Jagged Angel deals with a gay teenage romantic theme with occasional melodramatic and sexual situations. The usual restrictions apply: please read no further if this type of story isn't to your tastes, or if you're under legal age. This story may not be reprinted anywhere without permission. The contents are ©2003 by John Francis; All rights reserved. Comments to the author are welcomed at thepecman@yahoo.com.


Chapter 12

"You look like an angel...

walk like an angel..

talk like an angel...

...but I got wise.

You're the devil in disguise

oh, yes you are...

Devil in disguise.


originally performed by Elvis Presley

Lyrics & Music by Bernie Baum, Bill Giant, & Florence Kaye

Copyright 1963 Cherry River Music Co. (BMI); all rights reserved.



"I still don't like it, Polly. I don't like it one goddamned bit."

Michael Callahan stared angrily at the inside of his dresser drawer, and pressed his hand against the very back, feeling the smooth surface of the black polished wood. Like most of the furniture in their lavish bedroom, the cabinet was custom-made, hand-crafted from rare Urushi hardwoods, carefully chosen by a designer back in Osaka, Japan.

Inside the drawer were several watches, bearing recognizable names like Bruegot, Cartier, and Patek Philippe. But there was one missing: The Rolex President -- the 1998 edition, with the champagne gold finish and diamonds, which had been presented to him at a special company banquet three years ago. At nearly $25,000, it was a costly -- and perhaps somewhat gaudy -- trinket, one that Callahan didn't wear very often. Nonetheless, both the magnificent watch and its case were missing.

"Which one is it?" she asked as she removed her earrings. "Aren't you're wearing the Breitling? The gold one?"

He fumed. "Yes, that's on my wrist. It's the goddamned Rolex! It's gone, and I'm sure it was here when we left."

"But you never wear that one, dear," yawned his wife. "You said it was too garish."

They'd only been home from New York for forty-five minutes, and already her husband was complaining. He was more emotional, more irritable lately; she knew his company's board scandal was weighing heavily on him, and his temper-tantrums had been more frequent. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure you didn't leave it at your office?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure!" he barked, slamming the drawer shut. Upon seeing his wife's surprised reaction, his tone immediately changed. "Jesus, I'm sorry, honey," he said, wearily shaking his head. It's just that... I've got all this shit hanging over me. At least seven company officers facing trial for fraud, our stock goes down 28 points in two weeks... Christ, I thought my job was difficult before all this happened."

"Shhhhh," she said, gently putting her hand to his face. "You're doing the best you can, Mike -- the best anybody can. You need to take a day off." She thought for a moment, then her face brightened. "We haven't had dinner at home for weeks," she said. "I'm sure Dylan would love to hear about what's been going on. You two really need to talk more often. And I'll ask Yolanda to make you your favorite."

She smiled and kissed him, and he reached back and softly carressed the back of her head.

Yolanda, he thought. I wonder if she's the one who stole my fucking watch...

* * * * *

Dylan saw Angel's face leering towards him. The boy was speaking words he couldn't understand -- laughing, leering, tormenting him. Next to him was his friend K.C., totally naked, his huge erection jutting into the air and bouncing comically as he chortled at Dylan's plight.

Try as he might, Dylan couldn't move. It was as if he was drugged, and the room was shrouded in a dim, misty fog, the air thick and heavy. He pulled his arms and legs, but they were firmly lashed to the bedposts with some kind of ropes.

Angel's words were becoming more distinct now. "You're not any kind of man!" the boy cried, holding up a huge knife. It was covered with blood, and warm drops spattered onto Dylan's chest. "You're not a man anymore! You're dickless!"

Dylan felt numb. His head was spinning, but he forced his eyes down his chest until they stopped at his own groin. Blood was everywhere, soaking the bed, and he felt a growing nausea overcome him as he realized that his penis and testicles were missing. Now, there was just a medium-sized hole between his legs, a gaping wound that oozed blood all over his abdomen and legs. Strangely, there was no pain, no sensation -- just a dull emptiness, a draft of air passing over his thighs, and a feeling of utter helplessness.

Dylan began to vomit as the horrible realization of what had happened finally sank in. He could only gurgle, his throat choking with bile, raging at the two boys who laughed and taunted him.

"Not a man anymore!" they cried. "NOT A MAN ANYMORE!"

Dylan bolted upright in bed. He was completely alone. The bedsheets were soaked -- not with blood, but with the salty stench of urine.

Christ, he thought, instinctively rolling away from the moist sheets. I haven't wet the bed in... how long? Three years? Four? Not since Phoenix.

"Dylan?" called out his father from down the hall. "Son, you alright?"

His door opened, and his father stuck his head in. "We heard you screaming all the way from our bedroom. Bad dream?"

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. Something like that." He fought to keep the panic out of his voice, praying that his father wouldn't catch a whiff from the doorway.

Callahan furrowed his brow. This isn't like Dylan, he thought. This isn't the confident, strapping kid I saw three weeks ago when we left for New York. He stepped into his son's room and stood near the foot of the bed.

"Your hand still hurting you, son?" he asked.

"Naw." He held his right hand out and bent it back and forth. "I'm getting a little more movement out of it than I was a day or two ago. Should be okay by next game."

His father nodded. "Good. Listen, son -- is there anything you need to talk to me about? Any... problems I might help you with?"

Dylan's eyes momentarily welled up with tears, but he summed up all his strength to push them away. "No," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I'm still... I'm still pissed-off at coach. But we'll work it out."

"Good. That's the essence of good business management," said his father. "Don't let the bastards wear you down, son. Believe me, I had nightmares all last year when we were negotiating that satellite deal with CanSat. Remember that one? But it worked out okay, and we won. You'll do it, too -- just you wait and see."

"Thanks, Dad." He'd never understand if I told him the truth, he thought.

"Goodnight, kiddo."

A few seconds after the door closed, Dylan glanced at the clock radio. It was only 3:15 -- nearly four hours before he'd have to go to school. He wearily rolled over and pulled the wet sheets off his bed, then threw them in a pile on the floor and gingerly felt the mattress.

A little damp, he thought, but I'll survive. He made a mental note to throw the sheets into the washer before breakfast.

