A Touch of Blood (An Avondale Story)

Copyright © 2016, 2020 by Etienne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wherever possible, the syntax and spelling in this book follows guidelines set forth in The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition, and in the Merriam-Webster online dictionary.

Cover Art © 2016, 2020 by Gerald Lopez

Acknowledgments

To my long-suffering editor Jim Kennedy, Thank you.

To my partner of twenty plus years, for his support and encouragement.

To my beta readers: Thank you for your many helpful suggestions.

Author’s Notes

Many people have written to inquire if the places described in the Avondale stories are real, and I'm happy to say that most of them are. Avondale is a very real neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida, situated between Roosevelt Boulevard (US-17) and the St. Johns River. It is bounded on the northeast by McDuff Avenue which separates it from the neighborhood known as Riverside, and on the southwest by Fishweir Creek.

After the great fire of 1901 leveled much of downtown Jacksonville, destroying over two thousand buildings and leaving nearly ten thousand people homeless, the Springfield neighborhood immediately north of downtown was developed. Then the city began to move west and south along the St. Johns River, and first Riverside then Avondale were born. Said to be the first planned community in Florida, Avondale was developed in the nineteen twenties.

The restaurants frequented by our guys are very real, and pretty much as described in the stories:

The Derby House, sometimes referred to as Gorgi’s Derby House was a popular restaurant for several decades, until it closed circa 2011, give or take a year or so. It was the kind of neighborhood hangout where people seated themselves. After its closure, the building was remodeled, enlarged a bit, and a new restaurant emerged, known as The Derby on Park.

Biscottis, which opened in the fall of 1993, is a very popular restaurant located in the Avondale shopping area.

The Pizza Italian in Five Points, was opened by a Greek immigrant in the spring of 1976, and he dished out good pizza, wonderful lasagna, and the best meatball subs in town for just over forty-one years. Sadly, the restaurant closed in 2017, due to the owner’s age and health problems.

Richard's Sandwich Shop in Five Points, for some thirty years offered the best Camel Riders* in town. After more than thirty years in business, the owner sold the property and retired in 2016.

The Goal Post Sandwich Shop is located across the street from the complex that houses The Loop, and has been a fixture in the neighborhood for a very long time.

The Cool Moose Café has been serving breakfast and lunch to neighborhood residents for some twenty years.

The Loop Pizza Grill, home of the best grilled chicken sandwich in town and locally referred to simply as The Loop, began in Jacksonville in the late eighties, and has grown to several locations around town. The Avondale location, situated on Fishweir Creek, was popular for its deck, where one could sit and watch sea birds foraging in the tidal estuary while eating. Unfortunately, the entire complex was razed by developers in 2017, and replaced by apartments. The Loop moved to another location nearby, but that location, sadly, lacks a deck on the water.

*THE TERM Camel Rider might sound like a pejorative to some in today's politically correct society, but in Jacksonville—which has one of the largest Middle Eastern communities on the East Coast—it's the name of a sandwich offered at the numerous sandwich shops around town operated by people whose ancestors fled the economic decline and religious persecution of the Ottoman Empire. Predominately Christian, they came from Syria, Lebanon, and other parts of the Middle East and settled in Jacksonville during the early twentieth century and shortly before.

All of the sandwich shops offer sandwiches in a pocket of pita bread, and these sandwiches are called riders. The Camel Rider is a pita pocket stuffed with lettuce, slices of tomato, cheese, and cold cuts, with a bit of mustard and a dash of olive oil. The camel rider is a very simple, but amazingly satisfying sandwich.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

About the author

Contact the author

Other books by Etienne

A Touch of Blood

(An Avondale Story)

Etienne

Chapter 1

THE PREDATOR WAS on the hunt, or at least he would be when he reached the city. Hunting was nothing new to him, he’d been doing it for more decades than he cared to remember… and in often dangerous circumstances. This particular hunt would be different, he hoped—totally different. New state, new city, new modus operandi, he thought. He hadn’t fed since he’d moved into his new quarters two days previously, and it was time—past time, in fact.

He glanced at the GPS built into the car’s dashboard and confirmed that he needed to take the next exit from the interstate. After that, he followed the directions that eventually led him to a long, narrow parking lot next to a somewhat nondescript two-story building. He retrieved a small gym bag from the backseat, locked his car and entered the building, where he decided to pay for a room for the night.

He’d been in bathhouses before, so he knew what to do. After checking in at the front desk, he went to his room on the second floor and stripped. Then, clad in a towel and wearing shower shoes, he began to explore the facility.

There was a warren of rooms on both floors, and he quickly found the amenities on the ground floor: a small exercise room, a nice swimming pool, a good-sized Jacuzzi sunk into the floor, and a steam room. He hung his towel on a hook and stepped into the Jacuzzi, which was currently occupied by three youngish men. He noted their admiring glances with pleasure and settled down on the sunken bench between two of them. Within minutes, he felt hands beginning to explore his body from both sides, and his body instantly responded.

The man on his left leaned over and whispered in his ear. I have a room upstairs.

He nodded, and the two of them left the Jacuzzi, toweled themselves dry, and wrapped their towels around their waists. The predator took a long look at his surroundings as he followed the young man up the stairs, and thought to himself, How did I ever sink this low? The answer came to him in a flash: because you like sex, and you have to feed. Where better to find both than a gay bathhouse? With that thought, he followed the young man into the room and closed the door behind them. Later, when they were both sated, he used his special abilities to ensure that his victim would remember nothing when he woke up. After that, he fed; being careful as always not to take too much. He took as much as he dared, then used his own saliva to clean the two tiny punctures. He watched as the substances in his saliva caused the wounds to disappear. His victim would wake up in a few hours, remembering only having experienced some unusually spectacular sex. He’d feel a little weak from the blood loss, but would attribute it to the night of sexual excess.

