Longshot

It’s about six in the evening when I check myself into the Waldorf Astoria hotel and scope out my rooms It’s about six in the evening when I check myself into the Waldorf Astoria hotel and scope out my rooms. Out of habit, I’ve chosen a suite, though this time my ulterior motive is the anticipation of conning Vince back into my bed. I pay a visit to the in-house men’s shop and pick up a suit, black silk, and a silver gray silk shirt to go with, a black and dark gray harlequin patterned tie completing the ensemble. If nothing else, it can be used to bury me in. Vince says he can always tell what mode I’m in by what I’m wearing — on duty, off duty, tough guy or smart ass, apparently I gravitate to different attire. I can’t say I’d noticed, but it’s a peculiarly intimate thing for Vinnie to have picked up on, and I intend to use it to my advantage. I need him to take me seriously. Take the threat Tess poses seriously. Wearing the slick, expensive hired gun get-up seems like a good way to help make the point. Because I take her seriously. Very seriously. She knows how to play the game, and more importantly, she knows how to play me. It’s not an easy thing to do, but she did it without breaking a sweat. Even Vinnie usually has to work harder at it than she did. It’s unnerving in retrospect to realize I’m no different than anyone else, that I have my blind spots, my defensive weaknesses… especially where lovers seem to be involved. The thing that gets me is that if I hadn’t behaved like such an ass to Vince, I might never have been in the position of needing to cry on Tess’s shoulder in the first place. I screwed up. Big time. And I’ve put both Vince and myself in jeopardy. I know that whichever of us is her primary target, she’ll definitely try for both of us if the opportunity presents itself. Even more than that, though, I need to make peace with Vince. I have no idea how bad off his witch of a mother is, or what his state of mind is as a result, but we need to talk, something I don’t have much practice with. My interpersonal skills are fairly primitive, since the bulk of my career has been spent solo. Retirement includes the luxury of time, time to break old habits, learn new ones. Intimacy is the habit I seem to be working on establishing at the moment. I guess it’s mostly about trust. And for the most part, trust has been a commodity in extremely short supply in my life. It’s a luxury I just haven’t been able to afford, till now. Till Vince. Aside from Preet, he’s probably the only person I’ve ever trusted completely, without reservation. He’s totally straightforward with his personal beliefs, his philosophy, the things that motivate him. There’s basically no mystery about him. At least not to me. It’s strange to know someone as well as I know him, to understand him as well as I do. I46;s46;s even stranger to know I’m known, understood, that well. It’s frightening in a way I can’t really explain, highlighting my vulnerabilities, triggering deeply held insecurities about my worth as a man, a human being. But there’s a weirrt ort of comfort in knowing that, despite how well Vinnie knows me, he still considers me a friend. I wish I could say he loves me, but basically, a good-sized part of me has a hard time understanding why he would, or believing that he does. And I’m insecure enough, I realize abruptly, that I’m not sure I’d believe him, even if he said the words. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty pathetic state of affairs to find yourself in at the halfway point of your life. With that particularly gloomy thought, I snug the tie up under my collar and head down to the lobby to meet with the object of my affections, and his terrier of a former boss, Frank McPike. I watch them as they walk in the front doors, McPike warily scanning the light crowds for any sign of me or Tess the hitman. Vince is looking around, too, but I know he’s looking for me. There’s an intensity in the way he’s peering over the heads of the lesser mortals that eddy and drift around the hotel lobby that he reserves for things he cares about, and some of the knot in the pit of my stomach unwinds. I know Tess is nowhere around, unless she picked up Vince on her own, through luck, skill or happenstance. I sure as hell jumped through enough hoops to make sure I couldn’t be followed to the hotel. Vinnie spots me first, and I see the expression in his eyes lighten as worry is replaced by relief. He wades through the people politely, avoiding them instinctively, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s a good thing he wasn’t this focused when I let him see me on the streets of DC three years ago after my supposed demise. I’d never have lost him if he’d been this intent then. Of course, now, losing him isn’t the point. He reaches me and sweeps me into a bear hug that’s mercifully short and