Lies and Consequences
by Kaje Harper
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2011 Kaje Harper
Warning: this title contains M/M sex and explicit language.
Lies and Consequences is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Note: Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.
Chapter 1
Christopher Fletcher eyed himself in the mirror. He wasn't sure if he liked the hair. This new gel was a little stiffer, and combined with the deep blue color, it edged him a bit closer to punk than he had in mind. Oh, well, at least his clothes weren't punk.
The pants might be black and leather, but they gleamed in the light and the cut hugged his ass sinfully well. The shirt was aqua blue silk, slightly shimmery, and gashed in the right places to flash a little skin. The boots were soft and low, for dancing in.
He fumbled on the edge of the sink for his contact lenses. Shit, don't drop those down the drain. Good prescription contacts in intense colors weren't cheap, and his funds were strictly limited. He fished one out on a fingertip and leaned close to place it in his left eye. A couple of blinks to seat it, and he inspected the result. Right eye muddy hazel grey, left eye bright turquoise to match the shirt. He put in the second lens, and there he was, looking back at Chris in the mirror. Robin, the Club Boy. It had been a while.
He tried out Club Boy's smile, wicked with more than a hint of come-hither. Full lips, and even white teeth in the gold of his tanned face; he touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. On second thought, he liked the hair. The upward sweep accentuated his cheekbones, and the dark blue was exotic. Done.
In the bedroom, he puttered, checking for money and condoms, easing his tight pockets over ID and a single pack of lube. He clipped his keys to a belt loop. There was really no point in hurrying. Jenny wasn't even home yet, let alone ready to go back out.
But he'd spent the entire day hunched over his keyboard, writing sentences destined to be revised six times and finally erased. He was well and truly blocked. He needed...he wasn't sure what he needed. But at the very least, to get out of this house and do something new. Or someone new.
He turned at the sound of the garage door going up. Finally! He wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Jenny hurried in through the back door. Her hair was starting to come down in wisps from her neat bun. Her uniform was less pressed and precise than when she had headed out at oh-dark-hundred that morning. Or so Chris assumed. Not like he'd been up to watch her go.
He sauntered over and kissed her cheek. "Welcome home, sweetiecakes."
She glanced at him and then took a second longer look. "Pulling out the heavy artillery tonight, are you?"
He did a little spin for her. "You like?"
"Very edible," she said. "Listen, I'm sorry I'm late. Fifteen minutes for a shower and change, and I'll be ready."
"Hey, I'm not the one with an appointment," he said. "Take your time and doll up if you want."
"You could come up and keep me company while I change."
Jenny asking for company meant she needed a sympathetic ear. "Need to vent, do we?"
"Hah. Yes."
"I'm all ears." He followed her upstairs to the master bedroom, and stood at ease in the doorway as she tugged at her buttons. She muttered a curse.
"Don't rip those off, honey. I'll make you sew them back on."
She snorted, but slowed her fingers, working the blouse open.
"So spill it. What has Captain God's-gift-to-womankind Markham done this time?"
"We're missing two cases of MRE's on the inventory," she said. "Two freaking cases. We're not talking weapons, here. We're not even talking screwdrivers. These are some of the most unappealing food products known to humankind. The only people in America hungry enough to eat them without being ordered to, are too broke to pay money for them. This is not a black-market scheme. This is a bookkeeping error."
"Markham disagrees?"
"Markham thinks he's on the trail of another master criminal. He had me spend two hours on the computer trying to follow those supplies back to the source, and get a list of all the poor saps who might have had contact with the shipment. Then we'll track them all down and check their teeth for traces of pureed spaghetti or something. Like I don't have a hundred more important things to keep me busy. Bleh."
"The man is persistent."
"The man has the intelligence of a walnut." Jenny snapped.
"Now, now, Lieutenant Wallace. The man is your superior officer."
"Don't freaking remind me." Jennifer stepped out of her uniform skirt and started pulling the pins out of her hair.
Chris watched her affectionately. Jenny was slim and strong, taller than Chris was. Although that wasn't hard - Chris's driver's license claimed he was five-nine, but the last two inches were pure fiction. Nonetheless, Jenny was built like a runner, all long lean lines, long dark-brown hair, grace and power. She worked out fiercely and it showed in the tight muscles under her smooth pale skin. Even hurried and frustrated, she exuded competence. Pity Chris wasn't in a position to really appreciate the show.
"Want me to pick out your new underwear for tonight?" he purred as she headed for the shower.
"Jeeze, Chris, tone down the swish," she retorted, disappearing into the bathroom.
"Just getting into character," he said more normally.
"Don't waste it on me," she called back. The door shut behind her and he heard the shower come on.
Chris wandered across the room and amused himself by eying the civilian clothes in Jenny's closet, trying to decide what she would pick for tonight. He hadn't heard what was on the schedule, which made it a bigger challenge. A movie would call for casual out-with-friends wear. But since he was going clubbing by himself, Jenny might have a romantic evening planned with her lover. Then she might pull out the big guns. Maybe something slinky and black. He looked more closely.
"Hey," he commented as he heard her come back into the bedroom. "Is that grey dress new?"
"Yes."
"You went shopping without me?"
Jenny frowned at him, as she twisted to adjust the straps of her black bra. "I'm capable of picking out clothes by myself."
Sometimes. It was Chris's theory that wearing uniforms all day every day atrophied your fashion sense. Although, come to think of it, Chris had been vetting Jenny's clothes since junior high. "Well, let's see it."
"Not tonight." She reached into the closet and pulled out a soft blue sleeveless turtleneck and black slacks. "We're going to have a curl-up-on-the-couch-and-watch-movies night. It doesn't call for dressing up."
He nodded. "I like that blue." It picked up the color of her eyes, a blue so dark they sometimes looked black.
"You should. You picked it."
"I'm the best."
