The Bad Seed

by Lee Hayes

  Yet, a part of him wanted to remember it all.

  He leaned against the shower wall and slid down to the floor, letting the water pour over his beautifully brutalized body. As he pulled his knees into his chest and let the warm water wash over him, he came to an understanding and a decision; an irrefutable truth remained after the dirt and grime and sweat and spit and cum stains washed down the drain. It was a truth he had always known in his heart. He sometimes tried to deny it, tried to protest and fight against it, but his anemic attempts at denial had no force or weight. He tilted his head up and let the water cover his face and thought back to his sexual experience.

  The smell of the basement.

  The hounds.

  The monster.

  The benefactor.

  The money.

  He thought about the filth and the grime and the hard grind and the perversion and the pleasure.

  And, he smiled.

  He had enjoyed it.

  In that cleansing moment in the shower, he decided to stop pretending. He decided to stop acting as if he was bothered by his depraved nature. As the water washed away that thin covering, he decided to embrace the trueness of his nature. He no longer would pretend that he didn’t enjoy his tricks. He would not pretend to feel unclean as he left the beds many of them shared with their husbands or wives or lovers or partners. His newfound truth gave him power. From now on, he would revel in his gifts and continue to build his bank account. He never whored himself solely for the money, but for the feeling he received; there was something delightfully wicked about the exchange of cash for sex. Now, he could stop pretending the money he received from being a rent boy meant nothing.

  He thought about the first online ad he had placed on a popular escort site. He had done it for fun, to see what kind of response he would get. He remembered setting his digital camera to automatic and taking highly sexual and provocative photos that gave glimpses of his best assets. He was careful not to show his face in any of the online images, but he showed enough muscle and skin that within the first hour of the posting, he had received twenty-five inquiries, all of whom claimed to be ready and willing to meet his initial asking price of $500—a price he considered exorbitant—to be fucked by Brandon. He had been fucking for free for years and now he had taken his father’s advice to heart: always know your worth. He remembered giggling at the thought of fulfilling some rich man’s Mandingo fantasy and making some quick and easy cash. Soon, he doubled his asking price and went on a fucking spree that quickly became legendary on the site.

  Sitting in the shower, he claimed his narcissism. He loved the hands and the lips and the erections he caused. He loved being paid for his services. He loved naming his price. He loved giving pleasure. He loved being pleasured. He loved the look on the faces of the tricks that he serviced. He loved the anticipation of that first meeting with them. He loved the butterflies that fluttered wildly in his stomach right before he got the first glimpse of their glorious cocks. He loved when he was close enough to their pricks that their man-scent filled his nostrils. He loved seeing the twisted faces they made when he first tasted them or delivered orgasm after orgasm to them. He loved having that power. And, he loved the feel of the money in his hands. Money that he earned.

  After he finished showering and basking in his newfound self-appreciation, he dried off and wrapped a towel around his body and then stepped into his room. He was about to light up a joint when the sound of the ringing house phone startled him. He moved over to the nightstand and looked at the caller ID. It was his mother. He curled his lip in disgust, lit his joint, and inhaled.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Brandon, could I see you after class?” Cross asked as the bell sounded, signaling the end of yet another class and another week. Friday had once again arrived, bringing an excitement to the students as they left the room. Brandon followed the rest of the class and moved slowly between the rows of desks before plopping down in an empty seat on the front row. Cross’s words may have formed a question, but the command in his voice did not go unnoticed, so Brandon sat and waited. Eagerly. His classmates moved slowly and leisurely out of the room, as if it wasn’t the last class of the day. Brandon mumbled something under his breath and shifted his weight uneasily in his seat.

  “I asked you to stay after class so that we can talk,” he said after the last student had left the room. The concern in Cross’s voice peppered his words and an unusual scowl crinkled his brow. He moved from behind his desk and took his place on the edge of the desk so that he could look directly into Brandon’s wide eyes. “What’s going on with you? All this week you’ve been somewhere else. I’m concerned. Are you okay? “

  “I’m fine.”

