Free Fall, CH 01 (Patreon)

I drive the last section slowly in the dark, with the lights off, and come to a silent stop well outside the floodlight’s sensor. This position grants me a clear line-of-sight to the house.

It’s a two-story Mediterranean style that looks modest when compared to the gaudy modern mansion sitting on the other side of the property. If wealth was my goal, the mansion would be my target.

This is a personal mission.

The floor plan is a standard design. The kitchen is at the back, with a dining room and patio. The master bedroom and living room are in the front. Upstairs is a library, two bedrooms, and a theater room.

The man who provided me with the access code that allowed me through the front gate without triggering an alarm did not provide me with the security plans for the house, and I did not have the opportunity to do reconnaissance before the mission went live. 

I identify three cameras. One aimed at the door and porch, one at the driveway leading to the house, and one at the garage door. There will be more of them.

That Asyr could not find the plans anywhere online tells me some things. It is a custom design, and the owners are more interested in their security than the legality of how it is installed. 

The first means I don’t have to worry about some security company being alerted to my presence, but I will only find out if I have tripped one of the measures when the alarm sounds. The second means that they will not be asking me politely to leave if I trip a sensor. The little I have been able to uncover about the owners is enough to know any hostile meeting with them will be bloody.

Either side’s survival is uncertain.

I glance at Emil in the passenger seat and boxes react. His glows softly, but others are not so gentle until I silence them. I would rather he not be here, but the job requires him.

The light I make out through the ground-floor windows is distant; the dining room is the source. There are moving shadows in the reflected light. Possibly the owners, the extra person I have on good authority will also be present, or simply trees at the back casting them due to a light I can’t see.

The entryway light comes on. A form appears in the door’s window as it opens. A man’s silhouette is all that’s left once it closes, then he sidesteps into the shadow where I make out even less. Close to six feet in height, fit. Not enough to know if he is one of the owners or the third person.

The floodlights don’t come no.

It’s good to know the sensors for them don’t reach that far. It gives me a way in without being noticed, at least, once the man leaves.

He leans against a post. What I make out of the body language hints that he’s relaxed. Not expecting an intrusion.

Surprise is on my side.

He reaches inside his jacket and I tense. What he takes out is the wrong size for a weapon. It illuminates his face as he looks at it. Clean-shaven, strong, determined jaw line, his hair his short, his nose narrow. He puts it to his ear.

My phone rings.

I consider, and with a sigh, flip it open.

“You do know I can make out your car, right?” Bart says. I remain silent. “Come on, you agreed to this. You made it this far; you can drive the rest of the way. I promise they won’t hurt you.”

“They can’t.” I slam the box shut. They are all unsettled, although the glow from Bart’s box calms most of them. But not the one that caused me to speak without meaning to. Why it would make the one containing my fears vibrate more is unknown, but as a reaction, the vibration is causing a response in the one containing my anger.

One box tells me to leave, the other to accelerate as much as the distance will allow before ramming the Chevelle into the house and proceeding to destroy those inside.

“I don’t know.” There is teasing in his voice. “Gram and Gramps are Special Forces. I haven’t uncovered half of the things they’ve done, and I’ve looked.”

“You know that victory isn’t always about skill.” I search for the box that demands I justify myself and silence it.

I can feel his gaze on me while all I hear is breathing.

“If you don’t want to do this,” he finally says, “it’s okay. I know you aren’t keen on socializing.”

I mentally brake the phrase down into its components; study every inflection he used for hints of taunting. There is nothing there other than him stating a fact. He does not seek to manipulate me. And that is more effective in getting the result he is after.

I start the car. It moves three feet, and the floodlight comes on, then they are off. Two hundred feet later, I stop. Bart is radiant in the headlights. He’s dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and the gray and red jacket he’s taken to wearing recently. He smiles at me, at us, and the glow of his box increases. This time it calms box the fear and anger.

The effect he has on me is puzzling.

One of these days, I will work it out.

I turn everything off, and he is in darkness again.

“Are you okay?” I ask Emil. He’s silent, still.

Both are reflexes for him, an attempt to vanish, to not be noticed. Fear and nervousness trigger it. He is very good at it.

“I—” he stops. I hear his nervousness in the silence. “They’re his grandparents, right?”

“Guardians, but he thinks of them as his grandparents.” Bart explained his relationship to them, and I have spoken with Emil about tonight’s plans. But it’s only been thirty-eight days since a stranger raped him, tried to kill me, and boasted of doing more to Emil afterward. Even with him dead, and because Emil is so young, he needs reassurance when it comes to strangers.

“So, they’re like my great-grandparents, right?”

He finds comfort in familial links. Even though the stranger who raped him was his grandfather.

His comfort in that idea triggers my fear, and I can’t silence it. “It’s too early for that. We’re meeting them for the first time. They might not approve of us.”

The only indication of his fear is a slight trembling of his voice. “What’s going to happen if they don’t?” his box responds to it, and another one, one that I thought dead, but which Emil has triggered often in his time with me, reacts. The box containing my concern for another’s wellbeing.

I place a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing will change for us. I promise.”

