Rebirth

Part 1

Three years, eight months, and twenty-nine days ago, Detective John Stonebrook received a call from his partner telling him that his wife and daughter had been found murdered behind a convenience store. His wife had been thirty-seven; his daughter had just turned sixteen.

On that day, which was a Thursday, John officially, if privately, declared his life no longer worth living except for the sole purpose of bringing his family's killer to justice. Three years, eight months, and twenty-nine days later, the murderer had yet to be found, and John felt like a failure for still living.

He'd been to the Department's psychiatrists, and to a private one on the insistence of his partner. But in the end, John didn't want to get better. He didn't want to climb out of the funk he'd slid into. What reason was there in trying to make himself happy again when he knew that the minute he brought the killer to justice, John would take his own life with his service revolver? It didn't make sense to him.

So he pasted on a smile when he needed to, he answered that he was fine when people asked him how he felt, and he woke up every morning hoping that today would be the day that he could finally end it. All of it.

Time conspired against him. The trail was cold. The man the police had finally relented and labeled a serial killer had not struck in five months. Evidence was meager. Witnesses were scarce. Unless the killer took another life and was sloppy in the process, John despaired of getting any closer to catching him. It was a double-edged sword.

Today had been another quiet day of filling out paperwork and staring at the picture frame in his desk drawer that held an image of ghosts. His partner, Benji, had insisted he cut out early, change into some comfortable clothes, and meet her and the guys at Boondock's, their favorite bar. John would have refused, preferring the television and a bottle of Jack, but he had made a promise to Benji three years ago and he didn't want to break it until he had to.

He stepped into the welcoming warmth of Boondock's and shivered as the cold outside jumped from his skin like fleas. He hung his favorite trench coat on the rack just inside the door, catching the eye of Freddy, the bartender. The bald man waved at John with the hand that wasn't cupping three shot glasses of amber liquid.

"The boys are in the pool room, Stone!"

Nodding his thanks, John threaded his way through the crowded bar. It was a Tuesday night, but Boondock's was always busy thanks to its steady influx of customers from the northwest division of Metro PD. Making his way through the mostly male crowd, John fielded greetings from officers he'd worked with for most of his life. He'd been a cop for nineteen years. This was his family now.

As he pushed his way to the back room, he caught his reflection in the long mirror above the booths. He could say with authority that he looked like shit. His black hair hadn't been cut in two months and was speckled with grey. His jaw was rough with stubble. What'd he expect? He was an old geezer now. His days of catching women's eyes were long gone. His days of caring whether he did or not were gone and buried with them.

Accepting a mug of beer that someone shoved into his hand, he finally burst through the crowd of off-duty cops to emerge at the shut doors of the pool room. The doors were rarely ever closed. With a sinking feeling, he opened them.

"Happy Birthday!"

"Shit," he muttered.

A round of loud guffaws answered his declaration. He was swiftly pulled inside as the doors were shut behind him. The pool room was full of his closest buddies in the Department, all wearing those stupid birthday cone hats. A flimsy birthday sign like the kind you find at the 99 Cent Store was tacked across the Budweiser lamp that hung over the pool table. Balloons blown up out of condoms bounced around as people kicked them across the floor.

"Didn't think we'd let you forget that you're an old fart, did you?" His captain, Stu Reinhold, wrapped an arm around Stone's shoulders. He knocked their mugs together in a toast. "Welcome to the end of your life, buddy."

"Yeah, thanks," Stone mumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer. He was definitely beginning to think he'd need it. He hadn't forgotten his birthday at all. He'd just hoped everyone else would.

"Damn, Stone, how old are you now?" asked Billy Wood, a young officer who was a close friend of Stone's partner. "'Cause you don't look that old to me, you know?"

"I'm forty."

Stone thought about punching Billy when the kid's eyes widened comically. "Holy shit! You are old!"

The room erupted into laughter.

Stone forced himself to laugh along with them. God, he could do without this. He really could. He'd only come here because of a promise he'd made to his partner. Speaking of whom . . .

