The Worst Best Luck (12 page)

>You’re literally saving my life :)

Right,
Peter thought. 
If only I was evil, like you, if only I could let you die….

But then, mercifully, he was too busy after that to dwell on Cody.  Nina Slate was his new “wealth manager,” one of a handful of bankers at a very private bank, located on the Upper East Side in a lovely townhouse with no sign out front.  Though of course, she had come to him today. 

Documents passed from her to Peter and then to James Plant, who’d already vetted them. 

“You got a head start on all this paperwork,” Peter said to Plant.

“Early bird et cetera,” Plant replied.  “And there is so very much paper here to work.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that.  There were IRS forms, New York City and State forms, bank forms, so many bank forms – Peter’s money would be distributed across several institutions, including a Swiss bank and another in the Caymans, to ensure that even if one of them collapsed spectacularly, all of it wouldn’t disappear. 

“So let’s talk about your foundation,” Nina said.

“My what?”

“Your charitable foundation.  We’ll need to set up a trust instrument, corporate charter, articles of association, and we’ll need a board of directors...”

“What if I don’t want a board of directors?”

James and Nina looked at each other.  “When we file for 501(c)(3) tax exempt status, the IRS prefers that you have at least three people on the board of directors.  You’ll be the chairman, of course.”

Peter laughed.  “Even with a bazillion dollars, I still can’t do what I want.”

“We can find you two people who’ll fit the bill, Peter.  Trust me, you’ll be able to do anything you want.”

Anything I want
.  It still hadn’t hit him, or to be precise, it
had
hit him, and he was still in shock from the impact. 

“Do you know what your primary charitable focus is going to be?” Nina asked him. “That’ll help us find the right people for the board.”

“I…I need time to think about that.”

“Of course.  Let’s get the banking done, and we can meet again later on that.”

When they were gone, taking the marching instructions for Peter’s money with them, he fell on the bed, exhausted.  But everything he had to do today was…

No.  One more thing.  He called Matt.

“Hey, how are you holding up?” Matt said, and his warm, kind voice made Peter happy.  Only Matt understood what a drain all this was.

“I’m holding.  They tell me the
real
crazy is about to start now.”

“Yeah.  Where are you?”

“At the Carlyle.”

Matt paused.  “Can I come see you?”

Peter felt sick, the knowledge that he had to deceive Matt was like a knife in his guts.  “How about tomorrow?” he said brightly.  “Afternoon?”

“Sure.  That sounds good.  Peter…”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will!  I’ll talk to you later!”  When he hung up, he knew how ringingly artificial he’d sounded. 
But I have to get rid of Cody first.  I have to do that, and then Matt and I can have a future. 

Maybe.  If the money doesn’t ruin it.

And then one more thought, buried, masked, drowned but not dead, that he refused to listen to, refused to believe. 
If you can buy Cody off with a measly hundred grand.  If he doesn’t come back again and again and again…

It was like something out of a movie, Peter thought, staring at the shrink-wrapped package.  One thousand brand new hundred dollar bills, weighing about 2.2 pounds – he’d looked it up.  He thought about the scene in “Breaking Bad” where Skyler reveals the enormous pile of cash she’d hidden in storage.  And even that pile was “only” $80 million.

His Security team called before they escorted Cody up from the lobby, and Peter steeled himself for the encounter.  He just wanted to get it over with, get Cody in and out of there and never see him again.

“Hey, lover!” Cody said, his eyes shining with avarice and something else.  “Give me a hug!”

Peter complied, barely.  “It’s over on the table.”

Cody looked over Peter’s shoulder and whistled.  “That’s some brick, man.”

“You’re awfully chipper for a man whose life is in danger.”

Cody blinked.  “Yeah, right.  Well, not any more, right?”  He went to the money like a moth to a flame.  “Thanks, man.”  He picked it up, held it up like an idol, hypnotized by its power.

“I have some appointments now, so…”

“Right,” Cody said distantly.  Peter saw him looking out the window, eyes glazing over as the wheels turned in his head.  “So, hey, I’ve got this really amazing business opportunity, I could get you in on the ground floor.  It would only cost you another hundred grand, and it’s a sure thing, I swear.”

Peter’s heart sank. 
How could I not have known, that this wouldn’t be the end?  How could I have been so stupid as to think a measly hundred grand would buy him off?

