by Kit Zheng
The whine of the window—
He was close, fuck he—
“Evening, sir, it’s going to be—uh—”
Saw the attendant staring at him and he couldn’t help himself, he was over the edge, body arching off the cushion as the seat belt cut hard into him, mouth opened so 33
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far his skin felt tight and there was the flush of hot, wet down one leg as he came and came and came—
“Yes?”
“Uh—” He heard the attendant swallow hard, and a thick curl of heat surprised him though the peak of his pleasure was already spent, almost as hot and intense as the moment it echoed. “It’ll be ten-fifty.”
“Keep the change.” There was a cat-got-the-cream satisfaction in Newman’s voice that made Tomas’ pride flare, but he was too wrung out to do much about it. His head jostled against the headrest. Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled out of the lot, and fingers snaked across the close-cropped back of Tomas’ scalp. The touch made his skin dance, almost ticklish.
“You got off on him watching.” Newman’s voice was a growl, full of blackmail and arousal.
“I’m a stripper,” Tomas replied.
Newman laughed. He glanced over at Tomas as they changed lanes, made a quick left down a quieter street Tomas didn’t recognize. They rolled down the back roads for a while. Tomas was about to ask where they were when Newman spoke, voice thick.
“How much to have you all night?” He flexed both hands on the wheel. Tomas sucked in a breath.
“Jon, I can’t…”
“Name it. I’ll pay it.” Newman glanced over; Tomas could see he meant it. Meant not to let Tomas go if he could. He wondered, not for the first time, where Newman got his money. Probably more dirty cop business like he did for Benny. The man was hot, there was no doubt, but he was risky, too. Tomas had always known he was risky.
Maybe that was some of the appeal. “Come on, you can’t tell me you want to go home after that little taste.”
“No,” Tomas said again, shaking his head. “I need to be home.” Quiet insistence, a Tomas specialty. Newman studied him, not bothering to hide his disappointment. But 34
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at last he nodded and silently turned the car around.
“I could drop you—”
Tomas smiled and shook his head. “At the club is fine.” He shifted, and the handcuffs jingled. His arms were beginning to ache, and his head throbbed. The dashboard clock said 2:19. He had wanted to be home early, do something nice for Vic, make up for his stupidity; instead he would be over an hour late. He wondered if Vic would still be up.
They passed the gated lot that Newman’s car had been parked in and he looked away quickly. He ignored the flush of heat that rushed through him, even though he was certain Newman noticed it. When the car stopped, he moved to get out, realized he was still cuffed and couldn’t even undo his seat belt. Newman didn’t move to help him right away. Tomas glanced over, and Newman was watching him. The look in his eyes was like the one Tomas had seen when he mentioned having been tied up in his dorm room all those years ago in college.
“Jon,” he said at last.
Newman leaned in. His arm slid across Tomas’ thigh, hovering; but he didn’t reach for the buckle. His knuckles brushed Tomas’ groin, just barely.
“I could leave you like this,” Jon said.
Tomas tensed, hissing air through his teeth. “Jon.” Against his thigh, his cock twitched in the sticky, uncomfortable mess of earlier. It was a grotesque sensation, that mix of arousal and embarrassment.
Jon tugged on the seat belt. His eyes were still predatory, something crouching but controlled in them. He was looking for something. Fear? Capitulation? Tomas set his jaw and met the look with one of his own, made it firm, unwavering.
“How much,” Jon said, “to have you like this, naked, tied up and trapped in a hot car while everyone walks by and sees you, sitting in your own mess, hard as a rock?” Tomas gritted his teeth. His eyes slid closed a moment as he breathed out hard through his nose, but then he had control again. “Look, Jon, I don’t—” 35
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His words were smothered by a kiss, and Jon’s hot, musky weight moved over him, almost into his lap. It was overwhelming and he relented a little, groaning. The sharp click of his seat belt release snapped him back to reality.
“Stay,” Jon asked one more time.
Tomas shook his head. Jon reached around, unlocked his handcuffs. “Get out,” he said, even as Tomas reached for the door handle, as if he had to own even that choice.
