Fight (11 page)

Seated in the pickup, he gripped the wheel and took a deep breath, mentally retracing his steps inside that room just in case he'd missed anything. He hadn't, but something nagged at the edges of his brain, gnawing with sharp teeth but not allowing him to grasp onto it and work out what he'd done wrong.

Think. Think, goddamn it!

He stared at the closed motel door and thought. Thought so hard his head hurt, throbbing right along with those teeth that kept biting, nibbling, irritating.

The credit card. I used Paul's card when he's probably in jail. Shit, shit, shit!

He shoved the stick into reverse and screeched the pickup in a backward arc, stomping on the gas and slamming the stick into drive. He sped across the car park, his heart beating so fast his head lightened, and drew up to the exit. Cars zoomed past on the highway, too many of them for him to pull out. He cursed, palms and brow sweating, fingers clenching and unclenching the steering wheel. He stared left then right. It looked like a gap was coming up. If he was quick he could nip between two cars. A flashing light blipped about five cars down, and his stomach clenched, real fear gripping him for the first time since he'd started this shit.

Fuck. Cops. The card. Why the hell did I use it? Why didn't I think?

He smacked the wheel with the heel of his hand, the horn giving a short bark of protest. The sound jolted him into action, and he took the chance and skidded out of the exit, easing between two cars, narrowly missing an accident. More horns blared, and he slowed in case the cops behind caught sight of his pickup speeding along the highway. Eyes continually glancing from the rearview mirror to the road ahead, he let out a ragged breath as the cop car turned into the motel parking lot, its lights dousing.

He was safe. For now.

Getting his nerves under control, Carl drove on, contemplating changing his plans. He nodded, mentally talking to himself about what he should do next.

The next town is too close. Fuck it, I'll head for the one after that. Clubs will still be open by the time I get there.
He frowned at the voice of his conscience that asked: You sure you ought to go?
Fuck, yeah, I'm sure. They'll be looking for me, I dig that, but what I plan to do won't take long. Pick up some guy, go back to his place, do what I've got to do, then leave. I can manage that, right?
He nodded again.
Yeah, I can manage that.

The club had its own car park, and Carl wedged the pickup between a Ford Focus and a Subaru situated at the rear, bushes overhanging the bumpers. He'd calmed on his journey, forcing himself to concentrate on what lay ahead. He coached himself one final time before reaching into his bag and rooting around for a baseball cap, his flick knife, the lube, and the packet of three. Cap on, he slid his stuff in the back pocket of his jeans. Out of his vehicle, he locked up and studied the area from the shadows. Cameras mounted at the top of tall poles in the far corners pointed at the car park. Others lower down appeared to point to the outside of the club, probably to catch any violent action from drunken revelers. He eyed the higher cameras. What did he care if they'd caught images of the pickup coming in? It wasn't his, and he doubted the cops this far away from where he'd stolen it were aware it was in their town.

He walked toward the club, cap peak pulled low over his brow. He supposed he looked like any average Joe. His features below the cap peak could belong to a thousand or more people. No, he didn't need to worry. He'd be in and out so quick no one would remember him anyway.

The neon signed beckoned, luring him, an echoing voice inside his head urging him forward. He could do this.

Damn right I can.

Thankful no queue snaked outside, he walked right in, head down, the beefy men either side of the door giving him no attention. After paying the bored-looking woman with cash at the entry booth, he took the stairs two at a time, the tiny, flashing strings of lights along the riser widths promising fun and good times. He thought back to the past, to other times and other clubs where he'd acted like a regular guy, before he'd met Paul and been consumed by a love so strong Kevin's teachings had come crashing through. He grimaced and ousted the memories from his mind, needing to keep his head clear and his senses keen.

At the top, a packed club greeted him. Bodies gyrated to jungle music, inebriated people throwing away their inhibitions to dance with arms waving. The beat pulsed through him, exacerbating the tingle in his balls. He weaved through drinkers, eyes studying the crowd for a lonely guy who'd be grateful for attention. Spying one sitting in a corner booth, he slid onto the seat beside him and prayed he was gay.

"All right?” Carl shouted over the music.

The guy nodded, giving him a weird look and shifting away.

"Great place, yeah?” Carl asked.

