Another Man's Treasure Page 6

  Nick didn’t say anything.

  “Everything I did when I was a teenager, it was kind of a ‘fuck you’ to him.”

  Nick half grinned. “Your father did not like your earrings?”

  “Among other things.”

  “You thought you were a big man, going off with someone like Mikhail?”

  Ilia was insulted, but Nick’s voice was quiet. Didn’t sound like he was trying to goad Ilia. And after last night, fuck—maybe Ilia ought to be glad Nick was here. Otherwise it would just be Ilia and a ghost. “At first. At first it was part of the fuck you. But then I fell in love with Mikhail.”

  Nick stretched, groaning. “I forget we have little boys in place of men now.” He cracked his knuckles. “Perhaps your father was a real man. And perhaps you couldn’t handle belonging to a real man.”

  Any hint of a connection Ilia had felt with Nick vanished. “I don’t think a real man has to intimidate people to get them to listen,” he said icily.

  “Mikhail, he was very intimidating. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Ah, but he was very cruel to those he needed things from. Maybe he was not a real man. Maybe he was more like our father.”

  Fuck you.

  “I see I am making you angry. But it is not fair, for you to be angry at the truth.” Nick nodded toward the bedroom. “That blood on the wall? That is not his blood. That is the blood of so many men—so many people he hurt on a whim. Because they maybe had one little thing he wanted. Information, or drugs, or an antique peppershaker… You see?”

  Ilia jerked away.

  “I’m going to take over the business. And you’re going to help me.”

  “Maybe you should fucking shoot me instead.”

  “If you give me reason to, I will.”

  “Do I ever get to leave the apartment?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “When I am finished with you.”

  Ilia stared into Nick’s dark eyes for a moment, then turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  Ilia was hungry again. He sat on his bed, hunched over to lessen to ache in his stomach, and listened to the sound of the television coming from the living room. Whatever Nick was watching, it made him laugh every minute or so, just a fraction of a second after the burst of canned laughter.

  He could try to find paper and a pen. Throw a note off the balcony, or slide it under the door into the hall. He could. Except he didn’t dare. Because if it didn’t work, he would still be locked inside his apartment with a psychopath, only then the psychopath would be even angrier.

  He’s dangerous, Mikhail had always said.

  There was a part of Ilia that had shrugged it off because it didn’t matter to him. Underneath all that though, he knew if Mikhail Kadyrov called someone dangerous, then it should have chilled him to the bone. Because Mikhail was dangerous himself. He’d killed men, coldly and with no remorse, but Ilia had ignored that. Told himself the Mikhail he knew was the real one, the true one, when all the time he’d known it wasn’t that simple. There were no hard edges separating boyfriend Mikhail from gangster Mikhail. In loving one, Ilia had loved the other.

  Ilia closed his eyes and wished the night away.

  It took him a moment to realize the television had been turned off.

  He got up from the bed, meaning to close his door.

  “So.” Nick walked into the room. He unfastened his watch and laid it on the nightstand. Sat on the bed with his legs wide apart. “Come and suck my dick, whore.”

  Ilia tensed. Reached again for that place where fear was as inaccessible as every other feeling. Where his numbness protected him. Couldn’t find it. He was afraid. He didn’t want to die.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You are no use for the business, no use for information,” Nick said. “You were Mikhail’s whore. Maybe that is all you are good for.”

  Ilia stared at the wall.

  “Do it,” Nick said. “I want to know what it felt like for him, when you sucked his cock.”

  This was his home, and Nick’s eyes were Mikhail’s eyes, and he’d been happy here once. In this cheap approximation of reality, maybe the echo of that happiness would be enough.

  He could believe that, couldn’t he? He could ignore the revulsion churning in his guts and believe that.

  He went to his knees between Nick’s legs.

  Nick’s sharp intake of breath was like music.

  Because Ilia was beautiful, and Nick wanted him. Pull a gun on him, call him a whore, it made no difference; that single gasp unmasked him.

