Scared (26 page)

The friction proved too much.

"Fuck, I want to be inside you. Fucking need you."

"Do it. Fuck, just do it."

Toby pulled his thumb out and grabbed the lube, squeezed it over his cock, again coating Russell's pucker. He settled his tip against the other's arsehole, the barrier unyielding. He pushed, the ring popping open with the slightest pressure. With slow care, he pushed his tip inside, loving how the rim clamped him.

"Ah, fuck! This is...ah...shit, I love you,” Toby whispered.

Toby smoothed his hands up Russell's back, palms skating over the new ridges there, and curled his fingers over his lover's shoulders. His grip firm, he raised his hips, pulling down on Russell's shoulders until his cock was well seated.

Russell groaned. “Feels good. Missed you so much.” He bent his head to rest his brow on the wall.

The sound of that groan and Russell's words heightened Toby's need, and he clenched his jaw, holding off his threatening orgasm. He eased his cock out, watching it emerge, wet with lube and thick with lust. Applying pressure to the tip with finger and thumb, he counted to ten, praying he didn't come in his hand. He'd gone too far already and, unable to hold back any longer, shunted back inside, creating a fast rhythm that gave maximum friction. Russell's sheath tight around him, each time Toby pushed inside, he pulled on the other's shoulders, making his lover's arse slam down. Their skin slapped, the sound pushing Toby close to the edge, and he watched himself—in, out, in, out—while gritting his teeth.

"Yes! Fuck, yes!"

Head lightening, he held onto Russell's shoulder with one hand while roving his other up and down his back. He couldn't get enough of him, couldn't
feel
him enough, couldn't get close enough. Snaking his hand down, Toby leaned forward so his torso cupped Russell's back. The heat of Russell's skin warmed Toby's chest, and he clasped the other's cock, his grip firm.

Moving his hand to match his thrusts in and out of Russell's arse, Toby held back his orgasm, intent on getting Russell harder. He jerked Russell's length faster, his wrist burning from the exertion, and felt the telltale sign that his orgasm was too close to keep at bay.

"Touch yourself,” he breathed, reaching up to pull Russell's arm down from the wall.

Russell fisted his cock, his elbow jerking in time with Toby's thrusts. Toby raised his free hand and brought it down on Russell's thigh, the sound of the slap loud and striking. Russell's breath whooshed out of him, and Toby slapped again, then gripped the other's waist with both hands. He drew Russell toward him then away again, manoeuvring his lover's body on and off his cock so he could watch himself spearing into that tight sheath.

It was too much.

Cum shot from him without warning, the rush of sensation holding his mind suspended for a second, like he floated. He cried out, the pleasure shooting through his cock and into his groin. The vein in his dick throbbed with each expulsion, and he hung his head back, revelling in the tingles and bliss radiating through him.

Russell gasped, moaning and murmuring Toby's name as he came again. Toby pumped on, waiting for a third jet to leave his cock, Russell's channel slick with cum. Leaning to the side, Toby watched the creamy ropes shoot out of his lover, slapping onto the tile. It felt as though Toby had more to release, but after one last gush he was spent, had given as much as he could. He slowed, their breathing out of sync and roaring in his ears.

Stuttered groans came from Russell, his abdomen jerking of its own accord, and he yelled out through his second orgasm. Slowing to a stop but remaining in place, Toby caressed his lover's back until he stopped fisting himself.

"Fuck, that was...intense,” Toby said, easing out of Russell.

Russell gripped the doorjamb and stood, looking back over his shoulder. “Hug me?"

Toby stood and stepped up behind Russell, spooning him, running his hands up and down Russell's chest and resting his cheek to his back. “Love you, man,” he said, legs weak and breaths still fast and ragged.

"Love you too."

After cleaning up the tiles, Toby joined Russell for a quick shower then, for the rest of the day, helped him with the last of the packing. He wasn't sad to be leaving Wraxford. The place held bitter memories now, and the new town of Glinsworth, farther up north, beckoned with open arms. They'd be on their way tomorrow, to a safer existence, living as best they could until the trial. The thought of returning to London made his stomach roll over—he didn't relish going back one bit. Who wanted to relive that kind of crap? He sighed, throwing an old pair of jeans in a refuse sack, the hems worn, loose threads white and hanging.

