Dirty Games

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Yep.”

  His brother made for the kitchen. Maybe that made him happy. They were both fans of Josh’s fajitas.

  Thorne sighed. River was somewhere on the autistic spectrum, though Thorne wasn’t sure exactly where. Not severe enough that he couldn’t function in society, though his brother was antisocial. Shit. That wasn’t fair. River wasn’t antisocial, he wanted to fit in but he didn’t and he knew it.

  River said being autistic was like living in a world with rules he didn’t understand. Written laws were things he could generally deal with, but unwritten expectations about the way he should behave and interact scared him because breaking those rules could lead to so many problems—losing a job, ruining a friendship, enabling people to register how wrong he really was. Even discussing stuff like that sent River into a tailspin. Thorne guessed his brother was constantly walking a tightrope. River lived life at his particular pace and Thorne had to fit in with that rather than the other way around.

  At the toot of a horn, Thorne slipped on his jacket.

  “Bye, guys,” he called and opened the door.

  A long black limo idled at the curb. The uniformed driver came round to open the back passenger door.

  “Bloody hell,” Josh said behind him. “How come a great wallop of a car like that can find a parking place right outside our place and we hardly ever can?”

  Thorne sniggered. Sometimes they had to park three streets or more away.

  “Have a good time,” River said.

  “Thanks.” Thorne knew it was something River had learned to say, but he was still glad to hear it.

  “Not too good a time,” Josh added. “Try not to make it onto the front page of the newspapers for the wrong reasons.”

  “You know me.” Thorne headed down the steps.

  “Exactly,” Josh called after him.

  The driver held the door as Thorne slipped in next to Amanda. As he leaned to kiss her cheek he was enveloped by the overpowering flowery scent of her perfume and felt as if he’d been subjected to a chemical warfare attack. It was like walking through Duty Free at Heathrow past the line of salespeople ready with their sprays. He pressed himself back against the door before he took another breath.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Angry with my hairdresser. God, he’s made such a mess of my hair. Look at it. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  It was impossible to answer that question. If he said her hair looked fine, which it did, she’d be pissed off. If he agreed with her, she’d be equally annoyed.

  “They never get it right when it matters,” he said diplomatically and wondered if he’d remembered to comb his. He dragged his fingers through it just in case.

  “You’re right.” She gave him a grateful smile, but as she went through a catalogue of bad days at the salon, he stopped listening.

  They’d both had small roles in the movie Changing which had a charity premiere tonight. Usually film premieres never took place on a Saturday but the director had links to some homeless charity he wanted to support and the production company had arranged this special event. Changing was a low budget, arthouse black comedy about two shoe shops on the same street competing for business and resorting to more and more desperate tactics to come out on top. Thorne and Amanda had played the parts of customers kidnapped for switching allegiance.

  When she’d finished talking about her hair, Amanda chattered about her next film. Thorne hadn’t spoken to her since filming on Changing had ended a year ago. She’d been all over him on set and he hadn’t said no to what was on offer, but she was boring. In bed and out of it. Though to be fair, Thorne was easily bored.

  The limo pulled up outside the theatre where lights blazed and clamouring fans holding mobile phones were pressed up against metal barriers.

  “Don’t forget our arrival’s being screened inside for those already in their seats,” Thorne said. “If you trip, everyone will see.”

  “Gee thanks. I think I know that. Make sure you walk slowly. These shoes are killing me.” Amanda put her smile in place and Thorne took a deep breath.

  They headed up the red carpet arm in arm through a corridor of security guys armed with earpieces and walkie-talkies. They paused for pictures, chatted to those waiting, flashes from cameras and mobile phones exploding like mini starbursts as the crowd shouted their names. As cool with it as Thorne wanted to appear, he felt a deep thrill of excitement. When he’d watched premieres on TV he’d never dreamed he might one day be walking down a red carpet. This was his sixth time and it was as intoxicating as the first.

  Amanda clung to his arm as they made their way into the building. “These bloody shoes,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  Stop fucking whining. The heels were so high, they almost brought her up to Thorne’s six-three height. He was amazed she could walk at all. Her dress was some tight neon pink thing, though he had to admit she made it look good. When they entered the lobby Orlando came up to them.

