Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2010 10:26:55 +0100
From: tooluser@hushmail.com
Subject: Brave enough part 5

Copyright Tooluser August 2010

This story is fiction, and no similarity to persons either living or dead
is intended. Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental.


Apologies to everyone for the gap between updates. It was partly that I was
updating another story ("Boy Batter" for those of you who may be following
that one) but also that I found this episode a bit hard to write. I'm
afraid that you Mickey fans out there will be disappointed, but don't worry
- he'll be back!

As always, comments, criticism and feedback appreciated! (I won't pout
again, I promise.) Hope you enjoy this episode!

Tooluser.

tooluser@hushmail.com


---

Brave Enough, part 5.


There really was no help for it: he'd have to start back for the office
right away. Ben sighed, the sound echoing off the cement walls in the
basement parking lot, thinking of the lovely soft bed awaiting him
upstairs, but there really was no point returning to his room. He looked
thoughtfully at his phone and then after leaving a brief message on the
office machine to say he was on his way, switched it off - he didn't want
Georgette or her minions harassing him with calls all the way back to town.

He drove his car to the lot's exit, where, half awake, the night security
attendant swiped his key card and checked ID against the result before
raising the security gate. He gave Ben directions to the hotel's gas pumps
and all-night diner back of the hotel.

"But just you make sure you go on round to reception, suh," the attendant
said, shaking his bald head. "Know you're in a hurry, but you drive off
'thout checking out and you go right on our 'bad-risk' list. Ain't worth
it, jus' for ten minutes delay, no sir."

Ben had smiled, and thanked him.

So after gassing up, Ben had driven around to the hotel's front entrance,
parking next to a rather fast looking gray coupe. As he approached the
desk, he saw that the reception desk was now staffed by a skinny boy with
dark curly hair, sitting at a smaller side desk within the counter. Three
thick textbooks and a laptop sat open before him, but he was just staring
into space, one corner of his red mouth folded into an unhappy crease.

*Cute*, Ben thought. He wouldn't mind seeing those dark brown, heavy-lashed
eyes watching him wake up first thing in the morning. *Bet he doesn't have
to shave yet,* Ben thought, admiring the boy's smooth, pearly skin.

The boy startled visibly as Ben cleared his throat. "Very sorry, sir!" He
jumped to his feet, seeming flustered.

"Not as sorry as I am," Ben said, as he dropped his key card on the
desk. "I have to check-out right now - urgent business."

"Yessir."

Ben smiled, but the boy didn't return it - just hurried to the front of the
desk where Ben stood. "Was everything all right sir?" his glance flicked in
the direction of the black "Comments and Suggestions" box next to the
courtesy phone as he picked up Ben's key card. "I'll just call up your
account." His long fingers tapped expertly at the keys, and Ben stole
another glance at the boy's slender face, now half-lit by reflected screen
light.

The boy's posture stiffened, and Ben saw him glancing from the key card to
the screen and back again. He wet his lips. When he looked up his dark eyes
seemed enormous.

"Is there a problem?" Ben asked.

"Oh, no. Y-you wanted to check out, sir? I, I'll just get someone to check
your room."

"Don't bother," Ben said. "You've got my AmEx number - I'll just sign a
waiver and you can charge for any discrepancies. I'm *really* in a hurry."
He managed a tired smile. He figured he'd end up being scammed for a couple
drinks from the minibar, perhaps a towel; maybe a hotel robe. He hoped the
kid would get his cut.

"I, I'm not sure -" the clerk was looking at the forms next the phone
again, and Ben felt a wash of sympathy. He guessed the kid had just had
some shit guest make his life hell and was scared of the reprimand he was
going to get once his manager read whatever was in that box.

"It's okay," Ben said. "A waiver is S.O.P., and I'll be sure to commend the
efficiency of the night desk staff."

But instead of seeming reassured the kid just gained a trapped, frightened
look. "Yessir." He nodded, swallowing. Ben could see the boy's hand was
visibly shaking as he hit a key, and printout curled. His upper lip
glistened.

*Companies shouldn't be allowed to do that to kids,* Ben thought, feeling
his anger rising, remembering the shit jobs he'd had when he was younger,
humiliated by egocentric bastards - and bitches - who'd seen nothing wrong
with using him for cheap anger therapy for their fucked-up lives. He
reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Kleenex and used the chained
pen to scribble his name, room and cell number on it. "Here," he
said. "Think of me as a friend, huh? I'll cover your back."

The kid looked at the tissue, and then up at Ben. A moment later he blushed
crimson, and as the nickel dropped, Ben found himself embarrassed and
enchanted in equal measure.

Ben hadn't felt so ridiculous in years, and had to bite his tongue,
concerned the boy would read any amusement as some kind of humiliating joke
on him. He signed the waiver with a shaking hand, watching the boy - whose
posture now subtly advertised him as prime candidate for the million yard
dash - out of the corner of his eye.

