Bite Club Page 2

  Finally and most of all, this work is dedicated to Ty: A Good Dog.

  BITE CLUB

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anthony Balencini fumed with impatience. He’d been driving around the same block for twenty minutes, searching in vain for a parking space. He squinted through his sunglasses, finding it difficult to see in the rapidly fading light, and finally yanked them from his face in frustration. The late-afternoon sun, which had been blazing brightly when he’d left his office forty-five minutes ago, had already vanished below the horizon. At this time of year in Southern California, dusk had a tendency to fall with amazing quickness.

  Three times, his mood had brightened when spying what looked like a free space; each time he’d become more irritable upon pulling over and seeing the postage stamp-size parking signs promising penalties tantamount to removing fingernails with hot pliers should he even think of parking there. As he passed the West Hollywood Branch of the Los Angeles County Library for what seemed the fifteenth time, he stomped on his brakes as he saw, like a gift from heaven, an elderly woman climbing into an ancient Dodge.

  He pulled off San Vicente into the library parking lot and waited, barely restraining himself from leaning on the horn—or better yet, leaping out of the car and battering the old broad to death with his briefcase—while she got into the car, reset the rearview mirror, tested all her lights, and, he thought with pique, probably read the damned owner’s manual to figure out how to put the key into the ignition.

  Finally, her rear lights went on and she slowly began to back out, stopping short after barely having moved six inches. Anthony’s temper worsened as the Dodge sat for almost a full minute, motionless. The old woman then rolled down her window and stuck her head out. Waving to attract Anthony’s attention and smiling brightly she called, “Excuse me, young man. Am I clear?”

  Anthony rolled down his own window and prepared to ream the old bitch up one side and down the other. But she was very old. And smiling sweetly. And looking a lot like his great-aunt Jane. He couldn’t do it. He sighed then called back, “Yeah, you’re clear.”

  “Thank you so much!” she chirped merrily. “Have a nice evening!”

  “Yeah you too, you old bat,” he grumbled as he rolled up his window. “Am I clear?” he mimicked. “Christ, lady! I’m thirty feet away from you!”

  Slowly the Dodge backed up, finally clearing the other cars, and eventually she managed to get it into forward gear and drove off. Anthony started to pull into the space and a small white sports car tried to cut him off. The driver, however, made the mistake of glancing at Anthony through the windshield. Anthony glared back, trying to show the other driver exactly what he was about to get himself into. The sports car had second thoughts and pulled around him.

  Anthony parked and got out of the car. Setting the alarm, he glanced at his watch. He figured he’d have just enough time to cut through West Hollywood Park to Anawalt Lumber, buy what he needed, and get home to Studio City before his dinner plans with Christine were irreparably screwed up.

  Why, oh why, had he ever married Christine in the first place? At twenty-one, she’d indeed been gorgeous, he reflected as he trotted down the street. But in the six years since their marriage, she’d put on weight—a lot of weight. Face it, Tony, he thought as he passed the tennis courts, she’s starting to look just like one of those fat Italian mamas—the type you swore you’d never end up with.

  To add insult to injury, since Peggy had been born, Christine’s voice had changed. What used to be a soothing contralto had deepened and roughened until Tony felt like he was married to a drag queen trying to impersonate Brenda Vaccaro.

  “Don’t forget to stop by that store on Robertson and pick up the new faucet on your way home,” she’d nagged that morning. Fortunately, Peggy’s whining and gurgling—and the loud plop as she threw banana-colored muck against the kitchen walls—helped to mute his wife’s abrasive tone. “And don’t be late for dinner. We’ve got reservations at seven-thirty with my sister.”

  Christine’s sister, Sheila, and her husband. Christ! All he needed was a night out with those two! Sheila had six-inch-long nauseating pink Lee Press-Ons and phony boobs she never ceased bragging about. If Tony heard one more loving paean to Dr. “Feelgood” and the fantastic job he’d done restructuring Sheila’s breasts, he swore he was going to give her the opportunity to spend a lot more time with the doctor by reaching across the table and tearing the implants right out of her chest. If Sheila’s breasts could be considered large, her hair was positively gargantuan. Hadn’t anyone ever bothered to tell her teased beehives had gone out with Silly String?

