by Daya Daniels
“I love you.” He mutters.
I don’t respond. My father always managed to say those three little words with such ease but I was yet to actually feel them.
Then he’s gone.
Pierce
“Do you want to me come over?”
“No.” I say gruffly into the receiver, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.
“Oh, you don’t sound good.”
“I’m fine.” Ravi says through the phone. “If you change your mind, you know you can always call me Pierce.”
“Yeah, I know.”
It’s three in the morning on a Saturday night. After Ravi insisted for the third time tonight, I had to decline his offers to come here and give me a blow job - as much as I wanted/needed one.
Ravi is delicate – too delicate for me. He’s around five feet tall and weighs probably one hundred pounds. The last time he left here, he was covered in bruises and markings from my handling. I need something tougher – more durable, like a pair of Doc Martens. I need more than what Ravi could offer.
Besides, I had no desire to fuck anyone else besides Baby. Fuck.
Another loud breath escapes my lungs, while I run my hand over my hair crossing the room. I lift a hand and place it on the cool glass, admiring the view I have of the city.
I always used a condom when I fucked other men. With Baby the other night, I hadn’t. I berated myself for being so careless. It wasn’t something I did...ever.
I pull off my beanie and hoodie and toss it all on the sofa and bend over to unlace my boots. When I finish, I plop down in it and stretch my arms and legs out wide.
It had been an exceptionally frosty night, tonight and even colder once you start heading under the city. I’d spent the last few hours watching Baby fight, tucked deep in the thick crowds as they shouted his name, causing a deafening sound to explode through the tunnels beneath an unfinished building in the East Village.
“War Baby! War Baby!” His name a chant on their lips, as though they worshipped him.
The crowd surrounded him, while he stood in the center of the concrete circle, barefoot, shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. All tanned skin, cut muscle and sweat galore on display for everyone’s greedy eyes, including mine. His hair had been cut, the strands soaked with angry sweat making them look darker than they really were. If I wasn’t mistaken, he’d gone to my barber on West 65th Street for the new do, which made me smile.
Baby had taken down two men tonight – one with a vicious elbow to the face and the other with a powerful kick to the ribs. He fought like an animal, like a man trying to expel his rage but failing. He fought like his life depended on it.
He moved differently from how he’d fought me only one night ago, telling me he’d been holding back. The realization only made me seethe. He’d fought me with the intention of losing – with the intention of staying to work for me, even though it was clear he could do better and maybe even deserved better. It had dawned on me that maybe he’d even wanted to fuck that night.
Is he playing my game?
Clicking on the stereo, Under Your Spell by Desire sounds from the speakers.
Checking my phone, I scroll through the messages, expecting to find one from Baby. I’d anticipated some disgruntled message about how I’d dismissed him the other night, after we’d fucked. Scrolling through the messages, there’s are texts here from everyone from my mother to my secretary Gwyn but nothing from Baby.
Laughing, I drop the phone on the cushion and shove my hand down my pants, gripping my cock that has been hard most of the night. Especially hard when I watched Baby tonight in his first fight, kick the piss out of a man two times his size who shouted “faggot” in his direction, before the amateur referee dropped his arm between them, signaling it was time to fight.
Spitting in my hand, I stroke my cock. I shut my eyes and envision the sight of Baby’s ripped chest and the way the carved muscles in his back flexed and bunched with each lunge he made towards his opponent and each punch he landed tonight.
I work my cock viciously from root to tip, remembering how he felt wrapped around it the other night, as I tunneled deeper into his tight passage. It was as if I was searching for something then, perhaps even trying to find myself.
The sounds that spilled from his mouth. The vision of my eager fingers wrapped in his magnificent thick head of blonde hair.
I hiss when my cock jerks hard.
Slow and steady, I run my hand up and down the shaft, tugging at my balls every now and again with my other hand. The sound of slickness fills the quiet den. I breathe hard and relax, listening to my own sounds and how they propel this come along with my imagination of something I want more of so badly.
Sitting forward and tugging at my dick like a teenaged boy, I spray my cum into the hoodie I wore tonight with a few labored growls that could’ve possibly woken my non-existent neighbors. When I’m certain, I’ve expelled every drop of tension, I rest against the back of the sofa, waiting for my breathing to return to normal and think.
After a moment, I let out a loud exhale.
I’m so fucked.
Pierce
The entire week had gone by and I avoided Baby like I did the sale racks at Neiman Marcus. I had back-to-back meetings on most days and client lunches. I only accepted dinners if they didn’t break into the time I needed to go and watch him fight, like a creeper in the night.
Last night, he’d lost and tears filled his eyes when his body hit the concrete with a thud. His features were painted with more than just physical agony. It went way deeper than that.
Defeat. Disappointment. Derision.
He’d left nearly every night after the fights, alone when I’d followed him. He limped and hobbled from whatever injury he’d incurred from the brawls, through the subway station that was usually empty at that hour. When he’d finally found a seat on the train, he often cried, burying his face in the side of his hoodie.
In that moment, I had an overwhelming, innate desire to hold him.
