The Gentlemen's Club

It was Frederick who had woken first, and peaked beyond the door. Crisp, blue light flooded the room. Sometime in the night, Taylor had crawled under the sheets, and he pulled them over his eyes quickly. Frederick was gone a moment later. Taylor rose on an arm to peak out and shivered as he felt a stream of semen spill from him. He glanced under the sheets, and saw the wet pool beneath him. Gingerly, he got to his feet, and gathered his clothes from the edges of the bed.

Outside, Frederick was waiting for him, standing nude except for white briefs.

"Good morning," he called, sipping on a mug of steaming coffee.

A man in a butler's outfit nodded to him from across the cabin. Two stewardesses nodded from beside him, smiles frozen to their faces. "Good morning, sir," they called in unison.

Taylor nodded back to them, and rushed closer to Frederick. "Are we here?" he said, glancing at the empty hanger through the window.

"Indeed," Frederick said. "We landed about two hours ago, I'm told. They've been gracious enough to wait."

Taylor nodded, careful not to make eye contact with any of them.

"You'll have to shower here, I'm afraid. It's nearly two P.M., and we have reservations. Do you want me to join you?" Frederick asked.

Privately, Taylor was feeling near spent. His body had never been this sore. Every muscle in his body felt spent again. He felt dehydrated. He was certain he was bruised in a few places. But every drip that slipped from him sent a tingle right all the way up through his body. He nodded quickly, when the help had turned away.

The shower was tight, barely enough room for one. Frederick bent him against the wall and jerked him to completion against it. It was quick work. When he was done, Frederick helped Taylor to his knees and slid his cock right down his throat. He let Taylor work it slowly, his lips around the head and his hand around Frederick's heavy sac. He let him explore, and taste. When Frederick was done, he sprayed his load across the boy's face, making a mess of him. Taylor licked off what he could, and Frederick helped him wash the rest off before they exited.

The butler dressed the boy in Frederick's wardrobe, and they rode in relative silence on their way to lunch. Taylor was starving. He tried to think of what he might say, how they might pressure the man, but all he kept coming back to was what he might order. He wanted steak. And pasta for days. And a lobster... They stopped outside a building with black windows and no name. Their drive ushered them through an unmarked door and bowed as they passed inside.

Gregory Thine was waiting for them. He was everything Taylor had come to picture of The Gentleman's Club -old, white, heavy, a cigar clenched in his hands. Beside him were a team of bored, but attentive staff, all in their late thirties or early forties. Most were men, carefully dressed, but a few were women. They looked like lawyers. They were all deeply attractive, and radiated judgment. They watched Taylor closely. Everyone in the room knew he didn't belong there, with this crowd.

Gregory glanced over him and seemed equally unimpressed.

"Didn't you get any sleep on the way down here, Williams?" the man asked, his body sagging slightly.

"A moment or two, perhaps," Frederick said. "And how are you old friend? Has my wife been by yet?"

"Just this morning, thank you," Gregory said briskly, and waved to the host who had been waiting silently beside them. The man spun on his heels with a smile and directed them on through another door -first Frederick, then the boy, and then the army of lawyers trailing tightly behind. "I don't suppose that donation had to do with this visit?"

"Not at all," Frederick said promptly. "The moment I heard you were interested in the area, I couldn't bare to see our name on the lease any longer."

"Funny," Gregory called over his shoulder. "I was nearly certain you'd only bought the land around my vineyard just to spite me for whisking that daughter of yours away from you."

"A comical misunderstanding, most certainly," Frederick said dryly. "But they all come home to roost in the end."

Taylor felt very tired suddenly. There was a lot to Frederick's life that he hadn't known anything about. It was difficult to remember that this was just another day to these people. A lunch meeting they would forget by the end of the week. A minor chore and bored jabs.

"It was a thoughtful gift to offer but, I must say, I didn't think you'd be trading that chip in so quickly," Gregory said, turning and glancing Taylor over again.

They reached their destination at last, a dimly lit private dining room at the back of the restaurant. Fish swam past along a stretch of aquarium glass, old gas lanterns filled the place with warm orange light, a muted saxophone played over hidden speakers.

"Just get to the point, Williams," Gregory said, collapsing backward into a chair at the head of the table.

