Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1781416.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_A-Team_(2010), The_A-Team_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Templeton_"Faceman"_Peck/John_"Hannibal"_Smith
  Character:
      Templeton_"Faceman"_Peck, John_"Hannibal"_Smith, Brock_Pike
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Prostitution, Implied/
      Referenced_Underage_Prostitution, Misunderstandings, Falling_In_Love,
      First_Love, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-13 Words: 43334
****** Raw End of the Deal ******
by Sonora
Summary
     Hannibal offers his favorite hooker a deal he can't refuse.
      
     I want you in my bed, kid. Just mine. On a full time basis. Living at
     my house.
      
     Or, the one where Hannibal tries buying Face's body and ends up
     giving the kid his heart.
"H-how...how much?"
John doesn't turn around, doesn't look. He busies himself instead with pulling
creamer out of the boutique hotel's little mini-fridge, buying time, feeling a
small spike of something akin to guilt at the sound of those two little words,
so lonely and broken. It's exactly what this kid said last night, what he's
said seven different nights for the past ten, when John has asked him to spend
the whole night, rather than just the two or three hours where he's got the
older man's cock up his ass. Just not...just not like that.
It doesn't make any sense at all. On a hooker, a hooker worried, reluctant
even, about the offer he's just extended, really?
I want you in my bed, kid. Just mine. On a full time basis. Living at my house.
Hell, he hadn't even asked the kid to cook or clean or anything like that. So
what's the fucking problem?
"Well, considering what you're charging me now," John says slowly, still trying
to work this out in his head. He remembers the way Face had sounded that first
night. So confident, the kid had been, so cool and calm about it, right there
in the middle of that club that's just around the corner from this place. A
hundred for a blow, two hundred for a fuck and you pay for the hotel room. Just
threw it out there and smiled, as if to say that he knew damn well it was more
than the normal going rate in LA for that sort of thing, that he'd be worth
it... "I'd say a thousand a week. You're worth that, aren't you?"
There's a small noise behind him, and John - guilty again, still, whatever,
goddamn - drowns it out by pouring them both a cup of coffee, making plenty of
noise on the way. And then...
"Fifteen hundred," his favorite prostitute counters. "And you don't get to fuck
me every night. Even my ass occasionally needs a break from that Kraken in your
pants."
That casual, self-assured arrogance of his is back, at least, and John feels
like he can breath again.
So he smiles and turns back around, handing one of the coffees over to that
gorgeous young man in the cheap but stylish jeans, leaning back against one of
the kitchen cabinets. And John doesn't know what to make of what he sees. The
kid's posture is trying to say relaxed, but John's spent too many years on the
battlefield and in the boardroom to not read what he's actually feeling. It's
in the way he's holding his shoulders, how he's rubbing his hand across his
chin like that. He's nervous, ready to run. Which again, why? This has to be a
good deal for him, better than whatever rat-trap he's currently living in...
"And a clothing allowance," Face adds. He takes the coffee and curls his
fingers around the expensive porcelain, staring right back at John, practically
daring him to argue that point.
"Of course," John says, hoping his words and his smile are enough to sooth the
boy's ruffled feathers. "Can't have you going around looking like a..."
"Whore?" the kid retorts, angry for some reason.
John, in the face of that, considers just kicking him out right the and there.
He hasn't seen a temper on this one yet. Kid's been nothing but pure sex so
far. Maybe this isn't a good idea...
But something in his expression must have tipped the kid off to what he's
thinking, because now that gorgeous face falls and those sapphire-blue eyes
drop away. "C'mon, you can fucking say it," Face mutters. "It's not like I'm
offended by it or anything."
Sadness doesn't look any better on him than anger, and John doesn't understand
this new emotion, either. He's had a lot of men in his day, enough to know when
one's faking, and he'd wager money that all those delicious sounds Face makes
in bed with him are real more often than forced. Kid loves his job, doesn't he?
But whatever else is going on, Face looks like he's about three seconds from
calling John an asshole and walking out the door forever. And John, for
whatever reason, really, really doesn't want that to happen. Fuck, this kid's
the only thing in these last few years that's made the pain of losing Russ go
away, even for a little while...
So John says what he has to, to get him to stay.
"Two grand. And we'll start you out with ten for clothes for right now, and
anything else you might want, up it if need be," John says neutrally. "Sound
fair?"
Those blue eyes snap back up, disbelief etched in the corners. "Two thousand
dollars a week?" And then the eyes narrow again. "For what?"
"Anything I want," John replies. He's feeling his resolve start to crack a
little, feeling another niggle of guilt about this, but he wants this boy. Ever
since he saw him in that club, dancing like he was, shirt off, body on display,
on offer for whoever was man enough to step up and take him, he's wanted this
boy. And, frankly, even if the kid wasn't a prostitute, if he was just some
college student at UCLA or something like that, John's pretty damn sure he'd be
making a similar offer. "Anything I want, any way I want, whenever I want,
wherever I want, take you along with me anywhere I want, show you off wherever
I want, and you don't tell me no."
Face's mouth - that pretty, cocksucking mouth of his - forms a tantalizing
little "o". "Wait, I can't..."
"I won't hurt you, kid, honest. I'll be the only man or woman to touch you
while we're under this little arrangement, and I won't be cruel. If you want to
leave, I'll let you go, no strings," John promises, and means it. Face is
shaking a little, though, trying to hide how that previous nervousness is now
blossoming into fear. And that's no good either. So John takes a step forward,
close enough to reach out and touch one baby-smooth cheek, and smiles his most
comforting smile. "I make it good for you, don't I, kid? And I can make it so
much better. Take you out to dinner, pamper you, give you a taste of the good
life...c'mon, Face, what do you say?"
Face's eyes, those mesmerizing blue eyes, slide shut, and his chin drops down
into John's hand. "When...when do you want me to start?"
The older man smiles, an overabundance of relief surging through him.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. Even if it took a little more convincing than it
strictly should have. Face is his now. All his. Another person in that
ridiculously huge Beverly Hills house of his. One who won't just up and move
off when the company offers him a better position in Dubai. One who is honestly
the best fuck John's ever had, even better than Russ was. One who's going to
fill every empty corner of his life, but won't break his heart when he
inevitably leaves... "It's Saturday, I don't have anything pressing at the
office, so let's move you in today. Get you all settled in."
Another little tremor runs through Face's skinny frame - and that is one thing
they're going to have to work on, this boy would look good with some more
muscle on him - but when his eyes snap open, they're full of wicked humor.
John smiles back. It's going to be so nice to wake up to that every morning...
"Let's go shopping," the kid suggests, grinning that beautiful grin of his, and
runs a hand up around the back of John's neck, pressing himself close. "I think
you might find ten grand isn't going to go anywhere in this town."
"Fine. But I get to see everything on you, and it's my decision as to what gets
bought," John counters, running his palms down the kid's sides. He really can
feel ribs, and not in a good way. That's gotta be changed. Well, he knows a
pretty good personal trainer, one that ought to be able to fix that pretty
quick. Boy's gonna have plenty of down time during the day while John's at
work, anyway... "Make sure you look as good as it should, fucking beautiful
boy."
Face smiles wide. "Then you gonna take me out to dinner and show me off?"
"Anything my boy wants," John whispers. Why the hell not, he figures. Kid's his
and his alone right now. And if he wants to keep it that way, he's going to
have to work for it. He just knows it. Beautiful thing like this, he's a little
shocked nobody's scooped him up yet. It's not what he wants, not really, not
some vapid, empty-headed too-young younger man who's only after his money. But
John can't have what he wants right now - Russ back, his lover back, somebody
who's his, heart and soul as well as body. And goddammit, Face is what he
needs, all he's ever likely to get again...
Face laughs, and slaps him on the ass, practically waltzing past him on his way
to the door. "Well then, come on, old man. Let's get out of this damn hotel and
go spend your money on me!"
Mine, John tells himself, shoving aside another of those brief pangs of pain,
and hurries after.
                                     +++++
Templeton rests his head on the window of John's gunmetal gray Audi R8, silent,
figuring he's earned a little bit of a break right now from dealing with his
new corporate executive sugar daddy. John's not really paying attention to him
anyway, weaving like he is through the late evening traffic, on up to wherever
he's taking them - some place in the Hollywood hills, the younger man supposes,
based on the direction they're headed and the way John was talking - bragging,
more like it - about his home earlier.
This is just...this is so fucked up. Despite the fact that Temp damn well knows
he doesn't have a better option right now, he can't get over feeling like this
is the stupidest thing he'll ever do. Why'd he agree to this, anyway?
Sure, he hasn't slept in any place that wasn't a john's hotel room for the past
four months - in the case of John and maybe one or two others, sleeping with
the john to boot, which always makes him nervous. His last landlord kicked him
out after the stupid bitch figured out how he was earning the rent he always
paid in cash, and most new prospective landlords want a credit history Temp
just doesn't have. But that's something he's been sure he can work out
eventually. So Temp doesn't let himself have that excuse.
And it's not about the money. It's really not. Actually, that new pimp on the
scene right now, what's his name, Brock or something like that, offered him
more than twice as much as John did to come work for him as an escort. Three
grand a week, Face, and all the expensive booze, sex, and drugs you can handle.
Maybe it was the drugs bit. Maybe it was the stories Face has heard about him,
the kinky shit some of the man's main clients are into. Maybe it was the way
Brock sort of leered at him as he said it, or the way the man's business
partner, Vance or Lance or something, smiled too and rubbed a hand up Temp's
leg. No, there was no way Temp wanted to sign on with that. But even as
inevitable as it probably was, he knew that wasn't the reason why he'd agreed
to this...thing with John.
It doesn't matter anyway, he tells himself, feeling dirty. He owns you now.
In more ways than one, too. Because it won't just be about the money. Temp
knows exactly what he looks like, what he's good at, how men see him and view
him and want him. He could easily make two grand a week on his own, on the
streets. Easy. So this is more than that. It's about having a permanent john
who's fucking gorgeous and has the biggest cock Temp's ever seen outside of
porn, one who talks so nice to him and even gets him off too sometimes -
something that Temp's arrogant enough, even in his current circumstances, to
think he deserves or some shit like that - instead of sucking down the pitiful
offerings of gross, sweaty bastards.
No. It's worse than that.
It's about having a steady paycheck, about having nice things - the best
things, judging from the windfall of designer labels in the trunk right now -
and new things, about the luxury of sleeping in silk sheets and dining instead
of just eating, about never having to worry about finding cockroaches in his
bed or wondering where his next meal is going to come from. It's about
security, comfort at any cost, and Temp hates himself for it.
Father Magill would be so ashamed of him right now. The old priest would no
doubt hate it, hate him, if he knew what Temp has let himself become. He'd
tried to get his little wayward orphan into college, into the military, into
anything, before Temp's stupid sixteen year old self decided to run away from
it all. Four years since he's seen the old priest. Four long, hard, terrible
years. And now this...agreeing to be somebody's house boy...
And he must have made a noise or something at the thought of what his old
mentor would say to him now, because John gives him a look with those electric
blue eyes of his, completely unreadable. "You okay, kid?"
Fuck, the young man thinks, scrambling to recover. He knows damn well John's
got zero interest in Templeton Peck, Father Magill's scrawny little foundling,
that pathetic, sad young man. No, John's only after Face, only wants the whore,
happy and smiling and seductive, the barely-legal, possibly-still-jailbait boy
who can give him two orgasms in a night. He'll throw him out the second he sees
a hint of anything different. Man like John, he could have anyone, no doubt,
anyone he wants. He'd only have to hold out his hand and say come...
So Temp plasters on his trademark smile and turns a bit, so he's lounging
against the door, rather than merely leaning on it. He strokes soft fingers
against the top of John's knuckles, resting on the shifter, and bites his lip a
little, just like he knows gets the old man going. "Just a little tired. My
sugar daddy's been out spoiling me all day."
John just shakes his head, and his eyes go back to the road. "Face, I don't
know if I made it quite clear, how this little arrangement's going to work."
And Temp's heart falls. Fuck, oh fuck. Here it comes. The other shoe's about to
drop. The old guy's into bondage or D/s or...
"I fully intend on taking you with me on business trips, maybe to parties where
it's appropriate, things like that. Places where people know me, people who
respect me, where it would be very bad to call me something like that..."
Temp bites his lip. Shit. But still.. "Showing me off, baby?" he purrs, smile
firmly in place.
"Some of that," John admits quietly, and those eyes flick back over, just quick
and then gone again, "but you also have to understand that... my life's rather
empty, shall we say, at the moment. I work long hours, I'm under a lot of
stress at the office, I have to travel a lot and... and there aren't too many
men who are willing to put up with that sort of thing from a partner."
Temp rubs John's hand again, not really sure what he's getting at. "I'm sure I
can think of a few ways to help you relax, baby."
John doesn't look over again, but he does smile. Ruefully, maybe. "Oh, there's
going to be sex, kid, and a lot of it. Don't worry about that."
"Awesome," Temp replies. He does like having sex with John, it's no lie. That
cock, so wonderful, that cock...
But then the older man says something that doesn't make much sense at all. "You
familiar with the old Japanese concept of the geisha, kid?"
Temp frowns. Vaguely.... but wait, weren't those always women? "Umm..."
John laughs, indulgent and warm. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that us
older men, we, we sometimes need a bit more that just..."
"Getting your pole waxed?" Temp interrupts, and lets his fingers start playing
up John's arm. It may be a strange conversation they're having right now, sure,
but he knows he should probably figure it out. Look up the geisha thing, make
sure he's doing everything just right. He's got to make a study of John, too.
Learn all his weaknesses, all his needs, every little kink, every spot on that
finely tuned body of his... Make sure he does everything perfect, so the old
man'll let him stay. Even if he wishes he didn't have to. "Don't worry, baby,
I'm gonna give you everything you need," he promises, knowing he has to, if he
wants to keep this. "Best you ever had, every time, I promise."
John looks over at him again then, and this time, Temp has no problem reading
what's there.
They don't make it to dinner. They don't even make it back to John's house.
Nope, instead they end up getting off the highway and parking down some dark
street, and it's not until Temp's nearly passed out in the back seat, sweaty
and exhausted and covered in come, that he realizes that John didn't even use a
condom.
Which sends a jolt of panic straight through him. Fuck, and John's
conditions... he can't even ask about. It...
His new daddy - owner, client, boss, whatever the fuck he's supposed to call
him - just pats him on the head when his body tenses, wanting an answer, and
leaves him in the back seat and tells him to sleep it off. That they'll be home
soon.
Temp lets John believe that that's exactly what he does. But he stays awake the
whole ride back, staring up at the ceiling of the car, wondering what in the
hell he's gotten himself into.
                                     +++++
Hannibal wakes abruptly in the morning, head groggy, eyes thick with sleep, and
for a moment, he can't quite remember where he is. It just...it seems like
there should be somebody with him right now...
But those drapes are his and so are the pillows and the duvet and the sheets,
the insanely nice sheets that he keeps trying to tell his interior decorator
that he doesn't really need and she keeps buying for him anyway. So that means
his master suite in his penthouse, not some hotel somewhere where he might have
taken...
And the sound of the shower running in the other room brings him back down to
reality.
He remembers then, yesterday swirling back into his brain. Face, the deal,
shopping, screwing the kid unconscious in the back of his car - and jesus fuck,
did he do that without a condom? The way those young hands had clung to him,
unsteady, even as Hannibal led him inside. The disapproving glare of BA, the
building's security guard, as Hannibal informed him that no, his guest could
not be bothered for the required proof of identification per management's rules
just then. How he'd asked the kid, once they got up the elevator and inside, if
he wanted the tour, if he wanted dinner, something to drink, and how Face had
just shaken his head, something lurking beneath that smile of his as he draped
himself around Hannibal's shoulders, whispering in his ear that they should
just go to bed instead.
Hannibal rubs a hand over his face, trying to sort this in his head. He feels
more than vaguely bothered right now, something queasy threatening in his gut,
like cheap third-world booze the morning after. Did he really ask Face to come
live with him? No, not that... Is it because he's paying Face to live with him?
No that can't be it, either. Face sure as hell isn't the first man he's paid
for sex, and he won't be the last. Not that, then. Is it, shit, because the kid
is usually still asleep after their nights together, when Hannibal leaves? No,
that wouldn't quite cover this...
And his thoughts trip up on one little detail in there.
That condom. That fucking condom he didn't use last night. That has to be it.
Did he really fuck the kid without a condom? Why did he do that? Why did Face
let him do that? Most decent prostitutes are so, so careful about that,
especially these days. The kid's always made sure about that...
It's a serious cause for concern, Hannibal thinks, and rolls his neck, feeling
the pop in his spine as he gets out of bed and makes for the ensuite. It might
have been an oversight on the kid's part, tired as he was, or maybe some tacit
way of letting Hannibal know that he knows that right now, he's under exclusive
contract or something like that. Which is a nice gesture, if that's the case,
and it's always so, so much better without those fucking rubbers in the way,
but still. It's a potential problem.
Just get him tested, Hannibal thinks to himself, and tries to smile at the
thought of routinely getting to bareback that sweet ass. He still feels bad,
though...
Then he sees his boy in the shower, those expressive blue eyes closed, those
clever hands curled up in his own hair, water coursing down, beating against,
those fine features, that flat, lean body, everything on display. Everything on
display his, his, his... something that's his again, and better now, no need to
worry about all those irritating emotions...just sex, and that's what he
desperately needs right now, that sexual release. Nothing more. Never anything
more again...
And the older man's attention is suddenly diverted to the urgency spreading in
his groin.
He opens the shower door slowly, not wanting to startle Face. The kid doesn't
move, doesn't make the slightest indication of noticing him at all, until a
tremble runs clear through him as Hannibal spreads a hand wide across that too-
thin chest. Until those eyes open, and a hand comes up to brush away the water
dripping into them.
"John?" the kid asks, like he's confused by this development. "What are
you...what are you doing in here?"
It's entirely unnecessary, the innocent act, but Hannibal doesn't mind seeing
it, doesn't mind going along with it. Goddamn, that little edge of nervousness
is sexy as hell right now... So he chuckles and moves his other arm up around
the kid's shoulders, drawing him in close. "Oh, I think it's what you're doing
in here that interests me a lot more."
The kid blinks, and when he talks, he sounds nervous. "You were still asleep,
and I thought that I might get ready while you were..."
Hannibal smiles at him, wondering again how he managed to snag such a gorgeous
young thing - gigantic paycheck or no - and presses lightly on a shoulder, his
cock really starting to throb now. "That's very considerate of you, sweetheart.
Although I typically prefer my bedmate to be in bed with me when I wake up."
"You, ah, didn't specify that," Face replies, his voice changing back to its
normal sultry tones. He smiles back, that roguish, naughty little smile of his,
and a hand drops down between them, fingers playing with the wiry little curls
of silver hair just above Hannibal's groin. "Can I make it up to you, baby?"
His fingers tug a bit, and Hannibal's own tighten automatically around the
kid's shoulders. "I think you're gonna have to, kid."
Face scrapes his nails, slow and teasing, just once, and then drops to his
knees, swallowing Hannibal's cock to the root in one smooth go.
All coherent thought leaves the older man's head as he's surrounded in a
completely different kind of warmth than that coming from the shower. He widens
his stance in relief and takes a firm grip on that water-dark head to steady
himself. Face takes a firm grip around the back of his thigh, stroking wet skin
even as he sucks and moans around the cock in his mouth, then moans louder as
Hannibal starts thrusting his hips, just a little to start. The kid, Hannibal's
learned over the past month or so, has absolutely no gag reflex, even with
somebody of his length and girth, and he gives some of the best head he's ever
had.
Even better than Russ, Hannibal thinks, and then remembers the way his former
partner had to be cajoled at first, how reluctant he'd been to do this, back
when he was still just Captain Morrison, before they'd been in anything
resembling a real relationship. Back when Russ thought it was submissive,
unmanly, not becoming, and then after, after he'd finally agreed to try, the
way he'd look up in the middle of it, how their eyes would lock and Hannibal
would just lose control, right like that. How Russ would kiss his way back up
Hannibal's sweating, heaving chest, thread his fingers through his his hair,
whisper those little I love you, Johnny my boy, my sweet boys that were so
sweet, and so, so rare.
Replaced, in the end, by no, John, you can't come see me off at the
airport...jesus christ, it's fucking over...listen to me, goddammit, it's
over...
Face whimpers and Hannibal realizes his hips are jerking forward a lot faster,
and lot harder, than they were before. And he knows he should slow down, lest
hurt the kid, but he has a sudden, irrational burst of anger flood out into his
bloodstream. It should be Russ here, it should be his lover, the man he'd loved
more than life itself, rather than some goddamn hooker who lets Hannibal fuck
him without a condom on.
And he can't stop. Won't. The man between his legs doesn't fucking deserve that
right now, all that tenderness that he'd given Russ, all the concern and
compassion and love, his Russ... so Hannibal just grabs that soft, dark hair up
tight and bends the kid back, bracing himself against the shower wall as he
properly starts fucking that sweet, hot mouth.
It doesn't take long. Between Face groaning like the whore that he is and those
memories assaulting his brain and his staggeringly massive need for it,
Hannibal doesn't last more than a minute or two. Not before he's spilling
all...that...so fast that not even the professional hooker can swallow it all.
Not before the kid falls back over his heels with come dribbling down the
corner of his mouth.
Not before he's staggering back, panting hard, images of Russ' eyes and mouth
and hands on him still rattling through his mind.
The kid doesn't have any of that baggage, though, doesn't even seem to care
about what Hannibal just did to him. Nope, he just reaches back a hand to help
guide him up the tile, back to standing, and smiles that smile at him. "That
good for you, baby?" he asks, and his voice is a bit hoarse.
"We do that every morning, I won't need to go to the gym anymore," he jokes,
and winces a bit at the sound of the kid's words, feeling slightly guilty about
that. But...it's not like Face is his boyfriend or anything like that, right?
He said anything, right? So the kid's okay with this, right? This is what he's
paying the kid for, fuck, he doesn't have to feel bad about any of it. Still,
Hannibal makes a mental note to make the kid some tea before he heads out for
the day. "My driver'll be here in about an hour, kid. So why don't we both get
cleaned up and get your day figured out?"
Face cocks an eyebrow, but reaches around behind himself to grab the shampoo
off the little teak shelf. He pours a bit into his hands and steps around
behind Hannibal, rubbing those fingers of his gently up into the older man's
gray hair. "I thought I would be doing nothing but laying about, pining
adorably for you to come home."
Hannibal smiles, feeling more at ease as Face starts massaging his scalp. Damn,
that feels good. The kid seems okay, too. And there's something comforting
about knowing that it's okay, that he can do something like that, and it's
okay. Another positive here, he tells himself, and chuckles. Much better. "I've
got a personal trainer I'd like you to start seeing, kid. You look like you
don't eat half the time, and you could do with a little muscle."
The kid is silent for a minute. Those fingers tip his head back, just a bit,
right into the hardest part of the spray, working out the lather. "I
usually...most older guys like the boy thing," the kid says casually. "It's
just been working for me."
Ah, Hannibal thinks to himself, hears Face open another bottle, and then those
fingers are back. "I don't need you looking like a teenager, kid. That thing
doesn't work for me," - or my life, and what would everyone say, if he brought
some piece of jailbait to a cocktail party?
No, a young, professional-looking, twenty-something-year-old is fine. Exactly
what everyone expects him to be with, honestly.
"You don't need to maintain that while you're with me. Let's get you looking
your age, okay?"
Those fingers disappear again, and Hannibal turns around to see the kid
perusing the selection of body scrubs that always seem to just appear in here.
"Sounds good," the kid replies, and opens the top on one, sniffing
appreciatively. "Anything else you'd like me to do today?"
Hannibal nods. "Gonna get you tested, kid. Safer for us both that way."
Face lifts his gaze to meet his. "Seriously?"
"I've got a good doctor, too. I'll get the appointment set up today." And when
Face doesn't answer right away, Hannibal sighs. Seriously? It's for his own
goddamn good, if they're going to... " I'm not going to bareback you again
until we get that done."
"...oh, okay," the kid says then, just a touch too brightly, and starts soaping
him up.
                                     +++++
“So, kid, how was your day?”
Temp, from his perch on the kitchen counter in one of the more surreal moments
of his life, after once of the most surreal days he’s ever had, has absolutely
no idea how to answer that.
Well, boss - old man wants him to use boss instead of daddy, even though Temp
really thinks the latter is far more accurate - well, boss, it began with you
fucking me far harder than what I thought you’d promised, and then it just got
weird from there...
Seriously. For chrissakes, after face-fucking him, John had actually made him
tea.
Really good tea, too, even if there wasn’t any sugar or anything like that in
it, served up in this funky flat teapot that John had said was Japanese or some
shit like that.
Who owns Japanese teapots?
Who makes their live-in hooker tea in one of them?
And then, of course, there had been the good-bye kiss, John placing one little
peck on his forehead on the way out the door.
And how he’d gone done to the security office, his very best fake ID in hand,
the one that gives him name as Templeton Brighton, home state Ohio, age 23, to
get registered to come and go in the building as he pleases, just like the guy
down there said last night. But Baracus had just stared at him and said John
had already fixed it, and then a notice went out that afternoon about how the
building was under new management. Which was strange, right?
