by Kim Fielding
Comprehension dawned. “You live next door to me?”
A muscle in Edge’s jaw twitched—a sign, Terry had already learned, that he was thinking about what to say. “I stay here sometimes.”
“And now is one of those times?”
No response aside from that stare, so Terry simply shrugged and continued to his own room. He wasn’t sure what to make of Edge’s proximity. Whitaker obviously wanted Edge to stay close to Terry, but was that standard procedure with all his new fish? Or did Whitaker suspect Terry in particular? No way to know right now, and even if Terry found a nonincriminating way to ask about it, Edge wouldn’t answer.
Terry felt uneasy hanging his jacket in the closet with the gun still inside, but he couldn’t find a better place to stash it right now, and he certainly couldn’t hide it in his gym clothes. As he changed, he had a sudden mental image of Edge on the other side of the wall, nearly naked as he changed too, and Terry’s unease was replaced by a hotter emotion.
Shit. He really, really needed to keep his head on straight.
Wearing shorts, an old T-shirt, and tennis shoes, Terry grabbed his Discman and popped in a CD: Bon Jovi, because they were always good for moving. When he opened his door, Edge was leaning against the hallway wall, waiting.
Jesus. He’d looked good in a suit, but in tight shorts and a form-fitting white tank top, he stole Terry’s breath. Solid slabs of muscle in his arms, his chest, his back, his glutes, and his thighs. Trim waist. A surprisingly light-colored dusting of hair on his forearms and legs. And a package sizable enough to make Terry’s eyes widen.
He took a deep breath. “Ready?”
Edge grunted an answer and pushed away from the wall.
Terry wasn’t surprised that the gym was so well equipped. He ran on the treadmill for a few miles, listening to his music and, out of the corner of his eye, watching Edge use the weight machine. The guy was strong. Terry wiped the sweat from his face, drank one of the bottles of water from the room’s well-stocked fridge, and did a series of reps with hand weights. He was tired and sore by the time he finished, but Edge looked unfazed, with just a hint of sheen on his skin.
“I’d like a swim,” Terry said. He didn’t often get the opportunity, and it would give him an excuse to spend more time outside the confines of his room.
Edge nodded.
This time when Terry emerged into the hallway, his hair damp from a quick shower—and a towel around his hips covering his tiny swimming briefs—Edge was waiting in his business suit.
“You’re not going in?”
“I don’t swim.”
But of course that didn’t stop Edge from accompanying him to the pool, where he stood under the shade of an umbrella and… watched. Terry jumped right in and began to swim laps, and as far as he could tell, Edge never looked away. It was impossible to tell if his interest was professional or salacious. Maybe it was both.
When Terry emerged from the pool dripping wet and barely clothed, there was no question that at least part of Edge’s attention was entirely personal. He watched Terry hungrily—and Terry showed off a little, stretching his muscles just so and bending more than necessary as he toweled off. His fit body was hard earned, and it had been some time since anyone appreciated it. How far would Edge’s appreciation go—and would encouraging those activities further Terry’s mission or interfere with it?
“I think I’ve thoroughly exhausted myself,” Terry said. “I’m going to veg in front of the TV for a while. If you want a break from guard duty, I promise I won’t budge from my room for a few hours. Unless Mr. Whitaker wants me for something, that is.”
“He won’t.” Edge winced as if he’d admitted more than he intended.
Edge tailed him all the way to Terry’s room, but he didn’t come inside. Terry grinned at him and deliberately left the door open, which could be interpreted as Terry proving he had nothing to hide—or as an invitation. Edge hovered for a few moments before going to his own room and leaving his door open as well.
Terry wasn’t good with downtime. On the rare occasions when he wasn’t actively working a case, he never knew quite what to do with himself. Sometimes he wished he was a robot that could be tucked away in a closet when unneeded; then he wouldn’t have to think about who he was other than an agent for the Bureau. Music helped. He could get temporarily lost in the lyrics and the beat. So instead of turning on the TV, he sat in the armchair, listened to music on the stereo, and wondered whether Edge was listening too.