She smiled and scooped up her purse off the dresser. "You're incorrigible. Come on, we're late."
"No makeup?"
"You think I need it for an evening in?"
"No," he said honestly. "You look fine. But Becca might appreciate the effort, even if it's just for her. Especially if it's just for her."
Jenny hesitated. "You're smarter than you look. Particularly in those clothes. Wait here." She reemerged from the bathroom five minutes later, with mascara, eye shadow and a touch of lip-gloss in place.
Chris nodded. "Very nice. Your car or mine?"
"My car. Yours smells like pizza."
"You appreciated it when you ate it."
"Not the anchovies. We'll take my car. You have the black car to use later."
Chris's small beat-up compact sat in the garage next to Jenny's pride and joy. He eased himself into her sports car's low seat carefully. These pants were tight, and he didn't want to do himself damage. They pulled out of the driveway, and Jenny toggled the garage door shut. Chris sat back to enjoy the ride. Jenny's car was her baby. No one drove the 'Vette except her. Chris was fine with being chauffeured. He leaned back and sang along to the radio softly.
"So," Jenny said, "Where are you going tonight?"
"I thought I'd try the Gold Coast," he mused. "It got good reviews online."
"You'll be careful?"
"Oh, please. When you're this good, you don't need to be careful."
She eyed him closely. "That better be your alter-ego for the night talking, or I'll hog-tie you in the car while I spend time with Becca."
Chris sighed. "Yes, mother, I'll be careful."
"Sorry," she said more quietly. "It's just, I worry about you. It's been a while since you went out. And you seem restless lately. Sometimes you've been less than smart about men when you've been bored. And I know I get more out of our arrangement than you do."
"I'm fine," Chris told her. "I like our arrangement, fiancée-mine. You get a beard, and someone who gives you space when you want time with Becca. I get free room and board, and plenty of chances to go out when I want to. You're an easy roommate, and you even do windows. What's not to like?"
"You'd tell me if you're not happy?"
Chris reached over and squeezed Jenny's knee. "I'm good. It's the writing that's bugging me. I'm kind of blocked. Nothing to do with you."
"Okay." She turned her attention back to the road. A few more blocks, and they were turning into Becca's drive. Jenny reached in her purse for the other remote and opened the garage door. As soon as they pulled into the empty space, she clicked it closed again. They both got out of the car in the gloom of the garage.
The door into the house opened, and Becca came running through. The small Eurasian woman leaped down the single step to the concrete floor and bounced into Jenny's waiting arms. Jenny spun her once and then bent for a kiss. Chris watched, trying to be cynical and feeling only envious. The women only had eyes for each other. The kiss was sweet and hard, and it was a long time before they came up for air. It had been a while since anyone had kissed Chris that way.
Face it. No one has ever kissed you that way. He cleared his throat. "So, one-o'clock? Two?"
Jenny sighed, her eyes fixed on Becca's face. "Better make it midnight. I have to work tomorrow."
"But it's Saturday."
"Food-stealing master criminals never rest. Neither do those who hunt them down."
"Huh?" Becca said.
"It's a long story," Chris told her. "I'm sure you'll hear all about it. Midnight it is. See you later. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Wow, that leaves the field wide open," Jenny said. "Go away. Have fun. Come back later."
Chris got into the third car in the garage. His sleek black beauty. Right, sleek fifteen years ago. It almost qualified as a ghetto cruiser. Except all the doors still worked. He reached up and hit the remote. Before the big door cleared concrete the two women were stepping into the house, arms around each other. Lots of movies going to be watched there. Becca had been out of the country for two weeks on a buying trip. They were clearly going to make up for lost time.
The interior of this car was pimped up with a furry steering wheel, seat covers in black plush and dangling crystals on the rear-view. The sun visors had extra mirrors, and even the overhead liner had been replaced with something silver and black. It had come to Chris that way, and Chris had left it alone. He liked the contrast with his tidy little grey Honda Civic at home. This was his cruising car, his let-off-the-chain and no-one-knows-who-you-are car. He cranked the stereo and headed downtown.
Gold Coast was fairly new, but not trendy enough to have a line-up at the door. Chris paid the cover, and ducked inside. Too dark, too loud, too warm and sparkly; it was perfect. He made his way to the bar, and caught the hunky bartender's attention. Mm, nice chest. He ordered a chocolate martini. Perching on a bar stool, he surveyed the meat market.
It was a pretty middle-of-the-road crowd, with a good sprinkling of women. Not much leather, a few bears, a mix of young and middle-aged guys all posturing, talking too loud, laughing like they wished they meant it. Club Boy would fit right in.
Some of them were pretty hot. A blond guy out on the dance floor moved with the kind of heat and sensual grace that drew eyes. His partner looked possessive though. There was a black man over there, six-foot-four if he was an inch, with fine shoulders and narrow hips. The lights reflected off his bald scalp as he threw his head back to laugh. Tasty. But he seemed pretty well surrounded.
Chris let his eyes scan the scene. He sipped his drink, drawing his tongue over his lips, savoring the taste. Beside him, a deep voice asked, "Hey. Are you here alone?"
Chris turned to the man. Not too old, not too heavy, nice teeth. Let the games begin. He smiled slowly. "I was."
Two hours later his shirt was damp with sweat and he needed a breather. He had danced with a series of hot guys, enjoying the freedom of getting out there and just moving to the beat. The pants were clearly a hit, judging from the number of hands that had found his ass. The hair gel was still holding. I'll have to remember the brand. He looked around for a place to park for a moment.
Over by the bar, one of his dance partners raised a glass at him. Chris pretended he hadn't seen. A hot body was nice, but he needed at least a room-temperature IQ to spend more than one dance with a guy. He turned away, and his attention was caught by a flash of white teeth. At a table up against the wall, a dark-haired guy was smiling at him. It wasn't an appreciative smile. More like an amused look-at-the-fool kind of smile. And wasn't that just the kind of challenge Club Boy would take on?
