by Clare London
The young man introduced himself as Oliver, and he appeared to be the waiter as well as desk clerk. He hadn’t bothered asking for their names in return, as he fussed around them at the table. He was still in the brief shorts, but with his shirt buttoned up now.
“Are you the chef as well?” Jerry asked, on one of Oliver’s trips to the table.
“No, not tonight.” Oliver briefly turned his back on Jerry, collecting the empty plates from the previous course. His eyes met Scot’s again, like magnets. There was more than a flash of mischief in his expression. “I’m on duty in other ways. For other appetites.” His voice dropped to a very low murmur, so that Scot wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He didn’t think Jerry had heard those words at all.
Scot was suddenly, embarrassingly aware that he had an erection. Thank fuck his lap was well hidden under the table. It was probably because he was very tired, his body disturbed. He was still so dizzy from the journey and the sticky heat of the evening. He wished to God the meal was over and they could go to their room.
Then Oliver turned away from him again and spoke to Jerry. “Our chef tonight is Vincent. You’ll meet him soon.”
“I should thank him for this great meal,” Jerry said. Scot saw a high flush on his cheeks that was also unusual. Perhaps the meal had been too highly spiced for him.
“Do it,” Oliver said simply. “Go into the kitchen and thank him.” He stood there, with the plates piled in his hands, his back now to Scot, and seemingly unaware that his butt was poised just over Scot’s leg. Scot couldn’t help but see the smooth, plump flesh of his thighs, bulging out from under the high cut shorts. The dip behind his knee had a remnant of moisture nestling there, a drop or two of warm sweat. “Vincent appreciates personal attention. He’ll want to know that he’s pleased you.”
Jerry flushed even more. There was always something in Oliver’s tone that was innately provocative, although the words were plain enough. Scot wondered what the hell his boyfriend had been thinking, making such pompous conversation.
“Well, maybe in the morning, before we leave.” Jerry’s voice was strained. He pushed his plate away, finished at last. “I think we’d better turn in for the night. We’ve been on the road for several days now, non-stop.”
Oliver nodded. “Of course. It’s been a long journey for you, but you’ll find it was worthwhile.”
“Huh?” Jerry looked confused. Scot watched Oliver stack their empty glasses with unhurried movements and with a slight smile on his lips. They were full lips, the color of a blood-red orange, strangely at odds with his more delicate, youthful looks.
Across the table, Jerry’s eyes were still bright but his face was twisted in a grimace. Scot wondered why it had taken Jerry so long to recognize how disconcerting Oliver was. But he couldn’t waste time wondering about it. Scot wasn’t really listening to their conversation anyway. His heart was beating very fast, and he’d curled his hand into a fist on the table in front of him. He wasn’t even sure why. Oliver was swaying a little, his back to Scot as he cleared the table, talking to Jerry.
Scot knew several things in just that one, blinding moment. He knew Oliver had nothing on underneath his shorts. The young man had, as Scot had thought earlier, just pulled them on to come and greet them. Scot could almost see the underside of his buttocks, the pale flesh shining in contrast to the dim shadows where the candle light didn’t reach. The shirt had been thrown on hastily as well. Oliver had been naked just before they arrived. And his flesh was very warm.
How am I so sure about all this? Scot marveled. A wave of sensation rolled through his mind, both warming and alarming him. Why was such a simple observation so vividly sensual?
For that matter, what was a creature like Oliver doing here in the first place? He had a classical beauty, like a young Greek god of ancient myth: he seemed careless, though not in a clumsy way, and he acted very fey. His movements were languid and smooth, his gestures uninhibited. He touched many things as he passed, with a trailing, almost aimless finger. His eyes were never still, and yet when Scot looked up at his face, those eyes always seemed fastened back on him. They sparkled with a pale blue light, reflecting the flicker of the candle flames. It was riveting. Oliver didn’t match this strange, run-down place in any way. He wouldn’t look out of place on a stage, on a catwalk, in a club. Where he could be admired and coveted.
