He selected a bench tucked in a curve of the stone stairs to the rampart, away from the main traffic, and unwrapped the sticky bun first. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. Stefan said going sugar-free for two weeks would extract Quiggs’s sweet tooth. Instead, he’d grown sugar fangs. He licked the wrapper clean.
Nibbling a triangular cookie, he lifted his head to a hazy gray sky. Was there blue sky left anywhere? Was pure golden sunshine a myth? He’d read about a silvery moon. The moon he knew glowed dirty orange when it peeped through the shifting green fog in the late evenings.
In three days, Quiggs would leave Port Memphis and travel twenty miles up the northeast leg of the canal to the military base in Port Paducah. From there, the canal veered west to Port Lourdes, where daughters were educated. Port Lourdes Academy offered arts, higher academic studies, an aquarium, and a domed conservatory. The number of debs graduating this year was discouraging. Sixteen.
Quiggs saved the cup of honey custard for last. Reverently, he cracked the brown glaze with a thin disposable spoon of pressed vine pulp and dipped it into the smooth custard, lifting a bit of glaze with it. When he lapped it off, he moaned from a pure zing of happiness at the bliss melting on his tongue.
A shadow fell over him from the winding stairs—the sergeant stretching off the burn after his run. Almighty heavens, his body really was magnificent.
Quiggs licked another spoonful as his gaze drifted up the runner’s big feet to his wide shoulders. Those arms wrestled three-hundred pound bucks. They hacked through foot-thick roots. They speared through the protective scales of fins circling near the banks in hopes of snatching a human or goat. Surely the sergeant could handle a minute on all fours with Quiggs fucking him.
One measly minute was about all Quiggs would last. He licked another spoonful, thinking of that minute. The sergeant straightened and shoved his fists in his pockets, lowering the waistband to reveal a tantalizing strip of golden skin. Someone had whetted his appetite. Quiggs looked around for the lucky man.
A herder with a stocky frame sauntered by the base of the steps, jiggling credits in his hands. Really? A stocky middle-aged herder? Quiggs’s chances improved if the sergeant enjoyed comforts over looks when he hooked up. The sergeant rocked his hips. He gyrated. Hammered. Stilled. What the fuck was the herder waiting for? Whistle back!
The sergeant tapped his boot impatiently, then bunched up a leg of his running shorts showing off a fat cockhead.
Quiggs closed his lips around the spoon, fixated by the size. He doubted that cockhead would squeeze inside his custard cup.
The sergeant pulled his hands from his pockets and planted them on his hips when the herder continued toward the end of the bakery’s line without a whistle. Was the herder a bottom in search of less girth, or was he repulsed by the sergeant’s scarred face? To have earned the skulls on his sleeves, the sergeant must have suffered some hideous wounds.
Scars improved Quiggs’s chances of a grateful fuck. Braced for the worst, he looked up and found tousled dark hair framing a strong jaw, a wide thin-lipped smile, a high-bridged nose… and deep-set, hungry eyes locked on his face.
Quiggs’s jaw dropped. Speechless, he pointed the spoon at himself to be sure. Me? A drop of custard hit a nipple poking through his tee. He absently dabbed it off and licked his finger.
The sergeant nodded and jerked a thumb at the closest alleyway, as if Quiggs had agreed to give him a blow job. The way Quiggs sucked his fingertip, what else would the sergeant think?
Quiggs pulled out his finger with a pop. He should run away this instant. Except no one had ever flirted with him. He was off-limits for years. As a concubine, he was still off-limits. But he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t believe the man of his fantasies had voluntarily solicited him for sex. He felt like an active cadet in the sex clinic for the first time with the Athletic Champion picking his slate, but this was no Cadet Miller. This man packed power and experience.
The sergeant jumped down off the side of the stairs and landed lightly in front of Quiggs. Up close, he smelled like spicy soap and fresh male sweat. He brushed the back of his knuckles over Quiggs’s slack mouth as if he was measuring the fit for his fat cockhead.
In a low voice smoother than custard, he said, “You’re one of the new enlistees.” He tapped the reversed visor tugged low on Quiggs’s nape. “A desk job?”