As he picked up the printout of his bill, Ben did allow himself a single
glance at the boy and, once safely in his car, laughed joyously at the
memory of those adorable Bambi-in-the-headlights eyes, telling himself to
lighten up.

Doubtless the kid's distress was just some teenage trouble. The phone had
been right next to the complaints box: he'd probably been thinking of using
the hotel phone on work time to phone his boyfriend - or, Ben conceded,
possibly girlfriend. Whatever: he hoped the post-pickup glow had blown off
whatever bad stuff the kid had been dealing with.

The feeder road was straight and deserted, and Ben floored the gas, feeling
idiotically happy, only slowing to sane speed as the junction
approached. He glanced in his rearview mirror and, seeing headlights, idly
wondered who else had checked out. He noted they seemed to have succumbed
to the same speedbug that had bitten himself, and grinned again as he slid
out into the freeway traffic. He hummed along happily at just a whisker
under max, wondering what was so all-fired important at the office that
only he could attend to.

He glanced at his phone, idly wondering how often it would have rung
already, had it been switched on. No matter: he looked at his watch, and
then the odometer, calculating. He should reach home with the dawn.



                               * * *


Andy shivered, feeling the presence of Teng's two hoods too close behind
him as he watched Gilles punch the security code into the staff door of the
Litz-Conway hotel. He hadn't wanted to see the inside of the Con again,
ever. Yet here he was. Guilt rose up inside him, mixing with the fear; but
there was relief, too: perhaps it was karma. It would be a relief to
finally pay old debts.


The hallmark of Marcus's club was discretion. Ordinary people could go to
the Grid hunting boy pussy, but the Chief of Police, or a judge, or a
prominent businessman could not. So, the club: invitation by word of mouth,
fees in cash, and no publicity. Marcus introduced members to boys, and if a
member chose to get to know other members, they would also introduce boys
to one another. So if one of them was going to find a boy-loving
multimillionaire, it should have been Andy, welcomed at the Club, rather
than his flaky, blackballed cousin.

Yet it was Jase who met Sherry: in a public park - and not even in the
cruising area, but by the ornamental ponds, where he was watching the
wildlife.

Jase had battered Andy's ear about the wonderful man he'd met, and Andy had
nodded, tolerantly. It had been at the peak of their popularity, so Andy
recalled paying scant attention at first: concentrating on trying to get
his flitter-brained little cuz to show up at the right places, at the right
times. Gradually it had penetrated that little Jase had gotten it bad
again, so it had come as no surprise when Jase announced that they were
both going to trick with Sherry.

Jase was always like that. Andy figured his little cuz was so far up the
Kinsey scale that emotionally he couldn't believe there were guys who
*didn't* fancy guys, but he couldn't decide if Jase really was "sharing",
or whether he was trying to fix him up. It couldn't be that Jase needed
some cousinly stamp of approval: he always continued to see the guy no
matter how carefully Andy pointed out all his defects. Whatever: once he
was getting serious about a guy, Jase'd want to share with Andy.

It wasn't like when they tricked with an unknown john, or a group: those
guys treated them as interchangeable, as advertised. Jase's guys didn't do
that.

Nervous, some of them. All of them horny sooner or later: Andy prided
himself on that. Some wanted to see him privately, separately afterwards -
"the shits" he always called them in his mind. Sherry hadn't been the shit
that night.

Teng was fussy. Hustlers didn't usually actually get inside "his" hotel:
not unless they were top drawer, aiming at marriage, and willing to give
him his cut, anyway. The street trade - and especially the underage street
trade - were all farmed out to one of Ten-per-cent's nearby fire-traps. So
when Jase told him that his latest light-of-love had a suite at the Con,
Andy had suppressed a sigh, resigning himself to staring up at dusty,
fly-blown light fittings during another encounter in a flea-bag hotel:
cardboard-thin walls, damp sheets, grimy, narrow corridors and extra towels
in a fungus-smelling, tap-dripping bathroom.

He'd been wrong. Sheridan Conway was more than just a guest, it
seemed. They'd been let in the staff entrance by a Mr. Teng so subservient
that his sneer had been confined entirely to his eyes; ushered to a small,
thickly carpeted silver and blue elevator which had sighed upward while
delicate, old-fashioned music played. When the mirrored doors opened again
it was onto a small, private lobby, which opened onto a comfortable sitting
room where hidden speakers played the same twiddly music as in the
elevator. Spicy cooking smells drifted from somewhere.

Jase had bounded ahead, calling: "Sherry! Sherry! Andy's here!" while Andy
had stood stranded in the middle of the room, wiping his sweaty palms on
his best tan pants and wondering if he should remove his shoes: the carpet
was deep, luxurious, and white.

The huge rectangular couches were both black leather, which looked as soft
as his mother's gloves. The paintings on the walls weren't like the ones at
the club: these were bright squares of color and overlapping dribbles and
splashes of paint. They didn't seem to be actually *of* anything, but they
went well with the shiny chrome fireplace - a fireplace! In a tower block!
- the small bronze statues, and the other lean, angular furniture.

