Chapter 22 #2
He managed “Yes, fine,” though his fluster and surprise made it sound frowning and put-upon.
Laurie looked increasingly doubtful. Chary cleared his throat and told Laurie what he’d told himself.
“I came into this expecting—or not expecting—but the general expectation of a bathhouse is to come into contact with others… It’s fine,” he said firmly.
“More of the same undercover work for you. Er—touch how?” he asked, a little higher.
Laurie laughed. “‘Touch how’ indeed,” he said, under his breath. “I’m sorry, Chary. I won’t use you so badly. Nothing too skin-on-skin. I don’t want—not in front of all these people.” He came closer. “We should look desperate, ’s’all. Desperate enough to go the wrong way fast through a bathhouse.”
Just for show. Again. That made sense. But they didn’t have to prove anything there—did they? Should they, anyway?
Chary swallowed. “Do whatever you think is n-needful.”
“That’s a lot of permission,” he murmured.
Laurie looked him up and down, quite the same as he had before—in the rooming house, in the breakfast room, the picnic on the barrens.
As before, it was much too sincere-seeming for comfort, heavy-lidded and contemplative and drugging. Why was he so competent?
Chary’s brains felt egg-beaten; he was trembling; surely, Laurie had what he wanted already. Look desperate. Desperate and queer. How ironic. It was often the other way around.
Laurie hooked him around the neck with one hand, a light touch that probably looked firmer than it felt. His other hand came around Chary’s biceps, holding himself away. But then he brought himself close—or Chary brought himself down—and Chary thought then that he would be kissed.
But Laurie whispered into his ear. “What’s needful, Cherry? If I could—if you’d let me—I’d want to take you into the dark in that dressing room and get on my knees.”
Chary sucked in a breath. It was entirely for show—those words would make anyone hard, make anyone shake—obviously, Laurie had just had some potent inspiration—it was working.
“You’d keep on those shorts. Just leave them on. I’d make them see-through.”
Lord. They nearly were already. Chary couldn’t help it; he clutched a sturdy shoulder. “How?”
Laurie was not trembling. He was very still. Intent and totally in control. “Well,” he chuckled, “to start, maybe a bit like this.”
He breathed over Chary’s neck purposefully, hotly, like a dragon, steaming Chary’s cool skin from his collarbone to his jaw, lips grazing. And Chary felt as though Laurie’s open mouth were against his prick, swore he felt the held-back warmth sieve through the shorts and onto his skin. He groaned.
Desperate—yes. Laurie could have laid him out on the mosaic tile and had him then and there. Whatever he wanted, for reason whatsoever.
“What then?” Chary whispered. He knew, but he wanted to know. It sounded like a thing he might like quite a lot—if it were sincere.
He mustn’t forget that he was the easiest mark of them all, and Laurie would withdraw all of it in a moment, like he had before.
Laurie’s lips hovered near the hinge of his jaw, his perfect nose nudging as he breathed hard. His whole person was stiff but swaying, as though he were on an edge, clinging tight to solid land, tempted nonetheless.
But he said nothing. He was interrogating Chary again, drawing him out from the silence.
It made Chary angry.
“What then?” he demanded. “Tell me. I want to know.” Blindly, he found his feet and pulled them away from the brightly lit pool to where it seemed dimmer—a warm hallway—the shampooing alcoves. If anyone tried to stop them, he didn’t notice—he was desperate.
He didn’t have to pull them very far to find something unoccupied. This alcove had a bench; he knew because it hit the back of his knees, and a curtain, and that was plenty.
Laurie laughed in his ear. “Good job. I barely kept up—that’ll do fine.” He brushed off his towel like a suit, like his prick wasn’t plainly distorting it.
Chary wanted to scream it out at Laurie. Shake the man so he would admit it. Make him see it.
It wasn’t a performance. Chary had never, not once, believed the words I want from anyone’s mouth. Not about him. But he believed it from Laurie and from the look in his eyes and his touch and his careful consideration. That kiss on the barrens, pulling him in. And now that erection.
And the man wouldn’t admit to it?
“No,” Chary said.
Laurie drew back. “Hmm?”
“Do it,” Chary said, more firmly. “Earnestly.”
Laurie gave him a look. Incredulity, sharp contemplation—intrigue.
“Show me, newsman, undercover man. If you’re speaking truly, for once, do it. Do you really want to go on your knees? Do it. Not for show, nor anyone else.”
Laurie stared at him, and for a split-second flash, Chary worried he’d pushed too far. But then Laurie’s shallow-charm smirk was back.
“Sure, I want it. Wanted it from the start. Do you get mean in your desperation, Chary Wright?”
“I—”
“No, I like it. You got your hands dirty,” Laurie said, very close.
“Hopped a train to get to a bathhouse and rescue your brother. Now this?” He reached around Chary and threw shut the curtain.