Chris sauntered over and pulled out the other chair. "Mind if I sit?" He sat down as he spoke.
The other man raised an eyebrow. "What if I said yes?"
Mm, nice chocolate voice. It almost made up for the nondescript look. Chris smiled his best pure sin. "Then you'd be a fool."
"My mama didn't raise no fool," the man acknowledged. There was unwilling heat in his eyes. It made Chris feel better.
"I just need a breather," Chris said. "I'll be out of your hair in a moment. It's hot on the floor."
"It is the way you dance."
Chris flushed with pleasure. For all his studied indifference, the man had been watching him. "Only way there is," Chris said. "If you're not going to lose yourself in it, what's the point?"
"You like getting yourself lost?"
Chris hesitated. Was that a crack, a come-on, a genuine enquiry? "I like dancing," he compromised.
"I could see that."
"And you don't?" It was a shot in the dark. He hadn't noticed the man before, one way or the other. But the lack of sweat on his brow and the lounged-back not-moving-till-I-have-to pose suggested an onlooker.
"I have the moves of a rhino," the man said. "A drunk rhino. At least on a dance floor. I like beer better."
"Bad place for beer," Chris offered. "Unless you're into Bud Light. They make a mean chocolate martini though."
The man shook his head. "Not my thing. But don't let me stop you."
"I've had one. Or two." Chris sighed and leaned back in his chair. The boots were not quite as good a fit as he'd thought when he bought them. One of his ankles was rubbed raw. He looked across at the other man. Lean, wiry, maybe an inch under six feet tall. His hair was straight and dark in the low bar lights, brown or maybe black. His features were nondescript, a narrow face, straight nose, cheeks hidden by a light stubble that looked more like failure to shave than deliberate fashion. His eyes were shadowed by thick straight brows. Chris suddenly wished he could see their color.
"So. What's a guy like you doing in a joint like this?" Chris asked.
The man laughed. "What are we all doing here?"
"Most of us are drinking, dancing, and trying to get laid," Chris said. "You seem to be peeling the label off a single bottle of beer."
The guy glanced down at his hands, and the scatter of tiny colored confetti on the table. When he looked up his expression was wry. "I'm here for moral support."
"Of?"
"My friend had a bad break-up. He wanted someone to shove him back into the game so he asked me to come along."
"Yeah?" Chris surveyed the crowd out on the dance floor. "One of those your friend?"
"The guy in the black T and jeans."
Chris laughed. "Oh, yeah, that narrows it down."
"The blond, over by the staircase, dancing with the guy in the silver spandex."
Chris scanned the floor, and located the couple in question. They were in a tight clinch, only nominally moving to the music. "He seems to be rebounding nicely."
"Seems to be."
"Which should leave you free to do your own thing."
"In here?" The guy tossed a quick glance around. "This beer bottle is the most interesting thing going."
"Ah." Chris bit back a moment of disappointment. Which was stupid, because who cared if this ordinary guy wasn't falling for Club Boy? He was a bad candidate for Chris's dance, get drunk, get laid, and sober up by midnight agenda anyway. Chris stood. "I'll leave you to it, then."
The man shot out a quick hand to touch his wrist. "No, wait, I'm sorry," he said. "That came out wrong." When Chris hesitated, he said, "Please, sit."
Slowly, Chris resumed his chair. Club Boy's voice in his head was saying, what the hell are you doing? because this guy was clearly not a quick-fuck-in-a-motel candidate. But Chris was interested. Club Boy could just shut up for a bit.
The man held out his hand. "I'm Ian."
"I'm...Robin." Chris never used his real name out cruising. The temptation to say it now came as a surprise.
"Good to meet you," Ian said. "I'm sorry if I've been grouchy. You're right. This place is not where I would spend the evening, given a free choice."
"So let's go somewhere else," Chris said recklessly. He had a sudden urge to get away from all the plastic people and spend a few hours with someone real. This guy felt real. "Where would you choose to go?"
"Um." The man looked him up and down. "Nowhere you'd enjoy. At least not looking like that."
Now there was a challenge. Chris grinned. "Sit here. Give me five minutes." He got up and headed for the door before Ian could open his mouth.
Chris had a plain blue T-shirt in his car. The hair gel and blue hair color washed out with water and a little soap in the bathroom up front. It wasn't his favorite pure herbal shampoo. His hair would probably be like straw tomorrow. But he felt reckless and charged up. He rubbed at his blond curls with paper towels. Okay, slightly green curls. Evidently, "washes out with one shampooing" was marketing hype. It should look fine in dim light.
Ian was still at the table, sipping slowly from that prop bottle, when Chris walked up. Chris struck a pose. "Better?"
The man hesitated a moment, then smiled. Chris had to blink at the wattage of that grin. He couldn't help answering it. And fuck, in that one look heat was flashing between them like Chris had never felt before. Suddenly his intention to go out and have fun with this guy added a whole second agenda. One that involved naked and soon.
Ian's face changed too. For a moment he looked really uncertain. But then he just said, "Let me go tell my friend I'm taking off."
"You may have to pry that other guy off his earlobe."
"I'll manage."
Chris watched as Ian made his way across the dance floor and accosted his blond buddy. It was interesting. Ian wasn't big, wasn't heavily muscled, and yet something about the way he moved just lent authority. The guys on the floor moved around him, instead of making him go around them. He got his friend's attention, and there was a brief conversation. At one point the blond looked Chris's way. Chris dropped his eyes and turned away slightly. No point in being too memorable.
Ian made his way back over. "All set. He'll catch a cab."
Chris said reluctantly, "I have wheels, if you need to leave yours here." For the first time, he was reluctant to let a pick-up ride in his car. Most of the men he met in bars were either amused or heated up by the pimp-mobile. But Chris thought Ian might be...disappointed.
