James

With my jacket slung over my shoulder and my tie undone, I feel a little more normal, but still out of place walking down the Avenue of Americas on a late summer night. There are parts of New York where everyone is always in a suit, but this isn't really one of them, and the custom of “evening wear” for men hasn't really been observed in decades. So no one wears tuxes unless they're coming from a fancy party, the prom, or a wedding. We stick out like sore thumbs.

Phoenix walks with his hands in his pockets, head down.

"You get really upset when you run into her," I observe.

"Yes," he says flatly. "I do."

"Kind of wondering what's going on there. She creeps me out a little."

Phoenix swallows, stopping at a cross street. We're near the Museum of Modern Art, just down from the end of Central Park. Nearby, a gyro cart sells a heaping helping to a couple of tourists.

"My father died in a car accident when I was thirteen," he explains. "His will named Agatha my legal guardian, executor of his estate, and gave her a sizeable portion of the company—part of what would have been passed down to me."

"So she was treated like family."

"Yes," he says. "I remember liking her at one point. She was like an aunt or a big sister. Things changed after that. She was different."

"Sounds like she was awfully young when all that was put in her hands. She must have been younger than I am now."

"She started working for my father at eighteen, I think. Maybe younger. It's a family thing, you know? Blue bloods sticking together. She was..." he stopped to do the math or remember. "I think twenty-seven when he died, so she's only thirty-two now."

"Pretty remarkable."

"Yeah," he says, scuffing his heel against the ground.

The green man prompts us to walk.

"How'd you have a falling out?"

"She was just very controlling and didn't want me socializing unless it was under her influence. She wanted to pick my friends, whether I wanted any or not. It kind of soured me on people. Everyone she tried to make me hang out with was vapid. Meanwhile, she pulled me from school and saddled me with private tutors for a year. It was..."

He trails off.

"Yeah?"

He sniffs. "Starting secondary education that early wasn't my idea. I wanted to go to normal high school. It's not like I had something to be in a huge hurry about." He huffs. "This is going to make me sound arrogant, but I'm rich. I don't need to rush things."

I glance at him, one eyebrow raised.

"That seems pretty uncharacteristic of you. What changed?"

"We had an, ah, argument," he stumbles verbally on that, "and I threw myself into my studies to get away from her until I had to move back, but by then I was old enough to push her off."

I almost stumble myself.

Something is wrong here. A gear turns in my head, something clicking together, but it's only part of a larger connection that I can't fully see. They had more than an argument, I'm sure of it. There is very bad blood here. These two are at war.

The beads shift on my mental abacus, and the conclusion screams at me: Agatha has something to do with the stalker. She's trying to throw him off his game, rattle him, maybe even frighten him into coming back to her. She might even be the stalker.

Yet that conclusion seems too obvious. It's hard to avoid reaching for a solution. You don't want to end up grabbing the first one that comes along and bending the facts to meet your narrative.

"How old were you when this happened?"

"When I fought her? I was fifteen then. I was home over the summer. I stopped taking breaks after that. She backed off, too. Got too busy with the company, I guess."

After half an hour of brisk walking, we reach the Village. Phoenix stops outside a pizza place, John's. There's one hell of a line to get in, around the block. He stands there for a moment, breathing deep.

It makes my mouth water.

"I came here once with my mom," he explains. "My father didn't much care what either of us did, to be brutally honest. I spent most of my time with her. I saw him on birthdays and holidays until I was nine or ten."

"Jesus," I mutter.

He shrugs. "She was pretty down to earth. Made me love the city. Come on."

When we return to the house, he stops inside the front door to check on his security system.

"Who has codes for that?" I ask.

"Luis, Amanda, and the security company," he says. "Oh, and the maid service. See that camera?"

He points it out to me, a black dome on the ceiling.

"It catches anyone who uses the system and records when it's turned on or off, so anyone coming in is recorded. I've been going back over the logs since the first stalker...present arrived. No one has been in the house that wasn't supposed to be here. Come on."

I have to laugh at the “secret” door. The bookcases in the small sitting area behind the main staircases swing out, revealing an elevator. When I step inside, a cold concrete smell confronts me. Phoenix jabs the button and the elevator descends, opening into a steel walkway that extends into stairs descending to a concrete floor.

