by Kit Zheng
Mr. Deer stepped in the way. He took his time fingering Tomas’ fucked hole. His touch felt strange, cool; the look on his face was weird and arousing, almost clinical, and Tomas wondered if he was a doctor, maybe, rather than a lawyer. Tomas’ eyes rolled back as Mr. Deer spread his fingers apart, stretched him open, looking so hard he could’ve burned Tomas’ ass. Then hot, stiff flesh pressed against the right side of his ass, began rubbing even as fingers continued to push into him, open him, fuck him.
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Three now, maybe four; Tomas gasped against the wall, wondering why Mr. Deer didn’t fuck him properly, why the man was humping against his ass cheek, teasing him with his fingers, watching him, just watching as he arched, hunched his back, leaned into the hand exploring deep inside him. Wondered, as he tried to see Mr. Deer, if he just didn’t have a condom, if he was that considerate, but then he saw Mr. Deer’s hand slip out of him, saw the fingers bunched inside tightly stretched and lubed up rubber before they dove inside him again.
He groaned, now, nails biting into his palm as his fists fought the handcuffs.
“Please, touch me,” he moaned, humping the air, but Mr. Deer didn’t oblige him, just rubbed against his bottom faster and harder, sliding sideways until he was fucking the cleft of Tomas’ ass but not inside, discarding the condom so he could use both hands to squeeze Tomas’ buttocks together while his cock rubbed a slick, friction-filled trail from tailbone to back of his balls. “Fuck me,” Tomas begged. “Fuck me. Put it in me.” Just as he thought Mr. Deer was going to oblige, drawing all the way back, he felt sticky hot cum paint the back of his thighs, his balls, the pucker of his asshole. Tomas made a frustrated noise that turned into a startled grunt as a cock finally pushed into him, filled him up. It was Mr. Seen-It-All again, but he didn’t last either, thrusting in and out just long enough to get Tomas worked up before he, too, groaned and shot, twisting Tomas’ nipples hard enough to draw out a shout.
Mr. Seen-It-All slid off and out of him, and Tomas shuddered, his body exhausted but unsatisfied. He was suddenly aware of his vulnerable pose. Were all three of them watching him now? He could hear Mr. Deer, presumably, zip up, but he couldn’t turn far enough to see. Jon’s voice, then, murmuring. He couldn’t make the words out. Two sets of footsteps led out of the restroom; he saw Seen-It-All’s bright red jersey, and Mr.
Deer’s starched white shirt pass out of his vision and out of the park restroom.
Then it was only Jon and him, alone, and it was too quiet. Tomas tried to stand but he was completely off balance; his neck was beginning to ache from his wedged-in position. When the silence started to get to him, he said, “Jon?” A little afraid—or a lot 81
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afraid—that a knife or a fist or a wire around his neck would answer him.
At last, Jon spoke. Reached around Tomas, tweaked his aching hard-on. “You loved that, didn’t you, Tommy boy?”
Even though it was only his ass—his cum-smeared, well-fucked ass—that was bare, he felt naked, overexposed. He wished he could pull up his pants, wipe himself off.
“What do you say, Tomas? Maybe you could cut me a deal, we could do this a few nights a week. More than that.” Jon laughed. Tomas felt body heat, knew that Jon very close. “Sweet little Tommy. You want it so filthy but you can’t get it at home, am I right?”
Jon moved against him, condom-sheathed cock resting in the crack of Tomas’ ass, like Mr. Deer’s had been.
“You want me to fuck you, Tomas?”
Tomas closed his eyes, felt the muscles ache across his back, his strained arms, his burning thighs. His asshole still slick with the lube from Seen-It-All’s rubber, the spunk from Mr. Deer. His own cock throbbed, unattended, and he knew he shouldn’t but he said it anyway, “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck me.”
Jon pushed into him slowly, though he didn’t need to, Tomas was stretched and ready, Tomas was well-fucked, used up, fucked up.
Jon buried himself to the hilt and then leaned over Tomas, laid belly to back over him, and whispered against the back of his neck, “Wouldn’t Nimikos like to see you now.”
