by Reid Astor
And he’s moaning, and he's speaking another language, afraid of the words having any real meaning if they can be understood, because he's never been fucked before, he'll never want it another way again, because Lars is claiming him and wiping him away, man and beast and all-
"A dog," someone is saying. He thinks it may be Lars- it's his voice- but the man isn't speaking, he's lost above him in a trance. "You are best fit to be a dog. Or a leader of the dogs.”
The shadow escapes and a warm hand touches his face.
Lars cums inside him and it's a barrage of white hot heat that makes him, in turn, gasp in alarm and feel it wash over, feel the trembling take over his entire body as Lars' thrusts slow, as the man takes his hand off his throat and shifts the hair from his eyes and kisses him and says, softly-
The gun materializes in his hand and Lars arcs back when he fires- he doesn’t seem affected at all, at first, and then he’s still, perpendicular to him, and riddled full of bullets. Ribbons of red trail down his body, and he imagines that cross and church tattoo drenched in incarnadine. He can hear himself breathe. With this many bullets in him, Lars doesn’t even look like a person anymore.
* * *
He's shaken awake by the phone, blaring out loud and vibrating hard on the television stand, tinny noises banging off the plaster walls. It's barely daybreak, about an hour before he has to be up, by the look of the sky outside his window. Groaning, he makes to rise- and blinks, feeling the wet heat splashed and sticky inside his underwear.
He reaches under the waistband to check, and curses lowly, wiping his hand off and rolling over to the phone. "Baranov... speaking," he musters, voice a blend of sleepiness and husky arousal he wishes he wasn't feeling. Just what kind of fucking dream was that?
"Kolya, I'm sorry, I know it is early for you."
Exasperation washes through his bones. Not this. Not now. He drops onto his back on the bed. "Good morning, Madam Morris. Is something the matter?" He asks, raising his hand to massage his brow.
"Well, see, this old babushka must leave town today, but I cannot sleep, leaving you like this now. I want to tell you the truth, young man. Can you listen?"
Can you give me a moment to wipe myself down? He wants to ask, but instead says, "Yes, Madam Morris. Go ahead." And bites back a yawn. It is, frankly, a terrible time- he smacks his cheek slightly to wake himself and sits up in the bed, ignoring how every exhausted fabric of his being is hailing him to return to the blankets and forget about all of this.
"I'm worried about Lawrence. I'm afraid he wasn't the best man for this job after all. He is... well, you see, not good man. I thought he was a good man for job, but a not good man over all... Makes a bad man for the job."
It's a feat of self-restraint for him not to burst out cursing. Suddenly alert, he makes severe efforts to control his breathing, his tone. "What do you mean?" Feign innocence. You know nothing about this man outside of your business together. If Svetlana knows how... close you are, she will certainly change the whole game.
"Lawrence is... ah, what is the word. Playboy, yes, playboy. I have him help me on an old job, years ago... He made a girl working for me fall in love and want to marry him. He got engaged to her, made the job easier, then left her when the job was done."
He shuts his eye, shakes his head. "Madam Morris... I don't like men. You have nothing to worry about." No matter what my subconscious says and more. It has been so long since he even cared to have a woman, much less switch playing teams.
"Oh!" She gives a quick, melodious laugh. "No, no my child, I did not mean it like that. I understand what you like."
Fuck.
"What I mean is... The operation will happen soon, two weeks perhaps, while your store is being renovated... I'm already making arrangements for you, see how I take care of you? You won't have to be in when it happens, but... Lawrence is not consistent, he uses... people against each other, for his own gain, for fun. He... ah, he enjoys... playing minds. Do you see what I mean?"
No, he doesn't see. This feels strangely-timed. As if she's caught wind of something. As assuaging as he can be when he's still half-asleep, he says, "Madam Morris, I'll keep his head on straight, if you catch my meaning. Nothing of yours or mine will be harmed. It's too late to change up team players, don't you think? It's not wise to let so many people know what's going on." In the back of his mind, a little voice comments, Madam Morris, you are the last person to judge someone who sleeps around. Look what you did to my father.
There's a silence on the other end and he wonders, briefly, if he said something wrong or gave something away. Then, Svetlana gives a little chortle, dispelling the anxiety in his chest, "Ah, you smart young man. Anna would be proud of you."
It's so wrong he wants to laugh. He doesn't. "Thank you, Madam Morris."
“It’s Svetlana. Be wise, Kolyenka, you are too handsome and too old to get in trouble any more. I will be so happy to see you with your debt paid at the end of all this. Anna would be proud you are making the right choices, too." The threat is thinly veiled. "Maybe you can even go back to school. Become a handsome lawyer, meet a smart young American girl. Lawrence has degree in, what was it, I think criminal justice? Yes, if possible, he can help you. You're very right. Make friends, Kolyenka, but be careful. You have so much life in you."
"You have given me many opportunities," he lies through his teeth, and is surprised at the calmness he does it with. Strangely, even now as they trade lies over the line, he can't hate Svetlana, not even a little bit. She's still just a wealthy, talkative widow- he can't fathom the things she's already done, what she's doing. He can’t even imagine her touching his father- much less- He shivers, and aches for a drink. "Have a safe trip, Madam Morris."
