Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  Wait. Gale didn’t only give me the address. He also gave me the phone number, and although he apparently won’t answer it for anyone, I might as well try.

  I half expect to hear his phone ring from inside his apartment, but there’s only silence.

  Okay. I’ve done all I could. More than I should. Disappointment weighs on me, mingling with the ever-present worry.

  Not your boyfriend, I remind myself. Not your problem.

  Something inside me rebels at those thoughts and I bang again at his door. “Riot. Open up this freaking door, or I swear to God I’ll have Gale break it down. Riot!”

  A thump sounds inside the apartment, and I step back, my heart tripping as he unlocks and opens the door.

  Oh God. I didn’t even have time to think what to expect if he was here—except for the screwing a girl thing—but he looks...rough. His jaw is dark with stubble, his hair hiding his eyes, and he’s sort of hunched over.

  And he reeks of alcohol.

  Awesome.

  “Are you—?” Yeah, he doesn’t look okay. Moot question. I huff. “May I come in?”

  He says nothing but steps back. I take that as a yes, and walk into his apartment, the door falling shut behind me.

  ***

  It’s dim inside his living room, and the smell of alcohol suffocating. There’s also a smell of wet fur and a whiff of...antiseptic?

  “Why is it so dark in here?” The hulking shape of the sofa looms out of the gloom. I barely make out a table with chairs on the other side and two doors, one of them half-open. “Why are you locked in?”

  No answer. He’s leaning on the wall by the apartment door, a darker shadow.

  “Do you know the agency has been calling you?” Like I have. “They said you missed appointments.” No reaction. “They’re worried about you.”

  He snorts.

  Okay, I give in. He’s acting too weird. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothin’.” But his voice is as rough as his appearance. Dressed in low-slung jogging pants and a stained T-shirt, barefoot, his hair hanging in his face, he looks like he’s sick.

  “You were drinking.”

  He snorts once more. Yeah I know, I’m stating the obvious. As my eyes get accustomed to the dimness, I make out a row of bottles on the low coffee table.

  Oh dear God. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough,” he spits the words and still doesn’t move from his spot against the door. “What do you want, Pax?”

  I flinch at his cold tone. Are we back to this?

  “Know what? I was worried about you. Believe it or not, although you left without a word and never called, I…” I swallow hard. “I had to make sure you’re all right. But I’ll go.”

  With a curse, he pushes off the door and staggers over to me. I stiffen—just how drunk is he? But when he grabs me in his arms and wraps them around me, I want to cry with relief.

  “Pax…” He presses his face to my hair. “Missed you.”

  God, I missed him, too. How is that possible? I haven’t known him all that long, and yet it feels like a lifetime.

  I slide my arms around his back, pressing my body against his, but he jerks and hisses between his teeth, pulling away.

  “Riot.” I step back immediately, lift my hands as he wraps an arm around his ribs. “Oh God. You’re hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.” He staggers—no, he limps to the sofa, as I stare at him, dumbfounded.

  Jesus. I start after him a moment later, and sit down beside him.

  “Riot. Let me see.”

  It’s too frigging dark. On my right is a standing lamp and I fumble under it until I find the switch and turn it on.

  “Ow, fuck.” He throws an arm over his eyes but not before I see that one of them is black and swollen almost shut.

  Crap. Looks like someone beat him up.

  I tug his arm down to take a better look at his face and he lets me. His jaw is purple and swollen, and his lower lip is split, crusted with blood.

  Yikes. I hurt just by looking at his face.

  Then I remember his ribs and pull up his T-shirt. He doesn’t move, his breathing harsh. I move aside to let the light from the lamp hit him, and a gasp escapes me.

  His whole side is black and blue, the bruises spreading down his hip and over his flat stomach.

  “Who did this to you?” My fingers shaking, I let the hem of the T-shirt fall, covering the damage. “Why? Was it for money? Did they attack you in the street?”

  “It wasn’t for money.” He turns to stare at the line of bottles on the low table as if contemplating what to drink next. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  I suck in a sharp breath and nod. Okay, I can take a hint. “Fine. I’ll just—”

  He clamps a hand around my wrist, so tightly it stings.

