Bad Things (5 page)

Another squirt of lube, and Xavier wrapped his hand around James’s thick cock. The long, throaty groan answering that touch made Xavier’s cock lurch and throb. Teasing, milking James’s fat, meaty head, Xavier worked a finger up in his hole again, fucking him a little. The way James was rocking his hips now, seeking the embrace of the greased up hand wrapped around his shaft, then pushing back to be filled deeper by the finger up his ass, Xavier was fucking dying.

He took his finger away, noted James’s desperate, disappointed groan, then pressed two fingertips up against that clenched pucker, and slowly worked him open, driving his fingers inside him. Perched on the edge of the coffee table, Xavier leaned forward, bit into that succulent rump. Fed on James’s startled, thrilled gasp. Licked that juicy flesh. Licked his dewy skin, all the while fingering his hole and working his grip up and down his hard cock.

“Fuck. Fuck that feels good,” James huffed, desperately trying to fuck Xavier’s closed fist.

Xavier took his hands away. Abandoned James’s cock. Left his hole empty. Watched him looking as Xavier stretched a condom over the rigid length of his cock, that bright point of apprehension back in his eyes. But he kept looking while Xavier lubed up his dick, stroking it slowly for a few seconds, taunting James, tormenting himself.

As soon as Xavier moved up against him, James went rigid. Xavier leaned in, until the full length of their bodies were pressed together. Calves. Thighs. Pelvis to ass. Belly and chest to back. Cheek to cheek. He could hear James’s nervous breathing, shallow and fast.

“
Tell me you want it,” Xavier whispered.

A long silence. Then, “Yes.” Voice tight.

“No. I want to hear you say it.”

A slow, deep inhale. Then, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Are you hard for me?”

“
Fuck, yes.”

He licked, sucked, bit James’s ear, got him sighing and squirming, rubbed the aching head of his cock back and forth in the furrow of the cop’s thick, firm ass, then settled in at his hole. James was trembling under him, maybe more with tensing his body and gripping the back of the sofa than with real fear.

“Take a breath. Relax your body. And here,” he said, nudging and rubbing at the tight band of muscle, “bear down a little.”

Then he sank into him, cautiously, slowly, James’s body yielding reluctantly, that hesitant dilation, his muscles grasping the girth of Xavier’s cock as he pushed deeper.

“Fuck. God,” James huffed.

He wasn’t even half way there, but he pulled back slowly before pushing into him again, inch by inch.

“Oh god. Xavier, fuck.” Sweat on his temples, face darkening as he flushed with the strain. But he’d say something, if he couldn’t take it.

Xavier eased the rest of the way in, until his pelvis pressed against that juicy rump.

“That’s good, James.”

Xavier mouthed and bit behind his jaw, under his ear, then flexed. James grasped at the upholstery, practically clawing it.

“Can you take more?”

Without waiting for an answer, Xavier drew back, and drove his cock home again in one long, deep stroke.

James grunted fretfully, but when Xavier went still, his impaled ass rocked and writhed.

“
So impatient? Already?” Xavier teased, and thrust into him, driving a startled whimper out of him.

Sliding his hands around James’s broad chest, he found his nipples, and gave them a tug as he hit home again. And again.

“Oh fuck. Touch my cock.”

“
No.”

Xavier started really fucking him, loving the hollow clap of their bodies slapping together with each thrust.

One of James’s hands slipped off the back of the couch, and when he went for his cock, Xavier caught his wrist and pinned it next to the other on the sofa.

“
Fuck, Xavier. Come on,” James laughed, but there was a note of desperation underneath. “I’m so fucking hard it hurts. I need to come.”

“
Do you?”

Xavier pressed down on James’s back with his chest, changed the angle between them, and plunged deep, driving a long, warbling wail out of the man under him.

“You want me to make you come?” Xavier panted, burrowing into him again. Again.

James yelped and squirmed, digging his nails into the back of the couch where Xavier had both his hands pinned in place. Yep, he definitely had the spot.

“Jesus. I can’t. Too much.” Each word huffed out between gasps on a shallow burst of air.

“
It’s okay. I’m almost done.” Fresh hot flare in his groin radiating out from his moment of sadism.

Relentless. Grinding into him, pumping deep on each urgent thrust, biting the tender meat at the base of his neck. Both of them burning and sweating, their bodies slipping and sliding against each other, the wet clap of the flesh slapping as Xavier rode him, James’s eyes squeezed closed, mouth stretched wide as if he were crying out, but there were just those grunts that sounded like they’d been knocked loose instead of voiced.

