Free Fall, CH 04 (Patreon)

He’s gone so fast I shiver before the hot water hits me again.

I can’t move. I’m waiting for what should be happening. Anticipating being used. I’m ready for it.

Him leaving hurts.

This isn’t him denying me because I haven’t earned it; I have the cuts to prove I deserve to be fucked again. This is an outside interruption.

It’s Emil.

All it took was for him to cry out in distress, and Tristan abandoned me.

I turn the shower off.

He’s not coming back.

The medicine cabinet is open. Only one thing was in there, a Desert Eagle. It’s not there now.

Once dry I cross the house to the room that is now Emil’s. The only bed in the entire house. Tristan sits on it, holding a trembling Emil against his naked body and talks to him softly. Comforting word of safety, of how Tristan will kill anyone who even thinks of threatening him again.

I hate the kid.

I don’t want to. This isn’t Emil’s fault. After what he’s gone through, he deserves the comfort. I just want him to find it in someone else’s arms. I want Tristan to force Emil to live by his rules, like I’m doing; not alter them for the kid. I bet Tristan even sleeps in the bed with him.

Right on cue, Tristan stretches on it.

I consider getting a knife. I know where they all are. I can even imagine the music calling to me. Take one, end this once and for all. I might not be able to cut Tristan, but—

“Come on,” Tristan tells me, indicating Emil’s other side. “This is a bad one, Emil’s going to need all the comfort he can get.”

I’m going to say no.

I’m going to scream at him that he doesn’t get to make me his second choice. I’m not the guy he plays with when he’s not busy with someone else. I was in his life first. I’ve fucking closer to his age than a nineteen year old of looks like he hasn’t finished puberty yet.

Emil turns his head and one green eye looks at me out of under the protective arm and the pain there slashes my anger into bits so small I can’t feel it. Not only is he a victim, but of a similar kind to me.

We were both betrayed by our fathers. It left us with a hole, a desperation to find someone who will take his place, fill it with love and respect again. I had Grams and Gramp.

He had no one.

I climb onto the other side of the bed.

I’m not comfortable pressing myself against his naked body. I know he’s nineteen, but he still loks smaller, and younger than that.

His shaking subdues. His breathing calms.

Tristan looks at me, his eyes unreadable. He reaches over Emil and rests a hand on my side. He closes his eyes.

I want more than his hand touching me! I want all of him against me, in me! I want him to make me scream!

He cracks an eye open and I realize I’m trembling in anger. I force myself to calm down. Emil isn’t at fault here. Tristan isn’t. No one is.

This is just one screwed up situation.

* * * * *

The keycard I swiped from the janitor lets me into the room.

There’s a conversation in the adjacent one loud enough to carry through the wall. A man’s voice, the voice of someone in charge. An executive here to make sure his company makes lots of money. No matter who else has to pay for the profits.

The conversation stop and I look for a place to hide should he come to the door. 

The hotel room is more of an apartment than a suite and I’m in the living room. My options are behind the couch, under the coffee table, maybe squeeze under one of the two seats and… yeah, I’m not fitting behind the drink cabinet without pulling it away from the wall. Let’s not even consider the large LCD TV.

The picking are slim, with the briefcase on the table. If he left his condoms in there and—

The bed creaks. The woman lets out fake-sounding cries of pleasure.

I head for the briefcase and have the electronic lock on it cracked before I’m seated. It’s security’s good, but it’s a computer. If he wanted to stump me, an old combination lock on this thing would have been better.

The papers in it are why I’m here. Not what’s going on in the other room. The woman’s of legal age, and him paying for the service if between him and his very large bank account.

As far as I’m concerned, he should have paid an actress, not a prostitute. Then maybe she’d have been able to sound like she was enjoying herself. Then again, if he’s fooled by that, he deserves what he’s getting.

I could have found everything on these papers in a computer somewhere. But he happens to be in town for an Oil conference, a tip given to me by a source within the company who hates the way they cut corners. One of the things this executive will do is negotiate with a trucking company for lower prices to ship their product, and higher standards when shipping them. Other companies?

This man doesn’t care how much crude is spilled then, how many accidents happen. It’s not his money in those cases.