"No," Ian said. "I don't want him driving anyway. He's had way more than two of those martinis."
"Works for me."
Chris followed Ian toward the door and out into the night. The air was soft and warm, with just a lingering touch of summer. The neon bar signs flickered off glass and chrome. Ian's eyes were still a mystery.
"I'm three blocks down," Ian said, pointing. "Do you mind?"
"I think I can manage." Chris fell into step beside him, not touching him, trying not to limp in his boots. For once, he had absolutely no clue where the evening was going.
Chapter 2
Ian scanned the curb for his truck, partly to keep his eyes off the man walking beside him. He wondered what the hell he was doing. This whole evening was screwed from the beginning. The Gold Coast was the sort of place he never voluntarily set foot in. If Trent hadn't practically sobbed on his shoulder, he wouldn't have been there tonight.
And this guy next to him. So not his type. Everything about him screamed empty-headed twinkie. The shirt, the hair, the smile, the way he danced out there on the floor. Those painted-on leather pants. Which maybe explained what he was doing, because the guy had a world-class ass inside that leather. And Ian had eyes. He wasn't immune to that body, moving that way.
He tried to think about where they were going. If he were on his own, he'd head for Mac's. A dozen good brews to choose from, low lights, no strobe, no dancing. But Mac's was a pretty rough bar. Even in a regular T-shirt with his hair down, this guy was not going to fit in.
Well, hell. Ian didn't blatantly advertise that he was gay, but he'd never been in the closet either. Maybe it was time Mac's caught up with the rest of the world. He reached his truck, and unlocked the passenger door. "Here," he said, buoyed up on a wave of reckless elation. "I'm gonna show you a real bar."
He had time to change his mind a few times before they got to Mac's, but he kept changing it back. The drive was silent, almost restful. This Robin guy didn't seem to feel the need to make random chatter. Once at a stoplight he glanced over and met Ian's eyes and said, "Blue," in a voice of satisfaction.
"Huh?"
"Your eyes. I just wondered."
"Oh. Yeah."
Suddenly Ian felt it again, that flash of heat running through him, pooling in his groin. Robin's steady gaze was like fire across his skin. He almost reached for the guy without thinking. He was saved by the turning of the light. What the hell was that about? Ian was in control. He was always in control. It was how you survived.
The parking lot at Mac's wasn't full for a Friday night. Ian slid out and strode to the door before he could change his mind. Again. Robin caught the swinging door behind him and followed him in. A couple of the regulars nodded to Ian as he made his way to a table. He sat with his back to the wall and surveyed the room as Robin lowered himself into the other chair.
Sitting down was good. It was mainly Robin's leather pants that screamed fag. Well, that and maybe the green hair. Luckily, the type of assholes that would make an issue of it seemed to be absent tonight. Ian might get away with this crazy stunt. He beckoned a waitress over and ordered two home brews.
Robin looked across the table, his head tilted curiously. "This is really your kind of place?"
"Yes," Ian said roughly. "The beer and food can't be beat."
"And the ambience is so gay-friendly."
"Shush," Ian said. "That usually doesn't matter."
"So you don't come here with your boyfriend?"
Ian lowered his voice still more. This guy had no sense of self-preservation. "Don't have a boyfriend."
"Because you tried to take him to bars where he had to worry about getting his nuts kicked in?" Robin grinned.
Ian frowned. "Look, if you're uncomfortable, we'll leave."
"Nope. I can't wait to taste the best beer in town." He flashed Ian a hot look. "I'll have to count on you to protect me."
And Ian realized that his subconscious had been playing games with him. Because he wanted to do that. He was just itching to kick someone's ass, and he'd set things up to get the perfect excuse. Stupid. It was Trent's ex, Jonathon, whom he wanted to beat to a bloody pulp. A random bar fight was just dumb. And anyway, he now was getting a far better idea about what to do with the excess adrenaline. He said. "This was a bad idea. I apologize. We'll drink our beers and then I'll take you someplace nicer."
Robin shrugged and took his full mug from the waitress. He handed her a five and waved away the change. Ian did the same. He watched as Robin took his first sip.
The man paid attention. He might be a twink, but he tasted the beer reflectively and then gave Ian a nice smile. "You have good taste." He let his eyes sweep the bar. "Well, in some things."
Ian took a deep draught of his beer. He wasn't apologizing twice. "So what do you do out in the real world, Robin?" he asked.
"When I'm not picking up strange men in bars?"
"I thought I picked you up."
"Maybe it was mutual."
Loud, laughing voices interrupted them. Ian looked up and then winced. Coming in the doors were just the type of guys he'd been glad not to see here: young, stupid, drunk and belligerent. Three of them swaggered in, shoving each other and laughing. "Shit," Ian said.
"What?" Robin's blue-green eyes were intense.
Surely those were contacts; no one really had eyes that color. And Ian had to get his brain back on track. "Just some bozos we don't want to party with. Hopefully they'll drink fast and leave or pass out." At least he'd had the sense to pick a dark corner table for Robin.
But Robin started getting to his feet, saying, "Why don't we just go?"
It was just the wrong thing to do at the wrong moment. The bozos were still standing, looking around, without drinks in their hands that they might hesitate to spill. Ian reached out to yank Robin back into his chair, but it was too late. A ceiling spot behind Robin shone off those pants and lit his hair to an almost fluorescent lime. Ah, hell.
"Lookie here," the tallest bozo said, turning their way and gesturing at Robin. "Ain't he pretty? What's a thing like that doing in our bar? This is a no-faggots zone."
Ian aborted his grab for Robin, and slid his chair back. Better to be on his feet if things went sour.
Robin said in a reasonable voice, "Look. We're just leaving. So chill, okay?"
The heavyset bozo stuck his chin out and scowled. "You telling us what to do?"
