D.V. Patton - Fire and Rain Page 4

  “Just leave with me, forget about all this bullshit.”

  “It’s not that simple, Cee.” Again that beautiful blond hair dipped beneath the water, but this time the younger man slid from his embrace and swam to the middle of the water. Chris pulled himself up onto the rocks and waited. He felt his heart thumping.

  Eventually Ciaran swam up to the ledge, staying just out of reach. “Cee?” he asked. “Is that your name for me?”

  Chris felt himself redden, as if he had just revealed some secret. Perhaps he had.

  “Do you have feelings for me, Chris?”

  Chris answered on impulse. “I don’t have a great track record, Ciaran, so that’s not necessarily a good thing.” He watched the naked man, hidden beneath the murky water, floating just out of reach. “What about you—do you have feelings for me, Ciaran?” he asked.

  The Irishman swam back to the center of the pond, before turning back and staring at him. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Chapter Twenty-Two

  They hung around the beach for the afternoon before heading back to Torres as the sun reached its apex. Nothing had happened in the cave, yet something had. Something was different between them now, an ethereal thing that Chris wished he could put his finger on.

  “I wish you didn’t smoke,” said Ciaran. “Oh, I stop and start,” said Chris noncommittally. Ciaran looked at him, his eyes slightly askew.

  “You seemed off color this morning. You get bad news? Clever, thought Chris. Mattie was wrong about this one, there was nothing stupid about him. “Sure,” he admitted. “My sister rang. She broke up with her partner.”

  “She’s in Dublin too?”

  “You know she is.”

  “Another reason to get out of here. You should go,” said Ciaran nonchalantly. “We can hang out together.”

  Chris ignored him. “When are you going?”

  Ciaran sat back in the seat, and stretched. “Two weeks.” “Two weeks and you’re abandoning me!” said Chris theatrically. It was funny. As they had relaxed he had seemed to click into driving in a foreign country. Now, he casually glanced at Ciaran at will.

  “Why can’t you go see your sister?” asked Ciaran.

  “Why do you think?”

  Ciaran spat out the window in disgust. “Mattie?” “Actually, I think Donna and Mattie are fucking me over,” said Chris finally giving voice to his fears.

  “What do you mean?” “I was meant to be here for three months, and then open a shop in Barcelona for three months. But I think they’re going to make me stay. I’ll never be able pay them back. I’ll always owe Mattie. I owe him a lot of money.”

  “How much money?” “Close to fifty thousand. When my business was failing, he lent me money. Let’s say the interest was a bitch.”

  “Why would he lend you money?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions,” said Chris a little irritably.

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “You know my sister was married to Kevin Byrne, one of Mattie’s cousins.” “Sarah. Yeah I meet her once. She’s a bit stuck up…sorry. I don’t think she sees Mattie anymore.”

  “Ah, Sarah is really nice, but I wish she had never got mixed up with that crowd.”

  “You’re a fool, Chris,” said Ciaran softly. He had lifted his feet up, so that they were pressed against the windscreen.

  “Thanks.” “No, really, I mean you think he’s some sort of big time Charlie, but he’s nothing more than a two bit gangster. He’s finished, Chris, what do you think you’re doing out here? He’s under investigation from the taxman back in London.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening there. I just run a shop.”

  “You’re laundering money Chris.”

  Chris found himself strangely sweaty. “Hey hold on…I run a shop, is all.” “We have no customers, no stock, but the till is full every night. Get real. You know exactly what you’re here for.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” pleaded Chris, “and you’re giving me a headache.” “You should just go, Chris—go to Dublin or London or Glasgow, but just get out of here. Mattie’s a nobody, a prick of the highest order. What’s he going to do? Shoot you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You really have no idea, do you?” said Ciaran. He seemed very agitated all of a sudden.

  Chris was shocked. Where had this Ciaran come from? Easy for Ciaran to say Mattie was no one. He was wrong. Chris was the nobody, and everyone else was a somebody. “Look, let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  “All I’m saying, Chris,” said Ciaran, “is Mattie is nothing. You really shouldn’t be afraid of that turd.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Do you want to come back to mine?” asked Ciaran. They were stopped outside a large apartment complex just north of the town center. Chris felt strangely deflated after his lecture in the car. “I’m pretty beat, actually.”

