by Lou Harper
So Olly chose not to take offense. For now. “Yeah, a square fruit, that’s me. How about you?”
“I’m straight as a banana,” Rich announced and took another puff.
“Uh-huh. I’ll just open some windows, okay?” Olly walked around the room and yanked the windows open, then he went through the kitchen and opened the back door. Hopefully, the air would start moving and clear the stink out.
Back in the living room, Rich had taken his feet off the cooler and was fumbling around inside. “How about a beer?” He waved a bottle in the air.
“Sure, why not.” Olly took the bottle and twisted the cap off. The cold drink felt good slipping down his throat. He flopped down at the other end of the couch. “Where’s Sandy?”
Rich made an overlarge hand gesture. “Out. About. Something about some missing kitchen cabinets. She told me to stay here in case the delivery men arrive, but they haven’t. So it’s just me and you here, Square Fruit.” His lips pulled sideways and curved, and he showed teeth. Olly realized Rich was smiling for real. He should’ve done it more often—it looked good on him.
Olly knew his reasons for coming here were moot—he wouldn’t be able to have a serious conversation with Rich any time soon, but he could at least have a beer and enjoy the kinder, softer Rich for a little while longer. The trip wouldn’t have to be a total waste. “So, Rich, tell me about yourself.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You said you were out of work,” Olly said, dredging up the throwaway comment from his memory.
Rich jerked one shoulder in a scornful shrug. “Lost my job because I called a client a cunt.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a cunt. I don’t wanna talk about it. You’re killing my buzz,” Rich said, frowning.
“Fine,” Olly agreed. But he was determined to find out something personal about Rich, no matter how insignificant. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” Rich replied, staring at Olly’s hip. “Whassat?” he asked, pointing in the same direction.
Olly looked down and realized that, scratching his stomach, he’d pushed the hem of his shirt up, and blue ink was showing over the rim of his jeans. He pulled the shirt up more. “Tattoo.”
“Of an octopus?”
“Nope.”
“I see tentacles,” Rich pointed out, quite correctly.
“It’s Cthulhu. Wanna see?” Without waiting for a reply, Olly hopped off the couch and unzipped his fly. He pushed his jeans and briefs down enough to show the whole tattoo. The bulk of it was at his groin and hip, so the edge of his pubes peeked out, but it couldn’t be helped. And it wasn’t like he was waving his dick around.
Rich’s eyes got very big and very dark as he stared at Olly’s mythical monster. He leaned forward as if in a daze, and, putting the beer down, he reached his hand out. It froze in midair.
“You can touch,” Olly said encouragingly.
Rich’s fingers were rough but his touch light. He slowly traced the ink lines, causing goose bumps to spread like a California wildfire across Olly’s skin.
Olly held his breath and stood perfectly still as the moment teetered on the edge of the unknown. Then Rich pulled away and sat back with a face full of turmoil. All Rich needed right then was the slightest push to tumble from the straight and hetero. Olly knew this in his guts. But Rich was drugged, and even if it was self-administered, it made no difference—Olly would be taking advantage of someone whose judgment was impaired.
With resignation, Olly zipped up and surreptitiously adjusted himself in the process. He took his spot on the couch and began to chat as if nothing had just passed. “I got it four years ago to hide an appendectomy scar. At the time, I was going through a Lovecraft phase, so Cthulhu was the obvious choice.”
Rich pressed the cold bottle to his temple, and tension gradually faded from his expression. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen. Almost.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Olly nodded. “Yeah, eighteen is the minimum age for tats, but Wade—the tattoo guy—wanted to get into my pants something bad. He inked me in the back room after hours.”
Rich seemed to think this over. “Your parents flipped out?”
“Nah. They were cool. Dad baked a cake in celebration. For the tattoo, not Wade wanting to get into my pants. I didn’t tell them that part.”
“Huh?”
Olly slumped lower, making himself more comfortable. “You haven’t met my folks—they’re old-school hippies.”
“Those still exist?”
“Endangered species, but they are around. They mostly stick to the coast or hide in the desert. You don’t often see them in the city.”
