Tough Love

by Heidi Cullinan

  He needed an act wrong, forbidden, something only Steve was allowed to do. Something that would wash away the hurt of his mother’s rejection, the fear that he wouldn’t be good enough to make it out of the valley. Something that took the wounds the world gave him, turned shame and degradation on its ear, and made them communion.

  He looked Steve in the eye, naked all the way to his soul. “Do it, Papi. Please, please give it to me.”

  Steve’s countenance darkened in pleasure and power. He stroked Chenco’s cheek. “Say it. Give me the words, boy.”

  Chenco knew no shame. None whatsoever. Only need.

  “Piss on me, Papi. Please, Papi. Give it to me.”

  Bending down, Steve kissed him, crushing, claiming, biting.

  Then he stood back and, gaze fixed on Chenco’s face, set his stance, and aimed his cock at Chenco’s face.

  As the warmth hit him, Chenco wept.

  Part of his brain acknowledged the care Steve took—nowhere near his eyes, mostly on his chin and cheeks, his chest—but mostly Chenco reeled from the knowledge that he’d let this happen, he’d let another man piss on him, he’d allowed this…and it undid him. It was ten thousand times more vulnerable than anything he’d let Steve do to him yet, more humbling. It was the kind of thing his father would have expected him to do. Fucking faggots, always pissing on each other. Demeaning, debasing. So few people would understand why he would let anyone do this to him. How disgusting. How debasing.

  How free are you right now, Crescencio Ortiz? What is left now for you to hold onto in this world but your own life?

  He sobbed, his cries rushing out from the depths of his bowels, this release sacred in a way nothing else in the world could be. I am this person. I have gone here, I have sung this song. Though Steve had crooned praises all day, for the first time Chenco felt that pride, a river of power inside him, filling him with holy fire.

  I am the one who has allowed this. I have faced this mountain, this judgment.

  I can face anything.

  He floated through the next hour. Steve led him to the shower and washed them both down, bearing Chenco up, kissing him, murmuring sweet things, but mostly he was quiet, acknowledging the sacred space Chenco had found. Once they were clean, Steve took an hour to pamper Chenco’s skin, applying lotions and oils, checking welts. Every single inch of Chenco was stroked and loved, every part of him studied to be absolutely, completely sure the damage to his skin was what Steve had intended and no more. All the while Chenco drifted in the sweet, beautiful place he’d found.

  The place Steve had shown him how to find.

  Steve tucked Chenco into freshly made sheets and brought him food Randy had made for them—fragrant gyros and fruit and vegetables and hummus and pita bread and juice. Every bite tasted so sharp and perfect and wonderful Chenco felt like he could slip into subspace again.

  When he woke in the morning, Chenco rose from the deepest, longest dream he’d ever had. Colors seemed brighter. Smells seemed sharper. He could feel, in a way he never had before, his center, his weighted anchor in the seat of himself, a small red fire burning with surety, telling him yes, everything was about to change, but he would be fine. He knew certainty with a conviction he’d never known before.

  He shut his eyes and swam in it, grateful to Steve, to himself, to everything.

  Caramela slid into place inside him, her strength and power coming back. It was time, she whispered to him, to rehearse. To plot. To plan. To blow Crabtree’s mind clean out of his head. To take over the whole goddamned world, just like they’d always planned.

  Chenco smiled. He couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AS BOOKER AND Chenco prepared to head to South Padre, thinking of what the performance might bring, Steve could already see their future.

  Everyone liked Chenco and wanted him to live out his dream. Ethan and Randy had the means to see he at least got a decent shot at receiving it. One way or another the guys would make sure Chenco soon left the valley. If Steve wanted to go along, which he did, he had some housecleaning to do.

  He’d dragged his feet over telling Crabtree about Gordy, but after the intense scene with Chenco he gave in and took the older man to the cannery. Steve had let Brett and Randy take care of repairing the damaged cameras, getting Gordy to take his meds, bringing him at least one decent meal a day. It was strange to be back, and Steve felt self-conscious.