uncompromising, as those positions go, Frank arriving a moment later. I lead them into the dim hotel bar, decorated in vintage Old-Boy style, dark paneled, high ceilinged, tall booths lending an illusion of privacy. What we need is more than the illusion, and I’ve marranrrangements to use a small room that’s available for private functions. I shut the door after them as they trail in after me, and turn to face them. "How’s your mother?" I ask, Vince, hoping to get it over with first thing. His grin tells me he sees right through me. "Better. She’ll be released tomorrow or the next day. I think Rudy’s been more upset by the whole thing than mom was," he says. "Now tell us what the hell is going on. Who’s Theresa MacTavish?" "McPike showed you the file, right? Well, you know as much about her as I do," I tell him shortly. His expression is skeptical, amused, but he doesn’t press me for details. I can see he’s planning on saving that for later. "The short version is that I’ll lay odds she’s lookto wto waste one or both of us, and she let me figure it out so I could lead her to you." "Rog, there’s nothing in that file to say she’s with the CIA, much less some kind of assassin," he protests. He’s watching me, evaluating me, and I see the furrow on his forehead as my formal attire sinks in. "You aren’t the one who met her, Buckwheat," I say flatly. "Just trust me on this, okay?" I head for the small bar that lines one wall and draw a trio of beers from the tap, handing each of them one as I take mine to the single table that sits in the middle of the barren room. "Vince, you can pretty much bet on the fact that she’s in New York, and looking to pick you up at the places you usually go. Most of them are in your records, and the CIA isn’t going to let a little thing like a citizen’s right to privacy stand in the way of their pulling every iota of information the DOJ has on you out of the computers. Don’t go home, don’t go to your mother’s, don’t go to any of the places you usually hang out until we can find her." "Roger, the easiest way to find her is to let her find us. You know that as well as I do," Vince contradicts. This was not the direction I wanted this conversa to to take. "I’m not risking either of our lives, Vince. You need to disappear. Permanently. So do I. I’ve got all my escape hatches in place, but I want you to come with me." His eyes darken with that stubbornness that warns me I’m going to have a fight on my hands, just when a fight was the last thing I wanted. "Lococco’s right, Vince. You have to leave this part of your life behind you. Between Masters and the mob heavies you’ve been responsible for putting away, your list of enemies is longer than some politicians’. I can put you through witness protection, bury you in obscurity somewhere, but I know you’ll never stay put. But if you go with him," he nudges a shoulder in my direction, "you can watch each other’s backs. Keep each other alive. And we all know Lococco has the resources to support a lifestyle most people would love the opportunity to become accustomed too." "Frank, we’ve had this discussion before," Vinnie says mulishly. "As long as I have family here, I’m not running away. Not when people I care about can be used as leverage against me. Which means we stop this Theresa MacTavish before she has the same idea." "Vinnie, even if we stop her, the Company will just send someone else. And they’ll keep right on sending them until you’re dead, or they can’t find you anymore," McPike protest&quo"You can’t beat the whole goddamned Agency!" Vince folds his arms across his chest in a gesture that implicitly illustrates he’s closed himself off from rational argument. His damned nobility, his exasperating pig-headedness, have me gritting my teeth in an effort to hold my tongue. McPike recognizes it, too. "Vince, the only family you have left in New York they can use that way is your mother, and she’s married to the former head of the Mafia’s ruling Council! Anyone makes a move on her, and he can have the whole organization after whoever did it in the time it takes to make one phone call. Even the CIA is going to take that seriously." Vinnie’s laugh is harsh. "Rudy is seventy five years old, Frank. He can’t protect anyone! Especially not my mother. I’m responsible for bringing this trouble down on her, so I’m responsible for cleaning it up. End of discussion." "Goddammit, Vince, I’ll shoot the old bag myself and remove her as an issue," I snarl, knowing I’ve just made a huge mistake. "Don’t you think she’d rather know you’re alive and well somewhere in witness protection — or even with me — than dead in a ditch somewhere?" The glare he shoots at me is absolutely poisonous. "Fuck you, Roger. Stay the hell out of this. She’s my mother, for god’s sake. I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it does to me! You don’t know the