Blood Stakes Read online

  BLOOD STAKES

  BRADLEY UPTON

  Copyright © 2018 Bradley Upton

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems- except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews- without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN-13:978-0692147108

  ISBN-10:0692147101

  First Printing 2018

  For Mom and Dad.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my beta testers, readers by another name.

  Terry was the first, reading chapters as I churned them out, offering critique and insights.

  Diana, who read it and kicked my ass into gear. She made me get to work rewriting after it languished for so long.

  Kim, Jaz, Julie, John, Atticus, John, Reno, Shelly, and Howard. Some read it more than once as I made major changes. Thank you for your time, patience, encouragement, and notes.

  Special thanks to Edward C. Negron of www.stormgodphotograpy.com and Vera Vanguard www.veravanguard.com

  The Burbank Public Library, Buena Vista Branch for giving me a quiet place to work.

  Cover art by Amy Rachlin

  Photography by Katt Philipps

  Chapter 1

  Blood and Ice

  Cindy sat in the bar next to the noisy casino sipping her Mai Tai and surveying the crowded dance floor for possible companions for the evening. She was tall, made taller by spiked heels, her long legs curled to one side of the bar stool. She wore a tight black mini-skirt that hugged the curves of her hips and half top accentuated her toned upper body. She spent an hour getting her hair just so, and the lack of interesting potential partners was discouraging for the amount of effort involved to create the beauty before them.

  Nothing new could be seen as far as her piercing green eyes could ascertain. There were the regular patrons of the bar; visitors from out of town looking for excitement and fortune on the Las Vegas Strip; down on their luck gamblers drowning their sorrows; frat boys being decadent on Daddy’s American Express; nervous husbands in town for business hoping to cheat on their wives without getting caught, their wedding rings in their pocket but the telltale dent in the flesh of the left ring finger was a dead giveaway. If something didn’t change soon she would try another nightclub. The evening was still early by Las Vegas standards.

  For fifteen minutes she tactlessly shrugged off the attentions of half a dozen men who had the courage to approach a goddess like her and a tactfully turned down a few women while she finished her drink. Cindy didn’t mind the fairer sex but she wanted something masculine tonight. The night had been a waste so far. She looked at her watch, it was only one in the morning and there was still time to make it to another club to see what sport she could hunt up. She got up and was headed to the door when a man entered, he chatted in a friendly manner with the doorman for a moment before entering the club. Cindy stopped and looked at him. He looked interesting. She walked back to her barstool and perched herself, butt scooted back on the seat, back slightly arched showing off her ample assets.

  He was tall and leanly muscular with stylishly disheveled shoulder length black hair. His face was clean shaven, angular, and very boyish looking. Dark brown eyes regarded the activity in the bar very passively as if he had seen everything and done everything. Slowly he walked around the dance floor, the pulsing colored lights making his face red, blue, green, yellow. He was searching, a hunter on the prowl like she was.

  Cindy was determined to have him for her evening’s entertainment. The young man’s eyes scanned the room, he was assessing everything he looked upon. He noticed Cindy staring at him as he passed by. He stopped and smiled politely, knowingly. Cindy smiled back somewhat shyly but with an element of conscious seduction. The game was on. At the right moment she looked down and away. He was still standing there when she looked back.

  He walked confidently to the bar next to Cindy and leaned his elbows on the padded rail. The bartender saw him and immediately came over leaving a customer hanging. The bartender leaned forward and the young man whispered in his ear. He nodded and quickly returned with a wine glass. The condensation on the clear glass indicated the dark contents were cold.

  The man turned, rested his back against the bar, and sipped the contents of the wine glass.

  “Hi,” he purred in a voice smooth as silk. He was talking to Cindy but didn’t turn to face her. "My friends call me Iceman. Ice for short. What’s your name?”

