The Raw Prawn

by Connie Bailey

  “Mind if I get a glass of water?”

  Russ spun around as Jarold padded into the kitchen. “You always walk around starkers?”

  “I’m hot.”

  “Too right!”

  Jarold grinned—a new grin with a soft edge of shyness, not the brash, blinding white billboard for the American Dental Association he’d been flashing earlier. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I can go back and wait for you.”

  “Don’t be daft, sport,” Russ tossed Jarold a cold bottle of water. “And here’s your money.”

  Jarold stared at the stack of bills for a moment before taking it. “Cold cash,” he said lamely. “Why so much? You only owe me three fifty by my count.”

  “You’ve got something against a bonus?”

  “Nope. Can you believe I almost forgot about the money?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Can I use you as a reference?”

  Jarold reacted to Russ’s cool tone. “So… I guess I should go.”

  “Wish it were otherwise, but my day isn’t over yet.”

  “Right. I’ll get dressed then. Do you know a cheap place around here where I won’t get ripped off?”

  Russ gave Jarold directions to a decent hostel, as he watched him pull on his clothes and walk out the door. He had the strong urge to run after the American and tell him the cameras were voice-actuated and had been filming since he entered the flat. He wanted to tell Jarold that he’d erased all the footage and hear Jarold say he forgave him. He wished he could leave here and go someplace with Jarold where they didn’t owe anybody anything and they could be together for as long as they wanted. However, he knew that he would do none of those things, because he preferred his handsome hide intact, and guys like Leith were apt to take what you owed them in flesh if you couldn’t come up with the cash. Knowing he’d regret it, Russ went to the window and watched Jarold stride away down the street, as fresh and beautiful as the first morning of the world as he walked out of Russ’s life.

  Chapter Three

  Chook

  JAROLD lay on the inadequate cot and listened to the three Japanese boys eating in a circle on the floor a few feet away. I am not gay, he thought, but he lacked the conviction he’d possessed before a cocky hustler who tasted like port wine and tobacco had turned him inside out. “I must be out of my mind,” he said, making the lone Swede look over at him curiously. Jarold shook his head at the strapping Scandinavian and turned his face to the wall. The tempting, taunting, whiskey-gold eyes of a Twenty-First Century faun floated up from the wood grain, and Jarold moaned in frustration. Why wouldn’t Russ leave him alone? Why did a liquid pulse of lust galvanize his groin each time he thought about the Australian? Was it possible to have the hots for another guy without being gay? These and other similar questions had kept him awake long past his bedtime.

  With a smothered curse, Jarold rose and put his shirt back on. He collected some money from his backpack and gave it back into the care of the Thai man behind the desk. With no other guide than his restlessness, Jarold walked out onto the street and headed for King’s Cross, where the bars and strip clubs never closed. He wasn’t looking for a drink or a woman, but he wanted the buzz of the nightlife to close around him for a little while and make him feel like he wasn’t really alone. He was halfway down Oxford Street when he saw Russ walk into a nightclub on the other side of the boulevard. Without stopping to think, Jarold waded into traffic and made it to the sidewalk alive. As he stepped up onto the curb, a broad-shouldered transvestite walked out of the bar and eyed him brazenly.

  “Hey,” Jarold said with a sheepish smile. “Is there a cover charge here?”

  “Not for you,” the drag queen answered in a musical baritone. “Go right in and tell Bluey that Karla sent you.”

  “Thanks,” Jarold said as he started for the door.

  “My pleasure, chook. You’ll add to the scenery.”

  “Chook?”

  “You a Yank?”

  “I’m American,” Jarold said.

  “Don’t usually like your type, but you’re precious. And chook is what we call baby chickens.”

  Jarold groaned and walked away. He approached the red-haired bouncer and waited for the big man to notice him. “Bluey?”

  “S’right.”

  “Karla sent me?”

  “Did she now? Well, any friend of Karla’s is welcome here. Come right in, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Jarold said as he stepped onto the sticky carpet of the foyer. “Mind if I ask a couple of questions? I’ve never been here before.”

