Collision Course, CH11 (Patreon)

I land in front of the couch and drop to a crouch. Two of the men, dressed in a thousand-dollar black suit, have just pressed the trigger. I stand and throw myself at the one on the right, grab the gun hand and twist hard. This close, I hear the bullet exit the FNX-45’s suppressor and whiz by my ear, but he is now between me and his associates. Expensive suits over thugs breaking into the room only set up as part of the identity I used. This is a response to Liaison.

I bend the wrist and he moves to keep it from breaking, but it forces him to drop his firearm. Before I decide, he kicks it away from us. The others spread out, looking for a shot that won’t hit the man I’m fighting. This tells me they have worked together and have enough humanity left to be taken advantage of.

The thug punches my side. I don’t react to it. That box knows better than to bother me. I punch his throat. He gasps, tried to pull back, but I pull him to me. I turn him so his associates see the face of the man they’ll have to kill to shoot me. It’s harder for people with any humanity to kill someone when looking at them. I have my arm around his throat and squeeze.

My intruder vaults over the couch and kicks one in the face. He lands and sweeps the legs out of another one. He stands and strikes a gun hand turning to aim at him; hard enough, the gun flies out of it and slides under the bed.

Boxes rattle at the display, the speed with which he unbalanced them. It was flashy, for my benefit. I tighten my arms more around the man’s throat. I no longer need him, but I want to watch my intruder fight.

He is surrounded—they have forgotten about me—but he continues to move, making it difficult for the two still armed to fire. The unarmed thug grabs him when my intruder has his back to him, but my intruder slips out of his jacket and kicks him in the knee.

I knew he was good. He struck me with precision and strength, but our fight was close and quick. It didn’t let me appreciate the fluidity of his motion. He is like a panther, flowing around his soon-to-be-dead prey.

He is inside one of the armed thug’s defenses, has him unarmed and then down, choking on the shattered Adam’s apple, and I place a third martial-art in his repertoire. His training in hand to hand is wider than mine, but he is careless. The one choking is reaching for a fallen gun.

The man I am holding elbows me—my own reminder I have allowed myself to be distracted. I snap his neck. The one thug left with gun stares at his fallen comrades instead of firing at me. Humanity allows something like shock the inhumane can take advantage of.

I take his arm and break it. He has enough training to pull an M-9 bayonette from a sheath instead of wailing at the pain. I punch him in the face, take the knife from his hand and consider slamming him in his chest—too much blood, too many ways I can miss some while I clean up. The few already falling from his broken nose are more than I’d like.

I pull him to me and grab his neck. I consider if I need him alive. Does how someone at Liaison realized I was one of those who broke in matter? Leaving the body alerted them. Then it would be a question of looking at the security footage from inside the building. I should have had Asir corrupt that. As for how they knew about the hotel room. They will have picked up on the clues I left to lure my intruder here.

I break his neck, drop him and take the gun he dropped.

My intruder slams a foot down on the man’s neck. The other one is crumbled behind him, neck bent unnaturally. The curtain over the balcony door billows gently, indicating how the attackers got in.

My intruder stands before me, watching me watch him. His eyes flick to the FNX in my hand, then back on my face. The fear in his eyes tells me he knows what’s coming. The smartest play is for him to jump out the open sliding door. The curtains will obstruct my view and give him enough time to use whatever the assailant used to cross to the room’s balcony to attempt his escape. There are too many variables for me to know if that will be enough to save his life.

He moves and my hand goes up, but while I’m anticipating him running for the balcony; he comes at me.

There is no way he can believe he can take me on in a direct fight.

He grabs my collar as I alter where the gun is aiming. He’s too close for me to interpose it between us, but I can fire in his side, or club it with him and—

His lips touch mine.

The shock sends a ripple through the boxes and before I can regain control, my hand opens and the FNX falls out of it.

His hand is at the back of my head, pushing me against him, his lips mash against mine.

A box explodes and sends shrapnel among the others.

A hand is on the small of his back, ripping the holster off his belt. The other grabs the front of his shirt.

I kiss him back.

