Date: Tue, 03 Aug 2010 23:38:29 +0100 From: tooluser@hushmail.com Subject: Brave enough part 4 This story is fiction. No similarity to real persons or places is intended. (C) Tooluser August 2010 * * * Chapter 4 It was the steady decline of his gasoline gauge which finally ended Ben's flight. He blinked disbelievingly first at the reading, and then the odometer. The night-lit freeway seemed the same as ever: the unvaryging line of red tail lights in front of him; the regular hypnotic wash of passing headlights the other side of the center divider; the rest of the countryside invisible in the dark. He began watching for services, suddenly aware of how tired he was. Easily he could believe that he'd been driving for two nights, or three, or forever, cocooned in this waking dream. He saw a sign for a gas station, but the one beyond indicated having accommodation. Ben glanced at his fuel gauge, guessing at how much gas he really had left - the gauge wasn't really accurate at low levels. The siren call of clean bedsheets won the argument; he passed by the turning and decided he'd go for the hotel. Georgette, his office manager, would create hell for using a "sanity day" with the work piling up, but if he turned around right now he'd barely get an hour's sleep - he'd be fit for nothing at the office anyway. Trying to stay awake, Ben forced himself to mentally review the work waiting at the office. Publicity for the Mayoral campaign: some urban renewal project, wasn't it - near Faggot Park? He smiled; remembering Mickey's joke, forgetting the details. He'd written half the copy, but then been ambushed by some emergency story about prison escapes - no not prisons; something else. Some other philanthropic deal the client's family were involved with. He stared out at the nightscape, forcing his tired mind to work. Financial - that was it: same health center, different scandal. Some grubby cleric caught dipping his fingers in the till. Some religious name - Moses - mount Sainai? The name kept slipping out of reach. He'd written an emollient piece about the complexities of charitable trusts and taxation, trying to leave it open so that the client could play up the "Defender of the Faith" aspect if the priest proved innocent, or present it as a smart tax-loss if it became necessary to distance themselves from something dirty. He hoped they'd managed to nail the lid back down; the client had been frantic. Ben scrubbed at his eyes, suppressing a yawn, and carefully checked that he wasn't on cruise control. He was stupidly tired - he should have stopped at those earlier services and slept an hour or so in the car, but it was too late now. There was the off-ramp. Gratefully, Ben flipped the turn-signal, forcing himself to concentrate on driving. The feeder road seemed interminable, and the garish, flood-lit castle that was the Conway Family Park Hotel seemed to float beyond the windscreen like a mirage, getting no closer. Hotels are notoriously wary of unexpected single travellers without luggage, and Ben had no doubt that his credit details and license were both checked with more than ordinary care by the night desk. The clerk looked as tired as he felt, but fortunately she didn't yawn: Ben felt he might never stop yawning if someone once set him off. "There you are sir," she said, handing him a key. Ben noticed she was wearing a campaign button: the mayor-elect's round, youthful-seeming features above the single word "DECENCY." Ben felt the ghost of a smile pushing at his exhaustion. The current joke in the office was that Elaine Fageault's plastic surgery was a shrewd political asset, since the art department had to spend so much less time airbrushing out her wrinkles before the team could release copy. The hotel room was typical anonymous modern decor. For all Ben cared, it could have had sawdust on the floor and a ceiling like the Sistine chapel - it had a nice, big bed, and he was glad it was big because he hit it first try. He couldn't tell how long he slept: when he woke it seemed he'd only closed his eyes a moment ago. Light from the floodlit hotel exterior streamed in through the window where he hadn't closed the drapes. It was still deep night, and an eternity until morning. He stared at the mini-bar, then rolled over, turning his back on it and pulling the bedsheets up, like a protective shell. When he woke in the night like this, booze was no answer - he'd learned. He stared at the empty side of the bed, knowing that he would always wish that there lay a small figure who would turn over, yawn, and ask him sleepily what was the matter. Who'd stretch out a skinny arm and slip his small, cool hand into Ben's, just like Mickey had done. * * * Mickey had pulled a face. "So, you ready to go see Faggot park?" he'd