"No. Just had a beer and now I'm leaving." Ian had to admire Robin's level voice. The guy couldn't weigh more than one-forty soaking wet. The biggest of those bozos was maybe twice that.
Ian took a quick look around. If Hank had been behind the bar, he would probably have cooled things down enough for them to walk out. Unfortunately it was Tricia. She had a sharp tongue if a creep was hassling someone, but the most she would offer in this situation was a 911 call. Which Ian would rather avoid.
Rudy was off near the kitchen, clearing tables and watching the place. He was big enough to give these guys pause. Unfortunately he was also one of the most equal-opportunity bigots Ian had ever met. Spics, japs, niggers, fags; Rudy hated them all. Ian saw Rudy's gaze slide over Robin and come to the obvious conclusion. The man picked up a tray of dirty glasses and disappeared into the back. Thanks so much, man.
The three men began moving toward Robin instead of heading to the bar. The other customers looked more interested than worried. Bar fights were a time-honored entertainment at Mac's.
Ian stood carefully and eased out from behind the table, putting himself between Robin and the trio of morons. He let his voice slide to ice. "Just keep your cool, and everyone walks away from this. You came here to drink the famous beer, right?"
"You stay out of this, unless you want to end up tossed out on your ass like the fag," the big guy said.
Idiot still thought this would be a joke. Smart guys usually read Ian better than that. Of course these three were already drunk. "Believe me, you don't want to do this," Ian said. "Take the warning, and go have a beer."
"You're kidding, right?" The heavy guy edged left around the tables while the other two headed straight for them. "What are you? The faggot's boyfriend?"
"That's right," Ian said evenly. "And the guy who'll kick your ass if you lay a hand on him. So back off." It wasn't going to work though. They were too big, too young and way too stupid.
"No fighting in the bar," Tricia called out.
The tall guy laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart. This won't take long. We're just gonna take out the trash."
In a fight against the odds, make the first move unexpectedly and aggressively on the leader and the others may back down. Ian had been taught that at a very early age. But in a bar fight, whoever made the first move was in the wrong, legally. He didn't need the complication. And with these bozos he was unlikely to need the advantage. He reached in his pocket and tossed the truck keys to Robin. "When this starts, go warm up the truck and wait for me."
"What?"
"Just do it," was all he had time for, before the biggest guy swung at him. It was a roundhouse blow, and telegraphed long before it happened. Ian stepped past it and buried his fist in the guy's gut. The hit should have dropped the man, but maybe he was too drunk to feel pain. He doubled up with a grunt, but then straightened. Well, shit.
The second man closed the distance with a roar. Not that he was hard to deal with either. Ian dropped the new guy with a couple of well-placed blows under the ribs. He ducked sideways even before the guy's ass hit the floor. The first man's meaty arm flashed past him. Ian grabbed it, torquing it up to bring the big guy to his knees. And that would have been that, except that Robin was standing staring at him, instead of moving out of harm's way. And the third guy lunged toward them, pulling a knife.
The knife was probably meant for Ian, but he couldn't take the chance. Ian yanked hard, and felt the pop as the big guy's arm slipped its socket. Ian let go immediately. That pain would hold an elephant, even if he was drunk. In the same move he pivoted. His foot lashed out. There was a crunch, and the knife went flying. The knife-wielder grabbed his wrist with a scream. Not broken, but it's gonna feel like it. Ian had pulled the strike, but not by much, with Robin standing there in arm's reach of the blade.
And then they were all done. The biggest guy writhed moaning on the floor, holding his shoulder. His pal was curled around his gut, whimpering and gasping like a fish as he tried to catch his breath. Ian's lip curled. He wasn't hurt, just the wind knocked out of him. The last guy standing had his left hand wrapped around his right wrist, clutching it tightly to his chest. His eyes were saucers, staring at Ian. Ian sighed. Damn it.
He walked over to where the knife had fallen, took a napkin off a nearby table, and picked it up by the blade. Then he turned back to the trio. "Listen up," he said coldly. "You can call the cops if you like. But I have the blade, with your prints on it. I have witnesses that you swung first, three on two. And I have a clean record." He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward Tricia, who stood holding the phone.
"You son-of-a-bitch," the standing man ground out.
"That's faggot son-of-a-bitch to you," Ian told him. "Cops? Yes or no?" He was aware of Robin standing completely rigid beside him. The other man might be scared, angry, or just desperately anxious not to talk to cops. Ian couldn't spare the attention to check right now.
After a long moment, the bozo shook his head. "No cops."
Ian nodded. "Wise choice." He turned to Tricia. "They might want an ambulance for that shoulder, once I'm gone."
Rudy came out from the back and stood beside her at the bar, glaring at Ian. "You're not welcome here anymore," he snarled.
"Fair enough," Ian said evenly. "Robin? Ready to head out?"
Robin choked a laugh. "Oh, yeah."
"I'll take those keys." Robin handed them over and Ian shepherded the man outside, keeping himself between Robin and any possible source of trouble. Not that he expected anyone to take him on after that little demonstration. But you didn't stay safe by being complacent.
He opened Robin's door for him, and shut it safely before rounding the truck and getting in. He tucked the wrapped knife in the door pocket, just in case. A slow cruise for fifty feet and they pulled out into steady evening traffic. After a few minutes Robin blew out a long breath. "Okaaay. You have a different idea of Friday night entertainment."
"I didn't plan on that."
"Are you certain?"
The hell of it was that he wasn't really sure. Which he wasn't about to admit. "I don't like to fight."
"You're good at it though." Robin eyed him speculatively. "Special Forces?"
"No." After a moment Ian relented. The guy was entitled to some kind of explanation. "My dad was, in Vietnam. He was a little...obsessed with survival skills." Ian's father had seen so many boys die overseas, that he'd made sure his kids learned every skill he could instill in them. When Ian's mother was alive that had meant mostly lessons; diving, rock-climbing, marksmanship, karate. After his mom died things had become more...intense. Ian added, "He taught all us kids to fight, pretty much from the moment we could walk. My sister was the deadliest cheerleader in Birchmount High."
