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THE BLUE MOO CAFE

RICK R. REED

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.amberquill.com

The Blue Moon Cafe

An Amber Quill Press Book

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's

imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

http://www.AmberHeat.com

http://www.AmberAllure.com

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in

writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-60272-656-7

Cover Art ¨ 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting

Provided by: Elemental Alchemy

Published in the United States of America

Also by Rick R. Reed

Dead End Street

Fugue

High Risk

How I Became Sexually Irresistible

Incubus

M4M

ManAmorphosis

EG UB2

o Place Like Home

Orientation

Pottery Peter

Riding The El At Midnight

Superstar

Through The Closet Door

VGL Male Seeks Same

Dedication

For Bruce, my heart, my soul, my everything

Prologue

August

He's hungry. He eyes the full moon above him through a caul of blood red. The moon shines as brightly as the sun,

warming and energizing him, heightening his senses. He "sees" with all of them, but smell predominates. Before

him, the streets of Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood stand out in sharp detail, silvery and shimmering from the

moon's light, making it easy to track potential prey. And in the air, everywhere, are scentsbeer, cigarette smoke,

the pale fishy tang of Elliot Bay to the west, car exhaust. But underlying all of this is sheer bliss. He lifts his snout to

savor it: the aroma of human flesh...and blood. Blood pulsing in the bodies of hundreds of carousers out for a

Friday night revel, coursing in and out of bars, heedless and unwary, celebrating the beginning of the weekend.

Their heat, movement, voices, andmost of allscents give him a paradoxically hungry and deliciously tingling

feeling of anticipation deep in the pit of his gut.

His leathery black nose quivers, pulling the scent inside him, where he can savor it. His pale grayfurred ears point

up to the moon, alert, listening for the sound of a man alone, one that's ripe. He wants to howl, but knows that such

displays will draw attention to him as he sits, panting, in an alley behind a Vietnamese restaurant, shuttered for the

night. Already a pair of men clad in jeans and tight Tshirts have wandered by and peered into the shadows the alley

provides for him, wondering about him.

"Jesus!" One of them said. "Would you look at that? What is that? Some kind of dog? It's huge!"

His friend had leaned over, farther into the alley, far enough for the creature to catch the scent of the man's sweat

underlying the cologne with which he polluted himself. It had made his mouth water, his stomach growl, and made

him eager to pounce... But he knows he must be patient. The night affords plenty of time to hunt. Reward must

always be balanced by careful calculation of risk.

"Yeah, dude. I think it's a German Shepherd...or a Husky. Somethin' like that. Come on, let's get to the Cuff."

"I thought we were going to eighbours."

"The Cuff has hotter guys."

The men had hurried off, unaware of how appetizing they were, how close they edged to their own demise.

He licks his chops and stares up at the moon as a cloud passes over, partially obscuring its radiance.

But he has time to wait. Time to let the scents, sounds, and sights of the lively August night ramp up his hunger, his

need, making the resulting feast all that much more succulent. There are practical reasons, too, for his patience. In

the wee small hours of the morning (as the song went), there would be fewer witnesses to his impromptu al fresco

supper of flesh and blood. The few people outhis preywere more likely to be intoxicated and careless of heading

down an alley just like the one in which he now crouched, waiting, every sense on alert.

Intoxicated... Before dawn crept up over the Cascade Mountains, he knew he'd be intoxicated. That, and utterly

satisfied. He circled a few times and lay down beside a Dumpster.

* * * *

He's dozed off. When he awakens, the air is cooler and the night quieter. The sounds of traffic, laughter, and voices

have diminished to almost nothing. The rush of wind ruffles his fur as he gets to all fours, raising his snout to test

the air.

