by P. W. Davies
Another cigarette wound up between his lips within another block and as he passed through Center City, he worked to remove himself from the moment. Those kisses had been poison; the best kind of poison. The heat from simply sitting next to Victor had made Christian warm and the tingles that had run through him had not come from the drink. No, Christian had meant every decadent word he’d whispered in Victor’s ear.
Goddamn bloody tosser. There it was. Still there. Buzzing like electricity through him, making him feel breathy and remorseful. Christian paused by the entrance to the subway and reached with his free hand, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes shut. This was only supposed to be about gathering information. He had told himself he would follow the mark home, get his address, and break into the flat or house the bastard owned.
Now, a lawyer owned his mobile number and a decent amount of residual lust.
“Fuck,” Christian muttered, drawing from the filter again. Peering down the street, he saw no sign of Victor, which told him he could use the moment to finish his cigarette and get his bearings back. He had established a few things, making tonight not a total loss, but now Victor would recognize him if he got too close. In the moment, he didn’t want to think of the implications of that. Not with the epiphany that he’d nearly gone to bed with Victor still weighing on his mind.
Once the tobacco had burned to the filter, Christian jogged down the stairs and produced his transit card. Within a minute, a subway train appeared, and a free seat gave him the chance to relax and lean his head against the window. Yes, he had fallen back on kismet when Victor came outside and told himself that having chemistry didn’t mean that he needed to let himself be chaste when they continued taunting each other. That last kiss, however.
He’d felt that one from head to toe.
Just thinking about it made the blood rush to his groin again. A split second had passed in which Christian had almost dragged them into a coat closet before the fear crept in. His exit had been hasty, conspicuous, and everything Christian tried not to be while masking his identity, but it had been necessary. If acting casual had been his bluff, Victor, with one kiss, had called it.
Christian shut his eyes. Listening for the speaker to broadcast his stop, he didn’t open his eyes again until it did, and only then did he also bother to take a quick glance at his mobile. No text yet, and if none followed, Christian would consider it a mercy. Pocketing the phone, he walked briskly to his flat and didn’t relax again until he’d tossed his jacket onto a chair and produced the bottle of whiskey.
“Cheers,” he said, pouring a generous amount of the liquor into a glass. Half of it found its way into his stomach before he plopped onto the couch and placed the glass beside an ashtray. His stomach grumbled, protesting the lack of food since earlier in the day, and though he could hold his liquor, the addition had been enough to make his head swim. Leftover Chinese food, heated in the microwave, helped that situation, though even beyond that – despite the lateness of the hour – he still felt pent-up and wound tighter than a coil.
Slowly pulling his t-shirt over his head, he saw Victor behind his eyes while he laid on the couch, his lids clenching shut. Stay in control, he told himself, while also aware of how easy it was to convince himself he could be in control while alone. His palm slid down his torso, over the network of scars and past the sinew which led down to his waist. The tight jeans he wore began to strain, blood rushing southward again and making him hard within seconds. Undoing the button, he pulled down his zipper and dipped his hand down between his legs.
The first tug made his breath stagger. Sliding his hand up and down his shaft, he clenched his jaw, repeating the mantra repeatedly about control. His back arched; head burying against a pillow. The hand not working him up clutched onto the side of the couch, and while continuing to touch himself brought him closer to being compromised, it also felt too good for him to stop. Impatient – not willing to walk into the bedroom to produce one of the toys he kept in his bedside table – he decided that being filled wouldn’t be part of the fantasy that night.
Still, it didn’t take long for him to pant himself into climax.
Each pulse made him moan, his body twitching in time to the way his cock spasmed. While his mind had gone blank through the final moments, the realization that he’d thought of Victor until that point made his head swim even more than the booze and orgasm did. He groaned, convulsed, and reached for his t-shirt to wipe as much as he could clean. “You still want him, you idiot,” he said. “This isn’t what you were supposed to be focused on tonight.”
Belatedly, however, he realized he had lost track of his mobile. A quick glance revealed that at some point, while drinking and eating, he’d placed it beside the ashtray, and now it stared back at him like a harbinger of doom. Part of him wanted to pick it up and see a message. Another part feared he wouldn’t find one, while the last conflicted emotion racing through him tried to speak louder than the other two.
This would be for the best. Even if it meant pursuing the mark had become more complicated.
He sat up long enough to reach for the device before lying back in the spot where his body had settled. A deep breath preceded checking, and the presence of not one, but two, messages made his stomach tie in knots. One had originated from Roland. Christian couldn’t determine if that made it better or worse. The second one, however… that one had originated from an unknown number.
Not yet. Christian flipped to the message from Roland first, reading it and sighing. Call me on the other line, it said, which was code for the phone he had been allotted when he received his first job. That required standing, though, which also required reckoning with his wobbly legs. “Well, might as well change while I’m at it,” he announced, tossing his mobile back onto the coffee table. Standing, he stretched first before padding into the modest-sized bedroom.
