It’s Rainbow Advent Calendar time again!
Rainbow Calendar 2018 – Day Eleven
Welcome to Day Eleven of the Rainbow Advent Calendar!
I’m Alex Jane. I write various flavors of M/M – werewolf homesteaders, private detectives of dubious moral character, deep-dark-wrong romance, and fluffy, lovely, family feels.
If this is your first introduction to the Rainbow Advent…you’ve been missing out! We have 48 authors, posting free stories from the 1st to the 24th December. You can check out the posts, twice daily, on the Facebook group or here on the masterlist.
My offering is a little future fic from my Christmas book, Tinsel Fixes Everything. Hope you enjoy <3
Good Faith
I don’t get the yearning to do Flash Fic often but this morning…well…this one’s all Meredith King’s fault. Plot bunny like…whoa! I might even do a full length of this at some point. Mobster MMM? What do you think?
NSFW – Explicit – Unbeta’d
The first time Michael had been dragged to a meet with the Italians, he’d done what everyone else did the first time they saw the kid. Sneered at his long hair and tight waist, smirked at the obvious way he licked his lips when he looked at the Don’s kid, the way he draped himself over furniture like a bored cat, picked food from the guy’s plate and sucked his fingers clean even. Like there was no one in room but the two of them. Like he owned the fucking place.
Except, Michael had gotten a look that could freeze a volcano and a sharp word in his ear from his uncle that had wiped the derision off his face pretty damn quick.
The stories didn’t reach Michael until later. Even then it seemed like an afterthought, as they were stripping off their overcoats in the hallway, going over the events of the day.
“And you, you stupid fuck.” His uncle hadn’t called him by his name in a long while. “Keep your fucking smart mouth to yourself next time. I don’t need you starting a goddamn war ‘cause you think you’re a comedian.”
Michael had scoffed and rolled his eyes. “He’s just a fucking doxy. Jesus.” It was no big deal. His father had always had some side-chick to hand, ready to lift her skirts so he could take the edge off, fucking her over his desk while the help waited quietly for him to be done. Or one memorable time while a horrified police commissioner was sat across the desk from him. The backhand Michael took to the cheek made it pretty clear he was never to use that term again.
His uncle handed him his pocket square and turned on his heel, leaving Michael to dab at the blood flooding from the gouge under his eye that the family ring had left, and a couple of the muscle—big strong guys, animals, street-fighters turned enforcers who had dished out more violence than anyone Michael had come across—to explain to him in hushed, quivering voices about the Don-in-waiting and his boy. Not just his lover but his protector. The utter fear in their eyes telling Michael more than the tales of body parts and pain and exquisite cruelty dealt to anyone that even thought about crossing his man. It was more than punishment. It was horror.
By the time they’d finished, leaving him hunched in a chair with the sound of the grandfather clock striking ten echoing around the cavernous room, Michael was trembling. He thought about the sinful mouth, and the dark eyes, and the split second that their gaze had fallen on him––the heat in that look. Like a secret. Looking down at the blood-soaked handkerchief in his fist, he wondered what the kid looked like with blood on his face. Wondered what he would look like under him. Wondered how he could make that happen.
He stood up slowly and stopped wondering. His uncle always thought Michael was a spoilt brat. And he wasn’t all wrong. Michael knew how to get what he wanted. And he did like a challenge. Especially, when he put his mind to it.
…
The envelope was plain but thick. No return address. Simply his name on the front in blue ink. Carmine had a fancy letter opener on his desk across the room but the kid couldn’t be bother with that affectation, or getting out of bed, and simply ripped the paper open with one long finger. His heart sped up a little as he slid the little package out.
A handwritten note on thick card. And a blood-soaked handkerchief. The old fashioned linen kind. The blood was browning and made the fabric crunch in his fingers, but still he held it to his lips and inhaled as he read the note. It was simple enough. Unsigned but he immediately knew who it was from. As love letters went, this was the kind that might even turn his head.
“That from your secret admirer?” Carmine rolled over and plucked the card from his fingers, turning it over to check the blood stains on the back.
The kid smiled. “I think I like this one. He spelled my name right, at least.”
“He’s got balls. I’ll give him that.”
“What else would you give him?” He said, sliding down under the sheets and letting his hands find his lover half-hard again.
Carmine raised an eyebrow. “You want this one?”
Laughing, the kid pushed him back and pounced, straddling him in one practiced move. “And you don’t? I saw you looking at him yesterday. I could get him for us. If you wanted.”
Carmine hmmed and grasped his hips, digging into the inked skin there. “Pops was talking about doing some business with them. I’m sure Flanagan wouldn’t mind giving him up. As a sign of good faith and all.”