And that girl, that trainer woman who showed up about an hour later, took him
down to John’s private, surprisingly comprehensive personal gym, and beat the
shit out of him . Charissa whatshername, who has to be a lesbian; she didn’t
respond to any of his usual tricks, and no straight woman does that weird
crossfit whatever thing that she was showing him. Which seems like fun, tiring
fun, but still...
And then just exploring John’s penthouse condo in the meantime has been a bit
of an adventure in and of itself.
The place looks like a million bucks, but probably cost a hell of a lot more
than that to furnish. Everything in it is clean and spare and modern and
perfect. Every single room. Sterile. No sign of the kind of man John is at all.
Not even any books or movies or magazine or photographs anywhere.
Even the bedroom is completely devoid of personal effects of any kind, and the
bathroom, which had only the bare minimum of products in it, mostly just
toothpaste and shaving cream and that sort of thing. Almost like a model, a
showroom, like something right out of a design catalogue.
So Temp went online and found out that the condo was in a magazine.
Contemporary West Coast Living. Something like that. About a year ago.
The article had been something about some famous international designer who’d
“made clever use of negative space” and “played on the concept of the
transition of light into shadow, creating a sense of camoflauge...”, whatever
the fuck that meant. Temp hadn’t really understood most of it.
But there had been an item of interest in there. Something very interesting.
Something about, “Mr. Smith, current CFO for RSM International Holdings said
that his intention with his new penthouse was to accentuate his new bachelor
lifestyle through...” something, something, yadda, yadda, yadda.
New bachelor lifestyle. What was that about? Had John been married before? Did
she leave him? It would explain a lot, his wife leaving him, and John going
crazy with the sex, getting everything she wouldn’t give him, something like
that...
And now there’s this. John. In his kitchen. Himself. Making dinner. Making them
dinner. Making Temp dinner. Who the fuck does that? Sure it may just be - as
John put it - a quick soup and some cheesy garlic bread to go along with it,
but it looks like a quick soup made with organic chicken breast and some kind
of expensive cheese that Temp doesn’t recognize the name of. It’s fancy soup
and bread, then. Being made in a kitchen that was clearly designed for show and
private chefs, not the owner of the place. For a live-in whore...
But none of that helps him answer John’s immediate question here.
Which, Temp suddenly realizes, probably shouldn’t have a real answer anyway.
It’s not like John’s interested in him, in Templeton. He’s just here for the
sex. Anything else, like that kiss this morning, maybe, isn’t real. Just
window-dressing on this business arrangement of theirs. And he’s here to make
John feel good, right? Telling him he’s a bit confused about that blow-job this
morning and maybe a little afraid of being in this huge, perfect house where he
doesn’t really fit... that’s not something that’ll make John feel good.
So...
“Great,” he says brightly, and rubs a hand across his chin. If John wants him
to look older, he’s decided, maybe he can stop working so damn hard to keep his
hopelessly dark facial hair at bay. A little stubble will make him older. “It
was great. It’s, uhh, it’s really nice, being here...it's a gorgeous place”
“My interior decorator will be happy to hear that,” John says wryly, giving him
this odd little smile, and goes back to the stove, stirring that bubbling pot
of soup. It smells fantastic. “Getting settled in okay?”
Temp nods. “Yeah, definitely. I was wondering about...” and then remembers. Not
about you, dumbass.
“About what, kid?” Those blue eyes are on him again, soft like they seem to get
sometimes. “It’s okay, Face. Talk to me. I’m asking you to talk to me. Remember
what I said?”
About the geisha thing, Temp thinks, and curses himself for not looking that up
today. “Um, yeah, of course!” he answers, bright as he can.
John smiles wide. “Then come on, I want you to talk to me. Let’s talk. I’m
asking you about your day, you were going to tell me something, I’d like to
hear it.”
The boss wants nice conversation, Temp thinks, and makes a mental note of it.
“Well, I was going to ask about how to work the cable. I was trying to figure
it out today, but I couldn’t find the remote for the TV in your den, and...”
“Ah, right, of course” John replies, and nods. “I’ll get that sorted out for
you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Temp nods back, and shifts a little, feeling uncomfortable now. He
wanted to ask about the closets too, if he could use the big empty one in
John’s bedroom, or if there was another place he was supposed to put his stuff,
like one of the extra bedrooms or something. Oh, and if he’s allowed to go out
during the day, go do some shopping, things like that, because John’s bathroom
is woefully understocked, and Charissa says he has to run in the mornings, and
it would be so much better to do that outside, where he can get a tan at the
same time, rather than...
“And?” John prompts gently.
Conversation, Face! he tells himself again, and smiles his warmest smile.
Slides right off the counter, puts just a little hip roll into it as he
saunters over to lounge against the counter next to John, brushes soft fingers
down the man’s hideously expensive, hand-tailored shirt that fits his great
body so, so well. “That’s enough about me, baby. How about you? I’m sure you
had a much more exciting day than me.”
“Mm,” comes John’s inarticulate response, and he grabs one of Temp’s belt
loops, pulling him just a little closer. “My day,” he whispers, and kisses the
bridge of the younger man’s nose, “got a whole hell of a lot better once I got
back here.”
“Then I guess I’m doing my job?” Temp teases back, twisting his fingers up
around John’s wrist, wondering if the kissing’s going to be a thing with this
one. John seems to be the touchy type, but Temp knows damn well nobody ever
really kisses a hooker. Not properly, anyway. “Hmm, baby?”
John makes another hungry little noise, and then chuckles as he runs his hand
possessively down Temp’s ass. “You’d be doing your job perfectly, kid, if you
reach into that drawer on the right and grab me out a spoon.”
Temp, feeling a bit odd about it, does exactly that. John’s hand never leaves
his ass, not as he takes it, not as he dips it into the pot, and certainly not
as he makes another one of his odd requests. “Taste that for me, will you,
kid?”
He almost wants to ask why. But those blue eyes are on him, and Temp thinks
about the shower this morning, and smiles as he blows on the steaming surface
and lets John tip it towards him for a little sip.
And it’s...
“Fuck, that’s really good,” he says eagerly. The nuns never made chicken soup
like that. He’s never had anything like that. “That’s really, really good.”
John grins at him and samples it himself, thinking about it for a moment. “Mmm,
needs a bit more salt. Maybe a dash more basil... yeah, some fresh basil would
be perfect. And then we’ll eat. Would you be a doll and get it out of the
fridge for me?”
“Right, basil,” Temp echoes, and wonders where in the hell the fridge is. You
can’t even see it...
“It’s a built-in, kid,” John says with a laugh, and point in the direction of
two taller doors in the sleek cabinet assemblage. ”And don’t worry,” the older
man adds with a wink. “We’ll work on your palete, too.”
If Temp feels a bit crestfallen by that little jab, he doesn’t let it show.
But, he thinks, trying to cheer himself up a bit as John takes the basil and
keeps fussing with the soup, you know the boss likes to cook.
Maybe there’s something in here, this space, if he looks tomorrow, that’ll give
him some kind of clue as to what he’s dealing with...
And besides, like John said, it’s a chance to work on his palette. That’s
definitely something he’s going to need in the future, if he wants to work his
way up into the high-class end of this game. That’s where all the real money
is...
In a year or so.
He can probably keep the old man amused for that long. In the meantime, he’s
just got to learn as much as he can. Soak it all in. Because, it’s like John
said, the little innocent boy thing isn’t going to last forever.
“So,” he asks, settling back down on the counter next to his current client,
trying to sound casual about it. “What kind of soup are you making me?”
John laughs and reaches out for him again. “It’s a kind of white bean soup from
Italy. It’s my grandma’s recipe. She always made it better than me, but...”
Temp smiles and nods along, petting John’s side as the older man starts
talking, in that soothing voice of his, about his grandmother’s kitchen and
watching the old lady make bread and playing with his cousins, everything warm
and wonderful and happy.
Must be nice to have family, Temp almost says, but bites it back, just in time.
It’s not about him - and certainly not the real him - his being here. And John
really does seem like he’s relaxing as he talks. Which is exactly what Temp is
here to do.
So at least there’s that, he figures.
That, and really delicious soup.
Which turns out to be one of the best meals of his life. And it’s not hard to
talk to John, either, over a meal like that, no matter how simple and poor the
older man keeps insisting it is. How he promises I’ll take you out tomorrow,
kid, I was just too tired tonight, long day...
And Temp gets to say, it’s okay, John, I’m here for you, baby...
And then John feeds him another bite of soup, and smiles at him...
The taste of it lingers, too, warm and wonderful as John’s voice, as John fucks
him that night. It’s only afterward, after John’s done with him, when Temp’s
done disposing of the condom and has cleaned himself up, standing in the
doorway of the bathroom, wet washcloth in hand, watching John scroll through
email or something on his iPad, the glow of it filling the cavernous master
bedroom, that Temp realizes that maybe the emptiness in this place is a clue in
and of itself.
What happened to this man?
What kind of woman who throw something like this away?
Makes Temp kind of, well, sad.
But there's really no point in wondering about John's past, he knows, not
beyond what he needs to make the man happy anyway, and at least, Temp tells
himself as he starts cleaning the mess from the boss' skin, smiling at him even
though John's not looking up from whatever he's reading, you can do that much
for him.
                                     +++++
It doesn’t strike John until Friday night, when he’s in the kitchen of one of
his business partner’s houses, one of those parties everybody always seems to
throw, checking to see if Murdock’s going to do that curry that he’s famous
for, that he never bothered to ask Face what his name is.
Which, honestly, is pretty goddamned shitty of him.
“So, your new boy, who is he?” the private chef asks, up over top of one of his
bubbling pots. He’s got a reputation for making somewhat insane food - the
motor oil pasta was one of John’s favorites - but it’s always delicious, and
that short of shtick plays in Los Angeles anyway. He and Russ used to use
Murdock to cater dinners, business lunches, private parties... Russ was always
holding parties, one of those things, he used to say, that help get you ahead
in this business...
“John?”
He shakes himself out of the old memories, and shrugs, trying to buy himself
some time to think. Fuck, what was the kid’s name? He had to have seen it,
heard it at some point. “He’s a catch, isn’t he?” he deadpans, hoping Murdock -
who might be crazy, but is one of the smartest men John’s ever met - might not
catch the evasion.
Fortunately, it looks like the chef is really busy with that pot of... whatever
the fuck that is, to notice. “You keep catchin’ ‘em and throwin’ ‘em back,
though, dontcha, John? All those pretty young fish.”
John winces a bit at hearing that. Yeah, Murdock’s probably seen the worst of
him over the past few years. Especially that first year, when he hadn’t figured
out that whores were just so much easier, that trying to get emotion involved
by actual dating was just stupid...
“You know, I thought you were settlin’ down,” Murdock continues. “Haven’t seen
you with anybody in a while. When was the last one?”
“Derick,” John replies automatically, staring past Murdock, out into the open
living room where Face is, wrapped up in one of his new suits, hair slicked and
styled just so, laughing away with one of the junior partners from John’s firm.
God, he’s gorgeous. But what the fuck is his name? “The last one was Derick.”
“Right, Derick. Last time I saw him was last year’s Christmas party,” Murdock
observes, and leans on his elbows, staring right up at John. “What happened
with that one?”
John just shakes his head. “I... I don’t really remember. Guess we got bored.”
“You gonna get bored with that cutie out there, too?”
“He’s different,” John replies, still trying to think of the kid’s name. But he
is different. He is. And not just because he is... well, what he is. It’s about
the way he moves, the way he talks, how he listens so carefully and asks all
the right questions, the light touches and the soft smiles, how he can go from
innocent little boy to absolute cock-slut at the drop of a hat, how he can take
whatever John dishes out in bed, always in the service of giving John exactly
what he needs, when he needs it. Always being what John needs. Nothing selfish
in that boy, no drama, no hissy fits, none of that self-indulgent bullshit he
always got from the men he dated. No, Face is the best purchase he’s made in
years. “He’s not like anyone else I’ve had since...”
“But he ain’t him, is he, John?” Murdock asks quietly, and John fixes him with
his best glare. The chef just raises an eyebrow. “How you ever gonna fall in
love again, Johnny boy, if you’re still in love with Russ?”
“Who said anything about falling in love?” John says, more curt than he
intended, and leaves, before the other man can ask any more of his goddamn
questions.
Face is still there, telling some story to a small group that has them all
laughing. He’s perfectly at ease, that casual tilt in his hips that he always
has right when he’s welcoming John home from a long day, fitting right in. He’d
asked a lot of questions on the way over - who John’s co-workers were, what
they were like, what their cover story should be - and John thought he was
nervous or something. But no, not a trace of it there in that gorgeous body...
“How’s it coming along, sweetheart?” John asks, coming up behind and hooking
his arm through Face’s slightly bent one. “Getting to know everybody alright?”
That sweet smile is turned on him, and the kid actually raises up on his toes
in those $1200 loafers he’s got on, and kisses the older man on the cheek. Such
a good little actor. “Having a great time, John. I love your team here.”
One of them, Ray, laughs, and hugs his wife into his side. “Is it true, John,
that you two really met in the ER after you took a bad spill on your bike? I
didn’t think you ever got hurt...”
“Or lowered yourself to going to the public emergency room,” one of his other
boys’ wives titters, and everyone has a good laugh about that.
Including Face, who’s still smiling at him, very pleased with himself for
coming up with a clever story.
“Well, it was a few months ago,” John replies. “We’ve been trying to keep our
relationship quiet...” And he looks back at Face. It’s hard not to look at him.
Five thousand dollars of tailored silk and leather on him right now, and it
just accentuates everything that’s already naturally there. Fucking work of
art, this one. Now what the hell is the kid’s name? “And you know how people
tend to look at the age difference...”
Ray nods. “You two look happy together.”
“We are,” Face practically purrs, and the sound of that seductive little voice
makes John groan internally. The kid bumps his hip against John’s. “Aren’t we,
John?”
“Yeah,” the older man replies, and smiles back at him as one of the wives
giggles a little bit, and the small group starts to disperse. “I’d say we are.”
He intends to ask the kid his name later on, once he can get them in a quiet
corner, just the two of them. But he can’t get the kid alone. Everyone wants to
meet his new boyfriend, everyone’s curious about them, why they haven’t seen
him before, what Face does and even a few isn’t he too young for you, Johns
once everybody’s had a bit too much to drink.
John can’t get a moment’s peace, and finally, tired of Face’s easy little con
and needing a cigar and desperately horny from the way the kid keeps brushing
against him, he gets them out of there. And then, on the ride home, his
beautiful boy laughs and teases and flirts, and John can barely get them up the
elevator to his penthouse before his libido overflows.
“Careful,” Face gasps as John slams him up against the front door, as soon as
it’s locked safely behind them, “you don’t want to ruin my new suit, do you?”
“I’ll buy you another one,” John groans, and rips jacket and shirt and
undershirt clean off him. He bites the kid’s neck, savors that next gasp, and
jerks open his pants, biting again.
The test results aren’t quite back yet, so he remembers the condom this time.
He’s been good about that this week. But hopefully, he thinks as he drives
himself up into the kid’s tight, hot body again and again, those lean thighs
around his waist, back slamming into the wall with everything thrust, hopefully
he can have everything here, once they get that paperwork back...
Face can’t stand up by the time’s John’s done, just holds onto his shoulders
and leans on him, breathing hard into the older man’s still-clothed shoulder,
fingers soft, his whole body weak from his own orgasm, spilled out on the front
of John’s shirt. There’s something utterly satisfying about it all, about
knowing that he just pounded the hell out of the id, that the kid enjoyed it,
too.
The kid. His kid...
“What’s your name, kid?” John whispers in his ear as he half-carries him back
to the bedroom, remembering, now that his own lust is slacked, that he was
going to ask about that. He drops the soiled condom in a wastebasket in the
hall on the way. “You never told me your name.”
Those blue eyes turn on him for a second, something deep in the blown pupils,
something John can’t quite identify, something naked and raw and real in a way
he suddenly realizes he hasn’t seen in the kid before. And then they close up,
screwing tight, hiding behind long lashes.
“Guess I didn’t, huh?” Face replies with a little laugh, and rubs his cheek on
John’s shoulder. “Mm, what do you want to call me?”
John can still see that look in the kid’s eyes, and then thinks about the way
Face was laughing tonight, how carefree it all seemed, how carefree he’s seemed
all week... and his gut screws up into a sick little ball at that. Its all an
act. Of course it’s all an act, he’s known it’s all an act, logically, it has
to be, it is, he knew that. That’s a big part of what makes this work for him.
So why is that suddenly make him feel bad?
“I... I’d like to call you what your name is, baby,” John tells him, and pets
his hair. “Can you tell me that? What your name is?”
The kid, amazingly, doesn’t answer.
They reach the bedroom in silence, and that big master bathroom, and John leans
Face up against the counter while he starts the shower, aware that the kid’s
watching his every movement. So he starts stripping his own shirt off, not sure
what to do, what he did wrong here, until soft fingers fold down over his own,
and push him away.
“Templeton,” the kid whispers, expressionless, unbuttoning the shirt with
infinite care. He’s hardly audible under the sound of the warming shower.
“Templeton Brighton.”
John smiles at him, and lays a hand on the small of his back. “And what’s your
story, Templeton Brighton?”
“What do you mean?” the kid, Templeton, asks, dropping to his knees to work on
John’s belt.
“Where you from, baby?” John asks, still petting his hair. The kid feel
vulnerable right now, and god help him, he kind of likes it. Like the feeling
of it. Of being able to reassure him like this. “Come on, you can tell me.”
“This little town, Oak Harbor, right on Lake Erie,” the kid replies, and places
an openmouthed kiss to John’s hip as he peels his briefs away, just inches from
John’s reawakening cock, fingers starting to work there, mouth creeping closer
and closer now. “Great place to grow up. One of those places where all the
streets are lined with big old trees, my brothers and I would go out in the
fall and play in the leaves...” He places a kiss right to the tip of the older
man’s reawakening cock. “My mom used to get so pissed at us, the mess we’d
make...”
John wants to tell him not to do that, that they’re going to take a shower,
that he’s going to get him cleaned up and tucked into bed. John wants to pull
him up off his knees, kiss him, touch him everywhere, make him feel as good as
he makes him feel. John wants to hear more about him, to strip away the whore,
wants to see who’s hiding under there, the little boy who used to play in the
leaf-piles...
But then the sheer foolishness of that course of action hits John full-on.
Asking him any of that would be a huge mistake. Because he doesn’t want to
know. Doesn’t want to get to know Templeton. It’s not about that, not really...
He doesn’t want another repeat of Russ. Or Derick. Or any of the others he
tried to care about, who never cared about him...
But he does want to see the kid happy, know he’s happy, know he’s made him
happy, be able to feel his happiness. God, he’s so beautiful when he’s happy...
So he shoves away that little piece of his brain is telling him to kiss the kid
right now, and just sighs as that clever mouth sucks him in, surrounding him in
warmth once again.
It’s okay. It is.
Things are just better this way.
                                     +++++
Temp knows damn well what John’s rule about bed is - and honestly, it’s not
really a hardship, sleeping against that man, being held, warm and safe in the
night - but right now, he just can’t do it. He can’t sleep.
He just... can’t.
It’s his first paycheck here in front of him, on the den coffee table. He’s got
some movie up on the new 70” TV that appeared here four days ago, along with
that premium cable package that he’s pretty damn sure John didn’t have before.
Muted, on screen, in high definition Sony Aquos, black and white, some happy
couple is having dinner in Paris, cigarette smoke curling up through their
fingers.
It’s making Temp think about John, that smoke. So he’s not really watching it.
He’s looking at that damn paycheck instead.
Two weeks. He’s been here two weeks. Two of the strangest weeks of his life,
even beating out those first few weeks he spent on the streets, still
completely ignorant about how his life was going to turn out, what he’d have to
do to keep himself from starving. Well, this has involved none of the hunger or
cold or desperation or fear he’d felt back then, but it’s still very, very
strange.
That could be this big, empty, cold place that contains not a trace of John in
it anywhere, not even in the kitchen, which he tore apart for clues last
Monday. It could be the way Charissa’s thoroughly kicking his ass every day,
and how much he’s finding he loves the physical strain of it all. Or maybe it’s
just having to get used to never switching off, to being that boy that John
wants him to be, all smiles and light and happy memories...
Having to be this story he’s made up, shored up and built up, over the past
week or so, ever since John just had to go and ask that fucking question of
his.
And what’s your story?
Fuck him. Fuck him for asking that. That wasn’t part of the deal. Inventing a
fake past wasn’t in the contract. It was just supposed to be about sex. Only
supposed to be about sex.
Which begs the question...
What’s he getting paid for now?
Temp can’t quite figure that out. Because sex is one thing, but he’d promised
himself, promised, back when he’d come to the decision that this was the only
course of action, that he’d be honest about it. That he’d just stay a hooker,
or maybe a callboy, but nothing else. Nothing... wrose. Not some conman, some
asshole worming his way into some old man’s heart and then stripping him empty
at the end of it...
The only saving grace, really, is that John already feels pretty damn empty. No
hobbies, no interests, no connections, no family that Temp can discern, nothing
but his job. Fuck, he even reads his fucking emails in bed, that iPad of his an
ever-present feature in the bedroom.
His job, and oh, yeah, fucking his cute little kept boy, however, whenever he
wants. Rough, slow, never gentle, always raw, like something’s trying to
escape. Ripping his clothes, breaking a painting when he slams Temp into a
wall, letting dinner spoil on the stove when he’s got the younger man bent over
the kitchen counter, bruising Temp’s hips when he grips too hard, leaving teeth
marks that don’t fade by morning. It hurts Templeton to think about that, all
those nice things being destroyed like they’re nothing.
Is that what money does to you?the young man wonders, staring at that neat
little Two Thousand Dollars printed on that check in front of him.
He remembers his days in Father Magill’s care, nothing more than a few sets of
hand-me-down shirts, khakis, his school uniform, a few toys he’d gotten from
the parish Angel Tree at Christmases past, to his name. He’d always taken such
care with those things, cried when he had to pass them on to the younger boys,
but made sure he’d left what he’d could, when he’d left for good.
“It’s like he just doesn’t care about anything,” Temp says to the empty room,
and looks up to the TV, where that couple is busy flirting with each other,
clearly wanting each other. Each clearly wanted by the other. “Probably doesn’t
care if he breaks me, too.”
But the movie is too pleased with itself to give a damn about his situation, so
Temp just sighs and folds the check back into his new wallet. He’ll got deposit
it tomorrow. Templeton Brighton from Ohio’s got a nice credit card and checking
account set up in his name now, courtesy of John’s accounting office, and it
would look bad if he went back now and asked the old man for cash.
He turns off the TV, and pads barefoot, naked, down the hall to John’s bedroom.
John’s big, empty bedroom...
Except it does have John in it.
John. Who is still a flesh-and-blood man, one with a sharp mind and fifty-odd
years of life behind him, whose big hands and kind voice have far more
gentleness in them than it would seem from the way he grips Temp’s ass, or
growls in his ear for him to get down on his knees and suck his cock.
There has to be more to him. Has to be more to him.
“Mmm, sweetheart,” John murmurs as Temp crawls under the covers and wriggles
back into his arms, sleepy fingers stroking down his naked shoulder blade.
“Everything okay?”
Sweetheart
Temp mouths the word to himself, knowing how damn hollow it is, that it’s
nothing he merits, but smiles into his client’s shoulder, kissing his warm skin
lightly, savoring the taste of it. At least that’s real. “Real good, baby.” He
kisses him again, on the cheek this time. “You need anything?”
“Need you, Russ,” John whispers, and pulls him closer, and that’s when Temp
realizes he’s still asleep. “Don’t leave me...”
Temp doesn’t quite know what to say to that, who Russ is or why the fuck John
would be dreaming of him when he’s got him in bed with him, and at a very steep
price, too. Still, he’s gotta respond somehow...
“I miss you,” John murmurs, only barely audible, but there’s more emotion in
those three little words than Temp’s seen in him for the past two weeks, and
the younger man can feel the raw pain of this unknown story in the palms of his
hands. “Don’t go...”
It's almost...scary.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers back, running a soft hand down John’s chest, not
enough to wake him, though hopefully enough to comfort him. “I’m not going
anywhere, baby.”
“Don’t...” John begs again, and then that’s it, he’s back inside whatever dream
is haunting his sleep right now.
Temp, for his part, runs an uncertain hand up around the executive’s ribs,
hugging him close, holding him, feeling the last little tremors of emotion
running through the man, submerging again into whatever darkness they normally
hide from him in.
And even though Temp knows damn well he doesn’t understand what’s causing it,
what’s happened in John’s life to make him such a frigid bastard, he’s willing
to bet that this, this thing, this emotion, is the thing he’s really here to
sooth. Not John’s libido, but rather John’s... John’s loss. Of Russ, probably,
whoever the hell that was.
So maybe that’s why the old man wants the companionship.
Temp closes his eyes, snuggling in, letting their feet tangle together in the
insanely nice sheets. That was the whole point of the geisha reference, which
he finally managed to look up; courtesans who entertained and charmed, along
with the sex bit.
Maybe that’s the key to the whole damn thing.
So he’s got to keep it up. He’s got to make sure everything is perfect for
John, stress-free and pleasant and everything else he needs. He can let John
think that he’s got that companion he seems to want, someone who wants to be
with him and won’t leave him, not just some kid off the streets he’s paying for
sex.
He can run that con. He can do something else with the money. He can break his
rule for John. John... John needs that, doesn’t he? And if John’s not getting
what he needs, it’s back to the streets with Temp, and everything that comes
with it.
