by Thom Collins
Hurrying from the office to the car, he called Conrad. His friend answered straight away.
“Hey you,” Conrad said, “if you’re looking for another drinking companion, I can’t tonight. I’ve got so much to do.”
“That’s not it. Can you spare ten minutes to collect a prize?” He explained about Clint’s offer. “He said if I called into the gym after work he’d have a donation ready for you. Only I don’t have the time tonight. Any chance you could swing by yourself? Just explain that I sent you, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Not a problem,” Conrad said. “I’m heading to the theater in the next half hour. I can stop at the gym on the way. Dexter’s, isn’t it?”
“That’s the one,” Matt replied, fastening his seatbeat. “Give him your best charity pitch. You might get more out of him than I can.”
“Is he handsome?”
“He’s not ugly. But you shouldn’t be looking. I thought things were going well with you and Danny Frost.”
“They are,” Conrad said. “But I can still look. After all, a handsome man is a handsome man.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. Tell Clint I’m sorry I couldn’t come in person. I’m sure you can sweet talk him.”
“I’ll give it my best.”
Matt hung up and swung the car into the stream of traffic. He’d already programmed Dale’s address into his sat nav and let the system guide him. His mind was full of other things. Of Dale Zachary and the night they had ahead of them.
The future they had ahead of them.
Nothing could spoil it.
Everything was going to be perfect.
Chapter Nineteen
Things were coming together nicely. Very nicely. Tickets for tomorrow night were ninety-five percent sold and Conrad had already pre-sold a whole load of raffle tickets. It was shaping up to be one of the company’s most successful fundraisers ever. The autumn production of Fiddler on the Roof was a certainty now. But this was not the time to sit back and bask in achievement. That would come on Sunday. Right now, there was plenty of work to be done.
Such a pity about Matt’s boyfriend. Ordinarily, having a star like Dale Zachary onboard would have brought the kind of publicity that money couldn’t buy. But right now, the timing was wrong. Aside from the personal drama Matt and Dale were caught up in, Blood Falls On Stone was generating the kind of attention that no one wanted to be associated with, much less a children’s charity. Hopefully there would be other opportunities. Matt was smitten with the American actor. If their relationship worked out, then Dale would still be around to help with their next fundraiser.
Conrad hoped things did work out. Matt deserved some luck in love. Especially after Jamie turned out to be such a dick. Morose and uncommunicative, he was a drag. It was no secret that he didn’t like Matt’s friends and hated Matt spending any time with them. Conrad never understood what Matt saw in him. He was decent-looking but so what. Matt was in a different league and could take his pick of the hottest guys. Why saddle himself with a misery like Jamie?
He hoped Dale turned out to be different. It was hard to judge. Without ever having met him, he could only go on what he’d read. He was a hottie. No denying that. When it came to looks, Dale and Matt were perfectly matched. But looks weren’t everything. What was he really like? It was hard to see what Matt could have in common with a closeted American actor. A deeply closeted actor it would seem. There was plenty of gossip about his sexuality, but not one comment from Dale. In interviews he trotted out the same bland, pre-prepared lines about the importance of family and how he’d like to settle down again someday. Always guarded, always careful. A man with something to hide.
So unlike Matt, who’d always worn his heart on his sleeve. There was no artifice or deception. He was confident in his sexuality—always had been—and sure of himself.
Maybe that was what Dale needed. A guy like Matt to support him as he crawled out of the closet. He couldn’t imagine it working the other way. Matt wouldn’t lurk in the background for the sake of appearance.
They would see. Conrad had resolved to ask them both out next week. Once his obligations were out of the way tomorrow night, he’d have time on his hands, at least for a couple of weeks. A double date. That was how he would pitch it. Things were developing nicely between him and Matt’s lawyer friend, Danny. What better way for them all to get to know each other than dinner in a nice restaurant?
Of course, if it did blow up over Dale’s outing, as Matt seemed to think it would, they could stay in. Conrad loved entertaining and could knock out a pretty good three-course dinner. Homemade pate, a nice lamb and potato stew and a chocolate mousse for dessert. Perfect. He’d call Matt on Sunday with the invitation. It would be nice to give something back to his friend.
He arrived at Dexter’s gym. There was no parking out front, so he had to drive around the block and find a spot in the back street. He’d never been a gym bunny—life was too short to spend it on a treadmill going nowhere—but plenty of people were. If this guy Clint could offer up a nice incentive, it would shift a few more raffle tickets. That’s all that mattered.
He walked back to the main street and tried the front door. It was locked. The lights inside were all off. Eh? What time was it? Was he too late? Matt had said Clint would be waiting. Then he noticed the handwritten sign taped to the window. Closed Temporarily—Plumbing Fault—Reopens Tomorrow. Then, in smaller print, written beneath was Plumber and Other Emergency Contacts, Use Back Door.
Okay. That implied that Clint or one of his assistants was still in there. Maybe they’d left the raffle prize at the back door. It was worth asking. He hadn’t come out of his way to leave with nothing.
