The Gift (10 page)

"What do you mean it didn't work?" Anton snarled into the phone. "How could it not
work
?" He slammed the receiver in frustration and the harsh clank clambered around the open office.

"Calm, Anton," Morana cooed, attempting to soothe him with a shoulder rub, "you must be patient. Everything will work out."

He shooed her away, and a frown crinkled her otherwise smooth features. He ignored it. "Don't tell me to calm down! That stupid whore can't even keep the interest of a boy? Perhaps it's time to start trading these hags in for some younger models."

Anger flashed in Morana's eyes. "Watch your tongue, Anton. You should know more than most that age means nothing. Or do I have to prove to you again how I can turn you to putty in my hands?"

He swiveled in his chair and caught Morana's eye, sighing heavily. "You know I don't mean you. You're different. Your beauty is enhanced with power and grace. These … girls … I mean she had him
right
there
! Instead she sends him running for the arms of the very prick we're trying to keep him from!"

"You have others to try. Or, perhaps, you need to get yourself some boys."

He laughed. "It's never been an issue until now. And if I had the time I just might take that advice. But I don't. And I grow more concerned every hour that sniveling mouthpiece is with him. I see something growing there. Have you seen it? They talk with their eyes. They hear each other. And it drives me insane! And after tonight's event August will drag him back to the city, away from us all." He accented the next sentence with a smack of palm on the desk. "Away from our plans!"

Morana's smile was slow. It annoyed him. "But I have been working on that, Anton. You should spend less time ranting and more time checking the news."

He frowned, reached for the remote, and used it to open the cabinets beside his desk, exposing an enormous flat screen television. "What station?"

"Local, of course." The unseasonable and unscheduled rain levels had been plastered over the news all day. Massive amounts of water, coursing the streets, making travel difficult and now, it seemed, all but impossible.

"The reported death toll is sitting at sixteen with more expected once the vehicles have been searched," the announcer said with perfect inflection on all the important vowels. "Investigators have suggested the rain could be the cause for the structure's collapse, although at this time they are not ruling out engineering flaws or construction issues."

A camera, apparently directed from a helicopter by the angle, zoomed in on the destruction. "The top level of the bridge went first, crumbling to pieces atop the lower level. Travelers that were not killed by debris quickly succumbed to the turbulent water when the structure finally toppled."

For once the news didn't appear to be exaggerating. The bridge, the island's main mode of transportation in and out, was a mess. There would be very little travel but by water or plane. And even that would be minimal because of the onslaught of weather.

"One thing we do know is that it has become very unsafe to travel in this city. Rainwater has gathered past the gutters and made driving conditions severe. Air service has been disrupted for all but the direst of emergencies. Local hotels have filled to capacity and police have issued the following statement: 'If you don't need to be out there, don't be.' Reporting for TV-View, this is Anna Petry."

Anton jumped from of his chair and wrapped Morana in a bear hug, spinning her around the room. "Ah, ha! You beautiful creature, you! Why do I ever doubt you? Pure genius, that's what this is! Pure genius!"

"Put me down, you child!" Though her voice was a scold she was smiling at his compliments. He would be well paid for that later. With a smirk Anton settled her to the floor and walked over to the window, clasping his hands together and holding them to his lips. "Do you have any idea how well you've done? There's no way that stupid assistant would risk Doren's life to save a few dollars on hotel rooms. And you've taken our guest list for tonight and made them a captive audience for as long as we need them. Brilliant!" He spun on her, frowning again. "I suppose that little shit is coming too?"

"No doubt. But I've proffered Glenda's assistance with something. We'll see how it works."

"Oh?"

She smirked. "I wouldn't have believed it with one man to another, but I think it's August's piety that attracts him. He's different. He's simple. Perhaps if we can convince Doren otherwise then interest will be lost."

"And Glenda can do that?" Anton was doubtful. After all, he'd held August's hand, read his palm by fingertip and felt the surge of August's blood flow behind his wrist. It was strong. Enticing. Had the brat not been such a foe he might have even had a tug of interest. A limited one, of course. Just until he saw what it would take to break the boy.

