by P. W. Davies
Bittersweet admissions passed between the two of them.
‘I could do this for the rest of my life.’
‘With both you and him.’
‘The three of us together.’
Whatever flashed across Victor’s eyes was indiscernible with Peter more focused on the mounting pressure forming in his groin. Somehow, he had no doubt all of that had been said by both, like a melody being shared between two instruments. Like Victor had learned to read eyes and for more than simple, professional reasons. Later, Peter would wonder if this was how it was with Victor and Christian; if this was how it had always been. Emotions communicated in silent spaces, shared in intimate moments of abandon.
Peter lost his war against succumbing. As Victor continued to move within him, he felt his cock twitch and sputter, the pressure bursting through him like a dam had collapsed. It didn’t take long for Victor to join him and as the other man came within him, Peter shut his eyes and lost himself in the afterglow. A profound amount of fatigue washed over him once the pulses had subsided and Victor remained inside him until he found his composure again.
Even then, a kiss accompanied their bodies parting. Peter rolled to his side, curling up against his lover, while Victor peppered him with kisses and drew him close, within the refuge of his arms.
“You’re going to be late,” Peter murmured.
“It’s worth it. I’ll shower before I leave,” Victor said. His hand caressed Peter’s back, a soothing motion that continued when the other man sank deeper inside of it. “Sleep, if you’re tired.”
“I’m tempted.”
“I’ll stay until you’re asleep.”
Peter looked at Victor, mirroring the soft smile offered to him and nodded. Resting his head against Victor’s shoulder, he didn’t fight his heavy eyelids, allowing them to drift shut while the fleeting thought of showering with Victor dissipated. Within moments, his breathing turned shallow, his mind whisked away into the realm of dreams. He didn’t feel when Victor freed himself, or hear the other man leave the apartment.
He still smelled him in the sheets, though, when he woke several hours later.
Sixteen
‘Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll come over to get you.’
Peter glanced at the screen as he toweled off, tempted to pick up the phone and type out a response before he had even finished dressing. Rather than forcing himself to rush, he took a deep breath and finished buttoning his shirt. Sitting to slip on his shoes, he then tapped out a reply.
‘I’ll be finished by the time you get here.’
“Not that I have any idea what you have planned,” Peter said, standing first before slipping his phone into his pocket. A brief visit to the bathroom to comb his hair preceded him emerging for his coat. He had it slipped on within moments, his apartment door locked behind him and a deliberate stride carrying him down the stairs while he zipped the coat shut. ‘I have an idea,’ Victor had texted the night prior, the message waiting for Peter when he woke after their romp in the sheets. When Peter pressed for details, Victor answered cryptically.
‘Enjoy your shift at work. I’ll let you know if Christian contacts me in the interim.’
Running a hand through his hair, Peter finished descending the stairs and walked outside, peering into the darkness for any sign of the smoke gray Mustang. It took several minutes before it appeared, sliding into an almost-too-small space and left idling while Peter raced for the passenger side door. After buckling his seat belt, he accepted the chaste kiss offered by his lover, who had chosen to dress down for the night. “So, what’s the plan?” Peter asked.
Victor shot a quick smirk at Peter before shifting his attention to the rearview mirror. “I’m going to show you someplace,” he said, resting a hand on the back of Peter’s seat and twisting enough to see his way out of the tight parking spot. He cranked the wheel while creeping in reverse. “Christian will probably be angry when he discovers I’ve done this, but considering he’s gone silent on me, I think I’ll have a justifiable excuse.”
“One of Christian’s haunts?”
“You could say that.” As he finished pulling out of the space, he shifted into drive and merged with what little traffic still lingered from rush hour. Peter took a deep breath out of reflex and Victor reached over to squeeze the other man’s leg before reclaiming his hand. “I’m mostly being facetious about getting into trouble.”
“I figured.” Peter fought against the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s more that he hasn’t contacted you. I knew he might be in trouble, but I’m starting to wonder…” He trailed off.
When Victor cleared his throat, Peter looked from the passing collection of buildings to his lover. “I have a habit,” Victor said, “of not putting certain things to words lest they gain some truth to them. If I’m not vocalizing my fears, it isn’t because I don’t have the same concerns.”
Peter nodded. Relaxing into his seat, he let his gaze shift back to the windows. “This is his world,” he said. “It’s the rules he’s used to. He’s a lot better off than we probably worry he is.”
“Either that, or crawled into the emergency room of a different hospital.”
Breathing a soft chuckle, Peter glanced at Victor again, who smirked. Their conversation waned, but the rest of the drive only left them in silence for a few additional minutes. Several turns later, Victor parked the car into an open space and turned off the ignition. The way he sorted his keys once they were in his hand bore a conspicuous nature. “He might demand the key back, at the very least,” Victor said.
“Is this his place?” Peter asked, but Victor opened the car door before providing a response. Following suit, Peter jogged to make up the difference between him and his lover after unhooking his seatbelt and closing his door. By the time he fell into place beside Victor, the other man had already typed a code into the security system preventing anyone from entering the foyer. He swung open the front door and held it for Peter, a small, apologetic smile on Victor’s face which seemed to say, ‘Wait and see.’
