Date: Sun, 25 Feb 2007 18:36:35 -0400 From: Ruthless Subject: Little Boy Lost, Part 1 I got back in November. It was a month earlier than I had expected. The house should have been tomb cold, silent and empty. But the first thing I saw when I opened the front door was five months' worth of mail in a slippery stack a foot high on my doormat. That pissed me off. I'd dropped off a mail cancellation notice at the post office on my way to the airport. It had all been accumulating since then on the hall floor in front of my mail-slot. I stood still there looking down at the envelopes and flyers, my jaw tightening with irritation. It had been a long five months and I didn't need to come home to find a stupid thing like that. I had to shove it all off the mat with the door to get the door open. Then I heard a sound that I shouldn't have been able to hear. It was the quiet hum of a small electric heater. Back in May that heater had been sitting against the wall in my breakfast room, with its cord neatly wrapped around it. It was a little heater and wasn't doing much to warm up the entire big old farmhouse. The house felt damn cold all right, especially after coming from Cuba. But I knew I had left that heater unplugged. I didn't make another sound. Someone had plugged that heater in, and that meant someone had broken into my house when I was away. I closed the door before I came in. I didn't expect to catch anyone on the premises though. With five months to get in and get away again, what were the odds of the guys being upstairs rifling through my desk drawers at the instant I walked in the front door? And I didn't bother to dart upstairs and try to get into my gun cabinet. They would have had five months to batter the thing open. But I stepped over the mail, put my suitcases inside, sealed the door, and noiselessly went to check what kind of damage the burglars had done. The kitchen was empty and the dining room was empty and nothing looked disturbed in either of them. There was no one visible on my stairs. I never went upstairs because when I walked into my breakfast room there was the kid, a boy maybe fifteen years old, asleep on the loveseat in my sunroom. The heater was purring at his feet, his head was propped up on the arm of the loveseat for a pillow and he had my coat from the coat cupboard thrown over him. I stood over him and glared. The teenaged break-in artist was a cute kid. He had sleek brown hair, visibly dirty, a pale, acne-less complexion, a nose that was still more button than beak, and two incredibly filthy hands curled up at his throat. He was sleeping real deeply. The draughts I had made opening doors and moving around didn't wake him. Of course the house had some significant draughts now. Somewhere from the back of the house on the ground floor cold air was coming in. I was willing to bet either the door or one of the windows had been busted. It had been a long time overseas, and I'd come home early for some R & R, they said, but I figured it was as much because I was in disgrace. I burned with bitterness about that. Summer in Afghanistan is a shitty place to be. So I wasn't exactly in a good mood at the world. I had enough anger built up in me to be glad to find someone to take it out on. I looked at the kid with something like satisfaction. His life could be turned into a living hell at the snap of my fingers, and he deserved it. The kid was easy on the eyes. I felt myself smiling in a mean way as I sat down in the chair that faced the loveseat. The little heater droned softly and falling slush rattled against the glass. The skin on the kid's face was flawless. It would bruise easily. I considered if the kid had maybe come into my house to shoot up and was completely out of it, or if he had just taken shelter there over night. If he was drugged out he might not be easy to wake up, but then it wasn't quite eight in the morning. The punk could merely be sleeping in a trifle late. I had a feeling that this might not even be a one-time thing. I hadn't found anything trashed in the house yet, but something made me guess this wasn't the first time the little snot had been inside my home. It pleased me to sit and stare at him and give him a few more minutes before I brought the axe down. He was so still I could barely see him breathe. I looked closely. There was brown dirt ingrained into his fingernails and knuckles. There was a blue shirt collar and cuffs sticking out from under one end of my coat, and down the other end a battered pair of once-white sneakers. I sat there, aware of the cold silence in the house, aware of the slush melting out of my own shoes, feeling the long stillness and letting the image of the kid rest on my eyes. I don't know how long I would have sat there. I didn't wake him up. It was twenty minutes before the kid opened his eyes. Instantly his whole body jerked into wakefulness. He half sat up and went flat to the back of the loveseat. "Oh Man!!" he screamed. I was on my feet in the same instant, hands raised to grab him if he made a bolt for it. I stood over him and he just cringed back. His two hands came up, but not in attack, to ward me off. He was a hell of a lot smaller than I am. "Oh Man, Oh no...!" the kid moaned. "Oh, no! Sir, I'm sorry! I'm really sorry." He scrambled back off the couch, going into the corner, behind the couch, against the curtain and the window. "Don't be mad. Look, I'm really, really sorry!" I took him by the hair and by the wrist, clamping tight enough on both of them to cause him pain. I was grinning. I didn't slam his head against the window frame behind him. "You're fucked now, punk," I told him. "You're going to wish you had never been born." "Ow! Oh, I'm sorry. Please, please don't be mad. I apologize," the kid whimpered. "I am really, really sorry." His eyes turned up at me, brown and round like black pool balls. "You're going to be even sorrier." I told him. "What do you think you're doing in my house?" "I was only getting warm. I'm sorry!" he said again. "I didn't rip anything off. Really I didn't. Don't -Ow! Don't hurt me!" "How did you get in?" I demanded. His voice went down soft, to nearly nothing. "I broke a window. I'm sorry." I threw him back down on the loveseat. "As soon as I call the cops you are going to juvenile detention." He gave a whimper. His hands were still up because he still thought I was going to hit him. "Why did you break into my house? What do you mean, trying to get warm? Why didn't you just go home?" I demanded. But I already knew. The kid was a runaway. Not just a runaway, but an inexperienced one as well. A kid that had been on the street for a while would be tougher than this one. This one was just so terrified he looked like he was about to bawl. "I c-c-c-couldn't," the kid stuttered. "I can't. Please, I am sorry. I really am. I tried not to hurt anything. All I did was come in here to get warm. I'm sorry I broke your window. I thought maybe the house was abandoned..." "Abandoned!" I said. "With curtains in the windows? Either you're stupid or you're a liar." He had collapsed quivering. He had his hands wrapped miserably around himself and was trying to bring his shoulders up above his ears. "You stupid punk!" I said. "How old are you?" "Fourteen," he said. As soon as he had woken up I had decided he was younger than fifteen. I was even willing to bet he hadn't been fourteen long. My only question had been if he was under twelve or not. If he were under twelve there was no point calling the police. They couldn't charge him. But if he was fourteen they could lock him away in juvenile detention all right. "What did you run away from home for?" "My dad doesn't like me very much," he quavered: It was s stupid reason. Probably he was a mouthy, truculent kid and his father was fed up with bickering about him jigging school or taking the trash out. "How long have you been on the run?" "Since September," he said. I raised my eyebrows. He certainly didn't have the bitter bravado you'd expect from a kid who'd been out on his own for two months. "Where have you been living, if you've been out on your own since September?" "Mostly in your house," said the boy in a faint voice. "What's your name?" I was glaring with slitted eyes. That made sense. The little punk had been coming into my house for weeks now, using it as a flophouse. It was no