  “You’re joking,” Bluey deadpanned.

  “Are drinks very expensive?”

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t worry though. Doubt sir will be paying for any of his drinks.”

  “Oh, no,” Jarold laughed. “I’m not here to pick anyone up. I saw a friend of mine go in and I’d like buy him a drink.”

  “Of course, sir,” the doorman said. “Don’t let me keep you. And, sir?”

  Jarold paused at the inner door that vibrated from the loudness of the music playing beyond it. “Yeah?”

  “Sir’s attire is a trifle… casual. I’m no follower of fashion, mind you, but I think a gentleman should show a bit of class when he’s out on the town.”

  “That’s good advice; I’ll remember that,” Jarold said as he walked through the door and was swallowed up in the lights and sounds of one of Sydney’s trendiest night spots. There were three levels with the dance floor in a circular pit at the bottom. Jarold had entered on the middle level, which had a bar in each corner and a railed observation gallery where patrons could watch the dancers. Above was the VIP stratum with its partitioned privacy areas, piped-in porn on big monitors, and a wait staff chosen purely on the basis of their striking good looks and toned physiques. As Jarold looked around the club, he saw Russ walking up the stairs to the third level and started after him. When he reached the top, a human wall moved to block his forward progress.

  “Help you with something, sir?”

  Jarold stared at the swirling tattoos that covered the man’s face. “Uh, Karla sent me,” he said slowly, dropping his gaze to the bouncer’s shirtfront.

  “Another delivery?” the big man said in surprise. “Oh well. Not my business. Pass.”

  After being patted down for weapons, Jarold passed by the mountain of flesh and headed in the direction Russ had taken. The Australian had on a cream-colored jacket over an orange tank top, and Jarold caught a flash of it out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw a door close and figured it was the one he wanted. Boldly, he knocked and waited.

  Someone in the room beyond the door shouted, “See who the bloody fuck that is,” loud enough to make several heads turn. The door opened and a gun was stuck in Jarold’s face.

  “Karla sent me.” Jarold spoke the magic words once more and was yanked into the room.

  It was immediately obvious that the space served as an office as well as a lounge and that the burly man behind the desk was not happy to be interrupted. He broke off glaring at Russ to turn his cold-eyed scowl on Jarold. The slim, impeccably dressed man who had let Jarold in patted the young man on the shoulder. “Friend of Karla’s, Mr. Leith,” the natty enforcer said, putting his piece away in a shoulder holster.

  “Hi,” Jarold said, feeling the weight of Mr. Leith’s stare. There was nothing friendly in the agate gaze; it was as flat and impersonal as an iguana’s. On second thought, Jarold decided it was more tyrannosaurus than iguana. Definitely a meat eater.

  “What the fuck do you want, sunshine?”

  Jarold was about to say that Russ was his friend when he glanced at the other young man. The look on Russ’s face warned the American. “I don’t want anything. Karla sent me.”

  “Well it just so happens that no one ordered anything from Karla, mate. Hugh, get this dag out of here and find out who he is if you have to open him up to do it.”

  “He’s nobody,” Russ said. “Just a kid off the street.”

 
; “Same place I found you,” Leith said as he turned to look at Jarold again. “You looking for work, then?”

  “Why don’t you deal with me before you move on to other business?” Russ said, making Leith’s head snap around.

  “Where do you get the balls to talk to me like that?” Leith said, leaning heavily on the desk.

  Russ leaned forward until his face was a few centimeters from his boss’s. “You gave ’em to me, remember?”

  To Jarold’s surprise, Leith smiled and then began to chuckle. Grasping the back of Russ’s neck, the big man pulled him forward and kissed him loudly. “That’s my boy,” he said. “You never whine and you never back down. You’re a ripper. I’m going to have to have that footage, though.”

  “I already told you; there was some kind of problem. None of the cameras were recording.”

