#this motherfucker was surrounded by cars and he just fucking went past the sign on his fancy electric bike like he had a death wish

[goingknowherewastaken]

Jesus fucking Christ people have gotten so fucking stupid now like if you're walking or riding a bike on a sidewalk you need to pay attention and follow pedestrian signage.

Basically, if the crosswalk has a small Stop sign facing the sidewalk you're walking on - that's for people on the sidewalk and you need to wait for any cars to do their thing before you cross.

[alfredosauce50]

What makes me human [Cyberpunk! America x reader] 11

Wordcount: 5,150 Rating: M for strong language, ideologically sensitive and mature themes, gore “In a society that normalizes cybernetic enhancements, many forget what it is to be human. He never did.” Chapter synopsis: Allen and Arthur race to find you both, but it proves to be harder without knowing your whereabouts. Meanwhile, you've successfully helped Alfred find the chip. Before leaving, you have a long-awaited conversation with your father to realize he's more insane than you thought. The reader is referred to as she/her.

Songs to listen to while you read (in order as found in playlist): Cyberninja,  Trouble finds trouble, Tower Lockdown, Me!Me!Me!, Pt. 2, Him & I (with Halsey), Atlantis. I have indented song titles throughout the chapter so you can change accordingly. Starting now:

Cyberninja

Before Arthur could even buckle himself in, Allen rammed his foot into the gas pedal. He was thrown back in a violent manner, and hit his head against the headrest. But the mechanic never complained. He looked stressed enough as is, continually scanning the road while murmuring to himself as if he’d really gone mad. “Hell, that motherfucker could be anywhere in the whole fucking city right now.” He hissed, pulling out of the driveway and into the main road.

“We can’t call him. Track him. Nothing. Same goes for (F/N). They’re off the map.” Turning to his companion numerous times in distress, he sped through the streets, though he had no particular destination in mind.

The indicator clicked. Allen cursed at the car in front of them, but never made a move to overtake. As Arthur became overwhelmed by these stimulants, he opened his mouth, defeated. “If you’re in such a hurry, why--why bother following traffic rules? You never have before, so why now?” He asked with a shake of the head, earning a loud scoff from the other.

The car windows glowed with a flurry of pinks and purples as they moved closer to the commercial district. They were near their first stop.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t give a damn if I didn’t have to.” The whites of his eyes reflected a mosaic of color as he never looked away from the road. “But that was when I was working for my boss. I had protection. I could do a hit and run if I wanted, and without the running part.” The redhead breathed. Then, he stuck his head out of the window with a huff. Immediately, he was choked by the city smog, and deafened by the blaring of car horns.

“Friggen’ prick...” He flipped off the driver in front of him. Sitting back into his seat, he flashed Arthur a grin, though the man couldn’t return the energy.

“Did you get fired? Or did you quit?” This wasn’t the best time to ask about the past, but he had been dying to know why he wound up half-dead on his doorstep. So what better a time to do it than now?

“I quit.” Allen answered point-blank. “Old man didn’t take it well. Decided to kill me. Didn’t.” Slowing the vehicle, they arrived at a parking-lot surrounded by backdoors of multiple piss-poor establishments. One of which was illuminated by a flickering red neon sign that read ‘no-tell motel’.

“He thinks I’m dead, so the rest of the city has to think that too.”

Arthur gawked at him. “That makes you no better than a fugitive! And it’s not just anybody after you--Allen, he’ll kill you when he finds out you’re still alive!”

“And that’s why he won’t find out.” Tapping the side of his neck for a flap to open, the said man slotted a small disk inside. “Disables cybernetic upgrades in a twenty foot radius. Means I can’t use mine, but it stops other people from figuring out who I am.” He dug through one of the compartments for a muffler, which he wrapped around the bottom half of his face.

What he did next was alarming, however. Sticking his hand further in, he pulled out a gun and cocked it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing--!?” Arthur exclaimed, fumbling with a face mask Allen tossed his way. He didn’t see a silencer anywhere either. “If I can call the police without any upgrades, so can everyone else!”

His statement couldn’t ring any truer, and yet, it never slowed down the other’s movements as he climbed out of the car. Unsatisfied by his silence, he wound up getting out to follow him. “Oi, say something! At least let me know you’re not gonna shoot up a restaurant!” Whispering that part out, he had to speed up a few steps to catch up with the man, now marching to the backdoor of a motel.

“Put the mask on.” Allen murmured without sparing him a single glance. But he paused briefly to process what he said. “... A motel, you mean. But I’m hoping we won’t have to resort to that.”

Arthur’s eyes went round. “You were considering--”

He could share the desperation to save Alfred’s life, but he had a hard time following how. Shooting up a motel? What was he thinking?

“Yes.” Attaching his hand to the door, it creaked open. Before Allen took another step, he faced him with a serious glower. “Now when we get inside, I want you to walk up to the receptionist. He’s programmed to greet you. Ask him for a room, and while you do, I’ll approach him from behind and deactivate him. Kapeesh?”

But then again, he was in the dark here. Arthur hadn’t the slightest clue on what Alfred’s circumstances were, as mysterious as the man was, so he had no idea how he was on the verge of dying.

So naturally, he wouldn’t know how to save him either.

But he trusted Allen to know what to do.

“... Alright. You better not make me regret this, you tyke.” 

“You can call me anything you want, just not that. I’m not a kid anymore.” Those words would become apparent as they walked inside, where their plan went by without a hitch. They heard the automated voice of superficial kindness, which stopped abruptly to the sound of an android powering off. Its body fell to the ground to reveal Allen standing behind. Without wasting a second, he leaned over and typed furiously on the keyboard of the computer.

Trouble finds trouble

“Lemme see if this has a log of everybody who came by...” A few moments later, he started nodding at what he saw. “Bingo...” On their private encrypted server, stored the history of all the guests who booked a night. “Well, what do you know... Alfred checked out two days ago. But he’s on the move.” Pulling away to stand up straight, he jogged over to the exit.

“Even if someone tried to look for him in one a’ these places, he’d have to get behind the reception and do exactly what I did.” This someone referred to Matsumoto, but death already followed Alfred wherever he went. Not that Alfred knew that. “The perks of a no-tell motel. Even if they reek of piss, so long as there’s crime, they’ll never go out of business.” He beckoned Arthur to follow him with a tilt of the head. 

“One down, twenty-seven more to go. And that’s only in the direction he’s going... And under the assumption he’s only staying at these motels. So, uh, let’s hope he didn’t try to be too unpredictable.” 

The Brit huffed. This wasn’t going to be easy. 

“I think he’d be predictable to do that if you asked me.” He murmured. “But you call the shots. I’ll just be... Moral support.” 

Allen already disappeared out the door, but his head poked into the doorframe at that. “Nah. You have the most important job outta’ the both of us.” 

That was right. He didn’t tell him yet. He really should’ve a while ago, but he got caught up in the chase. 

“Whether you remove a chip from his head or not will determine if he lives or not.” 

Arthur paled. 

“He’s the guy my boss wanted me to kill. Remember the dude I told you about? The one who tried to steal a prototype chip three years ago?” Now that he mentioned it, he recalled the conversation a few weeks ago. But wait a minute. 

The mechanic felt his face scrunch up as he was hit with a major epiphany. That was Alfred? The terrorist Allen had been updating him about? He was the man who tore up three floors of the headquarters of Matsumoto Optics, and simultaneously, the same customer he had been serving for the last few years.

Before he could even process his shock, he was presented with even more appalling information. 

“He stole it this time. That’s what he and (F/N) disappeared to do. But now that it’s in his head, it’ll overwrite his consciousness until he’s a fucking vegetable.” 

Arthur was horrified. “Then why would he even--” 

“Because he doesn’t know.” Allen cut in with a grim expression. “He thought the chip was supposed to give him immortality, so he wanted to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Like my boss. But no. It’s the opposite. It was all a ploy to kill him.” At this point, the blonde was at loss for words. As a doctor and mechanic, he was quite frankly terrified of how devilishly clever Matsumoto was. But he couldn’t expect any less from him, could he?

They made it back to the car, and he could only stare aimlessly out the windshield, paralyzed. 

“That’s why we need you.” He heard him say. Turning to the man, albeit slowly, he felt a hand slap down on his shoulder. Allen gave him a lopsided grin. “You’re the smartest guy I know, second to my boss. You were always great at fixing stuff. Cars, enhancements, people--so what’s a mixture of all three?”

Arthur dug a hand through his hair stressfully. “... You’re kidding.” And yet, he already knew he was on board. “... Are you calling him a car?” 

The other flattened his lips. “... He technically could be.” 

“Just to be clear, I fucking hate you.” 

Allen laughed. “Sure.”

“But otherwise, we’re wasting time.” He couldn’t believe the words falling from his lips. This was really happening, wasn’t it? After taking him in as an apprentice for his auto shop, the roles were finally reversed. He no longer took charge as the teacher. Or rather, he became the student caught up in the most difficult assignment yet. Having a taste of Allen’s work. 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” 

***

Tower Lockdown

You had all the reasons in the world to be anxious coming home. 

On top of worrying over Alfred, who had hundreds of trained assassins coming at him all at once, during every minute of the heist, you had to face an aspect of reality you avoided until now. You were in the building, and he had already stolen the chip. It was slotted comfortably in his head, ready to leave the premises.

 How come your father never appeared? Was he really just going to let you go just like that?

But the real question was this--should you stay or leave? 

Yes, you hardly approved of anything he’d done. Done to the world like Alfred always mentioned, and to Alfred himself. But you weren’t prepared to abandon him yet. He was still your father, and the only family you had. If you had to make a decision, you needed some closure. If not, a discussion. 

And you expected him to give it to you as the least he could do. 

As Alfred stood among a pile of dead bodies bathing in red, his mantis blades trembled against a katana blade. Even with his hands full, he made the time to check on you. “(F/N)! Stay away from walls! Just hang on for a second longer!” He shouted, turning to you briefly before diverting his attention back to his opponent. “We’re nearly home free!” 

Pulling away to give him a swift jab in the chest, blood sprayed onto his face, but he wasn’t fazed.

What did, however, was the sight of you being thrown over the shoulder of one of the bodyguards. Color drained from his face and he burst into a sprint. 

“(F/N)! No!” Watching you disappear into an elevator, he slammed right into the closing metal doors. “Fuck!” He slammed his fist against them to hear a loud bang. Before he could linger too long, he hastily made his way to a door adjacent. The emergency stairs would take a hell lot longer, but as if he’d wait for the elevator to come back down. 

Even if he needed to climb up a hundred flights to get to you, he would--all the way to the penthouse where Matsumoto was. 

When those men approached you, there was no struggle on your end. You knew where they were going to take you. And you wanted them to. It could even be said you were relieved, because that meant your father was thinking of you. After a minute or so, the soft whirring fell silent, followed by a soft ‘ding’. 

They moved outside the elevator, and after a few steps, they set you down on your feet. Right in the middle of your father’s office. At the very end behind a desk sat the man himself, and he was eyeing you with an unreadable expression. Upon returning his stare, came an onslaught of emotions. But the most prominent was incapacitating anxiety.

Even as his daughter, you could never see through him. He was impossible to read. So you had no idea what to expect. 

“Dad... We need to talk.” You began, walking up to him warily. This was what you wished for at the start, cried for, even. To return home. And yet, the nervous pounding in your chest seemed to worsen with every step you took. It was jarring to confront how much had changed since then. So while you barely managed any words, you were already overwhelmed, struggling to choke back tears. 

“For once, I need to know what you’re thinking.” 

He inhaled deeply before responding. “I was under the same impression that we’d have this conversation.” Standing up from his chair, he furrowed his brows at the sight of you clenching the fabric of your pants. “Don’t look so nervous, child. You haven’t done anything to anger or disappoint me.” Reaching out to your head, he settled a hand on it. 

“... Really?” You whispered out. Hearing his assurances calmed you down a touch. But when you saw the forlorn gaze he cast down at you, your heart was crushed. “... Dad?”

Me!Me!Me!, Pt.2

Any existing contempt for him melted away just like that, but you weren’t upset at yourself for it. Your father hardly expressed any emotion besides calm indifference. And when he did, it always felt like the world was ending. 

“I’m the one who deserves your anger.” He clarified, lowering his hands to your shoulders. “I’ve left you by yourself for far too long, (F/N). I hope you don’t hold it against me that you had to come home yourself.” You hung your head, unable to meet his saddened gray eyes. If you were to hold a grudge at him for it, you’d start by avoiding his gaze. “And I understand why you would’ve wanted to help him. He has a way with words, and a naïve sense of justice. But it’s a warped perception of reality.”  

You’d hate to admit it, but no matter how cruel he seemed to be, there was a method to his madness. 

And you were perhaps the only person in the world to know it. 

That was why you were so torn. Torn between hating him and understanding him. After all, you couldn’t have both. “You can’t blame him after what you did to him.” Glancing up at that, you felt bile rise in your throat. Then, your vision blurred. “I don’t know what you’re aiming for--for this company, and this world. But you can’t expect him to accept this world you created when you stole him from his. He had a life!” 

Staring at him through hot tears, he breathed out a soft sigh before rubbing them away with a swipe of the thumb. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. And I won’t expect you to forgive me even after telling you the reasons for my actions.”  

He pulled away from you to begin walking back to his desk, but not to sit down. Instead, he stood by the window to watch the blinking lights of skyscrapers and small moving dots of cars on the streets. “In a society that normalizes cybernetic enhancements, many forget what it is to be human. He never did. So of course, he would reject the idea of immortality. The destruction of the most human quality there is.” 

He paused briefly to scan the landscape.

“Mortality. One’s inevitable end gives everything they do meaning.” 

Wrinkles creased between your brows. It was confusing to hear him speak so highly of death, frustrating, even. Wasn’t he the one investing billions into correcting it like a flaw? “If that’s what you really think, then why? Why would you make something that would take that all away?” 

He held his hands behind his back. “To serve the greater good. A sacrifice, if you will.” The man turned to you, this time with a serious glower. “Alfred thinks I would commercialize it. Sell it to the public. But he’s wrong. Immortality will only be available to the leaders of the world.”

By leaders, you could only assume he meant people like him. Not politicians, but business men and women. Company owners. The most powerful forces of the present. “The inability to die is a curse. You never move on because you’re still breathing. But that may be just what the world needs. Stagnation. An absence of change.” 

It was daunting to know this man was your father. You couldn’t say you were born with half as many of these attributes he had. Intelligence was easily passed down, but there was something else written in his genes you could never dream of having. “With every passing year, decade, and century, humanity frays like a rope. Society continues to deteriorate... All until self-destruction becomes a matter of time.” Facing the window again, he scanned the impressive architecture he was proud to call his own. And it looked as pristine as it did yesterday. 

“The only way to stop this was to take control of it myself. And that’s how I came to found this company. I’ve found a way to govern the people. To invest in science as the world’s last and only hope. But it’s a job that will last eons, so I was prepared to do it until the end of time.” 

He was right in saying that society was inevitably doomed with the direction it was heading. That technology was the only solution, along with a world government. Matsumoto Optics. A cosmocracy with jurisdiction over the whole planet. There would be no wars. No conflict. And with only one state to call the shots, things could be done so much faster on a global scale. 

It was a radical concept to grasp, but you couldn’t say there was no logic to it. “Alfred was meant to do it with me. To reincarnate again and again as my closest aide on my quest to preserve the world. But he ended up being the opposite. My foil.” Matsumoto shook his head. “Alfred is a nostalgic soul. He’s too attached to the past. But the way of the old can never last with how fast it makes the world burn. Even if he realized that, he would want to exact revenge on me after what I’ve done to him.” 

“So before he destroys everything I’ve created, I have to destroy him first.” 

Him & I (with Halsey)

You tensed up all over, but before you could ask him what he meant by destroy, the doors burst open. The very subject of the conversation had appeared, and just in time for the conclusion of it. His arrival caught you completely off guard, successfully derailing your train of thought, but your father merely acknowledged his arrival. “Ah. Speak of the devil.” 

“Speak for yourself, you fucking demon.” He spat, marching over to your side to pull you into his chest. Immediately putting his hands all over your face, he was riddled with concern as he inspected you. “You okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you in time. What are you still doing here? C’mon, let’s go.” While he reached down to your hand to lead you away, you stayed put. 

As relieved as you were to see him here, you couldn’t follow him out yet. You gave his hand a squeeze, then a soft smile of reassurance. Then, you turned to your father. 

This time, you held him in a firm stare. 

“Even if everyone thinks you’re crazy, I always knew you’d have some kind of justification for everything.” You started. Little did you know, you would take back this statement in the very near future. “But I can’t forgive you for what you did to Alfred. He never ended up doing anything you wanted him to, so giving him all those adjustments was pointless for you. But not for him. If you wanted to get rid of him, it wouldn't be easy.”

Matsumoto closed his eyes as if to agree. That was what you interpreted it as, at least. But unbeknownst to you, he was doing anything but. “I wouldn’t know what’s best for this world.” 

“But what I do know is that I won’t let you hurt him.” 

You spoke those words with a conviction so strong, Alfred’s eyes widened when he heard it. It wasn’t news you cared deeply for him, but to hear you say it to your father like that, and Matsumoto, no less, it made his mechanical heart pound more than he could fathom. You were actively disobeying him, a man you previously revolved your life around, for his sake. To say he was infatuated would be an understatement. 

You felt his grip on you tighten. 

“Say what you will, and I’ll respect your conviction. But I will come for him.” The bearded man murmured in a foreboding tone. A sinister light glinted in his dark gray irises. “And in the most unexpected way he could ever imagine. You will never want to see me again when that happens.” 

“If.” Your voice was a little strained. As much as you wanted to hate him and move on, you couldn’t. Every single fiber of your being was urging you to find a reason, any reason, to not despise the man who raised you. “If, dad. Because if you did, I really will never forgive you. I’ll hate you forever.” 

A grim expression contorted at his face. In his many decades on the planet, he’d never felt more dread. But one had to wonder if that was the right word. The regret had already arrived, because he’d already done something unforgivable. It was only a matter of time before you’d find out. “I’ve already done something to earn your unconditional hatred, child.” 

That was right. He’d killed Allen, your best friend and only other semblance of family in your life. And perhaps, the person you held the closest to your heart. “Soon, you will learn what it is. So I’ll let you leave today because you will never want to come back. I’d imagine that to be more… Convenient for you.” 

It was only your ignorance that blessed him this last moment. The last moment where you’d see him as your father with eyes unclouded by hatred. But it was short-lived. 

It didn’t take long for you to put two and two together, and in your short silence, you came to remember someone that had been gone for a while. Allen. 

Atlantis

You woke up in a cold sweat. For just one measly second as you oriented yourself, you weren’t tortured by a fury. Betrayal. Disgust. But it all came rushing back to you like the memories of that Godforsaken day you met with your father.

Sitting up with a deep frown, you felt heat build up around your face. It would be etched in your mind forever. The memory of Allen laying in the dump. Tossed out like a broken toy. Then, the stench of blood and rust as he was left for dead. 

You always knew your father was mad, but he kept on surprising you with how mad he was. Turning to the figure beside you, tears only overwhelmed your waterline to see his chest rise and fall steadily. 

He was still here. Alive and well. You could only hope the same for Allen.

It had been ten days since the heist. There hadn’t been a single sign of Matsumoto or his men, meaning Alfred really did do his research on the best places to hide. Climbing onto his form, you wound up laying on his chest. Then, you peered down at his sleeping face. 

As you got comfortable, you felt a smile creep onto your lips. If the you from a few months ago saw what you were doing, she’d be flabbergasted. Since when did you like him this much? 

Your cheeks grew a little rosy as you became self-aware of the position you were in. Full-on embarrassment hit you when he began to stir, but before you could get off of him, his eyes fluttered open. Uh oh. Now this warranted an explanation. 

For a second, he was confused, but when he saw that it was just you, he grinned lazily. “Morning, babe. Care to tell me why you’re not sleeping on your side of the bed?” 

He’d totally cornered you. And did he just call you babe? “Um... I, well... I woke up on you, so don’t get the wrong idea. I was just about to get off.” Sliding yourself off of him at that, you tried your damndest to simmer down. But he never gave you the chance. Rolling over to face you, he pulled you in around your waist much to your surprise. “Hey!” 

You never got around to pointing out that pet name, either. 

He caught you in a serious stare. “Don’t be so shy. We’re close, aren’t we?” Alfred was never one to beat around the bush. You knew that better than anyone, but that didn’t mean you were used to it. Lowering your head at that, you fixated on his chest. 

“... I guess so. That doesn’t mean I can sleep on you like that, though. And plus, it must’ve been uncomfortable.” 

“Nah. You’re light as hell.” He hummed. Sitting up with you on his lap, his statement became more apparent in how effortless he made it seem. “You’re like a few grapes, really. So don’t worry about it.” 

Why he chose to focus on that part of your argument was beyond you. Did he really not see anything wrong with what you were doing? Or maybe he did, and didn’t want to mention it. He’d been hugging you a lot lately the past week, but that wasn’t as deserving of your attention as spooning you while he slept. 

Wasn’t he pushing the envelope? It would make sense he was just trying to comfort you after your run-in with your father, and your discovery that he was the one who attempted to off your best friend. But wasn’t this a bit much? 

He wrapped his arms around your neck. There was nothing between you both, and yet, he was holding you like there was. Like you were his. 

"...” It was in his smile. It was different to how he always looked at you, as if there was finally something behind those electric blue irises. Something alive. Something hot. As you played around with the idea, you lit up like a Christmas tree and pushed his mouth away. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Almost as if he read your mind, he relented. But only reluctantly. Picking you up from under your arms, he set you onto the mattress so he could get out of bed. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he gave your cheek an affectionate pinch. “Whatever you say. I’ll be back after a piss.” 

When he left the room, you were left to your own devices. As you brought your knees to your chest, you came to realize how tight it was. He’d only left for a few seconds, and you were already waiting for him to return. It was ridiculous to think about, but it was almost as if you missed him. Already.

Did spending all this time with him give you some kind of separation anxiety? 

Or was it something more? 

You couldn’t tell. 

The fact that he mentioned ‘I’ll be back’ suggested he was aware of your attachment to him. You buried your face into your knees. 

Turns out, you weren’t the only one having a hard time processing your feelings. 

When he disappeared into the bathroom, he pressed his back against the wall. Reaching up to his chest, he scrunched up a part of his shirt as the pounding in his heart subsided--his metaphorical one. Alfred didn’t think it was weird to find you on top of him like that, let alone dislike it. In fact, he loved it. It gave him a shred of hope that maybe, you did like him the way he liked you. 

But that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t be with you. 

This was the fifth motel he’d been to after the heist. There was no saying he’d be dead by the end of the day. Not when your father was after his head. So he wasn’t about to start anything. That would be too selfish, even for him--though one had to wonder if ‘selfish’ could even describe him anymore. He was anything but. At least, for you he wasn’t. 

Alfred would only be proven right when he took a step towards the toilet. His vision started to glitch. Then, he lost his balance, falling over the sink and slamming his head against the mirror. “Fuck--!” Stumbling back onto his feet, he was engulfed in black for a few seconds. What the hell was going on? 

His bout of disorientation lasted for far too long to be normal.

Before he would start accepting the prospect of going blind, his vision returned. He thought he would celebrate that moment, but he forgot what he was even fussing about. What happened? Lowering his gaze to his hands, he stared at them for a while before looking back up. What was he doing here? Where was he? 

That was right. He was in a motel. With you. Running away from uncertain death. It took a minute or so to recall all of these things, and that was what alarmed him. It seemed like his body wasn’t accepting the chip very well. 

Temporary memory loss and blindness was just apart of the transition, right? 

Little did he know, it was anything but. 

Outside that very district sat two men in a car. Bags hung under their dull eyes as they scanned the streets as vigilantly as their sleep deprivation let them. It had been two days since they slept, but they wouldn’t rest until they found him. There were only four days until the damage was done.

If they didn’t get to the man before then, he would be as good as dead. 

[calumance]

LA Devotee - Part I

Warnings: cursing, drinking, divorce, smoking, depression

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Emily went through a pretty rough divorce when she got a new job that involved moving to a different state. After moving, her best friend has continuously tried to cure her depression, but nothing has worked. It’s not until she meets the brown eyed man in the club that maybe life will start looking clearer

A/N: Hello!!! Oh my gosh, I finally reached 400 followers!! So, to celebrate this milestone, I am posting the first chapter to a fic I have been working on for, like, two months, but have kind of kept to myself. I hope you all like it, let me know if you want to read more!! 😊 

           The door locked with a click as the deadbolt set into place. As I turn around I am welcomed by the boxes stacked high that I have yet to unpack. It’s been three weeks since I moved here, and I’ve continuously put off unpacking, even on the weekends when I absolutely nothing to do. It’s not that I don’t want to unpack, it’s just because I’m lazy (which might be a side effect of the crushing depression). A sigh escapes from my lungs causing my chest to fall and I step my way into my drab apartment. Just as I get to the fridge to pull a Smirnoff Ice out of the fridge, the mail was dropped through the metal slot and onto the floor. As I twist the metal cap off the drink, my eyes catch sight of a large orange colored envelope. I took a large swig of the drink, not taking my eyes off the envelope. My heart sinks knowing exactly what was in that envelope.

           The glass of the bottle clanks as I roughly set it on the counter and make my way to the envelope. I squat down and pick up the envelope and my heart instinctually starts to race. My finger quiver as I turn the envelope around in my hands. The contents of this envelope are the exact reason I am standing in this tiny apartment surrounded by the boxes that contain my entire life. My eyes close and I drop my right hand, still holding onto the envelope while my left elbow rests on my knee and my hand slides down my face. I think about crumbling them, maybe even lighting them on fire. Three months ago, this had all been completely mutual, but as the process went on, it became completely one sided.

            The office was cold and smelled like wet wood. An interesting smell for the inside of a lawyer’s office. I looked out the window towards the downtown skyline. The glass touched my lips and I took a drink of whatever whiskey the lawyer’s assistant had gotten me. A man behind me cleared his throat, causing me to jump and spin around. Mr. Hernandez was standing in the doorway holding onto some papers. The look on his face told me that what he was about to say was not about to be good. As much as I wanted to set my drink down, there was a voice in my head telling me to hold onto it. “He, uh, didn’t accept the conditions and came back with new ones.”

           “What the fuck do you mean he didn’t accept the conditions? I felt like I was being MORE than reasonable saying we should split everything 50/50.” I stomped toward him and snatched the papers out of his hands and started reading. My eyes scanned over every word on the page as I carefully took in the new conditions. The rage in my stomach started to boil, to the point where I was physically trembling. I was right in not putting down my drink, because I threw my head back and downed the remaining amber liquid. My hand slammed the glass down and I held my breath for a second so I wouldn’t start yelling. “This motherfucker wants to take everything I have? Why? What the hell did I do to him? He’s the one who decided to divorce me when I told him I got a new job and have to move to LA.” My eyes connected with Mr. Hernandez’s, who was obviously feeling the same pain I was feeling. I dropped the papers to my side and closed my eyes and let the tears fall. “Fine, tell him I accept. I don’t care anymore. I just want enough that I can move to LA without sinking.”

           Mr. Hernandez nodded and had me sign on the line that said I agreed to the conditions, even though I didn’t. Over the years I had learned how to deal with him, and deal with all the shit he threw at me, but this, this reminded me of just how miserable he has made me for the past five years. After Mr. Hernandez walked out of the room, I knew that my life was over, or at least this part of it. The book of my early adulthood was finally coming to an end. Maybe moving to LA was going to be good for me. A fresh new start, away from the guy who took so much of my youth away from me. It took a minute before Mr. Hernandez came back into the room, and when he did, he didn’t seem too surprised that I literally hadn’t moved. “So, the papers will be filed tomorrow. In the State of Colorado it takes about 90 days for the divorce to be final. We will mail you the completed files to your new address in California. If you need anything else Ms. Williams,” My heart skipped and I cringed when he used my maiden name, only digging the reality of how real this was further into my heart, “Please, let me know.”

           My eyes sprung open and I ripped the envelope open. The envelope fell to the ground as I pulled the finalized divorce papers out. The fire in the pit of my stomach raged as I read through everything I was entitled to and everything he was entitled to. He took everything from me, the only thing I was entitled to was the money I put down on the house we bought together, my clothes, and anything my mom had bought for us. Everything else was his, he was still living in the house I put the money down on, he still had our dogs, he still had everything. I stood up and tossed the papers onto the counter and grabbed my drink. My head tilted back, and I chugged the whole drink down. I grabbed a second drink and walked out of the kitchen towards the couch. As I fell back onto the couch, it moved backwards causing it to make a screeching noise across the hardwood floor.

           The annoying sound of my phone ringing caused me to groan out loud. The name on the phone is that of my newest friend, and also my best friend, Mikayla. “Hello?” I answer, not really wanting to talk to her, but it was better than sitting here wallowing in my own self-pity.

           “Emily! What are you doing right now? No, wait don’t answer that, because every time you do, I just end up feeling bad for you.” She wasn’t wrong, I’m pretty much a miserable person. I have been since I got my life ripped out from underneath me. “It’s Friday night, you should go out with Trevor and me. We’re going to this club that is supposed to super fun.”

           There was no way I was going to catch myself in a club. Drinking by myself at home sounded just fine for a Friday night, “No, I’ll pass, thanks though.” She complained in my ear consistently for five minutes, and just because I wanted her to shut up, I gave in, “Fuck, okay! I’ll go, but I’ve already been drinking.”

           She squealed, obviously a lot more excited about going out than me, “That’s fine, Trevor and I will come and pick you up. Dress cute!” She hung up before I could even protest. My eyes scanned all of the boxes. There had to be a good club outfit in there somewhere.

           It took a while, but I finally found myself standing in front of my mirror wearing a blue spaghetti strap dress that was form fitting and looked as if it was a wrap, coming to an upside-down V in the front. In another box I pulled out a pair of sparkly gold four-inch pumps. I curled my shoulder length blonde and pink hair and plastered my face with a classy smoky eye and a deep red lipstick. There was a knock on my door, bringing me out of my thoughts. I threw my leather jacket over my arms and flicked my hair out of the back. When I swung the door open, Mikayla gasped. “Emily, you clean up so nicely, I mean, not that you look bad at work, just like, damn.”

           “Thanks, can we go now, because the sooner we leave, the sooner I can come home.” Before we left, Mikayla managed to look at the inside of my apartment. She looked at me with a concerned look, but I brushed it off, just as I do with every concerned look I get. My mom gives me a lot of those looks when I am facetiming her. I’m not saying she shouldn’t give me those looks, but I am saying I’m allowed to be hurt and be depressed after my life was literally signed away from me. I am allowed a grieving period, even if it is longer than it should be.

           “I, uh, got the finalized papers in the mail today.” I said in a monotone voice as we reached Trevor’s car.

           Mikayla stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me, “Oh, shit, Emily. Are you alright?”

           The door handle popped as I pulled it open. My hand grabbed the door as I gathered my thoughts and turned to Mikayla. “Yeah,” I nodded, “Yeah, I’m okay.” That was a lie.

           All the people in the club were standing shoulder to shoulder, which immediately put me on edge. The only place that didn’t have a lot of people was the bar, telling me that most of the people in this place were too young to purchase drinks. Mikayla and Trevor went off towards the dancefloor while I went off towards the bar. I pulled out a barstool and took my jacket off, placing it on the back of the barstool. The bartender had to yell at me over the music to get my order, which just solidified how terrible of an idea this was. After I yelled back at the bartender, I looked around. There were a few people at the bar, a majority of them just being there to get their drinks and head out to the dancefloor. And there was only me and two other people sitting on the barstools, which this barstool is where I intended on being all night.

           To my right, at the end of the bar there was a man, most likely around the same age as me, taking a sip out of his drink. There was something about him that completely caught my attention. His hair was blonde, but it couldn’t be a natural blonde since his eyebrows were a dark black. In the dark, it was hard to see what color his eyes were, but they had to be a dark shade considering in the darkness of the club, his eyes looked black. He laughed at something the bartender said to him, and his smile lit up the whole space around him. My eyes diverted when he looked towards me, obviously knowing that I was staring at him. When he looked away from me, I looked at him again. He was wearing a black button up shirt that was unbuttoned and a black tank top underneath. He pants were the same color as blue jeans, but they did not appear to be the same material. He has tattoos on his hands, but from my spot, it’s hard to make out what they are. My eyes travel up his left arm and note the multiple tattoos on his arm. He looks at me again, and I dart my eyes in a different direction, grabbing my phone, hoping that I don’t look like a creep.

           My finger flicks across the screen with a rhythm as I scroll through my phone. Suddenly, the bartender places a drink in front of me, causing me to look up from my phone. I look at the bartender, confused, since I hadn’t asked for another drink yet. “It’s compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar, he said he likes your leather jacket.” The bartender shrugged and pushed the drink towards me. Reluctantly, I grabbed the drink and looked towards the guy who had caught me staring at him twice. I held the drink up and nodded my head towards him in a silent ‘thank you.’ After I took a few sips of my drink, I set the glass down and continued to scroll through my phone.

           Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the man starting to move. Even though I continued to look at my phone, I concentrated on him. He stood from his seat and placed his hands in his pockets. He walked closer to me, and surprised me when he leaned towards my ear, “I’m going to step outside, would you like to join me?” As I looked towards him, he was walking out of the bar area and into the crowd. I thought about if I wanted to go with him or not. If I went with him, there was a small chance I could get murdered, but I mean I could get murdered in here too. In all reality, I could get murdered anywhere. Fuck it, I thought to myself.

           I grabbed my jacket and my phone and squeezed my way through the crowd, and out the front door of the club. It was nice to feel the fresh air, and it was nice to be able to hear my thoughts again. He was standing off to the side, lighting a cigarette. My hands dug deeper into my pockets as I stepped down the stairs and the few feet down the sidewalk towards him. He looked at me through a partially opened eye and smiled, “Look, if you’re going to murder me, just get it over with.” My heels were already making my feet hurt, causing me to shift my weight a few times to find a comfortable standing position.

           He laughed at my comment, and his laugh sent a shiver down my spine. “Definitely not going to murder you. You just look really miserable in there.” He offered me his cigarette and as much as I wanted to, I waved my hand declining his offer. “Why’d you come to a club if you were just going to sit at the bar on your phone?” He asked before taking another drag.

           I laughed and looked out into the street as a car drove by, “Don’t want to give anyone the impression that I chose to come here.” I shrugged my shoulders until my shoulders were touching my ears and then dropped them heavily. “My friend and her boyfriend dragged me here when I was more than happy getting drunk on my couch by myself.”

            He nodded taking the last drag of his cigarette. He flicked the butt of the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe a few times to make sure it was out. Once he was sure it was out, he flicked the butt into the street. “Then why don’t we get out of here then?”

           I took a step back, slightly offended, “Listen, I’m definitely not out here to try to get laid or anything. Don’t start thinking that I came out here because I want to suck your dick or something.” Not that I didn’t think he was one of the most attractive people I’ve ever laid my eyes on, I’m just not that kind of person.

           He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes while laughing. I could finally tell that he had chocolate brown eyes, and there was something in his eyes that made me just want to get lost in them. “Woah, okay.” He laughed again, “I wasn’t asking you to suck my dick, I was just asking if you wanted to leave. No sexual favors involved.” His laugh resonated in my ears, like I was listening to angels sing. There was something in my gut telling me to go with him, even though it could literally lead to a one hour special on Investigation Discovery.

           I pulled my phone from my pocket and texted Mikayla, “Hey, I am going to catch a ride home, I guess this isn’t going to be my cure after all. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” My phone made a wooshing sound as the message sent and I looked at the brown eyed man standing in front of me. “Sure, but I need to go pay for my drinks.”

           He pulled his keys out of his pocket, causing them to jingle, as I turned to walk back into the club. “Don’t worry about that, I already paid for them.”

           I stopped dead in my tracks and tilted my head a bit confused, and now slightly angry. Not even entirely sure why I was angry, the feeling just suddenly took over my whole body. I spun on my heels and took a few steps closer to him. “Why did you pay for my drinks? Did you know you were going to get me to go home with you, or what the fuck where you planning?”

           His eyes grew big as my sudden outburst of anger shocks him. “Uh, nope, not trying to do anything. I paid for your drinks because I was being nice to the attractive woman a few seats down from me at the bar. I wasn’t planning on taking anyone home with me, if that means anything to you. I was on the edge of trying to go home myself, just thought I’d like to talk to you in a more quiet setting. I’m sorry if that looks bad, I meant nothing bad of it.”

           My heart beat slowed as I realized I was literally acting crazy. Never in my life have I had a random guy pay for my drinks to be nice. As I took a deep breath I ran my finger and my thumb across my forehead, trying to send a silent message that I’m not always this insane. “I’m sorry, I just- never mind. I’ll follow you to your car and you can take me wherever you want to go, just get me away from this place, and please don’t murder me.”

           A smirk formed on his lips as he nodded and turned to walk away from the club. Even though I agreed to go with him, I still was reluctant to follow him. We were silent, the only sound between us being my heels clicking every time they made contact with the cement. I watched my feet so I wouldn’t fall, but looked up at him every so often. My mom would be losing her mind right now if she knew I was leaving a club with someone I’d literally never met. My phone vibrating consistently told me Mikayla was having an absolute panic attack. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and shut it off. “My name’s Calum, by the way.”

           My head flicked up to look at him, he was holding out his hand as if for a handshake. I placed my phone back in my pocket and looked into his deep brown eyes. “I’m Emily.” Our hands clasped together and I couldn’t help but notice how well they fit together. He smiled a wide smile and shook my hand once.

           “It’s very nice to meet you, Emily.”

Part II

[endlesstalesofwonder]

Speeding Along

So here I was, watching the YouTube, and this prompt just landed in my lap and I couldn’t not do anything with it. C’mon.

“A friend once set me up on a blind date. I wasn’t in a great mood because I had received a traffic ticket a few hours before. My day got worse when my blind date turned out to be the cop who gave me the ticket. #WorstFirstDate”

Stiles always thought he was given the worst luck in the world, sucking out all the misfortune out of his friends and family so he could suffer for them. At least, that’s how he decided to view it for the entirety of his twenty-four years. The past week had been fine, bearable. That only meant some serious shit was going to go down and he didn’t know when.

He checked his messages before climbing into his jeep. The office building towered over him, casting a looming shadow over him as though he didn’t already have enough dread pooling between his shoulders.

Turning on the car, it was immediately flooded with the strumming of Stay Home by Self. The irony of the universe was never so careless. Maybe he should just camp out in his office. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He was barely getting onto the freeway when the shrieking ring of his Bluetooth stereo signaled a call. It took a moment for the system to shift, displaying the slow rolling familiar digits of the only woman he would never not answer.

“You’re going. That’s final.”

Stiles restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Whenever he did, the woman always had the uncanny ability to tell that he was doing it. “Hello, Lydia. I’m great. How are you?”

“Hi, Stiles,” she huffed. Like her, Stiles could tell whenever she flipped her hair when she was frustrated. “You never answered my texts.”

“I figured my silence was enough of an answer.”

“Stiles!” The stereo did not like the idea of his name being shrieked through the cheap system, rattling and warping the sound out of proportion before settling back with the soft rippling of static from Lydia’s surroundings. “You’re going out.”

The man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure there. It never helped, but the habit stuck after watching it on tv when he was young. Stupid television idols.

Lydia had gotten into the frame of mind that Stiles had become Single-Desperate-and-Alone. And his only defense was that he was not desperate — just tired of looking and waiting. He’d been on several blind dates, ranging from no good to awkward to very, very bad. The last date ended with being sneezed in the face after suggesting that they should not go on another date. Now, he was afraid of getting within arm’s distance of any human being.

“What if I don’t even like the guy?” What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s a couch slob? What if all he has to wear is a single pair of acid washed jeans and mesh tee that had THE MAN bedazzled onto the back? “I don’t think I could deal with that kind of rejection.”

“Stop being melodramatic.”

Stiles pulled off of the Interstate and onto one of the side roads that lead to the main road back into town. It was supposed to be a secret short-cut around the interstate traffic, but now all navigation directed people towards this road. Damn internet. “Will it get me out of this date?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t stop.”

“This is ridiculous. If you don’t like him — and I’m sure you will —” Stiles sighed. That’s what she’d said about the others as well. “Then this will be the last time I meddle.”

“No more meddling in my love life?” A soft grunt came through the speakers. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes.” Stiles turned onto the main road, familiar trees flanking him on either side. The town sign should be nearby, closer if he pushed the limits.

“Meddling being any kind of date, blind or otherwise…”

“Yes.”