wonder I'd caught him on the premises. "Matthew Brown," he said. "And where do your parents live?" "Pellville," he said. "Only it d-d-doesn't matter if you call them. My dad already said he won't have me back." "Your dad's got good judgment," I said. "But I'm going to involve your parents either way. I'm calling the cops and the cops are going call them." "Please don't call the police," he said. He grabbed his own head in both his hands and clutched it miserably. He hunched up under me. I took him by the chin and lifted his face. "You can be sure I'm going to do whatever I can to make you miserable, Kid," I told him. "I'm calling the cops and pressing charges. I'm calling your parents and telling your dad what a fucking crook you've become. I can even beat you around some. The cops aren't going to care if I leave a few bruises on you, not after I caught you inside my own home. You are going to have the worst day of your life today." He was pretty pale by now. His voice went down to semi audible. "...cops do to me?" "You'll go into a juvenile facility if your parents won't have you back," I told him, "And you'll do maybe three months there with kids a fuck of a lot tougher than you are. The beating I'm going to give you is just the first one you're going to be catching pretty much every day. They'll rip you apart in jail, kid." After that he was inaudible. He shivered like a rat as I took him by the wrist and walked him into my kitchen to look for the broken window. It was in the backdoor porch, a broken side window, and there was a flattened cardboard box crudely filling in the gap. It didn't fill the gap very well. Someone had picked all the glass out of the frame to make it easier to get in and out, and half of it was down on the outside porch floor, with shards of it inside in the carpet. I kept a good grip on his wrist while I looked this over. I didn't want my punk taking off on me. "How long have you been living here, Kid? "October," he mumbled. Still hauling him around by the wrist I started walking through the house, checking for what he had looted. And he had looted. My dresser drawers, the gun cabinet, the linen cabinet, all that kind of stuff were untouched. But my can opener was out on the kitchen counter, there was a trash bag almost full and smelling moldy in the kitchen garbage can, and where I had left about fifty cans of food and a dozen packages of crackers and cereal in the cupboard there were only three cans of tuna fish left. The punk had been eating my food as well as sneaking in to sleep on my loveseat. He'd eaten up just about every scrap in the house. I turned to glare at him again. His white face, terribly drawn looked back at me. I took him into the breakfast room and threw him onto the loveseat again. "You've fucking been treating my house like a hotel!" I said. "I didn't mean to make things bad," he said. "I didn't make a mess. I tried not to make a mess. I was so hungry and... I'm sorry. I only slept on your porch at first. It got so cold." "Why the fuck didn't you just go home?" "He won't have me," said Matthew "Did you try?" He looked up at me. "I called. But my Mom said don't come back. She gave me thirty bucks, back in September. She said my Dad'll kill me if I come back, I better not. My dad hates me. I didn't have anywhere to go. I didn't mean to wreck your house. I just wanted somewhere to sleep." "Why doesn't your dad want you?" I asked. "I'm bad," he said. "What did you do that was so bad?" He looked down. "I'm just so bad." "You rip off at home?" "No." "You doing drugs?" I was all but sure he wasn't. If he were doing drugs he'd have done his level best to get into the gun cabinet so he'd have had something to sell. "No," he said again. "What did you do, Kid?" "I'm stupid," he said to his knees. "And I come home late sometimes, and... I just do the wrong things." "It's a stupid thing you did right now," I commented. He looked up at me. "Please don't call the cops to come get me," he pleaded. "Please just let me go. I didn't mean to wreck your house. I'll do anything." He looked like he was about ten years old when he said that. "What's your phone number, Kid?" I said. He told me. I got my cell phone, and sitting on the chair facing him, I dialed the number. It rang four rings until the sleepy voice of a woman answered. "My names Currier Ellis," I said. "Am I speaking to Matthew Brown's mother?" "Yes, I'm Matthew's mother." The woman's voice suddenly sounded acutely unhappy. "Your son tells me that he's been a runaway from home since this September," I said. "Where is he supposed to be living?" But she never answered me. A man took the phone away from me. "You calling about Matthew?" "That's right, Sir. Is he your son?" "He's not my son. He's my stepson," the man swore. "We don't know where the kid's been since September, and what's more we don't care. Eleven years I fed and clothed that little faggot. No more! His mother doesn't want anything to do with him and neither do I. What are you calling us for?" "He broke into my house," I said. "Then call the cops. The cops will catch him for you. I hope they put the faggot in jail until he's twenty. I don't know where he is, but he's got the brains not to come sniveling back home to me. If he does I'll turn him over to the police myself." "Really?" I said amiably. "That little..." The man bit off a swear word and took a deep breath. "I'm not responsible for that sneaky, slimy little thief any more. I wish I'd never laid eyes on him. I'm sorry. If I knew where he was I'd help you." The woman behind the man was saying something, but the man kept on talking and I couldn't tell what she said. "He ran away the week school started," the man said. "And I swear if he hadn't I might have killed him. We haven't seen him since. We're not responsible for him any more. Sorry. I've got no control over what he's up to." "What did he do to make you write him off like this?" I asked. "Do?" said the man. "If ever a kid wasn't worth the effort, that's the one. Eleven years I tried to be a father to him. Bad enough that he's a sly, little sneaking, whining rat. The kid's a queer. Yeah, -No, don't tell me to shut up, Margie." He broke off briefly to speak behind himself. "The boy's the one went around telling people first. What he is doesn't reflect on us. What a perverted lifestyle to take up, and at his age! He's a homo –gay, whatever you want to call it, and a sneak thief and a housebreaker now." "I see. So it's entirely up to the police then," I said. "I understand. Thank you." I rang off, looking down at the boy. He must have heard a little of what the man said, but his expression of hopelessness didn't change. I looked at him speculatively. I saw him swallow. "Please, Sir," he said. "Don't call the police and have them put me in jail. I'll do anything you want." "Really?" I said again. I stared down at the kid. "You're just fourteen? When was your birthday?" "August," Matthew said faintly. "And you'll do anything if I don't call the cops? What could you do for me?" "I don't have any money so I couldn't pay you back right now." The kid talked real fast as well as real low. "But I'll do any work for you, if there's anything you want me to do. I'll do any kind of work; I don't care what it is. Or I'll pay you when I do have some money. I'm sorry I ate the food." "What type of work were you thinking?" I asked. "I'll come all winter and shovel your walk," he said. I just looked at him. I didn't bother telling him I had a contractor do it and there was no way in hell I believed he'd come back to work off his debt once I let him go. "Please," he said. "You'll do anything?" I said. "Yes, anything at all." "You do know what anything at all implies?" "Uh... Yeah," said Matthew. "But I do mean it. If there's really anything you want from me. Anything so you won't be mad." "Your step dad said you were gay," I commented. The dark eyes were shiny with fear. "I think I am. If you mean that's what you want –I'll suck your dick. Please!" "You even know how to suck cock?" I asked. He nodded hard. "You done it before?" "No, but I know how it's done. I can do it. Please don't hurt me and then still call the cops to come and get me." "Yeah?" I said. "Please, Sir," said the boy. "I just can't stand the idea of going to jail. I'll let you do whatever you want to me. I'll let you fuck