Nurture

by Sarah Masters

  Fucking irony. Gotta love it.

  Okay, so he liked things clean, yet he risked getting sullied by blood every time he gave in to that all-consuming urge inside him. If he thought about it, he’d formed a pattern with that. Getting dirty then getting clean afterward. Yeah, he liked that analogy.

  He dumped his bags beside the double bed.

  Shit, doesn’t this place have a maid?

  Yeah, it’d been given a cursory clean, but it wasn’t to his standards.

  Still, beggars can’t be choosers and all that crap.

  He needed to sleep for a while before heading out to find a giving asshole who’d help assuage the raging need throbbing in his balls. No good picking someone up when he wasn’t at his best. Fatigue led to mistakes, and he couldn’t allow that. No, despite his desire to ram his cock inside a guy tied up with his belt, he’d have to wait.

  A wave of lethargy swept over him, and he flopped onto the bed, hands braced behind his head. The aroma of dust and unwashed bodies wafted up, and he closed his eyes, blocking out thoughts of dirty beds and how often the sheets were cleaned in this place. He’d shower after his nap anyway, and once he returned home he could have a good soak to rinse away the filth he’d encountered on this trip.

  Filth. Fucking right. This trip had been full of it.

  But I’m doing it for Paul.

  He pondered on whether Paul had been picked up by the cops yet.

  He’ll be so damn pleased to hear I’ve offered bail to get him out when I go back.

  A smile curved his mouth at his thoughts of their reunion, how Paul would lean on him for support.

  I’ll take him to his place and show him a different kind of love. Yeah, and he’ll be up for it, being so grateful and all.

  Carl dozed, too hyped to sleep properly but his body needing the respite, and he revisited the last few hours in his more lucid moments. Damn, Kevin finally being gone had given him freedom. It winged through him like a tangible thing, a drug that rivaled any on the underground market. He should have done this years ago. If only he’d known how good it would feel.

  So fucking free, like the past has gone and I’m here with a clean slate.

  Time passed, and he opened his eyes to glance at his watch. Yep, late enough now to hit the shower then visit a club. Rejuvenated by his musings, he got up and headed to the bathroom, disrobing along the way. He turned the dial and waited for the water to heat—too much to expect instant warmth in a hellhole like this—then climbed into the tub. He soaped up with the cheap, unscented shower gel left by a previous customer and used it to wash his hair. With the water pattering over his body, he went over everything he’d done, the need to make sure he hadn’t messed up paramount.

  I left Brian’s and I— Brian. Shit.

  Would the guy have called the cops on him? He didn’t think Brian had the balls.

  But Lil does.

  Heart rate soaring, he stumbled from the tub then skidded out of the bathroom to scoop up his dirty shirt. After drying himself with it, he rushed to the bag of new clothes and took them out, ripping off tags and dressing fast. He pulled on his boots then stuffed his other clothes into the bag, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He laughed wryly.

  If I think I haven’t left anything behind, I’m retarded.

  Quickly, he took the blanket from the bed by its four corners and yanked open the motel door, flapping the material out into the night, praying any hairs or skin flakes would come off. Back inside, he grabbed the pillow and repeated his actions, inspecting it to make sure it was clean.

  Fuck it, just take the damn things with you.

  Jamming the blanket and pillow under his arm and picking up his bag, he went outside then threw them into the back seat of his vehicle, slamming the door before going back inside.

  Back in the bathroom he unhooked the showerhead from the wall and switched on the water. He swirled the bath in the sporadic stream until he figured he’d washed all trace of himself far down the pipes, then wiped the showerhead with tissue. Bathroom clean. Or, at least as clean as he was going to get it.

  Finally, as a last touch he covered his hand with the bottom of his new shirt and proceeded to mock-polish every surface whether he’d touched the damn things or not. Satisfied he’d covered his ass, he picked up the discarded clothes tags and left the room, closing the door by hooking his boot around the bottom.

