Authors: Claire Thompson
Tags: #Gay & Lesbian, #Literature & Fiction, #Erotica, #Gay, #Bdsm, #Lgbt, #Romantic Erotica, #m/m bdsm erotic romance
pitying glances. Shit, Hank had spent a fortune over the years paying their salaries with
his dues and golf fees and dinners and booze. He didn‘t need their fucking pity.
He marched out of the dining room, taking the stairs up to the administrative
offices two at a time. Steve Decker was the evening manager, someone Hank had
played both golf and tennis with. Their fathers moved in the same circles. They‘d
known each other for years. Surely that would count for something.
He stood for a while outside the closed door, consciously willing himself to calm
down. He took slow, deep breaths and thought about Russell. Russell, the one bright
thing left in his life, was out tonight fucking some middle-aged dude for money.
Stop it,
he admonished himself. That was
not
the way to calm down. It wasn‘t so
much the sex work stuff that bothered Hank per se, but the fact that Russell was so
damn busy all the time. When he wasn‘t doing tricks for Gentleman‘s Elite, he was busy
at the microbrewery, or working at a construction site to earn more money. Hank had
never been around someone who was so focused on their goal. He‘d never really been
around someone who had a goal. He couldn‘t help a growing, if grudging, admiration
for how hard Russell was working to attain his dreams. Though it also pissed Hank off
because it took him away so often. A shard of jealousy poked at him. What would it be
like to want something so passionately?
Focus.
Hank blew out a last cleansing breath and knocked on the door.
―Come in,‖ Steve called from within.
Hank opened the door and entered the large office. Steve was at his keyboard,
busily typing. ―I‘ll be right with you,‖ he said without looking up. Hank glanced
impatiently around the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Finally Steve looked up, his automatic smile shifting downward. ―Hank. What can I
do for you?‖
―You can cut the crap about my tab,‖ Hank snapped before he could stop himself.
He tried to back up, holding out his hands, annoyed that he‘d let his temper get the
better of him again. He took a breath and said calmly, ―Look, you know I‘m good for it.
I‘m only a little behind—‖
―Hank, you owe the club a lot of money. I‘ve held off as long as I can, since you‘ve
always been a member in good standing until these past few months. I just can‘t do it
anymore. I‘m getting major heat from the owners. They want to suspend your
membership. Getting them to hold off on that, and agree to a cash-only basis while we
clean this up was an uphill battle in itself, believe you me.‖
Hank scowled. His back dues and bar tab were no big deal—or they wouldn‘t have
been if news of his father‘s problems hadn‘t gotten out. Even so, this club was rolling in
money, why all this shit about his measly bill?
Steve was regarding him with a curious expression. ―So what about it, Hank? I
heard about your dad.‖ Steve shook his head, pursing his lips in disapproval. ―I sure
hope you‘re not involved in all that tax fraud stuff. Our members expect a certain level
of—‖
―No, I‘m not involved in it!‖ Hank shouted. He pressed his lips together, fighting
the urge to smash something. Steve was frowning now and Hank forced himself to calm
down. ―Look,‖ he tried again. ―It‘s just that my income is all mixed up with his, see? So
for the time being, while they sort out all this crap, I‘m screwed.‖
Hank tried to smile. ―Hey, come on, Steve,‖ he said, his tone placating. ―Our
families have a history that goes way back. You and me, we‘re friends, right? Can‘t we
work something out? Cut me a little slack here, will ya‘?‖
Steve folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. ―I‘d like to help you, but
no can do. I‘ve been directed from the higher ups on this. Here‘s the bottom line,‖ Steve
continued. ―You have until the end of the month to pay in full. That will take you off
the potential suspension list. Once you do that, you‘ll remain on probation for six
months, which means you‘ll lose certain VIP privileges, including the right to run a tab,
but at least you‘ll have full use of the facilities and grounds.‖
―Hey, come on. I can‘t—‖
―Take it or leave it,‖ Steve interjected. ―And don‘t forget, no matter what pans out,
you still owe us the monies incurred to date.‖
Hank stood dumbstruck, so angry he could barely breathe. He started to protest
some more, but knew it was useless. Steve Decker was just a cog in the wheel, a
nobody. He‘d have to go over Steve‘s head to appeal. He‘d figure something out.
