by James Lear
“Thanks for the reminder, Jackson. Sometimes I let my cock do the thinking for me.”
“That’s fine for the Ozes of this world,” said Jackson, “but now you’re upgrading.”
Of course—he’s done his homework, reading the fake news that Ethan Oliver and his CIA buddies have been meticulously planting about me. He knows all about former USMC Captain Greg Cooper, his successes and his catastrophic failures. That’s why I’m here, in the Vaughan camp. They see qualities that may be useful. I have a role to play in their plans. I’m not just a trainer and a useful piece of dick; I’m a headstrong racist with no visible morals and a talent for killing. Did Jackson know about Vaughan’s involvement with the extreme right? Did he know what Vaughan was involved with in the US? Maybe not. But Jackson was smart. He could follow the money, and he could figure out—better than me, probably—that there were inconsistencies in Vaughan’s accounting. Where did all the black money go? If anyone knew, Jackson did. This was why I was going to fuck him into submission. I would break him down until he was so addicted to my cock that he’d go into withdrawal when I withdrew. He’d tell me anything. This was a strategic fuck.
“Okay, man. I’ll be guided by you. Where does a guy like Tom Jackson like to be taken?”
“That’s more like it.” He looked me up and down. “I don’t suppose you have a suit, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“What about your marine uniform?”
“You don’t get to keep it when you’re thrown out. It’s not fancy dress.”
“Shame.”
“But I’m still a marine underneath.”
“So I’ve seen.” He smirked. What had he seen? Photos? Surveillance footage?
“So, where should I take you?”
“Is it too early for cocktails?”
Dan Stagg would have said something dismissive about cocktails, and suggested a beer in a blue-collar bar, but Greg Cooper was eager to please. “It’s never too early for cocktails. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Not for too long, I hope,” said Jackson, flagging down a taxi. Soon we were speeding through the drizzle to the city center. I put my arm along the back of the seat, allowing my thumb to brush the neatly clipped hair at the back of his neck. He didn’t move away. In the enclosed space of the cab I could smell his fancy aftershave.
We arrived at our destination: a busy bar, customers coming and going, standing outside smoking, all of them well-dressed, smart casual, stylish haircuts. All of them men.
“A gay bar?”
“Of course a gay bar, Greg.” Jackson tutted and rolled his eyes. “Where do you think I go when I’m off duty? Church?”
“Okay, okay.” I followed him inside, watching the nods and smiles of greeting, fielding the appraising glances. “Hey, do you bring all your boyfriends in here?”
“You’re not my boyfriend, Greg.”
“Not yet.” I took a handful of ass. He didn’t push me away.
“Confident, aren’t you?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Let’s find out. Hi, darling,” he said to the barman, a pretty little blond with a diamond stud earring. “Two sidecars, please. We’ll be over there somewhere.”
No money changed hands. I presumed that Jackson had an account, the bills settled by Vaughan.
“Right.” He settled into a chair, loosened his tie and ran a hand over his immaculate hair, parted at the side in a precise line. A services haircut, as interpreted by an expensive salon. “I feel like I’m playing truant.”
“I won’t tell.”
“I don’t normally socialize with colleagues.”
“I’m honored.”
“You interest me, Greg.”
“You interest me, Tom.”
The drinks arrived. Jackson made chit-chat with the waiter, who kept glancing at me as if waiting for an introduction. None was forthcoming, and he disappeared.
“They’re all dying to know who you are, Greg.”
“Let ‘em die.”
“Mr. Vaughan wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this.”
“Of course not,” I said. “He’s straight, isn’t he.”
Jackson wet his pretty pink lips in his drink, raising his eyebrows in reply.
“I’m not,” I said. My voice was gruff; I had to clear my throat. Damn Jackson and his poise; he was making me nervous. He was too much in control of himself, and of me. I swigged my drink. Cocktails aren’t my thing, but I was glad of the liquor.
“So, Greg, tell me all about yourself.”
“What do you want to know? You’ve done your research.”
“Like, why are you here?”
“In this bar? You know why.”
“I mean in England. Particularly in Manchester.”
I shrugged. “I’m one of those drifters you see in movies. Rides into town, nobody knows where he comes from . . .”
“But really, why?”
“I needed a fresh start.”
“Because of what happened.”
“It’s not nice to see yourself all over the media as a racist and a thug.”
“Even if you are?”
“You can’t say anything these days without getting into trouble.”
“So you came to England, hoping that we don’t read the same news that you read at home.”
“Something like that. Was I wrong?”
“Who knows?”
“You know everything that goes on.”
“Someone has to. And that’s why I’m glad to have this talk.”
Shit—had he really brought me here just to talk? I’d assumed we were having a couple of aperitifs before the main event. Time to regain control of the situation.
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“Do you mind,” said Jackson, lowering his eyelids, “if I ask you a couple of direct questions?”
