Vice City

by S. A. Stovall

  He breaks away but keeps his mouth against mine. “Fuck me,” he says.

  Heat sluices through my body. I’m ready to go, despite being cold not but ten seconds ago. I push him off, throw him down onto his stomach, and grab the box of overcompensation condoms, tossing the old one into the trash.

  Miles shakes his head. “Don’t bother.”

  I don’t argue. I never liked them anyway. I do, however, grab some lube and apply it to myself. Miles waits patiently through the process, even as I settle in behind him, rapt by his naked body.

  Needy, I thrust into him a little too fast. He cries out and seizes up, clenching hard but not pulling away. It’s fucking hot and slick and, without a condom, I swear I can feel his pulse. He whimpers something apologetic and forces himself to relax by collapsing on the bed and taking long, even breaths. I silently curse myself for being such an asshole. Miles isn’t like the other guys I’ve been with—the ones with all the experience and a taste for pain. I think he loves playing bitch, which suits me perfectly, but I’m not a full-blown sadist. I need to ease him into rougher stuff, like I did in the hotel.

  I reach around and stroke him, not bothering to move despite my body’s urgency. Miles gets half onto his knees in order to better accommodate me, pushing himself harder up onto my cock and moaning as he does so. I lean down and lick the flesh of his neck, moving my hand on his dick slow but steady. I don’t thrust or move my hips in the slightest and, after a few solid minutes of nipping at his skin, he begins to honestly relax under me.

  With each heavy breath, I can tell he’s enjoying himself.

  “You can go faster,” he breathes. “I’m fine.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to… give it to me like before.” His voice gets weaker with each word, almost like he doesn’t like saying it aloud.

  I chuckle into his ear. “I thought you said you were sore.”

  Miles pulls his hips forward and then pushes back, fucking himself on my cock. He twists his body and head around, meeting my mouth with his. His hot breath mingles with mine as he speaks. “I wanna feel it tomorrow. I wanna feel it and think about what we did here.”

  Jesus Christ. It’s like he knows what buttons to push to get me into it.

  I shove him back down and start my thrusting. The flesh-on-flesh contact of bareback is everything animalist that I enjoy. Licking my lips I lean back to grab his hips in both hands. The slap of skin reverberates throughout the room. Anyone listening would know what the heavy breathing and rhythmic noises meant. I don’t stifle my groans of ecstasy.

  “Play with yourself,” I command. I want to feel him shudder underneath me at his climax, especially now that there isn’t anything between us.

  I can tell the moment he starts. He clenches and sucks in his breath, the muscles of his body betraying how close he is. The longer I ride him, the tighter and hotter his body gets, building to the moment of sweet release.

  “From now on you’re only to come with my dick in your ass,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Miles nods into the blankets and forces out, “If that’s what you want.”

  “Tell me you want it.”

  “I… I want it. Of course I want it.”

  “You wanna feel it tomorrow?” I ask between ragged breaths. “You’re gonna feel my seed leakin’ out of you all day, ya know that, right?”

  I guess all my husky musings get to him because he convulses under me the instant I’m done speaking. His back arches and his muscles grip me with uncontrolled intensity, his breath forcefully exhaled from his body in one low moan. God, it’s like his muscles are milking me, begging for my sweet seed. He bites his lip to keep from getting too loud and starts bleeding.

  The sensations are intoxicating. Heat pools in my lower gut, and the sudden release of pressure fills me with overwhelming pleasure. I fill him deep with semen, enjoying the grip of his body on my now-satisfied cock. I’m panting louder than I should, tired and filling my lungs with air at a desperate rate.

  Holy hell I’m tired.

  I withdraw, twitching, and roll to my back, staring at the ceiling. I glance at the clock. Only two and half hours remaining. Where has all the time gone? Fuck me.

  Eh. Unlike at the hotel, I’m gonna have to clean this up. I go to sit up, but Miles catches me.

  “Wait,” he says, his voice breathless. “Stay for just a minute….”