asked. "Say what?" Ben had stared, shocked. He'd written a lot of the copy for the mayor's "Green Regeneration Project," but that distortion of the name had just never occurred to him. "Fageauld Park," Mickey said, grinning, pronouncing it 'Fay-joe.' "You know? Like that old mayor from back when they had horses? Boy," he said, shaking his head as he groped for a sneaker, "I bet HE had a tough time in school! Anyhow, it's got a skateboard area. There's basketball too, but those boys are like, really old." "What?" Ben lowered his voice. "You mean like in college?" His voice dripped mock horror. "Yah!" Mickey tugged the laces tight and looked up. "Too old for you, Uncle Ben." "Ouch!" Ben said, laughing. "Don't call me 'Uncle' - I feel I should be on a packet of rice, or something. You want to go look at the cute skateboard boys, huh?" "No, silly - I'm gonna go look at the hunky guys looking at the cute skateboard boys." Mickey jumped up and wiggled his little hips. "Are my jeans okay?" he asked, twisting half around and trying to look over his own shoulder. "They look like they're about to fall off your butt," Ben said. "Then they're okay," Mickey said, flashing him a cheeky grin. "It's called fashion, dad!" He turned around and crouched a little to thump the sedan's door closed, giving Ben a bird's eye view of his white-cotton clad buns as the back of his pants sagged down. Ben sighed, enraptured, and then glimpsed Mickey's grin reflected in the glass. "Who's a little cock-tease then?" he said, squeezing one little apple-sized ass-cheek and returning the boy's grin. "Not me!" Mickey turned round, grinning wider than ever, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Cock-teases are boys who say no!" He held out his hand. "You ready to go see Fag- I mean, 'Boy Central,' Uncle Ben?" Mickey's small, slender hand felt delicate and cool as it slipped into Ben's own suddenly huge and clumsy paw. Ben swallowed, overwhelmed by the casual intimacy. "Yeah," he said, his voice suddenly husky. He was aware of the boy as a boy, next to him, a man. He felt a great surge of protectiveness; an urge to show the boy wonders; to tell him about the birth of stars and why the sky was blue. It was ridiculous, his inner voice said. This was Mickey's world. If anyone was the child here, it was himself. "You okay?" Mickey looked up at him, worried. "It was only a joke - I won't call you 'Uncle Ben' if you don't like it." "No, it wasn't that at all," Ben said as they set off across the baking, potholed blacktop of the lot together. "I was just thinking about stuff. Do a lot of boys come to your park?" "Oh yeah - it's been here for ages," Mickey said, his tone suggesting that it was about contemporary with the pyramids. "Some business guy paid the city to make it. They planted some bushes and stuff, see?" he said, pointing at some ornamental saplings on the edge of the lot. "But I don't think they're growing." "Well, trees take a long time," Ben said. "Oak trees take hundreds of years to grow." Mickey wrinkled his brows. "You mean they would have had to plant them when there was cowboys and gladiators and stuff around?" "Pretty much," Ben agreed, ducking the details. "These ones'll be full-grown when we're flying space ships." "Really? Wow!" Mickey's voice was full of wonder; his little mouth was a perfect "O" of astonishment. "Yeah. Still think I'm old?" Ben said, ruffling the boy's hair. Mickey grinned up at him. "Old enough," he said. Ben had felt happy as he stood at the edge of the lot, looking at what the sign proudly announced as "The Fageauld Park Project" and feeling Mickey's small hand in his. "Park" was a rather generous description, he decided. His campaign copy, gotten up from the project notes, had painted an arcadian experience of green sward, leafy broadleaf trees casting welcome shade and happy kids getting healthy exercise on modern play equipment. In reality, the play area was just a sloping, recently-planted space where a couple of commercial premises had been demolished. The ground had been bulldozed, roughly landscaping it, and a blacktop path laid, which curved out of sight among the saplings and bushy shrubs but presumably led down to the street. The project was visibly incomplete: one side of the park was just mesh fencing, and the lot beyond was in the process of being added to the park. Ben frowned, puzzled as he surveyed the muddle of small, half-demolished buildings, their roofless, empty-windowed walls forming a red-brick maze. He was sure that the project details he'd read called for more progress than this - the project had acquired - or was attempting to acquire most of this city block, he vaguely recalled. Mickey tugged at his hand, derailing his train of thought. "Come on!" he said, "This