Amazing. He basically had this old house jacked up on support pylons and built himself a kid's idea of a superhero lair beneath it, complete with a huge computer and a bunch of equipment. Except, instead of vigilante gear, it's half toys and half complicated electronics I can't even presume to identify.

"What is all this?"

He lifts a cover, proudly displaying what looks like a 1982 Corvette. I frown; from what I know of 'Vettes, that's a surprising choice for a guy who could buy new ones all day and have more money than he started with when he was done. He must have picked it for the swoopy, aerodynamic looks.

"You've been working on this yourself?"

"Yeah," he says.

Looks like he's getting ready to pull the engine.

"I didn't have you figured for a gearhead."

"Why?" he says, "because I'm a nerd?"

"Who said you're a nerd?"

"Oh please," he says, stepping lively away from me. The "cave," really a dry basement, extends all the way back under the courtyard and he even has a roll-up loading door big enough for an eighteen-wheeler to roll up a trailer.

Since I've never gotten a chance to look at it, I stop and check it out. Multiple padlocks through the runners keep the door from moving, and when I rap on the steel panels, they sound more solid than I'd expect. The whole door assembly must weigh more than a ton. More than enough to keep out an intruder, especially if they wanted to leave no trace. You'd need an angle grinder or a cutting torch to get through this.

A...thing thumps into my leg. Looking down, I find something like one of those automatic vacuum cleaners bumping into my shin, playing a recorded purring noise. A pair of plastic cat ears and drawn-on whiskers mark it as a...catbot.

I poke the button on the top and it spins around wildly and darts off in another direction, playing a recoded “meow.”

"Did you make that?"

"Yeah," he says absently, sitting behind his desk.

"You ever think about selling them? Kids would love those."

He waves a hand. "Maybe I'll open a toy division after we make our public offering. I'm too busy for that now.”

Leaning over his shoulder, I scan the documents and design drawings spread out over his desk.

They might as well be in ancient Egyptian.

"What is this you're working on?"

"This is play, not work. I do some work down here, but..." he huffs. "More toys. I like making toys. If I was idle rich I'd just design toys."

I snort. "You could probably make a fortune that anyway."

"Kids don't play with toys anymore, do they? It's all video games and smartphones now."

"How would I know?"

He glances at me and looks down at his work, adjusting the papers.

Standing, I look around. "So you spend all your time in your basement?"

"It's not a basement," he says, defensively crossing his arms.

"Fine, fine, your lair."

He scowls.

"Hey, I'm not making fun. It's pretty damn cool. Most guys would kill for a setup like this. Throw some centerfolds on the wall and a beer keg in the corner and every dude in America would love this."

"I'm not big on either," he says.

"Yeah, I gathered that."

He closes his eyes and sighs, his shoulders slumping.

"You're upset."

Phoenix's eyes snap open, and he nods.

"I shouldn't let her get to me that way, but I can't help it. She's lived in my head for a long time."

He shudders.

"Phoenix, what the hell happened, man? You had more than an argument with her. People don't hold lifelong grudges over arguments."

"I thought she was something she wasn't," he says distantly. "When she wasn't, I realized there wasn't anybody left. I was really on my own. It was the realization that hurt, it was the illusion. She exposed a nerve."

"I see."

"Not to mention trying to steal everything from me. I'm not my father."

I open my mouth, then close it. I shouldn't press. Not yet, at least. Not yet.

"I want to hang out here a while and work on some things," he says. "You can go."

"I don't have to leave if you'd like some company."

"I need some alone time," he says, turning away from me.

Blinking, I turn and take the elevator up. When the doors close, I slump. He was all over me earlier, why the cold shoulder now? Maybe he does just need some time to himself. I know I have a sore need for that from time to time. Part of me wonders if I should head back down, but I'm ready to ditch the gorilla suit.

Back in my room, I ditch the tuxedo and change, sit on the bed, and rest my chin on my fist. Great, now I'm brooding.

Brooding because I've gone from being weirded out around this guy to, in the span of a few days, feeling a little hurt that he isn't following me like a puppy anymore. What is this? I'm supposed to be detached, stoic, unruffled, all that jazz. Not mooning over a guy. Or anyone, really. I didn't even think of myself as gay until...

...holy hell, do I think of myself as gay now? Am I gay?

There's so much swirling in my head that I can't sort it all out.