first thing about family!" Okay, that hurts. Granted, family, the way he means, is essentially nonexistent to me, but as a soldier, a Marine, I am all too familiar with the concept of loyalty, of the need to protect your fellow brothers in arms. I know if I open my mouth again, we’re going to launch into another battle that’s not going to get us anywhere except into trouble. Viturnturns back to McPike. "Theresa MacTavish is the problem, here, not me. And I am not leaving my mother unprotected. Period." Fraighsighs, burying his face in his hands, wearily. "I can wangle a couple of agents to stand guard outside her room, at least for a few days," he says reluctantly. "And then what? Huh?" Vince challenges. "You said it yourself, Frank, the Agency will just keep sending people until they get what they want." I watch Frank’s face settle into lines of helpless dissatisfaction. I know exactly how McPike feels. "Then maybe I should just shoot you now, and get it over with," I state coldly to Vinnie. "At least I can make sure it’s as painless as possible." I’m so frustrated with Vince right now that I’m almost serious. He narrows his eyes at me with that look that tells me I’d better shut up or the next words out of my mouth will be punctuated by his fist. Vince and Frank go a few more rounds and I tune out the argument in favor of watching Vince at his most annoyingly passionate. It amazes me that after the four or five years he and McPike have worked hand in glove under incredibly dangerous circuncesnces, Frank still doesn’t know when he’s lost the battle. Vince is not leaving. Not as long as Mommy dearest is still alive and kicking. I finish my beer and massage the back of my neck, trying to come up with some sort of plan, something that will pry Vince loose from his mother’s apron strings. Oddly enough, it may very well be that the noxious old woman is the best potential ally I have in getting him the hell out of Dodge. I think about this some more, knowing that getting in to see her will be the easy part. Getting her to listen to what I have to say is the weak point in the nebulous scheme that’s slowly coalescing in my brain. But if I can convince her it’s up to her to make the sacrifice, to give her son permission to do what he has to to save his own life, absolve him of the responsibility for her safety, then maybe, just maybe, I can get him out of here. My attention is returned abruptly to my surroundings as Vince slams his hand down on the table in a fit of temper he usually reserves for me. This time, it’s directed at Frank. "No. That’s it. I’m done arguing about it with you, Frank. No witness protection, at least not until this mess is straightened out." He turns to me. "Okay, Roger, who is the bitch, and how’d you run across her?’ he demands. "I assume you mean Tess, not your precious mother," I say acidly, ignoring the dangerous flare of his nostrils. "Like I said, you know as much about her as I do, if you read what Frank’s dug up on her so far." "Like hell, Rog. You know a hellova lot more about her than any computer if you know she’s got a tattoo on her ass!" "It’s on her hip, and the rest of what I know isn’t going to be of any help to us, anyway," I say through clenched teeth. He stares at me, eyes narrowing. "But she helped you, didn’t she?" he asks, and with a start, I realize the green-eyed monster he’s battling right now is jealousy, in the guise of Tess MacTavish’s assumed attentions on my person. I can’t help the grin. Fair’s fair, after all. I’m jealous of his mother, he’s jealous of my most recent lover. Suddenly I’m tired of fighting with him, and I wish McPike would disappear and let us make(and(and out) in peace. "Vince, she used me to lead her to you, and I didn’t figure it out until the damage was done. I just got you back and I’m damned if I was gonna risk your life again, so here I am, trying to figure out how to end this without either or both of us ending up in the morgue, and all you can do is moan about the fact that I think with my dick like every other man on the planet? Enough, already." That is the limit of the detail I’m willing to go into with Frank McPike sitting here with us. The rest of it can wait till we’re alone. I see the moment his eyes lighten to that sky-at-sunrise blue that tells me he understands that I understand he knows what happened, and that he knows what I wish were happening right now. My groin achor tor the feel of his huge hands on me, the taste of his mouth, his cock. The sexual energy that flashes between us is unmistakable. Even McPike knows he’s missing the subtext, and he looks from one to the other of us. Vince and I look into each other’s eyes for a long minute before Vinnie turns his head to address Frank. "Alright. I’ll listen to what Roger has to say on this subject before I decide, but it’s going to have to be a private conversation, if