"Where's Benji?" he asked, looking around. He wanted to share his misery with someone else.

"Her kid fell off her bike," Capt. Reinhold told him. "Nothing serious, but she wanted to be there for her."

"Yeah," Stone said casually, "you gotta be there for your kids."

He could feel his captain's eyes on him, along with some of his fellow detectives. Shit. He didn't want their pity now, of all days. He forced a grin. "So what kind of lame birthday party are you guys throwing me? Where are the strippers?"

The men cheered.

"Atta boy, Stone!"

"You mean your dick isn't shriveled up, you geezer?!"

"Throw the guy some Viagra!"

Detective Seth Green grabbed Stone by the arm. "Shame on you for lacking faith in us, buddy. We've got you covered." He shoved Stone down into a chair and took away his beer. "Bring it in, boys!"

At the other end of the room, the doors opened briefly for three officers to shove a large cardboard box into the room. The men whistled and gave catcalls as the box was pushed in front of Stone. Stone grinned and played along, making lewd comments about what he hoped the box contained.

Inside, though, he felt dead. He hadn't been with a woman in nearly four years. He thought his dick might have fallen off, for all the attention he paid to it. It was hard to find interest in a woman when the one woman he'd wanted and loved was gone. No one could compete. He didn't want anyone to.

But he fixed a grin on his face because these were his boys and he knew that they'd gone to a lot of trouble for him.

Seth pulled out a portable CD player and set it on the floor beside the box. It started playing some sultry Latin song John had never heard before. It was good. Sexy. He wished he could appreciate it. Instead, his lack of response made him vaguely angry. He didn't want this, this reminder that he was a shell. He didn't want to be reminded that when you lost your reason for living, every celebration of life was like a knife in the gut.

The men began to cheer and whistle as the box shifted. John placed his hands upon his knees and waited.

The box opened from the side, which he hadn't expected. It made sense, though, when one long, pale leg slowly emerged, moving sensuously to the music. It was a nice leg, John noted clinically -- slender, but nicely curved with lean muscles and a pretty arch to the foot that was covered with a high red stiletto. After a few minutes, the leg disappeared back into the box and an arm emerged. The limb was as pale as its cousin, ending in a long fingered hand whose short nails were painted black. Unusual. Against his will, John began to look forward to seeing the rest of the stripper.

The arm disappeared and the stripper slowly backed out of the box. John was tempted to whistle along with the others as he caught sight of a tight, rounded backside encased in red nylon hot pants.

"Nice ass!" Billy Wood screamed from John's right. John echoed the sentiment, if silently.

Once completely out of the box, the stripper swiftly turned so that her back was to John, preventing him from seeing her face. She wore a red crop top that bared the curve of her lower back. Now that he could see her entire body, he saw that she was slender, with narrow hips. Though her head was down, John saw that she was a redhead. A very bright redhead. He'd never been with a redhead before . . . Then the stripper turned amidst cheers and whistles.

"Holy shit!" Billy Wood exclaimed.

"You assholes," John growled.

The stripper was a man.

His friends burst into laughter and howls of disgust. John's nails dug through his pants and pierced his skin. He could just imagine the look he gave the stripper as he quickly looked him over. Shit. Yeah, the chest was flat, smooth pale skin peeking from beneath the V-neck of the crop top. John didn't want to, but he looked lower and -- yep, that was definitely a bulge where there shouldn't be one.

Angry, John raised his eyes to the stripper's face, and discovered that he was beautiful. Tousled red hair fell around a triangular face whose sole focus was the eyes. Bright, brilliant blue eyes of a shade John had never seen on a person before. Miraculous, he thought a little stupidly. And the red, glistening lips weren't half bad, either.

"What the hell?" John demanded, tearing his attention away from the stripper who was still dancing despite the ruckus going on around him. "Who's the sicko who thought this up?"

Capt. Reinhold, laughing so hard he was crying, fell against John's shoulder. "Oh, my god, you should have seen your face! Fucking hilarious!"

