Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5402777.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      White_Collar
  Relationship:
      Peter_Burke/Neal_Caffrey
  Character:
      Neal_Caffrey, Peter_Burke, Mozzie_(White_Collar)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Hurt/
      Comfort, Abduction, Drug-Induced_Sex, Prison_Sex, Escape, Sexual_Liaison,
      Loss_of_Trust
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-11 Completed: 2015-12-19 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 12592
****** Saving Yourself ******
by My_Alter_Ego
Summary
     Sometimes the only way to save yourself is by running away. It seemed
     that Neal Caffrey had been doing that his whole life. Sometimes, the
     dangers that you were fleeing from were obvious, but sometimes you
     didn’t recognize the peril until it blindsided you, and then it was
     almost too late.
     AU that encompasses Neal Caffrey’s life pre-series through the end of
     Season 6
***** Chapter 1 *****
     “Mr. Lazarus”—such a pretentious street name—had risen from the dead
several times. Competitors in his small patch of St. Louis turf had tried to
take him out time and time again when he was on the way up. But, ultimately, he
had crushed them all. He had been a punk street hustler from the time that he
had developed his first spots of acne. Drugs had gotten him his start in that
dark world, but now in his thirties, he had distanced himself from all that.
Now he was king of a new empire—a very lucrative one, and he wore expensive
suits and Rolexes. Mr. Lazarus’ hardscrabble wealth had come from a stable.
There weren’t any four-legged thoroughbreds in that stable, but there was an
array of prime flesh that he pedaled to those who had a predilection for a bit
of strange.
     It always amazed the entrepreneur that there were so many males in the
world who liked to switch-hit from time to time. Many were wealthy, married men
with attractive, spa-toned wives and spoiled prep-school kids in the McMansions
with the putting-green lawns. They seemed to have it all, but apparently, the
trappings weren’t enough to satisfy their forbidden lusts. But Mr. Lazarus
didn’t judge. He was an equal opportunity provider; as long as you had the
money, you got the goods. And Mr. Lazarus had Grade A goods—he made sure of
that by testing it out himself. He made no excuses for his own choices. He
liked sex any which way. Big-breasted women or slim-hipped young men were all a
turn-on for him.
     Now the trick to being successful in this “cottage industry” was to have a
continuous fresh supply of product. Mr. Lazarus’ scouts were always on the
lookout for new faces and promising new talent. His associates were well paid
when they succeeded in bringing him a candidate that met his demandingly high-
standards. Tonight they had outdone themselves.
     The dark-haired boy with the startling blue eyes was young. They had been
observing him for weeks before the snatch and grab in a seedy suburb of the
city. They thought that he was sixteen or seventeen, and he seemed to spend
more time in the local pool hall than going to school. The hunters had done
some half-hearted research, delving into his background only as thoroughly as
their covert efforts would allow. It wouldn’t do for a worried parent to call
the police and file a missing person’s report. This youth lived with a mother
who had a tenuous grip on the realities of day-to-day living. Most likely, if
she even noticed her son’s absence, she would assume that he had simply run
away to join the cadre of teenagers whose existence was a life on the streets.
     Right now the slim adolescent with the high cheekbones, thin, straight
nose, and chiseled chin was docile and pliable thanks to the Rohypnol that had
been slipped into his water bottle at the pool hall. Mr. Lazarus was pleased
and gently guided him to a bedroom for his interview. When the sweatshirt and
jeans were gone, and the underwear peeled away, even jaded Mr. Lazarus thought
that he was a beautiful creature, and found himself hard and throbbing in avid
anticipation.
     Perhaps he should have taken a bit more time for the prep, but this kid
would remember nothing after the drugs wore off. He hurriedly turned the boy
onto his stomach, spread those luscious cheeks, and plunged in, or at least
partway in. With a knowledge born of many such encounters, Mr. Lazarus knew
this was the first time that a hard prick had tried to gain entrance to the
pleasures beyond. The kid screamed and began to writhe, and that actually
turned his tormentor on even more. Holding those boyish hips in a tight grip,
he surged ahead time and again, getting a bit further with each thrust until
finally he was balls deep inside his captive. He rocked back and forth with a
demon ferocity, the cries beneath him spurring him on.
     Mr. Lazarus was in his prime, but that didn’t stop him from popping a
little blue pill before such an encounter. He certainly wasn’t a clock-watcher,
but he sensed that he had outdone himself this time. He was quite sure that the
fucking had gone on for close to an hour. At some point during the frenzy, the
boy had stopped fighting him and lay listless, his face turned into the
mattress. He had surrendered to the inevitable.
     Afterward, with his prick now spent and flaccid, Lazarus inspected his
handiwork. The ring of muscle in the kid’s ass was still slightly open, and
rivulets of the rapist’s semen mixed with blood were oozing onto the sheets.
Well, everybody had to have their cherry popped at some point. This kid was
lucky that it had been done with finesse by a maestro. The flesh-peddler then
donned a robe and went into the living room where the two “head hunters”
waited. He took two banded stacks of cash from a desk drawer and handed them
their reward. Then the magnanimous employer told the two that they were free to
avail themselves of some recreation in the bedroom, if they chose. Afterwards,
they were to take the latest recruit to the “Stable.”
                                  **********
     The “Stable” was a sprawling brick structure located on an isolated
private road in a St. Louis suburb. It had once been an upscale girl’s boarding
school, but the recession of the nineties had seen student enrollment decline
dramatically. The Board of Trustees tried to ride out the financial crises by
taking on day students, but that, too, ended as the country’s economic woes
continued well into the new millennium. Ultimately, bankruptcy was filed and
the property went into receivership. Banks were also trying to divest
themselves of debt, so, five years ago, everything was put on the auction
block. Mr. Lazarus had then serendipitously acquired his new space for a song,
and set about making it habitable again.
     The boarders who now resided there were all boys between the ages of
fifteen and twenty. They slept in dormitory-like accommodations and were cared
for by a staff that was also all male. The hired help made sure that each kid
ate wholesome meals in the dining hall, exercised daily in the downstairs gym,
and was examined by a doctor on a monthly basis. Most importantly, they made
certain that none of the residents ever escaped from their captivity. On the
nights that there was a call for their services, the designated boy would be
driven to his destination by a handler/body guard who waited patiently until
all business transactions were complete. Only then would the kid on work-
release come back home to the Stable.
     The enrolled “students” at the former girls school now numbered thirty-
two, so it was unusual for a boy to be called upon to perform more than three
or four times a week. During the down time, they could recuperate, if
necessary, because depending on the client’s kinks, sometimes those business
sessions were quite rigorous.
     It was fair to say that Mr. Lazarus had an investment to protect, so there
were safeguards in place. If one of his kids came back with excessive bruising,
ligature marks, nasty cuts or lacerations, or any overt sign of over-the-top
brutality, the client was advised to seek service elsewhere. Even though the
customer was dishing out thousands of dollars per hour, he still had to play by
Mr. Lazarus’ rules. 
     Likewise, when the hired babysitters on the payroll had to inflict
discipline on a wayward student, they were very skilled in paying attention to
exactly how the punishment was doled out. Punches to the kidneys were extremely
painful, got the point across that acting out was fruitless, and left no marks.
And, most importantly, the boss stayed happy.
     Neal had been on the receiving end of reprimands from the very first
moment that he had awakened in this unknown place. As yet, he hadn’t been sent
out on any assignments with clients because his captors knew that they would
have to break his spirit first. It was a battle of wills with winner take all.
     Two weeks into his stay, Neal had tried to flee through the downstairs gym
and adjacent indoor swimming pool. The two huge men in pursuit caught him,
landed the expected punches, and then threw him into the deep end of the pool.