you’re really serious about me disappearing. Even you can’t know where Roger goes when he’s not babysitting me." I watch Frank bite back on his protest. He knows Vince is right, even if he also knows something is going on that he can’t quite put a finger on. He also knows not to let on that he’s aware I call San Francisco home, most of the time. After a minute, he swallows off the last of his beer and gets up. "Okay, I’ll leave. I know when to take a hint. But I don’t want either of you setting foot outside this hotel until you’ve talked to me. I want to know where you two are at all times. Got it?" he demands. "Got it," Vince agrees. I nod. McPike leaves, reluctantly, but finally I have Vince to myself. "You fucked her didn’t you?" he asks, a faint smile flickering over his face, half wistful, half curious. I nod. "You’d have liked her. She was hot, sweet, tight. I wish you’d been there." "If I’d been there, we’d most likely both be dead," he points out dryly. I know when to concede, and I grin. "If it makes you feel any better, I spent a lot of the time wondering what she’d be like with both of us. It’d be one hellova ride, Buckwheat," I assure him. "You ran off and left me alone on a beach in paradise, and I got lonesome," I jest with him, knowing he can see both the truth and the exaggeration in my face. "You practically threw me youryour island, Roger," he says softly, reaching across the little table to slide his hand up the back of my neck. He pulls me in toward the center of the table and rests his forehead against mine, staring into my eyes. I watch as his darken, see his pupils dilate, and know he’s about to kiss me. The blood is rushing out of my head as his mouth covers mine gently, softly, and caution is the last thing I want. I want him. Right here, right now, and I can tell he knows it. His tongue brushes mine and I groan, catching his head in my hands and holding him as I practically jump down his throat, imagining it’s my cock his tongue is circling like that. "Vinnie," I whisper into his mouth, "fuck me." He pulls back a fraction to stare at me, both startled and deeply aroused. "Here?" he answers, shocked. I grin at him again, manic. "Chicken," I say lightly, and get his tongue down my throat for my insolence. If the goddamned table wasn’t between us, our hands would be all over each other by now. We stumble to our feet, the chairs toppling back onto the floor with a clatter as he steps around the obstruction and yanks me against his chest, his mouth and tongue brushing the angle of my jaw on the way to my left earlobe. He flicks his tongue over the pair of earrings there, then returns to my mouth as his hand slides between our bodies to cup my penis where it tents the silk pants. The low chuckle from the door shocks us like a dose of cold water. "Get a room, guys," the barkeeper says as he peers in to check on the racket from the falling chairs, then backs out and closes the door. I hear the snick of the lock our interloper just activated, ensuring that we won’t be interrupted again if we pick up where we left off. Vince and I stare at each other. I’m exhilarated by the brush with public exposure, but I can see the blush that’s coloring his cheekbones. "So?" I say, letting him interpret it any way he wants. He’s silent for maybe three heartbeats. "I say we take his advice," he says at last, kissing me lightly again and stepping away. "I’ve already got one," I tell him, reaching out to ruffle his hair. His laugh is a mingling of annoyance, resignation and amusement. "You are such a prick, Rog," he comments. "Glad you noticed," I answer. I straighten my tie and jacket while he finger combs his hair, then we step bravely out into the bar and make our escape with nothing more than a lifted eyebrow from our friend the bartender. Part of me wishes we hadn’t been interrupted, part of me wishes that Vince had picked up where we left off, afterwards, and part of me is relieved to be taking this to the secure privacy of a hotel suite. Because I have every intention of spending a long and sweaty night being fucked within an inch of my life. And with a cock the size of Vinnie’s, it’s not an exaggeration. We get upstairs and I let us into my rooms, locking the door behind us. When I turn around, Vince is right there and I practically plow into him as I take a step. He catches me lightly by the upper arms and steadies me, then kisses me, making me wobble all over again. I swear to god, I haven’t been this out of control since I was a teenager, whatever Vinnie may think. Yeah, I got my share of booty, but the kind of frantic impatience he brings on is practically cherry. Which, basically, I guess I am, at least emotionally. "You really wanted me to… you know, downstairs?" he asks, curious, embarrassed, titillated. I can feel his cock against my belly through his worn jeans, pressing against my own, and I answer without thinking, running my hands over his ass, pulling him closer against me. "Right nI