“Good faith. Yeah, that’s what it would be,” the kid sighed out the words as he sank down onto his lover, imagining what it would be like to have Michael inside him too. “Good. And faithful.”
.
.
NB – Copyright of the image remains with the copyright holder. Credit to follow. I own nothing on the page except the words.
Perfect – Dale and Patrick
There was a cold space beside him. It wasn’t what he’d become accustomed to. Normally, he would wake to find a warm body next to him, breathing long and slow. Not that it had taken five years for him to be woken by Dale’s absence, it was only that Patrick experienced it so infrequently, it was a bit of a surprise that morning.
Running his hand over the sheet, Patrick hated the way he could feel a line where the warmth stopped and cold took over. It had him wondering how long Dale might have been up for it to have lost all the heat they had put into it the night before.
Usually Patrick was the first up: making breakfast on the small woodstove in the corner of the room after ensuring that the bar downstairs was cleaned and tidy and stocked. He didn’t bother the women that had rooms there. They ran their own affairs and he was glad to leave them to it. They had a habit of teasing him in a way that he’d never found funny. So he only had the boss to worry about. Not that Dale had ever once asked him to tend to him or feed him or even live with him. It had just sort of happened.
Patrick rolled over, groaning a little at the way his body ached. There had been a scuffle at the bar the night before and somehow Patrick had ended up being the one to break it up. Things used to be a lot easier when Malcolm, the deputy, lived in the saloon. It wasn’t as if he was living that far away now but it was far enough that Patrick had to deal with things himself on a more regular basis.
Not that anybody took him seriously. One word from the boss or Malcolm could stop any troublemaker dead in his tracks. But Patrick didn’t seem to be able to command the same respect. Maybe if he hadn’t have been so skinny, or maybe a little taller. Dale said it was because he smiled too much. To which Patrick had smiled and asked if he wanted him to stop. Dale had looked—well, the way Dale always looked; serious, sad, angry, not giving a shit about anyone but himself. Then he kissed Patrick hard, pushed him back on the bed and told him to open his legs. Which Patrick did, smiling all the while.
There was a timepiece in the corner, some old thing in a scratched oak case that ticked too loud. A light was always burning in the room—Dale couldn’t bear the dark—so it was just light enough to see even if the blood red walls and ebony furniture did make the room seem closed in. The clock seemed to say that Patrick hadn’t overslept but as he scrubbed at his eyes, hoping to clear the blur so he could see through the low light, Patrick realized that he could smell coffee brewing. He also noticed that Dale was sitting in his chair at the bureau.
Dale wasn’t beautiful, not really. Not like Seth or Jacob Carpenter. But he was as about as handsome as a man could be sitting wrapped in an old paisley eiderdown, his hair a shock of waves like he’d just woken up. He was watching Patrick intently, as he always did. When Patrick had first met Dale and Dale had looked at him that way, Patrick kept expecting him to ask a question. He looked poised, as if to speak or like he was waiting to grab Patrick at any moment to stop him from escaping. Poised and hungry.
“Wha’ time is it?” Patrick coughed and tried to clear his throat.
“Daytime.”
“Did I oversleep?”
There was no answer so Patrick figured that meant he hadn’t.
A lot of people thought Dale Foster to be a rude man, selfish and unfriendly. It might have been partly true—or even mostly true—but really no one understood him like Patrick. He was a man that didn’t care one way or another what people thought of him. He didn’t see the point in wasting words on things like small talk or the obvious. He didn’t see the point in wasting a lot of things. Patrick was hardly surprised. After all, he knew the reasons why.
Patrick had only spent a few weeks in Dale’s bed when, one night, Dale had gotten as drunk as Patrick had ever seen him before or since. He told Patrick things—things he had done and things that had been done to him during the war— that might have frightened any other person away. It was probably why he’d said them, hoping to scare Patrick and make him leave. Except Patrick didn’t run. He carried Dale to his bed as he wept, undressed him and lay next to him, holding him when Dale allowed it and waiting patiently when he didn’t, until the sun rose and he finally fell asleep. A man might change for the better after a brush with death, but the things that happen to make him afraid to keep living—those can bring out the worst. Or at the very least, never let him smile again.
It was cold in the room despite the fire that was lit. Patrick was naked when he sat up, the chill hitting his skin as the covers fell away. As he started to pull them back up to find some warmth, Dale spoke.
“Don’t.”
Patrick shivered a little, but did as he was told. In fact he went beyond, pushing the sheets away until they were halfway down his thighs. He didn’t much like his body, too pale and skinny, all sinew and no meat. There was a good thatch of dark hair at his groin that spread down over his thighs and up his belly a little but that was about it. But Dale seemed to like it and, well, he was the boss.