  He had to do this, though, if he wanted out. Parked in the deserted, weed-riddled lot, Steve stared at the rim of his steering wheel. “I grew up here. My parents ran the orchards and the cannery the same as my dad’s parents had and their parents before. Since there have been orchards in the Rio Grande Valley, my family has been here, growing citrus.”

  “Yes,” Crabtree agreed, speaking as one who clearly knew this fact.

  Steve remembered what Randy had said about Crabtree liking to look into people’s history. He glanced across the seat, wondering how much of this story he needed to bother telling.

  Crabtree read his silent question with a quirk of his lips. “One can learn as much from the way the tale is told as one can from the facts themselves. Please continue.”

  Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyeing his packet of tobacco on the dash. He thought about asking if Crabtree would mind if he smoked, remembered the heart attack and changed his mind.

  “Gordy and I knew each other from grade school. His parents both worked for us—mom the receptionist at the cannery, dad a driver. We were friends through high school too. After the freeze, though, things got rough—I went to college, the cannery closed. I left school and went to Desert Storm, then went back to Stanford. Didn’t go local. I should have. I only saw him on breaks, and not then, not always.”

  Crabtree snorted. “You were at a prestigious institution making top grades. You had job offers before you left for the Army. The idea that you should have been in McAllen in case something might have happened to your friend is foolish, and you know it.”

  “We were friends. He thought we were lovers. My being gone so long made him think I’d abandoned him.”

  This excuse only made Crabtree wave a dismissive hand.

  Steve swallowed against the rawness of his throat. “I heard about it through my sister, from one of her friends from the valley. How he couldn’t hold a job. How he was ‘messed up in sex’, as she put it. We’d been playing casually before I left, so I knew she meant BDSM, but I didn’t yet get it was bad shit until I came through again.”

  He shut his eyes, remembering.

  “It was bad. He’d been caged, beat, passed around like a fucking toy. True cruelty, taking advantage of his loneliness and vulnerability and…well, they ruined him. And it was all because I left him. So I moved back here. I tried to undo some of their shit, and for a while it was almost okay. But he wanted me to be his boyfriend, and I couldn’t. One day I couldn’t find him. I searched and searched, but it was a friend who found him by accident at the hospital. There was Gordy, beat to a piece of meat. The tats were the only reason Brett knew him.”

  Steve still stared at the cannery, but his gaze was unfocused now, lost to memory. “He wouldn’t move in with me. He went to the cannery on his own—I’d been about to sell it to a developer, but once Gordy moved in, I pulled out of the deal. I’ve set up surveillance so I can keep an eye on him, make sure nobody hurts him, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Brett wants me to commit him—he’s on enough meds to fell a horse, when we can get him to take them. I can’t turn him in, though. They wouldn’t understand him. He wants scenes, punishment, play—they’d tell him it was bad, and I can’t stand the idea of anybody else telling him he’s wrong.”

  He watched Crabtree, but the old man gave away nothing, only stared hard at Steve, as if his gaze could peel away layers of skin.

  Finally, Crabtree spoke. “What is it you want from me? I assume you want advice, or help, or possibly some kind of miracle, which I’d argue you’d know better than to hop
e for, but I can see Gordy isn’t the only one unhealthy in this relationship.”

  “I know I have work to do on myself. I’m trying.” You think I’m fucked up, try looking in a mirror. Steve stiffened and looked away. “Randy said you could help, but if this is too much, I won’t blame you.”

  Crabtree sighed and put his hand on the door of the truck. “Children. You’re all children. Come now, boy. Let’s go see what kind of mess you have for me.”

  They went into the cannery together, Steve slowing his steps to match Crabtree’s halting gait. The cane seemed more accessory than tool while they were in the parking lot, but once they were inside the building, the older man needed it with every step to navigate around the rubble. It took everything in Steve not to reach out and steady him.

  Crabtree cast him an impatient glance. “I’m man enough to clean up after you, but not to walk across an uneven floor?” He aimed his cane at a closed door. “I assume he’s in there?”

  “Yes, sir.” Steve didn’t anticipate this meeting would be a good one. “I think—”

  “Knock on the door, announce us, and then get the hell out of my way.”