Tomas glanced back as he got out of the car. Jon pointed a finger at him, pulled an imaginary trigger. The gesture was somehow both trite and sexy at once. He said, “Next time.”
Tomas said nothing. He watched Jon pull away, feeling the aching of his cock and balls, the damp against his left thigh. He was filthy, needed a shower; he could have ducked into the tiny one at the club, but he didn’t feel up to it. Crowds sounded awful.
He avoided looking at the gated lot, at the attendant booth. Hovered on the sidewalk looking for a cab, trying to cling to the shadows while being visible enough to flag somebody down.
His phone vibrated against his hip and he picked it up, half expecting it to be Jon.
But it was Vic.
“Hey.” Vic’s voice was rich and deep in his ear, and suddenly he wanted to be home now, right now, to rub his lips against Vic’s stubbly cheek until his mouth burned and Vic laughed and shouted in protest. “Are you staying out tonight?” Staying out. Tomas swallowed. When they had their first fights, he’d stay out all night when he didn’t want to deal with it. Vic remembered.
“No,” he said, “I’ll be home soon.”
There was a long pause. He could hear Vic breathing, knew Vic was chewing on saying something, but he didn’t want to ask what. His hand tightened on the phone. He started to say Vic’s name when he heard a deep intake of breath, and then, “Are you with somebody?”
Something clenched, hard, inside of Tomas and he said nothing. His breathing went 36
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sharp and shaky and he twisted the phone away, hoping Vic didn’t hear him, half hoping he did. When he had control, he said, “No.” It wasn’t a lie, but he had to be honest with Vic. It was just how he was. “Just finished up.” Another long pause. Vic was trying, Tomas knew, really trying. He felt like he knew what Vic wanted to say. How could things get so wrong, so fast? Hadn’t there been a time when this whole thing was a turn-on, when it was a thrill for both of them? Why couldn’t Tomas just find something else to do, something, work two jobs, come home miserable, fight even more often…
Vic didn’t say any of that. Instead, he said, “Tell me.” Tomas looked around himself, hesitated. The side alley just behind him wasn’t entirely empty; there was a couple getting pretty heavy toward the dumpster in the back, and a guy smoking at the other end. He cupped a hand over the phone, spoke in a low voice.
For a moment, he almost lied; he wasn’t sure why. He almost said, “Monsieur Cat Hair” or “Joe Blow.” But he didn’t let either of those lies get past his lips; he told the truth, confessed. “Benny’s Pet Cop,” he said, and then he held his breath for Vic’s annoyance, or for anger he deserved.
But Vic only said, “Oh.” Which was worse than either reaction, Tomas thought. He didn’t really know what to do with “Oh,” whereas he could apologize or fight in the face of annoyance or anger. Luckily, Vic continued, “Kevin called and said something went down at the club. I was worried, but Carl said you hadn’t come into the precinct.”
“I’m sorry.” Tomas should have explained, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want Vic to know what happened, how Jon smeared him in front of everyone, how he for some insane reason had liked it. Got off on it, in fact, popped a boner like some sad high school kid faced with a locker room shower for the first time. How it had made him think of something other than how wrong everything was suddenly
getting, for just a little while. Vic wouldn’t be pissed, might even understand, but Tomas couldn’t put it into words. Something stuck in his throat, under his breastbone.
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“I wish you’d tell me who he is,” Vic sighed at last, when Tomas said nothing further. “He sounds like a real shit. If he’s messing with you—”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!”
Tomas said nothing. Vic sounded frustrated when he spoke again. “I just want to see your face. See you’re all right.”
Tomas wanted to be home, wanted to climb into bed and curl against Vic’s back; wanted to be pressed down into the mattress and fucked hard; wanted to kneel in front of Vic and suck on his gloves and his cock and his feet. He wanted Vic to see the mess he’d made of himself and tease him about it and clean him up with his tongue, sucking and biting and reclaiming.