“Fire away.”
“Did you come to the Craig Lukas fight because you wanted to get a job with Mr. Vaughan?”
“It was one of the reasons, yes.”
“And did anyone tell you beforehand that we might be looking for new people?”
“No. I just assumed that a man like him could use a man like me.”
“Why?”
Careful, Dan. “Alan Vaughan’s the biggest promoter in the UK.”
“Is he?”
“He’s certainly one of them.”
“Who else did you consider approaching?”
Damn it. That wasn’t included in my briefing. “Okay, I’ll be honest with you. I wound up in Manchester because . . .” Think quickly, Dan. “I got involved with a guy in London. I followed him up here. I thought . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”
“You don’t seem like the type to go trailing around after guys. I rather thought it would be the other way round.”
“Usually is.”
“What was so special about this one, then?” Now, the kind of guys that Dan Stagg usually falls for are sweet, sexually voracious young men like Will, and Mark Williams back in Iraq . . . I had a sudden stab of pain around the heart. What would Greg Cooper do? “He was rich.”
“You’re a gold digger.”
I shrugged. “A man has to eat.”
“And what happened?”
“He disappeared.”
“In a puff of smoke?”
“On a plane from Manchester airport. Without me.”
“Oh, dear. You didn’t play your hand well enough.”
“I should learn from you, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How to hold on to a man. You’ve done pretty well with Vaughan.”
“If you think I’m going to give away trade secrets, you’re very much mistaken.” Jackson smiled his Cheshire Cat smile.
“I’m sure you’re worth every penny.”
Jackson sipped his drink. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t want to know th
e details. I’m sure you’re the best fuck in town, and I’m equally sure that you know way too much about Vaughan’s business operations for him to let you go.”
“He has complete trust in me.”
“Even when he’s out of town?”
“Going for a drink in my favorite bar isn’t exactly a crime.”
“True.” I managed to look him in the eye. “And is that what we’re here for?”
“What could you be talking about?”
I leaned towards him, and lowered my voice. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. I want to fuck you up the ass.”
He feigned surprise, and hand fluttering to his chest. “Oh! Captain Cooper!”
“Don’t act the queen with me. It doesn’t suit you.”
That ruffled his feathers—which was my intention. “Fuck off.” He knocked back the rest of his drink. “I don’t take that kind of crap from anyone.”
“Suit yourself. This place sucks.” I stood up. “See you at the office, Jackson.”
“Sit down, for God’s sake. People are looking.” He was flustered.
“Let ‘em look.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” Jackson put his jacket on. “Let’s go. It was a mistake to bring you here.”
“I know what you’re up to, Jackson. Vaughan told you to wiggle your ass at me, then do a bit of detective work while my guard’s down. That’s okay. I’d do it myself if someone like me turned up in the organization. Extreme vetting.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh, sure.” I walked towards the door; Jackson followed. “Thing is, Jackson, I can get laid without too much trouble. I can do without the interrogation. I did a lot of that kind of thing myself, you know, except in the marines it involved actual torture.”
People were eavesdropping. Jackson hustled me towards the door. Outside in the chilly street he said “Stop, Greg, please. I didn’t mean to be a wanker.”
“Really.”
“I do like you.” He was looking at his feet, passing cars, the sky—anything but me. I waited. “I just . . . the thing is, we have to be careful. There are aspects of all businesses that might be open to misrepresentation.”
Time to show my hand. “Like porn websites.”
“You know about that?”
“I’m surprised I’m not on them.”
Jackson laughed nervously. “Perhaps you will be one day.”
“Or do you just keep that footage in case I step out of line?”
Now he glanced up at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure yet. Surveillance cameras, I’m guessing. That’s why Oz took me into that room. Am I right?”
Jackson said nothing. I started walking down the street, away from the crowds. Jackson caught up with me.
“Why are you so interested, Greg?”
“Did you think I was just some dumb hunk? I’m a military man, Jackson. We notice things. And you may think you’re very clever and discreet in this operation, but it’s wide open. Any asshole with a basic training in intelligence could figure out what’s going on. I’m surprised the police aren’t all over you.”
“Really?”
“I guess they’re part of Team Vaughan as well.” That shut him up. We walked on in silence for a while.
“So,” I said, “where do we go now?”
“Depends what you want to do.”
“You know what I want to do, Jackson. I want to fuck you. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to discuss Alan Vaughan’s business methods, and I don’t want to listen to your attempts at detective work. I want to stick my dick inside you.” I walked faster; Jackson had to jog to keep up.
“All right! I get the message. You don’t like being questioned. But listen for a second . . .” He put a hand on my arm, pulled me to a halt. “You have to see it from our point of view.”
“Our?”
“I work for a very important man.”
“He’s just a boxing promoter.”
“He’s very influential.”
“You mean he has power over a lot of people.”
“And I need to protect my own position.”