"I don't know. We'll see. Give it a chance."

"No way, I'm not doing it. You can ask a hundred times—a thousand, even—and I'll still say no, so stop trying." Doren eyed August like August had gone mad.

"Oh, come on, you big baby. It'll look good on you." August held up the tux and smiled. "Kind of James Bond-y."

Doren took the suit from August's hand and dropped it on the floor in a pile. "No." He walked past August, ignoring the eye roll, and grabbed his jeans from the bathroom. He held them up, shaking out the wrinkles. "I told you, Auggie. Rockers don't wear tuxes. Ever. Like … not even on the red carpet. Like … I won't even be in a tux on my own wedding day. And if I need a jacket, it will be my leather one, thank you very much."

The view of August bending over to pick up the abandoned clothing was well worth the drama—the look August flashed him as August brushed the clothing free of carpet lint, not so nice. "Whatever. I said I'd try and I tried."

He smiled at August behind his back, already looking for something else to drop so he could watch thin fabric stretch tight. Who would have ever believed that cheap slacks could make an ass look so fine? He was blaming the clothing for his almost giddy, playful mood, but if he was being honest, it probably had more to do with the fact that they'd finally gotten some proper sleep. It had been past noon when Doren had finally unfurled himself from the chair and stretched out tight muscles. August had already been awake, August's bed still unmade in front of him, and he had crawled into the sheets and buried himself in them until August came out of the bathroom and kicked him out of the bed.

Giving up his evil plan of proffering himself cheap thrills, Doren walked back to the bathroom and grabbed both the shirts he'd tossed on to the vanity the previous night, both identical but for color—one white, one black. The same vicious graphics were slashed across the front of them, and both looked to be about size six, children's. He liked wearing his shirts like that; they drove the fans mental. "What do you think," he asked, holding them up in front of the mirror. "Black or white?"

August looked up and grimaced. "Is that supposed to be blood?"

"Yep. Cool, hmm?"

"If you say so." August didn't look convinced. "Go with the white then. It looks better against the red."

Doren dropped on to his back on the couch, legs splayed over the end and head over the edge, and stared at August upside down. "And you? What are you wearing? Did you go down to the shop?"

"I did."

"And you got …"

"Nothing."

Doren sat up quickly, "What do you mean nothing?"

"There is no way I'm paying three hundred and fifty dollars for a goddamn shirt, Doren. No way. Not even if I was a millionaire—which I'm not."

"I told you it would be covered."

August lifted an eyebrow, "And I told you no."

It was official: the man was crazy. "Aug, maybe you haven't been listening but the gala is tonight. As in six hours from now. And it's not okay for
you
to go in jeans!"

"Relax," August said, hanging the tux in the closet and refolding the rejected black t-shirt. "I've got it handled."

"How?"

"Never mind." Even from the distance Doren could see August's brow knitted in annoyance. "This might surprise you, chief, but I'm a big boy. I've been taking care of myself for some time." He shut the door to the closet and turned to stare coldly at Doren. "That includes dressing myself."

Doren's own eyebrow lifted in parody of August's expression. "Oh, really? You can take care of yourself, can you?" He rose from the couch and grinned. "Are you sure about that?"

"Don't even start." It wasn't a suggestion, nor was it a question. August's voice made it very clear he wasn't in the mood to play. As if, Doren chuckled to himself, that was going to make a difference. He got within a few feet of August and lunged—to which August responded by casually stepping to the side and turning away. Doren missed him completely.

"I said quit it. We don't have time for games."

"Begging won't save you now," Doren grinned, spinning dramatically and pulling a whole new display of eye rolling from August.

"That was not begging."

"Not yet," Doren agreed, and without warning he charged August, wrapping his arms around August's waist, dragging August the fourteen steps required to topple August on to the bed. He scrambled over top, grinning at the "Oof" and pinning August's arms to the mattress. "Feel free to beg all you want now, though."

