A Boy Who Came In from the Cold Ch. 09bySadieRose©
*All the usual rules apply. No part of this story may be taken or reused without the author's permission. Because I Say So!!*
"Seven o'clock!" Rayne Wilde protested, in the face of Ant's frantic questions and Daniel Leland's silent, implacable disapproval. "You said I had to be back by seven and I 'am'! For Christ's sake, I dunno why you don't just lock me in my fuckin' room and be done with it!"
"The thought had occurred," Leland sighed wearily.
Ant caught his arm as Rayne turned away, ready to walk again; ready to do anything so long as he could escape from this floating asylum. The younger man yanked himself free at once.
"Get your fucking hands off me!"
Ant's features darkened but he backed away, letting the boy storm off towards the room they had been sharing. Terry Goodwill patted his arm and muttered; "Leave 'im to me, Rosie. I'll talk to 'im."
Aldo was Terry's silent shadow as the burly Londoner checked out the bedrooms and then the shower. Ant sank down on the edge of the futon and wrapped his hands around his head as if it ached, which it did.
"What was all that about, eh?" Terry leaned comfortably against the shower room wall, his gaze following Rayne as he paced back and forth like a caged animal. The boy was breathing hard and fast through clenched teeth, his pale eyes angry and unfocussed but Terry's words drew the younger man's attention for he stopped pacing and glanced up suspiciously. Then his eyes darted away to a point just beyond the tall, burly Englishman.
Aldo had followed them to the bathroom and was standing in the doorway with his arms folded. His handsome face was as serious as either man had ever seen it. There was to be no support from the Italian either, it seemed. Rayne slumped back against the far wall and glowered at them both darkly.
"I don't get it," he snarled, his teeth still gritted furiously. "I'm not a child. I knew I had to be back by seven and I'm here, aren't I? What the fuck have I done wrong now?"
"Ant was worried about you," Aldo said mildly, before Terry could open his mouth to deliver a more crushing tirade. "He though you might do something crazy. He said that one minute you were fine and the next you were like an animal, tearing him apart."
"I never touched him!"
"You don't 'ave to touch anything," Terry Goodwill rumbled, sounding more disappointed than angry. "You're like fuckin' acid, Ray! You open your mouth and you just burn through everyone like they're not there. It's all about 'you', isn't it princess? He's just tryin' to look after you, can't you see that?"
"I don't 'need' looking after!" Rayne flung up his arms and wrapped them around his head as if he could hide from their retribution that way. "I just wish you'd all stop crowding me like you want a fuckin' piece of me!"
"Where did you go?" Aldo wanted to know. "We looked everywhere."
"We?" Rayne lowered his arms and blinked at the Italian, his face perplexed.
"All of us," Aldo elucidated. "Anthony said that there was a man looking out for you. A fellow that you met on the train here. He did not want that man to find you."
For a moment Rayne shook his head slowly. He wondered briefly if the superintendent on the SNCF had found out about the heroin. Had he dropped incriminating evidence? Was he about to be arrested?
"Some guy called Christopher?" Terry suggested, shaking his head.
The light dawned and Rayne's face lost some of its pallor.
"That twat!" he exclaimed. "What the hell does 'he' want?"
Aldo said; "Your ass on a spike from the sound of it."
"You what?" Rayne laughed weakly. "What the fuck have I done to him?"
"I dunno, but Ant said that he promised to have you anally gang-raped if he found you first." Aldo rolled his eyes. "You really know how to light a guy's fire, don't you?"
The younger boy slumped back against the wall again, his expression unreadable.
"Jesus Christ!" he whispered at last. "I'm surrounded by fuckin' crazy people."
"Well if you don't want them crazier, you'll get your arse into gear right now," Terry advised sagely. "Dan's planned dinner and an evening at La Fenix. He doesn't like having his plans buggered up so I suggest you get ready to go out and you make 'very' nice with him and Paddy tonight. Get it?"
Rayne cast a searching look in Aldo's direction but the other boy just nodded adamantly.
"You won't be alone, Rayne. I'll be there," he promised.
"Get ready?" the younger boy asked him worriedly. "As in 'dressed'?"
"Just make yourself look pretty," Terry volunteered. "A bit of makeup, some sexy jewellery, strappy boots or something. Get yourself oiled and smelling good. You're spending tonight with Paddy Mac, so don't fuck it up."
