Bad Boy 3

by Jamie Lake

  He decided to pick up the phone and dial, but it just rang and rang. After the third time of trying, he sent him a text, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something was definitely wrong.

  -WHAT’S UP?

  Peter waited for Anton to text back. But nothing. No response.

  “You alright?” Chip said, noticing Peter’s worried expression as he cleared off the last of the dirty dishes.

  “No, I … it’s probably nothing, it’s just my roommate. I tried to call him back. Just some strange message.”

  “Well, maybe you should go and see if he’s alright,” Chip suggested.

  “No, I’m sure it’s fine. I’d much rather ...”

  “No, seriously. If you can’t get a hold of him, maybe it’s something serious. What did his message say?” Chip put his hands on the back of Peter's chair, lowering his head so that he could meet Peter's eyes.

  “Just ‘HELP'. It’s just weird.” Peter shook his head. He couldn't suppress the sudden, sinking feeling he had. It must have shown on his face because Chip patted his arm reassuringly.

  “It’s okay, Peter. You can go. You have a lot on your mind right now, I can tell. But I understand. When I see you again, and I will, I want you 100% present with me. Whatever’s going on in your life, you can leave it at the door when you see me. This is a safe haven, I promise.” Chip didn't sound upset or angry now. He sounded genuine and kind.

  The words were exactly what he wanted to hear.

  “I feel so badly about being late and leaving so early,” Peter explained sheepishly. He lowered his head, teeth biting into his bottom lip.

  That’s when Chip placed Peter’s face in his palms and said, “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He was close enough to kiss, and Peter couldn’t help but watch his full sexy mouth as they formed around those words. And those eyes, those gorgeous eyes! Before Peter knew it, Chip had pulled him closer and kissed him deeply, softly, passionately, like Peter had never been kissed before. It was soft, but also insistent. As if his lips demanded something from Peter. He could feel Chip's tongue flick out and search along the seam of his mouth, desiring entrance.

  Peter had to kiss him back. God, it felt so good, so right, so perfect, like he was kissing a real man, like he was kissing … his husband.

  He could feel Chip’s hardness bulging against his thigh. He was so hard, so thick, and his hips pressed against Peter's insistently. And just as he was about to go for another round of kisses, they heard ….

  “Oooooh! You’re kissing!!” Johnny laughed, pointing his finger at them.

  “Boy, if you don’t go to your room!” Chip playfully threatened.

  Johnny ran off singing, “Peter and Daddy, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  They both chuckled, and Peter could feel his face warm with an embarrassed flush.

  “I’ll see ya,” Peter said, knowing he couldn’t tell Chip what he was supposed to tell him. He just couldn’t, not tonight.

  “Be good, bad boy,” Chip said, spanking him on the backside. The sensation made Peter even more aroused.

  Peter closed the door behind him and sighed.

  Shit. Now, he was in love.

  CHAPTER 3

  Peter was so irritated as he stormed up the steps to his apartment. He’d tried to call his roommate, Anton, all along the way, but there was no answer. He’d ruined a perfect date that could have lead to a really amazing time after Johnny had gone to bed, or at least a long night with deep, passionate kissing. And he messed up Peter’s opportunity to confess everything that was going on in him life, once and for all. It certainly wasn't the first time Anton ruined things for him. He really wished he could afford to move out. But if he told Chip what his night job was...

  Maybe Chip would have accepted him as-is and wouldn’t have judged him. Maybe there was a way to warn him of Tony’s threats. Peter didn’t know, but he would have liked the opportunity. He wasn't sure he could work up the courage to tell him again.

  Whatever Anton had to say, it couldn’t have been that important, but then again, something was eating at Peter. It wasn't like Anton to ask for help, but it was probably over something stupid. Or it was Anton being impatient with him again, asking for more money for bills.

  HELP? Help, my ass. Peter thought, as he slipped the key in the lock.

  But then the door floated open. That was weird. Why was it unlocked? Anton was so anal: he always insisted on double-locking the doors before he went to bed. And Peter knew for sure that he hadn’t forgotten to lock the door. Things had been so tense between him and Anton lately, he wasn’t about to give him another reason to bitch. He'd been extra careful lately about everything.