Dylan lay back on the bed, pulled up the still-dry comforter up to his chin, and closed his eyes, overcome with guilt and shame. He'd managed to pawn the watch earlier that afternoon at a seedy-looking shop in Van Nuys. The best the guy could give him was $4000 cash, but that should be enough to hold off Angel for the month. After that, he wasn't sure what he was going to do.

"Just kill me now, God, and get it the fuck over with," he said out loud to the ceiling, then grabbed a nearby pillow, pulled it to his face, and began quietly sobbing.

* * * * *

At 7:05AM, Dylan was awakened by the annoying chirp of his cellphone.

Angel, I'll kick your ass if you're bugging me at this hour, he growled to himself as he angrily flipped the device open.

"This had better fucking be good!" he snapped.

"Jesus -- lighten up, dude!" said a familiar voice.

"Kyle!" What the fuck could he want? "I thought we weren't gonna run this week, dude," he began.

"Naw, it's not that," Kyle said, his voice slightly slurred. "I kinda... I got in a shitload of trouble last night and... well, I kinda need a ride to school. If it isn't too much outta your way."

Dylan sat up, concerned. "Jesus, man. What happened?"

Kyle sighed. "I just got wasted, okay? And I sorta... totalled my dad's car. Well, not quite."

Shit, Dylan thought. He knew it was gonna be bad, but not that bad. "You okay, bro?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm alright. My hand got banged-up a little, but my parents grounded me for a week. I was hangin' around with Hank, that guy who used to be in our English Lit class. We sorta... went through a whole bag of weed at his place last night. Turned out to be Rocket Fuel, only we didn't know it, and I got totally wasted."

Rocket Fuel? "What the hell is that?" he asked.

Kyle laughed. "You are so fucking na´ve, dude! It's weed and TCP, bro' -- you get an incredible high, and it's like an instantaneous blast, totally awesome!"

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well... sounds like your dad's car isn't too awesome right now."

"C'mon, man," Kyle moaned. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Calm down, calm down. Alright, I'll be over at --" Dylan glanced at the clock. "Make it ten after. Meet you on the front steps, 'kay?"

"I'll be there. Thanks for doin' this, bro'."

"Not a problem." Dylan clicked off and sat back and thought for a moment. Why the hell is Kyle getting so fucked-up lately... and in the middle of the week?

* * * * *

Kyle looked about as bad as Dylan had ever seen him. His injuries were a little worse than he'd described them over the phone: a bright blue welt was on his left cheek, and there were several cuts and scratches visible on his forearm. Kyle's eyes were very bloodshot, and after he got in the car, Dylan eyed him opening and closing his left hand, wincing with the pain.

"Jesus, man," said Dylan, as they raced down Mason Street to make the light at Devonshire. "You look like shit on toast."

"Tell me about it," Kyle moaned, as he hunkered down into the seat and slipped on a pair of dark glasses. "I feel like shit, too."

Dylan still regretted their fight from several days before. "How'd this happen, man?" he said, sympathetically.

"The usual. I told you -- Hank and this guy Artie, they had some killer dope, and I just got a little more blitzed than I'd planned, that's all."

Dylan frowned. "C'mon, bro. Since when do you do this shit in the middle of the week? I thought you only partied on the weekend."

"Lay off, dude," Kyle snapped. "Who are you... my mother? I was just tryin' out the merchandise, just checkin' to see if it was okay, and me and Hank just got carried away."

Dylan shot his friend a look of surprise. "So Hank was the dealer? I thought he was still going to Chatsworth."

Kyle shook his head. "Not anymore. He dropped out three weeks ago. Says he's gonna make more money than his old man, just sellin' shit to kids in the Valley. He's up to five G's a week, and that's pretty cool. Nothin' heavy -- just the juice for guys on the team and weed."

Dylan continued to listen patiently as he drove the BMW across Devonshire, then made the turn just in front of the school parking lot. He pulled up abruptly in a nearby space, nearly knocking over a motorcycle parked nearby.

"How's the hand?" Dylan asked, as he shut off the engine and reached for his notebook behind the seat.

Kyle opened and closed it, wincing slightly. "It slammed against the steering wheel when I spun off the road and went through a chain-link fence. Lucky for me, I didn't hit anybody, but I tore the shit out of the transmission and the frame underneath. It's a real mess. Dad says it's gonna cost like five grand to get fixed."

Dylan held up his injured right hand next to him and chuckled. "Hey, between the two of us, we have only two good hands."

Kyle grinned. "Yeah. Hey, since I'm left-handed, and you're right, maybe we could, you know... jack each other off or something?"

He stopped when he saw Dylan's shocked expression. "Dude! I'm just kidding! Shit, Dylan, will you stop taking me so seriously?"

Dylan managed a half-grin. "For a minute, I thought you were turnin' into a fag on me or something."

"Yeah, like they'd ever allow fags on the team," replied Kyle, as he hopped out of the car and slammed the door. "Besides, if I need to get off, there's always Randi Webber. She's a shitload better than my hand."

She sure was, thought Dylan, momentarily distracted by the mental image of their three-way tryst just a few nights before.

As they reached the main school building, Kyle stopped to grab a drink. "So what'd ya think of her?" he asked casually.

"She was... okay, I guess," Dylan answered carefully, momentarily reliving the scene in her bedroom. An mental video of Kyle's naked, erect body from the shadowy bedroom played back in his mind, but he shook his head and continued. "She knew a lot more than Tracy ever did, that's for sure. Very hot."

Kyle grinned. "You wanna do that again sometime?"

Dylan's heart momentarily leaped, but he tried to contain his excitement. "I dunno. Maybe... sometime."

"I could arrange something for, I dunno..." Kyle thought for a moment. "Maybe this Saturday night -- if you want, that is."

Saturday! Shit, Dylan thought, mentally slapping his forehead. I'd be with that little shit Angel all day, and I won't be in any condition to do anything after that. He glanced up at his friend and shook his head. "Sorry, dude. I think maybe we're... we're getting into kind of a weird area, y'know?"

"Whatever," said Kyle, as he ran towards hall C. "Catch ya at lunch."

Dylan watched his friend jog away. That's weird, he thought. Why would Kyle bring that up?