Suddenly bucking under him, James went quiet, as if he’d caught and held his breath, then let go a long, howling cry, and Xavier stretched and twisted just in time to catch the sight. A massive stream of come splattered the cushion and seat in front of James, already slinking down the turquoise faux leather as the next spurt erupted. Xavier slowed and pushed into James in one long, lasting, deep stroke as another surge of semen erupted, spilling down James’s cock, lacing his thigh like a trickle of icing. That sight always drove Xavier right to the edge. Fucking hell, he was ready.

“
Jesus. Oh Jesus,” James panted, his voice fragile. Warbly. “It’s okay. Don’t stop.”

Xavier laughed. “I wasn’t going to.”

He let go of James’s wrists, got one hand on a shoulder, one on a hip. Found his leverage. Thrust home. Drank in James’s startled cry, and thrust again. Pumping deep. Riding hard, fast now.

Almost.

Heart hammering hard. There. Fuck. There. A burst of rupturing pleasure seized Xavier’s balls and cock, his climax hurtling through him from a depth right by his clenching asshole, and launching forward.

The collapse, after. Panting for oxygen. The racing and heavy thumping of his heart. The final few, thrilling pulses of his spent cock.

Then, little by little, room in his consciousness for the things outside of himself. The man under him. James. Their bodies pasted together with warm sweat.

That excruciating moment of pleasurable discomfort as he pulled his cock free of James’s grasping hole to the note of one last groan. He collapsed on the sofa beside James, who shifted around to sit on the other side of the frontier of semen splatters.

“Good thing you don’t have fabric upholstery,” James joked.

Xavier laughed. “You don’t think that happened by luck, do you?”

“You deliberately decorated your entire apartment in come-proof furniture?”

“
Luckily my taste in retro décor perfectly matches my predilection for dirty sex.”

Looking at the streaks, drops and puddles, James said, “I had no idea so much could come out of me. It’s like someone spilled a vanilla pudding cup.”

He stood, pulled up his shorts and jeans, zipped up, and went into the kitchen.

“
Paper towels?” James called back.

“
Next to the microwave.”

The sound of the tap running. Then James was back with a wet paper towel, mopping up his mess. Not letting his gaze venture anywhere near Xavier, stretched out and draped over the end of the couch not dripping with come, catching his breath.

“Can I use your shower?”

“
Sure.”

James grabbed his gun holster and the rest of his clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. If it had been any other lover, Xavier would have followed him in there. Gotten it all going again. But sated, now, James was done for the night. Xavier could tell. He’d go into the bathroom and wash the evidence of fucking another man from his body. Dilute the memory.

Even before James had come around the corner from the hall, already dressed, windbreaker and all, he was half way through saying, “I should get going. I work enough late nights, I like to get home at a decent hour when I have the chance.”

Xavier would have walked him to the door, but it was more of an interception, James seemed so rushed to escape.

“Well, Detective Porter, it’s been nice getting to know you better.” He put out his hand.

Porter’s stiff, guarded expression dissolved slightly. There was even a hint of a dimple by the corner of his mouth. He gave Xavier a firm but unhurried handshake. “Same here. Take care of your sister.”

“Jesus. Don’t let her hear you saying that. But I will. Goodnight.”

“
Carson. Come up to my office.”

Fuck. Two minutes from being done closing out his register, and Brian had trapped him. Now he’d miss the bars letting out. The throngs of stumbling, loud-talking partiers he’d been waiting all night to photograph against the city’s neon and the aura of the orange street lamps.

“Sit down,” Brian blustered when Carson entered. “Kid, I like you.”

Weird how something that should sound nice could sound so unpleasant. He wasn’t so hot on Brian calling him ‘kid,’ either.

“I’ve had to deal with my share of flaky bartenders. But you seem to have your head on straight.”

“
Thank you,” seemed like the right reply to the dubious compliment.

“
I’m curious how you’d feel about taking on more responsibility. More responsibility that comes with more pay. Potentially a lot more pay.”

Carson could practically feel the cool weight of the 85mm Zeiss in his hand, instead of waiting another three months in his B&H shopping cart.

“Yeah. Of course I’d be interested.”

“
Your car’s in good shape? You can get around no problem?”

“
Yeah. No problem.”

Brian sat there staring at him for at least a minute; long enough that Carson started to wonder if he’d had a stroke or something. But finally he said, “The thing is, I need to know I can trust you.”

“Yeah, of course you can trust me.”