Welcome to Beacon Hills, the main said read as Stiles passed it, though the words were blurred. He just wanted to go home and get this to-be-horrible-date over with.

“Or mysteriously running into someone in the street because someone pushed them…”

“That was one time. Fine.”

“Then we have an agreement.” Then, as though striking a match into light, red and blue lights alternated behind him. “Fuck. Fuck! Fuckity-Fuck-Shit-Dammit—”

“Stiles?”

“I’ll call you back.” He hung up on her, pulling over onto the side of the road, then turned off the car. Another string of swears bubbled up in his throat and stayed there as the officer approached.

He rested his head back against the seat, cool and collected. This was not his first time being pulled over, not even one of the first dozen. By now, Stiles had perfected the art of ticket skimming.

The officer approached his passenger window, to avoid the onslaught of traffic feeding into the town at this time — none. Stiles, begrudgingly, rolled down the window in question as the man bent over just slightly to accommodate his height. Jesus. “You were going 54 in a 40. Do you have anything to say?”

All Stiles could process was the fact that the man was the epitome of dirty, sexy cop: fitted uniform, dark everything — scruff, hair, eyebrows that peaked out from the equally dark reflective ray bands — “I’m dyslexic?”

“Oh?” That stupid eyebrow on his stupid face crooked upwards in nothing other than pure amusement. Shit. “So you think you were going 45 in a 40.”

“... Yes.” No.

“That’s still speeding. License and registration.”

Mentally, his eyes narrowed. He dug through the black hole of a glove box and pulled out his registration that he tucked into what he called the Jeep Bible (key: manual). Then ruffled through his wallet for his license. The man took the items as Stiles found them, walking back to his car as Stiles tried to make him explode with his mind. If only.

It didn’t take long, which was also a bad sign. He had gotten tickets before that took longer because the officer was lenient enough to grant other, lesser offenses than the whopping three-hundred-plus speeding ticket. This man was testing his perfected art.

The ticket was stated as the regular three-hundred and sixty and his wallet tensed at the idea of being emptied. Again. The officer went through the readings like he was supposed to: memorized, mechanical, and purely professional. Then, the man said his goodbyes and left.

“Thanks, asshole,” he muttered, taking a glance at the signed name at the bottom of the ticket. He’d burn the name into his memory if it meant never having to see the man again. Knowing his audience, he took his time to pull off the side of the road and cautiously — it was tempting not to just peel out of there — drive back to his apartment.

Deputy Hale. Stiles hated him.

Once he got back to his apartment, he had all of ten seconds alone before his phone burst out into a blaze of chirps and rings. Lydia Martin.

He picked up, despite the dampened mood. “What?”

“What? What, he asks.” The roar of traffic picked up in the background. She was traveling somewhere. He could even hear the click of her heels. “How about you tell me what just happened?”

“I got a ticket for speeding. No big deal.”

A horn honked, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was from the phone or from outside. “Good! I hear that going out is the perfect thing to fix that.”

“Listen, Lyds. I’m not in the mood for a date, certainly not now.” A knock sounded on the door. Add another tally to the series of bad timings, Universe. “Hold on.”

Stiles opened the door, ready to unleash the fear of God onto the person who would even dare approach his door despite the No Solicitor sign — and Lydia stood at the door with one hand on her hip and the other hanging up the phone call.

“Don’t call me Lyds,” she snapped, then let herself in.

“Come in, why don’t you.”

She stopped in the living room, spinning on her heel to rake her eyes over his body. “The shirt needs to go. The pants might work, with the right top. The shoes can stay.”

“I’m not going out.”

“We made a deal.” Lydia, ever the Goddess, crossed her hands over her chest. It was all business then. “I suppose that means I can continue to meddle in your life. Your neighbor isn’t seeing anyone lately, maybe they can —”

“How do you even — Fine. Fine!” That was all she needed. She flew into his bedroom and pulled a shirt he didn’t even know existed and threw it in his face. Whatever made her stay out of his love life, it was worth a dinner.

Stiles couldn’t sit still for the life of him. He rearranged the silverware before readjusting the positions of the cups and finally gave up. He buried himself in the sea of dished on the menu.

There were thirteen ways to get out of the restaurant. The first would be to go out the front door, but that would run the risk of potentially showing his blind date that he was trying to sneak out. The windows were not an option because they were beginning to draw the drapes shut and getting through that thick of fabric was a no go in any capacity. The kitchens would be open, but the number of sharp objects that could get in the way were higher than his chances of getting out without being banned —

“I’m looking for table 19,” someone asked the front table. That was Stiles’ table. His blind date. A familiar voice.

Stiles looked up from his menu and nearly choked on a lung, burying his head back behind the plastic before the man saw him. “Fuck me.”

The footsteps grew closer and closer, and Stiles’ was able to make out the size of the shoe — no longer the department-issued boots — “Do you need help reading those numbers, or are you fine?”

Motherfucker. Stiles looked up and met Deputy Hale’s mischievous green eyes. “Is that how this is going to go?”

The man slid effortlessly into the chair opposite him. It was a jarring difference, seeing him in both his uniform and street clothes in a manner of hours. Something in Stiles wanted to relax, but his undeniable grudge didn’t.

“Did you really think that was going to work?”

Stiles lowered his gaze back to the menu, none of the words meaning anything to him. “Yeah, actually.”

The man made a low snort, as though biting back a smile — or laugh — that would no doubt make Stiles threw out any poor judgment he’d made in the past few hours.

Silence settled between them, and Stiles, ever the conversationalist — according to his date with Jensen — didn’t know what to do with it. He fumbled with the straw left in his drink and finally bit the bullet.

“I’m not sure I can go out with a man who knows my driving record.”

The man smirked, leaning his arms on the table but not to divide the space between them. “You’re welcome to see mine, but there’s nothing there.”

“Wow,” Stiles drawled, and the Deputy held out his hands like what-can-you-do? “Wow!”

Finally, he laughed. Stiles couldn’t help joining in. The sound of it was infectious, necessary. Despite the poor start, he’d never felt so light.

“Let’s start over.” A hand crossed over the open space of the table between them. “Derek. Hale.”

“Stiles, not — yeah.” Derek’s eyebrow rose. No doubt he had read his legal name and thought to not issue the ticket — it had worked all of four times before — and yet, here they were. Derek Hale was an enigma. He met his hand with his own. “Stiles Stilinski. It’s nice to meet you.”

The waitress came over not long after their restart. It was easy. To fill the silence. Their conversations blended seamlessly through various stages and recounts of their youth. It was a blessing that neither of them had brought up the —

“You may want to slow down.” Stiles paused, the fork full of food just within his mouth’s grip. Derek was smirking, the bastard, and he knew what he was going to say before he even said it. “I wouldn’t want to give you another ticket.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes and ate the damn food anyways. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. I don’t go speeding through everything, you know. You were just… lucky.”

“Oh?” Derek leaned forward again, and Stiles leaned slightly to meet him. “You’ll have to show me then.”

“What?”

“Something you don’t go speeding through.”

Jesus Christ. Stiles was eating. He leaned back, his face no doubt the same shade as the spaghetti he was rather enjoying and now the meatballs were just taunting him — He relaxed. “Maybe later.”

Derek took his water, meeting Stiles’ gaze over the rim. “I look forward to it.”

When Stiles let himself back into his apartment, Lydia had made herself very comfortable by the size of the blanket nest built to accommodate his four-person couch. It was rather impressive.

The screen froze, paused. She turned away from the screen, the light illuminating in a way that would only describe her as having a halo. “How’d it go?”

He shrugged. She opened her mouth to go off, probably to say something about the inability of men to get their head out of their ass — Jason was never a good fit for Stiles anyways — but Stiles stopped her. “We made another date.”

“Oh,” she drew out, settling back into her nest with nothing other than content and satisfaction in her everything. “Told you so.”

“Mmm. Move over.” She obliged, but only barely. He was only granted a fraction of the comfort she had made for herself, clearly raiding everything from the linen cupboard to his own bed. “What are we watching?”

She rolled her eyes, turning on the show with no additional information or even the title. He stayed quiet, watching and waiting for silence to ask his questions. It didn’t matter. An officer walked into the scene, trying to solve a murder of some kind, and he only saw a dark-haired beauty with green eyes.

He pulled out his phone and sent a single message: See you soon.

Derek Hale: See you.

[girls-scenarios]

Let’s Ride

Idol: Soyeon ((G)I-dle)

Prompt: Soyeon’s only soft spot was for you, her girlfriend. Biker Gang!AU

Writer: Admin Kiwi

A/N: So this recent comeback has me crushing on these girls hard. Who said they could be this cool? Anyway, this wasn’t requested, but I wanted to write something for Soyeon and this popped into my head so I hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: Cursing, minor violence, mentions of blood, drinking

♡ Tip Jar♡

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The sun was bright, burning down onto the pavement as a blonde-haired woman sneered down at the man cowering under her boot. Behind her, five girls dressed in leather gear stood beside their bikes, daring anyone to come any closer with their hands in their pockets and their eyes narrowed to the glaring sun. Sand mixed with the dry air whipped up as a car flew past on the nearby highway, but none of the girls even flinched, shoulders back and chins up. “Do you want me to cut out your tongue?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”

“You’re damn right, you didn’t know.” The woman kicked, sending the man flying backwards. The bare skin of his arm almost sizzled against the heated pavement, and he let out a hiss of pain as the woman stalked closer. “That’s not an excuse, though. You expect me to let you off the hook just because you didn’t know who she was?” Again, she kicked, making contact with his jaw. A sickening crack echoed through the parking lot, and the man on the floor let out a howl of pain. “This is how I treat men like you. Men who don’t know not to fuck with women.”

“Soyeon! Soyeon, that’s enough! You’re going to seriously hurt him!” A voice rang out from behind one of the girls, and the blonde woman turned around, wrinkling her nose as you moved away from Soojin’s protective hand, eyes wide. “You’ve made your point, let’s just go.”

“But he disrespected you. He touched you. He would have done worse had I not been here.” Soyeon turned to spit down at the man on the ground. “He deserves worse than this.”

“Soyeon. Love, please. I don’t need you killing anyone for me.”

With a huff, she turned around to kick at the man’s body one last time before pulling her keys from her pocket. “Fine. Consider this a warning, you motherfucker. Do something like this again and they won’t find your body.” Then, turning her back to him, she marched back to the wall of motorcycles and took her helmet from Minnie’s tattooed arms before turning to look at you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You smiled at her and picked up your own helmet from the back of her bike, leaning in to kiss her cheek as she stopped in front of you. “I’m okay, because of you. Let’s get going, now. I want to go home.”

Those words were all she needed to hear, and she turned to her gang with a smirk, lifting her helmet up to her head. The desert shined in the sun out in front of them, and the highway seemed to be calling their name as they followed her lead, suiting up for the long trip ahead. “Ladies? Let’s ride.”

-

Riding was thrilling. That was how you’d fallen for Soyeon in the first place: sitting on the back of her motorcycle, clutching at her leather jacket with the wind flowing through your hair as the road whipped by. Something about the speed and the way you could feel every movement of the road underneath you on the bike was addicting, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away after that first ride. You didn’t ride yourself, but you could often be found perched behind Soyeon, enjoying the view from the back of the motorcycle as the gang moved from place to place. Your girlfriend had offered to teach you how to ride, or even to get you a bike of your own, but you always refused: you liked things the way they were. And you hoped they’d never change.

-

Home was a small house on the outskirts of town near the desert highway, surrounded by cacti and desert flowers that Shuhua had worked so hard to plant and care for. On the outside, the house was unassuming. Shuhua’s cute, desert-themed welcome sign kept outsiders on one side of the door, and the gang on the other, shielding them from the prying eyes of neighbors to do as they liked.

Inside was a different story. Miyeon and Soojin made sure the house stayed clean, for the most part, and Soyeon kept records of her favorite songs on the walls to give it a decorated feeling, but the inside of the house still betrayed the rough nature of the group. The furniture was all old and used, save for the recliner that Soojin stole from her ex’s house. There was no specific styling to the house: leather pieces mixed with ugly, stained cloth chairs that Miyeon covered with tattered blankets, and some of the girls just slept on mattresses on the floor, because it was easier that way. The TV was new (you had decided not to ask Soyeon where she got it) but the kitchen was old. It seemed like every day that Soyeon and Yuqi were down on the floor trying to fix the oven or fridge. The house was littered with things from every member, from Shuhua’s makeup collection and Yuqi’s school books to Miyeon’s violin and Soyeon’s old ballet shoes tucked in the closet. Your own things had been added in somewhere along the way, and the house looked a mess. But it also looked like found family and acceptance, and that was why you loved it. That was why it felt like home when you came in after a long ride and flopped down in the blanket-covered couch.

“I got so much dust in my mouth when we made that stop,” Minnie complained as everyone stepped inside, peeling off outer layers and rushing for the cool water bottles in the fridge. “I don’t think I’ll ever get it rinsed out.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. A little dust never hurt anyone,” Miyeon said in return, watching with curious eyes as you turned on the TV. “I wonder if that man reported us to the police?”

“He better not have, or he’ll pay.” Soyeon’s voice was so nonchalant as she said it, and you rolled your eyes, reaching out from the couch to pull her back by shirt.

“Oh, hush and sit with me. You get so riled up over things.”

“Only when it comes to you,” she said with a huff, but she sat down beside you and placed her head on your shoulder, making Soojin snort out a laugh.

“Sure,” she whispered, just loud enough for Soyeon to hear, making the other girl throw a towel at her, but it just made everyone laugh, missing her by a foot.

“Hey, hey! Stop fighting and tell me what’s for dinner! I’m starving,” Yuqi said, whining from the kitchen.

“Whatever you’re making,” Miyeon said in return, making the younger girl whine even louder.

“Meat. I want meat!”

Shuhua perked up at the table and brought her water bottle away from her mouth. “Same.”

“Count me in!”

“Minnie, act your age.”

“Nope. Never.”

“Who’s going to pay for this meat, now?”

You watched with a smile as the girls went back and forth, sounding like a real family. Everyone was so comfortable and happy around each other, and it made you feel good to be a part of it. It felt like home, and as Soyeon slipped her hand town to hold yours and Yuqi came running over to flop down on top of her, begging her to buy meat, you couldn’t help laughing, a swell of affection in your chest. There was no where else you’d rather be than here.

-

Sometimes at night, the bed dipped down on Soyeon’s side and she disappeared into the night. She never woke you up on these late-night runs, and you never asked where she went, just listening to the rumble of the bikes starting up outside your window with your eyes squeezed shut.

You knew what Soyeon was capable of. You knew what happened to Soojin’s ex. You knew what could be happening when they rode off into the dark night. But you didn’t want to pry (and you didn’t want to know for sure) so you just willed yourself to go back to sleep, hoping that Soyeon would come back unhurt.

-

“What did you do to yourself this time?”

“She got into a fight with a guy twice her size.”

“And won!”

“Yeah, but she got a nasty cut on her face from his broken bottle. I don’t know if I’d call that winning.”

“Ow! Ow, that hurts!”

At midnight, you’d been shocked awake by the sound of the girls yelling and had jumped out of bed, fearing the worst. Sure enough, Soyeon had been slumped in their arms, bleeding profusely from a cut on her face but with a drunk grin on her face that said she didn’t regret a thing. Now, you had Soojin and Minnie hold her down as you cleaned the wound, rolling your eyes at her whining and twitching.

“Maybe you should have thought of the pain before you jumped on a man twice your size, babe,” you said as you pulled away the soaked cotton swap and peered in at the cut. It wasn’t as deep as you’d thought it was, which meant it would probably heal right without stitches. Still, it wasn’t going to be healing any time soon, and you sighed as you pulled out the gauze and bandages from your first aid kit. “You’re going to be wearing a big bandage on your face for a while now. Hope you’re happy.”

“Shows how badass I am,” she drawled, and you glanced at Miyeon, who was teetering slightly but seemed much more sober than most of the group.

“How much did she drink tonight?”

“Not too much. I think she’s just drunk on her own hubris.”

“I’m not drunk!”

“Yes, you are.” You pushed your girlfriend back against the couch and carefully held the bandage over the cut, wanting to get the placement right. “You’re going to ruin your beautiful face if you don’t cut it out.”

“I’m not beautiful, I’m badass!”

“Sure, sure.” Gently, you applied the bandage and let out another little sigh, sitting back to look at your work. “Just don’t take that off. I don’t want blood on my sheets.”

“‘Kay.”

“Off to bed, everyone. Your damage has been done.”

“Aw, but it’s only midnight,” Minnie whined, making you turn to her and cross your arms.

“Yes, but I’m not patching up any more accidents tonight. So go to bed and stay out of trouble.”

Yuqi groaned and leaned into Shuhua like your words were the worst thing she’d ever heard, but Soojin let go of Soyeon and stood up, clapping her hands. “You heard the boss’s wife. Off to bed.”

“We aren’t married,” you pointed out, but the girls ignored your words, chattering as they moved off towards the bedrooms. Groaning, you rubbed your head, sensing an oncoming headache as you turned back to your girlfriend on the couch. “Come on. We’re going to bed too.”

“Carry me.”

“No. You can get up on your own.” Despite your own words, you held out your hand to help her up, supporting her weight with your shoulder as she stood and leaned into you. She smelt of tequila (which explained a lot of things) and you wrinkled your nose as you led her to the bedroom the two of you shared. “God. How many shots did you have tonight?”

“Like. Four? Five? I dunno.”

“This is why you’re always getting yourself into trouble. You need to learn some self control.” As you approached the bed, you loosened your grip on her letting her flop down onto the bed on her own before you went back to close the door and turn out the lights. “Let’s get you out of those clothes. You can’t sleep in leather pants.”

“Watch me!”

“See? This is the attitude that gets you in trouble.” As you approached her, she pouted at you, sitting up to take off her shirt, and you wondered if anyone else had ever seen this side of Soyeon. Probably not, now that you thought about it. The thought made you chuckle to yourself as you helped her out of her pants. What would people think if they saw the rough and tough, fearless Soyeon pouting at her girlfriend?

“Are you mad at me?” Soyeon asked as she laid back down, and you shrugged, climbing into bed next to her.

“I’m mad that you got yourself hurt again.”

“Oh.” She turned to look at you, pouting once again, and you couldn’t resist the urge to reach over and tuck her short blonde hair behind her ear.

“You know I can’t stay mad at you. But I get worried when you hurt yourself like this, you know? What if one day you get yourself so hurt I can’t help you? That’s why I get mad at you.”

“Yeah.” Soyeon stayed quiet for a minute before reaching over to pull you into her arms. “I won’t do that. I promise I’ll always come back to you. Just wait for me, okay?”

With a smile, you held her back, enjoying her careful, gentle caress. This was the side of her that you loved the most. The side of her reserved just for these nights with you. And you knew that you could never leave her side. “I’ll always wait for you. Just stay alive for me.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, beautiful.”

Laughing at the nickname, you pulled away to give her a soft kiss. “Goodnight, babe. I love you.”

The smile she gave you when you pulled away made everything worth it. All the worrying, the fixing, the weird things you’d had to get used to. You’d ride with her to the end of the world to see that smile. And you knew she’d do the same for you.

“I love you too, (Y/N).”

[winters-blue-children]

Scars

“There was a time Billy wanted to make him pay. We went to Bensonhurst. He wanted to tune the guy up. The guy showed up, and he changed his mind.”

“You think this asshole got jacked up in prison?”

Frank’s voice is a low rumble. He’s never been the guy that feels the need to fill uncomfortable silences. That’s more Billy’s shtick, to break the tension with a wisecrack and a dumb joke. But Billy’s not acting like his usual self. Gone is the loud-mouthed jackass that Frank knows so well. For once, Frank’s aching to hear some inane comment that’ll make him roll his eyes and call the other man a moron. But he gets nothing.

So Frank’s there to fill in the pieces.

He mostly talks to keep Billy’s mind distracted. The other man tends to get lost in his own head sometimes. Frank knows the signs by now. The first time it happened, it caught him by surprise. It was the first time they met up in New York while on leave. He never saw it coming. But now, Frank knows the signs. And he knows the triggers.

He gets the barest hint of a shrug for his troubles. Just a lift of the shoulders. Billy sits stiff and silent, dark eyes glued to the street, refusing to meet Frank’s gaze.

“Child molesters always get jacked up in prison,” Frank grumbles. He turns his head back to the shabby looking house in the middle of the block. The windows are drawn shut, heavy curtains preventing anyone from looking inside. Frank imagines the creaking of the rusty old gate that surrounds the place. Maybe they could jump it instead. Without a hint of life coming from it, the house looks practically deserted.

Frank shifts in his seat and spares another glance at his friend.

Billy sits stiff as a board in the passenger seat, like any sudden movement might make him lash out like a cornered animal. Frank knows first hand just how dangerous Billy can be. He can’t wait to see Billy unleash his rage on this bastard.

But something about Billy’s face makes Frank pause. His eyes are almost glassy, pupils blown wide. His mouth is a thin line on his face. It’s the look of a desperate man, or a terrified child. Not the toughest, most stubborn, most ambitious guy Frank knows. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Bill, we don’t gotta do this,” Frank says suddenly. “If you don’t want to go through with it,” he lets his voice trail off. He shrugs. If it’s too much for you... He doesn’t say that part out loud. Because they’re marines. Nothing’s supposed to be too much for them. But this is one situation Frank doesn’t quite know how to handle. He was never trained for this.  

“I’m good,” Billy finally manages through gritted teeth.

Frank lets it go. He turns an apprehensive gaze back to the empty street. There’s not a soul in sight, and on a street like this he would have expected kids running around the sidewalks, with bikes maybe, screaming and hollering and playing. He’s glad he doesn’t see any.

Frank feels it when Arthur shows up. He hears the sharp draw of breath through Billy’s teeth. He sees Billy flinch from out the corner of his eye. The wave of anxiety that radiates off of him chokes the air in the small car like a sickness.

“That him?” Frank’s eyes are glued to the guy climbing out of the station wagon that had pulled up in front of the residence they were watching. The man has graying hair. He’s slightly overweight with a short, stocky build, and he walks with his head bowed low. “Bill, is that him? That piece of shit—”

“Drive.” Billy’s voice is tight. “Fucking drive.”

“What?!”

Frank’s head swings around. His pulse is already racing. The blood pumps wildly through his veins. He’s so fucking ready for a fight. He’s been itching for one since they got back to the states.

And then he realizes that Billy doesn’t look like a guy who’s about to deliver a beatdown of epic proportions. Billy doesn’t look like Billy at all. He has his head bowed, chin tucked to his chest. His shoulders are clenched and trembling. A solid moment of confusion passes before Frank realizes the wheezing he’s hearing is his best friend hyperventilating.

“Shit.”

Billy’s having a goddamn panic attack.

“Drive the car. Please.”

Frank’s hands clench around the steering wheel and he’s pulling them into the street without another glance at the barren-looking house they’d been staked outside of for the better part of the afternoon.

He doesn’t know how many blocks they get between them and that house. His head whips between the road and the way Billy rocks in the passenger seat like he’s about to jump out of a moving car that’s currently breaking the speed limit. And when he sees Billy’s hand wildly pawing at the door handle, he realizes that might actually happen.

“Fuck!” Frank curses loudly as he slams on the brakes.

He’s barely stopped the car before Billy’s out and running, nothing but a blur of dark fabric. And the son of a bitch is fast. But Frank already knew that. He just wasn’t expecting to have to chase him today of all days.

“Bill! Bill, stop!” Frank pulls the keys out of the ignition and takes off after Billy while cursing under his breath.

Billy always outruns him. Always. No matter the field or the obstacles. And he never lets him forget it either. Whereas Frank is built like a tank, Billy is long limbs and slender, toned muscle. If it’s a race, Billy wins every time, not for lack of trying on Frank’s part.

But Frank never lets Billy out of his sight.

Billy takes them past a park, running like his life depends on it. Like he’s trying to outrun something impossible to leave behind.

Frank’s heart clenches when he suddenly recognizes the baseball field.

Billy doesn’t stop at the bleachers though. He doesn’t stop until he hits the treeline, ignoring the loud calls of his name.

Billy collapses with his palms against a tree trunk. Out of breath and like a man unhinged, he raises a fist and slams it into the trunk. He does it again and again. The thunderous smacks of his fist against rough wood are deafening, and they make the panic grip Frank’s heart in a vice-like grip.

“Christ, you’re gonna break your goddamn hand!”

Billy ignores him and keeps punching until he sees red.

“Billy!” Frank roars, as he struggles to pull the other man away. He’s winded and feeling ragged. But it’s nothing compared to how Billy looks. Billy screams like a madman and Frank prays that no one calls the goddamn cops on them. He finally manages to pull them both back and they fall, tumbling to the ground, wheezing and groaning in a tangle of limbs.

Billy slowly rolls off of him with a pained, muffled cry.

For a while, neither of them speak. Frank huffs and bites his tongue to keep from calling the other man a goddamn idiot. They catch their breaths as they lie in the grass, staring at the green trees above them as their chests rise and fall from their exertion.

“What do you need?” Frank asks fiercely. “Just tell me what you need, Bill.”

Billy’s eyes slip shut. He waits for his racing pulse to calm as he recalls the breathing exercises he learned as a child to keep it together when it felt like his whole world was falling apart. He slowly sits up and shakes his head. He shrugs his shoulders, his arms resting listlessly at his sides. His busted knuckles pulse with a relentless throb. “Fuck, man. I don’t know,” he murmurs.

Frank sits up and watches him. Watches the way Billy stares down at his lap and rocks slowly. There are so many things he wants to do. He wants to go back to that house and beat the old man to a bloody pulp. He wants to rant and rave and throw things and break ‘em. Because that’s what he’s good at. That’s what he’s trained at.

But he does none of these things. He just sits and watches in silence. ‘Cause he’s got to let Billy make the first move with this one. Billy’s a natural born fighter. A survivor. The toughest goddamn son of a bitch Frank’s ever met in his life. He’s not going to be okay with Frank taking the reins on this.

Only when his breathing is finally even, does Billy speak. “He took something from me.”

“Yeah,” Frank says softly, carefully. “I know, bud.”

“I’m not talking about my fucking shoulder, he—” Billy shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He draws his knees to his chest and curses, “fuck!”

“Hey,” Frank reaches out a hand before thinking twice and pulling it back. He winces, hating how helpless he feels, all the while knowing what Billy’s going through is a hundred times worse. “The guy’s a piece of shit. I want to fucking kill him. I want to stomp him into the goddamn ground. He’s not worth this, Bill—”

“I know he’s not worth it!” Billy screams. His eyes glitter like black diamonds as he rages. “Don’t you think I know that?!” He growls in frustration and runs his fingers through his hair. He draws back into himself again. “But I can’t forget, alright? I can’t forget what he did to me.” He groans, the sound weak and quiet. He hates it the second it reaches his ears. It’s pathetic.

So he focuses on the red that paints his knuckles. He flexes his hand, hisses quietly at the pain. Not broken. He’s not broken. “I see it, all the time,” he murmurs, his voice evening out as his good hand clenches into a fist. His nails dig into the meat of his palm, the pain is something to hold on to, like a lifeline. “I—I feel his hands on me. I remember the fucking leer on his face and I… I remember the pain.” He shakes his head as something twists painfully in his chest. “I’ll never forget it.”

Frank’s breath leaves his lungs in a short huff of air. He sniffs. “Just say the word, Bill.” His throat feels rough as he speaks. He’s so angry, he’d started to shake. “Just say the word and I’ll kill that motherfucker. I won’t even think twice about it, I swear.”

Billy finally looks up. He looks tired, he feels exhausted. Just drained, emotionally and physically.

“I swear it,” Frank says again, meaning every single word. “I’ll fucking kill him. Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

He wishes Billy would say yes. He wishes Billy would say yes just so Frank could pound that child rapist into the ground. He looks down at the blood, fresh and wet, dripping from Billy’s knuckles. His white-hot anger rumbles dangerously in his chest. He wants to beat the piss out of the man who ruined Billy’s childhood. He wants to choke the life out of him. To make it slow, and make it hurt, just like they were trained to do. They are trained killers. He just needs to wait for the word.

Frank swallows and slowly draws air through his nose.

Billy blinks when he suddenly feels tear tracks on his face, cooling in the crisp fall air. He jerks and looks away, quickly wiping his face with his sleeve.

Frank turns away.

Billy never got this way overseas. Only rare moments when they’re in New York. But never around Maria. Mostly not even around Frank. Just when he’s alone. Billy gets dark whenever he’s alone. That’s the real reason why Billy indulges in women and drink. It helps to keep his demons at bay. Sometimes men help too. Frank never mentions it and Billy never brings it up. But he knows Billy has taken guys home on more than one occasion.

The fucked up thing is, they both feel out of place when they’re home. Frank would never admit that to Maria. Hell, he hides it best that he can from her. But Billy gets it. And Billy’s family. When they’re home, Frank invites him over every chance he gets. Billy gets an invitation to every family outing, every trip to the park. Maria certainly loves him. Most people do when they’re only treated to his charismatic side. The kids are still too young, but Billy dotes on them like an uncle. He smiles around them, genuine and loving.

Seeing Billy smile makes Frank smile.  

His craving for violence has mostly faded, but it’s left a bitter taste in his mouth like bile.

As the silence stretches between them, Billy finally shakes his head. “I found out later, there were others,” he says, his voice dull and lacking emotion. “Before me, and after me.” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws. “Ten years he got for what he fucking did. Ten years,” he growls and a huff falls past his red lips. “I’ll be living with it for the rest of my life.”

Frank lets the silence settle, his eyes on Billy’s face are warm and gentle.

“It ain’t right, Bill. What happened to you, it ain’t fucking right.” He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck.

He’s not going to push it. Billy doesn’t need the guy who pushes for a confrontation with the monster that hurt him. He doesn’t need lies about fairytale endings, or some bullshit that a therapist would spew, everything will be okay, just hang in there.

The truth is, Frank doesn’t know if it’ll ever be okay.

And suddenly he’s hit with a wave of longing. A yearning that hits him deep in his soul for the barracks. To be back in uniform, in a place where things are simple. Just follow orders. Kill the bad guys, survive another night, protect your brothers. Black and white.

The irony is, when he’s overseas, Frank’s counting down the days until he can come home to his wife and kids. And when he’s on home soil, he’s missing the dirt and the blood and the gunpowder. The familiarity of a weapon in his hand and his brothers by his side.

Frank sighs and reaches out a warm, heavy hand that he lays gently on Billy’s shoulder. His throat tightens.

“It ain’t fucking right.”

[juicy-cookie]

Through The Valley - Chapter 18

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10075958/chapters/29103918

Tags: @luke-vaughn @embracetheapocalypsewithme @kinkozan @lupienne @theblack-wolf @lovingzombiechaos @jmackie1983 @dragonracer @miiraal @negans-network

Pairing: Negan X OFC

Chapter Summary: Something to Fear

A big thanks to @originalwinchestervamp for having a look at this chapter and giving me feedback!

Word Count: 4780

A/N: With this chapter, we arrive in the comics. Issue 97 to be exact. I will try to keep the story as canon as possible, but I might have to change some details. I’m very grateful for your reviews and I’d love to read what you thought of this chapter.

 I, I will be king

And you, you will be queen

Though nothing, will drive them away

We can beat them, just for one day

We can be heroes, just for one day

  Negan didn’t know when the last time was that he had felt this way. Content. Not since the world had ended. Excited, yes. Satisfied. But truly content, without any problems bothering him, without any potential conflicts haunting the back of his mind? If he thought long and hard, he could think of a time right after getting married, when he had been perfectly happy. But that had soon turned to shit, too, after he and Lucille had bought the house and their lives had been overrun with mortgages, job troubles and both their unfulfilled desire for children.

It wasn’t perfect by any means right now. There was still the threat of the undead fuckers outside. But that didn’t trouble him all that much. Those were predictable and could usually be dealt with with one swing of his trusted bat.

There was apparently still some conflict with the Hilltop. But he had given instructions to Andrei and Jax to be passed on to Rob. They were outside right now, with Gavin and Marv, being seen off by Lilly and Connor. Rob and the others at the outpost were supposed to take one of the Hilltop’s runners hostage until they could come up with a satisfying tribute. Nothing too brutal, just a small additional fee to show them that they had to work for the Saviors’ protection. Negan actually didn’t care that much for their supplies, what with the Sanctuary’s greenhouses having yielded enough crops to be canned for the upcoming winter. But rules were rules and the rules kept them alive.

The only thing that was keeping his current situation from being perfect was the fact that his testicles were about to fall off soon. He could feel it. Spending so much time with Lilly, working out with her, having her by his side while running the Sanctuary, he couldn’t remember wanting anything, or anyone, so much in his entire life. And he didn’t have the option of emptying into one of his wives anymore. Not that he wanted to, of course.

Lilly had made incredible progress, both physically and mentally. She had taken up her bow again and spent hours outside every day training so she could go hunting again. Not that he would let her any time soon, at least not alone. The fear of something happening to her again was still too strong.

She was back to being his second-in-command and it almost felt as if she had never left. She had even told him that her sleep had improved and she had given credit to both their workouts and their daily talks.

He had learned a lot about her in the past couple of weeks. That she loved fantasy novels and Italian food and the smell of a rainy forest and that her dad had taught her how to drive a tractor when she was twelve. He had told her about his favorite kids at his job and about his man cave at home and how he had found solace in the arms of another woman when Lucille had become too sad to sleep with him after being told that they would never have children. Lilly had frowned at that, but any other sign of disapproval had been kept to herself and for that he was eternally grateful.

But it all contributed to the ridiculous level of his sexual frustration. The touches, the laughter and the trust they shared every day had made him about ready to pop. But he had sworn to himself that he would wait for her to make the first move this time. She had to heal and she had to be absolutely sure that she wanted this. Wanted him.

“Hey, scoot your big ass over a little!”

Negan looked up to the object of his musings. He had been so deep in thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Lilly coming back inside to stand next to the rec room couch that he was, admittedly, occupying in its entirety.

“Who are you calling a big ass?” He frowned, but made room for her and spread out his arms.

“You’re right. Sorry. You don’t have an ass.”

“What?!” He clutched his chest in fake outrage. “You are really hurting my fucking feelings, baby.”

“Aww, poor Negan.” Lilly stroked his cheek and then squealed when he pretended to take a bite out of her hand.

“Just so you know, all the mass that should have gone into my ass went into my dick instead.” He could feel more than see the people around him rolling their eyes. He didn’t give a shit. All he cared about was the woman in front of him leaning into him in a fit of giggles. It made the corners of her eyes crease ever so slightly and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He lowered his arm to wrap it her around her, but when he grasped her shoulder he audibly and visibly winced. Lilly immediately stopped laughing and looked at him concerned.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Just tendonitis or some shit in my wrist.”

Lilly got up and walked to one of the cupboards surrounding the seating area to get a first aid kit. She sat back down next to him, took out a bandage and proceeded to wrap it firmly around his wrist.

“Thanks. All that fucking weight lifting. It probably doesn't help that I jack off at least twice a day.” Lilly snorted while the rest of his lieutenants rolled their eyes so far back, they looked like biters for a moment. Laura even groaned.

“You masturbate with your left hand? Aren't you right-handed?” Lilly asked while taping off the bandage.

“I like to spice things up. It feels more foreign with your left hand. Almost like someone else is doing it.” He winked at her and rolled his wrist around a couple of times to see if it was comfortable.

“A true connoisseur,” Lilly chuckled and repacked the first aid kid to put it away again.

“Did Andrei say when they're going to be back from the outpost? We still need to make that tour before the first snow hits.” Dwight tried to change the subject.

“About three days. Jax wants to visit every outpost while they're already on the road. See if there's more to repair.” Lilly sat back against Negan’s chest with her feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Did you make sure to tell him at least another seven times to wear his helmet?” Laura teased. Lilly’s neurosis when it came to motorcycle safety was legendary by now.

She stuck out her tongue at her friend. “You can never be too careful.”

Negan lost track of their conversation while he played with Lilly’s hair, his knuckles brushing over the nape of her neck occasionally. He merely noticed that she was much more affectionate than usual when she laid a hand on his thigh and pressed into him more. He smiled, wishing that things could always be this way.

The day was slow and exceptionally lazy. There wasn't much to do in terms of organization and so Negan and his lieutenants spent the morning playing ping pong, or talking, or reading.

“And fucking game point! Babe, did you see that?” Negan grinned and walked over to where Lilly was sitting on a table next to Laura, both their feet on the bench below. “I motherfucking destroyed him.”

“Yeah, well done. I’m so proud of you.”

“Do I detect a flicker of sarcasm here?” He kneeled on the bench between her legs and pouted at her, which was apparently the cue for Laura to scoff and flee to where Seth and some others were playing cards.

“Sorry. You know I’m not a huge fan of competitive sports.”

“Well, I guess nobody’s fucking perfect. Except for me, of course.” He winked and Lilly chuckled. He happily noticed that she didn’t protest. “So what are you up to for the rest of the day?”

“Well, I thought about doing some reading or maybe a nap. But my room is so cold.”

“Remember to ask Marv to have a look at that fucking stove when he gets back.”

“Yeah, I will.” She took his hands and looked up at him, blushing ever so slightly. “I was thinking… your room has this huge fireplace and I noticed in the past that I sleep much better with you around. So, maybe I could sleep over at your place tonight? My ribs are totally fine now, by the way. Good as new.”

Negan gaped at her for a moment and gripped her hands a little harder without even noticing. “I… uhm… Yes! Yes, of fucking course.” A wave of excitement rushed through his body and straight to his groin.

Lilly smiled sweetly at him and they were both so busy looking into each other's eyes that they didn’t notice the commotion and the murmur going through the cafeteria at first.

“Andrei is back.”

Negan stood and frowned slightly. Somehow, the statement sounded wrong, somewhere deep inside of him. Andrei and the others had only just left this morning. Why were they back already?

He felt Lilly standing up slowly beside him. Absentmindedly, he reached for Lucille. The doors opened and Andrei staggered in. He was white as a sheet, his eyes wide, his whole body shaking. He found Negan and Lilly and ran over the metal catwalk and down into the cafeteria where they met him. Lilly put a hand on Andrei’s shoulder, who took a raspy breath before looking first at her and then at Negan.

“We were attacked.”

“What do you mean, attacked?” Negan asked and then held back Lilly who had already turned to run upstairs and out the door, no doubt to get to a car.

“We saw this van driving between the western outpost and DC. With the tributes being so light lately we thought we’d stop them and take their shit.”

“You stopped some stranger’s car in the middle of fucking nowhere to steal whatever the fuck they had on them?” Negan felt the rage boiling deep inside of him, but he was busy trying to keep a level head while wrestling a panicking Lilly with one hand.

“I didn’t want this winter to be such a fucking disaster as the last one!”

“Shut the fuck up Andrei with your piss poor fucking decision making skills. Jesus fuck!”

“What happened when you stopped them? Where are the others?” Connor asked from next to Lilly. He had taken her other arm to keep her from running off.

Andrei looked as if he was close to crying. “They just opened fire at us. I couldn’t do anything…”

Connor and Lilly both jerked themselves free and were up the stairs in mere seconds, with Laura and Seth at their heels. Negan now gripped Andrei by his arm, more out of concern that he might break down than out of anger. Hauling both of them up to the catwalk and then outside, he yelled instructions to the people around him.

“Seth, get the cars! Two plus the truck. Dwight, take the radio and go ahead to the western outpost. Get Rob and ten others. Big guys. Weapons, too. Carson, same here. Don’t forget the radios. You’ve got five fucking minutes and then we’ll roll out. Go!”

The courtyard fell into a flurry of activity with cars being moved and people yelling instructions and then Negan was in a car with Lilly next to him in the passenger seat and Connor in the back. They followed Seth, Laura and Andrei who were leading the way. The truck with a small army of Saviors was behind them, all on their way to where someone had attacked four of their own, seemingly out of nowhere.

Lilly held his right hand in a vice grip, her whole body tense as if she was about to jump out of the moving car any second.

“Jax will be fine,” Connor mumbled from the back seat.

“We’ll see when we fucking get there.”

“How long?”

“About an hour.”

Lilly kept quiet, staring straight ahead with her jaw set and her fingernails boring painfully into his palm. Negan didn’t care. It distracted him from the thoughts running wild in his head. Outside, the countryside was replaced by the outskirts of Washington, where the buildings and the undead were more numerous, only to go back to small towns and empty streets in between fields.