“Thank you, young man, but call me Svetlana!" The cheer in her voice is chilling, and cuts off too abruptly.
In the lingering tone of the hangup, he drops his phone and drags himself to the bathroom to clean off, creeping past the attic stairway as he goes. Viola's made bunk there, among his stored goods, and she's been quieter than any guest has the right to be since, but Niklas doesn't mind.
When he comes back from the bathroom, the dream is already a fragment in his head and splintering away into further nothingness with every second- nothing lingers but the image of Lars’ corpse and his mother. And he’s glad for it. His phone is lighting up with an orange notification blinker, so he unlocks it to read the message.
"did she call you trying to call it off, too? Unknown number, 06:45"
He lays down and types out a reply on his back. "Yes." Pleased with that, he clicks enter, drops his phone, and lays back down. He doesn't get another message or call.
All he can think of as he drifts away is that he will have to be careful in his next steps. Few people are as aware of where the game pieces stand as he is, but that's tiny compensation for being a disposable piece.
Whatever Svetlana wants- be it personal revenge or simple business- she could get the second she brought her fist down harder.
Him, well- the second he falls out of favor, the best he can see is he falls out of luck and into the street with a history of felony, a staggering debt and a failed college alumna record. He falls back to far more desperate games than negotiating with depraved lawyers and kissing investigators. Back with the rats and the dogs, chewing ill-gotten blood right out of the marrow of this city.
When he closes his eyes, he sees glitches in the sky still. It disturbs him so much that sleep becomes a fading stutter of shadows and neon and off-color starlight.
* * *
The motel bed whines under his weight, but he shifts into comfort and watches her face twitch with barely-contained irritation as squeaking pricks the air. The air is musty and interlaced with smoke; even with only a week's habitation he’s marked it right.
The added taste, he thinks, is the ransacked belongings thrown into the fray, and the feathers of the knifed-in mattress making a lazy drift through the air.
His hand
s are shaking holding the match to the cigarette poised between his lips- it burns out. Cursing under his breath, he throws the stick to the side of the bed and starts another. She watches him from across the room.
"I have fifteen minutes before I have to file this in. Oh, and good job. Right mess, this is," Rayleigh says, taking particular care not to step over the jacket he's left strewn in the trail to his bed. Her gaze hangs on his bare chest and the fresh, arc-shaped burn just a smack above his solar plexus, but she's doing a good job pretending it doesn't bother her so far.
"Please," he mutters, flicking out the match in his hand as the cigarette ignites- finally. "I wasn't exactly expecting guests." He throws a look to the door of the room, broken off its hinges and swinging pathetically with the slightest breeze.
She huffs and crosses her arms, finding a nice place by the wall that hasn't been punched through or otherwise brutalized. "At least let me treat you. A blank firing at that range is like a promise for infection- God knows what they expelled from that gun into you."
"Dust and gunpowder?" he fires back, holding the irritation in his voice. "Oh, I'm fucking terrified. That dust and gunpowder will be the death of me."
"Okay, Rambo," she mutters, "so we're gonna act like you're A-OK after Svetlana's goons have charged you, ransacked your room, yelled at you, shot a blank into your chest and-" she fingers the upturned flat screen television, its back system bolts pried off and insides speckled with white powder- "oh, well, apparently stolen your blow. Good. They're good for something in this world."
"Fuck you, Ray."
"Yeah, no, Lars. I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that, either," she snaps, voice going threateningly low. "What did they say to you?"
"Nothing heart stopping," he says. "That Lana knows I'm raring for Russki tail. That I should back off for good or she'll plant me in a ditch with a needle up my arm. Have me written off forever as another junkie immigrant in the big bad city. I wonder if I'm outstaying my welcome in Couer." He considers the words and the situation. “She was there, too.”
"Lars, I've seen you in much worse shape than this and much less shaken." Rayleigh studies his face summarily, and it gets on his nerves, because after all this time she can almost always spot a lie. And she does. As fond as he is of her, it annoys and disturbs him to the core; he can be such a good liar to everyone, but the second she rolls around, that's all he is- just a liar. "She was there, too? And-?”
He pauses in the middle of forming a word in his mouth, hesitantly backs down and takes a drag to quell the stem of annoyance that rises up to meet Rayleigh. "...Yeah. Lana was hanging by the door while they held me down and stuck at me with semiautomatics. Was sipping tea from a fuckin' thermos and chatting Nikky up. That bitch is probably one of the few people in the world happier with her job than I am with mine."
"I’m surprised you didn’t make a ruckus-“ she starts, and, upon seeing his face, rolls her eyes, “What am I saying, you probably tried. And what did she say?"
He hesitates a little. "She said that she'll tattle on me to my brother and happily watch me get fucked sideways for still using. Among… other things.”
"Your brother? I thought...” her brows knit in suspicion. It’s almost satisfying to see the whole line of thought processed across her face and settle on cool, professional blankness. “Lars… Why we should be worried about a man who's not even in this country?"
