Chapter Two
Wesley hummed as he walked through the lobby to the front doors of Flocked Velvet, the satisfaction of a job well done buzzing under his skin. Nate had been especially responsive tonight; what a sight to behold. Wesley had left him blissed out and snoozing with a wakeup call scheduled for two a.m.
Wesley hadn’t known Nate from Adam the first night he’d come in, and an NDA wasn’t unusual. His profile card had said ‘professional athlete,’ which was interesting but not something Wesley was about to verify. The club ran on trust and boundaries, not Google searches.
But Nate had filled in the blanks himself the first night—hockey, Locomotives, goalie. Nate was the first professional athlete who played at the highest level of his sport that Wesley had met or been paired with, and he was inordinately glad he had been.
The poor man seemed starved for affection and definitely felt the weight of the burdens he carried, some of which he’d shared.
Wesley really wanted to take him home, feed him up, and hug on him.
That would never happen, of course. First of all, Nate was way out of his league, and the “Pretty Woman” fairy tale wouldn’t happen to a gay man with a femme vibe.
Second of all, Nate had a high-profile job in a powerful industry that frowned upon non-traditional relationships and would decry the unconventional sexual preferences in which he engaged.
Nate seemed destined to be single until his hockey playing days were over.
Wesley didn’t know how long that was, but his heart ached at the thought of him going for another ten, twenty years without someone by his side.
The man really needed someone in his corner on a human level.
Alas, it wasn’t meant to be Wesley no matter how much he might wish otherwise.
He too would love to be in a permanent stable relationship.
Most people would, right? But until he gave up teaching, his stints at the club would have to provide the sexual outlet he needed since he, too, carried the burden of working in a career field that mostly looked askance at who he was and what he did in the privacy of a bedroom.
Even in this day and age, society didn’t always believe that a gay man who taught elementary school, especially one who played Dom, wasn’t a child predator. He preferred his sexual partners to be legal experienced adults, thank you very much.
A glance at his phone indicated his ride share was on its way.
Tonight’s stint as Nate’s Dom was his last hurrah at the club for a while.
School started in the not-too distant future, and he had a boatload of things to do for the new school year as well as attend a couple of teacher in-service days.
Online course next week. He snapped his fingers in remembrance.
He had a few additional hours of self-directed professional development to complete.
But all those thoughts and plans could wait for tomorrow.
Right now, home, another shower with his favorite shower gel, and his 500-thread count sheets were calling his name. After leaving Nate dozing, he’d hit the locker room off the club’s gym and cleaned up a bit, changing into his favorite billowy blouse and light blue skinny jeans for the ride home.
By the time he’d passed through both sets of pneumatic doors, he’d shed the last vestiges of his alter ego, Ashton Morgan, professional Dom, and become Wesley Byerly, gay boy extraordinaire once again.
The warm night air caressed his skin, which was cool from hours spent in a climate-controlled environment, and he couldn’t help the sigh of relief.
The main thoroughfare where his ride share would arrive and wait was a straight shot across the deep parking lot.
He hooked his thumbs in the straps of his backpack for the trek.
He’d passed the first double row of parked cars and was halfway through the aisle when someone shouted.
“Hey, faggot! Femme boy!”
The hair on the back of Wesley’s neck rose and a knot settled in his throat. He swallowed hard, but the lump stuck.
Don’t look back. Keep walking.
He hitched his backpack and upped his stride to a power walk.
He had no doubt they were after him. No one else seemed to be in the parking lot, and he was technically a faggot and a femme boy.
His heart thudded hard. Blood rushed in his ears.
If only he’d put his Dom clothes back on—maybe they wouldn’t be after him.
If he could just reach the street where his ride would be, he could avoid a confrontation. He shouldn’t have to defend his right to be who he was, especially not in a club—or the parking lot of said club—that catered to queer communities.
“Hey, you!”
Fear prickled along his spine and kept him moving, his breaths coming in sharp bursts. He just had to get to the street. Which was still too far away for his peace of mind. Please let my ride show up...