Green eyes went wide as old pennies. Rayne just stared at him.
"Wh... who's idea of a joke was that?" he demanded at last.
"It's not a joke," Aldo said quietly. "PJ likes to get to know his boys before he shoots with them. He knows all of us. You, he has not met. Don't be scared, Rayne. He won't hurt you. He knows that you're still waiting on the tests and they haven't made a sheath big enough to hold him so he won't fuck you tonight."
Terry snorted quietly through his nostrils. Rayne glared at him; "What?"
"He won't poke you, but those two muscle boys that came out here with him don't look as if they'd mind!" Terry laughed grimly. "Better make sure your arse is nice and slippery, sweet-cheeks!"
"Fuck off!" Rayne snarled at him, pushing his way out of the shower and into the bedroom.
His hands were shaking as he studied himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, stroking his dark hair back from his face and wondering what he should do. All his money was in the pouch at Phil's flat, as well as the wrap of precious Heroin. Christophe was looking for him, hoping to train him into a good little doggie like Thierry.
The young man snorted incredulously at the idea of that. No way was he coming to heel for Christophe, not even if the bastard offered to pay him!
And now he was being handed over to Paddy McNamara like a peace offering. If Phil was not exaggerating about the size of the man's dick, tonight might well be an eye opener in more ways than one. Rayne sat down on the edge of the bed, conscious that he was shaking. It was almost worse than being in thrall to Johnno. At least with John he had a good idea what to expect. These jokers might try anything with him and he had nowhere to run to.
To cap it all off, Ant – his only ally in this madness - was not even speaking to him and it was his own fault. Rayne clasped his hands in his lap and stared glumly at his reflection. He realised, belatedly, that this upset him most of all. Ant might sometimes be a bit of an idiot and he was far too convinced of his own heroic role in Rayne's great escape from Johnno, but he was at least a kind man. No one had forced him to spend so much money trying to help one ungrateful boy prostitute change his life. He had done what he thought was right, even when it was clearly not. Rayne was torn between feeling sorry for him and being angry because Ant knew just how to manipulate him.
"He's as bad as the rest of them," he told his mirror image in a sullen whisper. "He just wants to get his rocks off while you do all the donkey work."
He put his head in his hands then and sat there, huddled on the edge of the bed until Aldo came to help him with his makeup.
"You look fabulous," the Italian whispered in his ear as he prepared to leave the bedroom at last.
Rayne Wilde wished he felt fabulous but the only sensation he was conscious of was one of rising nausea. His skin was crawling, not helped by the sweet, aromatic massage oil which Aldo had rubbed gently all over him as they got ready. Delicate, beaded, silver coils were wound around his nipples and he wore a snug, black cock strap around his shaft and balls with delicate silver chains running to a ring that fastened snugly just beneath the head of his sex. It felt heavy and a little uncomfortable but Aldo assured him that he would get used to it. Silver bracelets circled his wrists, with more strands of fine chain running from them to rings around the tips of each of his fingers and his thumbs. His nails were painted silver and black. Soft-soled, sable suede boots caressed his feet and calves, bound with buckled straps of the same material and he wore little diamond studs in his ears and a silver and diamante collar around his neck. His hair was full of glitter and there were streaks of it across his high cheekbones. Aldo had glossed his lips until he felt sure they were melting and drawn thick, black lines of Kohl across his eyelids so that he looked like Cleopatra.
Beside him, Aldo was a vision in black and gold. A black leather collar and cock harness complimented black and tan leather boots and a golden belt across his lean, bronzed hips. Little whorls of golden leaves ringed his nipples and he wore a single dark jewel in his navel. His ebony hair was slicked back from his handsome face with styling wax and he wore a single golden ring in his left earlobe with a little piece of jet hanging from it.
"I wish this was over," Rayne breathed, hoping that he would not be sick and ruin all of Aldo's work. "I wish I could just go back to bed and hide under the duvet 'til morning."
"You'll be fine," Aldo assured him. "I swear it, Rayne. No one is gonna hurt you."
A silence greeted their arrival in the day room. Then there were a few appreciative murmurs from the waiting group. Arturo and the twins had already set off, for which Rayne was profoundly grateful. Another slanging match with the Terrible Tossers was more than he could stomach at the moment. Ant looked at him as if he had grown another head, then turned away as if the sight was too much to bear but Daniel Leland rose to his feet, garbed in a long, loose, midnight black sarong, edged in golden loops of thread, which he wore like a roman toga. He nodded his head slowly.