  He kissed Amanda and slapped Thorne on the back. “Well done.”

  “What for?” Thorne asked.

  “You didn’t thump anyone and Amanda didn’t fall over. I’d call it a success.”

  Thorne laughed.

  “God, the pair of you are gorgeous,” Orlando said with a groan. “Sure you’re not an item?”

  “No,” Thorne and Amanda said at the same time.

  “Oh I see Paul Betten. Excuse me.” Amanda sashayed away taking tiny geisha-like steps.

  Thorne and Orlando watched her go. Nice arse.

  “Fuck. She was the one who insisted on those shoes.” Orlando sighed, then moved closer to Thorne. “Why can’t you be straight or gay? Why do you have to be both? How can you be confused?”

  “I’m not confused. I know what I am. I’m not both. What I am has a name. Bisexual.”

  “You know what I meant. How many leading men can you name who are openly bi? Or gay for that matter. Any successful actor who’s not straight? And don’t trot out Rupert Everett.”

  Thorne bristled. “I’m not hiding what I am, Orlando.”

  “I’m not asking you to. But if you’re perceived as sitting on the fence, you’ll put people’s backs up. Not quite so bad if we say you’re confused.”

  Thorne opened his mouth to argue and Orlando leapt in again. “Yes, I get that you’re attracted to both sexes. I know what bisexual means, but the general public are only just coming to terms with the idea of gay being acceptable. They’re not anywhere near going along with bisexuality. They think guys who swing both ways are either greedy or muddled up. Better muddled than greedy. Anyway. Enough. Behave tonight. At least behave in public. Probably the best I can hope for, but be fucking careful.”

  Orlando strode off and Thorne made his way to his seat in the auditorium feeling irritated. Part of him wished he was either straight or gay because it would make life easier, but he wasn’t. He was attracted to women and to guys. Possibly not equally. But maybe that was part of the easily bored thing. He’d just not found ‘the one’, whichever sex that one might be. He thought he had not so long ago. He swallowed hard. Turned out he’d been dead wrong.

  Chapter Three

  When the final credits rolled Thorne groaned. Why did the film have to end on some enigmatic, incomprehensible note? Why couldn’t one of the shoe shops win out over the other? Hadn’t that been what the film was about? The finished version bore little resemblance to the script. Wishy-washy endings rarely made audiences happy apart from those critics who liked to think they’d seen something no one else had. The Emperor’s New Clothes sprang to mind. There was a round of applause and he pushed to his feet.

  “What did you think?” Amanda asked quietly.

  “At least we weren’t crap.”

  She giggled. Thorne felt uneasy watching himself. There were plenty of actors who didn’t ever view the movies they were in. They walked down the red carpet but went straight through the theatre and out the other side before the film started.
Thorne would never do that. If people were going to pay to see a film he’d been in, the least he could do was see for himself how good or bad it was. He thought he’d done okay, but it depended on what the critics thought. Orlando had told him not to read the reviews.

  Right. Like that was going to happen. And even if there were some glowing comments, it would be the negative ones that Thorne would register, sulk and possibly rail over.

  He’d eaten his popcorn and Amanda’s. Christ, he was fed up. He’d rather have watched River play chess, and that was really boring. Now he had to go the official party and act his socks off when he’d rather be eating Josh’s fajitas while watching some hilariously crap dating show on the TV, like the one where everyone was naked. He’d quite fancied one of the men in an episode he’d seen. A mixed-race guy with beautiful skin and a huge dong.

  Flashes went off in Thorne’s face as he walked out of the theatre with Amanda. Questions were yelled at them, all of which they ignored. Had they enjoyed the film? Were he and Amanda back together? What did Thorne think of the action sequence toward the end? He held back his laugh. Had there been an action sequence at the end? He must have nodded off. No wonder he thought it was enigmatic. Maybe he and Amanda hadn’t been the only ones bumped off.

  He stuck to Amanda until they were in the ballroom at the hotel, then headed for the buffet only to find himself cornered by a man whose face he recognised but whose name escaped him.

  “I enjoyed the film,” said the guy.

  Thorne almost said—I didn’t—but managed to restrain himself. “Thanks. That’s good to hear.”