We lock eyes and the fear is still there. This is only a postponement. It will not save his life. He knows it and it does something incomprehensible to me.

With one motion, I rip the shirt off him.

I grab him and throw him on the bed. As he bounces, he works his pants off. He knows what I want. He’s eager for it. I’m out of my closed before him, before I reach the bed.

He looks at me. He takes in my scars, a lifetime of wounds, my cock. He swallows, but doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t run. He raises his legs for me, invites me to take what I want.

I did not prepare for this.

I part his cheeks and spit between them, use a finger to spread it, pushing it in his hole. He shuddered as it parts the ring. My finger some out clear and without much of a scent. Did he prepare for this? Am I playing his game? I should be concerned he is manipulating me, but those boxes are a wreckage at the moment and I have no interest in putting them back together.

I spit in my hand and use that to slick my cock. The lack of condoms barely registers amidst the chaos that are the boxes. He is panting as I line my cock up. The fear in his eyes mixes with a daze of desire. I should loosen him, I think, as I shove my cock in his tight ass.

His scream is equal part pain and pleasure.

He is so tight.

Fully in, I lean forward and he shudders. When my lips are next to his ear, I whisper, keeping the French accent. “If I catch anything from you, I will make you suffer.” Have I just promised I will let him live?

“I’m—” he begins, then screams as I pull out. “Clean,” he finishes, before I plunge back in. I grip his hips, my fingers dig deep to hold him in place as I pound his ass. The fear is mostly gone from his eyes, replaced almost entirely by a haze of lust.

I snarl. I will not have that!

I grab the back of his neck and pull up as I lean in and our heads meet halfway. I pause my thrusting because I need him to pay attention to me.

“I will kill you,” I tell him, nearly forgetting about the accent. “Once I am done fucking you, I will kill you for the crime of intruding in my life. Est-ce que tu comprend?”

The haze dissipates, the fear is back among the lust. I smile toothily.

He nods.

Good.

He opens his mouth, but I slam my cock the rest of the way in, and whatever he planned on saying turned into a moan. I am not listening to his pleading. He better learn his sole purpose here is to show me how afraid he is, how turned on. I let him down and follow him.

His cock is slick, trapped between our stomachs.

I lock eyes with him as I fuck him, snarl anytime he goes to look away, close them, it loses himself in the sensations. I will see his fear throughout all this, even if I have to rip his eyelids off.

He wraps his arms around my neck, pulls himself the distance separating us, and mashes his lips against mine again. His tongue forces its way into my mouth, searches hungrily. I bit it still and he shudders. He tries to pull it away and I bite harder. I see the questions in his eyes.

He has seen me kill in cold blood. Is biting his tongue off any harder for me? The fear intensifies. His breathing speeds up. His ass tightens around my cock. I release it and his head falls back.

How close was he to cumming? Too close. I am not ready.

“Harder,” he whines through his panting. Need swims freely with the fear in his eyes.

I pound him harder and his gasping turn painful. I smirk as my next hard thrust causes it again, and again.

I am getting close.

I bite his shoulder hard; any harder and I will break skin.

He screams, arches his back, shudders.

I taste blood as his ass spasms around my cock and the realization that he reached orgasm from the pain I inflicted on him registers, and I have to let go of his shoulder and scream as my orgasm hits me.

Once I can see again, I look into his eyes. The fear has intensified and I smile. That never gets old. My orgasms aren’t things to put anyone at ease, and with his blood on my lips, I must be an even more monstrous sight than usual. To him, with the promise I made, I must look like death; here to claim him.

But he is still.

He isn’t broken into submission. He knows the danger he is still in, but this is where he wants to be.

That is new.

No one has looked at me like this; like they wanted me to do this to them a second time. Not even those I have paid for it.

I find myself considering it. Taking him again. Maybe after a rest. I pull out of him and let myself fall on my side.

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, but I expect it doesn’t see it, or anything at the moment. The fear is leaving his eyes. A contented smile forms on his lips.

In the silence, I feel around the wreckage that are the boxes I need to function. They are all standing, I’m surprised to discover. After that initial explosion, I expected there to be gone. For me to be an uncontrolled monster. There is a vibration running through them, originating from that first one, the shattered one.

