Riot Act

Chapter 1

Tommy

Working as a landscaper isn’t so bad. I mean, I work hard for sure, and it’s not for the weak. But it doesn’t really require much thinking from me, and my bosses don’t care that they have to pay me under the table because at least half the employees are undocumented, just like me.

Well, not just like me. At least they know where they came from.

I straighten up and stretch out my spine, putting my gloved hands on my narrow hips to pop the kinks out as I twist this way and that.

The sunshine is harsh but the breeze is nice, and it keeps me cool.

I take a deep breath and view the beautiful grounds of the new estate my team and I are working on.

We had to drive for over an hour out of the city to get here.

It’s a gorgeous home, with flair, style and elegance, all shiny and new-age.

It feels like stepping into a movie set for a near-future sci-fi film.

Like any moment, a holographic butler or robotic dog will pop out of nowhere and everyone will just treat it like its normal, or no big deal.

I like it. It looks cool. I want it. I want to sneak in and lay on all the beds to see how soft they are compared to my lumpy, lame excuse for a mattress.

I want to use every toilet and shower, shave my balls in their bathroom sink–because if you have a fancy sink, the whole awkward experience is probably better, right?

Anyway, it’s a nice house.

And it’s on a large plot of land that makes me feel like I’m somewhere remote and wild, despite the fact that we’re surrounded by similarly-tamed plots of land with their own mansions perched on them.

Most of it is open lawn, with some areas nice and flat, others swelling with gentle hills.

I’m happily working in their gorgeous garden.

My gloves are covered in soil and I have mulch all over my jeans and boots, and even though it stains my clothes, I kind of like it.

Or at least, I tell myself I like it. I order myself to like it.

Because why the fuck would I complain? Why be a spoiled bitch about this when it feels so much better than breathing exhaust and city stink all day?

This is much better than being on the road crews or construction.

It sounds like a no-brainer when I put it like that, right?

Working hard and being sweaty and exhausted and sore all the time from bending over and hauling heavy shit around must be nicer when you have fresh air and like, flowers and shit, right?

Anyone could say that. I guess, to be honest, it’s true.

I’d choose the landscaping, sure. Hands down.

But even I can admit that liking it is a bit of a stretch.

But I tell myself to like it anyway. Tell myself to get my shit in order and be fucking happy with it. Because liking things in general isn’t easy for me, but it should be easy to like the dirt on my clothes. Dirt is free.

It’s a lot less easy to like things I’ll never have…

at least, not without spending a few minutes scheming about how I’ll steal and lie to get it.

I’ve gotten used to not having the things I might have to “earn” on my knees, or bent over.

I haven’t done that in ages, but it was…

well…it got me some extra money, but I’m done with that now.

So I look at all that “extra” shit that I can’t have and shrug it off, and I decide I don’t like any of that shit anyway.

I like what I have, and what I have is free dirt, and hard, mindless work, and fresh air.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and peer around.

I’m on a small team today, because a few people called out sick and one or two just didn’t show up.

We have a lot of work to do, but I don’t mind having extra on my plate.

Working keeps my mind busy, which is for the best. My brain…

isn’t always very helpful. I might do something a little squirrely if I sit still too long.

Like think. Think about myself, or my feelings, or my life.

No thanks. That’s strictly off limits for me.

I bend to grab my little shovel and continue digging holes for the new flowers I need to plant when I hear a cry.

My head whips up and I stand, spinning like a satellite dish to try and lock in on the sound.

There–a gentle weeping and some feminine sobs.

It’s coming from deeper in the garden, behind the privacy of flowering trees and the hand-carved hedge sculptures.

Without hesitation, I venture into the cooling shade and start hunting.

The garden is a bit of a maze, so I get within hearing distance before I see whoever is crying. There’s an ivy-covered stone wall separating me from her, and I circle it, trying to find a way in as I overhear the conversation.

“And he–he–he– God, it’s so awful!” A young woman sobs, sounding so forlorn that I feel my lips pull into a pout of sympathy for her.

A strident, more confident voice answers, also a young woman. “We’ll show him, Kira! He can’t just do this to you! You deserve better!”

Ah, a breakup. I stop, realizing that no one is in any danger, and I’m not needed.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the gravel crunches under my feet, alerting them to my unwelcome presence.