Footsteps clomped hard against the asphalt. Wesley’s heart thudded harder. He shifted from power walk to jog in a single stride.
“Where is that flash drive Clark Ramsey gave you last week, you pansy?”
Wesley’s mind—and stride—stalled for a moment.
Who the hell was Clark Ramsey?
What flash drive?
Maybe they weren’t after him, but the derogatory slurs and otherwise empty parking lot indicated otherwise. Shit. The guy was definitely talking to him. Wesley gulped some air. Hurried forward.
A set of headlights pulled to a stop at the curb on the road ahead. His ride share. His heart stopped and then whumped against his rib cage twice as hard. He had to get to the street. Another hundred feet, a couple hundred maybe. His guesstimating skills were non-existent.
A honk echoed. Shit. He had to get to that car. He dragged in air and ran like hell. He had no time to message the driver. Please, please be patient.
Footsteps pounded behind him.
Oh God.
He passed the next double row of parking slots.
The tug on his backpack elicited a squawk; his heart rate spiked.
He dropped his shoulders, letting the bag slip from his body, keeping a death grip on his cell phone.
He shoved the device into his back pocket and ran harder, faster, drawing ragged breaths to keep air in his lungs.
The splat of his backpack hitting the pavement sounded behind him; the sough of his Dom “uniform” and the clatter of toiletries hitting the ground amped his adrenaline even more.
He raced toward the street. His thighs and lungs burned with each step.
“Fucker. Oh no you don’t! Search that bag!”
The grip on his shoulder off-balanced him, and he staggered sideways. A yank on his arm whirled him around. The backhand to his face sent him stumbling, stars flashing in his vision as he tried to regain his balance. Pain shot through his head.
Oh fuck. This is really happening.
Meaty hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him. He blinked, right eye swelling, pain enveloping his cheekbone and eye socket.
“Where is it? Where’s that thumb drive, you gay ass mother fucker?
” growled a guy with dark hair and heavy stubble.
His clothes were dark colored as well. That’s all Wesley could see.
There was no illumination to speak of in the parking lot.
The colored lights on the brick building were pointed upward, more decorative than functional.
The muted reds, blues, and greens shone from behind the guy, leaving his face in heavy shadow.
Wesley held up his hands. “Wh-what thumb drive?” he croaked, throat dry.
“It’s not in the bag,” an accented voice—Italian?—said from a few yards back.
Wesley’s belongings lay scattered across the asphalt, but they were the least of his worries.
Another honk pierced the otherwise quiet night. Oh God—he wasn’t going to catch his ride unless he could get away, but he could barely see. Pain suffused his face, his lungs heaved.
The guy grabbed the front of his shirt, hauled him close, got right in his face. “Where. Is. It?”
Wesley’s heart bobbed in his throat. He could barely swallow, much less talk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasped past the knot in his windpipe.
“The fuck you don’t.” The guy released him with a shake and then punched him in the chest.
Pain radiated outward from Wesley’s solar plexus. The air whooshed from his lungs. He staggered into the rear quarter panel of a car and doubled over, eyes scrunched tight.
The guy yanked him upright and a fist connected with his left cheekbone and the corner of his eye. Agony radiated through his face.
“Where is it, you faggot?”
Wesley gasped for breath, heat and pain diffused outward from both eyes.
Just then, hollering and laughing spilled from the club and carried across the parking lot. His phone vibrated against his ass—no doubt his ride share was leaving and taking his pre-paid fare with him. The toot-toot of a horn confirmed it. Fuck.
The guy shoved him into the aisle, no doubt out of the group of merrymakers’ line of sight. Wesley gasped again and doubled over, the pressure in his head throbbing viciously. A groan pushed free of his lungs.
Wesley wrenched out of the guy’s hold and tried to lurch away, but a hand grasped him by the excess fabric of his blouse at his lower back and kept him from escaping.
“Sir, sir,” said the accented voice, moving closer, getting louder. “It’s not in his backpack. Maybe he doesn’t have it.”