  Done. Back in control. Good. He got behind the wheel, gripped it tight with his forearms resting on the cool plastic, and took a deep breath. Mentally, he retraced his steps inside that room just in case he’d missed anything. He hadn’t, but something nagged at the edges of his brain, gnawing with sharp teeth but not allowing him to grasp on to it and work out what he’d done wrong.

  Think. Think, god damn it! The momentary calm of control crumbled away under the biting worry he’d made a mistake.

  He stared at the closed motel door and thought. Thought so hard his head hurt, throbbing right along with those teeth that kept biting, nibbling, irritating.

  The credit card. I used Paul’s card when he’s probably in jail. Shit, shit, shit!

  He shoved the stick into reverse and stomped on the gas, screeching the pickup in a backward arc, then slamming into drive. He sped across the car park, his heart beating so fast his head lightened as he jerked to a stop in the exit. Cars zoomed past on the highway. Too many of them for him to pull out. He cursed, palms and brow sweating, and clenched and unclenched the steering wheel. He stared left then right. It looked like a gap was coming up. If he was quick he could nip between two cars. A flashing light blipped about five cars down, and his stomach muscles spasmed, real fear gripping him for the first time since he’d started this shit.

  Fuck. Cops. The card. Why the hell did I use it? Why didn’t I think?

  He smacked the wheel with the heel of his hand, the horn giving a short bark of protest. The sound jolted him into action, and he took the chance and skidded out of the exit, easing between two cars. More horns blared, and he slowed in case the cops behind caught sight of his pickup speeding along the highway. He tensed, tighter and tighter as he darted his attention back and forth between the rear-view mirror and the road ahead. Finally, he let out a ragged breath as the cop car turned into the motel parking lot, its lights dousing.

  He was safe. For now.

  Getting his nerves under control, Carl drove on, contemplating changing his plans. He nodded, mentally talking to himself about what he should do next.

  The next town is too close. Fuck it, I’ll head for the one after that. Clubs will still be open by the time I get there.

  He frowned at the voice of his conscience that asked, You sure you ought to go?

  Fuck, yeah, I’m sure. They’ll be looking for me, I dig that, but what I plan to do won’t take long. Pick up some guy, go back to his place, do what I’ve got to do, then leave. I can manage that, right?

  He nodded again.

  Yeah, I can manage that.

  * * * *

  The club had its own car park, and Carl wedged the pickup between a Ford Focus and a Subaru situated at the rear, bushes overhanging the bumpers. He’d calmed on his journey, forcing himself to concentrate on what lay ahead. He coached himself one final time before reaching into his bag and rooting around for a baseball cap, his flick knife, the lube and the packet of three. Cap on, he slid his stuff in the back pocket of his jeans. Got out of his vehicle. Locked up and studied the area from the shadows. Cameras mounted at the top of tall poles in the far corners were directed at the car park. Others lower down appeared to point to the outside of the club, probably to catch any violent action from drunken revelers. He eyed the higher cameras. What did he care if they’d caught images of the pickup coming in? It wasn’t his, and he doubted the cops this far away from where he’d stolen it were aware it was in their town.

  He walked toward the club, cap pulled low over his brow. He supposed he looked like any average Joe. His features below th
e cap peak could belong to a thousand or more people. No, he didn’t need to worry. He’d be in and out so quick no one would remember him anyway.

  The neon signed beckoned, luring him, an echoing voice inside his head urging him forward. He could do this.

  Damn right I can.

  Thankful no queue snaked outside, he walked right in, head down, the beefy men either side of the door giving him no attention. After paying the bored-looking woman at the entry booth with cash, he took the stairs two at a time, the tiny, flashing strings of lights along the riser widths promising fun and good times. He thought back to the past, to other nights and other clubs where he’d acted like a regular guy, before he’d met Paul and had been consumed by a love so strong that Kevin’s teachings had come crashing through. He grimaced and ousted the memories from his mind, needing to keep his head clear and his senses keen. No way could he let his concentration slip. He’d already messed up enough today as it was.