  “Oh come on, big man,” said Ciaran. “I promise I’ll behave.” Chris looked at him warily. “Buy a bottle of wine and I’ll consider it,” he said grumpily.

  Ciaran flashed his best smile before jumping over the door of the convertible and disappearing down a side street. Marooned in the car, Chris lit two cigarettes, one after the other, in silent protest.

  He looked at himself in the driver mirror and sighed. A slightly frazzled, handsome man stared back at him. He marveled at how he had ended up here, waiting on a beautiful young guy in the oppressive Iberian heat. A shadow fell on him and as he looked up he was met with the wide smile of his companion. Ciaran was holding a plastic bag stuffed with an oddly shaped bottle of wine. He looked strangely earnest and comical as he stood there in the moment, frozen in time.

  It was the first time Chris suspected he was falling in love.

  Chapter Twenty-Four Ciaran’s apartment was indeed far more spacious than his own pokey little home above the shop. He even had a balcony overlooking Torres, and a cool crisp breeze blew in off the Mediterranean.

  The place was immaculately clean, the only mess a pile of DVD’s and what looked like graphic novels in the corner. Chris picked one and flicked through the pages. “You like comics?” he called out to Ciaran, who had disappeared into the kitchen.

  “It’s a graphic novel.”

  “What’s the difference?” “It’s an art form,” said Ciaran as he returned with two glasses of wines. He had changed into flip flops and a fresh pair of loose shorts, and was barechested despite the air conditioning. “You wanna watch a movie?”

  “What kind of movie?” “You like horrors?” said Ciaran picking up a DVD box. “We can watch it in bed, if you want. There’s a balcony in there if you want to smoke,” he said pointedly.

  Chris was forced to laugh. This was a totally different side to Ciaran he hadn’t seen before.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Wake up, sleepy head” said Ciaran, nudging him. Chris’ eyes opened blearily. The first thing he noticed was that it had gotten dark outside. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Not that long,” laughed Ciaran. “I guess you’re not too crazy about zombie movies, then.”

  “I never realized you were such a nerd!”

  “Oh.” “It’s hot,” said Chris, running his hand down Ciaran’s naked stomach. The Irishman smiled at that. He leaned over and kissed Chris, adding a brief flash of his tongue. Chris watched him go hard, the simple intimacy flashing all through his athletic body.

  Chris sat up and ran his fingers through Ciaran’s fine blond hair. He kissed him again, more gently this time, and ran the back of his hand along the man’s cheek. He let his lips lead him from the mouth to the hollow underneath Ciaran’s jaw, down his Adam’s apple, until he reached Ciaran’s erect nipple. He bit it, then gently licked, then nipped it again.

  Ciaran sighed, a long and slow release of pleasure. His cock poked from between his legs, blood red in the lengthening shadows.

  Chris’ teeth released the trapped nipple and he began to lick Ciaran’s naked skin. It tasted sal
ty, imbued with released hormones. Chris felt sweaty despite the air conditioning, and the gap between his butt checks felt moist. His cock stood out from him, and this time it would not be denied.

  Ciaran lay on his back, submissive and pale in the fluorescent light of the street lamps. Chris began to lick his asshole, gently at first, but with steadily increasing force.

  “Oh Chris, that feels so good,” whispered Ciaran. He moved quickly and grasped Ciaran’s cock between his lips. He let Ciaran slide right into his mouth, and simultaneously began to slide his finger into Ciaran’s manhole. Ciaran let out a yelp, but Chris didn’t let his cock flag because of the sudden invader in him. He kept the cock hard in his mouth, as a second finger stretched inside Ciaran’s ass.

  His fingers sought out any moisturizer he could find close to hand on the bedside table, and to his surprise he found a fresh tube of KY. So his trapped captive had the same idea all along! He squirted the clear lubricant onto his cock, all the time fucking Ciaran’s asshole with his fingers. He kept a slow steady beat.

