Sean stole a peek at his companion and found him glaring at the tabletop. “You don't have much of a sense of humor, do you?” Now Bonham turned the glare on him, somehow managing to make Sean's mouth go dry with the intensity of it. He coughed into his fist and said, “Ease up, dude. Frankie doesn't mean anything by it."
"Yeah? And what about you? Do you mean anything, or am I wasting my time?"
Sean put his hands flat on the tabletop. “I guess that depends on what it is you want. Which I'm still waiting to hear, by the way."
Bonham scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Right. It's like this, ki—Sean.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need to set up a meeting with your boyfriend. I've got four more bills in my pocket as big as that one,” he said and pointed at the hundred on the table. “You tell me where I can find Paco Sanchez, and they're yours."
Sean let the offer hang in the air between them and tried not to gag on the nasty brew of confusion and fear that welled up in his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded strangled in his own ears. “First of all, what makes you think Paco Sanchez is my boyfriend?"
Bonham rolled his eyes. “Is that how you wanna play it? Really?” He sighed again and looked like he wanted to bang his head on the table. “Fine. A whore told me."
"A whore?” Sean looked around wildly, searching the bar for ... he wasn't even sure what. “I don't even...” He turned back to Bonham. “There are whores in Santa Rosa?"
Bonham laughed. “Kid. You're killing me here.” Then he took a closer look at Sean's face, and whatever he saw there made him lean in further. “You're serious? You really thought there weren't any...” He shook his head and laughed again.
"I'm glad you find my stupidity so amusing.” Sean fought the urge to take a swing at Bonham's jaw. “I'm new in town. I guess I didn't realize ... I mean, it seems like a nice place."
Bonham reached for his drink. “Santa Rosa? Sure. Great little town, unless you make the mistake of looking under the surface.” He lifted the glass to his lips and stopped. “You know what this bar used to be, right? Before it burned and was rebuilt? They told you?"
Sean shook his head.
"It was an alternative club for people who like whips and chains. All very legal, except that the lady who owned it was kidnapping men and torturing them to death for shits and giggles."
Yeah, he remembered something on the news about that, from a year or more ago. “That was here?"
Bonham nodded. “Where're you from?"
"Smithville, Texas. Can we get back to the part where you think I'm gonna tell you how to find Paco Sanchez?"
"I don't just think, kid.” Bonham tipped his glass up, draining it, and signaled to a passing server for another. “I know."
"You do, huh?"
"Yep. You wanna know how?"
Sean felt his face crease into a grimace, even as he tried to remain expressionless. “No, but you're gonna tell me."
Bonham shrugged. “I saw how scared you looked when I mentioned his name. Which means one of two things—either you're afraid of me, or you're afraid of Paco. And I'm not that intimidating."
Sean snorted. “Don't underestimate yourself. You're straight-up scary.” He found himself smiling at the man. More shocking still—Bonham smiled back, and this time it looked genuine. Friendly, even. Sean felt a flare of need, tight and hot and lowdown deep. And completely inappropriate, given the situation.
"All right,” Bonham said. “So you've got trouble with Paco. I'm not gonna ask what kind—that's your business. But tell me where to find him, and maybe he won't be a problem for you anymore.
So much for friendly. Sean brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I don't know. Haven't seen him in a week.” He looked at a spot just past Bonham's shoulder and prayed the man would believe the half-truth. True, he'd seen Paco only four nights ago—as the bruises hidden beneath his shirt proved—but he didn't have a clue where to find him now. Not that he wanted to.
Bonham reached across the table and grabbed his wrist again, pressing his thumb into the pulse-point. “Look, kid. I understand you're in a tough spot. But I promise—"
"You promise what?” Sean swallowed and tried to tug his arm away. “You promise Paco won't know who told? Look around, genius. We've been sitting together in public for twenty minutes. Speaking of which, my break is over.” He yanked hard on his arm, and Bonham released him.
He stared into Sean's eyes, an obvious expression of surprise on his face. “You're really that scared of Sanchez?"
