D.V. Patton - Fire and Rain

by D. V. Patton

  “You like sea food?”

  Chris balked a little. “I can try it,” he said noncommittally.

  “We can go somewhere else if you prefer.”

  “Nah it’s good, I should try to eat healthy while I’m here.”

  Ciaran chuckled. “Yeah, you look really unhealthy, man.” Chris pretended not to notice the comment, nor read too much into it. “I appreciate you hanging out with me, but don’t let me mess up your night.”

  “Nah, Mattie told me to look after you.” They sat at the table, Ciaran absently chewing his nail and staring at the various array of people who walked by. Chris smoked another cigarette, and drank his beer too quickly. They sat in a growing silence, not quite uncomfortable, but not the easy silence of friends. Chris thought of something to ask. “How come you sound Irish, and Mattie’s a real Londoner?”

  Ciaran’s eyes stayed neutral. “I am Irish. I just spent holidays in London when I was a kid.”

  Chris got the impression that Ciaran was a little uncomfortable with personal questions, so he let it drop. In truth, he was just making small talk.

  “How come you haven’t picked up a hombre here?” asked Ciaran. “It’s full of hot, rich, gay men.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “So…”

  “You’re a nosy one aren’t you?” “Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to get to know you. I’m like that…sorry,” repeated Ciaran.

  Chris couldn’t tell if he was being shy, or very subtly mocking him. “No, it’s fine. No reason really,” he said. He didn’t add that he had a slight man crush on his dinner companion, though it was based more on superficial outer, not inner, beauty.

  He creaked back in his seat and studied his companion. He was beginning to wonder if Ciaran was a bit of a closet case, but that didn’t really make sense. The guy was in Torres, the premier gay resort in Spain, and had spent last summer working in a gay bar —hardly repressed territory.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I bet you do,” laughed Chris. “I’m not a closet case. Sorry.” “Why do you keep saying sorry?” asked Chris, and this time Ciaran laughed.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend to really ram home my point!” He wasn’t sure, but it did feel like they were finally relaxing in each other’s company. Beer really was a wonder drug. It was stupid, but in many ways this felt more like a date than two coworkers hanging out. He felt he was learning more about Ciaran tonight than he had in the whole three weeks he had been here.

  There was something about the guy, though, some deep waters. The easy thing was to brush over it, but Chris found himself hesitating, and he wasn’t sure why. “Honestly, Ciaran, sexuality is like water to me, forever changing shape. As long as you’re happy with yourself, everything else is just a label people put on things,” he said. He wasn’t sure where that had come from, or even if he had overstepped the mark somehow.

  His dinner companion’s mood seemed to perk up. “That’s a really cool way of looking at things, Chris. So how’d you end up here?”

  “I dunno, man, midlife crisis maybe?” “You’re not old enough!”

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “That’s not old.” “Says the twenty-one year old! What can I say? A failed business, a big failed relationship, debts… and living off the so called charity of your uncle.”

  “I know my uncle well enough to know he doesn’t do charity,” said Ciaran evenly.

  “It’s a change of scenery, then.”

  Ciaran smiled. “C’mon,” he said, “Eat up. I’ve a plan!” Chapter Ten The lights of the club seemed to be in perfect synchronization with the DJ’s house beat. Chris was drenched in sweat, due more to the body heat trapped in the building than to any real exertion. A rare genetic condition meant he was born with no sense of rhythm, so he escaped to a murky corner of the club, beer in hand.

  The place was heaving, with a healthy show of gorgeous men, a lot of whom were bare-chested and definitely on the hunt. It had the feel of a meat market. The male dancers bore more than a passing resemblance to extras from the TV show Spartacus. Chris was in good shape, but Torres took perfection to a new level.

  He saw Ciaran through a gap in the throng of dancers. The lights seemed drawn to him, a perfect ball of light in the whirling maelstrom of the club. He moved slowly, rhythmically, his hips almost controlling the music. Chris couldn’t keep his eyes off the dance as Ciaran’s head swayed left and right, his sweaty blond hair almost glistening under the strobe lights. He noticed he wasn’t the only guy staring at him.