Soon, their silent trip came to an end in a suburban street lined with trees. The three of them jumped out of the car and met up with Seth, Laura and Andrei. Negan looked around to take in the situation. Three motorcycles were on their sides on the ground. Two biters were crouching over two figures and a third one was lying further back. Seth drew his knife to take care of the undead and Negan stepped forward to take a closer look at the bodies. The first one was large enough that he could tell that it was Marv, even with his face having been eaten. The second was Gavin, who stared unblinking towards the sky, his eyes as wide open as his ribcage.

Negan nodded grimly to Seth who stepped towards the bodies, knife in hand. The Saviors that had come in the truck formed a circle around the motorcycles. He wanted to tell them to look out for any signs of more undead or even living, when the sound of Lilly running and crying out made him spun around.

“No! No no no no no! Jax!” She dropped to her knees beside the third person lying in a pool of their own blood and tried taking of their helmet. Negan made his way towards her, but Connor was faster and joined her on Jax’s other side, helping her freeing his head. Negan got down on one knee next to Lilly, one hand on his knife in case he had already turned. Unlike the other two, his body didn’t bear any signs of having served as lunch for the biters. His eyes were clear and moving between Lilly and Connor when they finally took off his helmet.

“I… they…” Jax’s voice was too weak and it ended in a sickening gurgle.

“Shhhh.” Lilly stroked his forehead and over his hair. “Don’t talk now. Keep your strength. We’re gonna get you out of here and back home to Fisher.” She turned her head to address Seth and Dwight. Negan hadn’t noticed him and the outpost guys arriving. “Go get a stretcher. Or a blanket. Something to transport him.”

But Seth and Dwight merely looked at each other and then at Negan, their faces grim. Negan closed his eyes for a moment and gently put his hand on Lilly’s shoulder while she looked back down at Jax. His face was gray, almost devoid of all life. Negan saw him holding his left side, but he was already too weak to stem the blood seeping out of the wound there. Connor noticed and slipped his hand into Jax’s, tears streaming down his face.

Jax smiled at his lover for a moment before slowly turning back to Lilly.

“Please,” he whispered.

“No,” Lilly sobbed, “No, you can do this Jax. You’ll be fine. Please! Please don’t leave me.”

“You promised.”

“No…” she wailed again, her hand still in his hair.

“Please,” his lips formed the word again, but no sound came from him anymore.

Negan took out his knife, gently grabbed Lilly’s free hand and handed it to her. Her whole body was heaving with sobs as she bent over Jax and placed a kiss on his forehead. Negan heard her whispering a soft “I love you” before her hand found his and she held onto him as if he was a lifeline. Negan squeezed and hoped he didn’t hurt her, but he didn’t know how else to be there for her right now.

Lilly placed the knife over one of Jax’s now closed eyes. Connor turned his face away. A cry, a squelch and the knife fell to the ground.

Lilly’s shoulders were shaking and she cried out like a wounded animal. She seemed to be in so much pain that it hurt Negan, too. She spun around and he caught her in his arms, holding her tight and stroking her back, letting her sob into the red scarf she had given him almost a year ago.

Seth and Laura both held Connor and Negan saw that all of his Saviors looked stricken, if they weren’t crying openly.

He looked around for Andrei, who seemed close to fainting.

“Tell me what the fuck happened here,” Negan demanded, still trying to keep Lilly from falling apart.

“Like I said, boss, we were on our way to the outpost and saw them coming from a distance and decided to have a look. Jax didn’t want to at first, but Gavin and Marv were all for it. God, I’m so sorry. Please, Lilly, I didn’t-”

“You stop your fucking blubbering right now!” Negan didn’t want to raise his voice too much with Lilly still clutching at his shirt, crying into his chest. But he was quickly losing his patience with his scout. Andrei took a couple of steadying breaths before he continued.

“Right. Okay. Sorry, I mean, right… We stopped their van and told them to give us their stuff and they, uhm… oh yeah, they mentioned something about the Hilltop? How they were going to protect the Hilltop from now on?”

“If they had the fucking firepower to do this, they ain’t from the fucking Hilltop.”

“That’s what I told them. And then they just opened fire. Shot Gavin and Marv right through the head. And Jax, well… he was wearing his helmet, so I guess they aimed for the stomach.”

“Why the fuck did they leave you alive?”

“To give you a message. That they would protect the Hilltop from now on. That we won’t get anything from them anymore. And that they offer us the same deal… their protection in exchange for half of our supplies.”

Negan couldn’t help but laugh at that. He felt like the whole world had gone mad. Again.

“And who, pray tell, were these fucking fuckers who so graciously offered to save our community from the fucking undead?”

“That’s the thing, Negan, I don’t know. The guy didn’t give me his name.”

“Think real fucking hard, Andrei. Anything that could help us find these assholes. Looks, weapons, license plates, anything?”

“Okay, well there were three of them. I mean, there might have been more inside the van, but-”

“So three fuckers that shot at you. What else?”

“One guy and two women. And only one of them shot at us. The other had some kind of sword? Oh and she was black. And... oh yeah! The guy was missing a hand.”

Negan suddenly realized that Lilly had stopped crying and had become very still in his arms. She raised her head and all tears were gone from her face as she stared into the distance somewhere behind Negan, her eyes unblinking.

“Rick Grimes.”

Negan took her face into his hands and tried to meet her gaze. The name rang a bell somewhere in his subconscious.

“Lil…?”

She blinked and then looked at him. Her eyes and nostrils were wide as if she was about to scream. Before Negan could say anything, she had jumped up. She leaned over Seth, took the keys that were dangling from his jeans pocket and broke into a run towards the cars.

Negan scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and went after her. Lilly had just torn open the car door when he caught up with her and slammed it back shut. He wrangled the keys from her and threw them to the nearest Savior. She turned around and tried to duck away, but he grasped her shoulders and sent her back crashing into the car. She didn’t even wince, but started to struggle against his grip.

“Let me go!”

“No.”

“LET ME GO NEGAN! He killed them! They killed them all! I’m gonna kill them! I’m gonna…”

All her fighting stopped and she would have sank to the ground if Negan hadn’t caught her in his arms. She sobbed and coughed and trembled in his arms for what felt like hours. He merely held her again until she calmed down and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Where are they, Lilly?”

“Alexandria. I can show you.”

“Dwight? Go get us a fucking map!”

Negan gently untangled himself from Lilly and took her face between his hands again. She looked up at him with red eyes and tears and snot running down her nose, but she didn’t seem to care and neither did he.

“Baby, I know you want to tear their fucking walls down right fucking now and kill every single one of those motherfuckers. But I can’t let you do that. You understand that, right?”

She sniffed and nodded. Another tear ran down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb and smiled down at her.

“That’s my girl. I promise that we’ll make them fucking pay for what they’ve done. But we need to be fucking smart about it. You told me that they’re big and that this Rick fucker ain’t like Gregory or Ezekiel. So I need you to tell me everything. Everything you know, about their community, their defenses, their habits. Who needs to go first? Who is dangerous? Who do I need to kill to fucking break them.”

She frowned slightly at that and Negan could almost see the gears turning in her head.

“You won’t wipe them out,” she whispered. It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. He hoped that she knew him well enough by now to understand.

“No.”

“And you won’t kill Rick.”

“No, Lilly.”

“Because you want to make him suffer?”

“That, too. I’m gonna take something from him. To show him who he fucked with. But if they’re as capable as you told me… then we can use that to our advantage. They’re too big to attack, right? I know it’s fucking hard for you to think clearly right now, but please try. Think about it, Lil.”

She stared at the zipper of his leather jacket for a while before she shook her head slightly as if to let go of something. Then she closed her eyes tightly for a moment and cleared her throat.

“They have walls. Huge metal walls, reinforced with steel beams. They can be manned in all directions. You can’t tear them down with a car. The only way in or out is through the gate. It’s guarded at all times. They have water and electricity and weapons and probably more than enough supplies. There’s no way to lay siege to them.”

Dwight stepped forward at that, a map in his hand. Seth, Laura and Connor joined them, the latter still looking shaken, but all of them determined.

“What about the surroundings? Are there any places where we could watch them?” Dwight asked.

“It’s a suburban place. The gate opens to some shops, a school and there’s a tower from where you can overlook the area. But they were constantly expanding. I don’t think they would relocate the gate, but I can’t say for sure how the community layout is right now. Let me see that map.”

They opened the map over the hood of the car and positioned themselves around it with Lilly in the middle. It was of an area south of DC. Negan vaguely remembered wondering why they had never sent scavenging teams there, but now he realized that Lilly had wanted to keep the Saviors away from Alexandria.

“Here. Someone give me a pen.” She pointed at a cluster of houses in the western part of the town. Seth handed her a pen and she circled it. “The gate is here. And there’s the school,” she marked it with an S, “with lots of hiding spots. The tower is across from it.”

“I’m gonna take a team there. Watch them, maybe scare them a bit.” Dwight’s grin was made even nastier by the scar stretching over the left side of his face. “Seth, you in?”

“Fuck yeah! They’re gonna rue the day they decided to fuck with us. Anyone we need to look out for, Lil?”

Lilly bit her lip in concentration. “There’s one guy. Ginger, huge, former military. Be careful around him.”

“Alright, let’s make one thing perfectly fucking clear. You just go there to watch those fuckers and then report back to the Sanctuary. I know you’re all fucking bloodthirsty after this shitshow here, but let’s just pretend for one fucking second that we’re reasonable fucking human beings and not rabid fucking dogs and calm. the fuck. down.”

“They killed Jax, Negan. And Marv. And Gavin.”

“And they will kill more of us if we don’t go about this at least a little fucking levelheaded. I’m not gonna lose any more people to these psychos if I can fucking help it.”

“Lilly, what do you say about all this?” Seth turned to Lilly, who wrapped her arms around herself and frowned. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks. Negan was sure that it would take some time until she would stop crying.

“Negan is right. Rick WILL fight back. And as much as I want to see his head on a pike, his people would stop at nothing to avenge him. He’s a tough bastard. He once ripped out a guy’s throat with his bare teeth for threatening his son.”

“He’s got a kid? Interesting…” Negan mused.

“Yeah, but you won’t touch him!”

“Of course not. What the fuck do you take me for, some fucking monster?”

“Okay, okay,” Seth intervened before tempers could flare too high. They were all on edge and ready to fight, no matter with whom. “What about you, Connor?”

“Jax wouldn’t have wanted us to start a massacre. And I want those bastards to suffer for what they’ve done to him. Can’t possibly do that if they’re dead, now can you?”

“So you want us to spy on them and then what?” Dwight still seemed unconvinced.

“And then tell us when they leave their compound again. I’m gonna make that prick my personal bitch, but we need to make an example out of one of them. Show them who’s the King Dick Motherfucker around here.”

“I’ll think of someone. Someone whose death will make an impact. Someone worthy of Lucille.” Lilly’s eyes were full of steel when they found Negan’s.

“And we’ll come up with a plan while you do that.” Laura put an arm around Lilly’s shoulders and squeezed her friend tightly. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

The Saviors got busy loading up the bikes and bodies and splitting up into teams. Lilly and Negan watched together as Dwight and Seth said their goodbyes and departed for Alexandria with their men. He grabbed her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers.

“I know you’re fucking broken right now. I just want you to know that I’m here. And I’m not gonna go anywhere. We’re gonna fucking fuck these fuckers up. Together.”

“I’m not broken.” She turned to him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “But you have to promise me that you’re gonna throw Rick into the mud and keep him there. He can’t get up ever again, or we won’t survive this.”

“I fucking promise, Lilly.”

He held her and kissed the top of her head, hoping that she wouldn’t notice his heart racing as if it wanted to jump out of his chest. This wasn’t the time to show any weaknesses.

Not when he was about to face Rick motherfucking Grimes.

[unapologeticallybella]

Dear Universe, This is Not What I Ordered.

   There’s a lot to say about someone who can leave things up to fate. Someone who doesn’t fight or try to understand why things happen but just accepts what comes to them. My whole entire life has been me just fighting everything that happens to me, whether it be by trying to change it or understand it. Nothing soothes my anxiety like repeating out loud my schedule for the day; I love making lists in my head and sometimes when I’m alone, I just repeat these lists to myself. (Yes, I think I’m okay.)Planning is everything; I like to know what to expect and what’s coming. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember; When things change, I actually want to crawl out of my body. Curveballs are stupid; unless it’s getting proposed to, but that’s the only exception I can think of. Come to find out, that’s not really how life works (disappointed is an understatement.)People die out of the blue, healthy people get sick, good people get hurt, and that’s just that. I swear I’ll find the positive to all this just give me a minute; I just have to make some morbid points first. 

   We count on things to be good; we count on things to not fall apart; I mean, at the very least, we count on things to just continue to be. When I’m alone and I think about what I want from my life, I envision all these happy things. But then I’m flooded with these worries about everything that could potentially make all of those things go to shit. For the most part, I like to be positive about where my life will go. These past few months, I’ve really shifted the way I think about control and what I can change. In reality, we have no fucking control over our surroundings. Oh, your husband you’ve been married to for twenty years? Yeah, he’s come to find out he actually fell in love with his new assistant, Beth. Him and Beth are doing better than ever, but you’re kinda getting in the way, so now he’s leaving you. That happens, now what? You can’t control that your husband might be an asshole, but you can control what you do with that information. Obviously, I’m sure you’d probably want to know all about Beth and why she’s so fucking great and then secondly you’d probably want to curb stomp your now ex husband. Unfortunately, neither of those things change the narrative and, most importantly, none of that can take away your hurt permanently. At first glance, it probably looks like you wasted a good portion of your life with an absolute stranger, which maybe you did and so what. Grieve the motherfucker, pick yourself back up, get a new hobby, change your hair, do your inner work, and heal yourself like you didn’t even know you could. If you look at it for what it really is, it’s a blessing. I mean can you imagine if you would have spent the entirety of your life with someone like that; Now that, My love, would be a waste. We all have a choice on how to react to what the Universe throws at us even when it’s definitely not what we asked for. 

   I went to lunch with this guy recently and he told me, “I’m not the kind of depressed that makes me want to kill myself. I’m the kind of depressed that makes me funny.” I swear I about choked on my Sangria. I have never related to anything more.  I deal with sadness or whatever it is that’s inside of me with humor because I’d rather laugh than cry about it, not saying I won’t cry because I definitely will. I joke about the things I don’t quite enjoy about myself, things that hurt me, things that scare the shit out of me; I don’t think it’s necessarily unhealthy. However, I’ve come to realize I have spoken a lot of shitty things into existence which sadly I have attracted into my life. I hate to sound like someone who read “The Secret” once and now thinks they’re a Law of Attraction guru but here we are. I really do believe the Universe hears what we say and returns it tenfold. I always joked that my boyfriend would leave me out in the cold in the worst possible way and turn out to be a completely different person; So the Universe said here you go baby. 

   I didn’t open up about my break up to many people, but when I did, I always went from mild sobbing to hysterically laughing. About a month into it, I was on my friend's couch telling her how everything happened and how he just disappeared. She was quite a fan of him and had always said what a great guy he was; She just watched me cry on her couch for thirty minutes just trying to understand everything for myself. The first thing she said, “I’m sorry, but this is just not what you ordered, send it back.”  And she was right; This is not what I ordered; I ordered the Filet Mignon honey, I was served a big ole plate of trash and I was charged for both. That’s when my mindset shifted about the situation; all I know is that I gave that man the goddamn world, and it meant nothing. I could sit here and reminisce all these lovely memories, go over the list (a long list I may add but who cares) of things I did to benefit his life, tell you all the ways I showed my love but for what? No matter how hard I tried to dissect it all and explain why this shouldn’t have happened, it did nothing. The Universe wasn’t really listening to all that because it didn’t change who he was. I drove home that night, and I sat in my car before going upstairs. I cried and cried; I begged the Universe to not do this to me. I asked why. I asked for help. I truly felt in my heart that this wasn’t what I deserved so I asked for answers or even a sign as to why this was happening to me. Bad things happen because they just do; the Universe obviously doesn’t give its reasons, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Those reasons were not for the Universe to just give me, they were mine to find on my own and with time, and I did. 

    When I tell you I am a better person because of the shitty things that have happened to me, I mean that with my whole heart. Also, I don’t think I would be as funny but I don’t think that’s quite as important. You don’t get to plan for these things, you don’t get to say “no thanks” and just because you hate curveballs doesn’t mean they won’t get thrown your way. I had the choice to either hold on to something I arguably loved more than myself or let it go and trust that it was all for something bigger than me. I chose to let go and release control for my own sanity. Not just regarding this relationship but for every relationship, everything I’ve ever cried for, everything that has ever hurt me, every worry and every fear; I let that shit go. Three months after that moment alone in my car, I had another moment similar to that one, only this time I didn’t cry. I sat there and thanked the Universe for showing me how strong I am because I would have never known. (I always thought of myself of this sensitive emotional weak person but boy was I so wrong.) I told the Universe someone would be so lucky to be able to experience what it feels like to be loved by me because it really is spectacular. Someone will appreciate the tiniest details about me. Someone will laugh at my jokes and they’re going to love that about me. I know someone is going to fucking love me. To be honest, I think I was heard that night by someone or something, I don’t know. For the first time of being alive, I trust that everything is exactly where it should be. I am amazed by the woman I’ve become. I am so proud of that because I never thought I could even feel this way about myself. I may not have gotten what I ordered and I may not be able to send it back but I had a choice. I chose me. 

[rapfornication]

A List of a Bunch of Songs We Liked by Siya Mbatha & Norman

2016, what a year. Included in this list are the emotions and memories that came with these songs. Here is a list that attempts to consolidate a most uniquely strange year .Fuck Donald Trump and enjoy the links to other pieces we thought you might enjoy too. And also fuck Donald Trump. 

Danny Brown – When It Rain 

Produced By Paul White Album: Atrocity Exhibition

One of the more left field songs that still somehow has an underlying jitty foot-light feel to it. It sounds like ‘Dip’ if it grew up in a dark basement and suffered from crippling anxiety. Danny Brown matches the atmosphere with some of his most vivid, impressive writing to date as he describes Detroit as a city that sees no change but gentrification, grannies getting robbed and more guns than necessary. Unforgettable.

Kendrick Lamar - untitled 02 | 06.23.2014.

Produced By Yung Exclusive & Cardo Album: untitled unmastered.

Cornrow Kenny brought out the circus tricks without losing his seriousness. The build-up is one captivating performance but once his voice swings into high pitched, the stunting and trumpets go into overdrive and you’re left pleasantly stunned. Get God on the phone.

Fat Joe & Remy Ma Feat. French Montana & Infa Red - All The Way Up

Produced By Cool & Dre & Edsclusive Album: Plata O Plomo

They say regionalism is dead but this all NY affair begs to differ. Cool and Dre provide the bass and unforgettable horns and the legends (plus Montana) rip it apart like a swaggier version of The Avengers. Remy Ma came back and ignited desperately needed fire.

Fat Joe & Remy Ma Feat. Infa-Red, Jay Z & French Montana -  All The Way Up (remix)

Produced By Cool & Dre & Edsclusive

 Lean Back left a lasting legacy, even for the millennials like my whack self who remembers slogans like Terror Squad, before Khaled was Billy Ocean, back when Fat Joe had the red parka in the video

"Lemonade is a popular drink and it still is". Lemonade the album that I still haven't listened to has just dropped and every beyhive fan on Twitter was up in arms mad that Jay Z was getting his lemonade from a woman named Becky -if you're into that kinda thing. And that’s all Hov was gonna do in terms of speaking on it. One more time, let it sink in. Lemonade is a popular drink and it still is. He pretty much ethered Beyoncé if you think about it.

Rihanna – Needed Me

Produced By Kuk Harrell & DJ Mustard Album: ANTI

For the first time in her long career, Rihanna sounded liberated. ‘Needed Me’ amplifies the dark, sexual charisma she always displayed in ways that feel less put-on (Rated-R, basically) and more like self-expression. A fantastic wonky Mustard beat gives her room to remind her past flame who really was doing who a favour. Savagery personified in one song. Oh, that shot of Robyn in a lacy blue dress, gun in hand, looking out to the beach? Iconic

BBNG Feat. Samuel T. Herring – Time Moves Slow

Produced By BADBADNOTGOOD Album: IV

It’s been great watching BBNG grow into their own. The legendary Sam Herring lends his heartfelt voice to this perfectly crafted number. Personally, it got me through a messy situationship. Unreciprocated love makes it feel like time is moving slow.

Kid Cudi Feat. Travis Scott - Baptized In Fire

Produced By Mike Dean & Plain Pat Album: Passion, Pain & Demon Slayin'

This is the most Kid Cudi Kid Cudi has sounded for a long time. And it's scary to figure that your preference for an artist is derived in their articulation of their personal pain and struggles, I mean it's why we fuck with a Basquiat right? But here, here it's like Cudi just wanted to make his number one fan Travis Scott happy. The reserved role that La Flame takes in this feels like that, like he's soaking the moment in. The production overall sound is very reminiscent of Man On The Moon, if not a remake considering Plain motherfucking Pat, Mike Dean, La Flame and Cudder were all on this, SQUAD.

Schoolboy Q – JoHn Muir

Produced By Sounwave Album: Blank Face LP

Deadly basslines and triumphant horns score Q’s coming of age tale to churn out one of the best songs on ‘.Blankface’. Can’t help but poorly crip walk when this album cut comes on.

Kemba – Already

Produced By Frank Drake Album: Negus

Honestly, one could have chosen any song on Kemba’s often brilliant LP, ‘Negus’ but ‘Already’ takes the cake for two reasons: it’s Frank Duke’s hardest beat since ‘Fuckin’ Up The Count’ and the artist sounds angry, dissatisfied and wounded by the awful recurring problems surrounding race. Isn’t that how we all felt in this bizarre year?

Samiyam Feat. Earl Sweatshirt - Mirror

Produced By Samiyam Album: Animals Have Feelings

This song was supposed to come right after Faucet but looking in this in totality it's fitting that it only dropped in 2016, a year later. A resolute Earl spits his way through his insecurities and imperfections "despite how they praising your face I'mma make do!". Earl's raps are never really about us, mans just telling his story and again we find ourselves in it. Looking in the mirror, seeing the only the nigga we wanted to be. It's not angry, it's aggressively encouraging.

Isaiah Rashad – Park

Produced By Park Ave. & D. Sanders Album: The Sun's Tirade

Trying to follow the topics Rashad dives into is genuinely exciting. In lesser hands, it just wouldn’t work but he’s always saved by the mere fact that he’s a compelling writer. Over fluttering hi hats and knocking sparse bass, he compares himself to Nicki Minaj and Guwop, reveals sexual infidelity while denouncing his savagery and still sneaks in discerning bars about fatherhood and religion. What really trips one out is how effortless it all sounds.

Noname – Freedom Interlude

Produced By Phoelix & Saba Album: Telefone

Out the shadows, Noname took her spot as one the more talented rappers of her generation. ‘Freedom Interlude ‘  is all her strengths wrapped in one warm song. Her intricate soliloquies spill over some steady drums and calming chords as she wanders and aches about Bill Cosby, perception, motherhood, becoming and everything in between.

Jeff Chery – Salty

Produced By Stefan Green

The cliché goes: if you don’t have haters, you aren’t doing anything noteworthy. So, naturally, songs about them are probably my favourite. Nothing like glorious flexing as a defence mechanism to truly propel a song and Chery leans into his naysayers over woozy bass and autotune.

J. Cole – Neighbors

Produced By J. Cole Album: 4 Your Eyez Only

Certain people will always let prejudices rule their perception of others. As a young black man, the hurtful reminders creep up on you every time who walk pass a car and the white person inside frantically locks their door or when you call your friends for a get together and your racist nearby residents bring the police to your doorstep to break it up. Cole explores this reality in a way that’s both relatable and fittingly hopeless. No matter who or where you are, the burden of being black is sometimes too heavy.

DJ Khaled Feat. Drake - For Free

Produced By Jordan Ullman & Nineteen85 Album: Major Key

I didn't want Khaled and Drake to have another anthem so they made another anthem. And as audacious as Drizzy Drake Rogers might be, as irritating as his love "Serana, Rihanna and JLo in one year" life might be, this is a really nice song. Like those moments after when you're feeling yourself, appreciating your agility wanting to ask the person next to you “... Is this sex so good I shouldn't have to fuck for free?"

Ma-E & AKA – Lie 2 Me

Produced by: Brian Soko, Mr Kamera & Ma-E 

Ma- E is basically your uncle who tries way too hard to look/sound ‘hip’ but still somehow pulls it without coming off corny. This ‘Township Counsellor’ gem hides the lingering insecurity of being rich/famous and always wondering if people like you for you or what you offer. Roping in SA’s erratic egoistic makes perfect sense as the pair smash this one out the park.

Ka – Just

Produced By Ka Album: Honor Killed the Samurai

Gangster turned firefighter, Ka writes like how one would imagine if they found themselves in a ‘I Am Legend’ type world. Even the pragmatic, bare-knuckle beats can’t dull the emotionally profound bars about backstabbers, dead loved ones, poverty and unfulfilled potential. Guilt more than anything invades this samurais’ nightmares.

Lil Yachty - One Night (Extended) 

Produced by TheGoodPerry Album: Lil Boat

It's really the most pleasant mean way to tell a hoe she ain't no wifey, matter of fact to tell anyone she ain't no wifey. But the video is tight tho, very Odd Future 2011-esq and very much Lil Yachty's assertion that he's pretty much here to do whatever the fuck he wants with this hip hop thing, and even scarier is that you actually can't stop him. Hook hella catchy tho.

Cousin Stizz Feat. Larry June – Down Like That

Produced By Puff Daddy Album MONDA

Billed as a showcase of star potential, Stizzy breaks out of the seriousness that drives ‘MONDA’ for some old fashioned hijinks. But Larry June truly murks this sizzling beat with one of the verses of the year. Who else can deliberately rap off beat, admit and end the bar with cold ‘fuck rap’?

Belly Feat. 2 Chainz, The Weeknd & Yo Gotti - Might Not (Remix)  

Produced By Merlin Watts, DaHeala & Ben Billions

Between the time the original and now Belly had delivered consistently cold bars embodied in solid projects twice. And hip hops heavy hitters and OGs aren't asleep to this, Belly's signed to Roc Nation. Everyone on here does their part but it's 2 Chainz who steals the show with his playful but vicious flow with audacious lines like, "IF YOU LOVE ME TAT MY NAME ON YOUR UTERUS!". Belly comes through cold tapping into the drug taking, model fucking persona The Weeknd had before he went full pop on us. And while Yo Gotti's verse is otherwise forgettable, mans didn't go down without a fight. 

Young Thug - Digits/Swizz Beats

Produced By Wheezy Album: JEFFERY

Thug’s output makes it hard to pick a favourite but these two highlight why I love Slime’s style. He’s a unique, eccentric singular voice that constantly defies rap norms and conjures up memorable hooks with ease.

A$AP Mob Feat. A$AP Rocky, A$AP Ant, A$AP Ferg, A$AP Nast, A$AP Twelvyy & Juicy J  - Yamborghini High

Produced By Hector Delgado Album: Cozy Tapes Vol. 1: Friends

First off, s/o and daps to A$AP Mob for executing skits on a tape the way we remember skits on a tape, niggas too fucking cozy. It's the type of contextualising taking us back to Pesos. A corner store in Harlem. Second, you gotta want to believe that Yams in heaven tripping the fuck out not only watching the most tumbler-esque video but fact that the whole tape is not only an ode to Yams but also the preservation of his legacy.

Denzel Curry – ULT

Produced By Finatik N Zac, Nick Leon & Ronny J Album Imperial

The most gifted pick on 2016’s XXL Freshmen List. ‘ULT’ is the perfect song if you’re unfamiliar with Curry’s work. It’s high tempo and ferocious coupled with unyielding intelligence. Denzel sounds unflinching in the face of racial profiling and police brutality as he basks in the idea of unity. The chorus carries its 2Pac influence proudly. Revolt music.

Chance The Rapper feat. Saba - Angels 

Produced By The Social Experiment & Lido   Album Coloring Book

Chance is that guy, he either irks you or like Obama he's on your playlist(s). So this song found its way onto mine. This is the soundtrack to my success, the background music to scenes of triumph, the sound of joy, a thugs prayer of gratitude ..that's this song. Pain is beautiful but it takes real skill to articulate happiness. 

 ASAP Mob - Telephone Calls Feat.  Yung Gleesh, Playboi Carti, Tyler, The Creator & A$AP Rocky

Produced By Plu2o Nash Album Cozy Tapes Vol. 1: Friends

The best thing about this song outside the quotable, outside Tyler stepping his flow up, outside walk Gleesh walk and outside "POST MAN, who dis?" is A$AP Rocky's verified lyrics where he writes about Tyler "I wish I knew this nigga my whole life" ❤

Frank Ocean Feat. KOHH – Nikes

Produced By Malay Ho, Om'Mas Keith & Frank Ocean Album: Blonde

Frank’s writing displays vulnerable humanity that we all try and tap into on our best days. ‘Nikes’ is filled with hilarious shit talking, short eulogies to passed peers and kin, lines about doing lines and trying to stay young. Life in your 20’s captured in 5 minutes.

Isaiah Rashad - Free Lunch

Produced By Cam O'bi Album: The Sun's Tirade

 Damn, I hate to say this but drugs and depression gave depth to this man’s music and made it interesting. After Clivia Demo, I had feared that under the shadow of TDE/Kendrick hype, that like other almost kinda famous sorta artists we were going to lose him, collateral damage so to speak. But instead Rashad in the most cliche of ways turned tragedy into triumph. 

Skepta – Man(Gang)

Produced By Skepta Album: Konnichiwa

The appeal of grime is its ability to be entertaining and aggressively haughty simultaneously. Skepta comes for everyone’s head on this ‘Konnichiwa’ standout. Fake fans and friends, washed rappers &wannabe fashionstas; no one is spared. London boyz made noise in 2016.

Childish Gambino – Me & Your Mama

Produced By Ludwig Göransson Album: "Awaken, My Love!"

The signal to the stars. Sitting through this ever mortifying gospel-rock joint feels transient. A shift from dick inspired punchlines to channeling Parliament Funkdelic; Donald Glover is proof of the rewards of artistic progression.

Danny Brown - Dance In The Water 

Produced By Paul White Album: Atrocity Exhibition

I'd like to think that this song would fit perfectly in a Tarantino film that's already been made, maybe that one about the car with Rosario Dawson and the lady who did stunts for Uma Therman. I'd like to think those things, a perfect middle between the old world and new. Danny Brown, at his peak, paints the most perfect picture of curated chaos.. 

Saba & Noname – Church/Liquor Store

Produced By Cam O'bi Album: Bucket List Project

Two of Chicago’s more gifted writers take us on a ride through their hometown. Saba is insightful, sorrowful and clear headed as he tackles addiction, gang violence, gentrification and the school to prison system. Noname acts as the perfect foil. It soars with gorgeous keys and beautiful choir worthy voices that only add to the misery

Earl Sweatshirt & Knxwledge – Balance

Produced By Knxwledge Album: 2016 Adult Swim Singles

A sensible union. Two talented non stars whose styles fit each other like big feet & AF’s 1.Earl’s attention to detail add a personal touch to universal gripes of being young, black & confused. His mumblings feel at home over Knxwledge’s lush, anxious phrases.

AKA ft Yanga – Dream Work

Produced by KJ Conteh

Sampling ‘Street Fighter’ should already make this a classic but AKA takes it a step further by rightfully staking a claim to SA rap’s crown. The hook is masterful; Yanga’s voice complements the thumping bass perfectly and AKA sounds focused, sharp and agitated. A continuation of a 5 year streak that doesn’t seem to be ending anytime soon. Long Live Supa Mega.

Terrance Martin – Valdez off Crenshaw

Produced by Terrace Martin Co-Produced by Robert “Sput” Searight

Modern music would be less great without Terrace Martin. One could go on an endless tangent listing countless accolades and contributions but rather we stick to this one moment on “Velvet Portraits”. It’s a mesmerizing piece of jazz leaning funk that contains an electric guitar solo that’s so beautifully over the top you can’t help sit in awe. An experience.

D.R.A.M Feat. Lil Yachty – Broccoli

Produced By J Gramm Beats Album: Big Baby D.R.A.M.

There's this phenomena taking place where new kids want to be their own, don't want to inherit problems, keen to dictate their own narrative. This song is a prime example of this. D.R.A.M is on here with his puppy hugging positive healthy outlook on life bars and Lil Yachty is here in his whole self. The millennials Big Pimpin', I’m calling it.

Kadhja Bonet – Honey Comb

Produced By Kadhja Bonet Album: The Visitor

‘Classical music’ can be an off putting label. But Bonet puts a modern spin on the genre and breathes new life into it. It sounds so good it possess the power to you cleanse all your proverbial sins. Gorgeous piece of music.

 Solange Feat. Lil Wayne - Mad 

Produced By Troy "R8DIO" Johnson, David Longstreth, Sir Dylan, Solange &Raphael Saadiq Album: A Seat at the Table

Very rarely are us folk, black folk, worldwide given the space to be angry. Our sorrow, our pain and small glimmers of happiness have their time, designated hours. So when you're mad, you're mad on your own, you're carrying it on your own .. and when you finally exhale it's a lot. Mad about inabilities and inadequacies of the self. It's always just too much to never have someone ask "why you mad son?". It's a relief to have a song like this affirm that anger. Affirming the experience of holding on anger only for it to be dismissed, invalidated to be "why you always be so mad"-ed. I praise Solo for speaking this truth. 

Rae Sremmurd Feat. Gucci Mane – Black Beatles

Produced By Mike WiLL Made-It Album: SremmLife 2

Mannequin challenge aside, ‘Black Beatles’ was destined to be a hit. Swan Lee sounds like a fallen angel; cautious and courageous. Jimi admirably keeps up and Gucci is his outrageous melodic self. Mike Will brings out the trademark ear wormy tunes and you’ve got a stellar song that celebrates youthful exuberance like no other this year. Rae Sremmurd > The Beatles

Rich Chigga - Dat $tick 

Easily the hardest bars and hardest beat of the year, or the 2nd Quarter.  Upper Echelon bars. YOUR FAVORITE RAPPER WAS SHOOK WHEN HE HEARD IT. 

DJ Esco Feat. Future & Rae Sremmurd - Party Pack 

Produced By Southside & DJ Esco Album: Project E.T. Esco Terrestrial

 If you questioned the longevity of Future's "glow up" or how Rae Sremmurd would navigate beyond being the cute small guys then this song stands as testament. On this song Future sounds energized, he sounds damn near competitive on a song that features another well executed Swae Lee hook and a very well placed Slim Jxmmi.

Boogie – Nigga Needs

Produced By Keyel Album: Thirst 48, Pt. 2

Boogie has a knack of simplifying nuanced thoughts and conflicting feelings. Coupled with a video of him as a bleeding centrepiece in an art gallery, The Thirst 48 rapper tries to come to terms the difficultly of self-improvement in a world that conspires against him.

Travis Scott Feat. NAV - Beibs in the Trap

Produced By NAV Album: Birds In The Trap Sing McKnight

 Ay, millennials finally get our own cocaine raps, that tight. But say no to drugs. Drugs ruin lives. Drugs also cost way too much money to pick it up as a habit. Also, who actually does cocaine anymore. Isn't tripping on anxiety meds, though troubling cos clearly in the purest sense of self we have proved incapable of dealing with the realities of this world, the wave? I dunno, just don't do crack kids. That's not glamorous. Neither is crushed up Ritalin on your gums. Great song though 5/5 shout outs NAV for the harmonies and production s/o Justin Beiber.

Westside Gunn & Action Bronson – Dudley Boyz

Produced By The Alchemist Album: Flygod

Wrestling and food references? Boasting about hardness and superior garments over velvet soft chords? Why didn’t this collaboration happen sooner? Old heads need to pay more attention to Westside and stop complaining about mumble rap.

DJ Khaled Feat. Jay Z & Future – I Got Keys

Produced By Jake One, G Koop & Southside Album:Major Key

The God MC came down a couple of times this year to bless his subjects but this Future – assisted joint was a highlight. Not a world beater but admirable considering it is a 42 year old taking a jab at a relentless Southside banger.

2Chainz – Ounces Back

Produced By DJ Spinz Album Daniel Son; Necklace Don

This Christmas, I’m thankful that the most entertaining rapper on earth was inspired all throughout the year. A performance littered with ludicrous lines about forgotten apartments in Jupiter(???), expensive jewelry and his upper echelon sex game. The flow is never forced or out of pocket over dreamy bass and stuttering keys. How is he over 40 and more inventive than rappers half his age?

21 Savage – No Heart

Produced By CuBeatz, Southside & Metro Boomin Album: Savage Mode

The line between fantasy and realism grows blurry with each social media update. We continue to laud rappers who seem to draw from real life experiences more than the ‘posers’ and that what makes ‘No Heart’ so great.21 is way too specific & menacing not mean any of his threat- filled lines. Metro Boomin’ matches the dead eyed feel with his most minimalist work to date and the end product is as enthralling as it is terrifying. 

Chance The Rapper Feat. 2 Chainz & Lil Wayne - No Problem 

Produced By BrassTracks Album: Coloring Book

Chance The Rapper Feat. 2 Chainz & Lil Wayne - No Problem Produced by: Album: Coloring Book  Coloring Book is one of those polarizing projects, you either felt it or you didn't .. I didn't. But he made songs like this that didn't make you feel like you were at Christian Rap Camp, some menacing statements were made on here echoed by your mum’s church choir. Wayne told us about freeing the choir, Chance threw threats about labels meeting the real south side and 2 Chainz? Man that man effortlessly floated just right on this pleasant song that even this weird iPhone class project video even is enjoyable.  ZBo8QA/K2O8

Migos Feat. Lil Uzi Vert – Bad & Boujee

Produced By Metro Boomin Album: CULTURE

An ode to classy fly women that even Uzi Vert couldn’t ruin. Offset’s show-stealing hook sticks in your mind like a deferred exam. A shining example of the power of Migos as a hit-making collective.

Kanye West Feat. Kendrick Lamar -No More Parties in LA

Produced By Kanye West & Madlib Album The Life of Pablo

It's only fitting that the most flagrant and audacious bars would find themselves sitting on this masterpiece. It's almost felt like a battle rap, Kendrick urging Kanye to rap again and Ye coming the fuck thru, "that God for me!" Pablo declares triumphantly and the song is so good, it's such a Kanye signature sample old heads the energy in the recording studio is crazy with McDonald's and Hennessy. Crazy. Fucking magical is what it is.

G.O.O.D Music Feat. Kanye West, Big Sean, Quavo, Gucci Mane, 2 Chainz, Travis Scott, Desiigner & Yo Gotti - Champions

Produced By Kanye West, A-Trak, Lex Luger & Mike Dean Album: Cruel Winter

Briefly, for but at least a second it looked like Kanye, Pusha T, fucking Kid Cudi, La Flame, 2 Chainz and even Big Sean .. it looked like the gang were back together. This single came as a result of hysteria, a just released Gucci, Kanye West finally releasing an album, a Quavo in his prime on a fucking MIKE DEAN track. In this moment, with the whole world in a frenzy doing everything they could do to somehow get their hands on these super stars, we were reminded that this label, GOOD Music, is a home to champions.

[theliterateape]

Hope Idiotic | Part 38

By David Himmel

Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.

AFTER DRIVING CHUCK’S CAR AND BELONGINGS—INCLUDING CHUCK IN A PLASTIC URN—HOME TO INDIANA, Cal flew back to Las Vegas to tend to other matters pertaining to his son’s death including contesting the coroner’s ruling that suicide was the cause. Since the house was empty and Cal had no money, Lou agreed that he could crash there until things were sorted out. He did request that Cal pay him one hundred dollars a week for rent and as a way to collect on some of what Chuck still owed. Cal would also have to pay for the utilities, which Lou never bothered to cancel.

It was a pitiful situation, really. The grieving father was living in the same house his son had died in and like his son, the house was dead. The little bit of furniture barely saw any use. There were no photos or artworks on the walls. There were no friends stopping by or meals being prepared in the kitchen. There was no conversation and no laughter, only tears late at night as Cal tried to sleep on the bed, using only an unzipped sleeping bag as a cover.

He wasn’t smart or savvy, but Cal Keller was determined, more determined than he’d probably ever been in his life, to emend the coroner’s ruling. After a week of phone calls and visits to the Clark County Coroner’s office, he got his investigation. The coroner interviewed everyone on the long list Cal provided. The list contained names and phone numbers of friends and co-workers; everyone in Chuck’s cellphone address book.