*Nice place,* he'd thought, guessing at the rent and coming up with a
comfortably fat figure. Cynically he'd pictured Sherry prowling the
apartment after they'd left, counting the ornaments.

Then Jase had returned, towing behind him a small, ash-blond man of
uncertain age. Andy had looked him over, approving. Finally, he'd thought,
Jase had latched onto someone with a bit of money, and not so young he'd
have to wait forever to inherit, either.

Sherry had patted Jase on the shoulder and advanced on Andy, holding out a
manicured hand and smiling easily, his gray eyes twinkling. "So, I'm
getting to meet the family at last, eh?" he said. His grip was cool and
firm. "May I take your jacket? Grayson has the evening off."

"Sherry's cooking Chinese food!" Jase announced as Sherry helped Andy off
with his jacket. The man's cologne smelled of cinnamon and lemons. "He
makes it just like carry-out!"

Andy had looked back at Sherry, ready to apologize for his little cousin's
gaffe, but the man had laughed. "I decided to stick to my strengths," he
said. "My pizza last week was a miserable failure."

"No, it was okay," Jase said, "- I just didn't expect it folded up like an
omelet," He wrinkled his nose. "Although those truffle things tasted
weird."

"Well, I shall await your verdict," Sherry had said, winking at Andy. "Jase
tells me you're the real expert on carry-out."

It had been obvious from the first moment that Sherry was as smitten as
Jase. To Andy he'd been charming, and polite, but Andy sensed that he
always was; a useful social polish that allowed him to dissociate himself,
to slip through unwanted social gatherings or dull meetings with the
minimum of friction. It was the gift of a scamster, a con artist - he
recognised it in himself.

But Sherry had hung on Jase's every word. They already had the in-jokes of
lovers; the private language of eye and hand, and for every time that Jase
touched him, Sherry touched the boy twice.

And how they talked! Andy had listened in amazement as his flitter-brained
little cuz asked Sherry detailed questions about how shares and futures
worked. Jase had never been interested enough in money to even open a bank
account, but it seemed this was what Sherry did, and so Jase was
fascinated.

"But," Andy had said, "this hotel - your name: I'd thought-" It had seemed
better not to specifically mention the exception Teng had made that night.

Sherry had laughed as he stood at the kitchen counter, slicing raw chicken
meat into slivers. "Oh yes: several actually, but that's family money - not
mine. My father went to a great deal of trouble to make sure no black sheep
could get his fingers on it."

"So you made your own!" Jase's eyes had been aglow with hero-worship, but
Sherry had just smiled and then pulled a face.

"Betting on the stock market," he'd said. "If I'd made my money betting on
horses, at least I'd have spent my time looking at beauty." He'd stroked
Jase's cheek with the clean back of one blood-smeared finger and then asked
him to fetch vegetables out of the icebox.

Most amazing of all, the Monosodium Glutamate Kid: Jase, who'd taken every
vestige of "green yuk" out of every burger he'd ever eaten, had not only
fetched the vegetables and sliced them up, but had later eaten some, too.

Andy always remembered the sex because he'd never seen Jase so happy. Of
course, compared to a young man, Sherry had been slow, but he'd used that
time to lavish attention on Jase. Andy suspected that if some magic wand
had sliced twenty years off his age, Sherry would still have been the same:
a considerate lover; a giver. Sherry had paid attention to him as well, but
with a knowing smile between them, a warm conspiracy whose sole purpose was
to bring happiness to Jase, who loved to share.

His body had been pleasant too: clean, carefully tended, and what you would
expect of a middle-aged man who played racquetball and took walks rather
than going to the gym, and who enjoyed cooking for friends.

At the end of the evening, standing alone in the elevator and waving as the
mirrored doors slid shut over the sight of the happy couple, Andy had been
thoroughly jealous, although of which one of them he wasn't completely
sure. The elevator had sighed down again, and when the doors had slid open,
there had been Mr. Teng, whose gaze had seemed to leave a sticky trail of
dollar signs wherever he looked.




Andy jumped as the hood behind him jabbed him roughly between the shoulder
blades. "Well? Don't just fuckin' stand there, kid!"

Gilles was standing, holding the thick security-style staff door open, for
all the world as though he were a concierge at the front of the hotel. His
expression was calm, but Andy could see the hunger beneath. He swallowed,
his mouth dry, and stepped inside.

He wasn't taken into the plush public areas but down a familiar, narrow
cement staircase. Down past the steaming, clattering bedlam of the kitchens
and along a narrow, whitewashed corridor. Relief flooded him as they turned
into a side corridor, away from Teng's office. Gilles stopped by a cheap,
varnished plywood door, and opened it.