"Fuck off, Doren," August warned. "You promised no bullshit, remember?"

Doren watched August's eyes but it wasn't the flare of interest that lit behind them that convinced Doren to stay where he was. It was the lyrical cadence that rushed into August's breath. It was the bass that picked up its beat in August's chest. He lowered his face, not even a hair's breadth of space between them. When he spoke he felt his own air come back at him from off of August's skin. "But that was in your room. Now we're in mine."

"It doesn't work like that—" August said. But the moment August spoke, their lips brushed against one another and with a soft growl Doren made it official. Just a quick kiss was all he was going for—a tease, a game—until August opened his mouth. Until his own tongue slipped between the parted heat of August's lips and was neither pushed away or spat out. Doren didn't wait for further direction. His hands slid off August's wrist, down August's arms, and he reached around August's waist. If August was going to let him kiss, maybe August would let him touch, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to take full advantage of that. With his arms tight, he pulled August into a roll, until he was flat on his back and August on top of him.

"There," Doren removed his lips enough to mumble against August's mouth. "I'm not making you do anything. You're the one on top of me. Move away if you need to. Stop me." He ran his hands over shoulders, back, across August's ass, pulling them tighter against one another. August choked on a sound. "Or don't," Doren whispered.

Kisses. Pressure. Friction. August's slacks moved easily against Doren's denim. His ass cheeks fit perfectly in Doren's palms. Doren never released the hold, rocking underneath August, dragging their bodies together, sending shivers up August's back that he could feel. August's eyes had never looked so bright, his cheeks never so flushed. Doren had no clue how far August would let him go; all he knew was that if August decided to walk away again, he planned on leaving August as frustrated as he knew he would be. He didn't break for any more than breath between their kisses, didn't give August time to think, and as the rush began to beat through him, August began to rock into the motion as well. He made no move to remove August's clothing; he didn't even reach up August's shirt. "I can stop …" he said, the statement open-ended, the question obvious.

"You have to," August panted. "Or I'll—" His voice caught on the word, embarrassed, and Doren grinned.

"Cum?"

August didn't answer. He just lowered his eyes and blushed in a way that gripped Doren hard somewhere south of belly and turned on every nerve in Doren's body. He let go of August's ass with one hand to thread it through August's hair instead. With a grip he hoped was just shy of painful he pulled August's gaze level with own again. "Am I supposed to think that sounds like a bad thing?" Doren tugged August closer and spoke against August's ear. "Because I think it sounds hot as all fuck."

Breath raced over Doren's cheek as August pulled and released deep gasps of air. "Matter of fact," Doren said, pausing to lick a quick taste of August's neck, "I can't think of a single thing that would sound more fantastic than you shooting in your pants while we hump each other like animals, Aug. What do you think?"

In for an inch, in for a mile,
Doren told himself. He'd either disgust August completely or turn August on like a tap. It worked like a charm. August stiffened, groaned, and then his body seemed to melt into Doren's as he came, a fluid weight over Doren's own that trembled and gasped. It was one of the most erotic moments Doren had ever experienced. As good as he liked to believe he was, he'd never made someone cum in their own clothing before. That was hot. That was … too much.

He flipped August on his back, held himself with one arm and popped his jeans with another. He didn't catch August's eye, afraid he'd terrify August into believing he was trying something he wasn't, and released his straining body from the jeans. Half a dozen strokes were all he'd need, but he never got the chance to perform them. With shaking fingers but a decent grip, cheeks flamed from either shame or orgasm, August fisted Doren's cock instead. Doren closed his eyes, did nothing but enjoy the sensation, holding himself until his arm began to shake in time with his legs, riding out the feeling for as long as he could keep it, before giving up and coating the already wet front of August's pants with his own contribution.

They rested like that for a moment, Doren too nervous to make eye contact and August still as a stone. "Please don't get weirded out," Doren wanted to beg. But he was worried that would just make things worse.