To my surprise, the kid—lightning quick—reaches into my jacket, draws my gun, and pulls the trigger three times with the barrel against my chest. The clicking of an empty magazine is his only reward. I wrench the gun from his grasp, and he flinches.
“Don’t do this!” he pleads.
I stand up and holster my firearm, curling my lip in disgusted confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I-I heard about you! You’re that… creepy enforcer! The one Nick Vice calls on!”
I snort. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“You… you….” He grips his clothing tight to his body. “Everyone knows what you do to… to… boys.”
In that single moment I’m both furious and amused. Is the kid trying to imply that I’m going to rape him? Is he trying to imply I have a reputation for fucking little boys?
“I don’t do anything to boys,” I state, my tone more threatening than I wanted it to be. “I never have and never will.”
“Malloy s-said the Vice family gets you kids and—”
“He was wrong,” I say. “But ya know what I do like to do? Shoot druggies who steal my stuff.”
The color drains from his honeyed skin. His instant turn to silence confirms every suspicion I had. He’s a drug addict. I wonder if Miles knows.
I force a smile. “Now stay in here and be good. You and your brother are gonna be sharing a bed. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I walk out of the room, tense and angry all over again. Of course the Cobras would make up stuff about me. I guess I’m scarier to them as a pedophile. I sigh and let the breath take some of my anger with it. Pent-up and frustrated, I make my way to the master bathroom. The bathtub, wide and luxurious, is calling to me. I run the water and strip off my clothing, including removing the belt strapped around my forearm.
Sliding into the tub, I wince in pain. My face is cut, my arm has a bullet injury and a knife wound, and my back is killing me. The hot water does everything good, but the few moments of adjustment are agonizing. I have salve in the cabinet by the toilet, but I don’t have the strength to pull myself from the water. Instead I just sink in, my head on the back of the porcelain. Once the water fills to the brim, I switch it off.
Life passes at a snail’s pace while I watch my own blood seep into the water. I’m contemplating sleeping in the tub when the handle to the bathroom turns and Miles ambles in.
CHAPTER NINE
I RELAX at the sight of him.
Miles is holding an armful of packaged food and drops most of it on the floor next to the tub. I watch, silent, as he turns around and walks back out the door, leaving it open. I can hear him enter the guest room—he must be leaving every door open—and when I close my eyes I can faintly make out his conversation with his brother.
“—he’s not going to hurt you.”
“He’s a psycho! Everyone knows it! That’s what Malloy said!”
“Would you please just listen to me for once? I’m trying to help you!”
“I’m just doing what you did! Why are you trying to stop me?”
“I was just making money, okay! For you! So that you didn’t have to! So that you could stay in school!”
“School? I don’t want to go school! You’re not helping me by putting me in school! I could be making my own money!”
“Jayden—” Miles cuts himself off for a long moment and, when he returns to talking, he’s harder to hear. “Please just trust me. Let me take you to Mom. I think she’ll help.”
“I don’t want her help! I don’t want to be here!”
“Can’t you just…. Never mind. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
The conversation cuts short, and I can see their cold glares in my mind’s eye. If Jayden were my brother, I probably would have dropped him like a bad habit. I’m surprised Miles gives two shits about what his brother does.
I’m also surprised when Miles walks back into the bathroom, shutting my bedroom and bathroom door behind him.
“You don’t mind if I eat in here, right?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.
I glance around the dull blue, black, and white of the bathroom. It’s no French table with a candelabrum, but it’s clean enough to eat off. I shrug and motion him in with a weak flick of my wrist. Movement takes a lot out of me. I return to my sedentary bathing.
Miles takes a seat on the floor, right next to the bathtub, his posture slumped. He picks up a plastic-wrapped sandwich and hands it to me. The meat, pale and dubious, is half soaked into the bread itself. I take the food—I’m too hungry not to—and peel back the wrapping. I eat without tasting. It’s better this way.