Neal had never learned to swim, and he was going down for the third time. None
of the other petrified boys gawking at the spectacle was brave enough to rescue
him, so Neal did what he had always had to do—he saved himself. Sputtering and
gasping, he flailed out with awkward strokes because it was now the proverbial
crossroads of “sink or swim.” His first night call-out was the very next
evening.
     Since Neal was still a flight risk, the early assignments were unique. He
was brought to hotel suites or private homes of clients who were into bondage
and degradation. First, he was forcibly tethered to a bed by his bodyguards,
then very depraved johns who were titillated by his helpless writhing and
moaning commenced ravaging his body with their dicks and, finally, with huge
dildos when they could no longer make themselves hard enough to do the deed.
After awhile during these encounters, Neal learned to take himself to a secret
place that he had created in his mind. It was peaceful and serene, and nobody
could find him there. But it wasn’t enough. He became so depressed that he
stopped eating and was all but mute.
     Finally, Mr. Lazarus was told of the new acquisition’s failure to get on
board with the program, and the mogul made an unprecedented visit for a little
heart-to-heart discussion.
     “Face facts, little brother,” he whispered in a deceptively soft voice,
“this is going to be your life until you are no longer young and pretty and a
monetary asset for me. Do not think for one minute that you have a choice in
the matter. Your only “choice” is whether you wish to continue to occupy space
on the surface of this earth. If not, then I can certainly make sure that the
space that you do occupy is under the surface.”
     Neal just continued to stare vacantly into the other man’s hard eyes.
     “Smarten up, bucko, and stop trying to piss off the hand that feeds you,”
Lazarus continued. “Go out and earn me the kind of money that your sweet little
ass is worth. Learn some tricks of the trade; make your clients so happy that
they cannot get enough of you. Who knows—you may make one of them want you
enough that they would be willing to wait for your present career to end in a
few years. Then they could take you away from all the wonder and splendor of
your professional life. Stranger things have happened than a john falling in
love with his whore.”
     So, without an alternative on the horizon, Neal began to broaden an
education that he never received in high school. He was usually hired out for
the entire night, or sometimes for a whole weekend. His bodyguards took shifts
awaiting his release from his duties. He learned to give tantalizing blowjobs
and to swallow acrid-tasting cum. He wore constricting cock rings and had his
prostate pummeled by vibrators with painful studs embedded on their surface. He
was fucked while on his back, on his side or draped over a table or couch. He
was pinched, bitten, and sucked. He was whipped, slapped, blindfolded, and tied
down. Those who paid the big fees made sure to get their money’s worth of the
young boy that they asked for by name time after time. Neal was dubbed “The
Choirboy,” because even though abused and tormented, he still looked young,
vulnerable, and innocent.
     Neal endured because he had no choice. He still went to that secret place
in his psyche, but sometimes the events were so perverted that he could not
mentally reach it. That usually happened when the same trio of men booked his
time every few weeks.
     They had a routine down pat. They took turns sinking their fingers into
him, then stretching and pulling until two of the tormentors could both insert
at least four fingers simultaneously. Meanwhile, the third man would pull and
tug on Neal’s dick until he was hard, and then cinch his burgeoning erection
within a cock ring. The next step was to flip Neal over so that he could suck
on one’s dick while the other fucked him from behind.
     When the ass guy had come with a shout and a prolonged, load groan, Neal
was then made to straddle and mount the man that he had just aroused with his
lips and tongue. The third man, now hot and hard from observing, proceeded to
take his turn as well, pushing painfully into Neal from behind. Then the two
simultaneously fucked him wide open as they pushed and rammed, sometimes in
sync, sometimes not. It was excruciating, and Neal would bite the inside of his
cheek to remain quiet through it all. Experience had taught him that moans of
pain and distress were turn-ons for sadistic males who liked to dominate and
hurt. It was almost a relief when his occasional customer was satisfied with a
quick blowjob and a fuck, and would then fall asleep. Usually, that was because
they had taken drugs and were coming down hard after the initial high.
     Yes, Neal had learned to survive at a terrible cost, and he would continue
to learn. Opportunity was the impetus behind Neal’s new course in his
continuing education—he was learning to steal. Not a lot each time—maybe a ten
or a twenty-dollar bill that the john wouldn’t miss. However, as time went on,
Neal’s nimble fingers learned to pick his marks’ pockets while they were wide-
awake and putting their clothes back on after a night of sexcapades. Nobody
would have suspected that he had managed that right under their noses while he
was enchanting them with his smile.
     Little by little, Neal’s secret stash grew. He had worried open a seam on
the underside of his mattress in the dormitory. His folding money was slid
inside very carefully after the lights had been turned out at night. After a
year, just before his eighteenth birthday, the abused boy saw his chance to
break free from his prison. He was to be taken to a very large mansion owned by
a repeat client—an older man that Neal couldn’t quite figure out. This customer
was always gentle, polite and unfailingly considerate in his interactions with
Neal. Sometimes, all that he expected was fellatio. Afterwards, he would cradle
Neal on his chest and run his fingers through the young man’s hair while
calling him pet names.
     Neal had been servicing him at least once a week for the last three
months, and his behavior was still a mystery. He tended to treat Neal like a
welcome guest, giving him tours of the mansion, dragging out old photo albums
for him to page through, telling him stories about his children and
grandchildren. Neal once saw a portrait of the man’s dead wife and recognized
the deep loneliness in the widower’s gaze.
     Neal actually had become fond of the sad old gentleman, but he couldn’t
let emotions get in the way of the prepared plan that he would be putting into
play tonight. The plotting teenager had pulled up the inner lining in each of
his shoes. He then divided the paper currency and secreted the cash inside of
each one. For the first time since becoming a captive, Neal allowed himself to
be emboldened by hope. 
     As was the norm, Neal got the old man off, and then after the gentle
caressing, his host for the night began to snore in the huge king-sized bed.
Neal slowly extricated himself from the lax arms that were encircling him,
dressed quickly, and quietly crept into an adjacent study. By now, he was quite
familiar with the layout of the house, and went through the desk drawers one by
one. He found a stack of cash that he didn’t stop to count, and lifted an ATM
debit card from the wallet that he had also discovered. He crept close to the
spiral staircase railing and saw that his two bodyguards were seated in front
of a huge flat screen in the downstairs den deeply engrossed in a contest
between the New England Patriots and the Pittsburg Steelers.
     Holding his shoes in his hand, Neal took advantage of the back staircase
installed for the use of the hired help to reach each floor. In the mudroom off
the kitchen, he found a wall bracket holding several keys, and he lifted the
one to a Ducati motorcycle sitting pristinely in the garage. His client tonight
had never driven it himself, but kept it for when his grandson visited from
time to time. The garage was located far enough away from the main part of the
house that his keepers never heard the smooth slide of the garage door
ascending.
     Neal walked that motorcycle for at least a mile before daring to fire it
up. He had never ridden one before, and the first quarter mile or so was a
precarious venture. He had made it a must to memorize the routes that he was
taken every time he left the Stable, so he had a definite idea where he needed
to go.
     Under the cover of darkness, he puttered to the downtown train station and
boldly withdrew the maximum limit of $500 with the purloined debit card. He
knew that his face would be captured on camera, so the police and, eventually,
Mr. Lazarus, would assume that “Danny Brooks” had purchased a train ticket
immediately after the transaction. Instead, Neal chose to continue on in his
journey to the bus station on the other side of town. He left the Ducati tilted
on its kickstand with the keys in the ignition. He was sure that it wouldn’t
remain there for very long, so all traces of where he had actually left the
city would disappear. Then he used some of the cash to buy a ticket on the
first bus pulling out that night. He didn’t care where it was going as long as
it was taking him far away.