And before the guilt, the anger and the fear could really hit Tomas, Jon was riding him, Jon was fucking him with one hand curled around the chain between Tomas’
cuffed wrists and the other masturbating Tomas, bringing him somewhere that was heaven and hell all jumbled up, slamming into him so hard Tomas half thought he was going to break his neck from the bad positioning against the disgusting restroom wall.
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Tomas fucked back, met every thrust from Jon with a backward lean, groaned until his throaty noises were echoing in the small stall. He didn’t last very long, shooting into Jon’s hand and all over the old toilet seat.
And as he came down hard from the physical high, he thought of Vic. He thought of being on his knees, begging for forgiveness. Being home. He thought, I’m a fucking asshole. He thought, Why are you doing this, Tomas? He thought, I can’t do this anymore.
But Jon wasn’t done for another ten minutes. When he finished at last, he wiped himself off with a handful of toilet paper and seemed to take pleasure in leaving Tomas filthy as he took him back to the car. Strangely—thankfully—Jon said nothing on the drive home, as if he’d spent it all—as if he thought he’d won. He didn’t demand, either, that Tomas stayed until dawn’s early light; only watched, smug and self-satisfied, as Tomas retrieved his duffel and left.
* * * *
Tomas walked until the buses started running again, and then he caught the 5:25 a.m. D Bus the rest of the way home. He thought, but his thoughts ran and blurred together, exhaustion and too many other things muddying everything up. He fell asleep on the bus, but luckily he woke up a stop before the one he needed, and then he was walking two blocks to their house, his and Vic’s house.
He stood in front of the snug bungalow, with its natural brick exterior, squatting behind a cluster of pine trees. Vic’s car wasn’t in the driveway—probably in the garage.
It was too early for Vic to have gone. Tomas liked Vic’s car, humble yet powerful, like Vic himself, he thought. A smile surged onto his lips and gave him enough energy to walk up the narrow cement path and unlock the front door.
He hesitated as he reached for the doorknob. The house felt so still, so… Tomas wanted to say “empty” but he couldn’t bear to. He took a deep breath and turned the knob and out of habit he paused just inside, waiting for the clack-clack-clack of Cam’s 83
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nails on the kitchen floor.
When the expected greeting didn’t come, he wandered the house, softly calling for Cam.
And then it hit him.
Vic was gone.
At first glance, nothing obvious was missing. The furniture was unmoved, knickknacks were in their place, everything was neat and tidy as Tomas liked. But there were books missing from the shelves; the familiar coffee cup on the living room table, a constant point of contention between Tomas and Vic, had been put away, or taken away. The comically green SCPD softball league jacket no longer hung on the coat rack by the door, and two pairs of shoes were missing from their place on the shoe rack.
Tomas went so cold, he felt detached from the particular place and time he stood in.
His mind couldn’t comprehend; he continued to whistle for Cam, but the big Great Dane didn’t appear. He stumbled through the house, saying, “Cam? Here, boy, daddy’s home.” Voice rising, almost a shout now, a rare thing for Tomas. “Cam, come on boy, come on.” He didn’t know why he called for the dog when he wanted to be calling for someone else. For Vic. He searched the bedroom—the closets with missing outfits, the drawers absent of several pairs of Vic’s boxers and gray socks and neat polo shirts. The office was neat, but the files that had acquired a recent home on the desk were gone.
The bathroom had one lonely toothbrush, though Vic had left behind the robe that Tomas bought him
recently, hanging next to Tomas’ own on the back of the door.
At last, Tomas stumbled back into the living room, where he dropped onto the couch, unable to speak or think, and he realized then what he should have seen immediately; there was no more dog bed next to the fireplace either, only a sad space of clean carpeting.
And for some reason, that was it for Tomas. He crumpled over, face buried in his hands, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he laughed, or made a noise something like laughing, his mouth still smiling.
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Jon forced Tomas to a decision, but Tomas had forced Vic to one as well, and Tomas had realized too late to stop it.
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Chapter Nine
“You look terrible.”