“Aren’t they going to tell Bart to stop spending time with us if they don’t like us?”

I smile. “No one but me tells Bart what to do. Even before he met me, he was strong enough to only do what he wanted. They won’t cause him to leave us.”

He takes slow breaths and works at gaining control of his emotion. I am teaching him to visualize the boxes in which to put what he feels, and then, seal them shut.

I still see the nervousness when he reaches for the door, but the act is the signal he is okay. I exit and head for the porch. Emil is a step behind me. I am his shield against anything that might try to hurt him. He can fight surprisingly well, but fear is still what drives him. He has yet to construct a box large enough to take all of it.

Bart is on the bottom step, keeping me from moving further. The seven inches of height it gives him puts his eyes level with mine. He grabs my collar and pulls me to him. His lips mash against mine.

Lightning explodes from his box and pierces through desire and lust. I have a hand on the back of his head as I force my tongue between his lips; the other is on his ass. I am hard and I can already envision ripping his clothes off, shoving him against the wall, and taking him.

I squeeze his ass and he moans. His tongue is in my mouth, licking my palate, pushing as deep as it will go. I close my lips on it and suck hard. He melts in my arms as he lets out a muzzled cry of pain. He’s hard, grinding against my crotch.

I push the lightning back into his box and let him go. Any more and we will do things that aren’t considered appropriate in public. I don’t care what strangers like his guardians think of me, but Bart hopes I will leave a good impression on them. That will not happen if I have him screaming in a mix of pain and pleasure as I fuck him against the wall of their house.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he says, once he catches his breath.

“I’m only eight hours away. You can visit more often.” He leans into my touch as I caress his cheek.

“My boss will have my head if I vanish a second time without warning.”

“You don’t need the money.”

“It’s fun.” He smirks. “Lets me do my work without drawing attention.”

His box shivers. “What if I ordered you to come live with me?”

He stiffens; a reflexive balking at being ordered. Then he relaxes. He is mine to order about. He gave me the right. He enjoys it. He glances around me at Emil and some tension returns.

The tension is recent. It started last weekend. It’s more Bart than Emil.

Emil is hesitant around him, but that results from not knowing him well, even if he thinks of him as part of his family. The more time they spend together, the more comfortable Emil gets.

While Bart becomes less so.

“Hi.” Bart steps away from me and Emil hugs him. He crosses the distance as if he’s running from cover to cover while under fire.

“Hey Pop,” he whispers, and Bart tenses.

I’m Dad, Bart is Pop. Emil’s need for familial link put Bart in that position because of his relationship to me, and is the reason for the tension. Emil needs parents, and I have no issue playing roles. I will play the role of his father, since that is what he needs.

Emil’s box glows comfortably at that thought, and other boxes echo it. Pride, happiness, possessiveness.

“Bart?” a woman calls from inside the house. Gabrielle Smith. Retired Special Forces soldier from the English military. “Dinner’s ready.”

“We should go in before Gram decides she needs to come to get us.” Bart untangles himself from Emil and opens the door. Emil follows him and I follow Emil.

The entrance has a gun hidden under the side table, the tip of the grip barely noticeable. The mirror on the wall is thicker than it needs to be and there are three areas of discoloration indicating more handling than the others. Places where knives are regularly taken out and put back in.

The living room on the left has a Glock 17 on a table by a plush chair. Gabrielle’s firearm. The Glock replaced the Browning High Power, which would have been the firearm used while she was active in the service. On another table is a SIG Sauer P226. The current US Seal weapon, that makes it Franklin’s firearm.

The man in question is already seated at the table in the dining room. He is in his mid-fifties, but fit. His light brown hair is peppered with gray. He stands and I’m surprised he isn’t armed.

The only reason I’m not carrying my Desert Eagle is that Bart made me promise I wouldn’t come into the house armed. It’s in the trunk of the Chevelle, along with everything I need to survive a fight and clean up after myself.

I notice the butt of a gun behind the flower vase on the cabinet behind where he sits, then the one behind a plate in the China cabinet, as well as the knives behind that cabinet. Each is hidden well enough no casual observer would see them.

“Gramps, this is Tristan and Emil.”

The man studies me as diligently as I study him. Whatever conclusion he comes it, I don’t read it on his face. The surprise when he looks at Emil is clear, then he glances at me.

Gabriel enters carrying a dish. She is in the same age range as her husband. Her blond hair is made into a bun at the back of her head, held in place by long pins. “Stop evaluating the enemy,” she says, putting the dish on the table. I smell beef, vegetables, salt, and vinegar.

He extends his hand. “Call me Franklin.”

His grip is firm as we shake hands. Stronger than it needs to be. A warning that he isn’t an invalid old man. That he will see through anything I decide to start.

“I’m Tristan.” I don’t react to the grip; let him think I didn’t notice his attempt at intimidation. “And this is Emil, my son.” This is where I put the warning. In the tone of my voice. I will end whatever you start if you mess with him.

He looks at Emil again. “Son?”

“Clearly I’m adopted.” Emil’s insolent tone surprises me.