Quiggs nodded, too spellbound to speak. He set aside his empty cup and placed his hands over his swelling dick, which didn’t give a damn about limits.
The sergeant’s amused gaze lingered on Quiggs’s shy hands. He leaned down nose to nose with Quiggs, moist breath fanning Quiggs’s red cheeks. “Find us an empty space in the alley. I’ll bring a custard.”
Quiggs thought of those powerful hands on his head, guiding him. This was his chance to sneak into an alley and jerk himself off while he attempted his first blow job. Only he owed the commander discretion. And he didn’t want to ruin a chance at losing his braid with the sergeant. It was time to clear the misunderstanding before the situation turned ugly. The Border Patrol had nasty tempers, and he shouldn’t lead him on.
Quiggs wrinkled his nose like a spoiled cadet. “I never kneel in an alley. It’s dirty and people will watch us.”
The deep rolling laugh sent shivers through Quiggs. “Get used to the dirty alleys and the cramped tents. It’s how soldiers bond with each other. You’ll want someone watching your back if you’re transferred from a safe desk to the outland.”
Before Quiggs could choke out another excuse, the sergeant strode toward the bakery. A soldier at the head of the line hailed him, calling him Miles. They clasped forearms like old friends. People in line made room for him without a protest.
Miles. His name was Miles. He wasn’t handsome at first glance, his features lacking classic chiseled planes. But then, like a clever puzzle, they fitted together and exuded the potent virility of a confident male. The sergeant’s superb body aroused Quiggs’s lust, but the confidence intrigued him. Quiggs would do whatever his owner wanted if it earned him permission to lose his braid with Miles. Quiggs stared at him, awestruck by his luck.
Miles shot Quiggs a wicked smile before moving inside with his friend.
Later, Miles. On a clean bed. After I’ve practiced. I will so make this up to you!
Quiggs sprinted up the stairs two at a time, wondering how to explain to the commander his keen interest in Miles without revealing he’d met him after sneaking into the city. He hit the walkway and ran along the crenellated wall until he was out of breath. Resting his arms in a smooth gap overlooking the busy eastside dock, he sucked in a thick cloud of rotting eel. Phew! He picked the wrong place to catch his breath. Fishermen had spread nets over the toothed wall for cleaning before they mended it. Gulls dived at the net, tearing at the slimy pieces left on the hooks after the eels were harvested for food patties.
Heavy barrels on the walkway anchored the vast yards of net flung over the side. When he moved away, his right boot caught on a fold of the net. He kicked it away and succeeded in entangling both boots in the net. Looking down, he saw hooks caught in the leather sides. Quiggs heard steps running toward him and turned, half-hoping, half-fearing it was Miles. Instead, a herald bore down on him.
“Quiggs Fallon?”
He froze. Damn. No way to escape an interview.
“I know it’s you, you little shit.”
Quiggs huffed up. “How dare—”
The herald cut him off by ramming a shoulder into his chest and flipping him backward over the wall.
Quiggs fell headfirst, a primal scream ripping through his throat. His back bounced hard off the wall, knocking the breath out of him. When the bouncing stopped, he found himself dangling upside down with his back flattened against the wall and his heartbeat tripping in his ears. Looking straight up his body, he saw he’d only fallen a few feet, though it felt like miles. His hooked boots had broken his fall.
The net jerked, dropping him another foot
. The bastard was freeing the net from under the barrels. Quiggs sucked a breath and yelled for help. Which was unlikely to arrive before he dashed out his brains on the dock below.
Focus. Don’t panic. Focus. Don’t panic.
Quiggs reached for a handhold of net to right himself and work his way back up. When he lifted, his shoulder blazed. Oh, fuck, he’d caught a deep hook from the bouncing. He felt smaller blazes where the barbs pierced his ankles.
He braced himself to tear his shoulder free.
From below he heard shouting. From above two short whistles sounded from the walkway, signaling for police.
Someone called down to him to hang on to the net and keep still.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep still as strong hands pulled up the net until they grasped his legs and hauled him over the wall onto the walkway. He cracked open his lids to see Miles’s grim face. He placed Quiggs on his stomach and knelt beside him, pulling at the net.