  Gordy didn’t answer when Steve called out, not even when he knocked a second time and called out louder. Before he could knock again, Crabtree shoved him neatly aside with the point of his cane and turned the doorknob.

  “Gordon Weste?” Crabtree called out, swinging the door wide.

  In the deep shadows, a nest of newspaper moved.

  Crabtree’s expression flickered before settling into his impassive, determined countenance. “I won’t stand here all day waiting for a little brat. You have until the count of three to come out, or I’m coming in after you. One, two—”

  Gordy’s head popped out of the newspaper. He regarded the gangster warily. “Who are you?”

  “I am the man who will master you, which is what I have heard you want, but watching you sit there thinking you’re interviewing me, I’m not sure you’re worthy. I’m thinking I’m wasting my time.”

  As Crabtree turned around, Gordy leaped forward. “No. No—please. Sir. Wait.”

  “Wait for you? Why on earth would I do that?”

  Gordy’s gaze flickered to Steve, but Steve had nothing to give him. A dim part of him understood what Crabtree was doing. Mostly, though, Steve felt lost and panicked and ready to bolt.

  When Steve hesitated, Gordy drew back. “You’re giving me away?”

  Guilt lay Steve low, but before he could speak, Crabtree murmured in irritation under his breath and dug into his pocket. “Here, boy.”

  He held out a dog biscuit.

  Crabtree called again—his voice had changed subtly, full of rich command and entreaty, so much so something in Steve curled up and longed to be petted. Crabtree kept calling out, his tone eager but patient, as if he could stand there all day and call a puppy. It was intoxicating, his patience, and it filled the crumbling room, mesmerizing Steve and Gordy both.

  Eventually it also brought Gordy out of his nest. His gaze darted between Steve and Crabtree before settling on the gangster. Crabtree continued to encourage him, and when Gordy made it all the way to his feet, Crabtree praised him and handed over the biscuit. Gordy accepted it with joy, gobbling it down, still uncertain but clearly longing to rub his face along Crabtree’s leg.

  Crabtree raised an eyebrow at him. “No, no rubs, no pets. Not until you’ve earned them. I don’t play with puppies until I know they can behave.”

  Gordy looked as if he longed to bark, clearly loving the treat. It was beyond any play Steve had ever witnessed, and he’d seen plenty. Neither Crabtree nor Gordy shared Steve’s revulsion. In fact, Gordy’s eagerness to please Crabtree boiled over, but something about Crabtree kept him in check. He didn’t bark.

  He did glance at Steve, however, and when he saw Steve’s face, he snarled. He swore at Steve, grabbing loose garbage and small clumps of crumbled concrete from the floor and tossing them across the room.

  The cane moved so fast Steve jumped—it thwacked Gordy on the side of his knee before returning to its original position. “Puppies do not speak unless they have permission, and they certainly don’t throw things. You are a bad dog who needs to be disciplined, and if you’re lucky, I’ll stay to give you the punishment you deserve. Otherwise I will leave you here to rot alone, filthy and stinking and sulking in your pile of garbage. Do you understand, boy? Do you understand if you break the rules with me, if you don’t show me right now you deserve my attention, I’ll leave you and not look back? Speak once if you understand. Otherwise please continue with your tantrum, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Gordy whined in the back of his throat and lowered his head. He barked once, soft and sorrowful.

  Crabtree’s posture eased, but only a little. “Very good, puppy. Now. Would you like to play with me awhile? Speak again, if it’s what you want.”

  If Gordy had a real tail, it would have been wagging. Lifting his head, he barked, only once, and beamed at the gangster.

  “Very good. Perhaps you aren’t as bad a puppy as I thought.” Crabtree favored Gordy with a brief smile then glanced over his shoulder at Steve. “You may go.”

  Steve blinked. “What?”

  “Leave. I’ll take the keys to your vehicle, as I’m not yet certain when I’ll be finished. If I need anything, I’ll call Ethan.”

  Steve didn’t move. While this was what he’d wanted, Crabtree taking control, now Steve wasn’t so sure it was the best thing. He opened his mouth to voice his reservations.

  Crabtree looked him dead in the eye.