  Jarold drew breath to speak, but shut his mouth again with the words unsaid. He’d seen enough movies to assume these guys were some kind of gangsters. It would probably be smart to let Russ continue to do the talking until they were out of there.

  “I think you’re lying to me,” Leith finally said. “But what are you going to do to make this up to me? I need fresh product.”

  “Don’t spit your dummy; I’ll get it for you. I just don’t have it right now.”

  “Your timing is bad for once. I have guests, and I promised them something special. Kim said the guy she sent you was something special. I planned on showing them the raw footage, but now I can’t, can I? You’re making me break my word.”

  “It’s not intentional,” Russ said quickly. “I can’t be expected to control the whims of electronic devices.”

  Jason Leith exchanged a glance with his lieutenant. Hugh Stanwell shrugged. “I could go to the flat,” he said. “But if Russ says there’s no footage, I don’t expect to find any.”

  “Fine,” Leith said. “Since we can’t have Russ’s recording, we’ll just have to have Russ.”

  “Fine,” Russ echoed. “I’m your party boy. Can I change first?”

  “Russ,” Leith chuckled warmly. “You won’t need any clothes, mate.”

  “Look, I’m not up for some boozy gang-bang.”

  As fast as a striking snake, Leith’s big hand was around Russ’s throat. “You’re up for whatever I say you’re up for. If I tell you to bend over this desk, I want to see your trousers around your ankles before I finish speaking. I indulge you because you’re a little better-looking and heaps sexier than the rest of the talent, but you still work for me.”

  “Hey,” Jarold said softly. “I don’t think he can breathe.”

  Leith let go of Russ. “You make me so bloody angry I could spew,” he growled. “But you’re sex on toast,” he continued, slapping Russ lightly on the cheek. “And I can’t stay angry with you.”

  “Can I go change my clothes now?” Russ asked. “Or at least my knickers?”

  Leith laughed. “Sure, as long as you don’t leave the club.”

  “What about this one?” Stanwell asked.

  “Clean him up, too,” Leith looked from Jarold to Russ. “They’re a cute couple. Maybe I can keep my word after all.”

  “WHAT’S going on here?” Jarold asked after Stanwell left him alone with Russ in a dressing room.

  Russ looked around the room. “I think you’ve got a fair notion. Do you need me to spell it out?”

  “Yeah, would you? That’d be peachy.”

  Russ sighed in irritation and dropped the shirt that he’d just pulled off a hanger. “Why did you come in here?”

  “I followed you. I needed to talk to you.”

  “It’s not a good time. You should just walk out of here now.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “Are you at the hostel? Yeah? Then I’ll come there when I’m done here. All right?”

  Jarold thought it over, answering with a non sequitur. “Were the cameras recording?”

  Russ rolled his eyes. “What difference does it make?”

  “You could give the footage to your boss, get your ass out of hock, and we could both leave.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, sport.”

  “I would if you’d explain it to me.”

  “Just let it lie. Go on back to the hostel.”

  “I can’t.”

  Russ sighed again. “Why not?”

  “I’m afraid something bad’s gonna happen to you,” Jarold mumbled to his shoes.

  Russ paused in the middle up buttoning up a tuxedo shirt. He knew what he had to do if he had an ounce of decency left in him. His next words should be as cold and cutting as he could make them, driving this American boy away like rocks thrown at a puppy. Jarold, with his fresh looks and innate sweetness that he couldn’t hide, would be eaten alive in the jungle Russ called home. No way was Russ going to use this boy to save his own hide. He took a deep breath, braced himself… and then Jarold looked up. Their eyes met, and Russ forgot what he was going to say. By unspoken mutual agreement, the two young men crossed the space that separated them, clutching at one another with an eagerness that bordered on desperation, their seeking mouths meeting in a groin-tightening collision of lips, teeth and tongues, spilling blood and raising bruises, until the need for air and the return of sanity drove them apart. Panting like marathon runners, they locked gazes across the handspan of emptiness between them, bodies pressed together from the waist down.

  “Did you feel that?” Russ asked.

