A mutilated corpse, a powerful family intent on stonewalling the police instead of mourning the loss of their son, a sex-for-hire scheme that began as a lark and then turns deadly—all combine to plunge Detective Jake Westerby into a shadowy world of lust and drugs on the leafy campus of Cascade University. Jake’s sexual prowess has caused him grief in his personal life, but makes it easy for him to infiltrate an organization that provides male escorts and drugs to wealthy men willing to pay a premium for discretion. When his identity is exposed by a treacherous cop, Jake is slated to be the killer’s next victim. Only fellow detective Paul Mazurek can rescue Jake—and only then if he can pull off an audacious impersonation. Can Paul save the man he loves so that their passion for one another can ignite and come into the open?
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Jake Westerby Deep Undercover
Copyright © 2011 Derek Adams
ISBN: 978-1-55487-805-5
Cover art by Angela Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Smashwords Edition
Jake Westerby: Deep Undercover
By
Derek Adams
Dedication
To KRJ, for always being there
Chapter 1
Jake Westerby, naked, his flesh beaded with water from the shower, paced back and forth at the foot of his bed. Light from the streetlamp on the corner shone through the sheer curtains, fading the walls to silver. The glass in a small picture frame on the bureau glinted in the gloom. Jake stopped, reached out, tenderly traced the smiling features of the man in the photo. Then he carefully laid the picture face down on the bureau’s smooth surface.
“Christ, Paul, if I’d known what was going to happen that night, I wouldn’t have been there.” Jake’s voice was anguished. “But I was there, and you saw me, and now everything’s all screwed up. Hell, you can hardly bear to look at me anymore. You don’t even like being in the same room with me. You’re the only man whose opinion I ever gave a damn about. Doesn’t that count at all?” Jake’s voice rose and his hands balled into fists. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved. You’re the only man I ever could love. I’m so sorry, Paul. I’m so very sorry.”
Jake scowled at the pale, dark-haired apparition reflected in the shadowed mirror on his closet door. He was a man people noticed. He was tall—six-two in stocking feet—with a swimmer’s lean, sleekly muscled build. As a child, his features had been almost angelic—too pretty for a boy. In adulthood, the strong line of his whisker-smudged jaw, the prominent wedge of his aquiline nose, his high, wide cheekbones, had tempered his soft brown, long-lashed eyes and lush crimson lips. The angel had been superseded by something darker, more intriguing, more dangerous.
Jake opened the closet door and retrieved a pair of Levi’s, worn paper-thin, the blue of the denim faded to a hazy memory. He pulled them up over his narrow hips. The fabric clung to his muscular legs like silk. A frayed slit under the left rear pocket revealed a dazzling half-moon of bare flesh.
He tucked his fat, shaved balls and his thick cock against his left thigh and buttoned his fly. He massaged his crotch to settle the package comfortably, then pulled on a highly polished pair of black boots.
Jake stroked his tightly muscled torso and winked at his reflection. He was no longer scowling. He rummaged in a dresser drawer, found an old white muscle tee that had been washed to near-transparency, and pulled it on over his head. It clung to him, making his torso seem more exposed than had it actually been bare.
Jake pushed one of the narrow straps aside and gripped the thick nub of his left tit. The dull silver ring he threaded through the piercing hole raised his nipple to prominence. He flicked the tender flesh with the nail of his forefinger and groaned with pleasure. The bulge between his legs stirred noticeably.
Jake ran his fingers through his thick hair, raking it back from his broad forehead. He tucked his wallet into his hip pocket and clipped his keys to one of the frayed belt loops on his jeans, then stalked out of the bedroom. As he passed through the kitchen, he glanced at the clock on the stove. It was midnight. The hour of sweat-scented back rooms and anonymous, hard-cocked men had come. Jake was ready.
On his drive across the city, Jake detoured a few blocks out of his way and turned down a quiet residential street. The neat white clapboard house nestled comfortably in the midst of its meticulously maintained lawn and flowerbeds, porch light ablaze. On the north side of the house a window glowed golden in the shadows.
“Goodnight, Paul,” Jake murmured, squeezing his crotch. “Sleep well, buddy.” He saluted the silent house of his partner on the police force, then resumed his journey to the warehouse district.