me, or I'll suck you off. I really mean it. I don't care what you do, only please, please don't call the cops." "You do any other break and enters? Are the cops looking for you?" "No, I swear," he said. I looked him up and down. "When did you last take a bath?" I asked. `Uh... September," he said. "You're filthy," I said. I was scowling. "When did you last eat?" For several moments he didn't answer. "Yesterday... -I mean the day before yesterday." "And what did you eat then?" He ducked his head. "A can of your tuna; I'm sorry." I stepped in and took him by the wrist again, hauling him onto his feet. Matthew stood quivering, forcing a smile onto his mouth. I thrust my hand into his clothes, into the pockets of his shirt and of his jeans. They were the big loose pants that guys wear nowadays so he could have had a lot of stuff in there. But what I found was a library card, eleven cents, a plastic pocket comb and a page torn out of the yellow pages for men's shelters out in Springfield, 120 miles to the south. There was nothing of mine in his pockets. I threw him back on the couch. "Alright," I told him. "I'll give you a chance. I won't call the cops on you –maybe. But you've got to do exactly what I want and do it good for me, or I'll go back to my original plan. You understand?" I held him by the chin again. I showed him my fist. "I've got hard hands here and I know how to hit you so it won't show much. You promised to punk for me, if I let you go. If that's what you really want, you got it. I'll bet your tiny ass is a virgin. Is it?" "Yes," said Matthew. "You know how big a guy's cock is?" I asked. "I think so," he said. "You know you'll bleed if I just put you belly over the couch and ram it in you, no lubricant?" "Can you use some lubricant?" He was cringing, shoulders up by his ears again. "Right," I said. "And that's for my comfort, not yours. You and I are going to take an itemization –You're coming to the hardware store with me, where I'm getting a pane of glass. We'll find out just how much you cost me. If there's anything else broken or damaged in the house you better tell me now." "I used up the toilet paper in your bathroom downstairs," he said. "How many rolls?" The absurdity of it was hitting me hard at that moment. Rolls of toilet paper! As if toilet paper mattered in the least. But it wasn't the paper; it was finding the kid in my own house acting like he owned the place. "I think it's four," said Matthew. "I'll add that to the bill for the groceries," I said. I beckoned for him to get up. He stood up and at my gesture followed me out of the room. I might have just taken his wrist and yanked him along, but I was experimenting to see how much he'd obey me. He obeyed me like a lamb. "You'd better make it worth it to me, Kid," I said. He followed me downstairs to the basement. He didn't look around. I bet he had been down there. That would have been where he found the box to block up the window. He stood there in his flappy sneakers and watched me start the furnace. The big metal box rumbled. I heard the vibrations go banging upstairs into the pipes. My basement is concrete. It smelt oily down there. The boy just stayed right where I could watch him, not moving away. When I had the furnace going I turned the switch for the water heater. That was another thing I had turned off before I left. I hadn't wanted to use up fuel keeping a tank of water hot for six months. It would take an hour or two before it got the house at all warm and there was hot water in the pipes, but that was fine. I had a couple of hours. I picked up a tape measure from my tool kit. Again the tools were untouched. He could have ripped them off and sold them but he hadn't. The boy stayed with me, just in front of me as I went back upstairs. In the kitchen I measured the broken window, scowling. It was an old wooden framed window, with a long rectangular pane. I wasn't even sure I was going to be able to replace the thing. My coat was on the floor by the loveseat. I would have put it on to go out but when I picked it up there was an indefinable faint grubby smell of boy about it. I threw it at the kid. "Why didn't you sleep in one of the beds?" "I didn't want to make any mess," he said. "Why didn't you grab a blanket from the linen cupboard instead of going into the closet for my coat?" "I... didn't go into the closet," Matthew said faintly. "It was on the banister, on the stairs. I found it there." Leaving him carrying the coat I brought him outside. It was pretty close to freezing outside, not too bad really for November, if it wasn't for the thickly falling wet snow. It was translucent, slippery and mid-ankle deep. Everywhere you stepped it splashed. Matthew came out ahead of me looking back, carrying my coat as we spattered and slip-slid our way to my car. I had just the little light canvas windbreaker I'd found to stuff into my bag to get home from Cuba. All my deep winter clothes were packed in the luggage and most of the luggage wasn't at the airport yet. It would be a week before I had another coat home. So I just went out in the little canvas jacket. The cold wasn't going to kill me. Matthew held the coat on his lap when I put him in the car and he looked at me while I drove. "You're old enough you'd keep a criminal record," I said. "That means you wouldn't be able to get a job when you were older. You knew that, right? That's why you don't want me calling the cops?" He shook his head. "God, you're green," I said. I shook my head too. The hardware store opened at nine and it wasn't nine yet when we hit town. I could tell when I drove past the parking lot at the strip mall and there were only two cars out. So I kept driving, which was what I was going to do anyway. Matthew stayed at my shoulder as I took him into the next mall down and walked him into the restaurant there. I grinned at the sight of the waitress in her tight uniform dress with her dyed flat brown curls pressed closed to her head. It had been a long time since I had seen that. The women in Afghanistan wore burqua, and the women in Cuba wore combat fatigues. The waitress led us down to a booth. All I said to Matthew Brown was, "You eat eggs?" The boy nodded. I looked up at the waitress. "Two big breakfast specials," I told her. Then I sat and stared at the boy while I waited for her to come back. He sat and stared at the Formica tabletop. "You been out of school since September?" "Yes, Sir." "What school did you used to go to?" "Norton. The middle school," he told me. "Until this year." "What kind of grades you get?" He snuck a look at me. "They were okay." "Yeah? What was your best subject?" "Math." "What kind of final grade did you get last year?" "I got an A." "What'd you get in Science?" I pursued. "I didn't do Science," he said. "You remember any of your other grades?" "I got a C in English," said Matthew. "What makes you think you're gay?" I said. "Someone tell you, you were?" He gave a wriggle and glued his eyes on the Formica table again. His reply was practically inaudible. "I think I must be. I don't like... My dad has magazines. I don't like his magazines." "No?" I said. He didn't go on so I prompted him. "You mean porno, right? You don't like looking at his porno magazines?" He shook his head no. "Anything else?" I pressed. "I like..." and then his voice did drop inaudible. "You like guys," I said. He nodded without looking up. "What do you like about guys?" I said. "You mean you like hanging out with the guys, or you mean you get thinking about cocks and you want to suck one, maybe you even want to suck my prick?" "I just... I like the idea, two guys... maybe close together. Skin...I wanted to see my friend take a shower. He... he took a shower and I wanted to watch." The confession came out in a faint mumble. There were bits of it missing when he couldn't articulate it loud enough to hear. I gave a snort. "That makes you queer alright. And did your step dad catch you messing with another kid? Or writing rapturous passages in your diary? What? What makes him think you're queer?" He looked down silent. "This is not doing exactly what I want," I warned him. "Tell me." "I told my friend," Matthew looked up, looking like he had taken a wound. His face reminded me of the face of a nineteen-year-old that had been gut shot in Afghanistan. I remembered the look, blank dying