Riptide Rentboys

by Heidi Belleau

  “No, it’s fine. I’ve just . . . I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.” He turned away, revealing a greenish-yellow bruise on his right cheekbone, dangerously close to his eye. “I’d better get going.”

  Wes was halfway to the front door before Connor decided to go after him. “Listen,” he called, halting abruptly when Wes flinched at the sound of his voice. “I used to be a resident advisor here back in grad school. If there’s anything you want to talk about, feel free to knock on my door. Okay?”

  Wes looked at him as if he’d sprouted a tail. “Yeah, right,” he said, letting out a bitter chuckle. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Most nights, Connor stayed up ’til the wee hours working. He liked the quiet, and the chance to let his brain wind down from a long day of teaching before concentrating on his research. He’d just started entering data into a spreadsheet when he heard a heavy thump. Sounded like it was coming from Wes’s apartment.

  It wasn’t the first time, either. He’d ignored it before, but that was before he’d noticed that bruise on Wes’s face.

  A dozen steps and he was at Wes’s door, poised to knock until he heard two muffled voices—Wes and another guy. Deep, gruff, barking orders. Wes said something, followed by the creaking of bedsprings. Oh, Christ. Last thing he needed was to stand here listening to Wes fucking someone else.

  He turned to head back to his apartment when he heard Wes cry out, his voice choked off mid-stream. Something about it sent a chill snaking through Connor’s gut.

  Before he could think, he was pounding on the door. “Wes, it’s Connor. You all right?”

  A pause, then Wes answered, “I, I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  Bullshit. The thick door couldn’t disguise the trembling in Wes’s voice. “Open up. You don’t sound fine.”

  Two voices again, low and urgent, followed by the slap of bare feet on the hardwood floor. Then the door opened a sliver, just enough to reveal Wes’s eyes—big, blue, and brimming with fear.

  “I’m fine,” Wes repeated. He was biting his lower lip—hell, practically gnawing it off. “I’ve just got . . . company.”

  Company that forced him to come to the door to convince his neighbor nothing was wrong. Connor had seen more than one instance of domestic violence during his stint as resident advisor. He wasn’t leaving until he got Wes away from whoever had him so fucking terrified.

  “Invite me in,” Connor whispered.

  Wes shook his head. “I can’t,” he mouthed. “Just go, okay?” His hands were shaking so badly he lost his grip on the door, and it swung open. Connor’s jaw dropped at the sight of bruises in half a dozen hues decorating his arms. His throat was a mottled mess. Looked like someone had choked him with a crowbar.

  Connor barged past Wes into his apartment. His gaze immediately locked on the guy sitting on Wes’s sofa bed, buttoning his shirt.

  “What the hell are doing to him?” Connor demanded. The guy finished slipping his shoes on and stood up, issuing a narrowed, squinty glare.

  “What I had a perfect right to do,” he snapped. “Not that it’s any of your fucking concern.”

  “When assholes abuse my friends, it is my fucking concern.”

  The guy spewed forth a harsh, ugly laugh that matched his pugnacious face. He must’ve been old enough to be Wes’s father. Not that Wes liking older men was any big surprise, but . . . Jesus, this guy wasn’t even attractive. “I get it. You’ve fucked him too, huh? Well, why not? He’s a prime piece of ass.”

  Stunned, Connor fell back a step, hands curling into fists. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Aw, what’s the matter? Did he swear you were the only one? Was it true love? I hate to burst your bubble, genius, but you got screwed in every possible sense. He’s nothing but a cock-sucking whore.”

  A lightning bolt of sheer rage tearing through him, Connor took a swing at the guy and managed to clip him on the jaw. The guy reeled, then recovered, landing a punch to Connor’s stomach that sent him crumpling to his knees. He caught his breath and staggered to his feet just as the guy pulled back for another blow. Connor grabbed the nearest solid object off the coffee table and bashed him over the head with all the force of a 90 mile-per-hour serve. He hit the floor like a sedated rhino.

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?” Wes flew to Connor’s side and slid a hand under his elbow—and a good thing too, otherwise he might’ve toppled over again. Then Wes’s gaze lighted on the object in Connor’s hand, and he looked like he was about to cry. “Why’d you hit him with my laptop? You fucking broke it!”

