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- 01/19/2017
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Predator Prey - 19. Flight
The next day was difficult. Very difficult. He spent the morning with Javier again, feeling unreasonably embarrassed with every passing minute. It had only been a daydream. What he imagined in the shower the day before wasn't real. But the daydream affected the way he interacted with Javier, making him more careful, more reserved than ever.
That morning, they worked on the pool pump. Honestly, he had no idea what was wrong with it, but he helped Javier disconnect it and lift it out of its well for an exacting inspection.
"Shit," the dark-skinned man muttered under his breath, "Wally, hand me that screwdriver behind you, okay?"
After a moment's search, the tool was located and handed over. How did Cabrera know where every tool and part lay? Javier's face was a study in concentration as he appeared to adjust a tiny screw deep inside the bowels of the pump. Scruffy and sweaty in the hot sun, his black eyes shining, he was indeed beautiful, in an intense sort of way.
He heard the sliding door open behind him.
"How's it going, cariño?" Oscar's voice sounded.
For a long moment, Javier didn't respond. "Good," he replied eventually, "I just got the mix taken care of. Now we just need to…" He stopped speaking to smile up at Oscar, and his eyes softened. "It's fine, why?"
"Just taking a break from work, and I was thinking about supper."
Javier grinned. "Meal planning already? You haven't even said what you're making me for lunch."
"Who said I was making you lunch?"
"I did," Javier smiled at his husband.
"See what I put up with, Wally?" Oscar sighed. "So, just saying if I did make lunch…"
The joking between Javier and Oscar continued a little while longer. And really, it was kind of cute. The problem was that he, Wally, was having trouble with how he felt about his hosts. He felt left out. He envied them their love and their shared life. Hell, maybe he was just still a little horny.
Also like his hosts, clearly.
Another half an hour saw the pump cleaned and adjusted, lifted back into its well, and reconnected. He and Javier cleaned up, and Oscar brought lunch outside into the shade by the kitchen doors. Oscar and Javier kept up the subtle touching, the easy banter all through the meal. He needed to excuse himself, get away, before the two men announced an afternoon naptime. He felt awkward enough already.
"I'm taking the bike again this afternoon," he said to Oscar. "Is that all right?"
"Sure, Wally. If you want supper, we're going to eat at six thirty again."
"You have my phone number?" Javier spoke up. "Call me if you're gonna be late."
"Um, actually, I don't have a phone," he said.
His hosts stared a moment. "Oh. Right." Javier grabbed a scrap of paper from the counter and scribbled something on it. "This gets you my phone," he said.
"Thanks."
Javier grinned a little wolfishly. "No problem."
He spent his afternoon trying to explore Sand River some more. He chose a different direction to the one he had taken the day before. Weaving his way through the pleasant residential neighborhoods, he tried to navigate a route that he hoped would be parallel to the busy main highway through town. Eventually, after a number of false turns, he found himself deposited on the main road, in spite of his efforts to avoid it. He wasn't far from the Marine Research Station. Idly, he crossed the thoroughfare and entered the Station parking lot.
The Feigenbaum lay at its berth, placidly tied up, while a crew of perhaps a dozen seemed to hustle about its decks, scraping, painting, hammering at something. A long hose snaked out of the back of a large panel truck, up the gangway and down one of the hatches. He watched for a while, wondering if Javier could somehow sense what was going on in his ship.
He moved on, cycling farther north along the main highway out of town. Here the road straightened out, and expanded to four lanes again. The scrubby growth gave way to taller palms and hardwoods. Discreet signs suggested upscale housing for retirees and vacationers to his right. Uncomfortable with the heavy highway traffic, he took the next right and followed where it led, down a leafy two lane road. This was better. He really didn't care where he was going; it was enough to try and forget about his problems, to forget about his desires and his jealousy and his wasted opportunities.
A little more than an hour's ride saw him a long way out of Sand River, standing at a boat loading ramp on one of Florida's countless inland lakes. An alligator sunned itself on the shore, uncaring of the boaters and fishermen who came and went.
His brain was pleasantly empty, thinking only of the very gentle landscape and the barely stirring breeze. He had no idea where he was, and only the smallest idea of how to get back.
From the angle of the sun, he figured he still had plenty of time to return in time for Oscar's supper. What was it they were supposed to be having? Something else particularly Cuban, he remembered. He considered what Javier and Oscar might be doing at that moment and made a face halfway between a grin and a grimace.
He remounted the bike, and headed in the direction he thought might be west.
Eventually, following a lush, palm-lined byway, he wound his way along the lake to a road that definitively led back to the main four-lane he'd abandoned much earlier in the afternoon. At least he had a good enough sense of direction to head left, and southwards, with the sun on his right. Another hour later, he pedaled into Sand River. He felt grateful when the road plunged back into shade as it entered the town.
He was hot and tired, but he'd enjoyed his ride. It was good physical activity and it used his muscles in ways he'd forgotten about for a long time. And he was thirsty. Very thirsty.
He felt grateful to the Sun Citrus National Bank for letting him know it was 5:06 PM and seventy eight degrees as he passed by. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be back at the house quite yet; he'd liked being on his own. He approached a tavern on his side of the highway. A quick decision – a little rest stop wouldn't hurt. He had Cookie's cash burning a hole in his pocket, he could afford a beer or something.