Because you didn’t want to know.  You didn’t want to think beyond this, same as always.  You could never think beyond these times, every time you gave Cody what he wanted just so he’d leave you in peace for a day, an hour. 

And you know, too, don’t you, that he’s not in danger?  That the whole thing was just a ruse to get your money?

“I’m not interested.”

Cody shrugged, the cash in hand enough for now.  “Okay, man.  I’ll call you and we’ll talk about it some more later.  Now give me another hug!”

“No,” Peter said, stunning himself.

Cody’s eyes darkened, and Peter could see the rage, cold and murderous, flaring in there.  Cody, his will denied, his bottomless need unsated, a thing terrible to behold. 

But you have the money now.  He can’t hurt you.  He needs to come back again and again.  He won’t kill the goose who’s going to lay him these golden eggs forever and ever…

“Fine.  Be a dick.”  Cody wagged a finger at him.  “That money’s changing you already, Peter, and not in a good way.”  Then he was gone in a cloud of smug self-righteousness.

Peter drifted to the fully-stocked bar, ready to numb the pain of the encounter, but one thing stayed his hand.  Matt was coming by later. 

His breakfast came, presented with a flourish.  Peter sat at the dining room table, shifting awkwardly as he watched the room service waiter plate his eggs and sausage from the chafing dish.  It was weird being the one waited on like this, when he’d waited tables himself in school not so long ago.

But at least he knew from that experience how to tip.  That had been the reason for the other, smaller pile of cash he’d requested from Plant – if you signed the bill and put the tip on there, the waiter gets it in his paycheck, taxed.  If you leave “no tip” on the bill and hand him cash, well, thank you sir, much appreciated.

Something was amiss that he only noticed as the waiter was leaving.  “Um…” Peter said hesitantly.

“Yes, sir?”

“I don’t have all the papers this morning.”  Every day the hotel brought him a stack of newspapers, but this morning only the Times and Wall Street Journal were laid out for him.  “No tabloids.”

The waiter hesitated.  “Yes, sir.  The concierge thought you might not want to see those this morning.”

“Why?”

The waiter thought a moment.  Like most of the staff, he’d seen plenty of new money, seen how insecure it made people, how they thought being rich meant they needed to abuse the help the way they’d been abused by the rich when they were down and out.  And like most of the staff, he liked Peter, who always said thank you, which was as important as the tip, if not more so.  He’d been told not to say anything, but he’d also been trained to know that good service meant breaking the rules sometimes.

“It appears that some relatives, or alleged relatives, of yours have come out in the tabloids.  I imagine they expect a piece of the prize, sir.”

“Shit,” Peter said, putting a hand to his forehead.  “Okay.  I’ll look it up online.”  It occurred to him.  “You weren’t supposed to tell me, were you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, thank you.  I’d hate to go out and see it on a kiosk and find out that way.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir.”

Peter fired up the new MacBook Pro he’d had delivered yesterday.  The Post would be the worst offender, he knew, so he went straight to their site.

TRAILER TRASH TRAGEDY!  Peter Rabe abandons family!  Destitute Aunt speaks EXCLUSIVELY to the POST!

  “Oh, shit,” he said aloud.  The picture of his mother’s sister on the cover was anything but flattering.  But then again, forty five years of hard living ensured you’d never be photogenic.  Charla’s sour face, papery and wrinkled from thirty years of smoking, her hard eyes, her pinched mouth, her black hair showing its iron grey roots…

“I helped raise that boy,” Charla Dean told the POST.  “And I’ve got four kids a my own to feed.  We ain’t heard nothin’ from him.  I been callin and callin and he don’t answer.”

Dammit, Peter thought.  Somewhere in the bottomless pile of voice mails was his aunt’s message. 
You lying bitch
, he thought with a surge of rage. 
You left us to starve, you left Mom to die, you wouldn’t even go to the goddamn grocery store for her, you were so busy chasing your latest piece of white trash manflesh.

He had to go through the voice mails, the emails, to make sure there wasn’t anyone else out there he’d have to deal with.  He opened his Gmail and started whisking through it.

Then something caught his eye.  He laughed.  He laughed some more, until the laughs turned into hysterical sobs. 

How many times had he and Katie cracked wise about those spam emails from “Adrian and Gillian Bayford who are award telegramming their money to you for return this reply for detail”?  And the damn thing was, the Bayfords were real people, UK lottery winners, their names forever hijacked by spammers.