I’ll take you anywhere I can get you," I say, realizing I mean it. Another shock. But hell, New York has more than it’s share of sexual deviants. Or alternatives. Or whatever you want to call it. And the answer is yes. If that’s what it took, I’m pretty sure I’d bend over and take him up the ass in the middle of the Waldorf’s grand lobby. Yeah, it’d cause a sensation, for about thirty seconds, but sex is basically wide open in a city like this. And fortunately, San Francisco is even more liberal in that regard. If I can get him out there, we can fuck in every cable car in the City, in every tourist trap, in every bar, hotel, motel, flophouse and alley, if that’s what we decide we want. And right now, I want. Vince laughs softly as he loosens my tie while I shrug out of the suit jacket and drop it on the floor. His hands on my belt nearly makes me come as he unbuckles me, then slips a hand under the waistband of the trousers, just barely grazing me. "Down, boy," he scolds when he feels me move against his fingers, and removes them. He strips me quickly, careful not to touch me, knowing how close I am, then sheds his own clothes in three seconds flat, pulling me into his embrace as he guides me blindly into one of the two bedrooms and we collapse onto the mattress. I know I can’t hold on much longer, adrenaline and testosterone a heady mix in my bloodstream that has me aroused beyond any hope of making this particular erection last more than another few minutes. "Vince," my croak brings relief in the form of his mouth on mine, moving down my throat, over my chest and belly until he surrounds me with wet heat. He lets me move into him, enticing me with the stroke of his tongue along the underside of my penis, and I begin to thrust with the rhythm that will ease the frantic need in me. I’ve never wanted someone like this — ever. I want the boundaries of our skins to dissolve, our bodies to fuse in that instant of perfect bliss, when my semen pumps down his throat in a torrent, my fingers laced through his hair as I grip his skull lightly, unable to stop the convulsive movement of my hips. He lets me set the pace, just caressing me with his tongue as I moan soundlessly. All I want is more. It’s as if the orgasm has stripped away every sensory shield on every nerve, and instead of being released, eased, by my climax, I’m even more aroused than I was before. My pelvic muscles are contracting in shuddering waves as the orgasm lingers, my scrotum clenching and unclenching as my body tries to force every drop of semen out the end of my prick, still rock hard in Vinnie’s mouth. It takes another five minutes before I can bare the thought of pulling out of his mouth. When I do, he slides back up my body and wraps his arms around me, draping a thigh possessively over mine, pressing against me, belly to belly, his rampant cock bracing my finally softening one. "You okay, Rog?" he asks as he brushes his thumbs gently over my cheeks, and I’m shocked when I feel the wetness of tears there. He kisses me on the forehead, then on the eyelids when I’m unable to either answer or meet his worried gaze, and I taste both the salt of them and the bitterness of my sperm on his lips when he finally kisses me on the mouth. It’s maybe the most tender kiss I’ve ever received, gentle, empathetic, exquisite. The breath I draw is shaky, and I finally answer. "Sweet thing, I’ve never been better in my life," I tell him, charmed at his grin and the faint color that dusts his cheekbones. "You’d better remember how you did that, because I’m gonna want a repeat performance," I warn him. He smiles as he brushes a lock of my wiry, wavy hair out of my face. "Count on it," he agrees. We lie there, chest to chest, Vince stroking my back softly, just holding me as he looks into my eyes as though he’s searching for something. His cock is still iron-hard between our bellies and I reach down to run my fingers over him, only to have him grip my wrist gently. "It’s your turn, Buckwheat," I say with a half smile. "Maybe I can return the favor," I add, and he smiles as his mouth covers mine, still gently, heartbreakingly gently. Then I feel his hands slide down over my ass, fingertips running along the cleft between my buttocks, and I realize what he’s asking for. Permission to make love to me the way I’ve asked him to, twice now. My stomach flutters with an unexpected case of butterflies, but my penis is already starting to harden again. "Rog," he begins, still kissing me with that gentle insistence, his mouth punctuating his words. "Roger…" he repeats my name as though he’s never spoken it before, or as though it was some word of endearment in a foreign language. "Roger, let me touch you." "Yes," I answer, my mouth going suddenly dry as he