by Lolly Walter
DRY RUN Book One
DRY RUN
Lolly Walter
Copyright © 2017 by Lolly Walter
Cover design by Natasha Snow Designs, natashasnowdesigns.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2018
ISBN 978-0-9997133-1-0
Awl Collaborative Press
PO Box 2435
Pflugerville, TX 78691
Awlcollaborativepress.com
Survival requires sacrifice.
In climate-ravaged Texas Territory, kids don’t live long enough to become adults. Joe has beaten the odds — at the price of his body and soul. For years, the smart, resourceful nineteen-year-old has been the star runner at sex tourism hotspot Flights of Fantasy. But he dreams of leaving Texas — and everyone in it — far behind.
Then a blue-eyed, blond-haired teenager wanders into Joe’s world and challenges him at every turn.
Sheltered, lonely Devin didn’t know his whiteness made him rare. He ventured into the city to escape starvation, but he never imagined he’d have to depend on a guy like Joe.
As Joe trains and protects Devin, their tentative steps toward friendship leave Joe questioning his priorities. Hounded by a cruel employer and vengeful co-workers, concerned for Devin’s innocence, Joe struggles to maintain the carefully crafted illusion he’s built for himself.
When tragedy strikes and a young life hangs in the balance, Joe and Devin are forced to decide once and for all the kind of men they want to be.
To Brian,
Your faith in me and in this book has made all the difference.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
One
Sweat trickled down Joe’s spine as he watched his clients, a full-bellied father and his big-boned son, move closer to the base of the monument. From this distance, Joe couldn’t tell what they were saying, but northern men were all alike. No matter what customers came for, they always wanted to find the old Texas heroes, touch a little fame.
The father pointed to a name carved in the granite and said something to his son, who leaned closer. The younger man’s gold watch glinted in the sun.
Joe stifled a huff of frustration. Flights of Fantasy told all their clients not to bring valuables. Few listened.
After a moment, the father reached behind him and tugged on his shorts, exposing his wallet.
Joe chuckled. Clients were so obvious. It was a wonder they weren’t robbed before he even had the chance. He checked his timepiece. 12:29. Bea glanced at him from the other side of the statue, her dyed blond hair blowing in little tufts where it had escaped her ponytail. Joe didn’t envy her outfit, a slinky red dress and stiletto heels. The get-up made the job so much harder for her. He wiggled his toes in his running shoes. Being a guy always had advantages.
An elderly tourist couple finished a rubbing of one of the monument’s inscribed names and tottered away. Joe patted his leg three times.
For a second, Bea smirked, then it was gone, replaced by a blinding smile. Her heels clacked on the remnants of pavement as she approached the clients. Both turned to her, but she kept her smile fixed on the older man. Pretending to focus on the ruins of the Capitol, Joe shuffled close enough to hear what she was saying.
“I was wondering, sir, if you might help me. I’m a student here on an historical expedition, and I seem to have lost my group. May I borrow your phab so I can contact them?”
What kind of student on a school trip wore a skintight dress and heels? Bea’s lines were terrible. Clients loved them, though.
The father reached into his pocket and extracted an outdated phablet. He held it out for Bea, who smiled and let her hand linger over his. Joe walked a little faster — but not so much that he’d arouse suspicion — as he made his approach.
Bea’s fake gasp and the dull clunk of the phab’s impact with the dirt coincided with the exact moment Joe slipped the wallet from the man’s pants.
Joe was already fifteen feet away when, as if on cue, the man shouted, “That kid took my wallet! Hey, kid, get back here!”
Footfalls besides his own sounded on the lawn, and Joe turned to check for his pursuer. It was the younger man. Good. He also caught sight of Bea running perpendicular to his route. He hoped the father wasn’t too slow. Slow meant dead, or at least attacked, and the only weapon Bea carried was a fibre-pick in her shoe.
“Come back here, you little fuck!” the younger man yelled, and Joe tilted his head and winked at him before jogging in a wide loop back to the south, then breaking into a sprint straight down the Capitol grounds and out into the deserted city.
Two blocks down, feet pounding the glass-littered pavement, heart racing, Joe peeked over his shoulder to see how well his pursuer was keeping up. Not bad. It wasn’t necessary to go faster, and Joe could maintain this pace all day. He hoped Bea wasn’t having too hard a time.
He hooked a right on 9th before veering left. He stopped and peered back around the corner of an old high rise. Still coming. Joe waved at the guy and ran some more. Certain now that the man would be able to run at his pace, Joe changed direction, headed west, and let his gait open up a bit. The freedom from measuring his stride worked deep and hard through his sore muscles, and adrenaline spurred him forward. Zeke or Flix, maybe, had called it “runner’s high.” No clue what that meant, but the rush was exhilarating, enough to burn away the pain in his ass and thighs from the way yesterday’s client had used him. He could double back if today’s client slowed, but this way, at least they’d both get a tour of downtown Austin, grimy and derelict and imposing.
