Chapter 2 Two 14 #2
It appeared out of nowhere, the dark figure turning on him, hissing, “Let go,” as the knife tried to get him.
Conan did, stepping backwards quickly, reeling away, and his boot caught on one of the stones. He was more focused on the knife coming for him again than his footing, and he fell.
The knife slashed through the air where he’d just been.
“Hey wait!” He tried, ass smarting where he’d landed hard.
But a second later the other man was on him, straddling him. Now he could see it was no pocket knife but a large, serious looking blade. Not something any regular person should carry.
Then Conan was focused only on raising one of his arms to knock the blade aside before it plunged into him. He moved on instinct, avoiding a knifing by a hair, feeling the threads of his jacket catch on the sharp edge of the metal.
He swore as it tore. The jacket was shit for the cold, but it was the only one he had.
Thankfully the fabric had slowed the man’s arm just enough that Conan was able to get a hand around the slender wrist and stop his next attempt.
Above him the man’s face was in shadow, but he could just make out all those pretty features drawn into a snarl. Conan caught the other fist as it went to strike him.
What the fuck was going on? Sure, he’d followed the man out into the dark, but this was not the reaction of someone afraid. When Conan had fallen, he should’ve turned tail and run.
Instead, the man had climbed on top of Conan to try and put a knife in him.
“Hold on, just hold on,” Conan said through gritted teeth. He was holding the man back, but just barely. He was stronger than he looked.
“Let go,” the man demanded. His voice was smooth and steady. Not like a victim trying to be brave, but like someone who knew he was in control of a situation.
It was confusing, and Conan felt his hand holding the man’s knifeless hand loosen to follow the command. He wasn’t willing to let the knife hand go, but maybe they could come to some sort of understanding–
As soon as Conan did it, the hand slipped free, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and bashed his head back against the stone, hard.
Conan saw lights as the pain shocked through him. He let go of the other hand on reflex, groaning, trying to reach for his head. Nausea and sparking pain shot through him with every beat of his heart. Fuck, head injuries were the worst.
The weight on top of him shifted, and he heard sounds he couldn’t place. By the time Conan could blink his eyes open without searing pain, something was closing around his wrists. It was cool and flexible.
Plastic?
It tightened, drawing his wrists together above his head.
Handcuffs.
“Move and I’ll cut your carotid,” the man said. Something kissed his pulse point like ice. The knife. “You’ll bleed out in under two minutes and be dead long before anyone comes.”
Conan blinked, trying to catch up. What the fuck was happening?
“You, uh, use that line on all your dates?” He asked uncertainly.
It worked to cut through the tension. Conan watched the viciousness ease off the man’s face. He now looked curious, assessing.
“Just the ones I really like,” the man purred, faux sweet. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Conan,” He found no reason to lie. “And you are…?”
The strangest thing happened next. He could see the moment the man considered lying, and then the moment he decided not to. It was like observing a snake slip its skin, leaving something translucent behind.
“Lam,” the man said. He had a real nice voice too, throaty and smooth, that went with his pretty features. If he hadn’t just concussed and tried to drive a knife into Conan, Conan would be halfway to love already.
“Lamb?” He asked.
“Lam, L-A-M,” Lam said pointedly. The knife pressed harder into Conan’s neck. It must have cut finally, because Conan felt a dribble of blood slide down his neck.
Lam’s eyes snapped to it.
“Lam,” Conan said slowly, tasting the sound of it on his tongue. “Well, what’s a guy like you doing under a bridge like this?”
The joke was a risk, but considering how strange his current situation was, a risk might be the play. Lam hadn’t cut his neck yet, so there was some wiggle room here for saving his tail.
Lam laughed, all teeth, and it sounded like a threat. “I have a better question, why were you following me, big guy?”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“I, uh, didn’t get an opportunity to ask for your number at the bar,” Conan said. “And I have your scarf.” Then he realized he wasn’t sure if he still had it. It had been on his arm, but then everything had gone sideways. “Had your scarf.”
It still had to be around here somewhere.
“I see,” Lam said. His eyes wandered around, and he must’ve spotted it, because then he nodded, Conan’s story checked out. “So you thought chasing me down in the middle of the night would get you, what? My gratitude and my phone number?”
Conan smiled, dialing the charm all the way up. He was laying on the dirty ground concussed with a knife to his throat, but there was no better time for flirting, right? “That and more if you’re in the mood. How’s about it, baby? You lookin’ for some company tonight?”
