Chained

by Kim Fielding

  The dog sitting alone glanced quickly at the others and then away, as if acknowledging Terry’s words. Right. And maybe next he’d offer Terry a drink.

  If Terry were still a novice, he might have spent this time mentally rehearsing the role he was playing. But he’d been with the Bureau for eight years, had experienced a lot, and knew that it was better to be spontaneous. Too much practice made him wooden. So instead he thought about what he’d do if he were as rich as Whitaker. Own lots of cars, probably. Some nice threads. But beyond that? No idea. There wasn’t much he really wanted to buy.

  He was mulling over the relative benefits of hypothetical Lamborghinis and Ferraris when the door swung open and Whitaker strode in. He was in his sixties but looked younger, with a full head of silver hair and a trim physique. In his polo shirt and white shorts, he looked as if he’d just stepped off a tennis court, except he wasn’t sweaty or out of breath. After shooting a quick glance at Terry, he headed straight for the bar, where he poured himself a generous glass of scotch and took a slug. He didn’t offer Terry anything. He didn’t acknowledge the dogs either, and they didn’t move to greet him, which struck Terry as a little odd.

  Glass in hand, Whitaker approached Terry and slowly looked him up and down. “How old are you?” That was it—no greeting or introductions.

  “Twenty-six.”

  Whitaker huffed. “Here’s how it goes, kid. Rule One. My clients never lie to me. If I take you on, you’re gonna lie to the producers and directors. You’ll lie to the talk show hosts, the assholes sticking mics in your face when you’re on the red carpet, the fans who come running up to beg you for autographs, the pieces of tail you fuck in hotels. All that comes with the job—actors lie for a living. But every word you say to me’s gotta be God’s honest truth, or you’re out on your ass. Got it? Now, how old are you?”

  Terry grinned and shrugged. “I just turned thirty.”

  That brought a nod. “Better. Too old to make a start in the industry, but you can pass for twenty-five, so it’s all right.” He emptied the glass in one long swallow and set it on the billiard table, which Terry thought was a no-no. “What made a man your age suddenly decide to be a movie star? Or was it your secret dream all along?” He said the last part mockingly, with clasped hands and upward gaze.

  “I, uh, didn’t. I mean, I never really thought about it. But this guy came up to me while I was eating dinner, and—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Whitaker waved a hand dismissively. “He said you have the face of an angel and oughtta be in pictures. I know that part.”

  What Whitaker didn’t know was that the long-time associate who’d referred Terry to him was also an informant for the Bureau. And it was Townsend who’d really chosen Terry, probably because Terry was young enough and good-looking.

  He tried an ingratiating smile, one that made him look not especially bright. “It sounded exciting—a great opportunity. I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today.”

  Whitaker didn’t smile back. Instead he stalked behind the bar, where he rustled in a drawer, eventually pulling out a crystal ashtray, a silver lighter, and a pack of Marlboros. He lit one of the cigarettes and left everything else on the bar. Then he spent a few long moments smoking and squinting at Terry. “Strip.” He ground out the cigarette.

  “I…. Excuse me?”

  Whitaker spoke with exaggerated slowness, as if addressing an imbecile. “Take off all your clothes.”

  Terry didn’t have to act dumb now—he felt dumb, and a hot blush spread over his face. “Why do you want me to undress?”

  “For Christ’s sake, I’m not gonna fuck you, kid. I gotta see what kind of raw material I’m working with here.” He lit another cigarette and took a long drag.

  Shit. Terry wasn’t exactly shy, but this felt weird.. The door into the room remained open, and the three dogs watched his every move. If he refused, the assignment would fail. So he slipped off his jacket and set it on the billiard table. His fingers stayed steady as he unbuttoned his shirt. The shoes and socks were easy—the slacks, less so. It took a force of will to strip out of his underwear and then just stand there, naked as the day he was born. He kept his hands at his sides and tried not to think about the gun hidden inside his coat.

  After what felt like a century of scrutiny, Whitaker jerked his chin. “Turn around.”