Peter took hold of the door and kept it open long enough for them to walk into the apartment building. Silently, Victor led the way to the third floor, his thumb caressing the key when his fingers didn’t otherwise give into the compulsion to spin the entire collection around on the ring. Managing to barely make a sound while doing this, Victor served as enough of a distraction for Peter not to break the quiet. The latter kept pursuit until the former paused in front of a dark, wooden door.
In bronze, the designation 313 had been nailed onto the frame and below it, a buzzer had been wired. Victor bypassed it, sliding the key into the lock and unlatching it before gingerly twisting the knob. The two men crept inside and as Victor eased the door shut, Peter stood in the entryway and peered around his surroundings. Reminded of when he had been escorted inside Victor’s condo, what Peter saw while walking into Christian’s apartment bore more of a resemblance to the man himself.
Framed prints hung from the walls, with dynamic, vibrant colors which contrasted against the neutral colored-paint behind them. A black couch rested on top of a pattered rug with hardwood floors beneath which had been scarred by previous tenants. “Christian?” Victor called out from beside him, only distracting Peter for a half-second when the evocation failed to produce any signs of life. Peter wandered into the living room and stopped, taking a deep breath when the remainder of the room came into view.
There they sat in all their glory, beside an ashtray containing several extinguished cigarettes. Several knives had been taken from wherever Christian kept them hidden – the trunk shoved in the corner looked to be the likely candidate – and placed on the coffee table. Their haphazard placement looked like an afterthought; as if Christian had discarded them as unacceptable and possibly determined other blades more suitable for whatever job he had in mind. Peter paused in front of the collection, careful not to knock over a half-finished bottle of beer while picking up one of the sh
eathed weapons.
“I doubt he’d want you doing that,” Victor said from somewhere behind Peter, closer to the entryway. Rather than being an admonition, it sounded more informational.
Peter shrugged. “I’ll let him take it up with me when he asks for his key back,” he said, pulling the sheath from the knife and revealing a gleaming blade beneath. Regardless of whatever else Peter thought about the weapon, he could tell one thing, if nothing else: Christian took meticulous care of his knives.
“Just make sure to wipe the hilt clean of fingerprints. I’m going to look around the rest of the apartment.” Peter nodded without looking up and Victor strode past while Peter continued to examine the knife. Flicking the edge with the tip of his finger, he felt how sharp it was and frowned, not able to fool himself about the weapon’s intent. It had been used to kill people in the past, even if it was deemed unworthy this time. That immediately told Peter where his other lover had gone.
Slipping the sheath back onto the knife, he lifted the end of his shirt and used it to clean off the hilt. Peter set the weapon down gingerly and ignored the rest of the collection in favor of pursuing the remainder of the clues. Touching the bottle provided evidence the contents were tepid – just below room temperature – and thumbing through the cigarette butts revealed a lingering warmth. “He left recently,” Peter said, raising his voice in the direction of where Victor had disappeared. “Maybe an hour or so ago?”
“Is there anything that indicates where he might’ve gone?” Victor asked in a similar fashion.
“Not yet. Still poking around. I just noticed the beer and cigarettes.” Peter examined the remainder of the coffee table before deciding it contained no further clues. “The beer’s still sort of cold.”
“I’ll continue looking in here.”
Without indicating where ‘here’ was, Victor fell silent again. Peter nodded and strode toward the trunk, bypassing a bookcase with a scant collection of books on the shelves. Kneeling, he tested the lid and furrowed his brow when it opened with only a little resistance. A lock fell from the latch. Peter picked it up from the floor and examined it while holding the lid with his other hand. “In a hurry?” Peter asked, murmuring the question.
Setting aside the open lock, he directed his focus back to the trunk and its contents. An additional knife lay inside, moved away along with what looked like a leather holster. “He said he hated guns,” Peter noted drolly, deflecting the thought of one of those sharp knives piercing through somebody’s stomach or cutting across their jugular. Beneath what remained of Christian’s weaponry lay a scrapbook and the presence of something so bizarre caught Peter’s attention. Pulling it out, Peter sat on the floor once he had freed it from the trunk and settled it on his lap.
The first page made Peter’s blood run cold. A newspaper article declared a murder in Exeter from behind the clear sheets protecting it, and though its battered condition indicated it had seen better days, the story was still legible. Peter’s eyes skimmed over the article and stopped at the portion which talked about the one witness who had seen the crime unfold. “Well, shit,” Peter said, frowning. The one witness had a name – fourteen-year-old Christian Richardson.
A quick glance at the date revealed it sixteen years in the past and a flip of the page brought Peter one step closer to the present. Added without explanation, a picture of a man’s forearm with the tattoo of a flame filled the next page, and when a few subsequent pages carried similar pictures, Peter furrowed his brow and reached in his pocket for his cell phone. After dialing the number for work, Peter held the phone to his ear and waited.