eyes looking up from the stretcher before we loaded him on evac, six hours later, tranked out on morphine. There was the same stricken pallor, the same paralysis. "My friend wanted me sneaking the magazines out, my dad's Hustlers, and I told him I didn't like it, I didn't get nothing from them. I told him not to say to anyone, but I thought maybe I was gay, I could be gay `cause I didn't like them. And then he went straight off and told his dad and everybody else. His dad came around laughing and told it to my dad. I got hit at school too and when I came home, I... It made my dad so mad he hit me some more. He said I deserved it, picking to be gay like that. It was what I'd get. And he was hitting me, almost every time he saw me. He said I was so filthy perverted he didn't want me in his house. But all I did was –it was the type of pictures I wanted to look at. I didn't lay a pass on any of the other guys, nothing." He broke off and suddenly hunched deeper in his shoulders. "It's not my fault I'm gay. I've tried not to be," he said. I chuckled silently. "You should have kept your mouth shut instead of trusting your friend." "I know," he said. When the breakfast came the waitress put down a big plate of ham and eggs and fries and toast in front of each of us. The boy just looked at the food and at me. "Eat it," I ordered. He stared at me in disbelief before he picked up the fork. He just looked at me while he started to shovel the food up. He didn't say anything like thank you. But he ate the eggs and all pretty quick, not hesitating once I told him to. I was hungry enough, but Matthew had his plate gone before I had mine clear. I fed the kid and then I took him to the hardware store with me. It took a long time there. They only had one guy who cut glass and they had to have him come down to do it for me. But as it turned out it wasn't so expensive and I got the pane. I'd been thinking I might have to buy an entire new window and I couldn't figure how I'd do that. A new vinyl window wouldn't come in the size to fit in the side of my back porch. Matthew Brown just stood around passive. I kept an eye on him of course, thinking he'd start sidling off but he stood there watching me and watching the guy who was cutting the glass. Sometimes he reached up and scratched his hair on the side and it made me glare at him. If the kid had brought bugs into my house I'd beat him within an inch of his life. Then I took him out again, this time to a grocery store. It was weird being back in the long bright aisles with shelves and shelves of gaudy cans, and all back in English again. I hadn't been in Guantanamo long enough to go into the PX or I suppose I could have already seen some of that. But all those lights were bright for me and made me squint. The canned music was loud. The boy shuffled after me while I filled a cart with stuff. He stayed at my heels while I took him back to the cash and went through the check out and paid for it. The check out made me tense up. It was being trapped in a narrow aisle like that, no way to go ahead and no way to back up with carts in front and behind me. I made myself breathe low from the gut, and let my arms hang loose. Matthew saw the tension in me. He got smaller. He couldn't have known what it was. I felt my nostrils flaring while I looked at him sideways. I eyed the clerk. I could shove the kid into the cart, jump up on the conveyer belt, and plunge over it into the girl at the cash register. I'd lead with my head, right through her green and white stomach, head butt her out of the way staying down and then I'd be right down, behind the counter. I'd have that much cover, take me just five seconds. I wouldn't be trapped any more. I smiled at the clerk when it was my turn and she could tell it wasn't a real smile but she probably couldn't tell how close to panic I was. She blinked and failed to smile. Her arm moved rhythmically running the groceries through. I paid her and grabbed Matthew by the collar and got the cart full of food out of there. I hurt him again, grabbing him by the collar but he didn't squeak. He was going to say something. His mouth opened and his eyes were big looking at me but then he just closed his mouth again. The snow was falling in clumps. It landed on my head and eyebrows and shoulders wet and cold. I flung bags into the car. The boy moved as if to help then retreated, too scared to come that close to me. It made me mad getting tense in the store so badly. I wasn't going to let myself fall into a habit like that. It was just a grocery store! I put it out of my head decisively, but the self-anger stayed. I looked at the boy and I smiled again, not a fake smile like I'd given the clerk, but another pleased smile. He was at my mercy. He was sitting up patiently docile in the front seat of my car staring ahead while I drove. At the house I dumped the bags of groceries onto the rug just inside the front door. Matthew stood there again, uncertain, eyes darting to the groceries and to me, not sure if he should help, paralyzed. That made me smile again. "Get your clothes off," I told the boy, "Every stitch." He breathed in so hard it was almost a squeal. But the kid meant what he'd said and he didn't give me any argument. Standing there by the grocery bags, his sneakers on the slippery heap of mail he started tugging clothes off. I saw lean ribs like welts, bony mobile shoulders, a skinny stomach and then his basket and bare thin thighs. The cock and balls were like a tuft, pale pink almost the color of the rest of his skin, sticking out under the flatness of his belly, but with no hard on. He had only a wisp of pubic hair above it. He didn't even have so much pubic hair yet as to form the typical triangle. It was just a clump. I scooped up the clothes and the sneakers as soon as they had all hit the floor. The sneakers flapped in my arm, the upper separating from the sole. Water dribbled down my arm. I carried the whole armload down to the mudroom and stuck them in the washing machine. The boy came down the hall after me. He was no less naked in my kitchen as he had been cowering by the front door. He was biting his lips and covering up his crotch. His face had gone pink but he still met my eyes. Then I went back for the groceries and he almost got underfoot but dodged me. He stood useless while I ferried the groceries back and lined them up on the pantry shelf and in the empty refrigerator. I sat down at the kitchen table eying him and checked over the sales slips. The kid held his genitals like his hands were glued there. In a few moments I had a figure and looked up again. "Kid, you owe me one-hundred and sixteen dollars and twelve cents," I told him. Matthew didn't say a word. "What are you going to do for me worth one-hundred and sixteen dollars?" "How much does a blow job cost?" he asked softly. "It depends where you get it. Out in Kunzaraih I could get one for less than fifty cents. Around here they start about fifteen bucks." "Uh... I could blow you eight times?" I had to grin. "You think I can get it up eight times running?" He dropped his eyes ashamed. "I've never been fucked in the butt before. Does that cost anything more than sucking does?" "A bit more," I said. "You mean you think you should get paid premium on account of being a virgin?" I saw a tiny nod. I kept grinning. I took him by the shoulder and steering him back to the hall and took him upstairs. We stood in the white tiled bathroom and I saw a repeat image of the bleak-faced kid in the mirror. "You stink," I told him bluntly. "I can tell you ran out of my toilet paper. Look at your neck." It was almost black with sweat and dirt. He looked down but of course he couldn't see it. When I started stripping myself his eyes started widening. They were glassy with panic. The kid just reeked, but I didn't smell quite like a daisy myself, after the overnight flight. I took the kid by the shoulder again and stood him in the shower. I stepped into the shower beside him under the nozzle and turned it on. The water came out white and cold, foaming a curtain down my shoulder and splashing on Matthew's chest. The pipes rattled and gave a groan. I saw the gooseflesh prickle up sharp in his grubby skin. The cold water made my chest tighten. I stood there letting it run over me, gelid, only a few degrees above freezing. I panted