The mask of humor fell from Lam’s face, his eyes narrowing again. “What’re you doing? Does that usually work?”
Alright, Conan had laid it on a little too thick there.
“Usually.” Conan tilted his head up to get a look at how he’d been restrained. “...Are those police zip ties?”
“They are,” Lam said, “So I wouldn’t bother trying to break them.”
“I see,” Conan turned his gaze back to Lam. Well, this was different.
Lam man was sitting astride his stomach, the knife in one hand and the other seemingly at rest. Conan would bet all the money he didn’t have that if he tried to move his hands, he’d find out just how quick Lam could be with that knife.
“So… where do we go from here?” Conan asked.
Lam looked at him thoughtfully. He looked good too doing so, bright-eyed and shrouded in darkness. The wool coat was turned up at the collar, accenting the sharp lines of his face. He had a beauty mark just under one eye and an uptilt to his lashes that was feminine. Pretty.
Pretty and vicious, if that knife was to be believed.
“There’s usually more fighting at this point,” Lam said.
That usually held a lot of weight.
Conan laughed. It wasn’t how he’d imagined his evening going, but for some reason it still felt like there was an opportunity here. Like he wasn’t yet banished to a restless night in his car just yet.
“I could struggle more, if that’s what does it for you,” Conan offered.
Lam seemed to genuinely consider the offer. Hm.
“I’m trying to decide if you mean that,” Lam said after a few seconds.
“I’ll do anything that’ll keep that knife out of my carotid,” Conan said with a guileless smile. He meant it too. “And anything plus more if it’ll get me into your bed.”
And shower, and refrigerator…
Lam’s eyes met his. There was dark humor there, something bright and flashing. A bottomless expanse that felt exciting, interesting.
“All right, then try me,” Lam said.
It took Conan a second to figure out what he meant.
Struggle.
Right.
The obvious move was to use his hands, so Conan discarded the thought. For some reason he didn’t want to be obvious. He wanted to be impressive. Interesting.
So instead, in one quick move Conan pulled his legs up and clamped them around Lam’s sides. His body lurched with the motion, relying on years of core strength to turn and unseat Lam as they rolled to the side.
If Lam was surprised, he didn’t scream or drive the knife into Conan’s neck. Instead, he laughed and went with the motion as they landed hard on the cobblestone.
Somehow, Lam had managed not to knick Conan, and the knife was now sitting right under Conan’s jaw, scraping against the skin like a shaving razor.
“That was clever,” Lam said approvingly.
“I try,” Conan said with a grunt. These stones really were a bitch. “I kinda expected the knife for that.”
The blade traced down the length of his jaw to his chin and tapped there. “Usually that’d be your first strike, but I asked you to. You always take directions so well?” Lam asked.
It sounded like an important question.
“I can,” Conan said honestly, “if there’s something in it for me.” Then, on a whim, he tilted his head down into the knife, letting the blade press harder against his skin. He felt the moment it broke through, the burn and heat of blood.
Lam gasped, but it wasn’t one of surprise. Conan felt his own body respond to the sound, a heat coiling downward.
Oh. So it was like that. Conan could work with that.
The knife lifted away from his skin. Lam’s eyes were aglow, attention rapt on Conan’s face where he’d been cut.
“Is there something in this for me?” Conan asked, voice pitched low, intimate. Like they were in a bed together instead of laying on filthy cobblestone.
Lam licked his lips, eyes on the blood. Seconds spun by, and Conan let them.
“Yeah,” Lam said finally on a breath. Then he brought the knife to his own mouth and licked the blood off the tip.
“Fuck,” Conan said as he watched Lam’s pink tongue slide along the flat of the blade. It caught him unexpectedly, jagged and tearing through him. His cock started to stiffen so quick he felt the lack of blood to his brain, the dizzy spiral of it.
Lam noticed too, because the second he pulled the knife away from his mouth, he smiled with all those white teeth.
“If you make me have to kill you before we're finished, I’m going to be really upset,” Lam said seriously.
Before Conan could come up with another quippy answer, Lam started to get up. Conan automatically loosened his legs to let him go, and then Lam rolled Conan back onto his back before taking his seat once more.
Conan usually wasn’t the one being manhandled, but he had to admit, he wasn’t hating it.
“You’re the most interesting catch I've had in a while,” Lam said. “Try not to disappoint.”
The most interesting catch.