runs his hands back up my spine to tangle his fingers in my hair, his tongueokinoking mine with more urgency. He keeps kissing me, teeth grazing my lower lip as he sucks it into his mouth, then moves on to my throat, the angle of my jaw, and back to the earrings again. I hear the sigh of his breath as I fthe the tip of his tongue trace wet fire along the ridges of my ear, and my own breathing starts to quicken again. Weird, disjointed thoughts flit through my mind like a flock of birds scattering in surprise. I’m glad I shaved again before I went downstairs to meet Vinnie… the wetness of his mouth cools the heat in my skin. I wonder what it’s like, feeling him inside me, and the butterflies make another pass along with Vinnie’s hands on my ass again. Ah, god, Vince, please. He knows I’m tense, he can feel it in the way all my muscles have tightened up under his touch, and he takes it slow, going back to kissing me, traveling down to my chest to suckle my left nipple as one hand moves between our bodies to caress my slowly reviving cock, then moving on to my balls. "I won’t hurt you, Rog," he whispers against my chest as he switches nipples, his teeth grazing me, sending little threads of fire along my nerves, headed straight for my groin. "I’d never hurt you." His voice is barely audible against my skin, but my muscles begin to loosen, thaw, and he senses it instantly. He slips his fingers behind my testicles and strokes a light touch along the perineum, moving on to my anus. I feel the teasing, infinitesimally delicate touch as though my skin has been stripped away to expose my nerves, and I expect his fingers to penetrate me. They don’t. I feel the sudden tension in me drain away, diverted again by the things he’s doing elsewhere. "You have any lubricant?" he asks quietly against my chest, glancing up at me, and I groan. So much for preparedness. I’d have failed as a boy scout, no question.uot;uot;Rog, it’s alright," he assures me as he stands, offering me a hand, hoisting me out of bed to stand in front of him. We’re belly to belly again, and he’s distracted by the contact, mouth and hands light on my skin. "Where’re we going?" I ask, my voice wobbling like my knees. "The shower," Vince mumbles against my mouth, beginning to move in that direction. One of the reasons I generally go for suites is that the accommodations are usually several steps above average. This particular bathroom is like set dressing for an Architectural Digest photo shoot. Marble counters, basins, tub and shower stall, sleek, elegant, and totally beside the point at the moment. What is important is that the shower is huge, a glass-enclosed cubical about seven feet square. He turns on the water one-handed as he goes on seducing me, that tongue of his probing the inside of my mouth like a curious snake. God, I want this, oh, god, yes. When the water is warm enough for his tastes, he steps backward into the stall, drawing me with him, and the water cascades over our heads, slicking his dark hair down and dripping off his aquiline nose. Another bonus associated with high-end hotels is that all the bath accessories you could ever want are supplied for you. Vince squeezes liquid soap onto a wash cloth and starts soaping me down, bathing me the way he’d been kissing me, earlier, exploring me as though we’ve never done this before. He starts with my chest, and the roughness of the terrycloth against my nipples makes me tremble. But not as much as when he cups my balls gently in the cloth, moving outward along the shaft of my prick as it hardens further under his attentions. He kneels before me, washing my legs while I steady myself by grabbing hold of his shoulders. I’m glad I did when he goes down on me again and my already shaky equilibrium gets another jolt like lightning bolts from the blue. He slides his tongue between the foreskin and the head of my cock and I just about lose it on the spot as he tastes me, tastes the pre-ejaculate that beads at the tip. "Vince," I moan, my hands in his hair again. "God, please…" And suddenly he’s moved on, to my intense frustration, that is, until I feel him take my balls into his mouth, each in turn. The heat, and the roughness of his tongue on them brings me, shaking, to the edge of orgasm, prevented only by the pressure of his fingers behind them. "Jesus Christ, Vinnie," I beg, not knowing what I want, exactly, beyond release from the exquisite torment he visits upon me. And suddenly, his mouth is gone, and he rises to his feet like some Roman god, stepping around behind me and repeating his performance with the wash cloth on my back. He has one hell of future as a Geisha, if he can keep this up, I think dazedly when he begins in on my ass cheeks with one hand, his other massaging my abdomen softly, occasionally dipping down to stroke my cock lightly while the fingers on my ass move