Brian’s mouth opened in that horrible grin of his. “Well, the thing is, everyone says you can trust them. But only about ten percent of them are telling the truth. I’m not talking about piddly shit, like you don’t do chargebacks on your register to pad your pockets. I’m talking about a certain honor. Discretion. Because if I choose you to take on these responsibilities I’m talking about, your actions are going to reflect on me. So if you’re careless, or sloppy, or stupid, I’ll look careless, sloppy, and stupid in front of the men who have put their trust in me.”

Who did Brian think he was? A fucking congressman or something?

“
I understand. Discrete. I mean, working here, I don’t get off a shift and tell my friends who’s coming into the club. I mind my own business.”

Brian did that weird, frozen staring thing again. Finally he said, “So, if I need you to run an errand for me, you think you can deliver a package without getting nosy about what’s inside?”

A silent alarm went off in Carson’s brain. “It’s not drugs, is it? Or drug money?”

With that hideous smile, Brian laughed like Carson had just asked the stupidest question in the whole world. “No, not fucking drugs. Do you think we’re running a fucking drug cartel, here?”

“No. Of course not. I just, I didn’t want to get myself into something crazy without even asking. So, yeah. Of course. I can deliver something for you. No problem.”

“
Well. We’ll do a trial run, and see how you do.”

Brian handed Carson a piece of paper with a man’s name, the name of a hotel, and an address. Then he gave him the package—a brown padded envelope like something they’d ship a book in. But whatever was inside was lighter than a book.

“You take that to him tonight. Right now. And if Max doesn’t have any objections after he meets you, I’ll have another delivery for you in a couple days. If you start doing this regularly, I’ll pay you a grand a week. Sound fair?”

A grand a week? For running a few errands? Sounded too good to be true, but then again, they were paying him ridiculously well just to make Manhattans all week. Just seemed to be their style.

“Very fair,” Carson said. “I’ll be sure not to do anything to undermine Max’s respect for you.”

The next time Xavier got stuck manning the door at Gomorrah, it wasn’t a wasted shift, at all, because one lone smoker, tipsy and garrulous, decided to chew Xavier’s ear off as if they were long-estranged drinking buddies. He was probably a talker, anyway. But some people, you put a drink or two in them, and the tiny bit of self-control they have evaporates. Then they start telling you all the dirty secrets they know they’re supposed to hide and be ashamed of, but which they enjoy confessing, maybe even more than they enjoyed committing the sins themselves.

When this guy—later he told Xavier his name was Spencer—pulled out his pack of smokes, Xavier gave him a light. Carrying a lighter, being ready to touch the flame to a cigarette as soon as it appeared was one of the accessories to his costume of vigilant servitude. The guy was unusual looking, but incredibly attractive. Like a genetics lab had crossed a Calvin Klein model with David Bowie—charisma and all.

“
They ever let you guys have a session?” His new pal sucked down a third of the cigarette in one desperate inhale, as if he were three or four cigarettes behind schedule. “You know, as a fringe benefit?”

“
No. But now that you’ve put the idea in my head, I’m going to bring it up at the next union meeting.”

Spencer laughed, too long and too hard. Xavier guessed that was part of his job, that he worked in one of the studios, and spent his working hours faking awe at other people’s creative genius.

“You should, man. You seriously should.”

Xavier tread lightly. “On my salary, I have to be content being a voyeur. Tonight I’m out here, but most nights I’m inside. With scenery like that, I can’t complain.”

The flaring cherry ate its way down Spencer’s cigarette, already more than half gone. “But see, you’re missing the point. You can go to any strip club, any titty bar and just look. Who cares, right? If I just wanted to look, I could stay home with my computer, a bottle of lube and a box of Kleenex.”

“
And here?”

Laughing, Spencer said, “I don’t know what it is, but there is something so…God, transgressive about confessing your dirtiest, darkest fantasies in front of those two women you’ve never seen before, and—I never thought about this, until the first time I came here—other men. I mean, not your good friends who maybe know a thing or two about you, anyway, but these guys you work with all day long, week after week, making tedious decisions about some insipid situation comedy. And then suddenly you’re sitting around a table talking about two of you wedging both of your cocks up some girl’s ass at the same time. Or you’re telling them what you’re going to do, when you’ve got her alone.” He leaned in and whispered, “Really dirty fucking shit.”

Xavier felt a tinge of a thrill trickle through him, because it was still arousing Spencer, even now, saying these things to him. He could hear it in the lowered timbre of Spencer’s voice, see it in the slackening and opening of his stance, in the lax parting of his lips and subtle thrust of his jaw. Hell, he could fucking smell it wafting off his heated skin.

“
It’s the best fucking foreplay in the world,” Spencer sighed.

