What, again? Clint thought as he rolled over in the bed and encountered warm, hard flesh. His head was pounding. His ass was tingling too. Felt like a Mac truck had rammed itself up in there. He liked that feeling; seemed he spent half his life trying to open himself wide—with help, of course. He liked it better when the truck was still parked, though. And when it did a little rocking and forward and reversing in there. He rolled back toward the edge of the bed, ready to continue out onto the floor and stagger to the bathroom. A headache you wouldn't believe. But his eyes couldn't find the bathroom door where it should be. No, he didn't have to piss. Must have done that in the night. So there must be a bathroom somewhere. Smelt like lust, like heavy sex. Sweat. Cum. Needed the shower.
Shit. This wasn't even his own bedroom. Where had he gone after leaving the precinct last night? All he knew was that he'd gathered another grief yesterday to add to those he wanted to forget. It was another guilt-laden one. He'd pumped Garrison for information—using a goddam lie—and then pumped him and left him. Not long after that Garrison was dead. Was that in any part his fault? Was any part of that not his fault?
What bar had he wound up in? What sleazy hotel room? Shit, he hoped this wasn't the Christopher Hotel. But, no, what he'd seen of the Christopher recently had been refurbished. This one obviously hadn't been refurbished since the Hoover administration. How did they get those stains on the ceiling? Guy must have been a real gusher.
Well, it must have a bathroom. He sure hoped it did. Needed to get under a shower—and find some Tylenol. There had to be a bathroom here somewhere. First things first. Get out of the bed first.
He moved closer to the edge and began to swing his legs over the side. But a light brown arm—colored tattoos from here to there, a full sleeve of riotous color—reached over him and pulled him back into the center of the bed. No problem doing it at all either. Much bigger guy than Clint.
Hispanic, Clint thought. Tattoos. Bulging muscles. Where was there a bar featuring Hispanic motorcycle gangs? Had the fuck been good? Important questions first. Did the size of the cock go with the size of the body? Hard. Young. Prime.
"Good morning, blondie. We fuck good. We fuck again." The voice heavily accented. Guttural. Commanding.
Without even getting a good look at him, Clint felt himself being pulled over on top of a prone, hard body, facing a pair of gigantic feet. Big hands at his waist settled him on the cock.
"Beautiful bod. You could be a star. Done porn? You fuck like you done porn."
Yep, big body, big cock. God, he's long, Young and hard bodied, Clint thought as he felt the cock slide up into him. No problem on the fit. How long ago since we did it? How many times? God, I wish I'd been there for it. I haven't gotten a good look at him. Who cares, with a cock like this?
Clint's knees were on either side of the big Hispanic's torso, folding his thighs down to his calves. He arched his torso back, digging his fists into the mattress on either side of bulging biceps.
Well, maybe just one good-morning fuck, he thought. The cock was in deep. He knew he'd enjoy it. He began counterthrusting, moving with the thrusting of man's cock. Groaning and grunting. Panting for it. Let's do this!
"Knew you wanted it. Couldn't get enough of it last night."
Condoms. Had they done it with condoms? Were they doing it now with condoms? Were they . . .? "Oh fuck, yes. Oh, shit! Getitgetitgetit!"
The Hispanic hunk folded Clint back flat against his chest, one tattooed arm across his chest, a hand cupping his chin, holding the back of Clint's head into the hollow of his neck. The other hand went to encircling Clint's cock and stroking it to the rhythm of the churning of the cock inside Clint's channel.
The hand on Clint's cock. "Yesss! Fuck me. Fuck me hard!" Once that hand is on my cock, we gogogogo.
A hand pulling on Clint's right calf, pulling his leg out and unfolding it. Another hand doing the same with the other leg. How many hands?
Clint's eyes flew open. His eyes could hardly see the second man, holding his legs up and out with fists on his ankles. Hovering over Clint and the man under him. Moving his knees up on the bed on either side of the Hispanic's closed legs and between Clint's spread-eagled ones.
Another Hispanic. Chest a riot of colored tattoos. Black hair down to his shoulders. A bodybuilder's torso. Young. hard bodied. Prime.
"Oh, shit, no." Two of them. There are two of them! And the second one isn't going to wait for a solo turn. But, god he's got a beautiful body. It was coming back to Clint now. Big Mike's bar. The challenge. A double. Begging to be punished with a double.
He felt the bulb of the second guy at his entrance, above the already-sunk cock of the guy under him.
"Yes. Fuck me!" Clint cried out. "Get it in there! Both of you. Do it. Now! Shiiit Yessss."
The ultimate barrier against remembering what you don't want to remember.
* * * *
Clint thought about nothing at all—gloriously about nothing at all—as he double-timed it to his apartment, showered, grabbed coffee and a bagel while he dressed—Why does raw, brutal sex with two young studs make you so hungry? he mused—and then broke the speed limits, which is hard to do in Manhattan, getting to the precinct only slightly late—or as the other detectives would happily inform him, earlier than usual.
As he was climbing the stairs he permitted himself to ask the question. Did he regret it? That the answer, "not in the slightest," came so easily told him how much of a man slut he'd become. But just like a Mac truck ramming him up in there. Just like he liked it. And he hadn't thought about the death of Garrison—and so many others—while he was being driven.