Which Temp really, really does not want.
So Temp wakes John up with a kiss in the morning. He normally doesn’t like
kissing clients, but this is a special case. Just a soft little peck, just
barely on his lower lip. It’s not so bad.
John doesn’t kiss him back, but it get him a smile, and a gentle hand, and a
sweet boy whispered in his ear. John doesn’t fuck him quite as hard as he
usually does, either, and afterwards, he actually looks relaxed, whereas
normally he just seems more tense. Stays there and cuddles with him for a
minute or two, even, then swats his ass and tells him to get in the shower. The
older man looks happy, Temp thinks as he’s soaping him up, massaging a kink out
of that strong neck. So maybe’ll it’ll work.
Even if it does make him feel a little sick inside.
Temp deposits his first paycheck in the afternoon, after lunch. And then, after
thinking about it, goes back to the bank, takes out a money order for the
amount of two thousand dollars, for the Parish of St David’s, and drops it in
the mail.
Father Magill might be pissed, if he ever finds out where the money’s coming
from. Temp knows this. But it doesn’t change the fact that the kids there still
need clothes, and shoes, and toys, and things they can take care of, need to
feel like someone out there gives a damn whether they're alive or dead. That's
not what the money's going to do if it stays in that fucking bank account, with
Temp. Anything Temp’s going to buy with it, anything Temp can do with it,
John’s just going to rip off him, rip away from him, ruin.
Right?
He jogs home to get himself cleaned up for dinner. John’s taking him out
tonight, and as pathetic as it might be, that little part of him that craves
luxury really, honestly, wants to enjoy what's he's got here, while he can keep
it.
                                     +++++
Face is waiting for him when he comes home, waiting like he always seems to
wait, with a hug and one of those eager little smiles of his. John can’t help
but smile back as he opens an arm to wrap around one of those shoulders as the
kid falls into him.
“Missed you today, baby,” Face whispers, and lays his cheek on John’s chest.
“Meeting run late?”
It is late, almost three hours after the time he normally comes home, and even
that’s pretty damn late. “Yeah, we had a last minute conference call with our
office in Jakarta,” he tells the kid, rubbing his arm. He’s starting to get a
little more definition there, John can feel it already. Not too much, not yet,
but six weeks with Charissa’s enough to jump-start even the fattest individual
into fitness. And Face wasn’t fat before, not at all. If anything, he’s put on
weight since being here, but good weight, weight that’s making him look a
little less...
“Thought it might be something like that,” the kid says, and moves smoothly to
take John’s laptop case, and holds out his free hand for his suit jacket. He’s
still smiling, but it’s a bit different now. “I figured it probably wasn’t
like, you know, a...umm, problem or something.”
“It was nothing like that at all. No need to worry.” And John suddenly feels
bad about that; maybe he should have called or texted or something like that,
let the kid know that he was going to be late. Even if he is paying Face to be
here, he should probably let him know something like that. Right? Or would that
just... be too much? “Nothing you have to concern yourself with.”
That grin is back, bright and shiny as ever, and Face’s hips are doing that
thing again as he walks off to deposit John’s things in their proper place,
where he’s asked the kid to put them. Jacket in the dry cleaning hamper for the
housekeeper to handle, bag by the bed so he get some reading in tonight. He’s
halfway through Les Miserables again. He might have donated his personal
library, ridding himself of the memories along with everything else, after Russ
left, but thank god for iBooks...
“You want a back rub or anything?” Face calls down the hallway, voice sultry
and siren-sweet as always. Six weeks of that voice now, and John’s starting to
become addicted to it. “Long meeting, late drive home, you have to be a bit
stressed out.”
“A bit,” John replies, following. Fuck, Face has the good jeans on tonight, the
ones that frame his ass perfectly, that hug him in all the right places, and
one of those scarfs, dear god, those scarfs he wears...
“That’s what the back rub’s for,” Face calls from out of the bathroom. “Why
don’t you take your shirt off, baby, and lie down, and let me make you feel
good?”
It sounds like a damn good offer, and John’s in the process of removing his tie
when Face is there, setting the laptop case down against the nightstand.
When it suddenly occurs to him.
“Kid, you had dinner yet?”
Face looks up at him, one of those slightly startled expressions in his bright
eyes that he has, every so often, that always disappear behind something else.
Tonight, it stays up a little longer, long enough for the kid to ask, “what do
you mean?”
“Dinner, Temp, have you eaten yet?” John asks. The clock’s flashing 2135 on the
nightstand, and John can’t remember a night yet when the kid didn’t have that
meal with him.
The kid blinks at him, submerging that weird emotion in him once again, but not
fast enough for John not to catch it this time.
It’s confusion. Not about the question, though, no. About why somebody’s asking
it.
And John feels his heart turn over in his chest. Motherfucker...what is this?
He hasn't seen this before.
“No, baby,” the kid just continues to purr, everything firmly back in place
now, and slides both his palms up John’s arms, thumbs coming to rest in the
hollow of his throat. “But let’s take care of you first. What do you need right
now?”
John can’t help it, can’t stop himself, from cupping the kid’s head with one
hand, wanting to say something, wanting to tell the young man in front of him
it’s okay, whatever he’s worried about, it’s okay, nothing going to happen to
him here. Every protective instinct in his body is screaming at him to do it.
Because this, this little arrangement, Face just being here, like this... this
isn’t right, isn’t something that John Smith would do, isn’t him, and fuck,
Russ would be so ashamed of him for...
Those eyes lift to his again, the brightest blue he’s ever seen, and John
realizes he’s stroking lightly with the tips of his fingers, and isn’t this
just the fucking place where it always starts going wrong? Where he and Russ
got it wrong? When all that physical lust he had for the man started turning
into all that fucking emotion, all those feelings that eventually ripped them
apart.
And if he does that now, if he lets himself do that again, with some kid who’s
being paid for the pleasure...
He moves away, turning away, throwing his tie away, fast as he can, trying to
get himself under control. “I haven’t eaten either, kid. Why don’t we go out?”
John tries to keep it light as he can.
“Awesome,” Face says, after a moment’s pause. “But let me just change. I look
like...”
“You look beautiful, Templeton,” John says without really thinking about it,
and then, trying to cover up the little slip, adds, “besides, we aren’t going
anywhere you need to get cleaned up for.”
“Oh?” the kid asks.
Which means that John has to come up with a plan, somewhere to go, on the way
down to the car. Somewhere new, unlike all the places he normally takes Face,
someplace that’s not, well, expensive. But by the time they reach the garage,
he remembers a little place around the corner he’s been to once or twice, and
tells the kid they’re going to walk instead.
“Sounds good, boss,” the little devil purrs in his ear as the elevator hits the
lobby, and wraps an arm around his waist.
John can feel the security guard’s eyes on him as they leave. Baracus, wasn’t
it? Seems like a good guy, under that gruff exterior of his. Even if he does
look slightly disapproving right now. Doesn’t matter what he fucking thinks,
John tells himself, roughing up the kid’s caramel curls and getting a happy
little laugh in return.
He did buy out the management of the building, after all, after that little
incident with Baracus wanting to run the kid’s ID. Wouldn’t do to have some
stupid policy like that getting the kid flagged, getting picked up by the LAPD
or something like that. He has to have priors...
It’s not a long walk to the greasy spoon around the corner, and they walk it in
silence. John’s half-expecting Face to talk, rattle on like he does so often,
but tonight, out in the cool darkness of the quiet street, the kid just cuddles
into his side and doesn’t say a word.
It’s... pleasant.
It’s really pleasant.
Almost enough to the point that by the time they get a table in the little
diner and John orders them both the all day breakfast - trust me, kid, it’s
really good - that he’s started to really look at Templeton. Not just as the
cute piece of ass who’s warming his bed, but the twenty-something year old kid
who’s drinking coffee with way too much sugar in it, hands curled up around the
mug as his eyes dash around, taking everything, everything in, way too bold and
somehow too shy for his own good, the one who flirted with the waitress but is
still smiling just at him...
And wonder about him, too.
“This okay, Face?” he asks, sort of gesturing around the place. “I know it’s
not quite what I promised, but I promise the food’s good for what it is...”
“Hey, even the rich and finicky have to slum it sometimes,” the kid answers,
nodding along to his own joking tone. “I like it. We should come here more
often.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Face says. “It feels like... I don’t know, homey or salt of the earth
something.”
John leans back in his own seat. “You like that sort of thing?”
“I don’t not like it. I think it’s nice.” The kid’s got the same kind of look
in his eyes as the night John first brought him back to the penthouse, like
he’s amazed at what he’s seeing. “Seems like a place you’d...”
“...find in Ohio?” John finishes. He’s been trying to avoid it, the mentions of
the kid’s past, but every once in a while, one slips out of the kid. Enough at
this point for John to know what high school he went to, his brothers’ names,
his mom’s famous peanut butter cookies - and part of him really wanted to offer
to bake a batch up, if the kid could get the recipe... so many things about him
that have come out.
And more than that, too. More than just names and places and dates. It’s the
boy underneath that John’s getting to know, the one who thinks boxed mac and
cheese is the best food on the planet, the one who he caught watching old
cartoons with Murdock one night, after a party, and who didn’t seem to know who
any of the character were, the one who seems so damn smart yet so unlearned,
but soaks up everything like a sponge and never forgets a single detail. The
boy who rubs his chin when he’s nervous and smiles a certain way when he’s
happy and leans into any touch of affection like an eager kitten, yearning for
the touch. That beautiful young man, aching for more.
He’s too good for the life he’s living, John thinks to himself sometimes. But
he hasn’t asked about how Face ended up in his current predicament. It’s
already too much, too much that he knows about the kid as it is.
But it doesn’t stop him, right now, from letting it slip out.
“You miss it, Temp? Where you grew up?”
“Yeah,” Face says shortly, and sort of curls tighter around his coffee.
“Wouldn’t anyone miss that place?”
“You ever think about going back?” And he really can’t stop himself, can he?
Fuck, this isn’t one of his enlisted boys back in the day... “LA... kid, this
place is great, but it has nothing on family. If you’ve got one...”
“Fuck, John. Why would you say that?"
Must have hit a nerve, John thinks, and feels bad about it. “Sorry, kid, I
didn’t want to...”
“No, it’s okay.” He just balls up tighter. “My family, we’re... we’re Catholic,
you know? And it was always... we had this priest, at the parish, when I was
growing up. Father Magill. He was... he was great, and he was always trying to
get me to do something with my life, I guess. Like the military or the
priesthood or something. But I had other ideas, and I... I told him to go to
hell, and I left for... fuck.” And Face looks away, closing his eyes, moisture
gathering in his eyelashes. “Father’d be so disappointed in me.”
“Why?”
Face just shrugs, and gestures around the diner. He looks small, terribly
young. “I think it’s pretty obvious how my ideas about my life turned out,
John. And now, being gay, I’m not sure how he’d take it, if I tried to go
back...”
“Your dad?” John asks, not really sure where the kid is going with this, but
knowing enough about LA to know how it probably worked. Small-town kid, big
dreams, came out to be an actor or something... and it ended like this. It’s
heartbreaking.
Face just looks at him, confusion in those eyes again, but he nods. “Yeah,
my...my dad. You know how it is, fathers, gay sons...”
He looks visibly upset now, and John wishes he hadn’t brought it up at all,
because every fiber of his being is telling him to get up and give that boy a
hug right now.
He doesn’t, though. Mostly - mercifully - because that’s about the time their
food shows up and there’s a fresh round of coffee, and the conversation turns
to other, better things.
And then, just when they’re recovering, the kid just has to go and fuck the
whole evening to hell.
“So, John,” he says as he pours another packet of sugar in his coffee, “what
about you?”
Everything in John immediately locks up, but he still has to say something,
after what Face just told him. But he has to play it cool. Not let the kid see
how damn scared that little question makes him. “What do you mean, kid?” he
asks carefully.
“I mean why would you have me, someone like me, around?”
John forces himself to laugh at that. “Because you’re adorable, Face.”
The kid smiles, but shakes his head anyway. “No, I mean... umm, you seem like a
really great guy and it doesn’t seem like you would need to... need to do
something like this. You know. With... hiring me.”
Ah. Of course. Face would probably be curious about that, wouldn’t he? John
takes a sip of his own coffee, trying to think of the best way to phrase it
without bringing up everything else. “I, well... kid, I told you I have a
stressful job, right? The kind that most men won’t stick around through.”
“Right, so...”
“So,” John replies, more curt than he really intended, and hopes the kid’ll be
smarter than to push it any further than that.
Face just nods, and reaches across the table to touch the back of John’s hand.
Once, light, gone before it’s ever even there. Then he pulls back, all smiles
and seduction once again.
“So,” the kid asks, that teasing grin firmly in place, “when are you going to
take me with you to some exotic land on one of your business trips?”
John smiles back, thinking about the meeting today, what they were
discussing... “I’ve got a series of very unpleasant discussions to have with
the boys in Indonesia at some point, kiddo.”
That grin is all teeth now, hungry. “Fuck me on the beach, under the stars?”
“Anything my boy wants,” John replies, and as the kid starts asking questions
about Indonesia and how it is there and what sort of clothes he should pack and
what is he going to do during the day when John’s at the office, reminding John
of everything he has now, instead of everything he’s lost, the older man
realizes he’s never been more grateful to anyone in his life.
Still, he fucks Face hard that night. It doesn’t help anything, not really, and
it doesn’t make him feel any better, but it’s more effective than booze for
getting the echoes of Russ’ voice out of his head, the feel of Russ’ hands off
his skin, for escaping, just for a little while, from all the memories that he
can’t seem to purge himself of. Somehow, he can lose that in Face.
None of the others. Never any of the others. Just... just this one.
And as the kid lays there next to him after they’re done, panting, half-
conscious, struggling to recover from the pounding he just endured, John tries
to tell himself it’s okay, that Templeton’s just a hooker, just some pretty
thing, something that doesn’t matter.
Except that Templeton’s here, Templeton’s with him, here. And even though he
doesn’t have it with this one, not really, right now, he wants it. Maybe, maybe
he could just pretend... role play or something that’s not... that keeps it
from being...
“You enjoy that, baby?” the kid asks, looking up at him with lust-dark eyes as
John moves up over him, braced up on one arm. Soft fingers stroke down his
chest. “You want another go?”
“Not tonight, Face,” John tells him, gentle as he can, something hurting, deep
down inside his chest. He tries to laugh it off, but it doesn’t quite work. Not
with Temp looking at him like that. Fuck. What the fuck is it about this kid?
“Even your ass needs a break, right?”
“Mm,” the kid says, one of those delicious little noises he makes sometimes,
and slides an arm up around John’s neck. The older man can hear his heart
beating in his ears. “I’m sure my ass will be very grateful for that.”
John wants to say something his boy, flirting like that, but he can’t get the
words to come. Can’t say anything at all.
Then Temp sits up. Scoots forward, folds into him. “John?” he asks, quiet, in
that voice he was using in the diner, the almost... almost scared one. “John,
baby...”
A hand touches John’s cheek, a nose brushes his chin. He still can’t find the
words for it. Can’t find the words to stop it.
Temp’s next, breathy little John.
Or the way the kid starts kissing him, lips on his, offering... offering
everything, it feels like.
Or, and this is the worst of it all, how he starts kissing the kid back.
Presses him down to the mattress and lifts up over top of him again and kisses
him like he hasn’t kissed anyone in far, far too long, like he used to kiss
Russ...
It’s not real, and it’s not what he really wants, but for now, it’s what he can
have.
Temp’s here. Even if he’s getting paid to be here, at least he’s here.
That’s something.
It’s enough.
                                     +++++
“Hey, Face! Fuck, come on, man, stop. Stop!”
The last word cuts through and the hand on his shoulder yanks him backwards,
breaking the haze that seems to have descended over his vision, and Temp blinks
the sweat out of his eyes to see Charissa standing there in her irritatingly
short shorts, glaring at him.
“What the hell are you doing to yourself?” she demands, and shoves a towel in
his face. “Jesus, it’s like you’re berserking or something.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks. But then there’s blood on his hands and
his knuckles are stinging, and he realizes he just tore the skin off on the
hanging bag here in John’s gym. Ripped up his hands, dark bruising already
visible around his left pinkie. “Oh, fuck.” The boss is not going to be happy
about this.
“Oh, fuck is right, Face,” Charissa sighs, and went over to the corner, where
her gym bag is stashed, retrieving a little bag with a red cross on it. “Come
on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He follows her mutely into one of the guest bathrooms - not the main one, but
one of the ones off in one of the little side bedrooms - and tries not to think
about John again. What John will say tonight, when he comes home and sees the
mess his boy had made of himself. John’s so particular...
“What the hell were you thinking?” she asks as she disinfects his hands and
wipes him clean. “You need to have gloves on for that kind of aggression.”
“Sorry,” Temp mumbles, trying to think of something to tell her, something that
wasn’t a complete lie. He’s getting tired of tracking his lies.
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who has to explain to John why I just went apeshit
on a punching bag,” she replies, and uncerimoniously starts smearing salve on
his knuckles.
"Rough night," he says faintly.
The kiss last night hadn’t been something he’d planned. He hadn’t expected John
to actually let him do it, really. He didn’t even know why he did it in the
first place; after that fucking story he’d had to invent over dinner, and then,
then John fucking him so goddamn mercilessly, he didn’t owe the man any kind of
sympathy, any kind of kindness. But there had been a world of pain in him, so
goddamn much pain...
Temp hadn’t been able to stop himself, and he still can’t figure out why not.
But it’s not the kiss that’s bothering him right now, not what he’s worried
about, what he was trying to get out in there, in the gym.
No.
It’s what the hell he’s going to do about a passport for any of John’s business
trips.
He’s can’t possibly get one for Templeton Brighton from Ohio, not with those
new tracking chips in them - the damn things, according to the Internet search
he did this morning, can’t be forged. He can’t get one under his real name. He
doesn’t have any kind of ID for Templeton Peck, not even a birth certificate.
Father Magill might still have that, but...
The only other option, according to the guy he went and saw right after he was
done with the Internet, the same guy who got him the fake driver’s license, is
to get an altered, last-gen passport. The old kind, the ones that don’t have
chips in them.
I happen to have one in stock. I could get it ready for you in, oh, a week?
And how much is that going to cost me? he’d asked the forger.
For you, Face, that’ll be two grand and a fuck, had been the answer.
I can’t. My current client and I have an arrangement. No anal.
Then four grand and a blow job. Nothing less. If you don’t call me by tomorrow,
I’ll sell it to someone else. That’s the deal, Face...
That had been two hours ago. He’d barely made it back to the penthouse in time
for Charissa’s workout, mind racing to find another solution all the way. The
four grand would be bad enough to work - he’d just sent his last paycheck off
again, so he was going to have to get John to front him the money somehow. But
that blow job...
Temp can’t work out why it's bothering him so much, why he’d just blanked out
in the gym like that, why he’s so fucking pissed at the thought of having to do
that. He’s done worse, way worse, for far less. Fuck, getting the ID had cost
him far more. But this?
He doesn’t want to do this. Not after he promised John...
And he can’t figure out why not. Seriously. It’s just a fucking blow job.
“I guess... I guess John and I just might be having some problems right now,”
Temp tries, and smiles at her.
Charissa’s dark eyes are on him in a second, sympathetic, and then hard again,
hard like they always are. “Yeah, well, that was gonna happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean... come on, he’s gone through boys like cheap cigarettes for the entire
time I’ve known him.”
“How long’s that?”
“Two years,” she says as she switches to his other hand. “Something like that,
maybe a little longer. Maybe four months after he moved in here. Said he’d been
out of the game too long, wanted to get back into shape.”
“And he hired you?” Temp grins at her. “You can take it from me, he doesn’t
need it.”
She smiles back, and goes back to her little first aid kit, rooting up a couple
of big gauze pads. “He didn’t need it then, either. I think his confidence just
took a big hit.”
“Why?”
“He hasn’t told you?”
“Has he told you?”
Charissa stops then. “You know how John is, doesn’t talk to anybody about
anything. I thought it might be different with you two, though...”
“Yeah?”
“Face, it ain’t every day a man buys out an entire real estate company just to
keep his boyfriend from getting harrassed by the door guard, am I right?” she
tells him, and laughs.
Temp laughs along with her, but something slides around in his stomach at the
words. Fuck, is that why Baracus told him he didn’t need to register? Because
John bought the company that owned the building and changed the fucking rules?
Just for him?
Charissa leaves at her usual time, telling him to keep the area clean for a few
days, that in the meantime they could pursue other things, like running. He
sends her off with a kiss on her cheek - which she promptly slaps him for - and
tries not to show just how off-kilter her little comment made him as she heads
out the door, off to her girlfriend, or next client, or whatever the fuck it is
she does with her days.
Huh.
John bought a building for him.
But it still doesn’t solve the issue of what the hell he’s going to do about
this passport problem.
John’s back early that afternoon, the first time in the whole six weeks Temp’s
been with him, home early with a brown bag of groceries and a hesitant smile.
“I thought I’d make dinner,” he says, like he doesn’t know if this is okay or
not. “One of grandma’s.”
“One of grandma’s recipes? Ooh, what’s the occasion?” Temp asks, and gets in
front of him, pulling on his lapels, trying to take his jacket off like he
always does. There’s been a lot of food cooked in this kitchen over the past
six weeks, but it’s all been strictly non-Italian. Delicious, but nothing, Temp
would suspect, from John’s past.
A big hand lands on the back of the younger man’s head, though, and pulls him
in. “Grandma has a lot of recipes, kiddo,” John murmurs to him, and kisses him
softly, right on the forehead.
Temp immediately freezes up, heart skipping, panicked. There’s something
shockingly intimate about it, or, at least, it’s something no john would ever,
ever do. Like that kiss last night. Not usual. At all.
But John doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still talking, like nothing at all’s out
of order. “I think there’s more you’d like, besides that one.”
“O-okay,” Temp says, and nods. He has to keep his bearings here, he really
does, and he knows that. So he moves away, out of that half-embrace John has
him in right now, back into that slightly shy, wholly eager, kind of thing that
John seems to like to much. He pushes up so he’s just perched on the counter
top, his best smile firmly in place, hiding the confusion whirling in his
thoughts. “So, boss, what are you makin’ me?”
John gives him a quick once over, though, instead of answering. “Did you hurt
yourself, kid?”
He’s staring at his abused, scabbing hands, and Temp finds himself tucking
those behind him, out of sight, ashamed of hurting himself. John didn’t buy him
for him to bleed all over his nice kitchen. “Umm... I guess I went a little too
hard with the punching bag this afternoon, baby.”
But then John surprises him. Comes over to clap him on the back, and moves back
away to his groceries. “That’s a good thing, Face. Means you’re pushing
yourself. That’s good.” And he smiles again. “We’re going to try veal tonight,
kid. Ever had it?”
“No.”
“It’s good. Grandma had this great way of...”
And Temp lets himself sink into the cadence of his client’s voice, that low and
soothing voice, better, he thinks right then, than anything he’s ever heard.
Anything he’s likely to hear again.
He listens to it long enough to get up the nerve to ask John for a four
thousand dollar advance on his clothing allowance. John doesn’t even hesitate
before he says yes.
And Temp thinks about John’s voice, John’s hand on his head, the next day when
he’s on his knees in some dirty back room in some strip club over on the east
side, sucking off the forger.
What’s a blow job, really, when John’s being so good to you? he tells himself.
Right before the guy explodes down his throat.
But he can’t help like feeling, on the drive home later, like he’s contaminated
himself somehow. He’s never felt like that before after servicing somebody. And
Temp really, really doesn’t like the feeling.
Fuck. What the hell's wrong with him?
                                     +++++
Something’s a little off about Face that night, as he watches the kid get ready
for bed.
As he leans against the door frame of his room, and watches the kid stretch
himself open.
Face really is beautiful like this, that firm, round ass in the air, his head
buried in the pillows, his long, clever fingers working himself so expertly.
But usually, when Face does this, there’s noise. Noise beyond those sharp
little exhales the kid’s making now. Usually, there’s these wonderful little
noises, eager gasps and delicious little moans, the kid pushing John’s own
arousal higher and higher with every one, the kid just as anxious to be fucked
as John is to fuck him.
Tonight there’s none of that. Just those little breaths. Like the kid’s in pain
or something...
And John thinks about the pounding he gave the kid last night, how he’d put him
on his stomach and jack-hammered into him, without a single thought as to how
he might have been hurting him.
He’s a professional, John tells himself, uneasy now. He’s used to that kind of
treatment.
But, at the same time, there’s a niggling thought at the back of his head,
surfacing as Face pushes a third finger into his tight hole and swallows his
gasp, that it doesn’t make it okay.
Still...
“Ready for me, kid?” he asks, stepping into the room, up over the top of his
doubts, mesmerized by the way that hand is moving, those abs are flexing. He
hears his voice drop as he strips off his shirt. “You want me?”
Face moans then, one of his sexy moans, and arches back against his hand. “Oh,
yeah, baby. You hard for me?”
“Always,” John replies, and kneels up on the bed. He runs a hand down Face’s
arching spine, clenching at one firm ass cheek. “I’ll always be hard for this.”
“Mm, yeah,” Face moans, thrusting back onto his own hand, and kneels up with
his figners still buried inside him, to stroke down John’s chest, to hook a
finger in his belt. “You gonna give me this, boss? You gonna let me have this
tonight?”