  At the top, a packed club greeted him. Bodies gyrated to jungle music, inebriated people throwing away their inhibitions to dance with arms waving, heads nodding. They seemed like they were on drugs too—a lot of them, several lines of coke or a few upper pills. Carl didn’t give a shit—if he could find someone out of their skull on illegal substances, all the better.

  The beat pulsed through him, exacerbating the tingle in his balls. He stood still for a moment to soak that feeling in, stopping his thoughts only when his cock started getting hard. Then he weaved through drinkers, studying the crowd for a lonely dude who’d be grateful for his attention. Spying one sitting in a corner booth, he slid onto the seat beside him and prayed he was gay. If he wasn’t, well, he’d find man who was. There had to be another queer among so many people.

  “All right?” Carl shouted at him over the music.

  His booth buddy nodded, giving him a weird glance and shifting away. What, did Carl smell or something? Wasn’t he good-looking enough for this prick?

  Try again. Harder.

  “Great place, yeah?” Carl asked, smiling so he’d hopefully be perceived as no one to be wary of.

  Nodding absently, the guy stared at the crowd, jaw clenching. Carl followed his gaze and spotted a blonde woman staggering their way, a bottle in one hand and a clutch bag in the other. She arrived at the booth then plopped down beside the man, pressing her lips against his cheek, kneading his crotch with slender fingers.

  Fuck.

  Carl eased out of the booth then headed for the bar. He didn’t want a drink—fingerprints, gotta think of the fingerprints—so stood beside it, watching the throng. The thought arose that he maybe wouldn’t find anyone here, that his mission would be thwarted by the lack of the other player needed to act out the next scene. What would he do then? Convince a straight man that dipping his wick with someone of the same sex was considered hip these days? Or should he move on? Drive to another town? There was no way Carl would settle for just jacking off. He had to feel skin on skin to attain the ultimate high.

  A hot wisp of breath heated his neck, and he turned to face a man about his height, wiry-framed and handsome in a Ben Affleck kind of way. Carl frowned, for a moment uncomprehending that this Ben-a-like was interested in him.

  “Lonely?” the man asked, head tilted, his honest eyes regarding Carl.

  “A little,” Carl said. “Came out to find… Well, yeah, you know how it is.”

  “Good job I do,” he said. “Greg.” He held out his hand for shaking. “You?”

  Carl shook it. “John. My name’s John.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Greg grinned. “Come on. My place or yours?”

  “Yours.” Carl smiled and followed Greg down the stairs and out into the night.

  And he scores! Just like that. Fuck, I’m good.

  In the pickup, Carl tailed Greg, filing away the turns and street names so he’d remember the route back to the highway.

  Let’s see if his confidence falters once we get to his place. Let’s see if he’s so in control then.

  Carl laughed, giddy from the thrill of acting out his desires. Everything fell into place every time, and he mused on whether a higher calling directed his life. He didn’t believe in God—no, he couldn’t, not when Kevin had brought him up the way he had. God would have stopped those horrors, surely. But there could be something else orchestrating his life, couldn’t there? Angels and demons or whatever?

  He tapped the steering wheel at a red light, staring at Greg’s rear fender, eyes glazing. He contemplated every scenario that could possibly lie ahead, working through his actions and reactions, ensuring he knew exactly what to do should something go wrong. And it could, he knew that, but refused to fully believe it.

  How could things go wrong when they felt so right?

  He was in control. He had it all covered. He was the best.

  It took a honking horn to pull him from his reverie, and he pressed on the gas to catch up to Greg’s car, which turned into an underground parking lot. As far as Carl could make out, no security cameras were in sight. He maneuvered into a spot beside Greg’s then got out, smiling as he trailed the man to an elevator. Their footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the walls, giving the place an eerie feel. Carl felt as though he starred in a movie of his own making, the actor everyone adored because he was so good at what he did.

  God, I love this shit!

  The elevator arrived quickly and they stepped inside, Carl scanning the interior for cameras.

  None. Good.