Nodding, the guy stared at the crowd, jaw clenching. Carl followed his gaze and spotted a blonde woman staggering their way, a bottle in one hand and a clutch bag in the other. She arrived at the booth and plopped down beside the guy, lips pressing against his cheek, fingers kneading his crotch.

Fuck
.

Carl eased out of the booth and headed for the bar. He didn't want a drink—
fingerprints, gotta think of the fingerprints
—and stood beside it, watching the throng. The thought arose that he wouldn't find anyone here, that his mission would be thwarted by the lack of the other player needed to act out the next scene. What would he do then? Move on? Drive to another town? No way would he settle for jacking off. He had to feel skin on skin to attain the ultimate high.

A hot wisp of breath heated his neck, and he turned to face a man about his height, wiry-framed and good-looking in a Ben Affleck kind of way. Carl frowned, for a moment uncomprehending that the man was interested in him.

"Lonely?” the man asked, head tilted, his honest eyes regarding Carl.

"A little,” Carl said. “Came out to find... Well, yeah, you know how it is."

"Good job I do,” the man said. “Greg.” He held out his hand for shaking. “You?"

Carl shook it. “John. My name's John."

"Aren't they all?” Greg grinned. “Come on. My place or yours?"

"Yours.” Carl smiled and followed Greg down the stairs and out into the night.

And he scores! Just like that. Fuck, I'm good.

In the pickup, Carl tailed Greg, filing away the turns and street names so he'd remember the route back to the highway.
Let's see if his confidence falters once we get to his place. Let's see if he's so in control then.
Carl laughed, giddy from the thrill of acting out his desires. Everything fell into place every time, and he mused on whether a higher calling directed his life. He didn't believe in God—no, he couldn't, not when Kevin had brought him up the way he had; God would have stopped it, surely—but there could be something else orchestrating his life, couldn't there? He tapped the steering wheel at a red light, staring at Greg's rear fender, eyes glazing. He contemplated every scenario that could possibly lie ahead, working through his actions and reactions, ensuring he knew exactly what to do should something go wrong. And it could, he knew that, but refused to fully believe it.

He was in control. He had it all covered. He was the best.

It took a honking horn to pull him from his reverie, and he pressed on the gas to catch up to Greg's car, which turned into an underground parking lot. As far as Carl could make out, no security cameras were in sight. He maneuvered into a spot beside Greg's and got out, smiling as he trailed the man to an elevator. Their footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the walls, giving the place an eerie feel.
God, I love this shit!

The elevator arrived quickly, and they stepped inside, Carl scanning the interior for cameras.
None. Good
. Greg jabbed his thumb onto the level three button, and the elevator rose with a judder. They didn't look at one another—they both knew this was a one-night stand that didn't need the added mess of inane conversation—but Carl studied Greg's reflection in the metal door. The man stared up at the ceiling, biting his lower lip and tapping his foot.

Easy to bring down. Easy to manipulate. Look at him fiddling with his pants leg. Nervous. Just the way I like them.

The elevator lurched to a stop, and a ping sounded as the doors opened. Carl walked behind Greg to door number sixteen and followed him inside. His prey strode to the second door on their left down a long hall. Carl peeked inside a living room to his right, noting a state-of-the-art flat-screen TV and an expensive black leather sofa.
What does this guy do for a living?
He closed his mind off from caring. What did it matter? He had a job to get done, and what Greg did or didn't do in the workplace was no concern of Carl's. He walked down the hallway and turned, eyeing the bedroom while feeling his back pocket. The knife bulged pleasantly under the fabric, and Carl smiled.

Greg undressed hurriedly, draping his clothes on a chair in the corner. His cock already hard, he smiled sheepishly at Carl before turning to face the window above the bed. Buttocks that were ripe for a thrashing clenched, and Carl swallowed, realizing with regret he didn't really have the time to indulge in such pleasures.
Get in, get out. That's the deal you made with yourself. Deviate from the plan and you risk fucking up
.

"Got a belt?” Carl asked.

Greg spun to face him, a fleeting dash of shock crossing his face before he masked it with bravado. “Yeah. Sure. You into kink?"

"Damn right I am.” Carl laughed to ease away any misgivings Greg might be having. “You?"