  Any doubts Steve had harbored over whether or not Crabtree had been a killer, a ruthless mobster, died in the glance. At the same time, though, he saw why Ethan and Randy trusted him, why though Mitch didn’t like him, he had faith in him too. Steve saw Crabtree the man, the lines he had crossed and the ones he never would.

  Steve realized how much he’d failed Gordy, not being this wall or finding safety for his friend sooner. His gut knotted so hard he hunched forward a little. He wasn’t forty-one, he was fourteen, realizing how far his life choices would echo, knowing he’d accidentally hurt the ones he loved.

  Crabtree’s expression gentled. “It’s all right. He’ll be fine, and so will you. You’ve done the right thing. I know what I’m doing here much better than you imagine. Better yet, go ask Randy about my history. If I know my boy, he’s had this in mind from the minute he found out Gordy existed.”

  That actually did sound like Randy. It gave Steve some ease, but it was still hard to head out into the parking lot. He stood in the empty center for a long time, thinking.

  Eventually he started back to the ranch, the past closing behind him as a strange, uncertain future expanded exponentially ahead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE CLUB ON South Padre was called Crave, which apparently was also the name of a gay bar in Las Vegas. It wasn’t anything, Randy said, like the real Krave.

  “When we get to Vegas, I’ll take you,” Randy promised Chenco. “Then you’ll understand.”

  Chenco frowned. “When am I going to Las Vegas?”

  Randy only winked and went to help Booker with the setup.

  Booker had been funny lately—ever since Steve and Mitch had looked into Tristan. He’d been better once Crabtree had started hanging with him, but there wasn’t any question he’d changed. Chenco had thought maybe he and the gangster were sleeping together, but when he asked Book about it, Book got all funny and tense. “It ain’t like that,” he said, as if Chenco had stepped in something holy.

  Sometimes, when Crabtree wasn’t around, Booker showed up high. Seriously fucked-up high, and more than once Ethan or Steve had sent him off instead of letting him rehearse. One day Crabtree caught him stoned, and the two had a very bad fight. Chenco couldn’t hear what happened, but Booker was worse now—not high as often, but jittery, especially around Chenco. He got the feeling Crabtree wasn’t doing anything with Booker, not anymore.


  Which made an already tense situation much worse. Ever since Chenco had agreed to the South Padre show, he and Booker had fought, and Chenco involving Ethan so heavily made Booker really jealous. Which was stupid, to Chenco’s mind—the man ran a fucking casino with a theater attached. Why in the world would they not want to get his opinion on things? Somehow to Booker, Ethan’s inclusion was a betrayal, and when Randy came over to help him set up, Booker threw down the gauntlet.

  It was hours before opening, but there were three other acts there as well, and the owners. He got right up in Randy’s face, shaking a clutch of cords in his face. “This is my show. I got this gig. The lights are my thing. Mine.”

  Randy put up his hands. “No sweat, buddy. Just offering to help.”

  Yet even as Randy stepped back, Ethan came quietly closer. Randy’s husband was having one of those moments when he looked like he’d been hanging out with gangsters a lot more than investment bankers.

  Chenco hurried to Booker’s side. “It’s fine, Book. It’s our show. They’re just helping.”

  “We don’t need no damn help.” Booker loomed over Randy. “I’ve been doing her lights since the first fucking day. This is my show. My lights. My job. Get out of my fucking way and let me do my job.”

  “We’re not here to take anything away from you.” Ethan kept his voice calm, but everything about him said tiger, ready to strike. Mitch stood now too, and several of the Crave employees watched the exchange from a distance.

  If Booker saw any of the warning signs flaring up around him, he ignored them. He got right into Randy’s face and bellowed, “Bullshit. I worked for this. I worked hard, this whole time, and you come in and start calling the shots. You get up in his head, and now it’s all what you want, not what I want—”

  “When the hell,” Chenco said, his own tiger roused, “did this start being about you?”

  Booker whirled on him, all the fire formerly aimed at Randy turned on Chenco. “I work this shit for you. I get you the gigs. I make sure everything runs. I hold you up when shit goes down. I do that, not these assholes. They showed up at the end and took all the fucking credit, and you fucking let them.”