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lty corner of Zach's eye； rounded the curve of Zach's cheekbone； slipped back into Zach's mouth。 Zach pressed gratefully against him； and Trevor felt himself wanting it all to happen again。 He didn't know if it was possible so soon。 But Zach seemed to be showing him that anything was possible。
It lasted much longer this time。 Zach's hands worked him expertly； stroking； squeezing； fingering and probing； building up a rhythm so exquisite that Trevor thought he would spend his seed between Zach's warm slick palms。 That would have been fine； but Zach began to make his way back down； kissing him everywhere； tracing a wet glistening maze of spit along his body； then sucking him deep and slow； excruciatingly； maddeningly slow。 It was almost painful； yet Trevor wanted it to go on for hours。
Zach was sprawled between Trevor's legs； his left arm wrapped loosely around Trevor's waist； his right hand doing something ingenious。 Trevor felt Zach's penis growing insistently hard against his thigh。 He moved his leg against it； reached down and barely managed to graze it with his fingertips。 He wanted to do something to make Zach feel good too。
〃Can I…how do we both…〃
Without breaking rhythm； Zach shifted so that his hips were beside Trevor's head； his boner within easy reach of Trevor's mouth。 This position seemed a marvel of physics； but Trevor grasped its advantages immediately； it leaned their weight into each other； pressed the flat planes of their bodies tightly together； and stretched their throats wide open。 It seemed as if they could go on for hours this way。 And so they did； until their exhausted bodies were all but bound together by a moist web of spit and sweat and semen。
Then they slept again； easy sated sleep that lasted into the afternoon。 The house was silent around them。 Their dreams were set only to the soft patter of rain on the roof； to the slow even rhythm of one another's breathing。
Chapter Fourteen
A tourist from Atlanta was found murdered Tuesday in a warehouse used to store Mardi Gras parade floats。 Elizabeth Linhardt； 36； had reportedly been mutilated and an attempt made to burn her corpse。 An anonymous source stated that the victim's head was found in the mouth of a ten…foot bust of Bacchus； partially chewed 。 。 。
Travis Rigaud of St。 Tammany Parish accidentally shot himself while cleaning his collection of handguns…five different times with five different guns； twice in the left foot； once in the right calf； and once in each hand； severing two fingers。 〃I finally sold the handguns；〃 said Rigaud； 〃but I still have my rifles and this bad luck won't keep me home e hunting season； even if I should miss everything by a mile； no； cherie 。 。 。〃
A man was pulled over by state troopers near Chalmette with 148 poisonous snakes in his car 。。。
Eddy let the newspaper slip to the floor and draped her forearm across her tired eyes。 She wore only a pair of black bikini panties。 Her armpits were dusted with the fine dark hair she'd allowed to grow since she quit the Pink Diamond。 She still wore small silver rings in her nipples； but she had undipped the delicate chain that usually connected them。 She could smell the sweat on her skin； a faint odor of lemons and musk； and thought soon she might get up and take a shower。
After the cops left； she had gone straight to the bank； then scored the Tuesday morning and afternoon editions of the Times…Picayune。 Now she was lying on top of seven thousand dollars reading every article and squib and photo caption； looking for more clues from Zach。 Her fingers were smudged with cheap black ink。 She paid special attention to the weird news； but it was midsummer in New Orleans and there was plenty of genuinely strange shit going on。
But could anyone really shoot himself five times with five different guns？ Eddy frowned。 It didn't seem possible。
She picked up the paper again and reread the article； and a bell went off in her head。 Zach's mother's maiden name had been something Cajun。 She was pretty sure it was Rigaud。 The other fake story had had a byline of Joseph something…or…other。 Joseph was Zach's father's name。
Eddy thought these obscure references to the people who had spent fourteen years abusing him strange； sad； and slightly perverse； but there they were。 And this improbable item had his scent all over it； from the gibe at trigger…happy rednecks to the corny patois。 〃Even if I should miss everything by a mile； no； cherie？〃 What the fuck was that supposed to mean？
No； Cherie 。。。 N 。。。 C 。。。
She got up and pawed through the books Zach and the Secret Service had left； but of course there was no road atlas。 Either Zach had never had one； or he'd taken it himself； or They had snagged it； maybe hoping he'd plotted his escape route in yellow highlighter。 She should have gotten a map of North Carolina yesterday； when Zach's first clue appeared in the paper。
Eddy pulled on a pair of denim cutoffs and selected a black T…shirt from the pile Zach had left behind。 An artfully torn rag printed with the Bauhaus…like logo of Midnight Sun； a dreadful Gothic sextet that had played around the Quarter clubs last year； then disappeared into whatever void was reserved for truly bad bands。 She couldn't imagine why Zach had the shirt； unless he had fucked one of the band members。 Probably he had； they'd all been beautiful and stupid。
Those faithful old twin parasites； anger and pain； tried to worm up inside her。 Eddy pushed them back down。 Never mind who Zach had fucked。 She had put up with it and called herself his friend。 If she really was his friend； then she had to stay several steps ahead of his enemies； or try anyway。
Outside； the daily cloudburst had e and gone； and the streets were still steaming。 Trash piles at the back doors of bars and restaurants gave off a melange of smells： stale beer； rotting vegetables； fishbones touched with grease and cayenne。 She passed a bushel basket of oyster shells still slick with the mollusks' gluey residue； and caught a whiff of the salty seawater odor that always made her wonder for an instant if she needed a bath。
I was going to shower before I came out； Eddy remembered。 I probably smell a little like old oyster shells myself。 But it didn't matter。 Nobody was going to get close enough to her to care； and she had more important business to worry about。
A few blocks up Chartres was a used…book store Eddy and Zach had often frequented together。 They could spend hours in there； enveloped in the delicately dusty； dry； alluring scent of books； poring over leather…bound volumes with gilt…edged pages； stacks of ancient magazines； battered paperbacks whose corners were rounded and softened with age。 The proprietor； an old Creole lady who smoked a fragrant pipe and read incessantly； never seemed to mind having them natter and browse。
But when Eddy asked for a U。S。 atlas； the old lady shook her head。 〃Maps from the 1920s would be useless to you； no； chere？ Try the Bookstar by Jax Brewery or one of the chains up on Canal。〃
〃Okay； I guess I will。〃
Eddy turned to go； but the old lady must have seen some fleeting sadness in her face； for