  Terry did, working his jaw as he faced the wall. He wasn’t embarrassed about his body, which he kept in good shape, but he hated being… examined.

  “Back this way,” Whitaker said, but when Terry reached for his clothing, he shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t feel—”

  “Shut it. You know what an actor is? A talking hunk of meat. You wanna be in the business, ya gotta learn that real fast. Everything you got there, from your pretty face to that big dick you’re probably so proud of, that’s a commodity that I’m gonna have to sell. I need to see if it’s worth the effort.”

  Terry had always been under the impression that actors—good ones, anyway—were a lot more than that. They were artists who used their talent and hard work to bring characters to life. But this didn’t seem like the right occasion to argue his point. “I don’t want to do porn,” he said.

  Whitaker barked a laugh and ground out his cigarette. “I see. You have standards. Look. It’s all porn—even the shit that wins Oscars. Doesn’t matter whether you’re playing Macbeth on screen or doing half of a DP of some bitch with tits the size of New Jersey. Either way, you’re selling your ass.” He came out from behind the bar, strolled around the billiard table, and paused to pat the dog that sat alone. The dog didn’t react. Terry turned to face Whitaker as he drew close—close enough to almost touch. Whitaker was shorter than him by three or four inches yet somehow seemed to loom. He smelled of scotch, smoke, and expensive cologne.

  “My actors do the big-budget kind of porn. No Oscars, but also no fucking. Action films. Buddy comedies. Slasher pics. Chick flicks.”

  “I’d like to do all of those,” Terry said. He put a little waver in his voice, hoping he sounded both eager and nervous.

  Whitaker had strange eyes—larger than they ought to be and with irises so dark that his pupils were invisible. Townsend had said that Whitaker was entirely human, but those eyes made Terry wonder.

  “Are you queer?” Whitaker asked quietly.

  Terry wasn’t exactly out at work, although Townsend probably knew. Townsend knew pretty much everything about his agents. Now, just for a moment, Terry considered lying. But the more falsehoods he accumulated, the harder it would become to play his part. Besides, Whitaker’s gaze seemed to penetrate him.

  “I’m gay.”

  Whitaker gave a slow nod. “The truth. Maybe there’s hope for you, kid. I don’t give a shit who you like to fuck. Hell, a taste for cock’s nowhere near as twisted as some of the shit I’ve seen. But you gotta keep it quiet. I can supply you with more ass than you know what to do with—boys who know to keep their traps shut. But if you’re gonna be a movie star, you can’t be seen with studs at the Probe.”

  “I don’t go clubbing.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes me uncomfortable.” That was honest too. Although he loved to dance, he’d been afraid that being too open about his sexuality would get him booted from the Bureau. Later, some of the gay men he knew had become sick—young men suddenly wasting away to skeletons before dying. Terry had felt relieved he’d avoided the same fate, yet also obscurely guilty, as if by staying mostly in the closet he’d somehow betrayed others.

  “Well, that’ll make things easier. If I decide to take you on, I can get you all the tail you want. Safe tail.” For some obscure reason, he looked at the solo dog and laughed. The dog twitched his ears and turned his head away.

  “Will you take me on?” Terry asked.

  “Remains to be seen. I like to do a trial period.”

  Terry had expected this from Townsend’s briefing, although he didn’t know what the t
rial might consist of. And he really wanted to put his clothes back on, dammit. “Okay. Do you need to see me act? If you give me a script, I can—”

  Whitaker erupted in laughter. “No, kid, I don’t want to see you act.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “Whatever I tell you.” He set a warm, smooth hand on Terry’s bare shoulder. “It’s all about seeing whether you have the raw potential.” He took his hand away and glanced at his watch. “We need to wrap this up. Where do you live?”

  “Culver City.”

  The answering sneer clearly conveyed Whitaker’s opinion. “House? Roommates?”

  “I have an apartment by myself.”

  “For now, you’re gonna stay here. More convenient, and I can keep an eye on you. If this works out, you’ll buy yourself someplace nice after you sign your first contract. If it doesn’t work out, you can go back to your shithole in Culver City.”

