The Hardest Thing

sedatives on me? That stuff has
a street value. You don’t just stick it in any old vein.
    Someone was coming; I heard footsteps on a hard floor, getting closer, then stopping. The soft whoosh of the door being opened, a change of acoustics, and the sound of breathing. I kept my eyes almost closed—open just enough to register movement in the room.
    “Stagg?”
    Ferrari’s voice, or one like it. I was getting kind of used to it.
    “Stagg?”
    He spoke quietly, perhaps not wanting anyone else to hear—perhaps not really wanting to wake me. I said nothing, didn’t move.
    The door closed. I strained my ears. Was I alone? The faintest click—the sound of someone opening their mouth. He was here. He was close.
    “Dan Stagg.” The voice was soft, the tone appraising. “So that’s what all the fuss is about.” I felt cool air on my chest and stomach; the sheet was being lifted, pulled back. I didn’t move, kept my breathing regular and my eyes closed. “A dirty old man.”
    You can talk, I thought—I bet you’ve traded your ass for a position at Marshall Land. Why else would Julian Marshall employ such a pretty boy as his lieutenant? What’s behind the sharp suits, the precise grooming, the carefully structured mask of machismo? Sorry, buster, but when it comes to sniffing out a closet case, you set a thief to catch a thief.
    The sheet was down to my hips now, and despite the pain and the bruising I felt my torso tingling, the hair on my chest standing up, my nipples hardening. Did Ferrari notice? Did he have an eye for these details? It seemed
he did. Something brushed over my left tit—something light, the back of his hand perhaps. Not quite touching my skin, just stroking the hair. Come on, scared boy. Take what you want. Then maybe we can talk.
    Was this the drugs talking? Was I still half-crazy—imagining that the man who had kidnapped and half-killed me was now about to fuck me? Was this the onset of Stockholm syndrome? For all I knew he was preparing to administer another injection, or scoping out the target for a knife or a bullet. Just by the heart, into the lungs, that would do the job. A vacant bed, and another body to dispose of.
    “Fucking queers.”
    His voice was low, almost rasping. It was not the voice of an efficient, cold-blooded killer. On the other hand it could easily be the voice of a psychopath who’s working himself up to a bloodbath.
    “Hey, Jackson!”
    Loud this time—so loud I almost flinched. The sheet went back over my body. Footsteps from somewhere, a distant voice. “Yes, boss?”
    “How long ago did we give this one his dope?”
    “Four hours.” The door opened, and the voice—Jackson—was in the room.
    “When will he come around?”
    “Hour or two.”
    “Where’s Gambino?”
    “He’s making the delivery, like you told him. Left about forty-five minutes ago.”
    “That’s all. Get lost, Jackson. Go take out the trash.”
    “Okay, boss.” Door closed, footsteps receding, alone
again with Enrico Ferrari and his wandering hands.
    The delivery… take out the trash…Jackson and Gambino, the two goons. Nobody else was mentioned. What—or who—was being delivered? What—or who—was the trash? Was Jody here? Was it just a dream? Whose side was he on? Was he hurt? Dead? My heart thumped.
    Ferrari was breathing harder. I opened my eyes enough to see him pacing up and down the room—five paces away, five paces back. Five away, five back. He had the air of a man making up his mind about something.
    Hour or two…
    He thought I was still well and truly sedated. He’d dismissed his subordinates. We were alone in a closed room, no witnesses, and he was stressing about something. I could only think of two things: sex, or murder.
    Given that my arms and legs were still secured, I really hoped it was the former.
    The pacing stopped. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. He was breathing like a man who’s spent ten minutes on the treadmill. All my senses were telling me that this was a man with sex on his mind. Touch—those fingers brushing my chest. Smell—the smoky smell of a hot man. Sight—his restless pacing. Sound—the heavy breathing. All that was left was taste, and that wasn’t far behind.
    He unzipped his fly, half-mounted the bed, and rubbed the head of his cock against my lips. It was wet and sticky and salty. Yeah, I know that taste, Ferrari. So you get off on raping unconscious men, do you? A little bit of necrophilia. That