  “He always had the nicest toys,” Nick said. He made a fist in Ilia’s hair and tugged his head sideways. “The firstborn son. Only the finest for the heir. Our father was traditional.” He swiped his tongue over his lower lip. “Are you a firstborn son, Eli?”

  “Ilia,” Ilia said. He’d suck the guy’s dick to save his life, but he wouldn’t be called that.

  Nick’s mouth quirked. “Very well, Ilia. Are you a firstborn son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. What a disappointment you must be.”

  Ilia almost smiled. “Yes.”

  A flash of something in those dark eyes, and Nick hummed. “Of course, I begged Mikhail to let me play with his toys. Sometimes he did. Can you guess what I did then?” He smiled. “I broke them.”

  Too late.

  This was the price he paid, Ilia supposed, for playing with Nick that time. For toying with him. Well, now it was Nick’s turn. Whether it was fair or not, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. He was hollow, every living part of him jettisoned by the bullet that had ended Mikhail’s life. Ilia had no outrage left to summon. He lifted his hands and ran them up the insides of Nick’s thighs. Felt the muscles twitch and shift under the expensive fabric of his trousers.

  “Take it out and suck it,” Nick said.

  Ilia nodded again, and licked his lips. He reached up to unzip Nick’s fly, and bent forward, his thin shirt pulling tight against his back.

  “What’s that?” Nick batted his hand away.

  Ilia frowned up at him. “What?”

  Nick grabbed his hair again and forced his head down. Tugged the neckband of his shirt back with his other hand. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s, um, it’s called a corset piercing.”

  Nick pushed him away so that he fell backward onto his ass. “Take your shirt off and show me.”

  Ilia pulled his shirt over his head, then shuffled around so that he was sitting with his back to Nick. He tried not to shiver, and breathed deep to drown the sick anticipation rising in his gut. He had a sudden image of Nick grabbing the ribbons and yanking, and the rings tearing out of his flesh.

  “You little freak,” Nick said, his voice low. “Little cocksucking freak.”

  Ilia flinched when Nick touched his back, but Nick was surprisingly gentle. He pressed the topmost ring into Ilia’s flesh with his thumb, then slid it across the ribbon. Followed the ribbon from ring to ring, zigzagging down Ilia’s back. His touch gave Ilia goosebumps.

  “Why ribbon?” Nick asked. His voice sounded softer now, sleepier almost, like those people on TV who were hypnotized on stage. Talking, but not really aware. “Why not leather, or a gold chain?”

  Ilia bowed his head, the tips of his earrings brushing either side of his jaw. “The ribbon doesn’t catch. It slides when I move.”

  “Show me,” Nick said.

  Ilia shifted his shoulders. The tug and pull of the rings still felt a little strange to him. It was no longer painful, but Ilia was aware of them all the time. He didn’t ever want to get so used to the piercings that he stopped feeling them. The ribbon whispered through the rings, shifting and tightening as he moved.

  Nick’s fingers reached the bow.

  “Don’t, please.”

  Mikhail had tied that bow. Five days ago now, or was it six? He had tied it so the lacing was loose
enough that Ilia could sleep. And Ilia had slept, until he’d woken up needing the bathroom.

  Oh red painted soldier,

  The wounds you feel are mine.

  A single shot.

  A skipping CD.

  A universe unravelled.

  There was no way to fix it, no way to undo it. This new reality—this unreality where only the occasional strange, sharp sensation could jab though his numbness, where nothing made sense and he couldn’t even tell the difference between minutes and hours and days—was where Ilia lived now. This was his life.

  Tears slid down his cheeks as Nick tugged the bow undone.

  II

  “Whore.” Nick’s fingers dug into the back of his skull, the thumb of his right hand pressing hard against his earlobe pushing the hook of his earring into his flesh. “Whore.”

  He spat the word with every thrust, laughing with delight whenever Ilia gagged.