"How many kids?"
"I have two brothers. Just the one sister."
"So four of you. All combat-trained?" Robin quirked a smile. "Remind me not to piss off your family."
"Good idea." Ian maneuvered the truck through traffic. Beside him, Robin was quiet. "So," Ian ventured. "Do you really want to go to another bar?"
"I'm not sure I can handle that much excitement."
"What could you handle?" And with that question, the heat between them came roaring back. Ian caught a short breath. His skin felt too tight, his palms itched.
"What would you like me to handle?" Robin asked, and his voice was pure sex.
Ian grunted. "I could show you, if you want."
"I'm up for that." Robin ran a hand across his own thigh and around between his legs. Ian was not looking. Mainly because it was already getting hard to drive.
"You got a place, Robin?"
"Nope. Not nearby."
"We could go to my place," Ian heard himself say. What the hell? He never brought a man home. Not ever. But maybe he owed this guy something, for almost letting him get cut. And maybe he wanted to see that golden body laid out on his dark brown sheets.
"If you like." Robin smiled wickedly. "Is it far?" He slid that exploring hand from his own leg to Ian's, scratching with his fingernail up the inseam of Ian's jeans.
"No. Although it might be too far, if you keep doing that while I'm driving." Ian had been half hard already. The touch of that hand was like fire running up his nerves. He lifted the man's hand and replaced it on Robin's own thigh. Then he let his own hand explore a little. There was substantial muscle under that smooth black leather, for all the man's small size. And not a half bad package either. Robin shivered under Ian's fingers. Desire or..."You're not scared to come home with me, are you?"
"Should I be?"
"I'd never hurt you," Ian said seriously.
The other man nodded slowly. "You didn't start that fight, other than maybe by putting us in a position to provoke it. And you stopped the moment things were under control. So while I may not buy the "I don't like to fight" thing, I don't think you're into uncontrolled violence."
"Thanks, I think."
Robin slowly ran the tip of his tongue over his full lower lip. "I like it hard. I don't like it painful. If you know the difference, then we're good."
"I'm not into pain, mine or anyone else's. But I can do hard," Ian told him. And it wasn't his own breath that he heard catch. Good. He liked to think that he wasn't the only one whose pulse was pounding right now.
The drive home had never felt so long. Somehow, the casual touches of their hands turned into a serious contest of who could drive the other further round the bend with just the motion of fingers over fabric. Ian thought he was losing. After all, Robin had both hands free. Or perhaps he was winning. The definition was unclear.
He steered the truck into his garage with a sigh of relief. Switch off the ignition, remove the keys. Then he reached for Robin, and found that hot mouth with his own. He slanted his lips over Robin's full ones, and forced his tongue deep. Robin moaned and opened for him. But Robin's hands were still busy and...oh, shit, that was too good. Ian pulled back. "Fuck," he groaned. "I am not doing this in the truck like a pair of teenagers. Come on."
They stumbled up the steps and into his kitchen. He swiped at a light switch, missed, tossed his wallet and keys toward the dish. Then he wrapped his arms around Robin. The kiss was even better like this, face to face. He rubbed his hands down Robin's back, and dug his fingers into round butt-cheeks under soft leather. He pulled them together, and found Robin doing the same, straining closer. Their hips collided, pressing against the barriers of fabric and leather. Robin kissed Ian like he wanted to inhale him. They were both panting when Ian broke the kiss.
"Now. Need you now," he rasped. He'd never had a guy wind him up this far before they even got to skin. Never been unwilling to wait long enough to get up one flight of stairs. But damned if he would wait this time. He spun Robin around in his arms and shoved him up against the kitchen counter. That amazing ass pressed against his crotch. He groaned, and reached around for Robin's zipper.
In his arms underneath him, Robin uttered little whimpering moans. Ian jerked open the man's fly and grunted, wrestling with the tight leather. Then Robin freed a hand from his grip on the counter to help. Together they peeled the pants down far enough to prove there was nothing under them but sweet naked ass. Ian pressed in tight, bending his knees, running his denim-trapped cock up the man's crack. Robin shuddered and wriggled, straining up on his toes and opening more. He gripped the counter, pulling himself higher and tipping his hips back.
Ian fumbled with his own fly. Condom, condom. Thank God some part of his brain still worked. "No condoms," he grated. He hadn't planned for this.
"Front pocket." Robin leaned sideways as he dug down and passed a wrapper back. Ian ripped it open. It was hard to suit up. His hand was shaking, and he barely wanted to touch himself, for fear he would go off like a firecracker before he ever sank home in that tight ass.
"Lube," Robin said on a panting breath. "It's been a while, and I felt that monster you've got. You're not getting inside me without lube. Oh, God, please." His words dissolved into a needy moan as Ian ran a hand up between Robin's legs and cupped his balls.
Lube. Ian's mind went blank. He wasn't going upstairs for it, just wasn't. It occurred to him that this lithe man under him probably had some. Probably had single use packs all ready in one of those tight pockets, for whichever man from the bar he decided to let fuck him. Probably flavored or sensitivity or some other fancy thing, for whoever he hooked up with to pound that willing ass tonight.
Ian ground his teeth. His fumbling hand found the olive oil carafe and he grabbed it around its ceramic neck. Don't be fucking empty. He tilted the little jug, and a thin golden stream ran over his fingers and down onto Robin. In the dim light, the golden oil matched fine golden skin perfectly.