  Her husband was, if possible, even worse. John was one of those alcoholics who firmly denied his disease. After all, he reasoned—loudly and often—he never had a drink before six in the evening. The fact that he was usually plastered by seven fifteen didn’t seem to give him a clue that alcoholism might be just a bit of a problem. The last time the two couples had gone out to dinner, John had finished his sixth brandy, belched loudly enough to disturb the air traffic controllers down at LAX, and had promptly passed out, facedown, in his plate of chocolate mousse.

  But God forbid Tony should make one unkind remark; he’d never hear the end of it from Christine. Between his bitch of a wife, her relatives and his snot-nosed daughter, was it any wonder he looked elsewhere for...well, for some relaxation?

  He emerged from the cul-de-sac across from the hardware store and stopped. The store was dark, obviously closed.

  “Fuck,” he said, then added for good measure, “Shit!”

  Tony debated chucking the whole thing and calling Christine. He’d cancel dinner and tell her he’d had to work late and just go over to one of the bars on Santa Monica Boulevard. Maybe, if he got lucky, he’d meet someone and be able to spend a few hours just…relaxing.

  He took out his wallet and glanced inside. Good, he had enough for a motel room if he managed to score. He turned back toward the park and started walking, fantasizing about one of the young men he’d seen in a bar the last time he’d been in West Hollywood two weeks ago. He got hard as he thought about picking up some really hot hairy stranger and letting him fuck him.

  At twenty-eight, although Tony had been involved with many men, he didn’t consider himself to be gay. After all, he always rationalized, he was married. Then again, no matter how good the sex, he never engaged in a repeat performance with the same guy; that wouldn’t be just relaxation—that would be queer. Tony thought himself anything but queer.

  He was macho, a real man’s man. He worked out at the Family Gym in Encino at least twice a week and sometimes, if he could make it out of the house before Christine and the kid woke up, on Saturday mornings. In the fall he played baseball with some of the guys from the office on Sunday afternoons, and he managed to get in a half-mile run before work fairly often. His chest was deep, his shoulders broad, and his belly was as flat as it had been in college. Of course, in recent years he’d noticed the hair at his temples was slightly grayer than on the rest of his head but a quick trip to the hair care products aisle at the supermarket had fixed that! So what if his hair was going a little gray, he thought, grinning in defiance, his ass and thighs were still tight enough to please any of the olive-skinned young men to which he was partial.

  He cut across the grass, entering the park, and heading toward Rage, a trendy Santa Monica Boulevard disco, ignoring the elderly man with bleached-blond hair who smiled at him from a bench.

  What the hell does he think I am? Some kind of fairy?

  Tony preferred them young, under thirty, hairy-chested, well-built, and, if possible, Italian. Like the one over there, near the bushes next to the public swimming pool. Tony slowed his pace, affecting a casual aimless walk, and subtly glanced at the young man. He was shorter than Tony liked, but handsome, and he had a great body. Even from this distance, he could make out the division in the center of the guy’s pecs where they emerged from the top of his black tank top.


  The youth returned his look, very directly. Italian? Tony wondered. Maybe Greek? The stranger smiled.

  Tony moved closer and nodded in a way calculated to seem friendly but not too encouraging. It wouldn’t do to appear too forward.

  “Hello,” said the stranger. His voice was deep, deeper even than Christine’s, but without that harsh nasal quality. “Are you in a hurry?”

  Tony stopped. “Uh, no...I mean, I gotta get home to my wife.” Tony stressed the last word slightly; it wouldn’t do for the guy to think he was gay or anything. “But I’ve got some time,” he added nonchalantly, wanting the other to make the first move and fearing he wouldn’t. “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was just looking for some company. How about you?”

  “What kind of company?” Tony hoped his voice carried just the right quality of interest and suspicion.

  “What kind of company were you looking for?” the young man asked.