     Three more bus rides ensued through the night and into the next day. He
had made incremental progress eastward, his journey finally ending when the
Atlantic Ocean told him that he had gone as far as he could go in his getaway.
He was in New York City, and it was here that he would start out fresh!
***** Chapter 2 *****
     The Greyhound Bus had pulled into the New York City Port Authority located
at 42nd Street & 8th Avenue. Climbing down from his ride, Neal tried not to
gawk, but the soaring heights of the skyscrapers, the throngs of hurrying
pedestrians, and the sea of yellow cabs were intimidating. Neal had once read a
science fiction novel called “A Mote in God’s Eye.” That story had chronicled
the first contact between humans and an alien species. Neal thought that he
could now be living that drama, but he wasn’t sure if he was the human or the
alien. Taking a deep breath, the nervous boy set out. Having come this far, he
was determined to survive somehow with nothing but the clothes on his back and
a do-or-die determination.
     Neal had been sleeping on bus after bus and being sustained with sparse
vending machine food at the frequent rest stops. When he spied McDonald’s
Golden Arches, it was the first thing that was familiar. He indulged in the
biggest burger on the menu accompanied by fries and a thick, sort-of milkshake.
Afterwards, he was left with a queasy stomach, but it had been worth all the
gastric upset.
     Next stop was a drugstore called Duane Reade where he purchased the much-
needed necessities of toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and shampoo. He carefully
kept track of the costs, but, after a few minutes deliberation, he added a pack
of underwear briefs and socks. He had picked up a map at the bus terminal and
discovered that several youth hostels were in the vicinity.
     New York City was easy to negotiate, having been laid out in a logical
grid pattern by the early Dutch settlers. The numbered streets ran east-west;
the avenues north-south. Without a problem, he quickly made his way to the
closest youth hostel listed. The stern-looking, middle-aged woman in the lobby,
however, knocked him off his stride. She took one look at Neal and levied a
quick assessment.
     “We don’t cater to your kind here, young man. You had best be on your way
before I call a cop who will arrest you for pandering. Take your business
elsewhere, maybe the “Y.”
     Neal couldn’t fault this savvy woman for her judgment. She saw him for
exactly what he was—a male prostitute, even though he was determined that he
would never assume that label ever again. He had to re-make his image. Right
now, he had no ID, no luggage, and just a flimsy plastic bag in his hand. That
needed to change. Strolling along Broadway, Neal soon realized that the
accoutrements of transformation were there for the taking. Street vendors were
going to be his salvation. He bought a cheap “I Love New York” t-shirt from a
hustling entrepreneur’s cart, and when the gypsy was distracted by a bevy of
giggling, teenager tourists, Neal lifted one of his knock-off watches and a
faux leather backpack that now held his recent purchases. He also managed to
lift two more wallets at congested corners while pedestrians waited out the
“Don’t Walk” sign.
     Eventually, Neal found the YMCA on East 47th Street. He hoped that he
could now pass for a naïve, young college kid striving to make his fortune in
the “Big Apple.” This time he was rented a room for the night, and he took
advantage of the shared community bathroom at the end of a hall to experience a
wonderfully hot shower. He was hyper-vigilant while using the facilities, but
nobody paid him any undue attention, especially not with the salacious leers
and ogling that had become very familiar to Neal.
     One day turned into three, and he cautiously chatted up a few of the
apparent regulars to get the lay of the land. The “Y” might be considered cheap
by New York standards, but it still took a bite out of Neal’s savings that were
dwindling fast. Pickpocketing only netted him a meager amount of cash because
most people relied on plastic for purchases these days. He needed money in
order to eat, and he definitely needed more than one pair of pants and two
shirts. The old timers advised him to take the subway to the Lower East Side of
Manhattan where he could find great bargains for jeans, t-shirts, and even
shoes, if he was willing to try his hand at haggling.
     The YMCA denizens were right about the deals to be had, and Neal quickly
learned to hold his own in the lively negotiations. Paying cash was a definite
incentive for the merchants to make the sales. Late in the afternoon, juggling
several bags in his hands, Neal indulged in a hot dog and soda on Houston
Street. He wasn’t going to splurge by going into the crowded delicatessen
across the street.
     Katz’s Deli was doing a lively business with a line of customers snaking
out the door onto the sidewalk. Neal could see the brigade of men through the
front window decked out in white aprons slicing lunchmeats and spearing fat
kosher pickles. They moved with practiced efficiency, calling out numbers and
handing over packages wrapped in white butcher paper. Most importantly, from
Neal’s vantage point, he could also see a small “Help Wanted” sign tucked in
the bottom corner of that window.
     Screwing up his courage, Neal squeezed past the army of patrons and asked
one of the men where he could apply for the job in the window. He was directed
to a small desk located in a very large kitchen that was humming like a
beehive. There was a multitude of people attending to the assembly of orders
atop the long steel tables lined up in rows in the center of the space. Along
the wall next to Neal, sink after sink was in operation as workers rinsed and
stacked dirty dishes. An old African-American man sporting dreads ending in
colorful beads looked at Neal briefly before he returned his attention to
manipulating the hand-held industrial spray that he was using.
     Neal shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot until eventually, a
balding man with a potbelly and an unexpected Aussie accent bustled in through
the swinging doors. He spied Neal and quickly informed him that the position in
the window was for sort of a “roustabout” whose chores included washing dishes,
busing tables, or even filling in as wait staff if they got shorthanded.
     “How old are you, Mate?” he asked suspiciously. “Ya look a bit on the
young side. How long ya been outta nappies.”
     “I’m twenty, Sir,” Neal quickly assured him.
     “Well, then, just show me some ID with your age and I’ll get ya started on
the paperwork,” the doubter challenged.
     “I didn’t bring it with me this afternoon,” Neal lied.
     The Aussie shook his head and his mouth twisted in a wry smirk. “Listen my
young bloke, go home to your Mum and Dad. Running away to the big city ain’t
all what it’s cracked up to be, let me tell ya.”
     Neal opened his mouth to assure the man that no mother or father was
anxiously awaiting his return, but the brusque manager with the unsolicited
advice had already swept out the door. Neal stood uncertainly for a few seconds
before the old Black man at the sink leaned in close.
     “If you need ID go down to the Bowery.”
     Neal looked at the guy suspiciously as the man rattled off directions and
an address—actually more like the basement access of a storefront. Neal found
himself nodding, but once again out on the street, he knew that he couldn’t
trust anyone. This “helpful” man could be sending him to a place where he would
get rolled, and what little meager possessions that he now owned would be
stolen from him. Or, worst things could happen, and Neal shivered.
     Once back at the “Y,” Neal faced a hard truth. If he wanted a job, he
needed an ID. So, using cautious, broad terms, he queried his new associates
and got the information that he needed. The recommended purveyor of identity
was located uptown, and the cash cost that he quoted was steep. However, Neal’s
proficiency as a pickpocket had been refined. He now possessed a man’s Piguet
watch and a woman’s diamond eternity band that he had effortlessly swept from
their hands while they stood in a theatre line on Broadway waiting to see
“Phantom of the Opera.” He also found a fence who gave 20% of the value for hot
goods brought to him, no questions asked. The next day, the identity aficionado
took Neal’s money as well as his photo and asked if he had a specific name that
he wanted on his New York driver’s license.
     “Danny Brooks” was dead, and had been for the last year. So was “Neal
Bennett” for even longer. His mother hadn’t given him much in this life, so he
would steal from her just as he had from the unsuspecting out-of-town
vacationers in Times Square and Grand Central Station. He took her maiden name
as his own. He would now be “Neal Caffrey.”
     Legit and armed with the essentials, Neal multi-tasked with a vengeance.