  “It could be dangerous for you, Pax,” he says so low I barely hear him. “What if they attacked you, too?”

  I still. “Who are you talking about? Just talk to me.”

  “Elliot and Oliver. They’re...from my past.”

  The world has stilled, too. Time has stopped. The only thing moving is the dust dancing in the light from the lamp. “What do you mean?”

  “Corey said I should tell you, but I didn’t want you to run.” His hand tightens more around my wrist and I yelp. Immediately he loosens his hold. “You scare me, Pax.”

  “I scare you?” My mouth is hanging open, my mind a whirlwind.

  His lips twitch in an almost smile, and a drop of blood beads and rolls slowly down his chin. “I feel too much when it comes to you. I want you too much.”

  “So you ran away from me instead?”

  He hangs his head. “I guess I…” He draws a shuddering breath. “I did. Didn’t think you’d stick around if you found out.”

  “Found out what, Riot?”

  Jesus, what can be so bad that he wouldn’t tell me?

  “About the illegal fight club. I worked there. I was one of the Hellfire Fighters.”

  Relief floods me. This is what he meant? “I know.”

  “You know? How the hell would you know that?” He grunts, grimaces in pain and releases my wrist in favor of wrapping his arm around his ribs again. “Ow, fuck.”

  My heart hurts to see him in pain. Don’t know what to do. “I suspected it. Then I Googled the Hellfire Fighters and found your name. Well, Riot Callahan. Not many guys called Riot out there. And there was a photo. Grainy, but I was sure it was you. Unless you have a twin brother you haven’t told me about.”

  He shakes his head, his gray eyes dark. “And now?” he whispers.

  “Now…” I touch his arm, slide my hand up, grip his solid biceps. “I’m going to find some dinner for us, put a cold compress on your face, and meet the boys. Dexter and Batman.”

  Whom I haven’t seen. I wonder if they’re scared and hiding somewhere.

  He stares at me. “That’s it?”

  “No, not only. I’ll help you shower and put you in bed.” I slide my hand up his chest to his face, rest it on his good cheek, his stubble tickling my palm. “Like you did for me.”

  He bends his head. “Won’t you ask me about the fight club? Why I left? Why I was beaten up?”

  “No.” I smooth my fingers over his cheekbone, try not to look at the other, injured side of his face. “I won’t ask you. You will tell me when you’re good and ready.”

  His breath hitches once. “Pax…”

  “I trust you. You gave that back to me, took away my fear, and whatever happened back then, I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

  He looks stricken, shaken. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because you’re a good guy.”

  And if I doubted it for a second there, now that doubt is gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Riot

  Why isn’t she demanding to know everything? Why isn’t she pissed, yelling at me or stomping out the door?

  She knew. She knew about the fight club and didn�
��t run. Does that mean she’s staying?

  Bullshit, Riot. Think.

  She still doesn’t know about my part in all that happened—my mistake. Markus’s death. Kyle. The debts I’ve been trying to pay.

  The guilt I’ve been carrying around these past two years.

  I lean back on the couch, my head spinning. Partly due to all the booze I drank on an empty stomach—but hey, after I took Batman out to shit and crawled back up the steps moaning like a dying man, and after my search for painkillers in the apartment came up empty and the pain got really bad, whisky was my only solution.

  It did dull the pain a little. Also cut up time into chunks, so that my memories of the past day—two days?—are disjointed and splintered. I remember taking Batman out. I remember feeding the boys...when? Not sure. I remember looking for my phone, not finding it and giving up.

  I remember drinking. A lot. And then…

  Pax.

  I blink. I look around.

  Oh right. She’s left to check out the kitchen. I wonder if there’s anything edible left in the cupboards and the fridge, but I hear noises and soon enough a smell of something cooking hits my nose.

  My mouth waters and my stomach growls like a lion on heat.

  My head hurts. My ribs burn like white-hot blades stuck in my flesh. My back aches, where they kicked me when I was already down.

