"'Nother Jack," says James, waving his glass at the bartender who is obviously ignoring him. "Fuck you," he yells again and is taken aback when his arm is wrenched behind him in an armlock.
"Finish that drink and get the fuck outta here," says the bouncer, who's built like a barn door and reminds James of Steve in too many fucking ways.
That's great but where the fuck does he go? Back to the car again? Twenty years old and he spent his nights sleeping in that piece of shit when he wasn't in ER sleeping off the effects of being too fucked up or too beaten up. Forty years plus and he's back in the same old place... even the motor's identical.
He's fucking wasted in more ways than one.
Wrong side of town’s, the wrong side of town, whatever the city, and New
York’s worse than most. Hell, Cullen wouldn’t be here if some clown
hadn’t knifed his tyres when he stopped to grab a burger. Little bastards.
It’s going to take the AAA about forty minutes to get to him and, rather than cool his heels in the Merc, Cullen decides to scout around for a bar. There’s one half a block away. Seedy. Stinking of piss and cheap beer. But it’s warm, so he pushes open the door, and damn near gets mown down by the bouncer serving an eviction notice on some punk.
He growls as the drunk collides with his chest and looks down. It’s Gentleman Jim. And he’s so fucking wasted, he can hardly stand.
James staggers away from one barn door straight into another one and when he look up through bleary, whiskey eyes he sees ... Fuck. No.
Last paying job, doesn't wanna think about it. On his fucking knees with some cunt's dick up his ass, sucking this guy's monster bitch of a cock off. Yeah he remembers. Remembers needing something for the first time ever that wasn't a noseful of white.
Course he can't afford that shit now. Has to make do with whatever he can get on all fours for; meth, H, paint thinners. Fuck, he'll do it for a cup of java nowadays.
Cullen puts his hand out, grabbing James’ shoulder to stop him falling and he feels nothing but skin and bone. The muscle he remembers is gone, wasted; nothing left of the man in front of him but a shell. What the fuck’s happened in the past year to turn that pretty sub into this?
“Jim?” he says, moving his hand from shoulder to chin and yanking so that James is looking him in the eye. As well as he can, anyhow. Jesus, the guy’s fucked.
Working on instinct more than anything else, he pulls James outside, ignoring the looks he gets from the bouncer, and under a streetlamp. Then, while James squirms and tries to get free, he tugs up ratty sweater sleeves exposing skinny, pasty arms covered in nasty inflamed looking track marks. And that kinda explains that.
“You fucking little fool,” he says.
"Fuck you," says James. He still has his mouth even if he has no dignity
left.
Doesn't know what's going on. Doesn't care what's going on. Doesn't want to be bundled into the back seat of that Merc but when he's there he knows what to do.
Thrusting his mouth against -- the name GI Joe seems familiar -- the other man's lips and his hand into the open fly of his pants, he fumbles to release that flaccid penis and works it desperately with his fingers.
The taste of the mouth against his own is repulsive and the smell rising off
James’ body is worse. If the guy’s seen the inside of a shower block
in the past month then Cullen’s a prancing fucking queen. This filthy
skeleton could no more arouse him than any of the cheap whores touting for business
on mean street.
Shoving James bodily away, Cullen cups a skinny face with his hands, searching for a trace of the fire he remembers. It’s still there, he’s sure of it, but what will bring it to the surface? His gaze and fingers explore wrinkles and sandpapery skin as he racks his brain for the details of their single private encounter. What annoys Jim enough to get him riled up?
When he remembers, Cullen laughs. Drink your juice. Eat something. What annoyed Jim more than anything else was someone looking after him. Guess he was gonna be mighty pissed for a while then, ‘cos Cullen had no intention of walking away. A well-honed sense of responsibility came with the territory.
“Gonna take you home, boy,” he says. “Gonna take you home and stick you in a bath, feed you up some. Then you can play. Got it?”