He worked in a bakery, he was a bike messenger, and on weekends, he set up an
easel in Washington Square or Central Park and did portraits for passing
tourists. He still kept his hand in on the streets—“literally.” His nimble
fingers found their way into many pockets and purses, and that was the only way
that he could afford the small room with a bath above the bakery on Canal
Street.
     One fateful afternoon, his aim was to scam a street hustler at Three Card
Monte. It had worked like a charm, and he came home just a bit more flush than
when he had left his room. The knock on his door less than an hour later was a
harbinger of a life in another dimension.
     Neal didn’t really trust this strange bald little man. People always
wanted something from you, and Mozzie was no exception. He claimed that he
could mentor Neal and elevate his status as a street hustler in exchange for
Neal’s latent talents as a forger. He didn’t seem to have a sexual agenda, so
Neal did relax just a bit. However, they continued to dance around each other
for weeks until Mozzie’s persistence succeeded in wearing him down.
     The duo eventually formed a bond. Although they never shared a bed, they
did share the broad strokes of their checkered pasts. Even though Neal never
exposed the ugliness of the last year that he spent in St. Louis, he often
wondered if Mozzie somehow sensed the pathos within him. He worried if he wore
those scars like a stigmata, but his little friend seemed to know that Neal’s
secrets were sacrosanct and never pried.
     As time elapsed, Neal did come to value his guru’s knowledge and expertise
more and more. The former teenager from the Midwest learned the finesse of
running cons, swindling unwitting marks, and beating other sharks at their own
game. Exposed to a virtual cornucopia of illegitimate enterprises, he avidly
assisted Mozzie while they milked them dry. Everything was fair game.
     Offshore accounts were created for their ill-gotten gains, and Neal’s
poise and wardrobe improved exponentially. He now had fourteen aliases with IDs
to match, and even managed to award himself several advanced college degrees
without ever setting foot in the halls of academia.
     However, the most spectacular development in this evolving metamorphosis
was that Neal fell in love—hard and fast. Despite his extensive sexual
experience with men, Neal was naïve and tentative with women. Nevertheless,
Kate, a beautiful young girl his own age, was like a breath of fresh air to a
suffocating young man. She was lovely and demure, and he was immediately head
over heels even though he sometimes felt out of his depth. But the new lovers
took it slow, discovering each other and reveling in the sweetness of need and
want. Neal learned to become a devoted and gentle lover, and placed his
paramour high on a pedestal. Mozzie was cynical about this new development and
was a soothsayer of doom. Like most headstrong young people, Neal ignored his
warnings and charged full steam ahead with his heart on his sleeve. And, as
fate would have it, Kate was ultimately Neal’s downfall.
     Peter Burke, Neal’s bête noire, testified at the con man’s trial and was
instrumental in his conviction for bond forgery. Of course, there were a lot
more wrongdoings in Neal’s repertoire, but the Feds had no other hard evidence
that they could tar and feather him with at the time. So, Neal Caffrey was
sentenced to just four years of hard time in a federal penitentiary. But those
four years were a lifetime for the young man whose pretty looks most assuredly
marked him as fresh meat for the debauched creatures that lurked in every
prison.
     He was only three weeks into his sentence when he was attacked by four
hulking inmates in the shower while the guards were conspicuously absent. He
put up a determined fight and, in return, was beaten savagely almost into
unconsciousness while being raped on the hard tile floor that smelled of
mildew. Eventually his blood mingled with the water from the running
showerheads, and, as he had on so many other occasions, he took his mind to
another place until his assailants had satisfied their depraved lust.
     He wound up spending almost three weeks in the infirmary as broken bones
and torn tissue took up the task of mending once again in his ravaged body.
While convalescing, a message via a trustee was delivered. The head honcho of
the Aryan Brotherhood conclave in the prison wanted to have a conversation when
Neal was discharged from the hospital ward.
     Suddenly, the young man found that he had reached the limits of his
resolve to survive. He vowed to himself that he was not going to be some
skinhead freak’s bitch to be passed around like a tray of appetizers among the
lunatic’s cohorts. How could he face Kate—beautifully pure Kate—from behind
that heavy glass window while trying to hide the foul secret that he was once
again dirty and defiled? He just could not do it anymore, and he decided that
he would slit his wrists before that was going to happen again. Somehow, he
would find a way to do the deed, and he hoped that Kate would forgive him.
     Perhaps the prison grapevine moved communiqués faster than Twitter,
because from that day forward, Neal was never without a chaperone present,
either in the form of another inmate “patient” in the bed beside him, or a
prison orderly sitting on a stool across from him. It was almost as if the
convict population could read his mind and was determined to thwart his plans.
Or maybe, the Brotherhood wanted to protect their investment and keep him for
themselves, only.
     Finally, that fateful meeting took place in the weight room of the prison
gym. Neal adopted a disdainful arrogance that projected a “fuck you, I-just-
don’t-care-what-you-can-do-to-me,” attitude. Brent Steiner, the broad, heavily
scarred, and inked man before him was a bit surprised by the apathy in the
young whelp. He should have been quaking in his boots. Somehow, that garnered
the kid a bit of respect from the big man. This young dude wasn’t afraid to
die, so how can you frighten someone who has lost the capacity to fear? Neal
could have told him the answer. It was because there was no hope left in his
soul.
     “So, Caffrey, it seems that you have a little problem,” the skinhead chief
sneered, trying his best to look intimidating and menacing.
     “And I suppose that you are going to tell me that you can fix that for
me,” Neal remarked dully.
     “Yeah, maybe we can help you out with that,” the back and forth began.
     Neal looked up at this menacing giant and shook his head slightly. The
young man’s blue eyes projected a glacier-cold expression, and his voice was
soft and without inflection. “Forget it, Steiner. I’m not going to be a
possession for you or your cronies. If any of you want to try and fuck me,
you’ll probably wind up fucking a corpse ‘cause I’ll fight you until you are
forced to kill me.”
     Steiner let out a disdainful snort. “None of the Brothers are faggots,
kid. We kill queers for sport. And it seems like you ain’t no pansy either.
Word is you got a hot piece of pussy who comes to visit you every week. But
face it, boy, you got a big problem. You’re just too damn pretty, and it’s like
you’re walking around with a big neon arrow on your back pointing down to your
ass crack.”
     “So what exactly are you offering in the way of a solution to my problem?”
Neal asked.
     Steiner was only too happy to tell him. “You see, I got friends on the
outside that do what you might call ‘research.’ And they found out that you’ve
been mighty busy these last few years and have been pretty successful, to boot.
So, it got me to thinkin’ that you just might be able to afford our protection
services. Nobody fucks with the Brothers, at least if they ain’t insane. We’re
at the top of the totem pole, so to speak. The spics, the wops, the chinks, and
the boys from the hood—they know better than to do anythin’ without first
runnin’ it by me. So, we can let everybody know that you’re off limits, and
there will be hell to pay if even your mop of hair gets messed up.”
     Steiner then began the negotiations by naming a hefty figure. “You see, if
we get paid monthly, you stay in one piece all over from head to toe, and there
will be somethin’ left for your little girlfriend to fuck after you get out in
four years. Just have somebody on the outside deposit the green in the account
that I tell you and we’re good to go.”
     Neal gave Steiner a condescending look. “And just how am I supposed to set
this up if I agree to your proposal? We aren’t allowed phone calls, incoming
and outgoing mail is opened and read by the authorities, and the visitors’
cubicles are monitored both visually and audibly by the guards.”
     “We got that covered,” Steiner promised as he shoved a legal pad towards
Neal. “We’ll make sure instructions leave here and get where they need to go.
Just write your little note to whoever is going to be saving your ass on the
outside. I’ll give you the banking details to add. You better trust this guy to
have your back out there, so that we can watch your back in here.”