* * * *
Gauzy curtains screened the window. Paul Mazurek lay sprawled naked on his solitary bed, his body washed by the pale flickering light of the muted TV. He was awake, but his blue eyes were focused on a point above the bed, not on the screen at its foot. One hand was tucked behind his sandy blond, buzz-cut head. The other gripped his towering erection.
Paul easily outweighed Jake by thirty-five solid pounds, even though he was a good head shorter than the younger man. He looked like the type of man who could raise his hand and stop a fleeing felon through sheer physical strength and force of will. The only softness about him, aside from the luxuriant growth of honey colored silk on his chest, belly, arms and legs, was the expression in his azure eyes. There was sadness there, as though the sorrows of the world weighed heavily on him. Maybe it was his job. On the other hand, maybe it was the fact that he had been solitary for most of his thirty-eight years.
“Jake,” he moaned, thrusting his hips up off the bed, pushing his long, thick dick through the tight collar of his fingers. There was only one object of fantasy in Paul’s life, and he didn’t hesitate to give it a name, at least not in private. It had been true since the day he’d first encountered the rambunctious young rookie with the breathtaking smile and the body of a young god. From the beginning, Paul had kept a watchful eye on Jake, mentoring him, recommending him for advancement, even volunteering to partner him when, at twenty-six, he became the youngest detective on the force. Paul had never doubted that Jake would be the perfect partner for him—on and off the job. Not, at least, until that ill-fated night.
That night! Christ almighty, what a fuck-up that night had been. It had changed everything—none of it for the better. Paul had been officially off-duty, called in only because Jim Slater had slipped a disc in his back. Jake was out of town—supposed to be, anyway—enjoying a long-delayed weekend with his folks.
Paul hadn’t been thrilled with the assignment, but it was an election year and the politicians who ran the city wanted to appease the religious right. That appeasement had included a crackdown on the prostitutes, and raids at a couple of the more notorious gay clubs. Paul had heard of Phantom’s Lair, but he had never been there. Hell, he’d never been to any gay bar. Paul wasn’t that type of gay. Actually, he’d never figured what sort of gay he was. Probably just a gay cop doomed to an eternity in the closet.
When he pulled up in front of the nondescript building in the industrial district that night, he hadn’t bothered to check out the cars in the big parking lot across the street. If he had, he would most likely have noticed Jake’s distinctive red Fiat Spider parked among the four-wheel-drive rigs and the customized trucks. It wouldn’t have lessened the shock he had felt, only pushed it ahead a few minutes. It wasn’t as though he could have stopped the raid. It might just have made it a little easier to spirit Jake away from the scene.
There had been five cops that night. Two took up positions at the front door, two went around to the alley in back. Paul went in alone. His jobs was simple—scope the place out and discover something illegal, something spectacular enough to justify the paddy wagon that waited around the block.
When Paul pushed open the door, he could see nothing amiss. Just a few guys dressed pretty much like himself in faded Levi’s and tight white T-shirts, standing around, drinking beer and shooting pool. Paul let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then walked over to the bar and ordered a beer.
“Sure thing, big guy,” the bartender had said, winking at Paul as he handed him a frosty longneck. Paul held out a five, then watched apprehensively as the young redhead ignored the bill, reaching instead for the thick mass of Paul’s right triceps. “You,” the man whispered, his voice dripping lust, “are a fucking fox. You tangle with me, I’ll do anything you want. Anything.”
“Th…thanks,” Paul sputtered, dropping the five on the counter and disengaging his arm. The redhead smelled vaguely of new-cut grass. Paul felt a slight stirring in his groin, not a feeling he encouraged when he was on official police business. He walked across the smoky room and leaned against the wall beside the cigarette machine to watch and wait.
It took him about ten minutes to figure out the doors. The one on the right was the toilet—men went in, did their business, came back out. It was the one on the left, he decided, that would lead to pay-dirt. Eight men went in, none came out. He took a deep breath, then pushed open the door on the left.
At first it was so dark Paul had the feeling that somebody had thrown a sack over his head. Hell, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He didn’t need to see to know what was going on, however. A pair of ears and a moderately sensitive nose told him all he needed to know. The place reeked of sex, a commingling of sweat, saliva, come, and the musk that rises off a horny male’s balls. Paul had smelled it before, on his own body, in his own bedroom, in locker rooms at the departmental gym—but never as concentrated as this. This was the essence of lust. Paul started getting aroused in spite of himself.