Rich sat quietly and took a long drag of his beer. Olly watched him—the copper stubbles on his face, his lips curled around the mouth of the bottle. “So did he?” Rich asked at last.
“Did who what?” Olly asked, having lost the thread of the conversation during the lull.
“Did what’s-his-face get into your pants?”
Olly grinned. “He sure did!” His gaze drifted and lost focus as the memories came alive. Wade’s slick fingers in his ass and the thick beard tickling his inner thighs as the burly, hairy tattoo artist swallowed his cock down. The first real blowjob of Olly’s young life, and what a glorious blowjob it was. He pressed the heel of his hand to his crotch without thinking, but quickly caught himself and snatched his hand away. Rich was staring at him with the same dark eyes as when he showed off his ink. Olly pulled himself together. “Ahem. Yes. Good times.”
Rich shook his head like a dog with fleas and turned to the cooler. He took out a fresh bottle and opened it. Olly’s gaze glued again to Rich’s lips as he drank. They were a lot like Sandy’s but not quite as full, their lines sharper, more masculine. And they made Olly’s thoughts stray into lecherous territory.
Olly already had half a boner remembering Wade’s technique of deep throating—imagining the same with Rich was doing him no good. So he picked up his beer and tried to think unsexy thoughts. He’d finish this beer and go home, he told himself.
Rich clearly had something on his mind too. “When did you know?”
“What?” Olly asked cautiously. Was he leering too obviously?
“That you were, you know…” Rich made a vague gesture.
Olly got it. “A fruit?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it was pretty clear to anyone interested when at age five I decided to dress as a princess for Halloween.”
“But you’re not…” Rich seemed to cast about for the right word.
Olly decided to help. “Transgender? No. But I figured I’d have a better chance finding my prince dressed as a princess. I blame Disney.”
“How did your parents take it?”
“Mom sat me down and told me love was the strongest force in the universe, stronger than gravity because it could make you fly. And no matter who I’d fall in love with, I’d always be her little prince or princess—whichever I chose.”
Rich frowned. “And your father?”
“He agreed and told me to listen to my mom. He pretty much goes along with anything she says. Mom wears the pants at home. Literally—Dad wears sarongs most of the time.”
“You have strange parents.”
Olly laughed. “No kidding. They were stoned through most of my childhood. They never checked if I did my homework or if I even went to school. Some people would call them negligent or irresponsible. We were lucky the child protective services never caught on. How about your parents?”
“They divorced. I tell you this, though, if I ever put on a dress, my father would’ve blown a gasket.” He lifted the beer and drank till the bottle was empty. He followed it up with a manly burp.
Olly figured he should split, but before he could make his exit, Sandy burst through the door. “I’m going to kill someone!” she growled. “Not you. Stop looking so guilty.” She threw herself between them on the
couch. “The morons lost my cabinets—sent them to the wrong address. Somewhere in Al-fucking-hambra. They might arrive back tomorrow. Or the day after.”
Rich opened the cooler. “You need a beer, sis.”
She shook her head. “I need something stronger. Hey, I have an idea! I’ll make margaritas and we’ll have a party. There’s mix and tequila in the fridge and ice in the freezer. And there’s a tumbler in one of the boxes in the garage, I’m sure.” She pushed herself up.
“I should be going,” Olly interjected.
She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “Nonsense! You must stay. Monday’s your day off, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You can sleep on the couch. Rich won’t bite, I promise. Look at him, he’s like a puppy—any minute he’ll lie down and let you scratch his belly.” Olly saw Rich’s cheeks turn crimson and felt the heat on his own. Fortunately, Sandy was already marching away. “Roll me a joint, Rich,” she yelled back over her shoulder.
Avoiding Olly’s eyes, Rich dug a plastic baggie and cigarette paper out of his pocket, but his fingers were unsteady and the joint he was trying to make was looser than a pair of well-worn gym shorts.
It was painful to watch. Olly had to step in. “You’re doing it wrong. Let me.” He took over and in short order produced the perfect doobie. “Here you go.”