  “Brandon, you failed my quiz. You’re not fine. This score shows you didn’t even try.” Brandon, leaning back in the desk on the front row, stared blankly into space as if Cross’s words didn’t warrant a response. “Do you hear me talking to you?”

  “Yeah, man, I just don’t have an answer. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Cross looked at the loopy expression on Brandon’s face and the drag in his eyes. “Brandon, are you high?” he asked with sudden astonishment.

  “What? Nah. I’m just really tired. I haven’t gotten much sleep this week; it’s been rough. You know; dead brother and all.”

  “I can imagine,” Cross said, trying to soften his tone. “How have your parents been?’

  “Don’t know. They haven’t come back.”

  “Really? They’ve been gone more than a week.”

  Brandon snickered. “A week is nothing for them. I’ll be lucky if they came back before my graduation.”

  “I think you should talk to someone. Maybe the counselor?”

  “Cross, have you seen Ms. Stewart? She wouldn’t know her head from a hole in a wall.” Cross let the slip of his first name go without mention in light of the weight of their subject.

  “Look, Brandon. I’m worried about you. You have a full scholarship, but you still have to pass my class. I don’t want you messing up your future. I know you were going through some things—”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I know, I know, but as I told you on last Friday, I’m here for you. If you don’t want to talk to the counselor, you can always talk to me. Let me help you.”

  “You can’t help me, Mr. Jones. I’m beyond help.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I just know it. I’m not who you think I am. I’m the bad seed,” Brandon said with a sneer.

  Cross moved closer to Brandon and took a seat in the desk right next to him. “You’re too young to be this cynical. I know this past weekend and week must’ve been rough for you, but I don’t want you throwing away your life and your future. I know you loved your brother, but you can’t keep living in the past.”

  Brandon turned and faced Cross and looked into his eyes.

  “Do you really care about me? I mean, what happens to me?” Brandon’s eyes widened and he leaned in closer to Cross, almost as if he was afraid that Cross’s words would be lost in the space between the desks.

  “Yes, I do. You are a bright young man with a lot of potential. You can go on to do great things; you can’t let what’s going on in your life right screw up your future.”

  Brandon snickered like a little boy. “I’ve already been screwed.” Brandon’s double entendre wasn’t lost on Cross.

  “This isn’t a joke, Brandon. I need you to get serious. I’m here if you ever wanna talk.” Cross reached across the aisle and placed a comforting hand on Brandon’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Cross,” a voice called out from the front of the room. Standing near the door at the front of the room was Raul Walker, the teacher next door. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were… busy.”

  “I gotta go,” Brandon blurted out.

  He suddenly stood up, grabbed his bag, and bolted out of the room, passing quickly by Raul. Cross didn’t protest, but sighed at Mr. Walker�
�s timing.

  “Are you okay, Cross?”

  “Yeah, I’m just worried about him.” Cross got up and moved over to his desk. “What’s going on?”

  “I stopped by to see if you had spoken to Ms. Gil about chaperoning the dance next weekend, but I see you have something else going on here.”

  Cross paused and pondered his words; they didn’t sit well in his spirit.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It didn’t sound like nothing.”

  Mr. Walker stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m just saying you have to be careful with these students nowadays, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “Look, Cross, I’m not trying to start anything, but this is your first year teaching and I’d hate to see you getting in over your head. I’ve noticed that Brandon spends an unusual amount of time with you after class. And, people talk. I’ve seen many a reputation ruined because a student makes an accusation.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “No, not all. Don’t get defensive. I know you better than that. I’m simply cautioning you. Be careful with that one. He has a history.”

  “A history of what?”

  “Of being…a little…unstable.”

  “Unstable?”

  “Yes, unstable.”

  “Raul, I don’t have a lot of time for riddles. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Cross, this is a high school. There are all kinds of rumors flying around here all the time. A rumor can travel halfway around the world before the truth has time to lace its shoes. Just be careful. Once things are said, they can never be unsaid.”