Their host pulled the doors closed behind him as he left, leaving their party quite alone in the dimly lit room. The army of lawyers sat and watched attentively, studying Frederick's face with clinical impassiveness.

"It's not him," Taylor said, his voice wavering sharply. "It's me. I'm the one who needs a favor. Who wants to do you a favor." Gregory turned towards the boy slowly, his face blank. "Only I don't know what you need," the boy finished quietly

Taylor swallowed hard in the silence. Frederick wouldn't look at him. He could feel the eyes of the others boring into him now, and he could feel his cheeks starting to flush painfully.

Gregory eyed him over again quickly, but said nothing for a long time. Servers swept into the room, and poured a heavy red wine as the silence grew thick around them. Only when the doors were pulled closed again, and Gregory had taken a few sips, did he speak again.

"What are you hoping to achieve here, boy?"

Taylor started to speak, not knowing what he might say, but Gregory cut him off before he could begin.

"Reinhart's done with you, you know that?" He looked at him beneath heavy eyebrows. He almost looked like he could be giving grandfatherly advice for a porch step, all concern and ancient wisdom. "He was done with you, and he'd never spare you a thought again. But now," he sighed wearily, "if you thought he was mad before..."

"Not at me," Taylor said quickly, holding up a finger. "He was never mad at me. That's not the issue. He's coming after my father. They said he'll come after my mother next, just like he did to me," he said, sparing a glance at Frederick.

"Unless you do what? Join us?"

Taylor nodded, but Gregory only shook his head. "That doesn't save your father. And if you think he'll tear down everything he's planned-"

"I'll make Reinhart find another way."

Gregory cleared his throat in indignation. "You won't."

"If it's personal, no, but his is about the good of everyone in the Club. All of us," he added, glaring between the two men.

"You're not one of us yet, boy," Gregory said.

"Not yet. But I know it's meant to be about helping all of us. If my father would help us, if I could change his mind, if he would work for you, that would save you money, right? It would save everyone time and effort and money...

"And I promise, my father won't break if you push him. Not because of me or my mother... He has no secrets to dig out. He doesn't care about money. He's not a saint," Taylor said, seeing the look of skepticism grow on Gregory's face. "I know that. But he thinks he is. He is militant in keeping his record clean on paper. And if you push him to be a martyr, he would jump at the chance."

Gregory rolled his eyes in annoyance and shrugged dramatically. "There doesn't need to be a scandal to find for there to be a scandal. Do you think it matters to us if we fill his trunk with pieces of your mother's body? We could have two priests swear they watched him do it for less than this lunch is costing Frederick here. We'd forget about your father long before they'd fry him.

"But," Gregory went on, fixing the napkin in his lap, "I acknowledge your point. What I fail to see, though," he said, "is how you'll convince him to join us. If he cares so little about you. If he'd leave your mother to the dogs."

Taylor shook his head. His mouth opened, but hung their dumbly. He couldn't even think of a plausible lie.

"What other choice do I have?" he asked. "I'll make him see reason. The Club loses nothing for trying. I'm told we prefer the carrot."

Gregory scratched at his beard for a long while, and drank his wine in silence. Taylor looked to Frederick, but he was looking determinedly away.

"I can't say I like the idea of pissing Reinhart off, by helping you... I have a harder time believing Reinhart could see be made to see reason, and to set his rage aside for whatever small benefits your father might someday, by some miracle, provide.

"He doesn't just want a bit of blood, boy. He wants your father gutted and dragged through town. He wants your father to see his life's work in ashes. All his friends disgraced. His life scratched from the annals of history. And I mean none of this figuratively," Gregory said, finishing his glass and pouring another himself. "The way you're going, you're going to be right there in that boat with him. He'll maim you. He'll shame you publicly. He'll do the same to your mother. He does not tolerate anything but subservience," he whispered. "He breaks men."

"It's not his vote," Taylor said.

Gregory drummed his fingers against his knee in silence a bit longer, but he grinned in the end. "You're bold, boy."

"It's been a long few days, sir," Taylor admitted.

Gregory sighed and stroked his beard again. "What do I want..." he muttered, casting an appraising look towards the boy. "I suppose there's the dinner," he said, half-shrugging. "If Morgan and the others see the Senator's boy working for me, a few of the right hints, that could certainly have their attention. It'd at least get them talking... Doesn't quite seem like fair payment, though," he added, eyeing the boy a little harder. "Not for that kind of punishment. Reinhart has a lot of ways to make me miserable, boy."

"I'll give you four weeks. I'll say anything you need me to say to them. Ask me to do something, and I'll do it. It's not fair payment," he said, casting a glance toward the team of lawyers, "but it's all I have. Appearances, whatever. If you need me to lie about my father, I will. If you want me to make someone a promise on his behalf, I will."

Gregory frowned, but seemed to consider it. "And you, Williams? What do you say?"

Taylor felt for a moment that Frederick might refuse to let him leave. Then he remembered the wife and child Frederick had waiting for him at home, somewhere, wherever they might be. And besides, he wasn't Frederick's to give away.

"Taylor belongs to The Gentleman's Club. He's free to make his own deals. Do you accept, boy?"

Taylor inclined his head quickly and Frederick swept to his feet a moment later, bowing low across the table. "Then, gentleman, I will be off. A good day to you." Gregory waved his hand dismissively as he backed his way through the door. He was gone a moment later.

9

Silence hung over the table, heavier than ever. The lawyers said nothing, simply waiting, while Gregory ignored them all. Dinner was brought, served family-style, though only Gregory and boy took plates. Taylor said nothing as he heaped a charbroiled slab of beef, a cut he didn't know enough to identify, and a pile of salad. When he noticed the others took nothing for themselves, the silence hung heavier in the room.

"You can go," Gregory announced, as Taylor picked up the silverware. It tumbled from his hands and clattered against the old oak table a moment later.

He scooted his chair back quickly, nodded to the old man, and hurried from the room in the span of a breath. Perhaps a day ago, he might have tried to stutter out questions, or maybe even tried to arrange a time to talk again. He might have asked the billionaire to repeat himself, if he was truly stupid. He felt quite a bit older as he kicked his way back up the steps of the entrance and emerged onto the street again.

He'd been hoping Frederick might have waited, but the street was empty. First, he would need a place to say. He had enough money in his account to last a few weeks in hotels, waiting by the phone. He would need supplies, though... And he'd need to find out where exactly he was in town. He'd promised Thane four weeks. As far as he was concerned, the clock had started.

Taylor glanced up the road, taking in vacant buildings, accounting offices, other places he mentally filed under "Misc." He might need a job, if this went on for too long. If Frederick had left a number, he could have called him back and asked for help again. But he didn't have his, and he didn't have anyone else's. Even Bill, the gross old man, even he would have been a welcoming sight now.

What the hell was he going to do? Flip burgers while his time wasted away, hoping Gregory would find him?

He headed off down the road at random. He could feel eyes on him from behind the restaurant's black glass windows, or at least he thought he could. Anywhere seemed better than here. He had to start moving.

"Kid," a voice shouted out at him from behind. "Where are you going?"

Taylor spun on the spot and found a bald, incredulous hulk of a man squinting down at him.

"Get back here," the man said, waving him inside, letting the door slam shut again.

Taylor hustled back to the shop and made his way inside. The man was waiting beside a door they had passed earlier, and he pulled it open to reveal a staircase heading upward. Wordlessly, Taylor went through, and the door shut quickly behind him, leaving him quite alone all over again.

The top of the steps revealed an attic bedroom that seemed to have been used heavily for a few dozen years. The sheets were maybe even changed a few times since then. After Frederick's apartment in the underground labyrinth of The Gentleman's Club, this place was a pit. It was hardly a step above sleeping in the alley outside. He found an overturned plastic crate and took a seat, trying to think of something helpful to do. After a moment, he gave up and pulled out his phone. The screen was already lit. Incoming call. It said "Dad".

Taylor felt his heart freeze. He declined on instinct.

A moment later, the call was coming in again. He let it buzz until stopped, his mind still unready to deal with it. A text message came in instead. He watched the phone for a long while. He knew there was nothing to gain from ignoring it. His father had already sent it. The damage was already done. He either had seen the tape, or he hadn't. Reading the message wouldn't change anything. He should read it. He stared at it silently until boredom overcame the fear.

"Are you safe?" the message read.

He wrote and re-wrote half a dozen drafts before sending "You are not safe" in return. It didn't quite answer the question, but he didn't quite know what else there was to say. He wasn't sure where he was, or what might lay ahead. And all to get another vote that might not even come.

There was every chance that Reinhart, or whoever else, didn't give half a shit about the safety they'd promised, and they'd all just use him and his father until they'd gotten what they wanted.

Was that "safe"? It didn't seem like it, squatting in filthy restaurant apartment with a few thousand in the bank and nothing else on his side. It felt quite entirely unsafe and unwise. And the things he'd let them do to him... Jesus Christ. He was going to have to bury that down deep, like coming back from a war and trying to pretend the world wasn't insane. At least if they killed him and his family, the knowledge of what they'd done would die there, too. That was the best re-assurance he had. He could felt himself spiraling.

A new message came in. "They won't get away with this. I swear it." Taylor grimaced and was halfway through a reply when another came in:

"I'm working on a plan. Hold out for me, son."

Taylor watched it for a moment, then shut his phone and set it aside. There was no reasoning with him. His father would do what he wanted, same as he always had. Taylor had known when the task was impossible when he'd sworn he could do it. All of this with the Club and getting votes... it was just biding time before the inevitable.

He sat there, sinking deeper and deeper into gloom, awaiting the next wealthy monster he could be passed along to, feeling neither tired nor scared. Someone would tell him where to go next. They'd use him, one way or another, and pass him along again. At least when Frederick had been there, he'd had an ally. It was a lot easier to see how hopeless it all was now with him gone.

And, yet, it wasn't hopeless. Unlikely, perhaps, but he had some saving graces. Frederick might be gone, but he was on his side. And he'd secured him a few votes In four weeks, he might have another. If his father couldn't be persuaded, perhaps his mother could be given some measure of safety, once he had some influence of his own. These were men with money. Men who, so far, didn't seem displeased with him. It might not be dignified, but he'd survive and earn a place in one of these empires, if he was smart enough about it. It was almost going according to plan, if you fudged some of the details. Maybe even ahead of plan, at that. Somewhere in his mind, objections were raised, and quickly stuffed off somewhere else.

He swept himself off the crate and took a fresh look around. The place was filthy, with sour old chef jackets piled high alongside boots caked with food and debris. There were books, cigarette butts, and junk food containers across every flat surface. But there was a bathroom, and he spotted no roaches as he turned on the lights.

Working quickly, he undressed and stepped under the shower, leaving the door wide open for anyone that happened to check on him. What did he have left to hide? His muscles were pulled tight as a piano wire, and he'd lost a worrying amount of weight. The bruises and scrapes along his skin were blooming to life with color. But he was getting clean.

When he stepped out, he bypassed the stiff brown towel that hung beside the light switch and instead found paper napkins to pat himself dry with. Finishing his look in the mirror, he looked nearly respectable again. He found clothes in a dresser beside the mattress that lay on the floor. Surprisingly, the contents were clean, even if they did fit a bit too loosely. It might be stealing but, he reminded himself, he was a member of The Gentleman's Club. What the fuck were they going to do about it?

10

Hours passed as he waited to be dragged off to the next destination. He found a charger for his phone, and spent his time researching Gregory Thane. And, most importantly, to see if Gregory had any reason to have a vendetta against the Senator. Taylor felt like an idiot, failing to find anything that looked remotely important. Gregory owned companies that owned companies that blah, blah, blah. Senator Evans had bills and subcommittees that ranged across all areas of politics, which all stretched on for years and involved countless others. Googling the two names together failed to find a single smoking gun, so it seemed his father hadn't pissed off one member of the club enough that they wrote a headline about it, at least.

Two hours passed before Taylor heard the shuffle of feet coming up the stairs again. They didn't bother to knock when they came inside -it was the same goon who had called him back in from the street. This time, he came offering a suit for him, still in the dry cleaning bag.

"We need you in twenty," the man said, and he hesitated to lay the clothes down on the piles of trash that covered the couch beside the door. He instead stuffed the bag into Taylor's hands and was gone again before Taylor could thank him for it.