"Well well... it was certainly worth the wait," he said at last.
A LA FENIX:
They walked the short distance from the boat to the club, on the edge of La Collines district. A neon sign over the door showed a brightly plumed bird discarding its golden feathers to reveal firstly a curvaceous naked woman, then a muscular, golden skinned man, over and over. Daniel took Rayne's arm and led him inside where the darkness swallowed his vision for a few moments. When he could see again, they were approaching a deep booth with turquoise covered bench seats and a long table between them. A number of people were already seated and Rayne recognised the Twins by their silver stetsons. A tall man with long, blond hair tied back in a pony tail rose and greeted them. His solemn grey eyes roamed over Rayne slowly, as if trying to memorise every inch of him, then he turned and wordlessly ushered them into the booth. Daniel Leland sat down at the head of the table, next to Terry. Rayne was guided to a place next to a broad shouldered, richly sun-bronzed man whose thick, shoulder length hair shone a deep, copper red in the lights from the dancefloor beyond their seats. As he sat down, a pair of steely blue eyes moved to meet his curious gaze. Their owner had a square, solid jaw like some old action cartoon hero and a full, sensuous mouth. His nose had been broken but it did not look out of place on that strong-boned face.
Rayne held his gaze, unwilling to look away. This fellow was not handsome in the same way as Aldo but nor was he ugly. He had a commanding presence. His chest was deep and broad with powerful pectorals, curving and dipping like polished bronze into the sculpted precision of his abdominal muscles and his nipples were hard, dark bullets. One muscular thigh rested so close to Rayne's leg that he could feel the heat rolling off it in waves.
"So..." this man said at last, his voice rich and warm, resonating with the combined brogue of Southern Ireland and the nasal twang of East Coast America. "You must be the boy who came in from the cold?"
Rayne blinked at him, not sure what to say to this. It was a curious opening gambit and it told the younger man that his fellow diner already knew more about him than he knew about the man sitting next to him. He shivered under the intense scrutiny of that steady stare.
"I'm PJ," the fellow said, without any fuss or fanfare. "Are you 'still' cold?"
Rayne shook his head. The concern seemed genuine but he could not be sure. It was rare for him to meet a man he could not mentally unzip and assess in the first few moments of their meeting. PJ McNamara reached across the table, breaking the hold his gaze had on his companion as he picked up a bottle of champagne and deftly twisted the foil cap so that he could pop the cork. As if this was some kind of signal, people settled in their seats and other bottles were opened. Foam spewed from the necks and into tall, narrow glasses, which chinked and clinked as the revellers toasted one another's health.
Rayne lifted his own glass to his lips but as he did so, Paddy McNamara turned in his seat and touched his crystal flute to Rayne's lightly. His eyes were fixed on the younger man's slightly flushed face once more.
"Good health," he said portentously.
Rayne swallowed the sudden urge to be sick. He hid his nose in the glass and gulped down a mouthful of bubbles and acid fizz. The stuff burned cold in the back of his throat and seared down his gullet. He could feel the bubbles in his nose long after he swallowed it.
Beside him, PJ McNamara sipped his champagne coolly and watched him with a curious smile playing about his full-lipped mouth. Rayne could not help it, his gaze moved slowly down that muscular chest and over the ripples of his richly tanned six-pack into the deep valley between his thighs. The way he was sitting concealed him perfectly. There was no way of telling how big that weapon between his legs might be. It had sunk like a submarine, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to strike.
"Do you want to see it?" The actor's voice was gentle but still mildly amused. There was a small lull in the conversation that flowed around them. Several pairs of eyes moved towards him and Rayne, some knowingly, others eager for some kind of spectacle even though the night was young.
Rayne felt his cheeks heat up. He could not look at the man, so he drained his glass instead and set it down a little heavily.
"Woah there," PJ said quietly, as if he was calming a spooky horse. "There's plenty to go round."