Dale’s expression didn’t change at all. Not even a glimmer. He just sat impassively as he had done before. If he liked the way that Patrick shivered or his nipples hardened, he didn’t show it. The only thing he did do was turn a small box in his hand, placing each side onto the desk before turning it again.
Patrick had learned to be patient early on. Better to wait and see when it came to his lover. It was something he was good at. Maybe it was why it worked so well between them. Even from that first night.
Patrick had nowhere to go. He’d been traveling to his cousin’s farm hoping they would take him in, having buried his parents a month before. Running out of food and money, he’d asked for a job at a small town saloon and the gruff man behind the bar had handed him a broom. He could have slept in the store room, or on the floor of the bar but something in the man’s eyes had made Patrick climb the stairs at the end of the night and get into the man’s bed. He had been nervous, not knowing what to expect but he waited patiently all the same. When Dale had found him there, he hadn’t wasted any words. He acted almost as if he hadn’t even noticed the naked boy in his bed. That was until he pulled Patrick’s quivering body under him. He didn’t waste words then either. And if Patrick had been shocked some of the things Dale had done to him, well then, he had come to like them.
“It’s cold. You should put something on.” Dale barely moved but somehow the small box landed on the sheet between Patrick’s legs.
Patrick picked it up and turned it over. “It’s not my birthday.” He lifted it to his ear and shook it. “What is it?”
Dale just huffed and looked away, out of the fogged up window as he curled his fingers against his lips.
Patrick frowned, he couldn’t help it. Something felt odd but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He slipped the brown paper wrapper from the package, and tugged the lid free. Under a layer of tissue paper on a bed of white cotton, lay a gold crucifix on a long gold chain.
Patrick’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. I mean—is this for me?”
“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want it.”
Patrick could hardly believe it. It was one thing for Dale to tolerate him going to church on a Sunday but he never thought he’d see the day that he would do anything like this. “I love it. I mean I’ve never had one so—”
Patrick had the cross in his hand, admiring the shine on it. As it turned, he caught a glimpse of an inscription on the back. He had to hold it close to read it, the script was so tiny.
Song-8:6
It took a moment for the verse to come to him, thinking back to when his father had read the scripture aloud every night after supper. But when it did come, Patrick had to catch his breath. He held out the necklace with one hand, his voice on the verge of cracking. “You should put this on me.”
Dale pushed himself slowly out of the chair with both hands, letting the quilt fall away, revealing his nakedness. And his wounds. The injuries inflicted on him as a soldier, even though they might only be scars now, never seemed to heal. Patrick winced, knowing that even on the warmest of days that Dale’s body was wracked in the mornings with as much pain as when they had first been inflicted. The burns and cuts, his twisted mangled leg, never let him forget what he’d endured. He limped over, not bothering to use his cane for the short distance between the desk and the bed, and slowly lowered himself down to sit at Patrick’s side. Still not daring to look into Patrick’s eyes, Dale took the chain from Patrick’s hand with two fingers, cradling it gently in his large hands. “You don’t have to. If you want time to think about it.”
“I don’t have to think about it.” When Dale didn’t move, Patrick pulled his legs from under the covers and climbed down from the bed to kneel on the cold floor at Dale’s feet. Running his hands up the side of his lover’s thighs, he asked softly, “Do you have to think about it?”
Dale looked down at him for a second then opened the chain out and lowered it over Patrick’s head. “I’ve thought of nothing else since the night you showed up in my bed.” He pressed the crucifix against Patrick’s skin, then leaned back to admire it.
Patrick smiled. He let Dale look for only a moment before showing his devotion the best way he knew how. Dale was only half hard, so Patrick took his time, licking and suckling, tasting himself from the night before on his lover. All the while, Dale sighed and stroked his cheek, saying, “My sweet innocent boy, so lovely, so perfect,” until his breathing became heavy. Then Patrick just had to relax and hold onto the sheets as Dale roughly took him by the hair and chin, forcing his come down Patrick’s throat as he fought to breathe and swallow at the same time.
A little while later, as Patrick slid his cock inside Dale, his lover’s face contorted in pain or pleasure—for the two of them, both or either would do—Dale took hold of the gold chain and used it to pull Patrick down into a kiss.
“I didn’t get you anything,” Patrick said, as he looked down, watching himself slowly withdraw and then just as slowly find home again.
Dale only hmmed and kissed him again. And for a moment, Patrick thought he saw Dale smile.
Song of Solomon 8:6
Place me like a seal over your heart,
like a seal on your arm;
for love is as strong as death,
its jealousy unyielding as the grave.