"Call me if Mr. Teng should return," he said to the hoods. "It is not
expected," he added to Andy, urging him into the room with a hand between
his shoulder blades. "We shall have the night, I think."

The rabbit-hutch of an office was what Andy had expected: harsh fluorescent
light and the sigh of forced ventilation; sticky-tape specked, whitewashed,
cement-block walls covered in planner charts and notices; a cluttered
desk. In the not-very-far corner, two gray metal filing cabinets supported
a kettle and a collection of bottles, glasses and mugs, and jammed into the
remaining space was a stained and uncomfortable-looking striped couch.

Hearing the click of the lock, Andy looked round, to see Gilles flip his
key-purse closed and drop it into his pants pocket. He backed up as Gilles
advanced a half-step toward him, and then stopped, realizing the futility
of retreat.

"Your jacket," Gilles said, gesturing at the couch and then discarding his
own jacket onto the desk.

Andy noticed it "clonked" as it hit the desk, as though something heavy
were in one of the pockets. He smiled at Gilles, trying to calm his nerves
as he unzipped his jacket and threw it toward the couch, watching the tall
man tugging down his necktie and trying to gauge his temper. He forced
himself to stand still as Gilles approached.

"Good," Gilles said, putting one hand on Andy's shoulder and sliding the
other beneath his shirt. "We do not need the pretence, no?" He pressed Andy
against the wall and leaned down to kiss him.

His lips were firm and strong; his dark chin subtly rough against Andy's
own. His exploring hand was insistent, stroking and squeezing Andy's
nipples as they kissed.

Not having Marcus's security nearby was bizarre and familiar at the same
time: scary knowing he could say all the trigger words he liked and nobody
would burst in the door and drag this man off him. Familiar because, after
Sherry, the only times he'd tricked outside the club had been when he
doubled with Jase, or when the guilt got too much and he needed to be hurt.

He wanted Gilles to hit him, and some other time he might have provoked him
into it - except he knew he'd need his wits about him, later. As it was,
Gilles was demanding rather than rough, with no more than the
garden-variety carelessness of lust-fuelled impatience. He pushed Andy's
shirt up around his neck, stroking first his chest and then down his
stomach as his mouth mauled Andy's lips and his tongue invaded the boy's
mouth.

"Ah," he murmured, breaking off to kiss Andy's neck. "I think I am not your
choice, no?"

"No," Andy gasped, and then hastily amended the admission. "- not
that. Just nervous, you know?"

Gilles laughed softly, tugging Andy's shirt up over his head. "A boy as
'andsome as you, he is used to make the big eyes at men who sigh, and let
him lead, no?"

Andy felt a flutter in his stomach as the big, dark man leaned down,
feeling rough stubble grazing his neck as Gilles kissed it, sucking; his
tongue probing muscle and tendons.

"Tonight," Gilles murmured, his large, strong hands stroking over Andy's
chest and belly, "you have the holiday from care. I shall make the
choosing, and you shall not regret."

It was a fair trade, Andy decided: a pretence of attraction in exchange for
distraction. He'd far rather practice his trade than sit here all night,
letting his imagination paint and re-paint his coming meeting with Teng. So
he managed a smile, and ran his fingers through Gilles's dark chest hair
when the man took his shirt off too.

The man was a good kisser: he gave it his whole attention. Feeling oddly
safe with the hard chill of the wall against his back, and the pressure of
Gilles's crowding warmth against his front, Andy felt his defences
slipping. Gilles's hands were strong, and if his touches were firm, they
were also careful, generous: he could feel Gilles was sharing the honest
excitement he felt.

Telling himself it was crude lust - that Gilles's response was only about
the beauty he could see - didn't help. Andy turned his head aside, gasping,
feeling the sick gorge rising in the back of his throat. *I could make him
step back,* he thought. *I could tell him about me - about what I did.*

It would be better to speak now: one less weapon in Teng's armory. Andy
swallowed as he heard Teng's harsh, chain-smoker's drawl in his
imagination, and saw Gilles's face changing, the look of disgust chasing
across it as comprehension dawned. Andy groped after the shreds of his
professional detachment; his everyday armor of lies in tatters.

"This is not good," Gilles said, his breath warm on Andy's neck. "Teng is
harsh, yes. He keeps the discipline. But he does not war on children. Do
not be so fearful. It is this Marcus who should fear, for sending you out
so unprepared - you will, no doubt, be just the messenger in this. Answer
him and you will be safe."

Andy could have laughed. He wondered how short a time Gilles must have
worked for Teng - or perhaps Teng found his naivete useful, somehow. He
looked up: a mistake. Seeing the concern in Gilles's face, he felt the
courage to speak drain away. He felt another featherweight of guilt settle
upon himself. As well as a liar, he was a thief: stealing an undeserved
night of care.

"Or you can answer me," Gilles said, his fingers soft on the back of Andy's
neck. "If your cousin is well, or not - Teng wishes to know, yes. The
briefing says to ask. There is some past amour there, I think? But most, he
will wish to know about this deal: the man in the suit, and how you know of
it - and how Marcus knows. Tell me of these things and I shall speak for
you."

