Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III

by J Buchanan, Jade Falconer, Eliza Gayle

  A tiny line appeared between Sean's eyes, and through the wash of satisfaction glowing from his skin, Jesse again read fear. But what Sean said was, “Yeah, okay."

  Jesse frowned. “Don't do me any favors. You don't want this, just say—"

  "No, I do.” Sean struggled to sit. “I want it. It's good, it's ... I really want it."

  "Uh huh. Don't sprain anything trying to convince yourself, either."

  "Bonham..."

  Jesse grunted, noncommittal.

  "Listen,” Sean said, “I'm not trying to convince anybody. I want it. It's the truth.” He grabbed for Jesse's hand, and through his skin Jesse picked up the strong desire to make peace ... but no real yearning to be fucked.

  And yet Jesse let himself want it. And the kid was saying he wanted it. So that didn't make it wrong ... right? Sean's insides might be whispering ‘no,’ but yes mouth was saying ‘yes,’ and that made it okay ... didn't it?

  He twisted his head around and laid a kiss on the kid's mouth before he could pull away. Sean's body stiffened against him, then went limp again. Jesse pulled away and manhandled the younger man to his knees. “You sure? Don't start something you can't finish, boy."

  "Yes, for the last time, I'm sure,” Sean said, “and quit callin’ me boy.” But there was no real heat in his words, and when he smiled that way—like he meant what he said and said what he meant—Jesse's cock got interested again real fast. All the desire he'd been sitting on, clamping down inside him while he showed the kid that “toppy” didn't have to mean “sadistic bastard,” surged up and damn near overflowed.

  "How do you want it, cowboy?"

  "Oh, I get a choice this time?"

  "Watch your mouth.” Jesse watched as Sean flipped onto his stomach and flexed his hips, pushing his ass in the air. Christ almighty, this kid was gonna be the death of him yet.

  He reached for the lube with one hand and used the other to rub circles on the back of Sean's thigh. The fear was still there. Muted, and covered over with a curtain of obligation and maybe just the barest hint of anticipation ... but definitely there. Jesse closed his eyes, took a deep breath and ignored it.

  He squirted the lube onto his fingers and ran them lightly down the crease of Sean's ass. The kid gave a full-body shudder at the touch, then stilled and seemed to steel himself. Just as gently, Jesse used his thumbs to spread him apart and ... holy mother of fuck.

  More bruising, multi-colored and painful looking. Maybe five days old, if Jesse was any judge. No swelling, and no signs of tearing, but still—not anything Jesse had any intention of making worse just for the hell of it.

  "What's wrong?” Sean twisted his head to look at him over his shoulder. As if he didn't know. As if it didn't hurt to bounce around the cab of a truck, much less ... damn it. Sanchez'd used him wrong, abused him, and he acted like he didn't even know it. Maybe he even thought he liked it.

  "Tell me something, kid."

  Sean made a huffing sound and glared at him. “Not this again. What the fuck is with you? Can't you think of anything better to do?” He flexed his hips again, pushing his ass at Jesse, and Jesse backed off.

  "Just answer me, okay?” He put his hand on the kid's hip. “Was Sanchez your first?"

  "My first ... guy?” Sean twisted his upper body further, but Jesse held fast to his hip, not letting him turn all the way around. “No."

  "But he was the first one to ... you know.” Jesse sneered at his own cowardice. Christ, if he couldn't even say it out loud...

  "Fuck me?"

  "Yeah."

  Sean looked at him, his eyes narrow and his mouth thinned down to a crooked line. He nodded.

  Christ, no wonder all the fear, even after Jesse'd gone out of his way to show he meant no harm. The kid thought Jesse was about to rip him up like some Goddamn caveman, but he was braced for it, because he thought that's how it was supposed to go.

  Jesse released his grip on Sean's hip, slid off the bed and bent to grab his clothes. “We're done here."

  "What? But I thought—"

  "You thought wrong."

  "What the hell, Bonham? Can't you keep it up?” There was more of that college-boy arrogance in Sean's voice. He turned and looked at Jesse, letting his eyes travel the whole length of his body. Jesse imagined his hard-on—which had no conscience to speak of and hadn't wilted at all—was tough to miss. Sean scowled. “What the fuck's wrong with you? Do I disgust you or something? Because I'm used goods?"