  I comply and rest back on the bed. If I’m not careful, I’ll fall asleep here.

  “Thank you.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Can I… sleep here?”

  Did he have to ask? If he’d have just fallen asleep, I wouldn’t have said anything and we could’ve avoided this. Then again, I don’t like sleeping next to guys I can’t trust—are they going to kill me in the middle of the night? But Miles is different and I know it deep in my gut.

  “The bed’s big enough,” I say. “Do whatever you want.”

  “And… did you mean what you said? That you should… be in me… every time?”

  “No.” I bit back a laugh. “I can’t fuck as often as some twenty-year-old can yank it. I just say things sometimes in the heat of the moment, anything I think would get my rocks off.”

  “I like it.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.” I yawn.

  Miles cuddles up to me like a damn puppy. Whatever. It’s hard to get angry at someone you just had a great romp with. I wish he wouldn’t idolize me, however. I feel like I’m lying to him on some level. It’s not like I’m going to make his life fantastic. My life isn’t a glamorous one. It’s pretty shitty, if I have to be honest.

  I bring my hand up and brush his hair with my fingers. This is nice. Is this what life would be like living in some suburb house? Probably. I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine watering a lawn. It’s boring and stupid and I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about it. What am I thinking? Miles could water the lawn. I smile at my own internal joke.

  Maybe giving up life on the streets has some merit… even if I have to flip burgers for a living to have it. At least then I could sleep in.

  THE ALARM wakes me.

  I don’t want to be awake, but here I am. The sun shines through the window, burning the carpet. My mouth is dry; my system low on nicotine… and everything hurts.

  “Hey, Pierce. You need to get up.”

  I roll to my side and force myself into my normal routine. Get up. Wash down in the shower. Get dressed. Everything moves in a blur, so much so that it’s like living in a jump cut sequence. As I pull on my boxers, Miles shoves another plastic-wrapped sandwich into my hands. The thing could have been rancid and I wouldn’t have noticed. I eat it, one-handed, as I attempt to pull up my pants.

  “Pierce!”

  The shout jump-starts my system into overdrive. I leap out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, and into the hall. Miles is standing in the doorframe of the second bedroom, his eyes wide with disbelief. I glance inside and roll my eyes so hard I swear I’ve strained something.

  His. Fucking. Brother. Left.

  The window, ajar, signals his escape route. I storm through the rest of the flat, checking every inch. Nothing stolen. Even the handcuffs are left half secure to the bedframe in the second bedroom. The kid must’ve taken my warning to heart.

  His black trash bag, on the other hand, is nowhere in sight. I silently curse myself for not taking it from him. A lowlife like Jayden no doubt had burglar tools on him. He probably picked the lock to his handcuffs minutes after I left the room.

  “What am I going to do?” Miles asks me, running both hands through his hair. “What if the Cobras blame him for what happened?”

  Good riddance.

  Miles turns to me with worry in his eyes. “What if he tells them about me or you? About this apartment?”

  Goddammit. I rub my forehead. Why was he so desperate to leave?

  “What if he heard us in the other room and assumed….”

  “For fuck’s sake,”
I mutter. That’s what happened. Miles called it. I can see it in my mind’s eye. “Listen. Your brother isn’t that bright. I’m sure we’ll find him before he gets himself into too much trouble. I know Noimore like the back of my hand—there are only so many people he’s going to buy drugs from, and I’m sure he’s jonesing for a hit.”

  Miles nods.

  I return to my room and throw on the rest of my clothes. My safe, which I keep in my closet, has a complicated code, but I’ve used the same one for thirteen years. I type it in without even looking at the pad. Inside sits five .45 handguns, a whole case of ammo, ten loaded magazines, a few extra shoulder holsters, and one box of hollow-point bullets.

  Miles hovers around, watching me gather my materials. I replace my empty magazine, take a few extra, and then grab a second holster. I motion Miles over, and he jumps to my side.