  “Martin Mason.” He put out his hand and Thorne shook it.

  The handshake lasted slightly too long and a thumb circled his palm before his fingers were released. Thorne wouldn’t have pegged the guy as gay, but now he’d heard his name, he remembered who he was. Mason played a manipulative thug in one of the long-running TV soaps. He was tall, nicely proportioned, had straw blond hair and a rather fuckable mouth. Thorne’s cock woke up. Crap.

  “You were a convincing corpse.” Mason grinned.

  “It’s bloody hard to look dead for that length of time. The director wanted the scene in one take.”

  “It’s all in the breathing.”

  “Yeah, they said to me—whatever you do, don’t breathe.”

  Mason laughed and leaned to put his mouth against Thorne’s ear. “Want to fuck?”

  Thorne just about held back his gulp of surprise. He wasn’t usually propositioned so quickly.

  “I am desperate for you,” Mason whispered.

  Say no, say no, say no. “Okay.” Oh Christ. What am I doing?

  Mason’s shaky exhale hit his neck and Thorne shuddered. He’d been good for ages. What was this going to hurt?

  “No strings. Just a quick fuck,” Thorne whispered.

  “Fine by me. I can do quick.” Mason grinned. “I won’t be missed but you will. I have a room upstairs. Let’s get a drink before we slope off. Separately. What can I get you?”

  “Champagne.” Waiting staff were wandering around with trays of it. Thorne was impatient now. Well, his cock was, already pushing against his zip. He refastened his dinner jacket.

  “Don’t move.” Mason smiled at him, then headed in the direction of a waiter.

  Thorne turned to the buffet, and stuffed a couple of smoked salmon pinwheels in his mouth. Now the idea of a fuck was in his head, it consumed him. His cock was already rock hard. He managed brief conversations with three people who approached him before Mason came back—how long did it take to find a glass of champagne?

  Mason pushed a glass into his hand. “Bucks Fizz.”

  Thorne would rather have not had the orange juice added but Mason chinked his glass against Thorne’s and the raw lust on Mason’s face set the lit fuse running in Thorne’s groin.

  “You have any more films lined up?” Mason asked.

  “Yep.” Thorne downed the contents of the glass. Fuck it, that tasted bad. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re in a hurry.” Mason put his glass down and shoved a key in Thorne’s pocket. “See you in five. I’ll bring a bottle.”

  Even as Thorne made his way to the lift, he wondered what he was doing. This wasn’t behaving himself. Still, a fast fuck and he’d be back downstairs in twenty minutes. He could get away with that.

  He slipped into the room and pushed the card into the slot by the door. Lights came on by the bed. Thorne draped his clothes over the back of a chair. He didn’t want to look rumpled when he reappeared. He found lube and condoms in a toilet bag in the bathroom and tossed them on the bed. He wasn’t much bothered who fucked who, as long as he got off.

  It seemed ages before the door opened. Instead of going off the boil, which was what usually happened when he was made to wait for anything he wanted, he seemed to be growing more desperate. All he could think about was sex. He lay naked on the bed, fidgeting. He’d let go of his dick when he’d heard the noise at the door but it had been an effort. Only the bathroom light was on now, but the illumination somehow changed. The room wavered then shimmered as if the building had shifted, and he blinked. Christ, that’s odd.

  “Room service.” Mason handed him a bottle of champagne and cast an appreciative glance at Thorne’s erect cock.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry. I need to fuck. Thorne sat up and drank from the bottle as Mason stripped. The guy was bigger-muscled than Thorne, with pumped biceps that made his shirt tight. The champagne bottle suddenly weighed a ton and Thorne put it down. His head felt wrong, too heavy for him to hold up and he slumped back on the pillow, the room spinning, his heart racing. Shit. Mason slid onto the bed beside him and bent to lick Thorne’s nipple.

  Thorne shuddered with pleasure though it was tinged with anxiety. “Did you slip me something?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I don’t feel right.” He couldn’t be drunk. Nor could food poisoning come on that fast, could it?