“Stop! You’re peeling my skin off!”
“Quit squirming. Your waistband caught some hooks. I’m using a knife to slice around the barbs.”
Quiggs whimpered at the thought of explaining the injuries to Stefan.
“Blubbering like a baby cadet over a few scratches,” Miles mocked him. The teasing stopped as he cut the net from Quiggs’s left shoulder.
“H-How bad? Am I… am I bleeding out? Do you see bone?”
“I need pliers to clip the barb and remove the hook.” Miles poked and pulled at his boots before deciding to cut them off. “Who was the herald you pissed off?”
“Don’t know. Ow! He knew me though. Ow-ow-ow! Said my name—leave me some fucking skin on my feet!”
A pause. “Your name is leave me some fucking skin on my feet?”
“You’re the baby cadet, cracking dumb jokes while—ow-ow-ow!” Quiggs slapped his hand on the walkway as hooks scraped his left ankle when the boot came off.
“All done on that foot.” Miles sliced off the other. “The herald ran when I whistled. Didn’t get a look at his face. The police chased after him once I had you safely over the wall, but he’ll lose himself among the heralds flocking to the city today.”
Quiggs Fallon? I know it’s you, you little shit.
Something nagged him. “He had the wrong voice for a herald. Tinny, not resonant.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. Been around them for years.”
“A disguise means he’s watched for a chance to kill you. You’re lucky the hooks held your boots. Saved your life.” Miles cleared away the net and helped him stand. “Some punctures and scratches on your ankles and lower legs. They need cleaning.”
Quiggs wiggled his toes. His feet were bloodied.
“Wait a moment, your cap’s hanging off your neck. There might be a hook caught in… your…” His voice trailed as he freed the cap. He touched the pinned braid, then snatched his hand back as if burned.
Quiggs knew he was recognized.
Miles’s voice chilled. “You are not an enlistee.”
He met Miles’s angry eyes with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m… uh… I’m Quiggs Fallon.”
A curt nod. “My commander’s concubine. He warned his soldiers to keep their hands and eyes off you. Glad you didn’t meet me in the alley, or I’d have been the one flung over the wall instead of you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t. I’d like to enjoy sex once before I’m dead.”
Miles grinned, showing off even white teeth. “While I’d like to live to enjoy more sex. Can you walk? I’ll buy you a drink in a quiet place where we can remove the hook in your shoulder, then discuss motives.”
Quiggs stood slowly clutching his torn waistband before his pants fell off his hips. He had a nasty hook in his shoulder, he was barefoot, and his pants were hanging off his hips. And someone had just tried to kill him. “I have perfect recall for the events in my life. There’s no reason anyone should want me dead.”
“For an Academic Champion, you are slower than a dry turd. If someone tried to kill you, there’s a damn good reason behind it. The commander will demand a full report. I’m a lifer with a transfer request on his desk to move up to archer in a watchtower. I’m leaving out the part where we met at the stairs. Okay?”
By the time they reached a pub two doors from The Canal Street Bakery, soldiers on shore leave surrounded them to keep the curious citizens at bay. The respect the soldiers showed Quiggs shocked him. He’d anticipated thinly disguised leers for wandering out alone.
Miles ignored the closed sign on the pub’s door. His hard fist pounding the door angered the owner into pounding back, swearing to bash a keg over the asshole disturbing his lunch.
“Open up, Silas. It’s Miles.”
Silas, in a long white apron as brown-spotted as his aging face, opened the door wide. A grin spread over his broad face. “Miles, you piece of shit! Come in and tell me how many you’ve killed since…” His grin faded as Quiggs hurried in behind Miles. He recognized Quiggs at once and gasped at the torn waistband. He slammed the door behind them and locked it before wheeling on Miles. “Are you crazy? Do you know what’ll happen if word gets out you brutalized him in an alley? The penalty for—”
Miles cut him off. “Someone disguised as a herald tossed him over the wall. He hooked himself in a net long enough for me to pull him up. Before I report to the commander, I need a quiet place where I can interrogate this baby cadet and clean his wounds.”
Silas scratched the back of his neck. “Now there’s a story worth a free drink. Lay him on the bar and I’ll fetch a kit.”