When he emerged, he did so clad in a fresh pair of underwear and nothing else. Clutching the other mobile, he took it with him to the couch, turning it on and lighting a cigarette while waiting it to finish loading. His eyes flicked toward the other phone, through the haze of the first puff he exhaled. One pang of temptation nearly had him pick it up, decided against when he could finally use the burner.
Roland’s other line had become the only number programmed into this one, which made dialing it simple. Within a few rings, Christian heard him pick up on the other end. “Traveled for a fortnight,” Roland said.
Christian rolled his eyes. “And arrived two weeks later,” he responded. “You know this code phrase only works because you folks are Yanks.”
“Who says I use it with anyone else?” Roland paused. “So, what have you found?”
“Not much yet.” Christian drew from the cigarette again, adjusting the way he sat as if settling into business. “I visited the construction company and have a few documents to drop off tomorrow. You’ll need to check with Jasper Ashcroft to make sure there are financial discrepancies, but at least he has receipts now.”
“Which we could have gotten on our own. Not that we can’t use them, but I think what Ashcroft wanted was a better bead on Freeman himself. Is he in on this with our mark?”
Christian frowned. “No,” he said. “He made sure to express his malcontent with the situation as it already existed. I didn’t get the sense he’d be the type to get himself in further trouble. Apparently, their payment system was set up by the lawyer. All Freeman does is pay.”
“Good news for Freeman. Bad news for the mark.” Roland sighed. “Alright, Ashcroft said if Freeman cooperated we could sweeten the pot for him. When you bring by the paperwork, I’ll hand you some cash to bring back to Freeman. Tell him it’s a refund in lieu of his cooperation. If he can keep the mark out of the loop that makes this even better.”
“What do you want me to do next with regard to the mark?”
“Just follow him and report back. Don’t do anything else.”
Nodding, Christian took a breath, pre
paring himself to state the case again that he be responsible for seeing the job through to the end. As if sensing that, Roland preempted him, “Look, we have other marks we’re trailing,” he said. “Making sure all of the ‘I’s are dotted and ‘T’s crossed. At the same time, the guy you’re following is the likely suspect. I didn’t really think trailing the other guys was necessary, but you know how paranoid mob guys are. And you don’t call them on it unless you want to be staring down the barrel of a gun.”
“Savage instruments. I like knives better.” Christian nodded, drawing from the filter again. “So, he’s hedging his bets, but it looks good for me.”
“Yes, it does, and so far, he’s happy with the game plan. Don’t fuck that up. He pays well and anything you do that keeps him looking good at the end of the day will be compensated.”
“The magic word. Why is he concerned about how this looks?”
“He’s being stolen from and that makes him look weak. You know how the mob is about appearances. Keep it quiet. Keep people from sniffing in his direction. And if the right person disappears, then it doesn’t matter if people know what he’s done wrong. They know not to fuck around with Ashcroft.” Roland chuckled. “Welcome back to the big leagues, kid. If you do well, maybe you’ll get to finish the job.”
Something about those words ran a far different shiver down Christian’s spine. It had been months. Months. Not since he’d left England and arrived at his place of exile. The door stood in front of him, offering him the money he was used to making. The shoes he felt more comfortable filling. That little tickle of sociopathy that had been with him since he was a teenager.
“Then I’ll do my best,” Christian said.
“Good. Phone stays on you while you’re working this job. After it’s done, or if you get in over your head, it gets smashed. Swallow the fucking SIM card until you can shit it out into the Delaware River. You’ll get another one with your next job. Clear?”
“Crystal. Much unlike the aforementioned Delaware.”
Roland, not one for ceremony, hung up without saying goodbye. Glancing at the mobile first before powering it down again, he tossed it beside his regular phone and sighed at them both. In front of him stood a potential deception, thought about before the call had even ended. God, he wanted his life back and there stood the door, waiting to be opened at last. He might not have luck in love. But he would always be good with a blade.
He shut his eyes and sighed. Finishing the cigarette, he crushed it into the ashtray and opened his eyes to find the other mobile. Plopping back into the pillow again, he stretched out his long legs and loaded the other message. Without identifying himself, he’d made it obvious who’d sent it.
Haven’t reconsidered yet, it read.
“You have no idea what kind of mess you’re getting yourself into,” Christian said. Saving the contact, he flipped back to the message itself and reread it twice before his thumbs began typing. If you’re certain, we can try drinks again and go from there, he said. A brief pause before hitting send. A deep breath, finger hovering over the arrow.
“This only has to last so long as I have the job,” he said. “Then I don’t have to see him any longer.”
Sending the message, Christian shut off his phone once it had been delivered. He didn’t want to know if Victor was still awake or risk a discussion which showed his hand too before he’d prepared for talking to him again. Victor worked some sort of witchcraft in that kiss, and while he knew that meant there would be more, Christian told himself he was prepared for that now. Next time, there would be no surprises.
Just a few drinks and some actual relief to this sexual tension.
Six
Friday morning was perfect, aside from the fact that he hadn’t dressed for the weather.