It burns like blazing fire,
like a mighty flame.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Perfect – ©Alex Jane 2018 – All Rights Reserved
Last year’s Valentine’s story … Be My Valentine – Caleb and Thaddeus … A family moment
Be My Valentine – Caleb and Thaddeus
Caleb didn’t notice anything was amiss when he entered the cabin. He was too fixed on stripping off the heavy coat that had been keeping the icy wind from freezing his bones. The homey smell of venison stew and dumplings meant he couldn’t get the thing off quick enough as he growled under his breath about how he wished spring would hurry. They hadn’t had snow in a couple of weeks but the temperature was so low everything was frozen and covered in a layer of ice. Including himself.
When he was finally free of the coat and it was hung up to dry, only then did Caleb realize that things weren’t as normal as he’d first perceived. The children were all sat around the table as Jacob served each with a bowl of stew, but Ephraim had his fist pressed against his mouth, trying not to laugh, while Martha glared at him. Thaddeus was sat stock still, not his usual squirming self. Even Jacob smiled slyly at him as he walked past to fetch their dishes from the kitchen.
Caleb didn’t say anything. He narrowed his eyes at his mate but that just made Jacob smile even wider and shrug his shoulders. It was only when Caleb walked around to his chair at the far end of the table that he saw what all the fuss was about.
Lowering himself down to sit, the chair creaking under the sudden and considerable weight, he adjusted the cutlery laid out before him and tilted his head at the white envelope leaning up against his cup of water. “Well,” he said and cleared his throat, “what do we have here?”
The deadly silence filling the cabin was only marred by the sound of the wind outside and Ephraim trying to chuckle without being heard, which ended when Martha kicked him under the table. Ephraim covered his pain with a cough, then said with surprising conviction, “It arrived for you today, Papa. Just showed up on your desk.”
Caleb shot him a look of gratitude and sighed dramatically. “Whoever delivered it must have been awful stealthy to get in the house without any of us noticing.” He picked up the envelope and turned it around in his hands. It was small and somewhat creased at the edges like someone had held it a little too tightly. And on the front, in red Franklin crayon, was scrawled the word, Papa.
Jacob appeared at Caleb’s shoulder, waiting until Caleb raised his arms before sliding a plate of food in front of him and then taking his place at the opposite end of the table. “I was a bit concerned about that myself.” He sounded casual but there was a hint of humor in his voice that made Caleb want to smile. Jacob picked up his spoon and leaned over the table to cut up the dumpling on Thaddeus’s plate. “But then Tad and I talked it over and we figured they wouldn’t try it twice. Isn’t that right, Tad?”
Thaddeus was a statue and, with all eyes suddenly on him, could only manage a single nod, doing everything he could to not look in Caleb’s direction. Caleb couldn’t ever think of a time when Thaddeus had been so still. Even in his sleep the pup kicked and fussed and wriggled, as the bruises on Jacob and himself could attest. Everyone else seemed to be finding Thaddeus’s sudden quiet amusing, but it made Caleb want to gather the boy up and never let go.
Figuring that it would be better for everyone to put the little one out of his misery, Caleb sighed and used his butter knife to rip open the envelope. “Well, best see who it’s from.”
The card was fancy. There was lace around the edge and what looked like real feathers, dyed into bright colors stuck onto it too. And in the center, a picture of a full-cheeked Cupid, with a cascade of blonde locks holding up a banner adorned with writing.
Caleb cleared his throat. “I adore you. Be my Valentine.”
Ephraim couldn’t keep the laugh contained any longer but he did his best to disguise it as a coughing fit. Jacob played along, slapping him heartily on the back but that didn’t stop Thaddeus from quietly slipping from his seat and sidling up to Jacob’s chair.
Jacob scooped the boy up, letting him seek solace against his chest and holding him tightly. “What a nice inscription. Who is it from?” He sounded sincere but when Caleb glanced up at him, Jacob’s eyes were worried.
Caleb turned the card over. What he found was familiar. Jacob’s carefully penciled print with Thaddeus’s haphazard lines trying to trace over the top in the same red crayon. The one that Thaddeus only used on very special occasions.
“From a secret admirer.” Caleb felt a knot form in his throat and had to swallow hard to push it away. “It seems my Valentine wants to remain anonymous.”
The room was very still for a minute. Caleb couldn’t tear his eyes away from the words. Thaddeus’s attention span was like a grasshopper, pinging from one thing to the next without warning, but it was clear that he had sat and worked very hard to follow Jacob’s instruction and write out the words himself. But the small boy seemed mortified, curled into Jacob’s embrace, his breath shuddering and verging on tears.
That was until Martha said, matter-of-factly, “I bet it’s from Mrs. Leyland,” before taking a slurp of stew from her spoon.
Ephraim barked out a laugh. “Not on your life. I think there more chance it’s from Reverend Peter!”
Martha shook her head. “Are you simple? No, Mrs. Leyland, for sure.”