The main tools for the negotiation are these papers. Record of infractions badly covered up, proof of profit skimming. They come with a promise to make those vanish. One they wont be able to carry through with, after I’ve paid a visit to the overpriced hacker they have paid to do the work.

That guy should have stayed out of my state if he wanted to remained unnoticed.

I take pictures of every page to go over them in the comfort of my basement. When I release them to the wilds, I want to make sure I know what it is I’m making public.

The thumb drive makes me pause.

I didn’t expect this old man to have electronic anything beyond the expensive cell phone in the other room. I want to take this. Who knows the kind of evidence that’s on it. Possibly proof of how lax they are with people’s safety, not to say the environment.

You’d think that after so many tanker spills in the ocean recently, and that pipeline break, the government would have enough of the oil company’s disregard for everyone else. And who knows, maybe it does, but the oil companies make so much money they can afford to shower the people in power with it until their morals are drowned in riches.

It’s why it falls on me and my contact within the industry to make sure they are held accountable for their misdeeds.

I put the high definition camera away and reach for the thumb drive when the lock in the door cycles. The briefcase slams shut and locks as I jump over the couch. There I take out my gun.

Who the fuck just enters a room when the occupant’s fucking someone?

“Room service,” a woman says, and the other room goes silent.

I glance around the end of the couch. The woman is in the hotel’s maid uniform. I check my watch. It’s kind of late for cleanup to happen.

Maybe that’s not why she’s here? After all, what are the odds I’m the only person interested in the information this man’s carrying?

I see the cleaning cart though the partially opened door. She’s wearing those long rubber gloves and has a dust cloth hook on her belt, but that doesn’t mean—she heads for the bedroom door, the one where the noise come from before she announced herself.

Her surprised scream as the door opens and the naked, fat sixty-something man storms out, makes me confident she’s what she looks like. She averts her gaze. Must be because of the screaming profanities he’s yelling at her, because there is nothing there worth looking away for. No wonder the hooker didn’t sound interested.

He chases her out with promises of making her lose her job, grabs the ‘do not disturb’ sign and puts it on before slamming the door shut. Then he grumbles as he head to the cabinet and I need to edge ever more to the end of the couch so he won’t see me, then around it so that as he’d pouring himself a second glass, the hooker steps out of the bedroom, looking like she’s about to cajole him back, when our eyes lock and she freezes in place.

Only long enough to glance down, then her eyes are wide. The APX isn’t a big gun, but it’s still a gun. Movies and the news have taught people how dangerous even the small ones out.

I pull out my wallet as she takes a deep breath. I grab all the bill in it and fan them. There’s at least two fifties among the dozen twenties. I have no idea how much I actually have. It’s not my money, so I don’t keep track.

The man has his back to us, drinking slower now. I offer her the bills with a nod to the room behind her. I can’t reach the door to the hall here without the man seeing me, but the one in the bedroom? Yes it has its own door, don’t ask me why, well, I can guess. I mean how else will you sneak your mistress in and out, but it’s kind of blatant if you ask me.

She lets the breath out silently, her expression turning speculative. She steps aside and I hurry, giving her the money in passing. I crack the door open, confirm the hall is deserted and exit.

I’m in the stairwell and down two flights before I allow myself to catch my breath; then I’m laughing.

Fuck, that was close.

Next time, I need to bring Tristan on these, for the added safety.

My laughter dies.

He’s too busy with Emil to help me out.

* * * * *

I type faster.

Come on, she’s approaching.

At least Kat doesn’t look any more pissed than the other times she heads to my desk, but if she catches me hacking on company time, she’s going to explode. Come on, someone, distract her with your oh so…what do people in this office do socially?

Yes! I’m in.

I switch screen as she comes around the partition.

“Mister Crimson.” He tone is grave.

“Hey Kat,” I reply pleasantly, “what can I do for you?”

“You can explain why you’re hogging all the bandwidth.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” I give her my thoughtful expression.

I might have been to aggressive hacking the automotive manufacturer this morning. I was looking for evidence they’d paid off the EPA to approve their new catalytic converter design, even thought it’s nowhere close to meeting the standards.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. I had IT check where it originated from. So how about you explain yourself?”

“I might have gotten carried away while testing the security around the Limai Servers. Sorry.” I give her my best bashful smile.