“A towel and a mug of eel skinner too.”
“I should see a surgeon in the hospital,” Quiggs insisted. “I need painkillers and a proper surgical tray.”
“Silas was a medic in the military for years. Stitched me a few times.” Miles lifted Quiggs upon a long stone countertop supported by heavy blocks with the standard two kegs at the far end to draw ale or cider for patrons. Backing the bar was a cabinet with dusty jugs of fancier drinks, but no self-respecting soldier ordered fancy drinks. The only adornment on the walls was the tricolored flag at the back. Feral skulls containing salty nuts to boost business were on the six tables. Here, soldiers knocked down drinks as they played cards, swapped stories, hooked up, found an alley, and returned for another hookup. Soldiers who drank themselves into a stupor were stacked on the front walk for the military patrol to collect.
Quiggs lay on his stomach with his hands clenched by his sides. The cold countertop smelled like vinegar. He turned his face toward the cabinet. “I really should visit the hospital where they have painkillers and a surgical tray.”
Silas dropped a mug and towel by Quiggs’s face. “For a hook? Nah.”
Quiggs pulse quickened. “Is that something strong to get me drunk first? Do I need to bite down on the towel? You know, I really, really think I need a surgeon to numb me up first.”
“The towel is to rest your face on.” Silas folded it and slid it under his cheek.
“The eel skinner is to pour around the hook in your shoulder,” Miles said.
Silas doused the wound with the eel skinner. Quiggs lifted with a breathless scream, only to have Miles’s heavy hand hold him down.
Miles chuckled. “Now you understand the name. The stuff’s aged properly when you dip an eel in it and the skin melts off.” He poured the rest on a towel and wiped down Quiggs’s ankles.
When Quiggs’s back dried, Silas clipped the barb, slipped a wire through the eye of the hook, looped it, centered the line at the entry point, and pulled it out with a hard jerk. He mopped the blood and applied suturing glue to close the punctures.
None of which Quiggs felt. Miles’s hand had strayed from the small of his back to beneath his torn waistband. The squeezes on the curve of his buttocks burnt hotter than the eel skinner.
“Keep your paws above the boy’s waist,” Silas barked when he noticed.
Miles pinched before sl
iding his hand above Quiggs’s waist.
When it was over, Silas helped Quiggs slide off the counter and showed him to a round table at the back. Miles straddled a sturdy chair across from Quiggs, keeping a decent space and the high back of the chair between them.
“What can I serve you while you talk?” Silas asked.
“Tall ale for me with some crackers and soft cheese,” Miles said. “For the baby cadet, a small mug of cider and—”
“Do you have some green shrum?” Quiggs cut in.
Silas looked at Miles.
“Small cider,” Miles repeated.
“Tall,” Quiggs corrected.
“Want me to fry up a platter of battered billy balls with red sauce? It’s the season.”
“No, thanks. Quiggs has suffered a—”
“Yes, thank you. With extra spicy red sauce.” Quiggs love the greasy balls. They were the testicles of castrated young kids, and he and Beau devoured them by the dozens during the kidding season.
Miles nodded at Silas, who left to fill the orders.
“You puke,” Miles warned, “you clean yourself up.”
“If swinging upside down seven stories above the dock didn’t make me hurl my custard, a dozen billy balls won’t faze me.” Quiggs patted his stomach. “Pudgy outside. Like iron inside.”
“You’re an odd one, Quiggs.”
“So I’ve been told all my life.” He reached up and unpinned his braid, remembering the law required a braid to be visible in public.
Miles folded his arms atop the back of the chair and watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. “The custard saved your life as much as the hooks,” he said softly.
“Oh?”
“Seeing the joy on your face when you licked the spoon—I wanted to slather my cock in the stuff and watch you lap it up.” His voice lowered. “I couldn’t wait to have you in the alley. On your knees swallowing every last drop.”
“Conceited bastard. You assumed a recruit with puppy fat clinging to his plain face would be grateful to worship at your fountain of joy.”
“Be glad I saw you running away and chased after you. Hope my friends paid for the custards I dropped on the floor.”
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