The bickering had the desired effect and Thaddeus gradually unfurled his grip on Jacob’s shirt, watching the exchange continue with wide eyes and an ever-widening smile as he figured that maybe he hadn’t been found out after all. That was until Caleb tilted his head and mused quietly, “What about Jack Carter?”
Jacob’s mouth dropped open and he raised his eyebrows. “The architect?”
Caleb shrugged and carefully propped the card back against his mug. “I don’t see why not. He certainly seemed very friendly.”
With that, Thaddeus growled and scrambled down from Jacob’s lap, pounded around the table and launched himself against Caleb’s side. Caleb smiled and hoisted the boy up, saying, “Well, whoever my Valentine is, I think they have excellent taste in cards.”
Thaddeus knelt in Caleb’s lap and grasped Caleb’s face with both hands. Thaddeus pushed his face close and whispered, “You like the van’tine, Papa?”
Caleb whispered back, “I think it’s beautiful, Thaddeus.” He kissed the beaming boy on the cheek, and then slapped him gently on the behind. “But I think we should sit in our own chairs and eat our dinner before it gets cold.”
*******
“So. The architect, huh?”
It had taken a while to settle Thaddeus down, but Jacob descended the stairs with a smile on his face, and a tease in his not-so-serious question. Caleb shrugged and replaced the Valentine in its spot on the mantel. He turned and leaned his shoulders against the beam, crossing his feet at the ankle. “Are you denying that the man was handsome?”
Jacob laughed. “Definitely not. It’s just that I met his delicate wife and can say with certainty that you’re not his type.”
Caleb shrugged again, then pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Was that your idea?”
Jacob shook his head and slumped down into the rocking chair. “Nope. That was all Tad. Ephraim bought a card with his allowance, and once I explained what they were for, of course, he had to get you one.”
Caleb frowned. “And who was Ephraim buying a Valentine for?”
“He didn’t say. And no, I didn’t ask. I figure he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Caleb pushed himself away from the fire, taking the scant few steps to Jacob slowly, then lowered himself to settle between Jacob’s feet. “Is—Is this something we should do now? Give cards and favors? Because it didn’t even cross my mind. I’m sorry.”
Jacob smiled, languidly reaching his hand out to scratch his fingers through Caleb’s graying beard. “You have my heart every day, Mr. Fletcher. If I need a card to tell you that, then I’m doing something wrong.”
Caleb raised himself up, and leaned forward, laying his body against Jacob’s until their lips met. “I adore you,” Caleb whispered, then kissed his mate, relishing the feeling of their bodies stirring against each other even after all those years.
Jacob smiled against Caleb’s lips. “In that case, I think you should take me to bed and show me just how much.”
All trademarks are property of their respective owners.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Be My Valentine – ©Alex Jane 2017 – All Rights Reserved
Winter’s Gift – Rainbow Advent Calendar 2017
All this month until the 24th, you can find free stories everyday on the Facebook group, or on the Masterlist, and today is my turn, just click the image below.
Maybe, finally this winter (with a little help) they might just do that.
If you don’t know Seth and Malcolm, don’t worry, you’ll get the idea. And if you’d like to get to know them better, then drop a comment below and I’ll pick a reader at random on Christmas Day to receive any ebook from my back catalogue and you can pick that one if you’d like.
And if you’re feeling in the Christmas spirit and have the wherewithal to help someone who needs it, please consider giving a little something to help my local rescue centre , or perhaps help to give a young person a safe place to spend the winter. That’s the kind of gift that can really make a difference.
Hope you have the happiest of Holidays, and Very Merry Reading! x********
~*~
Jacob feels for Seth—knowing what it’s like to lose family—but when his cousin’s bad behavior turns the town, not only against Seth but against all the werewolves at the homestead, he has to put his sympathies aside and fight to save his family and the place he’s called home for the last five years.Sometimes the only shelter we can find from ourselves is in the hearts of others.
A story of grief, sadness, and letting it go; and finding love when you least expect it.
And if you’re feeling in the Christmas spirit and have the wherewithal to help someone who needs it, please consider giving a little something to help my local rescue centre , or perhaps help to give a young person a safe place to spend the winter. That’s the kind of gift that can really make a difference.
Hope you have the happiest of Holidays, and Very Merry Reading! x
Seth Mason arrives at the Alphas’ Homestead under duress. The Council have made it clear that if his cousins, Caleb and Jacob, can’t tame Seth’s wild ways his very last chance will be used up and he’ll have nowhere left to go.
Seth is horrified to find that he’s going to have to spend a year living in the backwaters of Nebraska. He hates the Alphas. He hates the dirt and the horses. He hates the nearby town and everyone in it.
In fact, the only thing he doesn’t hate is Malcolm, the deputy sheriff. Unfortunately, Malcolm doesn’t seem to feel the same, especially when Seth uses his bad behavior to try to get the deputy’s attention.