The man didn’t slow, not much. Every once in a while, Joe checked his timepiece. At fifteen minutes in, he cut diagonally through Republic Square, rushing down the crumbling concrete and dirt path, and burst onto Guadalupe. He dodged an abandoned self-driving vehicle that had been stripped of its tires, battery, and doors. Clients liked a bit of wreckage, and Joe prided himself on offering safe spots to gawk.
For a break from the usual, he ran along 1st Street. The client might as well catch a glimpse of the remnants of the lake, though Joe hurried past before the rotting smell overpowered him.
At precisely 1:00, he ran into an overgrown concrete lot, a perfect dead end, every side surrounded by thick, wild tree limbs and dead, woody shrubs, all of it enclosed by a twenty-foot-tall chain-link fence. He backed into a corner and counted. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Maybe he had run too fast and worn out his guy early after all. Thirty-five seconds.
He scurried over to the entrance and poked his head out in time for the client to barrel right into him. Joe’s head hit the pavement, but not too hard, only enough to daze him. A heavy, panting weight landed on top of him.
“Nice run there, man,” the guy wheezed. “Even faster than advertised.”
Underneath him, Joe was wheezing, too. “I aim to please.”
The man pulled away. For a brief moment, he grinned at Joe, who grinned back, and they were nothing more than two kids playing tag. Then the man’s water-green eyes lost their shine, and he was in command. He ground his knee against Joe’s dick and bit too hard on Joe’s earlobe. Joe couldn’t contain his yelp. The hard pavement dug
into his shoulder blades and scraped at his back as the man fumbled with their pants.
“Not here.” Joe pushed lightly at the man’s shoulders. Clients like this didn’t want to be told what to do, but they had to keep moving. “It’s not safe.”
The man bit Joe’s jaw. “I like danger.”
An overpowering smell of sweat and pee filled Joe’s nostrils, and he reached in his pocket and grabbed his dazzler at the same time a rusty knife pressed into the side of the client’s throat.
A low, hoarse voice said, “Give me everything, whitey.”
“Close your eyes,” Joe whispered in his client’s ear. He pulled his client’s head hard against his own and fired the dazzler, aiming for the assailant’s face.
The would-be robber thudded onto the pavement. Joe exhaled and let his head fall back.
“Holy mother fuck, that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” The client dropped his mouth to Joe’s and pushed in his tongue.
Joe moaned so he could pull away without pissing off the client. “So good. But he’s not dead. He’ll be up and furious in five minutes. And they travel in packs.”
The client yanked Joe to his feet, then hiked Joe’s wrist between his shoulder blades.
As holds went, this one wasn’t bad, as long as the guy didn’t get too crazy with it. Once, a man had dislocated Joe’s shoulder. He hadn’t been able to run for way too long. As they passed him, Joe gazed at the man he’d stunned.
Thick curls matted against the man’s head, either by blood or come or dirt. Scabby, broken blisters oozed over his dark skin. He couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Joe’s vision blurred. He hoped the man had enough sense to find someone bigger and stronger to protect him.
The healthy, whole client at his back jerked his wrist and twisted his jaw until Joe’s head was parallel to the ground. He spat, and it landed on Joe’s cheek, warm and slick.
“Who do you belong to, pussy-boy?”
“You.” At least until the client’s time was up.
“Give me that toy weapon you used.”
Joe knew what came next. This wasn’t the first time. He handed over the dazzler and kept his eyes open as it fired. Darkness engulfed him. His head spun. He slipped back against his client’s chest. When the client licked away the spit, Joe shivered and gave himself away.
“You’re so beautiful,” the client crooned.
Joe would get through the next half hour the way he always did. He’d pretend the good parts were real.
***
“You know,” Bea said as they walked toward the Flats. Her hand flitted to Joe’s shoulder for a second before settling back at her side. “It’s been a while since we had the easy ones.”
“Define easy.” Despite the fresh scrapes on his back and his sore ass, the last few weeks had been pretty quiet, as far as Joe was concerned. Something bad must be coming. Quiet never lasted long.
“The ones where you’re the thug raping me and they come to my rescue.”
“Aw, Beebs, you missing my dick?” Joe cocked a brow and shot an air kiss in Bea’s direction. It was always like this after work, pretending what came before hadn’t happened.
“Ha, you wish. I had your dick last night.” Bea pulled first one knee then the other up to her chest before resuming walking. “These shoes are awful. No. I mean, I do want to keep fucking you, but it’d be nice to not be touched by these pervs, you know?”
“Doesn’t make a difference to me. All I care about is the green.”
“Yeah, but you’re a fucking psycho, Joe. The rest of us get sick of the life. Don’t you ever want something more?”
Joe shrugged. He’d toe the party line. Be the good boy. “I like my life.”
Bea probably intended to say more, but Joe spotted a figure up ahead, waiting under the big road, and cut her off. “Hey, isn’t that Trig? Alone?”
“What the fuck?”
Unease rippled over Joe. Runners didn’t venture out on their own. Had something happened to Roxy? The closer they got, Joe’s worry eased. Trig didn’t appear upset. His massive hands hung loose at his sides, and his shoulders were relaxed. He lifted a chin in greeting, and Joe returned the gesture.