  He was super sensitised to the sensation of Mason’s hands and lips currently sweeping over his body. He opened his mouth to tell Mason he was pissed off that he’d tricked him, and the words didn’t come out. I want to fuck, I want to fuck ran on a loop in his head. Don’t tell him that. Get up, walk out. This isn’t right.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.” Mason trailed his fingers down Thorne’s flank. “Go with the flow.”

  It wasn’t fine, but Thorne was having problems thinking in a straight line. Every time he managed to concentrate, his brain shifted sideways. It was the only part of him moving. He tried to get up and couldn’t. Mason slid down the bed, closed his mouth around Thorne’s cock and Thorne groaned. He was shaking with need, shaking with something. I’m an idiot.

  “Sa—id yesss, didn’t I?” Oh God, I slurred that. “Didn’t need to…give me anything.”

  Mason had definitely drugged him. What with? G? Jesus Christ. But Thorne was dropping fast into a state of not caring. Not when the guy had such a hot, wet, tight, vacuum pump of a mouth. Mason drew him in deep and Thorne arched his back, watching a blurred Mason suck him down, his cock all but disappearing between the guy’s lips. The moment Thorne thought he had to come, Mason pulled back, waited, then drove him mad all over again.

  Thorne was a take charge kind of guy but his arms and legs weren’t doing what he wanted them to. He just lay there. The need to come fought against the need to move. Mason tied a blindfold around his eyes, and although Thorne shook his head, and tried to say no, in the end he couldn’t stop it happening. Nothing worked, not his muscles, his mouth, only his mentally deranged cock and some small part of his brain that kept yelling at him to get out of there.

  “Christ, you are so beautiful,” Mason whispered. “Turn over.”

  Thorne had lost all coordination. Strong hands pulled him up and slid him onto his belly. Slick, oily fingers slipped between his arse cheeks, pressed and pushed, then dipped inside. Oh Jesus. Mason panted into Thorne’s back, the stubble of his chin rubbing
Thorne’s skin as he thrust his fingers in and out, rocking Thorne into the mattress. Teeth nipped his shoulder, and Thorne gave a loud moan. Then it wasn’t fingers pushing inside him but something bigger, hotter, blunter, and the jolt of panicked pleasure when Mason’s cock hit that perfect spot made him cry out into the pillow.

  “Arrgh, fuck, fuck,” Mason gasped.

  Thorne found himself pushing back into each forceful thrust, needing to come, letting his body show what his mouth couldn’t manage to say. The heat left his back as Mason reared up, his fingers digging into Thorne’s waist, holding him, keeping him exactly where Mason wanted him as he powered into him. Thorne was a mess of need and denial. He moaned with pleasure, sobbed in confusion.

  Fingers threaded Thorne’s hair and even as he tried to work out how Mason could do that and hold his waist, a cock pressed against his lips. Christ. Two guys? No. But Thorne was incapable of doing anything about it. Whoever was fucking his mouth, moved slow and hard, then fast and deep. Thorne was dimly aware of cries and groans that weren’t his, then the one thrusting between his lips came, spurt after spurt of bitter-sweet fluid hitting Thorne’s tongue, spilling from the corners of his mouth. Don’t swallow.

  The one fucking his arse sped up, driving so forcefully Thorne would have collapsed if he hadn’t been supported. He wanted this to stop but there was nothing he could do. In any case, his libido had other ideas. His fucking treacherous dick was betraying him. The hand wrapped around Thorne’s cock worked him until coming overwhelmed every other thought in Thorne’s mind. He floated in that level of acute pleasure, the precursor of an even greater pleasure to come, but it didn’t come. It fucking didn’t come.

  The guy banging him orgasmed and shoved Thorne into the bed with his weight as he slumped forward.

  Thorne’s body hurt. He ached. He desperately wanted this to end and despite four hands on him, playing with him, teasing him, he couldn’t fucking come.

  “Please, please, please.” He could hear himself pleading and wished he wasn’t.

  His brain felt as if it was about to explode. Fear nibbled at the edge of his sense. He could hear the two guys muttering, their hands worked him harder, then Thorne suddenly came, his orgasm so intense, it stopped him breathing. There was a loud curse, then someone thumped his chest. One hard gasp filled his lungs, and he heard himself whimpering, the sound muffled by the pillow.