* * * * *

The rest of the day went a little better than he feared. A lot better, actually. As he expected, Coach made him run the track again, but this time when he finished, the older man trotted up alongside him.

"Good job, Dylan," he called. "I think this running's helping you, son."

Dylan grinned, then forearmed the sweat off his brow. "Thanks, Coach. Does that mean I'm back as QB on Friday?" he asked expectantly.

Highland smiled sadly and shook his head. "Sorry, kid. A ten-day suspension is what I said, and I've gotta stick with it. Besides, your hand is still hurt. Give it a rest, and just take it easy. The game Friday night is tinkertoys, and we've practically got it won already."

Dylan nodded. West Valley High was a smaller school, just barely in their division, and the school was only 2 and 6 for the year. No way could they beat Chatsworth, with or without Dylan as quarterback. The Cheetahs were on a eight-game winning streak, with no end in sight.

"But next week, you're in -- guaranteed," Highland assured him. "Just try to show me a little respect, alright son?"

"I will, Coach."

"Good. Now, getcher ass in the shower, then go home and get some rest!"

Dylan grinned and jogged the rest of the way back down the hill, towards the locker room.

* * * * *

As much as Dylan loved football, he hated being a spectator. Friday night, he was up in the stands, looking around nervously to see if there was anybody he knew near by. Part of him hoped it wouldn't happen, since not that many students knew he'd been temporarily suspended from the team; but part of him hated being alone.

I wish Kyle would get here, he thought impatiently, checking his cell phone again. Kyle hadn't shown up for class again on Thursday, causing him to be benched again for that week's game. His friend had assured him only hours before that he'd meet him in section H, right in the center, but as usual, he hadn't show up. Typical Kyle shit, he thought, shaking his head. I gotta try to talk to him about this... maybe get him to stop getting so fucked up.

The game plodded on for the first half, with the score 6 to 7. Surprisingly, Chatsworth couldn't manage to get the ball away from West Valley. Even from a distance, Dylan could see Coach Highland yelling in frustration, his hands waving frantically in the air after every play. Late in the second quarter, Dylan winced when his rival, Ron Williams, was knocked nearly ten feet during a particularly disastrous play. After a 1-minute time-out, Williams dragged himself up and got back into the game, but it was clear the 2nd-string quarterback was visibly winded.

During half-time, Dylan looked over at the billboard, trying to ignore the thunderous drums of the marching band stumbling through their routine on the field. 14 to 7, he thought, shaking his head. If West Valley beats us, we're gonna look like total shit for the regionals.

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes later, the scoreboard hadn't budged, just barely into the fourth quarter. Dylan glanced near one of the grandstand exits and caught a glimpse of Manny Davis, their kicking coach, getting a drink of water. "Coach Davis!" Dylan called, running up to the man.

"Hey, Dylan," the man said, looking up from the water fountain. "I sure wish you could've been on the field tonight. We really could use your help -- your's and Kyle's."

Dylan nodded. "Listen," he said quickly. "My stuff is downstairs. I could dress out in one minute flat -- I swear, I'm totally ready to play."

Davis thought for a moment, then shook his head. "If it were up to me... no problem. But you know Highland's got his own way of doing things, and we just gotta live with it, no matter how stupid it might seem."

Dylan shot him a glance.

The man grinned. "That's just between you and me, kid. Okay?"

He nodded and got back in his seat. As the defensive line trotted out for their positions for first down, he distinctly heard the word 'asshole' a few rows behind him. He turned and caught a glimpse of Tracy, sitting between one of her girlfriends and some new guy -- what was his name? Jerry? Jerome? Something like that. She glared at him for a moment, then turned away and resumed her conversation, as if Dylan didn't exist.

Dylan felt a chill, then turned away and continue watching the slaughter below.

* * * * *

The coach was apoplectic. "Son, we've run over this play a million times in practice!" he pleaded. "It's not that hard! Do we have to go over it again?"

Ron Williams glared at him. Even though he'd been looking forward to finally being quarterback for the first time, the night was rapidly turning into the worst of his life.

"No, sir," he replied through clenched teeth. "But it might help if I could get some goddamned..." He caught himself when the man's eyes momentarily narrowed. "I mean -- some, uh... blocking. I can't do this alone, Coach."

Coach Highland sighed. With Callahan and McDermott both out, he mused, they were going down in flames. And even with a game as minor as this, he'd be damned if they'd blow their chances for the regionals. But it had to work.

"Just try it one more time, son," he said, forcing his words out evenly. "I know you can do it. Go for the Strongside Slam."

Even from Dylan's vantage point, he could clearly see the worried look on Highland's face. He watched Williams jog back to the line-up and get into position. Highland glanced up towards the crowd, and Dylan caught a glimmer of recognition in the coach's eyes. Dylan nodded, but the coach only tightened his jaw and looked away.

At the snap, Williams faked it to his right, then, making a split-second decision, tore through an unexpected opening, knocking a surprised West Valley player flat on his ass.

"Go Williams!" Dylan cried from the grandstands. That was a helluva play, he thought, but it couldn't have come from coach.

The quarterback was a blur now, streaking towards the 40... the 35... The crowd leaped to their feet and roared in approval. Williams turned as another body thudded on the ground nearby, taken down by Lionel Jackson. Goddamit, he thought, his heart racing. I've got a clear shot at the fucking goal!

Just as he hit the twenty, he caught a glimmer of motion on his right: another West Valley tackle was right on his heels. At the last second, Williams spun, wrenching his left ankle, but sent the tackler sprawling on the ground in a satisfying crunch. The pain was excruciating, but the quarterback pressed on, his ears almost deafened by the surprised crowd's cheers. Seconds later, he half-ran, half-limped across the goal-line, collapsing triumphantly in the end-zone.

Suddenly, a chorus of boos erupted from the grandstands. Williams turned his head, dumbfounded. What? he thought, momentarily stunned. A foul? From who?

There was a burst of feedback from the PA speakers. "The play's been called back to the 50 -- offensive holding. 10-yard penalty to Chatsworth!"

"Godammit!" yelled Dylan, totally outraged. Fuck, he thought. That was an awesome play, and that fucking idiot Jordy Chandler totally blew it.