Jacob feels for Seth—knowing what it’s like to lose family—but when his cousin’s bad behavior turns the town, not only against Seth but against all the werewolves at the homestead, he has to put his sympathies aside and fight to save his family and the place he’s called home for the last five years.
Aaron has spent the past ten months alone. When he meets a sad, yet strangely familiar man on a cold Halloween night, he impulsively invites him home. But the intimate connection they share lasts only until morning. Aaron wakes up alone—wracked with guilt and devastated to have lost his chance.
Or so he thinks.
Thanksgiving brings Aaron another shot at happiness, but letting go of an old love and accepting a new one isn’t as easy as everyone keeps telling him. And by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, it becomes clear that Aaron’s not the only one struggling to let himself love again.
Christmas miracles are all well and good, but it’s going to take more than the Holiday Spirit for Aaron to get his happy ever after.
Be My Valentine
Happy Valentines Day! If you haven’t already seen it, I’ve written a short Valentines story over on RJ Scott’s blog as part of her Valentines Guest Post Thing (I believe that’s the technical term).
Short – No Lie
Drew can’t believe his luck when the dark blue sedan pulls up. Until he sees who’s in it.
It’s fucking freezing. Luckily, the spot he and Chris work from is out of the wind. He feels sorry for the girls around the corner, wearing next to nothing under the moth-eaten fur coats their management so generously allowed them to keep on; as long as they hold them open for the slow parade of curb crawlers running their headlights over them. At least he gets to wear pants.
Not that they provide much protection in this weather; cold fingers of night air penetrated the thin leather hours ago. Maybe if there was a sliver of air between the leather and his skin he might have felt a little warmer, but they were so damn tight there was no chance. He thanked Heaven that he’d decided to shove a rolled up sock down his crotch before they came out; it was the only thing stopping his balls from dropping off.
Part of him wondered why they were bothering tonight. A couple of the girls had been picked up, but there hadn’t been so much as a nibble in their quarter. Not even any of Chris’s regulars had shown up. And he always did well on a Friday night. Hell, he did well every night; laying on that thick southern drawl, as he tipped back his battered cowboy hat and chewed on a toothpick. It was mesmerizing. Christ, Drew would do him if he could afford it. But instead, they both stood there shivering under the street lamp’s mocking glow, pulling their jackets close over the thin, clinging t-shirts beneath, and praying for the sun to rise, or Prince Charming to show up.
So, yeah, that blue sedan looks like it could be the prince in question. The window rolls down as Drew walks over. He tries his best not to shiver when he allows his coat to fall open to show the way his nipples have hardened in the cold. The old letterman’s jacket that he found in a goodwill store is a little ridiculous, but it works. He looks a lot younger than he is – he’s twenty-five but with the right clothes, his preppy blonde hair spiked up and the right light, he can pass for seventeen on a good day. Young sells, so he figured it couldn’t hurt. The first time some guy asked him to wear nothing but the jacket, he figured it was worth the twenty bucks. By the time the tenth guy asked him, it creeped him out.
When he leans on the open window of the car, he goes from thinking he might make his rent, to hoping he’s going to make it back in one piece.
“You working?” The guy’s beautiful but his face is like thunder, and practically growls out the words.
Drew raises his eyebrows, and nods at the gold badge glinting on the guy’s belt. “Are you?”
The badge clatters into the glove compartment with a flurry of cursing. “Just get in the fucking car.”
Drew hangs his head, then dutifully opens the door and gets in. He sees Chris take a step forward, looking worried, but Drew winks and smiles to reassure him, even if he’s already thinking it’s a bad idea.
As soon as he closes the door, the guy hits the gas, and pulls away with his tires screaming. Drew glares, and fumbles with the seatbelt. “You in a hurry, Detective?” When he gets no answer he swivels in his seat to get a better look, while he warms his hands on the hot air blowing from the vents in the dash.
The guy looks exhausted, and on edge. His eyes are deep set in dark rings, his skin pale. His tall, muscular body is slumping, but his fingers beat out a tattoo on the steering wheel, like he’s got caffeine instead of blood keeping him upright. Dark hair curls behind his ears, the strands lank and greasy from the repetitive motion to keep them there. His dark blue suit is rumpled and unpressed, much like the rest of him.
“Bad day?”
The guy doesn’t say anything, just grips the wheel tighter. Drew’s about to start his spiel, when finally the guy awkwardly stutters out, “Do you have…is there a…where’s your–”
“No.” The word seems to take the guy by surprise, and he chances an infuriated glance or two at Drew. Drew stands – or rather, sits – firm, and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m not fucking a cop in parked car under a fucking bridge tonight.” The detective looks outraged, then accepting. Drew figures it’s tiredness rather than lack of discretion for the guy to think of something so stupid. “Your place or mine, I don’t much care which. Or drop me back on the corner.”
