Blood Sacrifice by By Rick R. Reed Read Free Book Online Page A

“Not sure what you mean.”
    And then the man touched him, which surprised Edward. Just reached out and ran a hand across his cheek, almost a corporeal whisper. In that instant, Edward felt the network of bones and cartilage in the hand; the dry, leathery skin was oddly cool. Again, Edward felt a bizarre marriage of repulsion and lust in his gut.
    “I just mean that, no matter what decisions we make, once made, they’re fraught with danger or delight, or both. So, is it simply the need for a drink that brings you out tonight? I presume a bottle could be purchased for home consumption just as easily, and probably much more affordably, on a cost-per-drink basis.”
    “You have a point there.” Edward scratched his head. “What brought me out?” Edward took a deep breath. “Maybe it was the need to meet someone like you.” Edward was immediately grateful for the bar’s darkness, concealing the blush that radiated upward from his chest, completely enveloping his face. He knew if he couldn’t find more intelligent things to say, he would be spending yet another night alone.
    The man laughed, a husky chuckle that made Edward shiver. He squeezed Edward’s shoulder. “Well, then, it appears you made the right decision.”
    “Yeah…meeting someone and getting a break from my work.”
    “Which is?”
    “I paint.”
    “Ah. An artist. I love artists. I could eat up an artist’s soul.” Again, the chuckle.
    “Well, I hope I’m an artist. All I can say for sure is that I’m a painter. Anyone can be a painter. It takes something more to be an artist.”
    “What are you looking for, then? Outside validation? Don’t you know you’re an artist? How else can you go on working unless you have confidence in yourself?”
    Edward stared at the bar, uncertain how to respond. He knew he was an artist. He was just attempting to be pithy with the wordplay and the meanings behind painter and artist. He should have just told the guy he was a house painter. It would have been easier. “I don’t know. I guess I was stupid saying that.”
    “Not stupid. Realistic. I like that.” The man took off his glasses and Edward felt a dizzying sensation. Romantic and over-the-top as it sounded, he felt like he was falling into an abyss. The stranger’s irises, if possible, were even blacker than the glass which moments ago had sheathed them. “My name is Terence.”
    “Edward.”
    Terence squeezed Edward’s hand. His touch was like ice. It was off-putting and at the same time, alluring. “Your hand is so cold. Did you just come inside?”
    “I did not. I’m just a cool cat.” Terence laughed.
    “Now who’s the one saying stupid things?”
    “Barkeep? Can you bring us another round?” Terence waved a five-dollar bill in the air, reaching over Edward, who could smell something sweet and cloying beneath the bitter aroma of grass. “You’d like another one, wouldn’t you? Or am I being presumptuous?”
    “If you’re buying, I’m drinking. A boy has to take his pleasures where he finds them.”
    “Indeed.”
    Once the bartender, a handsome blond man whose features were marred by the addition of too much mascara ringing his blue eyes, had set their new drinks before them, Terence squeezed Edward’s shoulder. “So, tell me about your art.”
    “Do you really want to know?” Edward sipped. He didn’t want to sound pretentious. He hated artists that were all the time talking, talking, talking. Art should speak for itself. And if the two of them ever made it back to his apartment, maybe his art would speak for him.
    “You need a dose of self-confidence, young man. Artists have to be self-promoters, if they want to get anywhere. It’s a hard reality. So, what do you paint? What medium? What are you trying to get across?”
    “You ask too many questions.” With trembling hands, Edward lit yet another cigarette. He knew that, soon, his throat would feel sore and scorched. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I paint