Lust Never Sleeps

Chapter One: One Night in Hannagan's

"How good is your French accent?"

"I beg your pardon?" Darryl craned his neck, peering around him, but there was no one close enough who could be considered to be within earshot. No one paying the slightest attention. So that settled that. This lunatic must be talking to him.

This rather lovely, albeit strange, lunatic.

"Do you parlez vous Francais? Speak a little frog? Enough to be mistaken for a native? If not a native, someone from Canada maybe?"

The speaker was gorgeous, in a cat-walk drop-dead kind of way. Blond hair, short, slicked back. Dirty blond, actually. With just a trace of stubble around his lips and chin. And cinnamon eyes. The kind of guy that made Darryl's heart beat faster than a junkie's on speed.

Darryl hadn't intended to come to Hannagan's tonight. He was tired of one night stands. Tired of the same old, same old. Tired of being treated like nothing more than a pretty face, a quick roll in the hay. Tired of people recognizing him for a few sleazy tabloid shots. That was long over and hardly worth remembering. He hadn't even known who the guy was until he found himself in the backseat of his Mercedes, sucking his cock like no tomorrow. Not till the flash bulbs went off and his name and face were promoted to the front page of every supermarket rag around. He never saw or heard from the stranger again—imagine that.

This guy didn't seem interested in all of that. Although what he was after, Darryl couldn't figure out for the life of him. But something inside of him, some little tickle, told him to at least play along. For now.

"Actually, no, I don't speak any French," Darryl regretfully confessed. "How about German? I took a few years of it in high school. I'm no expert, but I think I can give that a go." Darryl had no idea what he was even talking about, but the words seemed to pour from his mouth of their own volition.

The blond squinted one eye, his head bobbing back and forth as if in thought, tongue stuck into his cheek as he considered the matter. Darryl had to force himself to look away from those damn kissable lips. "No," he said at last, almost reluctantly, "gotta stick with the original script, I think. Now, repeat after me, with your best French accent:

I'd walk across the world for you

."

"I'd do what for what?" Darryl echoed, confused.

"Jeez, you blew it already. Let me say it slower. I'd. Walk. Across. The. World. For. You. Now you try it, but with that accent thing."

Darryl cleared his throat. He glanced around, half expecting a white-coated keeper to emerge from the woodwork. None did. He decided to give it his best try, whatever the results. He focused on the lips, as he repeated the line, correctly. Not well, though. His characterization sounded more Cajun than authentic Frenchman.

"Much better! For that, you deserve a reward!" Before Darryl could wrap his head around what was happening, he'd been pulled into a strong pair of arms, and those delectable lips were fastened upon his, and he was being kissed hard, so hard it made his head spin. When he was released, he fell back slightly onto the bar stool, grateful that it had a back, otherwise he'd have simply poured bonelessly onto the barroom floor.

He stared at the stranger, lips slightly parted, almost as if he wanted or expected more of the same. Common sense told him not to get involved, look what happened last time.

He told common sense to shut the fuck up.

Before he could get out a question—what's your name came to mind—he found his hand being taken by the other man, their fingers twined securely together. "It's show time, folks," he whispered in a husky contralto, which only served to raise Darryl's blood pressure even higher.

What did that even mean?

He followed the gaze of those gorgeously warm eyes as they traveled to the door. Now entering Hannagan's were two men in business suits who seemed to be vying for the title of stiff of the month. They might almost have been sent from Central Casting, straight off the set of The Godfather.

He gave blondie a suspicious look, wondering if this were the payoff to the set-up. He stood right beside Darryl, his body fairly quivering with excitement, their hands still locked. He leaned in to Darryl so close that his warm breath ghosted over his ear. "By the way, the name's Sawyer. Sawyer Thomas."

"What are you, Tom Sawyer's evil twin?" Darryl managed to get out before his lips were otherwise engaged, and all logical thought flew straight out the proverbial window.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to find that the two goombas were now standing there, waiting expectantly for them to quit playing tonsil hockey.

Sawyer remained imperturbably unflappable, adjusting his tie, which had come askew during the time he'd had his body crushed against Darryl's. "Mr. Schrodinger. Mr. Salisbury." He greeted the two men with a solemn nod.

Schrodinger was tall and lean, with a long jagged scar which ran the length of one cheek. Salisbury was shorter, pudgier, with a face like an overgrown infant. They wore identical dark blue wool suits, cut to fit their disparate body styles.

Schrodinger turned to his companion. "It's always the quiet ones, you know?"

"It is indeed," Salisbury echoed the sentiment.

"Gentlemen, meet my... lover... Jean-Phillipe."

Darryl tried not to start at the strange name; the feel of Sawyer's nails digging into his palm helped reinforce the idea. They looked at him, almost expectantly. Another dig reminded Darryl that perhaps he should speak.

He cleared his throat, then managed to get out, "How do you do?" Kudos to him for the accent.

"That depends on you." This in unison. "Do you have the diamonds?"

What?