The coroner wanted to know whether Chuck had seemed sad, what his life was like shortly before he died, what the relationship between Chuck and the person on the other end of the phone was like, how Chuck met that person, how his death affected that person and a host of other questions to complete the inquiry. When all of the interviews were done, and the information was assessed, one thing was clear to the coroner: Chuck Keller was a sweet, fun-loving, exciting, smart, generous, adventurous, humorous, driven man who struggled with an alcohol addiction and had hit on hard times but was turning a corner. He was also a fucking idiot who accidentally killed himself after a night of heavy drinking.

That truth could not be forgotten. It’s so easy to turn the dead into saints because our grief so often soaks our memory in sentimental melancholy, especially if the departed was young. But without that truth, Chuck’s death had no other explanation than suicide. Him being a fucking idiot was critical evidence. It was the smoking gun.

And so the coroner changed the ruling: Charles Keller died as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning.

Cal could have returned to Indiana after that, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave his son’s adopted hometown. R.J. flew out to Vegas and stayed in the house with Cal, where the two men could grieve together. Lou had no idea. Besides, he didn’t give the house much thought since the one hundred-dollar rent checks were coming in the mail every week.

✶

ONE MORNING, WHILE LEXI WAS GETTING DRESSED FOR WORK, a heavy and fast pounding on her apartment’s front door startled her. Wearing only her bra and a pair of dress slacks, she grabbed her robe from the bathroom and answered the door. It was R.J.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as he pushed past her, letting himself into the apartment.

“You know Cal?” he said pacing.

“Chuck’s dad? Yeah.”

“You know that motherfucker…”

“R.J. What the hell are you doing here? In Las Vegas?”

“Came out here a week ago. Couldn’t be home. It’s too damn sad right now, you know? So I came out here to help Cal with stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know! Just stuff. You know. This ain’t easy for him, Chuck’s dying and all. Me neither.”

“Does Lou know you’re staying at his house?”

“Who?”

“Never mind. So what’s the problem?”

“You know Cal?”

“We’ve established that.”

“But did you know that that motherfucker is a motherfucking faggot?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night, we was drinking by the pool and just talkin’ and stuff and I got pretty wasted. And I fell asleep in one of them chairs out there and next thing I know, I wake up and Cal is sucking my dick.”

“I’m sorry!?”

“Like he’s on his knees with my dick all out, and he’s suckin’ on it.”

“How is that even possible?”

“He undid my pants, I guess.”

“And you were, like, hard?”

“I ain’t gay!”

“I didn’t say that. But neither is Cal.”

“Then why the hell was he suckin’ my dick?”

“Are you sure about this? You didn’t just dream it or something?”

“I told you, I ain’t gay!”

“Alright. So what did you do?”

“When he was done, I stood up and said, ‘Hey! What the fuck are you doing?’ Then I punched him in the face. I almost knocked his ass out and right into the pool.”

“Hang on a minute. You said, ‘When he was done.’ Do you mean that you woke up and even after you saw Cal Keller was giving you a blowjob, you kept letting him? So, you actually finished.”

R.J. stopped pacing. “Well, yeah. I mean, I was drunk. I didn’t know what was going on at first. Not until I blew my wad.”

“Oh, my God, R.J. Okay, so then what happened?”

“I made him take me to the ATM and made him give me all of his money in his account or I’d beat him to death.”

“You mugged the guy after he sucked you off? And how much money did you get?”

“Two hundred forty dollars. I told him that he’d better not tell anyone or I’d beat him to death.”

“So why are you telling me. Why are you here?”

“Because!” He began pacing again. “That motherfucker did it again!”

“When!?”

“This morning!”

“Let me get this straight. You were allegedly raped in your sleep, beat up your rapist, mugged him, threatened his life then went back and slept in the same house as him.”

“Yeah.”

“And how did he come to give you another blowjob? You weren’t still drunk this morning.”

“I was sleeping.”

“And you woke up, again, with Cal blowing you.”

“Yeah.”

“And you finished again, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. But I ain’t gay!”

“R.J., why are you here? Why are you telling me this if you don’t want anyone to know?”

“I just wanted you to know what happened in case Cal said anything to you. My way is the way it happened. Not his. Got that?”

“Sure. Got it.”

“Anyway. I’m leaving town in a few days. Going back home. Maybe it’s better there now, you know?”

“I doubt it. But it’s bound to be better than getting raped in your sleep. Where are you staying until then?”

“With Cal.”

“And you’re not worried about him blowing you again. Against your will.”

“I told him this morning, before I came over here, that if he did it again, I’d beat him to death.”

“I’m sure he’ll heed that warning.”

See? Sadness makes people do the strangest things.

✶

THINGS WERE LESS WEIRD FOR LEXI AND ME, BUT LIKE CHUCK’S FRIENDS AND FAMILY BACK IN INDIANA, those of us in Vegas had to lean on each other. Lexi and I met every Monday and Thursday for lunch, and if work got in the way of having lunch, we met at Bella’s, which had announced that it would be closing on New Year’s Day. The view was no match for The Great Recession. Many of the homes in the surrounding gated communities were adorned with foreclosure signs on their Xeriscaped lawns.

It was a fittingly dilapidated view for the sordid story that Lexi told me of Cal and R.J.

“It’s like a goddamn blowjob factory in that house,” I said. “Cal Keller’s Blow Job Factory: Now open!”

“It’s the oddest thing I think I’ve ever heard.”

“Can we believe it?”

“It doesn’t make any sense for R.J. to tell me a lie like that out of nowhere.”

“Yeah. I think he was protesting too much. Covering his tracks. Making it seem like rape when really, they’re just two grown men sharing feelings of loss and finding comfort in sleepy blowjobs. I bet R.J. wasn’t even sleeping. That’s just part of the game they play to keep it kinky and exciting and, you know, less homoerotic.”

“Exactly.”

On our way out, Lexi ducked into the restroom. I waited just outside the restaurant and took in the early Vegas winter air. The forthcoming winter and following spring are the best times of year in that city. I was yanked from my reverie when I heard my name being called.

“Neal?”

“Gina.” I hadn’t seen her in nearly two months since Chuck died. “What’re you doing here?” We hugged awkwardly.

“Just, you know, grabbing some dinner. I know this place is closing and, well, I always liked the food.”

“I haven’t seen you around the property. Everything good?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Just busy.” She was with a guy who, in that particular light, resembled Chuck. “Oh, sorry, this is my, um, friend Aaron.” We shook hands. “We’ve gone out a couple of times.”

Because of Gina’s surprise, I had momentarily forgotten about Lexi who would no doubt be out of the restroom and standing among us any second. For everyone’s sake, I thought it best to not have the two women see each other. I tried hurrying Gina into the restaurant and out of sight. I opened the door and ushered the couple to the hostess stand.

“That’s great; you’re a handsome couple,” I said. “Try the special tonight. It’s great if you like pasta. Excuse me,” I said to the hostess. “This young, attractive couple would love a table for two. Something romantic, by the window perhaps.”

The hostess looked confused. So did Gina and her date.

“Neal…?” Lexi began.

“Okay, well, I gotta run. Great seeing you. Enjoy your meal,” I said as I backed away, took Lexi’s hand and started leading her out of the restaurant.

“Hi, Lexi,” Gina said.

“Shit,” I said under my breath. I let go of Lexi’s hand as she pulled away.

“Gina.” Lexi looked quizzically at the man standing with the woman who had unintentionally—and unknowingly to both women for the better part of two years—become her mortal enemy.

“How are you? How have you been?” Gina asked.

Lexi broke her stare. “What?”

“How have you been?”

“Good.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear. I’ve been good, too.”

“Okay.” It was like she was watching the Hindenburg crash into the Titanic. I took Lexi’s hand again and pulled gently, but she resisted.

“Do you still talk to Lou?” asked Gina.

“Yes.”

“Ever talk to Chuck’s parents?”

“Of course,” she said with a tone slightly peppered with spite.

“Oh.” Gina looked down.

“I don’t know what you thought you had with Chuck, or even what you actually meant to him, but he and I were going to make it.”

“Lexi, come on,” I said.

“Maybe he loved you—he probably did—but he loved me, too. And he loved me since we were kids. And he loved me at the very end. He always loved me through everything, and I always loved him through everything. Everything.” She was crying. Gina had begun crying, too.

“I know,” Gina said. “I couldn’t hold a candle to you, Lexi. I tried, but I couldn’t.”

Lexi had been looking for a fight, but that disarmed her. “What?”

“Even at our best, I knew that somewhere in the back of his mind, he was thinking about you.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome?”

The women looked at each other a moment as the tension fluctuated and the awkwardness built.

“Are you ready to be seated?” the hostess cut in.

“They are,” I said quickly. “Come on, Lexi.”

As Lexi and I walked out of Bella’s, I heard Gina’s date ask her, “Who’s Chuck?”

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37

[books4crooks]

