In the Ring

by James Lear

  “It’s been a pleasure,” I said, slapping him rather too hard on the back.

  Vaughan wasn’t around; presumably he was playing the family man, or holed up with Tom Jackson in a luxury fuckpad somewhere. No doubt Brett would report to him as soon as he could. Let him. I was confident that he’d like my style.

  I hid myself away in the bathroom, checking for CCTV, and accessed my emails. Already a list of coordinates for WARDROBE and PANOPLY had come up; postcodes, addresses where possible. At no point had they been in the same place at the same time—but they had both been moving around. Busy. Working?

  I would investigate that tomorrow. Now it was getting on for ten o’clock, and I had two very horny young athletes waiting for me down the road.

  I’d take them home and let events take their own course.

  You don’t need me to describe the mechanics of the night. Joshua and Dakota, twenty-one and twenty, horned up past the point of no return, and Captain Greg Cooper, over twice their age, happy to help out if needed.

  We had a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, plenty of floors and mirrors, and we made full use of them for several hours until they left, after kissing just inside the doorway, at seven in the morning.

  08

  Vaughan disappeared for a few days, and as I hadn’t managed to shove any electronica up his asshole I had no idea where he’d gone. MI6, however, had ways of tracking persons of interest that did not involve penetration, and my encrypted email quickly told me that he’d flown to Miami. It was up to me to find out why. Given the secrecy that ruled VaughanCorp, you might think this would be impossible—but such is the power of the penis, I had not one but two ready sources of information very close to the man himself. Bill Brett had started out hating me, but the day after the photo shoot it became clear that he now regarded me as an enabler.

  He greeted me at City Fitness with “Hey, Greg!” and a pat on the back, as if coercing two young men to have sex in front of the camera made us best buddies. I played along; Greg Cooper was not as squeamish about these things as Dan Stagg. Dan had no problem about killing people in a combat situation, but exploiting the young and vulnerable stuck in his craw. The unpleasant Captain Cooper, he of the racist attitudes and the nothing-to-lose outlook, didn’t care.

  “Hey, Bill. How did the pictures come out?”

  “Really nice.” His voice sounded croaky, as if he’d been up all night poring over his computer screen. I’d been up all night variously fucking Joshua and Dakota, but Brett didn’t need to know that. He could suspect, of course. That would be useful. “I’ll show you if you like. There are some great ones of his . . .”

  “It’s okay, man. I’m not big on pictures. I prefer the real thing.”

  He dug me in the ribs with his elbow, and I fought back a desire to thump him in the mouth. “I bet you do.” He licked his lips.

  “Is the boss around? I need to speak to him.”

  “Not today.”

  “Of course,” I said, pretending that I was party to Vaughan’s plans, “he’s off to Miami, isn’t he?”

  It was a gamble—in fact I was nowhere near being trusted with this kind of information. But Brett was blinded by lust, and instantly believed that Vaughan confided in me. “That’s right. Cutting through a lot of red tape for the Craig Lukas fight.”

  “I didn’t realize he was going so soon. You’re obviously much more in his confidence than I am.” Which Craig Lukas fight? Why Miami? What red tape? I knew that direct questions would get me nowhere, but flattery and misdirection might succeed. “It’s ridiculous that they’re putting up so many difficulties, but hey—that’s America for you. Take it from me.” Guesswork—but I could well imagine the problems a British promoter would face trying to break into the US circuit.

  “He’ll sort it out. He’s got good lawyers over there.”

  “He’ll need them.”

  “Don’t worry. Mr. Vaughan is very good at smoothing out little problems. I don’t know how he does it but . . .” Brett snapped his fingers. “Poof! They just disappear.”

  “I wish I had that power.”

  “Maybe you do now. You’re part of the team. It’ll be useful for Mr. Vaughan to have an American on board.”

  “I guess so. I can be his fixer when we go over for the Lukas fight.”

  Brett sighed. “Lucky you. I don’t get to travel. Anyway, I’ve got websites to update . . .”

  “And I’ve got training to do. See you later, buddy. Let’s get a beer sometime, go out and pick up some boys.”

