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The Difference Between Saying and Doing (B/K NC-17)
Title: The Difference Between Saying and Doing
Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,700
Disclaimer: HBO and Tom Fontana = not me
Summary: An AU in which an 18-year-old Keller, who never went to Lardner, is paid to kidnap the son of prosecuting attorney Harrison Beecher.
Warning: Includes scenes of underage sex. If you have issues with an eighteen-year-old sexing a sixteen-year-old, this fic ain't for you.
Notes: Um, so this isn't "Small Favors". Sorry about that. I blame this on the trailers for the movie Alpha Dog.
The guy, Anders, pays in hundreds, all crammed into a brown paper bag. Chris starts to count them to be sure--all out in the open across the diner counter--and the guy gets pissed.
“What, you don’t fucking trust me? It’s all there, hot shot.”
Chris wonders how five thousand in cash can feel so small. Then again, he’s never been good at math.
“You remember all the details, right?” Anders asks.
Chris sighs, shoves the bag under the counter. “Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow, three o’clock.”
“And the car?”
“Black BMW. Do I get graded on this shit in the end, too?”
“Look, I’m just covering all the bases here. This took a lot of planning on my part and I don’t need you runnin’ your mouth off.”
Chris smirks. “If you’re so great at plannin’, how come you got me doing your dirty work?”
“I like things simple. And you, my friend, are simple.” Anders vaguely motions to the bag in hiding. “There’re two sets of keys in there, along with your insurance. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
It isn’t until he’s halfway home that Chris reaches into the bag, lets his hand close around the butt of the gun. He’s never had one given to him before now.
But the thrill of owning his own gun wears off when he finally counts the money, and realizes he was right to wonder.
Only twenty-five hundred. Paper-clipped to the bottom of the stack is a note.
The rest you get when the job is done.
~~
The car is slick-shiny, waxed to the hilt, with leather seats and a manual transmission. It is not the car of a sixteen-year-old, and before Chris ever lays eyes on him, he hates him.
He’s crouched down in the passenger seat, waiting for school to let out and getting a sick pleasure out of the fact that such a rich car can be so disgustingly easy to bust into. Like the kid's just asking to be ripped off, or worse.
This kid, Toby--Tobias. Christ, the name matches the car. Tobias Beecher. Chris feels he should be wearing fucking white gloves when he says it out loud. Yeah, this kid is so asking for it, or his parents are for giving him a name that screams wealth.
The car sure as fuck isn’t doing little Tobias any good.
He runs his hand over the gear shift, and a small swirl of anxiety blooms in his chest. The gun is under the seat, but he won’t use it, not unless…not unless he has to. Unless the kid fights him.
When the back door opens, Chris holds his breath and scoots down, his heart racing. A backpack is tossed into the back seat, and finally, as the front driver door swings open, Toby sighs and crawls in behind the wheel, and Chris gets his first glimpse of what a prep school kid with his own Beemer really looks like--the usual khakis, oxford shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, and a standard plain burgundy neck tie hanging loose and crooked.
Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun. “Nice car.”
Toby jumps, slams back hard against the door. “What the hell--?!”
Chris nudges the gun out from under his seat and kicks it slightly, letting lay there on the floor in plain sight. “Just drive.”
His eyes are wide, hidden slightly behind the flashes of light reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses. A deer in the headlights for sure. “I…I don’t have any money on me. You can check my--”
“Aw, that’s real cute, Tobias.” Chris lets his head roll toward him on the headrest as he grins all big and bright. “But it ain’t your money I’m after. It’s you.”
The kid shoves his hair back, panting and muttering, “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” over and over.
Chris picks the gun up and lazily sets it in his lap. No big deal. “So what d’ya say? Let’s go for a drive.”
~~
They’re on the road for all of five minutes when the kid starts babbling.
“You won’t get away with this, it’s impossible. My dad’ll--”
“Pretty sure your dad’s the cause of all your troubles, kid.” Chris is still scrunched way down in the seat, the gun still sitting in his lap. He’s wedged his shoulders between the seat and the passenger door in order to keep an eye on him.
“So who was it? Your brother got life without parole or something? I know you probably think you’re real creative, but this isn’t the first time someone’s threatened to kidnap me to get my dad’s attention.” The kid enunciates his words carefully, like he’s trying to sound older than he really is. Like he’s trying to sound like a goddamn lawyer.
“I don’t really care if I ain’t your first,” Chris says, letting the words turn soft and nasty. It makes Toby’s cheeks flush. “Besides, threatening isn’t actually doing.”
“No, it’s less stupid and gets you less time in prison.”
It’s the self-righteous tone in his voice that gets to Chris, and he has to remind himself about the stack of cash that’s riding on all of this.
