by P. W. Davies
Make Him Tremble
P.W. Davies
Edited by
J.R. Wesley
Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Crimson Melodies Ebook
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Copyright © 2018 by P.W. Davies
Edited by J.R. Wesley
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Front Cover Illustration by Lyssa Dering
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Prologue
It hadn’t been his first idea. Or even his second, if he had to be honest, but lingering in his apartment had gotten stale and wallowing had never been his style. Here he was, though, five months past arriving in Philadelphia and he still hadn’t had steady work or much else resembling stability. Yes, he’d let himself sign the lease to the apartment in Month Three, rather than navigating the circuit of motel rooms and counting ceiling cracks on the nights when he’d gotten bored. The money he’d hidden away under a false name had made its way across the pond and when that occurred, Christian Richardson figured that was as good of an excuse as any to grow some roots.
Christian frowned, extinguishing his cigarette before coming to a stand. Walking to the door, he collected his keys and tried to sort out what to do with himself since watching Netflix had become droll and a pretty face like his was being wasted staring at a computer screen. He hadn’t let himself pick up anyone since leaving England, and though he knew the reasons why, a faint part of his brain wondered if something other than ‘serious’ existed out there somewhere. Locking the door behind him, he tried not to think of the last set of hands that had touched him. Even if they were the reason why he wouldn’t be getting into a relationship again anytime soon.
If ever, he thought. Without paying that thought further mind, Christian walked outside and paused to make sure the door shut, and security systems activated, before putting distance between him and the historic brownstone. That had been one of the selling points of the apartment; somebody like him could never be too safe and considering the next paycheck probably came stained with blood, the old rituals would be observed again. This, he mused, had been a long and tedious holiday.
“Now, if you’d grace my mobile with work, that would be aces, Roland,” he said, reaching inside his coat for another cigarette.
The glow from his lighter illuminated his face while he lit the end. Once he had it pocketed again, he continued deeper into the neighborhood, which straddled the line of being gentrified, and still having some of the rougher edges which felt more like home. His cold, baby blues took in details the average person overlooked, as much out of habit as necessity, so when he found the bar during a late-night stroll, he made mental note of it. Even promised himself, when he was ready, he would darken the doorstep. Tonight was the night, he reasoned. Or, as good of a night as any.
Walking up to the entrance, he tossed what remained of the cigarette into the gutter and pushed open the door. Nothing about the place made it noteworthy to the casual observer, but as Christian walked inside, he realized he had guessed its intentions correctly. Granted, the noise which claimed to be music made his ears hurt, and he knew for a fact that the drinks were overpriced, but he reminded himself he wasn’t here for the ambiance. Tonight would be all about climbing back onto the horse, and when viewed through that lens, he’d chosen the right spot. Half the bar had been reserved for people looking to get drunk, while another room provided a dimly lit dance floor. Both men and women danced on platforms with dull, red light behind them. Patrons packed the scant square footage, though one edge of the counter remained conspicuously open.
Christian muscled through the crowd, toward that space, and sat on the deliberately open bar stool.
His presence turned the head of a few other patrons, both men and women. One man caught his eye, and while the bartender headed in his direction, Christian groaned internally. We can’t focus on a woman first, can we, he thought. Crawl before we walk? Another glance toward the man revealed that Christian remained an item of interest and when the bartender asked for his order, the next question he presented set the stage for the night.
“Looking for the men’s room or the ladies’ room?” the bartender asked.
Christian sighed. “The men’s room,” he said. “Drink first, though, mate.” With a salute, the bartender slipped away, and Christian played with a napkin that had been left discarded by the last person to occupy the seat. After tearing small pieces from it, he reached across the counter for a toothpick and used it to pick his teeth. The bartended delivered a whiskey – dirty – and accepted the money Christian produced from his wallet, returning with change that Christian waved away. For the time being, the attention sitting had first earned him waned in favor of Christian downing a healthy swallow of his whiskey. When he straightened his posture on the stool again, however, he gave the signal that the games could begin.