  She was a bit flustered by his presence. “I’m Cindy.” In an effort to gain power back, she took the drink from his hand and tried a sip. It was something very cold and slightly bitter. She had tasted it before but she couldn't place where. “Iceman. Strange name. Are you a huge fan of Top Gun?”

  Ice turned to face her. He was tall. She liked that. “A great movie, but no. An ex-girlfriend called me that because my body temperature is lower than most people’s.” To emphasize the point he touched the back of his hand gently to her cheek. She shuddered for a moment and nearly spilled his drink. He retrieved the glass from her.

  “I see what she means.”

  “Poor circulation. It’s why my skin is so pale.”

  “What do you do, Iceman?” Cindy was subtle and teasing, her technique which had worked on men many times before.

  “I write stories. I drink. I quote Shakespeare.”

  “Oh really? Give me some of the Bard.”

  ‘Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,

  Now is the time that face should form another;

  Whose fresh repair if thou not renewest,

  Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother'

  The words flowed easily from Ice’s mouth with the skill of a classically trained actor. “It’s the start of Shakespeare’s third sonnet.”

  “Do you know the rest or just enough to impress women in bars?” Cindy asked.

  “The whole thing, of course.” Ice seemed irked by her question.

  “What are the last two lines?”

  'But if thou live, remembr’d not to be,

  Die single, and thine image dies with thee.'

  “That took a morbid turn.” Cindy frowned.

  “Not really. Shakespeare is telling a young man to go out and get laid; make babies so his beautiful face will carry on to the next generation.”

  “Go out and get laid, hunh?” Cindy smiled wickedly. “You trying to tell me something?”

  “I don't know what you are talking about.” Ice smiled back innocently.

  “You have culture, Iceman, but can you dance?”

  “Of course.” His steady gaze burned into her as if he could read her soul.

  “Let's see if that’s true. Come dance with me.”

  “Is that my only choice?”

  “For now it is.” She grasped his hand and led him to the dance floor. The music pulsed so loudly she could feel the bass throbbing in her chest, or maybe it was the pounding was her heart. The room temperature seemed to rise and the smell of sweat, perfume, and cologne were thick in the air. Multi-colored lights flashed to the beat, illuminating the heads of the bobbing dancers. The instant Ice’s foot touched the dance floor he started moving to the rhythm. Cindy was surprised to see how well he danced. He was graceful, powerful, masculine, and in complete command of his body. His movements coincided very well with hers. It was like they had been dancing together for years. If he danced so well she wondered how he would be in bed - for dancing, sex, and rock and roll were subliminally, sexually, the same thing.

  After five songs Cindy grew tired and suggested they sit out a few dances. She had worked up a sweat while Ice appeared dry as a bone. They found a smal
l table in the shadows of the bar. She molded herself to his side and they spoke in quiet tones.

  “Why don’t we go somewhere quieter?” Ice suggested in her ear.

  “What do you have in mind?” Cindy smiled knowingly. She wanted the same thing he did, but there was still a game to play.

  “Whatever you want,” he stated earnestly.

  “Good. Come with me.” She stood up from the table, pressing her body close to his. “I live alone.” She turned and walked away. She knew he would be following her, there was no reason to look back for confirmation.

  The ride to her apartment was quick. Ice didn’t protest, didn’t suggest he’d drive; he just went along with her plan. Cindy wasn’t breaking laws, but she was anxious to get home. Once inside her apartment, moments after the door shut, they kissed passionately. Feverishly they undressed each other, breaking the kiss momentarily when they needed to strip off some difficult article of clothing only to resume with more fire. Their tongues met and coiled, the burn of her mouth against his, tempering their carnal desire.

  Hands roamed each other’s body enjoying the firmness of the flesh encountered; Cindy marveled at the softness of his touch. The coolness of his skin raised goose bumps as he caressed her. Gently, effortlessly, he lifted her; she nestled into his chest as he carried her in his strong arms to the bedroom. He placed her on the bed as one who was carrying a baby might.