It is something comfortable, appealing.

He causes this. The determination with which he fought, the pleasure he took in the combat, the surrender once he lost. His willingness to let me use him. To take pleasure in it.

I need to still them. This is how it starts. If I allow one sliver of my control to slip, the rest will follow, but they resist. The resistance is because of that first one. I need to rebuild it, but I’m not sure how. It is spread over and into all the others.

I don’t even know what it contained.

He turns his head to look at me, and I discover I am running a finger along a thin scar on his chest. There is wariness in his eyes, but this time, it doesn’t drive me to take him.

“I’m Bart,” he offers.

“Benoit,” I answer, using the French pronunciation. “Ben, but you already know that.”

He nods. “Is this when you kill me?”

Boxes rattle. My emotions are leaking out of too many boxes. “Maybe later,” I tell him, but I know I’m lying. Until I quiet the boxes, I will not be able to do it.

“I didn’t do it to get out of it.”

“I know.” I lean in and lick the blood off his shoulder. The taste reminds me of what we did and the little I’ve been able to put together of that shattered box falls apart again.

I want him.

His tanned skin is a field of goosebumps.

He closes his eyes, his breathing calms. He is comfortable in my presence, relaxed, at ease.

New boxes rattle, and I am unreasonably happy at having him here, at my side. Before I consider the action, I pull him against me and spoon.

Questions bubble in my head, but I don’t let them out. Getting to know him isn’t part of what will happen here. As wonderful an experience as this had been, that is all it is. An experience. We will go our separate way and, for his sake, never cross paths again.

“I need to clean the room,” I say, but find myself unwilling to move.

“I can help.”

I smile. Of course, he wants to help. “How are you at cleaning blood out of carpet?”

“It’s still fresh,” he answers after a second, “so some bleach and a brush should be enough.”

“I should bandage your shoulder before we do anything else.”

“Are you actually married?” he asks.

“That is rather personal,” I reply, making my tone slightly insulted. He has just reminded me of the invasion of my privacy he committed. “Something tells me you have seen what is on my phone.”

“There’s not thing there about you sleeping with guys.”

“There is nothing in it about how I steal from kidnappers. I know enough not to put things I do not want known in something people like you, or my wife, can access.”

He sighs, and the sound is pure disappointment.

A vibration emanates from what I’ve pieced together of that shattered box and I open my mouth, intent on telling him the truth, how Benoit is a fabrication for the sole purpose of getting into Liaison. That I will—

I stop the thought and close my mouth. I am not someone anyone should seek to see a second time, not even him. All that will get him his death, probably at my hands.

His shoulder is bleeding again. I go to the duffel bag and take the emergency kit from it. When I return, he is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me. Not my cock. His eyes never drop below my stomach.

He looks at my scars, and without the lust to cloud his eyes, I get the sense he sees beyond what is visible of them. That he might understand how deep they go, the kind of monster they make me.

There is still fear in his eyes, but it is subdued, wrapped in comfort. It isn’t a delusion. He knows I can kill him. That it might still happen tonight, but he is at peace with it.

I want to ask him why that is. What happened to him that he isn’t scared of dying? No, that isn’t it. It isn’t that he is not scared of dying. He isn’t scared of it happening at my hands.

You are a strange man, Bart.

He winces when I pour the peroxide over the bite marks. I smear antibiotics on a gauze and apply it, then use medical tape to hold it in place.

He runs a hand over my stomach and I shiver. Boxes rattle too easily, fight my stilling will. No one’s touch had ever elicited such a reaction from me before. He looks up at me and needs has replaced the comfort in his eyes. The boxes react to it, but I am sated and have enough control over those boxes that my body doesn’t react to it, doesn’t show the effect he has on me.

“If you’re going to help,” I say, “we need to get started now.”

He nods, and it takes me far too much effort to step away from him. The moment his hand is gone, I crave its touch more than I do the drug.

I take a jug of bleach from the bag and a carpet brush. “We were able to keep the blood to a minimum, so it should be quick to deal with.” I hand both to him. He stands closer than he needs as he takes them from me. The heat from his body is nice. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him. Pull him to me.