  "Leave it, kid. Just let it alone, okay?” Jesse went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Through the cheap plywood he heard Sean shout, “Fuck you! And don't call me kid."

  Jesse stood there, back against the door, waiting. For what, he wasn't sure. He couldn't even bring himself to jerk off, relieve a little of the tension. Because he didn't want his own right hand, he wanted...

  He wanted what he couldn't have, and since when was that news? Just a little release that involved another human being, and maybe the chance to sleep with a clear, unburdened mind. So how ironic was it that he not only had to deal with his own emotions, but those of everybody he had the misfortune to touch?

  Fucking family curse. And yeah, he knew it wasn't his grandmother's fault, just like he knew he couldn't call her up and say, “Hey, Gram, how's the weather back east, did you know you screwed my sex life to hell and back with your lousy psychic DNA?"

  He looked into the tiny, square mirror over the sink, checking out the lines in his forehead. The creases at the corners of his eyes that ran too deep for his thirty-three years. He looked weary. He felt old ... and self-pity was for suckers. He made a disgusted face at his reflection and tore open the shower curtain, cranked on the cold water and stepped inside the rusty stall. The shock made him stifle a groan. He braced himself against the wall, rested his forehead on his arm, and stood there ‘til long after his hard-on was a memory. Long after his teeth ceased to chatter and his jaws locked up against the frigid pain. Long after the skin on his shoulders and chest and face had gone numb and then begun to burn. ‘Til he was sure he wouldn't be tempted to so much as look at the kid again.

  When he emerged, he found Sean tangled in the blankets and either comatose or doing one hell of an imitation. Jesse dressed, grabbed the spare blanket off the top shelf of tiny closet, and curled up in the decrepit armchair in the corner. He turned his face into the dusty upholstery so he wouldn't catch himself watching Sean sleep, and waited for sunrise.

  Chapter Four

  Sean awoke shivering and disoriented. The room was dim, and the bed and its blankets smelled like a musty nest around him. He lay very still, waiting to see if all of what he remembered was a dream.

  "Mornin', starshine.” Bonham stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dressed in jeans, a towel slung over one shoulder, and a buzzing electric razor in his hand. His hair was dark with water, his shoulders wide in his black t-shirt.

  All right, not a dream. But how did he feel about that? Not as freaked as he should, that's for certain. He rolled over and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The sudden rush of cool air over his lower body reminded him he was naked. What's more, his usual morning wood had sprouted with something more than its customary persistence. He moved his hands from his eyes and grabbed the corner of the blanket to cover himself. When he glanced up, he caught Bonham staring, the hand that held the razor frozen a fraction of an inch from his jaw.

  Sean yanked on the blanket again and said, “Careful. Don't wanna mess up that pretty face."

  Bonham snorted and retreated into the bathroom. Sean lay there and stared at the water-stained ceiling, listening to the rain fall against the windows. Fucking February in the Bay area—nothing like it for gray, dismal and wet. He thought about what had gone down the previous night, and the sour flavor of rejection swamped his mouth. Not that he gave a shit. Bonham was a thug. An ex-con, for Christ's sake. He needed that kind of trouble like ... like ... well, not at all. He just didn't.

  When the olde
r man reappeared, Sean slid off the bed, wrapping the scratchy gray blanket around his hips. Bonham looked him up and down and quirked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. A few seconds after he closed the bathroom door, Sean heard the front door of the cabin slam shut.

  He emerged freshly showered a half-hour later. Bonham was sitting at the small table in the kitchenette, cleaning his gun. Sean turned his back while he dressed in the clothes he'd discarded the night before. When he finally looked, he found Bonham staring at the floor. The depth of the scowl on his face was awe-inspiring. The .45 rested on the table within easy reach.

  "I used your toothbrush. I really hope that's okay.” He loaded the words with as much sarcasm as he could.

  The older man looked up. “So long as you didn't drop it in the toilet."

  "Don't think it didn't cross my mind.” Sean padded barefoot toward the fridge. “What's for breakfast?"