  Ciaran was magnetic, and other people in the club sensed it. He was black hole that drew everyone towards him. Chris nearly laughed, that guy was so out of his league.

  He went outside for a smoke, and the air seemed to go his head. It was warm and humid, and Chris thought it might rain. He looked down the street and saw the electronic thermometer above the chemist read thirty-two. He nearly laughed. It was past two. Chris felt his stomach lurch. Spanish beer was strong, and now that he was outside, he realized that he was drunk.

  He looked longingly back at the doors of the club, thinking of Ciaran in the middle of the dance floor. He stubbed out his cigarette, and with a resigned sigh, he headed home.

  Less than five hundred yards later, the skies opened. It was nothing like home—the heat was awesome, and the power of the rain had him drenched within a few feet. Chris felt like a tourist and laughed like a crazy person. “Man, I’m drunk,” he said to the empty street.

  He heard wet footsteps running up the street, and turned to see Ciaran catching up with him. If he had been sober he might have been worried about how he had bailed without saying goodbye, or even wondered why Ciaran was here and had noticed him missing. After all, he had barely been gone five minutes. Instead he looked at the Irishman groggily and said “Sup?”

  Ciaran burst out laughing. “Lightweight!” “It’s raining,” Chris said happily. Ciaran smiled and slid his arm around Chris’ waist. “C’mon, big man, let’s get you home.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to.” “Do you know where you are?” “Spain,” said Chris in that groggy voice that caused Ciaran to laugh again. He wasn’t quite as drunk as he sounded, and he figured Ciaran was pretty drunk, and didn’t realize it. “You staying with me?”

  “On the couch, big man …on the couch.”

  Chapter Eleven Sometime in the night, Chris woke up with a mouth as dry as Mars and a bladder that physically hurt. His eyes felt leaden, so he tried to estimate his position to the WC. He ambled around in the darkness until he managed to stub his foot on the edge of the bed, whilst simultaneously standing on what felt like a set of keys. “Fuck.”

  He had fallen asleep in his shorts, though he couldn’t remember why. He always slept nude, and now the fabric clung to his sweaty buttocks and slick balls. Sexy, thought Chris, lost in that strange netherworld of walking and sleep. He positioned himself over the toilet, and released his cock. His urine flowed from him in a relieving wave, and Chris felt himself almost falling asleep again where he stood.

  “Chris?” a voice said from behind him, causing him to almost jump in shock.

  “Fuck, man, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” “Forgot you weren’t alone huh?” asked Ciaran sleepily. Chris turned, and saw Ciaran standing in the doorframe dressed only in his white designer shorts. The shadows on his torso accentuated the shapes hidden under the white cotton. A primal longing swept over Chris, softly, like a wave. “I woke you?” he asked.

  “Nah, I can’t sleep on that couch. It’s a torture device.”

  “Come crash with me if you want,” he said automatically.

  “Hmm,” said Ciaran. “Maybe that’s not a great idea.” Chris had become fully awake. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he sure did sense when someone wanted to be convinced. “It’ll be grand, mate, I’m a good guy.”

  “I know.” “C’mon, then,” said Chris, brushing by him. He didn’t offer his hand or look back over his shoulder.
He kept it as casual as he could. Chris heard the sound of bare footsteps following him in the darkness. The bedroom was cool, the steady flow of the air conditioner the only companion to the sound of the men’s breathing.

  Chris lay down on the mattress and Ciaran lay beside him. Chris took control, spooning behind him, and gently placing his un-erect cock against the younger man’s firm, tense buttocks. “G’night Ciaran.”

  “Good night, Chris,” a voice whispered, so close but so far away. Some untold time later, he heard his name called. Chris opened his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Chris.”

  “What?”

  “You’re…grinding against me.” Chris resisted the urge to chuckle. His erect cock was pressed right against the crack of Ciaran’s buttocks. “Sorry, do you want me to turn around? You can hold me.”