  “Please, Chris,” whispered Ciaran. “Please fuck me.” Chris grasped Ciaran’s surprisingly thin ankles and placed them on his shoulders. He gripped his own cock head and placed it against the tight manhole that had surrendered to him.

  “I want it rough,” said Ciaran in a voice Chris had not heard before, part animalistic, part pleading. Chris perched on his knees, and using a combination of his bodyweight and the hard strength of his engorged cock, he forced himself inside of the Irishman.

  Ciaran opened like a petal as the shaft pierced him. He yelped again, a sound of triumph.

  Chris did not speak, but his heart was thumping in his chest.

  “Hard, Chris,” said Ciaran. “I want it hard.” What he or Ciaran wanted was irrelevant, it seemed. Chris’ hips took on a life of their own. His thighs pumped a steady pace, driving him deep into Ciaran. It had to hurt, that deep thrusting penetration, but each jerk of his hips was meet with a triumphant gasp.

  Chris lost all perception of the outside world. All he wanted was fuck this beautiful man writhing beneath him. His own cock felt rock hard and numb, a steady pounding mass of bone and muscle. He withdrew suddenly, and Ciaran’s eyes opened wide suddenly.

  “On your knees,” he commanded, and the Irishman obeyed without hesitation. He perched on the edge of the bed, opening his legs in a vee shape, thrusting his bum and asshole out. Chris gripped his hips and drove his cock back into its welcoming hole without the aid of his hand. Ciaran gasped again, as Chris could finally give him all his length. It was harder to fight the sensation of pleasure growing between behind his balls, the sound of skin slapping, and the steady slurping sound of his cock as he almost fully withdrew from Ciaran’s ass before plunging his full length deep inside his man. Each thrust was met with a yell of pleasure.

  Chris lost control. He pulled Ciaran up and pushed him towards the balcony. Once in the night air, he bent the younger man over the patio table and roughly drove his cock into the gaping hole between his cheeks. Ciaran cried out at the force of the penetration. Chris began to drive mercilessly into the Irishman. His balls felt red hot and cum escaped him midway through a deep thrust. His semen flowed from him and into Ciaran in a wave that seemed to fill his whole body with electricity.

  Chris had never felt so alive, with the cool Mediterranean air drying the sweat on his heaving chest. Ciaran stayed in position, panting softly. Chris’ cock, though sated, stayed hard, trapped deep inside Ciaran’s ass. They stayed in position, panting for what felt hours, both seemingly lost in the fire of their passion. Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chris rolled over in bed and opened one bleary eye. He was hit by a wave of disorientation as he realized he was not in his own apartment. The bed sheets were crisp white and smelled of lavender conditioner. The bedroom was messy, with his clothes strewn all about the floor. Chris looked around with a sheepish expression as he sat up in bed. He stretched across to the dresser and picked up his phone. It was past twelve. He had slept in. Chris stretched and yawned, feeling drained despite the lie in. Yesterday had been energetic, to say the least.

  Life in Spain was becoming a bit of a blur, beaches turning into bed sheets. “Ciaran?” he called out, but the apartment was empty, it seemed.

  Chris sat on the edge of the bed, letting his eyes adjust to the harsh morning sun. He had missed calls on his phone. Chris sighed. One was from his sister, and the other six or seven were from Donna. He dropped back on the bed and sighed. “Ciaran,” he called again, but knew there would be no reply. He searched for his pants and found them strewn on the balcony, but as expected, the keys for the shop were gone. Ciaran must have gone and opened up. Donna was obviously in town, and Chris cursed when he realized he would have to face her.

  Chris searched around the apartment until he found the shower. After a bit of experimentation he jumped in and washed the smell of Ciaran from his body.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chris stepped out into the morning and almost immediately began to sweat. He would never get used to this heat, not if he lived here all his life. And he just might have to, if Donna and Mattie had their way. Things were getting complicated. This thing with Ciaran was becoming more than a holiday fling to him. The lust was growing stronger, but he had begun to wonder if it camouflaged deeper feelings. Ciaran would be leaving soon, and Chris wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  He didn’t put too much store into what Ciaran said in the throes of passion, but surely there was something there, too.