Tomas somehow managed to curl his lips into the semblance of good cheer. Kevin’s overjoyed phone call had summoned him out of his shocked and silent vigil in the Vic-empty house, but he was only barely there. Teddy and Kevin were looking at him curiously, but it was Robbie who had spoken, Robbie who looked terrible himself, so pale his eyes looked punched out, freckles harsh punctuation on his white skin. His voice was little more than a croaky whisper.
“You should see yourself,” Tomas said mildly, reaching to grip Robbie’s hand.
“Welcome back.”
He saw Kevin arch an eyebrow as his wrists went by. Self-consciously, he tugged down the long sleeves of his shirt over the chafed areas left by Jon’s cuffs.
“Bad time?” a voice said from behind them, and Tomas froze while the others looked up. Kevin’s expression darkened, and Teddy got up.
“Who let you in?” Kevin said, angrily.
“I asked the hospital to call me when the victim was able to talk.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Tomas could feel Kevin and Jon face off in the silence. It was Teddy who broke it, clearing his throat.
“Hey, I’ve got to go. Shift at the diner in fifteen.” Teddy looked over at Robbie. “See 86
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you on the floor tonight, man,” he joked, before making his escape. Jon watched him leave unabashedly, a hungry crocodile.
“Don’t tell me you boys have to work two jobs to pay all your bills.”
“I think you should leave.” Kevin’s voice was full of ice.
“I think you should cool it, buddy. I’m just here to catch the guy who did this to Mr.
Heywood.” Tomas could hear Jon smiling, knew without looking that it was a shark-smile, self-satisfied.
“Where’s Vic and Carl? They were working on this. I trust them. I don’t trust y—” Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room changed, Kevin visibly relaxing and Robbie breaking into a grin. Robbie rasped out, “Hey, Vic.” He pushed himself up slightly and then winced.
For Tomas, the room seemed to tighten, to suddenly become suffocating. He forced a tight smile as he made himself look at Jon and Vic, now standing side by side, badges and guns on their belts. Jon leered at Tomas and Vic looked right through him, grim-faced.
“We just need you to take a look at a few pictures, Robbie, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Didn’t see much,” Robbie answered, swallowing thickly. One hand rose to his bandaged throat, forearm tethered by a plastic tube. “You know, the sunglasses-hoodie getup.”
Kevin was watching Robbie out of the corner of his eye as Jon pulled out a manila folder, laid it on the table over Robbie’s lap. He looked assuaged to a degree by Robbie’s complete non-reaction to Jon. Tomas, for his part, glanced back at Vic repeatedly, wishing they were alone, that he could have a chance to say—to ask—what?
He wasn’t sure. Something.
“Did he pick you up in the club?” Vic asked, not-looking at Tomas while Jon flipped the photos for Robbie.
Robbie shook his head, glancing at Kevin. “Was out for a smoke. Guy came up.
Looked desperate but… Lots of cash. Thought… Well, thought I could milk him. Sorry, 87
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Kev.”
The pale skin was paler when Robbie finished. Kevin didn’t look happy, but he shrugged. Tomas guessed they’d talked about this before.
“Do you remember anything about what he looked like? About what he was wearing? Expensive stuff, cheap stuff?”
“Sunglasses were nice,” Robbie smiled. “He was really in a hurry. Pushy. I mostly saw green.”
Jon flipped another picture over. He made a derisive noise in the back of his throat.
“I told the captain all those additional patrols were just driving him out of our nets.
He’s not dumb. Cops start crawling all over his old territory, no wonder he breaks his pattern.”
“Most of the additional guys were working plainclothes—”
“Tomas, if you could explain to my temporary partner here,” Jon turned and pinned Tomas with a look, “how you can sniff a plainclothes cop from a mile away.” He made the words suggestive in a nasty way. Didn’t wait for Tomas to answer. “If fucking hookers can spot us, I’m sure this guy can.”
Tomas felt sick. Too many pairs of eyes were on him: Robbie’s, and Kevin’s, and now Jon’s.
Vic didn’t look, and he didn’t speak. He clenched his teeth. Tomas watched the muscles in his jaw work.
