by Reid Astor
The image of Lars sways gently as the alcohol settles into his vision. Niklas takes a step back, holds the crowbar tight in his fist and looks ahead. Beyond the archway, a muslin curtain sways and a girl's body wisps in and out of view. He takes a breath, and drags Lars in closer by the collar. The man's hair brushes his lips before Lars stands up properly, angling his body close to his own.
"You just want to do this to fuck with me, don't you?" He hisses into his ear.
The wall crushes his back, the ridges of the door digging into his spine as Lars presses him there with his hand on his throat, jamming him there.
To be fair, the blunt end of his crowbar is dug into the man's ribs, and the man's smile is strained, sweat rolling down his cheek. "If I wanted to fuck with you, Nikky, I would fuck with you. I wouldn't give you a choice, I'd just do it. I would put a real loaded gun down your mouth and handcuff you to a bed and I would fuck you until you moaned like a slut just so I would stop- and goddamn I would bask in the sounds of you moaning right up the muzzle of my Glock-" he moves in, hard, ignoring Niklas' crowbar, and tightens the grip until Niklas can feel his air passages constrict and his head scream for air. He doesn't give him the pleasure of making a sound.
Lars breathes in the air that narrowly divides them with viciousness, and his lips part ever so slightly. And then he lets go. "But-" He steps back, and throws his hands up to show surrender, before laughing gently and touching his ribs. "I won't. I wouldn't. As much… as I want to."
Niklas tries not to gasp too hard, lest anyone beyond the archway be alerted of their presence. His head- his head felt like it'd been spun along a spider-web and suspended there, his head felt gone, and learning how to breathe again was pulling teeth up against that door. It was- he doesn't know why, but his hand around him just- felt different than fighting. It felt closer to fucking than fighting, and maybe that was the vodka talking, or the asphyxiation- by God, he thinks, let it be anything but what he actually said.
Whatever it is, it's making him angry.
Lars pushes him by the shoulders to stand straight, looks him in the eye. His breath goes from relatively even to ragged again, until the man lets go, seeing the look on his face. "Look. Trust me. Messing with you is one thing between the two of us, but 'round other people- professionally- hurting you is the last thing I want to happen in this grand scheme of things. So, bull or possum?"
Niklas shudders, and, with every effort to be quiet, looks to the archway to decide. If he's quiet, he can approach without being noticed.
He can set the crowbar just outside, just out of view. If he's quiet.
* * *
From the looks of the tiles, the bed and the man's clothes, he has a severe fondness for the color white.
Mr. DeLane is younger than he imagined, and pudgier, face a babyish plain of rolls punctuated by a severe and incongruous deadened brown mustache and the makings of a beard. He remains in an immaculate ivory suit, seated comfortably in the plush embrace of several ottomans and pillows of various make and color- all along the spectrum of deep purple or black and white. For whatever reason, it seems to have simply pleased him aesthetically to keep at least three nubile half-dressed females on hand and half-dressed, stretched across the bed.
The chamber is wide and tapered towards the ceiling where the skylight comes in, reflecting the darkness and light pollution of the city sky above. Niklas tries not to look to awed at this show of opulence right in the guts of some secret Couer club he never knew about in his life before this moment.
"You two aren't dressed for this at all," Mr. DeLane says in a thick, yawning voice, once-overing Niklas' tan jacket and pants and Lars' suit before touching his moustache. "What is this, a crime thriller show?"
"We're the new couple," Lars offers, a plastic grin quickly coming over his face as he leans against the tall archway, leaving Niklas standing alone in the center of the room and feeling much like an offering. "This is, ah, our first time, so-"
He can feel the eyes of the girls on him. He tries not to look back.