The cop’s apartment is a mess. Drew can’t quite believe his eyes, and he squatted with Chris in a crack house for three months. There are clothes and rotting half-empty takeout containers strewn about the place. There’s a thick layer of dust over every surface, and an ungodly smell coming from the kitchen. There’s a penicillin factory happening in a mug on the floor. The filthy coffee table seems to have some police reports open on it, showing crime scene photos and mug shots. When Drew wanders over there, they’re slammed shut suddenly, with a mountain of New York’s finest standing guard over them.
Drew hears a weird noise. He lifts his foot, peels the sticky candy wrapper off the sole of his sneaker, and holds it out. “Is it the maid’s week off, Detective, or–?”
“Don’t keep…Adrian. Just call me Adrian.” Adrian reaches out and takes the wrapper, adding, “Please.”
Drew smiles, and hopes it looks alluring. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s bury his feelings of disgust to get a thing done. He shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the arm of the couch, next to a stained pillow and rumpled blanket. He thinks he’s subtle when he sneaks a peek at his watch, but he’s obviously not subtle enough.
“How much for the night?”
The question takes Drew by surprise. He shakes his head. “You can’t be serious?”
Adrian pulls out his wallet, takes out a bundle of cash and puts it on the coffee table. It’s so high it spills down like a landslide. “How much for the night?”
Drew looks at the money, ignoring Adrian as he steps towards him. Drew is tall, but he has to look up when Adrian hooks his hand around Drew’s neck, and pulls him into a searing, biting kiss.
There’s nothing pleasant about it. It’s teeth and stale coffee breath, and fingernails biting into the back of his neck, but Adrian’s paying so Drew lets it happen. It’s not the worst thing he’s experienced this week. Still, when Adrian releases him and steps away, his face all shame and rejection, Drew thinks that might be.
The way Adrian hangs his head makes something like fury rise up in Drew. He knows what Adrian’s thinking. That he’s taking advantage of Drew like all the other perverts out there; the ones that slap his face red raw before they come on it, or make him beg and call them daddy. Adrian’s standing there full of self-loathing, makes Drew want to shake him. Maybe if the cop wasn’t still wearing his gun he might have. Instead, Drew grabs Adrian by the wrists. “I’ll stay. But let’s get cleaned up first.”
The bathroom isn’t much better than the rest of the apartment. Drew resists the urge to offer to disinfect it before they shower, and tries to ignore the layers of dust and scum, and filthy underwear on the floor. He doesn’t bother trying to be sexy when he removes their clothes, aiming instead for tender. He figures what the guy needs more than anything is a little TLC. And, judging by the way Adrian seems to come to pieces as Drew strips them down, he’s not wrong.
Drew’s a little afraid that he might have to hold Adrian up in the shower, but he seems solid enough when they step under the hot spray. Drew takes his time soaping Adrian down, working his fingers against his tanned, muscular body, and through the dark hair that trails down the center of it. Drew cleans every inch, slowly and methodically. Every now and again, Adrian lifts his hand to brush against Drew’s nipple, or to cup his bicep or ass, but mostly he just stands there, watching in silence, gasping only when Drew’s fingers get close to his crotch.
Drew saves that until last. He works the lather through Adrian’s thick dark pubic hair, and around the side of his balls. He smiles a little to himself when Adrian opens his legs just a fraction, so Drew can slide his soapy fingers back to Adrian’s twitching pucker. He keeps his hand there, alternately working small firm circles over Adrian’s asshole, or rolling his balls between his fingers.
The other hand soaps Adrian’s dick. It’s half-hard, and getting heavier by the second, so Drew pushes Adrian back a step so the spray cascades over his shoulder and washes the soap away. Drew pulls him forward and goes to his knees in one motion. As soon as Drew’s tongue makes contact, Adrian keens above him. He tries to ignore the sounds Adrian’s making, and concentrate on getting his lips around Adrian’s cock before he comes himself.
He finds he’s not so much sucking, as tasting. Adrian tastes wonderful. Drew has a whole slew of skills in the cock-sucking department – he’s had to listen to how his mouth was made for it since junior high – but it’s like he’s forgotten them all. It’s pure pleasure to taste Adrian, to feel the velvet soft skin in his mouth, the sweet tang of pre-come as his runs his tongue along Adrian’s slit. He can’t help but hum with the pleasure of it.
Then he’s being yanked to his feet. “Not here.” Adrian sounds like he’s the one that’s had a cock down his throat. “Come to bed.”
Apart from a few clothes slung over a chair, the bedroom is pristine. It’s almost more of a shock than the rest of the place. Drew half expects Adrian to pick him up and throw him onto the bed, but Adrian pulls the covers back and waits for Drew to slide in before joining him.