James shivers at a touch that for once isn't the sting of a needle or the burn
of a cock. He had a life once - didn't he? A future? Thought he was gonna be
an actor and make mommy and daddy proud of him. He hates seeing the unvoiced
shame in their eyes that's lived there since the day he was caught in the vestry
at church with Mikey Rivers' cock in his mouth.
He's got married for them, had a kid for them -- and still he's ended up in the gutter just where they knew he belonged all the damn time.
James isn't going to waste any more of his time thinking about them. He has someone else on his mind now. Cullen. The man's different from the other fuckers he met at that modernist mansion in the 'burbs. Makes him want to kneel and eat cock just for the pleasure of it. No need to think or plan or figure out what angle to use.
'Bath,' Cullen says.
'Home,' Cullen says.
And if it wasn't for the screaming tracks and drug crazed brain James'd want that more than anything. Instead he scrabbles to get back to Cullen's cock and do what he has to, to get his veins fed.
The push when it comes is more violent this time.
Goddamnit, Cullen curses silently as James slams into the car door, his head
bouncing off the window like a piñata. He didn’t want to hurt the
guy, but he ain’t putting up with this drugged-up whore shit either.
Following James across the car, Cullen pins him by his arms, giving him a none too gentle shake, enough to rattle teeth. “Enough of the crap,” he snaps. “Gonna set some rules here, capiche? You gonna be mine then you wake up and take notice.”
James kinda wobbles, almost lurching forward into his lap again ‘til Cullen lays one across his cheek with a flat hand. Leaves a red print. He don’t like hurting the guy. Goes against the grain. When a critter’s already in pain, seems wrong adding to it. But this one needs boundaries. Needs them so bad that he’s practically begging for them behind silent patriotic eyes.
A knock on the window interrupts and Cullen glances round to see the AAA man peering in. He’s gonna have to deal with this else they’ll be here all night, but he doesn’t want Jim doing a runner. The boy’s under his skin now, set up that resonance of responsibility that comes from being told a million times that you don’t leave a man behind, so he digs into his holdall and yanks out a pair of cuffs.
Dangling them in front of Jim’s face he says, “I can cuff your hands to the seat or hog-tie you in the goddamned trunk. Your choice.”
What in the hell? He don't need this shit.
James cradles his head in his hands thinking that there should be a couple more choices here. When did he lose the right to get the fuck out of this car and walk away?
Cullen's turning out to be a freaking psycho but then he should've known that all along. Why else would a guy like him end up working for a backstreet porn peddler like Rick? Jeez, put him on some pedestal, why don't you, Jimmy. He's just a fucktard loser same as you.
James looks around him, tries to see through the tinted glass and then for some reason he holds out his wrist, noticing for the first time how filthy ugly his skin’s looking, streaked grey with streetdirt and dotted with infected wounds.
Psychotic or not there's something real comforting about someone caring enough to want to keep him, whatever freak ass method they wanna use.
As the cuff clicks shut, Cullen lets himself breath easy; right up to that scrawny
wrist being offered over, he was worrying that Jim’d do a runner. And
he’d of let him. Man has a right to do what he wants with his life, even
if it is pissing it down the gutter.
The AAA guy knocks again and calls, “Gotta see your card ‘fore I start this, pal.”
Cullen checks Jim over one last time then climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut before the mechanic can get a look inside.
“Tyres,” he says as he gets his card out and hands it over. “All four of the fuckers.”
The mechanic nods, matches up numbers and signatures and gives the card back. “Damn kids,” he says. “Need a good hiding if you ask me.”
Cullen stands watching the guy jacking up the Merc and replacing slashed with new. And all the while he’s thinking about Jim. What he’s gonna do with him when he gets him back to the hotel. Beyond a shower and food, he’s got some ideas, but they’re based on the man he remembers not the one he’s got. That’s kinda confusing, but he ain’t gonna let it get to him.
When the guy’s finished, Cullen tips him a fifty and sends him on his way before getting into the driver’s seat. Jim’s stretched out in the back, either asleep or shamming, so Cullen starts the engine. Time to get back to the Warwick.