“This was for me, right?” he is looking in the open bag, at the container of lye. There is concern in the voice, but no fear.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“Them.”

“They’re from Liaison. I recognize that guy.” He points to the man with the broken neck. “He was in the meet-and-greet room. He tried to pass himself off as one of the clients, but anyone with eyes could tell he’s security.”

“You have to be careful when you go home,” I tell him as he moves to the closest splotch of blood. One of the men he killed bled slightly first. “They may have people watching for anyone leaving, and they will have your picture from the club. They’ll consider it too much of a coincidence that you are also here.”

“So you care about what happens to me?” he asked, looking at me over his shoulder. The tone makes the question a jest, but I almost blurt out that, of course, I do. A box that hasn’t rattled in decades does so now, caused by the crack from a piece of the explosion. I’m unable to keep the emotion from my eyes, but I remain silent.

He, too, says nothing, but he doesn’t try to mask the disappointment in his eyes. Regardless of the kind of man he is, he understands I am a monster, and monsters do not get to take a man home.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” there’s a hint of anger in his voice. “I know how to shake a tail. They also don’t have my real information and there is no way they’ll do anything to the guy whose ID I used to get in. His family’s too powerful.” He is on his knees, scrubbing at the blood on the beige carpet.

I chase the image of him doing something else while on his knees away. It’s more difficult than it should be. And I go through the thug’s pockets. Each has a phone and nothing else that might identify them. The phones are unlocked and contain no information. Burners. If not for Bart recognizing one of them, I wouldn’t have been able to confirm who they worked for.

The four FNZ-45 I put in the duffel bag; to be added to my collection. More guns I can use without worrying about them being traced to me. I undress them. None of them is an exact match for my size, but it’s always good to have spare clothes, and Bart can use one of the shirts to replace the one I ripped off him.

I put the bodies in the jacuzzi tub and it only takes a little rearranging to have all parts below the lip.

One jug of lye isn’t enough for four bodies. If I want them dissolved today, I will need to get more. I fill the tub halfway and dump the lye in it. I’ll add more once I get it.

I survey the walls and find three small holes in them. I dig the bullets out. Nine millimeters. A useless caliber, but they still cause me a major problem. The wallpaper is textured, the putty I brought can only match the color. This will only be a delaying action unless the house cleaning-staff who notices it dismisses it as insignificant.

I rely on people’s ability to not see the obvious, but it still means I will have to be extra careful with cleaning up after myself.

“I’m done,” Bart says. His back is to me and I smile at the tan lines. He likes Speedos. His white ass is a nice contrast to his deep tan. The scars on his back are faint, old, but numerous. Sometime in his past, he suffered greatly. What kind of creatures did that pain turn him into?

“You should go. I can finish the rest on my own.”

“Are you sure?” his casual tone does little to hide the hope.

I’ve mostly rebuilt that box while I worked, and while it rattles, it no longer reaches the others and I silence it. “I am. It’s for the best.”

He knows what I mean, but he says. “Yeah, if I stay, we might get busy again and this time, if they attack, we might not be in a position to fight them off.” He turns and smiles.

A box rattles and before I can silence it, I am hit by how beautiful he is. Lean muscles, scarred body. Broken, but rebuild and able to function. I wish…

I silence the box

Things are what they are. This is for the best. Anything else and I will end up killing him. Even with all my boxes quiet, I know I don’t want to do that. He is too…

He shouldn’t die.

He opens his mouth, but I shake my head. There is nothing left to say. For his own safety, I can’t let him convince me of anything else. There is disappointment in his eyes again, but it is accompanied by determination.

If I am not extremely careful, he will make sure we meet again, regardless of what will happen.

It will fall on me to ensure that doesn’t happen.

I hand him the shirt once he has his pants on. His hand lingers on mine as he takes it and there is hope in his eyes again. I have a firm grip on all my boxed this time and none dare disobey me. Then he is dressed and at the door. His shoulders slump, then he is outside and the door closes.

And I am alone.

How I should be.

Except for the bodies dissolving in the jacuzzi.