180 Proof Vega - Vol 1. Chapter 1. CHAPTER ONE Spring, 1993. La Linda, Mexico. Somehow he managed to stay asleep despite the unrelenting stream of sunlight hitting him in the face. Motes of dust and sand danced in the rays, stirred up by the speed with which Angel was driving. The constant humming of the engine, the warm breeze, and the low warble of the radio counteracted the sun, soothing him to remain in a coma-like sleep. It could have also been the massive hangover. He was stretched out on the backseat of the Jeep, hair in disarray annd clothes sweaty and sticking to him in places. One booted foot was stretched out while the other hung down to the floorboard. He’d thrown a tattooed arm over his eyes in an attempt to hide from daylight, but his eyebrows were still knotted in sleep. He’d been in that position for so long that Angel had started looking in the back and prodding him every so often. Angel usually gave up after a while; he knew that stirring his boss from such a deep sleep was generally a bad idea, but once they began approaching the border Angel’s efforts became more deliberate. “Emilio, despierta.” The Jeep rolled to a stop and Angel turned in the driver’s seat to look in the back again. Rolling his eyes, Angel shoved Emilio’s shoulder. There was no response except for a low grumble immediately followed by deep breathing. "Emilio!” Angel dug his knuckle into the teenager’s shoulder, shoving harder. “¡Despierta cabrón!” Emilio groaned and rolled over, his face pressing against the seat. “¡Vete al carajo, maricón! I’m fucking sleeping, man.” “Ya casi llegamos. You told me to wake you up in La Linda.” “Eat a dick.” Exhaling loudly, Angel put the Jeep back into drive and cruised down the road faster. The truck had gotten further ahead of them, and Moisés was driving like an asshole. Somehow the most reckless driver in their crew had wound up being the one driving through the desert with a truck full of weapons and explosives. The road to the bridge wasn’t very busy, and Angel took his eyes off the road to fiddle with the cassettes on the passenger’s seat. There were a bunch of mix tapes with Emilio’s techno and rock music, and Angel knocked them out of the way until he found one of his own. He was so focused on playing something that would wake Emilio up that he didn’t notice anything was different until a horn blared ahead of them. Eyes flicking up, Angel’s hand froze. “Qué diablos…” He braked so suddenly that the Jeep jerked forward. Emilio rolled off the seat, dropping down onto the floorboard. A litany of Spanglish swearing floated up from his new position, and Angel reached back to grab a handful of Emilio’s unruly black hair. “Tenemos un problema.” “So does your mother when I don’t pull out next time, you fucking moron. What the fuck are you—” “At the bridge, asshole. Border patrol is sniffing around the truck.” Still grumbling, Emilio sat up on his knees and squinted. His green eyes were bloodshot, shoulder length black hair sticking out wildly, and clothes in complete disarray. His fingers dug into the seat as he leaned forward, dark brows drawing together. “What kind of bullshit is this?” “No idea. They don’t look like our usual guys.” Emilio’s lips curved down into a frown as he watched. His crew—Mara Tres—used La Linda Bridge for headache free crossing to and from the States and Mexico all the time. It was a shitty bridge surrounded by a whole lot of nothing, and they’d been paying off the same border patrol agents for the past couple of years. The guys currently pulling up the tarp on the back of the truck were wrong. Very wrong. They watched as Moisés hopped down from the driver’s seat of the truck, muscular arms crossed over his chest with a whole lot of attitude and a little bit of patience. “¿Nos largamos?” Emilio didn’t answer Angel at first. He kept watching, eyes narrowing on the border agent prodding the crates in the back of the truck. “Mira al blanquito…¡Coño!” “What are we going to—Emilio, wait!” Unsurprisingly, the leader of their crew and arguably the most reckless, kicked the door open and jumped out of safety directly into trouble. After three years of being by the brash teenager’s side, Angel wasn’t surprised. But his stomach still twisted as he watched his leader march up the road. It was hot as fuck outside, and Emilio was not in the mood for this shit. Yet he still found himself walking towards the truck and Moisés even though it was an awful idea. There were a few cars and larger vehicles between them and the truck, which he counted as a damn blessing. It wouldn’t be immediately obvious which car he had come from. The heat from the sun was overbearing, so he unhooked the sunglasses from his shirt and shoved them on to his face. He could feel several sets of eyes on him as he made his way up the road and to the dozen border patrol agents now circling the truck. There were usually only two or three max at this border station. “¿Cuál es el problema, jefe?” he called out sharply, annoyance written all over his face. He strode up to them without hesitation, uncaring that he’d never seen any of these guys before. “¿Y Ud. es?” one of the agents, a tall dark haired guy with reflecting sunglasses, asked. His Spanish was so crappy that Emilio made a face and switched to English. “I’m tryna get through,” he snapped. There was sweat beading down his face now, and the sun was making his headache worse. “It’s hotter than ten dicks out here, bro. Can we hurry this shit up?” The agents didn’t seem very impressed. If they didn’t know him, it was no surprise. Despite the fact that it was his operation and his crew, Emilio was barely eighteen and was conscious enough of his appearance to ensure that he looked it. Some guys in this business liked to look hard, but he was quite fond of his own fine boned, pretty boy features. He made up for it with height and a strong muscular build, but his wrinkled clothes and unlaced boots he weren’t winning him any points on being imposing at the moment. “Where the fuck is Jorge and Brian?” The regular dudes. The dudes he paid a chunk of his earnings to in order to ensure that this spot stayed problem free. “Not here,” Mr. Reflective Sunglasses said smartly. “No shit.” “Can we just get the fuck out of here?” Moisés asked, seeming hopeful. The look that Emilio aimed at him made the older man drop his gaze. Moisés was a good guy—loyal, strong, and had no problems with the bloody aspect of the job. But he was a prime example of a fucking idiot. It hadn’t been immediately obvious that he was with Moisés and the truck full of weapons, but now it most certainly was. Also, that they were potentially going to put up a fight. Shaking his head and knowing that this was about to get ugly, Emilio watched as the dust on the opposite side of the border kicked up in the distance. More vehicles were incoming, and he could tell they weren’t friends. Knowing he was fucked, Emilio didn’t even glance behind him. He didn’t call out the signal, didn’t give a sign, and hoped Angel was smart enough to not get involved. The last thing they needed was a fight with border patrol. It would fuck them for the long run. And Emilio had been in enough scrapes to know that he could usually buy his own way out of trouble. He looked young enough for authorities to never quite believe he was the one in charge, and he led them on with blatant lies and enough of an act to pretend to be completely stupid. But that didn’t work for the rest of his crew. Their bailouts came later, usually in the form of escapes and murder. “Cógelo suave. Cállate.” Moisés looked disappointed, but shrugged and worked on appearing meek. It failed spectacularly. He was 6'5", 240 pounds, and had tattoo covered muscles that looked like they’d been carved from stone. And as time went by, his meekness transformed to impatience and an obvious desire to crack skulls. They stood out on the road for two hours. During that time Border Patrol had confiscated the truck, cuffed Emilio and Moisés, and searched all of the nearby vehicles to determine where Emilio had come from. When it was all done, he had an amazing headache. He lay on the ground with his cheek pressed against the concrete, and considered how many people he would kill if his face got scratched up. The good part was that Angel managed to not get singled out. Emilio made a mental note to give the guy a bonus later on. Something other than the usual blowjob. They were all US citizens, but Angel was the only one of them who didn’t physically fit the usual bill for smuggler. Un-tattooed, blond curls, big blue-green eyes, and Angel always dressed like he was going to play tennis. His Jeep also had nothing suspicious in it, which was why Emilio usually rode with him. It had been stupid to investigate this. Fucking hangover had made him careless. “Can we hurry this up?” Emilio got a kick in the ribs for the question, and spent the rest of the time insulting the border agent’s family until he found a nerve. The nerve wound up being the man’s wife, and Emilio described exactly what he would like to do to her until another agent had to drag the man away. By the time he and Moisés were loaded into the back of a van, Emilio felt like throwing up. He was dehydrated, exhausted, and now covered in bruises. Moisés kept looking at him like he was a moron, but Emilio was frankly too irritated to give a damn. Making a bad situation worse was his motherfucking specialty when he was too pissed off to be charming. They drove for what seemed like an hour until they reached somewhere closer to a city on the American side of the border. The whole area was surrounded by Federal parks and nature reserves, and Emilio was already planning his escape if these fuckers couldn’t be bought. He’d lived off a lot less in the streets as a kid, and the park had plenty of natural resources he could survive on. Feeling relatively calm despite the mess of a situation, he dozed off for several long moments, head lolling on Moisés’ shoulder. The older man didn’t shake him off, and instead looked down fondly at him from time to time. While in and out of sleep, he overheard snippets of conversation. “So is the kid involved, or is he just your boyfriend?” Moisés leered at the agent. “What you think, cabrón?” The guy laughed, but Mr. Reflective Sunglasses just looked disgusted. He opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut without a comment. For the second time that day, Emilio was jerked fully awake by the sudden halt of a vehicle. “What now?” he asked, looking up at Moisés. “I don’t know,” Moisés said with a frown. Emilio shifted so that he was upright and glared out the window. This day was getting really fucking out of control. There was a random black van with an illegal tint blocking them on the road. The border patrol agents looked just as confused as they were, and stepped out of the vehicle with guns drawn. Once they were out of the vehicle, Emilio glanced at Moisés. “I’m going to try to get out before the FBI can get involved. Play it off like usual. I’ll come back for you later.” Moisés nodded, unsurprised. “I already made out like you were my little boy toy.” Emilio smirked. “I could be, gorgeous. If you’d stop with the straight bullshit.” “I think Angel would get jealous, and I don’t wanna hear the bitching if I start tapping your ass. Anyway, they’re gonna take the shit.” Shrugging, Emilio looked out the window again. It wasn’t like they’d paid anything for it anyway. He started to point this out but paused after catching sight of their new company. The two people who got out of the black van were totally bizarre. The man was tall, lean, and wearing reinforced body armor. There was a woman next to him who was similarly dressed. They were both ridiculously attractive and looked like they’d walked off a movie set. “What the hell is this now?” Emilio frowned, craning his neck. “I dunno. They look like X-Men.” Moisés gave him a confused look, and Emilio rolled his eyes. “Never the fucking mind.” The exchange went on for several long minutes, but Emilio couldn’t hear a damn thing. The Border agents looked annoyed, and the X-Men were calm and collected. Through it all, the man in the body armor kept glancing in the direction of the Border Patrol van. There was something about him that put Emilio on guard, to the point where the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had tawny hair and a deep tan, but other than that there was nothing overtly intimidating about him. He was taller than Emilio and not as muscular as Moisés, but his stare was unnerving. He kept looking straight at Emilio, gaze unflinching and unreadable. “This is weird…” There were very few situations that Emilio couldn’t get a read on. He’d been in the gang life for years, since he was a young child, and had seen everything. Every kind of dirty cop, every kind of bust, every kind of stick up or fuck-up, and he always skated with no jail time and no record, whether he had to kill, buy, or fuck his way out of a situation. But the black van and the two people in body armor were giving him the creeps. The conversation ended with the border agents looking just as freaked as Emilio was feeling. They strode back van and jerked open the door on Emilio’s side. “Looks like your boyfriend is involved in more shit then you knew about,” the one with the sunglasses said shortly. Moisés sat up straight. “What?” Emilio allowed himself to be yanked out of the van, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. They hauled him upright and dragged him off before he could exchange another glance with Moisés. “What’s going on?” Emilio demanded, switching to Spanish the closer they got to the newcomers. The agents shoved him forward without comment. Up close, the tawny haired man had ice blue eyes that made his stare all the more nerve-wracking. Emilio met it with a glare, snapping his attention between the two strangers. The woman was blond, pretty, and looked like she should be on a runway instead of in the middle of the desert in Texas gripping a shotgun. She was staring at him with open curiosity, taking in his large green eyes, unruly black hair, and messy clothing. “This is really him?” she asked, glancing up at her partner. “Yes,” he answered crisply. She shrugged, lips turning up at the side as she moved closer. “He’s just a kid.” Emilio kept his face blank, as if he didn’t understand what she was saying. He didn’t flinch when she brushed the hair out of his face. Instead, he flashed her a small grin and winked. It had the desired reaction, and she laughed. Her partner was less amused. “You can go,” he told the border agents flatly They didn’t seem too thrilled, but thy returned to their van without another word. “Are you kidnapping me?” Emilio asked, sticking to Spanish, as the man dragged him to the side of their vehicle. It was a full sized van with a sliding side door. Inside there was a wide open space instead of bench seats, the sides lined with bars, and two large black duffel bags secured to one corner. “I bet I could pay my own ransom.” The man shoved him inside and pinned him to the wall. His hands grabbed at Emilio, skimming up his shirt and sliding over his sweaty skin, before dipping down to search his pockets and crotch. His movements were rough, rougher than was necessary, and he squeezed for no real reason other than to make Emilio hiss in pain. “Oh brother,” the woman’s voice said, half-exasperated and half-amused. The man backed off then and wordlessly re-cuffed both of Emilio’s hands to one of the rails. “You’re not being kidnapped,” he replied, his Spanish fluent. “Now shut up, or I’ll knock you out.” Emilio wasn’t convinced, but he complied for the moment. He tugged at the rail as they shut the door and climbed back into the front. The vehicle was impressive—obviously reinforced and upgraded with all kinds of gadgets. There was even a mobile phone on the center console—an IBM model Emilio had never seen before. He turned his gaze to the two people in the front again, trying to get a feel on them. The woman wasn’t giving him any weird vibes. She was clearly formidable, and handled her weapon like she knew what to do with it, but she was more curious than threatening. The man was a different story. Everything about him set off warnings in Emilio, the kind that had sent him skittering into a dark corner or a hole when he’d lived in Rio as a child. The woman picked up the mobile phone and made a call as her partner drove. “We’ve secured the package.” Emilio smirked at that, sitting on the floor of the van with his arms extended to the rail. “I like that they sent such a beautiful woman to kidnap me. Maybe they wanted me to have some fun before I die.” “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll tape your mouth closed, bitch,” the man said tonelessly. “Ohh, sensitive, are we? Does that hot little blond piece of ass belong to you?” The woman looked between he and the man but clearly didn’t understand what they were saying. She still held the mobile phone to her ear, eyebrows puckered. “No, but your ass will be mine if you don’t shut up.” “You’re going to give me a hard-on with that kind of talk, handsome,” Emilio drawled, wiggling his eyebrows. He puckered his lips, and the man stared at him through the rearview mirror for a long moment before returning his gaze to the road. “Damn it,” she swore after setting the phone down. “What?” She looked at her watch. “Something came up. We need to split up in a few hours. I’ll get my own vehicle, and you can keep going on your own.” Her brown eyes flicked back to Emilio. “It’s not like he’s putting up much of a fight, anyway. They made it seem like it was going to be a whole handful.” The guy ignore the comment. “Do you have a solo?” “Yeah.” Emilio processed all of this information and came out with very little. Clearly they were working for an organized group, and he wasn’t their sole priority if one of his handlers was being sent off on another task. None of this fit his musings about whether this was a kidnapping by a rival gang or something similar. “Quiero agua.” The word seemed familiar to the woman, and she reached into a backpack by her feet. She extracted a bottle of water and turned, leaning towards the back. Uncapping it, she pressed it against his mouth. “Drink.” Parting his lips, Emilio allowed his eyes to nearly shut as the water slid down his dry throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, taking it in and making a sound of displeasure when she tried to move it away. She chuckled quietly, allowing him more, and he finally opened his eyes again. They stared at each other as he drank. She was looking at him with interest; watching the way his throat worked, the way water slid down the sides of his mouth, and not hesitating to meet his eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him at all which made it all the more obvious that she had no idea what he was capable of. She also wasn’t afraid to hide that she liked what she saw. “I can’t believe this is the guy.” “It’s him. Same features and eyes as the picture.” “Yeah. It’s not exactly a common combination. That picture was just really old.” She removed the bottle from his lips and drained the rest herself, never looking away. Emilio was almost positive that if he didn’t wind up dead in a hole he was going to bang the fuck out of this woman at some point. It would have distracted him more if his mind wasn’t whirling as he tried to figure out what picture they could have of him. “Qué linda.”. Emilio looked at the man, expression hopeful, and spoke in Spanish again. “How about you uncuff me so I can make your girlfriend come a few times?” The man scoffed. “Can you turn around and stop giving him ammunition to run his mouth?” She shot Emilio a private smirk. “Do you speak any English?” Emilio wordlessly shook his head. “I’m Camille, and this is Cameron. We—” she frowned, and glanced at Cameron. “You can tell him we’re not going to harm him, you know. It’s not like he’s some high risk captive.” “Tell him yourself.” “I don’t speak Spanish,” she complained. “Well, he can just wait in suspense.” “Jesus, lighten up. This is one of the easiest missions we’ve been on together in a while. No need to be such a jackass the whole time.” Emilio watched as Camille gave her partner a glare that the man actually reacted to. The corner of Cameron’s mouth quirked up into a half smile, and he shrugged. The unspoken communication was a little vague, but it seemed like an apology. “I bet we can break this tension with a threesome,” Emilio piped up. “¿Cómo se dice… ménage à trois?” Camille burst out laughing, and reached out to shove Cameron’s arm. The man didn’t get in on the laugh, although a muscle in his jaw ticked. He pulled the van over to the side of the road, and turned in his seat. Emilio wasn’t surprised when Cameron reached for him but instead of a punch in the face, he felt only a tiny pinch in his neck. It took exactly three seconds for everything to go black. When Emilio came to, he had no idea how much time had passed. His mouth was cottony, his head felt like it was about to explode, and his wrists were throbbing from the awkward way they’d hung from the cuffs. The van was also sweltering. Despite this, he was more clear headed and aware than he had been that morning. As he shoved himself into an upright position and looked at the front of the van, he realized his captors weren’t inside. From what he could see through the windshield, they were in a fairly bustling area. Licking his lips, Emilio shook hair out of his eyes and thought about the morning. The whole fucking mess was his fault. Shit went south sometimes but usually he could take it out on someone else. The ease in which he usually bought his way out of situations with Border Patrol had made him stupid and careless. And now he had no idea what he was up against. He didn’t even care. It didn’t matter whether they were FBI, CIA, or people from a rival smuggling group. The important thing was getting the fuck out of Dodge so he could bust out his comrade. Emilio scooted closer to the front and heard muffled conversation through the partially opened window. He heard both Cameron and Camille but couldn’t make out the words. Camille was leaving, he remembered that immediately. One asshole was easier to deal with than two, but Cameron seemed like a tough motherfucker. But even tough motherfuckers had a weakness. In the few exchanges they’d had, a couple of things had immediately stood out about Cameron. He dug the power he got out of this situation. Within minutes he’d jostled his un-struggling captive around more than was necessary, dubbed Emilio a bitch, and warned that he’d have his ass if he didn’t shut up. It could have been just shit talk, but Emilio recognized the attitude. It was the kind of crap he got all the time once other men got a load of his pretty-boy face, and before they figured out that their power games didn’t work on Emilio Vega. Unless he wanted it to. ******************************* ¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥ 180 Proof Vega - Vol 1. Chapter 2. CHAPTER TWO Emilio was inspecting his cuffs when Cameron re-entered the van. At some point he’d changed out of his armor and into jeans and a t-shirt. “I have to piss.” Cameron looked over his shoulder coldly. “Sounds like a personal problem.” Emilio raised his eyebrows and grinned. “True, but it might get uncomfortable if I piss all over your van. With the heat, and the distance, and—” “Fine.” Cameron snapped yanked the keys out of the ignition. He got out of the driver’s seat again and walked around the side of the van. The door slid open only a moment later, and Cameron leaned in. He grabbed Emilio’s chin and stared at him critically before using his own dark sleeve to wipe dried blood from Emilio’s face where it had been scratched against the road. The man’s fingers slid into the outgrown black hair, tousling it so that it covered the marks on Emilio’s cheek. His movements were rougher than necessary, and when he freed Emilio’s hands, he yanked him out of the van before shoving him forward. Cameron kept a hand clenched on Emilio’s shoulder as he propelled him down the sidewalk and away from the van. He seemed to know exactly where they were going because they walked for a couple of blocks, turned twice, and then went down a long, narrow alley. There were buildings on either side with fire escapes and several dumpsters more than halfway down. “We didn’t need this much privacy, gorgeous.” Emilio didn’t flinch when Cameron shoved him flush against the wall. Emilio held his hands up to put some distance between himself and the bricks, causing his back to press against Cameron’s chest. “Keep your hands against the wall.” Cameron continued to grip his shoulder while reaching around to undo Emilio’s belt and jeans. He released Emilio’s shoulder only to tug down the jeans first, and then the tight red briefs beneath. “One hand.” “O-kay,” Emilio drawled. He braced himself against the wall with one hand and grabbed his dick with the other. Cameron breathed down his neck the whole time, and Emilio smirked. “If you wanted to see my dick, you just had to ask.” “I don’t have to ask you anything,” Cameron said as Emilio tugged his briefs back up one handed. “True,” Emilio conceded, not bothering with his jeans at the moment. He wet his lips, rolling his eyes up to look at the fire escape above them. “But we don’t got to play games neither. Your girlfriend left. I’m not stupid.” “You like trouble don’t you, bitch?” “No. But I’ll suck your dick if you let me make a call. Just one call.” There was no response for a moment, and Emilio leaned back. He could feel tension in the other man, but he didn’t back off. “The guys say I have dick sucking lips. And I can take it all down my throat.” There was a low exhale against his neck, and Emilio turned his head. He didn’t even try to hide the smug smirk creeping across his face. He loved playing this game. And he wouldn’t even mind fucking with a tall blond Viking looking psychopath like Cameron. “I thought you were some kind of criminal prodigy,” Cameron said evenly. “Not a pretty little bitch who likes to get used by his gang.” “Can’t I be both? I’ll suck your dick, swallow—or you fuck me after and come in my ass, just for a phone call. Your choice, handsome.” “I could just fuck you anyway.” Emilio scoffed, shaking hair out of his face. “I’m more trouble than I look like. You’d have more fun if I’m begging for it, and you ain’t spending the time trying to protect your balls. Besides, I’m willing, and I know you want it.” “Heh.” The weight of Cameron’s hand on Emilio’s shoulder shifted. “You think you know what I like?” Emilio scoffed. “Just ‘cause you’re clean looking and blond don’t make you different than any other hard up, mean, motherfucker who likes tagging ass. Let me guess—spent time in jail? Army? Somewhere like it? I bet you like getting yourself a bitch to turn out.” Cameron grunted. He was getting distracted, his breath coming a little faster. Emilio felt the beginnings of hardness against his ass. Hook, line, and motherfucking sinker. “You could keep me for a few days. Like you said, use me. Do whatever you want. No lube, ass to mouth, whatever, I’ve done it all. If you let me make a call.” Cameron turned Emilio around. As soon as the motion completed, Emilio’s hand swung out like a viper. In a quick succession of movements, he jabbed his finger in Cameron’s eye, reared back, slammed his elbow against the man’s face, headbutted him, and then rammed a knee into his half-hard dick. Cameron shouted and staggered backwards. Emilio immediately shifted his weight, darting around Cameron and bolting towards the mouth of the alley in a dead run. A hand caught his ankle and jerked, completely throwing him off balance. Swearing in annoyance as he crashed to the filthy concrete, Emilio rolled onto his back and narrowly avoided slamming his chin against the ground. “You fucking—” Cameron tried to get to his feet as he hung onto Emilio’s boot. His face was flushed, eyes widened, and nostrils flared. Emilio had no idea how the guy was still functional given the way he’d just smashed his dick. Arching his back, Emilio kicked out with his free foot and nailed Cameron in the face. Still unbalanced from the blow to his groin, he fell backwards with a grunt. Emilio shoved his shoulders against the ground and flipped backwards into a crouch. By the time he landed, Cameron had already gotten to his feet again and goddamn, this guy was going to be a pain in the ass to shake. Cameron came at him with a series of blows that completely caught Emilio off guard. He was a damn good fighter, but he was even better at dodging. It was the only thing that kept Cameron from totally wrecking him, but he found himself backed into a corner before he’d even realized it was there. He ducked a vicious smash of knuckles just as they grazed his face, and Cameron’s fist careened into the brick wall behind them. “Motherfucker,” Cameron swore, turning around and swiping the back of Emilio’s shirt. He caught a handful of hair instead, and it ripped out of Emilio’s scalp as he leapt up and caught the lowest rung of the fire escape above them. Emilio’s eyes watered as pain exploded in his already pounding skull, and he nearly fell off the ladder before pulling it together. He scrambled up the ladder and didn’t pause when the sound of a gunshot exploded in the alley. The bullet ricocheted off the metal railing next to his leg, but Emilio didn’t even stop to look down as he kept climbing. If Cameron was trained to fight like a fucking machine, there was no way he was a bad shot. If the dude missed, it was intentional. He wasn’t supposed to kill Emilio. The fire escape went all the way to the highest floor and when he reached it, Emilio jumped up to grasp at the crown molding of the roof. The fire escape was shaking as Cameron charged up behind him, and Emilio tried not to focus on the way his shoe laces were flying everywhere as his boots pounded against the blacktop of the roof when he threw himself over the side. There was another shot fired, and this one grazed Emilio’s arm. He barely reacted as pain zinged through him, and didn’t hesitate before he vaulted himself up onto the opposite edge of the roof. He eyeballed the distance for a breath before leaping, his hair flying back wildly, off this roof and onto the neighboring building. He let out a loud whoop as the weightless feeling of being in the air overcame him. He slammed down onto the roof a second later, but even the jarring violence of his landing didn’t take away from the exhilaration. They went on like that for what seemed like hours but was really only a matter of minutes. They went from rooftop to rooftop, and Emilio was having too much fun to give a shit about the fact that his luck was eventually going to run out. He’d run out of buildings in this cluttered neighborhood, or he’d lose his footing or misjudge the distance—it was only a matter of time. He didn’t think about it though, and started taunting his pursuer. Emilio ran backwards, flipped Cameron off, called him every name he could think of before adding some more creative ones in English, Mandarin, and Spanish. The other man’s expression didn’t change from the determined scowl, and he barely looked winded while Emilio was starting to pant from exertion. He jumped again, landed, realized he was starting to get bored of the chase as weariness set in, and heard surprised shouts nearby. There were people on the roof. There were decorations, plastic tables, and a grill. Family barbecue. Goddamnit. They stared at Emilio like he was the fucking chupacabra, and he gave a smartass wave. They were all in the way and blocking his path, and it held him up for long enough for Cameron to catch up to him. Just as Emilio started to dash, a hand grabbed the scruff of his neck and squeezed hard. “Go back to your party,” Cameron snapped at the people, like it was their fault. “What the hell is going on here?” an older woman demanded, standing up and looking from Emilio to Cameron. Emilio sagged against Cameron’s chest, breathing hard and trying to figure out what to do next. The other man grabbed something out of his pocket and flashed it at the party goers. “Police business.” Bullshit. It was tempting to pull another quick move and start jetting again, but now that Emilio was stationary he saw that there were a bunch of kids on the roof. Cameron didn’t seem like the type to care about innocent people getting in the way neither. Mothergoddamnfuck. “Vamanos,” Cameron snarled in his ear, breath hot against it. “Before I fucking shoot out your kneecaps.” He wrapped a pair of flexicuffs around Emilio’s wrists and shoved him, causing him to stumble. Emilio landed on his knees hard. He grit his teeth, biting back the curse that wanted to rip out of his mouth. There was a gasp nearby, and he looked out from his curtain of black hair to see a young girl staring at him with wide eyes. “Do you have to be so rough on him?” the woman demanded. “He’s just a kid.” Cameron stared at her, his fingers flexing on his gun. “Shut the fuck up and stay out of it.” “Hey now,” Emilio drawled in English. He winced when Cameron yanked him to his feet by a handful of hair. “Lady’s just bein’ nice. No need to be a total cocksucker.” Cameron’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the clearly spoken English. “No,” he said flatly. “That’s you.” Emilio waved at the little girl as he was dragged away. They made quite a spectacle on their way back to the van. They were both bruised, bloody, and soaked through with sweat. Whatever badge Cameron had must have been convincing, because no one asked a second question after he flashed it. By the time Emilio was loaded back into the van the sun was setting, and every ache in his body had multiplied. Weariness had set in as well, and he stopped trying to antagonize Cameron as the day slid into evening. At some point he must have drifted off in the uncomfortable position because some time later he opened his eyes to the darkness of night. He was also hanging over Cameron’s shoulder. “Put me down, asshole,” he slurred. “Shut up.” Grunting, Emilio closed his eyes to avoid seeing the ground move beneath them. He’d spent the afternoon leaping between rooftops but couldn’t handle a little motion sickness. It was so stupid that he scoffed at himself. Cameron carried him effortlessly for a couple of minutes before there was a jingling sound. Emilio opened his eyes again as they entered a doorway. Judging from the worn carpet, cheap blinds and noisy air conditioner stuck below the window, they were in a motel room. “Didn’t know you was such a traditional motherfucker,” he said as Cameron dumped him onto the bed. “Carryin’ me over the threshold and shit—” “Close your mouth,” Cameron said sharply. “I want to make something very clear to you, you gutter trash piece of shit.” “Why so mad, bro?” Cameron dropped the duffel bag he’d been carrying to the floor. In two quick movements, he was straddling Emilio on the bed and holding a nasty looking knife against the side of his face. Emilio tensed up as the serrated edge bit into his skin. “I’m gonna say this one time.” Cameron leaned down so that his forehead was touching Emilio’s. “The next time you try running off, the next time you lie to me, the next time you say the wrong fucking thing, I will cut that mouth of yours—” Cameron paused to raise his free hand. He dragged his thumb against the swell of Emilio’s lower lip. “From ear to ear, bitch. They need you functional not pretty.” Emilio’s stomach clenched as the knife bit into his skin harder. “What you want from me, man? Who’s they? Y'all acting like I’m supposed to come quietly with my head down, and I don’t even know who the fuck you are.” Cameron sneered. He sat up. “You’ll find out if you make it through the next two days without me killing you,” he said coldly. “But someone wants you for a higher purpose. Someone saw potential in you.” Confusion clouded over Emilio. “Huh?” Cameron snorted. “I’ve got no clue what they think they see. At the moment, I only see a use for you for two things.” “Oh yeah? What’s that, asshole?” “Being a liar, and a slut. But I guess that will be useful for them after all.” For the first time since this had all started, Emilio couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. None of the pieces of this situation were fitting together. None of it made any sense. Cameron pulled the knife away, dragging the edge against him with more pressure. He dragged the tip along Emilio’s forehead, and down, skimming across his eyebrow. It cut into him at last, and Emilio recoiled. The movement only caused the knife to dig deeper, and blood slid down his face. “Fuck, man!” Cameron got to his feet, putting the knife on the side table outside of Emilio’s reach. “You did it to yourself.” Emilio glowered. “Go fuck yourself.” “No.” Cameron hauled Emilio upright. “You were right, by the way.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” Cameron reached down and unbuckled his belt before unzipping his jeans. “I do like turning out a new bitch.” Emilio inhaled but a shiver of excitement raced up his spine. He’d never denied that his upbringing had likely crossed his wires for good, but getting turned on by his kidnapper was a new low. Angel wouldn’t be impressed. “I ain’t your bitch. Your punk ass got played. Ain’t no one sucking your dick.” Cameron’s mouth slanted up, and he reached out to slap a hand lightly against Emilio’s face. The blood smeared across his palm, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just combed his fingers into Emilio’s hair, and grabbed a handful of it. “You are, actually. If you want your phone call.” Emilio’s brows shot up. “Well, now you’re talking.” Cameron stepped closer, not stopping until his crotch was right in front of Emilio’s face. There was a large bulge in his briefs, and Emilio’s eyes automatically dropped to it. It pissed him off to no end that his own dick reacted to the sight of a fucking hairless six pack, jutting hip bones, and a huge cock straining against white underwear. “Just want you to know that if you wanna take it here, you better gimme what’s owed when we’re done. Bullshit me, and you better hope you don’t see my fucking ass after we get to wherever it is we’re going.” “I’m terrified.” A crooked smirk stole over Emilio’s face. “You should be. Last dude that double crossed me wound up missing some parts when I caught up with his ass.” Cameron thumbed at Emilio’s mouth again, pressing the pad of his finger against the damp pink of his lip. “I’m not surprised. I do know a little about you, Vega.” It was the first time Cameron had addressed Emilio by his name. It caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise again. His eyes narrowed further into slits as that thumb worked into his mouth. It was tempting to bite down, to show this jackass that he wasn’t scared. That he wasn’t nobody’s bitch. Let alone some blond piece of shit who was too distracted by his cock to keep hold of his captive, but the knife was too close, Emilio’s hands were out of commission, and he really wanted his phone call. Cameron shoved the band of his underwear down. His dick was hard, veins protruding, and a pearl of cum already at the head. He smelled like sweat, and musk, and when he smeared the damp tip against Emilio’s lips, his own dick pulsed in response. “Open.” Still grilling Cameron with a warning glare, Emilio parted his lips and took that big cock into his mouth. He watched through his eyelashes as the older man hissed . One hand slid into Emilio’s hair, the other gripping his shoulder, but Emilio didn’t let him ease into it. If he wanted to get blown, he was gonna get blown hooker style. To the point, taking it all the way down, straight to deep throating. The gimme the money and peace out way. Any other time Emilio liked giving head all self indulgent and proper; getting a guy wound up, making him get loud and desperate until he begged—making it so he was the one with the power even if he was the one on his knees. But Cameron wasn’t getting that type of epic head. This was a business transaction. Not that it stopped Cameron from getting into it. Both of his hands were gripping the back of Emilio’s head in a matter of twenty seconds, and it turned into full on, sloppy face fucking less than a minute after that. Emilio was still planning on cutting the guy’s throat at the earliest possible opportunity if this all went wrong, but the sounds Cameron was making went straight to Emilio’s cock. He’d started out all stoic and quiet, keeping it down and biting on his lip, but it hadn’t taken long to derail into harsh, audible panting as he hunched over Emilio. He was fucking Emilio’s face with clear desperation, and it was pretty clear that he was trying to make him gag. It didn’t work. Emilio had sucked bigger dicks in his eighteen years so he just relaxed his throat and took it down as saliva and precum smeared across his mouth and chin. “Oh fuck.” Cameron slammed his hips against Emilio’s face, mouth hanging open and filth pouring out as he got closer. “Fucking Christ, suck that dick, bitch.” It was tempting to bite the fucker’s dick off, but Emilio made him jizz instead. To Cameron’s credit, he didn’t moan like a needy slut, which was what Emilio had been aiming for. But he did arch his back and bite his lip again, eyebrows shoved together as he flooded Emilio’s mouth. Emilio swallowed it all down and pulled away. He let the still hard length of flesh slide from his mouth. Cameron’s fingers were still clenched in his hair, and he made a face. “You wanna let go, or are we gettin’ sentimental now?” The fingers loosened, but Cameron shoved Emilio’s forehead instead of just letting go. Emilio sprawled back on the bed. “Phone call?” “Heh. When the time is right. I didn’t specify a time.” Emilio’s hands curled into fists. “You’re so fucked when I get out of this shit, dude.” “Still terrified,” Cameron panted, fixing his pants with unsteady hands. “You really do suck dick like a pro, kid.” “Nah, you just came faster than a fuckin’ 12 year old who just figured out how to jerk his shit.” Emilio peered up at him. “It’s aiight, though. I’ll take care of your girlfriend since you probs got a problem with premature ejaculation and shit.” Cameron knelt on the bed, straddling him. “You really are a smart mouth little fuck, aren’t you?” Emilio shrugged, shaking hair out of his eyes again as he licked his still damp lips. Strands of hair were sticking to the mix of blood and saliva on his face. “Part of the charm, baby.” “Uh huh.” Cameron looked him up and down then flipped the script by undoing Emilio’s jeans. One minute they were glaring at each other, and the next he had Emilio’s meat in his hand and was jacking it with a grip so tight Emilio could do absolutely nothing about the sounds escaping his mouth. There was part of him that knew he was killing his own credibility. All the threats he’d made were losing their power as he threw his head back and arched into Cameron’s hand like a desperate whore. But the part of him that had crossed wires? That needed sex like other people needed food and water? That felt raw and impatient, like a million bugs were crawling under his skin and trying to get out, if he didn’t get off a few times a day? That part was thirsty for this. “You like that?” Emilio shuddered. “Tell me you like it, Vega. Or I’ll stop.” Emilio looked up at Cameron with gritted teeth and wild eyes. When the blond man just gazed down with fascination, the streaks of fire flying through Emilio expanded into an inferno. “Fuck. I like it!” “Good boy.” Cameron twisted his wrist, thumb pressing against Emilio’s sticky dick slit, and jerked faster. It was too much for Emilio. He couldn’t keep from humping that hand, chasing that orgasm, and getting lost in a fog of pleasure too thick for him to not respond when Cameron kissed him. It was a hard demanding kiss, but Emilio shot enough for five loads once Cameron sucked on his tongue. The blond man pulled away and Emilio sagged against the bed, panting. He kept his eyes closed as Cameron backed off, catching his breath as his heart slowed, and scrounged up enough gruffness to say, “I still want my fucking phone call or you’re dead.” Camera snorted. “Look kid, this is going to be a long fucking trip if you don’t behave yourself.” “Heh.” Emilio looked up, still breathing heavily. “Look at you being all mellow and reasonable now that you got your dick sucked. It’s fucking adorable.” Cameron wiped his hand on his shirt and kept talking. “I’m taking you across the country, and it’d be a lot easier to drug and gag you at this point. I won’t if you can control yourself. I’m not taking you off to be murdered, and I’m not kidnapping you. Some people want to get to know you, and if it turns out that you’re not their type of material, they’ll put your sorry ass back in jail where you belong.” Emilio raised one shoulder and wiped his mouth and chin on the sweaty fabric of his shirt. Licking his lips and still tasting Cameron’s cum, he met those pale blue eyes. “What’s that mean? Their type of material?” “They want to know if they can work with you.” “Work with me for what?” “I can’t tell you anything else.” Emilio looked towards the door and the windows before his gaze dropped down to the duffel bag. There were a lot of ways he could escape if Cameron slipped up, but it was unlikely that would happen twice. And even if it did, there was a mote of curiosity niggling away at the back of his mind. “Government shit?” “I can’t say anything more than I’ve already said.” “Well, I ain’t no snitch. So if that’s what this is about, might as well take me back now.” Cameron made a face. “You really are a low life piece of trash, aren’t you? You’d rather stay a criminal who gets passed around by convicts than make an effort to—” “I know you sure as hell ain’t talking shit after you just fucked my mouth like a prison daddy.” Cameron reached down, sliding his hand up Emilio’s thigh to nudge against the still swollen length of his dick. “And I know you’re not talking shit when you practically begged.” It took a lot of effort not to grind up against the hand pressing against him, but Emilio managed. “I bet raping the 'material’ ain’t in your contract.” “I didn’t rape you. We made a deal. I just haven’t entirely held up my end of it yet.” “Eat a dick.” “Unlikely. But if you don’t shut up, you’ll be eating mine again.” Cameron grabbed Emilio’s shirt and hauled him off the bed. He nudged him towards the bathroom. “If I thought you’d last longer than two minutes, I’d care more.” Cameron shoved him hard, and Emilio slammed into the counter in the bathroom. “Fuck, dude. Easy on the merch.” “Keep your mouth shut, and we won’t have a problem.” Emilio looked at Cameron’s reflection in the mirror. “Then we’re always gonna have a problem, dumbass. This is gonna be the longest two days of your shitty life.” ***************************************** ======================== 180 Proof Vega - Chapter 3 CHAPTER THREE Spring, 1993. San Antonio, Texas The exposed bulb above the sink cast he and Cameron in a flickering, gold light. Seeing their reflections caused him to lapse into silence. There weren’t room for jokes and sarcasm in the small, dingy bathroom. As they stood nearly pressed together with Cameron’s pale empty gaze focused on his abused face, it hit Emilio that he was completely at somebody else’s mercy for the first time in years. With his hair tangled, face bruised, bloody, and mouth still damp from being freshly used, it was too much like looking at an younger version of himself. With Cameron standing inches above him, all sharp hard angles and self-assured calm, Emilio looked like a boy in comparison. He wondered if that thought also crossed Cameron’s mind. He wondered if that was why the older man’s mouth was twitching into a small cruel smirk. Why he was content to watch Emilio stand there, helpless, with no way to actually wash up even though that was the obvious intention. Emilio’s eyes narrowed, fingers flexing where they were crushed together by the cuffs. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now? "Figure it out.” “You’re a psycho. Anyone ever tell you that?” “Yes.” Running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, Emilio ignored the bitter, salty taste that chased the motion. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a moron too? How am I supposed to—” Cameron grabbed a handful of Emilio’s hair and shoved his head down. His mouth slammed into the side of the faucet, and blood filled it. Water gushed into his face as Cameron forced it beneath the faucet. He twisted away, gasping, and slammed his boot down on Cameron’s instep. He released Emilio, and he jerked upright with a gasp. “I thought you were going to behave yourself.” “Fuck you.” Emilio glared at his reflection. There was a gash in his lip. “Don’t like not having the power, do you? Seems like you’ve been top dog since you were a kid.” “You don’t know shit about me.” Cameron wheeled Emilio around without a response. He thumped his hands against Emilio’s back in a short, blunt shove. He staggered forward, tripped, and crashed to his knees. Emilio bit back the grunt of pain that almost spilled out, and winced when Cameron pushed him forward so his face was pressed against the side of the tub. “I think…” Cameron dragged his fingers through Emilio’s hair, down the back of his neck, and lower. “That you’d rather be fucked than pushed around.” “Yeah?” he panted. “That what you think?” “Yeah. That’s what I think.” “Who gives a fuck about what you think?” “You should, because we’re alone for the next few days. And you might be some criminal prodigy in your world,” Cameron drawled, the words rolling off his tongue with heavy sarcasm. “But in mine you’re nothing. Just a kid with a tight ass, dicksucking lips and no Moisés to protect you. So if you want something, ask nice, and behave, or I’ll keep reminding you that you’re not in charge anymore.” He pressed down harder one last time before pulling a blade from his pocket. Emilio stiffened, waiting to feel it against his skin, but instead there was a snap and his hands were freed. “Now wash yourself before I add another scar to that pretty face.” Emilio thrust his shoulders back sharply, pushing Cameron away from him. The other man complied, and Emilio got to his feet. He swallowed, hands balling into fists, and tried to ignore the need for violence that momentarily blinded him. He didn’t see the tub, or the bathroom, or the flickering gold light. Emilio just felt the pain in his face, in his wrists, and the heat of Cameron against his back. It didn’t matter that he’d just wanted Cameron’s dick in his mouth. Or that he had practically begged to be jerked off. Sex was nothing. It was one body part touching another. This game Cameron wanted to play with him? Making him feel helpless and small? Telling him he was nothing and no one? That was bullshit. “I’ll fucking kill you.” “Keep dreaming, kid.” Emilio inhaled slowly, and tried to find a sliver of self control. Something to keep him from spinning around and slamming his foot into the blond bastard’s throat. Cameron was stronger, more skilled, he had weapons, he wasn’t fatigued and abused. Emilio was alone, weakened. No backup. None of his crew. No weapons. Vulnerable. “Maybe not now, but I will.” Emilio turned to face Cameron. “I’ve killed bigger motherfuckers than you.” They looked at each other as laughter in the room next door, a truck backing up, and other insignificant sounds filled the background. Cameron reached around Emilio to wrench the knob of the shower with a squeak. Water crashing against the tub overtook the ambiance. ���Wash up,” he said gruffly. Emilio faced the shower and ripped off his clothing. The filthy shirt and jeans hit the floor, and he felt eyes on his ass as he peeled off his tight red briefs. It felt like he was putting on a show, and the way Cameron’s eyes burned into his back made it obvious he liked what he saw. Fingers ghosted along Emilio’s spine and dragged down to brush against the cleft of his ass before he stepped out of grabbing range. “Fuck, you’re such a pervert.” Cameron gave Emilio another prompting shove, which caused him to stumble over the side of the tub. His face careened towards the tiled wall before he caught himself with a grimace. “Mess with the face again and shit will get realer than you want it to.” Cameron was unmoved by the statement. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. When it became obvious that he was going to stand there the whole time, Emilio stepped fully into the spray of the shower. His cold fury was replaced by water scalding his sore body. He palmed the hard soap, and rubbed it against his skin. His wrists were aching, raw and swollen, but he ignored that in order to get clean. When the blood, cum, and grime was gone from his skin, Emilio slumped against the wall. He turned his face up to the spray and let it beat against his skin. He stayed that way for several long minutes, and only opened his eyes when the heat of steam in the enclosed space became stifling. His gaze fell on Cameron. The man was staring at him with obvious want. It was surprising only because Emilio had been working under the impression that the dude just got off on the power thing—shoving him around, threatening him, making it all a big deal. But now it seemed like there could be more to it. Something that could be useful later on. Cameron was less menacing from this distance. Not much different than the men in Rio who’d paid to fuck Emilio and had never expected the viper that was unleashed if they pushed too far. “Take a picture, my man.” “Unless you want me to fuck you now, stop showing off.” “I thought you was so sure I wanted that cock in my ass.“ “I didn’t say you wanted it. I said you liked it.” Cameron shut off the shower and grabbed Emilio’s bicep. “Out.” Emilio yanked his arm away and stepped out. He stood in front of Cameron, not missing the way those light blue eyes took in every bead of water that trailed down his body. But Cameron didn’t try to touch him, didn’t seem interested in much else than looking, and broke the standoff in order to march him out of the bathroom. Once in the bedroom, Emilio slid back into his underwear. Not bothering with the rest of the clothes, he sat on the edge of the bed. It was soft beneath him, and his body wanted to collapse back onto it, but he couldn’t. Not with a threat looming nearby. Cameron sprawled in an armchair by the window and snagged a protein bar from his bag. "Get some sleep. We’re not stopping until we hit Florida tomorrow.” Emilio swung his legs up on the bed and rolled onto his side. They stared at each other, but neither of them spoke. It was a prime opportunity to ruin a peaceful silence with smart ass comments and insults, but he was running out of steam. The heat from the shower had relaxed his tender muscles, and with that came exhaustion. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, and his eyelids weren’t much better. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, but Emilio forced them to. He watched Cameron through his lashes, refusing to fall asleep first. Cameron chewed and swallowed mechanically, never breaking his stare. The wrapper to the bar crinkled as Cameron balled it up and tossed it into the nearby wastebasket. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head back against the cushion. His expression mirrored Emilio's—eyes mostly shut but a hint of color visible beneath his lashes. A couple of times, Emilio felt himself drifting into a sleep, but he awakened with a jolt each time. Cameron never moved. He remained sitting still as a statue. “Go to sleep, kid.” This time when Emilio’s eyes slid shut, they didn’t open again until the next morning. Sunlight was streaming through the window and there was a rustling sound in the room. There was a brief moment of hazy confusion before everything snapped together, and Emilio remembered where he was, and who he was with. His wrists were still raw and angry from having been cuffed for so long the day before. Every sore muscle and wound was a brilliant, fiery ache that he tried to ignore. Taking a deep breath, Emilio shifted and glanced down at his ankle. There was a device cuffed to it. Some kind of tamper-resistant ankle monitor. Great. Making a face, Emilio rolled over. Cameron was already awake, and looking through his duffel bag. “Tengo hambre.” “You really are a whiny little bitch.” Cameron removed a pair of jeans and a shirt from his bag. “You can eat a granola bar just like I did.” “I’m eighteen, you dick. I need real food.” Cameron tossed the clothes at him. “Not my problem.” Emilio picked up the shirt and let it dangle from his finger. It was plaid, and the fabric was scratchy. “What do you fuckin’ shop at Wal-Mart?” “Get dressed and shut the fuck up.” “I’ll trade this piece of shit for your T-shirt.” Cameron stared at him. “C’mon, bro. I don’t like plaid. It clashes with my everything.” “Do you remember when I said I would cut that pretty face if you said the wrong thing?” “All I’m saying is, you be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you.” When he saw Cameron’s eyebrows tick up, Emilio frowned. “Not like that, you scumbag. I meant I’ll stop being a pain in your ass, not that you can be a pain in mine.” Cameron ripped his t-shirt off. He flung it at Emilio’s face and put the plaid shirt on. It stretched taut across his broad shoulders, and he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows while watching Emilio dress. The shirt smelled like Cameron, but Emilio ignored that. He also ignored the fact that Cameron had a sickeningly hot body. Why was he incapable of not wanting to fuck people he’d likely have to kill later on? “Where are we? San Antonio?” “How’d you know that?” Emilio snorted. “Pretty sure I spend way more time in Texas than you do, white boy. I’m just guessing by how long we drove for.” “Fair enough.” “Anyways, if you don’t let me eat, I’ll start screaming that you kidnapped me.” “No one would believe that anyone would willingly abduct you.” “Oh please. There’s all sorts of scumbags just like you who would want to capture my fine ass.” Emilio flashed another shit eating grin. “And you was the dumbass almost letting me escape ‘cause you got excited over the idea of banging me.” “I’ll bang the fuck out of you anyway if you don’t stop talking.” Emilio crossed his arms over his chest. “Your choice, white boy.” He could almost see the gears in Cameron’s head turning. Likely weighing the pros and cons of fighting with Emilio or letting him eat, or just saying to hell with it and knocking him out. Surprisingly, he conceded. “Breakfast,” Cameron said. “But if you start whining about lunch, I will sedate you for the rest of the day. Understood?” “Sure.” Cameron gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “And just so you know, I’ll find you if you try to run off.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Ankle monitor, deformed face, what the fuck ever. Can we eat or are you gonna stand around trying to put the fear of your cock into me all morning? I’m not gonna run off, dickface. I’m not stupid. I do still want my goddamn phone call though.” There was a pause as Cameron regarded him. Then he grabbed his duffel bag and swung it over one shoulder. “Eventually.” Emilio gritted his teeth, but didn’t argue when Cameron opened the door. Bright sunlight flooded the room, and Emilio winced. He stepped into his boots, not bothering to lace them, and followed Cameron outside. He looked around and saw that they were at the Red Roof Inn. There were several semis parked in the lot, and a minivan being loaded by a family with two toddlers. Cameron tossed his bag in the van and pushed Emilio in after. A new set of cuffs were attached to one of Emilio’s wrists, and he was once again attached to the side of the van. He grimaced when Cameron shut him inside. Everything went still and quiet for several minutes without him returning to the van. Emilio yanked at the flexicuffs while scanning the interior of the van. He spent five minutes trying to extend his leg to reach the black duffel bag, but it was too far out of reach. Undoing the cuff wasn’t going to happen unless he had something sharp, and even then, he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere unless he managed to remove the ankle monitor. If he wanted to escape, he’d have to kill Cameron. Too bad he seemed like more of a match than Emilio was ready for. Emilio knew his limits. He’d been around street fighting killers for most of his life. Murderers, gang bangers, rapists—people who thought nothing of getting their hands dirty. It was part of his life; something that was in his blood and could be traced back through every generation in his family. Emilio could be lethal and heartless when he had to be, but he knew a guy who fought like a motherfucking ninja was not someone he could mess with. It wouldn’t be the first time he was outmatched, and that was where his other assets came in. Speed and capitalizing on good looks and a high tolerance for perversion went a long way. Cameron returned twenty minutes later with a greasy paper bag in one hand. He shut the sliding door to the van, sat on the floor, and pulled out a foil covered sandwich. Emilio smelled bacon and eggs, and for the next five minutes he stopped thinking about anything else as he ate with his one free hand. When it was gone, he reached for the paper bag and found a similarly wrapped sandwich. He frowned when Cameron took it away. “One is enough.” “Nuh uh.” Cameron got to his feet. “I’m continuously fucking amazed that you’re the infamous Emilio Vega.” “Since when am I infamous? And what the fuck were you expecting?” “Yes, infamous. Even though your people like to believe you stay below the radar, more things than not leave some kind of trail. According to the profile we have on you, you’ve been involved in weapons smuggling for years and got in through your connection with MS-13 and the cartel, which you became involved with due to your father. However, you’re known to be a genius at manipulating and negotiating which is why someone so young is so high up on the food chain, and you got your own crew after you managed to develop inter-gang relations and black market trade between organized crime syndicates in Mexico, the United States, and China.” Cameron kicked Emilio’s booted foot. “With that resume, I expected someone less like an immature horny teenager.” “You’ll get over it, Blondie.” When Cameron continued to stare, Emilio flipped up his middle finger. There shouldn’t have been a paper trail of any of the things Cameron had mentioned. All of the unknown variables in this situation were alarming. It sounded like the type of sting the Feds would carry out, but Feds would have identified themselves by now. And they wouldn’t have sent one sadistic freak to drive him across the country. “I’m starting to wonder if the immature teenager thing is just an act. When you get angry and those pretty green eyes narrow, I see more.” Cameron paused before saying, “More of what I’d expect from someone who saw his twin sisters and mother murdered in front of him.” Emili froze. No words came to his lips, no smartass retorts sprang to mind. The only sounds were the rushing of cars along the Interstate, and the sliding of the van’s door as Cameron got out. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ 180 Proof Vega Vol 1. - Chapter Four Chapter Four The van had been moving for some time, but it barely registered to Emilio. When the motion jarred him and rattled his wrist against the rail, he didn’t react. He didn’t react when the rosary beads knotted around his wrist snagged on the cuff. He didn’t look up when the sound of horns honking permeated the walls of the van, or when Cameron muttered a curse from the driver’s seat. Emilio’s eyes were focused on his boots. They were covered in dust, the soles cracked, and the laces still undone. The steel at the toe was dented, and the screws that held the metal plate in place were crooked. He’d been wearing the same boots for the past three years. He had more than enough money to buy another pair, but he refused to replace them. He liked his boots. His father had given them to him before they’d parted ways. This time by choice. Emilio’s choice. Because his father was an evil fuck, and the reality hadn’t matched up to the childhood memory. He did not know why he’d kept the fucking boots. But he did know why he didn’t reach over and cut through the tendons and muscles in Cameron’s neck for making the mistake of talking about Marissa and Veronica. One—Emilio was cuffed to the wall of the van. And two—he didn’t have anything sharp. He wet his lips and exhaled slowly. His eyes closed, and he tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, and the way every instinct was telling him to yank and pull until his skin scraped off and his wrist got bloody, because he had to get that cuff off. He had to get out of this van, and away from the unknown destination they were hurtling toward. The faint sense of curiosity and distant twinges of boredom at the repetitiveness of his activities with Mara Tres had faded once the anger took over. Whoever it was that Cameron was taking him to knew a lot. Too much. There was a file on him somewhere that included more than just his name and the name of his gang. There was background info. Lots of it. Stuff no one should know, like about the twins. Marissa and Veronica, barely six-years-old with the same big, moss-colored eyes and glossy, black hair that had hung straight down their backs. The three of them had slept in the same bed as children. Played together in the room that wasn’t far enough away from smoke and weapons and drugs and fucking. Emilio had protected them as best as he could, even when their father had started prepping him for gang initiation when he’d turned eight. They’d been his only friends. Innocent, trusting, with sweet smiles, and tiny, grubby fingers that had clutched at his slightly larger hand every time the voices outside their room had gotten louder. There was a lump in his throat because somehow he hadn’t thought of them in years. Now all he could remember was the way they’d screamed when their mother had started stabbing them. And then all he could see was the way his mom’s head had exploded when his dad had walked in and unloaded his sawed-off shotgun into her. There weren’t a lot of rules that Emilio lived by, but family had always been off-limits with him. Somebody’s mom, their wife or kids—he’d never gotten those kind of bystanders involved in the violence that had flourished around him after he’d grown up from being a little man into a full-fledged criminal. And when the worst of the worst in his gang disobeyed him and went after an enemy’s family, that was the end of their fucking story because Emilio didn’t roll that way. He opened his eyes and stared down at the metallic floor of the van. He wondered who these people were, how they even knew anything at all about him. His social security number had been inactive for years, and he had so many aliases that some of his own people did not know his real name. He avoided media, didn’t take pictures, and never said enough to a Fed or a cop to hint at who his father had been, or where he’d come from. Apparently all of those precautions had been in vain, and he wondered what else was in the file. How much did they know about him, his family, his life in Brazil, and the journey through Central America and into Mexico that had landed him with MS-13? How much did they know about Hong Kong and the pet project he’d developed at fourteen that had grown into something international and was now known as Mara Tres? Was Angel in trouble? Was Moisés in a ditch somewhere because he’d caught a glimpse of these fucker’s faces and plates? Emilio wet his lips and looked up at his wrist. Tender, raw, and the beads were twisted up and stained with blood from the scraped off skin. He wasn’t religious but most of his guys in Mara Tres were. They adorned themselves with rosary beads, crosses and tattoos of saints. Whenever someone in the crew died, someone in his inner circle, it had become a habit of his to take their beads. Send the body to their family if it could be recovered, but keep the rosary. Keepsake, memory, memorial. No one else cared about people like them, but he didn’t plan to forget. “I want to make a fucking phone call,” he said in a low, even voice. The words were nearly lost with the increasing sounds of traffic. “Maybe later.” Grinding his teeth, Emilio reached up with his free hand and fiddled with the cuff. He hated flexicuffs; they were worse than metal. No give, no way to rip them or pick them. No way out without wire cutters or a goddamn flame. They drove for hours, only stopping for gas, until the burning, midday sun sunk below the horizon. Cameron made it clear there would be no bathroom breaks, no stretching legs, and no more food anytime soon. Enough bullshitting, enough wasting his time. They drove until the heat went from dry to the thick, unrelenting Floridian humidity. Emilio couldn’t see out the window, but he would recognize that level of damp anywhere. By the time it got dark, he stank of sweat and his t-shirt was soaked through. They hadn’t exchanged three words in twelve hours, but the rage was still there. Molten, intense; a fire that Emilio fed by replaying the words in his mind as he pictured Cameron casually looking at autopsy photos and descriptions of his sisters’ slaughter. If the man had wanted to push a button, he’d pushed the wrong one. Emilio went from baseline to pissed off on a good day, and now his temper had leapt from pissed off to explosive. He wanted to skin the man alive so Cameron would learn to keep talk of family out of his mouth. The twins were an untainted memory. One of the few that Emilio had. Using them in this filthy power game was as close to sacrilege as someone could get with him, and he wanted to teach Cameron what happened when you fucked with the family of Mara Tres. He seethed until weariness wore the inferno down into a simmer, and by then his entire body ached from spending the entire day coiled and tense. By the time the cocoon of darkness and silence in the back of the van was disrupted, he’d reverted to listlessly slumping against the side of the van. He didn’t know how long he stayed in that state, but a violent jolt sent him flying forward, and he was brought back into sharp alertness. “Motherfucker,” Cameron swore. There was a screech of breaks, and another harsh thud. When the van rocked back into place, Emilio saw movement in the dark corner. He watched as Cameron’s duffel bag slid across the floor. He stared at it and waited for Cameron to notice, but the other man kicked his door open with a snarl and jumped out of the vehicle. Emilio ignoredg the sharp pain that dug into his wrist and extended his leg. Looping the toe of his boot in the strap of the bag was easy. Almost too easy, but he said fuck paranoia and dragged the bag closer. The pain in his wrist was enough to make his eyes tear, but he kept stretching. Excitement and adrenaline took over. His hands shook as the duffel bag came closer. He could hear angry voices outside as he tugged at the zipper. It was snagged, and he couldn’t get the bag all the way open, so he started blindly fumbling inside. The disappointment was almost heartbreaking when he realized there were no weapons. It should have been expected, Cameron wouldn’t be that stupid, but it was crushing. Breathing hard and straining to look through the windshield, Emilio’s fingers clumsily opened a box. He felt something spongy, heard crinkling, and goddamn if it wasn’t a medical kit. He jerked out a small jar of petroleum jelly and felt around until his finger was pricked by a slim pair of scissors. The door jerked open in the front. Emilio shoved the jar and scissors under his thigh, ripped the zipper down and kicked the bag back across the van. “Learn to drive, pendejo,” he drawled. Cameron slammed his door with more force than was necessary. “I got rear-ended, smartass.” “So did you kill him?” Cameron’s eyes flicked up to meet Emilio’s in the rearview mirror. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Emilio tensed. He couldn’t read the other man at all, and he wondered if somehow Cameron knew what he’d just done. But then the blue eyes refocused on the road, and Cameron shook his head. “I’m going the scenic route. Tired of this shit.” Emilio didn’t respond, but he kept his eyes on Cameron. He used his one free hand to smear Vaseline across his face, neck, and sloppily tried to get it on his arms. It took some creative maneuvering and rubbing his forearms together as the van got darker when the other man turned off what had likely been I-10. The scissors were a joke, but Emilio tucked them between his knuckles anyway. The vehicle slowed down again about twenty minutes later. From what he could see out the windshield, they were on the shoulder of a more deserted highway surrounded by trees. There was light emanating from a rundown gas station and shack-like store nearby, but other than that, it was pitch black, and completely quiet. Emilio crouched against the wall. Cameron watched the movement, but his expression didn’t change. He showed no signs of weariness after the long day of driving. The guy was a fucking machine. “Piss break, water, and we’re on the road again.” “I know you think you’re not a real human, but like, if your simple ass crashes and kills me because you’re tired, I’m pretty sure someone, somewhere will be annoyed.” “It won’t fucking matter if we’re both dead, now will it?” Emilio shrugged. “Whatevs, bro.” Cameron exited the van, and Emilio tensed. His heart pounded in the dark gloom of the van, and adrenaline caused his breath to come quicker. This moment had built up in his mind for the past several hours, and a part of him was so amped that he wanted to release a half-hysterical laugh of anticipation. The side of the van slid open, and Cameron climbed in the back. He hovered near Emilio and used a pair of wire cutters to snip the cuff that bound Emilio to the side of the van. Cameron reached down to grip Emilio’s forearm, but his fingers slid along his skin without finding purchase. There was a brief pause, and Emilio looked up to meet the mildly confused gaze. He didn’t know if it was exhaustion finally setting in for the other man, or if Cameron really just did not put it together. Emilio reared his hand back, and swung out with a violent right hook. Cameron evaded, but his back hit the side of the van as Emilio lashed out again. This time it was with the scissors that were still tucked between his knuckles. Blood spilled down Cameron’s face when the sharp edges tore open the skin above his eye, and he swore loudly. He lifted his fists and swung despite the fact that one eye was temporarily blinded, but what should have been a devastating, knockout blow slid clumsily along Emilio’s jaw. “Gotta learn how to grease up before a fight, bitch.” Cameron responded by slamming into him, going for brute force, and pinning Emilio to the floor of the van. They tumbled across the narrow space until they bumped against the opposite wall. Cameron had a handful of Emilio’s shirt, but he couldn’t get a grip. The t-shirt just tore, and Emilio’s skin was too oily from the Vaseline. The scissors had been knocked away at some point in the struggle, so Emilio brought up a knee and smashed the other man’s balls. Cameron released a sound that was a half-growl and a half-breathless shout of pain. Emilio scrambled out of his grasp. His boots hit the dirt on the shoulder of the road, and he took off running into the darkness. There was a steep hill that dropped down a few feet from the highway, and then nothing but blackness and trees. He crossed the distance to the trees, slipping on damp earth but panting as he pushed himself to get distance from Cameron. The other man was more skilled in a fight, but Emilio was faster. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn’t hesitate as he bolted blindly between the tall, spindly trees that shot up into the dark sky. There was almost no cover. He couldn’t hide behind the thin tree trunks, and the branches were so high up that he couldn’t pull himself up into one of them. But his boots were splashing in mud that was becoming increasingly thinner, the sound catastrophically loud, and he didn’t stop moving. The sound of water in the distance caught his attention over the pounding in his ears, and he stumbled in that direction. The sound of waves grew louder, and was joined by the pungent odor of the sea. He was hoping to find people in that direction; fishermen, beach houses, someone with a vehicle he could boost, but before the idea fully formed he heard the echo of footsteps behind him. Emilio didn’t panic. He didn’t freeze up or look around wildly. He simply threw himself down, rolled in the mud, and flattened himself in the brush that was exploding out of the ground in a tangle of green and brown. Keeping still and silent wasn’t easy when being hunted, but he’d perfected it in the gutters of the Rato Molhado favela as a child. He’d made it an art form when dodging the cops that would drag him off to Padre Severino, and the black-clad, death squads that would simply put a bullet in his head. Being invisible, or making yourself invisible, was second to breathing when the vast majority considered you to be subhuman. Waiting, watching, hiding, planning from the shadows—it was what Emilio was good at. He’d had to become good in order to survive all of this time. But Cameron wasn’t dangerous just because of the gun he was armed with; he was danger. He walked through the marsh slowly, movements silent and spectral in the darkness. There was no relief except from the stars and the moonlight that slanted through the trees, but Cameron didn’t falter. Each movement was measured, no excess of energy, no panic or worry. They were close together, close enough for Cameron to smell the reek of sweat coming off Emilio or hear the way his heart was pounding. Close enough for Cameron to step on him or stumble over him. But neither of those things happened. Instead, Cameron looked straight at Emilio. He was wearing night vision goggles. “Enough of this bullshit, Vega.” Emilio rolled out of the brush and pressed his shoulder blades against the groundto his feet. He landed in a crouch and watched Cameron as wet hair clung to the sides of his dirty face. “Go fuck yourself, white boy.” Cameron didn’t move. It was impossible to see his expression in the darkness. “If you run again, I’ll shoot you in the legs and then rip your fucking teeth out with a pair of pliers. You won’t get away. I’ll always catch you, and you’ll never beat me.” There was no doubt in his voice, no hesitance. Just complete goddamn self-assured calm. He knew he was better. There was no doubt that he was better, and it set Emilio off like a switch being flipped. His plan to keep running until he could find people and play the innocent teenager card was out the window before he’d even decided to discard it. His temper made him stupid. Cameron made him stupid. His lips twisted to the side in a grim smirk, and he launched himself at Cameron. The motherfucker might be better, but Emilio Vega didn’t go down without a fight. It didn’t matter that he probably couldn’t get away, that Cameron would either catch him or track him—he had to try. It was obvious that Cameron didn’t expect the attack, but he deflected it anyway. Emilio went for his kidneys, followed with a kick to the knee, and while neither of the blows landed, Cameron was distracted enough for Emilio to rip the goggles from his face. Cameron’s advantages weren’t as heightened in the dark. Emilio was able to dodge faster, evade more, and get in more dirty low-blows that had Cameron panting and snarling before the fight erupted into another wild chase through the trees. Emilio feinted to the left at one point, ducked, and then reached out to grab the skinny trunk of a tree. He swung himself around, boots slamming into Cameron’s face before he flipped back to land on his feet. Cameron fell backwards but recovered quickly, crawling forward to grab one of Emilio’s ankles as he started to dart off again. They tangled together, rolling and punching. Cameron’s blows still not landing solidly and Emilio releasing a flurry of dirty attacks that Cameron never quite seemed prepared for. He was a fighting machine, but Emilio had his fucking number. Cameron was military, well-trained, and probably always sparring, training, preparing for combat, but not the kind a street kid from Rio would give him. At one point he sank his teeth into the side of Cameron’s neck, digging in and breaking skin until blood filled his mouth. Cameron’s answering scream echoed in the darkness. He flung Emilio from him, and he went rolling down a hill until the dirt gave way to a sandy embankment. His head struck against a rock, and the pain was stunning. For a moment Emilio stared at what he’d fallen into. A beach, dunes, white sand and shimmering water. The moon looked huge in the sky, and there were twinkling lights in the distance. His fingers dug into the warm sand, but he couldn’t force himself up. His head was spinning, and his vision was splitting. The sound of rushing water and waves crashing against sand was confusing, garbled, and he realized there were two moons in the sky. “Vega!” Cameron’s shout cut through the tranquility of the scene, and Emilio looked over at the dark tangle of trees and brush. Cameron’s lean form burst out of the darkness, but he skittered to a stop when he saw Emilio. The moonlight washed over his tanned face, and Emilio clearly saw the way those blond eyebrows drew together, and the way the mouth curved down. “Fuck.” Cameron jogged over and crouched down, one hand pressing against the side of Emilio’s face. It slipped over his cheek, down his jaw, and then up into his hair. Emilio realized that his hair was wet. When Cameron drew his hand away, it came back bloody. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.” The brief, dazed trance Emilio had been in gave way to anger and the adrenaline that was still buzzing through him. He tried to sit up, but Cameron pushed him back down to the sand. He was on his knees in front of Emilio, face drawn in annoyance. “Just stay still, you little idiot. You have a head injury.” “Your concern is touching.” Cameron scoffed, and tilted Emilio’s head to the side. “Well it can’t be that bad if you’re together enough to be a pain in the ass. You stupid fuck, what were you thinking? Where did you think you were going with the ankle monitor on?” Emilio’s head thudded back, and he looked at the sky. Good question, too bad he didn’t know the answer. It would have been smarter to knock the goggles off, regain the equilibrium, and then keep running. But he’d stopped to fight, to hurt, to rip satisfying growls of pain out of that perfect mouth. “Don’t talk about my fucking family.” “That’s what this is about? Jesus Christ, you emotional little bitch.” The rage returned and washed over Emilio in a way he couldn’t control. Spinning head be damned, he cocked a fist back and slammed it into Cameron’s face with a satisfying thud. The other man swore and pinned Emilio to the sand, straddling him. A large hand encircled Emilio’s throat, and hair tickled his nose as Cameron leaned forward to press his mouth against his ear. “Stop it. Or I’ll make you fucking sorry.” “So do it.” Emilio’s lips twisted up in a mockery of a smile. Even with the damage his body was taking, the adrenaline caused blood to scorch through him. “Do it.” “I should. I should beat the shit out of you. And then fuck you until you nut.” Emilio tensed, but all he did was pant against the side of Cameron’s face. He could taste sweat and blood and heat-warmed skin. The taste combined with the pressure of the hard, long body was something his dick wanted to react to despite the anger and the pain. Because his body was a traitor, and his brain was undeniably fucked up. “I’m gonna kill you someday.” “You wish you could, kid.” Cameron shifted so that they were nose-to-nose, and ran his tongue along the seam of Emilio’s lips. Emilio jerked his head away, vision spinning with the motion, and Cameron ground their hips together once before sitting up. He put a hand around Emilio’s neck, and he squeezed. The pressure on his windpipe caused Emilio to snap out of his lapse of weakness, and he began to struggle again. He gripped Cameron’s forearm, scrabbling at it as he bucked his hips and tried to get the other man off, but it was in vain. The more he struggled, the tighter that hand squeezed, and the more his vision dimmed. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Cameron’s blank, unfeeling face. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ 180 Proof Vega Vol. 1 - Chapter Five CHAPTER FIVE 1993. Lexington, PA The Vega boy did not look like a teenager nor he did not look like a man. His limbs were long, his body hard and packed with lean muscle, and his flesh was mottled with scars that told a tale the papers in his file did not. Puckered skin that had healed over gunshot wounds in the left shoulder and right thigh, curdled flesh from cigarette burns on his inner forearms, eight healed stab wounds, and a full set of teeth marks that had faded to a mere blemish on his neck. The new wounds—the five stitches in his right eyebrow and ten along the left side of his mouth—were Cameron’s handiwork. But despite all indications that Emilio Vega seemed to be living the life of a hardened criminal twice his age, he had a very pleasing face. Wide mouth, long lashes, a russet complexion, and streams of jet-black hair that was silky to the touch. While unconscious, he looked innocent, curled in the fetal position with his injured lips parted. Jacob Connors touched the purple bruises on Emilio’s throat and pressed his fingers against the marks. They were a near perfect fit. “Did you try to strangle him?” Cameron failed to respond, and Jacob looked up. Cameron was in a trance. Staring at Emilio. His long fingers were curled in the white sheet, and he was tracing the boy’s face with fascination. Evidence that Connors’ recommendation to have the lunatic terminated should have be honored years ago. Connors snapped his fingers in front of Cameron’s face. The man looked at him with careless indifference. “What?” “It took us two years to track him,” Connors said. “What part of us accomplishing that goal manifested in your depraved brain as an attempt to kill him?” “He’s not dead, is he?” Connors pressed his fingers against Emilio’s throat again, then dragged his hand up to finger his damaged face. Cameron would not have been able to hide his envy if he’d pulled a paper bag over his head. “Did you fuck him?” Connors rubbed his thumb over Emilio’s lip. Cameron swallowed visibly. “No.” “Did you try?” Cameron finally gave his commanding officer his full attention. The glaze of lust drifted away, and he was alert once again. Aware that in the confines of the Agency’s compound, Jacob Connors was the Chief General and third-in-command. If Cameron pushed too hard, he would give Connors an excuse to be rid of him. At last. “He fought me,” Cameron said instead of responding to the question. “And he escaped. Twice. If not for that, I would have returned the bitch unharmed.” Connors eyes flew back to Emilio. His brows had puckered in sleep, and he made a soft sound at the back of his throat. It would have been endearing if Connors was the sort to be endeared. He could hardy spare an ounce of affection for his toddlers, let alone a teenage criminal and killer. “Why wasn’t he drugged?” “I didn’t think it was necessary.” “More like you enjoyed him awake.” Connors watched Emilio curl in on himself further. He was well-built but lean—the kind of body only adolescents and Europeans could pull off. “How did this creature manage to fight and escape a rank 10 field agent?” “He’s clever.” “Meaning you gave him an opening,” Connors said shrewdly. “Twice.” Cameron’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. His eyes were dead, giving nothing away. Agency staff often claimed that the organization drew the life out of field agents. Cameron had come to them that way. “He’s here now,” he said. “Yes, he is.” Connors smiled an ice and daggers smile. “And if he says you raped him, I will have you terminated. Your proclivities have no place on my compound.” “I’m not a rapist.” A pause. “And it’s not your compound.” “Not yet.” Connors jerked his head to the door, and Cameron obeyed the silent command. He left the room with Connors right behind him. The Tower stretched out before them, white, silver, and gleaming. It was the crowning jewel of the Agency’s compound—a sprawling 100-acre stretch of land in northern Lexington. The Tower had the technology of a Soviet space station and the sterile quality of a mental institution, except the Tower’s walls bore witness to espionage that, Berlin wall or not, indicated the Cold War was nowhere near a defrost, and psychotics like Cameron Russell roamed free and were entrusted with matters of national security. Connors slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and took the lead. The Tower’s fourth floor housed the Agency’s interrogation and detainment centers, and right now young Mr. Vega was isolated in his own cell for observation. He’d been given sedatives while the transfer from the Med Wing was made. Cameron, their primary acquisitions agent, was normally tasked with briefing the new material but that was seeming more like an unwise decision every day. The man needed to be stuck on a long term undercover mission STAT. Preferably out of the country. “Agent Russell won’t be performing the introductions for our little hooligan,” Connors said as soon as he joined his superiors in the observation room connected to Emilio’s cell. “His objectivity is compromised.” Cameron did not bother to deny it. Marshal Van Owen and Inspector Archibald, the first and second in command respectively, did not appear concerned. “Where’s Agent Miley?” Van Owen asked. He was flipping through Emilio’s dossier. It was practically anemic. “She can run the briefing.” “Camille was called away just after we entered Texas,” Cameron said. Van Owen grunted. He was a gruff man and more suited for a storm and siege with weapons strapped to every inch of his body than a suit and an office at the top of the Tower. But he’d worked his way to the highest rank, and he would stay there for as long as he could. He handed the dossier to Connors. “The pleasure is yours. I expect not only a briefing but a debriefing, as well. There are holes in that file, and I want them filled. I’m intrigued by this one.” His intrigue was made apparent by his presence alone. Connors was sure the Marshal had more pressing matters than surveying the intake of a smuggler and arms dealer who had enough drugs in his system to flatten half of the Agency’s personnel. A drug habit and a pretty face should have made Emilio Vega a perfect victim in his world, but somehow he had fashioned himself as a small-time crime boss. It was intriguing, but Connors had little use for curious cases and interesting men. What he did have use for was the intake of viable agents. Connors sought Archibald’s eye for help, but found only the placid expression of a man who wouldn’t start squawking about indignities until someone else opened the line of complaints. “Sir,” Connors said. “What do you hope to find out? The resources you have spent tracking Vega aren’t justified in that file. If we wanted to begin collecting criminals to work in this franchise, we could have started with more significant figures than an eighteen-year-old boy from a South American slum.” “Jacob,” Van Owen began in the same tone. He flashed his teeth in a way that would have frightened a shark. “Your worldview is too narrow. A stable of white field agents with military or intelligence background can only get us as far as Europe. Open your eyes to the rest of the world. The eighteen-year-old from the South American slum can get into places that have been out of reach.” “And he has connections,” Cameron added. “With the Triad, the cartels…” Connors opened the file and pretended to scan it. Really, he just wanted to hide the vein that had to be throbbing in his temple. There were gems in Emilio’s dossier, but Connors had acknowledged those the first time the file had landed on his desk. They did not make up for the yawning gaps in the logic of vetting a gun-running street urchin with no formal training or education to take part in a covert organization. But Connors would play along. “Rouse him,” he said briskly. “I have other things to do with my time.” *** The guards had moved Emilio from his cell to an interview room. He was cuffed to the bolted down table rather than the stiff pad of the bed, and the transparent mirror was replaced by a dome surveillance camera mounted into a corner of the ceiling. When Connors slipped into the room, Emilio’s eyes strayed from the camera to him. Connors could detect no glazed quality or cloudiness from the sedatives. High tolerance. Could be useful or problematic in the future. Assuming there was a future. The boyishness of Emilio’s sleeping countenance was wiped away by careful blankness and a shrewd stare. His height was emphasized, as were his broad shoulders, and the hardness of his face. The distinguishing markers of Emilio’s youth were the moue of his down-curved mouth and a prettiness only found in young boys. The stuff of a paedosadist’s dream. Connors tucked that information away for later use and took his place on the opposite side of the table. Emilio’s head tilted, chin lifted. “Hello, Emilio.” Emilio sat up straighter, tattooed shoulders thrown back, and said nothing. “I trust you have questions, and I’m here to answer them as well as to ask some of my own.” The burning coals of Emilio’s eyes traced Connors’ face, his steel-gray suit, and then his hands. The corner of Emilio’s mouth twitched. He tugged, almost absently, at the cuff around his wrist. “Why don’t you start,” Connors stated. He dropped Emilio’s file on the table between them. “Fine.” Emilio’s voice was low, gravelly. “Where’s my shit?” “What shit are you referring to? The ragged clothing or ill-fitting boots?” “My beads, motherfucker.” Emilio dropped his elbows onto the table and leaned halfway across the table. “Where they at?” “Ah,” Connors said. “The filthy rosaries. The staff in the medical wing removed that mess.” “Give ‘em back.” Could the elusive boy smuggler they’d hunted for months really be this attached to a religious symbol? At the Agency, the Directors who controlled them all from behind the scenes were the only gods they knew, but the sentiment fit the boy’s background. The people of Latin America appeared to cling to the hope that a god would some day save them from the mess imperialism had left behind. Judging from the rosary beads Emilio was so concerned about, and the cloaked tattoo of Christ the Redeemer on his back shoulder, he fit the mold. “Religion has no place here. Forget the beads.” “I don’t even know where here is, fucker.” Emilio’s accent was interesting. He drew out the first syllables in his words and spoke with a lilt that sounded more East L.A. than Brazilian or North Mexican. Intel on the Vega family put them in LA for only a blip of time, but it must have been long enough to influence Emilio’s speech patterns. Unless he’d lived there later. “Here is the Agency. Agents Russell and Miley brought you in so I can determine whether or not you’re ideal material for what we do here.” “Material?” Emilio looked around as if seeking someone to share his incredulity. “Motherfuckers got me mistaken for some shit off the trade ship. I think you’re in the wrong century, homes.” “There is no racist subtext to the term.” Connors folded his hands in front of him. “We refer to all agents as our material, particularly probationary individuals such as yourself. Assuming you make it to that point. From this moment on, you belong to us and we will mold you as needed.” “Yeah?” Emilio’s tongue flicked out to graze his split lip. “Like you molded Cam?” Cameron had come to them with an extensive background as a former Navy SEAL gone mercenary with a tendency to fixate on people who were not afraid to challenge him. Lately, it was Camille. Now, the Vega boy. Connors bared his teeth in a tight smile. “We cannot take full credit for Agent Russell.” Emilio’s eyes flashed, but he did not speak. Unfortunate. Connors could have used intel on the exact details of their drive across the country. “Do you know why you’re here, Emilio?” Emilio dragged his whitened knuckles against the desk. Silent, but not breaking Connors’ stare. There was not a sliver of unease in Emilio’s expression. This was a person who was prone to dismissing authority, even when his life hung in the balance. He was either cocky or stupid. Connors was willing to bet on both, but he stayed silent as well. He would play the game until he got sick of it, and then Emilio would be marked for termination and this farce would be done. There was no indication of time in the stark white room, so Connors counted the seconds of silence. He memorized Emilio’s twitches and learned a dozen tiny ticks even if they did not turn out to be tells. Emilio could stare down a white man in a starched suit without bothering to ask what covert organization he was being recruited for, but he could not sit still. His feet tapped, his fingers flexed, and he kept tonguing at the stitches intersecting his lips. Nearly ten minutes had past when Van Owen’s tinny voice came through the ear piece of Connors’ comm unit. “Tell him we have his belongings.” Connors’ teeth grit, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Your belongings are secure,” he said, ending the standoff with no ceremony. “I recommend cutting the shit before I end this interview earlier than is healthy.” Emilio smiled so wide that it was disarming. “You ain’t gonna hurt me just yet. Your boy Cam went through too much trouble to snatch me.” “If you fail to cooperate, the expenditure of his time and energy means very little to me.” “Depends on what you consider cooperation. I already told Cam that I ain’t no snitch.” “It is readily apparent that you are not the sort to cooperate with authorities. Your kind rarely is unless it yields a more satisfactory opportunity.” “What kind is that?” Emilio drew his leg up to rest his foot against the chair, his knee nestled beneath his chin. The pose was too childish for a man presently promising murder with a smile. “Your racist shit don’t faze me, son. I heard it all.” “The kind of person who grew up in a favela in Brazil and has spent their adolescence committing crimes ranging from theft to smuggling to murder.” “I ain’t never killed no one that didn’t have it coming,” Emilio confided. “I’m sure.” Connors tapped the file against the table. “And I’m sure you inherited the trait from your father Christian Vega, who is presently serving multiple life sentences in San Quentin for a triple murder.” Emilio didn’t even blink. “Is he? I wouldn’t know. Haven’t talked to the fucker in a while.” “Not since he shot your mother in the head and—” “Don’t bring up his sisters.” There was no doubt in Connors’ mind that Cameron was feeding Van Owen advice, and Van Owen was parroting it in his ear. Never in Connors’ career at the Agency had an acquisition gone in this manner. The material they selected as potential agents, whether for research and development or the field, were either professionals who responded to the paramilitary atmosphere or were disposable enough to terminate if they did not play by the rules. There were no kid gloves. No pussy footing. Or there never had been until now. Emilio’s eyes had narrowed to green slits. He was coiled tight, his muscles flexing. A cobra ready to strike. He had to know it wouldn’t end well, but he seemed reckless enough to not care. The sort of person who lived by self-prescribed rules and codes, and who had perhaps promised himself long ago to slit the throat of anyone who dared desecrate the memory of his dead sisters. Rash. Sentimental. Emotional. None of it belonged in the Agency, and every characteristic should have already caused his file to be cast aside in the pile designated for candidates to be terminated, but it wasn’t happening. “—dropped you off in Brazil? Or was it years later when you emerged on the grid in eastern Mexico with ties to MS-13?” “I was never MS. Gangs are for lost kids lookin’ for a friend.” Connors raised a single brow. “Intel says otherwise.” “Your intel can suck a dick. Just because I said I was in it doesn’t mean I was in it, if you catch my drift.” “So you gave the appearance of being loyal to MS-13 to please your father,” Connors summarized. “Is that why you separated yourself so soon after the reunion?” Emilio snorted. “My issues don’t got nothing to do with my daddy. Nice effort, try again.” Exhaling through his nose, Connors looked into Emilio’s eyes and saw nothing but hostility thinly veiled by a mocking smirk. No fear. No trepidation. It was probably the same expression he wore during an arms deal. Vega was very sure of the outcome of this meeting. Very sure of his worth despite not knowing who the Agency was or what they wanted with him. Connors didn’t have to open the file to extract key bits of information and turn it over in his mind. He knew Christian Vega had been part of MS-13 seemingly since birth, that he’d had a disastrous marriage with the daughter of an Ecuadorian businessman and a Brazilian model—Yaritza Aguilera Ferreira Vega. They’d spawned three children before Yaritza went insane and killed their twin girls. Christian had intervened before she could kill Emilio. After that, Emilio had disappeared from the grid until his picture and name had popped up in a Time Magazine article about Brazilian death squads. His life hadn’t been the main topic of the article, but he’d been featured as one of the many street children who were regularly targeted by the roving bands of vigilantes. “There are holes in your file,” Connors said, repeating Van Owen’s wording. “And my superior is intrigued enough by your past to want them filled in.” “Your superior, eh? Who signs your checks? Tell me about him.” “Tell me about you.” “What do I get if I play nice?” “Your shit back and a steadily beating pulse.” Emilio dragged his tongue over his bottom teeth. His nostrils flared. “What happened between the time you were dropped off in Rio de Janeiro and your appearance in Mexico six years ago?” “What you think happened?” Emilio’s lip lifted. “Spent a few years letting people touch my dick before I was old enough to get turned on by it, and dodging the cops. Mostly the off-duty ones. It was only a matter of time before my luck ran out once Scuderie le Cocq was hired to exterminate my ass. A pissed off tour company gave them my name and a promised price of fifty bucks if they got me off the street and away from the tour routes.” “Robbing the tourists?” “Ripping off fat white people was way better than selling my ass.” Connors studied Emilio’s expressionless face. “Fifty dollars seems like a lot.” “Going price was ten. Usually light-skinned kids were a little more expensive. I was somewhere in the middle.” How he’d survived for so long while facing those odds was a mystery Connors had no interest in exploring. Van Owens could get those tidbits since this was his pet project. “How did you get to Mexico?” Emilio’s mouth tugged to the side before his face smoothed again. “Hitched.” Connors smiled. “How did that work out for you?” “I’m sure you can guess, fucker. But I got there all right. Made my way back to the Vegas and found my pops.” The pieces fell together easy enough after that—through the connection with MS-13, Emilio had gotten involved with the cartels. First the Zetas then the Sinaloa Federation. Through them, he’d gained access to the Triad, who’d started supplying Sinaloa with drugs and weapons shortly after Emilio’s emergence. How he’d made those connections as a teenager and forged the path to running his own smuggling crew by the age of fourteen, was unknown. “How was Mara Tres born?” “Man, you must not got shit in that file. How’d you pendejos even find me?” The words were light but there was an edge in the undercurrent. Like Emilio was starting to smell a rat. If the Agency was too incompetent to figure him out, had someone in his crew sold him out? It would have been fun to let that suspicion drag, but Connors knew Van Owen wanted the connection with Mara Tres. The Marshal suspected the Mexican border would inevitably become an access point for terrorists and insurgents, and he wanted an agent on the inside who could make connections. Better yet if they came with those connections already in hand. Connors flipped the dossier over and handed it to Emilio. “Review it yourself.” Emilio opened the file and appeared to skim it, but something was off. For as expressive as he was, even in tiny ways, he was blank even though he had opened the folder on his sisters’ autopsy report. None if it triggered him except for another slight twitch of his mouth and a faint furrowing of his brow. Connors’ eyes slit. “I’m not reading all this shit,” Emilio said, snapping the file shut. “And I don’t see why I got to tell my whole life story. You’re the one who brought me into this crazy house. So quit playing games. Who pays your salary, and what do they want with me?” “You must have a theory.” “My theory is that you’re some kind of spook.” “Your theory is flawed. Consider your surroundings, the manner in which you were secured, and Cameron. Does it seem like we are with the Feds?” Emilio looked him up and down before casting a knowing glance at the camera. He flipped it off. “Aiight, so you’re claiming you don’t got anything to do with the government. Fine. But from where I’m sitting, it looks like y'all got deep enough connections to have tracked me down based on a file that’s too thin to even wipe my ass with, and enough street cred to slap Border Patrol in the face with your dicks. The technology seems to be topnotch judging from the shit Cam had in that van, and you have guys working for you that be like T-1000 from Terminator 2. So… some kind of shadow government group or an anonymous organization that is just grimy enough to want something from a scumbag like me.” The kid was more intuitive than Connors had given him credit for. Most people assumed they were a branch of the CIA or a private military firm—mercenaries. “You are correct. The Agency is indeed an anonymous organization. One could say that our goals align with those of the government in that we have the best interest of the United States at the forefront of every operation, but in terms of securing national interests domestically or abroad, we take measures that visible branches of the government will not and cannot, in order to arrive at the end goal.” Emilio processed that, nodding slowly. He didn’t look intimidated. Everything from his sudden stillness, to the dip of his dark brows, and the purse of his lips, Connors read as intrigued. “So, covert ops and assassination?” “That is only a fragment of what we do at the Agency. We also combat terrorist cells and infiltrate hostile factions.” “Ha. Real shit? If you just ran around stopping bad guys, you wouldn’t have dragged me out here and threatened my life.” Emilio tugged at the plastic cuff on his wrist again. “So what can I do you for? I got connections, but so do a lot of people. And if this was about interrogating me to get info, it would have happened already. I got something you want, so what is it?” The cocksure demands were throwing off Connors’ alignment. He stared at Emilio, groping for an appropriate response when his first reaction was to wipe the arrogance from Emilio’s face. And he would have if the Marshal was not watching. Lips tightening at the side, Connors spoke again. “We collect rare talent to work with us, and the Marshal believes a teenager from the depths of hell who managed to form his own lucrative smuggling outfit, create ties to international criminal organizations, and who, I assume, can passably speak at least four languages, is a rare talent.” “I also busted Cam’s ass a couple of times.” Emilio winked at the camera as if he knew, somehow, that Cameron was watching. “On a regular day, I’d tell you to kiss my ass. If you did your research, you’d know I’d rather risk my life than have a gang of pale faces in nice suits run it. Feds have tried to flip me on more than one occasion, and it don’t work. But this time, you got me. I’m bored.” “Bored,” Connors repeated. “Bored enough to be interested.” Emilio shrugged. “I’m especially interested in getting trained like Cam. But better.” “Ah.” Connors searched for a sign of something. Trauma. Resentment. Hate. He found nothing but carefully crafted cavalier charm. “Did you have an enjoyable journey to this side of the country?” There was only the briefest of pauses before the disarming smile appeared again. Too dazzling to be genuine but not strong enough to reach his eyes. “It was just swell.” Unconvinced, Connors left the topic alone and returned to the observation room. Van Owen’s satisfaction was transparent. Cameron was typically blank, not that his opinion held weight, but Archibald’s expression was sour and his mouth pressed into a slash. “I recommend termination,” Connors said without delay. The look Cameron gave him was surely intended to stop his heart. Van Owen smiled faintly. “Because he controlled every portion of that meeting?” Connors sneered. “He is impulsive, emotional, and immature.” “Agreed,” Archibald said, full of bluster now that someone else had started the conversation. “He doesn’t have the capacity to respect the integrity of the Agency’s cover, let alone maintain one of his own. Everything from his accent to his appearance stands out. And he has a drug habit, which means he will be sloppy.” “Yet he has evaded the authorities for his entire life,” Van Owen noted. “And he had the capacity to link the cartel with the Triad in terms of drug supply and weapons.” Connors looked at the screens. Emilio stared back. “He cannot read.” The proclamation was met with silence. “I suppose he can manage well enough to get by, but he could not decipher his own file without a good deal more time and concentration.” Van Owen was not moved. “He can be taught.” “So, we’re recruiting tutors as well?” Connors returned scornfully. “The amount of rehab and deportment training—” “—is evened out due to the lack of time needed to train him physically,” Van Owen interrupted. “I would say his skills are already on par with a rank 9 agent. He simply needs discipline.” Connors scoffed. “And if he can’t be disciplined?” Van Owen was already moving for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “Then at that point, he will be terminated.” @@@@@@@@&@@@@@@@@@ 180 Proof Vega Chapter 6 Emilio expected Cameron to be the one to lead him out of his cell, but the douchebag was nowhere to be found. Emilio found himself in the hands of yet another suit. Instead of having icy indifference to Emilio’s continued existence like everyone else he’d met so far, the new guy—Instructor Scott Fields—seemed to be in a perpetual good mood. The type of person who would watch you get water boarded with a dimply smile. “So, what do we call you?” he asked as he swiped a card across the elevator access panel. There was no button, no intercom, and no other way off the Fourth. It seemed to be a heavily restricted place. More was happening up there than the vetting of potential new material. The knowledge gave Emilio a chill. He ignored it. Nothing could be worse than where he had come from. The words were a comfort even if he didn’t really believe them. He’d lived for years in squalor amongst the other barefoot street urchins, clutching weapons in small, grubby hands; acting as couriers, and dodging vigilantes who saw them as overgrown rats. But he’d understood those men. He’d known how to evade them or how to con them, and the same went with the Feds. This place was something different. Emilio had quickly noticed that everything was linoleum and metal. It was easier to clean blood from slick surfaces. He’d been in the murder business for years thanks to his father, but this was the first time Emilio was encountering a corporation dedicated to turning men into killing machines, and getting rid of them if it didn’t work out. “Your name isn’t going to work,” Scott said when Emilio failed to respond. “The fuck you mean?” “I mean the Agency isn’t the most racially diverse place on the East Coast, and an ethnic name adds to the bullseye. That hair isn’t going to work either. Too fucking much of it, and it makes you stick out more than you already do.” “You ain’t touching my hair.” Scott just smirked. “And whoever doesn’t like my name can suck it. I’m more concerned with when I can get in touch with my people on the outside. They’re probably shitting bricks after the scene Cameron and Camille made.” Emilio knew he could count on Angel to hold the crew down until he figured out what was going on, but Moisés’ wrath would rain down on all of their rivals like a blitzkrieg attack until he figured out who had snatched their leader. Hopefully sense would be talked into him before he got half of Mara Tres killed. The crew was too small for wide-scale warfare. “There’s no outside for you anymore. That’s over.” The elevator slid open with a soft whoosh, and Emilio was confronted with a sea of pale faces. White people with crewcuts and varying shades of wheat-colored hair. Wearing suits, skintight body armor, or the all-black ensembles of Hollywood spies. They stared at Emilio like he was an alien in his ragged t-shirt, holey jeans, and with his shaggy, shoulder-length hair. It was no wonder if the entire place had borne witness to an Aryan invasion. Emilio hung back, uneasy, and snarled at Scott when the man shoved him inside. Emilio collided with one of the Cameron-clones and drew himself up to his full height. It still left him at a few inches’ disadvantage, and Emilio recalled the image of he and Cameron side-by-side in the motel room, their reflections in the mirror, and how he had felt so abruptly like a boy. Emilio crossed his arms over his chest. The sharp angles of his shoulder blades dug into someone’s chest. The guy muttered a complaint. “Tone it down, hot shot,” Scott said as the doors slid shut. “Rule number 1, don’t start shit with the full-fledged fieldies. You’ll find yourself in a world of hurt and a cozy cell back on the Fourth.” “How about if they start shit with me?” “Put on your big boy shorts and take it.” Scott stood with his back to the doors, facing the elevator full of agents. “Because it will happen.” “New meat?” a deep voice asked, booming into Emilio’s ear. “I give him a month.” “That’s all I need to train well enough to fuck me up some fieldies,” Emilio said without looking back. “But I like it when people underestimate me. Makes my dick hard.” The man laughed in his ear. Not malicious, but dismissive enough to claw at the tower of Emilio’s ego. The elevator emptied in a bank on the ground floor, and Scott led Emilio through corridors that were excessively wide for the sparse number of people passing through each archway. The size of the place grew from large to vast once they exited the skyscraper, and Emilio took in the full stretch of the Agency’s compound. Enough buildings dotted the sprawling campus to resemble a small village. A rolling, green courtyard dominated the center of the property and trees crowded a perimeter gate, separating them completely from the outside world. The overall affect was not unpleasant, but Emilio would bet that was the intended purpose. To make this life-or-death sentence feel a little like home. Keep the assassins happy. Emilio’s eyes darted from place to place, trying to file away bits of information regarding exit points and the formation of the gray-uniformed guards. There was too much to take in. Crowds of agents casually dressed but still looking as sophisticated as a fashion advertisement drifted around while more serious looking characters—clearly suited up for some kind of assignment—strode in the direction of the skyscraper or a squat, wide building further down one of the wide pathways. Everyone was beautiful and everyone was armed. “How big is this fucking place?” “Bigger than we need.” Scott paused at the bottom of the steps. He nodded at random people entering the building. Every one of them looked sidelong at Emilio. “The Tower is the hub of the action, as you can see. That’s where you’ll do your briefings and debriefings, go to the Med Wing, see the brass on the administrative levels, do your personal training, and so on.” “So what the fuck is all of this shit?” Emilio waved at the grassy knolls and different sized structures. “This place is lookin’ more like Harvard than killer academy.” “Heh.” Scott began to walk across the courtyard. “The property was once owned by a corporation called Johnson’s Pharmaceuticals before the Agency took over. A lot of the smaller buildings are no longer in use, but the larger ones are residences, a larger medical building for long-term care and extensive procedures, the training center, and of course the artillery facility. I have a feeling you’ll like it there, Mr. Arms Smuggler.” “Yeah, maybe.” Emilio shoved his hands into his pockets and lagged behind Scott. He scanned every face he saw until they began to look the same, but there was still no sign of Cameron. “Do y'all live here or something?” “Most of us. The higher your rank the more freedom you have, but the compound is large enough to accommodate every staff member.” “Oh yeah?” Emilio locked eyes with a woman sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath a cluster of leafy trees. Blond hair, dark eyes, and a long fit body. Camille Miley. “How many agents are there?” Camille arched an eyebrow. She smiled. “We’re about four hundred strong,” Scott replied. “One hundred and fifty field agents, and the rest are non-combative staff. The geeks—our research and development agents, support staff, and the professional types make up the bulk of the number. You won’t see much of them for a while. Training is overseen by Captain Thomas, so you’ll be limited to interacting with him rarely, but mostly me and the other probies.” Emilio puckered his lips at Camille. He wondered if he could ditch the suit and go chat her up. She’d probably know exactly where to find Cameron. Not that Emilio would confront him now. Naw, that could wait for after training. After Emilio could destroy him. See how Cameron liked being shoved around. The very idea was enough to make Emilio’s pulse race. He licked his lips, and the gleam in Camille’s eye betrayed her interest. *** Scott ran a gauntlet to figure out where to place probationary agents. Lowest skilled at the beginning of the gauntlet, hard-asses at the end. Mixed gender (although there were only two women) and varying heights and builds. The probie pool wasn’t exactly representing all the colors of Benetton, but there were a few non-white faces besides Emilio’s. It was more than he had expected, but every single person in the room still looked like they’d been handpicked from a freshman orientation. The probies were less polished than the Cameron-clones on the compound, but Emilio had a feeling they’d conform to the shine once they finished their training. Assuming they made it. According to Scott, success rate for probies was somewhere around 5%. He didn’t say whether trainees died due to their own errors or if they were deemed unfit and killed behind a shed somewhere, but Emilio assumed it was a mix of both. The gauntlet probably weeded out a fair amount of dead weight on its own. The exercise had to be terrifying for a normal person. Even someone with self-defense or combat training didn’t necessarily know how to handle getting dogpiled. A one-on-one fight was nothing compared to getting jumped by a group of people who wanted to break you just to prove they could. Or in this case, because it was an expectation that they show no mercy. Maybe it was a test for them as well as Emilio. The agents at the start of the gauntlet were so green that Emilio barely broke a sweat. They knew how to swing, but he knew how to land a blow in vital areas that would immobilize or devastate. He glided through the first quarter of the gauntlet like a figure skating queen in sequined tights, and punched his way to the middle where he promptly went into turtle mode. Emilio deflected attacks that could have tripped him up, blocked punches or kicks meant to stun, and focused on pushing through the tunnel of violence. It took longer than he expected, and he soon realized that taking down his attackers wasn’t the point. Scott had to be paying attention to his endurance and pain tolerance. How long would it take for him to fold? Where were his weak spots? How could they be exploited? At least, those would be the questions Emilio would have asked himself if he was the one running this shitshow. His body was wearing down from blows landed by the slightly more experienced folks who knew more about cheap shots than talent. But cheap shots were the way to survive. That was how he’d gotten by in Rio for so long; knowing how to duck into someone’s space and wage one-on-one guerilla warfare before vanishing like a phantom in the shadows of the favela. He liked that the Agency didn’t teach their agents how to fight with honor. Honor meant nothing if it left your balls rotting off in a ditch on the side of the road. Emilio made it to the last quarter of the gauntlet before a six foot something Middle Eastern dude knocked him out. He woke up in the training center’s infirmary. “Let me run it again,” he slurred through a mouthful of iron-flavored cotton. “I can take that motherfucker.” “Calm down, hot shot,” Scott said. “You don’t get a do-over. It’s done.” “Nah. Fuck that.” Emilio pushed away from the metallic slab he’d been stretched out on. His hands betrayed him and slid along the slick surface, his head swimming with each jerky movement. “I can beat him.” “It wasn’t a competition. There’s no prize.” Scott planted his hand against Emilio’s chest and shoved him down. “And no one has beat Anwar except for Doug.” “Who’s Doug?” “Don’t worry your pretty head about that. Get yourself together. You’re meeting your novice group in a few hours. You’ll have your chance at another sparring session.” Emilio white-knuckled his way through a tour of the training center. Scott’s voice was a distant warble that Emilio drowned out in favor of simmering in leftover humiliation. He hadn’t been knocked on his ass since childhood. It stung. It stung worse than Cameron’s smug assault on his mouth. At least that hadn’t happened with an audience present. Anwar had flattened him in a room full of people who now thought Emilio had a glass jaw. “You’ll be bunking with Doug,” Scott said. “He’s detained right now, but he’ll be back soon. Enjoy the silence while you have it.” “Detained for what?” Scott smiled, tantalizing Emilio with bits and pieces of information about a guy who was supposed to be even more of a warrior than the one who’d knocked Emilio unconscious with one punch. It was a tease. Plain and simple. Maybe Scott liked to keep his rookies competitive. “Training starts tomorrow at five a.m.” “When do I get to go outside?” “You don’t. Not until you’re ready.” “And how fucking long does it take people to be ready?” “The cut-off is a year.” Emilio looked down at his hands. They were swollen, and dry blood stained his busted knuckles like chips of red paint. The throbbing wasn’t as bad as the bright bursts of pain searing up from his tailbone, or even the consistent pang that jabbed at him when he moved his jaw, but without his hands, he was worthless. And if he needed recovery after one exercise, he was toast. “I’ll be ready in six months.” Scott didn’t even try to stifle his laughter. The tour ended with them reconvening with four other probies, all of whom had been present in the gauntlet. Max Serrano, a lean, muscular guy with sandy skin, wavy hair, and a snake tattoo twining around his torso. Theodorus Drakos—or Drakos as everyone seemed to refer to him—was blond and had a trim beard. His eyes were already skimming over Emilio with scorn. The third guy was Asher Hawkins, and he was nothing like the others. Pale, freckled, and he had moist eyes that looked huge in his slim face. Asher was the type of twink who would get used hard in Mara Tres. Judging from the way his gaze slid over Emilio, he’d like it. The fourth probie was Anwar Salib. A few of inches taller than Max and Emilio, he had a broad muscular body and a face so striking that Emilio forgot to hate the fucker for a moment. There weren’t very many people who Emilio thought could rival himself in the looks department, but Anwar was stunning. Pillowy lips, long dark lashes, fine black hair, and russet skin that was completely unblemished. No scars. Emilio wondered where the Agency had snagged him. Judging from the half-assed introduction, none of them had been in training for more than a month. “You’ll be together for a year if you all make it through,” Scott said. “So learn to tolerate each other. This group will be seven strong when Douglas gets off the Fourth and after the next rookie gets out of detox.” “They’re letting Ferguson out?” Drakos had an accent that Emilio tried to place. Definitely Northeast. Maybe New York. “They oughta terminate that dumb Aussie and get it over with. Everyone knows he ain’t gonna make it.” Max rolled his eyes but clapped Drakos on the shoulder instead of commenting. Asher nodded empathetically. Judging from the side-eye he was receiving from Drakos, his support wasn’t winning him any brownie points. Poor bastard. Faggots didn’t stand a chance in a place like this, even if people had fun with them when no one was looking. Men in paramilitary outfits were too busy measuring their wood to consider getting off with another guy in their squad, even if it was easier than tracking down a piece of pussy. It took time to break down those walls. In Mara Tres, the guys had accepted Emilio’s sexuality because they’d known he’d cut their throats otherwise. He hadn’t hidden who he was and they’d eventually gotten so comfy about it that half the crew learned how to benefit from the situation once they were all drinking and dabbling with the white powder. Maybe it would have gone down differently if Emilio had been full-on homo instead of bisexual, or maybe not. He’d learned early on that men, regardless of how they acted in front of others, were just as willing to come in his mouth as a woman’s. And once they found out how hard he could rock their worlds, they’d seek his attention even while pretending it was only because the lights were out. Regardless, Emilio wasn’t going to try it within the white and chrome corridors of the Agency, where every wall was fixed with a camera and there was a constant disinfectant smell. Commanding respect and making allies would be impossible if he started out by stacking odds against himself, and he already had marks. Latino, probably the youngest; he was an unapologetic criminal in a sea of ex-military bros, and his wide mouth and dainty features tended to make him an immediate target for assholes. Adding cocksucker to that list would guarantee some serious harassment that would put him on the shitlist. Nah. They didn’t need to know that equal parts of him wanted to shank and fuck Cameron within an inch of his life. Not yet, anyway. “Where’d they find this fucking guy,” Drakos muttered, jerking his chin at Emilio. “I didn’t know the Agency recruited from the Latin Kings or Ñetas. I can tell by the tats alone that he’s affiliated with that thug life bullshit.” Out of the corner of Emilio’s eye, he saw Anwar frown. Emilio smirked. “I’m affiliated with the cartels. But don’t be scared, homie. I won’t bite.” Drakos’ fingers twitched. His hand went to his waist as if seeking the comfortable weight of a gun. Maybe he’d been a cop. Or Border Patrol. He definitely had a grudge. Asher shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. “Why is the new guy in detox?” He had a nasal voice with a higher than average pitch. “Is he a druggie?” “The new guy is a new girl,” Scott replied, ignoring Drakos. “She’ll probably be on the R&D route like you, but she goes through the ringer just the same. R&D isn’t safe from the field all the time.” “A woman?” Max frowned. “Where will she bunk?” “Maybe they’ll put her with Asher,” Drakos sniggered. “She’s safe with him.” Asher looked down. “She’s safe in general.” A storm passed over Scott’s good-natured non-expression. “Unless one of you wants to end up on the Fourth. I don’t care what other instructors allow. You toerags are my material, and you’ll conduct yourselves properly. Psychopaths and uncontrollable sadists end up sliding down the incinerator like Drakos’ good friend Kayne.” “That was a fucking setup and you know it. Asher and the Inspect—” Scott cut Drakos off with a look. Asher kept studying his feet, but he otherwise did not react to the implication that he was involved in another man’s death. Anwar examined his nails, immune to the bitching around him. On first impression, the Agency looked like a high dollar organization that owned the soul of made-in-the-shade white boys with transferable skills, former-spooks, and soldiers, but they were a lot more dysfunctional than that if they were arguing over how some guy had got himself cremated. And they did it in front of the fresh meat without the decency to front. If a group of guys who’d only been in training for a month were participating in this conversation like it wasn’t no thang, Emilio could only assume they had already seen some heavy shit. The standoff between Scott and Drakos lasted for only a heartbeat, then Drakos backed down as if the Instructor had pulled a gun. His shoulders slumped, and Scott turned away. “Time to work.” Work consisted of hours of sparring. Lower tier probies started off with circuit and strength training to get them into shape, but everyone in Emilio’s group was assumed to be beyond that basic point. Despite being knocked out by Anwar, Emilio had still made it to the top tier based on his skills, which meant they were likely to be ready for the field sooner. The training program cycled new lessons every day, so Emilio wasn’t completely clueless about where to begin. They watched Scott and another instructor mime attacks while lecturing about combat science and auto kinematics. The philosophy behind the Agency’s combat training was ruthless, but it wasn’t all cheap shots and dirty tricks. It was strategic, and Drakos muttered that it was similar to how SEALs were trained. By the time they were assigned their first mission, field agents were expected to become masters at anticipating the response of the human body. At that point, they would have a slew of brutal attacks ready to unleash on their opponent. The expectation was for them to think several steps ahead with no wait time or planning in the midst of a fight. No matter how internalized an opponent’s self-defense strategies were, they would be no match for someone who could predict every jerk, twitch, and reflexive crouch of their bodies. It was like fighting a psychic, and Emilio got his ass torn up by Scott every time they paired up in the next few days. Scott was average as far as build and size, but there was power behind his movements that Emilio hadn’t expected. He threw himself into the spars until Mara Tres and even Cameron drifted from his thoughts, but no matter how well he pressed an attack, he found himself on the receiving end of a more vicious one from their instructor. “Sloppy,” Scott would snap when Emilio mixed up a combination of moves. “You need to focus. Discipline,” he’d add after Emilio’s temper visibly lit. They switched partners one day, and Emilio found himself with Drakos. They were working on ground-fighting, but being pinned not once but three times by the leering New Yorker catapulted Emilio into street fighting mode. He went for soft spots with his knees and fragile flesh with his teeth. Emilio tore out chunks of Drakos’ ear and completely abandoned the calm and calculated strategies he had just been taught. No one stopped them when the blood flowed. Scott defaulted to an observer until time was up. Panting and drenched with icy trickles of sweat, Emilio wound up half-pinning Drakos to the floor but with his torso caged between the man’s thighs. Emilio extended his arm for a strike to Drakos’ face, but Drakos read the movement and caught his arm, pinning it to the side of their bodies. A swell of frustration exploded in Emilio. Again, he abandoned instruction. His free hand darted to Drakos’ crotch. Emilio squeezed his scrotum until shouting filled the sparring room, and Drakos kicked him away. They both rebounded to their feet. Drakos was markedly slower. “Fucking bitch,” he snarled. Emilio flipped Drakos off, grinning. It earned him a glob of spit splattering across his face. Anger sliced through him like a knife, and he was on Drakos in a blur of motion. Nearly a week of combat training evaporated. Training was traded for a killing instinct he’d been born with. Drakos, still suffering from the assault on his nuts, was unprepared for such a ferocious attack. Scott didn’t step in until Drakos was flat on his back with his nose caving in beneath Emilio’s heel with an audible crunch. The instructor hauled Emilio out of the training room as he screamed insults in three languages; a patois spoken only in fits of rage that usually transcended humiliation. Scott tossed him into a smaller room meant for one-on-one fights. Emilio’s back hit the cold stretch of the wall, and he snarled at Scott like a feral cat. “Do you want to die here?” Scott asked without malice. “Because if you can’t show them that you can control yourself, you will.” “Fuck you,” Emilio breathed. He tossed his head to the side, wet hair flipping out of his burning eyes. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I been through to get me where I was before y'all picked me up and brought me here. I ain’t gonna take no shit from some piece of shit ex-cop.” Scott peered at him, head tilted to the side. “How do you know he was a cop?” “Man, I can smell bacon a mile away.” “Heh.” Scott stepped forward, angling himself away from the camera wedged into the corner of the wall. “You’re right. He’s an ex-SEAL, but he’s also an ex-cop. He lost his badge after a confrontation in a NYC housing project that left four perps and two civilians with bullets to the skull.” Emilio sneered. “Fuckin’ scumbag.” “Oh, like that’s the worst guy you’ve ever met? Give me a break, hot shot.” Scott crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re smart. You’re intuitive. You’re a mean bitch in a fight. But right now you’re more fit for what you were doing before than what they want you to do in the future. And that doesn’t sit well with me.” “I can do anything they can do, and I can do it fucking better,” Emilio said flatly. “Just watch.” “I want to, but you’re going to screw the pooch before you make it past a month. I see it, and I know Connors sees it.” Connors. AKA Shark eyes. The guy in the steel-colored suit. “So, what—he’s gunnin’ for me?” “Yeah. He is. He told me point blank to boot your ass for the first infraction.” When Emilio only stared, Scott let a breath hiss out. “I’ll put it to you like this—the third-in-command of the Agency thinks you’re a waste of resources. And if you give him an excuse, he can make you disappear whether it’s sanctioned by the Marshal or not. Lacking discipline is the best excuse you can give him, Vega.” Adrenaline had built in Emilio for the past few days. A crescendo that spiked while sparring and settled at a slow climb in the evenings when things were supposed to be still. But Emilio had never been still. His thoughts were always racing between training, learning, and the anticipatory fantasies of seeing Cameron again. He hadn’t come off his high until now. Now the rush of constant violence and tension sucked out of his chest. He was left sagging like a marionette that had been cast aside. He felt young and small again. Stupid for forgetting about the other factors at play in the Agency, about the fact that this wasn’t really a goddamn academy where he would prove himself with a test in a few months. Someone was always watching and waiting for him to fuck up. Connors wanted to see his blood splashed across the linoleum before the traces were wiped away with only the disinfectant smell as a reminder. “Fine,” he gritted. “What do you want me to do?” “Stop being a punk,” Scott said plainly. “You think we don’t get it, but we see you. All of us do. You’re not like the others. This isn’t a step up or an escape for you. You think you’re going to use the Agency to get stronger and somehow go on your merry way with all of your fancy new skills.” Emilio stiffened. Scott smiled. “Yeah, hot shot. If you’re intuitive, they’ve got actual telepathy. It’s scary sometimes, but they’re never wrong.” “That’s real special,” Emilio snapped. “So what the fuck you want me to do?” “I won’t tell you to forget your grandiose if unrealistic plans for the future. If you want to hold on to pipe dreams, at least let them motivate you. It won’t work. I’ve been here long enough to tell you that now.” Scott jerked a thumb at the camera. “They’re always watching even if they can’t always listen. They know everything. But even so, if you want to live long enough to try to go through with your stupid ass plan, get your shit together. Do what I tell you, and you’ll survive.” “And what’s it to you anyway?” Emilio challenged. “Why do you care if I survive? Connors sure as shit don’t want some dirty street kid on his turf.” “That’s Connors.” Scott turned to the door. “You’re my material, and my probies don’t die.” @@@@@@@@@@@&@@@@@@@@@ 180 Proof Vega Chapter 7 “Go!” The word was a gunshot in Emilio’s ears. “¡Vámonos!”, “Vamos!”, “Go!” It was an indicator of coming danger. A signal for self-preservation. Throughout his life, that single word had translated to an order to run. Escape. At the Agency, it meant a different kind of escape. “Vega, what the fuck are you doing? Go!” Emilio blinked, snared by a thousand memories. He was only distantly aware of Scott approaching, but the back of a hand clapping across his face more than caught Emilio’s attention. Scott had hit him with so much force that he staggered to the side. Blooded filled his mouth. “You missed your mark, hot shot. Your mission would have failed.” Balling his hands into fists, Emilio took a breath that should have calmed him but didn’t. Scott rocked back on his heels with fists planted on his hips. There was anger in Scott’s face, but Emilio could also read apprehension in the pursed lips and flickering eyes. Sometimes Emilio forgot that his performance didn’t just matter for him. It was also used to judge Scott. Must have been a shitty life for the guy—worrying that his toe tag would be lined up next to the punk ass kid who’d failed to perform. “My bad,” Emilio guttered out. He tongued at the blood seeping from the torn flesh inside his cheek. “It’s not my day.” “It won’t ever be your day if you keep it up.” Scott shoved Emilio in the direction of the wall. “Sit it out and have your shit together in ten. They’re watching you.” Emilio’s back straightened. He cast a quick look at the dome camera in the middle of the ceiling—the eye in the sky that would eventually help Connors decide whether Emilio was worth the month of training they’d already spent on him. Scott claimed the decision wasn’t just up to Connors. He said that if Emilio proved himself to be valuable material, the Marshal wouldn’t let him get shoved down the incinerator chute like the suckers who failed to pass muster. The trouble was, Emilio didn’t think the Marshal gave enough of a damn about him to prevent that from happening. There was also the issue of Emilio losing interest and the ability to care about what a bunch of suits thought. His investment in their process had faded in the thirty days it had taken him to fall into a routine. If Emilio hated anything, it was a fucking routine. A month didn’t seem like much when he’d given himself half a year to master their training, but it was long enough for restlessness to seep into his skin. For Emilio, restlessness was poison. A corrupting agent that agitated him, and planted frequent wonderings in his head about whether he really wanted to go through with this song and dance, or if he should just go. Go. That was the word that had started this most recent bout of cabin fever, and it was a word that swirled in Emilio’s mind during each deportment lesson, each tactical drill, and at each meal when he sat down in the mess hall to eat bland food that had been chosen by a nutritionist who’d condescendingly commented that he wouldn’t be getting any fucking enchiladas ‘round these parts. It was almost like the Agency staff wanted him to flip out and kill them all. Or maybe that was just his impatience prodding him to deliberately fuck things up. The antsy feeling had first set in after training had expanded to include mission tactics and strategy. The Agency was really big on maps, blueprints; on their agents internalizing multiple access points to a target and multiple ways to get out. They called them egress routes. Scott used the phrase so much that it had begun to ricochet in Emilio’s brain. Scott had been really impressed with the way the lowlife street urchin had picked up the Agency’s lingo. He’d been further dazzled by Emilio’s ability to glance at a map and identify the best routes without analyzing it for twenty minutes like Asher and Anwar. Maybe it had never occurred to Scott that running and hiding had been a reoccurring theme in Emilio’s youth. He knew for damn sure that Scott had never expected lessons on egress points and safe, discreet routes back to the Agency’s receiving area to activate Emilio’s desire to find egress points off their fucking compound. “What’s up with you?” Emilio looked up to find Max Serrano approaching with his usual loose-limbed amble. The guy had apparently been a Delta Force bad ass before the Agency came calling, but he looked more like an actor on a telenovela. Handsome in a corny, typical way, and always flashing a big cheesy smile. But all things considered, Max was hard to hate. Emilio had certainly tried. “Not in the mood for the bullshit today.” Max dropped down onto the floor beside Emilio. His dark eyes remained locked on the mock mission their squad members were currently playing out in the habitat room. The enormous space was, so far, the most intriguing part of training. The Agency managed to create realistic environmental simulations for the probationary agents’ mock missions. Today, they were focusing on forest terrain. “You’re usually a boss at running field missions,” Max commented after an extended pause. He was frowning at Asher, who was straggling behind. “But today you were in La La Land.” “I told you I ain’t into it today.” “Vega, this isn’t a hobby you picked up for fun. They’ll kill your ass like they killed Kayne.” Emilio had heard them reference the Kayne incident so many times that he’d already lost interest. The little bitches were too scared to give him details. At this point, it was relegated to the same mental file where he’d shoved childhood stories about El Cucuy. “And… why do you care about what happens to my ass?” Max looked taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re both going to be agents. We’re in the same training squad.” “Uh, yeah, I got that. But check it—this ain’t the Delta Squad, pendejo. The way I got the Agency figured out, it’s like every motherfucker for themself.” “I don’t think that’s true.” “Then you’re a fucking idiot.” Emilio resumed watching the other probies. Like he and Max, Asher had been tapped out. He looked near tears. Emilio had a hard time figuring out what the guy brought to the table. “See, look at Asher’s faggot ass. Perfect example.” Max cringed. “Please don’t.” “Please don’t want?” “Don’t start with the gay slurs. He gets it enough from Drakos.” Emilio shot Max an incredulous look, but quickly checked himself. He’d kept a lid on his bisexuality for the past month, and it was going to stay that way. Max had no way of knowing that Emilio got off on four dudes running a train on his ass. He’d already used numerous fantasies about his lame-ass probie squad taking turns on him to get off in the middle of the night. Or day. The guys weren’t the best material given they were all boring as toast compared to Emilio’s pals in Mara Tres, but his dick didn’t care about how crappy his situation was. It still reared up at the slightest breeze grazing the front of his pants. “Fine. Just look at his worthless ass,” Emilio corrected himself. “The fucker is their field nerd, and Drakos and Anwar left him to die. They couldn’t have completed the mission without him, but since he’d already, y'know, fulfilled his function, they’re more worried about their egress. He’s only valuable material while he’s being used.” “But on a real mission—” “On a real mission you can bet your sweet ass that they wouldn’t have even looked back. I dunno how many black marks it takes for us to get yanked out of training, but I’m pretty sure fucking up a real mission once we’re real agents will get us killed real fucking quick.” Max dropped back against the wall, and his shoulders thumped the tile. “Damn. You’re right. I could tell Anwar wanted to go back, but he probably wouldn’t have even considered it if this were real.” “Is that why you got tapped?” “No.” Max drew his knee up and ran his thumb along the shiny, black fabric of his body armor. “I chose an alternate egress route that took two minutes longer. It doesn’t make sense, though. Drakos’ route would have taken us closer to civilians in a real world scenario. I know there will always be collateral damage, but why take the chance if you don’t have to? That’s exactly the kind of shit that fucked us up in—” Max balked, flicked a quick glance across the room at the staging area, and said, “I just didn’t think it was that big of a deal.” “What doesn’t make sense is them being so fuckin’ by the book in the first place. Someone needs to shake things up in here.” Max cracked a smile. “You look like the type of guy to do it.” “What makes you say that?” “Look at you, man.” Max grabbed a handful of Emilio’s hair and tugged sharply. “We may be the squad of misfits, but you’re the rock star. Scott takes so much shit from you that you must really be something special, even if you’re slacking off now.” “Heh.” Emilio saw Scott attempting to catch his eye, but chose to ignore it. “Ain’t nothing special about me.” “Bullshit. I heard you speak Spanish, Portuguese, and Chinese.” “It’s Cantonese, dumbass.” Max snorted. “And I also heard you put a hurting on Agent Russell. That guy is a monster. The first time I saw him fight—” Emilio bolted upright. The first flare of excitement swelled in his chest since he’d begun judo training weeks ago. “When did you see him fight? Does he come here?” “Sometimes. They use him as an example of what we should be striving for, even though he’s rank ten. Most probies go into the field around four or five, but everyone in our squad will probably jump to seven or eight. Asher’s lucky that he’s set to go to R&D—” “Fuck all that noise, tell me more about Cameron.” The demand earned Emilio an odd look, but he was so jazzed about coming across some accidental Cameron intel that being sly was the furthest thing from his mind. “How often does he come?” Max shrugged, still scrutinizing Emilio. “They don’t exactly give me the guy’s agenda, Vega. I get the same amount of info as you.” “Yeah, I got you.” The very thought of seeing