Rich took the joint and appraised it. “Nice and tight.”
“That’s what he said,” Olly blurted out.
Rich’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. Ginger people blushed easily, it seemed.
Sandy stomping back broke the awkwardness. She carried a blue plastic tumbler in one hand and a rectangular box in the other. “Look what I found,” she said, holding up and shaking the box. “Monopoly, Walking Dead edition.”
The night went delightfully downhill from there, with booze, pot, Monopoly, and eventually pizza. As the least hammered member of the group, Olly met the delivery guy in the driveway and tipped him well. The guy gave Olly a knowing smirk before driving away.
The next morning found Olly on the couch, cocooned in a sleeping bag Rich had given him the night before. He was wearing only his undies and a morning wood. Taking a deep breath, he thought he could make out Rich’s masculine scent on the bag. He rubbed his hand to his cock.
“Good morning.”
Fuck! Olly jolted as if hit by electricity. Sticking his head out and wiggling around, he saw Rich sitting on the floor—fully dressed, thank God.
The pizza box was open on top of the cooler, and Rich held a half-eaten slice of cold pizza in one hand. “Breakfast of champions,” he said, brandishing the slice. “Want some?”
“Mmm…sure.” Olly needed to kill time till his erection went down. He couldn’t possibly get out of the bag in his current state. As he sat up, the sleeping bag slipped off his shoulders. He picked a slice from the box. His stomach rumbled at the arrival of congealed cheese and cold grease, but it settled. Fortunately, he hadn’t had too much to drink. Not as much as Rich or Sandy. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Rich shrugged. “Headache. Took pills. I’ll live. Actually, I slept better than in ages.” His gaze seemed to slip to Olly’s now naked chest but swiftly moved on.
“Sandy?”
“She’ll be out till noon. Lightweight. Interesting necklace,” he added, holding his gaze on Olly’s neck.
Olly touched the fang. “A charm to keep evil spirits away. What time is it?”
“Nine thirty-ish.” Rich finished his slice and wiped his fingers on his pants—he was wearing his paint-splattered work jeans, Olly noticed. They were worn and ripped at the left knee, showing skin and reddish-blond hair. “This is for you.” Rich lifted a bundle from his lap and placed it on the couch next to Olly, who spied a towel, folded T-shirt, and a toothbrush still in its original packaging on top. “You know where the bathroom is.” Rich clambered to his feet and walked away, giving Olly privacy.
Olly stuffed the rest of his pizza into his mouth and took off to the bathroom. He took a speedy shower using the toiletries he found—they must’ve been Rich’s. Once he toweled off, he debated whether to put his dirty briefs back on. In the end, he shoved them into his pocket and went commando. The T-shirt was a girl’s, probably Sandy’s, but a good fit on him. It hugged his chest nice and tight.
In the middle of all this, he remembered why he’d come here in the first place. Rich’s room was right next to the bathroom and half-open, so he cautiously poked his head in. Rich was lying back on the mattress, reading a book. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” Olly asked.
“Okay.”
Olly stepped inside, closed and locked the door behind himself, just in case. Rich watched him wordlessly, and if Olly didn’t know better, he would have thought it was panic in Rich’s eyes. “We need to look at the DVD again.”
“Huh?” Rich’s expression morphed from alert to puzzled.
“You know the one with Sandy? From the blackmailer?” Olly whispered.
“Oh, of course. Why?”
“I have an idea, but I need to take another look.”
Rich got up, lifted the corner of his mattress and pulled the DVD from under it. His laptop was already there, so he put it on top of the mattress and booted it up. They both knelt on the floor.
When the clip got to the part where the camera flipped toward the crew, Olly paused it. He whipped out his phone and did a quick Google search. Pay dirt. “Yesss!”
“What is it?” Rich asked impatiently.
Olly pointed at the screen. “See that guy? His baseball hat—it has BJ Studios on it. Brian Jones Studios is a producer of quality adult entertainment. They have an office in North Hollywood.”
Rich’s expression lit up with comprehension. “Ah! Somebody who works there could be the blackmailer.”