"So you need to be walked through it," Daniel Delane says, voice dripping with elation. "Excellent. It's always a pleasure to help the first-timers. So interesting to see the sides of them you can bring out. What are your names?" He pauses, wringing his hands with deliberate slowness, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Even his boots, Niklas notices, are white- what look to be cheap, fake albino crocodile skin. "Or rather, what would you like to be called? Never mind, you know, I can make names for you. Hmm-"
Oh God, Niklas thinks, struggling to keep a straight face, please don't tell me he's going to make me call him something ridiculous. He turns, looking over his shoulder to Lars pleadingly, but the man says nothing and looks on ahead.
"You're Ivan," Mr. Delane is saying when he turns back, pointing to him and then moving his pointing finger to Lars, "and you're- Shane." He reclines in his chair, and looks over both of them thoroughly. "Is there anything you want to tell me before we begin? Safe words? I'll have you know that since I'm paying- you're both doing this my way. Though it doesn't hurt if you like it as well."
"We don't want your payment," Niklas blurts. "I know this isn't what your correspondent told you, but- we need your services."
He's silenced by DeLane's raised hand. "No. No. I don't do business in this room." He sighs, looks to one of the women splayed across the bed. They've been still since Lars and Niklas walked in the room, but now, upon making eye contact, they rise to their feet and walk out. Their stoic, coked-up stares say they do this for money.
Not even the bass of the club behind them can reach this room. Niklas feels a little perturbed by how peacefully and silently the women tread, like silk wisps, leaving nothing behind and only briefly looking to Lars before disappearing beneath the archway. If they see the crowbar there, they don’t say a thing.
"Take off your jacket and shirt- Shane." Delane points to Lars and brings Niklas back to the man- his hazel eyes twinkling and that babyish face now has an almost Cupid-like mischief to it. From where he stands Niklas can see every little sunspot on his frail, pudgy skin- down to satisfied curl of his lip. "And come stand out here next to Ivan."
Inside he feels a small bubble of satisfaction to know Lars is in on the humiliation. He probably didn't expect it. And maybe the showing of the gun holster will make the gears of this entire negotiation go much faster. He looks over his shoulder and gives Lars a cool, expectant nod forward. And he looks back, face full of meaning that says- play along.
With this, Niklas realizes, is the bite of reality- they really are doing this.
The man hangs back for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, but then with a decisive push from the wall he paces forward, unbuttoning his suit jacket. Unceremoniously he throws the lapels back and shakes it of his arm, revealing the gun holsters.
Then, with Delane's continued silence and unaffected expression, Lars gives a scoff and unbuckles, giving a salacious little wink over his shoulder at Niklas. Niklas watches as the holster, gun and all, is discarded upon the crumpled jacket on the floor. Buttons next, done with almost violent speed, and as he peels off the white shirt and throws it to join the growing pile of discarded clothes something lapses into view, darkness in motion across his back beneath the undershirt.
That comes off next, revealing the work etched on the canvas of his skin- a full cathedral etched across the bottom back, rising into a fully-stretched cross and a crown at the nape of his neck.
Lars cocks his head and puts an arm akimbo, clearly shrugging off discomfort to strike a half-joking, coy pose. When greeted by ignominious silence, he says, “You could always take a picture or something. Shit.”
Niklas looks at the stars above and tells himself to trust this man. Even if this was the last goddamn way he expected his evening to turn out. When he looks back down, Daniel DeLane is lighting up a cigar and sitting forward on his ottoman, fanning himself with one hand and looking around. "Is it just me or is it hot in here, gent
lemen? And I mean sweltering."
To him, the air is just fine. If a little overpowered on the citrus air freshener. Lars gives an impatient cough.
"Terms, deals," the lawyer says, disappearing momentarily into a screen of cigar smoke before emerging once more with a queer, mole-like expression. He looks, in particular, to Niklas. "The two of you come in here and ask to talk about terms and deals with me. What makes you such a special couple? I have dozens lining up for this opportunity."
"We can pay you,” he says, stoically but mostly under his breath.