As he stood there, pupils dilating, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, shapes began to emerge from the deep shadows. In the far corner, one man knelt before another, making little gurgling noises as a long, veiny cock slid deep into his throat. Next to them, another man, bent at the waist, muttered a seemingly endless stream of profane instructions to the leather-clad man whose hard cock pistoned in and out of his sweat-slicked ass. Everywhere Paul looked it was the same—men taking raunchy pleasure in one another’s bodies, celebrating the triumph of desire in a veritable banquet of flesh.
What finally caught his attention and blotted everything else from view was the tableau that writhed beneath the room’s sole dim light source. There were four of them, three clustered around one. The three were nondescript, hairy where men tend to be hairy, well-enough endowed for late-night romps in darkened backrooms. The fourth was of another order entirely. Paul sensed that in a single, jolting heartbeat.
That one was spread-eagle over piled-up boxes, his long legs draped over the shoulders of the man fucking him. The force of the relentless thrusting jarred him, made the muscles in his shoulders knot against the impact. His mouth was open, lips glistening with spittle, nursing another man’s rigid cock.
A third man, facing Paul, knelt like a pagan priest at an altar, worshipping the supine man’s rigid cock. He came up for air, baring a long tapering cylinder of flesh, pale skinned, dark veined, throbbing mightily in the stale, sex-heavy air. Fat, hairless balls were drawn up against the gleaming shaft. The cocksucker licked the bulging curve of the man’s thigh, took a deep breath, went down on him again.
The man at the center of all this frenzied action spat out the cock he had been sucking and swept the hair out of his eyes in a gesture that was strangely familiar to Paul. The man’s biceps swelled enticingly, doming in a perfect hemisphere. As Paul studied the chiseled profile, he felt a flutter of recognition in his gut. No, it couldn’t be! Then the man turned his face full to Paul and there was no longer any doubt. His young partner, Jake Westerby, stared blindly at him, lips parted, eyes drooping in ecstasy. Paul stood transfixed as the unmistakable sounds and smells of orgasm assailed him. Jake’s skin flushed, a deep blush that radiated from his groin, staining his belly and chest. His cheeks reddened as well, and the strong column of his neck. The waves of sexual gratification could be clearly charted against the landscape of his nakedness as Jake spewed his seed over the kneeling man’s sweat-streaked face.
“Was it good, buddy?” the man who’d just fucked him asked, pulling back, baring his prick.
“Fucking fine, man,” Jake replied lazily, reaching up to rub the man’s belly. The man he’d been blowing gasped and Jake capped him with his mouth again, sucking him till the man pounded on his shoulders, roaring for mercy. Jake licked his lips and started to say something, but an angry shout from the front bar silenced him.
“Raid!” The chant was taken up by other voices. The men in the back room scrambled to find discarded articles of clothing. All except Jake. He alone remained still, naked, unashamed. Whether he was immobilized by carnal satisfaction, the indignity of a raid, or the sight of his partner was uncertain. All that was certain was that Paul didn’t have time to wait.
“Come on, damn it,” he snarled, grabbing Jake by the arm, pulling him roughly to his feet. The pressure of Paul’s fingers made Jake wince.
“Quit it, man.” Jake pulled away from Paul, but remained still, making no effort to find his clothes. Paul stared at him, then smelled the beer on his breath.
“You drunk?”
“Huh?” The answer was clear enough.
“Everything okay back here, Mazurek?” A flashlight’s powerful beam cut through the gloom, catching Jake briefly in its hot circle of light.
“I’m fine, Matthews. I’ll flush ‘em out, you get ‘em rounded up. There’s no other exit from this room.” Paul had stepped in front of Jake, pressing his partner’s naked body tight between him and the wall. He could feel Jake crouched behind him, finally absorbing the gravity of the situation.
“Paul?”
“Get dressed,” Paul snarled, locating the wad of his partner’s clothes and thrusting them at him. Jake took the clothes, stuck his foot in the leg of his Levi’s and started to topple over. Paul caught him, held him while he wriggled into his pants, intensely, painfully aware of Jake’s bare ass pressing against his crotch. When Jake stood back up after putting on his boots, his sweaty back pressed tight against Paul’s face. Paul breathed deeply.