Lying on his side with his face pressed up against the leather upholstery, James
tries to ignore the pain that's crashing over him in waves. He doesn't remember
falling this far. Must've happened when he was way too busy getting stoned to
give a shit. Is this the bottom? He hopes so.
Clutching at his stomach, he blinks his eyes trying to make sense out of everything but he's got no chance. Life's this thing that's busy happening around him and the easiest thing is to just give in.
"Where we going?" he croaks, his throat parched and sore from too much whiskey and not enough water. He twists around until he's on his back trying to show some interest, hoping that this'll get him into Cullen's good books, but the big man just looks over his shoulder and says nothing.
'No fooling the prick,' thinks James. No good at acting anymore, Jimmy. Maybe ya never were.
The car pulls to a halt and Cullen gets out and opens the back door. The cuffs are unfastened and James sits up slowly and rubs at his wrist, ‘coz damn it, now that hurts as well.
They're in some kind of service area at the rear of a big fuck off building. Hotel by the looks of things.
"Up and out, soldier," snaps Cullen and James obeys instantly, leaning against the wall and resisting the urge to slide down and hug his knees.
Cullen raps on the big doors and one of them swings open. Money changes hands and a pair of eyes watch curiously as he's dragged inside the building by a man who obviously means business.
James just wishes he knows what the fuck kind of business Cullen means.
The service lift gets them to the right floor and luck gets them to Cullen’s
suite without being seen. He keeps hold of Jim’s collar as he swipes the
door open and walks him inside.
There’s things to organise, plans to change, so he gives the boy a slight shove in the direction of the bathroom and says, “Get cleaned up. Leave yer clothes by the door and don’t lock it.”
Jim wanders off without a word still rubbing his wrist like it’s paining him. Have to see to those tracks, Cullen thinks as he picks up the phone. Ten minutes later he’s got everything coming that should be and his breakfast meeting’s rescheduled for lunchtime.
There’s an untidy heap of rags outside the bathroom and Cullen bags and trashes them before opening the door and going in.
The bathroom’s luxurious but souless and James hates it for making him
feel more like a whore than ever. The pain's getting real bad now, digging deep
into every molecule, grinding away and wearing him down until he wants to scream.
He sits in the base of the shower and lets the hot jets wash over him, flipping the lid of the miniature bottle of shower gel open and closed with a dirty thumb nail as he stares at the grey water that's spiralling away down the drain.
"Get the fuck out," he yells as he sees a shadow pass across the misted up glass of the cubicle, "Just get the fuck out of here."
He’s given Jim a good ten minutes and he hasn’t even started washing.
And if there’s one thing bound to get Cullen pissed, it’s people
not following orders. Or cussing him out.
He yanks open the shower door and has Jim up against the wall before the guy can blink. With one hand stretching Jim’s arm up behind his back, Cullen sets about getting him clean. Shower gel and a rough hand and there ain’t no such thing as gentle right now. Jim’s hopping from foot to foot, still yelling his godammed head off. Ends up with a mouthful of soap, spitting bubbles alongside the cussing. Makes him quieter mind, easier to twist and turn under the water.
By the time they’re done, Cullen’s clothes are soaked, including his decent shoes. He’ll have value for them later, he decides. Once Jim’s fed and dosed up.
Once he's out of the shower cubicle James just stands there wondering what happens
next. Is this where he gets to play cocksucker?
Cullen hands him one of those thick, white, hotel robes and he slips it on over wet skin, pulling the folds of material around him and rubbing his wet overly long hair with a towel. He takes the toothbrush and scrubs at his teeth, removing the layers of plaque and tartar and the taste of the soap then he spits out into the basin and rinses his mouth. It's been a fucking long time since he felt clean.
The griping pain in his stomach attacks him once more and he winces and drops the towel wanting to disguise the pathetic state he's in but not knowing how. He's not proud of himself. Might not admit that to any fucker on earth but he knows a loser when he sees one in the mirror.
Cullen grips James's arm hard and pulls him toward the open doorway. Luckily the big man's too busy talking on his cell phone to notice how much agony James is in. It's getting worse by the second, he's shivering now and he'd kill his own mother for a hit. Fuck, he didn't know he was this bad off. Fuck. Fuck.