  “Eh… I don’t think that’s gonna help.” Chis placed his hand on Ciaran’s bare and very tense thigh. He didn’t know how he knew, but he seemed to intuitively understand that the young man both wanted to bolt from here, and didn’t. “I’d really love to fuck you, Ciaran.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  Chris continued to softly message that thigh, his fingers gently reassuring. Ciaran didn’t move. “Can I touch you?” No answer. His fingers continued their dance, moving from the top of the thighs, then between them, then up the ridge of his legs, until he reached the tight cotton of Ciaran’s underpants.

  He began to message his friend’s balls, and this time Ciaran let out a sigh like the purr of a kitten. His fingers traced the length of Ciaran’s cock until he reached the tip, and with a flick he released it from its imprisonment. Chris’ fingers gently messaged the tip of Ciaran’s uncircumcised cock. The flaccid skin messaged his head ever so gently.

  He pulled his own cock free, a little surprised by the slight tinge of pain at how hard he was. Ciaran tensed. “Chris, I…”

  “Shhh…I know.” Chris worked his underpants down past his ankle until he was completely naked and free of constraint. In one movement he thrust his cock over the band of Ciaran’s underpants and slid his shaft between the trapped thighs. Ciaran’s balls lay either side of his cock. Ciaran’s ass was almost damp with sweat. His hand began to knead Ciaran’s erect nipple, and as the young man sighed, he gently blew hot air on the crook of his neck and shoulder.

  Chris’ hips seemed to have taken on a life of their own, and his buttocks tensed and relaxed as his shaft slid between those tight thighs. Ciaran tensed and relaxed in rhythm with him. He abandoned his nipples and finally grasped Ciaran’s erect cock for the first time. His hand began to slowly pump, until he found a steady rhythm.

  Chris’ hand slid up and down Ciaran’s wet cock, his own shaft firmly pressing Ciaran’s balls, those tight athletic thighs relaxing and tensing. When he felt Ciaran’s breath quicken, he let himself go. He pulled back slightly and a feeling of bliss filled his tense muscles. Cum pumped from him and covered Ciaran’s asshole and balls with a beautiful warm stickiness. Ciaran sighed audibly as his own cock began to pump an impressive flow of semen that soaked both his hand and the bed sheets.

  They lay in the darkness, breathing deeply, neither man speaking or moving, and the smell of their sex filled the room. Chris waited until he was sure Ciaran had drifted off before he let himself fall to sleep. When Chris woke in the morning, a hangover clouding his thoughts, he found Ciaran gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  A week, then two, passed since their drunken tryst, and no opportunity to explore it further had revealed itself. Ciaran was definitely a lot more relaxed around him, chatting and bantering with a casual ease, but he disappeared after each shift. There were no offers to socialize—perhaps the danger were too apparent. The slippery sweaty path to Oz was left untraveled.

  Ciaran had reverted back to type.

  Chris had originally thought Ciaran had a nervous disposition hidden underneath the veneer of his confidence, and now he was certain of it.

  Chris didn’t mind, but he had come to the conclusion that what had happened between them was a drunken one-off. It was a shame really—they could have had some real fun had Ciaran been willing. Except it seemed he wasn’t. Chris never lost sight of the fact that he was a stranger in a foreign land, and in many ways Ciaran was his guide and only friend.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ciaran was off on a Monday, and he didn’t make an appearance all that day. It was a very sheepish and worse-forwear Irishman that finally appeared at the shop the following day, well past his shift time.

  Chris found himself uncharacteristically moody as he watched the man saunter into the shop. Ciaran’s hair was lumpy and unkempt, and he reeked of stale booze. It looked like the party had started on Saturday and never ended.

  “Hey,” said Chris. “Hey, man,” said Ciaran. His usual piercing blue eyes seemed dull, slightly bloodshot and out of focus. “Sorry I’m late.” He wore a new variant on his smile, one part shy, and two parts nonchalant.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Chris. “It’s not as if we’re busy.”

  “We’re never busy,” said Ciaran.

  “You want to go and clean up?” said Chris.

  Ciaran smiled wanly. “I might lay my head down for an hour all right.”

  “Mi casa es su casa.”

  The young man smiled at that. “You mean that?”