  And what they said to me...

  Dexter meows and jumps onto the sofa, climbing on my lap. He hid the moment the first knock came on the door, same as Batman. Poor dog still hasn’t come out of the bathroom.

  “Hey, buddy.” His sharp claws sink through my pants and into my flesh, the tiny pain lost in the bigger aches. I pat his furry head. “Smelled food and came out of hiding, huh?”

  He starts sharpening his claws on my pants. I let him. Why should only humans abuse me? Let cats have their time of day, too.

  And what do you know, pain lulls me to sleep, apparently. What does that tell you about me? Next thing I know, Pax is sitting beside me, stroking hair out of my face and Dex is gone.

  Was he even here?

  “Kitty’s in the kitchen, eating,” Pax tells me with a grin, and I frown as the words sink in.

  “Traitor,” I mutter, my voice rusty. “He was bought with food.”

  “I think he likes me.”

  “Then he has good taste.” I smile back at her, my head a little clearer now.

  “Speaking of food…” She nods toward the kitchen. “Would you like to eat something?”

  My stomach does that growling thing again, and despite everything, heat rises up my neck. “Sure. Though I have no fucking clue what you found to cook in there.”

  “Oh, you had a few things. Rice and mushroom sauce and jalapenos and canned sausages.” She scrunches up her nose. “Corey would be horrified, but he’s a purist. I’d go out and get you some fresh food, though.”

  “No.” I grab her hand. “You don’t walk out of here in the night. Told you, it could be dangerous.”

  She nods. “Then you’ll be subjected to my culinary experiment of the day. No choice. You may regret it.”

  “I’ll never regret any of this. Or you. Never.” Her eyes widen, and I’d have beaten myself over the head for stupidly spilling all that’s been knocking around inside my head these past few weeks, but hey. I’m already beaten to hell and back. Plus, I’m drunk, so here goes. “I love you, Pax.”

  With all my selfish, stupid heart. For as long as you stay.

  ***

  The soup is so good I almost choke on it, I’m swallowing it down so fast. Didn’t realize I was so hungry. When she ladles more into my bowl, I make quick work of it, and then lean back in my chair, full and half-asleep already.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, rubbing at my eyes, then groaning when pain jolts through one side of my face.

  “Why sorry? Let me help you get clean and into bed.”

  As if I’m a little kid, or...or her boyfriend.

  She didn’t say a word when I told her I loved her. Not a fucking word. I guess there’s my answer.

  What did you expect, Riot? She knows so little about you and already she can’t love you back. Not with your past. Not with the job you’re doing.

  Fuck.

  “What’s wrong?” She’s standing in front of me and I jerk back.

  Jesus. This goddamn time-jumping has to stop. “Nothing. Really. Let’s go.”

  I have to steady myself on the table to get up because the bruises on my back somehow make my leg ache—an old injury, from my fighting days. Plus, my eye is swollen almost shut and that throws off my balance.

  She’s patient. Sweet. Wraps her arm around my waist, steadies me, and leads me to the bathroom.

  “Sorry, no tub here.” I let her put me down on the closed toilet lid like a déjà vu and sniff at myself.

  Fuck, I stink. I’m still in the clothes I wore when I was attacked, and my T-shirt is stained with the blood that dripped from my split lip.

  She comes back, kneels between my legs, and starts undressing me. Gently she tugs the T-shirt over my head, and I hiss when the act of lifting my arms sends pain slicing through my side. She tugs down my pants and briefs, tosses them into a corner.

  Then she straightens and pulls off her sweater, her tank top, her bra. Her skirt, her panties, her boots and socks. I watch it all, my mouth dry with want. Her touch, the sight of her naked body should have me hard by now but I’m too wiped out and in pain for that.

  In fact, it feels a little dream-like when she pulls on my hands, trying to get me on my feet, and I end up planting a hand on the wall to push myself up. She turns on the shower and leads me under the spray, and there’s a halo around her head.

  I blink, trying to clear my eyes.