Phoenix doesn't lock anything in his house—why would he? I assume, since he left the door to his personal gym open, he doesn't mind if I use it. I already did some lifting today, but to be brutally honest, it was all a show for him, and it got me exactly what I wanted.

Like fingers on the nape of my neck, the memory of him dances over my skin and prickles me with sweat. Good. The more the blood pumps the more I'll get out of my workout. I throw myself into it, loading the Olympic bars heavy.

The pressure of pushing and pulling and lifting all that weight pushes everything else out of my head, creating a kind of zen bliss. Real concentration comes to me so rarely anymore. There's always something in the back of my head nipping at my heels, but the weights mean I can brook no distraction. I am only myself for a while.

Panting, I sit on one of the benches and wonder why Phoenix bought all this stuff. He probably told someone to get him weights and they spent like a rich man spends. The barbells all look brand new, but he's clearly used the machines and the cardio equipment.

Can't fault him for that. It works for him.

Shuddering, I try to banish the memories from my mind, but he's gorgeous and a few hours ago he, in his roundabout excessively polite and academic way, asked me about fucking him in the ass. The thought drives me nuts, pulses in my head. The image of his lithe body naked before me, of him falling onto his back and lifting his hips, the way his eyes would roll back when his thick bubble butt swallows my cock...

I can't let him catch me jerking off. He's bound to come upstairs sooner or later. Standing, I leave the training room, pointedly ignoring the engorged feeling bobbing in front of my legs. Thank God for sweat pants.

Passing a window, I freeze.

Motion in the courtyard.

Taking the steps two at a time, I dart down to the first floor and outside. Someone was here. Skidding to a stop a few paces in front of the door, I freeze.

I didn't think. I reacted. I exposed myself, and if I ran out looking for whatever or whoever I saw, I'd have left the door unwatched. I pull the door closed, lock it, and run to the front door and jab at the keypad, then spin around and wave my arms frantically at the camera.

A few moments later, Phoenix emerges from his hideout.

"What?" he says.

"Are there cameras outside?"

"Yes, and motion sensors."

"Can we check them?"

"Yeah, come on."

"First, make sure that alarm is armed."

Looking a little pale, he does, relaxing when the system chimes that it's on HOME mode. He leads me downstairs and wheels his chair over to the computer.

"I wasn't watching the camera feeds," he says.

Frowning, I lean on the desk beside him.

If someone was on the grounds, they should be on camera. He has views of the courtyard and the first floor, and the hallways on the second and third. There's a recording of me going into the weight room.

"There," I say, pointing.

Damn it.

"Did you install these cameras yourself?"

"Yes, why?"

"They don't have full coverage of the yard. You should have pointed them at each other."

All I can see is the top of a hat and a blurred image of someone lurking outside.

I stand and fold my arms.

"We can't call the police," he says.

I chew my lip, thinking.

"Why?"

"The press," he says. "They may not be waiting outside my door, but the investors will get wind of it. Things are at a very delicate stage, right now. We have to handle this ourselves. I want to sleep in your bedroom tonight."

He gapes at me.

"You want me to...to what?"

"You heard me."

He stares, going pale.

"I'll take the couch in the sitting room. You get the bed. Let's get what you need to sleep and lock this place up. It locks, right?"

"You need my passcode to activate the elevator."

"Good. Tomorrow we can make some adjustments to the cameras."

"Someone was really here?" he says, his voice small.

"You saw them yourself."

Shaking, he stands up, takes a moment, and following a deep breath, steadies himself.

"I want to grab a couple of things from upstairs."

He swallows.

I sigh. "After we make some adjustments to your security setup, we'll be buttoned up tight in here. Try to get some sleep."

He nods. "Right, I have work tomorrow."

I raise my eyebrow. He shrugs.

"I'm not going to stop because I'm scared. My work is too important."

I follow him upstairs, where he grabs a handful of clothes. I'm not sure why. It's his house, and there's not much I haven't seen before. I suppose we're not at that stage yet—the comfortable naked around each other stage.

Wait, yet?

Phoenix looks at me like I'll disappear when I tell him I want to do a perimeter check, but he locks himself in the bedroom while I manually go around and check every ground floor entryway twice. What bothers me, now, is that courtyard. At the back, there's a ten-foot wrought iron fence tipped with spikes. It's more of an ornamental barrier than a practical one. The spikes might give someone trouble climbing over, but they're not as dangerous as they look.