"Oh, you can pay me," he waves the words away, rolling his eyes. "That's what they say when they come to my office. The lines of them, all the appointments, wasting my valuable time- but they can't pay me. For this, though," he says, a bitter tone seeping to his voice, "breaking it to me like this, in my own kingdom-" He seems to cradle his head for a moment, before smoothing back his thin brown curls of hair and looking up at him. There’s a frenetic quality to him, quite like that of a rabbit or some other forest animal, that would likely be charming at a dinner table or event, in a dastardly way- but here it just stirs up abhorrence in him. "I called you Ivan, right? Come now. Give me a show. Maybe afterwards, if you prove to be good pets, maybe I will help you.”
He freezes, grits his teeth. He doesn't comply.
"Oh, for goodness' sake," DeLane cries. "Whoever you are, I forgave your guns. Your impudence. Everything. Do you see that skylight?" He thrusts a cigar-holding hand at the roof. "That skylight is a flat screen. Show them, Victor."
The cloud-speckled night flickers in and out of static and floods the calm lighting of the room with erratic colors- and soon through the glitch colors a strange order forms. A sky, a fake, looping sky in doubled speed flying overhead. Niklas swallows back the dryness in his mouth.
DeLane's eyes reflect the 'sky', giving him an otherworldly, possessed gleeful expression. "You don't know how many couples I've recorded without them knowing. How much fun I've had later with them. And if this is being monitored, think what else could happen if you're not compliant with me. Look, gentlemen, I'm a providing guy. You've probably heard of my cases, or else you wouldn't be here. But I'm not doing any deals until you're cooperative. You two are a couple, right? Act like one. Shane, strip him."
Lars doesn't wait, but then, neither does he. He grips the hand the man brings up to seize him and yanks him in with it, catching him mid-exclamation with his mouth on his and only barely staying balanced as Lars trips forward against him.
It takes a moment of lips awkwardly meeting chin before they readjust, Niklas feels that familiar vodka buzz rise up again as he tastes the alcohol on him, feels hands twist free and make a fist in his shirt. They kiss, heavily, and he closes his eye and feels fire in his throat.
It’ll take aggression to steer this in the right way. Breath heavy, he takes a hand and places it round Lars’ neck, pushing the man in and his lips further apart, until their tongues meet, brush, and slide in heat. He is telling himself to imagine a woman if he closes his eyes- any woman, a past fragment or a ghost of imagination- to ignore the low, heavy, masculine breathing and noises that Lars just barely makes, the mass and firmness of the man against him.
He is telling himself this as he grunts and forcefully pushes Lars against the bedpost and, artfully, slides him down to the floor by the clothes pile. The man’s surprisingly relenting, brown eyes opening once, and only then to look up at him, worshipful, as if there is no other being in this world. With only a second’s breath Niklas kneels on the floor over him and kisses him again, dissociates, imagine a woman- undulating healthy apricot flesh of breasts and the softness of a body and red hair perhaps and-
They are so close to the gun.
A sharp whistle cuts the air between them and parts them, Lars panting and eyes dilated sharply and hands in fists in his shirt and him almost tasting a fantasy, aching from being told the contrary. DeLane looks over them both, hands in the air like a displeased referee. “I said, strip him. Don’t get carried away.”
Irritably, Lars takes both fisted hands and yanks the jacket off his shoulders before he can protest. Then, with a shove away, he returns from his feet- out of grasp of the gun, and takes ahold of Niklas’ undershirt collar- only for it to be swatted away.
“I can undress my own fucking self,” he says, coldly, up at him. His hair lies in disarray across his eye, but even here he can see the unreadable expression on Lars’ face, the plan they must be working on together in silence in the company of this man and the surveillance overhead.
Lars complies with surprising alacrity, hand dropping away to the side and not even watching as he gets to his feet.
"I'm not having a good night, Mr. DeLane," Niklas says, quietly, and takes two fists around the back of his turtleneck to peel it off. In silence, only his rosary tinkles a slight song and presents decoration across the mosaic of tattoos and scars pieced together across his torso.