  Sure enough, he had. The bottom of the plastic casing was cracked wide open, which no doubt meant the hard drive was history. Connor tossed the computer on the couch. They had more immediate worries.

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, then leaned down to check the guy’s pulse. It beat strong and steady. He even let out a tiny moan when Connor lifted his eyelid. Luckily, his pupils constricted evenly when the light hit them. He was bleeding freely from a cut on his scalp, but head wounds typically looked a lot worse than they were.

  But Wes was nearly hyperventilating. “Oh my God, did you kill him?”

  “No, he’s just down for the count.” Connor straightened up. “He’ll be fine. C’mon, get dressed. We’re going to my apartment.”

  Wes was already in his jeans, so he grabbed his shirt and sneakers off the floor and quickly tugged them on. Connor ushered him down the hallway, sat him on the couch, and wrapped him in an afghan. Wes flinched, pulling away—and no wonder, considering what he’d just been through. Best to let him have his space.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Connor said, then went to the kitchen to brew him some tea.

  When he returned, Wes was in the same position he’d been in five minutes before, blinking blankly at the far wall. Connor handed him the steaming mug without a word, and he cradled it in both hands. He didn’t seem to be in shock, but his physical injuries definitely needed seeing to. Just looking at him made Connor itch to march down the hall and deal his assailant some serious grief.

  “How long has he been doing this to you?” Connor asked finally, perching on the arm of the couch.

  Wes stared at the floor and shrugged. “A few weeks, I guess. I’ve kind of reached the point where it all blurs together.”

  Connor rubbed his eyes, fighting off a stab of pain that had nothing to do with the lingering ache in his midsection. This had been going on three doors down from him for weeks. He could’ve stopped it long before, if he’d pulled his head out of his ass. “Why didn’t you come to me? I could’ve helped sooner.”

  Wes started to laugh, but it turned into a hoarse, wracking cough. He took a long sip of tea. “I didn’t get that impression the day I moved in.”

  Connor winced inwardly. Fair enough. Still, there was no point dwelling on it. “Stay here. I’m going to see if your . . . er, if he’s come to yet.” When Wes tensed, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door. He won’t get in here, I promise.”

  The guy was still lying on Wes’s living room floor, groaning like a cow in labor. He didn’t put up so much as a token protest when Connor fished his wallet out of his slacks. By the time he’d finished thumbing through it, the fat fuck had opened his eyes.

  Connor waited until he sat up to start talking. “Hello, William Easterbrook. I’d say it’s good to meet you, but honesty prevents me.” He handed his wallet back to him. “Does your wife Megan know you’ve got a boyfriend? Or that you get your jollies beating him up?”

  Easterbrook pulled out his handkerchief and mopped at the blood trickling down his cheek. A half-smile, half-grimace slithered over his lips like a worm. “You still don’t get it, do you, ace? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a whore. I pay him.”

  The words hit Connor harder than that first punch. No. Fuck that. He opened his mouth to protest, but Easterbrook jerked his thumb at the pile of money on the coffee table.

  “Get the fuck out of here and don’t c
ome back,” Connor rasped. “If you ever bother him again, you’ll have more to worry about than a crack on the head. I’ve got your address and phone number, and the rest of your life is a Google search away. I have a feeling your wife and your boss might be interested to find out how much you enjoy raping boys young enough to be your son.”

  Easterbrook’s smile faded into the proverbial scared-shitless look. “You, you wouldn’t . . .”

  “Wanna find out?”

  They stared each other down until Easterbrook finally tottered to his feet. His gaze landed on the coffee table, as though he was considering taking his money back, but Connor’s hard glare stopped him. He turned and skittered out the door like someone had lit his ass on fire.

  Connor waited until the tap of Easterbrook’s footsteps had faded, then headed back to his apartment. A million thoughts and memories flooded his brain, but he shoved them aside. He needed to take care of Wes first.

  Wes stiffened as Connor came back in, clutching his cup of tea. “Is he . . .?”