"You're the one who said I was scared, not me."
Bonham's brow quirked again. “Right. Loyal then, like a puppy."
Sean tried to keep his face blank as he stood and prepared to walk away. To keep the rage and shame out of his eyes. But when Bonham smirked, he knew he'd failed.
For the rest of the night he ignored the other man, who kept his seat in the far corner booth and seemed to watch his every move. About thirty minutes before last call, he looked up and Bonham was gone. He told himself the hollow feeling in his chest was relief.
Two hours later, when every glass was sparkling and the bar was polished to a high, glossy sheen, Sean stepped out into the small employee parking lot behind the Heliotrope and inhaled deeply. The mist was heavier now, edging into rain.
He heard a sound to his right, like a stone hitting the pavement. He turned, and that's when Bonham came at him from the left, hooking one booted foot around the back of his knee and shoving. Sean went down hard. The blacktop skinned his hands, but Bonham caught him before his head made contact. The next thing he felt was the unmistakable chill of a muzzle against his jaw.
"Sorry it has to be like this, kid.” Bonham moved the gun so that it pressed into his ribs, grazing the bruises Paco had left behind, and making Sean flinch. Then he took Sean by one arm and half-dragged him across the lot.
Sean didn't bother to struggle until he saw the truck. By the glow of the streetlight, the navy blue, vintage Chevy pick-up looked to be in an excellent state of repair. But more to the point, Sean knew if he allowed himself to be forced into the truck, he'd likely not live to see morning. So when Bonham reached out to open the passenger-side door, he pivoted and brought his fist up fast.
Bonham dodged the blow neatly, caught a handful of Sean's six-inch-long curls, and yanked his head backward. “Don't,” he whispered into Sean's ear. “I'm not gonna hurt you unless you make this harder than it has to be."
"Fuck you."
Bonham laughed. “That's the spirit."
He let go of Sean's hair and opened the cab of the truck, gesturing with the .45. Sean got in. He watched the older man walk around the front end of the vehicle and thought about bolting. Something told him he wouldn't get far. And something else—something he didn't want to acknowledge because it disgusted him—told him he didn't really want to try.
Bonham slammed the door, stuck the key in the ignition, and fired up the engine. It roared, like a dragon come to life. Then he turned slightly in his seat and said, “You're bait. You get that, right?"
Sean nodded. He'd figured that out the moment he felt the muzzle of the gun against his jaw.
Bonham watched him with careful eyes. “I like you, kid. I don't want to see anything bad happen to you. But you gotta trust me."
"Trust you? You're kidding, right?"
"You're the one who said I lack a sense of humor. You remember that about me, and we'll do fine."
He pulled out of the parking lot. A few minutes later, they were headed southeast on the Sonoma Highway.
"You mind if I ask where you're taking me?"
"Not at all. A place called the Valley of the Moon. Ever hear of it?"
Sean nodded. “It's a novel by Jack London."
Bonham glanced at him and smirked. “College boy, huh?"
"Go fuck yourself."
"I thought you were gonna do that for me.” The smirk widened, morphing into a full grin.
Sean felt his ears burn and w
as glad of the dark in the truck's cab.
Chapter Two
They were well out of Santa Rosa before the kid spoke again. “So what's so special about this place? The Valley of the Moon?” His soft drawl was nearly lost beneath the pound of the rain on the roof.
Jesse forced his gaze to stay on the road in front of them. He'd already caught himself staring at Sanchez's boy a few too many times for comfort. At all that long, lean muscle that should've looked wrong with his baby-boy curls and innocent face, but didn't.
He concentrated on the back and forth dance of the wipers as he answered. “Just a place. Got a friend who's got a cabin he lets me borrow from time to time, out near Yulupa Creek."
"A cabin? Is it ... does it have—"
"Don't sweat it. There's indoor plumbing. But if you don't watch yourself, I'll make you take a bath in the creek. Mighty cold this time of year."
The kid huffed, sounding annoyed. “Man, are you always such a toppy son of a bitch? Or is it all a front?"