But it's one of life's little foibles, something we just can't get out of. Seeing them all again... Fuck, I hope I manage to get through it. Hope Russell does. He's taken it harder than me. Can't even talk about it much.

He glanced over at Russell, who ferreted inside the chest of drawers beside their bed, holding garments up for inspection then putting them back inside.

"You're not keeping that old thing, are you?” Toby asked, nodding at the drawer.

"What!” Russell took the T-shirt out again, giving it a fond once-over. “I thought I could keep it for when we decorate the new place. Don't want to get my other stuff dirty, do I? Had this ages. It's comfortable."

"Yeah well, make sure you just keep that one. I can see a few from here that need binning. Holes in the bloody armpits and all sorts."

"Fuck off,” Russell said, smiling. “You don't see me telling you what to throw away."

"That's because I'm not attached to my shit by an invisible thread. Jesus, it's not like you can't get new ones."

"Change the sodding record.” Russell laughed. “You're like a fussy old woman."

"Ah, piss off. Come on. I think we're about done here. Anything else can wait until the morning.

After making each of them a coffee, Toby flopped on the sofa beside Russell for a well-earned break and asked, “You scared?” He clutched Russell's hand, bringing it to his lips and brushing the knuckles against them.

"What of?” Russell leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at him. His eyes were hooded, as though he knew what was coming and didn't want to discuss it.

"Starting again. The trial. Waiting to be spotted by one of Frost's men.” Toby's stomach bunched at the latter.

"We'll be safer with new names.” Russell laughed then said, “And we could grow beards, grow our hair long.” He shrugged. “We'll get through, you know? It's a case of having to, isn't it? Anyway, we've been through all this before."

"Yeah. S'pose. I hate not having a choice, though. Hate having things put on me when they're not my fault, know what I mean?"

"Fuck, yeah. But that's how things are now. Sod all we can do about it."

Silenced by his thoughts, Toby stared ahead at the wall their flatscreen TV used to hang on. It stood on the floor now, waiting to be placed in its box tomorrow. Their new flat was a top-floor effort in a block of six, the windows giving them a glimpse of the surroundings so they could see in every direction. It paid to be vigilant, and he guessed that would become a routine now. Who knew when, or if, Frost's remaining men would be rounded up? Darrow had told them the organisation was much larger than Frost's little business, but he'd vowed to catch every single one of the men involved. Who could blame him, when his son was very nearly sold to the highest bidder?

Toby had nightmares about that viewing room, reckoned he'd have them for a good few years to come too. He saw the boys beneath the spotlight, crying and clawing at the mirror to be set free, their glassy eyes pleading.
"Release us! Please, I want my mum!"
He couldn't get to grips with the mentality of the punters, how some of them, when questioned by Darrow, had claimed it “wasn't their fault they felt this way". It was “just the way they were made". That sickened Toby, and if he lived to be one hundred, he'd never understand the mad bastards.

Darrow shouldn't have told them any of this really, but they'd formed a bond with the detective, Croft, and Fraser since that terrible night, meeting up a couple of nights after the ordeal at a family pub called The Lightning Bolt. Things Darrow shouldn't have been discussing were discussed, but he knew none of them would say anything. They were all on the same side, and the poor bloke needed someone to talk to, having been through a nasty ordeal himself.

Most of the kids had been returned to worried parents, but a couple were taken into care. Their parents were either unfit to look after their boys, didn't give a shit they'd even gone missing in the first place, or couldn't be found. It was a fucking sorry business all round, and Toby had been exposed to the realities of life that lived and breathed right under his nose if only he'd taken the time to notice.

But you don't, do you? You get on, waking each day to deal with the shit in your own life, and what anyone else is doing is irrelevant. Until it involves you, then you're brought up short by the disgusting way some humans behave. They should be caged, the lot of them locked away.

That wasn't going to happen. Toby knew that. But shit, if he could just wave a magic wand and make it all go away, he would.

"So,” Russell said on a sigh. “Tomorrow we start using our new names. Be weird, won't it."