“Clearly.” Franklin smiles and motions to the two empty chairs next to Bart, who’s already seated and ladling stew on his plate. The table is long enough we aren’t crowded. It’s only him and Gabrielle facing us.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here,” Gabriel says, “so just grab what you want. Do you want wine, Tristan, or a beer?”

“Thank you, water will be fine.”

“How old are you, Emil?” she asks.

“N—sixteen.”

He’s too short not to attract questions if he gives his real age. Years of living hard while first searching for me, and then working up the courage to approach, did not help his growth. It’s possible that now that he had proper nutrition again, he will make it up, or the damage is already done. I’ve explained the need to play into people’s expectations, but he doesn’t understand yet.

“We have apple and orange juice. I’m afraid we don’t have any pop. Bart was never a fan of them.”

“It’s always been coffee for me,” Bart says, taking a long swallow from his steaming cut. I fight the urge to ask how many he’s had today.

“If it’s okay, I’ll take coffee too.”

“Aren’t you a little young for that?” she asks.

“I was thirteen when I started on the stuff, Gram.”

“And what do you run now, Bart? Ninety percent caffeine to blood plasma? I don’t think you should set yourself up as an example.”

Emil chuckles quietly. “I’m not that bad.”

“Gabby, let the boy have his coffee,” Franklin says. “Everyone’s entitled to their pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

“And polite too,” she replies. “You could learn something from him, Bart.”

“My ‘thank yous’ and ‘you’re welcomes’ are implied in all ‘I love yous’ I’ve said over the years.”

The barbs are playful. The tension is manufactured for their amusement, not to mask underlying issues. I put a ladle full of stew on my place, using precise motions and not allowing the shake to happen when my shoulder twinges with pain. I add a second to match what the others did. Emil had three. I take a still-warm roll and then I too am eating.

I take my time.

This is a meal, not time spent ingesting nutrition. There are expectations of behavior that breaking will bring questions. But those expectations come with opportunities to, as Gabrielle aptly put, get to know the enemy. Or, from Bart’s point of view, find a way to bridge the distance between who I am and who his guardians will accept I am.

I doubt the real me will be to their liking.

“How did you come to adopt him?” Franklin asks.

“I found him in a forest and decided to keep him,” I reply flatly, then I chew on another fork full.

Don’t probe where you’re not wanted.

“Coniferous or Deciduous?” He grins.

My house. You aren’t going to dictate what I can and can’t ask.

“What do you do for a living, Tristan?” Gabrielle asks, glaring at her husband.

Leave our guests alone.

“I’m a security consultant.” I’ve already built the facade and sent the pertinent information to Asyr so they can ensure that when Franklin goes digging, everything he finds supports my claims.

“Who do you work for?” he asks. 

“I’m freelance. I’m not good with being ordered around.”

“I see.” His reply is noncommittal. “And is that how you met Bart?”

“Gramps,” Bart replies. The irritation in his voice is real.

“Yes. We crossed paths when one of my jobs intersected with his and things—” I smile at Bart “—got interesting.”

“They had sex,” Emil said. “Well, what? It’s true.”

“That was on the second meeting,” Bart adds. “The first one was definitely interesting, but our clothes stayed on.”

I study Emil. This is the most relaxed he has been since his rescue when others have been around. What about this environment puts him at ease?

“This is how you stop Franklin from prying,” Gabrielle said. “Offer to give him all the gory little details. He’s a prude that way.”

“Gabby, I am not a prude.”

“I, on the other hand.” She leans in. “Am more than willing to listen to everything you have to say.”

“No, you’re not, Gram.”

“Bart, I’m not some innocent flower you have to protect, you know that.”

He and Franklin snort.

“Maybe not,” Bart says, “but my sex life is still none of your business.”

“Are you enjoying it, at least?”

Bart looks about to explode.

“He does,” Emil says between fork-fulls. That keeps the explosion from happening and brings all stares to him. “You do. The two of you are loud, not that you even try to keep it from me.”

“Don’t you think you should be more discreet?” Franklin asks, reproach in his tone.

“Do I look like I care?” Emil replies before Bart can formulate a response. “It’s not like I’m a virgin.” His hand shakes before he notices it. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Once it’s clear he isn’t bringing himself under control without help, I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Emil. Look at me.” His eyes are wide, his breathing ragged. “You’re safe, Emil. Remember to breathe. That’s it. Slow breaths. Remember the box?” he nods. “Good. No one will ever hurt you again. You know that, right?”

“I do.” His voice is soft. He’s still slightly breathless. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. This isn’t something you can stop feeling overnight. Do you want to go in the car/ be alone?”

He shakes his head and looks at Gabriel and Franklin. “I’m sorry. Something happened to me and I’m—I’m still dealing with it.”

I level my gaze on Franklin, silently daring him to probe. He’s thoughtful, but remains silent. When he looks at me, he nods at my arm. “I noticed how you favor the arm. How did you hurt it?”

“Playing baseball a few weeks ago. I’m the team’s pitcher and I threw it. There’s some muscle damage. It’ll be a couple of months before I’m pitching again.”

I go back to eating, and the silence that followed isn’t entirely comfortable.