“Oh, he’s got it all right. This is the guy. My insider says it’s him. The thumb drive must be at his house.”
There was no way. That backpack didn’t have that many pockets.
Another set of voices ricocheted across the lot, getting louder as if they were headed that direction. Thank goodness.
Wesley listened hard, past the rushing in his ears and the pulsing of his heartbeat in his cheekbone. This could be his chance to get away. The voices moved closer, got louder.
The guy kept a hold of his blouse, but used a casual tone and started talking to his associate about getting together in a day or two.
Wesley concentrated as well as he could on the approaching voices, gauging their proximity. Not that he wanted to call attention to himself—he couldn’t afford for anyone to call the police—he just wanted to get away. Find a place to hide. Get home. Get cleaned up. Collapse into bed.
The voices grew loud enough that he could make out their conversation.
In that moment, Wesley went limp, crashing to the ground and landing on his hands and knees, jarring his whole body in the process.
Agony stole his breath and he rolled to his side.
He panted through the waves of pain in his head, although that hurt too. Must move...
His assailant hissed a few choice epithets at him.
“Hey,” said one of the newcomers. “How’s it going?”
With every ounce of energy and wherewithal he had, Wesley returned to hands and knees, gasping at the pulses of pain in his head, and crawled a few feet before lurching to his feet with the help of a car and shuffling away as quietly and as quickly as he could.
“Yeah, good, thanks,” Wesley’s attacker growled.
“Hey, do you know where the closest IHOP or Denny’s is?”
“How the fuck would I know? Use your fucking cell phone.”
“Fuck you, man; just asking.”
Between his swollen eyes and the deep shadows between the cars, Wesley could barely see, but the safety provided by the bulk of the vehicles around him kept him moving.
He turned left then right, cut between front bumpers, looped around rear bumpers and between them again, hauling in air, trying to get lost in the mass of metal.
Wesley pushed off a car, blinked to clear his vision, and wiped his eye with the back of his hand. Stifled a moan at the throb of hurt. Quiet...he had to be quiet.
He moved as quickly as he could. His pulse throbbed in his face. His head ached. He could only see out of his left eye; the right one had completely swollen shut.
He had to keep going. Had to find safety.
Wesley tripped. Caromed off a car. Swallowed his cry of agony. Fuck! That hurts!
He hit the ground, head bouncing against the asphalt. Fireworks burst inside his skull, and he clutched his head, a groan ripping from his throat.
He lay there, huffing through the surge of pain stealing his breath.
“Gonna find you, faggot!”
Shit, shit. Move! Hide! Wesley pushed to his hands and knees.
His harsh breaths sounded loud in his ears, in the darkness. More people laughed and called to one another. Hopefully, it was enough to camouflage the sounds he couldn’t help making.
With every ounce of strength and willpower he possessed, he lurched to his feet.
He tugged at door handle after door handle as he wove his way through the vehicles, gasping in agony with each pull.
Car after car. Locked. It was hopeless. No one left their cars unlocked anymore.
He kept trying. Had to... He had to get into one of these cars. Please, God. Help me.
Car after car. No luck. Tears burned his eyes, stung the abrasions on his cheeks. Between the fear lodged in his throat and the beating he’d taken, he could barely breathe.
“Where are you, you little fucker? I’m gonna find you.”
Car after car. Wesley’s heart banged against his ribs. He yanked on a handle and almost fell over when the door of the extra-large SUV swung open. Relief and pain in equal measure had him choking on a sharp inhale. Thank you, God.
Clambering into the back, his teeth clamped to his bottom lip against the anguish that careened around his head, and tugged the door shut. He hoped there was enough crowd noise to camouflage the sound of the vehicle’s door shutting.
After locking the vehicle, he crawled, wheezing and moaning, onto the floorboard of the backseat and pulled whatever lay on the backseat over himself and closed his eyes.
He panted shallowly, working to catch his breath. He muttered through the swirling pain, willing it to go away. What the hell had just happened?