looking at the boy, enjoying the sight. He looked at my rising and falling chest. A shudder racked him. He stopped clasping his genitals and hugged his arms. For a whole minute the water ran cold. Then it ran tepid, then warm. I kept it running until it was hot, steaming, the boy started to pant from the humidity and when it was scorching hot, turning my skin dark pink I turned on the cold. I got it to a comfortable temperature and took the boy by the ears. He looked up bug-eyed as I dragged him under the water. He was bony as hell. An elbow bumped my midriff although he wasn't resisting at all. When he saw me bringing the shampoo over he looked down quick and squinted his eyes tight. I lathered his hair up lavishly. I poured a translucent trickle into the dark brown. It was greasy, all right. I sudsed it up good and gouts of foam ran down his pale back. I worked it in; giving it three shampoos to make sure his hair was as clean as I could make it. And while I did it I picked through the roots of his hair looking for nits. I didn't find any. After that I picked up the soap and started on the grime on his body. All that while he stood there and let me turn his head this way and that and scrub his scalp with my fingertips. His long legs and knees rubbed against mine and the smooth hairless skin was wet and warm. But when I started the using the bar of soap on the grime on his skin he didn't just stand passive. I put the soap down to rub the lather down his arm and he picked up the bar with his other hand. He rubbed it on my chest in the hair. I let him do that, interested to see how cooperative he would get. He reached up to do my neck the way I'd done his and when I did his left arm, he started on my arms. He was keeping his mouth in a straight line and his eyes were moving around a whole lot more than they would have if he was calm, but now that I'd started touching him he was in control of the terror that had widened his eyes and threatened to flare up out of control. He was less afraid of getting fucked then of getting beaten, I guess. He got real tense when I started to scrub his basket. I took the bar of soap and rubbed it over his dick, down behind his balls and then brought it around and did his crack. His soapy hands on my forearm went mechanical. A thin smile flared on his face, as much agonized as pleasure. I was careful rubbing his dick. I did it gently. It was just a little bit stiff when I rubbed it. His belly moved in and out and he sucked in a couple of breaths like he was ready to start squirming, maybe to do pelvic thrusts, maybe to wriggle away from me, I couldn't tell. He stood still for me though. Then I bent over some and started to do his thighs just down above the knees, letting the soap water run. By then he'd had a lot of soapy water go over him so I didn't bother with getting the kid's feet. He was coming clean. And at that point he picked the soap bar again. With his back very straight and his eyes fixed straight ahead of him like he was on parade, he took my cock in his hand. I'd had a hard on from the moment I'd got him stripped in the hall. I never caught him checking it out, but he must have seen it as soon as I dropped my pants. He took it firm in his fingers and rubbed soap over it, soap over and behind my balls and soap on my thighs. His fingers were small, like a woman's fingers. His nails were a ragged mess. I looked down and saw that. He didn't try pumping my cock. He did just what I'd done, cleaning it. And then like I had he brought the soap around to my ass. I gave a rumble. It was half a chuckle, half a sound of pleasure. The kid soaped my crack and then he did my thighs. He went down on his knees, my cock swaying at his forehead so his eyes apparently trained on my balls from about three inches, and he soaped my legs from the calves up. I let him do it. I had stopped soaping him. When it was done he looked up. "I need more rinsing," I said. He looked at my legs and pawed at the last bit of white foam that was still clinging in the hairs there. He looked up again. I didn't poke my cock in his mouth. He stood up. I took him by the shoulders and pulled him in. We were belly-to-belly, water streaming between us, slippery with wetness. Or rather his belly was against my crotch and my belly was against his ribs. I held him there, moving, feeling the naked slippery silk of his skin. I soaped his back and held him in. His hands linked loosely around my hips. I had him pulled in close and he didn't look up, so he was staring into my neck now. When his back was soaped and rinsed I pushed him back. "You think you're clean enough now?" He gave a nod. "Am I clean enough for you?" "You weren't dirty..." Matthew said faintly. "Compared to you I wasn't." I turned the water off. The hiss and echo died away. There was just a steady ticking drip. The air was warm and humid and it was so steamy that it felt warm in the bathroom, but only for a moment. The cold in the house was set in its bones. It would take several more hours before it got really warm. I stepped out of the shower and felt the short hairs rising and prickling on me from the cold. I saw them starting to prick up on the boy's young skin. I handed him a towel and took another. He watched me, now quite calm and almost curious as I rubbed myself over roughly. I scrubbed the water off myself and dropped the towel on the floor. Mimicking me he dropped his towel in the next instant. When I opened the bathroom door it was like opening a refrigerator door and going inside. Matthew followed me naked down the hall. I took him into my bedroom. The bed was big and square and blank under the bedspread. I peeled the cover back, down to the sheets, looking back at the boy. His hair had a dark sheen now from the moisture still in it. He joined me on the bed, crawling on all fours. I slid under the covers. He slid in beside me. The sheets were chill and felt ever so slightly damp. That was the cold of the house in them. Compared to the sheets the boy's elbow in my arm was warm. So was his shoulder, but his wet head was cold on my collarbones. I felt over him carefully, sliding my hands over his arms and back, pulling him up against my side. His eyes were fixed on my eyes, staring looking for a cue. "You ever mess around with anyone, girl or guy, do any kind of messing around at all?" "No, Sir," he said. "You ever even French kiss?" "No, Sir." "You ever stick anything up your own butt?" This time he shook his head. "No, Sir." "Ever want to? Think about it?" I was going to ask him if he'd ever poked his finger into his asshole, experimented to see if he could get it inside, but the kid tilted his head back and he started answering me quiet, so I didn't ask. "I've thought about... what it would be like to get a cock in there. I heard it could feel good," he said. "I heard it could hurt." I just looked at him a few moments. "You even cum yet?" I asked. He gave a nod. "What do you think about when you jerk off?" "I think about a guy like me," he said. I didn't say anything. I just looked at him. He looked up at me waiting for a cue. I didn't give him one. So then he reached over and took my prick. It was still hard. He started rubbing it. I felt my eyes go half lidded, relaxing, watching the tilt of his hairless chin and his set serious mouth as he started pumping me. He knew how to do it. He gave it a steady rhythm. I felt my breaths coming deeper. After about three minutes I muttered, "Don't." "Don't what?" said Matthew. "Don't keep jerking me. I'm going to cum. It'll get on the sheet." I was breathing very deeply. He stopped instantly. He stared at me. I closed my eyes. I gave a sigh. I put my hand over my own prick. It felt good to be holding my own cock. It made some of the tension go out of the cords in my neck. I didn't masturbate. I held it and kept my eyes closed. The boy's head was damp against my shoulder and his knees and belly were warm against me. His shoulder was firm in my ribs, up under my armpit. It felt strange having so much skin-to-skin contact, because it had been so long. But it didn't feel bad. I brought my other arm up from under the covers although it was cool there out in the air and I laid my forearm over my eyes. I was asleep within the minute. When I woke up it was about three in the afternoon. The boy, as I had expected, had wriggled out of the bed hours before. What I didn't expect was to see him, fully dressed in my bedroom doorway. He was holding the frame of the door and looking at me quizzically. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I said. "Uh... You said I owe you..." he trailed away into a mumble. The only concern I'd had when I gone off to sleep was if the kid would swipe my wallet when he made his getaway. And given that the only things he'd touched in my house before were food and toilet paper I was pretty certain he wouldn't. I probably would have said the same thing to him but I wouldn't have been quite as surprised if I'd found him still in the bed beside me. He had seemed so cowed that I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd made no attempt at all to escape me. But he was dressed and that meant he had gone down stairs, got his clothes out of my washing machine, put them in my dryer and run it and even then when he had dry clothes to escape in, instead of fleeing, he'd stayed in my house. I looked at the window to check the light. Yeah, about three o'clock. I sat up and rubbed my face and looked at the young man. His eyes were still steady on me. They'd been steady since around the time when I started soaping him up. "You fell asleep," he said. "My body still thinks it's in Afghanistan," I said. "So what are you doing here?" "You said I owe you a blowjob," he said. "Yeah, I did," I admitted. "I also said I was going to lay a beating on you, remember?" He didn't say anything. "Don't you think you're stupid not to take off, soon as you got your clothes?" "I thought about it," said the boy. "But you could call the police. And they'd find me. I don't have anywhere to go. They'd see me wandering along the road. Or the librarian would call them because they get mad if they see me sleeping there. And if the police arrest me, well I guess it's warm in jail, but I hear that faggots get hurt real bad in jail too. And besides, there's what you said about having a criminal record. So if I ever want to have a job when I'm a man, I have to pay off my debt to you, don't I?" I grinned wryly. "You want to blow me that much?" "No-o," he said uncertainly. "I mean, I make you hard, don't I?" "After five months without sex I'd have got a hard on, boy or girl. I didn't care what you were." I rubbed my head again. "You don't do guys usually?" He drew away from the door and away from me. "I do them sometimes," I felt a sudden sick tightness in my throat, a recent memory. I got out of bed to do something to counter the tightness. If I was moving I could keep my mind moving. I didn't want to think. "If you really didn't want to take it out of me in blowjobs you would have just hit me around and called the cops, wouldn't you?" said Matthew. "I might've done that." I glanced over at him and went to the dresser. "I came pretty close to punching you around and giving you a mouth-rape right there. Your offer was pretty timely." "So you are gay," he said slowly, "I mean, not gay, just gay enough you'd be willing to use me. You're probably straight." His eyes flickered to my face. "Only you weren't disgusted, not completely." I yanked some clothes out of the dresser. Like the bed there was an indefinable distant dampness in the fabric. Everything needed airing, or better yet baking in a few days high central heating. I stepped into a pair of shorts. "What do you want here, Kid? To give me a blow job?" "If you want one," he said carefully. "You fell asleep. Why did you fall asleep?" "Jet lag," I said. I looked at him. I'd slept from about ten to about three, five hours and my belly was telling me it was overdue for lunch. "You don't want to blow me," I said. "You just want me to feed you some more. That's what. You don't have a place to go and you don't want to get out." "I'll go to the library," he said. I gave a snort. I stepped into a pair of sweatpants and hopped getting into a pair of socks. For a shirt all I could find was flimsy T's, almost transparent from wearing and washing. They had done fine in July when any shirt was too warm, but now they were way too insubstantial. I could feel the gooseflesh prickled again on the muscles of my arms. I pawed through the drawer. "The library," I repeated. "You just told me the librarians'll call the cops if they catch you sleeping there." He didn't respond to my taunt. I found a sweater and pulled that on. He followed me downstairs to the kitchen. The kitchen was where the worst draft was coming in. I threw a twisted look in the direction of the broken window. Matthew circled watching me carefully as I went into the fridge. I looked at him. I started hauling food out. I threw him an apple. He caught it instantly. He held it just for a second, checking that I had given it to him while I put a frying pan on the stove. Then he bit into it and I heard the crunch. He tucked into it the way he had tucked into the egg breakfast. Even if I hadn't seen his hollow ribs I'd have been able to tell the kid had been going short of food for a long time. I smiled again, twisted. I'd seen starving teenaged boys in Afghanistan. I'd even killed a few. I hadn't expected to see any of them back at home in New Hampshire. He watched me frying steak. Two steaks. I threw frozen French fries in the oven. I looked at him while I cooked. "If I feed you," I said. "You'll end up owing me another blow job. Take you another day to work off the food I give you –and then I'll never get rid of you. I'll be earning blow jobs as fast as you work them off." "I haven't even given you one yet," he said. "So maybe I better stop extending you credit," I said. "I can give you one as soon as you want." He had already almost finished the apple. He was gnawing the core, gone down to a part I'd have already tossed in the garbage. "That's what you want? You want me to feed you, and take it out of you by fucking your tiny round ass?" He just looked at me. His answer was yes. He stood looking at me, hope on his face. I'd figured he'd run like hell when I gave him the chance to sneak off on me, but the kid was thinking further than that. He was thinking of how cold it was outside, how empty his belly had been with nothing but my larder to fall back on. Christ, if I'd come back as scheduled maybe I would have found him in the house then, laid out on my loveseat, and too weak from hunger to move, if not dead of it. I shook my head to clear the thought. No American kid was that dumb, to lie there and die of hunger. He could shoplift or something. But I was right. The kid wanted to stay inside, in my house where it was warm, even with the price it was going to cost him. I walked over to him and took him by the chin. "You know what that makes you, offering to suck my cock so that I feed you?" "Uh... a prostitute?" There was no beard under the skin, nothing but soft, satiny skin. I looked for the beard, feeling his chin and throat. "You really want to be a ho, Matthew?" I said. "You got a better option for me?" He said. He put some of that toughness into his voice. That's where it begins, that toughness. I dropped his chin and I laughed. I laughed because it was the easiest thing to say. "Right, live in my house, suck my cock, fix me breakfast? What, want to be my gay slave houseboy?" "Okay," said Matthew. I went back to the stove and pulled steak out and put it on two plates. "You better enjoy this," I said. "You're going to earn it." His mouth quivered as he took the seat but he spoke strongly. "I'm going to enjoy it," he said. And he did from all signs. The steak disappeared, the French fries disappeared and so did a sliced tomato and some frozen green peas I'd brought to a boil in the microwave. He ate as much as I did. "I figure you already know the worst about me," said Matthew while we were eating facing each other across the table. "You know I'm gay. My Dad told you. And you know I'm a thief and you know I'd do anything for money. But I won't steal from you. I'm sorry I broke your window. And all you have to do is tell me what you like and I'll do it. I'll bet my mouth feels just like a girl's mouth. I know men like sex, easy accessible sex. You can get me to do anything you want." "Aren't you afraid I'll get disgusted and crack you around for coming on to me?" I raised one eyebrow. "No," he said. "You let me handle your dick." I raised the other