Jon flipped the last picture. Robbie hadn’t said anything about any of them. “Well, that was pointless.” He swept the pictures back into the folder. “I’m telling you, we’ve probably freaked the guy out right into another city. He’ll probably lay low ‘til he can’t stand it anymore and we’ve just got to keep an eye on the APBs—”
“They’re not fucking hookers,” Vic said out of nowhere. His voice was flat, almost monotone. “They’re dancers.”
“You give ‘em money and they suck your cock. Hookers.”
“Fuck you. We don’t—” Kevin started to say, but Vic spoke over him.
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“Maybe if you treated the guys with some respect they’d be more helpful.”
“Maybe if they want some fucking respect, they should try actually working for a living.”
Kevin stood, eyes hard. “Maybe you should leave.”
“How about I give your fuck buddy a hundred bucks, maybe he’ll talk then, huh?” Vic’s hand crushed into a fist at his side and he stepped toward Jon. “You piece of trash—”
Never mind the murderer; Tomas couldn’t stand it anymore, stepped between them, fingers brushing Vic’s fist, looked him in the eye. “Vic—” He took a deep breath as Vic looked away. “Robbie’s exhausted. You should probably come back later.” He caught Vic’s glance down at his wrist, and yanked his arm back quickly, drawing his sleeve over the red marks. But it wasn’t quick enough. Vic’s expression closed off and Jon’s turned triumphant.
Tomas fell a step back. He wanted to say something, needed to, but there was still nothing. He’d fought to say the right thing over these past few months, so many times, times beyond counting; he’d never found it.
He watched Vic turn on his heel and leave the room. Jon followed, but not before he enjoyed his moment.
“Fuck,” Tomas said when they were gone, startling everyone in the room, himself included.
Kevin frowned, as if he wanted to say something. Robbie furrowed his brow.
“Fight?” he rasped at last, if only to break the silence.
Tomas shrugged, didn’t have the heart to say that it was a lot worse; it might be over. He needed to beg Vic to come back and he didn’t have the words. He never had them. He had just hoped all this time that Vic understood, but how could he?
Kevin was looking at his chafed wrists. Tomas thought that Kevin must know, must understand. Knew about Jon, inferred what happened. Kevin stayed silent when prudent; that was something that Tomas could respect. But Kevin always had a good 89
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word when it was needed, too. Tomas envied that skill.
Kevin said, “Y
ou should be careful. Real handcuffs can really do a number on you.” Tomas looked away, embarrassed. Robbie’s hand had crept over on the covers to lay a forefinger against Kevin’s wrist. Tomas envied that, too.
“Tommy,” Robbie said, his voice like he had a throat full of sand. “Remembered something. Can you tell Vic for me?”
Tomas smiled a bitter smile and nodded. He wondered if Vic would listen. No, he would; Vic was a good cop. Personal life didn’t interfere with work, if he could help it.
Not like the mess Tomas had made, letting it all blur together.
“Don’t know if it’ll help but—guy had a funny birthmark near his knee. About this big. Kinda looked like a star.” Robbie made a quarter-shaped circle with his thumb and forefinger, then sagged back against the pillows. “Can’t even remember when it went bad. Just, he suddenly got mean. Can’t figure out what I did.” Kevin sat hard in the chair next to Robbie, grabbed his hand and squeezed. “You didn’t do anything, babe, he’s just some sick fuck.”
“I thought—maybe—he never got it in me, came before he could, frustrated maybe
—”
Robbie flinched, looked away. Kevin kissed his fingers.
“I still want to dance,” Robbie said, softly, in a voice meant for Kevin only. “We just started the company. But not…”
Kevin’s dark fingers clenched around Robbie’s slim pale ones. He leaned in, forehead to forehead with the other dancer.
Tomas felt suddenly extraneous, as though everything had tightened on Robbie and Kevin, and he was outside it all, an unwanted watcher. He made an unheard excuse and slipped out of the room.
* * * *
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Standing at the bus stop outside the hospital, Tomas took out his phone. Stared at the screen. Vic’s number was a memorized pattern of taps away on the speed dial, but his finger never landed. He needed to pass on Robbie’s message, the sooner the better, but…
He was afraid of what else they’d say—or worse, wouldn’t say.