Two evenings later, Terry was incredibly, dangerously bored. He hadn’t seen Whitaker or received any instructions from him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except a guy who’d come to measure him for clothing, the woman who answered the house phone when he called for meals, and a couple of the gardeners who nodded and kept on with their work. He’d spoken to Edge, of course, but Edge rarely said much in return. Every sentence Terry was able to draw from him felt like a triumph. Terry had also exercised to the point of exhaustion and listened to all of his CDs. And he’d thought about Edge both nights, right there on the other side of the wall, and he’d silently jacked off.
Classy.
Now Terry sat listlessly in front of an L.A. Law episode, wondering if any of the actors were Whitaker’s clients. That got him thinking about why people wanted to be actors to begin with. Was it the money and the fame? Or did some of them yearn for the comfort of slipping into a role, the opportunity to be anyone but themselves? He could understand that.
“Boss wants to see you.”
Edge’s voice startled Terry. The door to the room had been open and he hadn’t heard Edge enter. Terry got quickly to his feet and clicked off the TV. “Should I change?” He wore jeans and a cotton sweater that was baggy enough to hide his gun.
“No. Follow me.”
All the gardeners had gone home, and although the pool was brightly lit, it was empty. In fact, Terry hadn’t seen anybody else use it over the past days. The air smelled of jasmine and newly mowed grass.
Edge took him through the main house to a moderately sized room with white walls, white carpet, and gray furniture. Flames crackled in a stone-fronted fireplace even though the evening was warm. Whitaker sat in an oversized chair with a glass in his hand and a dog on either side of him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked without preamble.
“I am, thanks. Your home is amazing.”
“Food’s to your liking? Gym’s okay?”
“Everything’s great.”
Whitaker nodded and then remained silent, eyeing Terry in a way that made him worry he was going to have to strip again. Terry kept his expression neutral and fought the urge to fidget.
At length, Whitaker spoke again. “I’ve invited a few people over for tomorrow night. Important people. I want to see what they make of you.”
Finally we’re getting somewhere. “That sounds great. What do you want me to do?”
“Just make a good impression, kid. Show everyone you’ve got potential.”
“Okay, sure. And if it goes well?”
“Then we’ll see. No promises yet. You gotta score with these people or there’s no deal. But even if they like you, well, you still gotta score with me.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Just be a very good boy.” Whitaker wasn’t smiling. He downed the last of his drink and leaned his head toward the dog on his right. “Duke’ll walk you back to your room. I need to talk to Edge.”
Edge’s face was as emotionless as always, but when Terry passed him, he thought he caught something in Edge’s eyes. He was fairly certain that something was fear.
Chapter Five
The dark room. That’s how Edge had always thought of it, and it wasn’t until several years after his first visit that he learned that darkrooms were, in fact, places where people developed photographs. The boss didn’t develop photos in his dark room, but by then Edge was used to thinking of it that way and the name stuck. The walls were painted a dark maroon, which looked black when Edg
e was in dog form, and the ceramic tile floor was the color of wrought iron. There were no windows, and although the several light fixtures could illuminate the room brightly enough to hurt Edge’s eyes, the boss usually kept them dim.
Edge didn’t have to be told what to do after they’d entered the room; he’d been trained years ago. He quickly stripped off his clothing, left it on a wooden chair against one wall, and knelt in front of the boss with head dutifully bowed. His collar felt especially heavy tonight, as if it had magically been converted from steel to lead.
“Has he fucked you?” The boss smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and shoe polish.
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Don’t squirm. It will make things worse. “He hasn’t asked, sir.”
The boss kicked his ribs hard enough to make Edge’s breath whoosh out but not hard enough to knock him over. “Don’t wait for him to ask, idiot. Offer. Make it clear he should use you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Idiot.”
The floor chilled Edge’s knees, and the air conditioning brushed his skin, giving him goosebumps. The boss never let him stay in dog form in the dark room, so Edge couldn’t rely on the warmth of his fur.