Andy swallowed. "No," he said. He could not. He knew nothing of any
negotiations - he wished he did: he'd gladly spill anything he knew about
power-struggles in the town's vice set-up if it would distract Teng's
attention from Jase. But the man in the suit had asked about Sherry, and
the last thing he wanted to talk about was what he'd done to Jase, and
Sheridan Conway.

He looked down, watching his hand stroking the dark treasure trail leading
beneath the belt of Gilles's dark pants. He reached lower, and stroked the
bulge there, concerned to find it only half-hard.

"Perhaps later," he whispered, lying again, relieved to feel swelling
beneath the cloth. He unbuckled Gilles's belt and unsnapped his pants,
sinking to his knees as he pulled them down. Gilles looked big, and was
strong and virile.  In his experience nothing distracted men like that more
effectively than a little submission.

"Your clothing also," Gilles said, above him, and Andy nodded, feeling a
surge of nervousness. He'd hoped not to advertise his lack of arousal, but
perhaps Gilles would think it was due to fear. He toed off his sneakers at
the same time he unfastened his jeans, and then stayed hunched down against
the wall as he pushed them off, shorts as well.

"Mon dieu," he heard Gilles breathe, and then some more soft, admiring
French that he didn't understand. "So beautiful," he murmured, bending down
a little to help Andy to his feet.

Andy cast a look of real regret at Gilles's big, veiny cock; giving up the
fantasy of it jammed down his throat, choking him while his head smashed
back against the wall; of the big man using him and discarding him like the
piece of shit he was. He felt helpless: every time before in this situation
he'd been by turns awkward, contrary and insulting until he'd gotten what
he wanted, and he'd crawled back to Marcus to be patched up so that he
could put the honeyed layers of his lies back in place again. The only time
he hadn't done that had been with that guy - he'd forgotten his name - the
one whom he'd thought was Vice. He'd taken a risk: taken him back to the
Club; tempted him, hoping for something rough and mindless. Well, he'd been
well served for that, with the bastard trying to rip him open with
words. He'd fed him sweet lies, and run. Run down to the truck lot by
Faggot Park where he'd provoked two big black guys into beating him all
shades of blue. Marcus had been so angry.

He looked up at Gilles, seeing the big muscles, the strength that could
give him the escape he wanted, but telling himself again that he must put
Jase first. Being already bruised and battered going into the encounter
with Teng would be stupid, stupid. God, he was scared.

Andy felt himself responding a little when Gilles hastened him across to
the couch; pushing him onto it. The nubbled material was coarse against his
back as the big man made him lie down. But then Gilles sat on the floor
beside the couch, and Andy saw the expression in his eyes and felt his
thumb trace a line down the side of his face, down his neck and over his
chest, to stroke first one nipple into hardness, and then the other.

"Pauvre petit," Gilles murmured.

Andy looked down, humiliated to see Gilles less hard than before - where
was his technique now? The easy ways he could tease and excite men; his
professional tricks; the lies he could tell with little gasps and moans all
seemed to have been wiped away.

"Please," he whispered, "please let me suck you."

"Non," Gilles murmured. "I said before - relax. Tonight, I decide. Perhaps
we shall not even have the sex, huh? Perhaps we shall talk instead."

Andy couldn't imagine anything he'd want less. "No," he said, making
himself reach out and stroke Gilles's firm shoulder. "Please - I need it."
He sat up and leaned over, wrapping his arms around the man's neck, laying
his head on firm muscle, breathing in a smell of musk and cigarettes. He
wanted to say that he was frightened, but knew that such honesty could
unravel the few lies he had left. "Please," he whispered again, and felt a
surge of triumph as Gilles put a strong arm around his waist. He moved
nearer, feeling the hard nubbled cloth against his bare bottom as he inched
closer until he was able to lean his side against Gilles's chest.

He could feel Gilles's heartbeat, and knew that he was excited. Andy
manufactured a soft moan and began kissing at the man's throat, shifting
slightly so that his smooth skin would rub against Gilles's front.

Gilles held him tight, but Andy forced his mind away from the undeserved
comfort, only letting himself feel triumph as he felt the man's fingers
begin to stray down over his back. He stroked Gilles's arm, feeling the
curve of strong muscle as he kissed down over his chest, nuzzling for his
nipple. He could feel the kindness in the way Gilles held him, and
carefully avoided thinking about how easy this guy's buttons were to push;
instead focusing on the role he'd chosen for himself.

Naive, helpless: he sucked on Gilles's rubbery nipple like an infant,
feeling it erect itself in his mouth. He licked and teased it with his
tongue, careful not use his teeth, or appear too "professional". He was an
innocent schoolboy, overpowered by lust: he felt himself shiver, and as he
created the story in his mind, his descending fingers had just the right
degree of hesitancy.

