by CJ Bishop
But what? Devlin didn't have a fucking clue. He was as much in the dark as ever, if not more so. Whatever was wrong that was keeping Abel away from him—it was bad. Real bad. The boy's love making had been an act of desperation, his way of saying goodbye. Letting Devlin go.
He wanted to go back to the club, keep fighting, insist on being told the truth until someone clued him in. But after yesterday with Abel...he knew there was no point. All was said and done. Abel had let go...for good.
* * * *
“I gave it to him.” Cole's heart squeezed at the memory of Abel's reaction. We don't belong together! I don't belong anywhere! The thing was—he did belong with Devlin. There was no one more perfect for him.
“Did he...like it?”
Cole forced a smile. “He loved it.” he lied, but the hesitation was clear in his voice, and the girl was much sharper than she should be. Still, she just gazed at him doubtfully but didn't question him.
“What is he doing?” she asked quietly, picking at the blank. Cole resisted the extreme need to scream at the heavens and demand God tell him just what the fuck He was doing to these kids—and why?
“I—” He clammed up when Devlin pushed through the door. The doctor maintained a professional demeanor as he offered Savannah a polite smile and asked her how she was doing. Her green eyes followed him, tight, concerned. She knew something was wrong—with both Abel and the doc. Her gaze finally returned to Cole after she told Devlin she was doing okay.
Cole cleared his throat and, though the doctor avoided meeting his eyes—he knew the man would hang on his every word, perhaps in hopes of discovering a pebble of a clue as to what was truly wrong with Abel. “I don't know what he's doing. He didn't say. Just that...he had to take care of something and he would be in to see you on Monday...and for you not worry about him.”
But Cole was worried about him. He knew what had happened between Abel and Devlin in the VIP room. It was expected. But whatever he had said to the man—had crushed the boy. The devastation had been evident in his eyes when he'd rushed out of the club yesterday. Devlin hadn't said a word to either Cole or Gabe when he'd left a short while later. The man had been as much demolished as Abel. Even now...Cole could sense the devastation in the doctor.
The unknown whereabouts of Abel had Cole on edge as well. When he'd gone to his apartment, the boy hadn't been there. Later, he'd received a text from Abel telling him he had something to take care of, then gave the message to relay to Savannah. Cole had text him back but got no reply. Then he had called, but was sent straight to voice mail; Abel had turned off his phone. He had no idea where the boy was...or what he had to take care of.
* * * *
Last night's consumption of liquor was far beyond the norm for Abel. He barely remembered anything after arriving at Kaplan's penthouse and...engaging in wild sex on the bar. It could have been his numb mind that wiped out the rest of the night, along with the aid of the liquor. If only it had reached back further into the day and erased his encounter with Devlin as well.
The flight across the Atlantic was one long, hazy fuck fest that ended with Abel waking to bright sunlight piercing the small thick windows of the plane, heating his face. Silk sheets encased his nude body and his head pounded like a motherfucker. Nausea—brought on by multiple sources—twisted his guts and he had to stumble from the bed and hope the door he rushed through was the bathroom. For once, luck was on his side and he dropped to his knees before the toilet, vomiting forcefully.
When he made his way back into the bedroom, he realized for the first time that the plane was stationary. Clothes were laid out on the end of the bed with a small black travel bag sitting on top of them. He glanced around but the room was empty. Inside the bag was a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, mouthwash and a small bottle of Egyptian musk as well as a few other necessary items. He opened the cap of the cologne and sniffed it. It wasn't like the typical musk cologne he was used to smelling on his customers. This was more...elegant. The scent of a rich man.
He showered, brushed his teeth, and used the mouthwash to eradicate the vile lingering taste of vomit. A towel wrapped around his waist, he returned to the bedroom and picked up the clothes. A casual suit but clearly expensive. He'd rarely owned anything snappier than t-shirts and jeans.
“I hope it's to your taste.” Abel flinched when Kaplan entered the room, nicely dressed, looking as fresh as a bright spring day. There was no evidence of last night's ill effects as Abel knew resonated in his own eyes. The headache remained, growing stronger.
“It's...fine.” Abel mumbled.
“Here.” Kaplan approached and handed him a small pill bottle. “For the headache.”
Abel took it without question. The pinch in his face was enough to alert anyone that his head was about to crack open. “Thanks.”
The man reached into the travel bag and took out the cologne, opened it then dabbed just a tiny bit on Abel's neck below his ears. “It's strong...so it only takes a small amount for the proper effect. Don't want too much.” He leaned close and breathed in the scent off Abel's skin. “Mmm. Perfect.” he drew back, smiling. “It suits you.”
Abel kept his eyes averted, fingering the soft material of the white shirt in his hands.
“Last night was...” the corner of Kaplan's mouth twitched as he slid his thumb across his lower lip thoughtfully. “...quite enjoyable. Though I suspect you don't recall much of it.” Abel sighed and swallowed thick but kept his gaze off the man's face. “But as stimulating as it was,” he went on, “I know that wasn't really...you.” He reached out and brushed his fingertips across the surface of Abel's damp hair. “I don't know why you came to me early, or what had you so upset. I don't need to know. That's your business. Full disclosure of your personal life isn't part of the contract.”