Now there it was in his inbox.  “URGENT ALERT Pater Rabies is for making you millionaire with giving gift of $1.000.000 reply chop chop by click here on Dropbox link.”

I’m a joke.  A spambot.  I’ve got rabies.

Then Security called and let him know Matt was here.  “Okay,” he said, and he was still wiping his eyes when he opened the door.

Matt’s smile faded when he saw Peter’s tears.  Matt didn’t ask for hugs, Peter thought as Matt wrapped his big strong arms around him.  He just gave them.

“I can’t stand it.  I can’t take any more.  I can’t.”

“I know,” Matt said.  “Let’s go.  Pack your bag.  Or not, screw it, we’ll have them send you some clothes.”

“What?”

Matt grinned.  “We’re going away for a while.  Far away.”

“But I…”

“Peter.  How would you like to go to a 90 acre tropical island with no Internet, no cell phone service, no bridge to dry land, no servants, no…”

“Yes,” Peter said, flinging his arms around Matt.  “Yes.”

Matt watched Peter sleeping peacefully as the Worthington family’s Gulfstream flew them south.  Right after takeoff, Peter had accidentally hit the button that flattened the big tan leather seat into a bed.  He’d laughed, closed his eyes, sighed and passed out.

Matt wanted to join him, to lay down beside him and hold him.  But first he’d have to unclench his hands from his own armrests, the anger at
fucking Cody
rolling through him in waves.  He could fix this, all right!  All it would take was one solid punch to Cody’s face…

The plane landed at the airport in St. Thomas.  Peter woke up, looked out the window at the blue-green Caribbean, and smiled.  “Oh my God, it’s beautiful.”

“Just wait till we get to the island.”

“This is an island.”

“Yeah, but it’s not
the
island.”

From the tarmac, a car whisked them to the water’s edge, where a boat awaited – a small yacht, really, with a lavish luncheon of crab and fruit and champagne laid out for them on the rear deck.

“How much is this costing?” Peter had to ask as they watched St. Thomas shrink behind them.

“Nothing,” Matt said.  “This all belongs to my friend Chadrick’s family.  We’re headed to Worthington Island.”

“Worthington!  The Worthingtons are friends of yours?”  Peter knew Matt had come up with money, but he was shocked – he might as well have said Rockefeller or Vanderbilt.

“I went to school with Chadrick.  We’re friends.”

Peter raised an eyebrow.  “You don’t call him Chad?”

“No.  God forbid.  Never Chad.  He’d kill me.”

Then the island was gone, and there was nothing to see but water.  Matt nodded to himself, seeing the look on Peter’s face, watching it smooth out, relax, drop the furrow in his brow as the emptiness of the horizon did its work on him. 

Sitting in the back of the boat, looking out to sea, Peter didn’t even know they’d reached the island until the boat cut its engines. They pulled up to the dock, and the crew jumped off, tied up the boat, and whisked their bags away. 

A sandy path led from the dock to the house, a long, one-story building with an inviting veranda.  The tiled porch was furnished with wicker lounge chairs, tropical-patterned cushions matching the foliage around them.  Vines curled around the pillars, glowing with rude green health.  In front of the veranda was a fire pit with stone benches.  The beach curved out of sight, palm trees drooping over its edges.  It was like something out of “Dr. No.” 

When the boat took off, Matt put his arm around Peter’s shoulder.  “We’re alone now.”

“Really?”

“There’s no staff on site.  We’ll have to fend for ourselves, cook and clean.  The boat comes every day though, with fresh food and water.”

“Every day?  Is that necessary?”

“Well, yeah,” Matt said.  “The only electricity is from the solar panels.  So there’s no freezer, only a little fridge.  No TV.  No pool or hot tub.  Just the ocean.”

Peter smiled.  “We are totally cut off from the world.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”  He put his arms around Matt, hugged him with gratitude, and Matt clasped Peter hard. 

He couldn’t help it; it had been too long.  His hands ran down to cup Peter’s ass.  He felt Peter arch in response, felt his grip tighten on the ridges of Matt’s strong back.  Peter’s fingertips stroked Matt’s spine and Matt groaned.

“Oh God Peter, it’s been too long.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed, breaking the embrace and walking away, pulling Matt by the hand towards the house.  He let go of Matt and tore his shirt off as he went, wanting to feel the warm sun on his skin.