“How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and keep drivin'?” He lays his hand over the gun and drums his fingers against the barrel.
A muscle in Toby’s jaw twitches as he watches him out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look away from the road.
~~
They switch cars behind an abandoned gas station way beyond the city limits an hour and a half later. Chris makes Toby park the BMW beside a beat-up green Explorer--Anders’s car, although the plates are gone--and when Toby cuts the engine, Chris digs out a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.
He tosses them in Toby’s lap. “Put those on.”
Toby glares at him. “Fuck you.”
“Now who’s not being creative?” He grins and adds, “Put ‘em on, or I do it for you.”
“They’re gonna find my car. My dad’s probably already looking for me right now.”
“I’m sure he is, since a clean-cut, squeaky clean kid such as yourself never gets into shit.” Chris gets tired of waiting; he grabs Toby’s wrist and jerks him across the console, slapping a bracelet on and enjoying the way the kid winces. “Now give me your other hand and it won’t hurt as bad.”
There’s a quick, angry huff of breath before Toby holds his hand out.
“You can hate me all you want, kid. Makes no difference to me, but you should know that I ain’t the one with a beef against your old man,” he says as he drags Toby out of the car and over to the Explorer, where he shoves him into the passenger seat and cuffs him to the door handle.
“Then…why…?”
Chris shrugs. “A job’s a job.”
He slams the door before Toby can comment.
~~
“How old are you?”
Christ, the guy never shuts up.
“None of your fucking business.” Chris figures they’re only twenty minutes from the motel; the sun has almost completely faded into the horizon and he hates driving in the dark in unfamiliar territory.
“You’re not that much older than me. I can tell.”
“Swell, a rich fuck and a mind reader.”
Toby keeps nudging at his glasses with his shoulder, and the handcuffs clink with each shift of his hands. It’s annoying as hell; just his luck the damn radio is busted.
“So you’re like, what, eighteen?”
“Like I’d fucking tell you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He tips his chin up and has the nerve to smirk. “Which means you’ll get tried as an adult.”
Chris realizes his first mistake of the evening was not gagging the kid when he had the chance.
~~
The motel room is already bought and paid for through the night. There is a single queen size bed in the center of the room, with a ratty chair, desk, and a small nightstand on the side closest to the door. The TV, like the car stereo, looks broken.
“Home sweet home,” Chris says, pushing Toby into the chair. He hooks Toby’s arms around the back and under the armrests, where he recuffs his wrists.
“My hands will go to sleep like this.”
“Good, maybe your mouth’ll sleep with ‘em.” He desperately wishes for some duct tape.
"So what happens now?" Toby keeps talking like Chris isn't glaring death at him. "Wait for a phone call, get some ransom money? My dad doesn't negotiate with kidnappers."
Chris drops onto the bed and sighs. "He tell you that himself?"
"No, but I know he won't."
"I still got that gun." He pats the back pocket of his jeans.
There it is again, that weird little snort that either means the kid's nervous or pissed. He makes that sound a lot. "You won't do it."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. You're fucking stupid, but you're not that stupid."
The self-righteous tone is back, which is bad for Chris; it makes him not think straight. The next thing he knows, he's rolling onto his side to face Toby as he pulls the gun from his pocket. He cocks the hammer and points it at him.
"And you're pretty fucking stupid for not knowing when to shut your trap."
Toby swallows hard and flinches. His lower jaw starts to tremble. "Look...I..."
"No, you're done talkin'." The gun feels unnaturally hot in his hand, but Chris ignores it. Fuck, five grand isn't worth this shit. "Conversation time is over. You got me?"
The kid ducks his head and nods.
Then the phone rings.
~~
"What the hell do you mean, 'over night'?"
"Exactly what it means, smart ass."
Chris drags the phone into the bathroom and slams the door. "You said this would last the night, tops. You never said nothin' about me having a fucking slumber party with the guy."
"Jesus, will you calm down, Keller? The kid's dad isn't answering his phone, and Joe's all worried he's getting the cops to wire the house, trace the calls. He wants to sit on it for a few hours and let the guy get antsy."
Anders's brother is responsible for everything; it's Joe's crime (armed robbery), Joe's trial (three weeks with a legal aid schmuck who got lucky), and Joe's innocent verdict, which Harrison Beecher, the prosecuting attorney, is just shy of overturning. Kidnapping Beecher's son was an eleventh hour decision on Joe's part to keep from seeing the inside of a courtroom--and prison cell--again.
Chris only knows them through a friend of a friend. He still thinks Joe's a greasy fuck and Anders isn't much prettier, but they'd offered Chris cash when he was dead broke, and at the time Chris figured it'd be the easiest five grand he'd ever make. Grab the kid, hold him until Daddy backs down, then set him free. Easy as cake.