“Bring me the belt.”
Suppressing a shudder, Edge stood and hurried to the shelves on one wall. The item wasn’t actually a belt but rather three thick leather strips of varied lengths, connected at one end to a handle. The boss used the belt when a whip left too much distance between him and Edge or when he wanted to leave bruises but not draw blood.
The boss grabbed the belt from Edge and pushed him toward the shackles that hung from the ceiling. Edge raised his arms, locked one iron around his left wrist, and stood still while the boss secured the right. Then Edge waited, head hanging. He smelled the boss’s burning cigarette, and only when he heard the whispery sounds of the cigarette being stubbed out did he tense.
The first couple of blows were bad. They rocked him on his feet and made his breathing ragged. Then, as always, his body prepared itself and he dropped into a brief respite zone where the strikes were only distant thuds, almost welcome for the way they warmed his chilled skin. But that part never lasted long, and soon the real pain began as the blows brought first noisy exhalations, then moans, and finally full-throated cries. His back and ass and legs felt swollen, everything inside of him seemed broken, and his wrists burned where he’d struggled against the manacles.
By the time the boss finished, Edge hung by his arms, panting harshly, snot running from his nose. Some part of his mind registered what followed: the tiny thud of the belt being tossed onto the shelf, the click of the boss’s lighter, the scents of burning paper and tobacco.
“Do you know why I do this?” The boss’s voice was sudden and very close by, but Edge was too wrecked to startle.
“Because he didn’t fuck me.” His voice sounded as ruined as he felt. He knew his disobedience hadn’t caused the beating—the boss beat him regardless of whether Edge complied—but he couldn’t think of another answer.
The boss laughed. “No. I’m displeased about that, but I’m sure you’ll do better. Tomorrow, after the party, yes?”
Of course—because Edge was in no shape to seduce anyone tonight. “Yes, sir.”
“You’ve noticed that I do this only to you and not your brothers. It’s not because you make a prettier approximation of a man than they do. I don’t give a shit about that. Hell, I’m not looking at your face when I attend to you, am I?” The boss laughed again and slapped Edge’s ass, bringing a shout of pain. Then he came nearer, so close that Edge felt the heat of his body and the almost-brush of his clothes against tender bare skin.
“I do this because you’re weak, Edge. You always have been. You were the runt of the litter, weren’t you? Always struggling to keep up with the others. And you worked at it, I’ll give you that, you worked hard. But I paid good money for you, and you haven’t reached your potential. You’ve got plenty of muscle”—he squeezed one of Edge’s biceps—“but you’re still weak where it counts. Here.” He thumped Edge’s skull.
Even if Edge had been capable of being articulate enough to defend himself and foolish enough to argue with the boss, he would have held his tongue. Everything the boss said was true. Edge could run faster than Holt and Duke, he could match them weight for weight in the gym, but his will was softer than theirs. As was his heart. They were content with their place at the boss’s side, never questioning the morality of what he did, while Edge… he’d been uneasy for years.
But the boss wasn’t finished with his lecture. “Weakness is fatal in this business. All of the would-be movie stars who come begging for me to represent them? They’re weak and needy, and that’s why I can collect them so easily. They deserve what happens to them. But you, Edge….” He stroked Edge’s back very gently, making him shudder. “You’re not one of the pretty pieces of fluff. I depend on you, and that’s why I need you to be strong. Hard.” On the final word, he punched Edge forcefully in the ribs, making him bellow. He followed with another delicate touch, this one on Edge’s nape, just above the links of the collar. “Do you understand, bitch?”
“Y-yes. Sir.”
After a long pause, the boss unlocked the left manacle. Edge’s legs couldn’t hold him, and he hung with his right shoulder agonizingly wrenched until the boss released that arm as well. Edge collapsed to the floor with a thud. He curled in on himself, now thankful for the coolness of the floor tiles, and closed his eyes.
