by Gavin Atlas
“You said in Spanish I’m ‘good dick,’ didn’t you?” asked Karl. “That’s nice to know because I’d forgotten how much I missed this.”
Tomás tapped his fingers against his ass, still hosting Karl’s cock. “Missed this or missed me?”
Karl smiled and kissed Tomás on the forehead. “Both.”
As Tomás cleaned off, Karl took a minute to check his texts and discovered bad news. The necessary tracking device wasn’t available. His plan was shot. He closed his eyes in frustration. At least Tomás wouldn’t be put in danger.
“Buddy, I promise I’ll help you with a career with the force, but I can’t ask for assistance on this.”
“But my stoplight tattoo. I thought I’d be perfect.” Tomás grabbed Karl’s arm. “If I’m your best bet, I want in.” Tomás looked Karl in the eye. “In fact, why don’t you tell your bosses I’ll volunteer only if, when they’re reviewing my application, they remember my tarnished background helped them with this case?”
Karl inhaled. Tomás had a point. Besides, were there other options? For the judge’s son. For my cousin. But please, God, don’t let this boy get hurt.
“Okay.” Karl nodded toward the window. A tall man was heading toward his car. He’d been hoping someone would pass by to test the accuracy of Tomás’s descriptions before he got details on Tiburón.
“Have you seen that guy before?”
Tomás went to the window, not caring he was still nude. “No, don’t think so.”
Karl chuckled. “Stop flashing the neighbors. Give me a description of that man.”
Tomás raised his eyebrows. “He’s all right looking. He’s got the height and build for a good top, but he’s got nothing on you.”
Karl snorted. “That’s not what I—”
“—About six two. Maybe two hundred pounds. Big, wavy George Lucas hair, but light brown. Beige suit, white button-down shirt, solid dark tie—navy or black. Brown leather belt.”
“Uh, all right. Anything else?”
“Shoes had a heel so he’s closer to six foot or six one. No rings on his left hand. His black leather briefcase blocked my view of the right. No visible tattoos or scars. He got into a white Mazda Miata.”
“Christ, what was the plate number?”
“No idea, but it was New Mexico, not Texas, and had a Bush/Cheney ‘04 sticker, which tells you it’s not a new vehicle.”
“Guess those criminal justice classes worked.” He handed Tomás his notepad. “Write down a description of Tiburón for me.” It seemed more and more like Tomás would be the key to this op working.
Karl picked up his phone. “When you’re done, get dressed. We need to get your ear pierced right now.” He ignored Tomás’s confused look as he left a message on Lieutenant Corley’s voicemail. “Lieutenant, I got the message we don’t have the device. El Paso PD has the test prototype. It needs to be on the next flight to Hobby.” He didn’t usually act this demanding with his superiors, but they had to know how much of this shit-dangerous situation was made worse by them not listening to him time and again. Still, he softened his voice as he added, “Text me when I should head to the airport to pick it up. Thanks.”
* * * *
Academy training should last six months, but Karl had been foolish to hope the department would at least give Tomás a crash course in self-defense. The two-hour prep session focused only on mistakes that would endanger their case and safety protocols to ensure no “real” officer would be at risk. They showed him a photo of Jared, the judge’s son, but didn’t give the kid’s name or explain who he was. They wasted time emphasizing that the “earring” they were putting on Tomás cost a fortune.
No one bothered to wish him luck or warn him to be careful. Karl almost expected to hear, “Let the bad guys ream your ass until we feel like rescuing you.” HPD did not have someone else inside the ring, so what options would Tomás have? Karl’s stomach hurt with frustration.
Hours later, Karl sat hunched in the back of an unmarked car watching Tomás stand in front of the stripper bar. “When did they start making business suits specifically for slut boys?” Karl had wondered aloud in front of Tomás. When Tomás said he’d made the suit, Karl had said, “once again, you’re full of surprises.”