Yes. There are humans close by. Two of them. He smells their perspiration and beneath that, their blood. Their

warmth rides to him like a delicious current on the night breeze. He stands quietly, heart rate quickening, muscles

tensing, tracking them. They are just outside the alley in which he waits and are making noises, not talking. But

there are definite sounds. He moves forward, silent on black paws, to the alley's mouth. In a darkened doorway, he

hears the sound of human matinggrunts, groans, and sighs. He sniffs, calculating. There are two men, one of them

older, not as healthy, and one young, vigorous.

Boldly, he trots out of the alley and crosses the street to watch from between two parked cars. The men do not even

notice, they are so absorbed in what they're doing, and he's so full of stealth that he might as well be a ghost gliding

through the night.

The pair occupies the doorway of a storefront, cloaked in shadow. Human eyes, passing by, would not even register

their existence. But he can see them: the younger one, the one for whom he is already licking his chops, stands

before the older one, jeans pushed down to his knees. His shirt is pulled up over his shoulders and behind his neck,

exposing exquisite musculature and a constellation of inked skin. Throwing his head back, the young man whispers

rapidly how "fuckin' good" it all feels, while the older man kneels in front of him, his head bobbing up and down at

his crotch.

The act takes fewer than ten minutes. The scent of sweat and semen hang in the air. The older man rises, looks

around, stuffs himself back inside his pants, and zips. He glances around again, although the creature can't imagine

whythere's no one else to witness anythingand takes out his wallet. He digs in it, pulls out a few bills, and hands

it to the younger man, the one with the shaved head, the bulging muscles, and the tattoos. The younger man snatches

the money away and smiles. "Thanks." He stuffs the money into his jeans pocket.

The older man begins to walk away and the younger one grabs his arm. "o kiss goodbye?"

They both laugh. The older man pecks the younger on his mouth. At the same time, the younger man pulls him closer

as if to embrace him and reaches back, smoothly pulling the wallet from the older man's pants. The other man,

unaware, hurries off into the night, toward downtown.

"Muscles" counts the money, chuckling, then rifles through the wallet.

He hears the young man whisper, "What story will you make up for wifey about how you lost your wallet?" He

throws back his head and laughs out loud at the thought. He pulls the remaining cash from the wallet, extracts a

couple of credit cards, and tosses the wallet to the ground.

The creature takes him in with all of his senses. He's perfect.

He tracks his prey through the streets, uphill. He begins to question whether luck will be on his side when the man

ducks into an alley. The monster follows, amused that, after all these blocks, he has never once noticed him so close

behind. The beast stares as his prey pulls out his dick and sprays a bright yellow stream on the brick wall before

him. He smells the piss, ammonialike, but it's part of the man's essence and his heat. Mixed in with the smell of it is

also the scent of his semen, left over from his prior business transaction.

Drool runs from the creature's mouth. He can wait no longer. He pounces, and without a howl, without a growl,

without even a bark, he is upon him.

Tearing.

The man doesn't even have time to scream.

Chapter 1

The song from his clock radio woke Thad Matthews at six A.M. The song, "Smokestack Lightnin'," roused him

from a heavy, dream-laden sleep. Its energy forced his eyes open wider, caused synapses, eight hours dormant, to

tingle, and made him want to move. Nonetheless, he slapped at the snooze button, silencing the bluesy wail, rolled

over, and pulled the comforter over his head. He was glad he had tuned his clock radio to KBLU, Seattle's only all-

blues, all-the-time, station, but he desperately wanted to recapture just a few more minutes of his dream, in which

he'd found himself on the moors of England. All he could recall was that the moors themselves were appropriately

fog-shrouded and lit with a silvery luminance from above. Someone waited for him in the shadows and fog. And he

could not, for the life of him, know for certain if that someone meant to do him harm or meant to just do him.

He'd been having a lot of sexual dreams lately.

As much as he wanted to unravel the mystery of the dream--and to perhaps savor the vague sexual vibrations he was

getting from it--sleep eluded him and he found thoughts of the day crowding in, preventing even the most remote

possibility of a recurrence of slumber.

Rick R. Reed - The Blue Moon Cafe.pdf

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