  "Not much, unless you're into beer before noon.” Bonham stood and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather coat. “We're driving back into Kenwood for supplies, and to make a call. There's no cell reception out here."

  "Who're you calling?"

  "Not me. You're calling Sanchez and telling him where to meet me for a little conversation."

  Sean stared at him, knowing his amazement must show on his face. “What makes you think I'll do that?"

  "You're pretty good at doing what you're told, kid. Thought we proved that already."

  "Cocksucker."

  Bonham smirked. “Is that a request? ‘Cause you already owe me—"

  Sean cut him off with a wave of his hand, tripping over himself to avoid any mention of what had happened between them just a few hours before. “Sanchez won't care. He won't give you what you want just because you've got me."

  "Don't sell yourself short, kid.” Bonham's voice dropped half an octave, dirty and deep. “I'm betting your tight ass is worth a little conversation to the man."

  "Jesus, do you have to be so—"

  "So what? Crude? I thought you liked the rough stuff."

  Sean swung away from him and grabbed the edge of the rickety oak table. “Sanchez hates to lose. He'll kill us both first."

  "We'll see. Be in the truck in five minutes."

  The drive back into Kenwood was rougher than the drive out, mostly due to the metric shit-load of mud that had accumulated overnight. Sean curled his fingers under the edge of the seat and watched Bonham struggle with the wheel of the truck.

  "What do you want me to say to him, exactly?"

  Bonham shot him a quick look. “The truth."

  "Which is...?"

  Bonham sighed. “You tell him I took you and I'm keeping you ‘til he sets up a meeting. That's it."

  "So I should skip the part where you kissed me like a Goddamn girl? Or the part where you couldn't bring yourself to fuck me—because, really, I don't think he'll be impressed."

  The truck swerved sharply, sliding at an angle through the mud. Bonham fought to keep it on the narrow road, cursing long and vividly. When he got the vehicle under control, he glanced at Sean and said, “You're asking for it, kid. I won't tell you to watch your mouth again."

  Sean stifled the urge to make a face—maybe stick out his tongue and cross his eyes. Because he wasn't five years old, damn it, no matter how young and stupid Bonham made him feel. He turned and stared out the window at the passing scenery.

  They pulled into Kenwood a little before nine o'clock. Bonham parked on the street in front of what looked to be the only market in town, pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to Sean. “I assume you know his number?"

  Sean nodded. Was he really doing this? Bonham hadn't given him enough time to think through all the possible consequences. “I ... this might be...” He brushed his hair out of his face, struggling to find the right words. “This could be a mistake. Sanchez, he's a bad guy. Very bad."

  Bonham squinted at him. “And you think I'm ... what? A nice guy? A good guy?"

  The truth came blurting out before Sean could stop it. “Yeah kind of."

  Sean saw surprise and maybe something else flit across Bonham's face. They stared at each other as the seconds ticked over. Sean clutched the cell phone in his hand and waited for Bonham's next move. In the silence that seemed ready to stretch on into eternity, Sean's stomach's growled.

  Sean couldn't keep from grinning. Bonham barely cracked a smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Sean wished he was some other guy. Some guy who hadn't killed anybody. Who hadn't kidnapped him. Who wasn't bound and determined to tangle with Sanchez and get both of them maimed, or worse.

  Bonham leaned across the seat and pressed the button on the phone. “Try to sound scared. Like you think I'm gonna hurt you."

  "I'm not that good an actor."

  Bonham's fist flashed out. He pulled the punch at the last second, catching Sean just over his left nipple in a sharp jab that left a sting. As Sean sucked in air, Bonham said, “Try anyway."

  Sean dialed the phone. It dumped immediately into Sanchez's voicemail, which wasn't a surprise. Paco was a busy man. Grand larceny, extortion, and pimping didn't leave him with a lot of downtime.

  "Uh, hi. This is Sean.” He swallowed against his rising gorge, feeling in his bones the stupidity of going along with Bonham's plan. “Sean Carr?"

  Bonham grunted at him and whispered, “He knows who you are, moron. Get on with it."