She doesn’t look impressed. She lowers her voice, but not the sternness in them. “Bart, I know you are running personal projects out of here.” She raises her hand to stop my protest. “If I could prove it, you’d be gone already. I don’t care how talented you are, I will not knowingly help a hacker. Even if he’s a white hat.” There’s no white in my hat. Gray, at best. “But you are not going to run them on company time, is that clear? Keep them to the late nights you spend at your desk, and you fucking better make sure nothing comes back to huurt this company, otherwise you are going to find out how much of a bitch I can be.” She walks away before I can come up with a reply.

Okay, maybe I should do what she says. I mean, this job’s a great cover.

Nah. I’ll just make sure to go slower on company time so IT doesn’t notice me.

I scream into Tristan’s mouth as his cock wrecks my ass.

The pain is so good. My back scrapes against the bark, adding tot the sensations of the thrusts. I kiss him hard, taste the blood from the spit lip I gave him. My body is a melody of bruises and burns. He’s more savage today, and I am loving it.

I have my monster back. Just him and me. No one else. Us. Always only us.

* * * * *

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” the cop asks.

“Do I look like I give a fuck? I’m in a hurry, okay?” will I feel better if I kill him and get this over with?

“Why?” he asks dryly. “Spent too long at the mistress? The wife’s going to be pissed?”

I glare at him. “I’m the one with the fucking mistress.”

I don’t want to hate him, but fucking Emil and his trauma.

It was supposed to be just me and Tristan. Emil was going to be at the scupltor’s place, he’d offered. But Emil had to go and have a panic attack, and the guy, who has a history of his own attacks had called Tristan instead of dealing with it. The guy fucking ran and left Emil to freak out on his own.

The cp hands me the ticket. “Getting yourself killed because you she’s cheating on you isn’t going to fix the situation.”

“He isn’t fucking cheating on me,” I snap. “If he was, I’d know what to do with that.” At least, I’d know who to kill.

“This had just because too complicated for my pay-grade. Watch your speed and make take to a shrink or something. Maybe the two you need counseling.”

“What I need to do,” I snarl, “is find someone to hurt instead of Emil.” I gun it before he can reply and I smile as he dances around, trying to avoid the spray of gravel.

* * * * *

I check for Kat.

I should do this at home, but there’s no way I’m waiting. She’s on a call in her office.

I start with a Google search for Juan Manuel Fernan. And I get shit back. Well, there’s a lot, but nothing about THE Juan Manuel Fernan I’m looking for. I doubt Tristan had this name sent to me because a photographer or baseball player did something wrong. This is about Mexico and Liaison.

So the ten year old story out of Mexico City grabs my attention. A Juan Manuel Fernan is mentioned as one of the persons injured in a fight that left eight dead and, including him, twelve injured. No details of the reason for the fight. His name comes up again five years before that when he’s accused of drug dealing. 

The case didn’t make it to court. There would be a story about that if it had.

Hacking the Mexico City police department from here is among the stupidest things I’ve done. They might not have the resources of the US police, but if I’m noticed, the will use all they have access to to find me. Even there, hacking isn’t well regarded. Kat will not protect me from the police, even if it’s from out of the country.

But if protection was something I wanted, I’d have cut off my cock and stayed under dear old Dad’s foot instead of standing up to him.

I take fifteen minutes to get into their servers instead of five, out of respect for Katherine and the good her company does. I use the extra time to bounce my hack off half a dozen countries. In Nigeria I go through eight servers I know are repository for does those scammers of he princely persuasion. That might distract the investigators away from me, and if not, it’ll slow them down.

What I get on Mister Juan Manuel Fernan is a long list of aborted investigations. Into him, his properties, his employees, and his business dealings. Too many of them are blocked on a federal level for him to be a good innocent citizen.

I get an address that leads me to a company called Exportacion de Frutas. A fruit export company, how creative. They have a website, but it’s just information, no links to anyone who might work there. They do have their annual revenue and that gives me pause.

I look up Mexico’s GDP. If the company’s claims are accurate, Exportacion de Fritas is responsible for half the agricultural revenue of the country.

Right, because a company with no internet presence, other than that website, has that kind of impact on the economy. Not in this day and age. Not even in a place like Mexico.

Unfortunately, all it does is confirm the company’s a front. The police doesn’t have a home address, which means I need to go up to federal levels.