The contract. Abel licked his lips slowly but remained silent. Now, fully aware without liquor and a numb mind to dull his senses...Kaplan's touch was making him uneasy. But he resisted pulling away and struggled to calm his racing pulse.
The man's fingers brushed down the side of his neck. “But tonight...” he spoke low. “Tonight it will be real. No drinking,” he smiled, “Well, maybe some wine, or champagne. But nothing so severe as to blind the senses.” His hand caressed down Abel's arm. “I want to savor you...taste each and every flavor your body has to offer.” He lifted Abel's hand and kissed his fingers. “Did you know that different parts of the body put off alternate flavors?” he smiled again and rubbed his lips across Abel's knuckles. “I bet you taste of every flavor of the rainbow.” Abel's breath shuddered slightly and Kaplan released his hand slowly. “Get dressed and then we can go out to breakfast.” He lifted a neat eyebrow. “Have you ever had breakfast in Paris?”
As if he didn't know the answer to that. Abel shook his head slowly. “No.” he whispered.
“Then it will be my honor to be the first to share the experience with you.” He touched Abel's chin and turned his face, then kissed his lips. “I didn't bring you along just to warm my bed, Abel.” He caressed Abel's lips with his thumb. “A boy like you doesn't belong in a brothel like the Phoenix club...groped and sweat on by filthy pigs.” His thumb slid up over his cheek. “You deserve the finer things of life. You're too good to waste away in a dirty strip club.”
So it's more honorable to be a rich man's whore? Makes it all better because you dress me up nice—like your own personal Ken doll? Splash some expensive scent on me to cover the stench of sin? Abel drew away from his touch. “I like the Phoenix.” At least at the club everyone was who they appeared to be, and what you did there was—what it was. No pretenses.
“Perhaps because you've never been introduced to anything else life has to offer.” Kaplan murmured. “Well, it's time that changed. And trust me—it won't take long before you will want something better for yourself.”
Something better. This was better? Playing concubine to the King? How many times you gonna fuck me, your Majesty, before you toss me back into the g
utter with the rest of your discarded whores?
The thoughts remained private, unspoken. What did it matter anymore? When Kaplan left him to get dressed, Abel began to pull on each article of clothing. Even the underwear had the look and feel of being expensive, and fit just snug enough to be alluring without being immodest. As the soft, sleek fabric caressed his skin, Abel couldn't deny that he could get used to slipping into fine clothes, sleeping between silk sheets, and...never again having to wonder if enough cash would be stuffed into his crotch to pay the bills or buy Savannah the things she needed.
He picked up the midnight blue, silk tie and stared at it lying delicately across his palm. The color of Devlin's eyes. Emotion tried to push in and he fought it with all his strength of will. Devlin couldn't exist to him anymore. He couldn't allow it.
In front of the mirror, he attempted to put on the tie but had no idea the maze in which to tie it. Kaplan appeared behind him and reached around with both hands. “Let me show you.” his lips brushed Abel's ear. “It's really quite simple once you get the hang of it.” Once it was fixed—he tugged it loose again. “Now you do it...like I just showed you.”
Abel cleared his throat and made the attempt again, and failing. Kaplan chuckled low and guided Abel's hands until he got it right, then made him do it by himself again—this time succeeding.
“There.” Kaplan rested his hands on Abel's shoulders. “See. Not so complicated after all.” Abel just stared at him in the mirror. “So how do you like this look?” Kaplan surveyed his image and smiled with approval. “You clean up very nicely.”
Licking his lips, Abel shook his head slowly. “It isn't me.”
“Maybe it is.” Kaplan said quietly and touched his lips to Abel's hair. “And you just don't know it yet.”
A hard breath pushed out of Abel. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“All this.” Abel stepped away from him and turned around to face him. “I'm not here for a change of lifestyle.” he yanked off the tie and threw it on the bed. “Or to be your dress-up whore.”
Kaplan ducked his head slightly. “Ouch.” he murmured dryly as Abel stepped into the bathroom and closed the door hard.
Chapter Eight
Wages Of Sin
“Where do you think he is?” Gabe took a swallow of beer.
Cole shrugged, sitting with his back to the bar, watching the crowd of men, not really caring to be singled out tonight. He shot Gabe a sideways glance and realized he would much rather take him into one of the booths and fuck him for free. He cleared his throat. “I don't know. This isn't like him to just take off this way, not tell anyone where he's going.”
“Do you think Max knows?” Gabe asked. “Abel tells him everything.”
“Possibly.” Anxiety twisted Cole's guts. Something was up with Abel—more than just his issue with Devlin. Why wouldn't he tell them where he was going? What he had to take care of? He was beginning to understand how Devlin felt at being left in the dark.
“God, I wish this was my night off.” Gabe murmured and downed more beer. He leaned on his elbows, back to the crowd, about as interested in work as Cole was. “I am just not in the mood.”
I am, Cole thought. But not for these men. His eyes roamed down Gabe's body then back up to linger on his face. What is it about you that I suddenly can't get my mind off? When Gabe glanced at him, catching him looking, Cole looked away.