He didn't go out to track down and interview the crew members of the
Larnaka Star
with the others. He grabbed at the duty to travel to Trenton, Maryland, after he arrived at work to hear the guys in the squad joking about how they'd tell Greg Garrison's parents how their son gotten beaten to death by fucking with the New York mobs. Clint believed that Garrison should have been brought to justice for what he did, but not the sort of stolen justice that he came to. And he certainly didn't think the parents deserved to be consoled with sneers.
To balance this, Clint volunteered to take the long drive to Trenton and, in giving the news, he didn't go beyond saying that he had known Greg and known him to be a man of loyalty to those he loved. He could do this with a clear conscious, because he knew that it had been loyalty to Greg's military friend from Afghanistan duty that had led Greg into everything else—and that he had persisted, regardless of the personal sacrifice, in bringing a sense of justice to that friend.
It had been an all-day trip. When Clint got back to the squad room, either the other detectives were still out running down
Larnaka Star
crew members or they were done for the day and had gone home. He sat for a while, still wondering if he'd done the right thing by deep-sixing his summary of the statement Garrison hadn't realized he was giving to the police. Who was he to be playing God on this? He knew that a good cop—or at least one who played strictly by the book—would write it up, give it to Lieutenant Kahn, and let whatever happened happen. But his squad didn't always play by the book. The very existence of his squad was something other than playing by the book.
But who was he kidding? After having visited with Greg's parents, Clint knew they didn't deserve any of the fallout that would happen if the police believed Garrison's unwitting testimony and confession and acted accordingly.
It had been a rotten day. It had been a rotten week. Clint needed to lose himself in a total fuck. What he had gotten this morning hadn't been enough; it hadn't been rough enough, even with the two of them. They hadn't punished him enough in the taking; they'd fucked for the pleasure of it—for the pleasure of all of them. They'd wanted Clint to enjoy it too—and he had. Clint felt the need to be punished, to be taken by someone thinking only of himself. Usually at these times, Danny would recognize the dark place Clint was in and would take care of him. Danny knew how to do him totally without leaving any bruises showing. But he and Danny weren't getting along very well just now—and Danny wasn't here.
Clint rose from his desk, left the precinct, and went to a subway station that would take him down to the docks area, to Christopher Street. He told himself that the other detectives might still be down there and that he'd join them, take report on what they'd found so far, and then join them. But his body knew better why he was going down there.
When he walked into The Dugout bar, he could see that the bartenders were moping around—just going through the motions—all affected in one way or the other by Greg Garrison's murder. Clint had told his parents that Greg was well liked by his coworkers. From the way they were behaving tonight—the night after his body had been found—Clint felt that he had been right, even though he would have said that to Garrison's parents regardless.
In contrast, the clientele was even more boisterous than usual. The Russian sailor and his friends were there, at a table in shadows at the back of the room. They were all keyed up. He could see the flashing in their eyes. They were louder than usual, and there were more empty beer mugs on their table than usual. They obviously were het up about something.
Clint wasn't in the mood for preliminaries. After getting a beer at the bar, during which he sensed all eyes from that table and from several other areas of the room as well, on him, he walked directly to the Russian's table, set his beer down, leaned down, lifted the Russian's chin so that he faced up, and took the Russian's mouth in his in a deep kiss. One of the Russian's arms went immediately around his waist and pulled Clint close in beside him. He cupped Clint's package with his other hand.
Coming out of the kiss, Clint said, in a husky voice in which arousal was obvious, "We always seem to be interrupted. I don't want you to think that it was my idea to stop you the other two times."
"So, you want Sergey's cock, do you?" the Russian asked in a beery voice.
"Yes, if you're Sergey, I want Sergey's cock. Want to go somewhere?"
"Yes. Soon. But I'm with my friends now and with my crewmates around me like this, I don't think anyone is going to disturb us. I want a taste now; then more later. Like I did last time, but with a later this time. You want to wait?"
"No," Clint said. "I want it now. Here. With everyone watching how good you do me." And he did want that. Part of the thrill was that, as he walked across the room, all attention had focused on him. He was a magnate for other men. When he was in heat, all men around him were in heat. He wanted them all to watch him get fucked, for everyone in the room, including him, to feel like they were fucking him at the same time. A double wasn't enough. He wanted it all.
Sergey had already been pulling Clint into his lap, facing the table. "Good, because I give it to whether you say yes or no."
The Russian's friends, including the Baltic hulk, who sat directly across from them, leaned into the table, eyes big and attentive, hands under the table on crotches, as the Russian pulled Clint's T-shirt over his head and palmed his pecs. Clint lifted his arms and locked a fist on a wrist behind the Russian's neck. Their lips and tongues met in a deep, wet, full-tongues kiss.
The Russian was moving his groin underneath Clint, letting him feel the rising strength of his cock. Clint had already been skewered on the cock once before, so he wasn't surprised at the size of it. Still, he gasped and groaned.
When they came up for air from the kiss, Clint muttered, "Don't make me wait. It's been a rough day."
"And you want I should take the roughness away?"
