Saturday, March 29, 2014

I Dare You to Disobey - Part One

Short Story – 
Part One

It’s a good night. In terms of atmosphere, at least. Dark and warm, the air just a little heavy with a heady humidity that held a man like a lover.  

I peel off my coat as I enter the shadowed alley in the back of the club where I parked my car. Leather may make the look, but it’s damned hot. 

Still, a good night in the city, weather-wise. Not so great on all the other fronts. I was supposed to meet someone tonight but, after waiting away a good chunk of my evening for someone who never came, figure it's past time to head home.

I watch as a couple, a little tipsy and a lot horny, stumble out of the club door, helped out by Gabe, his massive hands hard as he shows them the door. The tall man tips his head at me. “Rand,” he greets, as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “Nice night.” 

“Could always be better.” I nod back, thinking it a shame the man’s on duty. Gabe’s a good time, if I remember right. Real shame he’s working. 

But he is. And, for the first time in three weeks, I’m not. And I’m in the mood for a good time now. Just got off a big sting, a drug ring—little sex thrown in. Vice. I work vice. 

Or it works me; six years in and I’m still trying to figure that one out. 

I head to my car alone. Again. 

My job’s not real conducive to a relationship, you know? Takes me away for long stretches; never letting go till the job’s done. Then there’s always the danger. Got me shot twice. Made me do more bad in the name of good than I’d like to recall. Sometimes the stress of it gets to you too, you know? Gives me a temper sometimes—not proud of it. Not exactly easy to find somebody willing to put up with that for long stretches. 

But that’s all right. I like my job and I’m good at it; it’s a good fit. Even without it, I’m not too conducive for relationships either. 

It’s why I do thirds. Be the second guy to someone else’s half. Be the less-significant other. It’s easier. On everybody. See each other when you can. Enjoy the hell out of each other. Then walk away. No expectations. No demands. No disappointments. 

Except on hot, humid nights like tonight when I’m still fucking alone. 

I pause by my car, digging for my keys in my pockets. 

“Nice night,” I hear a voice say from the shadows. It’s light, kinda high, like a teenager. Slurred too. 

My lips twitch. Just what I need. A drunk minor. 

I sniff the heavy, moist air. It smells rank, like a cheap bar. Or really good pot. 

I see a spark in the shadows and I have my answer. 

“I said,” the Kid says as he steps out into the spot lit by the streetlight, “nice night.” 

“Sure, Kid,” I say as I lean against my car when he saunters toward me. He’s lanky. One of those artsy, hipster boys with spiked hair and glossy lips. He’s got soft skin, like he uses moisturizer. His clothes are out of one of those trendy mags.  

And the beer in his hand is imported and the joint between his fingers is good. 

“Little late for you, i’nnit?” I ask him, still staring him up and down suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be home right now?” I imagine textbooks and truancy slips. Curfews and classrooms. 

“Sure, sure,” the Kid says with a nod, “just gotta find me a home to go to.” He slides me a glance, studying and smooth. “Is yours free?” 

I scoff dismissively and turn back to my car. “No. Go home, Kid.” 

He shrugs, his thin shoulders lifting carelessly. “Whatever. I’ll find more like you inside.” He turns to walk away. 

Inside? “You mean Donovan’s?” I ask. 

The kid doesn’t answer. 

“It’s a private club, you know?” I tell him, my keys hanging useless in my hand. “Don’t let just anybody in.” 

The Kid turns back to me, the streetlight catching a gamin glint in his eyes as his gaze smolders over his shoulder. “Look at me;” he says, “I’m not just anybody.” 

I chuckle. Yeah. Even under three layers of Abercrombie and Whatever, the Kid's got a body. Thin, yes, but he has wide shoulders and a broad chest for his frame—wiry but still toned, top-heavy like a swimmer maybe—that tapers down into a trim, packed waist. With his back turned like that, I can see his ass cupped adoringly in jeans that fit like skin.  

“How old are you, Kid?” I ask, thinking, while he may be the exact type for a lot of people—men and women—I know who frequent Donovan’s, he doesn’t look old enough to get in the club, much less to be drinking. 

“What’s it to you?” the Kid scoffs as he takes another swig of beer. “You a cop?” 

I just smile and say nothing. 

The Kid looks me up and down, taking in the black leather pants and black silk shirt, smirks, and says, “You’re no cop.”  

I grin, reaching into my pants pocket to flash my badge, the pair of handcuffs—my own, not department—glinting bright off my wide, stiff leather belt. The Kid leans in as if to peer at the badge held tight to my leather-clad thigh.  

Indulging his curiosity and idly enjoying those sweet, full lips’ proximity to my body’s hard reaction, I let him, watching with fascination as his mouth moves into a puckered moue. My cock twitches as I imagine those pursed lips wrapped around my thick dick while he sucks hard, the way he’s puffing on that overpriced, weak-ass joint.  


I suck in a harsh breath as the boy pulls the joint close. He turns his head slightly to inhale deeply through the corner of his young mouth, his focused, glassy eyes never leaving the gleaming metal hanging hard next to the pressing bulge in my black pants.  

There’s a tense, silent, immobile moment, while the boy just blinks at my badge before blowing a slow steady stream of smoke at it through those pouty, little boy lips as his black eyes roll up to meet mine with disdain and challenge.  

I grin. And it ain’t a nice grin. “Got a respect problem, don’t you, Kid?” 

“Only to those who see it as a problem,” he answers flippantly as he straightens before snuffing out the joint and tucking it in his pocket. He waved a flaired hand and said, “Personally, I like to think of it as part of my char—” 

He didn’t even see it coming as I rush the Kid, slamming him against the side of my car, my hand reaching for the cuffs at my belt. 

“What the fuck?” his spits at me as he writhes, bucking against my much bigger body like a prized colt. I hold him easily against the window of my car, his face smashed flat against the treated glass. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“Fixing that problem of yours,” I answer as I slap the cuffs on him. 

“You can’t fucking do this,” he protests. “This is abuse of power or wrongful arrest or fucking police brutality. This is bullshit, pig!” 

I slam the Kid against the car again. “Wrong. It’s public intoxication, possession, use, and loitering. And, if you’re underage, a whole slew of other charges.” The Kid’s drunk and wasted, stoned and completely stupid. He’s bound to get nabbed by Gabe, if he’s lucky, or another cop, if he’s not. Whether he wants to believe it or not, this is—I am—his best option right now.  

Besides, with his attitude, Kid’s got it coming. 

“Now,” I tell him as I roughly turn him around, his back arching as I shove him against the curved body of my car, “you’ve got the right to remain silent—so shut the fuck up.” I tug his caught arm. “Come on.” 

Read Part Two Here

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