Cameron again unloaded a barrage of varied emotions that hit Emilio in the gut like shrapnel. He wet his lips, shifting on the floor. “What do you know about that fucker?” “Just that he has dead eyes like a sociopath. Asher probably knows more since he is all up the butt of various top dogs on the compound, but do you really need to know anything else?” “Nah.” Emilio locked in on where Asher had retreated to the corner of the room. “I guess not.” *** Asher was the only one on the squad to score a single room. Emilio temporarily had one while Douglas Fergusen was cooling his heels in a detainment cell on the Fourth, but Asher had been given a real sweet setup for no real reason that Emilio could discern. When it came to physicality, Asher was barely getting by. He looked like a fit little twink on the outside, but he had zero stamina. The guy couldn’t even run across the staging area in the habitat room without huffing and puffing. Worst yet, he was a coward. Constantly cringing and flinching, his lower lip trembling when Drakos when out of his way to make sure they would be assigned to spar. Asher bragged about having a higher IQ than all of them combined, but Emilio failed to see how that would help the little asshole on an actual mission. Maybe R&D agents didn’t go on the field as much as Scott claimed, and all of this was just a scare tactic or a way to root out anyone who would have multiple uses. If so, Asher was not going to be used as a field agent unless they had need for pretty, blue-eyed jailbait with come rape me mouths. Emilio had thought of another purpose for his scrawny ass, though. Instructor Scott didn’t live in the training complex, but it was minded by a guy named Agent Larson in the evenings. There was also a small crew of guards who spent their night circling the perimeter and hanging out in the surveillance room. They’d caught Emilio lurking around after hours on more than one occasion, but they were more prone to make conversation with him than write him up. They seemed to get a kick out of his shit talking, and were always eager to share a story about who they’d fucked or fucked over on the greater part of the compound. Emilio wasn’t really interested in their likely exaggerated tales, but he was interested in getting chummy enough for them to do him a solid. Such as turning a blind eye while he stole down the hallway in the middle of the night. Which they did. Nobody confronted Emilio as he slipped into Asher’s room. As there were no windows in the training complex, the room was only illuminated by the fluorescent light streaming from beneath the door. It took a moment for Emilio’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. For all that Drakos had crowed about Asher’s luxurious single dorm, it turned out to be narrow enough to resemble a storage closet. Asher was curled up on a bed that looked child-sized. Maybe the width of half a twin mattress. It gave Emilio pause as he stared down at Asher from the end of the bed. Had it all been hype? Were the rumors of Asher’s mysterious favoritism and connections exaggerated? Was Emilio about to risk his shaky position on the squad by hassling Asher? After all, something similar had happened with the mysterious Kayne dude… Asher exhaled softly in his sleep and rolled onto his back. In the gloom, Emilio’s eyes fell on a smooth bare chest and the V of a solid torso. His dick stirred in response, and a new plan clicked into place in Emilio’s mind. To Asher’s credit, his eyes opened as soon as Emilio knelt on the mattress. “What—” “Shut the fuck up.” Asher tried to sit upright, but Emilio shoved him down to the mattress with an open palm. “What are you doing?” Asher tried ineffectually to shove Emilio away. “Get out of my room!” “I said—” Emilio straddled Asher so their crotches were aligned, and pinned his flailing arms above his head. Asher swallowed loudly, and Emilio leaned down so they were nose-to-nose. “—to shut. Up.” At the sound of ice in Emilio’s voice, Asher stopped talking. His breath came out in ragged bursts, lips brushing against Emilio’s face every time he trembled or shifted around. The proximity was more than Emilio’s overactive libido could take, and soon he was hard enough to justify this change of plans. Outing himself to Asher was risky, but there was no hiding the length of steel snaking down the thigh of his black shorts, anyway. “Have you ever killed anyone?” Asher’s eyes shone damply in the darkness. His lips parted, but they brushed Emilio’s again, so he shook his head rather than speak. “I killed for the first time when I was ten.” Emilio felt Asher stiffen beneath him, and not in the fun ways. Lowering his face further, Emilio pressed his forehead against Asher’s. His hair fell around them like a curtain. “This little girl… about my size. She was barefoot and dirty. Carrying a knife.” “W-where…” “Brazil.” Emilio squeezed his thighs on either side of Asher’s narrow body. “I dunno how she knew I had paper. I was lookin’ just as raggedy as her. But she did, and she went at me like a fuckin’ alley cat, bro. She was quick, but I’d been taught how to fight by a mass murderer so I could handle myself better. Y'know what I mean?” Asher chest rose and fell quickly. “N-not… really. Why are you telling me this?” Emilio pressed their faces together harder, grinning when Asher emitted a low whine of fear. “Because I want you to know that when I say I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat if you tell anyone what happened in here tonight, I mean it. I ain’t frontin’ like that clown Drakos. He might have capped some Arabs in the Gulf, but he ain’t never looked in another person’s eyes up close and personal, and made the decision to take them out.” The shaking escalated to a full-body tremble. “What’s going to happen?” Asher’s tenor was hushed, strained, and an octave away from being thick with tears. “I didn’t do anything to you!” “It’s not about what you did to me, sweetheart. It’s all about what you’re gonna do. ¿Comprende?” Asher nodded slowly. His eyelashes brushed Emilio’s face with each motion of his head. “You tell me what I want to know about the fuckers running this place.” Emilio rocked against Asher suggestively. “And I’ll make you come so hard that you’ll still feel it in your balls tomorrow.” Asher went still beneath Emilio, his eyes opening wide. “Are you messing with me?” Emilio answered by sliding his tongue into Asher’s mouth. It didn’t really stoke his fire given Asher laid there like a terrified lump, but the wet velvet of his mouth was a good enough sensation to send Emilio’s sex drive into warp speed. He needed to get off with another person like he needed to breathe, and it was a goddamn shame that this bit of action probably would not be leading to reciprocation. In the past month, the familiar empty ache of unfulfilled lust had scraped at Emilio’s insides until he felt hungry and raw. The urgent need to touch and be touched had plagued him like a reoccurring illness ever since he’d hit puberty, and had led to him fucking or getting fucked sometimes two or three times a day ever since. Angel said he was a nympho, but Emilio thought it had more to do with his wires getting crossed due to being oversexed so early. “Oh, fuck,” Asher panted against Emilio’s mouth. “This can’t be real.” Emilio broke the kiss and grinned when Asher strained upward, seeking more. Maybe it would be interesting after all. They writhed against each other in a way that would have been more fun if they were both naked. “What do you want to know?” “Which one of the brass are you fucking?” Emilio tempered the question by reaching between them. He slid his hand in the slit of Asher’s boxers and fondled the stiff length of meat. “Connors?” Asher’s eyes rolled back as he shook his head. “Cameron?” “God, no!” When Emilio paused, Asher whimpered. “Fuck, please, don’t stop. It feels so—” “Then who? Tell me. Now.” “Oh fuck, shit…” Asher’s mouth gaped open as Emilio milked his dick with one hand, pumping it until the tip wept. “Archibald. He’s, like, the inspector.” “Inspector? The fuck does he be inspecting?” “I dunno. Covert stuff…” Emilio withdrew his hand and sucked pre-cum off his fingers while Asher whined in protest. “So this Archibald cat likes pretty boys?” Asher nodded. His mouth was still ajar, damp lips shining in the dark. “He um, I—” “Get them words out or you’ll go to bed with blue balls tonight, sweetness.” “Shit. Fuck. I met him after I got expelled from MIT, okay?” Asher gritted. “I’d set up these, like, chat rooms—” “Chat room?” Emilio’s nose wrinkled. “What’s that?” “Places to talk online, stupid,” Asher said testily. “I created these chat rooms on the MIT network, and students and professors would, like, log in and… Well, they used it to cruise gay guys on campus and pay them for hookups.” If Emilio hadn’t been simultaneously anxious for sex and information, he’d have laughed. “I got caught, some parents made a big deal about it, and I got expelled. After that, Archibald appeared. Um, I’m not sure why. He said he read about me in the paper and was intrigued.” “So he rocked your world and then brought your simple ass to this hell hole.” “Yeah. In a nutshell.” This time, Emilio did laugh. Asher bristled and slapped Emilio’s ass. “Are you going to make me come now? I told you what you wanted to know.” “Yeah, aiight. Like I’m going to suck your dick for that shitty information. Keep dreaming.” “What then? You can’t just—” Emilio sealed his lips around the quaking knot in Asher’s throat. He sucked lightly, moving against Asher again, and didn’t stop until Asher had melted against the bed in compliance. “He still fuck you?” “Sometimes,” Asher said. “But it’s hard when I’m trapped down here. He—he said he’ll get me an apartment in his residency building if I make it through.” If. Heh. Emilio wondered if Asher was even aware of his own choice of words. “He talk in bed? Most rich fuckers like a stupid little slut to lay there and massage their balls while they either brag or rant about their struggle.” “Sometimes he does, yeah,” Asher said breathlessly. “He hates Marshal Van Owen and that Cameron guy.” “Why Cameron? Ain’t he just a fieldie?” “Yeah, but…” Asher swallowed audibly. “He has issues. The Agency picked him up when he was like twenty—after he got an ODPMC discharge from the Marines. His file says he has some kind of personality disorder. Eliott—I mean Archibald—thinks he’s a sociopath. AKA, he’s bad news bears for the Agency because he can’t tell the difference between right and wrong. Understand?” Emilio pictured Cameron’s pale, emotionless eyes. The look on his face while he’d watched Emilio shower. “So, is he gonna get terminated?” “Nuh uh. That’s why Archibald hates Van Owen so much. He never takes his advice. The Marshal likes, um, hard cases. Like you.” “Right.” Emilio had almost forgotten to fondle Asher. His thoughts had flown away to wrap around memories of Cameron’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth. Amazing how the image could make him want to jizz and slit someone’s throat at the same time. “What else you have for me, pretty boy?” “Nothing. Archibald doesn’t let me get near Cameron.” “Yeah? Why not?” Asher watched Emilio from beneath his lashes. “Probably for the same reason that you’re so desperate to get info on him.” Emilio’s eyes narrowed. “So’s he a known rapist?” “Did he rape you?” “No one fucks me unless I let 'em.” Asher’s face hardened. “I don’t know what childhood trauma warped your tiny brain, but that’s not how rape works, you moron.” “Yeah, whatever. Is he known to be a fucking pervert, or what?” “No.” Asher’s gaze flicked away. “But Cameron fixates on people, and he’s dangerous. So… who knows what he’s capable of?” Emilio grabbed Asher’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Who is he fixated on?” Asher smirked. “Are you jealous?” “Don’t get snuffed, bitch. Just tell me what I want to know.” “About what?” “The compound. This city. Whatever. Everything.” Some of the tension eased out of Asher’s body. “We’re in Lexington, Pennsylvania. It’s a pretty typical city from what I know, and the compound is located in the northern part which is a little wooded and removed because we’re near this big park. This compound used to be the headquarters of this company called Johnson’s Pharmaceuticals. The Agency still uses that as a cover for being here. Also, for the high security.” “So the government doesn’t know this place is here?” “Nope. Archibald says it’s a total shadow organization. Maybe some people know about it, but not many. The local cops and government in Lexington just knows this place has some kind of federal protection and is off limits to them.” Emilio mulled that over. He was torn between apprehension and being impressed with the level of invisibility the Agency possessed. “So these people that work here—if they get capped by the brass or just on a mission, what does their family get told? Or is everyone kidnapped and blackmailed like me.” Asher’s brows rose, gaze skimming Emilio curiously. “How’d you get here?” “Just fuckin’ answer.” Asher rolled his eyes. “It’s all covered up. People like you will just disappear and no one will ever know what happened to you, and people who were vetted in more legitimate ways, and who have outside connections, have a cover story. My parents think I’m in some kind of government-sponsored criminal rehabilitation program that will get me a real job since I blew my chances with college. But most people are said to be working for a private military company in some capacity.” “Even you?” Asher shook his head. “Since I’ll be on the compound doing R&D stuff, my cover will be that I’m a programmer or a techie for Johnson’s Pharmaceuticals.” The details of the Agency filled in slowly, painting a more complete picture of how they operated. For all that they were allegedly invisible to the outside world, they depended on a fair amount of cover stories and lies to continue existing in their present location. There were enough vulnerabilities to exploit if Emilio decided to go that route in the future. Right now, his primary concern was getting in touch with Angel. He’d figure out the rest later on. “How do people get off the compound?” “You can’t. They do fingerprint and retina scans at the gate. Only full-fledged agents can come and go, and even some of them have restrictions.” “What about the gate along the perimeter?” “How the fuck should I know?” Asher retorted. “Does it look like I’m trying to go scale the gate and escape into Lexington?” “Nah, I guess you’re happy to be here sucking some old fuck’s dick.” “Fuck you.” Asher bucked his hips up. “I’ve told you everything. Now, are you going to get me off or what?” Emilio knew there was more he should be asking. Asher was an untapped little fount of Agency knowledge just waiting to get turned out, but Emilio was antsy, and horny, and at the moment all he was interested in was Cameron. “I got you right now.” Emilio threw himself into it and sucked Asher off wet and sloppy, moaning around his dick and playing the slut card just enough to plant notions of repeat performances at the back of Asher’s mind. And Emilio enjoyed it. Fuck yeah, he did. He straddled Asher’s thigh, humping it while deep throating, and nearly creamed himself from the taste, the musky smell, and the sound of Asher panting his name. Emilio forgot that this was a trade-off. Forgot he was at the Agency. Lust took over, and he dismissed any lingering thoughts of giving Asher his payment and moving on. He played with Asher’s ass until the kid wailed and exploded, releasing a load so big that Emilio couldn’t swallow all of it down. He let Asher’s swollen dick slide from his mouth and then leaned up for a kiss, giving Asher some of the leftovers. They tongued each other like frantic teenagers; Asher’s fingers in his hair, and Emilio jerking himself off. When his balls seized up and his toes curled, Emilio shoved Asher backwards onto the bed, stroked himself twice more, and shot his cum all over the kid’s face. Emilio’s mind blanked out, white noise filling his ears like a television with a broken antenna, and it took several minutes of violent panting for him to climb down from the high of his orgasm. His eyes focused, and Emilio realized Asher was swiping jizz from his face with a finger. He sucked it off. “You’re nastier than I gave you credit for.” Emilio collapsed onto Asher with a grunt. “I was trying to treat you like a no account slut.” “Maybe I like being a no account slut.” “Yeah, that’s prob why the Inspector likes your bitch ass.” Asher finished cleaning himself up. He was shameless about it. It earned him a couple of notches of respect points on Emilio’s invisible score card. “Just 'cause we had a good time don’t mean I won’t open your throat if you do me dirty.” “The only way I want to do you dirty is by playing with your ass sometime.” Asher tugged Emilio’s hair back so they could see each other from beneath the inky mane. “Or if you… tell Archibald.” Emilio nodded, tilted his head to the side, and let the pieces click in place. It dawned on him like a police paddy wagon driving up the side of his head with sirens blaring—but the warning came too late. “Shit, motherfucker. Archibald had that Kayne dude killed because you fucked him, didn’t he?” Asher grimaced. “Yes. One of the guards walked in on him nailing me.” “And you said he fucking raped you.” “No!” Asher pressed his palms against Emilio’s chest in a blunt shove. “I didn’t. That’s just what Archibald told himself to feel better. No one was interested in what I had to say.” “Damn, man. That old bastard must be really sweet on you to be pulling moves like that.” Emilio sat up fully, his eyes sweeping the room for signs of a camera he knew he wouldn’t find. Shockingly, none of the dorms had cameras. But the realization had raised his hackles fast, and the need to get out of dodge was strong. “You could have told me that before I sucked your dick. I’d say you owe me an answer to any question I ask just for setting me up like this.” “I would have answered anyway,” Asher drawled. “You were just quick to whore yourself out. Who am I to say no?” “Fuck you.” “Gladly.” Emilio flipped the kid off but, despite his newfound paranoia about Archibald having him hung, didn’t feel any real annoyance at Asher himself. Asher seemed to sense the vibe, because he reached around to grab a t-shirt from the floor, and used it to wipe some of the dampness from Emilio’s face. “Can’t have you going outside looking like a well-used whore.” “Yeah, can’t have that.” Asher bit back a grin, but his dimples gave him away. “I don’t get you, Vega. Why did you do all of this just to get a little bit of intel on Cameron?” “Because when it comes down to it, people are all the same.” Emilio rose from the bed when Asher stopped fussing over him. “He might have training and experience, but people are weak when you get to their core. We can all be manipulated and taken down, and he ain’t no exception. I just have to find his weakness.” @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ 180 Proof Vega Chapter 8 For all that the Agency gave the impression of being a well-oiled machine, there were enough squeaky hinges and sluggish cogs to, someday, bring the entire infrastructure to a screeching halt. Running at one hundred percent efficiency required all material to not only be viable in the long run, but to also be a valuable use of resources in the present. Investing in “what if” and “maybe” projects was not, in Connors’ opinion, an economically savvy decision. Unfortunately, Marshal Van Owen had become comfortable enough in his position to waste everyone’s fucking time. Connors slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and kept his eyes on the monitor stretched across his desk. Emilio Vega’s image stared back, all bronze skin, wild hair, and indelible eyes. There was no doubt that the boy was an uncommon talent, but he was one that would only be useful if he exhibited some command of his impulses. Impulses that had already gained him mark after mark for insubordination and spars that had turned to thuggish brawls. But Van Owen wanted the boy in his stable of field agents, and there was nothing Connors could do about that short of cutting Emilio’s throat in his sleep or arranging for an unfortunate accident during training. Neither option was worth the fallout, so Connors could do nothing more than accrue more data on how unmalleable the boy actually was. “General Connors, Ms. Streets is here to see you.” Connors flicked a finger against the button to unlock his door, not looking away from the monitor even when Streets entered. “Jacob,” she greeted him, her low drawl filling the cavernous space of his office. “My domain would have been as effective as yours. There are decidedly more creature comforts there.” “Mmm.” Connors looked away from Emilio’s smirking face to focus on Streets. “Yes, I suppose there are.” The woman in charge of deportment training—the process in which probie agents were indoctrinated to Agency protocols and standards—looked like more of a soccer mom than a master of covert conduct and mien, but that, of course, was because she was not a master. After working together for more than a decade, Streets had grown on Connors but that did not detract from the reality that she was a jumped up civilian. Another product of Van Owen’s sweeping, experimental gestures. Albeit, a more personal one. Streets sat in the chair opposite his desk, and he tilted the monitor sideways so she could see Emilio’s file. “I suspected this was about him,” Streets said. “Oh?” “We only meet regarding the probationary agents if there are special circumstances,” she said. “Last time, it was regarding Douglas Fergusen.” “Correct. But the difference between Emilio and Douglas is that Douglas has an array of skills that pave multiple entry points to the Agency’s staff whereas Emilio has none outside of being a field agent.” Streets crossed her legs at the knee, hands folded in her lap. One of Streets’ more pleasing attributes was her lack of hesitation when being brutally honest with Connors, but it sometimes landed her an arrogance that set his teeth on edge. “You think he will fail,” she said. “Rather cynical, no?” “He has no discipline.” “Emilio grew up on the streets surrounded by violence.” Streets nodded at his picture. “He has more discipline than most people with his background and lack of education. I dare say he has more discipline than Doug, who was raised by an affluent family.” “And as I stated,” Connors said, slowing his words, “Doug is a master of multiple forms of martial arts. He has other uses should he fail at being a fieldie.” “Fair point.” Streets pursed her lips, pale blue eyes steady on his face. “If you can access the session I had with Emilio earlier today, there is something I would like to show you.” “Something you can’t verbally describe I suppose,” Connors said drolly. “I prefer for you to observe for yourself.” “My skills of observation don’t need a test, but I’ll play along.” Streets only smiled, and he tapped his fingers against the inset keyboard, navigating through the Agency’s network to gain access to surveillance files. They populated in dozens of columns, titles displaying the times and dates. As Emilio’s deportment session had only occurred an hour past, his was at the top of the list. “Skip to the portion twenty minutes in,” Streets suggested. Connors fixed her with a chilly stare, but he skipped to the section she had indicated, watching as the video came to life with vivid clarity. The session had taken place in Streets’ office rather than the small classrooms she used for group sessions, so Emilio was slouched in a velvet chaise lounge rather than the desk and chair Connors had expected. It had been years since he’d bothered to meet Streets in her quarters but even now, the sight of such unnecessary opulence made Connors’ teeth grind. The Agency’s finances were hardly his concern, but if Van Owen had stooped to lavishing Streets in gifts, the man was further off his game than Connors had thought. “—hardly expect to beat him every time, Emilio,” Streets’ throaty voice came through the speaker. “Max has exceptional combat skills and extensive training. He was Delta Force before coming here.” “So?” Emilio was sucking on his knuckle. His long, lean body was nearly sliding off the lounge. “I whooped bigger motherfuckers than that before.” “It’s not a matter of size.” Emilio rolled his eyes extravagantly and tilted his head back with an explosive sigh. “Aiight, whatever.” Connors leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together. “If this exorcise was meant to impress upon me how much like an immature teenager he is—” “It wasn’t,” Streets interrupted. “Have patience, Jacob.” Irritation flooded Connors, but he lit a cigarette rather than say what had crossed his mind. The woman’s connection with Van Owen had given her delusions of grandeur that could only be explained by lunacy or a complete misreading of her station. But he didn’t say that. Instead, Connors blew rings of smoke at the monitor and watched as on-screen Streets used a holographic projector to display a mirror image of Emilio in the middle of her office. The youth leapt to his feet, grinning, and circled his double. “I’m so fucking hot,” Emilio proclaimed, jerking a thumb at the projection. “Damn Streets, how you managing to keep off me right now? I bet you’re into that cougar shit.” “I have exceptional restraint.” Streets’ voice was dry, but there was amusement in her tone that was alien to Connors. “I thought at least you would not be charmed by him,” Connors said, a measure of disgust in his tone. “But he is charming, and that cannot be denied.” Connors did not bother to reply to the statement. Instead, he kept watching the recording, noting that Streets was doing her “you could have a better life with our help” spiel, but focusing more on the acquisition of skills and connections, and access to wealth than social standing. She’d quickly deduced that the latter meant nothing to Vega. “When you say unlimited resources, you mean, like, I get fuckin'—” “Repeat yourself.” Emilio blew out another loud sigh and stood next to the holograph. “When you say the Agency has unlimited resources, do you mean I get paid?” “Of course. Did you think this was an indentured servitude of some kind?” “I dunno what that means, but probably.” Emilio put his hand through the holograph, watching it waver and distort. “I figured y'all was just gonna—” “Emilio.” “Oh my fucking God, woman, I’m not on a mission. Who gives two shits about how I talk?” Streets walked into the range of the camera and stood next to Emilio with her arms crossed over her pale pink blouse. She was just as tall as the teen, but between her ash blond hair, slim build, and Puritanical features, she was completely at odds with all of his tattoos and bad attitude. “You’ve been through a lot in your life, Emilio.” “Here we go with this bullshit.” “It’s the truth. I have read every word in your file and it wasn’t difficult to fill in some of the blanks.” Streets brushed her hands over Emilio’s wrinkled t-shirt, tugging at the collar before moving hair from his face. “You’ve overcome every barrier the world has put in front of you no matter how tall and wide.” “I know where I came from, lady.” Emilio didn’t push her hands away as she fussed over him. “But a little rain ain’t never made by back hunch lower. I always get through hard times, and I’ll get through this shit too.” It wasn’t uncommon for Streets to play the maternal role with her material, but it was the first time Connors had seen a hint of genuine warmth in her face. “It doesn’t have to be hard for you here,” the on-screen Streets said quietly. “Your life can improve. You’ll have your own money, your own apartment, and anything else you need to feel at home. The circumstances of your employment with the Agency are not pleasant, but your tenure here can be.” Emilio didn’t look convinced, but a gleam of interest flashed across his face at the mention of money. “Is this what you wanted me to see?” Connors asked. “A heartwarming moment between you and the urchin?” “Keep watching.” Connors exhaled smoke through his nose, contemplated cutting this farce short, but ultimately resumed his unimpressed observation. On video, Streets had disappeared off screen to interact with the computer that was controlling the holograph. Connors was familiar with the program. Its purpose was to show probationary agents alternate versions of who they would be if they adapted to the Agency’s standards, and it was also used as a model for what they should aspire to. In the past, Connors had assumed the exorcise was at once asinine and sophomoric, but he had never seen it in use. Streets had programmed the holograph to look like standard Agency material—Emilio Vega with a crew cut, clean shaven, black body armor, and correct posture. He looked older, fiercely dangerous, and his expression had been programmed to look focused enough to lead a team of agents on a storm of a terrorist cell’s base. Connors began shaking his head. On the tip of his tongue were proclamations about Emilio not having the temperament to get far enough in rank for this to become a reality, but the holograph shifted again, and Connors paused. Now, the holograph was programmed to be wearing a black suit, his hair trimmed and brushed back carelessly from his face, and that wide mouth stretched into a provocative, half-smile. On the screen, the real Emilio demanded use of the program and began cycling through more variations of himself. Emilio in the casual, designer clothes of a model, then in biker leathers, what looked like a police uniform, and finally a shorts and cardigan combination that Emilio could not stop cackling over. Emilio had found amusement in the many incarnations of his appearance, but the gears of Connors’ mind were grinding away. “He had never touched a computer before this point,” Streets noted when Connors paused the video. “His ability to visually learn and apply skills has not been paralleled by any other agent. His IQ is over—” Connors cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. It wasn’t only Emilio’s ability to mimic actions and apply knowledge that had caught his attention. It was the chameleon-like transformations his appearance and demeanor could undergo. The way changes in posture, expression, and attire could turn Emilio from a defiant teenager to a sophisticated and sensual young man. “How is his literacy?” “Fields has only recently approved a shift in Emilio’s training schedule,” Streets said. “The tutoring will begin tomorrow.” “Heh.” Connors brought the cigarette to his lips, watching her through a drifting curtain of smoke. “And you anticipate glowing success?” “Not with me, no. Teaching an individual how to read and write fluently is not one of my talents.” “Then who?” For the first time, Streets shifted under the weight of his stare. She smoothed her hands over the knee-length skirt she wore, then flicked away a barely visible piece of lint. “Agent Camille Miley.” Connors laughed; a short, ugly bark of a sound. “Prior to being vetted by the Agency,” Streets went on, undeterred, “Camille was a certified teacher. She worked part-time as a literacy coach and intervention specialist between military tours.” “I’m more than aware of Camille’s background.” Connors stubbed out his cigarette in the glass astray sitting at the corner of his desk. “But she won’t agree. She will think you’re trying to relegate her duties as rank 10 field agent, accuse you of sexism, and then storm into this office demanding the assignment be lifted from her duties. We can force her, of course, but I am reluctant to threaten a valuable agent with termination just so Van Owen’s eighteen-year-old urchin can get through a copy of Green Eggs and Ham.” “His ability is not as low as that, but he isn’t fluent, and his spelling is abominable.” “That,” Connors said with precision. “Does not detract from my point.” Streets tilted her head to the side, choosing her words. “You implied earlier that multiple people have fallen for Emilio’s charm. I assume you meant Van Owen, Scott Fields, several other instructors, the guards…” “An unfortunate reality that does not change the course of this conversation.” Impatience tightened the corners of Streets’ mouth. “You listen poorly, Jacob. Allow me to finish speaking.” Connors reclined in his chair again. “By all means.” They looked at each other for a stretch of silence, a silent exchange made heavy by years of resentment between them, before Streets nodded. “I spoke to Camille already, and she reacted exactly as you described.” Streets smiled. “Until she learned the identity of her pupil.” Connors eyes narrowed to slits. “Then,” Streets continued, smugness seeping in. “She was intrigued and more than willing to spend a few hours a week with young Mr. Vega.” “You mean to imply—” “I imply nothing. When I inquired about the change in demeanor, Camille stated that if she was being forced to tutor, she was happy to have a bonus. Emilio made an impression on her during their brief time together.” Connors scoffed. “He made an impression on her loins.” “And Cameron Russell’s as well,” Streets said. “Camille indicated that I should keep her involvement with Emilio confidential. That Agent Russell may become… territorial.” “Of her?” Connors demanded. “I have no patience for these—” “No.” Streets pointed at the monitor again, the tip of her finger tracing Emilio’s high cheekbones and pillowy lips. “Of him.” Connors followed the route of her finger, and the sapling of his earlier idea flourished. “Emilio has a rare ability to get beneath people’s skin.” Streets leaned forward. “He has already, in one way or another, seduced several of our staff. In some cases, it wasn’t even intentional.” The memory of Emilio’s intake flooded Connors’ mind; the way Cameron had stood over Emilio as if in a trance, his typically vacant eyes alight with unconcealed desire, and the anger that had overcome the senior agent when Connors had recommended termination. “You are correct,” Connors said finally. “And in that way, I can more than make use of him.” *** It had been well over a month since Emilio had seen Cameron, but the sight of the man was like a punch in the gut. Or a shot of adrenaline. Their eyes locked once, briefly, and Emilio’s pulse was already thundering. Now that he was faced with the object of his obsession, a sense of anticipation snaked through Emilio, though he couldn’t identify what it was that he was anticipating. A showdown in front of the other trainees? A wild brawl? A confrontation now that they were on equal footing, and Emilio wasn’t hogtied in the back of a van? Or maybe he just wanted some acknowledgment. More than that one glance. Something to indicate that, after all they’d gone through together, Cameron was just as fixated on him. The other trainees talked about Cameron like he was the bogeyman, but Emilio doubted they’d actually fought the man. Drakos and Serrano may be good at hand-to-hand combat, but Emilio was good at running and hiding—disappearing in a cramped urban landscape and pitching himself across rooftops because a plummet to the ground was preferable to captivity. Maybe they’d struggled against Cameron, but Emilio didn’t think they’d taken the senior agent for the same kind of ride. Nah. Emilio had been the exception, and he wanted some fucking recognition. Something to prove that Cameron had spent the last few weeks thinking back on their wild chase, remembering the smell of sweat as he’d hauled Emilio into that motel room, and the feel of Emilio’s mouth wrapped around the root of his cock. He’d been lost in that blowjob, and Emilio knew that Cameron had wanted more. Emilio shifted on the floor of the training room, bringing his knees up to his chest. He rested his chin against his knees, dark hair falling over his face, and watched Cameron from beneath his lashes. People were talking, probably about something important, but Emilio didn’t hear a word. Since that morning on the La Linda border, he had replayed his interactions with Cameron on a daily basis. The events were etched into his mind, but there were times when he’d doubted the sharpness of his memories. Had he psyched himself out? Had his failure to escape Cameron turned the man into a larger than life super soldier in his mind? Was Cameron as tall as Emilio remembered? As strong? Had Cameron really moved that quickly? Aimed that accurately while leaping rooftops? Had his face been that blank and cold? Was he really that psychotic? That sickeningly hot? As Cameron stood before the knot of probie agents, the answer to each of those questions popped into Emilio’s head. Yes, yes, and goddamn yes again. The motherfucker stood ramrod straight, his body ripped with muscles that were clearly visible beneath skintight, Agency-issued armor, and that stone cold face of his was a thing of wet dreams. Emilio had never been ashamed of the crossed wires in his head that made him crave filthy, reckless pain sex, but the fact that Cameron had the ability to make his dick pulse was an unfortunate reality. Even if Emilio had enjoyed having Cameron’s cock in his mouth, it hadn’t exactly been fair play. "Wake up, Vega.“ Emilio wet his lips, glanced at Asher, and gave a curt nod. Asher looked knowing, but Emilio wasn’t about to confirm any of his suspicions. Being the guy who would suck a dick for a favor was a lot different than being the guy who panted after sociopathic savages with pretty faces. "Long time no see, Agent Russell.” Drakos rolled his shoulders and the veins in his upper arms stood out in relief to his olive skin. He flashes one of his horrible, sardonic smiles. “Can’t say I missed you.” Cameron did not even deign to look at the man. There was enough bitterness in Drakos’ tone to indicate an untold story, but Emilio bargaining for information from the bulky ex-cop was more likely to end in a bloodbath than a trade of favors. Over a month in, and they still fucking hated each other. “Senior Agent Russell is here for your quarterly evaluations. Apparently Captain Thomas is indisposed.” Scott made “apparently” sound a lot more like “allegedly”. “You’ll go one-by-one with him into the private sparring room.” “Why aren’t you evaluating us?” Anwar looked as thrilled to see Cameron as Drakos had. “You’re our instructor.” "That’s why I’m not evaluating you.“ "Aw, Fields, does that mean you’re not impartial?” Max dimpled at their instructor, but his smile was strained. “We’ve grown on you!” Scott just shook his head. Drakos jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the corridor that led to the private rooms. “If we fail, what are the odds of us coming out of there in one piece?” “High,” Cameron said flatly. “You’d be terminated outside of the training complex.” Silence met the statement. With a handful of words, Cameron had wiped all traces of forced jocularity from the tiny group. For all that the probies tossed around warnings about what the Agency was capable of, even after whatever they’d witnessed with Kayne, they seemed unprepared for the worst. Emilio couldn’t relate. He spent most of his time expecting the worst. “Drakos.” Scott nodded at the door. “You’re up first.” Drakos rose from the floor in one movement, his shoulders back and head held high, but for the first time since Emilio had met the man, he was without a comment or an insulting joke. Cameron led Drakos down the corridor, and a soberness fell over the rest of the group. Even Scott was tense, cracking his knuckles and rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flit to the door every few minutes, sweat dampening his forehead and his lips tightened to a slash. “Fuck, I’m next,” Asher whispered. “He’s going to kill me.” “You don’t even know if this is a combat eval,” Anwar pointed out. “It could be a review of your data.” “Yeah, and my data is fucked.” Panic made Asher look younger, his blue eyes large as coins in his thin face. “My combat skills drag me way down. I’m behind all of you.” “It’s not a competition.” Max shook his head, frowning. “Just because you’re not on par with us doesn’t mean you don’t have what the Agency needs. Besides, you’re going to be a geek not a fieldie.” Asher didn’t look comforted. He rubbed his hands together, lip caught between his teeth, and stared at the corridor as if he was waiting for Drakos to reappear. Emilio found himself doing the same thing albeit for different reasons. If he could grill Drakos on what the evaluation had included, he could get a leg up and plan for… whatever it was that he wanted to do. Emilio was still unsure. For the past month, he had envisioned their reunion ranging from either a public fight somewhere on compound, or a targeted attack—Emilio slipping into the man’s apartment and getting the drop on him while he slept. Similar to what he’d done to Asher, but with more pain. There was no clock in the room, no way to track the time, so Emilio began counting seconds. He was well over two thousand when Cameron returned to the training room. Alone. “Where’s Drakos?” Anwar seemed to regret the question as soon as it left his mouth, but he simply set his jaw and kept expectantly looking at Cameron. Cameron didn’t even look in his direction. He stood by Scott, expressionless. There wasn’t a mark on him or a hair out of place to imply that he’d been in a fight. No clues as to how Drakos’ evaluation had gone, or where he was now. “Hawkins. Let’s go.” Asher got to his feet. He shot Scott a slightly panicked look before following Cameron out of the room. @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ 180 Proof Vega - ch 9 Emilio counted the seconds two more times as Anwar, and then Max, were summoned. He stopped counting only when he had remained alone in the room with Scott for nearly thirty minutes. The tedium had set in two hours before, but Emilio had held off on moving or speaking before now. People who fidgeted were seen as nervous, and he wasn’t nervous. He was restless, anxious, and trying to keep his head together even as his brain hurled different scenarios at him at a rapid-fire pace. He paced, ran his hands through his hair, bounced on the balls of his feet, and ultimately began shadowboxing. Through it all, Scott said nothing. “You all scared for your babies?” Emilio asked, feinting a punch at the wall. “I didn’t think you really gave two shits.” Scott rubbed his chin slowly, staring without comment. “I guess I can relate. I’m pretty worried about my men back in Monterrey, but some motherfuckers won’t even let me make a call.” “Emilio…” “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I ain’t special. I get it. But… seems kinda weird that y'all want to cut me off from my group. Kinda stupid. Like y'all ain’t thinking long term and what not.” Scott released a barely audible sigh. “You’re like a dog with a bone, kid.” “Alls I’m saying it—” “And what happened to all of those deportment lessons you spend so much time at?” Scott stopped rubbing his chin, dropping his hand so it dangled by his side. “I thought Ms. Streets was doing her best to scrub the slang from your vocabulary?” “She tried.” Emilio swung both fists in a three punch combination that worked better on his shadow than actual people. For all that he’d kicked and bitten his way through the childhood, Emilio had a long way to go when it came to being efficient with his movements and methodical in the course of a fight. It was Scott’ primary criticism of his skills. “Just ‘cause I can switch back and forth, don’t mean I’m going to turn into one of your little Agency clones.” “I don’t think that’s possible even if you sounded like the whitest WASP to cross through the compound’s gate.” “Imma take that as a compliment.” Emilio stopped swinging and turned to face Scott. He’d worked up a sweat and expended some of the restless energy that had accrued during his wait. “Wouldn’t it be some shit if you were stuck with just me?” “It wouldn’t only be you.” Scott looked at the door again. A line appeared between his brows. “Doug will be back this week, and the female will be with us next week.” “The druggie chick?” “The other R&D probie.” “Yeah, whatever.” Emilio watched as Scott began to pace around the room, checking weapons and materials. Obviously on edge. “Man, you’re way softer than I thought. Shouldn’t you be used to this shit by now?” Scott picked up a small remote control from the desk wedged into the corner. “Emilio, leave it alone.” “Fine.” Emilio counted the seconds. He got up to three hundred before speaking again. “I thought the Agency burned all of the feelings out of you people? What the fuck do you care if all of those suckers are dead in a fucking bin, ready to be rolled to the incinerator? I bet that’s what happened.” Scott dropped the remote so hard that it clattered. “I said leave it, kid.” “I’m just sayin’.” “So say something else,” Scott exploded. “You want to get under my fucking skin, Emilio? You want to piss off one of maybe three people who don’t want to see YOU being thrown into a bin? Then keep. fucking. talking.” “Whoa, you’re getting pretty emotional.” Scott speared Emilio with a venomous look, and Emilio held up his hands in surrender. “I’m joking, okay? Damn, man. Chill the fuck out. I’m just trying to kill some time.” Scott huffed out a scoff. “Bad choice of words.” The instructor’s sensitivity was as appealing as a hammer shoved sideways up Emilio’s ass, but he left it alone. Instead, he stood by the door and peered into the corridor, waiting for Cameron to reappear, and wondering why it seemed like Serrano was taking longer than everyone else. By the time Cameron came striding down the hallway, Emilio had almost begun to think that he was, for some reason, being left out of the evals. “Took you long enough.” Emilio didn’t stand up from his slouch. “I was starting to feel lonely.” Cameron stopped only when he was a couple of inches away, well into Emilio’s personal space. He was close enough for Emilio to inhale the clean scent of soap on the man’s skin. But Emilio didn’t back away. He lolled his head against the frame, raised his eyebrows, and waited for Cameron to do something besides look markedly unimpressed with everything around him. Cameron’s eyes skimmed Emilio and moved away dismissively before he said, “Instructor Scott, I’m taking Vega.” Scott did not reply. Cameron looked at Emilio again, as unreadable as he’d been during their first meeting, and nodded towards the corridor. Taking the cue, Emilio slid his hands into his pockets and sauntered down the hall. He could feel Cameron’s eyes burning into his back the entire time. There was no sign of the other probies, but there were also no damning signs of murder. Not that that meant anything in and of itself. If the Agency wanted to get rid of some people, they were more than equipped to make the bodies disappear. They probably had secret tunnels and passageways leading to different buildings; a way to get around while remaining unseen. Emilio stopped walking when they reached the cluster of private rooms and slipped into the closest one after Cameron waved him inside. “So, what’s good, Cam? How you been since I last tore up and whooped your ass?” Cameron shut the door behind them. He stood in front of it like a sentinel, still scouring Emilio with that steady gaze. “Man, this evaluation is going to be super invigorating. What happened to the other guys? Did you bore them to death?” “Shut your mouth.” Emilio shut his mouth more out of surprise than a desire to comply with the order. He’d expected Cameron to take the professional approach, to pretend like they’d never fought like alley cats, but the edge in that voice was just as threatening as it had been in the van. And that rubbed Emilio the wrong fucking way. His hands curled, fingers digging into the skin of his palm. “Let’s get this over with.” Cameron pushed away from the door, crossing the room in two strides. “General Connors wants you dead.” “I wish I was surprised by that.” “He’s wanted you dead from the beginning. I convinced the Marshal to give you a chance.” Emilio gave the appearance of caring little about that information, and boosted himself up to sit on top of a metal supply cabinet. “I don’t see why you’d go out of your way to keep me alive.” Emilio planted his hands flat, leaning back. “Considering I can’t fucking stand you.” “Your opinion is irrelevant. I defended you because you can be an excellent agent.” It was a compliment, but it didn’t sound like one coming out of Cameron’s mouth. It sounded more like he was repeating a weather report. “You’re strong, fast, and attractive. Connors doesn’t like you personally, and that is coloring his judgment.” “Scott- seems to like me just fine.” “Scott’s opinion is worth as much as yours,” Cameron replied. “If you want to live past the next couple of months, I suggest you clean up your act. You’re not in the favela anymore, Vega. And you’re not consorting with a group of smugglers that came together from every dark, crime-riddled hole in Latin America—” “Fuck you.” Emilio pushed himself off the bin, dropping to his feet. Resentment radiated through him, wanting to manifest in raised fists and thrown knuckles. “You want to talk all that shit about my people, but you got your fucking ass beat by me, didn’t you?” Cameron’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Are you proud of your accomplishment?” “Yeah, I’m pretty pleased that I got to kick you in the balls. Makes me all tingly.” They stared at each other in a stretch of silence that was filled with Emilio’s shifting feet and quickening breath. He was getting pissed and Cameron knew it. Cameron was deliberately drawing it out of him. “Do you want to hit me?” Instead of replying verbally, Emilio launched into the three punch combination he’d practiced only minutes ago. His right hand slammed into Cameron’s temple, the left got him in the chin, and then Emilio brought his right hand back in a mean arc that should have nailed Cameron in the kidneys. The blows exploded out of Emilio faster than they ever had before, but Cameron caught his fist on the third swing and snapped it backwards. Emilio bit back a cry of pain and accounted for the attack by bringing his knee up to Cameron’s solar plexus, driving it up hard and fast to knock the wind out of him. It didn’t work. Cameron released Emilio’s hand with a violent twist, and shoved him against the wall with so much force that Emilio’s head snapped back against it. It was jarring, and Emilio could feel the sensation in his teeth, but he struggled through the spots dancing before his eyes. “Are you done?” Cameron asked. “Not by a fucking long shot, bro.” The evaluation was forgotten in favor of a fight that should have ended in moments, but lasted upward of ten. With the heat of anger simmering Emilio’s blood, he couldn’t think straight enough to execute moves that he’d worked on for weeks. Instead of thinking three steps ahead and attacking in a fluid dance of skill, Emilio surged at Cameron with a flurry of spontaneous attacks that were meant to exploit openings and possible weaknesses, instead of the strategic targeting that Scott wanted him to learn. Emilio was frustrated even as they fought, but he kept at it. Flying kick to the chest, uppercut to Cameron’s stone face, another knee in the kidneys, and enough bites and gouges to scandalize both Serrano and Anwar. Both men were big on honor. Whatever the fuck that was. But through it all, Cameron barely reacted. He countered attacks, fended off others, and targeted nerves that ripped involuntary reactions out of Emilio. It was a disaster. They wound up on the floor with Emilio pinned. One of his arms was twisted behind his back while the other was caught in Cameron’s iron grip. He was splayed out and helpless, sweat-damp hair clinging to his face and mouth, as Cameron crushed him against the floor. They were pressed tight enough for Emilio to feel every bulge of muscle, every hard line, and to feel breath when Cameron spoke directly into his ear. “Do you feel better now, bitch?” Emilio bucked his hips up, rolling his eyes back. “Can’t get off with just foreplay.” Cameron’s breath caught. He pressed himself against Emilio tighter. “You’re a slut.” “And your dick is hard enough to punch a hole in your pants.” Emilio lifted his head again, grinding up with a ragged smile. “Just how hard up are you?” “Hard up enough to come down that whore mouth of yours again.” Emilio’s body reacted to the words even as his brain sprinted in a totally different direction. Or tried to. It was hard to think straight once Cameron was rubbing the flat of his thumb against Emilio’s lower lip, tugging it down and pressing against it. His gaze was fixed on Emilio’s mouth. “Why’d you want to keep me around, Cameron?” Emilio arched his back, spreading his thighs, and rolled up in a way that was more than suggestive. It was an invitation. “Word on the street is that you could give less of two fucks about anyone here. You rough up the probies, drop ‘em off, and go back to business as usual. What’s so special about me?” Cameron either wasn’t interested in an exchange of secrets or he wasn’t paying attention, because his response was to shove Emilio’s head back and suck on his throat. The feeling of hot suction and the graze of teeth was so unexpected that Emilio released a ragged moan. His cock pulsed, body overheating, and an ache built in his gut that had nothing to do with being injured from their fight. This wasn’t the plan. Exploiting Cameron’s overeager cock and strange fixation was the plan. Get him hot and then turn on him, the way Emilio had done in the alley. Or get him hot and then seduce the fucker into doing Emilio a few favors. And finally, beat the living fuck out of him once it was all said and done. A fantasy about forcing Cameron to his knees before fucking his throat had kept Emilio up at night for the past several weeks. Kissing hadn’t been in the fantasy, but Cameron seemed dead set on doing it. He sucked Emilio’s throat, nipped at it, and then kissed the stinging spot all while Emilio lay beneath him, shaking and confused by this turn of events. Maybe a fist fight actually was foreplay for Cameron. Maybe each punch just served as a knock to his cock–the same kind of trigger Emilio had had since he’d been too young to understand it. Fighting almost always led to fucking, and pain was almost involved in sex. Cameron ripped his shirt up and clamped down on one of Emilio’s nipples, worrying at it and sucking, driving Emilio insane with the dual sensations. “Fuck,” Emilio gasped. “Fuck—stop.” “You want it, slut.” Cameron reached between them, gripping the outline of Emilio’s dick through his armor. “I bet that dick is leaking.” “So lick it up, white boy.” Emilio’s rolled back when Cameron squeezed his wood harder. “You owe me a fucking blowjob.” “Next time.” Cameron licked up Emilio’s throat before swiping his tongue across Emilio’s mouth. “I have something else in mind.” Emilio was still trying to process the “next time” when Cameron’s weight abruptly vanished, and he was suddenly being hauled to his feet. He tried to snap himself out of the daze of lust, but his body was thrumming with the need to get off, regardless of who was doing it. He didn’t protest as he was shoved against the cabinet, slightly bent over with his elbows braced against the metal, and Cameron pressed against his back. Every neuron in Emilio’s brain was hyper focused on the need to touched, fucked, to bust, so he didn’t protest when Cameron ripped his pants halfway down in one clean tug. Cameron shoved Emilio down lower, slamming the side of his face against the cool surface of the cabinet, and the bite of fingers digging into his arms roughly, of the short electric shocks of pain, had Emilio trembling with anticipation. It didn’t matter who Cameron was or what he’d done or whether Emilio hated him—all that mattered was the thrill Emilio got out of being used hard. Cameron slid his hand down the bared swatch of skin before squeezing one of Emilio’s ass cheeks. The tips of his fingers tickled Emilio’s crack, and his ass clenched up. “Who else have you been fucking?” Emilio was reduced to open mouthed pants as he clutched at the edges of the cabinet. He barely heard the words until Cameron smacked his ass, jolting out of the red-tinged haze of lust. “I asked you a question, bitch.” “No one,” Emilio growled. “I think you’re lying.” The sound of Cameron spitting filled the room, and dampness trailed down Emilio’s crack. “You need to be fucked like other people need to breathe,” Cameron said, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Emilio’s hole. He slicked it with his saliva. “Tell me.” “Fuck you.” The words had barely left Emilio’s mouth before Cameron’s fingers rammed into his hole. Pain radiated from Emilio’s ass, but it only made his dick harder, especially once those ruthlessly thrusting digits began to hammer his sweet spot. “Oh shit.” Emilio squeezed his eyes shut, brows arched up, and clung to the cabinet. His toes curled in his boots. “Right there, fucker. J-just like that…” Cameron hissed out a breath, added a finger, and started fucking Emilio deep enough for half of his hand to go up his ass. The constant impact against his spot had Emilio sobbing out nonsense words, his eyes tearing from the exquisite mix of pleasure and pain, but somehow, it still wasn’t enough. A chance of more more more started up in Emilio’s head, resounding and echoing even though he couldn’t make the words form on his lips. “You want my dick, Vega?” Emilio nodded blindly, releasing some pathetic, keening noise. “Beg me for it.” Somehow, it was those words that cut through Emilio’s jumbled thoughts. “You wish, motherfucker.” A low sound met Emilio’s grunts, and he realized distantly that it was laughter. Cameron was chuckling as he plowed Emilio’s hole with nearly his entire fist. The sound nearly doused the kindling burn in Emilio’s body, but another precise thrust made his nuts seize up, and Emilio felt the rush of near panicked ecstasy that proceeded a violent release of cum. He was almost there, almost at the peak, when the door to the training room burst open. Scott framed the doorway, his white with rage and lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. “Get the fuck off him, Russell.” “I don’t think he wants me to.” There was no inflection in Cameron’s voice, nothing to indicate that he was even remotely concerned about being caught in act of screwing a probie. “Do you want me to stop, Vega?” Emilio savaged his lower lip, trying to stifle the ragged cries that were trying to erupt from his mouth. That exquisite burn was still building, and he could only look at Scott with agony-glazed eyes. He thought it must be obvious that he was practically gagging for his ass to be used, but Scott didn’t take it that way. “Step away from him, you sick fuck. Or I will end you. Right now.” Emilio pressed his forehead against the cabinet and took a deep breath, but his ass reflexively clenched around Cameron’s fingers when they slid out of his hole. Cameron smacked Emilio’s ass hard enough to sting and jerked Emilio back by a handful of hair. In a move that was likely more for Scott’ building rage than Cameron’s own enjoyment, the senior agent licked the side of Emilio’s face before shoving him aside. He stumbled, pants caught around his hips, and tucked his still semi-hard dick into his underwear. “Get dressed, bitch.” “Fuck you, asshole,” Emilio snarled. Someday, he was really going to kill Cameron. After the asshole finally got him off. “So,” Scott said, not sparing Emilio a glance. “This is why you’re doing the 'evaluations’,” he used air quotes, “And not Captain Thomas.” “Your skills of deduction are impressive, Scott,” Cameron said. He adjusted the crotch of his black cargo pants. Shameless. It made another little thrill of heat shoot through Emilio as he fixed his clothing. “Captain Thomas is dealing with situation, and I volunteered to take his place.” “How generous of you.” Scott closed the space between he and Cameron with a few long strides. His arms were loose at his sides, but Emilio could tell his instructor was coiling for a fight. “If I see you putting your hands on my material again, I will tear you apart, you psychotic piece of shit.” Cameron looked unmoved. “Technically, my hand was in him.” Scott’ nostrils flared. His hand twitched. “I’m reporting you.” Emilio held up his hands. “Hey now—” “You might regret it if you do,” Cameron said mildly. “You think you fucking scare me, Russell?” Scott took a step closer, his face brushing Cameron’s. “I trained you. I will own you.” “All right, y'all bitches need to calm down.” Emilio’s erection was non-existent at this point, and the wicked burn of need was replaced by an expanding bubble of irritation. At Scott. “If you’re gonna report this psycho, you can leave my name out of it.” Scott’ head snapped in his direction. “Whether you want your name in it or not, he used his clearance and history with Agency training to assault a trainee. And whether it affects you or not, it may affect others who this fuck will target—” “He didn’t target no one,” Emilio snapped. “It was my fault, okay? I told him I need out of this prison so I can touch base with my people, and his price was a little gayer than I anticipated. No harm done. Now calm your fucking tits.” Emilio could feel Cameron’s cool gaze on his profile, but Emilio kept his attention on Scott. The training instructor seemed very close to having a meltdown. Or killing both he and Cameron. And, for all that Cameron was a cyborg, Emilio thought Scott could do it. He’d been one of the forces that had turned Cameron into an unstoppable machine. It made Emilio look at Scott with new eyes and appreciation, but he’d just blown his shot at Scott returning the sentiment. The guy looked ready to knock his teeth out, and he kept glaring at Emilio even when Cameron snorted, no longer interested in the argument, and left the room. Once he was gone, Scott released a slow breath. “I try so hard to keep my material alive, but you’re starting to make me wonder why I fight Connors about your potential termination.” “Because I’m awesome?” Scott shook his head in disgust and turned away. “One more mistake, and you’ll find your awesome ass locked on the Fourth. Mark my words, kid.” Emilio said nothing in return, watched Scott storm out of the room, and sagged against the wall. He very belatedly wondered what exactly he’d been evaluated on. @@@@@@@@&@@&@&&&&&@@@@ 180 Proof Vega - ch 10 Scott’s claim about keeping his material alive seemed more legit after Emilio met Douglas Fergusen. If there was ever a guy more undisciplined than Emiio at the Agency, it had to be the cyclone with the Australian accent who charged into the narrow room they had been assigned to share. Doug stood several inches taller than Emilio’s 5'10", had about thirty more pounds of muscle corded along his body, and a ruddy face made boyish by wild black curls and explosively blue eyes. Jerk-off material. Easy. Or he would have been if it wasn’t for the minor detail of him having a voice like a surround sound speaker with too much bass. Between Doug’s broad body, loud mouth, and his presence, the room suddenly felt overcrowded. “Who the fuck’s this?” Doug hollered, pointing at Emilio as if he was the chupacabra. Emilio looked up from the map he had been drawing and glanced over Doug’s shoulder. No one else appeared. “Who the hell are you talking to?” “I dunno.” Doug planted his fists on his hips, glowering like a pissed off bull. “What the fuck’re you doing in my room?” “What does it look like I’m doing, you stupid piece of shit?” “Oi!” Doug’s eyes opened up wider. “Just who do you think you’re mouthin’ off to, little boy?” Emilio rolled his eyes and turned back to the sheet of paper he had stretched out across the bed. Max, Anwar, and even Drakos had backed up Scott’s claim that Doug was some kind of combat genius, but Emilio was having a hard time reconciling that with the overgrown cartoon character looming over him. And Emilio had more important things to worry about. Like figuring out how to get the hell out of the training complex so he could access a phone. It had been almost a month and a half since he’d failed to cross over the Mexican border, and the unknown was gnawing at him with sharper teeth every day. What were his men doing? Had they accused a rival group of snagging him? It wouldn’t make any sense. There would have been a ransom demand by now unless the guys began to suspect it was a simple execution. Even Angel would flip if he thought there was a fraction of a chance that they would find Emilio’s decapitated head somewhere in the desert. Angel’s rich boy upbringing gave way to a ferocious violent streak when someone he cared about got hurt. It was then that the others in the gang, the ones who quietly muttered about a couple of pretty boys running Mara Tres, took a step back and realized how dangerous Angel could be once his flip switched. “This kid seriously just turned his fuckin’ back to me!” Emilio frowned down at his sketch of the compound. It was based on the one memory he had of walking from the Tower to the training complex, but there had been so much to take in that Emilio knew he’d missed key details. Exits, focal points for the guards, the most and least populated buildings— The flimsy piece of paper was snatched off the bed and into the air. “What we got here?” Doug boomed. “A real pretty picture. Or maybe… ohh… maybe it's—” Emilio spun on his heels, pushed with his thighs, and bolted upright with both fists together. He slammed them into Doug’s chin with enough force to make him stumble and drop the map, but it wasn’t enough to put him on the back the way the move had done to Drakos earlier that day. Instead, Doug twisted and transitioned to an angled kick that caught Emilio in the side. He staggered, caught himself, but then crashed into the wall after Doug rotated again and sent another flying kick to the side of his neck. Instead of letting him slide to the floor, Doug grabbed him, did a hip throw, and had Emilio pinned to the floor in a headlock. He struggled out of it after a breathless moment of his face being pressed against Doug’s, but the escape was brief, nearly nonexistent. Doug accounted for the movement by sweeping Emilio up into a flip that ended with his arm being twisted back and up, with Doug’s thighs sandwiching his head. “You done, baby?” Doug asked with a breathless laugh. “Fuck you.” Emilio’s voice pitched higher when Doug twisted his arm hard. “Argh—motherfucker!” “Tap out, and I’ll let you go.” Emilio grit his teeth together. He pressed his head back against the floor and squeezed his eyes shut. Pain radiated up his arm like a thousand tiny explosions going off beneath his skin, but giving up to this guy… “C'mon. If I break your arm, you’re bloody useless, and you know what that means.” “Fuck!” Emilio slapped his hand against the floor. Doug released his arm, and Emilio rolled onto his side, cradling it. “You’re lucky I just got here, you fucking gorilla. Give me a couple of months—” A booming laugh interrupted Emilio’s tirade. “You think the Agency taught me what I know?” Doug squatted down beside Emilio, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t think so, baby. I was a cruiserweight champ in kickboxing before this place came callin’. Had a competition coming up in November for fifty big ones and everything…” Emilio stared up at Doug through a halo of disheveled hair. It was almost as if they had not even been in a fight. Doug was frowning down at Emilio thoughtfully, thinking back on his exciting fighting career. “So then what the fuck are you doing here?” Doug shrugged and stuck out a hand for Emilio. Emilio ignored it, and Doug got to his feet with a grin. “I killed a couple of opponents during matches, and it was this whole big thing. Anyway, who cares about that. Why the fuck’re you in my room?” Emilio pushed his shoulders back against the floor before rebounding to leap to his feet. “It ain’t your room, psycho. It’s our room. And if you don’t like it, you can take it up with one of the assholes that run this joint.” “Fuck all that.” Doug surveyed Emilio critically. “What’d they bring you in for, anyway? You’re a pretty looking Spanish cunt, but what good is that in a fight? Unless they’re gonna make you a valentine.” “I’m not Spanish, you fucktard.” Emilio folded his map into a neat square, gritting his teeth against the pain that was still blazing up his arm. “What’s a valentine?” “An Agency slut.” “You’re just full of useful information, ain’t you?” A sly look crossed Doug’s face, and he nodded at the piece of paper disappearing into Emilio’s pocket. “Got way more than you from the look of it.” Emilio’s gaze skewered Doug to the spot. “I don’t care how big you are, fucker. Don’t think I won’t fuck up your whole world if you mess with me.” “Aww, you’re a paranoid little bitch, aren’t you?” Doug took a step forward, hand on Emilio’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate. We can be—” Emilio cut Doug off by grabbing his upper arm, sliding around him, and locking an elbow around Doug’s throat. Emilio jerked his elbow up sharply and slammed his free hand to the small of Doug’s back, causing him to fall back and hang himself further on Emilio’s crooked arm. “Listen up, douchebag.” Emilio dragged Doug backwards, relishing in the man’s strained gasp as his arteries were cut off. “Tell anyone about that map, and I’ll cut your throat in your sleep. You feel me?” Doug nodded. His knees buckled, and Emilio released him. “Shit,” Doug gasped. “That was totally un-fucking-called for. Another couple seconds, and I’d have been out cold. Didn’t even think they were teaching you cunts that shit already.” “Yeah, well, the Agency didn’t teach me everything I know either.” Doug harrumphed and plopped down on the floor, glaring up at Emilio through his wild black curls. He looked like a big kid. “If we’re gonna be rooming together, you need to be a little bit nicer to me. Got it, baby?” “Stop calling me baby. What are you a fucking homo or something?” Doug’s face creased in a scowl. “Um. No. Just spent weeks on the Fourth tryin’ to convince one of the guards to give me some pussy. But anyway, there ain’t nothing wrong with being a homo. I knew a guy who was gay, was about to sign a contract with a new team and everything, but they found he liked the cock so—” “Do you ever shut the hell up?” Doug shrugged. “Not really.” Emilio shook his head slowly, not looking away from Doug’s bright eyes. In a way, he reminded Emilio of a younger, goofier Moisés. Big as a truck, but unexpectedly charming and endearing despite all of the shit talk. Even so, Emilio kept the mean mug on and curled his lips into a sneer. “I ain’t gonna say nothin’ about your sorry-ass map,” Doug said, rolling his eyes. “Jesus. It’s not like it’ll be any help to you, anyway.” “How do you figure that?” “‘Cause gettin’ off the compound ain’t as easy as hopping a fence. There’s cameras everywhere, and you got to know the patterns. Getting around the patrols is only part of it.” “What are you, an expert?” Doug flashed a mischievous smile, all white teeth and dimples. “As good of one as you’re gonna find. Why’d you think I was on the Fourth?” Emilio gave Doug a skeptical once over. This time, he caught a glimpse of red welts beneath the man’s crew neck shirt, and the distinct outline of bandages on his torso. “You got out,” Emilio said flatly. “And they brought you back.” “Yeh.” Doug got to his feet, still running his fingers along his neck, as if it were the worst of his injuries. “Not the first time I got out, either. Punishment was worse this time round. I dunno what the big fuckin’ deal is. It’s not like I’m trying to escape or nothing.” “Then what the hell are you leaving the compound for, you big idiot?” Doug tilted his head to the side, looking at Emilio as if the answer should be obvious. “To score some pot, man.” Emilio stared. “Are you fucking serious?” “Totally serious.” Doug flashed a thumbs up, all smiles again. “Why, want some?” “You still have it?” “I stashed it, but once I get on the other side of the gate again…” The guy was either a lunatic, or the most ambitious pothead Emilio had ever met. And he had met many. The most interesting part was Doug had clearly proved himself to the Agency if he was getting this much leeway. Even after multiple escape attempts, Doug was allowed to leave the Fourth and return to training with nothing more than some battle scars. Whatever torture Doug had endured had clearly not been savage enough to prevent him from future escapes in the future. “I got a proposition for you.” Doug smirked. “That makes me think something dirty, just so you know.” “If that’s how you want to play it.” Doug’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair but before he could respond, Scott appeared in their doorway. He observed the signs of a recent scuffle—Doug’s reddened throat and Emilio’s disheveled clothes and unruly hair. “Everything all right in here?” “No,” Doug snapped, switching right back to his complaining. “Who told you to put this bossy little slut in my room? I think I deserve some rest and relaxation after what I’ve just gone through!” “You wouldn’t have gone through anything if you would stop acting like a nineteen-year-old frat boy.” “Fuck off, Fields. A man has needs.” Scott’s mouth twitched, but he suppressed a full smile, his expression becoming remote when he jerked his head at Emilio. “You’re late for your appointment with Ms. Streets.” Doug’s face lit up. “You got deportment classes? Me too, bro!” “Wow!” Emilio enthused. “Maybe we can study together. You read the chapter on indoctrination or death, and I’ll read the one on fifty ways to avoid being too ethnic!” “Oh, whatever.” Doug crossed his arms over his chest. “Jackass.” Scott snorted. “Okay Vega, let’s go.” Emilio allowed himself to be led out of the room but, before going through the door, he glanced back at Doug and mouthed, “Think about it.”