  “I have no control over any lie that anyone might come up with because I’m helping a student. If Brandon is a little unstable, then don’t you think it is up to us to provide him, or any other student, with a foundation for support?”

  “Ahhh, spoken like a novice teacher. Cross, I like you. You’re an excellent teacher, but you need to learn that you can’t get caught up in the personal lives of these kids.”

  “I’m not getting caught up. I have only the best intentions for Brandon.”

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Just be careful.” With those cryptic words, Raul smiled and walked out of the room.

  Hours later, Brandon stood outside on the porch for a few moments, trying to pull his act together. He planned on a legendary performance tonight that would get what he needed from Cross. Tonight was the night he’d make his move. He rubbed his eyes with his hands in an effort to redden them, even though the powerful Jamaican weed that he smoked earlier had already done the job. Standing on the porch with his shoulders slumped, he prepared himself. The way he looked down at the ground, the lack of confidence in his posture, and the sullen expression engraved across his face gave the impression that he was going through some deep-seated emotional issues. And, that’s exactly the impression he wanted to give. He wanted Cross’s sympathy and his support.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight, close to the bewitching hour. The air outside was still and the night was silent. No cars. No crickets. Just silence. He felt emboldened by the night, as if there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He was supernatural, able to fly and bend objects with his mind; he could command fire and earth and conquer any friend or foe; he could turn day into night and steal stars from the heavens, but could he cast the right spell tonight to claim his prize?

  He inhaled deeply and rang the doorbell.

  No answer.

  He rang it again. Still, no answer or sound.

  His hands began to sweat.

  He rang the doorbell again and tried to subdue the anxiety that was rising within him. He put his hand on the doorknob and was surprised when it turned. Slowly, he pushed it open and stepped inside the room, his heart beating a mile a minute. He closed the door behind him and stood still, afraid to move. Why hadn’t Cross answered the door? he asked himself. As he stood in the foyer completely motionless and barely breathing, it dawned on him that Cross may not be alone. What if some dude was here? What if they were upstairs doing it right now? The thought of Cross wrapped in another’s arms felt like a hard slap against his face and anger suddenly swelled his chest. He needed to get out of there, get some air before he did something crazy. Just as he turned and opened the door to flee, he heard his name being called out.

  “Brandon? Is that you?” He froze, hoping his superpowers would make him invisible, but he had no such luck. “What are you doing here?” Cross asked in a voice far stronger than Brandon had known from him.

  Brandon had lost his nerves and now felt the pressure of his transgression weighing heavily upon his chest. Gone was the bravado that colored his thoughts and made him feel like Superman. No longer did he have the strength of a dozen men or the courage of a battalion. Slowly, Brandon turned around, as if in slow motion, but when his eyes landed on Cross, he wasn’t quite prepared for the image that stood before him. Cross stood before him, chest heaving and dripping wet, wearing nothing but a blue towel wrapped around his waist. The moisture on his body caused his skin to glisten and shine, giving him a sleek and seductive look. Brandon eyed the spider tattooed on the left side of his chest and the silver ring that adorned his right nipple. As his eyes made their way down his taut body, he salivated at the tattoo of the pistol on the lower right side of his waist, the barrel pointing at his crotch.

  Brandon prayed the towel would fall to the floor and leave Cross standing before him in all his naked glory. He suspected the man had a great body, but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that he was flawless.

  “Brandon,” he said with more concern than anger, “what’s going on? How did you get in here? How did you know where I live?”

  “I’m…sorry. I Googled you,” he said as his head hung low. “And, the door…was open. I…I mean, I rang the bell. I’ll go; I shouldn’t have come.” Brandon turned and pretended as if he was leaving. Please stop me.

  “Brandon, wait,” he said as he leapt forward to intercept. “What’s wrong? You look terrible. What’s going on?” Cross took Brandon by the arm as he closed the door. “For real, what’s going on?”