eyebrow to join the first. "What about housework?" "I can do it," he said carefully. "I don't have a lot of practice, but housework is easy. So I'll learn it quick if there's anything I need to." "Really?" I said. I leaned back in my chair. "You can start by cleaning the kitchen." He stood up immediately and took my empty plate. He kept looking around at me while he started doing the dishes at the sink. I watched him still half smiling and shook my head. He did a thorough, sloppy job, lots of hot water, lots of soap and quite a bit of splashing. But when he was done the washing the dishes were lovingly polished and a bit uncertainly put away –He hadn't rifled my kitchen cabinets enough to know where everything went. And then the counters and tabletop were dried and shone with the dishtowel so the place looked fine. Finished, Matthew turned around and looked at me expectantly. I had a tight mocking grin on. "You want to run my dryer?" I said. "Your dryer?" he said, confused. I stood up and showed him. I got a laundry basket full of clothes out of the dresser and threw them into the dryer. That would get the damp, musty feeling out of them quicker than waiting for the house to warm up and bake them. And then I brought out a pair of needle nosed pliers and a chisel and showed Matthew how to repair a pane of glass. He did the work while I stood over him and watched. He used the needle nosed pliers to get the little slivers of glass out and the chisel to dig out the old putty. He did a clumsy job at it. By the time he had the pane in place and the new putty drying, there were greasy finger marks all around on the glass and on the window frame. And the putty wasn't exactly smooth. But he'd done the best he could and it wasn't such a bad job for a kid. He had a little hopeful smile on. "How's that? Does that help any?" I gave him a nod. "Go wash your hands. You're leaving linseed oil on everything you touch." Matthew watched his hands. And then afterwards somehow we ended up on my bed upstairs. His skin was warm and satiny as I ran my hands over him under his clothes. And his eyes were fixed on me curiously, not showing fear. He laid his own hand on the bulge in my sweatpants. He kneaded it through the fabric. I peeled his faded limp old shirt off over his head. That bare boy torso twisted in my sight, lean ribs and miniature six-pack. Then he took his baggy pants and lowered them, showing me his small hard-on and round young balls. I was sitting on the bed. I pulled him in. He ended up laid over my knees, spanking position. But I didn't want to spank his little round ass. I wanted to finger it. I cupped my hands around his tight cheeks. I felt a quiver go through him. He was clenched up but his hard on was pronging me in the leg. I rubbed his ass for him while he lay there. He was afraid now even if he was aroused. The tension in his clenched up ass told me that. I stroked his butt and it didn't relax. He lifted his butt up to my hand, but didn't relent and spread his legs. Probably he didn't know that he was too tense to do it anyway but by force. I just rubbed it. He was the one who turned around. He flipped over, reaching up, putting his arms around my neck. He brought his mouth to mine and I let him kiss me. He flicked his tongue cautiously between my lips. I didn't shut it out. He flicked again, parting his lips, sucking as he thrust his tongue out, trying to get my tongue to follow his back. He was sitting on my lap, clinging to my neck. Like that we were the same height. His tongue waggled, trying to tease me, learning. I kissed him back. He was the one that broke the kiss too. He looked at me, "Uh, is it going to hurt?" I looked at him losing my smile. "When you fuck my butt," Matthew clarified. "Probably," I admitted. "Is it going to hurt a lot?" he said. I looked at him some more. "Probably," I said again. He drew his shoulders in. "Would you... try not to hurt me?" I touched his head, taking the side of his face in my palm. "I think you should run like hell," I said. "You still can, you know. You've got a meal or two in your belly. Okay, you've lost your crash space. But there's still the library. And by now you're pretty safe. Because I don't think I'm calling the police." Instead of moving away he put his arm up again, his hand on my shoulder. "I owe you a hundred and sixteen dollars," he said. "I've got to pay that." "Welsh on your debt," I said. "Am I... too ugly or something?" he said. "Because I know you've got this." He stroked the lump in my sweatpants again. "You want to get blown or something, right? But whenever I tell you go ahead you tell me to stop. You made me stop when I was jerking you. Is it because I'm a boy?" I gave a nod. "You only do girls?" I shook my head. "Am I too ugly? Too young for you?" "You're fine," I told him. "I'll do the best I can," he promised. "I know you will," I said. "But you know what? You're not ready to be fucked. And I might not be the best person to fuck you. Because you're right. I'd end up hurting you." I stood up then and dumped him. He stood up beside me naked. "Would you fuck me if I were older?" he said. "I might," I cupped his ass. "Put your clothes back on." He wriggled back into his clothes. He was young enough and turned on enough that he didn't lose his hard on even when I turned him down. He was going around stocking foot in the house and both his socks were out at the heel, so far out that his heels were bare. I went and got his sneakers. I found them on the floor beside the dryer, neatly lined up from when he had taken them out. But one of them was in two pieces, the sole come apart from the worn out upper, and the other one split along the toe at the sole from the instep on both sides. I looked in the inside of both shoes. "So that's why you're still here," I remarked. "You're trapped, barefoot." I passed him the sneakers. "Can you read a size in that?" He looked. They were just gray inside. "No," said Matthew. "Do you remember what size they were?" He thought and shook his head. "I'll have to take you to the shoe store to buy you in new pair," I said. We both looked towards the window, to the white blobs of snow stuck to the screen beyond the glass, to the mushy white hill behind. "And I'll have to carry you to the car so we can do it." "You can't carry me," he said. "I'm too heavy." "You think?" I said. "You don't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds." I picked him up. Abruptly I flipped him, midair, from my arms to my back. I got a glimpse of a startled grin. I let him rest there a moment, and then flipped him around again, this time to under my arm so his head was sticking out in front of me. His dark hair flapped in the air and I saw his grin again. I had him slung under my arm like a package. He clung to my arm. He laughed. It felt good. It felt so good –so ordinary, so normal that it hurt. It was like angina, a stab of agony when I teased the kid and wrestled with him. I put him down again and touched my chest. Touching, wrestling... I fought down a memory again. His smile had disappeared at the somber look on my face. He followed me out to the hall anxious now. This time when I picked him up I wasn't playing. I just hefted him, leaving his legs dangling, locked the front door behind me and carried him out to my car. I dumped him in the front seat. "Did I do something?" he asked quietly. "Please tell me when I do something. I don't know why I make you mad. I can't stop doing it if you don't tell me." "You didn't make me mad, Kid," I said. He searched my face with my eyes. "Should I not laugh?" "You can laugh any time something's funny," I said. I drove. I took Matthew to the mall. Shopping day again. The floors were only damp at the entrance where people had stamped the snow off their boots so I put him down ten steps inside. He followed me stocking foot down to a sporting goods store. I took him in to look at a rack of sneakers. "What's the right brand, Kid?" I asked. He glanced at them, a cursory glance. "Uh... My parents usually shop at the Wal-Mart," he said. "I don't know what brand. I mean, these ones are too expensive. They're like, hundred and fifty dollar sneakers. You can get them for ten dollars at Wal-Mart." "What brand do you need to wear to school?" I asked him. He just looked at me. I walked over to the salesclerk. "What brand