"CHANDLER!" bellowed Coach Highland, his face reddened with anger.

Jordy was still on the ground, groggily trying to sit up. "What?" he said, still in disbelief. "What'd I do?"

"Holding, you asshole," muttered Julio Martinez, helping Chandler to his feet. "Even you should know that, pinche cabron."

Dylan shook his head as he got back in his seat in the bleachers. "Fuck," he said out loud. Bitchin' play, he thought, totally ruined. As he glanced up, he saw Williams in the distance, tearing back from the goal line towards a crowd of players. Oh, shit...

With a cry, Williams launched himself towards Chandler, fists raised. "You fucking little shit!" he screamed, ripping off the center's helmet and slamming him to the ground. "You ruined everything!" he cried, pounding his fists into the boy's face. "It was a perfect fuckin' play!"

"Williams, NO!" cried the Coach, immediately jumping out from the side-lines.

Chandler could only scream and desperately try to cover his face, as Williams' fists repeatedly pummeled the smaller player.

Dylan shuddered at the utter chaos below him. In seconds, a half-dozen players were rolling around on the ground, tearing at each other like animals. During the melee, Highland got knocked down on his back -- Dylan wasn't sure by who -- and on the opposite side of the field, the West Valley coach got into a screaming match with another referee.

"I can't watch this," Dylan said out loud, oblivious to the cheers and hoots from the crowd around him. "This is turning into pro wrestling." Just as he got to the bottom of the steps and turned towards the exit, a blare of feedback came up from the PA speakers.

"Attention, please! The referees have just declared a forfeit to tonight's game. West Valley High is the winner. Everyone, please remain in your seats."

The crowd immediately launched into an immense chorus of boos, throwing cups, paper wrappers, popcorn, beer cans... anything and everything onto the field.

Back on the sidelines, Coach Davis helped Highland to his feet. "You okay, Wayne?" he asked quietly. "You hit the ground pretty hard."

The older man nodded. "Yeah." He turned to the Chatsworth players, who had glumly filed off the field and stood by the bench. Highland stared at them, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Boys? Into the locker room. Now." His voice was strangely calm, but his hands were shaking.

Davis cocked an eye at him. Shit, he thought. This is not going to be good. He looked up at the grandstands, with a mass of angry faces staring over the grandstand fence. Dylan, wherever you are -- be glad you weren't playing tonight.

* * * * *

Saturday morning, Dylan was awakened by the rude chirp of his cellphone. He wearily reached out, nearly dropping it to the floor, then flipped it open.

"What?" he groaned.

"This is your 9:05 wake-up call, slave!" said a familiar voice, laughing. "Get your ass over here by noon. We've got some plans for you, Dylan."

Dylan sighed. Was it going to be like this every week with Angel?, he thought.

"Alright" he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "But I've got some shit to do around the house. I gotta feed the horses and clean out the barn again."

"Pee-YOU," replied Angel. "In that case, be sure to wash up real good. I don't wanna smell any of that horse shit on you when you get over here. Make sure that body of yours is clean enough to eat off of."

"Fuck you, Angel," he snapped.

"Ah-ah-ahhhh!" warned the boy. "Be nice, dickless, or I'll tell the you-know-who's about the you-know-what's."

Dylan froze. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me... dickless. Be over here at noon, and be ready for action."

The nightmare image flickered back into his head, and Dylan swallowed nervously. "One o' clock's the soonest I can make it," he said quietly.

"Just hurry the FUCK up!" growled Angel. "A little less talk, a little more do... a little more me, and a little less you. Got it?"

Dylan's hand shook. "I got it," he said, through clenched teeth.

"Good. Looking forward to it, sweetie."

* * * * *

Promptly at 12:45, Dylan knocked nervously on Angel's front door. Much to his surprise, Angel's mother answered.

"Why, hello, Dylan!" she said. "I was just leaving for work. I didn't know you were coming over." She turned over her shoulder. "Angel! Angel, dear -- Dylan's here to see you."

Angel came trotting down the hallway, his face grinning harmlessly, a smiling mask obscuring the monster underneath. "Thanks, Mom. Maybe we can send out for pizza or something later."

"That'd be nice. Let me check my purse and see if I have a few dollars..."

"No need," interrupted Dylan. "I'll cover it."

Her face brightened. "Oh, that's terribly nice of you, Dylan! I really should do something special for you sometime."

You could start by murdering your fucking kid, he thought to himself, forcing a thin smile on his face.

"Make mine sausage and pepperoni!" hollared K.C., who had just trotted into the living room, on his way to the kitchen.

Mrs. Thompkins laughed. "Just don't mess up the house, boys! I'm already late for work. I'll be back at 10PM, and this place better be as neat as a pin!"

She stepped out the door and walked over to her car, a bright blue Toyota Tercel, then waved as she backed out and headed down the street.

Angel slammed the door, and Dylan turned just in time to see his face dissolve from an innocent 14 year-old to that of a cynical, hardened animal. "Good job, slave. Maybe we'll be a little easy on you, today."

"Can we eat first?" called K.C., who stepped up alongside them, idly scratching his side. "I'm starving."

"No," said Angel firmly. "First, we fuck -- then we eat. Get your priorities straight, Kace."

His friend nodded, then tugged at the front of his pants. "Whatever. I haven't done it for a coupla days, so this won't take long."

* * * * *

Five minutes later, the three boys were naked in Angel's bedroom. Angel lay on his back on the bed, poised and ready, and Dylan stood nearby, shaking with anger.

"No way am I gonna do that!" he snarled.

"You heard me," said Angel calmly. "Get up on here and sit on it -- now. This time, you're gonna do all the work, just like in the video."

Dylan shook his head. "Fuck you, Angel."

The younger boy grinned, then hopped off the bed and trotted over to his computer and spun the monitor around.

"No. Fuck you, Dylan. Take a look."

Dylan leaned over to the display, and was mortified to see a web page on the computer screen, with the address "www.dylans-a-fag.com." His jaw dropped open in shock.