The bed is cold, almost clammy. Adrian scoots right up to Drew, pressing the line of his firm body against him and starts rubbing Drew’s arms to warm him up. Adrian’s face is so earnest, Drew can’t bear it. He leans forward and presses his lips to Adrian’s. Adrian freezes, before relenting and kissing him back.
It’s not like before. It’s soft, and chaste in its own way, even though they’re naked, and rubbing against each other. Adrian’s lips are gentle and attentive; he’s lightly mouthing, sucking and licking Drew just the way he likes it. Drew could spend all night doing that – could probably come from just that – but he senses Adrian’s tiredness and pulls away. He smiles slightly, feeling strangely awkward. “I’ve got lube in my pants. I should–”
He starts to move but Adrian stops him and flicks open a drawer in the bedside cabinet, producing a tube with a half-hearted flourish.
Drew takes it and sits up. Adrian starts to protest but Drew pushes him back down on the pillow. He folds the covers back, and takes a position between Adrian’s legs, facing away from him. He doesn’t do this; put on a show. At least, he hasn’t for a while, so it feels a little embarrassing to start with. But by the time he has three fingers in him, he’s forgotten all about that. It helps that he can hear Adrian’s heavy breathing, and feel his hands kneading his ass cheeks, holding Drew open with his thumbs to get a better view.
“Christ, Drew.”
Drew turns, his legs shaking with anticipation, and straddles Adrian. Adrian’s hands are shaking too as he holds his straining cock up against Drew’s open hole. Drew has a moment of panic.
“Ade…if you want to use something…”
“Do you do this with anyone else?”
There’s such agony in Adrian’s face when he asks that question, Drew can hardly stand it. He looks Adrian dead in the eye. “Never. I promise. Never.”
With that Adrian lifts his hips. There’s a delicious pressure on Drew’s hole before Adrian’s cock head breaches him. It’s been a long time. Drew had forgotten the sting, and how damn big Adrian is. But his lover waits, stroking his back and his thighs until Drew is ready to move again. It takes a while for Drew to fully seat himself, then even longer for them to build their momentum. They start in small tentative movements; Adrian sliding easily in and out of Drew, both of them relishing the drag and the sloppy sound they make, moaning in unison with it. When Drew starts to bounce, his hard, dripping cock bobbing in front of him, Adrian wraps both arms around Drew’s waist, and pounds him; tilting his hips to hit Drew’s sweet spot, and make him yelp. And when Drew comes untouched, Adrian milks every last drop out of him before coming himself with a shout, thrusting hard and filling Drew with everything he has.
˜•˜
“So…bad day?” Drew is the little spoon, so when Adrian doesn’t answer, it takes some effort to turn under Adrian’s heavy arm to look at him.
Adrian sighs, knowing he can’t get away from it now that Drew’s eyes are on him. “Five year-old, beaten into a brain hemorrhage for not taking out the trash.”
Drew purses his lips. It was a stupid question. There’s rarely a good day in homicide. “You wanna talk about it?” Adrian shakes his head, and pulls Drew closer, burying his face in Drew’s neck.
Drew strokes Adrian’s hair, and kisses his ear before asking, “You wanna tell me why you’re sleeping on the couch?”
Adrian keeps his head down and shakes it again. Drew sighs and waits, and eventually Adrian forces himself to look Drew in the face. “Because I can’t stand it. I can’t stand sleeping in here without you.”
“Ade, we talked about this–”
“I know, I know–”
“It’s called ‘deep cover’ for a reason–”
“I get it, I do, I just–”
“And if you blow my cover, it’s three years work down the drain–”
“They don’t suspect you, do they?”
“No…no, of course not.”
It’s not a lie. Not really. Drew just doesn’t want to explain to Adrian how his pimp thought he might be an informant when he’d found out Drew gets picked up by a cop once in a while. That the first time him and his goons half-beat Drew to death after catching him coming out of Adrian’s car, the only reason they stopped was his pimp realized that Drew’s ass was full of Adrian’s come. After that, he was quite happy to take whatever money Adrian paid Drew, as long as he got to see the proof. But the indignity of bending over so the bastard could check every time was offset by Drew imagining throwing him, and the rest of his people-smuggling friends, in a deep dark hole forever.
“How much longer?” Adrian always asked.
“Six months. Maybe a year.” Drew had been saying that for almost two years now.
Adrian pulls him in, kissing his husband hard. Then snuggling close, and closing his eyes, he finally looks rested for the first time all night. “And then no more. This is the last assignment, right? Then you quit vice for good?”
“Yes…this is the last time.” That’s not a lie either. Not really.
© Alex Jane 2016 All Rights Reserved