“You’ll let me do this here? Now? As urgent as you are to find August?
” He laughed. Gently he shoved Chary downward; Chary sat with a jolt.
“Let you?” he said, incredulous.
Laurie sank to his knees. And oh, Lord, what if it was all talk, and he had demanded something Laurie didn’t want—wouldn’t somebody stop it? Wouldn’t Chary?
Apparently, he wouldn’t.
Laurie could walk away, a voice reminded him, like he has before.
But—hell and damnation—he didn’t.
Laurie leaned and put his mouth to Chary’s shorts. It was the same as he had done to Chary’s neck except through thin cotton weave. Against his prick. Hot breath, a hot mouth, against his length, up and down. And nothing felt like it—nothing.
“Lord.” Chary shook so badly, was so blisteringly stiff, he couldn’t do anything with his hands except hang on to the bench.
Laurie drew back.
Chary whimpered. Was that it? Was it over?
“Damn your brother,” Laurie whispered. “For approximately the next ten minutes. Ask me what’s next, Chary.”
“I— You—” He’d quite forgotten he had a brother. Why couldn’t Chary be the reckless one for once? August had Brasher with him—he’d decided to flee instead of stay in Maine— “What’s—”
The curtain ripped open.
Chary gasped.
In the alcove entrance stood a completely unfamiliar, completely naked man. He was dripping wet.
“Jesus.” Laurie lurched up. “What the hell, man; curtain’s shut—” Then, turning, he seemed to recognize the intruder; he said incredulously, “Hiram?”
“Don’t curse at me, L,” the man said dryly, “I crossed the pool as fast as I could. You work as quickly as ever.”
“Excuse me,” Chary said, covering himself with hands (or attempting to), “but who are you?”
The man was short, slim, sleek, and serious.
(The best description Chary could come up with was that on a whole, he was suited to sibilants.) Other men might’ve called him pretty, like they called August, but Chary didn’t quite like his expression.
It was pale, cold, and detached, except for a pinkish-rouge blush across his cheekbones, obviously painted on.
Laurie sighed. “Chary, meet Hiram Sumner. He’s a reporter too; we share an office. Don’t worry; he can’t see for shit in this light.” Despite this, he shifted his towel discreetly.
“Depends on the …scale… of the indiscretion, really,” Sumner murmured, eyeing Chary. Chary, grateful for the shorts, did his best not to return the perusal; it seemed unfair somehow, given the man was nude.
To Laurie, Sumner said, “Sidney Brasher’s just outside the alcoves. You’re lucky he was looking your way just as you made a scene. Once upon a time, you could work a room, you know.” His voice, in contrast, was neither cold nor detached but fond. Teasing.
Feeling rather left out, Chary said sharply, “Brasher? Where’s August?”
“Where the hell was that behemoth?” Laurie asked, at the same time. “Crouched behind a potted plant?”
“Not here,” Sumner said to Chary, as though it were obvious. “Your brother’s safe. Elsewhere in the city.”
“Brasher left him alone? Then what are we—”
“Wait a minute,” Laurie interrupted. “We’ve been led here? The bastard cop used me as bait? Me and Chary? Seriously? That’s why he told me where they’d be?”
“We have reason to believe Raberding’s having Mr. Wright watched.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Chary demanded, perturbed. “Mr. Wright is right here, by the by.”
“Why’s your nose in this, Hiram?” Laurie asked. “How d’you know August, much less know he’s alive? And suddenly, you want me to trust a cop?”
Chary said, “Brasher’s not police—”
“My connections to August are personal,” Sumner said.
“Oh, geez. You could’ve said. You know I don’t like being manipulated, H.”
“Not emotionally, anyway,” Sumner clarified—to Chary. He had gray eyes that, behind the cold mask, flashed with mischief.
Laurie cursed, ran his hands through his hair. “This is why Sam didn’t ask you to take this from the start.”
Sumner nodded. “Rather a conflict of interest. Not that you don’t seem to have developed one of your own.” His smile was slow and sly.
To Chary’s surprise, Laurie didn’t deny it. He just continued to look mulish. Betrayed.
Chary finally felt more confident about standing, so he did.
“If Mr. Raberding thinks we will lead him straight to August, Mr. Sumner,” he said, “what will he do once he’s been made aware we’re here without him?”
“Ah. Thus we arrive at the reason I’ve interrupted you at such an at unfortunate crux, Mr. Wright. At the moment, you find yourselves in rather a lot of danger. I recommend leaving at once.”
Without you, August has no one.
Chary swallowed. Gooseflesh ran across him, up and down. The shampooing alcove suddenly felt too tight and close around them, echoing, like they were the only persons in the whole place. “He wouldn’t try murder. Not in a public place, surely. Even the gangs wouldn’t dare.”