  Cindy slowly kissed her way down his body toward his manhood when he stopped her. His cool hand turned her head so they were looking in each other's eyes. “No.” he said softly as he drew her face close to his. “Let me do all the work, just lay back and enjoy yourself.”

  Cindy acquiesced as, at that moment, she would have agreed to almost any suggestion he had. Ice kissed her neck and slowly, gradually moved down her torso. Her hot body being pleasured by his cool one created sensations unlike anything she had ever felt. She was not unaccustomed to what might be considered kinky sex. There were silk ropes, a blindfold and a flogger in the bottom drawer of her dresser as well as various devices both battery powered and non. Cindy was a hedonist and embraced pleasure. But this was unusual. There were no tools or toys, just one exceptional man. It was very intense.

  Ice moved back up and kissed her on the lips as he entered her. She thrust upward to meet his incessant motion. Yes, he was as good in bed as he had been on the dance floor. Maybe better. He seemed to know instinctively how she would move and what would please her. Ice rolled over so she was on top. From this position he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, the flush spreading over her body as she indulged in her own pleasure. When she came, she collapsed onto his chest. Her hands played with his long hair. Her lips gently caressed his neck. He smiled at the irony briefly as she nuzzled his neck. Ice reciprocated and started kissing her neck in return. He could sense the jugular vein pulsing with blood under his lips. Two sharp fangs bit slowly into her throat.

  Cindy felt the quick sharp pain where Ice was kissing her. After a few seconds her heartbeat started to race wildly matching the frightening pace of Ice's own heart. Her whole being seemed to cry out in ecstasy she had never known possible. Ice started thrusting again even though the pleasure they both felt came from something other than sex.

  Soon Ice had had his fill. He didn’t really require much blood. There was a larder in Las Vegas which kept him well fed so he never had to kill to stay alive. Cindy was far too nice a girl to bleed to death. She had fulfilled two carnal urges inside him; blood and sex. He withdrew from her and rolled out of bed. She lay delirious with a glazed look in her eyes and a smile on her lips. Ice leaned down and his tongue flickered over the bite on her neck. The motion cleaned away the last of the blood and closed up the wound so all that could be seen was two small red marks. She wouldn’t die from the blood loss but she might look a little pale for a week.

  He dressed quietly. He gazed at her sleeping nude form for a few moments then covered her with the sheet. Ice smiled. Cindy wanted to use him to quench her carnal desires. Instead he used her to quench an even stronger more dangerous desire. His handsome face became reflective, his eyes distant. He leaned down, kissed her on the lips one last time, and whispered in her ear. Like a ghost, he left her apartment. No trace of him left behind.

  Cindy woke in the late morning. She was tired but content with no real recollection of what happened the night before. How had she gotten home? There was a half memory of a handsome face and hard body. Was it real or a dream?

  From his perch at the pulpit Father Bryant could see the congregants clearly. There was light to augment the general lighting inside the church. Not a spotlight, but an addition to make him standout a bit from the background and to give him light to read. Can’t read a hymnal or do a reading in the dark.

  There were tall windows down the sides of the church showing religious scenes in muted stained glass. The congregation filled up the pews at St. Peter’s every Mass. His flock was faithful. They usually showed up even in the most inclement weather. It was mid-October, there wasn’t much snow on the ground so he would have an audience until the weather changed and Colorado ski season kicked in. He was deep into the homily for the morning Mass. He had done Mass a thousand times from the pulpit since his mentor and friend died. Father Sean Ryan had been a force of nature at St. Peter’s; he’d built the gothic styled church from the ground up. It had the look and feel of antiquity, but the styling was by design. As the castle at Disneyland was inspired by Mad Ludwig’s magnificent construct in Germany, St. Peter’s was inspired by Chartes and Notre Dame, but on a budget. St. Peter's had been built only thirty one years before in 1956 with the intention to copy the soaring grandeur of European cathedrals but the money available was only enough to give it the flavor. The essence of gothic architecture was well done. Though no flying butressess supported the walls, and with modern building materials, they weren’t needed. The one thing Father Ryan insisted on was a large rose window of stained glass over the oversized double door entrance. When the light hit it in the early morning it blazed, sending shards of color over the interior of the church.