John smiles, feeling those butterflies in his stomach subside, his cock harden
at the touch of those teasing digits. It’s okay. Face is okay. “I don’t know,
Face. You been a good boy today? Only good boys gets rewards,” he growls back,
and unzips his fly, sighing a little as his erection springs free.
That smile, the one Face always seems to use in bed, that sultry, seductive
smile, creeps over the kid’s lips, and he closes his eyes, bottom lip between
his teeth, just for a moment. “Oh, yes John, I’ve been such a good boy for you
today. Such a good boy...”
“I don’t believe you,” he growls in one young ear, and slams the kid down to
the bed, face-first. “I think you’re a very bad boy today.”
“I swear, boss, I’ve been good today, please, no, I’ve been a good... I’ve been
a g-good b-boy...”
His voice hitches on that last good boy. Right as John grabs a handful of his
hair to yank him around into position, right as he shoves his pants down, ready
to straddle and thrust and take, no matter what kind of emotion he can hear
through the kid’s professional facade...
This ain’t you, Johnny-boy, he hears in the back of his head. Johnny, this
ain’t somethin’ you should even want. You don’t wanna hurt this boy...
And John buries his face in his hands, rolling off to the side, into the
pillows on his side of the big bed, breathing hard, Russ’ voice echoing through
his mind, not really sure what the hell to do now.
But there’s a hand on his chest and Face is pulling up, up onto his side so
close to John, his cock against John’s still-clothed thigh. The kid’s not hard,
the executive notices, and why would he be? It’s just his job, it’s not like
he’s enjoying it or anything...
Here you are, forty-four, paying some boy who’s young enough to be your son for
sex, and thinking he’s fucking enjoying it. What the hell world do you live on?
he asks himself, and for the first time since this thing started, feels
horribly, horribly guilty. What the hell is wrong with him?
“Stop,” John says, and slowly pulls the kid’s hand away. “You don’t have to do
this tonight.”
Blue eyes looked up at him with that ever-present confusion. “But this... this
is what I’m here for, John.”
The older man shakes his head. “If you’re not into it tonight, then you
aren’t.”
“It’s not about what I want, John.”
“I’m not going to rape you, Temp.”
Now those blue eyes widen. “I’d never think that about anything we did
together...”
“Just because... just because I’m paying you,” John replies slowly, trying to
figure this out as he says it, “doesn’t mean I can’t force you into doing
something you don’t want to do.”
The kid touches his chest again, smiling that same false smile - god, it’s
false, it’s so false, everything between them is false, why does it have to be
false? - and rubs his cheek against John’s broad shoulder. “I’m fine, John,
really, I’m fine. Remember, we agreed to this. Anything you want, I don’t say
no.”
John remembers. And he suddenly feels ashamed of himself. “Yeah, I know, Face,
but...”
“If that wasn’t the game you wanted to play tonight, I’m sorry, we can switch,
start over...”
“No, kid, look...” John pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know what
the hell to say, but it doesn’t seem like Face is going to just take no for an
answer. “I’m not in the mood tonight, okay?”
“For sex?” And now the kid just looks worried. “D-do you want a blowjob?”
No, there’s no way that’s going to work tonight, either, John knows. His
erection’s gone, consumed by the guilt, his cock limp against the zipper of his
fly. “No.”
And motherfucker, the kid actually looks relieved for a moment. What’s that
about? But still, the confusion remains. “Do you want me to go somewhere else
tonight?”
“No,” John tells him, and can’t help himself from brushing his fingers down the
line of the kid’s stubbled jaw. He’s been leaving a hint of beard these days.
It’s a good look on him. But then, anything would work for him. He’s so goddamn
beautiful. “No, Face, I want you here with me.”
“For what?”
John smiles at him, and pats his cheek, pulling away to shuck off his pants.
“Just want you here, okay?”
Face’s eyes watch every movement - John stripping naked, John getting his iPad
out of his bag in case he wants to do a little late-night reading, John
wriggling the covers down and then up around them both - with same strange,
unidentifiable emotion deep inside. He’s trying to get a facade back up,
another one of his masks, but he’s off-balance now, vulnerable, an open book
for the reading, Templeton in there, watching him. Maybe even....
Except John can’t let himself do that, reach for that. Not again. Not ever
again. It’s too risky. Hell, it’s not even really a risk.
Face would absolutely leave him, break his heart, if they were in a real
relationship. He's got so many options.
There’s no reason a boy like this can’t have a good life still, despite this
whole prostitution thing. Get out of the business, go back to Ohio and make up
with his father, go to college and do well, get a good job, find a man who’s
going to love him the way he deserves to be loved, somebody who’s not broken,
who hasn’t already been used and hollowed and thrown away.
Yes, Face deserves so much better, is worth so much more, than anything John
can give him, and he’d figure that out, if they were actually dating. Hell,
he’ll still probably figure it out sooner or later, but at least this way, if
he just lets Face keep lying to him with his body, it won’t hurt. Why'd he
forget that, stop it? Thinking about what the kid wants is the stupidest thing
he could do right now...
“You okay, boss?” Face asks once they’re both under the covers.
They aren’t really touching, not really, plenty of room to spread out in a bed
this size, but there’s the kid’s hand on his chest again, and this time, John
just wraps his own around it and holds on. “Yeah, kid, I’m fine,” he lies.
But that’s okay. Because this whole thing is a lie, and that’s how it’s
supposed to be. Like Face kissing him last night. That was a lie; not the kiss
of a young man to his lover, that's for damn sure. And John enjoyed that kiss,
been able to enjoy it, because it was a lie. Right? Wasn't that it?
Face, John finds out, is something of a cuddler. Not that he hasn’t known that
from the first time he paid the kid to spend the whole night with him. But
before, he could let himself think it was just the sex or something, the way
the kid always clings to him in sleep. Now, laying awake, watching his boy fall
asleep, feeling him worm closer, those long limbs seeking him out, wrapping
around him, John doesn’t know what to think.
Or what to do about any of this.
After all, the kid can't lie, can't make his body lie, when he's asleep. Right?
The next morning, as John’s making breakfast, cracking eggs for an omelet, Face
comes in and says something that John never wanted to hear him say.
“John... I’m, I’m sorry. About last night. I’m sorry.”
The older man pauses for moment, but doesn’t look up. Can’t be that serious,
whatever’s going on in that kid’s head. It’s not like it’s his fault, what
happened. Besides, John can’t remember, does he have five eggs in the bowl
right now, or six? “It’s okay,” he tells the kid. “Really. Not a big deal.”
And that’s when the kid hits him with it.
“Do you want me to leave?”
John does look up at that.
Right at his boy, who’s right there, at the edge of the kitchen island, wearing
the same pair of jeans he was wearing the night John made him the offer, and
maybe the same shirt, too, one hand stuffed in a back pocket, and a rueful
expression on his face.
He doesn’t understand. “Why would I want you to leave, Face?”
“I wasn’t what you wanted last night,” and he rubs his chin, like he always
does when he’s nervous. “And it’s been great, really great, but if I can’t be
what you want... there’s no reason for me to be here. I should go.”
John doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know what to think about that.
But he doens’t want it, doesn’t want to think about Face not being here in the
mornings, grumpy and cute as he is when John’s waking him up, doesn’t want to
think about not coming home to him, to that sweet smile and those long hands,
about not having Face around to laugh at his bad jokes over dinner, to never
hear the sound of his voice again...
But he did promise. The kid, himself. No strings. Last thing in his life he
needs is strings...
“I-If you think that’s best, Face. If you want to go, I said I wouldn’t
stop...”
“It’s not that, I don’t wanna go!” the kid says quickly, cutting him off, and
then flushes a little when John lifts an eyebrow against the interruption. “No,
I mean... this is a really good job, a-and... and I don’t want to give it up,
but if you’re not happy with me any more...”
And goddamn, if his heart doesn’t start to pound and his chest start to hurt,
something very akin to panic starting up in him at the thought of Face leaving.
If his mouth doesn’t run away with him and say something he had no intention of
saying. “I’m happy with you, Temp. You don’t have to go.”
The kid still looks unsure, like he’s ready to walk out. “John, I...”
“Kid, please, if you need something...”
“John...”
“Anything, Face, whatever it is, if you want me to up your salary...”
“...don’t...”
“We can take it up to whatever you need, however much you want, but ple...”
“I don’t want your fucking money!” Face half-yells, loud and angry in the quiet
of the morning, and then instantly retreats into himself, no doubt watching
John recoil from it all.
And that panic in his stomach twists and squeezes and grabs, right onto his
heart. “Temp...”
But the kid’s going away from him now, pulling away, pulling out of the room,
across the open floor plan of the main living area, towards the door, away from
him... and John, despite the fact that he fucking knows that he should let him
go, not care, not be affected by everything he sees in the young man, finds
himself running after him.
It’s not far, from where they are in the kitchen to Face’s goal of the front
door, and John catches him before he gets there, grabs him by the shoulder,
strokes a big hand down all that exposed, warm flesh, and marvels again at how
beautiful the kid is. How beautiful, how wounded. And all he wants to do in
that moment is hold him, tell him it’s all going to be okay, that it’s all
okay...
“I don’t want your money, John,” Face repeats in a small voice.
John swallows against the lump growing in his throat. Fuck, he shouldn’t be
thinking like this, but he can’t stop it, can’t stop it at all... “I don’t... I
don’t want you to go, Temp.”
“I don’t wanna go either,” the kid continues, and shuts his eyes, lets his chin
fall. One of his hands wraps around John’s bicep, like he’s trying to anchor
himself to something. “John, please, whatever you need from me, what’ll let me
stay, just tell me, I’ll do it...” And with that, the kid collapses into him,
just falls right into his arms, burying his face in John’s shoulder, breathing
hard. His hands wraps up around the young man of their own volition,
automatically, holding him in, and John wonders what the hell’s wrong with him,
that he’s letting himself do this. “Please, John...”
Please...
It cuts right through him, all the way down to the bone, clean through all his
defenses, and there’s nothing else he can do, nothing else he can say.
“I won’t hurt you any more,” he whispers in the kid’s ear. “No more, from here
on out, okay? You tell me what you need, Temp, and it’s yours. I swear it. You
deserve so much more than some old man treating you like a whore...”
Young arms, so strong and so soft all at once, wrap up around his neck and hold
on. “At least I’m your whore, John,” the kid whispers back, and there’s some
hurt in those few words that makes John want to cry.
What happened to this young man?
John doesn’t go to work that day. Calls the office, tells them he’s sick, which
he hasn’t done in over a year, but the look the kid gives him is worth all the
shit he’s going to catch from the other partners tomorrow about it. He just
stays home, makes Face breakfast, watches some old movie with him in the den he
hardly ever uses, and listens to the kid laugh.
God, it’s a beautiful laugh. He could listen to that for the rest of his life.
Except he can't. He really can't let himself want that. Except he does, and
it's scaring the shit out of him. John really doesn't understand what's wrong
with him. He's been fine since Russ left...and none of this is real.
It just... it can't be.
So he decides, when he’s taking the kid out to his favorite Mexican place
across town for lunch, the kid chattering away like he always does, like
there’s nothing wrong, that he’s going to up the kid’s salary.
Three grand a week.
Just to be sure. Just in case.
So he’ll stay.
                                     +++++
Temp doesn’t really know why John stays home today. It doesn’t make any sense.
The man didn’t fuck him last night, wouldn’t accept his apology this morning,
asked him not to leave despite the fact that Temp couldn’t please him last
night, made him a really fantastic breakfast - with fresh-squeezed orange juice
and everything, who does that? - and took him out to lunch and cancelled his
appointment with Charissa, instead holding the heavy bag for him and showing
him the best way to attack, parry, jab, evade, which was exhilarating in a way
Temp’s never known before, not even with Charissa, showered together and even
then John didn’t fuck him, and now, now...
And now here he is, out on John’s wide balcony patio, in a pair of John’s soft,
comfy pyjama pants, laid out on John’s surprisingly comfortable outdoor sofa,
watching the sun set west over the city watching the lights come on, right
where John told him to be thirty minutes ago, waiting for John to come back
out, wondering what the hell the older man wants with him now.
Nothing but sex, John said. Money for sex.
This isn’t sex. So what the hell?
“Hey kid,” John says from the slider behind them, and Temp turns around to see
him absolutely laden down. Platter and beer and cigars. The older man winks at
him as he comes around and starts laying the lot out on the wide coffee table.
“Hungry?”
Temp nods - his stomach’s growling from that workout - and sits up. “What
culinary delights have you pulled out tonight, baby?”
“Sliders,” John says, with a little apologetic smile. “They’re like mini
burgers. And beer. I figured we could use a break from all that pretentious
bullshit tonight.”
He smiles. That does sound good, little hamburgers. “But you’ve got cigars.”
“A man can have a cigar with a burger,” John says, smiling, and plops down next
to him on the sofa, stretching his long legs out onto a big circular ottoman.
He’s not in his normal get-up tonight, no. John got out jeans and some old
wifebeater from somewhere after their shower, feet bare and the big scar on his
left shoulder, that big patch that looks like it was in a fire, fully on
display. His silver hair’s messy, uncombed, and he didn’t shave this morning.
It should detract, it really should, but Temp got to see all that finely honed
muscle on that strong body at work this afternoon, during John’s sparring
lesson, where before he’s only seen it in bed. Right now, Temp thinks this man,
like this, is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
And he’s still talking.
“Don’t you want to eat before it all gets cold?” John’s saying, and Temp nods
again, reaching for one of the little burgers on the platter.
The older man waits for him to take a bite, asks him if it’s okay, and as the
simple, deep flavors explode on his tongue, cracks open the beers.
Temp eats and John eats, both of them watching the sun dip below the horizon.
The burgers are good, the beer’s better, and John lights up one of his cigars,
letting it smolder away in the ashtray. It smells good, rich and full, like
something out of some better days, long since passed away. Like John...
“You okay, kid?” John asks him, picking up that cigar again and leaning
forward, elbows to knees, not looking at Temp at all.
Temp thinks about that. No. He’s not. He wants to know why John’s doing this.
Why John’s doing this to him. Letting him see that all the rough sex and terse,
broken sentences, all the amorality he likes to display, aren’t really him.
That there’s a better man underneath it all. One worth getting to know. One
worth being with. One worth...
“I’m good,” he says.
“Good,” John says, voice quiet. A big hand pats his knee, and Temp looks up at
the other man, into unsure blue. “Temp, I don’t... I never intended to...”
And Temp doesn’t want to hear this again. “It’s okay, John.”
“No, kid, I’m...”
“You don’t have to say it,” he says, quick, sharp, cutting it off. “I’m okay.
I’m okay with anything you give me. I wouldn’t have agreed if I couldn’t handle
it.”
“Temp...”
“I can take care of myself,” he says, and slumps down around his beer, thinking
about all the years of practice he’s had at that very thing. “I can."
For a few minutes, there’s silence. Temp finishes a beer and John opens him
another one. John doesn’t drink his at all, just stares out across the city.
The sun vanishes. Night falls. And then...
“I lost somebody,” John says, slow, and he looks down at his cigar like he
doesn’t recognize it. He rubs at the scar on his arm, like it hurts. It’s not
old, Temp realizes, no. Last three or four years maybe. Hell, the scar tissue’s
still pink. “Love of my life. We were together for fifteen years, got through
the Army together, made a life together, back when it still wasn’t okay for gay
men to do that. To be what they were. And we made it work. For fifteen years.”
He stops. Temp doesn’t say anything. There’s more to come, he senses, and it’s
not his place to interrupt the flow.
“And then it was over. He left. And here I’ve been, alone, ever since.”
It’s simple, quick, softly said, but Temp can hear the emotion in it, and he
thinks his heart might break at hearing it. John sounds so lost. And he’s got
no idea what he can say, only that he should say something, maybe. Something
good.
But nothing comes, and John just sighs, and lays the cigar aside, turning into
him now, braced up on one big hand on the back of the sofa. “I’m sorry, I know
that’s a lot to throw at you, kid, and I don’t expect you to do anything about
it. I don’t even know why I asked you to come live with me. Just... just
that...” He picks up his beer, finishes it in one long swallow, and sets it
down again, continuing to talk like that was nothing. “This feels right,
doesn’t it? You and me, here, now? It feels right.”
And Temp can’t argue with that. He sets his own beer down next to the ashtray,
feeling hideous. John’s only saying that because he thinks the boy he’s talking
to is Templeton Brighton, some young man with a happy past, somebody happy,
maybe, to make him happy again. But he still can’t argue with that. Right now,
tonight, the two of them, not even touching but so, so close... he can’t
remember a better evening. Ever. “Yeah. I guess, right now, it kind of does.”
“It’s been a long time since something felt right,” John tells him, and that
wonderful hand is on the back of Temp’s head now, cradling his skull. “Before
he left, actually. Years before he left.”
Trying to smile, Temp wraps his fingers around that thick, powerful wrist, and
leans into it all a little. It feels so good to feel the weight of himself in
this man’s hands. “Why would anybody leave you, John?” he asks. “I can’t
imagine why he’d leave you.”
John opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, but then the emotion in
his face shifts, his expression a bit more purposeful, intent, intense, and he
closes it again. They sit like that for a moment, just watching each other,
eyes darting to every miniscule movement, every little change, and then
something that’s never happened before happens.
John sort of moves, and he sort of moves, the fabric of the sofa rustling
quietly, and then John’s leaning in and so is he, kneeling up on the sofa for a
better angle. It’s hard to tell who’s doing what, because Temp can’t look away
from that incredibly strange, wonderful expression in John’s eyes, and before
he even realizes it, their lips brush. Once, then again, and then his hand’s on
John’s waist and John’s arms are fully around him, and his lips on on his, and
Temp can’t stop his body from opening up into it all. Can’t stop himself from
connecting with everything that’s happening.
A proper kiss, a real fucking kiss, like he’s actually worth something.
He’s on his back then, hands wrapped in John’s shirt and his cock hard in
John’s pyjamas, against John’s stomach, and John’s kissing him like it’s the
last goddamn thing he’ll ever get to do on this earth. Everything’s heat and
skin and the smell of those fucking amazing cigars and the rough pads of coarse
fingers that are being so, so gentle with him. Temp arches back and John
murmurs his agreement, Temp moans and John kisses him hard.
He’s cooling again, John’s chest no longer to his, kisses trailing down his
stomach like liquid fire and there’s fine silver hair between his fingers, and
Temp doesn’t have any idea what’s going on - except for the fact that it feels
damn good - until his erection’s freed and a cool stream of air is blown across
the drooling tip.
“John, you don’t...” he tries to say...
John, you don’t have to do this
... but his cock’s sucked in nonetheless, swallowed down, licked and stroked
and suckled and smoothed and his balls are rolled and there’s the slight graze
of teeth and suction, glorious suction, and Temp thinks with the small part of
his mind that’s still working that this must be why all his clients love it so
much, and is he this good at giving blowjobs? He certainly hopes so, because
this is completely unlike anything he's ever, ever felt before.
It’s over far too quick, and he’s crying out by the time he finally climaxes,
something that never happens without somebody inside of him and usually not
even then - Temp hardly realizes what’s going on, except for the fact he feels
like he’s floating and the evening around him’s gone silver for a few minutes,
and John’s kissing him again with a mouth that tastes like cum, holding him as
he comes down from it all.
“Stay with me,” John says in his ear, cuddling up next to him, around him.
“Please, sweetheart, stay with me.”
Temp wants to say something, he really does, but then John’s kissing his cheek,
and the younger man realizes he’s crying, and there’s nothing to do but hold on
to John, and try not to think about how much it’s all going to hurt when John
finally comes to his senses and finds himself a man who actually deserves to
have him.
Instead of some goddamn hooker.
                                     +++++
Temp clinging to him, his arms around the boy, holding him close, John chases a
line of come off the corner of his mouth with his tongue, wondering how long
it’s been since he’s had another man’s cock in his mouth. Since he tasted that
salty, heavy flavor. Since he indulged that bit of an oral fixation he’s got in
his absolute favorite way.
Since before Russ left, probably, John figures.
And why the hell did he tell Temp about that anyway?
Not that he’s really worried about that right now. No, he’s more concerned
about why the kid’s crying. Because he just asked him to stay?
And why did he do that? Again? Motherfucker, why didn’t he just let the kid
fucking leave this morning, rather than being nice to him today and making him
dinner again like they’re fucking dating and giving him a fucking blowjob, of
all the damn things, and then dragging the inevitable out like this...
... but no matter how cynical John wants to be about it, how stupid he knows
he’s being right now, how vulnerable, he can’t escape the fact that Temp is
crying, quiet tears rolling down his cheeks onto John’s own chest, and some
part of him he’d thought long gone is screaming at him to hold the young man in
his arms until he’s able to breathe again. Be here for him. Be needed by
someone again...
“Are you okay?” he murmurs in an ear, rubbing Temp’s back. “Talk to me, kiddo.”
He feels that head nod against his chest and the kid shifts. Blue eyes, pupils
blown wide, guileless and open now, meet his own. “I’m good,” he says, and
while there’s nothing of his usual purr there in those two little words, John
can sense that the facade, the hooker, is already trying to reassert itself.
And then there’s Face’s seductive little smile. “But that’s enough about me,
baby. How about you?”
John feels hs gut clench up. Fuck, he wants to, wants to bury himself in the
silken heat of his boy’s body, feel those muscles clenching, hear all those
wonderful sounds, but he doesn’t want the man it all belongs to right now. Not
the hooker. He doesn’t want to fuck some hooker tonight. Not after watching
Temp bloom under his ministrations. Not after tasting Temp come for him, all
for him and not for his money. Not after feeling Temp cry, overwhelmed by it
all.
He can’t avoid it right now, the way the truth of the matter hits him - John
wants Templeton. Beautiful, confusing, clever, sweet Templeton Brighton. Not
Face. And Face is all that’s on offer right now. Because Face is what he
bought, and this isn’t a date, it isn’t, it can’t be, never again...
Still.
“Not tonight,” John tells him, and runs a soft finger along the curve of his
jaw, catching a bead of moisture still hanging there. “Not tonight, okay,
Temp?”
Fear spikes through the kid’s expression, and his lower lip quivers, just a
bit, before the words come out. “But John... I’m here...”
“...to make me happy,” John finishes for him, and closes the kid’s mouth with a
light kiss without tongue. “That made me happy. This,” and he strokes his palm
down Temp’s bare spine, feeling it flex in response, “makes me happy. You,
being here instead of leaving this morning, makes me happy.”
“I make you happy?” Temp asks, and those hooker tones are gone. “Really?”
John realizes what he just said, what he said without meaning or wanting to say
that at all, and shakes his head, standing up, letting the movement cover it
up. He doesn’t want some hooker to hear something like that out of him, have
that to use against him or whatever.
Fuck. This was such a bad, bad idea...
“You’re doing your job, kid,” he says softly, “so stop stressing about it.” And
he holds out a hand to help the kid up. “Come on, I’m tired. Bed sound good?”
Temp, still laying naked on his side, cock draped across one lean thigh, looks
up at him and nods, and struggles up on his own, knees unsure from orgasm. He
completely ignores John’s hand, and then sways a little on his feet, unsteady,
falling right into him.
John catches him with a chuckle, and kisses the top of his head. “Doing okay
there, Face?” he asks lightly, submerging his own confusing knot of emotions,
seizing the opportunity to lighten the mood a bit again. “Little off-balance,
huh?”
But then Face just has to go and drag it back down again.
“Nobody’s ever done that for me,” he murmurs into John’s shoulder, and his
hands grab tight to John’s thin cotton wifebeater as they make their way back
inside. “Sorry...”
What? Never had a blowjob? What the hell is that? Is that even possible? “What
do you mean, kid? Didn’t you have a boyfriend or something back home?”
The kid makes a grunting little noise, like John’s an idiot for even suggesting
it. “Come on. Some fucker took it when I was fourteen, hooking since I was
sixteen. No boyfriends in there.”
And that makes even less sense. Didn’t the kid say... “I thought you’ve only
been doing this the past six months or so, since you came to LA. Isn’t that
what you said?”
Against him, the kid tenses up, and doesn’t look at him. “Yeah, well... my
family wasn’t exactly rich and my high school job didn’t pay that well.”
“Okay,” John says, not really satisfied with that, but sure he’s not getting
the whole story because of how discombobulated Face is right now. Just that. He
can always ask later. They’re in the bedroom anyway, the bed right there, and
John truly is tired from that workout he put the kid and himself through
earlier. “Okay, kid, that’s fine. I’d just have thought...”
John sets his armful of warm, naked twenty-something year old down on the edge
of the mattress, only to have it pop back up and start helping him divest
himself of clothing. “It’s okay, John. But come on, I mean, why would I just
give it away like that when the money’s so good?”
“So no boyfriends then?” Joh asks and tosses his tank away.
“No boyfriends. Ever,” Face confirms, and doesn’t meet his gaze as he pushes
John back down to the bed, kneeling to unbutton his jeans and tug them down.
“Relationship-free. That’s the only way for me.”
There’s nothing but honesty in that little statement, and it makes John a
little sad. Bright thing like this deserves something stable, something real,
someone to be there with him every morning and every night, give him as many
blowjobs as he can handle, to make up for all the one he missed out on in his
teens.
But still...
“Me too,” he replies, and holds out his hand for Face to join him.
And this time, hesitant fingers slip across his own, and hold on.