  Fuck. Terry hadn’t anticipated being stuck so closely with Whitaker. But maybe this would mean he’d be in a better position to collect evidence, and anyway, he couldn’t think of a good way to refuse.

  “Get dressed,” Whitaker ordered as he marched toward the door. “Someone will come and show you where to go.” He whistled—three short, sharp tones—and the solo dog leapt to his feet and followed Whitaker out the door. The other two remained.

  It was a relief to have his clothes back on, even if the remaining mastiffs had stared at him the whole time. The best part, though, was knowing his gun was within reach again. Having to use it almost always meant an assignment had gone all to hell, with brute force the only way out, so he hoped he wouldn’t actually need the weapon. But it was a comfort nonetheless.

  “You guys are really well trained,” he said to the mastiffs as he waited. “I hope you get to do doggie stuff when you’re off duty. Chase tennis balls, dig holes, shit like that. Life’s too short to spend it all at work.” He snorted and shook his head at his foolishness. He’d heard life’s too short from Amos, the only man with whom he’d had anything resembling a relationship. Terry hadn’t listened to that advice—hadn’t even been willing to let anyone know they were together—and pretty soon they weren’t together anymore because Amos wasn’t willing to remain hidden in Terry’s closet. But Terry still had his dream job, right? And Amos? He was buried in Mount Sinai.

  Terry waited so long this time that he got tired of standing. Pacing seemed to unsettle the dogs, so he sat on a barstool and gazed at the shelved liquor bottles. On those infrequent occasions when he drank, it was cheap stuff. Nowadays, he was sometimes tempted to take more than an occasional belt, but he rarely gave in. An agent needed to maintain a clear head.

  He’d expected Ms. Stroman to return and guide him, but a man entered instead. He was stunning. A little shorter than Terry, but judging the way his tailored suit hugged his body, he was solid muscle. He had closely cropped dark hair, and despite his strong jaw and severe expression, his eyes were a soft brown.

  “Come with me.” A deep voice, but quiet.

  Terry hopped off the stool and followed him out of the room. To Terry’s relief, the dogs trotted down the hall in the opposite direction.

  “I’m Terry Brandt,” he offered as they passed swiftly through a dining room.

  “I know.”

  “And you are?”

  The man shot him a quick look. “Edge.”

  “Like the U2 guitarist?”

  The only response was a grunt.

  “I like U2. The Joshua Tree is an amazing album. I wanted to see them when they went on tour for it, but I was out of town when they were in LA.” In fact, he had been helping wipe out a band of ghouls near Reno, a nasty bloodbath that had almost cost three agents’ lives. “I hardly ever get to see concerts, which is too bad. I missed The Smiths too, and now they’ve broken up. Maybe Morrissey will do a solo tour. Do you listen to him?”

  Terry knew he was babbling. It was a technique he sometimes used to distract people: they assumed he was kind of an idiot and they’d fail to notice that he was actually concentrating on them or on his surroundings. It was a way to do some surveillance in plain view. But it was especially easy to act the bumbling fool in Edge’s presence. Focus, he silently warned himself. It doesn’t matter that he’s sexy.

  By now they had walked through another living room, this one bigger than the others, and out a set of the multiple French doors that gave access to the manicured lawn. Edge hadn’t answered Terry’s musical inquiries.

  “Is Edge your last name? Or a nickname?” Terry almost had to lope to keep up, and he had little chance to take in the scenery. Fountains and statues here and there, tennis courts in the distance, and, of course, a swimming pool big enough to host the Olympics. Pretty much what he expected with a Beverly Hills mansion, although the size of the guest house—big enough to qualify as a mansion in its own right—did surprise him. And it was apparently their destination.

  Edge led Terry inside and up a wide stairway with decorative ironwork railings. The interiors were decorated in dark wood, cream paint, and colorful tile. Terry preferred this Spanish villa look to the French chateau-modern interior of the main house.