  “Gone. And if he’s got any sense of self-preservation, he won’t be back.” All Connor could do was look at him, empathy and anger and a dozen other emotions warring for dominance. But how could he yell at the poor kid when he looked like he’d just lost a fight with a lead pipe? “C’mon,” he said at last. “I’m taking you to the ER.”

  Connor sat in the ER waiting room staring dumbly at an old copy of Newsweek until a doctor came out and beckoned him into the examination area. He was a fortyish man with a military haircut, his lips pressed into a hard line as he made a notation on the chart in his hand.

  “I’m tempted to call the police,” the doctor said, “except he swears up and down you’re not the one who assaulted him. Is he telling the truth?”

  Connor held up his hands. “Does it look like I’m in the habit of beating people up?” Well, that came out way more sarcastically than he’d intended. He cast a glance around the room, and spied Wes lying on a bed through a nearby, partially-open curtain. Hopefully he couldn’t hear what he and the doctor were talking about, but Connor lowered his voice anyway. “I’m his neighbor. I heard him calling for help. By the time I got there, the guy who’d roughed him up was long gone.”

  “And you have no idea who he is? This is obviously not the first time it’s happened.”

  “Wish I did. Wes wouldn’t tell me the guy’s name.” Connor hated lying, but dragging the cops into this would only make things worse. Wes was in no shape to hold up under a police questioning. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Eventually. The widespread contusions and bruised windpipe will take a week or two to heal. He’s showing signs of psychological trauma that may well take longer. Or not—it’s impossible to predict.” The doctor stepped over to the nurse’s station and pulled out his prescription pad. “I’m giving him some Valium to get him through the next few days. Perhaps you could convince him to seek out counseling. And making sure he doesn’t spend tonight alone wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  Connor went back out to the waiting room. Wes appeared a few minutes later, still pale and shaky, a white paper bag with the hospital’s logo on it in his hand. “Ready to go?” Connor asked. Wes nodded, and they headed out to the parking lot.

  They drove home in silence. Connor trailed Wes inside and down the hallway, their footsteps tapping eerily on the linoleum. They passed Connor’s door first, but despite the doctor’s advice, he didn’t invite Wes in. He’d already gotten far too involved. Much as he felt for the kid, this was Wes’s problem. He’d have to deal with it on his own.

  Still, he walked Wes to his apartment and waited while he opened the door. God, the place looked like it’d been hit by a tornado—bed torn up, pieces of Wes’s laptop strewn all over, blood on the floor and streaked down the side of the sofa, dried to a sickly rust. A faint coppery odor hung in the air.

  Wes took it all in, looking for a few seconds as if he were about to throw up. “I, um . . . didn’t realize we’d made such a mess.”

  “It’s okay,” Connor murmured. “I’ll help you clean it up.”

  “You don’t need to.” He unzipped his jacket and slipped it off. “Might as well have something to keep me occupied, since I doubt I’ll be getting any sleep.”

  “Take one of those pills the doctor gave you. That’s what they’re for.”

  “I, I’d rather not. I mean, what if he comes back?” Wes sucked in a shuddery breath. “I don’t want to be out of it while he’s . . .”

  He still had that awful, terrified look in his eyes, like an abused pet bracing for its master’s next kick. “Wes, c’mon. Relax. He’s not coming back, I promise.”

  “You don’t know him like I do. Wouldn’t be the first time he showed up in the middle of the night.” Wes swallowed, wincing. “Usually drunk, which makes him even meaner.”

  Now the poor kid started to tremble, arms folded across his chest. So much for leaving him to fend for himself. Maybe Connor couldn’t fix everything, but he could offer Wes a little peace, if only for tonight.

  “Grab your pajamas,” he said. “You can sleep in my room.” When Wes shot him a startled glance, he added hastily, “By yourself, of course. I’ll take the couch.”

  Still, Wes headed straight for the couch once they got there, grabbing the afghan to wrap around himself. “It’s okay, I can sleep here. It’s a hell of a lot more comfy than my lumpy old sofa bed.”

  “Guests don’t sleep on the couch in my house. Especially injured guests.” Connor jerked his chin toward the hallway. “No more arguments. Hop to it.”