[valientefcrtis-a-blog]

✩ - Paul and Cedes

under a read more because this meme is long as fuck @gcldthrone

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice?: Paul, probably. He’s just that kind of guy.Who threatens to leave but never actually does?: Probably Cedes.Who actually keeps their word and leaves?: Paul. He went through a marriage that self destructed despite their best efforts to save it. He’s not doing that again.Who trashes the house?: Neither of them, their adults.Do either of them get physical?: No. Paul is like a hundred times bigger than her, he’d kill the poor babe.How often do they argue/disagree?: Not very often, and when they do it’s like bickering. Like what to get for dinner, etc.Who is the first to apologise?: Paul. He doesn’t like having her mad at him.

Sex:

Who is on top?: Paul unless Cedes is riding him.Who is on the bottom?: ^^^Who has the strangest desires?: Neither of them, they’re pretty normal people.Any kinks?: Paul loves fucking her in his office, if that counts.Who’s dominant in bed?: Paul, definitely.Is head ever in the equation?: Pshh, of course.If so, who is better at performing it?: Paul will gladly take the crown for this one.Ever had sex in public?: A BJ in the bathroom at the Q/uicken L/oans arena is the most public they’ve done.Who moans the most?: Cedes.Who leaves the most marks?: Cedes because Paul can just cover it up with his suits ot a shirt.Who screams the loudest?: Cedes for sure. Who is the more experienced of the two?: Paul.Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’?: Depending on how much time they have, it’s both.Rough or soft?: Rough. Unless one of their backs is acting up.How long do they usually last?: Again it depends on how much time they have. They can do anything from a few minutes to all night.Is protection used?: Yep, at this point they can’t afford not to.Does it ever get boring?: Nope.Where is the strangest place they’d have sex?: Men’s bathroom at the All State Arena.

Family:

Do your muses plan on having children/or have children?: Paul has his three girls, but he would be open to more because he really wants a son.If so, how many children do your muses want/have? Answered above lol.Who is the favorite parent?: Either of them because they aren’t Steph lolWho is the authoritative parent?: Paul.Who is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school?: Cedes. She doesn’t see the kiddos that often so when she has the time off she wants to spend it with them.Who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’t around?: Cedes definitely. Like she sneaks away from the midnight workouts to have some ice cream with her step girls.Who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children?: They both do, with Shane as a buffer so there’s no interaction with Steph.Who goes to parent teacher interviews?: Paul. That’s the one thing he and Stephanie do together.Who changes the diapers?: All the kiddos are potty trained, holla.Who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby?: The girls would probably wake Cedes up and have a midnight snack with her.Who spends the most time with the children?: They spend about the same amount, but probably Paul.Who packs their lunch boxes?: Paul, and then Cedes will throw in like a cupcake or something.Who gives their children ‘the talk’?: Paul would try but he’d end up passing that baton to Mercedes.Who cleans up after the kids?: The girls are all old enough to clean up after themselves.Who worries the most?: Paul.Who are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from?: They’re all past kindergarten by now, they’ve probably heard an F bomb or Seven.

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle?: They both do.Who is the little spoon?: Cedes. It’s physically impossible for Paul to be the little spoon.Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places?: Paul.Who struggles to keep their hands to themself?: Definitely Paul.How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable?: A long time, maybe like three or four hours.Who gives the most kisses?: Cedes.What is their favourite non-sexual activity?: Working out or hanging out at the performance center.Where is their favourite place to cuddle?: In bed.Who is more likely to playfully grope the other? : Paul, and then he looks away like he doesn’t know what happened.How often do they get time to themselves?: Considering that it’s mania season, not often. But they work with what they can.

Sleeping:

Who snores?: Paul. If both do, who snores the loudest?: N/ADo they share a bed or sleep separately?: They share a bed.If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart?: They’re pretty close, Paul is practically their mattress.Who talks in their sleep?: Paul mumbles, but nothing really coherent.What do they wear to bed?: Paul sticks with like his boxers and Cedes wears one of his t-shirts.Are either of your muses insomniacs?: If there’s a big project or contract signing, Paul tends to be.Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside?: Nope.Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side?: They’re either spooning or Paul’s got his arm around her.Who wakes up with bed hair?: Cedes, cause Paul has no hair.Who wakes up first?: Paul. Important COO business.Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other?: Paul, and if he has to leave before she wakes up he leaves her coffee.What is their favourite sleeping position?: Either spooning or Paul on his back with her at his side.Who hogs the sheets?: Paul is king blanket hog.Do they set an alarm each night?: Paul does.Can a television be found in their bedroom?: Yep.Who has nightmares?: Neither of them really.Who has ridiculous dreams?: Cedes might because of her injury.Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed?: Paul.Who makes the bed?: It depends on who has time.What time is bed time?: Paul tries to be in bed before two am.Any routines/rituals before bed?: Wake up, shower, coffee, gym, and then any other plans.Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up?: Cedes, and Paul teases her about it.

Work:

Who is the busiest?: Paul by far. COO problems.Who rakes in the highest income?: Paul.Are any of your muses unemployed?: No.Who takes the most sick days?: Well not that she was sick, but Cedes had more time off recently due to injury.Who is more likely to turn up late to work?: Neither of them,Who sucks up to their boss?: Well technically Cedes sucks on her boss lmfaoWhat are their jobs?: Cedes is a wrestler and Paul is the COO of the company she wrestles for.Who stresses the most?: Paul.Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations?: They love them.Are your muses financially stable?: Very much so.

Home:

Who does the washing?: They both do.Who takes out the trash?: Whoever makes it full.Who does the ironing?: Paul.Who does the cooking?: They take turns.Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying?: Paul.Who is messier?: Paul.Who leaves the toilet roll empty?: Cedes and it drives Paul insane.Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor?: Paul.Who forgets to flush the toilet?: Neither.Who is the prankster around the house?: Paul for sure.Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere?: Cedes.Who mows the lawn?: A lawn mowing service.Who answers the telephone?: Whoever is next to it when it rings.Who does the vacuuming?: Probably a cleaning lady idk.Who does the groceries?: They both do.Who takes the longest to shower?: Cedes for sure, unless they’re showering together lmfao.Who spends the most time in the bathroom?: Cedes.

Miscellaneous:

Is money a problem?: Not at all.How many cars do they own?: Like five between the two of them.Do they own their home or do they rent?: Own.Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside?: Kinda near the coast.Do they live in the city or in the country? : In the City.Do they enjoy their surroundings?: They love them.What’s their song?: All of Me by John Legend.What do they do when they’re away from each other?: Pout, text like constantly and call each other before they go to sleep.Where did they first meet?: W/we performance center.How did they first meet?: He’s her boss lol.Who spends the most money when out shopping?: Paul. He drops five grand like it’s nothing.Who’s more likely to flash their assets?: Paul.Who finds it amusing when the other trips over?: Paul cause he’s a grown ass man child.Any mental issues?: No.Who’s terrified of bugs?: Cedes, a bit.Who kills the spiders around the house?: Aurora cause Paul can’t lol.Their favourite place?: Anywhere the other is.Who pays the bills?: They both pay the bills.Do they have any fears for their future?: Paul fears the age difference will bug Cedes more than she lets on.Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner?: Paul.Who uses up all of the hot water?: Paul, cause the motherfucker sings in the shower.Who’s the tallest?: Paul.Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other?: Cedes and it gives Paul a heart attack every time.Who wanders around in their underwear?: Cedes.Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio?: Cedes.What do they tease each other about?: Taste in music, shows, stuff like that.Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times?: Cedes at Paul for sure.Do they have mutual friends?: A ton. Pam, HBK, etc.Who crushed first?: Paul on her for sure.Any alcohol or substance related problems?: None.Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am?: Cedes.Who swears the most?: Paul.