Well, that was unexpected. Jesse tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to keep his voice even. “I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm asking if you're a top or a bottom. Because you seem like a top, mostly, but then ... I don't know. That could be an act. I've seen it before."
"I think you want to shut up now."
"Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?"
Yeah, he was, as a matter of fact. One minute Jesse'd been in control of the situation and the conversation, and the next this ... boy ... felt free to ask him personal questions.
They were passing through the unincorporated village of Kenwood—the kind of place that closed up shop at eight on a Friday night. Jesse slowed down to thirty and watched his rearview mirror for any sign of county law enforcement.
"You couldn't make me uncomfortable if you tried.” He punctuated the statement by making a hard right turn that overbalanced the kid, toppling him onto the center of the bench seat. When he righted himself, he shot Jesse a dirty look, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe.
They'd left the highway behind. All back roads from here on out, and the rain didn't make them any more passable. Silence took over the cab of the truck as Jesse negotiated the muddy twists and turns. Just as he'd begun to consider flipping on the radio and searching for an oldies station, the kid piped up again.
"You know, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Being a bottom, I mean. It doesn't make you weak, or less of a man."
There was another pause while Jesse tried to formulate an answer that didn't involve reaching over and putting his fist through the little cocksucker's face. He settled on repeating, “I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"Look, I'm just saying—"
And that, right there, was Jesse's limit. He didn't bother to pull off the road—no place to go even if he'd wanted to. He slammed on the brakes, threw the truck into park and turned in his seat. “Are you looking for me to shut your mouth for you?"
"Would that make you feel better? Beatin’ me up?” Now the kid's drawl was more pronounced, and there was heat in his eyes. Just like back at the Heliotrope, when he'd first joined Jesse at his table. And when he'd grabbed the boy's wrist that first time, he'd definitely felt ... something...
No. This was about Sanchez—flushing him out into the open. Using his new boy as bait was one thing, but Jesse'd never intended to lay a hand on the kid. Not in any way, shape or form, no matter how much he might...
"Why can't you leave this alone?” Jesse hated the tiny tremor that showed up in his voice. It was enough to make him want to punch himself in the face.
The kid shrugged, not backing down. Plainly not intimidated. “Why can't you answer a simple question?"
"I ... fuck ... I don't...” Why was he letting this arrogant little—all right, not so little—son of a bitch get to him? He had nothing to prove. Not to Sanchez's fuck-toy, that was for damn sure. That's what he told himself, even as he opened his mouth to say, “I hate that shit. Those words, they're ... they don't mean anything. It's just another game."
The kid stared at him, his brow low over his dark eyes. Cat's eyes, long and tilted at the corners. “All right,” he said, nodding. “I get it. You're a switch."
Jesse did the only thing he could do. He punched the steering wheel hard enough to bruise his hand.
And now the kid was talking fast, like maybe he realized he'd gone too far. “Hey, it's cool. So am I. More of us out there than you'd think. Like I said, it's nothing to be ashamed of—"
"Not ashamed.” Jesse threw the truck into drive and hit the gas. “That's one thing I'm not, kid. So long as I've got a willing partner, I don't do shame."
"I bet finding willing partners isn't too hard, with a face like that ... a body like yours."
Jesse felt his mouth open and close, like a landed trout. He couldn't think of an answer, but it didn't matter because the kid wasn't done with him. “I just paid you a compliment. Say ‘thank you,’ and don't call me ‘kid.’ My name is Sean."
Without thinking too long or too deeply about it, Jesse looked at him and said, “Thanks.” He cleared his throat and turned his gaze back to the road. “Sean."
"You're welcome,” the kid replied, sounding more smug than gracious. “You sure you're not a bottom?"
They drove the rest of the way to the cabin in perfect silence.