     So, a deal was struck, and Mozzie came through for Neal. And Kate
continued to make the pilgrimage to Sing Sing every week without fail until she
abruptly stopped, and then Neal went a little crazy.
***** Chapter 3 *****
     After Kate’s disappearing act, Neal was desperate and called upon his
Aryan guardians to aid him in an escape that was both fleeting and
disappointing. Steiner just shook his head upon Neal’s swift return to Sing
Sing. His sage words of wisdom were that Neal was a pussy-whipped fool, and to
just keep the protection money coming. Perhaps he was a fool, but within weeks,
Neal still managed to work his own bit of magic and walked out of prison
without having to look back over his shoulder. Unfortunately, his only option
had been to parlay his freedom by agreeing to be dominated yet again. But this
precarious alliance with the FBI had a shelf life, and “Boy Scout” Peter Burke
could be manipulated. At least that was Neal’s initial perception.
     Burke turned out to be a tougher mark than Neal foresaw. He was
righteously suspicious and wary of his new criminal informant from day one of
their partnership. Neal figured that he would just have to win the Fed’s trust,
because then the tether would get a bit lax and Neal would get the wiggle room
that he needed in his search for Kate. However, to Neal’s chagrin, it turned
out that Peter Burke knew exactly what Neal’s intentions were. He would allow
his wayward, scheming CI a certain amount of distance on the leash, and then,
without warning, he would jerk the young man back to heel.
     This parry and thrust continued for many months until the great love of a
young man’s life perished before his eyes. Neal involuntarily shut down; he
didn’t even have the wherewithal to hide in that special, secure place in his
mind. He just lost all feeling, numb in body and spirit, as someone held him
tight on a cold, windswept tarmac. Later, he would realize that phantom someone
had been his partner, Peter Burke.
     Behind bars once again, he did not grieve; he would not allow himself that
luxury. He had never allowed himself to grieve for a boy’s lost innocence in a
brothel, or a young man’s defilement and torture in a prison shower. He had
never been granted vengeful retribution for those atrocities, but he was
determined to avenge Kate.
     So, as before, Neal made promises. He played the charming, amusing, and
shrewd FBI sidekick with a façade that was fashioned as stoutly as the walls of
an ancient medieval fortress. He was also steadfastly determined that no one
was allowed to breach the citadel. His leash was now tighter and more
constricting than ever. Quite frequently, he would catch Peter Burke watching
him like a hawk, a troubled expression on his face. Maybe that concern could be
useful when Neal made his move.
     Meanwhile, Mozzie had been hard at work on Neal’s behalf. Thomas Edison
might have been termed “The Wizard of Menlo Park,” but Mozzie could have been
deemed “The Wizard of Central Park.” Creatively inventive with out-of-the-box
thinking, the little man was bound and determined to crack Neal’s anklet. On
any given night, he could be found in the con man’s apartment, magnifying
lenses in place, soldering a nest of multi-colored wires or utilizing the guts
of a timing mechanism. It was only a matter of “when” not “if” he was
successful.
     Neal knew that once he had the ability to remove the apparatus, the
Marshals would see on their computer screen that Peter Burke’s key had not
unlocked it. Alerts would be issued in the form of distress calls, first to his
handler to verify, and then to a team of agents who would spring into action to
seek him out and drag his sorry ass back to prison. Neal needed to get an idea
of the response time and its progression so that he could plan his revenge
strategy accordingly. He also was curious to know if Peter would appear, guns
blazing, with a posse in tow. He was hoping for a better scenario where his
guardian would try to handle the situation himself, quietly under the radar,
valiantly trying to save Neal from doing something stupid.
     So, late—actually, very early—one morning around 2 AM, Mozzie and Neal set
their plot in motion. Moz had created a little, square gismo with two
electrodes dangling from it. Once those wires were applied to the neoprene
housing of the anklet, they would short-circuit the tracking mechanism. He
claimed that the strength of the disrupting current wouldn’t be enough to
actually fry the system; it would merely cause something like a miniscule solar
flare that would shut it down. Even if some geek managed to take the thing
apart, it would just appear that some ethereal malfunction had caused the
little bugger to stop transmitting.
     Mozzie’s blasé assurances that this would be just a “little” jolt were a
gross understatement. Neal felt like he was on the receiving end of a massive
cattle prod. Thankfully, when the little green light on the anklet died, Neal’s
heart rhythm found a baseline once again. The clock was now ticking, and Mozzie
beat a hasty exit as Neal, clad in just sleep pants, turned out the light and
settled himself on his bed.
     Just a scant thirty minutes later, he heard a heavy tread on the stairs
outside of his loft apartment. Suddenly, his door was flung inward and he could
make out the dim outline of a broad-shouldered man that he instinctively knew
was Peter. To Neal’s pleased satisfaction, his handler was alone. When the
agent flicked on the light, he seemed startled to see a sleepy head raise up,
eyes squinting, from under a nest of blankets. Without a word, Peter strode
over to the bed, tossed back the covers, and grabbed Neal by his ankle.
     Scanning the defunct piece of equipment with narrowed eyes, he demanded,
“What have you been up to tonight?”
     Neal used that wide-eyed, innocent stare and didn’t respond.
     “Answer me, Neal! You’ve been monkeying with your anklet and now the green
light isn’t on.”
     With a sad shake of his head, Neal finally answered, “Peter, why do you
always believe the worst about me? Why can’t you just assume that the evil
little gadget developed a glitch? If I were going to run, do you think that I’d
be here in my bed waiting for the start of normal business hours?”
     Peter did not look fully convinced, but he did take out his phone and
placed a call. He identified himself, gave his badge number, and Neal’s tracker
number.
     “Caffrey is here with me,” he said definitively. “His anklet isn’t green,
so I suppose that you’re still without a signal?”
     Peter listened for a few minutes, and brusquely demanded a replacement
ASAP to be brought to Neal’s address. Then he listened some more, a frown
making deep furrows between his eyebrows.
     “First thing tomorrow, then, at the FBI’s White Collar office,” he said as
the conversation ended.
     By this time, Neal was sitting on the side of the bed watching Peter
warily as the agent began to pace. Finally, Peter looked down at the bare-
chested con man with his head of tousled hair and heaved a sigh.
      “The Marshals can’t get a new anklet for you until tomorrow morning, and
I certainly can’t let you stay here for the rest of the night unmonitored. So,
I’m sorry, Neal, but you need to get dressed so that I can drive you to a
holding cell in the White Collar office. The new anklet should be delivered by
9AM, and then everything will be copacetic again.”
     Neal tried to look pitiful. “Peter, this wasn’t my fault. You’re going to
be locking me up for something that I didn’t do. It’s not fair and just plain
cruel!”
     Peter looked apologetic as he sat beside Neal on the bed. “Neal, the truth
is I simply can’t trust you not to take off for real now that you have the
opportunity. The repercussions would be on my head for not following protocol,
and you’d be on the run again, maybe dodging bullets from some really pissed
off US Marshals.”
     “Can’t you stay here with me, Peter?” Neal begged. “I’d even give you the
bed to sleep in and I’d take the couch. Please Peter,” Neal wheedled.
     Neal’s handler was now staring into his CI’s very blue eyes, and the con
man suddenly saw conflict that went beyond this anklet dilemma. His turbulent
teen years had taught him how to read desire and hunger, even if a person tried
to hide those emotions. He knew that his assumptions weren’t off-the-wall. The
subtle clues had certainly been there since the beginning of their partnership,
if you knew where to look. Neal had seen the surreptitious glances from Peter
when he thought no one noticed. Then the familiar, intimate touches evolved,
lingering just a little longer each time at the small of Neal’s back or on his
neck. Peter might be happily married to a beautiful woman, but Neal knew, more
than anybody, that no one was totally heterosexual in thoughts and deeds all of
the time.