  Strange, Peter thought, as he stepped inside and found bits of wood from the door as if it’d been …

  His eyes widened. The deadbolt was still jutting out from the door, and the frame had been completely shattered. Paint chips and splinters dusted the carpet and immediately, Peter’s heart began pounding.

  Oh, my God, have we been broken into? Peter thought, panicking. His heart immediately began to race. This was all he needed on top of everything else going on in his life. He was almost afraid to turn the light on, since everything was pitch dark. What if whoever had broken in was still in the house?

  Peter tried to calm himself down, but he immediately thought of Tony. And the image of the dark Italian cousin in gold chains, or the Russian guy who murdered people with sports equipment. He tried to slow his breathing by taking slow and even breaths. Maybe that’s why Anton was texting him. He’d locked himself out of the house and forgotten his extra key. There had to be a logical explanation for all of this. Or maybe the logical explanation was also the most simple and horrifying. That something violent and terrible had happened.

  His breath came fast as his eyes twitched from one end of the house to the other, looking for signs of someone. There wasn't any sound at all and nothing moved in the apartment. It was dark and quiet. Too quiet.

  Peter cleared his throat, “Um … Anton?”

  He knew his voice was barely above a whisper, so he cleared it again, grabbing hold of the broom that was lodged between the refrigerator and counter. He needed something to defend himself.

  “Anton!” he said a little louder, his hand gripping the broomstick even tighter. He started to wonder if he should call Chip to see if he could come over. Maybe that would be the smarter idea, but he tried to calm himself. It was just likely that Anton, idiot that he was, had locked himself out and was now in bed, sleeping soundly. They didn't have anything worth stealing anyway, so why would anyone break in? Peter was always making something out of nothing, he thought. He did have an overactive imagination: his parents always told him that. But something told him deep inside, this time, there was more to it than that.

  He stepped out of the kitchen and down the hall, his eyes looking in the direction of the living room. There was nothing but the gentle glow of the television set. It was turned down, which was unusual for Anton, especially since it looked like he had been watching a marathon of his favorite show. Had Anton turned it down to hear what all the noise was? Anton wouldn't watch the television with the volume that low. He always blasted it; something that had increasingly gotten on Peter's nerves.

  This was getting weirder and weirder by the second. Where the hell was he? Suddenly, there was a rustling noise from the bedroom. Then a bang. Peter felt his heart stop. He knew at the moment he should call Chip, but he couldn’t. If it was nothing, then he would be so embarrassed and he would waste Chip's time. He'd already ruined their date by being late and then leaving early. Besides, there wouldn’t be enough time for Chip to come over. He had two choices: back out of the apartment or press further inside Anton’s bedroom to see what all the commotion was.

  It had to be Anton. He was probably just in his bedroom, Peter told himself, hoping to calm down. He stood outside the door, holding his breath, listening for any tell-tale signs of his roommat
e. He didn't hear anything. He felt stupid and afraid all at once. His hand hovered over the door, preparing to knock. He knocked once, lightly. There was no response.

  “Anton?” Peter said, a little softer as he cracked Anton’s door open even further. The bathroom light was on, and someone was behind the door. He could see the shadow of someone moving back and forth. But whoever it was, he wasn't answering him.

  Who was behind the door? Peter didn’t know, but the door was moving as if someone wasn’t sure whether to open it or shut it. But he swore he could hear someone shuffling across the carpet.

  Peter stepped inside, swallowing hard. He unscrewed the bottom part of the broom and gripped it in his hand like a baseball bat. Creeping closer and closer, he took a deep breath and said, “Anton?” He made his voice louder, more dominant. Then he said his roommate’s name one more time, but again, there was no response.

  That’s when he knew he had to do it. He had to open the door.

  “One … two …” he counted to himself, getting ready to open it, “Three.”

  And with that, he pushed the door open, and even quicker poised to bash whatever was in the bedroom with his makeshift weapon.