Daniel DeLane is quiet for a long time. The cigar in his fingers burns out eventually, leaving a butt of ash trickling off onto the white tile floor, but he doesn't move, his expression sobered considerably- to stone, even, Niklas could say. It could seem that the lively man he saw moments ago, jubilant and smug about his cameras and his women and his white suit- that man is gone.
It occurs to him that surveillance is quiet, that the sky is still flickering a violent shade of orange, then violet, then black all over and stars are still dashing madly across the sky like cycling, stuck comets.
"Russian mob," he whispers. "You're just a shestyorka[3] , but-" Abruptly, he stands up, throwing down the cigar. "What does a vor want from me? What now? Does this have something to do with our business?"
Lars sighs. "He's not any of that shit, okay?" And goes largely ignored.
"And your eye?" The man raves, jabbing at miscellaneous areas of Niklas. "Your burn scars? Were you so bad they tried to remove them? Who-"
Without thinking, Niklas paces across the room, and strikes DeLane across the face with a backhand. The motion is methodical; no more force than needed is applied. His mouth still tingles with Lars’ touch, and it makes him want to shiver, to strike him again for making him do that. "Enough now."
The man's face contorts, his weasley flesh reddened in four distinct points where Niklas' knuckles struck him. So much for making him like them. DeLane's arm is frozen in mid-signal- Niklas is guessing he's just moments away from calling armed guards in on them. He hears Lars whisper, "Jesus."
There's no backing down now. Niklas sighs and pushes the man back down into the ottoman, surprised at how DeLane complies weakly and crumples down. "Daniel DeLane," he says, "I'm going to put my shirt back on." He leans in to whisper into the man's ear, eyes on the ceiling the entire time. The stars have gone and the sun is slowly but surely hiking across from one end of the ‘sky’ to the other. "And then we're going to talk about taking down Svetlana Morris. And if you refuse to help me I will bury a crowbar in your sternum twice over.”
"No. I'm not going to help you. I'll put them on you, I'll-"
Niklas takes a breath and cranes his head away, up. “Victor, stop,” he says, loudly, to the ceiling, and watches as the sun locks in place just over head.
Ah, voice recognition.
"Lars-" he starts, but Lars is already ahead of him. From overhead, the fake skylight panels explode into sparks and glass in series as Lars takes aim, one after one after-
Niklas hauls DeLane up by the shoulder of his suit, trying not to think about how damn heavy the man is. "Crowbar!" he roars above the pattering of glass shattering on the tile, on the furniture-
The shots cease as Lars dashes to the archway, sweeping an arm just round and snatching up the weapon from there. Niklas appreciates the fact that instead of throwing it, he slides it across the ground towards him- there's no way with that distance and no depth perception that he would have caught it otherwise.
He picks it up and slams it into the soft tissue of DeLane's gut.
"Come, suka," he snarls. "Lars, keep the gun on him, I'll-" he raises the crowbar swiftly, turning on the man and starting-
"I'M SORRY!" DeLane squeals, ducking down and shrugging down out of his jacket. "There are no guards! There's just a camera and voice recog, just a system- and- I- Don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”
Niklas pauses with his arm in mid-swing, and somewhere overhead the circuitry hisses as it dies away, leaving them in relative darkness. DeLane is much smaller when he's curled up in a ball on the ground, crumpled up like a rolled-up piece of trashpaper and quivering. Lars is frozen in stance by the arch, gun trained on him, chest heaving with desperate breaths.
They both wait for what Niklas knows could be a barrage of armed men from any direction at any moment. No one comes.
"You've got to be kidding us?" Lars says eventually, voice husky with exhaustion. Smoker's lungs, must be. "Guy as notoriously fucked up as you has no guard dogs? What about your guy outside?" he asks, flashing the keycard from his pocket.
"I pay him in footage from here... Since my last case half a year ago," the man whimpers, "no one has wanted to hire me. I get a small fortune blackmailing couples- but I can't afford to keep guards all the time anymore." He looks up timidly at Niklas. "I'm sorryyy-" even as he speaks, he crouchingly moves away, sliding his feet to make a little distance between them.