  Brett made a snorting sound like a pig at a trough, and trudged up the stairs to the studio, presumably to upload last night’s photos. Evidence for a Vaughan-Porn operation was mounting.

  My second informant was the fuck-ready Tom Jackson. Now that the cat was away, I hoped that the mouse would play—although not right away, as I needed a few hours to recover from last night. It turned out that, while young athletes very much enjoy fooling around with each other, what they both wanted was hard cock up their asses. And with two greedy bottoms in the bed, it was fortunate that there was one well-hung top to give them both what they needed.

  Thinking about those tight holes and ripped bodies was making me stiff again, so I entered Jackson’s office with something for him to feast his eyes on.

  “Morning, Jackson.”

  He looked as cool as a cucumber in his fitted shirt and tight pants, his hair perfectly parted, his face freshly shaved. Oh, how much better he’d look soaked in piss and splattered with cum, perhaps with a massive dildo in his ass. See? I was beginning to think like Greg Cooper. Perhaps Greg Cooper has always been there. Perhaps death has set him free, and Dan Stagg will never come back.

  “Ah, Greg. Good to see you.” He was sitting at his desk, tapping away at a laptop.

  “Busy as ever, I see.” I stood near him, trying to be as distracting as possible.

  “Yes.” He didn’t tell me to go away.

  “What you doing?”

  “At this very moment? VAT returns, if you must know.”

  “And what’s a VAT return?”

  “Accounts for the taxman. You’d call it sales tax, I think.”

  “You’re quite a little expert, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a qualified accountant.”

  “Vaughan didn’t just hire you for your looks.”

  Jackson closed the lid of the laptop before I could get a look at the figures. “Is that meant to be insulting, Captain Cooper?”

  “I’m just saying you’re cute as well as smart.”

  “Thank you.” He folded his arms across his chest; biceps bulged in the white cotton. “I got the job on the strength of my professional qualifications.”

  “That’s right, baby.” I squeezed his arm. “The rest is just a happy coincidence.”

  Jackson smiled. He was more relaxed with Vaughan away. “Maybe my looks gave me an edge.”

  “I don’t see many women in Vaughan’s workforce.”

  He arched a perfect eyebrow. “No, you don’t.”

  “One or two use the gym, but that’s about it.”

  “Mr. Vaughan doesn’t handle female boxers.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  “But City Fitness is open to anyone.”

  “It has to be, by law.”

  Jackson shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “And it looks good. More . . . normal.”

  “Did you want anything, Greg? Because I really need to get this finished before lunch.”

  “Yeah. I want to fuck you.” Was Dan Stagg ever that crude? I couldn’t remember.

  “I know that.” Jackson looked very pleased with himself.

  “You’re a cool customer.”

  “I am.”

  “You won’t be when my cock’s inside you.”

  “Very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Greg?”

  I squeezed my dick. “Yep. Pretty sure.”

  “And what makes you think I’ll let you fuck m
e?” He impersonated my accent on the last two words, and pushed his chair back from the desk, stretching out his legs. From the bulge in his pants, he was enjoying this foreplay as much as I was.

  “Because I can see it in your eyes.”

  “And supposing I’m not the type that cheats?”

  “Cheats on who?”

  “Come on, Greg. You seem to know everything about me.”

  “You mean Vaughan? He’s married.”

  Jackson smiled; there was something catlike about his expression, his hooded eyes, his fine bone structure. A cat in heat, maybe. And like a cat, he’d only let himself be stroked on his own terms. Boys like Kieran, Joshua, Dakota, and Oz were like dogs—they came when bidden. Jackson was not going to be so easy. But Pussy would get his cream, of that I was certain—splattered right into his handsome face.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Greg.”

  “Not even you?”

  He waggled his head from side to side, as if weighing up the answer. “The jury’s out on that one.”

  “I look forward to the verdict. When’s he back?”

  “Mr. Vaughan? Day after tomorrow.”

  “Long way to go for a short time.”

  “It’s tough at the top.”