  “You ever put one of these on before?” I ask.

  He gives me an are you serious look before taking the holster and effortlessly slipping it on. I offer a one-sided smile as I tighten the straps and slip a gun into place. I throw him a jacket, to conceal his firearm, and he hesitates.

  “You trust me with a gun?”

  “You’re gonna watch my six, right?” I ask, handing him a second magazine.

  Miles stares at me with a newfound confidence. He stands a little straighter as he slips the clip into his pocket. “You always seemed a little reluctant to….”

  “You looked like you held yourself well with Santiago, especially when you got your blade in him. You have some skill with a knife, right? That wasn’t a fluke?”

  “Yeah. I know how to use a knife.”

  I walk over to my nightstand and remove a KA-BAR knife from the drawer—nothing beats the military-grade weapon when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. I toss the thing hilt-first over to Miles. He catches it without a hint of uncertainty. I toss him the belt holder and he secures it to his person. I’ve never been good with knives.

  “You know how to fire your gun?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “You know about the safety?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How to clean it?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “You know I was a hired gun for the Vice family, right? They ran me through the drills.”

  “Just makin’ sure.”

  “Are we going to look for Jayden now?”

  “Not yet. First we’re gonna go talk to Jeremy Vice.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  JEREMY VICE has his own little section in the industrial district. He’s had it for years, ever since he turned sixteen. His mother keeps funneling him money in order to “refurbish” the place to his liking. Jeremy turned it into a strip-club-meets-game-room combo, complete with an area in the back he calls his office. The office part resembles his father’s aesthetics—expensive wood, leather, crystal, wines—while the game room and strippers have a poorly lit thug den filled to the brim with all sorts of things a teenager would jerk off to. It’s low-class meets high-class in all the wrong ways. The only upside is that the two areas are separate.

  To my surprise, his strip club operates in the middle of the day. I spot a couple bouncers by the door and hear the music half a block down. The men give me odd glances when I park. I’ve never met them before. I nod as I walk by, heading straight for the back. They don’t give me any trouble, but they do eye Miles as he waits in the car.

  Jeremy’s office and the strip club are two neighboring buildings. Smokers and strippers alike gather around the back of the club, a handful of bouncers getting an eyeful of the workers. I guess they’re not busy, considering how many of them are outside, and I wonder what else goes on in the club if the dancers can take a break from time to time.

  I do a double take when I realize that three of the dancers are men—effeminate, small, and could easily pass as women—but still men. I almost didn’t recognize their form under all the glitter. Three seems a little high for this kind of establishment. I don’t know many coed strip clubs. Actually, I don’t know any coed strip clubs. The mystery gnaws at my mind as I walk up to Jeremy’s office door.

  The enforcer waiting there, another guy I’ve never seen, motions me in without a word. I step past the threshold and into the luxury I’ve come to know from the Vice family. Jeremy sits on top of his solid wood desk, chatting it up with another group of enforcers I’m unfamiliar with. He abruptly ends his conversation and flashes me a toothy smile.

  “Pierce!”

  Jeremy hops off the desk, standing a good foot shorter than any other man in the room.

  “Who’re these guys?” I ask, motioning to the three enforcers and ignoring Jeremy’s cheery posturing.

  “This is Brett, Donnie, and Rico,” he says, pointing to the men in respective order. They say nothing, but they nod to acknowledge me. I nod back, a little uneasy given their muscle and guns. I don’t like guys I don’t know, especially when there are more of them than me. It’s not smart practice to hang with a group of sharks in unfamiliar territory.

  Jeremy gestures to the door. “Get out of here, you three. I’ll talk to you all later. Pierce and I have some serious business to attend to.”

  Brett, Donnie, and Rico mutter acceptances as they shuffle past me and out the door. Once I hear the click of it shutting, I relax. Jeremy walks around to the front of his desk, leans back, and kicks one foot over the other, lacing his ankles together.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Pierce,” he drawls.

  “Since when did we get so many new enforcers?”