Greg pulled a belt from the loops in his pants, seemingly feigning nonchalance. “Not tried it, but I'm open to new experiences."

Oh, you'll be having a new experience all right.

Carl stifled a chuckle and held his hand out for the belt. The leather felt good in his palm, and he savored the rush of blood to his cock. “You want me to take charge, right?"

Greg nodded, the flush of desire tinting his cheeks and twitching his cock.

"Giver or a taker?” Carl moved to the bottom of the bed.
Taker if ever I fucking saw one
.

"Taker."

"Right. Get on the bed, facedown."

Greg obeyed, his arms by his sides, cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes looking right.

Carl climbed on the bed and straddled him. “Hands up to the headboard."

Lifting his arms, Greg curled his fingers around an iron pole.

Carl leaned forward and secured Greg's wrists then tied the belt to the pole. “I'll make you feel fucking
good
,” he whispered in Greg's ear, flicking his tongue out to taste the lobe. He kneeled between Greg's open legs, reached to his back pocket and brought out the knife, lube, and condoms, placing the blade within easy reach to his left. Jerking down his zip, he freed his erection and rolled on a condom, hating the damn feel of it but knowing it was a necessary precaution. Lubing the condom, he slapped Greg's buttock—hard. “Lift up. Kneel."

Greg did so, and Carl shut out the sight of Greg's excited smile, superimposing Paul's features there instead. His cock thickened further, and he smoothed his hands over Greg's ass globes, closing his eyes to convince himself it was Paul he caressed, Paul he would fuck. Touching his cock to get lube on his thumb, he opened his eyes and circled Greg's asshole, pushing the thumb inside to ready the man for the fuck of his life. Greg gave a low whimper, spurring Carl on to loosening that ass quickly. Carl's cock ached, and a steady pulse beat at the base of his balls. He couldn't wait. The excitement of his day had been too much, and he needed the release. Removing his thumb, he butted his cock to Greg's asshole, pushing inside harder than he should have but uncaring of any pain he caused. Greg grunted, and Carl ignored him, gripping Greg's waist and thrusting in to the hilt.

"Ah, fuck! Careful, man!” Greg said through gritted teeth.

Fuck you.

Carl eased in and out, slowly at first, and not because of any consideration to Greg either. No, he went slow because he liked it that way, liked the anticipation of speeding up and fucking hard and fast. The moment came when he couldn't hold back any longer, and he pumped that ass with an unforgiving rhythm, pleased to hear Greg's moans.

"Yeah, I'm making you feel good, baby,” Carl ground out, his cock vein pulsating. “Ah, yeah, I love you, Paul. Fucking love you!"

Cum spurted from him, the heady rush of his orgasm spacing him out, sending him into a swirl of bliss he could drown in. He scrunched his eyes closed, another ejaculation coming out so fast his cock hole hurt, and he reveled in it. Fucking reveled in pumping Paul's ass. He slowed, glorying in the after shocks and cock twitches, then gave a short, sharp thrust to expel the last of his cum. He opened his eyes, and the sight of Greg's wide eyes and stilled hand pissed him off. Carl pulled out, shoving his condom-covered cock in his pants, and zipped up, rage overtaking the pleasure he'd so recently experienced.

"You didn't like that?” he asked. “You didn't like me calling you Paul?"

Greg hunched up the bed, a ball of flesh at the headboard, the look he flung over his shoulder one of bewilderment tinged with hatred. “It was weird, man. Fucking weird."

"Weird?
Weird
?” Carl snatched up his flick knife, red rage thundering through him. “I'll give you fucking weird!” Grabbing a fistful of Greg's hair, he yanked his head back, exposing his neck. He flicked the knife open out of its sheath, pressing against skin and the pulsing vein in Greg's throat. He sliced, wanting this guy to die quickly, the bastard undeserving of Carl wasting Paul's name on him. He let go of his hair, ignoring the gurgles and Greg's bucking body, and got off the bed, anger still roiling through him.

Lube and condom wrapper back in his pocket, he sneered and left the room, past caring if his fingerprints were on that belt. Storming down the hallway, he slammed out of the apartment, poking at the elevator button with a shirt-covered finger.

It was time to go home. Time to save Paul. Time to be a hero.