     The con artist’s initial plan to gauge response time had suddenly become
more complicated, and now he would have to implement on the fly. During any
caper, you had to use the tools at your disposal to your advantage. Peter had a
weakness that Neal could cunningly exploit to put a chink in the stalwart
agent’s armor. The trail to finding Kate’s killer was getting cold, and Neal
was getting desperate because he was running out of time and other options to
wreak his retribution. He needed more latitude to get the information. Tonight
he could fan the flames of lust and seduce Peter Burke, eventually making him
complacent enough to release the stranglehold that he had on Neal. Once payback
for Kate was accomplished, the young man would blow this pop stand and Peter
would only see his dust!
     Apparently, Neal’s keeper didn’t sense the duplicity within the young man
as he continued to stare into Neal’s guileless eyes. Instead, he became very
aware of the warmth emanating from the beautifully sculpted body beside him.
Somehow, the older man seemed to know that he was doomed and threw caution to
the wind.
     Slowly, he reached out, placed a cupped hand to Neal’s neck, and drew him
sideways until he was able to touch tentative lips to his CI’s. When he
encountered no resistance, the kiss became deeper. Neal let Peter explore his
mouth with a probing tongue while not actually reciprocating. Sensuously, the
dance continued as Peter eased Neal back onto the bed. More deep kissing
commenced, with further attention being given to Neal’s neck and the sensitive
area just below his ear. Now there ensued gentle kneading and caressing across
Neal’s bare chest and down his ribs. Peter was murmuring something
unintelligible—maybe he was just humming. The con man couldn’t tell at this
point because there was a buzzing in his own ears. His treacherous body was
responding somatically as he was becoming aroused as well.
     Peter felt Neal’s growing erection through the thin fabric of his sleep
pants, and let his hand delve beneath the waistband. He grasped the young man
and ran his thumb over the head of his penis, feeling Neal shiver in response.
He erotically teased and tantalized Neal’s cock, the friction causing Neal to
pant. Neal had been living like a monk for so long, with only his own hand to
afford him release, that another’s touch caused him to come with a groan almost
instantly. He noted the small smile on Peter’s lips, and that caused the young
man to lash out verbally.
     “Is this what you consider foreplay before you cart me off to lock-up?” he
asked snidely.
     Peter answered in a soft voice, “Maybe I just want you docile, Neal. Would
you prefer that I use handcuffs?”
     Well, Neal certainly did not expect that turn of phrase! Had he misread
Peter? Was S&M his thing? If so, Neal could write a thesis for him on the
subject. After the con artist considered the question, he could see that this
definitely could be a dark side of the FBI agent, who constantly had to be the
alpha male in any situation, whether it concerned Neal or a squirming perp in
interrogation. There was a taut, menacing energy always simmering just below
the surface. Now Neal wasn’t sure what next step he should implement in his
scheme. Peter, however, took the decision out of his hands.
     As the con man opened his mouth to deliver a pithy retort regarding
handcuffs, Peter stopped him short with a finger to his lips.
     “No talking; no thinking, Neal!”
     Peter then proceeded to pull the sleep pants, sticky with Neal’s cum, down
his long legs. He flung them haphazardly behind him, and then skewed Neal’s
body so that he was now stretched out properly in the bed. The agent then began
a slow striptease of his own. Shirt, pants, briefs, and socks joined Neal’s
discarded apparel. The older man was sporting an impressively thick and hard
erection as he climbed in beside the smaller man and gently nestled along his
side.
     Reiterating his previous instructions, he commanded, “Remember—no talking,
no thinking. Right now just feel, Quick Draw McGraw.”
     The con man felt the heat of a deep, embarrassing blush make it way up the
sides of his face, and Peter actually chuckled. “It’s okay, Buddy. Actually,
I’ll take that as a compliment.”
     Neal was pleasantly startled when Peter started the sensual nuzzling and
touching once again. Taking it slow, he delicately worked his way down Neal’s
body, inch-by-inch, pinching, nibbling, and licking until he reached his CI’s
flaccid penis. He then teased that organ with a talented tongue and busy
fingers until, unbelievably, Neal found himself responding yet again.
     “Ah, the stamina of youth,” Peter murmured, as he pulled Neal onto his
side.
     Now face to face, the conductor of this orchestra was able to encircle
both of their erections in his fist as he pumped in earnest. It was Peter’s cum
that ultimately stained the bedclothes this time as he came with a grunt. When
he managed to regain his breath once again, he leisurely slid down and took
Neal into his mouth, swallowing everything when the con man’s second climax
followed.
     “Docile” wasn’t exactly the word that Neal would ascribe to his present
state of being. Having had two orgasms in less than an hour, he was now totally
wiped out, and his limbs had the tone and strength of limp noodles. Peter,
however, looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Apparently, Neal
was his catnip because Peter could not keep his hands to himself.
     “Do anything that you want, Peter,” Neal said wearily, “just don’t expect
me to help. I think that I’m too tired to move anything.”
     Peter laughed smugly. “Well, Neal, if you can’t move, then you certainly
can’t run. Therefore, my mission was successful.”
     Neal snorted. “Well, Agent Burke, you certainly do go above and beyond the
call of duty!”
     “Shut up, Criminal,” Peter ordered, as he pulled Neal across his chest and
continued with his languid stroking. Like I said earlier, “don’t talk, don’t
think—just feel.”
     And Neal found that he had to agree that it did feel surprisingly nice to
shut down and simply enjoy being held in a secure, warm embrace. He knew it
wouldn’t last for very long, but it was a comforting respite, just the same.
     After a scant couple of hours, the new rays of dawn coming through the
glass doors of Neal’s loft were their cue to get up. They hurriedly showered
separately, with Neal donning a pristine sharp suit and Peter putting on last
night’s clothes and a borrowed tie from Neal.
     On the ride to the office, Peter cautioned sternly, “Last night never
happened, Neal.”
     “Right. Got it,” was Neal’s terse reply. He had resumed thinking again,
and realized that what had occurred in his bed was just a temporary aberration
in the force field, just two jocks getting their rocks off. No harm, no foul,
no recriminations, no expectations. Now it was time to get back to normal.
     True to their word, the Marshals were waiting with a new anklet, and Neal
was once again in chains. The two partners reverted to type and commenced with
their witty banter so that none of the other agents even got a whiff of
impropriety. All was right in the world again, and Neal got back to his search
for Kate’s killer. Persevering, he eventually made a breakthrough, and the
results took him to a very dark place from which he almost didn’t escape.
     In the heat of the moment, Peter, damn him, embedded himself in the thick
of it and saved Fowler’s no-good life. The agent then dragged a hostile and
seething would-be executioner back to his loft. Neal expected that Peter would
be furious and that there would be hell to pay, so he was like a tensely coiled
spring as he defiantly stared into his handler’s face. However, he was shocked
and unprepared for the look of compassion that he saw there. This response was
completely unexpected, and in his emotionally labile and perilous state, it was
simply the last straw.
     “I loved her so much, Peter!” Neal’s eyes were bright, the devastation
hovering within the blue depths making him look so young and vulnerable.
     “I know you did, Neal,” Peter said gently.
     Suddenly, a dam broke in a tortured soul, and the tears that Neal had
never shed for Kate began to streak down his face. Peter pulled the tormented
man into his firm embrace and felt the deep, wrenching sobs against his chest.
All he could do was rub soft circles on Neal’s back, hoping the rampant emotion
would help expunge a grief that had been bottled up for far too long.
     “Love isn’t easy, Neal, because it doesn’t always follow the rules,” the
older man murmured. “It’s messy and complicated. Sometimes it’s daunting and
hurts so much that you don’t think that you can survive it. We can never be
sure if love is our salvation or our doom, but in the moment, maybe love is all
that matters in this world.”
