Chapter 3

Picture this—

A boy who grew up with walls all around, high and cold and covered in mold. That's the boy who grew into the man I am today. Those walls, they're still there. I can feel them, they still keep me trapped, I just can't see them anymore. It's hard for love to get through walls made with that many bricks, so thick and high. Perhaps I mistake captivity for comfort these days. Perhaps I'm the one who can pick up the hammer and knock those walls down if I want to… but I choose not to. Who'd wanna be hurt like that again? And no, I ain't talkin' about a rotten romance, I ain't talkin' about some lousy lover. I'm talkin' about the only person in my life who ever made me feel safe. And happy. And loved. Even Buck Baxter felt like he belonged to someone… once upon a time.

It happened at Hell's Bells a long, long time ago.

After leaving Hart's nightclub that night, I decided to take a long stroll to 7732 East 15th Street, the home of Stuart and Winnipeg Whitmore. I took the old road by the river because it was quieter than cutting through town. Quiet? Heck, it was all but deserted down there by the docks and the old shipping yards. The sound of my shoes clapping on the cobblestones was met with the lapping of the water against the barnacle-covered pylons. It was the only conversation happening down there tonight. It was still hot, the temperature had barely dropped, so I loosened my tie and peeled off my jacket. I could see a storm was rolling in from the sea. I put my money on the place it was headed for—Hell's Bells. For some reason, St. Agatha's convent and orphanage—or Hell's Bells as everyone called it—always attracted the wrath of God in the shape of a storm. Scientifically speaking, it made sense: St. Agatha's was built on one of the highest points in Wilde City, which happened to bear the brunt of all the worst storms that blew in from the sea, across the harbor and up the river. But metaphorically speaking, it was easy to believe the place was cursed. I ain't a hocus pocus kinda guy, but as one of the orphans who grew up in Hell's Bells, I can say with hand on heart there ain't nothin' holy about that place.

I knew I'd be able to spot that old convent—along with the orphanage and the old cemetery—any minute now as I rounded the bend, and sure enough there she appeared on the hill, like a colossal haunted mansion in the iridescent blue night, the cross on its steeple black against the moonlit clouds. A shiver went down my spine at those childhood memories that I could never seem to bury, probably because my head—my heart—refused to bury the memory of him.

Quickly, I pushed it all out of my head and kept moving. I picked up the pace and reached the far end of East 15th Street. I made my way up the street, heading away from the water and back into town as I counted the numbers of the houses backward down to 7732. The residence was a narrow, two-storey brick townhouse with a big elm on the sidewalk out front. I remained across the street, blanketed by the dark of another tree, and stood for a while watching the windows. It was late, just past midnight, and there were two lights on inside the house—one upstairs, one downstairs—but no movement, no shadows inside. About ten minutes later, a young man came meandering down the street, whistling, hands in pockets and a happy stride in his step. As he passed under a streetlamp, I could see the smile on his face. God, he was so happy a pang of jealousy actually hit me. He paused a moment under the light to pull off his shoe and shake out a stone. In that moment, I determined it was him for sure. The man from the photograph. Stuart Whitmore. After putting his shoe back on, he ambled contentedly up the steps to his house, rattled a key in the lock, and let himself in.

He shut the door behind him. There was no commotion, no sign of Mrs. Whitmore. Was she lying in bed, seething, listening intently to the sound of the door and his footsteps on the floorboards?

I saw his shadow pass across the downstairs window, and the light turned off. A few moments later, the same happened in the upstairs window. After that, all that could be heard were the crickets chirping in the cracks of the pavement and the distant sound of the traffic downtown.

I stayed a while longer till it was evident there'd be nothing left to see there tonight. That summer storm had started to roll in, low and rumbling. Fat raindrops began to fall. I flipped the collar of my jacket up to stop the rain from running down the back of my shirt. But despite the rain, I wasn't quite ready to call it a night just yet. Thoughts of that Holden Hart fella were still playing on my mind. For some reason that I couldn't explain, I was suddenly craving affection… or at least its nearest substitute. Fortunately, I knew the one place in town that'd fix a problem like that in a jiffy.

The Velvet Viper was four blocks east of downtown. It was the kind of place you had to know was there. There were no bright lights or billboards out front, no music blaring or people spilling onto the street, kinda the exact opposite of every other joint in town. There was just a shadowy staircase leading down from street level to a black door with a dimly lit blue lantern hanging over it. The door was not locked. It was never locked. You simply needed the balls or the yearning—or preferably both—to push it open and step inside.