Meanwhile he turned on his heel and walked out of Steve‘s office, slamming the
door behind him. As he passed the library he stopped, looking around the door, which
was ajar. The place was empty and he entered the room, his heart suddenly beating
faster, a plan blooming in his head.
He moved quickly toward the glass display cases that lined one wall, running his
eye along them until he found what he was looking for. One of the cases contained six
gold coins that looked like the genuine article. Shit, if they wanted to be paid so damn
bad, they could help him come up with the cash. It wasn‘t like they would ever miss a
couple of stupid coins.
Hank hurried back toward the door and shut it as softly as he could. Moving back
to the case, he examined it, wondering if anyone would hear if he broke the glass. There
didn‘t appear to be any kind of security device. Surely it was locked, but on a whim he
tested the lid, which, to his shock, opened on silent hinges.
He glanced reflexively around the empty room and then grabbed the coins, shoving
them into his jacket pocket. He moved fast, pulling open the door and striding down
the hallway without a backward glance.
Hank drove through the streets of one of Denver‘s seedier neighborhoods until he
spied a pawnshop. No way could he park his Porsche there—it was even worse than
Russell‘s neighborhood. That gave him an idea. Russell‘s neighborhood wasn‘t all that
far from here—only a few long blocks. He‘d park the car at Russell‘s place and walk
down here. He‘d be in and out and back to his car within the hour.
It started to rain while he was walking, so he hurried his pace. When he got to the
right street, two guys wearing hoodies that obscured their faces slouched toward him.
―Hey, man,‖ one of them said, ―can you spare a few bucks?‖
Hank gave a curt shake of his head and moved past them. ―Come on, man,‖ the
second guy said. ―You got cigarettes at least?‖ Hank ignored them, pushing by to get to
the pawnshop door.
The man in the shop didn‘t seem too impressed with the coins. He examined them
carefully with a jeweler‘s glass and then put them on the scale on the counter. He
looked over at Hank. ―I‘ll give you $3,000 for the lot.‖
―What?‖ Hank sputtered. ―These are rare, old coins.‖
The man, a short, dumpy fellow with small, mean eyes, shrugged. ―You‘ve heard
the expression, worth its weight in gold? Well, that‘s all these are worth to me. You
want some fancy coin price, take ‗em to a coin dealer. I pay based on the weight of the
gold, period.‖
Hank glared at the man. He wanted to snatch the coins back and take them to
someone who would pay what they were worth, which he was sure was more than
$3,000. On the other hand, he didn‘t dare try to sell them to some legitimate dealer.
They were, after all, stolen goods.
Jesus, to think he was reduced to stealing. Well, it wasn‘t his fault. Dire
circumstances called for dire action, and those fuckers at the club deserved it. Shit, they
hadn‘t even bothered to lock the case.
―Well?‖ the man said impatiently with a lift of bushy eyebrows. ―Take it or leave
it.‖
―Okay. I‘ll take it,‖ Hank snapped.
It was raining even harder when he stepped out of the pawnshop. Ducking his
head, he began to walk quickly down the sidewalk back toward Russell‘s place. All at
once the two kids who had begged him for money and cigarettes were flanking him.
―I got a knife, motherfucker,‖ one of them said, jabbing something hard into Hank‘s
side.
―Give us your wallet and we‘ll let you live,‖ the other snarled.
Hank shook the men away, adrenaline flipping him into instant overdrive. The one
who claimed to have a knife stepped suddenly in front of him, tripping him so he fell to
his knees while the other one smashed his fist into Hank‘s ear. Hank was jerked back by
the hair, forced to look up into the face of the guy with a knife.