The image of Spencer and his buddies leaving the club and getting a room at a nearby hotel and frenziedly fucking each other fluttered through Xavier’s mind. What better way for a bunch of straight Hollywood suits to get their cock fix, than through a justifying ritual of ubermacho fantasizing about subjecting a woman to a scene of depraved violations?

Xavier kept this bit of speculation to himself and gave Spencer a nudge. “So. Your wife’s in for a surprise when you get home?”

Another burst of canned laughter, right on queue. “My wife would rape me with her fucking straight iron if I tried any of that shit on her.” Spencer dropped his cigarette on the ground, even though he was standing right next to the tall, elegant stainless steel ash tray with its reservoir of pristine black sand. He hit Xavier’s arm with the back of his hand, and just before he disappeared in the shadows between the pink and gold beams of the stage lights inside, whispered theatrically over his shoulder, “Besides, we’re not dropping Gs just for the arts and crafts, are we?”

Driving back from the Wing Chun studio the morning after his provocative chat with Spencer, a dozen scattered, random observations from the club pulled together into a lumpy amalgam in Xavier’s mind. Training always did that for him. Calmed his frenetic thoughts, ordered the chaos, opened a still, quiet space. And in that tranquil void, without looking for it, maybe because he’d finally stopped trying to wrestle things into place, understanding would take root and sprout.

Spencer had said he got off on telling his work buddies what he was
going
to do to the woman when he got her alone. Not what he
would
do, as if the packs of Hollywood hyenas gathered around the girl they’d chosen were harmlessly daydreaming.

The club was more than a front, a clean business so they could launder the money they made off the women they’d kidnapped. There was a deeper connection between the club, and the trafficking. In some way, Gomorrah was a storefront; the men who sat in those booths were shopping.
We’re not dropping Gs just for the arts and crafts, are we?
And Connie, Autumn, and Natalie were taking their orders. Writing them down on the bodies of Kayleigh and the other canvases.

It was too far-fetched. Ridiculously elaborate. Thinking it through rationally, Xavier laughed at himself, but his gut told him he was right. And he always went with his gut.

And fuck, the LA demimonde was all about far-fetched and ridiculously elaborate. Half of them were Hollywood producers and executives, weren’t they? Maybe it made perfect sense. Herds of men who’d gotten wealthy selling fantasies to the pubic coming into a club and dropping thousands to write a script, dictating it to the artist, but publicly, in front of their friends high on martinis or Dom Perignon, reciting their depravities like a fucking Greek bard while Connie or Natalie transcribed their perversities onto a living canvas. And later, somehow, Brian or the men he worked for would deliver the order.

So how did that part work?

That night at the club, he watched differently. He’d been looking for the wrong thing, hoping he’d overhear a whisper, glimpse a hand-off under a table, in a dark corner, behind a closed door. But what he needed to see was happening right there, in front of him and everyone else, in the glow of the pink and gold stage lights that shone down on every table like spotlights on the naked, contorted, splayed canvases as representations of penetrations and violations crept across their skin inch by inch.

Drifting from corner to corner, passing by one table after another, the thing that suddenly struck Xavier was a startling sameness. Even though every composition was unique, done in a distinct palette, one spreading over the canvas’s ass and thighs, another across tits and belly, another wrapping around a leg like a scroll, every scene was made up of the same elements. Almost like pictographs. Some only had five or six, some had twenty or thirty. But the symbols were never unique. They always recurred.

The pictographs were the key. The way the men placed their orders. Like an ISBN for a book or a barcode at the supermarket.

He waited until Connie took her inevitable post-session smoke break, got Joey to cover his post, and followed her out the back.

“Hey. Xavier, right?” Rubbing her neck, she shifted her stance. Ill at ease.

“
And you’re Connie.” He gave her a slightly rakish smile because he was well aware that playing at being harmless only made him come off as creepy. “Could I bum a cigarette?”

She got the pack back out of her pocket. “I’ve never seen you smoking.”

He took a cigarette, then lit it from hers when she handed it to him. “I quit eight years ago. Now I just have one when I’m extra stressed. Maybe once a month.”

“
And what’s got you extra stressed tonight?”

He locked eyes with her, gave her a conspiratorial,
‘
same old story’ grin, and said, “Man trouble.”

She looked him down and up, and took a drag on her cigarette. Always funny, how you could watch their guard visibly go down.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you,” he said. “I love your tattoo.”

She flashed a coy smile and brushed her hair away from her nape so the ink wasn’t veiled behind her tresses anymore. “Thanks. I just got it last month.”