“What position is that, exactly?”
“As an employee.”
“So do I.”
“I’m Mr. Vaughan’s PA, and that means I have operational knowledge of all areas of the business.”
“All areas?”
“Yes.”
“Even the criminal ones?”
“I’m not supposed to discuss anything outside the office.”
“What do you think I’m going to do? Run to the cops?”
“No.” He was right there: I was going to run to the intelligence services.
“Even United States Marines know a bit about the commercial side of sex. We have to supplement our incomes somehow.” This wasn’t entirely untrue; I know a few grunts who have sold it, even a few who were stupid enough to model for porno. “And Alan Vaughan isn’t the only gay man in the boxing world.” Jackson opened his mouth to say something. “Okay, okay, he’s not gay, he’s married, let’s take that as read. But I’ve come across a lot of men in that world who are there for the boys as much as for the sport. Empires have been built on it. I could name, what, four or five world champions who have fucked their way to the top. They’re not gay either. They’re famous. They’re married. But they use what they’ve got, and there are plenty of men out there buying.”
I was making this up as I went along, but Jackson seemed to be lapping it up.
“Let’s just forget all this for a while, shall we?” said Jackson. “We can go back to my place if you like.”
“Suits me. But promise me, no more questions.”
“I’ll try.”
Jackson’s apartment was on the 14th floor of a new tower block right by the waterfront in Salford Quays. No wonder he was protective of his status in Vaughan-Corp: this place must have cost a fortune, far more than a PA in his twenties had any chance of earning. Presumably it belonged to Vaughan, in fact if not in name. It didn’t take us long to get naked and into the king-size bed. Once he shut up and took his clothes off, Jackson was a much more attractive proposition. His body was perfectly designed for the pleasure of men: firm, sculpted, smooth skin, a round ass, and a stiff cock that curved upwards like a banana. No wonder he ensured Vaughan’s patronage. We’d been making out for twenty minutes, kissing and sucking, when I started to get my fingers into his asshole.
“I . . . I don’t get fucked.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “What?”
“Mr. Vaughan doesn’t like . . . that stuff.”
“You are kidding me, right?”
“No. We don’t do it. He’s kind of . . . fastidious about it.”
“Fastidious?” I burst out laughing. “You cannot be serious.”
Jackson hid his face in the pillow. My fingers were still applying gentle pressure to his tight little hole. I reached underneath him to check he was still hard. He was.
“What do you do, then?”
“I suck him.”
“Yeah, of course. Go on.”
“I . . . show off.” He was gently pumping into my hand.
“Is that all?”
“Sometimes he gets me to do stuff with another guy.”
“And he watches? Or joins in?”
“Mostly watches.”
“Is he impotent?”
“No. I mean, he comes. But he’s kind of . . . I don’t know. Repressed.”
“And what about this ass, then? Does that never get anything?”
“I use toys on myself.”
“With him, or on your own?”
“On my own. Mr. Vaughan doesn’t like . . . he’s very squeamish about . . . you know.”
“Shit.”
He stopped pumping. “Yes.”
“Okay.” I let go of his cock and ass, and rolled away. “Well that’s really killed the moment, hasn’t it?”
“Sorry.” He sat
up, red-faced and crestfallen. “Not what you were expecting, am I?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not the cocky little fuck you thought I was.”
“Perhaps not.” I put a hand on his thigh. “I like you better for that.”
“Really?”
“I thought Tom Jackson was a bit too good to be true.”
“Thanks.” He shifted across the bed and lay next to me, stroking my hairy stomach. “The truth is, I’m not actually that experienced.”
“Are you for real?”
“Before Mr. Vaughan I didn’t really have boyfriends. One or two guys of my own age that I fooled around with, but . . .”
“Please don’t tell me that you’ve never been fucked.”
Jackson moved in closer, and buried his face in my armpit.
“Christ. A virgin.”
We lay like that for a while, each waiting for the other to start. I lost patience first.
“Okay, baby. I’m going to take it slow. Are you sure you want it?”
“Yes.”
“You know it’s going to hurt, right?”
“I don’t care.” Jackson’s hand was on my cock, bringing me back to full stiffness. “I want you inside me, Greg.”
“I’ll take it easy. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll stop.” Like hell, I thought. “And you mustn’t worry about Vaughan. He doesn’t own you.”
“He does.”
“He can’t even fuck you. Why do you stick around?”
Jackson spoke in a small voice, half-buried in my hairy pit. “He’s very generous.”
“And you know what that makes you?”
“Yes.” He was breathing heavily. “You don’t need to tell me.”
“Shall we just do what we came here for?”
In reply, Jackson worked down my chest and stomach and started sucking my cock. I reached around and played with his ass; the idea of taking his cherry was working its usual magic. I know it’s predictable, but I’ve always taken great pleasure in showing guys what they’ve been missing.