There is a gasp behind the wall, then a flurry of feet, and I look up to see a fearsome young woman, maybe twenty?

Twenty-one? Rounding the wall with her fists balled and her eyebrows pulled in an angry expression.

Her mouth is open to yell, but when she sees me, she deflates.

“Oh,” she manages. “I thought, well–I thought you were my little brother.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly, trying to convey unthreatening body language, since I did sneak up on her in a secluded garden and all. “I heard crying and worried someone was hurt. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“Who are you?” she asks me, looking confused.

“I’m Tommy, I’m one of the landscapers,” I reassure her, hoping I don’t look like a creep. “I was just working on some flowers and I heard crying. I got worried.”

“Well, that was nice of you,” she says, and for some reason, she sounds calculating and speculative. “Very kind, really. Honorable.”

“Um… thanks.” I give her a quick nod. “I need to get back to work.”

I turn to go.

“Wait.” She stops me quickly and I give her a quizzical look. She stares, and her eyes scan me in a once-over that is clearly assessing. She takes in my face and my figure, blatantly appraising me. I stiffen, uncomfortable.

She’s a pretty girl, don’t get me wrong, if a little young for me.

But I’m at least mostly gay and even if I wasn’t, I can’t ‘get it up’ for anybody, anyway.

Ugh, I don’t want to think about that. See?

As soon as I stop moving, my mind starts spinning, chewing on things I can’t do shit about. Moving on.

She’s a sweet-looking rich girl with soft brunette hair and bright hazel eyes, perfect skin dusted with freckles, a ballerina’s figure and the kind of clothes that scream ‘old money’. She doesn’t do a thing for me, attraction-wise.

“Um, I need to go,” I insist, as kindly as I can. “I was just making sure no one was hurt–”

“I’d like to hire you, Tommy,” she blurts out. Her lip trembles and she seems to waffle a bit, before stiffening her spine. She has some gumption to her, I’ll give her that. But I have a really bad feeling about this.

There is no way she wants to pay me for…

that, is there?? No way. But then again, I’ve been bought and paid for so many times, by so many different kinds of people, I suppose it’s possible.

I used to be able to fuck on command, but it’s been a while since I was able to, um, well…

keep my dick hard. Or cum, even by myself.

Men don’t care about that, usually–just happy to get themselves off–but I can’t exactly fuck a woman with a softie.

Yeah, a softie. Because my stupid dick worked fine for years and years of toxic shit, but now that I’m out of it, now that my life is my own and I’m not under anyone’s control or in anyone’s debt, it wants to act up.

“Hire me for…what? I’m already working here.” Don’t say sex, don’t say sex.

“Lexie? What are you doing?” Another girl comes out from around the corner, just as obviously wealthy and lovely as this one.

She’s tall and blonde, with blue eyes, vaguely eastern European features, and a soft, rounded body that is timelessly lovely.

Her eyes are puffy, her nose bright red, and her cheeks are flushed and lined with tear-tracks.

She blinks at me in confusion, and I blink back at her, not sure what’s going on, either.

“I’m getting you a date to the summit!” Lexie announced triumphantly. She waves her arms at me like I’m the prize on a game show.

I blanch at the same moment this other girl does, and we both protest.

“Lexie, that’s crazy!”

“I’m really not interested–” I say, then snap my mouth shut when they both look at me sharply. Lexie with outrage, and the crying girl with self-conscious, humiliated hurt.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her face beet red. “Ignore her.”

“Kira!” Lexie protests. “This is exactly what we need to stick it to that ass-face Brian! Look at this guy! He’s a hot, older guy in great shape with a handsome face. Sure, he’s a little dirty–”

“Um…” I attempt to interrupt, but Lexie is on a roll.

“--but I bet he cleans up really well! You’ll go to the summit looking like you’re so over Brian! He needs to be knocked down a peg!”

The other girl, Kira, puts a palm over her face and peeks at me through her fingers. “You can go,” she mumbles to me. “Really. Ignore her.”

“It’s really not anything against you,” I say earnestly, not liking how obviously ashamed she is. “I’m just mostly gay, that’s all. So, I’m not really-”

“Oh, that’s even better!” Lexie jumps on my words. “It’s not a real date, it’s just a job! I’ll pay you tons of money!”