     Later, Neal would repeat Peter’s words and parse them over and over in his
mind. He began to suspect that the agent really wasn’t talking about Kate. With
sudden clarity, Neal finally faced the truth about this thing that he and Peter
shared. Like it or not, Neal realized that he was still that needy, insecure
kid seeking salvation. And God help him, Neal also discovered that he might be
falling for the enemy. He was going down for the third time, just as he had so
many years ago in that swimming pool. Suddenly, he was petrified. He simply
couldn’t give his heart away again just to have it shattered into little
pieces. He had to save himself once more. He would have to run!
***** Chapter 4 *****
     Of course, Neal and Mozzie always had an escape plan simmering on the back
burner, their go-bags at the ready with cash and multiple identities. However,
all that became a moot point when Mozzie almost died at the hands of a hired
killer. Neal was beside himself with worry and guilt. He became a permanent
fixture at Mozzie’s bedside, willing his strength into the debilitated little
man whom the medical team had magically brought back from the great beyond.
      Suddenly, Peter was once again spending nights—actually every night—at
Neal’s loft. Somewhere in the dim reaches of Neal’s consciousness, he wondered
what Peter had told his wife. Had he managed to convince her that Neal was so
fragile right now that he couldn’t be trusted to stay alone? Peter had to know
that Neal would never run without the quirky, myopic mentor who had first
befriended him years ago, and who really cared about him. Neal never questioned
Peter’s motivation. For whatever reason, the federal agent was in his bed,
night after night, as gentle as before, expecting nothing and giving
everything.
     When Mozzie was finally out of the woods and Neal could breathe easier, he
actually tried to reciprocate Peter’s sexual ministrations. He had skills and
talents that would curl the unsuspecting man’s toes. But Peter just smiled and
pushed Neal back onto the pillow.
     “Let me take care of you, Neal,” he whispered.
     Finally, Mozzie was discharged from the hospital. He was on the mend, but
Peter still visited Neal, just not as often. He would show up maybe two or
three times a week in the early evening, sometimes with hot savory carryout
bags of food, sometimes just with beer and wine. He never pushed or demanded
anything from the young man, and Neal was more puzzled than ever. Confusion was
definitely not the con artist’s natural state, and Neal kept waiting for the
other shoe to drop. The suspense was making him crazy.
     While lying beside his keeper one night, he finally couldn’t stand this
abnormal situation anymore and blurted out, “Don’t you ever want more, Peter?
Don’t you want to fuck me?”
     Peter raised himself up on one elbow and took a deep breath as he peered
into Neal’s open face.
     “Neal, after I arrested you—after your trial and you were sent to Sing
Sing—I wanted to keep tabs on you.”
     Peter looked down briefly, and then said in a low voice as he sought
Neal’s eyes once more, “I know about the rapes, Neal. I saw the report and I
saw the pictures of your injuries. I could never ask you to let me do to you
what those animals did. I love you too much to ever hurt you like that.”
     Neal stared back at Peter for almost a minute, both men afraid to look
away. Then Neal slowly turned towards the nightstand, pulled open the top
drawer and withdrew a tube of lubricant and a strip of condoms that he had
bought weeks before and placed there. He laid them on the bed between them.
     “You’re not like them, Peter. You would never be brutal that way.”
     “Are you sure about this, Neal? We don’t have to do anything more than
what we have been doing. It won’t make a difference between us, or how I feel
about you, I promise.”
     Neal didn’t answer. He simply removed the cap from the lube and placed the
tube in Peter’s hand. His handler leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on the
younger man’s temple. Then he hesitantly squirted a bit of lubricant onto his
fingers as he slid down and took Neal’s cock into his mouth. Simultaneously,
his fingers gently circled Neal’s opening, slowly massaging and pressing.
Finally, Peter ventured one finger into the young man’s depths, and Neal arched
his back. He was amazed at how much his body craved this, how much he suddenly
wanted this man inside of him. Peter took his time preparing Neal, delicately
adding another finger, and gingerly stretching the ring of muscle. When his
incursion reached the young man’s prostate, he kneaded the organ sensuously
until Neal found himself panting and throbbing with need.
     It was Neal who finally tore open the condom packet and rolled the sheath
onto Peter, who then liberally coated it with slick. The aroused young man
pushed Peter onto his back and agilely mounted him. Ever so slowly, he eased
himself down onto the older man’s cock. It had been so long since Neal had done
this that initially he tensed at the discomfort. Peter held him through it
until muscle tissue relaxed and settled around his intrusion. He still refused
to let Neal move—instead he pulled him to his chest and continued to place soft
kisses on the sides of his face and neck.
     “Just breathe, Neal, just breathe.”
     But the fevered need of both men was there, and it wasn’t long before they
were rocking in the age-old rhythm of heated coupling. Neal didn’t think that
he would ever again want to have sex this way, his abusive past having
destroyed any such desire. But, somehow, this was different. This was an act of
love rather than depravity, and he couldn’t seem to get enough of Peter.
     They made love twice more over the course of the night, in different
positions, always in sync, and always gently attuned to the other’s needs.
There were no cock rings, dildos, whips, or ropes to tie Neal down. He never
felt helpless; what he felt was cherished, fulfilled, and sated.
     Their liaisons continued over the months, with no one aware of what went
on after the partners left the 21st floor of the Federal Building. Neal never
asked when Peter was coming to spend the night because he felt that he didn’t
have that right. Peter was married, and only his wife had the privilege of
knowing his whereabouts at any given time. Neal never questioned Peter about
how he managed to lead a double-life because the con man just really did not
want to know. He would take anything that he was given in this relationship
that was so very different from his past frame of reference, and he would never
jeopardize it by demanding more.
     The lovers were always very careful to keep their covers intact, and Neal
doubted that even Peter’s most trusted junior agents or his supervisor had a
clue. However, he should have known that perceptive little Mozzie would ferret
out his friend’s most clandestine secrets.
     “Ah, Neal, does it have to be The Man?” he asked plaintively one afternoon
after a few too many goblets of Neal’s wine. “You’re going to get your heart
broken yet again. I don’t think that either of us can survive another cataclysm
like the one surrounding Kate.”
     “He’s not going to break my heart,” Neal argued.
     “Well, what exactly do you see happening, Neal? The Suit is never going to
leave his little wife or put his career in peril. As liberal as the world
claims to be, it is all lip service and a conspiracy to make people complacent
and to keep them in line. There are just some things that won’t pass muster, no
matter how many laws they enact in Congress.”
     “Mozzie, Peter’s not forcing me to do anything that I’m not willing to
do.” Neal argued.
     “Exactly!” Mozzie crowed. “My question is why are you willing to do it?
What is missing from your life that you have to subjugate yourself to the law?
What happened in your past that makes you think so little of your value?”
     Neal was suddenly furious and snarled between clenched teeth, “Just don’t
go there, Moz! Don’t ever go there because you have no right!”
     Mozzie held up his hands, surprised by the flash of hostility in someone
who had always been so placid in nature. Apparently, Mozzie had touched a raw
nerve, and he was frightened that he had inadvertently tried to pry open a
Pandora’s Box that Neal was frantically trying to slam shut before unknown
evils spewed forth.
     “My bad, mon frère,” Mozzie cajoled, “mea culpa.” And they left it at
that.
     Neal stubbornly refused to believe that Mozzie could be right. Of course,
he and Peter were two different species—a frog and a scorpion, as Philip Kramer
liked to say. Neal did what con men do, and Peter reciprocated by being the
lawman that he was. The mismatched pair suffered through a never-ending roller
coaster ride of ups and downs, but when they were in Neal’s bed, it didn’t
matter. Nothing had changed there. This is what Neal wanted, what he needed in
his life right now, and he would stay until Peter sent him away. And that is
exactly what Peter did one day on the steps outside of the Federal Building.