I can see him through a window. Through a spy hole. He’s in a cage, hoisted up high above a stage. His ankles are chained, his naked body cross-bound with leather ties. He’s waiting for me to arrive, and he’ll beg me to release him. His eyes will be wide and wet with unshed tears, his lips moist. Then I’ll watch him stroke himself, fisting his cock in front of me, smiling at me and calling for me to come to him: to save him for myself…
Scot bit back a gasp, horrified at the unbidden, fantastic thoughts that suddenly consumed him. He pressed his hand hard into his lap, to discourage his arousal from getting any worse. He’d never had such thoughts in his life, at least not since his early adolescence. And then he’d been wracked with guilt and misery because his desires had reached for young men, not girls.
All through his childhood, Scot had listened to his parents’ loud and bigoted opinions, and watched the way they expected everyone’s behavior to fit in with their own narrow, cheap, aggressive world. They never held down a job or a permanent home, and he lived his life with the tag of trailer trash. But he learned at an early age not to argue about anything with them, because his father’s hand was fast and vicious. Scot still had marks on his back from the worst beatings.
To have talked to them about his blossoming sexuality—particularly in the way it was leaning—was out of the question. His pubescent agonies were hidden under the bedclothes at night, his dick clasped tightly in his palm. Hot, quick, shuddering agonies, with dreams of masculine, hairy limbs. Wide, muscled shoulders: the touch of a warm, thick cock against a thigh. School became a nightmare for a couple of years—he was distracted and disruptive. He did well in high school, regardless, and would have liked to try for law school in the city. But his parents wouldn’t consider it. Any money he earned toward it, they took. He knew he should have had the courage to stand up to them, but he didn’t know where to turn. He just settled for a local job and other ways to survive. His parents still took his money for booze and drugs, but he learned better places to hide it. And his sexuality, too.
Then he’d met Jerry. It totally changed his life. In a very short time, he realized for certain that his way was different, but that it was the right way for him. What’s more, there were other young men like him he could meet, which he’d never dared believe before. It had been on the one hand, a great relief. But he also swiftly realized how unacceptable that difference was in their small, regressive, homophobic town, and it always would be. Jerry knew it too, but in the end, Jerry didn’t want them to hide their relationship any longer.
And so that was when they’d run.
Now in the motel restaurant, Jerry laughed rather too loudly, and Scot’s memories scattered. Oliver brushed at his arm, ostensibly reaching to clear away a side plate. Startled, Scot snatched his arm away from the touch, but the blond didn’t seem offended. He straightened up, still nursing that slow, lascivious smile.
Scot felt a rush of emotion, similar to when he’d nearly passed out in the yard. It was confusing. He wanted to slap the smile off Oliver’s face, yet he also wanted to laugh aloud with him. He wanted to touch his fingertips to the plump lips, to slide his fingers into Oliver’s mouth until the saliva dripped softly into the valleys between his fingers, to kiss him hard, bruising his boyish mouth….
Jerry glanced over at Scot, frowning. “You okay?”
The tension between them was almost palpable, and Scot tried again to shake off his disorientation. “Of course I am.”
“Do you own this place? Run it?” Jerry turned back to quiz Oliver again. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Scot was suddenly angry with
him again. Maybe Jerry was being polite, but he didn’t seem able to resist prattling on into the silence. Dammit, it wasn’t like either of them thought this young man had either the ability or the attitude to run a motel.
Oliver shrugged, gracefully, carelessly. “Of course not. I just work here. This is Maxwell’s.”
Scot frowned. “What is?”
“It’s the name of the motel.”
Scot resisted rolling his eyes. “I understand that. But who or what is Maxwell?”
Oliver held his gaze. “Everything is. Everything… everyone. It’s all Maxwell’s.”
His odd behavior was rude. No, not rude. Scot’s head was throbbing again. The word that stabbed at his temples with every pulse of his heart was something different.
=dangerous=
“You look faint again,” came Oliver’s cool voice, seemingly from a far distance. “You must rest now. Vincent will take your bags down for you.”