"Fuck."
Cullen pulls back the comforter and pushes him down onto the bed and James buries his face in the plump pillows and grinds his teeth together trying to erase everything.
"I need something," he whimpers.
“Yeah, I know,” Cullen answers and if his voice is gentler than
usual, so fucking be it. He’s seen enough guys hit rock bottom, damn near
been there himself. It’s not gonna cost him anything to take a bit of
care.
Leaving James on the bed, he goes into the living room and sorts out the kit that’s been sent up to him. Money and dropping the right names can buy you anything in this town, he thinks, digging out a bottle of methadone and some antibiotic cream. The boy’s not gonna like it but they’ve gotta start somewhere and Cullen ain’t planning on letting that habit hang around.
James has managed to get himself sitting by the time Cullen gets back. He’s screwed up into a ball against the bedstead and hardly registers when Cullen sits next to him.
“A dose a day,” he says, cracking the seal and pouring out a measure. “Not gonna give ya the kick but it’ll stop it hurting so bad.”
Meth is better than nothing and right now he’ll do anything to ease the
pain. James takes the plastic beaker and swallows down the liquid then picks
at the scabs on his arm, pulling away when Cullen wants to play nurse.
“Why?” he asks looking sideways at the big man. He won’t look into anyone’s eyes. Doesn’t like the scorn that’s always present. He didn’t intend to end up on life’s reject pile so why does everyone look at him as if he was born a loser. It wasn’t his burning ambition to be an addict who’d sell his soul for a hit. Maybe he’s already signed the contract. Dark car, dark clothes, dark man.
The thought makes him snigger and Cullen looks at him in surprise then all of a sudden James is so freaked out. His head’s spinning and his breath’s stuck in his lungs and he doesn’t know whether he’s trying to laugh or cry.
Hysteria? Cullen narrows his eyes and glares down at James. Looks that way.
Goddamn, he’s not gonna coddle the guy. Grabbing one scrawny arm, he gives
James a sharp shake. “Quit it,” he growls, “else I’ll
stick you back under the water and run it cold.”
That kinda gets through. James sniggers and snorts himself into a calmer state, though his eyes are wild when they hunt around the room. Cullen heaves a sigh and leaves him be on the bed while he gets the food. It’s cliché stuff but chicken soup’s got a rep for being good for invalids so that’s what he’s ordered.
Smells good. Cullen leans over the tureen to get a good whiff before ladling out a serving and taking it over to the bed.
“Yer gonna eat that,” he says, putting the tray on James’ lap. “Then yer gonna go to sleep. We’ll talk come mornin’.” Privately he reckons Jim’ll be out like a light and sleep through most anything, but he’s not saying in case the ornery cuss decides to stay awake on purpose.
The first spoonful is too hot and it burns James’s mouth. The soup tastes cloying and sweet, bland mixed with bitterness and it reminds him far too much of his life.
He’s hungry so he swallows it quickly, hollowed stomach growling and just for a second he looks down at his jutting ribs and sees how quickly the porn star has morphed into a victim from a concentration camp.
Wants to eat more but he can’t and he looks up at Cullen completely defeated, pushing the tray to the other side of the double bed and turning onto his side, still half-upright against the headboard. The robe falls open and he makes a grab for it, clinging tightly to the damp material deeply ashamed of how bad he looks.
Sleep. He wants to do that but he’s too frightened.
It’s not coddling, he tells himself, just giving the man what he needs.
After moving the tray, Cullen takes up the other side of the bed and pulls Jim
over into his arms. There’s a moment’s resistance, and then he comes,
willing like, head to rest on Cullen’s chest.
Least the guy’s clean now. Smelling a bit sweeter for it. Cullen lets silky hair, more dark than blond, flow through his fingers, keeping the touch slow and soothing. For a bit James is tense, muscles wound tighter than an Iraqi pollster’s ass, but slowly his breathing evens out and he suddenly slumps like someone’s switched off his buttons.