With a slight shake of his head, he sent Neal far away from him to an island
off the coast of Africa.
     Neal tried to maintain his stoic façade in this new paradise, but, of
course, Mozzie saw right through it.
     “Neal,” he preached, “it was just not meant to be. Count your blessings.
There is a lovely girl here who thinks that the sun rises and sets around James
Maine. Be happy; be content. This is the life outlined in the con man’s bible.
We cut our losses, we move on, we reinvent ourselves, and then we live again.”
     Not long after this discussion, Mozzie was forced to admit that he might
have been wrong about Peter Burke. When the Suit flew halfway around the world
to warn Neal of an impending danger, it made Mozzie question if this
unfathomable enigma of a man had a savior complex or was completely smitten and
truly in love. Being the pragmatist that he was, Mozzie agreed to work in
concert with someone who should have been his archenemy because he wanted to
protect Neal, too. He even folded when the idiotic young man allowed himself to
be returned to the confinement of the New York FBI.
     Mozzie was the first to admit that he had his own wealth of psychological
issues, so he simply did not have the ability to unravel Neal’s complexities.
Maybe true friends really had to just accept each other, warts and all, and not
try to convert the other to what they considered logical and sane behavior.
Poor, screwed up Neal was like a magnet with a need that, strangely, drew
people to him. Mozzie was no exception, and relished being in his protégé’s
orbit. He vowed to himself that he was in for the duration, come what may.
     Once back in New York, this time around it was a bit more challenging for
the lovers. Neal chafed at the broken promises that seemed to come left and
right from the Bureau, broken vows that Peter could not seem to fix. He really
tried not to be resentful, but it bled through, and, like a once rebellious
teenager, he acted out trying to push Peter to the edge of his breaking point.
Peter retaliated by pulling away and eventually admitting that he had forgotten
that Neal was a criminal. The flashpoint occurred when Peter went so far as to
assign a new handler for Neal.
     Perhaps that was, indeed, the straw that broke the camel’s back. Peter no
longer visited his “criminal” informant, and Neal now viewed himself as a
victim once again. The CI knew that he had been duped because he had
unwittingly conned himself into believing that there were happy endings. When
Peter decided to take a new position in Washington DC, that solidified Neal’s
resolve to heed Mozzie’s sage advice. Con men cut their losses, moved on, and
reinvented themselves. Fuck all that crap about love! Neal knew that in order
to save himself, he would do what he had always done in order to survive—he
would run.
     It was a Machiavellian plot, to be sure, and Neal made certain that not
even Mozzie was privy to the true finale. People around Neal always got hurt,
and he would not let that happen to anyone ever again that he cared about, past
or present, so he conceded that the caveat included Peter as well. Neal had
started out on his odyssey in this life alone, and he would continue that way
once he made everyone think that he had left in the most permanent of ways.
Damn it, he was a survivor—perhaps not a happy one, but a survivor nonetheless.
     It all played out as it had been written and choreographed. The bad guys
fell hard in more ways than one, and Peter was free to collect the accolades
and the laurel wreaths. Neal wondered if his former lover would mourn; perhaps
the conflicted agent would feel relieved that there was finally an ending to
their strange, unnatural story. He could return to an uncomplicated life that
entailed a job with rules and a woman who was his wife. Neal certainly would
not allow himself to grieve for what could have been. Actually, he refused to
give himself permission to feel anything. He fell back on old habits and
retreated to that safe place in his mind—a peaceful Eden in a sea of turmoil.
     The first months in Paris were hard because he was alone in a way that he
hadn’t been in a very long time. When his traitorous mind drifted to thoughts
of those left behind, he took to the streets, walking until his legs ached and
his feet hurt. He forced himself to start painting again, and, at first, the
scenes were dark and disturbing. After six months, the colors became lighter,
even though a bit of melancholy seeped through the brushstrokes. He made
acquaintances—definitely not friends. He would not allow himself that luxury.
He ate superbly prepared French meals and haunted the Louvre, sometimes for
days on end. He watched the Seine flow peacefully by as the seasons changed. He
was finally free; he was a survivor, and he was alone.
     After a year, the guilt had eaten a hole in Neal’s soul, and he finally
gave into temptation. Mozzie was livid at first, irate and hurt, but, in the
end, profoundly joyful. It was only then that Neal realized the depth of what
he had done to his friend—how his “death” had left a painful void in the bald
man’s life. Being important to someone was a humbling, overwhelming realization
that Neal didn’t quite know how to handle.
     A few weeks later, Neal clasped Mozzie in a heartfelt embrace at the
airport with embarrassing tears flowing for all to see. Neal never knew that
reunions could feel this good. Mozzie studied the man before him that he had
known since he was just a disenfranchised teenager. The suffering and
disappointments sustained in his life were kept well guarded. But Mozzie saw
beneath the layers of artful subterfuge. The smile on his friend’s face was
genuine, but his eyes held infinite sadness. Even though it had been over a
year, Neal had yet to heal. Perhaps it would take a lifetime; perhaps it would
never happen. Life was fickle that way, and you just had to plod on until you
came to the next mountain to scale.
     Now that his friend had come, life was a bit better for a lonely young
man. He had a touchstone, and he was no longer adrift without an anchor. It was
comfortingly reminiscent of times gone by. Neal would just smile and indulge
Mozzie’s outrageous fantasies of another great caper with a pot of gold at the
end of the rainbow. The former con man knew that it was just an ingrained,
reassuring habit for Mozzie to dream and plot and plan. Thanks to the Pink
Panther airport heist, Mozzie now had more money than he could ever spend, even
if he drank the most expensive French wines nonstop into his dotage.
     The two men certainly didn’t live in each other’s pockets. They were both
forming new lives in their own individual ways. But either would come in a
minute if beckoned, which was reassuring to each of them, and Neal seemed
content. But Mozzie wasn’t fooled. He would study his friend over a chessboard
or a wineglass and read the subtle signs that made his heart ache for a gentle
soul who deserved so much better than what life had handed him.
     By tacit agreement, they never spoke of Peter, so Neal had no way of
knowing the magnitude of the agent’s sorrow. He had not seen the strong and
formidable man disintegrate outside of a hospital morgue, his head in one hand
and Neal’s anklet in the other. Neal just never suspected, and Mozzie held his
tongue, hoping the still festering wound would miraculously heal in his
friend’s heart. Mozzie withstood it for as long as he could until he just
couldn’t anymore. He needed to do something, so he bravely decided to take a
chance and sow the seeds. If they sprouted and grew would be anyone’s guess. He
set things in motion, but only Fate knew the outcome, and the lady wasn’t
disclosing any of her secrets.
     A month later, Neal was seated in the small café behind Le Sacre-Couer in
Montmartre, sipping a demitasse cup of French roast. He liked to watch the
aspiring artists who congregated on the cobblestones put paintbrush to canvas
in the early light behind the great basilica. Suddenly, a shadow fell across
his solitary table, and when he looked up, he found it hard to breathe. Peter
was standing before him, a hopeful expression on his face.
     “Hello Neal,” Peter said in a soft voice.
     “You found me,” was the brief and astounded response from the former con
man.
      “I’ll always find you because I love you,” Peter whispered.
     Now another phantom from his past found their way into Neal’s embrace.
     “I’m in for the long haul this time, Neal, anywhere that you are. We’ll
start out fresh and I’ll take care of you,” Peter promised.
     “No, Peter, we’ll take care of each other. I’m not running anymore because
this time I don’t need to be saved,” Neal vowed.
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