Jesus fucking christ, he thought. Dylan's very-recognizable face was in every one of the pictures, and there was no doubt what his mouth was doing -- along with other parts of his body. At the top of the web page was his name, followed by his street address and home phone number. Even my cell number, he thought ruefully.

Angel grinned. "I figured, why just let your mom and dad and a few friends know? Shit, the whole world could see this, if I gave 'em the URL and the password. I bet your coach would be real happy to have a fag as quarterback."

Dylan turned away from the monitor and glared at the boy. "You're fuckin' crazy, you know that, Angel? Totally out of your mind."

Angel fluttered his long eyelashes and smiled beatifically. "I'd say a rich kid who seduces innocent little boys and sucks their dicks is a lot crazier, wouldn't you? You're a regular Michael Jackson." With that, he shut off the monitor, hopped back on the bed and grinned. "C'mon and get yourself lubed up, slave," he snapped. "I don't have all day."

Dylan nodded glumly and reached for the plastic container. Just as he began working his fingers into his backside, the telephone on Angel's desk phone rang. All three boys immediately froze.

"Who the fuck could that be?" whispered K.C.

Angel glared at Dylan. "Who else knows you're here?" he snapped.

"Nobody!" Dylan insisted. "The last thing I want is for somebody to know about this shit!"

Angel rolled over and picked up the phone, the condom partially slipping off his erection.

"Hello?" he said suspiciously. His voice softened. "Oh -- hi, Mom. Your security key? Yeah, I think I saw it on the coffee table." Then, after a pause: "No problem. I'm sure Dylan wouldn't mind taking me down the street to the hospital. It's only four or five miles away. Okay, see you in a few." He hung up the phone, angrily shaking his head.

"Shit -- your mom?" asked K.C., as he sat on the bed and toyed with his deflating organ, which still dwarfed the other boys' equipment.

Angel nodded as he snapped off his condom and tossed it on a side table, then grabbed his pants. "Yeah, it's like an emergency. I gotta take her some stupid hospital key she left here."

Dylan looked up, his right hand still glistening with lube. "So, ah... you wanna call it a day, then?" he asked, hopefully.

"NO!" barked Angel. "You two stay here. I'll take my bike to the hospital. Mom won't know Dylan didn't drive me there. I'll be back in half an hour, maybe less. Don't do anything until I get back -- and I mean anything. No nothin' without me here. Got it?"

K.C. nodded, then pulled up his shorts and switched on a CD player. "No problemo. Just order us some food for later."

Angel glared at Dylan, who immediately raised his hands in mock protest. "Hey, I'm just a slave, right?" he said sarcastically.

The boy nodded, then ran down the hallway. Moments later, they heard the front door slam. Dylan glanced out a side window just in time to see Angel tear off down the sidewalk, his bike a blur as it disappeared over the hill.

Dylan sighed, then pulled up his underwear and sat on the bed, wincing at the cold trickle of lubricant, still damp on his backside. How much longer can this go on?, he mused. He looked over at Angel's computer. Maybe if I erased all his files... He shook his head. Naaaa. Knowing him, the little shit's got backups galore. And videotapes.

K.C. looked up and grinned. "Hey. You got a great body, y'know, man?"

"Thanks," Dylan muttered drily. "And you've got a great dick, but I guess you already know that."

K.C. laughed and shut off the CD player, then sat next to him on the bed. "No, really! You look really hot, dude. I dunno why Angel feels like he's gotta treat you like shit."

Dylan sighed. "I can't figure it out either, man. I never did anything bad to him, not ever." He eyed the other boy carefully. "What does Angel say about me when I'm not around?"

K.C. thought for a moment. "Not much. Last week was really the first time I'd heard about you. He said it was gonna be a surprise for me."

"What about afterwards?" Dylan asked thoughtfully.

"He said he thought he'd teach you a lesson -- something like that." K.C. shook his head. "I think Angel just kinda likes tellin' people what to do."

Dylan wearily squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Yeah. That much I know. He's makin' me feel like I'm his personal whore."

K.C. grinned. "Hey, Angel says we're all whores. We just sell different parts of ourselves."

Dylan laughed, and shook his head. "Is that what you think, too?"

"Naaaa. But I think if you actually liked being here, Angel would probably get bored and might give up after awhile."

For the first time, Dylan had a ray of hope. "You think?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah. Angel's definitely the type who gets bored by shit real easy. Got a bad temper, too, which I guess you noticed."

"Yeah," Dylan said ruefully. "I noticed." Then, after a pause: "So why do you hang out with him?"

K.C. shrugged his shoulders. "Angel's really cool-looking -- which I guessed you already noticed," he said, giggling. "And he's the only other gay kid in our class at Chaminade... at least that we know of, so far."

The boy tentatively reached out and massaged Dylan's chest. Dylan instinctively flinched and leaned back, then tentatively allowed him to explore his body.

"Your body is totally hot, y'know?" K.C. said admiringly. "Angel says you play football. I guess you work out a lot, huh?"

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. I'm benching 255 right now."

"I can tell." The younger boy twirled his finger around Dylan's right nipple, which instantly became erect. Dylan felt a warmth spread out from his chest and trickle down to his groin, which quickly responded.

"Listen, ah, kid..." Dylan began, looking around the room nervously.

"Call me K.C.," he said, cupping his other hand around Dylan's left pectoral muscle.

Dylan sucked in his breath at the sensation. "Angel will get really pissed-off if you do any shit with me now," he warned. And for all we know, he thought, glancing nervously around the room, he's got the place totally wired.

K.C. shook his head. "Don't worry. I won't say anything." With that, he leaned towards Dylan and embraced him, their lips touching.

God, Dylan thought, as he leaned into the younger boy's face. What am I getting myself into now?

K.C.'s left hand moved across Dylan's muscular chest and down to his abs, then his fingertips traced the thin tufts of hair that led to his groin below. The boy reached down and gently gripped the stiff column of flesh, and Dylan instantly moaned.

"I want to try something with you," K.C. whispered, "only this time, we're gonna take it real slow."

Dylan's eyes grew wide. "No, no," he protested. "You're not gonna stick that in me again. No way."

K.C. put his hands on Dylan's mouth. "Shhhh," he said. "Trust me. You're gonna like it this time. Besides, you're all lubed-up and ready."