The back door was located farther down the alley from where he’d parked. There was an open gate in a high wall, leading to a small backyard. A sign stating Dexter’s Gym was fixed to the door. Conrad knocked hard. And again.
The door was opened by a huge guy with a gray crew cut. He looked exactly how he imagined the customers of one of these places would look. Handsome all right, but in a kind of threatening way. As his mother used to say, “You wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.”
“The gym is closed,” the man said bluntly, pale eyes glaring down at Conrad.
“Hi. Are you Clint? My name is Conrad. My friend Matt Blyth sent me. He said you’d kindly offered to donate a prize to our raffle.”
The man stepped out into the yard and looked up and down the alley. “Is Matt with you?”
“No. He’s very sorry and all that. Something came up at work and he can’t make it. He asked me to drop by instead. I hope that’s all right. I can try ringing him if you like, he’ll confirm that I am who I say I am.”
There was something very strange about this man. He was rude and unmannered and had yet to crack a smile, but it wasn’t just that. The sheer size of him was intimidating enough, but there was something else. Something animalistic. There was an aura about him. It was threatening. Frightening. Conrad’s flesh prickled. Suddenly a deep primal instinct kicked in. It was telling him to flee. He needed to get out of there. Now.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll just go. Matt can contact you in the morning and make his own arrangements to collect your donation. I really should be going.”
“No.” The man’s mouth stretched into what could be interpreted as a smile. It had the shape and look of a smile but was devoid of any warmth, humor or humanity. “That’s fine. I was expecting Matt, that’s all. I have the prize. It’s in my office. Come inside. You might as well take it while you’re here.”
Don’t go in there, the warning voice screamed. There’s something not right about this guy.
The man—Clint—stepped back and beckoned Conrad to follow.
Was he being irrational?
Oh what the hell. Matt would never have told him to drop by if Clint
was a psycho. What did he think he was going to do to him anyway? An overactive imagination, that was his problem. Too many late-night movies on the Horror Channel. He was seeing psychotics where there were none.
He followed Clint inside.
The lights were out in the main gym hall. He could see the skeletal silhouettes of the equipment—dumbbells, running machines, cross-trainers. It looked like a fairly decent, well-equipped place, if you were into that kind of thing.
“What’s up with the plumbing?” he asked brightly, keeping it light, to pretend that everything was normal.
“Sprung a leak,” Clint said flatly. A man of few words.
Conrad made a mental note to self—if he drew this prize, donate it right back.
“Where did you say Matt was?” Clint asked. They had reached a small office in the corner of the main hall. There was a desk, computer, filing cabinet. Not much else.
“I’m not sure. Working, I think. He just called to say he couldn’t make it. He works really long hours.”
“It’s Friday night.”
“That won’t make a difference. If he has work to do, he’ll stay till he finishes.”
Clint turned to face him, heavy butt perched on the edge of the desk. He focused on Conrad, eyes narrowed, looking hard. As though studying him properly for the first time. “Do you work out?”
“Me? Oh, God no.” He laughed. It sounded nervous, even to his own ears. Keep it together. Don’t let the fucker intimidate you. “I don’t have time. My job keeps me busy. I’m always dashing about, here and there. So much to do. Especially with events like the one this weekend. I could really do with getting on now. If you have that prize I’ll get right out of your hair.”
Clint’s mouth narrowed. He folded strong arms across his chest. “So what are you to Matt?”
Conrad’s flesh prickled all over again. “We’re friends. We’ve known each other for years.”
“What does that mean? You holding a candle for him, or something? Got a schoolboy crush?”
“No. Nothing like that. We’re just good friends. That’s all. Now I really do have to get going.”
“That’s the thing, you see. You’re going nowhere.” Clint uncrossed his arms and moved his hands toward his groin. He stroked the hard bulge. “Like sucking cock, Conrad? ’Cause you’re going to suck mine. You’re going to suck it real good too, if you know what’s good for you.”
“There’s been some kind of mistake,” Conrad said, just about managing to keep his cool. “I don’t know what your problem is but you can shove your prize. I’m going.”
“Stay where you are,” Clint snarled. He stood straight, one hand still stroking the bulge in his pants. “You see, I’ve got a problem. I was looking forward to Matt coming round here this evening. Been looking forward to it all day. Finally getting a chance to stick it to him. And you turn up in his place. You. I mean, shit, look at you. You’re barely a man at all.”
Conrad edged toward the door. “You’ve got the wrong idea. About both of us.”
“Maybe. But I’m going to stick it to you anyway.”
“Mister, that’s not going to happen.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” Clint said coolly.
The time for talking was over. Conrad turned and made a swift dash for the exit.
Clint was the bigger man but he was also faster.
Conrad was barely out of the office door when a huge arm wrapped around his neck, hauling him back against Clint’s bulk. He struggled, gripping Clint’s arm in both hands, trying to release his grip. Hopeless. He wriggled, trying to use his slighter size to his advantage, but there was no slack to maneuver.
“I like it when boys put up a struggle,” Clint muttered, grinding his obscene bulge against Conrad’s ass. The arm around his neck tightened its grip.
A sudden thought came into his mind. Is Clint the Durham Strangler?