  “That’s it, little whore. How do I taste, hmmm? Better than my brother?”

  Ilia kept his eyes squeezed shut.

  III

  Mikhail Kadyrov was a gentleman. Ilia hadn’t expected that. They’d had dinner at a restaurant so expensive that the prices weren’t on the menu, and the waiters had arched their brows at Ilia’s shoes. Ilia had thought all afternoon that dinner with Mikhail Kadyrov meant getting fucked as well. He couldn’t imagine that a man like Mikhail had ever heard the word no before. And, if he had, that he’d listened. But after dinner Mikhail had dropped him off at his house, and walked him to the door while his driver waited in the car.

  “Tomorrow night,” Mikhail said. “I will pick you up at six.”

  “Will you?” Ilia asked. He had lingered in the doorway, hoping his parents were asleep, waiting for Mikhail to kiss him.

  “Goodnight, Ilia.”

  “It’s Eli.” He frowned, a little miffed.

  “I know. But I will call you Ilia.” Mikhail smiled at him and walked back to his car.

  IV

  Fourth date.

  It took until their fourth date for Ilia to get his lips around Mikhail’s dick, and it was so good that he almost came the moment he tasted Mikhail’s precum on his tongue.

  “Ah, you are beautiful, you are beautiful.” Mikhail ran his hands gently through Ilia’s hair. “Look at you, Ilia. Look at you.”

  Ilia had stared up at him, proud.

  “God, how beautiful you are.” Mikhail’s eyes were wide. This powerful man, looking down at him with wonder and worship in his eyes.

  Ilia had never felt more loved in his life.

  V

  Ilia choked and tried to pull back as Nick forced his cock down his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were streaming tears and his nose was running. Drool and snot collected on his chin. It seemed to go on forever, Nick’s cock blocking his throat, and Ilia dug his fingers into Nick’s thighs to try and hurt him. Nick held his skull tighter, and Ilia grew dizzy. He moaned urgently.

  Nick came down his throat, his hips jerking.

  Ilia pulled back, coughing. He struggled to breathe. Wiped his face with this back of his hand—cum and snot and saliva—and stared up at Nick.

  Nick leaned forward, his wet cock still hanging out of his pants. He rested his elbows on his thighs and let his hands dangle between his legs. “Is that all? You’re not so special. I could get better head for fifty dollars from any street corner hooker.”

  Ilia sucked in a choking breath.

  “Huh.” Nick reached out and Ilia flinched away. “Maybe it’s your ass that’s special.”

  Ilia shook his head and stared at the floor.

  Nick scratched his balls. “Yes, I think that must be it. Go and wash your face now.”

  Ilia couldn’t move.

  “Now!”

  Shaking, he drew himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. Ran the tap in the sink and washed his mouth out. Brushed his teeth, but knew the taste would stay with him forever. Gulped down mouthfuls of water to settle his queasy stomach. He stared at his face in the mirror, and felt nothing.

  VI

  He couldn’t go back to the bedroom. Not right away. Creeping back down the dark hallway, Ilia opened the door to his study and slipped inside.

  His study.

  Mikhail had called it that, as though a few classes at community college meant that Ilia was a scholar. It had never bothered Mikhail when Ilia had chopped and changed his classes so much, or when he’d dropped out completely. Even when it had secretly bothered Ilia—his father always said he’d never make anything of himself, and Ilia was proving him right—it had never bothered Mikhail.

  “You are young,” he had said. “Do what makes you happy.”

  Young and beautiful, Ilia knew, but that wouldn’t last. He’d had crazy dreams of being more for Mikhail. Of filling the shelves with textbooks and hanging diplomas on the walls. Of being something helpful to Mikhail, as well as something beautiful. But those dreams had never translated into a work ethic. There was a pull-up bar over the doorway; working out was about the only thing Ilia had used the study for, besides looking at Internet porn. Ilia was young and beautiful, and he’d had all the time in the world.