He aimed better, letting the slick shine trickle down from the base of the man's spine into that sweet dark groove. He meant to lick it, to tease, but need had him by the throat. He slid two fingers through the oil, and pressed in deep. Robin groaned, and Ian hesitated. But Robin bucked toward him, pushing his fingers in further. Robin was babbling, and between the panting whimpers the words were yes and please and more, not stop. Ian crooked his fingers, rubbing, trying to find the swell of Robin's gland in that tight clinging softness.
There. Rounded, firm; he tapped and pressed, and felt Robin jerk in response. Each touch of his fingertips had Robin shoving back into him, humping his hand, gasping in response. Ian slid his fingers apart, spreading wide, and then pulled out and arched over Robin's back. He reached down and placed his latex-covered head against Robin's pucker. "Yes?"
"God, yes," Robin begged. "Now! Fuck me now."
"Damn." Ian shoved home. For just a moment, Robin's body resisted. Ian shifted, frantic, searching for the right angle. Then that hot, tight ass opened for him and he sank deep. There were no words in the sound Robin made, but the shuddering clutch of his deep muscles dragged Ian inward. Ian swayed forward, his hands digging into those narrow hips. His breath came in rough gasps. He thrust hard, drew almost out, and then plunged again. Robin whimpered and spread his legs wider. And Ian lost control.
He pounded home, slamming himself deep into that welcoming soft grip. His skull echoed with Robin's begging moans, his own harsh grunts, the fuck slap of flesh on flesh. He was thrusting harder than he meant to, harder than he had ever used a man before, but Robin was still saying yes. He leaned over the man, feeling that hot firm back against his chest. His face was in Robin's hair, his mouth on Robin's neck, salt skin under his tongue. Ian bit that sweet flesh, hard. Robin's groan was pure desire. And Ian came in one overwhelming rush, losing himself completely as he climaxed inside Robin's tight clasp.
When he could breathe again, he heard Robin whimpering, "Please, God, please, so close, so close."
Ian pressed in steadily with his hips and slid his oil-slick hands around. Robin's cock was iron in his fist. Robin's balls throbbed with the pulse in his groin. Ian stroked the man, closing his fingers firmly, rhythmically, and Robin wailed. Thick hot spunk boiled up through Ian's fingers. Under him, the man's small toned body bucked and shuddered with the force of orgasm. He felt Robin's weight sag as his knees went weak. Ian changed from stroking to a firm support around the guy's hips, pinning them together. Tremors rippled through them both, as Robin shook in his arms.
"Holy Christ," Robin whispered.
Ian looked down at the man he was holding. The smaller man was stretched tight and pink around Ian's big dick. Streams of oil and spatters of his own cum streaked Robin's thighs. On the side of his neck, the deep red print of Ian's teeth was visible, even in the dim light.
"God, I'm sorry," Ian whispered, reaching down with one hand to hold the condom as he eased Robin down and pulled out. "I...that was too rough. I'm sorry."
Robin turned against his arm and kissed him lightly. "I'm not," he said. "I asked for it. Christ, I wanted it. That was awesome."
"Still." Ian reached out and ran the tip of his finger over the bite mark on Robin's neck. "Can we...can I take you to bed now and do it right? I want to show you I do know better than to pound your ass into the counter."
"I'm not sure I can handle anything righter than that."
"I want to see you, all of you. I want to kiss all of you, lick you, taste you."
"Wow." Robin smiled at him. "I'm not sure that's an offer it's possible to refuse."
Ian tugged his own jeans higher and zipped carefully, leaving his button open. He dropped the condom in the kitchen trash behind him. Robin tried to wrestle those shiny pants into place. Ian could have helped, but he'd rather watch.
"How'd you get those on in the first place?" he asked curiously.
A wicked dimple appeared on the man's cheek. "Holding my breath and thinking about icebergs. Which is not happening right now, soooo..." He gave up the struggle with the zip. "Lead on, McDuff."
"This way." Ian started up the stairs, all too aware of the man behind him. Robin breathed softly. Leather brushed leather. A minute ago Ian would've said he was good for an hour's foreplay before he'd want anything else serious again. He was downgrading that time frame with every step.
"In here." He liked his bedroom. The walls were pale cream. The wood trim was dark walnut. The floor gleamed faintly as he switched on the lamp. A simple dresser, a night stand in the same dark wood. No fuss, no clutter. And the big bed, with sheets and comforter in chocolate brown and cream.
Robin paused, his head tilted, looking around. "Nice," he said. "Very you." His hands went to the hem of his T-shirt.
"Let me," Ian said quickly, stepping toward him. He wanted to unwrap his present slowly. Robin dropped his hands and stood relaxed, head back a little, as Ian bent to kiss him. The heat between them was different now. Slow molten streams of gold moved through Ian's body, mouth to hands to groin. He kissed the man, long and sweet, stroking Robin's lips with just a tongue tip. Even when Robin's mouth opened and he made that sweet little begging sound, Ian kept his touch light. He slid down and licked gently over the mark of his teeth on gold skin. He kissed the hollow of Robin's throat.
He let his fingers trail up the flat stomach under the shirt to the hard swell of Robin's pecs. Not that it was easy - even this T-shirt was freaking tight on the man. He took hold of the hem and slowly pulled it upward. Robin's skin was the same even gold everywhere. His stomach was toned, his chest taut. Round flat copper discs surrounded the small nubs of his nipples. Ian bent to lick and kiss in the wake of the sliding cotton. Smooth warm satin under his lips, no hair anywhere. He swirled his tongue around one of those tight nipples, and was rewarded with a shudder.
"Mm, yeah, that's nice," Robin murmured.
Ian pulled back a little to lift the shirt higher. Robin was smiling, eyes half closed. He had a cat-got-the-cream expression. Ian yanked the shirt up and off him, and then grabbed a fistful of hair, and took back that full mouth.
The kiss slowly got hotter. He played inside Robin's mouth, stroking tongues, testing the smooth sharpness of teeth. Robin's arms came around him, his hands warm on Ian's back. Their hips ground together. Ian was steel-hard again already, and it sure felt like Robin was the same. Ian wanted to see it.