  “Who said I was looking for...” Tony’s eyes met the stranger’s. Suddenly, he felt himself grow fully erect and lost track of what he was about to say. His mind grew foggy; his vision locked in to the other’s glance. Strange, some small part of the back of his mind thought, It’s like looking down a tunnel. To his eyes...Those eyes...

  The young man moved closer. His right hand brushed Tony’s shoulder once. Then, he rested both palms on Tony’s chest, gently squeezing the muscle. Tony felt himself flush at the other’s touch. The stranger kneaded Tony’s chest, gently.

  “Is the rest of you as strong?” he murmured in a tone which invoked visions of late night, clandestine trysts upon sweat-soaked sheets.

  Tony could only nod, unable to speak. He was adrift in a fog, anchored only by those eyes. Brown, he thought. No, black, he corrected. With little specks of silver.

  “Shall we adjourn to the bushes?” asked the dark-haired youth. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Tony into a copse of bushes by the municipal swimming pool.

  Dimly through his mental haze, Tony heard the splashing of the West Hollywood Aquatics Team as they practiced. Soon, as his shirt was opened and he felt the stranger’s warm mouth on his chest, nuzzling at the hair, even the splashes faded away.

  Tony unbuckled his belt and reached to unzip his fly, but his hands were gently moved away. With excruciating slowness, the stranger undid the zipper and pulled the slacks down past his hips, all the while licking at Tony’s chest and belly.

  Tony leaned back against a nearby tree and, without a thought for his clothing, slid down the trunk to rest, knees spread wide, pants around his ankles, shirt open and head tilted against the bark

  It’s funny, he thought, I’m looking at the sky, but I can still see...those eyes.

  He felt the young man’s mouth close around the tip of his penis and shuddered in anticipation. A few seconds later he flinched in pain.

  He bit me for Chrissakes! The fog cleared just enough so that he was able to look down.

  The young man was looking up, recapturing Tony’s gaze with his own, and Tony never saw the blood welling from the lacerations along the shaft of his penis. Instead he was captured by the eyes again. And the two razor-sharp teeth as the stranger smiled. Tony tried to yell for help, to scream so the swimmers only yards away would hear him. But he couldn’t.

  “Sometimes,” said the stranger, “In this modern world...” He stood up and used one hand to gently tilt Tony’s face up towards the sky once again. “We get more than we bargained for.”

  He bent his lips to Tony’s throat. As Tony, still unable to make a sound, felt the first agony of those terrible teeth piercing his throat, he heard the stranger add in a whisper, “Much more.”

  The silver specks dancing before him grew brighter and, oddly enough, one of them shimmered and became Christine’s face.

  Shit, Tony had time to think, I’m gonna miss dinner. Is she gonna be pissed!

  And then he thought nothing at all.

  Ivana Petrov was exhausted. Her sister’s two sons were adorable of course, but so much work to keep track of them! Five and seven years old, they had a penchant for mischief. At first, bringing them to the park had seemed like a good idea; now she was having second thoughts. Mikhail, the oldest, had already torn a hole in his best shorts on a nail sticking out of the side of the wooden jungle gym; Yevgeny had taken a toy fire engine from another child and had been embarrassed her with his wails of anger when she’d forced him to return it.

  As if they didn’t have enough toys of their own at home, she thought. Sometimes, even after eight years, she shook her head in amazement at the wealth of this new country. Back in Russia, the boys would have been happy with a few wooden cars and perhaps a rubber ball. Here it was always the latest they must have: PlayStations, digital cameras, and all the new Disney DVD’s.

  Ivana had quieted the screaming child with a soccer ball, newly purchased. Now the brothers were kicking it across the park, Mikhail trying to aim it to hit his younger sibling on the head.

  “Yevgeny,” she called in Russian, “Stay away from those bushes. You’ll ruin your shirt.”

  Yevgeny ignored his aunt and dropped down on his hands and knees in the dirt to retrieve the ball. He emerged a moment later, knees filthy, clutching the ball to his chest. He threw it to Mikhail who promptly kicked it back into the bushes again.

  Ivana released her breath, loudly so the boys could both hear, and placed her hands on her hips as Yevgeny knelt to go back in after the ball.

