cap.

"Christ. I can't hold back, Frank. Let me come. Oh, God I'm going to come."

Frank pulled the cusp of his t-shirt down and covered the head of his cock with the fabric. "Come on, pretty boy. Give me all you got."

A kaleidoscope of colors exploded in Rand's head and his body went rigid. On and on the potent orgasm ripped through him while he prayed it would never end. Suspended between this world and another, the timeless moments played out in slow motion.

Through a series of his own muffled moans, his shoes came off and the jeans were tugged from his legs. Strong arms lifted his limp body and placed him on his knees with his face against the fabric of the seat.

Soon, soon, Frank would be inside him. Not soon enough. Something warm slicked his ass.

Too spent to care or respond when Frank's cock nudged his hole, he had only enough strength to draw a deep breath before he entered him.

Burying only the crown of his thick, long dick, Frank reached around and took his limp shaft in his hand. "Oh, man, McGuire, you gotta be fucking kidding me? After that mind-numbing blow job, I can't get it up again."

Frank kneaded and stroked his flaccid shaft while driving into his ass another inch. The hot, tight fit stretched Rand to the max. An image of Frank's cock buried to the hilt rose. God, he wanted him again, longed to have the man pummel him until he was fucked into next week. Believing it wasn't even possible for him to physically get it up again, he was stunned when his own dick expanded and lengthened.

"See, you want me, don't you, Rand?"

"How do you do this to me? I'm out of control, so over my head."

Firm hands clasped his hips before Frank drove home. The intense, exquisite sensation of fullness claimed Rand; he would have collapsed under the onslaught had Frank not held him firm.

Rand clutched the door handle and gave a strangled cry. "Don't stop, don't ever stop." Liquid flames of heat pulsed through his veins. Only Frank existed and the methodical thrusts from behind delivering him into a mindless frenzy.

The words drifted around him, so faint he wondered if he imagined them. "You're mine, Rand, only mine."

Whether real or invented, it was enough to pitch him off the edge of the precipice. A flood of warm liquid filled his ass in perfect sync with the spurts of cum from his cock. How in hell was it possible?

Rand fell against the seat with Frank's weight pushing him down. A short time later, Frank eased out, this time his words unmistakably clear. "So you don't have to wonder in the future, now I've fucked a man in a taxi."