“What?” Gabe asked.
“Nothing.” Cole shrugged and let his eyes wander away from the man, though now he could feel Gabe staring at him. His pulse did a funny skip-shudder when Gabe brushed the back of his hand lightly against his arm in a seemingly casual nudge.
“You think Max would fire us if we played hooky tonight and slipped out?” When Cole looked at him again, the man was twisting his beer glass on the bar top, gazing blankly at his drink. His soft blue eyes turned on Cole and he raised one eyebrow slowly, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “So?”
A dryness invaded Cole's throat at the depth of invitation in those baby blues. What're you getting all nervous and tingly about? How many times have you fucked this guy? Still it was different somehow...that look...there was more to it than friendly lust. Cole cleared his throat and shifted a bit. He was about to take the guy up on his proposition when his head dropped back and he groaned loud, “Fuck.”
“What?” Gabe chuckled.
“The horny octopus is back again.”
“The what?” Gabe laughed.
Twisting back around, Cole nodded discreetly towards a tall, lanky man dressed in a suit that didn't seem to fit him quite right, though it was clearly expensive and thus usually meant the customer had money.
“Ahh.” Gabe grinned. “Your biggest fan.”
“Yeah, what the hell is that all about?” Cole muttered. “I thought you were everyone's favorite? How did I get stuck with the man of a million hands?”
Gabe shrugged and chuckled. “But heads up, baby—he's coming your way.”
Fuck. Cole rubbed his hand over his face and swallowed the last of his beer. He turned slowly towards the man as he neared them, and flashed a smooth, sexy smile. “Mr. Ryland. It's good to see you again.” Gabe's lips tightened with a grin as he covered his mouth with his hand, chuckling quietly. Cole elbowed him in the ribs, just for good measure.
Grunting, Gabe nodded at the customer. “Mr. Ryland.” he gasped a little, rubbing his side, then smirked at Cole and slipped away.
Asshole. Cole muttered to himself, but couldn't refrain from watching the man weave through the bodies, his beautiful ass flexing and shifting beneath his tight pants. A sudden hardening of the crotch caused a strained groan to stick in his throat—suddenly dislodged when Ryland's hand shoved down the front of his pants, stuffing in a large wad of cash.
The man grinned and pushed in between Cole's knees, his hand still wedged into Cole's crotch, fingering his hard cock. “Mmm. Love it when your dick gets so hard for me.”
For you? Dream on, buddy. Cole plucked the man's hand from his pants. “You know the rules, Mr. Ryland.”
“Ah, but I hate rules.” he smiled wryly, and his hands squeezed Cole's thighs, rubbing, inching back towards his crotch. “And I've asked you to call me Faron.” He shoved in close, his bulging crotch grinding Cole's, his face close, breath scented with a sweet tobacco. “It makes me so fucking horny when you say my name.”
Just get this over with, Cole told himself. “Well, by all means, Faron...” Cole slid off the stool and grabbed the man's hand—mostly to keep the guy from groping him on the way to one of the booths. “...let’s get you horny.”
Faron Ryland chuckled with delight and let Cole lead him away.
* * * *
“I'm sorry for keeping you out so late.”
The hotel suite was luxurious, nearly as nice as Kaplan's penthouse apartment. Abel couldn't imagine how much a single night in this room would cost—his mind didn't work on those figures, not when he'd spent his whole life counting every cent, scratching and clawing for every dime. The kind of wealth Kaplan possessed was beyond his comprehension.
“It's fine.” Abel mumbled. “I'm used to late nights.”
“Yes, of course.” Kaplan murmured. “I forgot.”
You forgot—that I'm a stripper pimping myself out to you? “Don't see how you could forget.” Abel whispered dull.
Kaplan chuckled softly. “So, do you enjoy French cuisine?” He moved deeper into the room and removed his suit jacket.
“Not really.”
Folding the jacket, Kaplan laid it over the back of a plush chair then turned and leaned against the back of the chair and gazed at Abel. “I like your honesty.” he smiled and unfastened the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, folding them up his forearms a couple rolls. “But perhaps your palate simply hasn't grown accustomed to fine foods.”
“Maybe.” Tension gripped Abel now that they were back in the room, alone—for the remainder of the night. What was with all the
pleasantries? The man was paying out a shit load of cash to fuck him—so why didn't he just get to it? Abel wasn't looking forward to it, but all this foreplay was making it even worse. He just wanted to get it done and over with.
“Before I forget.” Kaplan reached inside the folded jacket and took out his sleek leather wallet then withdrew what looked like a black credit card. He held it out to Abel like someone holds out a treat to coax in a wary dog. Abel half expected the words—“Here, boy”—to slide off his lips. Bitter humor bubbled inside him. You're losing your fucking mind.
But like the dog accepting the treat, Abel approached the man. “What is it?” he took the card with an air of caution. The initials NYCB were stamped in the upper left corner with the words New York Community Bank written out next to them. Abel Sims was engraved at the bottom below the card number and expiration date, next to the American Express logo.