Tomás wore a tight-fitting black blazer, under which his tan, sculpture-perfect torso was bare except for a half-undone skinny tie. Tomás periodically took off the jacket, and Karl could see the form-fitting pants not only hugged his hips without a belt, but were tailored to reveal the top third of Tomás’s ass. He had a prop—a cheap overnight bag stuffed with clothes. He kept bending over, pretending to look in his bag but he was actually showing off his incredible rump. Did he need to do that? Even only hours after screwing him, the sight of those bare mounds had Karl imagining bending Tomás over and violating every public decency ordinance.
* * * *
Tomás’s ear hurt. He had to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep from fiddling with the device. He stood outside KJ’s, listening to the thumping music that accompanied each go-go boy. He was glad for the breeze that tempered the insufferable Houston heat. Finally, after nearly two hours, there was Tiburón, who looked him up and down.
“¿Cuánto para el culo, putito?” Tiburón said, stopping to grope and squeeze Tomás’s butt cheeks. He pressed the bulge of his pants into Tomás. “How much for, say…three hours?”
Tomás looked away. “I’m not sure. I don’t normally do this.” Even with the police watching, standing next to Tiburón unnerved him. The other dancers had been wary long before anyone knew he was connected to El Sistema. Tiburón was too young and handsome to need street hustlers. Tonight he was dressed a bit like Tomás. A blazer and dress pants, a white shirt with enough buttons open to reveal part of the Sistema tattoo.
“Sooner or later,” Tiburón said, nodding toward the bar, “everyone strutting on the stage in there winds up standing out here. So what happened?”
“The last person looking out for me in this town is gone.” Tomás said, looking down at his bag. “So no friends. One too many enemies. As soon as I get cash, me voy.”
Tiburón nodded slowly. “I can help.” He ran his index finger down Tomás’s torso and then rubbed the boy’s stomach in small circles. Tomás’s gut tightened in both heat and fear. “Let me get a quick drink, say hello to some people, and hit the ATM inside. Un minuto, chulo.”
Fifteen minutes later, a rusty gray van pulled up. Two men got out and grabbed Tomás. He barely struggled.
* * * *
The Vice Unit vehicle slowly slid onto the road. Karl told himself he didn’t mind. They weren’t trying to stop the van. In fact, they weren’t even the lead since two FBI task forces had been put on alert. What he did mind was deliberately letting the van reach its destination. Yes, that GPS earring made sure they tracked the van all the way down the Southwest Freeway to an area rife with crime, and of course, they had units in the area. But over the radio, Karl and the vice cops in the front seat heard they’d hit a snag. No one had expected a fortified bunker. As they sped down the freeway, all Karl could think about was what El Sistema’s men might have done to Tomás in the van and what they might be doing to him now.
* * * *
Tomás had anticipated the chloroform before it hit his face, but even holding his breath and acting like it had gotten to him faster didn’t spare him. At least he woke up sooner than he would have otherwise. He was naked on a cool cement floor, his vision blurry and his head buzzing. His rectum throbbed with hot pain. He sat up, noticing he wasn’t cuffed or guarded. He tried to focus on his surroundings. Doors on two walls, no windows, a couple wooden chairs, and some metal boxes. There was also a shiny black disc on one wall that was likely a camera. He needed to lie back down and pretend he was still out until his head cleared.
Less than five minutes later, there was that asshole, Tiburón.
“You’re awake, putito. Good.”
Tomás used the wall behind him to help him
self stand up. “What the hell is your problem?”
Tiburón mimed a confused shrug. “No hay bronca. I want to fuck you, that’s all. But this time while you’re awake so I can hear you moan.” He began to undo his belt. “Just once more before you reach Matamoros.”
“Matamoros?”
“You needed to leave town, right? I’ve done you a favor.”
Tomás felt his earlobe. The tracking device was still there. He closed his eyes and imagined simply lifting his legs and allowing this man to invade him. Tomás believed the expression “nice guys finish last” was, in his case, “nice guys always get fucked.” Tiburón stroked his thick dick.
“So now you owe me. Fighting would be a mistake.”