Miles passes over a bottle of vodka, and I lift an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you too young to purchase this?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “The cashier didn’t ask for my ID.”
I can see that. Miles is wearing my clothes, after all. I bet the owner thought he was one of the Vice family enforcers and didn’t want to risk getting in trouble. Lucky for me, I guess. I undo the top of the bottle and take a powerful swig. The burning is everything I could’ve hoped for. I let it warm my insides as I sink farther into the tub.
We eat in silence. The sandwich disappears long before I want it to. I sigh and take another long drink.
Miles, once finished, leans over the side of the tub and brazenly scans me. I don’t move, but at the same time I know I’m no stud on a magazine cover. I’m pretty sure I’m bruised down half my body, and the blood only gets the water a sick shade of pink. He’s probably just curious.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’ve had worse.”
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Do you have anything for your injuries?”
I motion with my good eye to the cabinet. Miles slides over and finds my salve—he’s quick with his wits—and grabs a few hand towels while he’s at it. He places them on the side of the tub, but I have no energy to use them. They sit on the edge and the bathroom remains silent.
Miles opens the salve and gobs some out on his fingers. He sits up and gingerly rubs it across the bullet injury on my shoulder, covering the cut with a solid layer. When I offer no protest, he moves to my forearm and repeats the process on the laceration.
This is new. And bold. Then again, Miles just does things without asking, most of which are gutsy to begin with. He slides his thumb across the gash on my face, applying the salve to that injury as well. I stare at him directly, and he gets nervous under my scrutiny. He doesn’t meet my gaze and instead focuses his attention on my body.
Once he’s done with the salve, he rolls up his sleeves and rubs soap on a hand towel. He runs it over my chest, neck, and arms, careful to avoid most wounds. He scrubs my gut, and I grimace—good ol’ Santiago kicked me there—but he pulls away before I have to stop him. Miles continues down to my thighs, taking his time and gently caressing everything sensitive.
I have to admit, it’s erotic as hell. I’ve never had anyone bathe me, or whatever this is. I spread my legs and relax further, content to receive a massage.
He stops for a moment to push the bottle of vodka closer to my hand. I take it and throw back another swig. Miles returns to rubbing me down, and I chortle to myself. A guy could get used to this.
“Thank you for helping my brother,” he says.
I ignore the comment.
Miles continues, “I… know he can be a handful… but I’m all he has. If I don’t look out for him, who will, ya know? That’s why I appreciate all your help.”
I savor another mouthful of vodka.
Apparently discouraged by my silence, Miles stops his gratitude.
“Tomorrow,” I drawl, staring up at the ceiling, “I’ll pull some cash for you and your brother. I have to meet Jeremy at our usual spot, but I can drop you both off at the bus station just on the edge of town.”
It’s Miles’s turn to
be silent.
“I’ll tell them you couldn’t get in with the police, and they’ll forget all about this,” I say. “No one will come looking for either of you.”
“Th-thank you.”
There’s an unsteadiness about his voice that makes me glance over. He’s still focused on his work. I exhale and don’t allow it to bother me. I’ve done everything I can for the man. The real question now is whether he can keep his slob of a brother on the right track.
Miles stops his kneading. He slides down the bathtub and leans over me, his breathing uneven. Without waiting for me to stop him, he presses his mouth against mine, sliding his tongue over my lips and slipping it past my teeth.
I’m not drunk enough for this but… he tastes good. And the way he presses harder into me—like he’s desperate for this—it gets me going. I’ll just pretend I’m drunk enough.
He laps his tongue against mine and sucks my upper lip. When he breaks away, it’s to nibble on my jaw and trail his lips down my neck. I lean back to allow him better access. Miles latches on to my flesh, allowing me to feel his canines without inflicting any pain. He stops to catch his breath and waits a moment longer.
“When are you planning on getting out of the tub?” he asks.
I shrug. “I dunno. I was giving serious thought to sleeping here.”
Miles chuckles. “My brother thinks you’re gonna break into his room while he’s sleeping and molest him.”