On John's other side, Seth patted his friend's shoulder apologetically. "Sorry, man, but it was too good to pass up. Eric saw a flyer for this kid and the idea just stuck. He's all the action you're going to get tonight, so you'd better start thinking about switching teams."

John jerked away as the detective stumbled away, snickering. "Assholes," he repeated. "What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"

"I might have a few ideas," the stripper replied quietly.

The laughter stopped for one frozen second, then exploded again, even louder.

Shit.

Pissed at his friends, John looked away from them, only to find himself staring at the stripper. Ah, hell. He had no one else to look at.

Forcing the muscles in his neck to relax one by one, John settled more calmly in the chair and watched as the stripper danced for him. He had to give the kid credit. It must be tough being dressed like that and having to dance in a room full of testosterone-laden cops. Especially when you know you're meant to be a joke.

The kid moved pretty well for being on such high heels. And he had nice legs, too, if you could just ignore what was at the junction of them. Slender hands started at the ankles and ran up the shapely calves in a sensuous caress. Higher they slid, over the lightly muscled thighs and up to cup that tight little ass. The stripper squeezed the round globes and moaned huskily. Some of the laugher in the room changed tenor, becoming a little nervous. John smirked, seeing a way to salvage the situation.

"What's your name, kid?"

The stripper moved forward until he was dancing directly at John's feet. He bent at the waist, giving the men behind him an eyeful of his ass, and bringing his face to John's. He really was beautiful. Too bad he was a guy.

"Cherry," the kid answered, reaching up and playing with a charm that hung around his neck. Red crystal cherries, of course.

"Oh, my god, he said his name is Cherry!" Billy Wood screamed, jumping away.

"Billy, will you shut the fuck up?" John snarled.

"Don't mind them," Cherry murmured. Without hesitation, he placed his hands on John's knees. "Just concentrate on me."

"Don't touch me," John said in a low voice, grabbing the kid's wrists. The minute he grabbed Cherry, the kid's eyes widened. For some reason he couldn't explain, John tightened his grip and watched as black pupils swelled to drown out the kid's blue irises.

"I like it when you touch me," Cherry breathed. He rolled his hips.

John watched the movement, his eyes fixed on the bulge-that-shouldn't-be-there. He wasn't gay. He'd been married and had a kid. But something about this little redhead --

Cherry pulled free of the loosened grip only to reverse it, taking hold of John's hands. "Come up here. Dance with me."

"No," John replied, hearing the sharpness in his voice. "Just -- just touch yourself. I want to watch."

It had been hard to say, but it was worth it when Capt. Reinhold spit out a mouthful of beer. Oh, yeah, revenge could be sweet.

Smiling as if he understood, Cherry caressed his chest. "What do you want to see? Like this?" He pushed his hand into the opened v of his top and ran his fingers across his nipple. Cherry closed his eyes as he fingered himself. "Mmm, that feels good."

John hid his grin as Billy Wood squeaked in mortification.

"Touch your cock," John said, loud enough for the closest ring of cops to hear him. He swallowed his laughter as he added, "Show Daddy how you touch yourself."

Eyes still closed, Cherry spread his legs as one hand slid slowly down his stomach. John could feel the anticipation build in the room -- a mixture of dread and morbid fascination. This was turning out better than he'd hoped. All eyes were fastened on the pale hand that slid over the bulge in Cherry's hot pants and gently cupped it.

"Oh, Daddy," he breathed.

John expected to laugh. He didn't expect the sudden twitch in his groin.

"Daddy, I'm so hard down here," Cherry continued in a breathy moan. "You make me so stiff. I want to touch it. Can I, Daddy? Please?"

John swallowed around a dry throat. "Do it."

While the fingers of one hand played with his nipple, the other delved beneath the waistband of the red shorts. John watched that hand disappear beneath the tight nylon and when he could see the outline of Cherry's fingers curl around himself, something that had been long dead, suddenly found renewed life.

Oh, shit.