The boy snapped on a condom, then quickly maneuvered the athlete into position, on his hands and knees. He caressed Dylan's back, then moved his hand lower. Dylan closed his eyes and moaned.

"I told you, this can feel good," K.C. said, applying some lube to his hand. "Lemme show you something."

Dylan felt a sense of pressure. "Listen, kid," he hissed between his teeth. "I really don't like this at all..." he began.

"Just give me a second," whispered K.C., who gently pushed his fingers in a little further.

Suddenly, Dylan was aware of a tingling sensation radiating from somewhere deep inside him.

"...but I could be wrong," Dylan continued, his eyes opening wide. He moaned. "Jesus -- what are you doing back there?"

K.C. grinned. "Yeah. My brother showed me that -- it's the prostate. Only guys have it, and it feels great."

The younger boy continued his exploration for several minutes. Dylan lay his head down on a pillow and tried to relax. Suddenly, he was aware of something larger pressing against him.

"No, wait..." he began, then closed his eyes and moaned as he felt K.C.'s hand reach out from behind him and massage his groin.

"Just try to push out, and stay relaxed," whispered K.C. In less than a minute, he was fully inside.

The sensation was enormous -- not so much pain, but a strange feeling of pressure, uncomfortable and yet somehow terribly exciting at the same time. After a few moments, Dylan felt the boy's stomach pressed up against him.

"How's that?" the younger teen asked, as he tentatively began his thrusts.

Dylan wasn't sure. It was much better than it was last week, that's for sure. But he still hated being on the receiving end of things. It seemed so... so unmanly, like he was having to surrender to an invasive force. Then K.C.'s hand was on him again, and he instinctively moaned. Much to his surprise, he was fully aroused.

"I take it you like it -- some of it, anyway?"

Dylan nodded, but couldn't speak, his face pressed down firmly on the pillow. After a few more seconds, he began to relax. I couldn't ever get used to this, he thought, but it really does feel pretty good, in a way. Almost as a reflex, he began pushing back slightly into K.C.'s thighs, meeting his every thrust.

"That's it," whispered K.C. "Now you're getting into it."

They began to buck faster now, moving in unison, their rhythm picking up steam. Sweat was trickling off Dylan's back, and his breathing became short, staccato. K.C.'s hand strokes were working him into a frenzy, and he felt his testicles instinctively tighten, his orgasm mere seconds away. Suddenly, the pressure was gone, and he felt only air behind him.

"NO!" he cried, turning around.

K.C. grinned at him, his enormous erection bobbing up and down, glistening in the dim room light. "Sure you don't want me to stop now?"

Dylan managed a weak smile. "No. Keep going.... please."

"Okay. Lie on your back this time."

The athlete gave K.C. a curious glance. How can this work?, he thought. Guys can't do it face to face -- can they?

Dylan did as he was told, lying on his back, while K.C. got up on the bed.

"Move your knees up a little, like this," he said, helping Dylan get into position, pushing his legs up in the air. "Now, relax and push out again."

Dylan nodded. Gently, very gently, K.C. began inching forward, then made it in to the hilt. A few seconds later, he resumed his thrusts.

God, thought Dylan. This is even better than before. He looked down at his groin, which was half-hard.

"God," wheezed the younger boy as he looked down and smiled, "you really look great, Dylan. So fucking muscular... I can hardly believe it." With that, K.C. reached out and massaged him again until he was fully erect.

Dylan moaned aloud, then looked up at the younger boy. God, he thought, as his eyes traveled from K.C.'s face down below his waist. It's like he's a little kid from the waist-up, and a fucking porno star from the waist down. A faint patina of sweat glistened on the boy's chest, which showed the beginnings of muscularity, and his left hand firmly grasped Dylan's leg, while his right stroked the older boy's erection.

Dylan's breath was coming quicker now. "Jesus," he whispered. "Oh, god... this is it!"

K.C. gasped for breath, pushing him deeper with every thrust, slamming him faster and faster. Dylan cried out, then suddenly erupted once, twice... three times... and he felt several jets of warm liquid splatter onto his face and shoulders. His heart pounded like a freight train.

Seconds later, K.C. let out a loud groan and collapsed on him, exhausted. After a few moments, he lifted his head up and kissed Dylan softly.

"Thanks," he wheezed. "You were... really great. Probably the best ever."

Dylan caught his breath. "Yeah," he said softly. "You, too. If I'd known it could be this good, I would've done this sooner."

K.C. grinned. "Yeah. Next time, you can do me. I learned a lot from my brother."

"Yeah, you told me that before. He's as big as you, right?"

"Yeah." The boy rolled over, then hefted his organ and let it flop to one side of his leg, where it hung over his thigh. "My brother Bill's 18 and goes to Long Beach. Actually, I think his is almost an inch bigger."

Dylan lifted it up and examined it carefully. K.C.'s penis almost reminded him of a pale, fat snake, minus the slimy skin and teeth. He let out a low whistle. "Man, it's totally cool." Even bigger than Kyle's, he thought, as a flicker of his best friend's body made him throb with the memory. "You're definitely gonna be popular in high school, dude."

Dylan glanced at the clock: 1:15. Shit, he thought. Angel will be back in less than 5 minutes!

"Hey!" he said, hopping off the bed. "We better get cleaned up before Angel gets back. He'd be totally pissed-off."

The younger boy grinned, then snapped the prophylactic off his deflated organ. "Don't worry. Lemme get rid of the evidence." He hurried to the adjoining bathroom, and Dylan heard the toilet flush. The boy came back in, held his palms up for inspection, and grinned. "No worries," he said, hopping onto a corner of the bed.

Dylan wiped some residue off his face and stomach with a tissue, then tossed it into a nearby trashcan and eyed him suspiciously. "You won't... you won't say anything about this to Angel?"

"No fuckin' way," K.C. replied, shaking his head. "You know how he is -- he'd kill us both."

Dylan sighed, then leaned back against the bed and managed a feeble grin. "Yeah. The little shit does have a pretty bad temper, doesn't he?"

"No, I mean it," K.C. said, matter-of-factly. "Angel's killed people before, y'know."

"You're nuts," Dylan scoffed.