The sign over the door read "Flappy Jack's" as he rolled into the parking lot. He coasted around to the back and leaned Michael's bike against the wall by what might have been the kitchen door. It would be much less obvious there, and he didn't want to have the boy's bike stolen.
Inside, the décor was vaguely nautical in a common sort of way, and the place looked a little seedy. The beer probably would be fine, though. The place certainly wasn't crowded. The bar felt dark and cool after his afternoon on the bike. It took all of two minutes for him to have a seat at a table and cold bottle in front of him.
It all felt so good, and he gave himself over to just zoning out. He wondered if he ought to indulge himself in another beer as he sucked on the remainder of his first. A moment later, all those idle thoughts vanished.
A short scrawny figure pulled out a chair and sat next to him at the table. "Whoa! It really is you. I thought it was."
He turned and stared at the smaller man – glasses, long stringy hair, nascent bald spot, thin mustache, pale skin. He'd managed to forget the terrible breath, somehow; and there had to be an ancient Camaro parked outside somewhere – Kenny. The man looked completely harmless on the outside, but Kenny was a trusted courier for one of the several suppliers he'd dealt with over the years. Kenny worked for one of the nastier ones – and it didn't pay to mess with Kenny.
"Hi, Kenny."
"What are you doing here?" the newcomer took a pull on a bottle.
"Nothing. Just thirsty - getting a drink."
"Uh huh." Kenny sat in silence for a moment. "You on some kind of vacation? Word on the street is you got cut out."
He shrugged. Sharing too much information was never a good idea.
"Just taking a break, is that it?" he could hear the smirk on Kenny's face without looking.
"Hey, school's out right now."
"You went back early last year to make more money." Kenny remembered a lot.
"Maybe I'll do it later."
Kenny took another pull on his bottle. "Word is you got robbed blind."
Silence. Then, "So? I paid you last time, like I always do. I don't owe you anything."
"Hey, hey, chill, dude." Kenny put his hands up, all apology. "Just sayin' if you need a little extra cash to start over, Marquez can help you out."
Marquez. He shivered. That was the supplier's name. The offer seemed innocent, but nobody wanted anything more to do with Marquez than absolutely necessary. Marquez was dangerous. Apart from anything else, being in debt to Marquez meant losing control. Selling yourself out. Selling your soul.
"No thanks, Kenny. I'll recapitalize soon."
"Oooh, baby, listen to that college boy talk," Kenny chuckled into his beer, "recapitalize. Fancy words you learn at that college, man."
He shrugged again. He wouldn't get into it with Kenny. Maybe the man would just finish his beer and leave.
"No, you really should let me do something for you. You were a steady customer, you're good. I got stuff in the car you could start over with." No, Kenny wasn't going away.
"Sorry, no deal. Don't like the whole debt thing."
"Who said anything about money?" Kenny asked innocently. But of course, it was all about money. "Marquez isn't happy one of his best customers is out of business. Your trouble is his trouble, you know? Besides," the pale, mousy man went on, "Marquez would be willing to take your…personal services in trade." Kenny practically leered.
Shit. Kenny knew about the video, too? He felt sick to his stomach. How many people knew about that?
"What's the matter, dude?" Kenny asked, quite serious. "Sounds like a perfect setup. You get some goods to move, and all you have to do is provide a little entertainment for the boss."
Entertainment? Was that it? Like he'd done to so many other innocents in the last few years? Like he'd been made to be, what, a month ago? He shuddered involuntarily.
"Yeah, but Kenny, what do you get out of it?" he eventually parried.
The thin lips curled into a smile, and a bony hand grazed his arm. "I might get a little commission out of the deal, you know?"
He stared back.
"This could be a good deal for both of us, dude," Kenny wheedled softly. "You get something, I get something, Marquez gets something. Win, win, win."
The pit in the bottom of his gut grew larger.
"And remember," the courier persisted, "once Marquez is interested, he isn't going to take 'no' for an answer."
Well, Kenny was right about that. The rumors out there said Marquez could be brutal in getting what he wanted. He shuddered. But what to do? How to get away from Marquez and his greasy courier? He took a deep breath.
"Could be an idea," he said noncommittally.
"Yeah, a great idea," Kenny grinned hideously. "If you're good, we could make a movie or something."
He nearly lost his beer right then.
But Kenny was still talking. "Tell you what, I gotta call someone. I'll meet you outside by your car in like, ten minutes. You still drive the black Beamer?"
His brain whirled. Who was Kenny going to call? Marquez? His manpower? What the hell was he going to do? He had to get out of the bar, fast.
"Meet you out front," he told Kenny. How long would it take Kenny to search the lot out front to determine his car wasn't there?
Kenny beamed, displaying yellow-gray teeth. "See you in five, man." The scrawny man rose and exited the bar.
In an instant, he was on his feet, headed to the back. A quick glance located the kitchen door. He pushed through it, and surprised a dark-skinned , white-fronted cook. He declined to explain his presence; he just hustled to the back of the building, and slipped out the door while a stream of Spanish began behind him.
There was the bike. He grabbed it, mounted it, and rode out the rear of the parking lot like demons were after him. In fact, they were.
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