It seemed far-fetched and yet he had his arm around his throat. He was choking him.
Conrad panicked.
His survival instinct kicked in. He fought, twisting, kicking Clint’s shins, reaching behind, trying to find his eyes with his fingers. Seeking something to hold on to, somewhere soft, where he could cause some damage.
Clint put a hand on the back of his head. Pushed hard, forcing Conrad’s throat against his solid forearm. He was choking, couldn’t breathe, his vision began to dim.
With a harsh laugh, Clint released his hold. Conrad dropped to the floor. There was a sharp pain as his kneecap impacted with the tiles—it jarred all through his body. He gasped for breath. Reacting on instinct, he fought through the pain. He knew the danger he was in. There was no time to assess the situation, he had to get out. Now. He pulled toward the door.
“I don’t think so.” Clint chuckled, standing down hard on the back of Conrad’s injured knee.
The pain was excruciating. A wave of blackness rushed over him. He came close to passing out but the instinct to survive was strong. Keeping him conscious.
Clint reached down, put both hands around his waist and lifted him as though he weighed next to nothing. He carried him to the desk and threw him face down on top of it.
“No,” Conrad screamed, as the larger man tore at his trousers, pulling them down with his underpants to bare his behind.
He heard the voice behind him say, “I’m going to enjoy this a lot more than you, my friend.”
Then the real agony began.
****
Clint walked slowly around the floor of the darkened gym. His thoughts came more easily in the dark and he did need to think. Today, everything had got away from him. The careful control that had served him well all these years had deserted him. From the moment Matt said he would come around tonight, he’d been thinking with his dick, not his brain. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Thinking like that could get a man in trouble. Worse, it could get him caught.
He had no intention of that happening.
This was Matt’s fault. Making him lose his cool. If he hadn’t asked for that stupid raffle prize, none of this would have happened. Letting him think he was coming over. Getting him hot and bothered. Sending this faggot round in his place. It was intolerable. Making him deviate from the plan and lose sight of the long game.
The long game was over. No chance of seeing it through to conclusion now.
Today’s misdemeanors required a quick, clean resolution.
Matt had made a fool of him.
For that, he would be punished—in the most severe way.
Clint moved back toward the office. The faggot was on the floor. He was unconscious but still breathing. Just. With his trousers in tatters around his ankles, his body was a bloody wreck. When Clint was done with his ass, he’d stuck it to him with his boots, kicking him around the floor until his body stopped resisting. He’d lost it entirely. Allowing anger to possess him. So much frustration had built in him across the day. It wasn’t enough to fuck this piece of shit. Not after all that. He had to fuck him up too. Boy, had he fucked him over, working up a sweat as he booted him all over the office. Giving him all he deserved.
Now what?
Clint prodded the body with the tip of his toe. He didn’t move. He shoved him again, harder.
“Wake up, bitch,” he snapped.
When there was still no reply, he knelt beside him and grabbed a fistful of hair. The hair was wet with blood, and as he lifted his face from the floor, Clint realized the damage his boot had done to the boy’s features. His own mother would find it difficult to recognize the faggot now. Still, he wasn’t dead yet, the bitch would talk.
“Wake up,” he growled, smacking the side of his face with his palm.
Conrad whimpered.
“Where is Matt?” he barked, shaking Conrad’s head. “Answer me. Where is he? You’ll talk if you know what’s good for you. I don’t wan
t to hear none of that shit about him working late. Where is he really?”
Conrad’s eyes were swollen shut but from the change in his breathing, Clint knew he was awake. Clint repeated his question. When Conrad tried to speak, blood and saliva bubbled between his bust lips. Clint smacked his face again.
“I can’t hear you. Where is he? Tell me.”
Again, the answer was incomprehensible.
Shit. This was no good.
Clint let go, allowing Conrad’s face to drop heavily against the tiles. He stood and left the office, returning a few moments later with a bucket of ice cold water. He tipped the whole lot slowly over Conrad’s head. The little fucker was making plenty of noise now that he thought he was drowning. Screaming and spluttering, he tried to wriggle away from the downpour. Clint put a foot in the middle of his back, ensuring he went nowhere.
Conrad spat blood and water across the floor, gasping for breath. Clint was certain that his nose was broken. He leaned down and grabbed him by the hair again.
“Now listen,” he hissed. “I reckon if I stick my cock down your throat right now, with that bust nose of yours, you won’t be able to draw breath. Is that how you want this to end? Eh?” He shook his head like a terrier with a rat for effect. “Now, I’ll ask again and this is the last time I’m going to ask nicely. Where is Matt?”
Conrad made a strange mewling sound as he tried to speak. Clint realized that his jaw was as broken as his nose. Shit. He really had lost his temper. Still, the little fucker could speak. He smacked his face again.
“Daaarrr…” Conrad spluttered, blood dribbling down his chin.
“What was that? Say it again.”
“Daaaa…” He coughed, spitting more blood. “Daa. Daaale.”
“Dale? Did you say Dale? Is that where he is? With the fucking American?”
“Yeeeeth. Yeeths.”