Tomás nodded but didn’t want to get fucked. Again. The longer he played along, the more time to get rescued. “Bueno, papi. But I want to be yours, okay? Don’t let me be a slave in Matamoros or wherever. Keep me yourself. I will be good to you.”
Tiburón’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Tomás got on his knees and started jerking the man’s dick. “Just keep me in your apartment. I can sleep in a corner. I’ll clean every day. You can fuck me constantly. I wouldn’t stop you. I couldn’t.” Tomás didn’t like that he was getting hard at his own words, but he’d worry about his screwed-up head later. “And…if you want, you can give my ass to your friends. Or sell it if you need money.” This is where he had to make the offer look real by pulling back. He shot Tiburón a beseeching look. “But, please, your friends have to use condoms. The only one I want bare is you, papi.”
Tiburón let out a low growl, rumbling with lust. Tiburón ran his hands through Tomás’s hair and then shoved the young man onto his back.
“Ahorita, ofrécemelo.” Offer it to me, now.
“Yes, yes, papi,” Tomás whimpered as he lifted his legs. “Espera, papi. Momentito.” He spit into his own hand and lubed himself as well as possible. Why was his heart racing with need? He shouldn’t want his ass pumped by a man who would sell him, but he thought of a reason why it was okay this once. How often does the City of Houston need someone to lose his ass to rescue innocent victims? Go ahead. Give it up. Slut and hero at the same time.
Ay, goddamn. Not enough lube. Not ready. “Stop! Not yet! I’ll give it to you, but…ay!” Tiburón was not stopping, and the burn was too great. Tomás bit his own hand to stop screaming, but that made Tiburón ram harder.
I might be easy, but you will not fucking hurt me.
Tomás took his right hand and clawed deeply at Tiburón’s face, at the same time leaning forward to bite down on Tiburón’s forearm. Tiburón’s scream was cut off by a gasp, the wind going out of him as Tomás kneed him in the gut and toppled him onto his side. Tomás landed on top of Tiburón, putting one leg on Tiburón’s chest but grabbing his dick at the same time. He stroked gently, not knowing how long rescue would be. “Look, I’m serious about you owning my ass, papi. But I need you to go slower. If you injure me I can’t be as good to you as I want, can I? So please?”
Tiburón looked more angry than frightened. “Pinche putito, I’m going to fuck you as hard as I want, but now there will be others in the room. If you try that again, we’ll break your arm.”
Tomás didn’t move. “Okay, I’ll be good, but you can trust me, papi, only if I can trust you.”
Both doors burst open. Operatives in black bulletproof vests rushed in. Tomás stood up and put his hands in the air.
The first man to reach him removed his earring. “Device recovered,” he said into a headset as other hands patted Tomás on the back and ushered him out of the room before he could see what happened to Tiburón.
Outside he was swathed in a blanket and handed a cup of water. Through flashing lights, he watched the chaos of arrests and shouted orders. Moments later, Karl was giving him a brief hug.
“Hey, brave man, this went better than we could have imagined. We got the judge’s son back. Half a dozen young women, too. They were in another part of the bunker. And now we know there’s another site a hundred miles south of here.” He squeezed Tomás’s shoulder. “You okay? Did they hurt you?”
Tomás knew he’d be given a rape kit, and Karl was sure to find out about it then. But he blinked and looked Karl in the eye. “I’m sure I’m doing better than the other guy.”
* * * *
Karl jogged up the stairs, having brought Tomás’s prescription pain killers as promised, but he’d also brought flowers and some dinner. Tomás opened the door in his jockstrap. Karl inhaled at the sight, making a sizzling sound through his teeth. Dinner could wait. Karl headed for the fridge. “So, my man, this is the biggest break they’ve gotten against traffickers in years. The chief of police is rewarding me with a move up to Vice and a bonus. I’m taking a week’s vacation on a private beach in Martinique. If you come with me, I could have you nude nonstop for seven days.”
Tomás gave Karl a simmering look. He’d told Karl to be sure to put sex in every conversation, saying he didn’t want things to be any different after the attack. “That sounds extremely cool, but could I be nude nonstop on your mattress instead of the beach? You know, no sunburn in sensitive areas?”