  “Of course,” said Chris, a little stiffly. “Your uncle owns this place, anyhow.” Ciaran didn’t comment on that, but instead looked at Chris quietly for what felt like a long time, long enough for him to feel a little uncomfortable, before finally, he nodded. “You’re a good guy, Chris. I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

  Before Chris could reply, Ciaran disappeared into the darkness of the hall and up the stairs into the apartment above. The footsteps echoed through the small shop, and he heard the click of the apartment door as it closed.

  Chapter Fourteen Chris heard footsteps moving around above him, but his mind was already wondering. He looked at his watch. It was well past one, twelve in London— time for his business call with Matthew Doyle, aka Mattie—a crook, a moneylender and now, his boss too.

  Chris had ended up in his circle after his sister had married a cousin of Mattie’s. Worse still, a long twisting road had meant he had ended up owing the man a lot of money. His search for easy credit to save a business in decline had led to financial ruin. His time in Spain was part payment of the debt— that, and for not asking too many questions.

  Chris didn’t want Ciaran to overhear him, so he closed the shop and headed for a nearby café. His Spanish was still atrocious, but Torres was a tourist trap, and most people spoke at least passing English. He found he could get by just fine as he tried to pick up even a little rudimentary Spanish. He ended up mumbling in a horrible patois of Catalan and Spanish. He ordered coffee, and finally overcame his dread and quickdialed Mattie’s number. The phone was picked up after two rings.

  “Chris!” said Mattie in an exaggerated tone he sometimes put on. He loved mocking people, mainly because he knew they wouldn’t bite back. Why he was feigning surprise at Chris calling, only Mattie knew.

  “Hi, Mattie.”

  “How’s business?” Chris felt a light sheen of sweat break out under his armpits. “It’s good. I’ve been sending the cash sheets as agreed, and depositing the money.”

  “Relax, Chris. I know you’re not a stupid boy. Have you seen Donna?” “Sure, she’s up most weeks,” he lied. Donna was meant to oversee things, but he never saw her anymore. It was a situation he was hoping would continue.

  “Good, good, and how’s my boy Ciaran. ‘E behaving himself?”

  “Yeah, he’s been a great help.”

  “What with you not speaking the lingo and all.” Careful, Mattie, thought Chris, your East End is showing, fella. Mattie liked to make a big deal about how he was second generation Irish, but as far as Chris was concerned, if it looked like a cockney, and talked like a cockney…He realized he’d better say somethi
ng. “That’s it.”

  Silence on the line. “Mattie?” asked Chris, wondering what was going on now.

  “You’re not bumming him, are ya?” “No, Mattie.” “Cus he’s as bent as a copper penny…and not too bright either, but he’s my sister’s boy. So he’s off limits to you. Understand?”

  “Of course, Mattie…I know that.”

  “Good…good.” Mattie carped on for a while, about the weather, football and other inane small talk. He didn’t mention the second shop in Barcelona, and more importantly, he didn’t mention any end date for Chris’ time in Spain. Chris was so delighted to get him off the phone he didn’t even think to ask.

  And with that, Mattie was gone from his life another week. He hated dealing with the man, but what choice did he have? Mattie Forde was not a man you wanted to mess with at the best of times, even less so when you found yourself in debt to him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Chris looked up, shaken out of his thoughts by the familiar lilt of the voice that addressed him. He was met by the steady stare of a well-groomed man in his forties. The Irish accent had thrown him, something very familiar in what could be an alien place. “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to intrude.” He was a good-looking man in his way, but there was no mistaking the notso-subtle look on the man’s face. He had already gotten used to seeing it in Torres. “No, sorry I was miles away.”

  “Business call? I make enough of them to tell them a mile away,” he said.

  Chris smiled noncommittally.

  “You run that tourist shop on Carrer del Bonaire.”

  “Indeed,” said Chris slightly confused.

  “And that was your boss on the phone. Sorry, I was bored, playing peoplespotting. Too much time spent at airports.”

  Chris looked at the cut of the man’s clothes, at his neat pepper-gray hairstyle. He liked when men let themselves go grey. This guy could have got away with a bit of coloring, but didn’t. It was classy in its own way. It was hard to age him because of his immaculate grooming, but at the very least Chris figured he wasn’t a crazy person. “It was my boss.”