“It’s a starting point,” Olly agreed.
“Well, let’s go.”
“Wait. Email me the clip first.”
“No fucking way I’m emailing it to anyone, sorry, not even you.”
“Only the last part. You can edit it with QuickTime first.”
Rich shook his head. “No can do. Internet’s not turned on yet. So no Wi-Fi either.”
“Hm.” Olly pondered his options only for a second. “This’ll have to do, then.” He rewound the clip to the spot where the cameraman turned around, and recorded the clip from there with his phone. When he was done, he stood and watched Rich slip the DVD out of the laptop and hide it under the mattress again. “Might wanna put on clean jeans if we’re gonna go out and meet people,” he said, unlocking the door.
Chapter Six
The office of Brian Jones Studios was in an unassuming, two-story gray building next to a nail salon on Vineland Avenue. They found a parking spot right up front. The place had sort of a storefront but no name above, and the door was locked. The single window was shuttered and, judging from the amount of dust and dead flies behind the glass, had been for a long time. A small sign in the corner of the window said: Use Rear Entrance.
Olly chuckled. “If we must.”
“Stop it,” Rich snapped at Olly, but he couldn’t stop the images popping into his head. Ever since Olly told him the tattoo story, he was picturing Olly naked and bent over a tattoo chair, lily-white ass ready for the taking. The vision shouldn’t have made him as hot and bothered as it did. He had the excuse of being stoned the first time, but there it was again. Olly had the disturbing effect of waking in him urges he’d thought long buried and forgotten.
Olly stared at him. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
They were right by the corner, so they simply walked around to the alley. The parking lot behind contained two cars and a small truck—no company name on it either. Discretion must’ve been a concern when working in porn. The back door was locked too, but Rich kept banging on it till he heard the lock turn.
A middle-aged woman regarded them with clear di
strust. “What do you want?”
Rich stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Richard, and this is my friend Olly. We wonder if we could talk to Mr. Jones. We were told he’d be here.”
Her suspicion softened a smidgen, and she looked them over. “We’re not having auditions.”
For a moment, Rich was taken aback by her assumption, but he saw his opening. “Are you sure? We were told Mr. Jones would see us. We drove all the way from West Hollywood.”
Olly didn’t say a word, only turned his big puppy-dog eyes on her.
The woman vacillated. “Linda, who is it?” Rich heard a male voice shout from upstairs.
She turned her gaze to the right and up. “Two men here. I told them we’re not having auditions today,” she said in a raised voice.
After a moment of silence, Rich heard the man shout, “Bring them up!”
As they stepped inside, Rich saw a room shrouded in darkness. Through the gloom, he could make out large black boxes on wheels. The lights were on upstairs, showing a Spartan reception room with white walls, desk and filing cabinets. The woman took her seat behind the desk but kept her eyes on them.
A man with close-cropped blond hair stood by her desk and surveyed them with appraisal in his eyes. Rich estimated his age at early fifties. He seemed like someone who worked out a lot, though not as fit as he had once been.
To Rich’s complete surprise, Olly let out a squeal. “Oh my God! You’re Brian Rockwell! I’ve whacked off to your Cock Wars Episode I: The Dildo Menace more times than I can count.” He thrust out his hand. “My name’s Olly Blackwood, and this is Richard—”
“Willson. With to L’s,” Rich interjected. He figured Olly wouldn’t know he and Sandy didn’t have the same last name. He silently prayed Olly and this Brian person would stop yakking about cocks.
Their host’s expression split into a pleased grin, and he shook their hands. He had a strong grip. “You’re too young to remember Cock Wars,” he said, turning back to Olly.
“Oh, it’s a classic,” Olly replied.
The guy appeared even more pleased. “Well, it was one of my best works. It’s nice to know young people still appreciate it. I haven’t performed in years. I go by Brian Jones these days. Rockwell was my stage name. But call me Brian.” He led them down a corridor to his office. This room was better decorated, with photographs hanging from the wall and shelves stuffed with DVDs.