  “I was at home, alone, and I started hearing…things…like my brother’s voice. I thought I saw him a couple of times in the house. I know it sounds crazy; he’s dead but it felt like he was in the house. It freaked me out. I couldn’t be alone. I didn’t know where else to go. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry; I’ll leave now.” Brandon turned around dramatically and faced the door as if he was about to leave.

  “Brandon, sit down. I’m glad you came. I told you that you can always talk to me. Tell you what, let me go upstairs and put some clothes on. Then, we can talk.”

  “You sure? I mean, I don’t want to interrupt your evening.”

  “You’re not interrupting, but the next time you need to talk, you definitely should call first.”

  Brandon smiled secretly and then turned away from the door. “Okay.”

  Cross moved toward the staircase and Brandon watched as his glistening body faded out of view.

  Playing the dead brother card works every time.

  Brandon moved over to the couch, took a seat and stretched his long arms along the edge of the couch possessively, smiling wildly, as he eyed the room. The deep wood, blooming plants and small figurines of exotic animals placed decoratively around the open space made the room feel like the Serengeti; mysterious, magical—dangerous. Brandon felt in the zone, in his element, and he was ready to claim the spoils of victory. He had been here before, but this time it felt like he belonged.

  He stood up and eyed the lay of the land while admiring Cross’s decorating talents. Oddly, Brandon took a sense of pride in the décor, as if it he had something to do with the design of the interior. He began to strut regally around the room, with his head held high a
s he carefully took notice of the details. He moved over to the bookshelf and read off a couple titles—something about a learned man turned him on. He ran his fingers along the spine of several books before moving over to the table and slowly perusing the DVDs that lay across the coffee table. He picked up and leisurely leafed through a magazine that was strewn on the couch. He looked around the room and felt a sense of belonging, of ownership, and envisioned what it would feel like to share this castle; he wanted to take his rightful place at the side of his prince; he wanted dominion over this castle and together they could rule the land, side by side.

  “Brandon?” Cross’s voice fluttered delicately across Brandon’s ears. When he focused, he saw Cross standing before him in a pair of sweatpants and a white T-shirt, looking as edible as a piece of Godiva chocolate. He could see his nipples poking through the cotton shirt. “Why don’t you take a seat? Let me get you something to drink.”

  Cross disappeared and returned quickly with a glass of orange juice.

  “Any vodka in this?” Brandon asked with an impish grin. Cross twisted his lips and took a seat in the chair across from where Brandon sat. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “You’re a little young for vodka.”

  “I’m not a baby. I’m eighteen now.”

  “And the drinking age is twenty-one, the last time I checked.” Cross leaned back in his chair and sipped on his cup of orange juice. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  Brandon sipped his cup of juice and began the delicate task of spinning haunting stories of loneliness and fear. His voice quaked and small beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he recalled his imaginary paranormal experience by his phantom sibling. Brandon’s story, full of hyperbole, floated across the room and he watched Cross, who listened intently to him as he spun his tall tales. Speaking through his forked tongue, Brandon spoke with such deceptive conviction that he could have coaxed that man to eat forbidden fruit from the tree in the garden. He sensed the concern in Cross’s voice and hoped his fake outpouring of emotion would engender a tender response from Cross. More than anything, he wanted Cross to take a seat on the couch next to him and comfort him with his manly ways; instead, Cross remained in his chair, sipping his drink and offering words of compassion. Brandon leaned back deep into the folds of the couch and closed his eyes, pretending that the pain had become too great to continue. He spread his long, sinewy legs wide. The pair of shorts he wore revealed the stone-like features of his powerful trunks. His thighs, golden brown and virtually hairless, seemed to stretch endlessly into the depths of the night. He hoped his not-so-subtle invitation would be well-received. He wasn’t wearing any underwear and could feel a cool air creeping its way up his crotch. When he opened his eyes, he caught Cross staring—or so he thought—his eyes following the path from Brandon’s calves to his thighs to the pleasure zone.