Still, whoever made it over that would be athletic and capable, and not afraid of the drop on the other side.

With everything locked up and the security system set, I rap on the door to my—the guest—bedroom and Phoenix lets me in, looking a little more relaxed now. His eyes are still downcast, and his shoulders slumped.

He's also not wearing pants. A long t-shirt just barely covers his ass and every time he moves, a tantalizing flash of bulge appears beneath the hem. You wouldn't think from the way he carries himself that he's packing heat like that.

"So there's the couch and the bed," he says. "I'll take the couch."

"Don't be ridiculous, this is your house. I'm on the couch."

He considers me for a moment, huffs, and nods.

"Try to get some sleep. Work tomorrow, right?"

"Yes."

"Once you're safe there, I'll come back here and look around a bit, see what I can find, but I doubt there will be anything."

"Why would they just pop into the courtyard and leave?"

He hugs his arms and rubs them while I consider that.

"Maybe they wanted to be seen," I say. "Phoenix, I have to tell you my suspicion. There's no reason to hide it."

"What do you think this is?"

"That Agatha woman is trying to rattle you. You have a leak in your organization. Whoever is doing this can get to you in Los Angeles at a moment's notice and knows where you were staying. That means they have access to your calendar or heard the location from someone who does.

He frowns.

"That makes sense. What can we do if it is her? Go to the police?"

I shrug. "We have nothing but speculation. I'm sure she's not lopping off stuffed toy heads herself."

He shrugs and sighs again.

"Then what do we do?"

"I'm working on that. Try to get some sleep. There's only one way out of the bedroom, and I'll be right there."

He nods. "Okay."

Once he's inside, I slump on the couch.

Well, this is a fine mess. How do I catch this person, without involving the police, and tie it back to Agatha? I'm starting to get a balls to bones certainty that it was her that set all this up. Who else? Who would have that intel?

Yawning, I shed my shirt and stretch out on the couch. It's more comfortable than a lot of beds I've slept on, and I'm out fast.

Going to sleep fast is talent, in a way. One that a lot of military guys pick up. When you get the chance for sleep, you take it. I could always flop down and catch some Z's anywhere, so it's an almost supernatural skill with me. I basically flip my own off switch and out I go.

The next thing I know, someone is shaking me violently. I bolt upright from the couch and thump into a warm body, knocking them to the floor. Snapping into a defensive stance, I throw my fists up before my eyes have time to unblur and I find myself staring at a terrified Phoenix, sitting on the floor.

"What the hell?" I bark. "What is it, is someone here?"

He works his mouth but says nothing.

"Talk to me," I snap.

"No," he says. "You were having some kind of freakout in your sleep. You were flopping around like a beached dolphin and shouting."

I take a deep breath and slip back, letting my arms fall.

"What did I say?"

"It wasn't coherent," he says, starting to get up. "At least, I didn't get anything from it. You woke me up."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"You scared the hell out of me," he says, his voice cracking. "I thought someone was out here murdering you."

I offer a hand and pull him to his feet.

In the process, I pull too hard. He stumbles into me and doesn't pull back.

"There's not much that's going to get past me if I don't want it to," I assure him.

He runs his hands over my chest, and an electric shiver passes through my body.

"Maybe you should come to bed."

I freeze, like a deer in the headlights. My mouth goes dry.

I'm used to cots and hotel beds. Cold, lonely, utilitarian sleeping arrangements. The last time I slept in close proximity to someone, I didn't even like the guy, and it was in a sleeping hole. I clear my throat.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I say.

He looks up at me. A faint glow seems to skim over his skin in the dark, but it's just my eyes adjusting to the gloom. His eyes nearly sparkle with it.

"Why not?"

"I don't know where the boundaries are."

"Wherever they are," he says, moving his hand down my stomach, "this has already crossed them twice now."

He cups me in his hand, the weight of my cock and balls pressing into his palm as his fingers tease me through my pants. I was already hard, too shocked and disoriented to realize it before.

Now it's all there is. He brings his other hand down and plays with me through my clothes, tracing two fingers around the outline of my shaft while his other hand strokes my balls. A hot, pleasant tingling spreads through my body.

"If I took my clothes off, what would you do with me?"

"Put you in bed and tell you to go to sleep. You have work in the morning."

"I'm the boss. I can be late."