Victor had woken up with an abundance of energy. He rose, ate a protein filled snack, and dressed to go out on his run. His head was in the clouds, both about the enigma of Christian and about the new tasks he needed to jump into for work, so he simply put on jogging pants and a tee-shirt. When he’d stepped outside, he was greeted by a heavy chill in the air, but he decided that it wasn’t worth returning upstairs to grab a sweatshirt. It made the first fifteen minutes of the run brutal until his body adjusted to the temperature.
The October air tended to be fickle. Victor knew that within a couple of days it would rebound into something milder, and then gradually colder until winter finally decided to settle over the city. After living here for six years, it had become predictable. Almost a ritual, like his morning runs. Taking controlled, measured breaths, Victor glanced at the band on his wrist and made a mental note to check his pulse rate when he logged into his computer later. He felt a little more ragged this morning, but that was likely because he had been awake far too late. The run still felt good, but he was lagging more than he would have liked.
If Beverly had still been there, she would have complained when he got out of bed that he didn’t understand what sleeping in meant. He remembered clearly, the first week when she had left, waking without her beside him and how blissful it had been not to hear her grumble. Arms pumping, Victor pushed himself a little harder as he considered -not for the first time- whether that should make him feel guilty. The question wriggled into his mind every so often when he found himself appreciating the simplicity of being single.
Beverly hadn’t been a shackle of some kind. He had been genuinely heart-broken when she left, even if the full impact was more complicated. Victor missed her, but he didn’t miss the compromising. Sharing his life with her hadn’t been some fairytale perfection. For him, it didn’t need to be. It was enough that they both wanted success, to make a home, and children someday. Beverly had been complicated, but not in a way that deterred him. When Victor knew he was going to ask Beverly to marry him, he planned the evening meticulously. She said yes without hesitation.
Her leaving meant Victor had to be honest about realizing she hadn’t really wanted to marry him. Their relationship was one of the few times he’d been so wrong about someone. Afterward, he’d been angry at himself for not seeing it more clearly, and he refused to listen to anyone who told him that they were certain Beverly had been happy and he couldn’t have known she would leave.
It had left a mark on him, he knew. Any time his thoughts strayed to consider his life was now simpler, he wondered if the reason he hadn’t seen Beverly’s unhappiness was that he had been too busy convincing himself everything was the way it was supposed to be. That lie had been the underbelly of their relationship, and it probably wasn’t the only one.
Why he still felt lonely both surprised him and made perfect sense.
Victor wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and turned down the last stretch of city block he’d cover before returning to his high-rise. Passing Rittenhouse Square, he saw the first signs of urban life blooming into existence; fellow early-morning exercisers with yoga mats or running shoes headed to where they would their own jump on the day, coffee-addicts were picking up their first cup before starting their errands, parents out with young children who had probably woken them earlier than they would have liked but were finding solace in a beautifully sunny day. The doorman at Victor’s building was now at his station and saw him coming, opening the door when his run coming to an end. “Good morning, Mr. Mason,” he said.
“Thank you, Francis,” Victor said, slowing his pace even further to a sedate stroll. Wiping away more sweat, he freed his water bottle from the strap at his hip and drank down a healthy swallow. Ignoring the security guard at the desk other than a brief wave of acknowledgment, he walked past to the bank of elevators at the far side of the vestibule. The modern decorations and tiled flooring had all become part of the background, something that would be missed if moved but barely noted any longer while it was still there.
Somewhat how life with Beverly had been.
The elevator took him up to his floor and as Victor entered the condo, he strode for the kitchen. Visible from the main do
or, the open design featured a bar-height counter wide enough to accommodate several appliances on one side while having room for space dedicated to the bar-stools lined along the opposite side. Behind the counter was the rest of the kitchen, meaning that when he was cooking he had a view of the entire living area. Past the stools was a pair of couches angled toward a television, with a dining table closer to the windows that spanned the height of the walls. There was also a grand piano notably taking up a significant amount of space in what otherwise could have been a very large entertaining area.
It had been the first thing he’d marked out space for when he’d purchased the condo three years ago. Beverly hadn’t moved in until a year after, but when the piano had been discussed they’d both agreed it needed to stay where it was. Victor had counted that moment of synergy as a positive sign. It wasn’t all downhill. There were plenty of reasons I asked her to marry me. It just wasn’t meant to be.
His keys and water bottle were placed on the countertop in the kitchen, where he could retrieve them after getting a shower.
I wonder if Christian likes music, he found himself considering while soap bubbles caught between his fingers. I might ask him. That comment about “knowing what he looks like to someone like me” ... I wish I knew what he’d meant.
Victor had fallen asleep noting of all the little things he’d observed during their brief evening together. The way that Christian never looked in one place for long, always changing where his sight rested, as though he didn’t want to miss a single detail in the room around him. Not detail. Person, Victor corrected. He was keeping track of the people. It was obvious that Christian noticed a lot of details, too. Like the collection of pens behind the bar counter. They had sat just long enough to get their drinks, but he had known precisely where they were when he needed one to write down his number.
All of it had seemed like habit, done casually enough that it hadn’t struck Victor as odd while they’d talked. It was only in reflection that he’d noticed anything of significance.