between the cheeks. Somewhere in there, he’s switched from soap to bath oil, and I can feel the difference against my skin as he rubs it along the shaft of my penis and then moves back to my anus. This time, when he caresses the opening, he also fondles my balls, and the pleasure connection gets made on a neurological level. All I can do is stand there, panting, as he flirts with my ass, a finger, two, pushing slowly into me, then withdrawing. I stand, feet apart, water running over my skin the way his hands are, and I brace myself, gripping the bronze handrail that circles the inside of the stall’s two glass walls. Vinnie, Vinnie, Vince, goddammit, please! Vinnie’s arm circles my waist, urging me to take a step backward, then a second as his hips, his cock, press against me. I stand, staring into the expanse of mirror above the sinks along the opposite wall, watching as Vince masturbates me gently. It’s like watching someone else. It can’t be me standing here, in another man’s arms, begging for him to fuck me. This isn’t who I am… I feel the massive head of his cock against me, pushing into me, and he moves slowly, preventing me from freezing up on him by playing with me, teasing me, and the pleasure of his touch on my cock mingles with the pressure of his own moving into me. I feel sphincter muscles stretch, feel everything stretch, stretch beyond limits known in the past, stretch into the realm of pain. Pain that sears along my colon as he moves slowly, pausing as he gains fractions of inches at the time, pain that blurs into need as he moves deeper, then deeper still, until I’ve taken his whole gigantic prick, the head of it pressing past my prostate. And then he begins to move. His hands on my hips, he begins the thrusts that will bring us both to the orgasm that hovers tantalizingly just beyond our reach. The head of his cock slides back down past my prostate, and the sudden wave of intense pleasure that floods through me is repeated as he moves back into me, then out, then back, withdrawing further each time until only his glans is held within me, and he pounds back into me like a battering ram. I’m panting his name, mindless need, frantic desire, exploding through me with every one of his thrusts, and I know I’m on the very verge of the most intense orgasm of my life. I can feel my cock jerking with the pre-climax muscle contractions that radiate through my pelvis, and Vince nails me again, then again, like a jackhammer, and I come. Harder than I’ve ever come in my life. Harder than I thought possible. Harder even than the orgasm he brought me to less than an hour before. My soul is being ripped loose, torn from it’s moorings, and as I feel Vinnie come, white hot semen pumping into me, I stare into our reflections in the mirror, see the concentration on Vinnie’s face, his head thrown back, teeth clenched against the intensity of his own release. His grip on my hips is almost painful, and it and my own white-knuckled grasp on the rail are the only things keeping me upright. I stand there, staring at the strangers in the mirror across from me, my brain and my body drifting further and further apart as nerves and muscle relax, trembling, the warmth of Vinnie’s body in me, against me, comforting me on a physical level, supporting me against the shaking that grips my limbs. This can’t be happening to me. This is not who I am, goddammit! My throat tightens, and my heart continues to race, now with adrenaline, rather than arousal. I’ve been fucked before, goddammit. Anger and fear I recognize, and I embrace them like old friends against the stunning, world-altering realization that I have just been taken somewhere I’ve never been before. Vince loosens his grip on me and his hands slide up my belly with the same delicate touch he’s used throughout this whole… event. I don’t know what the hell else to call it. I’m adrift, bearings gone, everything I thought I knew about myself destroyed by the man holding me so gently. I’d thought I’d wanted him before, wanted what had grown between us. What I wanted was possession. Of Vince. For him to bend his will to mine. For him to follow my lead. For him to take what I could give him. I never understood what it was he could give me, beyond the same blind obedience I demanded from any of the men I’ve commanded. Vinnie nuzzles the angle where my neck joins my shoulder, his exhalation warm, and his tongue makes its way back along the edge of my ear. "Rog?" he queries quietly. "You okay?" I can hear the hesitance in his voice, his sudden concern that my silence is the hallmark of pain, injury. As it is, only psychically, not physically. No, damn you, I’m not alright, I want to scream, nodding a feeble affirmative instead. He doesn’t buy it and eases free of me, and the loss of his warmth is like a knife wound in my chest. He turns me to face him, forehead furrowed. "Rog? Talk to me, okay? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" You’ve just destroyed my life, damn you! "No," I say raggedly. Just get a grip, Lococco. This wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. He cradles my face in his big hands, staring into my eyes. I don’t know what he sees there, but he smiles gently, understanding lightening his eyes. "It’s the first time, isn’t it?" he asks. "The first time you’ve ever gotten anything out of it, huh?" he clarifies, as if I were as stupid as all that. "Kinda shakes your worldview, doesn’t it?" He strokes my dripping hair out of my face, tracing one of my eyebrows with his thumb lightly, then kissing me. "I guess this kinda puts an end to your days as a raging homophobe," he grins faintly. Anger, panic, make me jerk away from him. "So I can trade it in for life as raging queen, instead?" I snarl at him, then turn and bolt from the shower stall, seizing a towel in a blind rage and drying myself off, feeling the thickly slick trickle of his semen between my legs, intensely sensual, intensely disturbing. "Roger, dammit, that’s not what I meant," he answers, exasperated, as he follows me out and takes a towel for himself, rubbing it briskly through his wet hair. "You think either of us is gay? I don’t know about you, Buckwheat, but I have no plans on boning every guy in sight! What I want is you, Roger. Not a series of one night stands, not a different ass every night. A different cock." He wraps his towel around his waist and glares at me. "What about you, Rog? What do you want?" I want… to never have had the ground destroyed under my feet. I want my life to be wae way it’s always been, the comfortable isolation intact. I want my heart to be whole again. I want to be sure who I am. I want…. Vince. "I want you to get the jell out of my life," I say with glacial chill and turn my back on him, catching the shock, the pain in his eyes in his reflection in the mirror as I stalk out and lock myself into the bedroom. When I emerge, it’s only after I’ve heard the suite door slam shut on Vinnie’s heels, and I set about drinking myself into a stupor. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing changes the certainty that I have just wantonly destroyed the one thing in my life that might redeem me. Give me a chance to mean something to someone, to love someone. God, to have someone love me. Coward. Coward. Goddamned fucking coward! It’s around six in the morning when I finally decide to earn the Medal of Honor they pinned on me in Vietnam. Drunk as I am, I know it’s Dutch courage, but it’s also the only way I can go to him and apologize. Beg him to come back. Beg him to love me. Tell him I love him. I know where I’ll find him, the danger Tess poses ignored, or maybe courted. And sure enough, the battered blue GTO he drives when he’s in the city is parked on the street in front of the tiny little bungalow he grew up in. I have the cabby drop me on the sidewalk and I stand there watching the house, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. It takes careful deliberation to keep from stumbling up the little walkway and up the front stairs, and all the courage I have to knock on the glass-paneled front door. He opens the door, looking about the way I feel, hair tousled, obviously straight out of bed, tank top and sweat pants his idea of pajamas. He stands there, looking at me, then runs a hand absently through his hair, increasing its disarrangement. "Rog," he says, warily, stepping past me out onto the miniature front porch to reach down and retrieve the morning paper. "I’m a jerk," I say flatly, turning to watch his profile, suddenly convinced this effort will fail, that the best I can hope for is to get the apology made, whether he accepts it or not. "Yeah, you are," he says, still looking absently out onto the quiet neighborhood street. "But I love you anyway." "You love me." Dazed disbelief gives way to something else. Something I don’t recognize. It spreads through my chest like warmth from the sun, seeping through me, casting everything in the brilliance of that glow. "Glad to hear it," I say with mock sarcasm. I see the grin of recognition flash over his face. "So prove it," I say as he turns to face me, a hand curving around the back of my neck affectionately. "Right here? On my mother’s front porch? What’ll the neighbors think?" he grins. I grin back. "Who cares?" I ask, perfectly serious. And he laughs, that Vinnie-laugh that makes me want to join in, deep, unguarded, joyous, and he pulls me gently towards him, then bends his head towards mine. I have a split second to realize he intends to kiss me, right here, in front of everyone he grew up with, to realize what that means, to him, to me, before the single explosive concussion of a rifle shot echoes off concrete and shrubbery, and Vince collapses in my arms. ***