His hands move up my side, fingers on bare skin now, bringing an electric heat up with them that tightens in my chest, throbbing in time with the pulse in my balls. It takes an effort to keep my hands off him.

"What if I looked at you like this," he demonstrates, "and said…" he pauses, as if this is a physical effort, "fuck me in the ass."

A jolt passes through me. My knees buckle as a dozen muscles clench, and my hands are on him before I can stop myself, but only briefly. I lean in, but pull back, as if I just wanted to sniff him. Disappointed, he pulls away, taking a final stroke with his fingers as he turns.

No, he's not giving up.

He shed his shirt, baring his lithe, sculpted back and shoulders, and shimmies out of his underwear. His ass flexes magnificently as he walks back into the bedroom, throwing his arms over his head to stretch. He turns and looks back at me, and the way his body twists, his long legs flexed, makes my cock pound with the rush of it. I feel a head rush, as if dizzy.

"I think I'll sleep nude," he says and struts toward the bed.

Every step is like walking through hip deep molasses. I try to pull myself back but it's in vain. There's a magnet between my legs pulling me towards him, a hunger deep in my mouth and throat, a storm of need swirling in my belly.

I'm out of my pants and I kick them aside. Phoenix slides back on the bed, up against the pillows, and lies there, legs spread, looking at me. I fall on him and drive my tongue into his mouth as I take his cock in my hand, squeezing until he moans into my mouth. Then I stroke lightly, pressing against him, bare skin to bare skin.

Throwing myself on top of him, I taste and lick and devour, grinding against him in the process. He gasps as I wrap my hand around our shafts, holding our cocks so they glide against each other as I roll my hips. He tenses his tight stomach and brings his hips up as I use the motion of our bodies and my hands to jerk us off together.

He runs his fingers down my back and shocks me when he presses one against my asshole, slowly driving it in. He grins at my reaction, his face filling my vision.

"I put some condoms in the nightstand," he says, "and lubricant."

"Are you sure you want this?"

He nods.

"Have you ever done this before?"

He shakes his head.

"You might not like it."

"Every time I look at you my asshole feels hollow," he blurts out.

I stop, blink, and start laughing. It almost kills the mood.

"You need to work on your dirty talk."

"I don't have a lot of practice."

"What if I don't want to do that to you yet," I say. "I have more to teach you."

I run my fingers down his chest and he shudders.

"Like what?"

"It occurs to me," I say, "that if you're totally inexperienced, I can make you into whatever I want you to be."

Reaching over to the nightstand, I find that bottle of lube he mentioned, and slide down his body, skimming his cock against my chest.

"You've had a rough day. Relax for me."

He does, nodding.

First, I lube a finger and swirl it around his ass, gently probing without entering him. He tenses when touched. I can feel the eager, gripping need in him, but he needs some...experience.

When my finger enters him, he gasps. Too tight. I need him to relax.

I take him in my mouth and my hand and slowly work my finger deeper while I pleasure him. He relaxes into the bed with a sigh, then a soft moan.

My cock throbs, rock hard, when he runs his hand over my head. Soon he's ready for another finger, grunting as I squeeze it in. His whole body is thrumming.

The tension builds. His stomach contracts in a muscular bundle, he arches his back, and he quivers in my mouth. He's trying to hold it back, but he's mine now, under my control. I edge him close, ease off, edge him closer again, until there's no holding back and he comes, jerking wildly. He grabs my head, runs his fingers over my shoulders, and slumps into the bed.

Rising, I fall back next to him, spread my legs, and look at him.

"Suck my cock and swallow."

He took that more literally than I mean. When he slinks between my legs, he immediately shoves me in his mouth and tries to push my entire girth down his throat. I think he makes it halfway before giving up, then settles, lying on his stomach, and slowly bobs his head, lovingly matching the movement of his lips and tongue with soft strokes.

After cupping my balls in his hand, Phoenix slips his finger under, then inside me. I take hold of his head and guide his motions, tensing as I lie back, making him drag it out. I have more control.

For a while, anyway. It's too good. The sensation alone is enough, but when I open my eyes and look down at his hollowed cheeks and lips pressed tightly around my shaft and his eyes meeting my gaze, I lose it and explode in his mouth. He keeps at it until I'm done bucking and thrashing, the ripples of pleasure fading from a pained rush to a slow flow before he lets go, licks his lips, and tucks up against my side to fall asleep.