Karl grinned. “To pay for all that incredible sex you’ll get, will you learn some French? Maybe take a course a couple hours a day?” Karl didn’t mention learning French had no connection to Martinique. The federal judge had been impressed with Tomás and told them he’d get that interview. But Karl hoped they’d eventually work together in Vice, and traffickers were moving women and children in from Haiti. They needed an agent who could listen in on conversations held in a rapid fire combination of Spanish and French. They hadn’t found anyone.
“Je parle Français…mais…tu as besoin de quelqu’un qui comprend Créole, oui?”
“Uh…what?”
“I was trying to say I know some French, and I was gonna ask if we could spend those couple hours a day doing…something else.” Tomás let out a small laugh. “But I realized you probably were thinking of the department’s need for someone who understands Haitian French, not high school French, right?” Tomás stretched and looked away, as if absent-mindedly spreading his thighs wasn’t a deliberate enticement.
Karl raised his eyebrows, once again amazed at his young friend, but he couldn’t resist the invitation. He slid his fingers between Tomás’s legs. “Yeah, you guessed my game. But we do need something else to do for two hours a day. At least.” He pressed insistently on Tomás’s hot, tight hole.
“This is when you usually say I’m always full of surprises.”
“You are. And you will be in more ways than one after I change my name to Karl ‘Surprises’ Wilkes.” He grinned, seeing his wickedness had shocked Tomás. “And I hope you keep surprising me for a long time.” He kissed Tomás’s mouth deeply. “A very, very long time. Our adventure hasn’t even begun.”
Pink Cowboy Hat
It’s true I borrowed Pete’s Mazda without asking, but it was his fault for leaving me with a set of keys. I did call him from the road to let him know I had it because that’s me. Always thoughtful.
“What possessed you to leave for Manhattan during midterms?” His tone was unamused. I almost snorted. Since when did Pete care about school?
The answer to his question was male model Marc Patrick, the hottest, handsomest man on Earth, but why tell my ex that? “I’ve had enough of Handenburg Tech and Rochester for the moment,” I said. “The city is only five hours away, right?”
“Six and a half.”
“Yes, okay, Pete. But you know speed limits aren’t my thing.” I noticed he didn’t ask why I didn’t take my own car. He knows I don’t like risking dinging my Viper in crazy Manhattan traffic. And my dad would kill me if it got stolen. Of course now Pete would feel free to take my car and go cruising for boys.
My ex sighed with exasperation. “You shouldn’t get on Twitter and scream with glee that Pink Cowboy Hat is in the same state if you don’t want people to know you�
�re e-stalking him.”
Whoops.
“You’re not going to get him,” Pete said, trying to sound bored. “I told you. You’re never going to do better than me.”
My anger at Pete reignited. True, with his black hair, ice-blue eyes, and an athletic body shaped by years of hockey, Pete is hot. But I quit doing drugs, and Pete, that asshat, still wanted to party. We’re friends still, but that’s it. I’m not bitter. Pete’s kind of a slut with other guys now, and I sometimes want to put my fist through a wall, but I’m totally, totally not bitter. Especially not today, because today I have a plan which, if successful, will ensure I have no reason to bother with Pete again. Except to return his car.
I found my way to the Javits Center where Cristiano Bastini’s fall collection would be presented. When I grabbed my bag, I realized I had brought the wrong one. Damn it. I’d broken this camera over Christmas break, shooting wildlife in Costa Rica. I took a deep breath. I couldn’t allow myself to get bummed. Instead, I kept myself busy by texting people while huddling in the cold spring air and waiting for the designer to show up
I might not be hot enough to stop traffic like Marc Patrick, but in shitkicker boots, a black leather jacket, a tight navy T-shirt, and crotch-hugging black jeans, I thought I’d have a chance to catch the eye of most guys. But a designer who saw models every day might be a different story, so I had on vintage Bastini sunglasses I’d found on eBay. Set me back a thousand. See, if you Google, you discover Cristiano adores it when people wear his father’s creations.