  “I’ve been hiring men to replace the ones we’ve lost. They’re good with a gun. And reliable too.”

  “Your father let you do the hiring?”

  Jeremy shrugs, his ugly mug scrunched in a forced look of confusion. “He has just been shot. I’m picking up the slack for him. It’s only natural, given my talents.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen. Your mother wants you to leave town.” I don’t have time for bullshit—I’m gonna take Jeremy to the airport and send him off like I did Guinevere. “I have a car ready. Let’s go.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? My father’s preoccupied with recovering. Someone needs to take over.”

  “Your mother is capable.”

  Jeremy rolls his wide-set eyes in an overly dramatic fashion. “My mother micromanages everything like a fussy hen. You know it. I know it. My father knows it. I’m capable of running things while my father recovers. Look, I even have your bonus ready.”

  He motions to a briefcase sitting idle on the side of the desk. I walk over to it and pop open the latches. A few thousand dollars sits inside—at first glance I’d say close to forty thousand—but I don’t count it in front of him. I shut the case and throw it down next to one of the guest chairs. I take a seat. I’m still tired.

  “That’s for killing Malloy,” Jeremy says, a wicked smirk on his face. “I’m impressed with how quickly you caught my uncle’s murderer. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Even all the guys I hired figured you would do it in no time flat.”

  He already knows about Malloy? Fuck—word must travel fast. “Yeah, well, that’s my job. I’m told I’m pretty good at it.”

  “Which is why I called you here,” Jeremy continues, his voice so false-cheery I’d swear he’s trying to sell me something. “I have something big. Something I can only trust a few people to know.” He lowers his tone and leans forward, meeting my gaze straight on. “Because… we’ve got spies in our midst. You know that, right? My father got shot by his own guards. We can’t trust people like we used to around here.”

  “Malloy said as much,” I say. “When I interrogated him, he said someone from the Vice side was feeding information to the Cobras.”

  “Did he?” Jeremy asks, leaning away and scratching his weak, barely pronounced chin. “I should’ve known you would’ve gotten information before you killed him. You’re so efficient.” He pulls a case of cigarettes from his pocket and offers me one. I shake my head and take out my own pack. I light
a smoke, but Jeremy just tucks his away—the pack isn’t even open. Does he smoke? I’ve never seen him smoke.

  I take a long drag and wait for Jeremy to hurry and tell me his secret. What’s he got that his father doesn’t?

  Jeremy continues with his car-salesman smile. “Pierce. You’re the only man I can trust to carry out my plan. See, in a few months’ time, Harlan, the King Cobra himself, will be attending an underground boxing event. Ya know the kind—bloody, cages, the fighters die, stakes are high—Harlan loves ’em.”

  I laugh, exhaling smoke. “Yeah. I seen ’em. They’re filled to the brim with bruisers. No one gets in or out of that place without gettin’ patted down for weapons. They probably won’t let anyone in unless they have a cobra tattoo either. And damn near everyone on the streets knows me by my bad eye. What makes you think that, just because you know where he’s going to be, you can kill Harlan himself?”

  “Oh, that’s the fun part. In a few months the boxing matches will take place in the Nightquarter Café. It’s an old historic building, used to be a speakeasy and smuggling den for bootleggers and rumrunners. There’s even an old shaft that leads to the basement… no one uses it anymore, though. No one knows about it but me and the old man I shot getting the information.”

  Jeremy, unable to stop his smiling, waits. I take another drag on my cigarette.

  “So,” I say. “Let me get this straight. You want me to crawl through some old bootleg tunnel to shoot a guy in the middle of a jam-packed speakeasy basement? That’s your plan? What’s my bonus? A casket made of silver?”

  “No, of course not. Listen to me. You’re going to pack the bootleg tunnel with explosives. Then, when Harlan and his closest men are in attendance, we’re going to blow the tunnel and the whole speakeasy basement with it. Get it?”

  I go silent and nurse my cigarette.