"Well, let's see, Ray,” he says, in a children’s show voice, “I am a citizen, but that son of a bitch could still probably find a way to get me kicked out of the country.” With Arch, he could be pushing papers in some dingy back-alley London office stinking of Thames shit faster than he could say ' you haughty motherfucker, I'm breaking my neck looking up at you on your high horse’. Oh, and Arch would enjoy it, too. Push little flyers of rehab centers his way as ‘nice little bookmarks’.
He realizes he’s almost crushing his cigarette filter. It hasn't been long enough since he last had to talk about Archy. It will never be.
Rayleigh, very politely, doesn’t follow on any of the many points of question she could enquire on there. She says, "He could ‘deport’ you, even with all the people and contacts you've built up here?"
He snorts. "Especially with them. Archy doesn't give a damn. When the king and all his men come marching in, his money alone could make my best street contacts drop a bridge on me."
"I suppose this is a stand-in warning. She can't threaten your blond friend."
Ah, Niklas. He lets a sigh slip out with the smoke that rises from his mouth. Niklas Baranov.
"Niklas Baranov can take threats and warnings, but not control. He's feral. Lana's got him like..." he ashes the cigarette, watching the pieces crumble to dust on the cut-open carpet floor. "Where she wanted him. But she can't steer him or corner him. He'll act out. I've seen it. It's magnificent. And if she tries to cut him down, the stink will be amazing- that entire cafe is like a corpse just waiting to smell. And Lana's our killer, trying to come back and get all the goddamn evidence off before anybody's the wiser. Poor Nikky."
He can almost see Rayleigh's raised eyebrows. "So she's right. You shouldn't be this close, Lars- can you trust him?"
What a question. "Well, see, that kinda depends on what I wanna trust him with," he smiles innocuously. "For example, he's a beast with the espresso press. And a crowbar, well..." he whistles a single high tone.
She wipes a bead of sweat from her neck, and it's the only sign that she's even slightly uncomfortable. "You… I know you've gotten involved with people in your cases before, but you're a piece of work, you know that?" she says. "What are you going to do now?"
"Push the renovation, obviously," he says, “close the trap.” He leans back and checking his wound- it looks like an oversized cigarette burn to him, really. Svetlana hadn't even looked away when they'd fired it. "And do something about him."
"You're just worried she'll take him away." As she speaks, she opens up her phone, furrowing her eyebrows at the time, a message, hell if he knows. "I'm going back to the department. Don't die on me."
"I'd get Professional of the Year award before I died on you, sweet pea," he grins, mockingly touching his chest and taking care not to brush his wound.
"Oh-" midway through the threshold, she pauses, turning round. Outlined in the sunlight of the warm day outside, Rayleigh is flat-out gorgeous- if only the severity of her personality didn't dampen her so much. And the thing between her legs didn't make her feel like she constantly had to prove something. She tugs something out from the inside of her jacket, "Here, catch. It's Alexei Baranov. Your friend wanted it, but keep a copy for yourself. It’s got more implications than either of us thought."
The USB stick flashes red in the sun as it careens in the air decisively towards his face. He barely catches it. "Vicious aim you got there, Ray. You mad at me?"
She shoves her hands in her pockets and shakes her head in resignation. He knows the look, has it signed into his memory after years of it being used on him. "I'm not mad at you," she says, "but this time you just can't get away with having no idea what you're doing. You have instinct, sure, but put too much stock in it and you're as good as a rabid animal. Stay clean, Lars, okay? I can't get paid back if you're broke or dead."
He can almost forgive her the lecture for the view of her ass she gives him on the way out. Almost. Lars turns the USB stick round in his palm as the roar of her motorbike pulling out of the motel parkway rips through the city soundscape. Maintenance, he thinks, is gonna give me all levels of hell and then an extra one for what I've done to this room.
And then he figures, he might as well finish his smoke before getting himself cleaned up and ready to face them. He's exhausted, he honestly is, but there is also something in him that is on fire and refusing to be ignored. He likes to think it has a name.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"change of plans. Unknown number, 23:27"
Niklas stares at the text in bemusement, wondering if wherever he's from
, Lars was ever taught in the art of giving actual, sufficient information and then politely setting forth a course of action- instead of this drivel. He sits there for a while, pen poised in hand as he tries to make sense of the text, before with a sense of annoyance he shoves it back into his pocket and returns to the café ledgers. Somewhere in the back of the store, Tethys is playing old chants and washing dishes, happy in his own little world. And at one of the tables, he hears Etburn speaking softly to Viola over a chessboard- about what, he doesn't know, but it's good to see Viola conversing with someone her age.
The somnolent hours have fallen over the Ishmael. If he was asked, he'd say he liked these hours second best to the morning hours- it was a good time to check the accounts and read at one of the tables. It always made him appreciate his staff all the more.
He hears Etburn before he sees him, pattering up to him in his cheap sneakers and probably wearing that same charmer's grin he's had all day for the girls that come in. "Boss," he says, voice a stage whisper (or maybe he just doesn't know how to whisper, Baranov wouldn't be surprised either way). "I got some news tonight."