He felt his initial quarry looking at him again while Christian assessed himself. The jeans, he’d been wearing for three days straight – stripped off only when he collapsed into bed in his underwear. Yes, the t-shirt under the leather jacket dipped enough to hint the torso underneath might be worth examining, but the man who approached couldn’t see that from his angle. Christian’s light frame would have made him a gymnast in another life, but that wasn’t the hand he’d been dealt. Instead, it left him in the awkward positi
on of constantly explaining a host of scars.
The man leaned on the counter beside him. Christian glanced at him from the corner of his eye only to confirm while his guest gestured to the bartender and put in his drink order.
“And another one of those for him,” the man added, cocking a thumb at Christian.
Christian finally made eye contact with the tall, brown-haired hipster and flashed him a smirk. “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I came in here for one. Didn’t plan on a second.”
Dimple-Cheeks grinned. “For that accent, I’d say it’s seven bucks well-spent.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a wallet. Christian made immediate note of the presence of condoms. “Are you British or something?”
“Or something suggests I could be anything else.” The curl of Christian’s lips turned predatory. He lifted his glass and drank down more of his whiskey without flinching. “Tread carefully from here. You could cause an international incident if you get it wrong.”
“Don’t want to do that.” Dimple-Cheeks slid a little closer, though the lack of distance now bordered on presumption, even if this was only formality. Concealing the deep breath he took, Christian wore a neutral expression like a mask while thinking to himself that this had been the intention when he decided to leave the apartment. “Are you visiting from out of town?” Dimple-Cheeks asked. “Or did you just move?”
“Moved. A few months ago. Still looking for work, but otherwise, I’m getting settled.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life. Well…” He laughed. “Not in Northern Liberties, but in the city itself. I was raised closer to Fairmount.”
“So many bloody neighborhoods to memorize. And I thought London was confusing.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“It’s where I last lived. I’m originally from Southern England.” Christian finished his first drink and accepted the second with a nod of thanks. Facing his would-be company, he tilted his hand and made a deliberate show out of taking his next sip. “Are we working on being friends first, love?” he asked. “Or is this part of the seduction for you?”
Dimple-Cheeks chuckled. He paid for the drinks and faced Christian more directly, too. “Some people consider it rude to get right down to business,” he said. “Though, I’ll admit hearing you talk made me curious.”
“You should hear me do other things.”
Christian licked his lips. As Dimple-Cheeks smirked, he made the same show out of drinking from his glass and changed his posture into something more inviting. “I can think of something else I’d like to hear you do.”
“I’m glad we’re of the same mind. Sad to say, I’m more of a businessman if you were looking for foreplay.”
He shrugged. “I’m looking for anything if the money’s right. Do I get your name at least?”
“No.” Christian drank the entirety of remained in his glass in one last swallow. “But I didn’t have any intention of asking yours, so we’re even.”
“Fair enough.” Dimple-Cheeks studied Christian in thought first, then threw back his drink, too, and nodded. As he leaned closer, he lowered his voice. “Fifty bucks for oral,” he said. “The price goes up for penetration.”
Christian nodded. Hearing the prices attached to the acts themselves felt cheap, but the cynical part of his brain made note of it with resigned apathy. Sex wasn’t ever going to be the same, and it couldn’t be when you’d had the experience of falling in love. What shouldn’t have happened in the first place wasn’t going to ever happen again, though. Lightning didn’t strike people like him twice. “Fifty it is, then,” Christian said, “Lead the way.”
Dimple-Cheeks nodded and turned away from the counter. He fought past the same sea of people who had been there beforehand, and Christian followed as close as he could, looking as casual as a man about to transact for a sexual act could look. They wove their way into a quieter part of the bar and when they reached the bathrooms, Dimple-Cheeks opened the one leading into the men’s toilet. He held the door open for Christian and made eye contact again. “Cash first,” he said.
“Understood.” Christian disappeared inside and waited on the far side of the bathroom while Dimple-Cheeks shut the door and locked it. Reaching for his wallet, he produced two twenties and a ten, which Dimple-Cheeks promptly shoved into his pocket.