"I'm not shittin' you," K.C. said, walking around the bed and picking up a notebook on Angel's desk. "Angel told me he's thinking of gettin' one of the teachers at school fired. Some guy who pissed him off by failing him in Algebra 2. I laughed at him, but then he showed me this."

He held out the looseleaf notebook, which Dylan opened and scanned. It was filled with newspaper clippings. Holy shit, he thought. The Chatsworth fire from last month... a 10 year-old girl missing in Sante Fe... old woman falls down stairs... neighborhood cats tortured and killed... church vandalized... priest defrocked... homeless man's throat slit...

Dylan began furiously flipping through the pages. It couldn't be, he thought. No way he could do all this. Angel was only 14, for god's sake!

K.C. pulled up his pants and walked over, then leaned against the desk. "Pretty scary, huh?"

Dylan looked up at him. "You really think Angel's done all this shit?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe -- I dunno. He says a lotta stuff. Once, I told him my little 3 year-old sister was a real fucking nuisance. He told me I should kill her, then make it look like an accident. Said it was easy. See this one?"

He pointed to the earliest headline, a yellowed photocopy from the September 12th, 1992 edition of the Santa Fe New Mexican: "3-Year Old Drowns in Bathtub," it read.

It seemed the family of Ricardo Tortellini in Santa Fe was in shock after discovering their little girl had drowned at home in a bathtub in a terrible accident. "'She was only out of our sight for five minutes,' said the grieving father. 'I can't believe this happened.'"

Dylan shrugged. "So? What does that have to do with Angel?"

K.C. moved his finger further down the page. "Read the end."

"'Surviving are Tortellini's wife May, along with their 5 year-old son, Michaelangelo.'" Dylan looked up. "I still don't get it. Who's he?"

"That's Angel's real name," K.C. said. "Michaelangelo. He just goes by 'Angel' as a nickname. His mom changed her last name back after the divorce. I saw 'Tortellini' on some forms on the coffee table, and asked him about it."

Dylan stared at the newspaper story. The blurred photo showed the family standing by a fire rescue ambulance. Even from this distance, he could recognize the face of the small boy who would grow up to be Angel. His Angel, he thought, feeling strangely cold and empty.

"But this doesn't say Angel did it," Dylan pointed out.

K.C. laughed and shook his head. "Don't you get it? This is like a trophy book! There's like two dozen stories already in there, and maybe more stuff we don't even know about."

Shit, Dylan thought. The more I find out, the worse it gets.

K.C. flipped to one of the more recent stories. "See this one? 'Santa Fe Teacher Sentenced for Child Molestation.' He got that guy, but good."

Dylan scanned the text. "The 14 year-old, whose name is being withheld, testified to police that the teacher, a relative, seduced and sodomized him on several occasions. The teacher, Joseph Tortellini, is being remanded to a minimum-security facilty in Albuquerque, as part of the state's program..."

Tortellini, he thought. Maybe his grandfather? A distant cousin? Or maybe it's just a coincidence.

"I think the teacher was his Uncle or something," K.C. said, as if answering his thoughts. "But Angel fucked him over royally. Told the cops the guy molested him and stuff -- but from what Angel told me, it was really all his idea, not the teacher's."

"Holy shit," Dylan whispered. What was that Angel had told him, weeks ago? "I always get what I want."

Suddenly, they heard a thump outside the window -- a bicycle hitting the side of the front porch.

"Shit!" said K.C., pulling the notebook out of Dylan's hands and tossing it back on the desk. "Get back on the bed. Let's tell him we were just watching porno while he was gone."

The big-screen TV instantly flickered to life just as they heard the front door open, then slam shut. Moans and groans came out of the speaker, and several tanned bodies began plowing each other with gusto.

Angel ran in the room, sweaty-faced and panting, to find K.C. on the floor, casually reading an issue of XY Magazine, and Dylan lying back on the bed, idly toying with his groin and watching the video.

"Hey," said Dylan, "I forgot to tell you, I totally like this new big-screen you've got."

Angel grinned, then closed the bedroom door and pulled off his shirt. "You should. You paid for it. Now, unzip me."

Dylan rolled his eyes, then walked forward and reached out his hand towards the boy's crotch. Angel immediately put his hand against his arm.

"With your teeth, slave."

Dylan felt a flash of anger, but then thought back to his conversation with K.C. twenty minutes earlier: If you actually liked being here, Angel would probably get bored and might give up after awhile.

Dylan grinned and quickly got to his knees. "Yes, master. It'll be my pleasure to service you," he said. He leaned forward and opened up the boy's fly with his tongue, then gingerly inched the zipper down with his teeth.

Angel eyed him suspiciously. He felt a momentary rush as Dylan's mouth engulfed him, but he gently moved the athlete's head back and pointed over to the bed. "Get into position. I'm horny as shit, and we've only got a few hours before Mom gets home."

"Your wish is my command," Dylan replied.

* * * * *

As his BMW made the turn across the freeway, Dylan looked through the glare of his windshield at the setting sun over the mountains. He still hurt from the past afternoon's ordeal; Angel had been almost belligerant, again refusing to let him climax for several hours, using him as if he were a human sex toy. Then, to make it worse, the two boys tied him up and forced him to have six orgasms in a row, leaving him completely raw and drained.

It seemed like Angel was almost angry, the more cooperative Dylan was with his nasty little games. Good, he thought with a chuckle, moving the car effortlessly across three lanes of traffic and into the turn at Monteira Estates. It's nice to drive the little asshole crazy for a change, instead of me.

Still, he wasn't looking forward to a repeat engagement with the two teens the next day. He sighed, then shook his head and waved at the gate guard as he pulled through the Monteria entrance. I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it, he thought. I'm gonna win this fight with Angel, even if it kills me. Even if it kills both of us.

* * * * *

Surprisingly, Sunday came and went without Dylan hearing a peep from his tormenter. He stared at the phone. It was already 2:00, and he'd left two voice messages for Angel -- one at 11AM and another at 1PM, but hadn't gotten through once. He toyed with just popping by the house unannounced, then grimaced at the memory of what happened the last time he'd tried that, when Angel was romping around with one of his friends.

