Continuing to stare at the tripod tower in the night sky, Aleksey also considers that through years of service it is possible, maybe even likely, that he knows Zachary better than Zachary knows himself. Aleksey has not commented upon the scattered clues indicating that Zachary is thinking about his life after retirement. Professional mixed martial arts fighters have varying age ranges for their career peaks. Zachary may have several more years where he can compete on a world-class level.
Zachary's mind will abandon the sport before his body does, Aleksey decides, flicking a melting ice cube from one side of his mouth to the other.
A group of women leave their table and four seats in the center region of the lounge, which is elevated and separated by a low iron railing. Their absence reveals a well-dressed couple on the opposite side of the room. The man and woman are smiling and looking into each other's eyes, appearing to be courting, oblivious to those around them. Aleksey is good with recalling faces. The man is not someone he believes he has seen before. But the blond woman may be familiar. He stares at her, trying to place her and imagine her with a different hair style or application of makeup. The table for four is cleared, cleaned, and seated with new guests, blocking Aleksey's view of the couple.
Aleksey closes his eyes and rubs his temples with gentle circular motions of his index fingers.
"Where did I see you before?" he asks himself, muttering aloud so quietly the people next to him cannot hear his words. "Who are you?"
10
Encounter
Zachary follows the kilted man into his hotel room. The room is clean and tidy, dominated by a king size bed and east-facing windows with elaborate draping and curtains pulled aside to reveal the skyline of San Francisco's Financial District. The windows are raised a few inches, ushering in cool breezes that gush into the room and swirl against the ceiling and walls. The top of the writing desk under the mirror holds a tourist map, phone charger, loose pile of coins, and identification badge.
"Gargoyle or grotesque?" Zachary asks, gesturing toward the decorative stone creature perched outside on the hotel's facade, above the window.
"Are you speaking in code?" the kilted man laughs. "Having second thoughts?"
"No, one is a water spout and the other is architectural ornamentation. I always confuse the two. Gargoyles and grotesques."
"Hopefully, that one is for fending off bad spirits."
"Don't count on it," Zachary says.
"Should I fear you?" the kilted man asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and motioning an invitation for Zachary to sit in the desk chair across from him.
"The answer is no. But when it comes to strangers, it is a question you have to ask yourself. Don't you agree?"
"I guess I have been lucky. No one has tried to hurt me."
"Douglas is your first name or last name?" Zachary asks, glancing at the identification badge on the desk.
"You are a stunning man," Douglas answers, ignoring the question. "Most guys who look similar to you ignore me. They don't give me a chance at all."
"So the kilt is for attention?"
"I guess so. Plus, the freedom of it. Wearing whatever I want and making my own rules."
"Few grown men can pull wearing one off without it looking like a costume," Zachary says, as his eyes wander over the man's ginger curls and milky, pink-white skin. "I have to admit it looks natural on you. Scottish heritage?"
"Yes, some," Douglas answers. "Have you worn a kilt before?"
"Not yet."
"Are you and your friend tourists?"
"We are here for business."
"I am too," Douglas offers. "Our convention begins tomorrow night. In the Peacock Room downstairs, by the garden. I came early for sightseeing."
Douglas takes off his boots and Zachary removes his shoes.
"What is the top thing to see on your list?" Zachary asks.
"Muir Woods," Douglas answers. "The national monument for redwood trees on Mount Tamalpais."
"Great choice."
"I am going early tomorrow morning. Would you like to join me?"
Zachary genially shakes his head and peels off his socks. Douglas follows suit, exposing his wide and flat-arched feet.
"Your badge has an acronym I have not seen before," Zachary says. What does it stand for?"
"It's an association for television and cable production professionals."
"They let you wear a kilt to work?"
"I tried once," Douglas chortles. "But it did not go over well. People complained."
"On what grounds?" Zachary asks.
Douglas spreads his knees. His manhood is displayed under the tartan material. Zachary's eyes explore while Douglas watches his face.
"Nice," Zachary responds. "That is the problem with going natural-commando-in a kilt though, isn't it? Eventually, everyone gets a peek."