How suicidal am I?

Wrong question.

The right one is: how badly do I want to ruin Katherine’s company? Because you don’t take on the Feds of any country without a lot of preparation. These guys will not let a trip through Nigeria slow them.

I save what I have on a secure server and wipe all evidence I was in Mexico, other than my administrative access. No telling when that’s going to be useful later. I finish my work by wiping any traces on this computer of where I was, then I head home and get ready for my weekly dinner with Grams and Gramp.

* * * * *

I lie here, naked on the thin mattress, shivering in the warm air his vanishing body allowed to touch. I didn’t even hear Emil’s cries this time, but he’s still gone.

Why am I even bothering to come here?

I am not joining them.

I’m done playing this game.

If Tristan wants me, he’s going to have to cone back here, to his workroom, to this thing that passes as a mattress that we share.

The kid has him to himself for five fucking days out of the week. You’d think he’d let me have him for the weekend.

I scream internally at how unreasonable I am. Then I don’t care that I am. Tristan is mine. I worked hard to be in his life. I need him in mine.

Yes, trauma isn’t something that’s fixed on a schedule, when it can be fixed at all. I know that. Do I sound like I give a fuck? I worked through mine without help, why can’t he—

He’s back. I can’t seem him in the dark, but I feel his eyes on me. I shiver when his fingers touch my back. Delight and expectation; fear and desire. Will he give me what I want, or make up for leaving? He traces a scar, then another.

He lies down next to me, pulls me against his body. There’s a slight trembling in him as he tightens his hold on me.

This isn’t what I want.

…

This is… this is better

* * * * *

“I love him.”

Grams looks at me as she hands me a place to dry. “Oh, honey. I’ve known that since before you brought him to dinner.  What’s the problem?”

“I wish I knew if he loved me back.” I look at my distorted reflection in the plate before wrapping it in the dishtowel.

“Have you asked him?”

“That’s not a question you—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Bart.” Her tone is steady, with only a hint of annoyance. “Of course you can ask it. A man can’t live on hope alone. At some point, you need to know where you stand, so you can decide what do to.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” I whisper.

“I’d hope so,” she says, chuckling.

“He isn’t emotional. He keeps them under control. He lets almost nothing show. If I ask him… he won’t answer.”

“Have you considered that’s an answer in and of itself?”

Of course I have, but he also doesn’t say anything to Emil, so I know this isn’t about me. He isn’t keeping this from me, he keeps his emotions away from everyone. If I hadn’t been there when we rescued Emil, if I didn’t suffer his absence anytime Emil had an attack. If I was peeking in the window of strangers, I’d be left thinking Tristan only tolerated Emil in his house.

Emil’s love his plain to see, although he’s trying to hide it. Trying to keep himself under control the way Tristan does. He’s trying so hard to be like him.

* * * * *

I sit on the couch and Emil jumps. He was too engrossed in his reading to notice my approach.

He tries to mask his anger. It’s directed at himself, I think. For his lack of attentiveness, then for getting angry. Tristan sees everything and shows nothing.

I want to tell him not to do that. That keeping things bottled up isn’t good. That I’m here for him to talk to if he needs. He has my number when I’m not here physically. The problem is that I’m no better at hiding how I feel, and Emil notices stuff like that when he’s not lost in a book. He knows that I’ve been angry at him.

“I’m not angry at you,” I tell him. And his expression tells me he believes me about as much as I know it to be a lie.

I try again. “It’s the situation, not you. You’re just the reminder of it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, closing the laptop. “I don’t mean to get in the way, pop.”

I smile at the absurdity of being thought of as a father figure. “I know. You didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t either, and neither did Tristan. The three of us are making the best of what the world threw at us. And me and Tristan are making a mess of it.”

I’m the one making the mess. Tristan just isn’t stopping me. I can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t care, or because he doesn’t see it. How can he not see the wreck I am?”

“I can leave,” Emil whispers.

“No.” The harshness in my voice surprises me. Considering the numbers of times I’ve wanted him gone how I feel is… “You belong here, Emil. With Tristan, safe.”

He nods, but doesn’t look at me.

I’m surprised to find I mean what I say next. “I’ll keep you safe too.”

He relaxes slightly.

I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze it. “We’re going to make this work.”

I fucking hope.