Protective. Possessive. Proud.
Yet, still perplexed.
Lately at work, Baby had been given all the plum assignments from the other partners, so he was occupied much of the time, as was I.
It’s early in the evening. Scrubbing my face with my hands, while sitting at my desk, I hit the speaker phone button when it sounds again.
“Baron.” The woman’s soft voice says on the other line.
Only one woman in my life addresses me on a regular basis by my middle name.
“Hello, Mother.” I greet with a sigh.
“Hello, darling. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
Miranda Carlisle is the olive in my dirty martini. She’s a good mother and being an only child, I’m her baby. I’m a grown man and she still treats me like a child.
“You don’t sound well, Baron. You have this sadness in your voice.”
“I’m fine, Mother.” I breathe out.
She chuckles and it warms my chest. “Have you talked to your father lately?”
“No, I’ve been busy. Meetings.”
“Oh.”
Miranda and my father, Benjamin had been divorced now for nearly twenty years but they remained friends. They were probably closer now than they were when they were married. My father’s interests remained elsewhere now but he’d always be in love with my mother.
“But you know I don’t buy that, Baron.” She goes on. “Has Andrew’s condition improved?”
I run a hand over my jaw. “I don’t think so, Mother.”
“Shame.” She sighs. “You know he was always unstable.”
Yes, he was.
“Yes, I know. There isn’t much I can do about it.”
“Have you been dating? Any boyfriends?” She asks.
I shift in my leather chair.
“I can tell there’s something, Baron. You can’t lie to me. Even through the phone.”
; I chuckle. “You know I don’t kiss and tell, Mother.”
The yapping of her Yorkshire Terrier in the background fills my ears. “Okay, then.” She says softly and I know she’s about to break out in a speech. “I want you to find love, Baron. I really do.”
Love?
“Yes, Mother.”
“Baron.” She whines. “You’ve always been a smart boy, maybe even too smart.”
I laugh.
My mother always did have a way with me. She’d been one of the best mother’s ever growing up and we are still close – as close as I am with my father. She’s sixty now and still a socialite. She hangs in the same circles as Baby’s mother – attending every charity event and fundraiser put on in the city. Everyone in the New York City social circle knew each other. The rich stuck with the rich.
“Something’s tugging at you. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Maybe there is something.” I respond.
“That’s better but since you don’t want to tell me about it, if I tell you two simple words, will you follow them?”
I drop my hand on the desk and huff. “I suppose, Mother.”
“Stop fighting.” She whispers. “Stop fighting it, Baron.”
Baby
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” Senior associate Ben Reed asks, leaning into my office. His brown eyes go wide, when they spot the left over Indian food on my desk. “You finished with that?” He says pointing to the Styrofoam container.
Laughing, I nudge my chin in the direction of the food, letting him know it’s cool if he has it.
He claps his hands and steps into my office, bobbing his head.
I found Ben already here when I started at this firm and in the three years, he’d gotten married and had three kids. His life happened and breakneck speed and now all he does is complain and ask me about what’s going on in mine.
“I didn’t realize it was already ten.” I mumble.
He nods and wanders around the small room, until he’s standing in front of the one, floor-to-ceiling slither of a window that overlooks the city below. “I see Mr. Carlisle is still in?”
I shrug. “Is he?”
“Yeah, I swear that guy never sleeps.”
I smirk and retrieve a book from the shelf next to me, filled with real estate case law.
“I read your notes on the Malting vs Poe case.” He says smiling. “Impressive.”
“Thanks.” I breathe out.
“You’re good. I’m surprised you don’t work for your father.”
I laugh and flick through the pages of the book. “It’s a preference.”
He takes a seat in one of the chairs opposite my desk and digs into the food. “The door to Mr. Carlisle’s office is closed. It’s been closed all week.”
“Oh.”
He takes a deep breath. “You know my brother-in-law is gay.”
I exhale. “Oh yeah.”
“Yeah.”
I stand and head over to another book shelf, not interested in where Ben might be taking this conversation in the least.
“I don’t know, Xavier. You don’t look gay.” He squeaks.
My eyes cut to his. “What exactly does gay look like?”
Ben stands and joins me in front of the bookshelf that we scan together. He gives me a blatant look. “I don’t know. I guess delicate, you know feminine, fuck I don’t know Xavier.” He laughs.
A smile spreads across my face, amused because I truly think he’s trying to figure it all out, as if he’s been given some sort of complex code to work through.
“You just don’t fit the cliché’.” He adds.
What cliché?
“I’m just me, Ben. I don’t try to be anyone else.”
His brown eyes narrow, when he comes in close and whispers. “You ever been with a woman?”
“Yeah.” I respond, without elaborating.
In my college years, I’d tried the girl thing but in the end, it just didn’t work out. I knew I was gay long before but still, I tried to fight it, forcing myself to date women. I’d enjoyed the sex but there was so much missing from the experience that I couldn’t put my finger on and a pussy isn’t nearly as tight as an asshole. This one girl, Lana I’d dated for a few months in college was one of my earlier experiences with women. We fucked a few times. It was all hot and heavy but usually I had a hard time coming. Then when she told me she was into anal sex, I became addicted until it was all I wanted from her. After that I didn’t even need to see her face anymore. I was constantly fucking her up the ass, until she couldn’t take it anymore and broke up with me.