Christian took a deep breath. Reaching for the button of his jeans, he worked open his fly while the other man lowered onto his knees. “Might want to brace yourself against the wall,” Dimple-Cheeks said with a smirk, lowering his gaze after issuing the suggestion and focusing on Christian’s crotch. While Christian leaned against the wall, he tugged down his underwear and within moments, had exposed his flaccid length.
The fact that he hadn’t gotten hard yet didn’t seem to concern Dimple-Cheeks, who took hold of his cock and slid his lips around the head. The first sensation of warmth on his shaft made Christian tense and as he rested his head against the cold tile, he stared heavenward and tried to think of anything other than Paolo. It didn’t take long for the sensation of disappearing inside the other man’s mouth to override his self-doubt, but the more he relaxed into the moment, the less he could withhold the tidal wave of recollection.
It wasn’t Dimple-Cheeks on the floor of the men’s bathroom anymore. As he caught a hitched breath and peered down, he imagined the dark, wavy locks of his former lover’s hair, seeing the masterful way the Italian man knew how to work Christian into his mouth before retreating to the head of his cock. Christian swallowed hard, surrendering to the fantasy, warning himself to hold back remorse even if he couldn’t stop himself from seeing Paolo. While his heart ached, the coils in his stomach tightened. When climax rushed upon him, he didn’t bother to hold it back.
Christian lost himself to the sensation of one pulse after another, only faintly aware that Dimple-Cheeks had retreated the moment he knew Christian was about to spill over. The warmth of his hands, catching the strands of cum which spurted out, sufficed enough to keep the fantasy alive and it took until Christian climbed back into his senses for him to issue the reminders. He wasn’t in England any longer. This wasn’t the bathroom of some pub they’d drunkenly stumbled into after a job.
And the man in front of him would never be Paolo again.
Taking a deep breath, Christian murmured thanks without knowing what he was thanking Dimple-Cheeks for. Relief, yes, he thought while pulling up his jeans again and restoring order to himself, but if he had to be honest, he’d indulged something he knew could become an addiction if he wasn’t careful. “You’re welcome,” Dimple-Cheeks said, rising to his feet and motioning to the sink to wash his hands. “You were pent up. If you want, I can give you my number.”
“No, thank you,” Christian said, unapologetically curt. He walked to the door and unlocked it, ignoring anything else that might have been said to him while awash with conflicting feelings. Something heady rose up within his chest, following him even as he left the bar and walked back in the direction of his apartment. It felt like the crash that followed a job. That millisecond when the realization that he’d added to the tally of his sins hit, stripping him down and leaving him bare. The systematic dismantling of his emotions started without him even prompting it, reducing him back down to the bliss of being numb.
Grumbling, Christian paused at his front door and produced his phone instead of his keys.
Scrolling for the phone number of his contact, he pressed the call button and decided to continue walking east. When someone answered on the other end, reciting the name of their business establishment, Christian said, “Get me Roland. It’s Richardson.”
“Hold on a second,” the person – bartender, Christian assumed – said. The other end went silent, but not for long. A gruff, masculine voice took over.
“Roland,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Christian sighed. “I wanted to warn you. I’m on my way to bother you again. The only reason why I’m warning you is because
you’ll have enough time between now and when I arrive to find me a bloody job.”
Roland snorted. “You’re getting that stir crazy, kid?”
“Yes, I am. And I have a difficult time believing everyone is too nervous to benefit from my services.”
“Now, I didn’t say everyone. Just that enough people know who you pissed off back in England and don’t want to take the gamble.” Roland paused. For the first time since Christian had arrived, he heard the first signs of acquiescence in his voice. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“More than ready.” Christian reached for another cigarette. “I don’t know how many times I need to explain that I finished what needed finishing back in Exeter. If the concern is that I might be distracted…”
“Not the concern. Just asking.” Roland sighed. “Alright, some of the locals have been asking for a man. I can give you the job, but I’ll warn you, it’s going to be a lot lighter than what you’re used to.”
“Not a full job, is it?”
“No, but if you really want work, you’ll grin and bear it. Keep the spotless record up and my people who are nervous might ease up. It’ll show ‘em your head is in the game. Laying that all out now, because I swear, Christian, I will sell you out if you do anything as stupid as what you did back home. Am I clear?”