way!" He towed Ben down the path past the wire-fenced cage of the basketball court, where half-naked youths leaped and shouted. There seemed to be several games going on at once: Ben could see at least three balls in play. Ben stopped, staring open-mouthed as one brown, bare-chested boy leaped at the fence, hooking his fingers through the diamond mesh and leaping high, flipping the ball one-handed toward the hoop. "Foul! Foul!" other grinning boys yelled, clustering around the jumper to deal instant retribution, their sweat-slicked backs shining. From what Ben could see, the penalty seemed to consist of intimate grabs at the jumper's person as the group pressed him back against the fencing. "Hey retards!" the victim complained. "Cut it out!" The group around him broke apart laughing. "See if you can do fancy-pants jumps now, Candy!" one of them yelled, and Ben saw that the jumper's red athletic shorts were seriously tented out in front. "Hey!" Mickey said, tugging at his hand. "Come on! Let's go look at the skaters. My buddies'll be down there, I guess." "Nothing for you here, huh?" Ben said as he allowed himself to be led away. He tilted his head at a couple of older guys who were standing, watching the action. "Naaaw," Mickey said. "They want more than I've got, and they want it all hot, sweaty and pumped too." He glanced up at Ben. "You said you weren't into that." Ben stroked his thumb to and fro across the silken back of Mickey's hand. "I'm not dumping you," he said as they followed the path through some close-planted bushes, already more than head high. "I hear word gets around fast in these parts if I'm not nice." Mickey grinned up at him as they followed the path downhill through the vegetation. "And if you are nice, too. That's why I want you to meet my buddies." The path emerged from the bushes, and Ben stopped, surprised. The air was loud with the roar of wheels on cement. The ground here was scooped out in a great, smooth, cement-lined pit, which grew shallower the nearer it got to the street. At this, the deepest place, railings guarded the drop. Spectators leaned on them, intent on the action. Kids of all ages swooped over the pit's smooth slopes, crouched on their skateboards. Some boys wore helmets and pads, but most did not. Ben was disappointed to see that the older boys seemed to favor baggy pants, although the loose, sleeveless tops that seemed to be in fashion showed of their ripped abs and shoulders delightfully. A curly-headed blond teen swooped up the curved wall toward them, his face exalted with the serenity of utter concentration. For the usual moment Ben was sure it was Andy: ever since the hotel, hope transformed any briefly glimpsed blond boy into Andy; he saw him everywhere. Then the light shifted and he realized the kid looked nothing like him. Ben blinked as the youth tilted his lean body and swooped down again. He was so graceful he appeared to be flying, the skateboard no more than a concession to convention. Ben shook his head and turned away, telling himself he must stop obsessing. It was stupid to waste time yearning over someone who didn't want him and ignore those who did. An insult to that skateboard kid, really: a whole, real individual with his own hopes and dreams, dismissed for not being Andy: not even really seen. He smiled at Mickey and squeezed his hand. "So where are your buddies, then?" "Over that way," Mickey said, pointing down toward the street side of the hole. "We mostly hang out in the practice area so we can do tricks. Down by the billboards, see?" Ben squinted in the direction of Mickey's pointing finger. The campaign poster with its catch-phrase slogan: "Strong Business, Strong Families, Strong Morals - A Decent Place To Live" covered the whole of one billboard; the Mayor-Elect's round features and her ample, matronly figure occupied the other, next to the single word "Decency." Beneath her benignant smile, kids wobbled or swooped; practiced in furious solo concentration or amiable catcalling groups. Mickey headed downhill, still firmly gripping Ben's hand. The shallower part of the pit wasn't railed off, and here they had to thread their way between spectators or groups of skaters who loafed, sprawled on the scruffy, sprouting grass, comparing boards or discussing technique, or simply catching their breath. "Bobby's there!" Mickey said, pointing across at the far side the concrete where a gangling, black-haired kid was expertly skating over humps molded in the floor, flipping his skateboard over and timing his jumps so he landed neatly on it when it was right-side up again. His hair was cut assymetrically in long black bangs that hung down into his eyes. As Ben watched, the boy jerked his head, flicking them back. Sunlight glittered on a diamond