  “Ya!” Peter said, as he entered, but there was nothing, just the closed shower curtain.

  Nothing? Peter thought to himself, and that’s when it came toward him as if to attack.

  A cat.

  A damn alley cat skirted between his legs and dashed out of the room like a bullet. Peter screamed until he realized what it was. The damn thing must have came in through the cracked apartment door, and he stood there with his heart pounding and his blood beating in his ears long after it was gone. He glowered after the poor animal, swallowing hard and gasping for breath. It had nearly given him a heart attack. His chest pounded as his mouth was dry.

  Just to play it safe and make himself feel better, Peter pulled back the shower curtain. Finding nothing, he sighed with relief, his shoulders slumping forward. He'd have to have a little chat with Anton. While not as terrified as he'd first been, something still wasn't right.

  What the fuck was going on? he wondered. Where was Anton? Why had the door been broken as though someone had busted down the door? Peter shook his head, and as he was about to step out of the bathroom completely, he noticed the blood spots on the tub. They stood out against the white porcelain, bright red and lurid in the fluorescent bathroom light.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Wait a minute, slow down,” Chip said over the phone. “Did you call the cops?”

  “I’m calling you, aren’t I?” Peter said, pacing back and forth. He felt dizzy and ill. He should have called the police instead of bothering Chip, but Chip's number had just sprang to his fingers. He wanted him, no...he needed him there right now. He needed to hear his voice; to know that everything was going to be okay.

  Chip chuckled. “I’m sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “Maybe. But what is it?” Peter asked him. “It’s just so weird. Why was the door busted open? Why was ...”

  “Maybe it was the wind?” Chip suggested, interrupting his near-hysterical tirade.

  “But why would he leave his TV show running? He never does that. And he’s still not answering any of my calls or my texts.” Not that it was odd for Anton to ignore his texts. It was just that everything put together suggested that something terrible had happened.

  “Hey. Shh-shh-shh,” Chip said firmly but calmly, “Listen, don’t get all worked up. Want me to pick you up?”

  “No, I can ... I can do it,” Peter answered.

  “Then, leave. Right now. Take anything that’s too valuable to leave, but only if you can carry it alone in one trip! And come over right now,” Chip told him, “I’m gonna call for a squad car to come check out the apartment and close it off.”

  “A squad car?” Peter said, a note of panic in his voice. “I don’t want to ... I mean ...” What did he mean? He didn’t want the law involved. Why? Because he was afraid it would somehow lead back to his shady massage business.

  “Don’t worry,” Chip said. “They are friends of mine. Besides, it’s not like you’re a drug dealer or a hooker or something, right?” He laughed.

  Peter forced a laugh, too. If Chip only knew. “Yeah. Right.” Just a borderline prostitute who’s being aggressively sought after by a mafioso.

  “That’s it, I’m coming to get you,” Chip comforted.

  “No, no … I’ll … I’m coming,” Peter said, sounding distracted.

  Peter packed a few things, hopped into his car, heart pounding, and drove off. When he pulled up to Chip’s house, he stood on the front porch so anxiously that he thought he might have a heart attack. He felt as if, at any moment, somebody might gun him down or leap from the bushes to abduct him.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  When the door finally opened, a car peeled out nearby and Peter was startled so badly that he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  But Chip just stood there, with Johnny next to him in his jammies, the little boy yawning. Chip pulled him inside and slammed the door before wrapping him up in a big, powerful embrace.

  “Oh, my God, it’s good to see you,” Peter said, and he couldn’t help but smile. He finally felt safe, truly relieved. He wanted to throw himself on Chip and shower his face with kisses, but he held back. Peter was so grateful.

  Chip had a sexy smirk across his face. “You didn’t think I could leave my best boy without a refuge tonight?” Chip said, pulling him into the kitchen “Someone might come over and try to take advantage of him.” His grin was sly and cagey. He was teasing Peter, and Peter was so happy that he was.