***
They walked back out into the lobby, Jerry holding onto Scot’s elbow and steadying him. When Oliver went over to the desk, Scot hung back. They’d used false names a few times since they left town. Jerry got them the initial bus ticket, then he sold some jewelry and a camera he’d taken from his house and hired the car under an assumed name. Ever since then, they’d slept nights in the car or in public parks. Jerry was paranoid, maybe, because Scot didn’t think either set of parents would report them missing. In his case, he was pretty sure they’d be relieved to see the back of him. One less mouth to feed, and an aggressive one at that.
Jerry came from the better end of town. Scot had always assumed that more money and a more intellectual background meant an easier tolerance. Jerry soon disabused him of that. He’d never told Scot the full story of the scene when he confessed his relationship with another man, but it sounded like it had been ugly. To be honest, Scot suspected Jerry had taunted them with it. There were times when Jerry’s bitterness scared him. Even when he told Scot he had to move out—and soon—his words had been laced with a fierce kind of vengefulness. He’d only hinted at how unpleasant his parents made his childhood. He’d described cold hatred; hours he’d spent locked in dark rooms. He’d alluded to strange and cruel ways they’d tried to prevent him ever growing up at all. Jerry had been very academic at school and very conformist. Yet his rebellion over the last couple of years appeared, in contrast, to have been far wilder than Scot’s.
Over by the desk, Oliver coughed less than discreetly.
Scot glanced at Jerry. No one had asked yet for formal registration. Perhaps they could avoid it all together if they paid cash. He peered over the counter and couldn’t see any paperwork at all. No pen, no telephone, no index cards. There was a thin film of dust on the cover of the ledger. When did they last book in a guest? How the hell did they make this place pay at all?
There was movement across the lobby, and the door that led to the guest rooms opened. Another man walked in, letting the door slide shut behind him. He was taller and much stockier than Oliver. There was none of the young man’s insouciance about him, and he moved with a swift, strong, feral grace.
Scot stared across at this newcomer. They’d only just left the dining room, with no sign of the chef, or any other staff. If this were the same man, he must have moved around the building from another direction, to arrive here at the same time.
“This is Vincent,” Oliver said quietly. “Of course.” His gaze flickered between Scot and Jerry, and stayed there. He grinned, mischief back in his expression. “You wanted to praise him for his skills, didn’t you? His culinary skills?”
Jerry flushed, as if he knew he was being teased, maybe tested. Scot didn’t turn to help him out, because he was staring, temporarily speechless, at the man in front of them.
He was spectacular! Where Oliver had pretty, youthful looks, Vincent was most definitely a man, dark-haired with rugged, handsome features. He looked like a Native American, his face long and his cheekbones high, with a straight nose and bright, dark eyes. His shoulders and torso were broad, his skin dusky, and he wore his hair long, drawn back severely from his forehead and caught in a band at the back of his neck. It shone with a purple-black color, and his eyes reflected the same richness. He was dressed in a thin, pale-colored tunic top and loose pants, but under that, Scot saw the thick muscles of his shoulders and the tight definition of his chest. Some kind of serious working-out was needed to keep that kind of physique. He stood easily, his legs slightly apart, his hands at his sides. His feet were also bare.
Scot had never really been attracted to such an athletic look, but he felt lust stir instinctively in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Jerry gave a soft sigh and tightened his grip on Scot’s arm. Scot resisted the urge to pull his arm away. He knew immediately, without knowing exactly how, that Jerry was seriously turned on by this man.
Oliver coughed again, breaking the silence. One of the candles behind the desk sputtered and went out, casting further darkness over the reception area. He pushed the holder out of the way and hitched himself up onto the front of the counter, perching there and swinging his slim, barely tanned legs against the wooden front. He stared over at the man called Vincent, who gazed back placidly. “Take the bags down to Number 6 for Mr. Harrison, will you, Vincent?”
Jerry frowned. “I didn’t tell you my name yet, did I?”