John slowly closed his legs, trying to keep the motion as unnoticeable as possible. He could feel himself getting harder as he watched Cherry's hand move up and down in his shorts, and he was deathly afraid of the other officers noticing. He was not gay, damn it. You don't get to be forty years old and not know that about yourself.

But watching this half-dressed kid fondling himself in front of a room full of cops, was making John as hard as a rock. And when Cherry opened lust-glazed blue eyes on John and said, "Daddy, can I touch myself back there? Can I put my finger inside?", John almost came in his pants.

"I think," he said, roughly, "that's enough."

He could hear the collective gasps of relief rebound around the room. He couldn't look around to see his friends' faces, though, because he was transfixed by the look of pained frustration on Cherry's face. My God, John thought, the kid's ready to burst.

He pitied the kid, but what was John supposed to do? Let him jack off in front of them all?

Tearing his eyes from the kid's face, pretending not to notice the strained expression or the heaving chest, John turned to his nearest friends and laughed loudly. "How's that for a little payback?"

Nervous titters quickly gave way to full-throated laughter as the men realized John had been putting them on.

"Christ, I thought you were gonna have sex with the kid," Seth groaned, punching John in the shoulder. "You got me fucking nervous there, man. I didn't think you were queer, but the way you were playing him . . ."

"Never mess with the master," John retorted, but with a hard-on slowly flagging in his pants, he felt anything but in control and he disliked that feeling.

With the return to normalcy, John recovered his self-control and watched from beneath lowered lashes as Cherry tugged self-consciously at his crop top and adjusted the material that strained around his unrelieved erection. The kid looked around at the other men from beneath his hair, suddenly looking very young. Someone shut the music off. Without it, Cherry's former sexiness looked slutty and cheap. John wondered how he had let himself lose it like that. It must be old age.

He watched as the kid walked awkwardly back to his box. His heels clicked loudly in the room. As he started dragging the box to the back of the room, whistles followed him and John noticed more than one hand reach out to slap Cherry on the ass.

"Hey, sweet thing," one of them called out. "How much do you charge for a blow job?"

Cherry pulled out of the grasping hands, not answering them.

John turned back to his friends and accepted the cigar his captain handed to him. "What a birthday."

Capt. Reinhold lit up the cigar for him. "Guess you're not getting lucky tonight, old man."