He looked at his watch as he locked the door to the room behind him. Time for one more, he thought. It only took him a few minutes in the steam room to receive another invitation; and an hour later he left the building. As always, he used his preternatural senses to search for any nearby humans who might be paying him undue attention. Finding none, he made his way to his waiting car. A few minutes after that, he was on the interstate, headed for home—and bed.

A little more than forty minutes later he left the interstate and drove through the streets of Andersonville until he reached the garage behind his new home. That was a good evening, he thought as he settled between satin sheets. I fed twice, and had more sex than I’ve had in years. A very good evening indeed.

Chapter 2

MARSHALL SUTHERLAND WALKED into his inner office and tossed his heavy briefcase onto the small conference table tucked into one corner. His secretary had followed him, and was looking him over somewhat critically.

That bad, huh? she said.

Does it show?

How long have we known each other?

Geez, Carol, I don’t know—forever?

Close, but no cigar. We met when my family moved into the house next door to yours. You were six and I was five.

Okay, so it’s not quite forever. What’s your point?

The point, old friend and former neighbor, is this: after all these years, I can read you like a book. Something bad happened in court this afternoon, right?

You could say that, he said. Judge Roberts was sick, and I got stuck with the worst judge in the county.

You’re referring to his honor, Judge Howell? Carol said.

Yeah.

Given the fact that he hates you, you should have asked him to recuse himself.

I did, and he refused. Then, being him, he went on the attack.

Meaning? she said.

Over the course of the next hour, he overruled every motion I made and wound up dismissing the case.

So what? You can file it again.

I left out one salient fact. He dismissed the case with prejudice. Which, being the good legal secretary you are, you know means that I can’t re-file the case.

The bastard. What did you do?

I didn’t want to be hit with contempt of court on top of everything else, so I bit my tongue so hard I drew blood, tugged at my forelock and said, ‘Thank you, your honor’.

Good for you.

It was a no-brainer, he said. I’ll get the whole thing overturned on appeal.

And that’s a good thing, right?

True, but it will take time. And when I get it overturned, I’ll have to start over from scratch.

So you generate more billable hours, she said That’s a good thing, isn’t it?

I can’t charge the client for hours wasted because a judge doesn’t like me.

Does the client know the judge doesn’t like you?

I don’t think so.

Problem solved.

Hardly.

Don’t be so noble, she said. This particular client happens to have money oozing out of every pore. He won’t care. In fact, I’ll bet you a martini that if you tell him the whole story, he’ll insist on paying—just to get back at the judge.

You could be right, and I’ll discuss it with the client when I see him again. Meanwhile, I’ve got work to do.

No, you don’t. What you need is to go out and get laid.

That isn’t going to happen this weekend.

Oh, that’s right, she said. The ice queen is out of town, isn’t she?

Why do you always call Alice an ice queen?

Because I know the type. She strikes me as one of those women who just lies there and makes all the right sounds while you do all the work.

Shit, Marshall thought, she doesn’t even do that—she just lies there quietly until she finally has an orgasm, and that takes for-fucking-ever. But he wasn’t about to discuss that with his secretary—no matter how long he’d known her.

You do realize that your silence speaks volumes, she said.

I don’t talk about things that are that personal.

Unless it’s with other guys, right?

Sorry to disappoint you, Carol, but not even then.

Sure, you don’t. Well, if you can’t get laid, then follow plan B.

Plan B? he said.

As my grandfather would say, you need to spend some time communing with John Barleycorn.

Huh?

Drown your sorrows.

Carol! You, of all people, should know that it only takes a few drinks to make me sick.

Okay, so you go to the nearest bar and get mellow over a large glass of wine. If my husband wasn’t expecting to find dinner ready when he gets home, I’d go with you.

I might just do that, but not until I’ve dealt with the paperwork on my desk.

Boss, there isn’t anything on that desk that can’t wait till Monday. Now go.

Yes, Ma’am, he said, and left the office.

MARSHALL DROVE HOME on autopilot, most of his brain still dealing with the events in courtroom four. Home was a comfortable three-bedroom house his grandmother had left him, and he thought of her as he pulled into the garage behind the house. As always, he found himself reflecting on the fact that Gram had bypassed her three surviving children and several grandchildren in favor of her oldest grandson. She’d left each of her children and grandchildren a small lump sum, and he’d gotten the house. As far as he knew, she’d never explained her reasons for doing so to anyone in the family, least of all him. Her lawyer probably knew, but he was even older than Gram, and if he’d known, he’d taken the secret to his grave a couple of years after Gram had died. The rest of the family had been upset and resentful in varying degrees, and one or two of them had even threatened to contest the will. At least they’d threatened until they learned that Gram had anticipated their reaction, and had arranged things such that anyone who took action would be denied even their lump sum.

Marshall had enjoyed living in the house and, except for installing modern stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, he’d left it pretty much as it had always been, which was to say, warm, comfortable, and familiar. Once he was in the house, he went straight to the master bedroom, where he took a shower before changing into chinos and a long-sleeved shirt.

His house was in a historic neighborhood only a couple of blocks from downtown, so Marshall decided to walk to the Old Dominion restaurant, which was his favorite downtown eatery. When he stepped through the door of the restaurant, he was greeted by a familiar face.

Evening, Marshall, Josh Alexander said. Dining alone tonight?

Yeah.

Booth or table?

How about my usual table in the corner?

Sure. Follow me.

One of the things about setting up shop in your hometown was the absence of anonymity.