Matt watched Peter’s taut body as he threw his shirt on the porch, his runner’s build so economical – not skinny, like some marathoners, but lean, defined…perfect, to Matt.  Matt’s erection throbbed in his shorts, and he discarded his own shirt as he followed. 

Peter bent over to flatten out a lounge chair, and Matt lost it, looking at his ass in his khaki shorts.  “Fuck…” he whispered, pressing himself up against Peter, a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades, keeping him bent over.  Matt ground his cock up against Peter’s tight round butt, listening to Peter moan softly. 

“I’m gonna get so deep inside you.”

Peter squirmed, slipping out from under Matt’s big hand.  He turned around, and put a fingertip right on the head of Matt’s dick where it bulged in his shorts, and circled lazily back and forth around it. 

“You think so?” Peter asked. 

Matt grunted.  He pushed Peter down onto the lounge chair.  “Don’t move.”

Peter disobeyed instantly, throwing an arm over his head, spreading his legs so that his feet dropped off either side of the chair.  His own erection was plain for Matt to see, his sultry come-hither look half-joking but irresistible anyway.

Matt shook his head.  “God, you’re beautiful.”  He leaned down, his hair brushing Peter’s face as he kissed him gently on the lips.

“Takes one to know one,” Peter replied, and they both laughed, thinking of that first day in the garage.

“I’ll be right back.”  Matt ran inside to find his suitcase, in which he’d wisely packed the Magnums and lube on top, knowing, hoping, he’d need them right away.

When he came out, the chair was empty.  Matt looked around and saw Peter standing naked on the beach, feet apart, his tight little ass just waiting to be split.

Matt set the rubbers and lube down by the lounge chair and dropped his own shorts, then padded out onto the warm sand in his bare feet.  He stood next to Peter, watching the sea breeze ruffle his fair hair. 

“Thank you,” Peter said, turning to him with a solemn gaze.  “I need this.  All of this.”

Matt nodded.  “Me too.” 

They stood there for a moment, naked and innocent.  Then Peter turned, his hand grazing Matt’s still-hard dick as he went.  It was an invitation, a summons, and Matt obeyed.

“You don’t want to do it on the beach?” Matt asked.

Peter looked over his shoulder.  “What, and get cracksand?  We’d both get all cut up if that massive cock of yours even got a grain of sand up in me.”

“Yeah, that would be bad.”

Peter crossed the patio, opening the French doors to the house.  Matt grabbed his supplies from the lounge chair and raced after him. 

The inside was simple, the furniture comfortable and plain, its white cushions and pillows easy to clean or replace if they got dirty or torn.  The walls were nearly nonexistent, just frames for the French doors that opened in every direction. Two fans whirred gently from the the blond wood ceiling, powered by the endless sunshine.

Peter found the bedroom, and was only halfway through scattering the excess pillows off the bed before Matt grabbed him.  They fell onto the mattress, Peter landing with a squeak of surprise and delight.

“Mine,” Matt said authoritatively.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.  I’m gonna plant my flag right
here…”

“Whaaa!” Peter giggled, struggling uselessly.

“…and claim this land for…well, for me, in the name of me.”

“Mattistan.  Mattavia.  Matt Island.”

“Islands plural,” Matt said, his hands grabbing Peter’s ass cheeks.

Peter’s eyes were dark and serious as he wriggled down to Matt’s crotch, not breaking eye contact.  He rubbed his face on Matt’s hardon, eyes closed, mouth open, as if it was a bottle of wine he’d already half emptied.

Then he took the head of Matt’s cock into his mouth.  Matt had to close his eyes, the exquisite warm wet softness of Peter’s mouth on him was too unbearably good, his brain shutting down all his other senses to focus on that, there.

He stroked Peter’s ears, felt Peter’s hands grabbing his, knew that he wanted Matt to grab his head and fuck it hard.  Matt resisted gently, held Peter’s hands, didn’t let go. 

Peter sighed.  He looked up at Matt.  “You know, don’t you, that you don’t have to be so gentle.  That I don’t want you to be.”

“I know.  But I want you to know…”

Peter cut him off.  “That I’m valued, cherished, yes.  Thank you, Matt.  But…the rough sex thing, it’s not…”  He broke off.  “I’ve been with guys who were rough because they were cruel.” 

He didn’t want to name Cody, didn’t want to confess that someone else still had a hold over him.  Didn’t want to confess what he’d let Cody do to him.