John took a puff. "'Guess not."

~~~~~

Finn shivered in the cold air, wishing for the fiftieth time that he had thought to bring a longer coat. But he reminded himself for the forty-ninth time that he hadn't expected to be hanging around outside the bar at two in the morning, either.

He tugged his worn denim jacket tighter across his chest. It wasn't lined, so all it did was keep out the wind, and it did nothing for the bare lengths of his legs. Next time, he'd have to remember to wear some kind of hosiery to keep his legs warm.

Next time, he probably shouldn't wait outside of a bar for the man he'd just danced for.

The door of the bar opened, spilling drunk cops out into the night. Finn shrank back into the shadows, searching the men's faces for the one he sought. He knew this was foolish of him. Perhaps even unwanted. But he had to take the chance because the way Detective Stonebrook had looked at him . . .

It had reminded Finn of another who used to look at him that way. Someone he missed very much.

He pressed back against the cold brick wall and absently rubbed his arms. Finn had been stripping on the side for a month now, and he'd made a bit of money at it. It was money that was all his and no one knew about. He didn't know what he intended to do with the money, but he knew that it was important that he have it. Just in case things got worse. Though how they could get worse, Finn had no idea.

The door slammed open again, emitting only two men this time. Finn figured that by now, most of the men had left, either driven home by friends or piled into the line of taxis that waited outside the bar for those patrons too inebriated to drive. The detective should be out any moment now.

The next time the door opened it was him. He was alone. Apparently, Heaven still watched out for Finn.

Finn quickly stepped into the spotlight that lit the walkway of the bar.

"Detective Stonebrook."

The dark-haired man turned, his bleary gaze fixing with effort on Finn. The man was drunk, swaying slightly in the cold wind. But even with bloodshot eyes and hair spiked by the wind, Finn felt his heart leap for the man.

"Cherry?"

Finn winced at the name. "Yes, it's me. I wanted to see you."

If he'd expected Stonebrook's face to light up upon seeing him, he was sorely disappointed. The detective scowled, dark brows drawing over his blue-grey eyes.

"What do you want, kid? Party's over. You shoulda been paid already."

Finn smiled. "I was paid. That's not why I waited for you. I thought --"

"What?" Stonebrook suddenly growled, advancing. "You thought I'd be interested in a little side dish? I'm not a fag, kid. I'm not interested in what you've got to offer."

Wide-eyed, Finn backed away until the brick wall of the bar hit him in the shoulder blades. Stonebrook was big. Much bigger than when he'd been sitting down. Finn had to look up to see the man's eyes, and what he saw there made him shiver.

"I'm sorry. I thought --"

"What did you think?" Stonebrook's breath plumed in the air, the smell of beer and tequila washing over Finn's face in a warm, moist caress. "You think because you gave me a hard-on that I want you?"

Finn's hopes lifted. "Then you were interested in me. I could tell on your face."

The older man sneered as he looked down at Finn. "Yeah, kid, you got me hard. Big deal." One large, blunt finger ran down the side of Finn's cheek and stroked back and forth across his lips. "Parts of you look like a woman, you know. This pretty mouth. That nice little ass you got. Those legs . . . If I concentrate on them, I can almost forget you've got a dick between your legs." Finn gasped as the other man caressed his crotch. "Almost."

Finn moaned softly as Stonebrook stroked him through his pants. "This doesn't belong on a woman, Cherry." Jagged edged teeth scraped along his ear, the sweet scent of alcohol wafting over Finn's sense. "Women don't get hard like this when I turn them on. You're turned on, aren't you, Cherry?"

"Y-yes," Finn moaned. His breath caught as the older man's fingers fluttered against him. "Oh, yes."

"You wanted to cum when you were dancing for me, didn't you?" Stonebrook's voice was heavy with alcohol and dark with something Finn didn't understand. "Your cock was standing straight up for me. You said you ached. . . What did you ache for, Cherry?"

Finn blinked dazedly at him. "You. I ached for you. It's been so long since someone's made me feel the way you do. We could help each other . . ."

The offer was discarded as if it hadn't been uttered.

"Who was here before me? What was his name?"

A vision of golden hair and a light that never stopped shining filled Finn's mind. He whimpered at the memory and the hand that rubbed him more insistently.

"Tell me his name," Stonebrook demanded.

"Anifiel," Finn sighed, and as he'd feared, spoken aloud, the name didn't hold the same glory that it did in his memory.

"Crazy name," Stonebrook said. "But then, so is Cherry."

"It's not my real name," Finn gasped, reaching up to hold the other man's arms.

Stonebrook knocked his hands away. "Don't touch me. And don't tell me your name. I don't want to know it."

Finn shrank back against the stone as Stonebrook eyed him hungrily. "Open your pants, Cherry. Daddy wants to play."

Finn's knees wobbled and he was grateful for the firm wall against his back. A frisson of self-awareness made him look around. "Here? But anyone could see us. Don't you want to take me to your home? We could talk about what's bothering you."