They get settled around each other, John pulling the kid into him, slotting him
right up, spooned into him, warm and pliant and the faintest bit of orgasm
still tripping through it all. Face, for his part, just sighs and settles in.
Then there’s nothing
It’ll be back to the whore tomorrow for them both tomorrow, the corporate
executive knows, which is so, so much safer than this, how exposed they’ve both
been tonight. Better, too. Of course. So he’s not even going to ask about
Face’s little non-sequitur there, about losing his virginity at fourteen. Who
does that even happen to? And what good would it do him to care? There’s no
relationship here. Nothing real. So yes, there’s no need to get to know Temp
any more than he already does. No need for them to be close or intimate or
vulnerable to each other like they’ve been tonight.
No. That’ll stop. First thing tomorrow, John vows, he’s going to make a
concerted effort to never let something like tonight happen again.
But right now - just for right now, tonight, of course - it feels damn good to
pretend like it’s something more. And like he told the kid, Face is here to
make him feel good.
So it’s all okay.
Right, John tells himself firmly, and tries to ignore the clamoring of that
little voice in the back of his mind, urging him to kiss Temp again, show him
all the other things he’s probably never had done for him, hold him and keep
him and...and maybe... maybe love him...
But that’s only echoes of Russ. Missing Russ, having Russ, loving Russ, that’s
all. Nothing more.
Nothing at all more.
Because John can’t fall in love again. Won’t. Never.
Especially not with a hooker.
                                     +++++
Temp tries to relax in the back of the limo, looks at John and tries to be calm
and bored with it all, like John is right now, scrolling through emails again
on his iPad, smoking one of his damn cigars, but he just can’t manage it.
Jakarta’s rolling by outside the windows, big and messy and shiny and dirty,
and it’s the first time Temp’s ever been further than Santa Barbara from LA,
and he wants to see everything. They’re headed for the hotel right now, and
John’s got a lot of meetings and whatever the hell he does that he has to do
while they’re here, but, Temp thinks, there might be some opportunity to slip
off into the city and explore a little bit...
It’d be nice, right now, to have some alone time. Just some time on his own to
think about things.
He’d been hoping, Temp had, that things were going to get better after that
night with John last week, where he made burgers and gave him a blow-job. And
not just because John was really good at giving blow-jobs. There’d been
something nice about that whole day, and especially the way the older man had
curled around him in bed later, every possible inch of skin pressed to one
another’s.
But things haven’t gotten better. If anything, they’ve gotten worse.
John still takes him out to dinner, touches him, looks at him, fucks him, sure,
but he doesn’t talk to him. The man hasn’t said more than four or five words to
him at a time in the past ten days or so, and it’s driving Temp crazy. John
never talked much before - that one night being the one exception - but now
there’s hardly anything. Hell, he’d resorted to playing cards with BA
downstairs at the guard booth, just to get some company.
And he’s finding, every day, that he misses it a little more. The soothing
cadence, those clever things he always talks about, that sense of authority,
finality, honesty, that’s in everything John says. Or said. Or whatever. Temp
just wants it back. Wants John to stop pulling away from him like this. Wants
the man who kissed him on the sofa that night and gave him something
beautiful...
“You want a blowjob, baby?” he asks suddenly.
John shakes his head and swipes a finger across the glass surface of his
tablet. “Not right now, kid. Reading.”
“But that’s all you did on the plane the whole way here!” Temp protests, and he
knows he’s pouting and John doesn’t want him to act like a little boy, but he
really can’t help it right now. He’s tired, he wants a shower, and he panicked
the entire time through customs, thinking that the passport wouldn’t work and
he was going to get arrested or some shit like that. “And all you did last
night and the night before that, and you haven’t fucked me in like five days
and...”
“And what?” the executive interrupts, and glares over the top of the tablet at
him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he snaps back, meeting angry blue eyes for a
moment, and then turning back into the window and the city rolling by beyond.
“Won’t even let me do my goddamn job,” Temp adds, muttering to himself. “Don’t
know why you even fucking brought me along.”
He’d like nothing more right now than to feel a big hand on his shoulder,
urging him down to his knees on the limo’s floor, pulling him back into John’s
expansive chest, fucking anything, any response, but there’s nothing.
Nothing for another forty-five minutes, at which point they’re at the hotel and
John’s telling him he’s got an hour to be ready, they’ve got an afternoon
cocktail party to attend.
And then he figures it out. He’s here as eye candy. Something pretty to hang on
John’s arm at those parties he has to go to while he’s here.
Nothing more.
That means it’ s starting now, the bit where John gets bored and throws him
back into the cold, lonely sea of LA. Except they’re in Jakarta, on the other
side of the fucking world, so how is that going to work?
...and, oh, shit, is John going to leave him here?
Temp blames the exhaustion from his first trans-Pacific flight for the way he
collapses on the floor in their hotel suite’s very nice bathroom, collapses and
pulls his legs up to his chest and blinks away the tears that are welling up in
his eyes.
He just wants John to give a shit about him. He cares about John, he does, and
he’s not even going to try to pretend otherwise right now, but he really wants
John to smile at him, kiss him, be close again, instead of all this distance,
instead of treating him like the fucking hooker he knows he is...
You love him.
The thought slams into him from out of nowhere, and Temp feels his whole body
go numb. No, no, there’s no way, he couldn’t possibly...
There’s a knock on the door. “Kid, you okay? I don’t hear the shower...”
And John keeps talking, but all Temp can hear are those first three words
turning over in his head, which represent the nicest thing John’s said to him
in almost two weeks and his mind won’t go any further than that right now.
You love him, his mind whispers at him again, and it just make way, way too
much sense.
Motherfucker.
He hugs his knees tighter.
What the hell is he going to do now?
“Temp?”
It’s soft and quiet and unsure - everything that John hasn’t been since that
night on the balcony - and Temp doesn’t even register it until he sees the
man’s socked feet next to his own.
“What?” he grumbles, pulling at the fabric of his pants with tired fingers.
“You gonna take a shower?”
That’s not soft or unsure at all, though. Harsh, maybe. But definitely not
nice.
Temp sighs, and pulls himself up. Of course. He’s such a fucking idiot...
“Sure,” he says in reply, not bothering to add anything like baby on there
tonight, because fuck John and fuck John’s intentions for him. “I’ll only be a
minute.”
But John’s already gone.
And Temp lets himself have a few more tears in the shower.
He gets ready in record time, though, which has to count for something, and
John gives him a once over, nodding in that approving way of his as they get in
the elevator.
Temp hates himself for the way that little gesture makes him glow inside.
And fuck, he doesn’t want this, to be in love with a client, doesn’t want all
the heartbreak that’s going to come with it. His own parents left him. What
chance does he have with another person if his own parents could just throw him
away like that? And it wasn't like they did it when he was a baby, hell no,
they did it when he was four, old enough to remember them in his dreams
sometimes, and he's always felt like he must have done something horrible to
make them hate him enough to...
The elevator stops.
John’s looking at him. With one of those appraising looks of his.
Fuck.
“You’re not okay, kid,” he says, and presses their floor number on the panel.
Temp feels his heart sink into his shoes as the elevator climbs.
Double fuck.
                                     +++++
John doesn’t know what the hell to do right now.
Face is slumped up against the opposite wall in the elevator, staring at his
shoes, not saying a damn word now that John called him out on his earlier
attempt at hiding his discomfort. He looks miserable - tired and empty. And
John’s got no idea what to do.
He’s been trying. He has. Trying to keep that necessary distance between them,
trying to keep himself from doing anything like he did that one night last
week. It’s hard, though, it’s almost fucking impossible. Because ever since
John woke up late that night, with Temp’s cheek on his shoulder and his nose in
the kid’s hair and young arms wrapped so tightly around him, even in sleep,
listening to him whimper his way through some pained dream, John’s wanted
nothing more than kiss him, caress him, make love to him...
Because maybe, just maybe, he’s falling in love with with the kid. With the
fucking hooker he’s paying for sex.
And it’s terrifying.
He almost kicked Face out that morning. He’d even laid awake for hours and
thought about how he’d do it, what kind of severance package he could give the
kid and how he would put it, so the kid wouldn’t think he’d done something
wrong.
Temp, it’s been fun but I think...
...and that’s as far as he could get. He couldn’t bear the thought of
everything that would come after, how empty his life would feel without that
laugh and that smile and that body against his own in the night.
John had tried, though, tried so damn hard to get his nerve up in the morning,
over breakfast, but then Templeton had come into the kitchen with his hair
wrapped up in a completely unnecessary towel-turned-turban and that body of his
in one of John’s own robes, completely the wrong size, smiling at him like a
little boy who’d just had his first stay at a five-star hotel, and John hadn’t
been able to say a damn thing.
He hasn’t known what to say since. So he hasn’t said anything at all. And he
knows that’s probably hurting the kid, has to be, but if he’s being really
honest with himself, he was half-hoping that Face would leave and save him the
agony of having to make that decision. Even though he doesn’t want the kid to
leave...
The whole thing’s absolutely maddening.
“This is our floor,” John says quietly, as the elevator beeps and the doors
slide open.
Face just nods, and lets himself be led out.
They’re quiet as they head back down the hall to their room, Face doing that
thing again where he rubs his hand across his chin as John unlocks the door. He
slips inside, still wordless, and plunks down on the couch in front of the TV.
John hears it switch on, the tourist channel flooding out of the screen into
the room, and something about that breaks his heart. Still, he heads back into
the bedroom, stripping off jacket and tie and all the other uncomfortable shit
he has to wear for these goddamn business parties and, after a moment’s
consideration, throws on a robe over his boxers.
Temp looks up at him when he comes back into the suite’s main sitting room, and
John doesn’t think the kid could look worse if he’d slapped him.
“I’m sorry,” his boy whispers, and hunches up into his perfectly tailored
jacket. “I didn’t want to ruin your party.”
“Fuck ‘em,” John says, and - just to show Face that he’s not intimidated by all
that emotion he sees in him right now but can’t understand - sits down on the
opposite end of the extremely plush sofa. On the TV, some beautiful Southeast
Asian girl is explaining the joys of Jakarta’s delightful farmers’ markets.
He’s not interested in her in the slightest. “It’s okay. Been to one of these
functions, been to ‘em all, am I right?”
Temp gives him an odd look, like he’s said something wrong. “Yeah, but...”
“Kid,” John sighs, not saying any of the things him in that are clamoring to
get out right now - because this beautiful creature in front of him is, at the
end of the day, a whore, “look... it’s your first big international flight,
right?”
“Yeah, but I’m not the...”
“Complete bitch, wasn’t it?”
Temp smiles then, that strange, shy little smile has had sometimes, the one
that’s hiding some secret about him John wishes, right then, he could unlock...
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Then let’s just hang out, okay?” he says, and reaches over - without thinking
about it - to squeeze Face’s hand.
Those delectable blue eyes shift a little, and then Temp nods, his fingers
winding in through John’s. “Okay,” he says.
And John feels his stomach turn over at the lightness of that touch, at the
earnestness of that one little word. He lets go, fast as he can, and shakes his
head. Fuck, no, he can’t, he can’t... “Go get yourself comfortable. And get me
my iPad, okay, kid?” he says, buying himself a little time to pull himself
together. “At least I can get some work done.”
The kid chews at his lip, looking at him for a moment more with something
indecipherable in his face, but nods, silent again, and slides off the sofa.
He’s back a few minutes later in a robe of his own, a full-sized bottle of
Johnny Walker from the glorious in-suite bar, two cut-crystal tumblers of ice,
a cigar, ashtray and lighter, and the requested iPad.
John feels his heart clench up again as the kid starts pouring them both a
drink. Fuck, he could almost pretend that kid’s actually doing this for him,
actually cares about him, actually wants to be here to be here, rather than
just being paid to do so...
Except he said, that day, that he didn’t want his money. What was that?
Face hands him his glass, and John, right in that split second, wonders about
everything he could have with him, if it wasn’t all built on a big fucking lie.
If he’d met a man like this when he was in the Army, or at some business
function somewhere. If they’d done this the way things like this are supposed
to work, flirting, a few dates, awkward first kisses, dinners at home together
and cuddling on the sofa, learning how to live together, be together, and then,
only then, that final step, being able to unwrap each other and give each other
everything...
But there’s no help for it now. Because he’s already seen Face naked and sweaty
and covered in his come, he’s already plundered that young body hard as it
could take, had it every damn way he wanted, could possibly imagine. And now
there’s no mystery left, no purity.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Goddammit, why this, why now, and why in the
hell with somebody like this?
“What should we drink to?” Temp asks, breaking the silence that’s overtaken
them both this last week or so.
John just clinks glasses with him and sets it aside. Reaching for his iPad
instead, and the soothing familiarity of Jack London’s White Wolf, he pats the
space next to him. “Come on, kid, come down here with me.”
Temp takes a sip of his own scotch and, with only a split second’s hesitation,
does just that.
They start on opposite ends of the sofa, but somehow, John finds himself all
too soon having to move his arm as Temp worms his way up against him, settling
right between his legs.
Pushing a little on his thigh, pulling on the tie of his robe.
“Kid,” John begins.
A finger closes his lips, very gently, and another dips into his boxers,
teasing up the underside of his cock. “Shh, boss, let me take care of you.”
It isn’t what John wants right now, not in the slightest, but he’s only a man
and he hasn’t fucked Temp in almost forty-eight hours and there’s something
about the way he just said boss, so much sexier than he’s ever said baby, and
the kid is damn, damn good at what he does for a living.
It’s over way too soon, and not nearly soon enough, but Face lingers a little
while after he’s finished milking John’s cock for everything it can give,
breathing hard into the crease of his thigh.
There’s something about it...
And John touches the kid’s cheek, coaxing his chin up. “Kid, you okay?”
Face swallows, and nods, and that’s when the older man realizes the kid’s
aroused, too. Extremely. To the point of discomfort.
Something about that just cannot go unanswered, not right now, so John guides
Face up. Takes his hands and pulls him up into straddling over his own lap, and
slips a hand beneath that hotel robe robe. Face, for his part, braces himself
on the arm of the sofa behind John’s shoulder, eyes turned away to the floor,
all that blue closing once the older man starts stroking his kid’s rock-hard
cock. He gasps a little when he’s close, cries out once or twice as he comes.
It’s quiet and almost embarrassed and incredibly, incredibly beautiful.
Pure, John thinks, and then shoves that dangerous thought away.
Face’s braced-up arm crumples a moment later, and John catches him, a hand
tangling up into caramel curls as the kid collapses on his chest, breathing
hard but trying to hide it, eyes still closed.
“Shh,” John tells him, and - unable to avoid it - kisses the top of his head
and holds him close. “Shh, it’s okay, Temp, I’ve got you.”
A hand tugs at the lapel of John’s robe, and he feels Temp nod against him.
“What... what do you want now, boss?” he asks, and wiggles a little closer.
“Tonight?” he answers, and holds on tighter.
“Yeah, tonight. Since we aren’t at your party.”
“Gotta keep you up until a decent bedtime hour,” John says, stroking his hair,
still feeling the echo of that wonderful mouth - the mouth of the man he’s in
love with, oh fuck, no wonder it’s always so good, it was always good like that
with Russ - on his cock. “Helps with the time change.”
“Sounds good,” Temp murmurs.
They end up falling asleep like that, John laying back on the sofa, Temp
pillowed on his chest. And despite the fact that it’s three in the morning when
he wakes up and he’s got a crick in his neck that’s going to take a Thai
masseuse an hour to work out, it’s the best night’s sleep John’s had since Russ
left.
He wakes Temp up with an impulsive, ill-advised kiss, Just the way he wants to
kiss the boy every day, every moment of every day... and it’s a stupid thing to
do, really, but the sleepy, raw happiness in those eyes is more than worth it.
So... maybe, maybe just one more night of pretending that Face cares, too...
“Let’s go to bed, sweetheart,” he whispers.
And Temp just nods right back.
                                     +++++
“I’ve got a pretty packed schedule for the next few days, kid. You gonna be
okay on your own?”
They’re down in the Ritz Carlton’s Asia restaurant, eating breakfast. Or
rather, Temp’s eating breakfast - he really tried not to sample some of
everything from that insane buffet over there, but he’s seriously considering a
third plate of dim sum - and John’s having coffee. Just coffee, and a small
bowl of something that looks like the nuns’ Cream of Wheat that he insists is
Chinese and rice and tasty. Coffee and Chinese rice gruel and his iPad, which
is an ever-present feature.
Temp’s beginning to think it’s some kind of avoidance thing, John always being
on his iPad. Because they haven't talked about what happened last night, and
Temp really, really wants to know what that was all about.
“Yeah,” he says instead, and looks down at his own teacup that the waiter
brought by a few minutes ago. He was expecting a teabag or something, but there
was just this tight little ball at the bottom instead. It’s opening up now,
blooming in the hot water into a huge, pale flower that John says is jasmine.
He hasn’t even left the hotel, and this country is already far more amazing
than he ever could have imagined. “I think I’ll go exploring.”
“Just be careful, okay?” John says. He hasn’t looked up from his iPad yet.
“This city may look bright and shiny, but there’s a pretty seedy underbelly to
it.”
“Like LA, boss?” Temp asks, smiling a little. If only John knew what he's been
through... but wait, no, it's probably better John doesn't. And besides, he
sort of likes the protectiveness he's getting from the older man right now.
Makes him feel safe.
John shakes his head and flicks his finger across the screen. “Worse, Temp.
There are things that happen over here that the worst American criminals
wouldn’t dream of. So be careful.”
“Okay,” he says, and grins a little. “Maybe if that big bad city’s too rough
for me, I could spend some of your money at the spa. Get myself all pampered
and pretty for you.” And, on a whim, reaches out and touches the back of John’s
big hand as it sets his coffee cup down. “Would you like that?”
That does get John to look up, blue eyes piercing, intense as always. He lets
Temp turn his hand over and slip his fingers through, and the younger man sighs
a little at the sensation of a big thumb rubbing the back of his knuckles.
Man that I love...
And fuck, this is going to be hard, keeping those unwanted and undeserved
thoughts tamped down enough to continue to do his job here.
“I like it when you’re happy,” John says, neutral, and sets Temp’s hand down
carefully. “If you want to go to the spa, kid, have a good time.”
Temp chews at the inside of his lip. Fuck. That’s not the reaction he wanted.
Not after last night, the way John had been so careful with him, fell asleep
with him on the sofa and everything, called him sweetheart... people who were
actually in a relationship did things like that, right? And, settling back into
John’s arms in bed earlier, Temp had wondered if maybe that’s what was going on
now.
But... yeah, this... probably not.
It’s not like John’s going to reciprocate his stupid, irrational feelings.
He is getting paid by this man, after all. As far as this man knows. But at
least the money’s going somewhere where it can hopefully do some good.
“Maybe I will,” he throws back, and grins, and John smiles back and touches
Temp’s hand again and says he has to go.
Temp has another plate of dim sum and watches his flower tea sway in its own
little currents. He pulls out the little travel guide John gave him this
morning before they left the room - thought you might need this, kid, meant to
give it to you on the plane - and starts planning out his morning.
He’s got three days here. Should be enough time to see everything.
Even if it would really be better if he could do it with John.
                                     +++++
Temp sits down in the shady cabana next to John, handing him a tall, sweating
tumbler full of something that looks sugary and delicious. Kid’s got a matching
one in his own hand. It’s so like him, getting some girly cocktail. Even when
they were back in the service together, he was always drinking those...
“It’s beautiful here,” his lover says, and waves a hand out across the scene in
front of them. It’s all newborn Pacific clouds and white beach, pristine
turquoise waters and the soft sound of little waves breaking at the edge. And
then Temp smiles, and John can’t see anything else. “Beautiful like you.”
“Brat,” John chuckles back, and sets the drink aside, turning over in his own
lounger to touch his boy’s knee. “If there’s one of us who’s aged well...”
“Oh, stop it with your hair going all silver like that. I think it’s sexy,”
Temp replies, that gorgeous grin of his fully in place, and slides down,
straddling John’s lap. He’s not as young as he was back then, back when he was
some firebrand lieutenant in one Captain Smith’s unit, begging to be taken in
and loved by somebody. And god, the years have been good to him. If anything,
he’s growing more beautiful with every passing day.
“You’re sexy,” John tells him, rubbing his shoulder. “You, sweetheart.”
His hands slip up to massage John’s temples, his hips starting to undulate,
just a little, just like he always does when he gets needy. “No, lover, you’re
so much more than you let yourself admit. You don’t see yourself the way I see
you.” His grin gets bigger, and one hand dips between them, playing with the
ties of John’s swim trunks. “Let me remind you, okay? Let me show you how much
I love you.”
“Templeton, we can’t do this here...”
“But I think we can. Private beach down here in Bora Bora, just me and you and
the sound of the waves out there, nothing but time...” His boy’s lips touch his
own, the slide of his sun-warmed skin delicious against the light fur of his
own chest. “You, finally retired from that rat-race of your work, me, so
excited about all the ways you’re going to pamper me now...” Those fingers,
those ever-clever fingers, dive underneath smooth material, cupping John’s
balls just so, rubbing that spot just behind, and John feels a little thrill
run through him. Fuck, maybe Temp’ll top, it’s always such a treat when Temp
takes control like that... “All these years we’ve had, all the years to come,
just enjoying each other...”
Temp’s questing fingers slip further back still, right there, and John can’t
hold back the groan that escapes him.
Those lips touch his ear again.
“Tell me again, baby. Tell me it’s only me, only ever been me, John. Tell me
we’ll grow old together.”
“Temp...”
There’s only that voice now. No sun, no surf, nothing around him but that warm
voice, whispering to him.
“Tell me you love me as much as I love you. I love you, John, tell me, please
tell me again...”
“Templeton,” John sighs, and reaches out to him, wanting to hold his boy, his
man, his lover, his partner, but meeting but air and darkness and nothing he
wants. Where is he? Why can’t he find him now? “Templeton, baby...”
“Yeah? John? What?”
And then John opens his eyes.
They’re nowhere near a beach. And that’s right, John remembers that bit, as
reality forces its way back over the dream. He didn’t have the courage to take
Temp to one of the dozens of resorts in the region, make love to him on the
sand under the stars, like he promised. Not after what he figured out a few
nights ago. He... he couldn’t, can’t, put himself out there like that. Not
when...not... not again. Never again with somebody who doesn’t love him, who’s
just going to leave in the end.
So no fantasies, then, for either of them.
No, instead they’re sitting in first class. On the flight home from Jakarta.
There are a few others up here, asleep in the darkness over the International
Dateline and the soft blue night lights of the plane, not a stewardess in
sight.
Nothing but Temp, pushed up over the arm of the not-so-comfortable first class
seat, worry in those blue eyes of his.
“Everything okay?” he asks again, and before John can figure out something
suitable to answer with, there’s a young hand touched to his cheek, a finger
chasing a line of moisture away. “You need something, John? I can go get a
flight attendant or get your iPad out of the overhead if you need to work,
or...or anything...”
The kid sounds lost as he says it, and John blinks away another tear that rolls
unbidden and unwanted down his cheek. What is that all about? He was
dreaming... but he can’t remember what it was now. The beach? Being able to
keep Temp? What?
“I don’t need anything, kid,” he says, surprised at how husky his voice sounds
right now, feeling ashamed of those two fucking tears. Hell, he didn’t cry when
Russ left. Why’s he doing it now? Nothing’s wrong. The business trip went well,
the Jakarta office is all straightened out, Temp said he had a good time
running around the city, they had some truly fantastic sex in the room’s
gigantic ensuite bathtub last night, so... what’s wrong? “Just...”
“Yeah?”
“...don’t go,” he finishes, and covers Temp’s hand with his own. “Stay with me,
okay?”
Temp’s expression is unreadable, like it so often is when he’s not playing the
prostitute... and something about thinking of Temp, his Temp, like that, right
now, anymore, makes Jon pull the boy in and kiss him.
And Temp lets him. For a few seconds, Temp lets him, and then the kid jerks
away, sinking into his own seat. He makes a strangled little noise, but turns
his hand, palm into John’s, and doesn’t do anything more than hold on.
“I don’t want to go,” he says after a few minutes of silence. He says it
softly, like he’s admitting to something bad. “I was worried you were going to
tell me to go.”
John can feel the ache of that little sentence in his chest, and it can’t go
unanswered. He sits up in the deep seat, enough to see how despondant Face
looks right now. “God, kid, why would you think that?”
Temp just shakes his head. “I don’t know. You... you’re just...”
“I’m just what, sweetheart?”
That little endearment slips out before John can stop it, but it gets the kid
to look at him again, eyes wide in disbelief. “You... you can do so much better
than me. You don’t need a man like me around.”
“Yes I do,” John says softly, not knowing how else to answer but with the
truth. “I do need you, kid. I need you here with me.”
Temp just stares at him for a moment more, and then, as if coming to some kind
of decision, rolls up out of his seat and into John’s, pressing the button that
lays them down flat as he does so. It’s first class, but even here the chairs
aren’t quite big enough for two people, but it’s close enough if John turns his
hips just a bit, and then he’s got his boy in his arms, nose pressed into the
crook of his neck.
Saying nothing.
And it scares John, not a little bit.
“Anything you need, Temp, anything at all, I’ll give you. Just name it and it’s
yours,” he promises, and rubs his knuckles down his boy’s spine. “Whatever you
want...”