“Your brother is gonna have to crawl into this tub and molest himself with my soggy body if that’s what he wants to have happen.”
“Are you really gonna sleep in here?”
“No. Of course not.”
Miles jumps up and gathers my discarded clothing from the floor. Guinevere’s index card falls from my pants pocket. I tense as Miles picks it up. He turns it over in his hand and gives me a questioning look.
“It’s from Guinevere,” I say. Her offer rings in my head. People are leaving Noimore all the time—either via death or vehicle—and I know her words will hang on me like a wet blanket if I keep her card. “Get rid of it,” I command. “I’ll never need it.” Nick will be around for another couple decades, and I’m sure I’ll be dead by then.
Miles crushes the card in his hand. “I’ll take care of it.”
I pull myself from the tub, feeling twice my age, and grab a towel. Miles lingers nearby as I make my way to the bedroom, drying as I go. I throw the towel in the hamper, and he tosses my clothes in after. With a sigh of contentment, I throw myself back onto my bed. What a long fuckin’ day. I glance at the clock. I have to be up in four hours and I set the alarm. Perfect. Just… perfect.
Miles crawls onto the bed and gets over me, bracing himself on all fours and craning his head down to continue his kissing. I go to say something only to have his tongue invade my mouth. Fuck it. If he wants this so bad, I guess I’ll chunk out some sleep time to give it to him. I grab his arm and roll him over onto his back, pinning him under me.
To my surprise he goes stiff. “Wait,” he breathes, placing a hand on my chest. “I’m still sore.”
“You gonna tell me no?” I ask, my face inches from his. “After everything you’ve been doin’?”
“No—no, of course not. Please… just… be gentle.”
His request is laced with fear. It drives me mad—I want him more than ever, but not in a gentle way. I force myself to roll back onto the bed, my gaze locked on the ceiling. He doesn’t know what that kind of language does to me. He doesn’t know I was being gentle with him before. I don’t normally take the time to make sure my flings are enjoying the experience….
“Never mind,” I force myself to say. “I’m not into it.”
Miles sits up stares at me with an unreadable expression. “You look like you’re still into it.”
Eh. My dick’s still into it, sure, but the mind and the dick are two separate creatures. If my dick had its way, I’d be some rent boy, fucking twenty-four seven.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“What if I did all the work?”
I mull over his suggestion. “Fine. Get to it.”
Miles reaches across me and grabs a box of condoms off the nightstand. He must have purchased them at the store—of course he did—and he opens one with a steady hand. He unrolls it over me and right away I know it’s one coated in lubricant and it’s a tad too large. I glance over at the box. It reads MAGNUM XXL. I stifle a laugh. I’m flattered, and maybe that’s what it felt like to him, but I’m not that big.
He rips off his shirt, undoes his pants, and removes his boxers. The midmorning sun reveals his tattoo better than the dim lighting of the hotel room we first fucked in. The tattoo is of a phoenix—some sort of tribal design done in solid black—starting from his right knee and ending with its wings at his hip. I’ve never seen a tattoo in that location before, but I like the look of it.
Miles straddles me, bracing most of his weight on my chest with his posted arms. His expression… it’s as if he’s wrapped up in his own thoughts, barely seeing anything around him. He takes my cock and guides it into place, easing back until it no longer needs a guiding hand. He grits his teeth as it breaches his body.
I tilt my head back, enjoying what mitigated sensation I can feel through the excess rubber. He takes it slow, holding his breath the entire time. He’s tight and the feeling of stretching him is impossible to ignore. Halfway down and I have to stop myself from flipping him over and finishing this myself. The agony of anticipation is killing me. I run my hands over his hips, urging him to go faster and digging my nails into his skin.
“Fuck,” I groan.
He picks up his pace and rocks back and forth, gradually lowering until there’s nowhere else to go. Miles takes a few ragged breaths, clearly not yet used to the sensations, and stares down at me with a mix of lust and deep contemplation. He’s lean and smooth—his sweat a pleasant sight in the glow of the morning—and I enjoy the hint of muscle under his tight skin. Even the bite marks…. I like seeing them too. Like they’re proof he’s mine.