He filled the glass again, then began to talk to someone on his other side as if nothing had happened. Slowly the conversations resumed once more and Rayne stared at the bubbles rising in his champagne flute until he thought the colour had subsided from his face. He could not understand what was the matter with him. Years of being a plaything for anyone who wanted him had left Rayne Wilde immune to sexual innuendo. He was not normally shy around strangers but here he felt out of his depth. When he lifted his head, Aldo, who was sitting one place down, across the table from him, caught his eye and smiled encouragingly. Rayne sipped nervously at the bubbles. He tried to smile back but the expression felt out of place. He felt totally, utterly, completely 'wrong'.
Waiters in sparkly collars with dickie bows and thigh high, glittery boots brought menus to the table and he found himself sharing with PJ and completely bewildered by the choices. The only time he could recall having eaten at a restaurant had been for his sister's wedding, and he had been very wasted then and did not remember much about the choice he made. He wished that he was stoned right now. It might not have helped him but he would certainly have cared less about it. Taking a deep breath he gulped down a good half of the glass of champagne. If he could not lose himself in Junk then he could at least get rolling drunk. No doubt it would piss everyone off enormously. Which was even more satisfying!
A waiter appeared behind him and asked him something in French. Rayne blinked at him owlishly and shook his head.
"You don't want a starter?" Paddy asked solicitously.
"Not hungry," Rayne said in a stoical voice.
"What are you having for the main?"
"Dunno." The young man smiled awkwardly. "I've no idea what 'alf of this stuff is."
PJ laughed agreeably.
"It took me ages to figure out as well. Twenty years and I can just about read a menu in French now. Good job I don't spend all my time here!" He leaned towards Rayne and looked over his shoulder at the menu card, then pointed to something. "What about that? A nice steak Diane, very rare and juicy. Put some meat on your bones!"
"I don't eat meat," Rayne said neutrally. He felt sick again at the very thought of it.
"You should. It's not good for you living on rabbit food. No wonder you're such a slip of a thing," the Irishman commented with a shake of his head that set his thick, copper-coloured hair swinging lightly.
"There is pasta," Aldo volunteered from across the table, pointing to a line on the menu for him as if that would help his understanding. "This has garlic and oil, ahh... this here is tomato and onion and herbs. Do you like fungi... ummm, mushrooms?"
He plumped for something that Aldo assured him was pasta ribbons with cream and mushrooms and a little garlic. While the others tucked into their starters, exchanging spoonfuls of food and laughing among themselves, he emptied his glass again and helped himself to a bread roll.
"Slow down," advised the tall, blond man who was sitting to his left. It was the first thing Rayne had heard him say all night. He had been so quiet that his table companion had barely registered his presence since their arrival. Now he looked enquiringly at the fellow, whose blond hair was so fair it was almost white, and bound up in a long tail with a narrow strip of dark suede thong. His skin was tanned lightly all over, shown off by a liberal dusting of body glitter and very little else, although he wore a white dog collar like a priest and white cuffs with diamond cufflinks in them. The bones of his cheeks, brow and jaw were sharp and prominent and he had a long, narrow, slightly pointed nose and fine, pale lips.
"Are you with him?" Rayne asked boldly, jerking a thumb towards the man sitting on his other side, who was pouring him more champagne.
His new companion laughed softly without parting his lips. At last he nodded his head; "Yes. I am 'with him', as you so graciously put it."
"Is he your boyfriend?" Rayne felt like an idiot as soon as he asked it.
The other man was looking at him quite incredulously as if he had suggested something quite out of the question but he did at least smile.
"No. That is not the situation between us."
He spoke with an accent, not French, Rayne thought, nor Italian. He was used to that now, having been around Aldo and Arturo for a couple of days.
"Where are you from?" he asked to cover his embarrassment.
"I come originally from Tampere, a town in the mountains of Finland but for many years now I live in San Francisco," the other man said in broken English, which was, nonetheless, one hundred percent better than Rayne's Finnish.
"Do you make films with Paddy?" Rayne probed speculatively, overcoming his nerves a little. He took another sip from his champagne flute. The bubbles did not attack quite so fiercely this time.
"Sometimes, yes. Most often now I come with him when he wishes to look impressive. When he needs, mmmh... muscle." The fellow offered a cautious smile.
"What's your name?"
"I am Mikkal Saarinen, at your service," the fellow said with a nod of his head.
"Rayne Wilde," Rayne offered his hand and the tall, grave Finn shook it briefly. "Are you looking after him tonight?"