  “All the way to my toes. What are we gonna do now?”

  “You’re leaving. I’m doing a show, and then I’m coming to collect you. After that… who bloody knows?”

  “I’m just stumbling along in the dark here, but would you agree that there’s more to this than mere physical attraction?”

  “Mere?” Russ echoed in disbelief. “I’m on fire for you.”

  “So I feel,” Jarold bumped his arousal against Russ’s. “I came here because I can’t stop thinking about you and… what we did. I need to do it again.”

  Russ leaned until his forehead rested against Jarold’s. “I understand the need for confirmation, and I’d love to help you with that, but it’s going to have wait, sport.”

  Jarold angled his head until his lips brushed Russ’s. “Please,” he whispered.

  “Not now and definitely not here. Look, I’m not some hard bastard with a heart of stone; I want you so much that I’m being a complete idiot. I know better than to mix business with pleasure, but you… you hit me like a meteor out of a sunny sky. I’m utterly gob-smacked and treading water, but I can’t just run away with you. I have… obligations, and I would really like it if you would just leave and let me take care of things here.”

  “What things?”

  Russ pushed away from Jarold and resumed dressing. “I’ve done live shows before. I’m in no danger, I assure you.”

  “What kind of show?”

  “Leave it, Jarold.”

  “Why? If you’re going to do it, why can’t we talk about it? You ashamed?”

  “I am now.”

  As Russ turned away, Jarold felt the urge to put his arms around the other man, but he didn’t know if it would be welcome. “I’m sorry,” Jarold said for lack of any words that fit.

  “You don’t need to be sorry, Jazza. I’ve just never seen anything wrong with what I do until now. I like sex. A lot. Getting paid to have sex was like a dream for me. Even if my partners are chosen for me, they’re always attractive and clean. I have a great flat and a weekly allowance that more than meets my needs.”

  “Your boss is kind of a dick though.”

  Russ smiled ruefully as he turned back to face Jarold. “Nothing’s perfect,” he said, as he did up his shirt cuffs. “You’ve ruined me, though.”

  Jarold raised his eyebrows, trying not to notice how Russ’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

  “You’re the only one I want now,” Russ explained. “The thought of having sex with some stranger doesn’t thrill me anymore
.”

  “Sue me,” Jarold said. “I really want to hug you right now, but I’m not sure if I should.”

  Russ opened his arms, and Jarold accepted the tacit invitation, stepping into the embrace and wrapping his arms around the other man.

  “I can’t think of anything but being with you,” Jarold confessed. “I don’t know if it’s just some weird fascination, but this is where I wanna be. This feels right.”

  “That’s settled then,” Russ murmured against Jarold’s temple. “Will you go now?”

  “And leave you to have sex with someone else? I don’t think so.”

  “It’s my last job,” Russ promised.

  “Then you have a new co-worker,” Jarold answered firmly.

  Chapter Four

  You Wouldn’t Be Dead for Quids

  “GOOD evening, sirs,” Guy Hastings said to the two men entering Mr. Leith’s private viewing room. Ignoring the big one’s belligerent stare, Guy gave them a discreet but thorough pat down before nodding to his partner.

  Hugh Stanwell leaned forward and spoke in Leith’s ear. The nightclub owner cast his cold glance over his only guests for the evening: mantis-thin Eric Norton, a rival distributor, and Eric’s beefy bodyguard, Les Barrett.

  “Eric,” Leith said with patently-false heartiness as he slapped Norton on the back. “You great harlot! Still wearing lady’s knickers?”

  Norton’s lips curdled in a smile as phony as Leith’s. “Russ, you big girl’s blouse, still taking it where you sit?”

  Both men laughed without humor as Stanwell and Barrett eyed each other like poorly fed Rottweilers. “Good of you to come to my place,” Leith said. “Hugh tells me your man has a firearm concealed about his person.”

  “You don’t think I’d stroll into your den naked, do you? It’s purely for my peace of mind. I’m certain there will be no reason to need a gun this evening.”