Andy breathed against Gilles chest as his fingertips explored first the
coarse, coiled bush at the base of his cock and then the hot, soft-skinned
harness of his cock. He traced its length with his fingertips; stroked its
smoothness with his palm as though by accident when he stroked the man's
balls.

As Gilles knelt up, Andy pushed his own, knowing smile far, far back into
his mind, telling himself, as he kissed down the "treasure trail" that he
was nervous, unsure, but determined.

He'd noticed already that Gilles was uncut, as so many European men were,
and it was a relief to find that he was clean. Above him, Andy heard Gilles
groan as he lapped clear, sticky pre-cum from the head of his cock before
taking it inside his mouth. He teased beneath the crown with his tongue,
working the man's excitement, feeling Gilles's body heat against his cheek,
and smelling his musk as he took more cock into his mouth. Gilles stroked
his back, gasping his name and soft endearments as Andy stroked his balls,
sucking him strongly, but with none of the embellishments that would
suggest experience. He decided against pretending to choke - Gilles was no
credulous fool - but did allow himself to whimper, as though from
unbearable excitement.

It had the effect he'd hoped: Gilles moaned and held him closer, stroking
down his back as far as his hip, and back to his shoulders again. Andy
could feel him shivering, and, in his mouth the man's cock was an iron bar:
he was nearly there.

Gilles gasped, and Andy had to restrain himself from playing with the guy's
asshole. Had he been playing a different persona, he could have had the man
climbing onto the couch, twisting his hands in Andy's hair and ramming his
cock in deep, but not this shy little schoolboy. Still, enough excitement
leaked over from that raunchier scenario that Andy found himself sucking
that cock with genuine rather than ersatz enthusiasm, and *that* had Gilles
lifting his knees off the floor, humping up into his mouth, gasping.

He pretended not to hear Gilles's gasped warning, letting the hard cock
spurt once, sweet and salt against his tongue before pulling back to take
the second and third spurts warm over his face and neck. He was hard
himself now, so instead of just looking up, he rolled over onto his side,
looking up at the gasping man and smiling in triumph.

Gilles was a good lover - better than he deserved. Andy found he couldn't
accept the kindness, the gentle attentions, unless he persuaded himself
they were directed at the shy schoolboy he was pretending to
be. Nevertheless, he was by turns nervous when Gilles brought him off;
aroused when, later, Gilles fucked him with surprising force, and always
grateful for the distraction. The most difficult time was when, spent,
Gilles took a thin blanket from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and
covered them both. Lying there, cradled against his warmth, hearing the
slow double drumbeat of his heart, Andy began to feel more and more
frightened as his imagination painted steadily crueler and more deserved
scenarios of when Gilles learned the truth about him. When someone tapped
on the door and called that mr. Teng had returned, the rush of relief was
painful.


Gilles helped him to dress, telling him not to be frightened, that
cooperation was best.  Andy noticed though that when Gilles opened the
office door, the same two goons were waiting outside, and he was walked in
the same secure "sandwich" formation along the corridor.

The main corridor was busy, and it sounded like bedlam in the kitchens: the
crash of pans almost drowned out by shouting. Gilles looked at his watch
and smiled. "Six o'clock," he said. "The kitchen: so busy for the
breakfast." They turned the corner, and Andy felt his gut knotting up as
they approached Teng's office. Part of him wanted to turn and try to claw
his way past the hoods, but he knew it was futile. Best to put off the pain
for as long as possible.

Gilles turned to him. "While mister Teng speaks with you, I must supervise
the 'otel. But I wish very much to meet with you again. If I do not see you
before mister Teng releases you, then you will leave a message?"

Andy could have cried: relief that Gilles wouldn't witness his interview
with Teng mingling with regret. But he nodded, and tried for a smile as
Gilles knocked on the door.




Teng's office was just as Andy remembered: larger than Gilles's office;
dimly lit as always by an incandescent bulb in a green glass shade which
hung from the center of the ceiling, throwing three of the four corners of
the room into shadow. The fourth corner was brilliantly lit - the door to
Teng's private bathroom stood open and harsh white light flooded in,
reflected from white tiles.

Teng sat where he had always sat: behind his desk, his long, thin hands
folded neatly over one another in the pool of light from his desk lamp, his
face half shadowed. Andy swallowed as he recognised the square box of the
safe behind Teng; re-living the gut-clenching fear; remembering the feeling
of the cold sweat running down his back as he quietly turned the dial; the
combination: Right 12, Left 42, Left 8, Right 17. He wondered how soon
after that night Teng had changed it.

All this passed in a flash as the door to the corridor closed, shutting
Gilles and his two personal goons outside. He saw the liquid shine of his
eyes as Teng nodded. "Cuff him hard, Rex," he said.