ear-stud, but it was his long, slender neck which drew Ben's gaze. Two other boys were standing near him, leaning on each other and calling good-natured insults. As Bobby leaped higher, letting his board flip over twice before landing, he casually gave them the finger. They were obviously old friends. The older of the two glanced their way, and his face split into a wide, white grin. "Ramon!" Mickey yelled, slipping his hand out of Ben's and waving enthusiastically. On the cement, Bobby mis-timed a jump and looked round, frowning. "Go say hi to your buddies," Ben said. "I'll follow you over." Mickey shot off across the practice area as though jet-propelled, dodging between the skaters. Ben decided he'd rather walk around the perimeter, both to allow Mickey time if he needed to say anything privately to his buddies, and also to enjoy a little boy-watching. Ben had to walk further than he expected - right down to the street. When he emerged onto the sidewalk, he was startled to recognize the old Roxy theater just a ways down the block. He smiled, remembering the anonymous boy who'd propositioned him, and feeling a rush of gratitude. Before that tryst he'd skulked in self-imposed fear and isolation, now he mingled with boys under the open, summer sky. Ben looked around, smiling, before he turned to go back into the park. Surely, on such a beautiful day, only beautiful things could happen? * * * Andy spun off-balance into the alleyway, only kept on his feet by the iron grip on his collar. He dragged his phone out of his pocket, fighting for breath, but his gut was still frozen. "Help!" he wheezed, at least he tried to, but wasn't sure he managed more than a sobbing breath before his captor slammed him against the wall. "Thanks," his captor said, jerking the phone out of Andy's grasp and dropping it into his pocket. "But you don't need that. Just tell me where he is." He stood close, lifting Andy easily onto tiptoe. His suit jacket gaped open slightly as he did so, and Andy caught a glimpse of gun butt and polished leather. "Who?" Andy croaked, playing for time. "Sherry," The big guy growled. "Stop playing dumb." Andy felt as if the guy had hit him again; sick as the name of Jase's biggest mistake jolted his half-formed dread into focus. His little cuz had really gotten his heart broken over Sherry. Too late Andy realized his poker face had slipped. The big guy nodded knowingly, his square face twisting into an unpleasant smile. "Let's go somewhere more private, eh?" Andy heard the the scuff of a shoe on cement, and his captor twisted, quick as a cat, keeping his grip on Andy's collar with one hand and reaching beneath his arm with the other. The taller of the three guys spread his hands, palms open. "I 'ope," he said, "we shall not have the stupidity." The two other guys behind him fanned out, the positon of their reaching, open hands suggesting that they could become full very quickly. "We're just leaving," Andy's captor said. "*You* are just leaving," the tall guy corrected him in his soft French accent. "The kid, he remains. You tell your boss: if he wishes to speak to anyone, he speaks to mister Teng first." Andy grabbed at the man's suit; tried to suck in breath to plead not to be left behind with ten-per-cent's hoods, but the big guy fended him off without even looking. "You're buying yourself a lot of trouble," he said to the tall, French guy. The tall guy shrugged, relaxing in a way that could be interpreted as his hands moving closer to concealed weapons. The others tensed. "Okay." The big guy dropped his hand. "Let's not start any wars, here." "Agreed, m'sieu. The last was, I understand," the tall guy's gaze rested on Andy for a moment, "-so very unpleasant." He stepped aside, and Andy's captor looked around for a moment and then strode through the gap. "I'll pass the word," he said, as he left. Andy tried to straighten up and follow him, but wasn't surprised when the tall guy moved to block him. "Non, cherie," the tall guy said. "Your picture, and your brother's also, is known to everyone who works for mister Teng." "Cousin," Andy croaked. He could breathe easier now, but his gut still hurt. "Don't know you." "My apologies." The tall guy performed an elegant, Gallic shrug. "I am Gilles. Now we both know each other." He moved closer, and stroked Andy's cheek. "You are Andy, yes? Now I am so close, I am sure of it. So very like your cousin, but the more handsome, I think." Andy nodded agreement, trying to keep his face stiff. It wasn't so much the touch of Gilles's fingers - the guy was handsome in a cold, darkly angular way, and Andy would have considered himself lucky if this guy was a john - it was the stab of hope he was desperate not to show. "Mister Teng will not be available for some