"Yeah. Take a bit of getting used to.” Toby palmed his chin, trying to get to grips with responding to being called something else. What if he forgot and ignored whoever had spoken? What if he started his new job—an assistant manager in the local pub a couple of streets from their new flat—and failed to answer in time? He'd have to make sure he was alert when outside of their flat, that was all. “A fucking lot of getting used to."

"Needs must. We can't risk them finding us. Can't rely on the police finding them all. Someone, somewhere will slip through the net."

"Yeah.” Toby sighed. “At least we're alive, eh?"

Russell nodded. “That's something to be grateful for. I thought... When we were hanging in the basement, what happened to you?"

Toby frowned, knowing where this was leading, but asking anyway, “What do you mean?"

"When I was calling you. I thought you were dead."

He had been, Toby knew that now. He'd had time to think it through, analyse that field of buttercups and what it represented. He remembered who the woman was, a very young version of his nan, and knew she had come to take him to the other side. He shuddered, glad he'd turned from her and ran away. “I know, but I must have just fallen asleep."

You don't need to know where I was, what could have happened if I'd gone with her. I didn't, and I'm here. I chose you because you're the only thing I give a shit about.

He squeezed Russell's hand and smiled at him. “It's all a kind of blur now. I remember bits of what happened, but there are huge chunks missing, especially the time in the basement. We were drifting in and out of consciousness, and so much time just frittered away while we slept. Good job really, what with the pain, eh?"

Russell winced. “Yeah."

"Sorry. We won't talk about it anymore."

"Thanks. I just...it's just I can't—"

"I know. It's all right. I'm sorry for bringing it up. Any time you
do
want to talk, I'm here.” Toby squeezed his hand again.

"Love you, man."

"Yeah, fucking love you too."

A few moments of silence passed.

"We'll be all right, you know, Terry
Jones
.” Toby laughed until his ribs hurt.

Russell smiled, waiting patiently for Toby to finish laughing. “You can laugh, Mr Aiden Drake. There are shitloads of Jones’ in the phone book. Take a pissing mastermind to find me. Besides, it's better than Drake. What are you, a fucking
duck?
"

"Knob off,
Terry
. It appealed to me, all right? Don't be mean."

"You started it."

"Yeah, well, I'm finishing it now.” Toby chuckled then sobered. “Seriously, though, we'll take each day as it comes, yeah? And if, later on, we need to speak to someone about this crap, well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. No harm in seeing a shrink, is there? If it means working through it and living without all that shit in our heads, it's worth a try."

Russell sighed. “Thought the same thing myself. Anyway, shut up about it for now, yeah?"

"Yep. Time to move on."

"It is.” Russell blew out a long breath.

"S'pose I'd better put the rice on, then,” Toby said.

"Yeah. Boil in the bag by any chance?"

"Well, yeah. May as well use it up, eh?"

"Whatever you say, mate. Teaching yourself to cook properly my arse."

Toby laughed and pushed up off the sofa. “And what a fine arse it is too."

[Back to Table of Contents]

The boy, now a man, stood in the disused car park, still disused and still with ratty yellowed grass bordering the asphalt. It looked the same length, and he wondered if someone came to cut it every now and then. He couldn't imagine why they would—this place was as desolate as it had been seven years ago. More so, in fact, now that he took the time to study it properly. Great cracks marred the ground in places, big enough to turn your ankle in if you weren't paying attention. And he would. Didn't want to get his shoes scuffed—a far cry from all those years ago when he'd worn footwear with holes in them.

Funny how life changes.

He walked toward the grass, stopped where the man had back then, and stared across the river at the bridge. That, too, looked exactly the same, except for some new spray-paint art and a little more mould. Dark grey smoke belched from inside, bringing back memories, and he smiled.

That bridge will always keep someone dry.

Turning to walk toward the bridge so he could cross the river to the other side, he took a deep breath, stomach churning. It had taken quite a bit of courage to come here. Memories he'd suppressed, despite the counselling, had prevented him from returning. His reason for gathering his nerve today had come from him spotting someone who could have been Pete. A whole slew of recollections had assaulted him, and he thought about the old man and what he could be doing now. Whether he was even still alive. He hadn't asked Darrow about Pete for a while.