  “You're bad,” Peter whispered, so Johnny wouldn’t hear, although there wasn't any scorn in his voice at all. He liked this type of teasing, especially when it came from Chip.

  “So, can I really sleep on your couch?” Peter asked.

  “No need. My bed’s more comfy,” Chip said nonchalantly. Peter could feel another blush rise from his collar and stain his cheeks. He’d broach that later. For now, he changed the subject.

  “I can’t believe you’d open your home up to me so suddenly,” Peter said. “Thank you so much.”

  “Of course we would. I care about you and you sounded crazed, like a maniac,” Chip said, walking into the living room. Peter frowned. He'd been scared, sure. Had he really sounded that rattled?

  “I’m tired, Daddy,” Johnny said, rubbing his sleepy eyes with a curled fist.

  “All right, son, time for bed,” Chip said, ushering Johnny into Peter’s bedroom, a hand on his son's back. “Go ahead now.”

  “Will you tuck me in?” Johnny asked, looking over his shoulder, his brow furrowed.

  “Of course,” Chip said with a soft smile.

  “What about you Mr. Vanderbilt, I mean, Peter?” Johnny asked, then pressed his finger against his lips, “Shh.”

  Peter smiled and reached over to ruffle Johnny's hair affectionately. “Of course, Johnny.”

  They all stepped into Johnny's bedroom, and Johnny climbed in the bed. The walls were covered with big laminate images of Winnie the Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, and Owl. Chip sat on the edge of the bed tucking his son in while Peter climbed on the other side of it.

  “Daddy, aren’t you going to sleep with me?” Johnny asked, twisting a lock of his dark hair.

  “For a minute, son, but first I need to talk to Peter,” Chip said, rubbing his son’s tummy with one big, strong hand.

  “My bed is real big,” Johnny said. “Can’t Peter sleep with us too?”

  Peter burst out laughing, “No, no, no. I’ve got my own bed for tonight.”

  “No, not tonight,” Chip smiled, then looked at Peter directly, “Maybe some other night.”

  Something stirred in Peter. The thought that Chip was suggesting, flirtatiously again, that he’d like to sleep in the same bed as him, got him excited, and for a moment all that had happened tonight slipped out of his mind.

  Thinking about th
e fact that they could sleep together as a family one day, if Johnny ever woke up in the middle of the night scared from a bad dream or a thunderstorm, not only warmed his heart, but it reminded him of what life could be like if he ever had his dream of having him own family.

  It was something he'd always wanted. A husband, a kid, and a nice, comfy home. Someplace to celebrate the holidays and loved ones with whom to celebrate them. Family dinners. He'd never be alone or lonely again. It seemed so far away, especially now. For a moment, he let himself pretend he had that with Chip. That they were comforting their son after a bad dream and in the morning, they'd make breakfast together.

  “Will you read me a bedtime story?” Johnny asked, breaking Peter out of his wholesome fantasy.

  “Son, not tonight, okay? Daddy has a lot to talk to Peter about. And you need to get up and go to school tomorrow.” Chip tucked the blankets up to Johnny's chin and pressed a kiss to the little boy's forehead.

  “Do we get to go to school with Peter at the same time?” Johnny asked, lighting up as if it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to him before.

  “Sure,” Peter smiled. “Goodnight, Johnny.” He paused and then he too pressed a very light kiss to the little boy's forehead. It made him ache inside. He wished he had a son like Johnny who he could tuck in at night. And a husband like Chip. It would be the perfect life.

  “Good night, Peter,” Johnny said, wiggling in the bed more. They both slipped out the door, turning the light off in the process.

  “We’ll leave the bathroom light on for you, okay Johnny?” Peter suggested.

  “Okay!” Johnny said drowsily, snuggling down into the blankets.

  Chip closed the door, leaving it cracked just a bit so he could check on him. They walked over to the living room, sitting down on the couch. Peter let out a long, heavy sigh. It had been a tumultuous night. First, with Tony and then the date that had almost ended in disaster, and now this mystery with Anton. He was exhausted.

  “Do you want something to drink, a midnight snack perhaps?” Chip flirted.