* * * *
Sean was relieved when the cabin turned out to be more like a small, rustic house than the glorified lean-to he'd feared. Though the fact that there must've been at least ten miles of mud between them and a paved road sort of ruined it. How the fuck was he getting out of this? Nobody would even realize he was missing until Tuesday night, when his next shift at the bar was scheduled. He'd told Frankie was going to lie low and hide out from Paco, and if anybody asked, he'd left town for the weekend. Frank might wonder when he saw his beat up punch-buggy sitting in the lot behind the bar, but not enough to do anything about it.
He was so screwed.
The interior of the cabin was just as rustic as the exterior, but fully furnished in a hunting-lodge-meets-barracks kind of way. The floor was naked pine planks, the fireplace was black with soot, the stove and refrigerator had a century of use between them, and there was only one bed Sean could see—a double with tall, brass posts at the head and footboards. He blinked when he saw it and tried not to imagine things. His cock was doing that enough for both of them.
"You need to use the john?” Bonham asked him, his voice gruff but subdued. “Maybe take a shower?"
Sean shook his head. “I'm good.” He slid out of his damp jacket and shivered as the cool air struck his bare arms and neck.
Bonham began rummaging around in the oversized duffel he'd carried in from the truck. A few seconds later, he came up with a fresh set of clothes. “I'll be twenty minutes or so. Then we'll see what Chico left us to eat, and maybe start a fire."
Before he could think, Sean heard himself saying, “You're not gonna tie me up?"
Bonham shot a glance over his left shoulder. “I thought we'd save the kinky shit for when we know each other better."
"Funny. You're a real comedian for a convicted killer."
Bonham was next to him in under a second, his fingers digging into Sean's bicep. He stared up into Sean's face, his lip curled into a snarl, and said, “Watch your mouth, kid. You know nothing about me, so don't pretend you do. You won't like the results."
Sean knew he should let it drop. He knew it like he knew he wanted to feel Bonham's hands on more than his arm or his wrist. Which was probably why he said, “You mean like the Incredible Hulk? I won't like you when you're angry?"
The pupils of Bonham's eyes dilated, just like they'd done back at the bar, the first time he'd touched Sean. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Something like that, yeah.” He let go of Sean's arm and stepped back. “It's an eight-mile hike to the highway. With the rain like it is, you'd drown before you made it
, and that's without me chasing you down and knocking your dick in the dirt."
"And you're so sure I can't hotwire that piece of shit you parked out front?"
Bonham stepped back again, far enough to make a show of looking Sean up and down. He snorted. “Yeah, I'm sure.” Then he went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Sean listened to the creak and thud of the pipes as the shower came on, and considered his options. He could make a run for it, but Bonham was right—an eight-mile hike in the dark and mud and pouring rain didn't exactly appeal to him, especially since he'd likely get lost. And he couldn't, in fact, hotwire a truck or any other kind of vehicle. So that left two choices: seduce Bonham and disarm him that way, or try to get the jump on him using good old-fashioned violence.
Everything being equal, the first option was a lot more attractive. But for all his jabber during the drive to the cabin, Sean didn't have the first clue how to handle a guy like Bonham, who was plainly a hell of a lot more complex than Paco Sanchez. He suspected Bonham wouldn't be taken in by a submissive pose and a blowjob, and Sean wasn't sure he was willing to go any further with a stranger.
Even a beautiful stranger? Even if it might save him from eventually being murdered by said beautiful stranger? Yeah, okay. That was the reality here—Bonham was a killer, and he'd do well to remember it.
He heard the shower turn off and looked around the room with rising panic, searching for a weapon. There, by the fireplace. A poker. He grabbed it, positioned himself to the left of the bathroom door, and waited.
The door opened, letting out a rolling wave of steam that smelled like soap and freshly-scrubbed male. Sean watched Bonham step through the doorway and counted ... one ... two ... thr—
He felt it all before he saw anything ... mostly because he'd shut his eyes, which only proved he'd never make much of a ninja. Bonham's hand came out of nowhere, grasping his wrist and twisting until he released the poker. Bonham's body, in nothing but jeans, pressed full-length against his. The older man's wet hair dripped cold on his chest, the water seeping through his t-shirt. Sean took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked down.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 19