Hmmmm, he thought. That was the first time I met K.C. The more he thought about it, the more he actually liked Angel's friend. Angel might be the one with the looks, but K.C. was more real, more genuine. And what's in his pants definitely makes him the life of the party, he chuckled to himself.

"Fuck it," he said out loud. "I'll just get some homework out of the way, watch the tube, and maybe workout with Kyle."

He hit his friend's number on the speed-dial.

"Yo!" said a familiar voice.

"Hey, Kyle, it's me. You wanna... I dunno, workout or watch the game this afternoon or something?"

Dylan heard some noise in the background, but the sounds were muffled, probably by a hand over the mouthpiece.

"Kyle? You there?"

After a moment, Kyle came back. "Yeah. Hi, bro'. Listen, I'm... kinda tied up. Today's a bad day for me. Tomorrow, 'kay?"

Before Dylan could respond, the phone went dead.

"Shit," he said, rolling his eyes. Now, I'm officially abandoned by everybody -- by Tracy, by Kyle, by Angel, and who-the-fuck-knows.

"What I need is a good workout," he said out loud, then headed downstairs to the family gymnasium.

* * * * *

By 4:30PM, Dylan was thoroughly exhausted. Today was chest, triceps, and shoulders; he'd punished his chest severely, piling on plate after plate until he was sure the bar would sag from the strain. But he'd managed to beat his personal best -- ten reps of 275, which was even more than Kyle had ever lifted.

Kyle, he mused to himself. He'd been worried about his friend's infrequent drug use, which seemed to be getting even worse lately. I gotta take that guy aside and talk to him, he thought. Otherwise, he's gonna get major fucked-up.

He sat up, then felt a dull pain from his right buttock. Shit, he thought. Probably bruised the muscle with that last injection of deca an hour ago. He was determined to keep his steroid intake up, particularly now that he'd be back on the team in a few days, once his suspension was lifted.

The intercom buzzed. "Dylan? You home? We're back. You up for dinner, kiddo?

He flipped a sweaty towel around his neck and hit the button. "Yeah, Dad. Lemme take a quick shower, and I'll be down in ten minutes."

Dylan mopped his brow and started upstairs, but was diverted by a voice from the hallway to his left.

"Hey, tiger."

It was his mom, looking pretty good in a white tennis outfit. She grinned at him. "Well, don't we look all pumped-up."

He laughed. "Well, I dunno 'bout you, Mom, but, yeah -- I am feeling pretty pumped today. Gotta keep it up for the team, right?"

She nodded and started to speak, but the phone cut her off. She reached around the corner and grabbed it.

"Sure, just a sec -- Dylan! It's that boy Angel, for you."

He froze, one foot on the stair. Shit, he winced. Just when I thought this thing might be over with...

"Thanks, Mom," he said, trotting down the hallway to the kitchen and taking the phone from her.

"What do you want, Angel?" he said quietly. His mom and dad were standing out on the backyard deck, pointing towards something in the distance. The sound of a helicopter was just barely audible, probably a traffic 'copter checking out the flow on the freeways below.

"Nothin'," the boy said. "Thanks for leaving a message, slave. Consider today a day off."

"Oh, thank you, master," he replied sarcastically. "Listen, I kinda got my folks here, and I have to get back to them."

"I still have plans for you, Dylan," Angel said.

Dylan felt his blood boil, but kept his temper in check. "Look -- you don't need me, Angel. You already got K.C. to fool around with, plus a few thousand dollars. Can we kinda..." He stopped himself from saying "break up," but struggled to find a more tactful way of saying it. "Look -- you got what you wanted. I gave you some dough... it was cool for awhile. But it's over now. You know it, and I know it."

Angel laughed.

The phone felt as if it turned to ice.

"Not quite," the boy said, as his laughter died. "I'm done with K.C. He's over. But I got plans for you, Dylan. I want you to call your friend Kyle, and get him over here Friday night after the game. I think the three of us could have a real good time together."

"WHAT?" Dylan roared. His parents turned and stopped talking, shocked by his outburst.

"You heard me," Angel continued. "Do whatever it takes to get Kyle over here... or else. I'll send videotapes to the cops, photos to your parents, and I'll Email every student at Chatsworth High and give them the webpage address."

Dylan was so enraged, he was shaking, unable to respond.

"Think it over," Angel continued. "Bring Kyle over to my place by Friday night. Otherwise, you may as well just hang yourself, 'cause you ain't gonna have any kind of life from then on. See ya -- bee-yatch."

The phone clicked off.

Dylan let out a blood-curdling cry, then threw down the phone and slammed his fist right through a nearby wall.

His right fist, still covered with his workout glove, effortlessly smashed through the wall like a battering ram and burst out the other side, showering the floor with splinters of wood and plaster. Still trembling, he slowly pulled his hand back out and looked up into his parents' astonished faces. Lady the dog whimpered and looked out from behind them, in the outside doorway.

"Son? You got anything you need to talk to us about?" his father asked quietly, his eyes wide with concern.

Dylan shook his head. "No. I'm... I'm really sorry about the wall."

"Is your hand alright?" said his mother, touching his shoulder.

"IT'S FINE!" he screamed. "Just leave me alone!" He raced out of the kitchen, ran up the stairs, and slammed the door to his room.

Dylan's father peered into the hole, which was about half a foot in diameter, then shook his head wearily. "I've had about enough of this," he said. "That boy's going straight to the psychiatrist, first thing tomorrow. We're going to get to the bottom of this, if it's the last thing we do."

Upstairs, Dylan trembled uncontrollably as he stripped off his workout gear and got into the shower. As the warm water cascaded over his naked body, he suddenly was overcome with emotion and slid down to his knees, sobbing against the tile wall. "No!" he cried. "Just fucking leave Kyle out of it!"

The water continued to spray over him, his body shaking violently, his tears washing noiselessly down the drain and disappearing into the blackness.




The latest installments of Jagged Angel can be found on Archerland.net, and submitted sometime thereafter to Nifty.org, ASSGM.com, and GayWritersGuild.org, along with the alt.sex.stories.gay.moderated newsgroup. Feedback can be sent to the author at thepecman@yahoo.com.