  He showed Wes to the bedroom, then went back to the kitchen for some water while Wes put on his pajamas and crawled under the covers. He handed the glass to Wes, along with a Valium. “If you want, I’ll sit over there until you fall asleep.”

  Wes warily eyed the armchair in the corner and nodded. “Okay.”

  Connor fetched his laptop and settled down to work, his screen and the clock radio on the nightstand the only sources of light. It took about half an hour before Wes’s breathing slowed into the calm, steady rhythm of sleep. Connor waited a few more minutes, then shut his laptop and got up.

  Wes had rolled onto his side, the bruise on his face visible in the clock radio’s glow, though the pain and fear had finally drained from his features. Connor reached down to skim his fingertips gently along Wes’s pale cheek, then trudged into the living room to collapse.

  Connor woke around seven and lazed groggily on the couch for another few minutes until he heard Wes get up. He grabbed his shirt and jeans off the arm of a nearby chair and tugged them on just as Wes entered the room. He looked adorable in his red plaid pajama pants and plain white T-shirt, his hair all bed-mussed. Connor stared a bit longer than he should have, a silly grin spreading across his lips. “Coffee?” he asked, at last.

  “Yes, please,” Wes replied gratefully, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen counter.

  Connor put on a pot of French roast, then opened the fridge. “I’ve got eggs and fruit, if you want something to eat.”

  “Mmm . . . it’s still hard to swallow.”

  Connor’s gaze zoomed in on Wes’s bruised throat for a second before he forced himself to look away. “How about a protein shake?”

  Wes pondered it, fidgeting. “Um, sure. I mean, if you’re making one for yourself. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s no bother.” He threw some bananas, blueberries, rice milk, protein powder, and ice cubes in the blender and let it rip. He’d made more than enough for both of them. Wes’s eyes bugged out when Connor set a large glass in front of him.

  “Not sure I can finish all this, but . . .” Wes took a tentative sip, then nodded. “S’good. Thanks.”

  The coffee was ready a couple minutes later. Connor climbed onto the stool next to Wes and took a huge gulp. Wes did the same, alternating between the coffee and his protein shake. Connor was glad he was getting something nutritious in him. He was already so thin, even the loss of
a few pounds made him look unhealthy.

  At last Wes did indeed finish his shake. He pushed his glass aside and took a deep breath, as if bracing himself to be yelled at. Then he looked Connor dead in the eye and said, “Whatever you want to ask, go ahead.”

  Connor stared into his mug. Sure, there were plenty of things he was dying to ask, but he wasn’t certain he was ready for the answers. Was it better to know or to remain blissfully ignorant?

  Stupid question. He was a scientist, after all.

  “Well . . .” He flicked his mug handle with his thumb, his gaze fixed on the counter. “Why did you start doing this in the first place? Aside from the money, I mean.”

  “There is no ‘aside from the money.’ That’s the only reason I did it. It’s the only way I could make enough to pay for school, if I want to graduate before I turn fucking forty.” He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m not the only one doing it, either. There’re a lot of students just like me, with their scholarships cut and no other prospects than these ‘seeking arrangement’ websites.”

  Connor’s mug froze halfway to his mouth. “Websites? You’re kidding.”

  Wes glanced down, studying his fingernails. “Well, they don’t really make it sound like . . . um, what it is. They market it as more of a sugar daddy type of thing.”

  “Oh.” Made it slightly more palatable on the surface. Didn’t disguise the rotten center, though. “Is that what your . . . er, he was, a sugar daddy?”

  “That’s where I’d hoped it was going, at first, anyway. He wanted to see me once a week, and he paid me pretty well, considering all he wanted to do was spank me. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t unbearable. But then he got violent, hitting me and choking me. I almost passed out a couple of times.” His hands tightened around his mug. “Last night he tried to fuck me bareback. When I told him no, he started choking me again. If you hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

  Connor listened in growing horror as Wes kept talking, all the awful details of the past few weeks spilling out of him. God, no wonder he’d dropped weight and turned into a nervous wreck. Connor couldn’t imagine what it’d been like, living in such abject fear with no hope that it would ever end. It spoke volumes about Wes’s resilience and strength of will that he’d endured it for as long as he had.