Cullen waits for a bit, till he’s sure Jim’s out cold, then reaches for the antibiotic cream and rubs it into the angry trackmarks. He’ll need it done again come morning, but better now than not. Once that’s done, Cullen rolls Jim over, tucks the covers around him and heads for couch.
The dreams are bad but nowhere as bad as running to the bathroom all night puking
and shitting everything up with the pain getting worse all the time.
His head’s real messed up now. Can’t even think who the guy is who’s lying corpse-like on the couch. Has he killed someone? Is he a trick? Does he have any smack on him? Money?
Looking around him, James sees a holdall on the floor and rifles through it. First off he needs something to wear, then he needs a drink and then he needs to find out where the fuck he is and get in contact with Tony. The Latino always manages to get him work. Work is good. Work means H.
Fuck, the only clothes in this bag that’ll be halfway decent on him are black sweats. He throws on the jog suit and is about to pick up the wallet from the table when his wrist is almost snapped in two.
“Where the fuck d’ya think you’re goin’?”
Jim flinches when Cullen catches his wrist but Cullen ain’t letting up, not this time. S’one thing giving a man your bed and your time when he needs it, and another letting him walk all over you. Little bastard nearly got his hands on the wallet and that’s next to a fucking federal offence in Cullen’s book.
He hauls James up, twists him round and shoves him face first onto the table. Pins him there with one hand while he checks his pockets, making sure nothing else was going walkabout. The guy’s clean, so Cullen lets go, steps back and waits to see what’ll happen.
James closes his eyes for second and shifts his brain into drive. He’s thinking now, remembering Cullen. Soup. Sleep. He knows the scent of the man, can feel himself pressed up close to his chest. Someone cared about him once a long time ago. Maybe.
He turns quick as a flash and drops to his knees. Has Cullen’s flies open in a second. The cock is big, thick and inviting just like he knew it was going to be and he pushes the tip of his tongue into the opening of foreskin then takes the whole soft organ inside his mouth, kneading it erect with his lips.
That’s it you big fucker, get hard for me. Lose your fucking ice cool just for a minute.
Fuck! He wasn’t gonna do this ‘til Jim was better, but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Specially when it’s as talented as this one.
Cullen’s hands hover for a second and then cup James’s head, his palms fitting just perfect round his skull.
“Easy,” he gasps, tugging back a bit on James’s hair and feeling like his dick’s being dragged out through ears. Still it gets him from soft to achingly hard faster than Shrub invades enemy territory, so that’s all good.
Jim pulls off and sits on his haunches, cocking his head like a fucking puppy, and that’s not an image Cullen wants right now. So he wipes it way with a hard stroke up and down his cock, spreading the spit from James’s mouth, then pushes his dick down and nudges against the boy’s lips.
“Gonna try that again,” he growls. “And this time, take it
easy.”
James takes the shaft of Cullen’s prick in his hands and plays with the skin, rolling it up and down a couple of times for personal satisfaction then he gets busy, tongue flickering, long slow licks, swirls the head inside his mouth then gives the guy a good strong suck. He knows the tricks. Knows Cullen likes the way he plays. He can feel the quivering muscles that the big man’s trying real hard to disguise.
He tugs at the taut ball sac then glides his lips down the shaft, planting soft little baby kisses all over Cullen’s scrotum until the quivering increases and becomes a nice steady knee tremble.
Worming his hand inside Cullen’s pants he runs his middle finger up and down that taut piece of skin between ass and cock, pressing down hard enough every now and then to nudge at the swollen prostate. Stroking that solid piece of meat with his left hand he glides his tongue over the testicles then takes them into his mouth one at a time, feeling them wrinkle and tighten against the inside of his cheek.
Kneeling up higher he swallows Cullen’s cock deep into his throat squeezing his muscles tightly then he pulls back and gives the man one last suck that’s hard enough for him to taste the faintest tang of copper.
He sits back on his heels again and looks up at Cullen, chock full of sincerity. “Fifty and I’ll finish you off,” he says.