I reach up and grab his neck, pulling him down. I bite his bottom lip and lick it afterward. With a need to taste him, I force my mouth onto him and twist my tongue around his. He increases his force until pulling away midkiss, his expression almost one of anger.
“I thought you didn’t like making out,” he says, his voice shaky. “Why are you…?”
I snort and narrow my eyes. “That’s what you wanted, right?” I ask between husky breaths. “What’re you complaining about?”
He stops his movements and turns away from me, his longer black hair obfuscating his expression. I wait, confused, for him to do something, but the moment continues. Hot wet droplets hit my neck and chest as he pulls away. I prop myself up onto my elbows and graze the wetness with my fingers. Is he crying?
“For fuck’s sake,” I say. “If it hurts that bad, stop!”
He punches the headboard, the crack of the wood hitting the wall enough to get me tensed for a fight. I sit up and Miles wraps an arm around my neck. I grab his hair and yank back, instinct telling me I should fight. He glares at me, his face wet with tears but his eyes so rage-filled they chill my aggression.
“Pierce,” he says, his tone curt. “I….”
I take a deep breath and release him. He closes his eyes and slams his forehead against my collarbone.
“No one is there for me,” he continues, his voice clearer than before but still raw with emotion.
“What’re you—”
“No one.”
“You better start makin’ sense. I’m losing my patience.” Was he drinking? What the hell is he so angry about?
“My mom, she… she left. She didn’t take me or my brothers—but she took my sister. Her favorite. And then there was Lawrence…. Well, you saw Lawrence.”
He takes a ragged breath. “My father kicked me out. I slept on the streets; the kids at school were relentless in their mocking… every day it was the same.
You get it, right? Afterward… when Jayden went to school, I thought I could make it different for him—because no one made it different for me—but even he doesn’t want anything to do with me. He dropped out, shot up, and got involved with the Cobras….”
Miles holds himself close. I say and do nothing. His anger isn’t directed at me.
He continues in a breathless whisper, “It’s my fault. I had to do something. No job, no experience… no clean clothes. No one wanted me. The Vice family took me in as an extra gun but… but Jayden wouldn’t listen. And then the Vice family wouldn’t listen. Even they turned on me.”
His grip tightens and he speaks directly into my neck. “Pierce. I can’t… I can’t repay what you’ve done for me because… no one has ever done it for me. My life, my brother’s life… I just… thank you.”
His ramblings are a little less coherent now, but I’m certain I understand. He was lost and alone, and I was the first sad sack to throw him a handful of crumbs. They’re just crumbs, but to a starving man, they’re more valuable than all the gold in Fort Knox—more valuable than one can put words to. I smirk. That’s how I feel about Nicholas Vice.
“I get it,” I say. “I really do. Calm down.”
“Come with us,” Miles mutters. “When Jayden and I leave… come with us. I’ll spend the rest of my life paying you back.”
That’s two times in one night. I swear I’m not superstitious, but that’s an omen if I’ve seen one. “I can’t,” I tell him straight up. “I owe Nick a debt I can’t repay.”
He shivers. “Then let me stay with you. Let me help Jayden and then… and then let me come back and help you.”
“Fine.”
He’s throwing his life away to repay me for a few crusty crumbs, but I won’t deny him his honor or gratitude. I wrap an arm around him. God, it’s like I’m holding a younger version of myself—right at that moment I agreed to fight for the Vice family.
Miles pulls himself off me. It’s easy, considering how flaccid I’ve become, and he exhales in relief. Before I speak he drags his lips over my own and trails tender kisses. I indulge the moment and return his affection, if only because it’s rare to feel such raw intimacy. He runs his hand over the back of my neck and up into my hair, pulling me deeper. I like it—I like that he wants it—and I caress the ridge of his spine.
Vice City Page 11