But he felt the boss looming over him and heard him light another cigarette. “Now, Butch….” The boss inhaled before blowing out a noisy cloud of smoke. “He wasn’t weak like you, but he had other flaws, didn’t he? I tried to correct them. Tried my best. But in the end, he didn’t want to be improved. And we know how that turned out. A shame. I lost a lotta money on that.” He stomped out of the dark room, leaving the door ajar.
It took a long time before Edge gathered enough strength to do anything. He didn’t bother trying to stand; he simply willed himself to change, then howled through the transformation. Now four-legged, he walked away, abandoning his clothes. He’d fetch them tomorrow.
The lawn seemed to stretch on for miles. When Edge reached the guest house, his brothers waited there. They sniffed him carefully, and when Edge whined softly and licked their chins, neither of them snapped or growled. Holt even jostled Edge’s shoulder, which hurt but consoled him. They were his family, his pack, and they accepted him despite his weakness. From now on, he would try to be more like them.
Duke and Holt trotted off for nighttime rounds, and Edge made his laborious way up the stairs. Music was coming from Brandt’s room—something bright and happy with a strong beat. Maybe Brandt was dancing; Edge couldn’t tell. He pawed open the door handle for his room and went inside. Without bothering to shift again, he jumped onto the bed, turned in a few circles, and settled down. He fell asleep to the sound of the music.
Chapter Six
Terry slept poorly. He kept waking up from unsettling dreams that he couldn’t quite remember, and then he had trouble dropping off again. Bad dreams were a risk of his job—Christ knew he’d seen enough ugly shit to last several lifetimes—and when Terry wasn’t on assignment, sometimes he took a little something to knock himself out. A lot of agents did the same, although they rarely discussed it. The older guys tended to stick to the routine of bennies while they worked and booze when it was time to crash, while the younger ones used coke to pick them up and Tuinal to knock them out. Terry had a bottle of Halcion, prescribed for insomnia by the Bureau’s in-house doctor, but due to the potential side effects, he wasn’t going to use it while on assignment.
So he tossed and turned, and he thought about Edge and the upcoming party and the vampire he’d killed the previous month and Whitaker and then Edge again. Finally he stood at his window, watching the sun rise behind the big house, and soon afterward he put on his exercise clothes and emerged into the hallway. Ther
e was Edge, in a suit, leaning in the open doorway of his room. He looked as tired as Terry felt.
“Gonna work out,” Terry said. “Join me?”
Edge shook his head. “I’ll just come with.”
“Did we overdo it yesterday? You’re limping.”
“No.” It wasn’t clear whether Edge was answering the question or denying the limp.
Either way, Terry didn’t press it. They went down to the gym, where Edge sat on a bench and Terry ran and lifted until his limbs felt rubbery. Then they trooped upstairs.
“Want to order us some breakfast?” Terry asked. “I need to shower.”
They’d eaten all their meals together so far. At first Edge had appeared deeply uncomfortable sitting across from him, but he’d gradually relaxed. He still spoke very little, and he handled his cutlery awkwardly, glancing often at Terry as if for guidance, but he didn’t fidget in his seat anymore or ball his hands into fists when they weren’t in use.
Terry deliberately left the bathroom door open. The shower was off to the side, so Edge would have to make an effort to watch. If he did actually peek, Terry didn’t catch him at it. As the warm water sluiced over him, Terry reflected on how weird he felt about the whole… Edge situation. Obviously Terry lusted after the guy. Who could blame him? But he was also intrigued by him. And when Edge sat silently nearby while Terry swam or listened to music, Terry didn’t feel encroached upon. Edge’s presence calmed him, which was stupid and possibly dangerous. After all, Edge worked security for Whitaker, and if the Bureau’s sources were correct—and they usually were—Whitaker was up to some really bad shit. Making Edge complicit.
Unless Edge was a victim. Terry had been playing with that idea, but it didn’t make much sense. Whitaker used money and fame to bait his prey, but Edge wasn’t a movie star, and his job perks didn’t seem lavish enough to tempt anyone into Whitaker’s trap.