"Do you like it?" Douglas asks.
"You are growing."
Douglas stands and flips off the lamp. Observing Zachary removing his shirt, Douglas begins unfastening his kilt. Zachary stops him by firmly grabbing his arm, signaling that he wants Douglas to keep the kilt on. Douglas returns to the corner of the bed and leans back, while Zachary kneels down between his legs. Zachary squeezes Douglas's calf and thigh muscles while the tip of his tongue teases his erection upward. Douglas's foreskin rolls back and he quivers, waiting for Zachary's mouth.
Slowly, as Douglas kneads Zachary's nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, Zachary parts his lips. Fully stiff, Douglas moans as Zachary engulfs him. Glazing motions of the tongue on his crown bring him close to orgasm, far too soon. Douglas wraps his legs around Zachary's back, pressuring him to slow down. Instead, Zachary buries Douglas entirely inside his mouth and intensifies the compressions.
"Oh no," Douglas complains. "I cannot hold it back."
Douglas lets go of his chest and clasps Zachary's pronounced ears while he climaxes, bucking wildly into Zachary's face and pumping semen down his throat. Douglas flings his arms behind his head and wrings a pillow as he finishes pulsing.
"Wow, you have no gag reflex, Zach," Douglas notes, sighing and catching his breath.
Zachary springs to his feet. He glares at Douglas and moves to the side of the bed.
"What's wrong?" Douglas asks. "Are you going to rob me?"
"You gave yourself away," Zachary answers. "You just called me by a name I never shared with you."
The handgun concealed under the pillow, a semi-automatic pistol, is now pointed right at Zachary's chest.
"Back up," Douglas orders, climbing out of the bed and gesturing for Zachary to be seated again.
Zachary obeys, sitting on the edge of the seat. Douglas, still nude, steadily holds the barrel toward Zachary and maneuvers to where he is standing four feet away, outside of the likely range of a kick or punch.
"They were right," Douglas says, smiling with a sneer. "You suck a seriously mean dick."
Zachary offers no reaction.
"No dude has ever been down there before like that," Douglas adds. "I am a married man. But damn, I could not stop you."
"Is there a point to all of your banter?" Zachary asks.
"I am just savoring the victory and my handsome reward. Zachary Fellini-finally caught."
11
Flee
After waiting twenty minutes for service and overhearing a dozen horror stories by other victims of crimes, Gustavo sits on a plastic chair in a cubicle across from an attendant at the police station. Bullet-proof glass separates them. The attendant, a plump woman with her hair in a bun, frowns at Gustavo and folds her arms across her chest.
"Is that all?" she asks.
"Excuse me?" Gustavo replies.
"A forty-year-old man with a square jaw, blond hair parted on the side, and a scarred left eyebrow chases you around a field and parking lot?"
"You need to have an officer check for the man I told you about in the business suit by the trail. His corpse could be waiting for you right now."
"No theft. You confessed you dropped your phone. No battery. You kicked the scarred man, you admitted. And no witnessing of any crimes. So, please tell me again why you are here."
"It is normal and acceptable for a man in a ski mask to assault innocent people in a park?" Gustavo snaps.
"Technically, you can file a report," the attendant says, shrugging. "Realistically, no officer is going to be assigned to this. Perhaps, though, if you ever spot this man again and he actually commits a crime, then you may or may not be able to utilize your report as prior supporting evidence."
"Honestly, this is extremely disappointing. I thought you would help me. I expected you to be concerned about the man in agony on the trail."
The attendant flips her eyebrows upward for a moment, blinks heavily, and slides a clipboard with papers and an attached pen through a flat hollow at the base of the bullet-proof barrier.
"Is there even anything of value in the box that was supposedly handed to you voluntarily by the crying man on the trail?" she asks.
Gustavo looks at the package laying across his lap. He considers demanding a supervisor. He listens to a young tourist beside him who is explaining to another attendant how a woman he picked up at a bar stole fourteen thousand dollars in traveler's checks from his hotel room. The tourist is meeting the same resistance from his attendant.