  Sean rolled his eyes and pressed the phone closer to his ear. “It's like this, Paco—this guy named Jesse Bonham sort of ... kidnapped me.” Shit, that made him sound so fucking lame. Like he was some defenseless loser who'd let himself get snatched off the street. “Anyway, he says he'll let me go if you set up a meeting with him. He says—"

  Bonham grabbed the phone out of his hand. “Sanchez, listen up. You'd better come prepared to talk about the Mordero bullshit. I want a name, and you do know what I'm talking about, so don't play dumb and don't blow me off, or your pretty fuck-toy won't be so pretty next time you see him."

  Sean bit his lip and looked out the passenger-side window at the foot traffic on the sidewalk. He knew Bonham was bluffing. How he knew, he wasn't sure, but he'd always been a pretty good judge of character, and this guy ... he'd had so many opportunities to do real damage. But he hadn't. Not even when Sean felt compelled to practically beg for it.

  He listened as Bonham told Sanchez to meet him the following morning and gave an address he recognized as an industrial park on the outskirts of Santa Rosa. He turned to watch Bonham close the phone, stick it in his coat pocket and cut the truck's engine.

  "You wanna shop or stay in the truck?"

  Sean blinked at him. “You'd leave me here? What makes you think I'd still be here when you got back?"

  Bonham inclined his head in a considering sort of way. “Just optimistic, I guess."

  And Sean knew instantly what he meant. Bonham knew he wasn't going anywhere. Knew that after last night Sean was, essentially, his to keep and control for as long as he wanted. His bitch, so to speak.

  Sean closed his eyes and swallowed, searching inside himself for the part that gave a shit. It appeared to be taking an extended vacation. “I'll come in with you. Just ... can we leave the gun in the truck?"

  Bonham's brows shot toward his hairline. He hesitated maybe five seconds. Then he pulled the .45 from inside his coat, reached across Sean and opened the glove box. He slid the gun inside. Before he slammed the cover, Sean caught sight of a silver flask.

  Bonham looked at Sean, his mouth tight and his hands fisted in his lap. “All right?"

  Sean nodded. “All right."

  * * * *

  Sean set the sack of groceries on the table and wiped his wet, dirty fingers on his jeans. “I call first shower."

  "The hell you do."

  "Hey man, you're the one who drove off the road."

  "And you're the one who made me drive off the fucking road."

  Sean grinned. The memory of Bonham's fac
e when Sean opened the glove box and pulled out the .45 was priceless. He'd only been reaching for the flask, but when he realized he'd grabbed the gun instead ... well, it's hard to resist that kind of temptation. Almost worth the filthy bath he'd taken when Bonham made him help push the truck out of the ditch.

  And even with the feel of grit in his teeth from when the back wheels spun and threw mud in his face, he couldn't help but be pleased with himself. “You're just mad because you let your guard down and I got the jump on you."

  Bonham was instantly in his face, with a glare that lost some of its impact due to the layer of grime covering his features. “You? Will never get the jump on me."

  Sean smirked and cocked his thumb and forefinger in the shape of a pistol. “And yet..."

  "You ever held a gun before, kid?” Now Bonham was smiling too, but his eyes glittered in a way that made Sean take one giant step back. “Because you weren't gonna do much damage with the safety on."

  "Right. That's why we ended up in the ditch, because you were so sure I didn't know how to use your gun.” Sean could hear the defensive note in his own voice, but he kept on smiling.

  Bonham advanced on him. This time Sean stood his ground. When the other man was close enough that Sean could smell the rank odor of mud rising from his body, he stopped and said, “We ended up in the ditch because I wanted you to drop the gun. And you did, didn't you?"

  Sean felt his smile evaporate. He nodded once, a quick jerk of his head, but only because he didn't have much choice.

  Bonham said, “You're just lucky it didn't leave any dents or scratches. Very lucky. Now get outta my way before I lose my temper and—"

  "And what? You gonna hit me?” Sean moved closer, ‘til his chest brushed Bonham's. “What would it take to make you haul off and—"

  "Are you really that into pain?” Bonham wasn't smiling anymore either.

  Sean held his gaze for a long three seconds. Then he looked away. “No."

  "Then quit trying to provoke me.” The other man stepped to the right and brushed past him. Sean heard the bathroom door slam a second later.