  The hustle and bustle of the morning traffic brought him back to the present. He soon realized that he wasn’t quite sure where he was, so he just aimed for the sea. Once he hit the seafront, he would find his bearings pretty quickly.

  Chris increased his pace as he began to recognize some of the back streets that ran parallel to Torres’ main shopping street. It was shaded here, tight tall buildings blocking out the worse of the direct sunlight. He walked off a side street and straight into an awaiting policeman. He didn’t have time to react, merely blurting out “I’m sorry—”

  The cop looked at him quietly before calling over his partner. The second man was plain clothed, a sign that marked him as a detective. “Ingles?” he said in a gruff Hispanic voice. He seemed about forty, overweight, but with keen black eyes that watched Chris slowly.

  “Si,” said Chris.

  “You are the owner of this shop?”

  Chris shook his head. “No…I’m the manager. Is there a problem? Have we been robbed?” “I’ll ask the questions, senor,” said the man evenly. He already seemed irritated by Chris’ demeanor, and Chris didn’t want to antagonize the man further. Chris was a little shocked. He was gently but firmly led into the confines of the shop. “Does anyone else work here, senor?”

  “Yes, the owner’s nephew works here.”

  “His name?” asked the Detective.

  “Em Ciaran…Forde, I presume,” said Chris, unsure of every statement he made. Where was Ciaran? How the hell did these cops get into the shop?

  “Where is he?” asked the man, as if reading his mind.

  “I don’t know,” said Chris softly. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Chris sat in the depressing holding cell, looking at the doodles and scrapings on the wall. He couldn’t quite process what was happening to him. All those missed calls on his phone this morning took on a new, more sinister meaning. Something had happened in England—it had to be that. Chris kept expecting Donna to send a high powered lawyer, or alternatively some customs agents from London, to walk through the door like in an American cop show, one playing the good cop, one the bad.

  The truth was a lot blander. He sat in his holding cell for twelve hours, and no one came to question him, no one offered to let him call a lawyer. Instead the police were pretty nice to him and stared at him with a look akin to pity. They bought him coffee and donuts from McDonalds and left him to stew. Chris stared blankly at the graffiti and
doodles on the holding cell wall. A mortal fear gripped his gut, a fear that he had somehow been set up. You heard about it all the time, his fears whispered. Mostly he felt like vomiting.

  Eventually he was brought into a room and interviewed through an interpreter. It was not the detective who had arrested him at the shop. They only asked about Mattie, but it was very rigid and perfunctory, as if they didn’t really have any interest in his answers. In truth there was little he could tell them, and he thought they already knew it.

  After about twenty minutes, the older interviewer, not the translator, turned to him and spoke in English. “Do you have any possessions in the shop?”

  “Yes,” said Chris, failing to add that all his possessions were in the shop. “An Officer will accompany you back to the apartment. You can take your possessions, but leave the keys.”

  “I don’t have the keys.” “Good. A car will come collect you, and you can go then. Tomorrow the airport…yes?”

  “Yes,” agreed Chris, with indecent haste. He was still too afraid to ask what was going on. He would take a flight back to London tonight if he could. This was fast turning into a nightmare, and every little sudden movement or sound made him jump. He knew he looked guilty as hell, although he was only half sure what he was supposedly guilty of. Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When he got back to the shop, the street was busy, and he could see the locals and tourists turn to stare at him. Chris ignored them all, just as he ignored his own shaking hands and the sweat that pored off him in salty rivers. Once in the shop and shielded from the public glare, he and the policeman went up to the little apartment. Chris began to stuff clothes, toiletries and anything he could fit into his two suitcases. He was clearly leaving things behind, but he no longer cared. He wanted out of Torres, of Spain, of anything to do with Mattie Forde. The thought that he was jumping from the frying pan and into the fire had not escaped him, but by now he was panicking.

  He could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it. He gave a sideways glance at the cop, expecting the man to order him to answer the phone, but instead the man just looked bored.