Temp shakes his head, and settles in, kissing John’s neck.
John holds him as he falls asleep, buries his own nose in his boy’s sweet-
smelling hair, and there they are still when the stewardess wakes them both for
breakfast.
                                     +++++
Temp’s shoulders are aching, muscles screaming, abs on fire, by the time John
finally calls their workout quits for the night. The executive’s dripping in
sweat himself, his silvery hair spiked wet with it, but he’s smiling as he
claps Temp on the back, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek as
they walk off the mats.
The younger man feels his whole body light up in response to that light touch,
John’s touch. They’ve been working on fighting moves, all the practical shit
that not even Charissa knows, and they’ve had more than their fair share of
contact for the day. But still, the way this man touches him...
“That was good tonight, kid,” John praises, and hugs him into his side,
ruffling up his hair with a big hand. “Really good. You’re getting so
strong...”
“Not as strong as you,” Temp admits, looking up into his man’s bright eyes. He
always looks so alive like this, just after a workout. So beautiful it hurts.
“You hit like a pile driver.”
John chuckles, and kisses the top of his head. “We’ll get you there, if you
want. You’re picking it up so fast.”
Temp chews at the inside of his lip, wondering how to respond. Ever since
getting back from Jakarta, things have been different, and he’s not all that
sure how this thing is working now. Why it’s still working.
It shouldn’t be.
Not with the way he feels about John these days. Not with the way his heart
seems to speed up every time the man walks into the room, how he can’t seem to
stop smiling whenever John talks to him, how long the days seem without him,
and how fast the time seems to fly when they’re together. It’s never boring,
not even when they’re not really talking about anything or doing anything, even
in the evenings when John’s laid out on the outdoor sofa and lets Temp curl up
against his side as he reads.
It’s way too much, far more than he was prepared for, getting worse every day,
and it makes Temp ache inside. Every time John touches him, smiles at him,
praises him, he just wants to break down and cry.
Because sooner or later, it’s all going to crumble into dust. Gone. As if it
never was. God, he’s just going to lose it, and here he is, acting like some
googly-eyed school girl over a man he’ll never be able to keep...
“Would you like that?” he asks, trying to keep his bearings in this whole
thing. Making John happy. That’s what he’s here for. To make John happy. He’s
been trying to stay focused on that, hold onto that, even as his world turns
itself inside out. The man is still paying him after all, four grand a week
now. “You want me to be good at this?”
“It’s nice to have a sparring partner again,” John evades, and his thumb is on
Temp’s cheek, rubbing little circles across the stubble, sending a wave of
fresh desire right through the young man. “Don’t you think?”
“Y-yeah,” Temp stammers, feeling his dick twitching in his workout shorts, his
cheeks heating, nipples hardening, his whole body betraying everything he
wants, has to have, right now. Right now and always... “Yeah, I guess...”
John’s previously soft smile turns more predatory, and now he’s backing Temp up
into the gym wall, the solid mirror that runs floor to ceiling. “You getting
hard, kid?”
“Yeah,” Temp gulps.
That hand leaves his cheek to circle his neck instead. “Yeah? Hard for me?”
“Yeah, hard for you,” the young man replies, desperately trying to keep himself
steady, keep hold of something familiar right now. What would he normally do?
What would he say? “Want you inside me, John...” And that sounds way too
fucking honest, so... “Want your cock, baby, want your big, fat cock so far up
inside me..."
“Dirty boy,” John’s voice murmurs in his ear, somehow soft and lustful at the
same time. “My dirty, naughty boy. You trying to get me to fuck you, talking
like that?”
It cuts clean through him, all that, and Temp leans his forehead on one of
John’s big biceps. Thank god, that’s working. “Oh yeah, baby, fuck me, fuck my
tight ass...”
John, still grinning, grinds his groin forward into Temp’s rapidly hardening
one. “Won’t be so tight when I get done with it,” he growls in his ear.
“Oh, no, no, yeah, rip me open, split me in half,” Temp moans, faking not a
note of his need right now. “Make it hurt, baby, fuck me hard...”
Which is exactly what John does. Groans and lets Temp lead them both down to
the floor, onto their knees, out of their sweaty work-out clothes, not a drop
of lube to smooth this out. But that’s okay. After the last few months of this,
Temp’s loose enough to handle John with little pain, and he really, really does
want to feel this.
Pretend like he belongs. Here. With this man.
If only for a few minutes.
He arches and shudders and moans like the whore he knows damn well he is, as
John pushes into him, cock wet with sweat and precum, and starts thrusting,
hard and fast and deep. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at
himself in the mirror as his own arousal spirals out of control, as he spills
himself all over the gym floor, without John so much as touching his cock or
his balls. So he doesn’t have to see the way John wraps him up, pulls him into
his lap, drives up into him again and again and again. So he can’t savor the
look of ecstasy on John’s face as the man blows his load clear up to Temp’s
heart.
So he can’t pretend like this means something to the other man.
Because there’s no way it does.
It can’t.
He’s just a client, Temp tries to tell himself as the echoes of his orgasm ebb,
as he lets John hold his boneless body in those big, strong arms of his. He’s
just a client, you’re an idiot to fall in love with him like this...
He’s been saying the same thing to himself every time John’s fucked him. Every
tie he’s fucked John. Since Jakarta.
Because he doesn’t want this.
Not that he doesn’t want it. But... this, this, was not something that Temp was
prepared for. He’s slept with more men than he cares to remember, but he never
wanted any of them like he wants John. It never meant anything, before John.
Sex, wild, meaningless sex, isn't going to be enough anymore. He'll never be
able to even pretend like he's okay with his fucking profession again.
He knows that now, and it's something he wishes he'd never learned. It's the
most terrifying thing he's ever discovered.
Because someday, probably soon if he keeps slipping up like that, letting too
much of his own awkwardness and desire and confusion out, he’s going to be out
on his ass again.
And no matter how many times John asks him to stay, how much the older man pays
him, it's going to happen. It is. John's going to kick him out. No decent man
wants a hooker to fall in love with him. No decent man would ever fall in love
with a hooker. It's just sex for John. Just sex, and nothing more, and he'll
get tired of him whenever he gets over whatever bullshit's convincing him that
he should keep his barely-legal whore around...
...and Temp’ll be back in the cold. Where nothing, nobody, will ever be able to
make him feel like this again.
Not like John.
There’ll never been anybody like John.
“Was that good for you, kid?” John whispers against his super-heated skin, and
kisses his neck. “That what you needed?”
Temp tries to shake his head, tell John it’s okay, that it’s not about him, but
he no sooner gets his mouth open than John’s tongue is pushing in, and he just
lets the older man roll them both around, pin his wrists above his head, and
kiss him hard and deep, and maybe, he tells himself, maybe John’s caught up
enough in his own pleasure that he won’t mind if Temp has a little of his
own...
“That’s my boy,” John murmurs, that same note of praise in his voice as Temp
wraps his arms around those strong shoulders, starts moving against him the way
he knows John loves. “That’s my beautiful boy.”
"Yeah?" Temp asks, feeling breathless. God, he loves it when John calls him
beautiful...
"Yeah," John promises, and gives him another little light peck on the lips.
And then hits him with a doozy that knocks him for a huge loop.
"So, kid, what do you want for your birthday?"
For a moment, everything in Temp goes stupid. His birthday? What the fuck?
His... why would John think his birthday’s coming up? He doesn’t even really
have a birthday, the orphanage never got a copy of his original birth
certificate... fuck, he doesn’t know what his mom actually named him, much less
the day he was born. Hell, the priests were only estimating that he was five
when they got him...
But John’s smile is starting to slip, probably wondering what the hell’s wrong
with him, and Temp suddenly remembers.
Right. His passport. John took his passport on the flight to fill out their
embarkation card. There’s a date of birth on the card, and while Temp can’t
remember for the life of him what day that is, exactly, it’s got to be soon...
So...
“You don’t... you don’t have to do anything for my birthday,” he says, using
some of the confusion he still feels, hoping that’ll be enough to throw John
off the scent, and runs his fingers down the older man’s chest above him in a
bid to distract him further. “It’s not... we’re not here for me.”
“You keep saying that,” John says, a note of disapproval in his voice, “but
haven’t you figured out by now that I enjoying spoiling you?”
Temp bites his lower lip. That’s so true, John does seem to enjoy buying him
things and taking him to nice places, but he’s always thought of that as mere
accessorizing. John just dressing up the nice piece of ass he’s got on his arm.
But doing something for his birthday - fake or whatever - doesn’t really fit
into that paradigm very well. It doesn’t do anything for John. “Yeah, but...”
“Well, it’s your day. So let me spoil you. What would you like to do?”
And fuck, John’s touching his chin again, and Temp just can’t think when the
man’s touching him like that. “I don’t... I don’t know.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” John keeps urging. “There has to be something. Some
family tradition you miss, your favorite flavor of cake, some place you’d like
to go to dinner...”
Family traditions? Cake? Okay, he’s had birthday cake. Never his own, but he’s
had it. He went to one of the diocese parochial schools, one of the private
places where everybody was on scholarship cause they were poor or whose parents
were super-rich and could afford to pay for them. Everybody else’s mom would do
that, bake cupcakes or cookies or brownies or something for birthdays, and he’d
sit as his desk with his piece, eating it crumb by crumb, while everyone else
wolfed it down. The school had his birthday officially listed as over the
summer months, so nobody ever wondered why his mom never brought anything in
for them.
So it had been almost normal, right? Enough to pretend for a while, anyway.
He’d even gotten an invitation or two to parties at other kids’ houses, back
when he was little enough that everybody in the class had to get an invitation,
but that had always been way too overwhelming, more horrible than good, an
inevitable reminder of everything, everything he’d never have...
“Hey, Temp, something wrong?” John asks, sitting back up on his heels now,
rubbing the knub of the younger’s man’s upturned pelvis. “Did I hit a nerve or
something?”
Temp tries not to think about those parties, how scared those big, beautiful
houses had made him, how he’d always cry when he got back to the orphanage, how
at the last party he’d gone to in the third grade, the boy who’s birthday it
was noticed that Temp hadn’t brought a gift for him and threw a fit in the
middle of everything, how his little eight year old self had clung to Sister
Anna Marie that night and begged her not to make him go to any more parties.
It hadn't mattered. The rumor went around that Templeton Peck was selfish and
didn't give presents like you were supposed to, and nobody ever invited him to
anything again.
“Temp?”
He shakes himself out of the old memories. Old, nasty memories. They don’t
really matter any more. But he can’t exactly tell John that he’s never had a
party, can he? That he spent his childhood in faceless dorms and cheap motel
rooms and on the streets, and never had a mother who cared enough about him to
bake his class cupcakes?
“Umm...” he flounders, and reaches for the one thing that might get him out of
this bind.
“Why don’t you surprise me?”
“You want to be surprised? Like what?”
Temp smiles, despite himself, and sits up next to John. “If I tell you what to
do, won’t that make it not a surprise?”
“Give me some kind of idea here, kid. Shopping trip, new car, a trip
somewhere...”
He just shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to ask for. Nobody’s ever given
him a present before. Well, Father Magill, that one time, when he gave him a
beautiful crucifix for his Confirmation but Temp had had to hawk that back
after he first ran away, so it didn’t really count...
“Surprise me,” he says firmly, and then hesitates, thinking of something he
really wants, but probably shouldn’t be asking for. “But, uhh, if we could do
something together, like spend the day together doing something, that’d be...
cool, I guess.”
“Got it, kid,” John nods, sage, like he knows exactly what to do now, and asks
what Temp wants for dinner as he unsticks them both from the gym floor.
Temp feels a little sick about the whole thing, and reminds himself as they’re
cleaning up for dinner to check his passport tomorrow. Figure out what day he
has to worry about this whole birthday thing happening.
                                     +++++
John’s more than a little nervous as he steers the Audi through the LA Tuesday
morning traffic - and wasn't that fun, seeing the look on his secretary's face
when he told her he was taking the day off to spend with his boyfriend?
They're headed towards Temp’s birthday surprise.
And John's not sure if the kid’s going to like this; he didn’t have much to go
on to plan this out.
It’s not like he’s got anybody to call, knows anybody who knows Temp, and it
had occurred to him as he was trying to put this day together that he’s never
heard the kid mention friends. Or anyone, really. Even his family, who John
knows by name, hardly ever come up in conversation. Hell, Temp talks more about
that priest at his church, the one who mentored him when he was still living in
Ohio, Father David Magill, and even those stories are pretty rare...
“So, where are we headed, boss?” his boy asks, and sips at his sugary Starbucks
caramel latte. He’s dressed casual today, almost slumming it by his own
exacting standards, in a pair of loose cargo shorts and a bright pink Ralph
Lauren polo that set off his the lean muscle of his body perfectly. He was
beautiful before, but now, now, after months of sleeping in good beds and
eating good food, he glows. Or maybe that's just because John's in love with
him, that's making him seem so gorgeous. “Am I gonna enjoy it?”
“Have some faith in me, kiddo,” John says, and winks at him with more
confidence than he feels, hoping like hell he hasn’t done the wrong thing here.
They can always go do something else, too, but this... this just seemed right.
And he worked so hard - threw a lot of money around - to make it all work out
just right. Right? And fuck, why is he this nervous about taking his live-in
prostitute to...why is he even doing this in the first place? It’s not like
Temp loves him back... “A few more blocks.”
Temp looks at him, that serious expression back on his face, and he nods.
“Cool,” he says, and turns up the radio so loud that conversation becomes
impossible.
Until they pull up past a line of cheap, run-down motels, and Temp finally
notices where they are.
“Disneyland?” he asks, voice incredulous. He’s not looking forward, John
notices, not at the spires of Cinderella’s castle that are poking up over the
roofline. He’s looking at the motels instead, full of broken-down cars and
dirty kids chasing after dirty little dogs. And that’s odd... “You’re taking me
to Disneyland?”
“Yeah,” John replies and grips the steering wheel tight, ashamed of how nervous
he feels right now, admitting to that, and fuck, did he fuck this up? “But, you
know, we don’t have to if you...”
Temp shakes his head, and while he can’t see it to confirm, John would swear
that there are tears in his voice. “N-no, this...this is... p-perfect. I...
I’ve never been.” And then Temp looks over at him and his smile’s shaky, but
the teasing snark is there, full force. “Do they let ze gays into such a
family-friendly establishment?”
John smiles back, relieved - the teasing is good, that means Temp’s happy. He’s
learned that much about the kid, at least. “Well, it is a Tuesday, if you’re
worried about it. But it’s California, Temp. No small-town rednecks to get mad
at you here.”
The kid’s grin seems to solidify and brighten. “Ohio doesn’t have rednecks!” he
huffs, and then starts laughing.
Before long, they’re through the gates and headed up Mainstreet, USA, park maps
in hand, Temp pressed into his side like a little boy, staring at everything
with undisguised interest. It’s so innocent, so enthusiastic, that John can’t
help but pull him into a kiss.
And Temp’s blushing a little as they break apart, and what’s that all about?
“What do you want to see, kid?” John asks, not really sure what’s going on
right now with his boy, trying to keep his footing while he figures it out.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I wanna see everything,” Temp says, and the blue in his eyes, set off by the
popped collar of his pink shirt, is dazzling. “Let’s see everything!”
He takes off with a cackle of glee, and for a moment, John just watches him go.
He’s so beautiful, so young and so full of that life that only young men have,
and it makes John’s heart ache.
Dear god, he loves this man...
But that's the last thing he wants to think about right now. So he jogs to
catch up with him, and tries not to sigh as Temp wraps an arm around his waist
and cuddles into his side.
"Show me everything, boss," he says, and leans his head on John's shoulder.
If only, John thinks wistfully.
If only.
"Anything the birthday boy wants," he whispers back, and steers them towards
Space Mountain.
Space Mountain, the Star Wars ride, the one with the cars that John’s too tall
to fit properly in and Temp has a good laugh about watching him fold his legs
into the tiny toy cab. They walk right past the Small World ride - you’ve got
to be shitting me, boss his boy says - but the Alice in Wonderland ride Temp
wants to do twice, and he’s giggling like a little boy when they get out of
Peter Pan Flight. They skip Toon Town - Temp says he doesn’t like Roger Rabbit,
and he won’t elaborate - but Splash Mountain’s a big hit, and they spend almost
an hour, just wandering around in Frontierland. The Tiki Lounge is down, but
they do the Indiana Jones ride three times, Temp just jumping the line instead
of going back to the beginning.
It’s a nice spring day, not too hot, and it’s a weekday, so there aren’t many
people here. It almost feels like a private getaway, just the two of them, and
when Temp slips his hand into John’s, as they’re finally leaving the Indiana
Jones ride at 1500, it all just feels right.
Like they don’t have a business arrangement. Like there’s something real
between them, something real and right and beautiful. Like they could actually
be...like he could actually lean over and whisper in Temp’s perfect ear that
he...
But those are dangerous thoughts, John knows. Loving somebody is bad enough.
Telling him... he just can’t.
It’s late that they finally make it to New Orleans Square, and sink gratefully
into a cool, private table in the twilight of the Blue Bayou restaraunt. It
smells incredible in here, rich and spicy, and Temp drinks half his iced tea in
one go while John orders for them both.
“Having a good birthday, sweetheart?” John asks without even thinking, after
the waitress is gone.
And he’s shocked to see tears in those eyes when they lift to his.
“Yeah,” Temp says, and dashes the moisture from his lashes, smiling up over top
of it all. “Yeah, John, best birthday ever.”
The older man can feel the raw emotion, broiling just beneath the surface, and
wonders what he’s not seeing, what Temp’s not telling, what kind of hurt is
lurking in his past. He reaches over and folds the kid’s hand, cold from the
glass of iced tea, into his own. There are so many things he wants to say, that
little I love you right on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t let that fall.
“It’s not over yet, kid,” he says, absently rubbing his thumb across the young
man’s knuckles. “It’s your birthday until midnight, remember?”
“Yeah, my birthday,” he echoes, but he doesn’t look happy about it.
And John feels a stab of panic. Oh, god, what’s he doing wrong?
They don’t go on as many rides that afternoon. No, instead they do some of the
other things, like Mainstreet and the castle, some of the art galleries and
theaters and things they put in for adults. Temp lets John hold his hand, but
he seems a little disconnected now, like he’s retreating into himself, so the
executive takes him on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and kisses him
halfway through.
They lose the rest of the ride to that kiss, and have to go through it again.
John buys his boy a strawberry milkshake when they’re done at one of the little
cafes that seem to be everywhere, and Temp kisses him, right there, in front of
god and everyone. It’s John who’s embarrassed this time.
“Is that it for the day?” Temp asks, slurping on his shake. "We've done
everything, haven't we?"
“Not quite, baby. Believe me, it gets better,” John promises, and those sweet
blue eyes narrow in question.
And then widen in shock, not half an hour later, when the valet shows them into
the richly appointed French Provincial front parlor of the Disneyland Dream
Suite.
It had taken a lot of work to get this place for the night, but his old Ranger
handle hadn't been "Hannibal" for no good reason. Normally, John found out when
he’d called four days ago, the Dream Suite goes to a random guest, a different
one every night. Reservations are strictly forbidden. Payment is impossible. So
he’d had to find a work-around, talked to a dozen different people on the phone
before he’d found a park manager who would name a price for fixing the system
for the night.
Ten grand, in cash, up front, and a non-disclosure agreement; John could never
tell anyone how he’d done it, or who he’d made the deal with.
He’d hadn’t blinked.
And now John’s glad he didn’t, because the look on Templeton’s face, right
before he wraps himself around John, shivering, crying for real now, big silent
tears, is worth every penny.
But what he says next wasn't part of any plan. Ever. And it shakes John right
to his very core.
"I love you," Temp's saying, sobbing, into his shirt, "fuck, John, I love
you..."
To his horror, when Templeton hears those words slip from his mouth, he feels
John stiffen in his arms, groan a little, and he knows he just made a huge
mistake.
Oh fuck, fuck, he’s ruined it, ruined everything...
What can he blame it on? What’s his out? How does he make this okay again? Can
he blame it on the day, on how exhausted he is from all the walking and the
sun? Or, no, wait, maybe he can say he’s just overwhelmed by the room - by this
glorious space in its blues and white and golds, the most beautiful thing he's
ever seen?
Or maybe he didn’t realize, didn’t mean it like that, he’s just really grateful
that John like spoiling him like this, that this is the nicest thing anyone’s
ever done for him. That he’d spent almost a year, living in one of those
homeless motels outside this place at seventeen, that in between hooking and
his futile efforts in trying to find a real job, he used to look at the castle
and wonder what Disneyland was like, what it would be like to have somebody in
his life that loved him enough to take him there, like all those kids he’d gone
to school with, whose families used to come here sometimes...
He realizes he’s backing up, trying to escape all those memories, his shame at
lying about when his birthday was amplified by all of this. Slipped from John’s
grasp, he’s edging away, towards the hall and maybe a bathroom where he can go
die in private...
“Temp,” John says, and takes a step toward him. “Temp, baby, please...”
And that’s when Temp bolts. Right down the hall, straight through a bedroom
with a gigantic bed that he scarcely glances at, and locks the bathroom door
behind him, sinking down against the white wood, his mind racing.
Fuck. He’s fucked up this whole day. Why did he have to go and ask John to
spend time with him? He should have just asked for a Mercedes or a Rolex, like
a good little house-boy. But that had seemed like so much money, and he hadn’t
wanted John to go to any trouble, especially considering it wasn’t actually his
birthday. And now... what had John done to get this?
He just wants to cry. Except he already did that a moment ago, and look what
happened. Out slipped his secret. And now John’s going to throw him out for
sure, his stupid little whore who fell in love with him...
There’s a knock on the bathroom door
“Temp?”
It’s John. Of course it’s John. Probably wants to tell him that he has to leave
now, and he tries to think about where he can go now, what he can do. He’s got
some money in his wallet, and hell, the area around this park’s one of the
biggest homeless slums in LA, so...
He’ll be fine. Temp tells himself this. He’ll be fine.
“Temp, baby? Come on kid, let me in...”
He wipes his eyes again, telling himself he’s not going to shed another tear
over all the mistakes he’s made with this whole fucked-up relationship, this
business arrangement he’s fucked up so badly. “It’s okay, John. I’m coming
out.”
John’s right there as he opens the door, his blue eyes clouded with something
Temp can’t read, and he just feels like shit over this whole thing. All his
client wanted was a little fun, and look how badly he’s screwed it up for him.
Couldn’t even do this right, no wonder nobody wants him around...
“Kid,” his former client says in that soft voice of his. “Kid, what...”
“I’m sorry,” Temp blurts out, not wanting to hear anything John’s going to say
to him right now. Probably what the fuck did you think this was, a
relationship, goddamn Pretty Woman, you whore? “I’m sorry I said that. I should
go.”
But John gets in front of him, blocking his way. “Sorry because it’s not true?”
Temp blinks. “Umm...” but the yeah, not true, just got caught up in the
excitement, haha, boss, the lie he needs, won’t come.
“Or,” and John’s hand touches his cheek, his fingers almost trembling, so
uncharacteristic for him that Temp just can’t understand it at all, “sorry
because it is?”
He opens his mouth, hoping like hell something will come, that he can find
something that will work, but the second his lips part, John’s kissing him,
softer, more tender than he’s ever done before.
And a small, hesitant, because I love you too, baby is whispered across the
stubble of his chin.
For a moment, nothing moves, neither man breathes. Temp can feel John waiting,
waiting, for him, of all things, but he can’t quite figure out why. There’s no
way, no way in hell... it’s just not possible that John just said...
“Temp?” John asks, soft, more unsure than the younger man’s ever heard him
before. “Baby?”
“J-John, you...” and Temp just feels ashamed of himself. He can’t even look at
the man. Fuck, he knows he’s good at manipulating people, but this... John
can’t possibly mean it, wouldn’t ever let himself stoop that low, so it must
have been something he did, something he’s done to John to make him think
this...
..and even if it’s true, which it’s not, it’s just not, it’s not him, it’s not
Templeton Peck that John’s in love with, so even if it’s all a lie, it’s a big
fucking lie...
“I love you, sweetheart,” he says again, and his hands are tight around Temp’s
shoulders.
“You can’t,” he says, starting to shake a little. “J-John, you can’t...it’s not
t-true...”
“You can but I can’t?” John asks, and his voice sounds hollow, far away,
scared. “What is that, kid?” A big hand brushes his forehead, sweeping stray
strands of hair away. “I said I love you. I wouldn’t lie about something like
that.”
The younger man feels like the world is spinning, like everything around him is
flying out into space, dizzying and painful, ripping him apart, and he realizes
he’s gripping tight around John’s neck. And the man smells like sweat, like the
expensive aftershave he uses and coconut sunscreen, like a stolen day spent far
away from anything that normally colors his life, given up all for him, like
sunshine, like everything good that Temp’s never had and never dared hope he
could...
“Temp,” John whispers in his ear, hugging him low around the waist, swaying
them both, just a bit, “baby, come on, please, say something. You’re scaring
me...”
And that’s what finally cuts through all his own confusion. That little you’re
scaring me. Because that doesn’t sound like what John’s supposed to sound like.
That doesn’t sound like the happy man who’s enjoyed today so damn much, who’s
been smiling since they walked through the gates here, and no matter what else
might be going on here, it’s still his job to make John happy.
Temp promised himself he’d hang onto that. And he can’t not. There’s nothing
more important than John’s happiness to him. He wants to see his man happy.