Part of the darkness itself seemed to rush out from the shadows behind the
door and grabbed him hard. Andy whined as fingers bit deep into his arm and
chill metal locked around one wrist with a multiple snick. He didn't get a
chance to cooperate as Rex efficiently grabbed and cuffed his other wrist,
twisting his hands up painfully behind his back. It was only that grip
which kept him on his feet as Teng came around from behind his desk, his
half-shadowed face expressionless. He crossed the room in two strides and
spat in Andy's face.

"Bring him to the bathroom, Rex," he said.





The harsh light made Andy squint as he stared at the tall, bony man; fear,
loathing and hate roiling together beneath his breastbone. Some people said
that Teng's exquisite understanding of beauty came from having none
himself. It wasn't just that he was ugly: a thin slash of a mouth in
pallid, pockmarked skin; a figure that was all straight lines; a square,
bony face - it wasn't just his continual unremitting hate of every single
other person on the planet; it was the flat, black, animal stare of his
eyes. They never changed expression, never seemed to blink.

"We had an understanding," Teng said. "At least, I thought we did. But it
seems the world has changed, again. New money come to town, and Marcus
wants to dip his greedy little fingers in it. Or is it that he's got new
money: new muscle and he wants to push me out?"

"No!" Andy gasped as Rex twisted his hand in his hair. "I don't know! I
don't know those people!"

Teng took a half step forward and slapped the boy viciously across the
face. "Gilles heard them call you 'friend'. They warned you about
something, or asked you about something. Or they gave you a message for
Marcus. Which?"

Andy could feel himself shaking. The only thing those guys had asked about
was Jase: where he was. And now Teng wanted the same information. He didn't
know where his little cuz was, or what he'd been doing - and for that he
felt gratitude mixed with terror. He was glad he didn't know any of that,
because you had to be spectacularly brave or stupid to deny co-operation to
Teng, and he just wasn't brave enough.

"Now those guys were amateurs," Ten said. "They didn't know how to threaten
a hustler. But I do." He glanced at Rex, and Andy felt the man take a fresh
grip on his hair. He braced himself for the pain, but it was always worse
than you expected. He sobbed as Rex lifted him higher so that his pale,
bruised face showed clearly in the mirror.

Now," Teng said. "Can you see properly? Rex, tilt the little bitch's head
for me."

The twisted angle of his head prevented Andy from seeing what Teng took
from his pocket, but he didn't need to see anyway. If he hadn't already
heard details of Teng's other, gory interrogations, the flat "click" of the
switchblade would have told him all he needed to know.

Teng lifted the thin-bladed knife and laid the cold of it on Andy's
cheek. "Now, bitch," he said, his voice soft as ever, "-let's start
again. Tell me everything you even think they wanted to know, and maybe you
won't be carrying your face home in a plastic bag."

"I don't-" Andy began, desperate to be believed, and then broke off,
gasping in pain, staring at his reflection in horrified disbelief at the
red now running down his cheek. The cut stung, and then shrilled into agony
as the nerves awoke to the outrage.

"That was just a warning," Teng said. He waited a moment longer, staring at
him with that flat, dead-shark gaze, and then moved the little knife,
sliding the flat of the blade over Andy's shrinking skin and then inserting
the tip into his nostril. "Let's start again."




                             * * *





Georgette, power-dressed, and currently with a crimson, high-piled hairdo
sprayed glass hard with enough lacquer to resurface a good-sized ballroom,
glared at him, her eyes much harder than her hair.

"We're going to talk," she rasped, diminutive hand on hip. The indoor
smoking ban was obviously biting particularly hard today. The window wall
of her office which led to her private balcony was currently closed and the
air-con apparently set to "sub-arctic."

"Later," Ben agreed. "I'm still the golden boy?"

"Boy?" she echoed, raising a sharp, black eyebrow as she leaned back
against the rounded, toffee-marbled corner of her modern teak
desk. Whatever her pose, it never looked right without a
cigarette. "Dressed like that? Thank fuck you don't smell of booze, though
you look like you fucking should." She stared at him, and then tilted her
head. "Don't apologize," she said. "In fact, act royally pissed. Our
Beloved LTB has been screaming about confidentiality - well, she's going to
discover it's a two-way fucking street."

Her desk phone chimed, and she lifted the handset; listened
briefly. "No. We're not fucking going over there - tell her here. My
office." She lowered the phone again until the cradle chirped. "I am never
working for a god-damned woman again!" she screamed.

"Yeah," Ben said. "They're so hard to train."

*That* got him a sharp look, but hell: mid-thirties, unmarried, no visible
partner, or track record of same - *ding!* - it hardly required a tithe of
her renowned gaydar.

He wanted to kick himself. Damn! Ben drove an average car. He did an
average job averagely well. He dressed like an average straight man. He
lived in an average - if old - apartment, and although he seemed
genetically incapable of talking about sport, talked shop and reality TV
with his female colleagues, and shop and big-breasted women with his male
ones. Geoff Dennington, Georgette's crony and the only "out" gay man in the
department, he avoided as much as possible - the last thing he wanted to do
was to have to fake an interest in big-dicked gym-bunnies as well. Besides,
Geoff had several times complained of press coverage that lumped gays and
pedophiles together, saying it was much the same as lumping them in with
murderers or rapists.