  “Why didn’t he take you?”

  “He doesn’t need me on this trip.”

  “You mean he’s got someone to fuck out there?”

  Jackson scowled, and moved his chair back to working position. “You’re very crude.”

  “I’m a marine.”

  “So I noticed. And to answer your question, I don’t know the details of Mr. Vaughan’s private affairs. Sometimes I accompany him on business trips, if he needs my services.”

  “Services. Right.”

  Jackson laughed, thank God. “Oh, go away. You’re too distracting.”

  “You need distracting.”

  “With that?” He placed his hand over my cock. “You know it.” His hand rested there, applying a slight, rhythmic pressure. “Want to suck it now?”

  Jackson removed his hand. “As I say, I’ve got work to do.” He was still smiling. “What time you finish?”

  “I should be done by four.”

  “I’ll leave you in peace.” Jackson’s face was flushed—he was as horny as I was, probably more so, considering his age and my exhausting night. I moved towards the door. “Oh, by the way, are you going over for the Lukas fight?”

  “What, to Miami?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hope so. I mean, if it comes off.”

  “I thought everything was moving ahead. That’s what Vaughan told me,” I lied. “I mean, he’s started publicizing it, hasn’t he?” Guesswork: I knew nothing about the time frame or the business strategy.

  “Absolutely. But you know what it’s like. Don’t count your chickens. Many a slip. All that sort of thing.”

  “Is it Lukas? Is he the problem? I’m seeing him later today. Maybe I can help.”

  “Oh, Lukas is always a problem. He’s a prima donna. Always wants more money, better fights, more publicity, and then when he gets what he wants . . .” Jackson shrugged. “He’s not the most mature person I’ve ever worked with, shall we say.”

  “But he’s not going to blow a chance to break into the American circuit, is he? That’s where the money is.”

  “He knows that. And I think he’d like nothing better than to stay out there after the Miami fight, and wash his hands of us.”

  I stood up, making sure my cock was still visible. “Ungrateful little shit. I’ll knock some sense into him.”

  “Calm down, Rambo. Mr. Vaughan has everything under control.”

  “You hope.”

  “What do you mean?” Jackson looked suspicious.

  “If everything works out at his meeting in Miami.”

  “It will. It’s just, you know, red tape.”

  “Immigration stuff, you mean? He could have sorted all that out at the embassy.”

  “Thank you, Greg. If I need any advice, I know where to come.”

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up at four.” A final squeeze to the dick. “Bring a toothbrush.”

  I had half an hour to kill before I had a personal training client; I wondered idly if he would be as fuck-able as the rest of the Vaughan entourage. Or would it be one of the female members whom Vaughan encouraged as camouflage, or window dressing? Were they part of the operation? How far did he cast his net? Were they the bait in the trap?

  I found a quiet stairwell at the back of the building to compose an email to control in London. Unencrypted, it read:

  Please check any criminal records or other reason why boxer Craig Lukas may not be able to enter or work in USA. Also any fiscal or other financial factors that would limit Alan Vaughan’s ability to work/conduct business in USA. Please list any websites owned by or otherwise connected to Alan Vaughan.

  My inbox contained further details on PANOPLY and WARDROBE. Panoply had ceased transmitting at 0615 this morning at a new address, suggesting that Oz had either had a good shit or a very rough fuck. Wardrobe (Kieran) was still transmitting, but had been in the same location since 0800. Lazy, or possibly dead. Maybe someone found out he’d been giving it away. Maybe a client took things a little too far. The thought nagged at my mind.

  I had his number, so I called him.

  “Oz. It’s . . .” Shit! I nearly said Dan. “It’s Greg. You okay?”

  “Yeah, good man. Sorry. I’m still in bed.”

  “Get up, you lazy bastard! Shouldn’t you be at

  work?”

  “I’ve been at work all fucking night, man. What do you want?”

  “I just want to see you again, that’s all.”

  “Hey, that’s nice.” His sleepy voice sounded inviting. “You could come and join me in bed.”

  “You want to get fucked again?”

  He laughed. “Maybe later, okay? I need to give it a rest.”