  On paper Father Bryant was a bit young to be leading a parish, but with the sudden death of his mentor five years earlier, he took over the day to day functions of the church. The Bishop, seeing the smooth transition after he took over, let Father Bryant stay in charge.

  He was tall and fit, though priestly vestments could hide an overweight body quite easily. His face looked younger than his age, clean shaven, with a shock of unruly brown hair which seldom did everything he tried to make it do so he kept it cut short. He had heard some of the women in the parish called him Father What-a-Waste. Never to his face, of course, but people told him secrets outside of the confessional too.

  The members of the church almost always sat in the same pews, usually on the same side of the church. Only at the big holidays might they need to find another place to sit. All the lapsed Catholics came back at Christmas, Lent, and Easter. The confessionals were busy during Lent as the people wanted to confess before the traditional rising of Jesus from the dead.

  On a random Sunday, crowds were never a problem at St. Peter’s. Attendance was generally half to three quarters full. Another thing St. Peter’s had similar to a gothic church was size. It had a large footprint on the parcel of land, taking up a third of the total plot. Next to the church was the priest’s residence. It was a comfortable house but lacked the gothic styling of the church.

  From the pulpit Father Bryant saw the usual crowd. They came to church with startling regularity. The median age was mid-40s to 50. Most had been coming to the church since they were children, and now they brought their own kids in to join the congregation. The random young didn’t walk into a church anymore. Not on their own. They had to grow up in the Catholic faith; rarely did anyone come looking for it.

  As he spoke the homily he looked into the faces of his crowd. There were the devout, the listening, and the bored. Children rocked restlessly, bored by the sermo
n, and were admonished by their parents to pay attention. St. Peter’s didn’t have a crying room at the back. Noisy children were taken into the lobby area under the seldom used choir seats at the back. The Shelton boy, dark haired and completely uninterested in the show before him, was reading a Spider-man comic book. He didn’t even try to hide it behind a hymnal. They would have to have a chat at some point about proper church conduct.

  The repetition of the service, the call and response to his prompts, it was second nature to the crowd. Anyone new could pick it up quickly. The hymns were led by the choirmaster though only about one in ten really sung. Most people mumbled, many because they don’t sing in public; many because they have stage fright or don’t want to be noticed; many had been taught by society not to sing or talk too loudly. With the help of the sound system, the singing, incoherent sibilant buzzing of the crowd, was usually drowned out.

  Nonetheless he plodded through the sermon. By sticking to the familiar forms the oceanic nature of ceremony gave the watching crowd solace. The difficult situations of life had simple answers. There were hymns, there were readings. The standing, sitting, kneeling was second nature as well. The repetition, the ritual, was reassuring. It was all familiar and made the crowd content. The whole ceremony created a level of familiarity and comfort for people who needed comfort food. It was God’s Mac and Cheese.

  Inwardly Father Bryant sighed. His life in the priesthood had become less and less satisfying. He didn’t think he was helping people. His concentration sometimes lagged when doing even the most simple tasks. Things he had done a thousand times seemed meaningless, the repetition of services made it simple to mask his distracted nature.

  His mind would wander to the past and the choices he made which changed his world. The girl he left behind to join the priesthood, the close friends who treated him differently despite having grown up together. Even the strength of the calling he had when he was young had changed. He had lost it. He didn’t know when but it seemed it was most certainly gone. His passion for the priesthood didn’t leave all at once. It wasn’t a thunder clap leaving a void. It was the rush of water over sandstone slowly wearing away the body of his calling. It was distressing, but the people who worshipped at St. Peter’s would never know. He had enough experience and empathy to fake it.