Other clippings from newspaper articles verified a fledgling theory, centered specifically on what seemed like a crime syndicate operational in Southern England. His eyes remained on the pages as someone answered on the other line and Peter only spared enough attention to say, “Chloe Poole, please,” before giving the book his undivided attention again. Within a minute or two, her familiar voice filled his ear, but by this point he’d read all he needed to know. “Hey, Chloe,” he said after she announced herself, “I’ve got a quick question for you.”
“What can I do for you, doll?” she asked.
“The guy I was asking about the other night… Do you remember if he had any tattoos or other distinguishing marks?”
“Is it a good idea for me to answer the question?”
“I already suspect the answer, if it helps.”
A short pause filled the space between Peter’s comment and her response. “He had a tattoo. Nothing like a prison or a gang tattoo, though.”
“Was it a flame?”
This time, her hesitation lasted much longer. “It was a gang tattoo after all, wasn’t it? I told the police –”
“That’s right. The police were coming for him. Shit.” Peter set his hand on his forehead, his eyes shifting toward Victor as he emerged from outside the bedroom. Victor raised an eyebrow as Peter peered at the other man, his words for the nurse on the other end of the line. “He’d been stabbed. But he was still getting arrested. Do you remember what for?”
“Assaulting an officer. He claimed it was accidental.”
“How sure are you?”
“Pretty sure. I remember thinking a jerk like him would make bail, but it was nice to see him led away in handcuffs. Was the most excitement we’ve had in the ER in a while. Garcia was the attending if you’d like to talk to her.”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks for everything, Chloe.”
“Be caref–” she began, but Peter hung up before she could finish, pocketing the phone before using both hands to lift the scrapbook. “He witnessed his father’s death,” Peter said, mirroring Victor’s arched brow. “The people responsible were part of this organization.” One finger tapped a picture of the flame tattoo. “During our second date, the night before I met you, a man chased us out of Christian’s bar and I didn’t get a good enough look at him to see the tattoo, but I placed him at work several nights later. Multiple stab wounds, all superficial. My co-worker says he had one of these tattoos.”
“I’m assuming this is the one that eluded him before he left England,” Victor said, with conspicuous coolness. As Peter watched him, his expression befuddled, Victor walked over to the couch and settled on one of the cushions. A sigh passed through Victor’s lips before he continued. “I’ve gathered the story in pieces throughout the years. Christian started as an enforcer, and eventually became a contracted killer to locate his father’s murderers. He claims a woman led him to the hitman who accepted the contract to kill his father, but getting closer put his life at risk. He had to run.”
“Is Mark Talbot the man who killed his father?” Peter asked.
“No. Christian suggests he already confronted that man.” Victor frowned. “My best guess, considering everything going on, is that Mark Talbot might have been the one who created the contract in the first place.”
Peter exhaled a deep breath, setting aside the scrapbook and lowering his palms onto the floor. The two men regarded each other in silence, both pensive, until Peter glanced quickly in the direction of the bedroom. “Did you find anything in there?” he asked.
“No, nothing.” Victor shook his head. “He doesn’t want to be found.”
“Which suggests he doesn’t want anyone to stop him from what he’s about to do.” Peter tilted his head. “Do you know why Talbot’s people wanted his father dead?”
“The most he’s admitted is that his father had been a con artist who retired around the time Christian was born. He’s suggested his father might have discovered a few things he shouldn’t have.”
“Makes Christian as much of a liability as his father.” Peter’s stomach sank as thoughts began to connect. “They forced him to leave England. I doubt it’s because they saw Christian as a threat. It’s because –”
“– They wanted him dead,” Victor finished. “If not immediately, once they were finished with him.”
Peter nodded. “The motorcycl
e accident. Him using an assumed name in the hospital. He took me to his bar to talk to Roland, but ran the moment Talbot showed up with his people.”
“Why would he have risked taking you to the bar?”
“He kept insisting it was to show me his life. I think he wanted to see me again, sure, but I also think he needed to speak to Roland. Christian made it sound like the entire decision had been a debate. Like he felt too drawn to me to argue against risking it.”
Victor nodded, but as he folded his hands and brought them to his mouth, Peter saw a small amount of glassiness in his eyes. “It wasn’t only about you, that’s why.”
“Please, Victor, don’t blame –”
“I’m not. I’m stating facts. He wanted you, but he wanted you for me, too. And he hasn’t wanted me to worry about something beyond my control.”
“Was he hoping I’d be a pleasant distraction?” Peter asked, using his palms to push up and rise to a stand. He walked over to the couch and settled beside Victor, one hand settling on the other man’s back. Victor flashed him a small, short-lived smile and reached to intertwine his fingers with Peter’s when his hand slid up to Victor’s shoulder.
“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?” Victor asked.
Peter nodded. “He has an hour on us. But I think he’s looking to end this, one way or another.”
“He and I are going to have harsh words when I see him again. Thinking he could push us off and placate us this easily.” As his arm lowered, Victor squared his shoulders, prompting Peter to move his hand away. Gathering back whatever resolve he needed, Victor nodded and looked at the apartment surrounding them. “I have an idea,” Victor said. “Which has me questioning my own sanity, but it’s the best and fastest way I can think of bringing this to a resolution. I’d understand if you didn’t want to accompany me. It’s a lot to ask of anyone and extremely dangerous.”