Boom!
At that point and for a slew of other reasons, I was certain I was gay.
I’d never been in love but I was certainly in something now.
“I mean fuck man, you must get hit on by both all the time.”
“I do.” I rasp out, reaching the top shelf finding the legal edition I’m looking for.
“Are women surprised your gay?”
“Sometimes.” I say plainly.
Ben claps his hands and rubs them together as though he’s just found the secret to life. He leans into me. “Lately, Mandy has been asking me if we can explore some more?”
I run a hand through my hair and head back over to my desk, not interested in talking to Ben about his wife.
Narrowing his eyes, Ben shuts the door and removes his glasses cleaning them off with a handkerchief. “Yeah, I’ve done the whole two girls thing.”
My brows hit my hairline.
“Yeah.” He says with a big smirk. “But now Mandy wants to do it more you know. Like all the time with a woman. Just sometimes, I’m not allowed to join. I’m only allowed to watch.”
I suppress a chuckle, worried that Ben might have a budding lesbian on his hands, only he doesn’t know it.
“Well, go for it. I guess.”
“You think?”
I laugh out loud. “Yeah, happy wife happy life, right?”
He laughs and checks his watch. “Shit, I have to go. I’ve been rooting for you, War Baby.” He whispers. “I won some money on your last fight. I have a few of my friends dropping cash in the pot for your next fight.”
I nod, still holding my pen in my hand.
Ben gives me a thumbs up and heads for the door. He freezes when we both spot Pierce in the distance walking in stride and talking with one of the partners for a moment. Ben shuts the door in flash nervously. His eyes go wide and he smiles. “I think he has a thing for you.” He whisper-yells.
“Who?”
“Pierce Carlisle.”
I remain expressionless. “What makes you think that?”
Ben sighs. “I don’t know, man. The way he looks at you. He respects you. That asshole doesn’t respect anyone in this firm, not even the other two partners. I’ve been trying to get promoted since forever and it still hasn’t happened yet.” He adjusts his glasses. “Sometimes, I wonder if he has a heartbeat.” He snickers. “That guy, I swear sometimes is the Goddamn devil.”
He bobs his head, still laughing and yanks on the door. When it opens, he disappears out of my sight.
Pierce’s tall frame heads in the direction of the elevator bank. There isn’t one dark strand of hair on his head out of place. The overhead lights accentuate his angular jawline and sharp features, making him look like more like a sculpture than a human.
A man made of stone.
Unfeeling. Concrete. Impenetrable.
His large hand runs over his jaw, in a frustrated gesture and after three years of working with him, I can tell that something has gone very wrong with his day. He’s upset about something. I make eye contact with those grey orbs. There’s no wave. No smile. No hello from him.
He pops the collar of the wool coat he’s wearing over his tailored black suit. I shift in place and simply stare. The coat I want to set on fire with him in it. The neck tie, I envision cinching up to his neck and choking the life out of him with it and the brief case he’s holding, I’
d connect with his skull.
Pushing the violent images out of my head, I find myself lingering, staring, waiting, watching. Hoping. I can barely breathe when I look at this man, especially now.
Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.
I take a deep breath and focus on the outline of the back of him – clean lines, cut form. I fix my eyes on his powerful shoulders that hold so much strength in them. My cock grows hard when I remember the way he held me. The natural scent of his creamy skin. The way his breaths were a light tickle on the back of my neck. His weird obsession with my hair. The way his teeth sank lightly into my skin with every thrust he made deep inside of me, claiming me, making me his. I’ve let him take my power. Wanting, maybe even needing to be tamed.
Vulnerable. Sensitive. Broken.
All my life, all I’ve ever known is violence. Hurt + violence. Hurt = violence. Violence in. Violence out. It’s a vicious cycle with no end.
Maybe I’m addicted to the pain? I’m growing so tired of the pain.
But something about Pierce Carlisle makes me not hurt so much and that feeling warms my insides. It makes me want to be wrapped in his arms. I want those pretty grey eyes on me indefinitely but this man is dangerous. He has the ability to break me and he knows it. If I’m not careful, I’d crack. I’d splinter into a million pieces at his feet like busted glass and from there he’d crush me even more, pulverize me down to nothing.
I meet that penetrating gaze of his and close my door, almost in slow motion listening to my own unsteady breaths and turn the lock.
Shutting him out. Barricading myself. Wordlessly telling him to-fuck-off.
I’m still hard. I head over to my desk plop back down into my seat. With annoyance, I attempt to shake off all the lust dust on my skin, that one long look from him seems to have mentally sprinkled me with.
Massaging myself, I accept that this fucking thing isn’t going to go down. I want to jerk off but all I feel right now is rage. It’s getting up to eleven o’clock. When I finish up here, I have plans to hit the fight ring and kick the shit out of someone tonight.
ROUND THREE