are the kids all asking their parents to buy?" He looked at me too, and then walked over to gesture to a rack. It turned out the kid was a size seven. He had decent sized feet. Most likely he'd be a decent size when he got through puberty. I bought him a pair of sneakers, a six-pack of socks, and a spray can of all weather sealant. We put socks and shoes on him before I took him out of the store. "But I can't ever afford to pay you back for these sneakers," Matthew said. "Isn't that the idea?" I said. "You're my gay slave houseboy, right? You've got to owe me more than you can repay if you're my kept boy." Then I got him a change of clothes while we were there. That meant standing outside of a changing booth while a hard rap beat bumped out a song where some guy complained that he was going to jail because an older guy had led him into breaking the law, and inside the booth Matthew stood barelegged, trying on pants. I loitered until he admitted that some of the clothes fit him and then I put a couple of hoodies, and two more of those bulky pairs of pants on my plastic. All I had left to do was buy him a winter coat. None of the kids wore hats. Only the weirdoes wore hats. I got him a Columbia jacket and backpack. "Why are you buying me this stuff?" said Matthew, as he trotted after me, out of the mall. "You don't seem to want me to put out for you, so how can I ever begin to pay you back?" I just looked at him and smirked. The traffic was lousy. It was rush hour and even in November there were some jerks out who didn't have snow tires on. One asshole was slip sliding side to side ahead of us, trying to keep in his lane but wobbling out of it. And there was another asshole on my tail. I felt my eyes grow narrow as I concentrated on driving. I was almost out of the traffic and then some bitch cut me off. She stood on her accelerator doing a double lane change. Slush spattered up onto the windscreen and for a moment it was just gray. "Fucking cunt!" Rage made me change lanes. Teeth bared in a rictus, I spun the wheel to smash into her sideways. Matthew was on the passenger side. He screamed. The woman too must have been looking to check that she was clear. She was a middle-aged blonde. Terror made her gape. She also swerved. The boy's howl filled the car. I spun the wheel back. We were coming to a corner and I crowded the turn. "NO!" The boy yelled. At the last moment I eased sideways. The pale blue car beside me barely had room to stay on the road. Her wheel churned the shoulder in a great spray of brown slush. The boy was sobbing. I left the woman behind. My heart was pounding. I think the pale blue car came to a stop on the shoulder. "You wearing your seatbelt?" I growled, voice getting back under control. "You were going to... you were going to knock him off the road!" "Fucking cunt cut me off!" I was thinking about vehicles exploding in red flame and seething black smoke, of men flung out, broken dolls in burnt uniforms. Cars spun in my memory, tearing, shredding as they spun. I heard gunfire in my head. "You..." the boy sobbed. "I didn't kill her," I said contemptuously. My heart kept pounding. I held the steering wheel evenly. I'd been ramming with the passenger side, the side where the boy was. I might have killed the woman, but I also might have killed the boy. He puckered miserably and sat quiet. I wanted to swear. Shit. Shit. Asshole. I shaped my mouth and didn't swear. I don't fucking care if kill some shit-licking civilian, I thought. She can't get in my way. I'll kill her if she gets in my way, puts me off the road. I won't let her make me a stationary target. The boy stopped trembling when we got to the house. I opened the doors for him looking down with hard angry eyes. He carried his bags clutched to his chest. Inside I cursed him. "Get this shit off the floor." I gestured at the mail. "And then start running the sheets through the dryer. I want that stuff bone dry before it's lights out." "Please don't yell at me," Matthew said. I raised my hand to hit him. He cringed waiting for it. Instead I laid my hand lightly on his hair, rubbed his head. I felt my nostrils flare. "I get mad easy," I said. "You see?" "What did I do?" "You didn't do nothing," I said. "I just do. I'm back from a war zone. Afghanistan. I get... I get to feeling exposed. I don't..." I was about to say I didn't want to die on account of some asshole drawing fire. But that wasn't right. The only fire I'd be under here was when I got taken on charge for the guys that died back in Kunzaraih. Fuck, I thought. I managed a smile. "If I get pissed off like that, just hide. It's not anything you do. I got a short temper. That's all. I'll take a day or two to calm down. Maybe a couple of weeks even. I'm not mad at you." "I can put your sheets in the dryer." Matthew nodded. He headed off, leaving the mail. I willed my heart to be slow, to be normal. I willed myself to have a level, calm voice. I went to make a phone call or two. That night I made a bed up for him on the loveseat. He stood at my shoulder looking. I put sheets and comforters and a pillow down on the thing. The heater still hummed. "There. You should be more comfortable like this." "You really don't want me in your bed," said Matthew. "I didn't say that," I told him. "Then why are you making a bed for me here?" "Maybe you can come upstairs and let me fuck you and then come down here and sleep more comfortably," I said. "I'm a restless sleeper, awake half the night. I'd keep you up too." "Alright," said Matthew. It was going for ten o'clock. He followed me upstairs. I looked over my shoulder at him while I stripped. He watched me peel off my clothes. The dry sheets on the bed made it feel pretty good. I climbed onto the bed and he pulled his clothing off. Again I saw that cute cock, that skinny sexy rump. He climbed onto the bed beside me. "Thank you for buying me those clothes," he said shyly. "You're going to need them," I said. He took my cock in his hand. My cock was standing up. I took his. It was stiff in my fingers. I worked it gently. "Shall I suck?" he offered. His eyes were fixed on my dick, entranced. His hand slid smoothly up and down. He leaned nearer. He was holding his breath and paused, his lips half an inch from the tip of my cock. "Work your own dick," I said at last His eyes flickered up. He leaned back and took his own cock, two handed. I held mine, masturbating, watching the boy jerk his prick. "Yeah," I said. He rubbed briskly. He opened his thighs up rubbing, and he cupped his balls. I worked mine harder. He had a beautiful body. His eyes were on mine obedient. He watched me jerking closely but he didn't touch me. He was a kid so he was ready to cum fast. But I was getting ready faster. I started to gust the air in and out deep and easy to the bottom of my lungs. The boy looked awed and fascinated. He pumped his prick hard, thrumming fast by now. It was going to be over quick for both of us. I heard him draw in a breath sharply when I came. I grunted hard. The cum jetted up between my knuckles. I kept my eyes on his flashing knuckles as the spasm passed through me. Matthew moaned. He gave another moan, "You look so..." He didn't know how to say it. He wrung at his crotch, twisting. His spasm started. The boy jism went way up. I smiled as it came down. He was aiming it for his leg so it wouldn't soil the covers. He moaned again. His head bent. He bowed over his cock, stroke slowing to nothing and the blobs spattering his thigh. The arch of his back and neck was unbelievably graceful. Afterwards he sat on the very rim of the bed while I wiped his thighs clean. "Are you in the military?" he said. "Sort of," I said. "I'm a consultant." "What does that mean?" I wiped the last glaze away. "What it amounts to is that I end up under military orders but I get paid a bit better." He looked around the room, remembering the house. It's not huge, but it's not a trailer either. "I figured you had to be an officer if you were in the army." "Right," I agreed. He got up to go, naked, holding his clothing. "What was it like in Afghanistan?" He asked in the doorway. "Exotic," I said carelessly. "Different languages, different food, huge mountains..." "Cool," said Matthew and went downstairs to bed. End of part 1 of "Little Boy Lost" by Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca