Habit of A Lifetime Ch. 05

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SadieRose
SadieRose
425 Followers

The older man moved his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. "Ten," he responded at last, rather reluctantly. "I was out in eight!"

"Close!" Rayne breathed, insouciantly. "Not bad for 'Unlawful Killing', anyway!"

"There was a fight..." Charley protested, an edge of anger in his voice as he turned his head to look up at Rayne. "It was self-defence. He had a knife..."

"And so did you," replied Rayne Wylde coldly. "You stabbed the poor fucker and he died, Chaz."

Simon shook his head at them both, bewildered. "I don't understand. How do 'you' know so much about it?"

"Matty told me," Rayne responded casually. "Didn't you ever wonder how that big ape got a job like this?"

"Matt took me on, sure!" Charley put in quickly, although he sounded a little bit awkward. "I knew him as a kid; knew his family, up round White Hart Lane. Used to do a few little jobs for Solly Greening and the boys."

"And our Chaz was 'more' than just 'friendly' with young Matty. Weren't you Chaz?" Rayne sneered cynically. "Very sweet on pretty little Matty! Before and 'after' you went to prison. Of course the Cops didn't know about you touching up little boys..."

Charley pushed himself to his feet, his face dark with anger. In the waning light from the car, Rayne faced him down - utterly composed. Already the cuts and bruises the bigger man had given him earlier were fading. Charley must have seen that for his features paled now.

"I never laid a hand on 'im! Not 'like that', you fuckin' dirty little bastard! Not like 'you'!"

"But you would have 'liked' to," Rayne taunted him, apparently impervious to the danger of such an endeavour. "Matt was never the naïf you thought he was! I wouldn't have let him manage Whipsnade if that was true. He knew what you were after, Charley! He always knew it. Long before he ran away. Long before I met him in Manchester. D'you know, Matt was on the 'streets' when I hooked up with him. He was beggin', and selling himself to dirty old men like you, just to survive. He was just a kid, for fuck's sake!" He caught his breath, shaking his head adamantly. In the darkness, his pale eyes glittered with emotion. Now he hissed; "Matt sussed you, Chaz. He knew what you were after and he ran so's you would never get it. Perhaps he grew up a little bit too much on the Game. When I brought him back home an' put some cash in his pockets, and some self-esteem in that great big heart of his, he took it on himself to give you a job. He said to me; 'Uncle Charley's been in prison, Ray. I can't let him walk the streets.' And like the idiot I am, I said 'okay' to him."

Rayne pulled a disdainful face. "He told me you'd been up on a Manslaughter charge and they reduced it to Unlawful. He told me a 'lot' more, Chaz. I guessed what you'd been up to with him a long time ago!" His pale green eyes met and held the older man's glare. In a soft, husky voice he mocked; "'Uncle Charley'!"

With a growl of frustration, Chaz ran at him, swinging a fist... and Rayne blocked it. The young singer's hand came up so fast that Simon did not see it until Charley's knuckles connected with Rayne's palm. Again, the older, heavier man lashed out... and again. Each time Rayne caught or deflected him. He was so in control by now that it seemed almost like a game to him. Simon watched the small cruel smile on his face with an increasing sense of chill. He did not disbelieve Rayne, but he did not want to believe him all the same. After the nightmare of Rayne's childhood he could easily envisage the singer killing Charley here and now. For years he had wondered why Ray went out of his way to deprecate their driver and at last he thought he understood.

One thing Rayne Wylde had never tolerated before all this Vampire business was the physical abuse of those who could not defend themselves. He understood their anguish all too well.

"Is that 'good' for you, Chaz?" the singer was taunting, huskily, as Charley went for the head and Rayne stopped him, then dropped his free hand to block a gut-level punch. "Does that feel 'good', Charley, 'sweetheart'?"

Faster and fiercer, Charley laid into him but Rayne only seemed to grow in strength and control. He held off the other fellow's attack with apparent ease. "You wanna 'give' it to me some more, 'uncle Charley'?" he taunted viciously. "You wanna 'give' it to me? Well come on then. I'm hot for you! I'm ready! I 'want' you, sweetheart!"

Roaring with fury, Charley rushed him, barrelling into Rayne and they both dropped to the ground, wrestling one another fiercely. Somehow, impossibly, Rayne got the bigger man under him and pushed him to the gravel, crouching over him with his long-boned hands on Charley's shoulders. In the gleam of light from the headlamps, Simon saw the fangs distend from Rayne's upper jaw, flashing, spittle-wet in the phosphorescent glow as his mouth opened wide in an animal snarl. He screamed aloud and stumbled towards them both, thoughts of his own safety pushed to the back of his mind by that sight. His only rational idea was to keep Rayne from killing Charley.

Before he reached them, the Vampire pushed his opponent away from him and Charley slumped back to the ground, panting; his eyes wide and glazed with shock. As Simon slid to a halt beside them, Rayne scrambled to his feet, still standing over their driver and hissed softly; "How 'do' you imagine I managed 'that', Chaz love?"

ZELARIN

Khaled Zelarin tapped his fingers on the leather-upholstered surface of his desk irritably for a long time after Akhenaten had gone. One of the more annoying aspects of the late pharaoh's continued existence was that, after three and a half thousand years spent baiting one another, the bastard really knew how to get under his skin. Zelarin was a businessman, first and foremost; he prided himself on his cool head and his control of the market-place. It riled him beyond words to think that the Evermann (God, even his choice of name was pretentious!) could just step in and steal one of his most precious commodities from under his nose, then imagine that he, Khaled Zelarin, could be blackmailed.

The loss of Daniel Welton rankled. Danny was that rare combination in a working boy, he was pretty 'and' he was smart. Of course, Zelarin read the newspapers and the continued reports of Whipsnade's ongoing concert tour told him - long before Akhenaten appeared on his doorstep – that the boy had failed in his appointed task. At first, he had merely believed that Daniel was too ashamed to face him after letting him down. Zelarin had no use for failures and all his employees knew it. As the days went by, he had begun to suspect that there was more to Danny's disappearance than mere embarrassment. He heaved an unnecessary sigh and pushed himself to his feet. Maybe Akhenaten had saved him a task. Still, Daniel's punishment 'might' have been entertaining for a day or two.

Mulling this over with a disgruntled expression on his pale, narrow, ascetic face, the ancient Vampire crossed to the filing cabinet where all his employee records were kept. More irritating to him right now was the fact that Wylde had survived. It meant that Akhenaten would persevere in his lame and obsessive quest to win the singer's love, believing him to be the reincarnation of his precious Nefertiti. The idea that he might one day be successful fired all of Zelarin's moves to ensure that he failed.


It was not so much that he wanted mortality for himself. Good God, no! He had lived for so long now that the idea of actually 'dying' seemed a bit of a joke. However, he and Akhenaten had been opponents for over three millennia. For three thousand five hundred years and change, the jumped up Sun King had been the one constant factor in his Un-life. And for every year of that span, he had managed to thwart Akhenaten's aims and ambitions. By this time, Zelarin was adamant that the pharaoh would not beat him. His bride would be forced to reincarnate time and time again, as she had since his mercenaries stabbed and strangled her in year fourteen of the Sun King's inglorious, heathen reign. That ought to teach the pompous ass a thing or two.

He rifled through the files, shaking his head slowly and running one hand over his closely cropped, silver stubbled skull. That was the trouble with pharaohs. They were so far up themselves it was unbelievable. He had never yet encountered a King of the Two Lands with a sense of humour (and Zelarin had known plenty of pharaohs!) Still, Akhenaten could have made so much more of himself instead of messing around with art and this silly quest. He was a passably handsome fellow and these miserable twentieth century mortals were obsessed with image and had been wetting themselves over anything ancient and Egyptian ever since that wretch Carter opened the Tut boy's tomb and discovered one of Zelarin's more potent curses.

Just imagine what the media would make of a glamorous, immortal pharaoh, he though with another sigh. The genuine article! Evermann, with his chiselled good looks and that long, luscious, girly-girly hair was just made for the TV generation. It was kind of a shame he had apparently suffered a personality bypass, but hey... that kind of handicap had never done David Beckham any harm!

Zelarin located Daniel's employment folder with a grunt of satisfaction. It was quite a thick file but then the boy 'had' worked for him since he was pre-pubescent. The Vampire had 'bought' him in 1987 from some serial broodmare with more brats than she could manage and a heroin habit that she handled even less successfully than she did her nine children. He had been an exceptionally fast learner. It was a bloody shame to let him go. Okay, at nineteen, he was a bit long in the tooth now for many of the 'Flesh for Favours' regulars, but he still had those boyish good looks. The punters still asked for him by name and so long as Danny kept on telling them that he was only fifteen, they did not complain.

Ultimately, he would have been groomed to host one of Zelarin's clubs. He had no doubt that Daniel would have excelled in that profession; he was good with people, even on his back! Nevertheless, Zelarin's managers had to be capable of 'anything' he asked of them. Danny had fallen at the very first hurdle on his new career path. Rayne Wylde was still alive.

Zelarin ground his teeth. He dropped the file into the ornate, hammered silver waste bin beside his desk and unscrewed the cap from a bottle of exceptionally fine whisky that he kept in a drawer there. He poured himself a large glass, then decanted the remaining quarter of a litre over the discarded file, dropping the bottle after it. Almost carelessly he struck a match and flicked it into the depths of the litter bin, then sat back in his chair again, watching the bright flames bloom, destroying every last trace of Daniel Weston's carefully constructed identity.

When he found the boy, he promised himself grimly, Daniel's body would share its fate. No one 'ever' left Khaled Zelarin's employment alive. There was no telling whom they might talk to and what they might say. He was running a highly illegal enterprise here, after all. No, it was far too dangerous to let him live.

He would have to call his best operatives off the hunt for Wylde for the time being, in order to retrieve the boy. Nonetheless, Zelarin promised himself, once Danny Weston was safely scattered in the Thames, Wylde was going to pay him back in blood. He smiled coldly at the thought of it. The singer was past the first flush of youth but he was still pretty enough to be entertaining for a few days. Moreover, Zelarin planned to 'entertain' him quite vigorously. Perhaps he could even make a little video recording to show Akhenaten how satisfying his precious beloved could be, 'before' they cut his throat and drank his blood.

His smile quickened cruelly, exposing long, curved fangs that extended rapidly at the thought of how he would use and ultimately bleed Rayne Wylde. They would pleasure themselves with the singer until semen oozed from every orifice; until the last drop of blood was sucked from his stiffening body and the final breath rattled in his throat. Sinking back in his leather chair, he watched the flames dwindle and unfastened his fly to attend to the more immediate stiffness rising between his legs at that thought.

SIMON

They sped north through the night as far as Keele Services, where Charley finally felt the need for sleep too. In the car park of the service station with his chauffeur snoring quietly beside him and Rayne huddled like a dead thing in the back of the Mercedes, Simon started to tremble uncontrollably. He wept for real now, with his face pressed into the crook of his arm, up against the window so that he did not disturb anyone. When his sobs got out of control he let himself quietly out of the car and stumbled across to the silent, empty children's' play area, sinking down onto one of the tyre swings to cry properly.

It was like some terrible nightmare, even here - especially here - alone in the darkness in this weirdly artificial place. The playground was a little manmade oddity in the midst of a concrete plateau, rising up in strange, twisted plastic shapes from the sand underfoot. He tilted his salt-wet cheek into the cold iron chain of the swing support and breathed in the crisp, petrol-tinged air. This time he shivered with cold. It was a clear, bright night, but not as warm as the day had been, by a long stretch. He only had a T-shirt and jeans on and his arms were rough with gooseflesh when Rayne's fingers gently brushed the back of his neck and sent him starting to his feet in shock.

"What are you doing out here?" the Vampire whispered, meeting his wide eyes in the darkness.

Simon backed away from him, conscious all the while of where his companion was. Never in his life had he been as confused as he was tonight. For so many years he had loved and trusted Rayne Wylde and now he found himself petrified of the other man, unable to stand his touch. His heart raced uncontrollably.

"Leave me alone!"

"It's cold," Rayne breathed tenderly. "At least let me get you a blanket or something."

"I don't want 'anything' from you," Simon told him, although the words hurt him inside like tiny knives against his lungs. "Go back to the car."

Rayne sat down on the swing next to his own and closed his fingers around the chains, swaying quietly back and forth for a while without speaking. When Simon did not move away, he lifted his head to look at the drummer quizzically.

"D'you remember... they had swings like this on Dymchurch seafront when we were kids?" he whispered reflectively. "We used to go there every afternoon after school. My mum and yours sitting on a bench eating ice-cream and talking, and me and you going nuts on the swings!"