So now he shook his head. "I'll see her in an interview room - the small
one overlooking the lot."

"The air conditioning is still busted," Georgette said.

Ben nodded. "And very noisy in consequence."

That should keep Georgette away from him for a while.




Ben stood, staring out of the window of the little interview room, watching
the rain hiss against the blacktop. He'd seen the client's gleaming
wet-black Mercedes pull into the lot, and a square-built, crewcut guy in a
neat gray suit - obviously her security - had held an umbrella over her as
she hurried across to the building's entrance. It wasn't yet 7 a.m. and Ben
pursed his lips. It looked as if Georgette had, if anything, understated
Elaine Fageauld's urgency to meet him.

He heard a brief commotion outside - a woman's voice saying no, no, she'd
be fine - and turned just as the door opened.

Ms. Fageauld was a stocky, mannish, heavily built woman somewhere in her
forties. Her ash-blond hair was cut in a simple bob, the tips brushing
against her flushed cheeks as she looked down, unbuttoning the last buttons
on her white raincoat, which she then stripped off and bundled into the
hands of her security. Beneath it, she was wearing a conservative navy
business suit and a white blouse. Gold gleamed at her ears and wrist, but
the only thing she wore around her neck was a gold cross on a simple chain.

"Wait outside," she told her security, and then to Ben: "You're Winters?"

"Yes," Ben said, shortly. "Do sit down."

She frowned a bit at his tone, and drew breath to speak, but Ben shook his
head and motioned toward the chair again. When she moved, he crossed to the
control panel next the door and flipped a switch. At once the faulty
air-con unit began to hum, and the air vent resonated with the
hush-and-throb of unbalanced fans. He crossed the room and pulled a chair
close to hers.

"A little privacy," he murmured. "Georgette said you seemed concerned."

Elaine Fageauld nodded. She leaned forward. "You do understand that this is
confidential?"

Ben nodded likewise: "We protect our clients, of course, but -" he paused
and looked her directly in the eye. "You should realize that it's not like
talking to your lawyer - it's not a legally 'privileged' communication. We
can't protect you if a court decides it wants to know what you're about to
tell me."

She smiled, her expression tired. "If it were only the courts. No, I'm
concerned about my political rivals. With the election so close, any kind
of - family embarrassment draws them like blood draws sharks." She sighed
and closed her eyes for a moment before she began.

"My brother has been sick for a long time. We've prayed for him and tried
to guide him, but without success. I've spoken to ministers and tried to
understand that God's time is not the same as mine, but likewise-" she
smiled, but Ben could see the pain in her eyes. "There has likewise been
limited success."

Ben nodded patiently, and waited for her to continue.

"He had - has, rather - a mental condition. It renders him blind to the
harm his actions cause other people."

"A, uh - sociopath, you mean?" Ben shifted uneasily.

"Oh, not a madman; I don't want you thinking he was running around cutting
people's throats or something, though he is, of course, extremely
dangerous. His very charm and apparent reasonableness are what make him -"
she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her knuckles against her
mouth. "Evil," she whispered. "Oh, I know it's a terribly old-fashioned
word, and I love my brother dearly. So after the last time, we - the family
- made an arrangement. He would live quietly at Cedars, and nobody else
would get hurt."

"You said he wasn't' a criminal?"

She shook her head. "We made arrangements - compensation. We made
promises. The minister - reverend Truegood - said he could help: there were
procedures, treatments that would help, and of course he would pray for
him." She smiled as though it were a heavy weight she was lifting onto her
face. "I honestly think that was the only part of the treatment I had any
hope in."

"Ms Fageauld - why are you telling this to me?

Elaine Fageauld pulled a handkerchief out of her clutch-bag and dabbed at
her eyes. "He's been missing for almost two months now, and our best
efforts to find him have failed."

Ben raised his eyebrows. "The police have no leads?"

She moved her broad shoulders in a minuscule shrug. "I would have thought
you would have understood the need for information control. Besides, he's
not a fugitive, nor a criminal. He's an adult, and so in their view quite
capable of looking after himself." She smiled. "The sole effect of going to
the police would have been to sell a few more newspapers - and ensure Bill
Rush's election victory."

She opened her leather folder and slid out a blank envelope, which she held
out to Ben. "It's a letter of introduction," she said. "I want you to go up
to Cedars; to talk to them and to anyone else that you think you need
to. You did such a good job before: with the park project, and when the
minister proved to be - such a flawed vessel. I just want us to be ready -"
she gulped and went back to twisting her handkerchief again, "- if we have
to tell poor Sherry's story to the newspapers."

------

End of part 5.

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