  “Here.” She makes me turn toward the wall and put my hands on the tiles. “Stay like this.”

  “Pax—”

  She plants a kiss between my shoulder blades, sending a shudder through my body. “Trust me?”

  “Fuck, I do. Always.”

  She makes a small sound I can’t decipher, not without seeing her face, then she moves the showerhead and the spray beats on us, warm.

  When it hits the bruises in my back and others I didn’t realize I had on my shoulders and arms, I moan between my teeth.

  “Stop fighting back,” I hear Elliot’s voice in my head right before his boot connects with my ribs where I’m lying in the street, Oliver holding me down. “Learn to take it like a good little bitch. That’s how I want you to take it when you fight the Crusher. Let him beat the shit out of you, fuck you up, like he did to—”

  “Is it too hot?” Pax asks. She glides her hand over my back. “Riot?”

  I fold one arm against the tiles, rest my forehead on it. “’S fine.”

  No matter how hot the water is, I doubt it’ll seep deep enough into me to thaw the ice in my bones. I have five days. Five days before they come for me again and demand I fight.

  Or rather that I lie down and take it until I’m as surely dead as Markus is.

  Shit.

  “Tell me if I press too hard,” she says, swiping her hands over my back. I don’t own sponges, or a bathtub, or a fancy apartment.

  As if I need to remember any more differences between us, any more reasons for which we could never be together.

  Her hands move in light circles over my back and up my neck. They vanish, then return, massaging shampoo into my hair. She must be standing on tiptoe to be able to do that, and I risk a glance under my arm.

  Can’t see a thing, and the shampoo gets in my eyes, stinging. Then the water washes the shampoo off and God, it feels good.

  Even better when she spreads soap down my back, over my ass, down my legs. I chew on my lip not to groan in pleasure when she kneads the muscles in my thighs. Heat is pooling behind my balls.

  Guess I can get hard after all. When it comes to Pax, all bets are off.

  And then she’s tugging on my hip, to make me turn around.


  Oh fuck.

  I turn, because I can’t hide, and why would I want to hide I’m fucking hard for her? Her eyes widen when she takes in the steel pole that is my dick, pointing up at her, the piercings glinting, then she reaches for it and runs her hand up its length, toys with the balls at the ends of the barbells.

  “Goddamn.” My body is a live wire. Just one touch on my cock and I’m ready to go off.

  “Lean against the wall,” she whispers, gives me a light shove until my upper back is pressed to the tiles. I hope she’ll keep touching me, but she squirts more of my cinnamon shower gel into her hands and starts washing my chest and arms. My breath catches when her hands approach my crotch, but she washes around it, moving down my legs, stroking down my shins to my feet.

  Then gets more soap and starts washing my hands, pressing between my fingers, on my palms. And still jolts of pleasure go through me with every small caress. Her tits sway in front of me, and I’m dying to lick her dark nipples, suck on them.

  Press her to the wall and sink inside her, fuck her until we both lose control.

  Christ, she’s touching me everywhere but where I’d kill for her to touch me. My dick bobs, stretched to its full length, aching, diamond-hard. My blood’s on fire.

  Her palms skim down my sides, her hands fasten on my hips. Still not touching my dick.

  “All clean now,” she says, and when she looks up at me, her mouth tips up into a teasing smile.

  “Yeah,” I manage between gritting teeth. Is she doing it on purpose, to show me she’s pissed with me no matter what she says, or is—?

  Her hands are suddenly on my dick, squeezing, and I knock my head back against the wall, gasping her name.

  “Looks like you might need some help with this,” she says, laughter in her voice, as I blink the stars from my eyes.

  “Inside you,” I say hoarsely, and when she nods, I push her until her back meets the shower door. “Fuck, I thought I’d never do this again with you.”

  She starts to say something and I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing her words. My split lip burns but I barely feel it as she opens her lips and lets me in.

  Her taste hits me like a drug, straight to the vein, lighting up every nerve ending I own. Our bodies align, and her leg curls around my calf. I grab it, lift it higher. My cock teases her entrance and she gasps.