  All those unformed dreams, the potential Mikhail had seen but Ilia hadn’t—useless now.

  Now that he was Nick’s cocksucker.

  Ilia stared at his desk, where he’d once spent hours wasting time on the computer. He wasn’t sure where his computer was now. The police had seized it after Mikhail’s death. Ilia remembered signing some sort of receipt, but nothing had made sense in those first few hours and days, when there hadn’t been enough oxygen left in the world to suck into his lungs.

  He sat on the floor and leaned his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and cried for Mikhail, and for himself.

  VII

  In the morning, Nick asked Ilia again about Lawrence Upsiller, and a few other names. Some Ilia recognized and some he didn’t. Nick said the names quickly, hardly leaving Ilia any time to think, and then went and made toast in the kitchen as though he didn’t care about the answers anyway.

  He sat across from Ilia at the dining table and crunched on his toast. He’d put out two chairs today.

  “Are you hungry, Ilia?”

  Ilia couldn’t decide if it was a small victory or not that Nick was calling him Ilia. Probably it meant nothing. There was no way to tell, no way to get a handle on Nick.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” A spray of crumbs fell to the table as Nick bit into the toast. “What a change in attitude today. Would you suck my dick for this toast, Ilia?”

  Ilia hunched over as his stomach growled. “No.”

  Nick laughed. “Such a little liar! A little viper in the nest.” His smile faded away. He narrowed his eyes.

  Ilia tried to pretend he couldn’t smell the toast. The melting butter, and the warm marmalade. Mikhail’s favorite, and the only reason Ilia had kept the stuff in the apartment.

  Nick licked his lips. “My father, he used to say that the teip, the family, is like the wolf pack. Free, proud. But there is an order in a wolf pack, did you know? There is fighting for dominance. There are battles. But all of these things are put aside when the pack is attacked from the outside. Me, Ilia, I could have torn out Mikhail’s throat to take his place, but nobody from outside the teip has that right.”

  Ilia nodded, numb.

  Nick dropped the crusts of his toast back onto the plate. “Let me tell you something about wolves. Wolves will enter a fight with an opponent who is much stronger, because the wolf has more than strength. The wolf is fast, and clever, and he does not give up.”

  Ilia stared at the toast in Nick’s hand.

  “Well?” Nick asked.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you a wolf, Ilia?”

  “I don’t...” Ilia crossed his arms over his stomach as though he could vanquish his hunger that way. “I don’t know.”

  “Would you fight to protect what is yours?”
/>   “Maybe.”

  “It is not a hard question.”

  “I don’t know, because I have nothing to fight for! I would have fought for Mikhail...” His heart skipped. “I would have.”

  “Ah.” Nick regarded him with a slight smile. “I see.”

  Ilia scowled. “What do you see?”

  “That is another thing about wolves,” Nick said. “When they lose the fight, they do not turn tail. They sit prone on the ground, and they face their death without fear.”

  Ilia’s breath slipped out of him.

  Yes. That was how he felt. Some injured wild animal off National Geographic. Scarred, hurt, bleeding on the inside. Resting its aching bones on the ground until it could close its eyes and never have to open them again. Old. Wrecked. The knowledge in its eyes that it was near death.

  He could remember watching a program once when he was five or six. A baby elephant had gotten stuck in the mud, and none of the adults could pull it free. They’d comforted the baby, staying with it until it died, and comforted each other as well. Trunks twining together like hands. Making mournful noises. And Ilia had cried with them. Sat in front of the TV and cried.

  “Why did it have to die?”

  “Nature is cruel,” his father had said.

  But what about the cameramen who could have saved the elephant, with ropes and slings and winches? Nature was cruel, but people were crueler. Ilia had never forgotten that.

  Nick’s smile grew. “Ah, yes, you could be a wolf, couldn’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think you are,” Nick said. “I think I see it now.”

  Ilia stared back at him.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Ilia nodded.

  “Still?”t