“And maybe I liked it that way, some of the time, because I thought I deserved it.  But that wasn’t all there was to it.  I liked it because it was
hot.
  Because it was animal, crazy, powerful.” 

He looked Matt in the eye with surprising resolve.  “And maybe I like to see what I can take.  What my limits are.  Maybe I like a bit of the old Tarzan and Jane.  Especially here, now, in the jungle.”  He cocked his head.  “And with that hair of yours, and that big beefcake body, you know, you kinda look like Tarzan.”

Matt didn’t smile.  He reached down and grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair, just barely pulling on it, just enough to watch Peter’s eyes glaze with pleasure, with anticipation. 
Okay,
he thought. 
I like a bit of the old slap and tickle, too.  Let’s see if we can rewire your kink to be about affection, not contempt.

“You Jane,” Matt said in earnest, not cracking a smile.  Then he did put his hands on Peter’s head, and slowly, steadily, pushed Peter onto his cock.  Peter’s mouth opened and Matt tightened his sphincter a couple times to flex his boner, just enough that it tapped against Peter’s mouth a couple times.

Peter took the hint and engulfed it, letting Matt set the pace with his hands, his hips, both of them thrusting in time.  He couldn’t get it all in, couldn’t get it all down there at this angle, but no matter. 

A thought occurred to Matt.  He pulled Peter off his dick, rolled out from under him and off the bed.  “Don’t move.” 

He padded to the kitchen to get a knife, then went out to the porch, where the vines grew around the pillars in profusion.  He tugged on one, nodded in satisfaction, and cut off two lengths.  He went back to the bedroom, vines in hand.

“Stand up,” he said, and Peter jumped to his feet.  “Turn around.”

Peter’s breath quickened when Matt brought his hands together behind his back.  Then he laughed, for a second anyway, as Matt wrapped a vine around his wrists, tightly enough that he couldn’t move them, the plant’s flesh cool and moist but strong, not easily breakable.  Matt tied it off and turned Peter around, then helped him down to his knees.

Peter looked up at Matt adoringly. 
My Tarzan, my jungle captor…

Matt wrapped the other length around the back of Peter’s head and used it to pull him in onto his cock.  Matt didn’t move his hips, using the vine as a set of reins to guide Peter’s actions. 

He could see Peter’s hands moving, and wondered if he needed to free him, if he’d tied the restraints too tight.  But when he bent over to see what Peter was doing, he smiled – Peter was stroking his own ass with the edges of his bound hands, exciting himself with the thought of what came next.

“Fuck.” Matt said.  It was command, exclamation, promise.  He picked Peter up and put him on the bed on his knees, face down in a pillow.   He tore the rubber out of its foil, rolled it over his dick, then cracked the lid of the lube, the sounds of the rip and the snap letting Peter know exactly what was going on.

Matt didn’t touch Peter’s ass, only slathered his own cock with lube and, his body not touching Peter’s otherwise, just let his long fat dick touch Peter’s crack, slide up and down it, pulling away when Peter tried to push back against it, or flicked his bound hands, desperately trying to reach it.  Then, finally, as Peter nearly cried in frustration, he touched the head to Peter’s asshole, silencing him, stilling him.  And began to push, more a nudge at first, just enough to shorten Peter’s breaths.

“Tarzan fuck Jane in ass,” Matt mumbled, and as Peter laughed, relaxing his sphincter as he did, as Matt knew he would, Matt pushed in.

“Oh!  Fuck!” Peter cried out as his insides made way for Matt’s manhood, welcomed it, felt its mass, its heat, its will as it moved further in.

Then Matt had him flat on the bed, his weight pressing him into Peter.  Matt sighed as Peter’s fingers stroked his abs, feather touches that would have tickled in any other circumstances.  He fucked his lover,
yeah, I’m fucking my lover,
Matt thought with a thrill. 
Jane mine!

Matt fucked him harder now, pushing in all the way, till Peter cried out, his prostate squashed against his insides by Matt’s massive cock, nowhere for its juices to go but
out
, milked by Matt’s dick.  Then Matt held himself there, and Peter panted in pain, in ecstasy.  Matt retreated, or faked a retreat, and just as Peter relaxed he surprised him, thrust hard again, provoking another cry. 

“Fucking pound it!” Peter demanded.

Matt’s dick stilled inside Peter.  He put his mouth on Peter’s ear, licked his lobe, made him moan.  “You’re not in charge here, remember?”