That's where the soft music appeared, little more than a tribal beat and the lure of a flute, floating through the air from a narrow, blue-lit corridor, swirling around your head like a dancing cobra, whispering in your ear, "Follow me". The smell of smoke filled the air too—tobacco, pot, and various scents undetectable, all mingling as one—forming a haze that made the dim blue light even more surreal.

The corridor led to a doorway.

The doorway opened up to a bar.

A bar lined with blue velvet walls, dozens of semicircular shaped booths… and men.

Some of them leaned back against the bar in suits and ties, drinking in their surroundings, while others strutted or snaked through the room, wearing little more than trousers and suspenders, or simply a bowtie, or nothing at all. Clothes or no clothes, and despite the dim blue lighting, it was clear there wasn't a flaccid cock in the joint, mine included.

Still wet from the storm outside, I cut my way casually across the room to the bar, feeling the eyes of the entire room on me. The guy serving behind the bar was new.

"You must be Buck Baxter," he said as I propped myself against the bar. He was already filling a tumbler with ice and reaching for the gin.

"You must be Nick's replacement. How'd you know my name?"

"The hair, the stubble, the furrowed brow… and that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The one that says you get paid to uncover everyone else's secrets, but nobody's ever gonna know yours. Nick told me all about you. Your reputation precedes you. And so does your cock, I hear." He put my drink down on the bar and shook my hand. "Finnian's the name."

"Pleased to meet you, Finnian," I said, eyeing the kid's broad shoulders, blond hair, and blue eyes. Or was it just the light that made them look blue. I cut to the chase. I always did at the Velvet Viper. Chit-chat belonged other places, not here. "You workin' tonight? Other than behind the bar?"

He shot me a flattered grin. "Sure, I can get someone to take over here. But I thought Nick said you weren't into blonds."

The thought of Holden Hart flashed across my mind once more. "I think I'm developing a taste for them."

In a darkened room behind the bar, full of shelves stocked with booze, I pounded Finnian's ass, my pelvis slapping against his cheeks harder and faster with every thrust as I thought to myself, Fuck, he really is new. I ain't had an ass this tight in months!

But as he rocked with every ramming motion of my cock, as he groaned with every squeeze of his blond hair in my fist, all I could think of was Holden Hart.

I imagined it was Hart's bare back before me now, thin at the waist and wide at the muscle-clenched shoulders. I imagined it was Hart's hip gripped tight in my left hand while my right hand pulled on his hair like a rider pulling on the reins. I imagined it was Hart's tight ring-hole stretching and stinging with every pump and grind of my body.

I picked up the pace, aroused even more as my mind strayed further into Hart's world, questions swimming through my head as to who this man was. Where did he come from? What turned him on? Why couldn't I get him out of my head? He was like a goddamn ex-lover I couldn't get over. Was he thinking of me like I was thinking of him right then? Was he banging some hot ass too, feeling lonely as hell even with his cock buried deep inside another human being? Or was he lying in bed alone, wondering when true love would ever come his way? Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree, or trying to hump the wrong leg altogether. Maybe Hart was screwing the Logan twins after all. Heck, they were beautiful and smart, and if Hart did swing that way, who could blame him? Maybe that threesome was open to a foursome. In the heat of the moment, in the play of passion, perhaps I could sneak a brush of his hand, a touch of his cock, a kiss of his lips, and he'd never notice. He'd just go with the flow. He'd kiss me back. He'd whisper he loved me.

"Fuck!" I pulled out of Finnian, faster than I should have, and the kid winced in pain.

"Crap, I'm sorry," I said, running my hands through my own hair and stepping back, my cock still hard, precum dripping from my slit, sweat running down the hair on my chest.

Finnian spun about, breathless, naked, and hard himself. "I'm okay," he panted. "Are you? What's wrong?"

I was already pulling on my trousers. "Nothing. You were great, kid. I've just got… a lot on my mind. That's all."

I pulled a bunch of loose bills out of my trouser pocket before I'd even buttoned up and put them in Finnian's hand. I scrunched up his fist so he wouldn't lose any of them. "Maybe I'll buy you a drink someday, kid. But for now, I think I need a little vacation from the Viper."

Finnian looked at me suspiciously, then grinned. "If I ain't mistaken, Buck Baxter's in love."

I shook my head. "Limbo's more like it."