Oliver shrugged. His eyes glimmered in that sultry way they had. He leaned forward, his hands spread out on his thighs. “I don’t remember. Perhaps your… companion did. I don’t see that it matters, do you?”
Scot glanced at Jerry. He looked confused, and didn’t seem in any state to argue. Vincent moved in front of them both and bent slightly, picking up their bags as if they weighed nothing. His smell teased at Scot’s nostrils. Skin and sweat, of course, as he’d expect in this sweltering weather, and also some memory of the supper food—but an underlying muskiness as well. It made his head swim all over again.
Jerry must have smelled it as well, because the sound that came from under his breath was more like a moan. “Do you work for Maxwell’s as well, Vincent?” he said weakly. “Are you and Oliver—?”
Scot felt hot with embarrassment. He jabbed Jerry in the ribs and his boyfriend shut his mouth abruptly. Scot realized they had no knowledge of these men at all. No notion of what kind of people they were, what had brought them to the motel, where they lived before, or what sense of humor they had. Let alone what relationship they may have together. What the hell was Jerry playing at?
But Vincent seemed unconcerned at Jerry’s inquisitiveness. “I work here as well,” he said, nodding. “For Maxwell’s. Of course.” His voice was deeper than Oliver’s, and with a slow lilt that seemed to match the cadence of his breath. It was a drawl, and very seductive. Scot felt Jerry shiver beside him, and wondered if Vincent realized quite how much he was affecting them both.
“I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
“No problem. Oliver and I are co-workers.” There was a flicker of amusement in Vincent’s eyes. “We work together.”
He moved behind the desk and paused at Oliver’s back, resting one of the bags on the edge of the counter. Scot’s gaze followed them both, fascinated despite himself. He saw Vincent’s face over Oliver’s shoulder—the difference in the two men’s heights allowed it—and he watched as Vincent’s left hand rested gently at Oliver’s hip. Vincent’s fingers teased gently under the fabric of Oliver’s shirt, tugging it away from his skin. The buttons peeled gently open, as if they just tired of their job, and the shirt fell open again. Soft, irregular light dappled across Oliver’s bare chest. Vincent’s right hand couldn’t be seen, as it was entirely behind the blond’s back.
Oliver leaned his head slightly to the side, baring his neck away from where the other man stood. Vincent dipped his head slightly, planting his lips at Oliver’s exposed neck. And he nipped at the pulse there.
Oliver whimpered. It was a soft, breathy sound, like a trapped animal. Scot stared with shock a
t the blatantly sexual caress. Jerry let out another cry, this time fully audible.
A hiss came from one of the other candles on the wall, and the flame flared up. It threw long, dark shadows across the room. The planes of Vincent’s face were accentuated: the paleness of Oliver’s thighs shone more brightly in contrast to the darkness.
Scot stared into Oliver’s face, meeting the young man’s gaze. It was calm and steady, but the pupils of his eyes were dilated. And as Scot watched, he saw gentle movement around the waist of Oliver’s shorts, as if the back of them was being tugged down: as if there was something being slipped inside. He thought it was probably Vincent’s other hand. He could see more of Oliver’s nude hip now—more of his pale, young skin.
Oliver sucked in a breath, his eyes still holding Scot’s gaze. Another slight smile teased at his lips. The tip of his tongue appeared suddenly, rubbing quickly across the pink flesh of his mouth, then darted back in. His head fell back a little, and bobbed gently as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer’s string.
“Shit.” Jerry gasped, his voice hoarse. He slipped his hand off Scot’s arm. Scot couldn’t fail to see it slide down the front of Jerry’s body, and he marveled that Jerry would touch himself in front of others. His own cock ached, pressing against the front of his jeans, but he didn’t dare reach to adjust it.
Oliver apparently had no such inhibitions. As the movement in his shorts became more pronounced, his hand slipped into his lap, resting on the bulge that anyone could now see under the denim. He sighed again softly, biting at his lower lip as if something were nagging at him. And then, in front of the two spectators, sitting as he was on the desk with Vincent’s hand down his shorts and obviously up against his ass, he started to rub at his arousal.