But instead he leaned against the building wall and stared at the dumpster. The couple nearby was past preludes now, on to the real deal, condoms out and jeans pushed down and one man fucking the other against the brick wall. It was selfish, greedy, but mutually beneficial. Tomas remembered when that could easily have been himself and Vic. He turned away, looked back at the road just in time. A cab was approaching; he lunged onto the curb, waving at it. The yellow vehicle pulled over.
“I’ll be home soon,” Tomas repeated.
When there was another long pause before Vic hung up without another word, Tomas imagined him nodding, tight-mouthed, fighting disappointment and a frown, failing completely.
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Chapter Five
The truth was that Vic was really damn worried. He was disappointed, yes, he was frowning, yes. But things had him worrying about Tomas a lot, hoping he was all right, hoping that Benny’s Pet Cop was just a lousy, dirty cop, but nothing worse.
Earlier that night, he and Carl had found yet another victim in a dirty bathroom at a gas station. There were track marks on the man’s arms, old and new, and a used condom floating in the yellowish water filling the toilet bowl. Vic had to reach in and fish it out, just in case there was evidence to be found there. Alvarez recognized the man as a hustler he often chased off from under the overpass on Sixth and Cherrywood; a drug addict who’d turned to selling his body to pay for his habits.
The man was blond, more bone than flesh, wasting away. Just like the fourth victim, the resemblance to Tomas ended at hair color, but his face haunted Vic, ate at him, made him angry at Tomas for doing what he did, risking their happiness like he did. It was stupid, he knew. Tomas had done what he did since long before Vic knew him. Vic was fine with it. He’d always been fine with it.
Vic dropped himself hard into the chair in his office and gave his computer mouse a hard twitch. The factory-install screensaver gave way, not to open reports and research sites—those were minimized to the bottom of the screen—but to HunkNextDoor.com and the Slings-Shot XXX Leather Lover’s Paradise gallery. He clicked on a picture randomly, without even really seeing the thumbnail; it was a video clip of some 39
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beefcake-y blond getting fisted. There was no sound and the quality was for shit, but Vic stared at it as if it could burn away everything crowding his mind. And it did, for a minute. He’d been getting horny at the drop of a hat lately, as if his body thought sex would counter his mounting stress. There was a brief, hot need for Tomas; then a renewed anger twisted through him, softened his cock a little, made him close out the porn sites with two vicious strikes of the mouse.
Downstairs, the side door softly opened and closed. Vic thought he heard the jingling of the tags on Cam’s collar; then he definitely heard the sound of nails tapping up the stairs, just moments ahead of heavier footfalls. He froze, torn between wanting to go out and wanting Tomas to come in. Held his breath, for no reason he could name.
The footsteps stopped just outside the half-closed door of his office. He could see Tomas’ shape in the shadow that blocked the soft orange light from the hallway. He wanted to say something, but instead he just stared at the shadow, thought about how much he loved and hated Tomas right now.
“Vic?”
Tomas’ voice broke the spell, or cast a new one. Vic lunged out of the chair, snagged the side of the door with one hand and threw it fully open. Pretended like he always meant to do that, all nonchalant surprise. “Hey, Tommy,” he said, no big deal. “Home already? I was just going to bed.”
If Tomas were a lip-biter, he would have been biting his lip. Instead, he restlessly shifted his weight before falling back a step out of Vic’s way, one hand resting on the doorframe. “I paid the cab driver a little extra to speed.” Soft-spoken, low. Goddamn fucking sexy Tomas. Vic passed him and the reek of sex hit him like a load of bricks—sweat and pungent come and leather. “Jesus, you smell like a fucking bathhouse.” Barely got the words out in a rush of breath before he was inhaling even more deeply, eyes drawn downward, stopped short in front of Tomas.
Tomas said nothing. Licked his bottom lip before he leaned in and his eyes slid 40
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closed and suddenly Vic’s mouth was full of the taste of someone else—cigarettes (Tomas never smoked) and mint and coffee. “Fuck, babe,” he muttered, snaring Tomas by the back of his neck, the close-shorn hair there spiky and damp against his palm.