"Talk? What are you, Cherry Theresa?" Stonebrook's laugh was bitter. It made Finn wince. "I don't take tricks home with me, kid. Especially to talk. Besides, why are you shy? You wanted to jerk yourself off in a room full of cops just a coupla hours ago, remember?"

Finn flushed at the memory. So, if this was all he could get . . . He tugged open his shorts. The detective looked down at him, his face shadowed.

"I changed my mind," Stonebrook said in a harsh whisper. "I want to watch you do it."

Disappointed, Cherry took himself in hand. "Tell me how you want it, Daddy."

"No," Stonebrook said, "enough of the Daddy shit. Just do it. Don't say a word." The large man took a gentle but firm hold on Finn's jaw and held his face up for the detective to see. "Do it. Touch yourself."

Finn started to stroke himself, aroused by the fierce intensity of the man who watched him. He expected Stonebrook to look down and watch the motion of Finn's hand, but the detective's eyes never left his face. It was incredibly erotic.

"You like it this way?" Finn asked, licking his lips as his loins tightened. "You like seeing me vulnerable like this?"

The fingers tightened on his face. "I said don't talk. The only sound I want to hear from you is the sound of you moaning." Glazed eyes roamed over Finn's face. "A hot little piece like you . . . You're lucky no one tried to jump you, Cherry. Lucky no one tried to find out if you really are a cherry."

Finn trembled and stroked himself faster, curling his fingers tighter around his swollen flesh. This wasn't how he thought it would be, but he told himself it was enough. These days, he had to be satisfied with what he could get.

"Hurry up," Stonebrook growled, pushing forward. With every stroke, the back of Finn's hand rubbed across the bulge in the detective's pants. "I don't have all night."

"I'm close," Finn panted, starting to shake as his orgasm neared.

A large hand closed over his, guiding his strokes. "You need a grown man to show you how to do it, kid? Come on." Stonebrook's husky voice rumbled over him. "Give it up for me, Cherry."

Finn gasped and shuddered, spilling himself over their shared grip. A wide thumb rubbed over the tip of his spurting cock, making him cry out at the over stimulation. It wasn't until he heard the other man's low chuckle that Finn realized he'd closed his eyes. He opened them weakly in time to see Stonebrook studying his wet hand. Finn hoped he would lick it. Instead, the detective frowned and wiped himself clean on Finn's jacket.

"Nice, kid."

"Are you saying you didn't like it?" Finn challenged when he heard the scorn in the older man's words.

Stonebrook smiled grimly. "I'm saying I'm not interested in little boys." He tapped the end of Finn's nose with his forefinger. Finn could smell himself on the other man's hand. "That includes you, Cherry. Thanks for the dance."

"Wait --"

Stonebrook shook off his grasping hands. "Get over it, kid. I'm not interested. Find yourself another sugar daddy."

Finn watched the detective stagger off, head and shoulders bent against the wind. The big man stumbled over the curb, cursing loudly as he crossed the street.

Finn slumped against the wall, trying not to feel anything. Light flashed behind his eyes, the memory of brilliant white wings . . .

All of it was lost to him. He tucked himself back into his pants, feeling dirty and shameful. I am a far cry from how you knew me, Anifiel. I have fallen hard.

He pushed away from the bar and began walking in the direction of his apartment. His heels echoed in the street, so he took them off, wincing at the rough pavement beneath the balls of his feet. The risk of stepping on a nail was worth it compared to drawing the wrong kind of attention in the neighborhood in which he was headed.

After a few minutes, which the biting wind made seem an hour, he passed the all-night burger stand on the corner across from his apartment building. For a moment, he considered grabbing something to eat, and then decided that he wasn't hungry even though he hadn't eaten all day.

Once inside the front door of his apartment building, he paused to put on his heels again, ironically more worried about what he might step on inside the building, than what he could trod on outside. Past battered doors and down a hallway that reeked of cigarette smoke and other mystery smells, Finn let himself into the last apartment.

The television was on, playing an infomercial about a juicing machine. Finn paused in the living room, listening for who might be home. He heard the shower running.

The room furthest from the bathroom was the kitchen, so he headed there. He grabbed the dented metal teapot and carried it to the sink, intending to make some tea before he went to bed. He turned on the water and watched the steady stream run off of the bloody butcher knife that lay in the bottom of the sink.

The shower was no longer running. He felt heat against his back.

"'Bout time you showed up, Cherry. Look what you made me do without you."

He stared in horror at the bloody knife, wishing for visions of light and feathers to seer his eyes blind. They didn't come.

A hand fisted in his hair and yanked. He went sailing into the living room, and headlong into the television set.