Wants it so bad his heart aches.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. This is all... it’s so much...”
“Too much?” John replies, petting his hair, sounding disappointed. “Guess I
went a little overboard, huh? I just thought... but we can leave, if you
want...”
And that’s just disappointed, which is going in the completely wrong direction.
“No, n-no... no, I don’t want to leave.”
“Then what, baby? Tell me what you need. Anything, I’ll do it, I’ll get it for
you, just tell me...”
Suddenly Temp remembers something he saw in a movie once, something he caught
on cable at one point, in one of those rooms John paid for, when he couldn’t
sleep with John under the sheets with him, back when everything was so simple.
While Temp doesn’t really understand what it means, it just seems appropriate
for the situation now. And besides, if he doesn’t say something, he’s going to
start telling John all the reasons he shouldn’t love him - why he doesn’t
deserve what John’s offering, not for real - and they can’t have that.
It won’t make John happy, knowing all the ugly truth here.
This... this hopefully will.
He clings tighter, face buried, and just whispers it out.
“Make love to me,” he says...
And waits.
And listens to his heart pounding out, hope dying with every beat, just knowing
he said the wrong thing, while John says nothing.
And then, just when it seems like he’s fucked this up completely, like it’s all
going to go to hell now, those big, strong, calloused fingers he loves so damn
much slide up into his hair, against his scalp, and pull him up off the safety
of John’s chest.
John’s perfect blue eyes are wet, rimmed red, and his voice is a little hoarse,
but at least he answers.
“Anything my beautiful boy wants,” the executive whispers, and then kisses him
in a way he’s never kissed him before.
All he can feel is John.
For a little while, nothing else exists.
John pulls him back into the bedroom, onto the huge bed with its canopy, all
lit up to look like the night sky. It’s slow, their progress, John’s hands soft
on his waist and on the back of his neck and skimming up his ribs, removing his
sweat-salty polo, running down his hips, loosening his shorts to fall around
his feet.
Temp just holds on to John’s neck, feeling flushed as he’s exposed, laid bare
down against the smooth sheets, as if it’s the first time, and it is. In a way,
it is. Because John’s never touched him like this, never looked at him with
such raw longing in his eyes. John’s never taken his time like he is now, never
tweaked Temp’s nipples or caressed his shoulders, his arms, the jut of his
hips, never stroked that line of hair leading down from his belly button that
he’d asked a while back for Temp to stop plucking out, never just taken his
drooling cock in hand like this, his balls, and just stroked.
“Please,” the young man says, and realizes he’s begging, but that it’s okay,
it’s okay for John to see him like this, “please, John, I... I need...”
“Tell me,” John tells him, and licks off a bead of sweat that’s running down
his neck. “Anything you want, sweetheart...”
His hands fist in the collar of the casual blue oxford John wore today, and he
wants to rip it off. Wants to touch that wonderful body underneath. Wants...
wants.... but it’s not his place to want, it’s not... “I wanna... need to make
you feel good, John, let me make you feel good...”
“Shush, baby, shh. Not that. This is for you tonight,” John chides gently, but
pulls back and takes that hateful piece of clothing off, and Temp takes back
what he thought about this suite when they first came in.
This, John, like this, kneeled up over him like this, smiling at him like this,
open in a way he’s never been before, wanting him in a way that he’s never
wanted him before... this is the most beautiful thing Temp’s ever seen.
John strips naked and moves back over the top of him, his rock-hard cock
sliding so deliciously against Temp’s own. The older man’s elbows drop around
his shoulders and his hands slide into his hair. They kiss again, snugged into
each other, the cuves and the angles and the vacant places and all the empty
space complimenting perfectly, so perfectly...
And - when John finally pushes his leg up and slips a warm, lubed finger up
into him, when he stretches him wider than normal, when he finally sheathes
himself deep, deep inside, hips rolling in the sweetest rhythm, all of it more
gentle, more fluid, than he’s ever been before, when John whispers this is me
making love to you, baby, this is me loving you... - Temp can almost believe
it.
It can’t last. He knows that. It won’t.
But he wants it to, oh god, if this is what that means, feeling like this,
complete and whole and real in a way he’s never been before, he wants it to...
He realizes he’s clinging to John’s neck again, spilling himself against John’s
belly as John kisses the tears from his cheeks, as John comes himself,
exploding into him. And Temp, overwhelmed by it all, lets himself float off on
the crest of John’s release.
“Love you, kid,” he hears from across that distance. “Love you so, baby boy.”
And, adrift like he is, Temp can almost let himself believe that somehow, some
way, this is all going to be okay. Somehow, somehow, somehow...
Even if he can't see what that is yet.
"I love you too, John," he swears when he can, and and hopes all his emotion,
all his honesty here tonight, can reach John across all the fucking lies
between them, all those necessary, horrible lies, and somehow make a bridge
over it all.
Because there are just so many things John can never know about him. So, so
many things that make him so unworthy of everything this man's offering, of all
this man's love.
No matter how much he might want it.
"Stay with me, baby," John whispers. "Promise me you'll stay with me."
And Temp hates himself for the way he can't help but nod back.
Lying.
Like he always is, to this man, just by being here.
                                     +++++
They don’t go to sleep right away.
No.
They lay there for a while, sprawled out on the big bed. It looks like
something out of a fantasy movie, Temp thinks, feeling sticky and sated, laid
out on his side, staring out the balcony, out at the fireworks show taking
place just beyond the breeze-blown curtains. The whole place looks like a
fantasy, feels like a fantasy, so beautiful and so unreal and so, so
confusing...
“You good, kid?” John asks, and a hand brushes his shoulder, light and gentle.
“Was that... was that what you wanted?”
He bites his lip and closes his eyes. God, he wants this man, he wants him so
bad, but he's got no idea how he should feel right now. He's never been in love
before, it's all so strange... “It was good.”
“Just good?”
John sounds like he’s trying to tease, but there’s hurt in there, enough to get
Temp to roll over on his back, to look up at the man who just... just made love
to him. And yeah, there’s a definite question in the older man’s face, like he
doesn’t quite know what to do with that kind of an answer.
“I don’t know what the word for it would be,” Temp tells him, honest as he can,
and takes John’s hand off his shoulder, pushing his fingers up through,
gripping tight. “I’ve never, ah... it’s just really new, I guess.”
John squeezes his hand back, and slides his leg across Temp’s chest, straddling
him without really touching, keeping his weight on his own thighs. Temp can’t
help but run his hand up the leanly taught muscle there, and John smiles back
at him as he leans in for a kiss.
“I like being your first,” he whispers in the younger man’s ear, and kisses his
cheek.
Temp feels his face flare red. Fuck... no, John’s far from his first. His first
was some dirty fuck a cleaning closet, some of the older boys from the dorms
grabbing him out of bed one night, after lights-out, two of them holding him
down, jerking off, while the third, while the third just grinned and ripped his
boxers off and...
“You’re not my first, John,” he mutters, and looks away, eyes shutting, even as
John’s hands start roaming over his chest. “C’mon, man, you get that, right?
That I’m a whore? That I’m a goddamn whore who fucks for money?”
“Baby...”
“... that I’m your whore? I’m your whore, John, fucking you for your money...”
John pulls back from his ear, frowning. “Temp...”
“...because you’re fucking paying me to be here!” And Temp can hear his own
voice growing angry, loud, frantic. Because it’s true and he doesn’t want it to
be, but there’s no way, there isn’t. And he stares up at John, feeling
desperate now, even as their hands stay wound together, while the last of it
comes out in barely a whisper. “And you shouldn’t love me. Because I’m a whore.
I... I’ve fucked a lot of men, John, and I’m going to fuck a lot more when
you’re gone. It’s just... you shouldn’t.”
John’s gaze drifts for a moment, down at their hands, like there’s some kind of
answer to be found there. He turns his hand down then, turns Temp’s up, kisses
his knuckles.
“You mean it, kid? Did you mean it? About... how you feel... about us?”
Temp, mute form the lump growing in the back of his throat, just nods.
John leans forward again, forehead to forehead, and kisses him gently. “Then
I’ve got the only first that matters,” he says, and smiles. It’s a fragile
smile, one that could crack apart from the slightest little jar. “And how about
another? Think you’d like that, Temp? A first date?”
“...a, a first date?” Temp asks, finding his voice from the shock of that.
“Tomorrow morning, I take my sweet, beautiful, amazing boyfriend out for
breakfast. And the only person getting paid for any of it’ll be the waitress.”
“A date? W-with... with your boyfriend?”
“First date,” John confirms. “With you.”
“No more paying for... for me?”
“No, baby. But I still get to spoil you.” He smiles again, a little stronger
now, but still terribly, terribly precarious. “Whaddaya say, kid? Think we
could make a go of it?”
There are a dozen things he could say to that. A hundred. A million.
Would it be so bad? To try it? To trust that maybe, maybe this once, something
might be okay? Might work out? Might just bear him out on all this stupid hope
he’s always had that his life could be more than the sum of its pieces.
Maybe.
And, interestingly enough, judging from the expression on John's face, the
older man's got the exact same thought running through his head right now, too.
So maybe that maybe is more of a probably. Just maybe...
"I'd like that," he says, hesitant. "If we could, you know, give it a try."
"Good," John breathes, an ocean of relief in that one word, and his fingertips
are soft on Temp's chest. "That's... that's good, baby. More than good. But you
have to tell me what you need. Talk to me. About anything you want to, anything
and everything. We'll take it your speed, okay? Whatever you're comfortable
with."
Temp nods back, even though that doesn't make any sense, either. "But we've
already fucked and everything..."
"There's so much more to a relationship than sex, kid. There's so much more,
and sometimes those things matter so much more than..." John starts, and his
smile falters for a moment, like he's remembering something. Then he just
shakes his head and kisses Temp's knuckles again. "But trust me, okay? Can you
do that? We're going to be good together. We already are. Right?"
Temp nods back, smiling a little, his nervousness starting to die down, warmed
by the proximity of John's body, the joy in his eyes.
Maybe, just maybe...
"Yeah, yeah we are."
And as John starts kissing him again, starts touching him again, as Temp's own
need starts rising his blood once again, he figures that maybe he can let go a
little. Trust John, just like John's asking him to do.
Maybe, somehow, the past, his past, might never have to come up at all. He
could hide it forever, right? Leave it behind, and move into all of this
instead.
Yeah, he decides, melting under his lover’s gentle ministrations.
John never needs to know.
                                     +++++
It’s almost exactly a month after Temp’s birthday that John gets the visit from
his financial manager.
The one that completely ruins the best fucking month of his life.
John had been so scared, that night in Disneyland, when Temp locked up on him
like that. Afraid he’d overdone it, said all the wrong things, done everything
wrong... but then his boy had said that he loved him and asked him to make love
to him... and everything’s been glorious ever since.
They woke up together that morning, practically stuck together from no less
than three separate orgasms from the night before. Temp was smiling, and even
if that ever-present uncertainty was still in his eyes, he let himself be
pulled up and into the ridiculously opulent bathroom, leaning against the
counter as John ran them a bath.
“So, what do we do?” he’d asked. “Now that we’re, uhh...”
“Dating?” John had supplied.
“Yeah, dating.”
For starters, I’ll stop treating you like a five-dollar whore.
He hadn’t said it. Held out a hand instead, and asked if Temp wanted his back
scrubbed.
The kid had smiled at him as he came over, that rare, genuine, lovely smile of
his, and they’d kissed as the water lapped up around their thighs, filling up
to the sticky skin of their chests, Temp safely snuggled into his chest.
“I’m yours, baby,” he told the young man, hoping like hell he was saying the
right things. “All and only yours.”
Temp just nodded, and smiled, and said he liked the sound of that.
He doesn’t talk much about himself anymore, though, since that night, and
sometimes it feels like he’s drawing back into himself, further and further
away. Once, John caught him in the shower alone, crying. It’s natural, really,
that he’s skittish about it, that he’s uncomfortable. John knows how intense it
all must be for his young lover, starting a relationship in the middle like
this, after... after how it began.
So John’s spent the last month trying to make damn sure that Temp has those
first few stages - the courtship, the chance to feel it all out. That Temp
understands exactly how important, how special and how loved he really is.
Nothing sappy or anything like that - he’s restrained himself to doing
breakfast in bed maybe four, five times - but definitely all the things normal
couples do. Getting out, exploring Napa and Santa Barbara and London, only just
last week, cuddling on the couch and teaching him how to cook, sparring
sessions and morning runs and shopping - goddamn, that boy loves to shop, and
John thinks he might developing a hopeless kink for watching him try on clothes
- and talking, talking about everything...
Temp’s bright and curious and so, so eager to learn. He soaks up everything
John gives him, asks for more. He’s so full of light, beautiful in every way,
and he’s in love with him, with broken-down John Smith, of all people.
It’s all almost too good to be true, but here it is, real and shiny and
glorious...
“John?” his financial manager says from across his desk, clearing her throat.
“John, can we get back to business?”
He shakes himself, trying to drag his thoughts away from his boy and back to
the matter at hand. It’s hard. Last night, Temp had put his face in the pillows
and his ass up in the air and said... “Uhh, yeah, Stacy, yeah, you said there
was a problem with one of my accounts?”
His advisor, a serious woman in a serious, drab pant suit who gets paid a six-
figure salary to keep his money working for him, nods back, and hands him a
thin stack of papers, the first turned open to a withdrawal history on his
credit, graphed out in neat red lines. “John, what we have here,” and she
circles the spikes on the graph, “is a relatively minor expenditure of about
forty-eight thousand over the past three, four months, all told. The problem
is, is that on your checks...”
“Wait, you told me taking that that much cash raises eyebrows at the IRS.”
“And it does, so thank you for listening to me on that. But your checks were
all made out to a Templeton Brighton for, and I quote, services rendered.”
“Right. So?”
“Well, that makes it sound like your boyfriend’s a prostitute,” and she holds
up a hand to stifle his protests. “I’m not judging, mind. But if you get
audited, well...”
“Temp’s not a prostitute,” he replies, frowning, not sure where this is going.
“He doesn’t have an income right now, though, so we agreed that a stipend would
be acceptable...” and that had been the first thing he’d changed, Temp’s
payments. He still needed the stipend, though, but had only accepted it -
grudgingly - after John had explained it was a common practice in LA for wives
and girlfriends to be given a monthly allowance, and he didn’t see this to be
anything different.
“That’s fine, John,” Stacy says, and hesitates for a second. “But... but the
problem comes when the paper trail gets chased.”
“And? Something’s wrong with the paper trail?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Because Templeton Brighton, 24 years old, born Oak Harbor,
Ohio, April twenty-third, nineteen-eighty-eight, the one who holds the checking
account where your money’s been deposited, doesn’t exist.”
It takes a moment for that to even register. And when it does, John just
stares, unable, unwilling, to believe what he just heard. That... no, no, fuck
no... “But that can’t be, he’s got a passport, he’s got...”
“He doesn’t have a birth certificate. There’s no record of him anywhere in the
state of Ohio. He’s a ghost, John, he’s not...”
“You’re wrong,” he snaps, cutting her off. “You’re wrong, Stacy, and you were
wrong to look into this in the first place.”
“John, please, it’s my job to protect you. When I notice that every penny
you’ve given this kid has vanished fron his acocunt, each and every time he
makes a deposit, then yes, I get worried, and I have my people start looking
into it...”
“I know what I fucking pay you for, Stacy,” he tells her, feeling numb inside.
Temp can’t be someone else. It can’t be true. Because Temp is his. Templeton is
his lovely boy, his boy, his lover. Real and true and honest. Temp wouldn’t lie
to him, Temp wouldn’t pretend to be something else. Not like Russ, he wouldn’t
do what Russ did to him...
“John, I’m sorry I have to tell you this. But there are very strong indicators
here that Templeton, or whoever he is, might be a con man...”
John scrubs a hand over his face, trying to make sense of this, to not
overreact, to not grab his car keys and race home right the fuck now and
demand, demand, an explanation from the kid, to shake him until the truth falls
out of him like so much spare change from his pockets... “Do you think he’s
after my money?” he asks bleakly.
“I did notice the amounts have upped. Did he push for that?”
“No,” John says, shaking his head. “No, I did that on my own.”
“He ever asked you for anything?”
John doesn’t even have to think about that one, the memory of his boy, telling
him I don’t want your money strong in his mind. “No. He’s not.”
“You sure?”
He spreads his hands, rubbing his palms against each other slowly, needing an
answer, an answer to the most important thing here... “Did he really lie to me
about his name?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then who is he?”
Stacy nods. “I could have a PI look into it for you, boss, if you’d like...”
And John just sighs. No. No. This can’t be happening. It’s got to be a bad
dream. Because his boy wouldn’t lie to him. Wouldn’t make up a family and a
past and everything that he’s been saying about himself. He wouldn’t lie, he
won’t lie, he’ll tell John the truth, he will, this isn’t real, this can’t be
true... “No, Stacy, that’s fine. I’ll talk to him.”
It looks like she’s about to ask another question, but he silences her with a
look - the look all his employees know well by now - and she stands. “I sent
the soft copy of the documentation to your iPad. I think you’ll find it’s
pretty conclusive on...”
“Stacy... leave,” he says faintly, and just turns back to his window.
It feels like he’s been cut open, left empty, drained, used... Used again, just
like Russ used him in the end...
And John doesn’t move from his chair, lost in those evil memories, until his
secretary comes in and tells him the car’s downstairs, waiting.
For the first time since Temp moved in, John’s actually dreading going home.
                                     +++++
Despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it, John reads over those documents
three times on the way home.
Three times.
And he can’t help but come to the same conclusion. Templeton - no, Face, it has
to be Face because Templeton’s a fucking made-up name - has been lying to him.
His family, his past, everything real about him, everything John thought,
everything he’s fallen in love with... none of it’s real.
He wants to be mad about it, to rage and scream and break out the windows of
his car, but he can’t. It’s too much of a shock, too much of a disappointment,
and all he can feel is the grief of betrayal. For the first time in years, he
trusted someone, he felt something pure for someone, and now it’s all been
fucked to hell.
Just like with Russ. All those years they spent together, making it through the
Army together, all the time John had thought the two of them a happy couple,
thought he knew who Russ was...
...only to come home early from a business trip one day, about a year after
they’d gotten out, come out, moved in together, to find Russ in bed with a
teenage boy, another one just coming out of the bathroom.
“How often?” he’d demanded, once he’d kicked the boys out. “How fucking often
have you been fucking around on me?! How long has this been going on?!”
And Russ, damn him, had just looked at him with pity in his eyes, and asked if
he really thought they’d ever had anything other than an open relationship.
“Did you really expect that, Johnny? That you and I were exclusive?”
“But... but... Russ, why would you...”
“I do love you, Johnny,” Russ had said, and come over to give him a hug, his
cock still hard beneath his bathrobe. “I love you and I love living with you,
baby, but I need other things too. Things you can’t give me.”
“I’d give you anything, Russ. Please don’t...”
Russ had just laughed - laughed, goddammit - and kissed him, and told him that
he respected him too much to ask him to do some of the things that he wanted,
and whispered, don’t worry, we’re free of that fuckin’ system now, get out and
finally enjoy the scene here in LA, we can do anything we want, you can do
anything you want and I won’t mind...
John leans back in the seat now, eyes staring up at the roof of the car, trying
not to think about it. About how weak he’d been, how desperate, how he’d let
Russ take him back to bed and fuck him that night, right on the same sheets
where Russ had been fucking another man not an hour before.
“Nothing has to change,” Russ had said that morning over breakfast. “We’re both
still the same people. I’m no different that I was, John. I still need you...”
“I need you, too,” he’d replied. And he’d tried to convince himself of it all.
Oh, how he’d convinced himself that he loved Russ enough for it to be okay,
that he knew damn well that most gay men weren’t exclusive, that it was better
that way...
But John had never wanted anyone but Russ. And even though he never saw it
again - Russ promised him that much, at least - he always lay awake on the
nights when he was out of town, thinking about whatever cute junior partner or
client or escort Russ was probably with back home. In their bed, no less.
Theirs...
He still loved Russ. And over time, it became easier to deal with all the
infidelities, even though things had never been as good as they were before
that.
It had damaged everything, though. Ruined it all.
And now, now, another man he loves, a man who feels so right, who seems like
such a perfect fit...
Another man he loves has lied to him. About the deepest part of himself.
John doesn’t know who the young man living in his house is now. He just doesn’t
know. And part of him wants Templeton - Face, whoever the fuck the little
whoring bastard is - out, wants to toss him out on his ass, ruin him. That’s
what he has to do. Be strong, like he wasn’t strong with Russ, show him that
he’s not going to be treated like this, not going to be fucked over again...
But the second he gets home, Face greeting him at the door with a kiss, taking
his briefcase, slinging an arm around his neck and chattering happily about his
sparring session with Sosa that day, all that light coming out of him to wrap
around in a warm caress, he loses his nerve entirely.
He can’t kick him out. But he can’t, he can’t have him touching him right now,
not like this, not falling back into old patterns, that same old pattern,
settling for something, someone, who’s abusing his trust like this...
“John?” Face asks, stepping back as if slapped, when John jerks his hand away.
“John, baby? Everything okay?”
The executive tries to force a smile, tries to cover up all the confusion
broiling within him. He’s not disgusted with Face, not like he was with Russ,
because unless the kid’s taking clients during the day, he’s not sleeping
around on him... but fuck, maybe he is, if he’s willing to lie about his
family, he’s probably willing to keep making money on the side by...
“Fine, kid,” he says, and knows he sounds far from it. “I just... long day.”
“O-Okay,” the young man says brokenly, biting at his lip. “Do you want to order
in tonight or something? I was hoping maybe we could...”
“I’m tired, Face,” he says, and doesn’t look at him. Fuck, this is so fucked
up... he needs to figure this out, come up with a plan of attack, fix it
somehow, some way that doesn’t involve tossing Face back out on the streets
where he found him... “I don’t really want to do anything, okay?”
“John, if I’ve done something...”
And John really, really doesn’t want to hear the rest of that. “Look, kid, I’m
telling you... I just need some space right now. Okay? Just give me some
space.”
For a second, Temp - Face, jesus, John - doesn’t say anything. Then. “Okay,” he
says. “Okay, umm... I guess I could go out for a while, or...”
“Why don’t you do that?” John says, snapping more than he meant to, and wave of
shame washes over him as he feels Face, still holding his briefcase, cringe,
eyes to the floor.
“Let me go put something else on, and I’ll get out of your hair,” he says
quietly, and then he’s gone, blessedly gone, padding back to the bedroom.
John relaxes at the sound of the room’s doorknob clicking shut, and goes to the
kitchen to get himself a cigar and the bottle of cheap scotch he used to drink
on nights when he was feeling particularly shitty, back before Facce came to
live with him.
Everything’s been so much better with the kid around, he thinks wistfully,
staring down at the half-full bottle, and then, overcome with anger at the
whole fucking situation, hurtles it at the wall above the sink.
He watches the amber liquid drip down the marble backsplash, feeling none the
better for it.
Fuck, there has to be a way of dealing with this...
John’s not really sure how long it is before Face comes out of the back
bedroom, dressed up in one of his crazy layered outfits, complete with scarf,
that’s so ridiculous and so goddamn good looking that it makes him ache to just
shove the kid up against a wall and rut into him until they both come. But they
can’t, he can’t let himself...
“I’m headed out,” the kid says, fidgeting a little, and then asks something
about what time John wants him back. Like, you got a time you want me back, or
something like that.
“No,” John says, distracted by the broken glass on the counter.
“Oh, right,” Face says, sad now, and it takes all of John’s willpower to ignore
that, too. “Well, it’s been, umm... thanks. For everything, I guess.”
“Just go... give me some space, kid,” John tells him, feeling desperate now.
And then, mercifully, Temp’s gone, and John can think again.
John gets another bottle of scotch - one of the better ones - and heads out on
the balcony and tries to think. Clear his head. Figure out a way to get his boy
to tell him the truth, a way for them to stay together...
Nothing comes. Not all night. Nothing by the morning, when John wakes up,
bleary, head pounding, after a night of dreaming about his boy, on the outdoor
sofa where he’d first given into his little conman, his beautiful boy, first
had him, loved him, the way he’s meant to be loved, all those weeks ago...
And it hits him then.
How little it matters.
Where Temp came from, how Temp grew up. Because Temp is here with him, right
now, right here, and whatever else may be true or not true about him, he’s sure
that he loves the kid, that the kid loves him. Temp never did anything that
Russ did, never lied about the most important thing between them...
...that Temp’s been on the streets, been working as a hooker for god knows how
long - if the Ohio story isn’t true - and maybe he was ashamed, maybe he was
just trying to hide from his past, leave it behind him, the way John so
desperately wants to shed himself of his own...
So he runs to the bedroom, hoping like hell Temp’s back by now, that he can
wake him up and tell him it’s okay, that he’s not angry, that it’s okay, it’s
okay, they’ll figure it out, it can work, he just needs Temp to be honest with
him...
But the room’s empty.
Cold and empty.
And where Temp should be sleeping, there’s only John’s iPad, taken out of the
briefcase, and he feels his heart starting to quicken as he walks towards it,
as he picks it up, opens it up...
...to where Temp was reading the documentation.
...on how he doesn’t exist.
John feels fear wash through him, clean through him, and he hears what Temp
asked him last night.
Do you want me to come back?