  Wordlessly, Edge threw open the last door in the hallway and gestured at Terry to enter. It turned out to be a spacious bedroom with a sitting area and a full bathroom. It lacked a kitchen, but it was bigger than Terry’s apartment, and the furniture was nicer by far. The enormous canopy bed had such a high mattress that it came with a little set of steps.

  “Wow.” Terry wandered to the French windows and the balcony that overlooked the pool. “Nice.”

  Edge remained just inside the doorway, arms crossed on his chest. “Gym’s directly under you. Boss says you should use it. Use the pool if you want. Dial zero on the phone for meals and laundry.”

  “So it’s like a fancy hotel. Great. But what am I supposed to do besides work out?”

  “Boss’ll tell you when he wants something.”

  That wasn’t very informative.

  “What’s your job?” Terry asked.

  “Security.”

  That made sense. Edge looked as if he could hold his own in a fight, that was for sure. Terry was good at fighting too—the Bureau made sure of it—and he wondered who’d win if he and Edge went at it, hand to hand. But that got him thinking of things he’d rather go at with Edge. Things that were just as physical as brawling but felt a whole lot nicer.

  As if sensing Terry’s thoughts, Edge shifted his stance and cleared his throat. “Don’t go poking around. You need something, dial zero.”

  “Got it. I’m sure I can make myself comfortable here. But I’m going to need to get some things from my place. Clothes and stuff.”

  “Boss’ll have clothing brought to you.”

  “Okay. But I still need to grab a few things.” And he needed to call in and let the Bureau know what was going on.

  Edge stared at him a moment before nodding. “Be back within three hours—or don’t bother coming back at all.” He pressed his lips together as if stopping himself from saying more.

  “Is that your rule or Whitaker’s?”

  “Here, everything is the boss’s rule.”

  Chapter Three

  Duke and Holt hadn’t smelled the gun, and Edge wasn’t surprised. He had always been the best of the three at catching scents, and this odor had been very faint. What did surprise him was his own reaction. As soon as the boss told him to switch to human form, Edge should have told him. Yet he hadn’t, and he didn’t know why. He hadn’t alerted his brothers either. Instead, he led the new prospect, Brandt, to the guest house, just as if he didn’t realize he had a gun in his suit jacket.

  And when Brandt announced his intention to return to his apartment and fetch his belongings, Edge had very nearly warned him not to come back.

  Now Edge made up the bed in the room adjacent to Brandt’s and wondered what the hell was going on. He belonged to the boss. A lifetime of training had taught hi
m to be faithful to his owner, no matter how the owner treated him. After all, Edge’s body was the boss’s to do with as he might, and every aspect of his life lay entirely in the boss’s hands. As it should be. As was the proper way of things.

  Yet Edge found himself worrying about the well-being of a complete stranger who carried a gun.

  Brandt was a handsome stranger, true enough. He could easily have been a fashion model. Tall and lean, with slightly olive-toned skin and wiry muscles. Coal-dark hair, eyes that changed color depending on the light, flared cheekbones, wide mouth. Edge could picture him posing languidly on the page of a glossy magazine, wearing expensive clothing and a pouty expression, maybe with a wraith-thin woman draped against him.

  He’d been even more stunning naked. Edge had been in dog form then, which was just as well. As a man, he’d have felt his fingers itch to touch him. Caress him. To squeeze his ass and stroke his thick cock to hardness.

  But all of the boss’s prospects were pretty; it was a requirement of the job. The boss was willing to have them diet and exercise to get them looking the way he wanted, and he might even spring for plastic surgery to smooth away minor imperfections. But they had to be beautiful even without his improvements, or he wouldn’t even consider them.

  Edge had never worried about those attractive men the way he worried about Brandt—and none of them had carried a gun.

  Frowning, he walked to the window and surveyed the lawn and pool. Some of the groundskeepers were tending the rosebushes near the main house. The boss was proud of those roses, and Edge and his brothers were forbidden to piss on them. But Edge didn’t like them. Carefully trained to snake against trellises, the roses were tame. Artificial, almost. Edge preferred the bougainvillea, which had bigger thorns and twined wherever it wanted to.