  Greg jabbed his thumb onto the level three button and the elevator rose with a judder. They didn’t look at one another—they both knew this was a one-night stand that didn’t need the added mess of inane conversation—but Carl studied Greg’s reflection in the metal door. The man stared up at the ceiling and tapped his foot.

  Easy to bring down. Easy to manipulate. Look at him fiddling with his pants leg. Nervous. Just the way I like them.

  Greg bit his bottom lip, and it turned Carl on even more. That vulnerability, that small gesture showing that Greg maybe wasn’t completely sure about what he was doing. Or perhaps he was pondering on how Carl would view his body, whether Carl would think him desirable or not. Whether his cock was up to scratch—was it long enough, thick enough, and would it get hard enough?

  Gone were the days when Carl had thought the same things. And Greg’s days of thinking them would be over soon too.

  Carl had to stop himself from chuckling.

  The elevator lurched to a stop and a ping sounded as the doors opened. Carl walked behind Greg to door number sixteen then followed him inside. His prey strode to the second door on their left down a long hall. Carl peeked inside a living room to his right, noting a state-of-the-art flat-screen TV and an expensive black leather sofa.

  What does this guy do for a living?

  He closed his mind off from caring. What did it matter? He had a job to get done, a need that needed sating, and what Greg did or didn’t do in the workplace was no concern of Carl’s. He walked down the hallway then turned, eyeing the bedroom while feeling his back pocket. The knife bulged pleasantly under the fabric, and Carl smiled.

  His cock bloated a bit. God, just the thought of what was about to happen was enough for Carl to get his rocks off. He schooled his mind so it wasn’t racing too far ahead into the future. He kind of wanted to savor this. Then again, if it went too quickly, so what? There were plenty more men he had to get rid of. Plenty more times he could feel this way. For Paul. To make sure Paul never went with any of them.

  So Carl stood in the doorway and watched as Greg undressed hurriedly then draped his clothes on a chair in the corner. His cock already hard, Greg smiled sheepishly at Carl before turning to face the window above the bed. Buttocks that were ripe for a thrashing clenched, and Carl swallowed, realizing with regret that despite wanting to drag this out, he didn’t really have the time to indulge in such pleasures.

  Get in, get out. That’s the deal you made with yourself. Deviate from the plan and
you risk fucking up.

  “Got a belt?” Carl asked.

  Greg spun to face him, a fleeting dash of shock crossing his face before he masked it with bravado. “Yeah. Sure. You into kink?”

  “Damn right I am.” Carl laughed to ease away any misgivings Greg might be having. “You?”

  Greg pulled a belt from the loops in his pants, seemingly feigning nonchalance. “Not tried it, but I’m open to new experiences.”

  Oh, you’ll be having a new experience all right.

  Carl stifled a chuckle and held his hand out for the belt. The leather felt good in his palm, and he enjoyed the rush of blood to his cock. “You want me to take charge, right?”

  Greg nodded, the flush of desire tinting his cheeks. His cock twitched.

  “Giver or a taker?” Carl moved to the bottom of the bed.

  Taker if ever I fucking saw one.

  “Taker.”

  “Right.” Carl nodded. “Get on the bed, face down.”

  Greg obeyed, his arms by his sides, cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes looking right.

  Carl climbed on the bed and straddled him. “Hands up to the headboard.”

  After lifting his arms, Greg curled his fingers around an iron pole.

  Carl leaned forward and secured Greg’s wrists then tied the belt to the pole. “I’ll make you feel fucking good,” he whispered in Greg’s ear, flicking his tongue out to taste the lobe. He changed position and kneeled between Greg’s open legs. He reached to his back pocket to bring out the knife, lube and condoms. Carl placed the blade within easy reach to his left. Jerking down his zip, he freed his erection, giving it a bit of a hard yank.

  Fuck, that feels good.

  He rolled on a condom, hating the damn feel of it, but knowing it was a necessary precaution. Lubing the condom, he then slapped Greg’s buttock—hard—and waited for the red stain of his handprint to appear. When it did, he smiled, satisfied with how easily he could mark someone. “Lift up. Kneel.”