And he’d said no.
                                     +++++
Temp doesn’t understand - doesn’t want to try to understand - the knot of fear
that’s been growing his stomach for the past half hour...
...sitting in this very nice hotel room...
...waiting for tonight’s john to show up.
It’s not like he wants to be here. Or no, he does want to be here, sort of,
because this is the only thing he knows how to do and since he was a fucking
idiot, let his fucking feelings get in the way of his better since, and what
was he doing, not keeping the money? So he needs to be here, needs the two
grand a week Brock so generously offered to pay him.
I made you an offer a while back, Face. Why the fuck didn’t you take me up
then?
I had a private contract, Mr. Pike, one that was just too good to turn down...
And yet now here you are, back in my club, begging me for work. How fucking
awesome is this?
He hadn’t wanted to go to that strip club, into its back office, watch a boy
years younger than himself sucking the pimp off while having to stand there and
wait to talk business. And it bothered him then - it’s still bothering him now
- that it bothered him as much as it did, the way Brock had grabbed the boy’s
head and fucked his mouth and then tossed him aside when he was done.
It wasn’t the worst thing Temp’s ever seen. Wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever
done himself. Hell, he’s been in this game since he was sixteen, he knows what
happens to underage boys here in LA, has a dozen stories like that himself. But
something about the way Brock had been treating him, how he was only an object,
uncared for, unloved, bothered him.
It’s still bothering him.
He thinks John’s probably ruined him on this life, though, made sex somehow...
somehow different. He doesn’t know what’s changed about it, exactly, but it
didn’t feel right yesterday morning, watching that, and it doesn’t feel right
now, waiting here for a client.
Hell, he’s only slept with John for the past three, four months. That’s the
longest streak of monogamy he’s had since he was fourteen, since... ever. And
part of him had almost dared to hope that John was going to be his last...
Which was really stupid of him.
And Temp wants to hate John. Not for kicking him out - that was always going to
happen. No, but for lying to him. For making him believe things could be better
than what they are. That sex, the world itself, doesn’t have to be this cruel
exercise in self-indulgence. For convincing him that somebody in the world gave
a shit about him, really cared about him...
“I’ll give you a month,” Brock had said. “Prove yourself to me, and we’ll write
you a contract, okay?” He’d ruffled his hair, and smiled at the younger man,
looking every inch the shark his reputation holds him to be. “Cute thing like
you, you better fuck like an angel, you got it?”
Temp checks the time.
He wants to hate John for this, but he knows he’s only got himself to blame. He
should have known he’d never be able to out-smart the older man, never get away
with lying to him. John had found him out, had discovered that he wasn’t who he
said he was, and so of course the man’s love for him had evaporated. Of course
John had thrown him out. It makes perfect sense, John not wanting him after
learning about who, what, he really was...
But that, of course, would have happened if he’d told John the truth from the
beginning.
What good was Templeton Peck to anyone?
And evidently, he’s not good enough to build himself another person to
disappear into.
“This is what you’re meant for,” he tells himself, rubbing a hand over his
chin, wishing he could stop hearing John’s voice in his head telling him that
he’s beautiful. “This is what you’re good at.”
He checks the clock again, but there’s no need; the door’s opened now, and
there’s Brock, grinning at him, a huge bear of a man next to him that Temp
automatically knows is the client. Brock makes introductions - Temp barely
manages to register the john’s name over the pounding of his heart, over the
memory of John’s hands, so gentle on his chest, on his neck, on his cock, come
for me, love...
“Enjoy yourself,” Brock says, and the door clicks shut, and Temp’s alone again.
This is what you’re good at
Jaw set, grim, Temp slides off the bed with a grace he doesn’t feel right now.
“Hi baby,” he begins, purring, running a hand up around the back of the john’s
neck. “I’m Face. What should I call you tonight?”
The client chuckles, and runs both hands, heavy and hard, down the young man’s
ribs. Temp feels the wedding ring there and tries not to wonder about what kind
of woman this man’s wife must be, if she knows what her husband does on nights
like this, if she waits up for him, wondering where he is, if she loves him...
But he shoves that away. Focus, goddammit...
“Face, is it?” the john whispers in his ear.
“Mm-hmm,” Face says, and arches into him, just the way men always love, the way
John always loved... “So, baby, what’s it going to be?”
The john nips at his ear, at his neck. “God, you’re a delicious young thing,
aren’t you?”
“Not half as good as you, baby,” Temp replies, nerves settling a little as he
forces himself back into the old routine he always used - uses! - for men he
doesn’t quite have a read on yet, and he feels good enough to not feel guilty
at all to slip a hand between them and palm the john’s cock through his pants.
“So, you gonna give me this, huh? Gonna make me take it?”
“Gonna make you beg for it, baby boy,” the john grins, and bites at his neck.
They’re backing up towards the bed now, almost there, and Temp feels a fresh
wave of panic crash through him. Oh, oh fuck, he can’t, not to John, not after
he promised John... only him, only ever him, from now on... “So why don’t you
call me daddy, and we’ll get this show on the road?”
The back of Temp’s legs hit the mattress, and the john bites him again, and he
remembers John’s lips on that same spot, the sound of John’s voice in his ear.
...this is me loving you...
He can’t. He just can’t.
He can’t do this any more.
Because he suddenly realizes what John did to him, what John gave him, what
John taught him, the past few weeks. That it wasn’t just sex between them, that
it’s so much better when it’s not just about sex, when sex means something
more, that sex can mean so, so much more, this is me making love to you...
“No,” he says, clear as he can, and shoves the john away. Who, amazingly, lets
himself be shoved. “No, fuck this, man, I’m not...”
But the john just grins wide, an evil, nasty grin. Like this is exactly what he
wants everything to be right now. And Temp remembers too late.
Kinky clients.
“Now son, is that any way to talk to your father?” And, before Temp can even
process that, the fucker’s on top of him, tearing off his clothes.
He has a sudden flash, Temp does, right as his shirt’s ripped open and thrown
aside, of John, laying next to him, sitting next to him, still buried, deep
inside of him, whispering to him...
...stay with me. Promise me you’ll stay with me, Temp...
And, right as his jeans are yanked down around his ankles, something inside of
him just snaps.
                                     +++++
John makes it about two days - fifty-one hours, to be exact - before he gets
the news that breaks him completely.
He's trying to be strong. Promised himself he would be. That he wouldn’t go
looking for Temp. That he’d honor his promise to the kid; any time he wanted to
leave, he was free to go. Even if it wasn’t necessarily Temp’s choice, even if
Temp wanted to stay but thought he couldn’t, wasn’t welcome... but for all John
knows, the kid left because he didn’t want to be arrested. There’s just no way
to be certain about the reason for his departure.
So, despite the fact that John wants him back so bad that it aches inside, that
John hasn’t gotten more than a few hours of shallow sleep in the past two
nights, missing the warmth of that lithe body beside him, worried sick about
where the kid might be, he hasn’t looked. He’s trying to be logical about it.
Temp didn’t leave with a dime, though. John confirmed that with Stacy yesterday
morning. Absolutely nothing in the bank account at all, just the bare minimum
left to keep it open.
“What happened to it?” he’d asked her. It was a big red flag to him, and he
wanted to know, needed to know, or it was just going to fuel his grief over
losing yet another lover with a pointless search
“Looks like he took it out in certified checks. But the bank won’t tell me
who...”
“I don’t care what you do, I’ll keep you out of jail, just find out where that
money went."
"John, if you want me to get the PI..."
"I just want to know what happened to the money."
It’s eating at him now. Both Temp’s absence and Stacy’s silence are eating at
him...
And now, here he is, sitting in a mind-numbing meeting about the quarterly
gains in the East Asian market, or some shit like that, and he needs to focus,
he really does.
But he can’t keep his mind on the presentation.
The junior partner is droning on and on about about figures and numbers that
John should be finding the patterns in, approving or disapproving, offering
strategies to fix the problems that always, always crop up during these things.
But no, he keeps checking his phone for Stacy’s call, staring out the window,
thinking about Temp, checking his phone...
It buzzes in his hand, the next time he checks it under the table.
St David Parish
He frowns, and something tickles in the back of his mind. Why does that sound
familiar?
Where is it? he types back.
The answer comes two slides later.
Los Angeles Diocese.
Get a step ahead Stacy, John huffs, thumbs dancing over the screen, irritated
now. Why would Temp do something like that? Is it a front for something? What
is it? Why would he care?
No response from her. Which means she’s in her office, researching. But she’s
doing it way too goddamn slow for John, so he pulls up the web browser and
finds it himself.
A quick drill-down through the diocese website gives him the parish name, the
parish name gives him a list of search results on google, and google gives him
a story from a few years ago about a priest name David Magill who’s running the
last Catholic orphanage in the state, speaking out about concerns with
California requiring Catholic adoption agencies to adopt to gay couples...
It could be about the best way to sharpen pencils, for all John cares. Because
he only reads a few lines of that before the name, that name, clicks in his
head.
That’s the priest Temp had been talking about. The one from his parish in Oak
Harbor, the one who’d tried to get him into college, into the Army...
...and, as all the pieces that never fit before, all those odd little things
Temp would say, the way he would behave, swirl into place, John suddenly
realizes the depth of his mistake.
Temp hadn’t been making up his entire past.
Just parts of it.
All the parts he wanted to forget.
The bit about his family, about his mom’s cookies and his brothers playing in
the leaf piles... that was all some fantasy of a kid who grew up in some
central LA group home, who only had one person in his life, that priest, who
was there for him, who lost his virginity - maybe raped, who knows? - when he
was just a kid, 14, who’d been hooking long, long before that six month window
he’d given John on their first night together.
Temp... Temp hadn’t been lying to him, hadn’t gone to the trouble and expense
of getting a fucking forged passport, to con him or anything like that. Nope.
Temp was just a kid wanting to escape the ugliness of everything that he’s
endured in his life, a story that he was too scared or ashamed or embarrassed
or whatever to share, even with the man he said he loved, and fuck, fool he
might be, John believed him that night when Temp said he was in love with him,
believed it with all his heart...
And orphan? He’s probably been thrown away by every person in his life, which
would explain why he’s always so nervous, why he’s so hesitant, why he has
absolutely no idea what it’s like to be loved, who probably thinks he’s been
thrown away by the one man who promised him to show him...
“Fuck,” John groans, and shoves back from the table, rushing from the room,
heedless of the meeting that’s still going on around him.
One of the other partners stops him with a quick, “John, where the hell are you
going, we’ve still got Japan to get through?” before he reaches the threshold
of the door.
He pauses, flashing his phone at the shocked boardroom. “Family emergency,” he
says, and dashes out.
A snarky “what family?!” follows him out into the hall, out towards the
elevators, but John doesn’t care about that right now.
He doesn’t care about anything but getting to St. David’s.
                                     +++++
John double-checks the address on his iPhone, just in case.
It does nothing to sooth the nervousness riling in his blood right now, as he
stares up at the imposing structure in front of him.
It’s a big, rambling, three-story brick structure that looks like it’s from the
1950s, the wings of it wrap around a central courtyard, closed off by a single
black fence, full of tetherball courts and swings and old toys left out in
little patches of grass that poke through the broken concrete. But the sign
reads St David’s K-8, not orphanage or whatever the PC term is these days, and
it’s with not a little apprehension that John pulls around into the office
parking lot and heads in.
“Sure,” the secretary tells him, when John asks, “Father Magill’s just
finishing up Mass. The kids have it every Tuesday.”
“Can I speak with him?”
“He should be back in his office soon, if you want to wait for him,” she says,
and motions at a closed door.
John looks at it, looks around at all the construction paper Easter Bunnies on
the walls of the elementary school office, and knows damn well he can’t have
the conversation he needs to have here.
He’d be too ashamed.
These poor kids. Are they all orphans here? How many of them spent their
childhoods alone, with no hope for the future? How many of them end up like
Temp, unloved, abused by the people around them, taken advantage of, the way he
took advantage of Temp at the start of things, treating him - fucking him -
like he was some kind of mindless toy...
So no, John can’t do this here.
But then, why in the hell does he have any right to do it at all?
“Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Smith?” the secretary asks, pointing at a
chair. “Father Magill shouldn’t be more than ten minutes or so...”
“No, no, that’s fine,” he replies, and shoves back from the desk, headed for
the door, overcome with doubt about the whole thing. Not today, he can’t do
this today... “I can see him another time.”
“Mr. Smith,” she calls, right before he can get out the door, and there’s
something about the tone of her voice that makes him turn around. “Mr. Smith,
if you need to talk to him, head on over to the church.”
“It’s really okay...” he begins.
“Everybody needs somebody to talk to some time,” the secretary says firmly.
She’s smiling at him now, a mix of pity and understanding in her eyes, and John
finds himself nodding back.
She tells him that Father Magill’s probably in the vestibule or one of the
other back rooms, so that’s where John heads. It’s empty now, the church, the
lights off, nothing but the daylight coming through the stained glass. He tries
to ignore the butterflies rising in his stomach, tries to think of what to say,
how to phrase it, how to make it sound like it’s not what it is.
How does one tell a priest that you’re in love with another man?
Turns out, though, he doesn’t have to worry about broaching the subject at all.
Because just as he turns into the corner around the choir to head down the
hallway he saw there that has to lead back into the back, a man in priest-black
- a man who has to be Father Magill - is already coming out.
With his arm around...
“Oh, god,” John breathes, and his heart damn near stops at the sight.
It’s Temp.
Temp. Wearing some cast-off pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s a little
too small, the name of the school printed over the front of it. His hair looks
like he just rolled out of bed, like he hasn’t touched it all day. But that’s
beisde the point. A small matter next to the vicious bruising across his neck,
the black eye that’s spread down half his left cheek, his right hand, clearly
badly mangled and huddled against his chest. He looks like he’s limping...
But he comes to a halt the second he hears John, and it cuts the older man to
the bone - stopping him dead in his tracks - to see a flash of unmitigated fear
in his boy’s eyes.
Right before the kid buries his face in the priest’s shoulder.
“Temp...” John hears the priest say - and that sends a small thrill through
him, that maybe his boy hadn’t lied to him about his first name, at least - but
the kid just shakes his head, and John can see him shivering. “Temp, you know
that man?”
The priest looks up at John then, expression inscrutable, but when he speaks,
his voice is disapproving. “Are you the one that did this to him?” he demands.
“And then you have the temerity to come here looking for him? What kind of sick
bastard comes to a church...”
“He talks about you sometimes,” John says faintly, taking a step forward, hand
half-open, wanting so badly to go over there and hug his broken boy to him. “I
just thought... I was so...”
“He talks about me?” And something very sad comes over the priest’s face. “Does
he talk about the rest of it, sir? About what a bright young man he was, about
what kind of future he could have had? Or didn’t you care about that? Just saw
some... some teen you could put out on the streets?”
That takes a moment to sink in, and then John blinks. What? “No, I’m not his p-
pimp... and he’s not that young, he’s in his twenties...” He shakes his head,
and he realizes he’s still walking forward. If he could just touch, he thinks,
if he could just show the kid... “Temp, baby, please look at me. Fuck, I’m so
sorry about...”
It only earns him another rebuking glare from Magill, who wraps his other arm
around Temp and whispers something in his ear. The kid shakes his head again,
to whatever it was that was just said to him, and the priest touches the back
of his hair. “I think you should leave,” he says to John, and it’s hardly a
request. “Right now, sir.”
“Temp....”
“Sir? Am I going to have to call the police to remove you from the premises?”
“I’m not his pimp!” he insists again. “Father, I’ve done a lot of bad things in
my life, but selling another human being is not one of them.”
“Purchasing, then?” the old priest observes, and sighs when John’s face goes
red, shame welling up in him anew. “If you’d like to come to confession, it’s
at four in the afternoon on Saturday. Until then, please, I need to get him to
a doctor.”
“I can take him home. He’d be more comfortable there,” John says, a knot
forming in his stomach. He knows, knows, at some level, that if he loses Temp
now, he’ll never find him again. And maybe that’s what the kid wants, but he
can’t let him go, thining he’s been thrown away. Not again, not ever again
should the man he loves ever have to feel rejected... “Please. I’ve got a good
doc, she’ll come over, get him patched up. If you’d just let me...”
And the priest makes like he’s going to say something, but right then Temp
pulls away, silencing his old mentor.
“It’s okay, Father David,” his boy says, and the words are loud in the still
space. “He’s not... he’s the one I told you about.”
“Temp, that doesn’t make this okay. Makes it worse in some ways. If you’re...”
“It’s too late for me to be the man you wanted me to be,” Temp says flatly.
John, silent, feeling like he’s got no right to intrude on this right now, can
see the shock on the old priest’s face. “I am what I am. Here, now.”
“You don’t have to be that, son. You’ve got a choice.”
“I know,” Temp says, and gives the priest a slow hug. It looks like it’s
hurting him to move. It also looks like he whispers something in his old
mentor’s ear, because Father Magill grabs him up in a tight hug and kisses him
on the top of his head.
The kid doesn’t look back as he walks away.
Coming back to him.
And John thinks he might drown in the blue of Temp’s eyes.
“Baby...” he starts, but the kid just stops right out of arm’s reach, rubbing
his uninjured hand along the line of his jaw, which John notices is devoid of
the stubble that’s been there the last few months. Hesitating, John realizes,
and if his heart wasn’t broken before...
“I didn’t want you to leave,” he says softly, and lays a hand in the kid’s
matted curls. “I understand if you wanted to go...”
“I didn’t,” he says. He’s shaking again. “Why are you here, anyway?”
John frowns. Of all the things he imagined his boy saying to him... “You know
why,” he says carefully, aware that Father Magill is still there, still
watching them.
Temp’s brow furrows. “But you didn’t... I mean, you don’t know anything about
me. It was all a story before.”
“Kid...”
“I lied to you,” he blurts out. “It wasn’t me, really me, you fell in love
with. Why would you still want me around?”
John sighs. There are so many things they have to discuss, so many things they
need to pull out and look at and examine and put to rest between them. So many
things. But all that... they can do that, can’t they? It’s not impossible,
right?
And looking at his boy’s face, his battered face, that expression that’s
clearly communicating just how hopeless he’s feeling right now, remembering
what he looks like when he smiles, when he’s happy, John can’t think of
anything but giving that happiness back to him.
“There are... there are things I didn’t talk about either,” he admits, and Temp
looks even more confused. “But we can start over, can’t we? Get to know each
other, build it all up right, better, this time?”
Temp nods slowly, just once, and presses into John, the way he always does when
he wants to be held. “My hand really hurts,” he says quietly. “Think Doc
Sullivan could be there when we get back? With, like, Vicoden?”
“Yeah,” John promises, but he doesn’t feel as relieved as he wishes he could.
“Yeah, I’ll have her waiting for us, okay?”
Nudging closer, Temp nods again, but stays quiet.
All the way out to the car.
Through the phone call John makes to Sullivan’s office. Through another fifteen
minutes of LA traffic.
But once they hit the on-ramp to the freeway, Temp shifts, and stares at John.
“You’re really taking me back?” he asks.
“Sweetheart, I never wanted you to leave,” John says, knuckles white on the
steering wheel.
Temp’s quiet for a moment, and then... “you said I could talk to you about
anything once. Was that true?”
“Of course, baby. Anything.”
John means it. He does. He’s willing to know - wants to know - anything and
everything about this young man. He’s prepared for it.
But what comes out of the kid’s mouth next, he’s got absolutely no words to
respond with.
“I’ve been... hooking... since I was sixteen, you know, the last three, four
years. It’s not... I never thought about it like it was any big deal, you know,
the sex and everything. But I couldn’t do it last night, and I think there’s
something wrong with me...”
John damn near runs the Audi up the tailpipe of the car in front of him.
Sixteen, dear god... sixteen and on the streets of LA, doing that... barely
twenty now... and they probably didn’t celebrate his real birthday. All that
fuss he’d made over it, and how the hell had that made Temp feel?
But...
“John? I... I’m sorry if... but last night, I couldn’t, I mean, I didn’t...”
“It’s okay,” John hears himself say in response, feeling strangely disconnected
from himself. “Talk to me, kid, please.”
So Temp does.
                                     +++++
Temp doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t mean to say everything he says to John on the car
ride back to the penthouse apartment. He doesn’t want John to know about this,
about him, about the Templeton Peck who ran away, who became a whore to keep
from starving, all the terrible things he’s done since then.
But John said it was okay to talk. Temp’s too tired to stop it from all coming
out anyway - tired from the fight last night, tired from running from the
hotel, from conning a ride out of the cabbie to the only place he’d ever felt
safe that wasn’t John’s bed, from breaking into the church, from falling asleep
on the old couch in one of the little back rooms just like he was fourteen
again, terrified of the dorms, tired from the conversation he’d had with the
old priest today, sobbing through his time with John, falling in love with
John...
And John, amazingly, doesn’t stop somewhere and kick him out of the car. Not
even when he tells him about Pike. Or the fucker who damn near raped him.
Rape, Temp marvels to himself. He’d nevr have thought that possible with a
paying client before meeting John...
“Did he?” John asks, downshifting and roaring around somebody in the left lane
at a completely ludicrous speed.
“No,” Temp says, and tries to smile, thinking about the fight. He’s never been
that scared in his life, but after he’d stopped panicking and started acting,
gotten the upper hand, gotten the guy’s back like John’s showed him how to do,
managed to choke him out, all he could think about, watchign that limp body hit
the floor, was whether or not John would be proud of him for doing it. “I
kicked his ass,” he finishes with a cockiness he doesn’t feel.
John looks over at him and smiles back thinly. “Good man, Temp,” he says.
Temp feels something expand in his chest, nods back, and keeps talking.
It’s amazing how much better the talking is making him feel.
He runs out of words by the time they pull into the garage under John’s
building. Temp feels exhausted, worn out by the unaccustomed act of spilling so
much of himself to another human being. He feels gross and dirty - he hasn’t
had a shower in almost twenty four hours now. His injuries hurt, his hand
throbbing in pain, the motrin Father Magill gave him earlier starting to wear
off. And he’s afraid, he’s afraid to look John in the eye, to see what the
other man’s thinking right now...
But John’s hands are soft on his shoulders as he helps him out of the car after
they’ve parked, and his voice is subdued, respectful, when he thanks Temp for
sharing on the way up to the penthouse loft, and the kiss they share in front
of the door seems a promise that neither of them can vocalize yet.
Doc Sullivan - the same nice lady who did his STD test - is waiting, as
promised, just inside the kitchen. John makes coffee while she busies herself
with cleaning and stitching and bandaging.
“Your hand’s not broken,” she says as she feels the ridge of his knuckles. “But
I think you’ve pulled some tendons. Feel that?” and she pushes something that
makes Temp retch. “We’ll get that fixed.”
John stand behind him and rubs his shoulders, lets Temp lean into the firmness
of his chest, as she works on getting that bound.
She gives him some painkillers after that, better than the generic Walgreens
brand Father Magill had at the parish, and Temp lets John lay him down on the
sofa in the den, drained but comfortable. He floats as the doc and John talk,
and only notices she’s gone when John kisses him on the forehead again and asks
him if he’d like some lunch.
He nods.
The white bean soup from that first night makes a reappearance about twenty
minutes later. Temp knows John well enough by now to know that this probably
symbolizes something to the executive, means something to him, but he’s out of
words, so he can’t ask what is it.
John snuggles him back against his chest again, and feeds him, one spoonful at
a time, when they both realize his right hand isn’t going to work the utensil
on its own. They surf the cable until they find a channel that’s showing The
Little Mermaid, and John asks if that’s a painful reminder of his stupid
mistake with his not-birthday, and Temp finds it in himself to say that it’s
still the best thing anyone’s ever done for him.
“You trusting me is the best thing anyone’s ever done for me,” John whispers in
his ear, equally awed and reverent. “I hope you keep trusting me, baby.”
“I’m sorry I left,” Temp says, watching Ariel sing about how much she loves
Prince Erik.
“I still love you,” John replies and hugs him closer.
The movie stays on. But Temp’s tired and his eyes won’t stay open, cheek
turning into John’s chest, hands settling on the body-warmed crispness of his
white dress shirt, wanting to be closer to the beat of that strong heart
within.
As he lets himself drift off, buoyed by the painkillers and the stress of the
night and the release of all those things in the car, Temp finds himself
dreaming about the beach John once promised him, white sand and the soft
lapping of the waves and the sun just setting over a shimmering sea.
In his dream, John says I love you, stay with me, be with me always...
And he finds himself reaching out, murmuring back...
“Yes what, sweetheart?” John asks him, kissing him, and Temp realizes he’s in
bed, that’s it’s morning, that his lover’s up over top of him, trailing his big
fingers in a delicate touch over the bruises on his neck. They don’t hurt as
much now. Not like this. “You sleep well?”
He blinks, feeling a bit befuddled as to why he’s here and how in the hell it’s
so much later when he was only asleep for a moment, but none of that really
matters, he knows. Because he’s here, he’s back here, he’s really, really
here... “You trusted me, too,” he croaks out, surprised at how dry his throat
is. He reaches a hand up, and John meets it, folding it into his own. “You...”
“Always,” John says, and kisses him, and tells him that maybe it’s time he was
honest, too.
And this, Temp knows for the first time, as John starts talking, as John’s eyes
fill with tears that don’t quite fall, this big, scary, terrifying, beautiful,
unknowable thing between them is something that’s going to work out.
Somehow, someway, it’s going to work out.
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