Took that taste from Tomas and ate it, swallowed it, pushed his tongue in and reclaimed what was his. He had Tomas groaning against the wall before he remembered himself, stepped back a little. Tomas didn’t want to let him get away, but Vic stopped despite himself. “Fuck, gimme a sec, we have to talk.”
“Right now?” Tomas pulled him closer, straining to make their mouths meet.
Vic held him off, just barely. “Right now,” he said. Ignored Tomas’ mock-hangdog expression. “I know I’ve been a shit lately. I know. But work’s been kind of… I’m not making excuses. I’ve got this fucked-up case and with what you do I kind of think maybe—”
“You’re after the hustler killer.”
“You know about it?”
“I read the papers. People at work have been talking about it, too. I am being careful, Vic.”
“Careful, right.” Vic was sarcastic without intending to be. Tomas immediately closed up, brow drawing down and mouth tightening. “Maybe you’re trying, but—
Tommy, I know you. You’re too trusting. This guy, he—”
“They were all kids. Messed-up runaways.”
“That doesn’t change things. You could still be—”
“I’m being careful,” Tomas repeated, the line between his brows digging deeper.
“Careful, right. That’s why Kevin had to call me, tell me you’re being arrested, why that fuck— Jesus, Tommy, don’t be stupid!”
Tomas flinched, his face coloring.
“You need to call Benny, tell him you’re taking a break. And no more seeing those guys. No more. And don’t worry about the money, okay? I’ll figure out a way. We don’t need that money anyway, right? It doesn’t matter. None of that bullshit matters, got it?
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Not the stupid club, not that stupid asshole, none of it, it’s all bullshit and—” It was the wrong thing to say, the wrong way to say it. The air chilled between them, whatever remnant of the heat that passed between them cooling and dying.
Tomas shut down completely, not meeting Vic’s eyes, sidestepped around Vic and moved quickly down the hall. “I’m going to take a shower.” Vic couldn’t interpret the look that had been on Tomas’ face before he fled. “Tomas, wait a minute—”
Tomas ducked into their bedroom and disappeared without a word. Vic rushed after him, swearing under his breath. By the time Vic caught up, Tomas had already shucked off his clothes and turned the water on full force.
Vic hovered in the doorway.
He looked at the pile of Tomas’ clothing on the floor, saw the wet stain down
one leg of his leather trousers. Felt a moment of anger, jealousy, other things, hot and visceral and wrenching. Impulse overwhelmed; he slid the shower door open and lashed out with hands and voice. “Will you stop and fucking listen to me for one goddamn minute instead of running away? It drives me fucking nuts when you do that!”
It took Vic a second to realize he was now soaked to the wrists, watch quietly drowning; to realize Tomas was staring at him, caught somewhere between a quiet fury and shock. Shampoo suds dripped off Tomas’ halted hands and disappeared into the runoff of shower water soundlessly. More started a slow migration over Tomas’ neck, down his broad, powerful back.
Swallowing his distraction, Vic didn’t back down. He let go of Tomas, met Tomas’
angry, silent question with anger of his own. “You know, it really fucking pisses me off when you do that. I’m fucking worried about you. Doesn’t that mean jack shit to you?”
“Okay,” Tomas said.
“Okay? What the fuck, ‘okay’? Are you even fucking listening?” Tomas’ mouth tightened; color rose into his face, but he resumed washing, as if Vic 42
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wasn’t worth a reply. Vic fought all the shitty, hurtful things that rose to mind, and at last Tomas just said, “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“I hear you.” Tomas shut off the water, turned to Vic, still dripping. His voice was too calm, too restrained; soothing even. Vic hated it. “But you don’t need to talk to me like I can’t take care of myself.”
“The fuck—! Don’t be a pain in the ass! What the hell happened to ‘all I had to do was ask’? All I’m saying is lay off for a few weeks, Tommy, a few fucking weeks ‘til this nut job is arrested—”
“No,” Tomas said. And now Vic was sure Tomas was just being stubborn, being difficult. Provoking Vic, even, maybe. When he was pissed off he could be like that—a fucking child.