He dropped to his knees, sliding through those small strong hands. The leather waistband gave under his fingers and he pulled slowly down. And yeah, the front view was just as nice as the back. Flat stomach, deep grooves from hip to groin leading his eye down to a nice package. Robin wasn't big, but he was pretty, all golden tan, even along that hard arching shaft, and shaved clean. Ian wasn't used to that, but he found he liked it. Everything right there to look at, to taste. He licked at Robin's hip, and then down toward his soft sac.
Slowly, he eased the leather pants down to the man's ankles. Short black boots blocked him. Robin put a hand on Ian's shoulder and toed off one and then the other. Together, they worked the smaller man's legs free of the leather. Then Robin took a step back from the heap of clothes, and held out his arms a little. "You like?"
Ian did. The man might not be big, but he was fine. Not muscled like a gym rat, but some work had gone into that golden body. Ian stood and smiled. "You tan nude?"
"Nope. I don't know my heritage but I'm some kind of mutt. That's just the color I am."
Ian reached out and pulled him closer, and bent to get his mouth busy across that chest. "Pretty," he mumbled around the other puckered nipple. "You are so fucking pretty." Pretty had never been his type, but this night was breaking all the rules. He straightened. "Pull down the sheets and get on the bed."
Robin raised his eyebrows at the tone of command, but he did as he was told. And if he took a little extra time to move the comforter, and if his ass just happened to point right at Ian as he bent to smooth it, well that was all part of this game. Robin stretched out on those chocolate sheets on his back and cupped himself with one hand. Ian's breath caught. Yeah, that was the picture, all right.
"Come here, Ian," Robin purred.
"Eventually." Ian stripped himself slowly, eyes on the man in his bed.
From Robin's expression, he liked what he saw. Ian knew what he looked like. He wasn't handsome, wasn't anything special, but he was fit. After all these years, he had built the body he wanted, fast and lean. It would take being in a coma for him to neglect it now. A voice in his mind said, "Your body is your first and last line of defense." He shook his head. Get out of my mind, old man. His body was not involved in combat here.
He stalked over to the bed and crawled up it from the foot. Robin's thighs opened to give him room. When Ian reached a position over the man, he caged him with his body and arms. Then he smiled and began.
Jack had taught him where to lick, where to kiss. How a puff of hot breath, when touch was expected, could make a man shiver. How to use kneading fingers, a graze of teeth in a vulnerable spot, and then move back up to take a kiss. Robin's hands found his hair, and then dropped to his shoulders, urging him on, but he took his sweet time. He wanted this man trembling with need under him.
He moved lower, spreading firm thighs to run his tongue over naked balls and down to that sweet ass. He looked as he kissed. Not too red, maybe a little swollen? He'd never pounded a man like that. Jack would have had him across the room with his own ass in traction if he'd ever been that rough. He and Jack had slowly realized that they were both more top than bottom. It had worked to take turns, as long as the man on top did it right. Past a certain point, you could get most anyone begging for it, if you kept it hot and slow. Ian licked gently, caressing that abused pucker with his tongue.
He liked Robin's voice. And those little bucking shudders as the man's body sought his touch, those were nice too. He licked his way back up, swirling around the base of that slender cock, and then took him in. He could deep-throat this guy as he never had Jack and he did it, swallowing him down. Robin groaned hard. He pulled Ian's arms, hauling him off and up, and kissed him like he never wanted to stop.
Man, Robin could kiss. His mouth was sweet, his tongue gentle and skilled. He touched Ian, held him, licked him. Ian was melting into it like ice-cream in the sun. Robin's smell, Robin's touch, made him dizzy.
Ian pulled back and looked down at Robin. He pressed his hands firmly down on the man's hips to keep him pinned to the bed. Robin's lips were swollen and red from Ian's kisses. That ridiculous green hair was mussed, falling into the turquoise eyes. Robin was breathing hard, and the heaving of his chest sent lamplight sliding over the wet trails from Ian's tongue. Holy God.
"I wish I'd kept the hard stuff for later," Ian whispered. "I would so like to be inside you again now."
"Then do it," Robin said. "I'm fine. I want it."
"You'll be too sore."
"I don't care." Robin reached down and caught Ian's throbbing length in his hands. He stroked, squeezing, twisting. "I like thinking I'll still feel you inside me tomorrow. Please, baby." He guided Ian lower.
Christ. How could Ian say no to that? "Slowly," he said. "With lots of lube. And you tell me if you need to stop."
Robin grinned wickedly, and ran his tongue over his flushed lips. "Fuck me."
Ian leaned over to the nightstand. All this time, and the supplies were still there. He checked the condom carefully as he unwrapped it, but it seemed fine. Slowly he unrolled it down his dick, eyes fixed on Robin. The lube was more recent vintage. He poured some into his hands.
Robin took hold of the backs of his own knees and hauled himself up and open. The guy was limber. Even with his knees up around his ears he breathed easily, his face just a little flushed.
"Nice view," Ian growled. He sat back on his haunches, and put slippery fingers where they would do the most good.
Robin wriggled under his touch, angling for more, but Ian kept it light. The lube glided under his fingers over the man's ass, cock, sac, up and around. He pressed in just a little, just one fingertip, and then withdrew for more lube. When he pulled out the second time Robin gasped and Ian cocked an eyebrow at him. "Okay?"
"Don't go so fucking slow, you torturing bastard."
Ian smiled. "I like slow. I want you begging for it." He bent to his task again.
Robin was panting, babbling, and begging, by the time Ian slid a handful of lube along himself. He shifted, leaned forward, and pulled Robin's legs onto his own shoulders. Robin curled upward, hands clenched in the sheets. Ian reached between them and slowly, inch by inch, filled the other man.
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