  “Sore ass?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And how’s your cock?”

  “Hard, now I’m talking to you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Want me to jerk off on the phone? I can do Skype.”

  “Get some sleep, Oz. You need to look after yourself.”

  “I need you to look after me, Greg.”

  “Okay.” Shit. Feelings are not useful. “I’ll see you later, dude.” I hung up before I said something I’d regret. Damn these boys for reminding me I was still human.

  I went outside, jogged around the nearby park a couple of times, avoiding syringes and dog shit, and returned to City Fitness with a soft cock and a clear head, ready for my client. Fortunately for me, it was a straight middle-aged man with a waistline bigger than his age, who liked talking about fitness more than he enjoyed doing the exercises. I put him through a basic circuit class; he did about thirty percent of what was asked. He left sweaty and satisfied.

  It was nearly noon; time to get out into the streets.

  Thanks to a selection of untraceable credit cards I was able to hire a car with a GPS navigation system and work my way through the addresses where Panoply and Wardrobe had been traced in the last twenty-four hours. Some of them I could dismiss without further investigation: their homes. But the others needed to be looked into.

  Particularly one—a large, detached house in a quiet residential cul-de-sac in the well-to-do suburb of Trafford. Nothing remarkable about it: big back garden, what looked like a swimming pool, some mature trees. Google Earth told me that much. MI6 told me who lived there, of course: Richard Everett, a businessman in his sixties, married with children and grandchildren, unblemished record, big donations to charity, etc.

  Nothing remarkable, except for one thing. Both Oz and Kieran had visited the address during the tracking period. They were there, together, for just over an hour and a half, between 2200 and 2330 yesterday.

  Jackpot.

  I planned a route that took in the four addresses that my implants had pro
duced. A round trip in good traffic would take me about forty-five minutes. That gave me time to stop at each location, observe, record.

  Not that I really needed to go. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but a process of deduction led me to one inevitable conclusion. What could possibly take Oz Rafiq and Kieran McAvoy, two beautiful and sexually compliant young men in the orbit of Alan Vaughan, to a series of private homes in the Manchester area? And why would they both go to the same place? Drug dealers? I ruled that out: nothing suggested Vaughan was involved in pharmaceuticals. Oz and Kieran were delivering something else. They were part of a chain of supply and demand into which newcomers like Dakota and Joshua were entering.

  They were whores.

  Both of them were beautiful, and very good at sex: I could vouch for that. Both of them were connected to Vaughan; Oz worked for him, and was ambitious as a fighter, while Kieran was still on the outside, being lured in with the promise of opportunities to come.

  A business model suggested itself to me.

  Vaughan and his scouts (Brett? Jackson?) identified suitable young men from the gyms and boxing clubs in the area. They were given to understand that their sporting talents might gain them entry to Vaughan’s charmed circle, and the money and acclaim that came with it. Equally, they were offered the emotional and social support that was lacking in their lives: these were all men from insecure and troubled backgrounds who would be drawn to an authoritative father figure like Vaughan. They were lured sexually as well; some of them, I guessed, were already gay, but in other cases Vaughan exploited the natural sex drive of men in their late teens and early twenties and turned it to his commercial advantage. Fitness modelling quickly led to porn. Some, like Jared, were wrong for the job, and easily dismissed. Others like Oz were being used as bait or rewards within the Vaughan system; I had no doubt he’d been thrown in my way in order to reel me in. And now it seemed that Oz and others like Kieran, who proved themselves compliant, were being pimped to wealthy clients in the area. And if they complained? Vaughan withdrew his offers of support. Perhaps he went further than that. Perhaps he blackmailed the boys: after all, he’d have photographs and maybe surveillance footage of what they’d been prepared to do for him. He probably had the same on me—maybe that room that Oz took me to was fitted up with spycams. Maybe he was blackmailing his clients as well, getting the boys to gather material on some of Manchester’s most successful businessmen and sports personalities, the men that lived in those big mansions out in Trafford, who entertained one of two of Vaughan’s boys while the wife was away. . .