―Give us your wallet, asshole.‖ The guy held out his hand, which Hank saw did
indeed have a knife in it, a switchblade that opened with a menacing flick. He touched
the point of the blade to Hank‘s cheek and drew a stinging path down the skin.
The guy behind Hank jerked his arm up and back, while searching through Hank‘s
pockets. He found and tugged at the fat wallet, pulling it free while the first guy kept
his knife at Hank‘s throat.
―Got it,‖ the one behind crowed. Thank god, the other one put away the knife, but
before Hank could react, he punched Hank in the abdomen, making him double over
reflexively.
―Whoa, pay dirt!‖ the punk cried triumphantly, flashing the wad of bills toward his
partner before shoving it down his baggy pants. He tossed Hank‘s wallet into a puddle
and the muggers took off. Hank heard the sound of their footsteps echoing as they ran
away behind him.
It took a good thirty seconds before he could catch his breath sufficiently to stand,
much less think of going after them. The cut on his face was bleeding profusely, though
it didn‘t feel very deep. He pulled his shirt tail from his slacks and pressed it against the
wound as he tried to think what to do. His head was throbbing from the blow, his ear
ringing.
He‘d been mugged! But if he called the police, he‘d have to make a report. They
might somehow trace it back to the pawnshop, and to the stolen coins. He couldn‘t risk
that. He bent down, retrieving his wallet from the puddle and wiping it against his
shirt. At least they hadn‘t taken his license and credit cards—small comfort.
He began to stumble forward, the rain pummeling him as he moved in a kind of
daze. Jesus, all that for nothing. Stolen in the blink of an eye. Tears pricked his eyes as
he moved and his throat felt tight. He couldn‘t let Russell see him like this. Hopefully
he could get to his car and out of there before Russell came home. He‘d tell him he cut
himself shaving or something. He couldn‘t tell Russell the truth. He would see him as a
loser on so many levels. He couldn‘t let that happen. He just couldn‘t.
~*~
That was odd, Russell thought, as he turned his car down the street. What was
Hank‘s car doing there? He was pretty sure he‘d told Hank he wouldn‘t be home until
later that evening, and he wouldn‘t have been if the client he was scheduled to see
hadn‘t called at the last minute to cancel.
He pulled up in front of Hank‘s car and parked. The car was empty but Hank didn‘t
have a key to his place—not yet. So where was Hank? Russell turned, looking up and
down the street. He saw someone round the corner and realized it was Hank. It had
stopped raining, but it was clear even from a distance that Hank was soaked to the skin
and he looked like a mess.
What the hell?
As Hank drew closer, Russell saw he was holding his shirt up to his face, and he
was weaving slightly. Russell hurried toward to meet him.
―Hank? What are you doing out here? Are you okay?‖
Hank‘s head jerked up and it was clear he hadn‘t seen Russell until that moment.
He stopped walking and just stood there waiting. ―Jesus, what the hell happened?‖
Russell demanded, a jolt of panic ripping through him. Hank‘s shirt tail was red with
blood. Had he been in a fight?
―It‘s okay. I‘m okay. Shit, I didn‘t want you to see me like this.‖ Hank‘s teeth were
chattering.
Russell put his arm around Hank‘s shoulders, forcing himself to act calm. Hank
was soaked to the bone and shivering, and Russell now saw the long, thin gash on his
cheek. ―Shh, don‘t talk right now. You can tell me later. Let‘s get upstairs and get you
seen to first.‖ He drew Hank along as quickly as he dared.
Once inside the loft, he had Hank sit on a kitchen chair while he examined the
wound, which was, he was relieved to see, superficial. It was too long to cover with a
bandage and had stopped bleeding, so Russell just washed it as gently as he could and
dabbed some antibiotic cream on it.
―Let‘s get you out of these wet things.‖ Russell helped Hank unbutton his shirt and
step out of his slacks. ―You get into a hot shower, and then I want to hear just exactly
what happened to you, understand?‖ Hank nodded wearily and allowed himself to be
guided to the bedroom.
When Hank came out of the bathroom he looked considerably better, though still