  “How many times must I tell you?” she said, stomping toward the child. “Stay out of the bushes!”

  She grabbed the errant youngster by the collar and hauled him backward.

  “You will stay here. I will get the ball.” She crouched down and, thrusting her arms into the foliage, felt around for the missing ball. Her hands came into contact with something round, strangely much harder than a soccer ball had any right to be.

  When one of her hands tangled in Anthony Balencini’s hair, she began to scream.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three hours later Anthony’s body was lying nude on an autopsy table in the West Hollywood Morgue. The city coroner, a charmingly plump Jewish woman in her early forties with the unlikely name of Rebecca O’Brien, was puzzled. And when Becky was puzzled, she ate. In fact, any strong emotion, and even a few of the more subtle ones, created an irresistible hankering—usually for something sweet. Right now, Becky was busily unwrapping her third Snickers bar of the day. Snickers seemed to be her candy of choice whenever deep thought was required in the morgue; the chill of the room prevented the chocolate from melting.

  Deep down, Becky knew her weight was a problem. She’d tried dieting, but somehow Lean Cuisine, no matter how luscious-looking the photographs on the package, couldn’t compare to a two-pound bag of Double Stuffed Oreos and a hearty strawberry milk shake so thick she had to eat it with a spoon. The only lasting mementos she kept from her attempts at a slimmer Ms. O’Brien were a minor addiction to chocolate-malt-flavored Slim-Fast shakes and the habit of polishing off at least a half dozen of Weight Watchers éclairs and an Entenmann’s nonfat brownie or two before bedtime.

  “I have big bones,” she’d told herself and any of her friends who kindly suggested that, perhaps, she’d have better luck landing a husband if she could somehow manage to lose forty pounds or so and squeeze herself into a size seventeen. But in her heart she knew it was her irrepressible sweet tooth that had condemned her to look like the stunt-double for Shelly Winters in The Poseidon Adventure.

  “It’s Mother’s fault,” was her second line of defense. “All those years hearing about starving children in India makes me feel guilty if I don’t eat everything I see.” But to tell the truth, Becky had never really listened to her mother. If she had, she’d never have gone to medical school and, by now, would probably be no slimmer and still living in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, with a blue-collar husband, an early-model station wagon, and somewhere between three and eight kids to add to her problems.
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br />   A husband! Wasn’t that a lovely thought! Becky had been actively searching for a husband for the past twenty years—or at least she’d been talking about actively searching for one. Somehow her incessant charity work and the demands of her job never seemed to allow her quite enough time to roll up her sleeves and dive into the pursuit of matrimony. Instead she contented herself with dating.

  Dating, however, had proved to be somewhat more complicated than at first it had seemed. First of all, Becky had somewhere developed the insane idea that the process of dating involved more than one outing with the same man. Unfortunately, the men she chose seemed to have disabused themselves of sharing her notion—or at least they promptly abandoned the idea of a second date sometime between the moment they asked her out and the moment they dropped her off at her front door after their first evening together. Becky, thus, returned from each date depressed, baffled by what she could have done wrong and chastising herself for everything from the outfit she’d chosen to the restaurant she’d picked. Inevitably, however, she’d latch on to the probability that her weight had been what had chased her date away and, consumed with guilt, she’d voraciously attack the nearest half gallon of Macadamia Walnut Fudge Ripple ice cream.

  The truth was that Becky’s weight was only a small part of the problem. Although her facial features were not conventionally pretty, most men—provided they could get past the fact that they were in the company of someone whose poundage was somewhere between that of a small Volkswagen and Shamu—would have described her as such. Many of her gay male friends had said that her cheekbones were “fabulous”; her hair was a glossy dark brown with only a hint of silvery gray which added, rather than detracted from, its sheen. Her smile could be dazzling. Her lips were full and on a thinner woman would have been called “kissable.” She had deep brown eyes, intelligently peeping out from under long lashes that would have been the envy of any professional model. But while her eyes and lashes might have proved irresistibly attractive to the opposite sex, the intelligence lurking behind those same eyes could be downright terrifying to most men.