time, but I am afraid you must remain with us." Gilles smiled. "A great pity, mon cher, that the instructions for you are so precise. You will permit a search? We were warned you may grow desperate. I would not want you to be tempted to foolishness." Andy nodded - not that he had any choice - and as he expected, Gilles's search was both professional and extremely intimate from the very first touch. Gilles's apologetic smile had the hint of cameraderie as he stroked Andy's shoulders and beneath his arms. Something warned Andy not to let himself seem cheap. "Remember the audience," he murmured. "But of course," Gilles said, "Otherwise I am not so careless." He slid his hands down to Andy's waist. "My apologies." His hands didn't linger over Andy's groin but the search was thorough nonetheless. He did squeeze Andy's thigh, though. "So," Gilles said, once the search was complete. "It is good you are not a bad boy, who carries the knife." He glanced at Andy's ID again and then flipped the wallet closed; handed it back. "I cannot believe that business is so bad for you." "Huh?" "That you can afford no cell-phone." "Forgot it," Andy said. He didn't know why he lied to Gilles, only that this man was an enemy. "Ah," Gilles said. "We all forget things - except for mister Teng. We will go now, and wait for him." His arm slid around Andy's shoulders. "Perhaps the wait will not be so unpleasant, eh, cherie?" Andy managed a sickly smile. It seemed Gilles really had misunderstood. Teng, bell-captain at the Con for so long, would make the connection in a flash. He wasn't called ten-per-cent because of what he cut off that hustler's *fees*. He could keep Teng of Jase's trail for a while - if he was brave enough. * * * Ben stood up from the rumpled bed. He knew what was going to happen: he'd think and think, trying to scratch whatever mental itch was bothering him, growing steadily more tired, only to fall asleep with the dawn. Georgette had impressed on him the dire consequences should he fail to phone in one single time more. He'd have to phone in *now* and leave a message on the office machine claiming his sanity day. He looked at the bedside table and cursed, realizing that his cellphone was still in the car. In his rumpled, sleep-crushed clothes he must look like a tramp, he thought. He must ask room service about emergency valeting. The elevator took an age to arrive, and he leaned against the cool, brushed aluminum wall the whole way down to the sub-basement where he'd parked. Mercifully, his vehicle was visible from the doorway, otherwise he was sure he would have wandered in fuddled circles. Ben stumbled to his car and pulled open the passenger door. He cursed, seeing the green, blinking "message waiting" light. He sank onto the passenger seat, grabbed up his phone and flipped it on. There were a half-dozen messages from his office - some kind of shit had evidently hit the fan. But the message that caught his eye was the oldest - from Andy. He should attend to the work messages first, but Ben smiled wryly, acknowledging his weakness as he moved the highlight over Andy's message and lifted the handset to his ear, his mouth dry and his heart thumping. Ben gasped, feeling himself stiffen in his shorts. He played the message again: rustling clothes, a few, breathy gasps and then an explosive, violent groan, presumably as the boy came. It was just so goddamn' sexy. Ben twisted his mouth - no doubt it had been intended for someone else, but hell - who cared? He'd definitely try to get in touch again as soon as he could. He played it once more, tempted to jack off right here in the night-cool basement, and then reluctantly moved on to the next message. It was equally brief: "Don't you ever check your fuckin' messages? Get down here NOW or you're fired!" Georgette's voice sounded hoarse, like she'd already done a lot of shouting. Ben thumbed back through the messages but there wasn't much more information. The client was throwing a major freak-out and demanded HIM - nobody else would do. He was to get down to the office by last Tuesday or sooner and get "this damned Fageauld woman" out of Georgette's hair. Ben slumped back against the seat, wondering if black coffee would be enough to keep him awake on the drive back. Whichever way he looked at it, tomorrow was going to be an INsanity day. --- End of pt. 4 Although I've already replied individually, I'd like to thank all of you once again for emailing me with comments, encouragement and suggestions. Knowing what's working for you, and what isn't is a great help. Sorry there was no sex in this episode, but don't worry, Ben isn't turning into a monk! If you have comments, criticism or suggestions, (or just encouragement!) you're welcome to email me at: tooluser@hushmail.com T.