He smiled incredulously, shaking his head so that his dark hair spilled down over his eyes and he had to push it out of the way with one hand. Leaning back, he swung a little higher and a short laugh escaped him. "Can you believe it, Si?" The words sounded odd; choked. "Can you believe that was 'us'?"

His heels dug into the sand and he stopped the swing abruptly, pitching forward with his hands drawn up to his face. He was biting the knuckle at the base of his thumb to stop himself crying, as he had once done when they were boys. As he had done on the night he told Simon how Uncle Bryan had come into his room, held him down on the bed with one hand over his mouth and raped him as his mum slept on the couch downstairs. Simon swallowed his fear and came back to the swings, crouching in front of him. Very, very tentatively he rested one hand on Rayne's slim, black-clad thigh, just beyond his bony knee where his denims had been ripped during the scuffle with Charley.

Pale eyes met his own, wide and white rimmed, the pupils dilated fully in the darkness. He thought he felt a tremor run through Rayne's body beneath his hand and whispered; "Are you scared, Ray? Are you as scared as I am?"

His friend quivered again, more noticeably this time and Simon thought he saw the tiniest of nods in response. Then, Rayne drew his hand away from his mouth and murmured; "Maybe even more!"

Simon smiled weakly. "I can hardly believe that!"

His companion grimaced slightly in the darkness. "You don't know the half of it," he sighed wearily, looking away into the night. In a distracted voice he murmured; "I've been having the weirdest dreams too. I've followed a stranger through some woods, on the banks of a river or a beach, maybe. Every night I lose him and when I come to sit by the water he creeps up behind me, so quietly that I can't hear him coming. He touches my neck, there..." His fingers rose to a point just beneath his ear. "...just where he bit me... and I wake up..."

Simon was looking back at him warily. "What are you saying? That you're crazy? You won't get away with claiming Diminished Responsibility if you do it again, Ray," he told the singer anxiously.

"No..." Rayne stopped then shook his head. "I don't 'know', Si. I don't know 'anything' any more. I'm so fucking scared!"

"You're strong enough to kill a man like Charley! What could you possibly be afraid of?" Simon laughed nervously. "I wouldn't stand a chance with you if you decided to go for 'me' like that."

He thought he saw a flash of cynicism in Rayne's huge, expressive eyes, then the other man breathed; "You're not in any danger from me, I wish you'd believe that. I could never hurt you. What I'm afraid of is... is that I'll never be able to go back from this. I'll never get my life back. You know what you are and where you're going, Si. I don't even know that anymore!"

"I know I'm under a slow death sentence," Simon told him bitterly. "I'm HIV Positive, Ray. How wonderful is 'that'? You don't 'have' to kill them! You can 'do' something for yourself. What can 'I' do?"

Rayne's long hands moved down and stroked his hair silently. For a moment Simon buried his face in the worn denim of his friend's thigh and let himself be soothed. He closed his eyes and prayed for an end to the nightmare.

In his mind, he slipped back to a summer nearly sixteen years before. On a morning in late July he had held Rayne in his arms, begging his best friend to go to the police or to the Headmaster at school and tell them the truth... to tell anyone but 'him' about what was happening when he went home. For the past three years, Rayne had lived in a state of chaos. Simon Hathaway had watched him lose weight and sink into a deeper state of depression with every week that went by, until the boy he loved was nothing more than skin and bone.

For Simon, coming to terms with his own homosexuality, it was doubly confusing. He knew, from an early age that he was madly in love with Ray, and would do anything for him. It hurt to listen to his friend's choked accounts of his abuse, when he longed to just stroke Ray's trembling body all over and show him how wonderful it could be to lie with another man, one who cared about how he felt inside. Night after night, he dreamed of making love to Rayne and kissing away his tears.

Dreams were the closest he had ever come to his best friend's body. Until the other day in his kitchen, they had never even kissed.

"I swear to God, I'd never hurt you." Rayne was bent over him now, breathing the words into his hair.

Simon looked up at him helplessly, turning his head until their lips touched. Rayne did not pull back as Simon's mouth moved softly against his own. As he struggled to his knees between the singer's lean thighs, Si reached up, running his hands through Rayne's dishevelled hair, pulling him closer. They kissed one another more ravenously, heedless of who might be watching. It was three in the morning and after the day they had endured, neither of them cared any more.

SadieRose
SadieRose
425 Followers