“Beebs. Joesy.” Trig’s deep voice reverberated around the concrete. No wonder he got hired out for the dirty, hardcore stuff. “Word came back to the Flats. Boss wants you, Joe. They said go straight there. I’ll walk Bea home.”
Joe suppressed his groan. Getting called to corporate either meant he’d done something wrong or was about to be propositioned. Probably both.
“Yeah, okay. BeaBea, walk back with the nice giant man now. See you in a bit.”
“Smartass,” Bea said. She wrapped her arms around Joe and whispered in his ear. “You gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Go on with Trig. I’ll see you later.”
Bea kissed Joe’s jaw and left him standing at the underpass.
Joe watched Bea and Trig cross the divide that separated his world from the once-shiny glass wonderland he raced through for the rich white men who loved the thrill of the chase. Once Bea and Trig made it to the other side of the road, Joe sighed and headed in the opposite direction.
The corporate office was housed inside an old hotel, some fancy piece of architecture that had withstood the ravages of climate change better than many others. The opulent front space was furnished with real leather seats and crystal chandeliers. Joe had seen it once when Boggs had summoned him and a guard let a door linger open a little too long.
He went around to the service entrance. The guard on duty, Sam, was an old friend.
“Hey, Joesy. Heard the boss wants you.” Sam cracked his knuckles with the handle of his VICE-shot and patted Joe’s cheek.
“Wife and kids?”
“They’re all right. Thanks for asking. You’re the only one who ever asks.”
Nerves were making Joe jumpy. He jerked his chin in answer and went inside.
Cool air wafted around him. Goosebumps prickled his skin. He couldn’t suppress a shiver at the change in temperature. In the conditioned air, his sweat, so natural and useful outside, became foreign and unwelcome. He used the hem of his t-shirt to wipe it from his face.
The back space of the office was a maze of dank, dimly lit hallways. Joe turned right, right again, and hooked a quick left to the back office of his boss. He rapped on the door, and the smooth voice of Boggs called for him to enter.
Joe took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He bit his lower lip hard, hoping it was enough to plump it up and turn it red. One last muttered prayer, and he opened the door.
A man sat in front of Boggs’s desk. Though his face was turned toward Joe, most of it was obscured by shaggy blond hair and a sparse, poorly trimmed beard. He was young, that much Joe could tell. The man’s long, pale fingers picked at a tiny slit in the thigh of his tight sil-fab pants. Joe was stunned. This man was whiter than Boggs.
Recovering quickly, Joe wiped the surprise from his face and focused on his boss. Whatever the stranger was doing here, Boggs was the one who controlled Joe’s life. Joe couldn’t afford to forget it.
Boggs wasn’t even watching him, at least, not like he normally did, with eyes that felt like hands on Joe’s skin. Instead, Boggs sat tucked into his desk, his attention focused on the other man.
“Sit, Joseph,” he said, waving his many-ringed fingers in Joe’s direction. “I want to discuss something with you.”
Joe took the seat next to the stranger and tried very hard not to look at him. He’d seen enough. The man was too thin and scruffy to be a client and too white to be an employee.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Boggs?”
Boggs usually insisted Joe call him Brandon, but Joe got the feeling this visit wasn’t about being pressed against a wall and expected to perform.
“Joe, this is Devin. Devin, Joe.”
Without looking, Joe thrust his hand toward Devin. The shake was strong and brief. Devin’s large, soft-skinned hand wra
pped around Joe’s, letting go as soon as possible, like Joe’s hand was contaminated. Joe tamped down on the sneer that threatened to curl his lip.
“Nice to meet you, Devin.”
“You, too, I suppose, José.”
Ah. One of those. Holding back the sneer got harder.
“Now, Devin, because you’re new to our organization, I’ll say this once.” Boggs smiled, baring his teeth in a way that someone might construe as friendly, but Joe knew, and he bet Devin knew, the smile was a threat. “Joe here is white. I do not want to hear you call him José ever again.”
Joe felt Devin’s eyes — God, were they really blue? — on his skin. He gripped the arms of his chair and stared straight ahead. Devin could hate him and believe whatever he wanted, but if he wanted a job, he’d shut up and back down.
“Yes, sir. Sorry… Joe.”
“Better,” Boggs said. He moved his tie — “Diamond-studded silk,” he’d once said as he’d skimmed it over Joe’s bare chest — away from his workspace, tapped a couple times on the tablet on his desk, and read for a moment before turning his attention to Joe. “Devin has been living out in the hills but decided to come in to the safety we provide.”
Joe drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair closest to Devin. The kid thought he’d be better off with the agency? He’d either been starving or insane to come down from the hills. Joe didn’t care. This guy was the ticket he needed. He could make enough money off him to leave Texas and find his father.
Best not to seem too interested. Boggs was a shrewd businessman, and if he knew it existed, he’d use Joe’s eagerness to his advantage.
“Why’d you call me?” Joe asked.
“You see the potential?”
“Of course.”
“I want you to train him. From what he’s told me, his skills are quite limited.”
Devin grunted. “I can take care of myself.”
“That’s why you’re here, then?” Joe couldn’t help himself.