Except nothing is ever easy for Chris. He doesn't know why he's surprised now.
"So I'm just supposed to sit on this kid until you say so?" He slumps against the bathroom door, quietly banging his head against it.
"Just keep him there and don't leave."
"And just where the fuck would I go, huh? I got a piece of shit car with no plates and a guy who'll turn me in before I'd ever get out the door."
"You think you're such hot shit, you figure it out. But don't fucking leave. I'll be in touch." The line goes dead in Chris's ear.
He almost throws the phone through the wall.
Toby's trying not to look at him when Chris comes out of the bathroom. He chews his bottom for a second and asks, "Are you gonna let me go?"
"Did you not hear any of that in there?" Chris paces in front of the chair, running his options through his head. Or at least attempting to, seeing as how there are none.
"I-I just heard something about you leaving and I thought maybe--"
"Yeah, well, you thought wrong. We're stuck here, get used to it." He's too goddamn sober for this shit. If Anders is going to make him baby-sit his brother's collateral, then he's gonna figure out a way to pass the time.
He braces his hands on Toby's knees, gets right in his face. Toby gasps but doesn't pull back, which is so strange to Chris; since the very start this shiny rich kid has tried to hold his own against him, pushing back when Chris can smell the fear on him. It makes Chris want to push him as hard as he can, just to see how far he'll go.
"I'll be right back," he says. "Don't do anything stupid." He keeps his voice soft with just a hint of a threat; it's enough to make Toby lick his lips and nod without looking him in the eyes.
"Good boy."
~~
There's a convenience store across the street, and Chris buys a pack of cigarettes and a fifth of Jack Daniels. He doesn't really smoke, but nicotine is the closest drug he can get his hands on that doesn't come in liquid form. The guy behind the register doesn't look at the fake ID Chris flashes, the one that says Chris is twenty-five and has green eyes.
When he gets back to the room, Toby's panting a little and his cheeks are slightly flushed. Chris takes one look at his handcuffed hands--the kid's wrists are rubbed raw.
"What the fuck you tryin' to do, tear your hands off?" He dumps the smokes and the booze on the bed and goes into the bathroom for a washcloth, which he soaks in cold water. "Guess I can't blame a guy for trying," he yells over his shoulder.
Toby doesn't answer, but he hisses in pain when Chris comes back into the room and wipes the cloth over his scraped skin.
"Better?"
A long moment of silence goes by before he nods.
"Don't do this again."
"Why, 'cause I'll be damaged goods?" Toby winces, like he doesn't mean to say the words out loud.
"No, 'cause I'm a shitty nurse." He finishes as best he can and tosses the rag in the sink. "People'll think I beat you up or something."
Toby mutters, "Yeah, that's so much worse than kidnapping," under his breath, and for some weird reason, it makes Chris smile.
"What else would you be doing tonight, Toby?" He stretches out on the bed, left leg dangling off the side as he unscrews the cap off of the bottle of Jack, drinking straight from the bottle without fanfare. "I kinda find it hard to believe it'd be anything this exciting."
Toby eyes the bottle and doesn't reply, but he does watch rather intently as Chris takes another drink.
Chris recognizes that look, and his smile morphs into a smirk. "See something you like?"
"No. No, I'm good." If Toby wasn't suddenly blushing, Chris might believe him.
"Well, I guess I just got the answer to my question." He scoots to the edge of the bed and holds the bottle out to Toby. "Probably too blue collar for your tastes, but I bet you ain't picky."
He starts to squirm a little in the chair, turning his face away from the whiskey. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." And because Chris can feel the first warm licks of alcohol in his blood stream, and because he just wants to make things more interesting, he uncuffs Toby's right hand and puts the empty cuff around the opposite armrest of the chair.
"There, you're mobile. Now..." He offers Toby the whiskey again. "Drink?"
Toby rests his freed hand in his lap, flexes his fingers that have most likely gone numb. He stares at his feet and says nothing.
"Fine, whatever." Chris sets the bottle on the nightstand by the bed, just within Toby's reach. "But your secret's safe with me." He winks at him, and he's oddly fascinated again by Toby's pink cheeks even as his hand clenches into a fist. A minute later he's grabbing the bottle, taking a long, healthy swallow. He doesn't even blink or cough; the whiskey might as well be Gatorade.
"You smoke, too?" Chris asks as he opens the pack of cigarettes.
"No."
"Neither do I." He digs around in the nightstand for a matchbook, and when he finally lights up, Toby has already taken a second drink.
"Sorry your life's so fucking miserable," Chris can't help but say, feeling that irrational sense of resentment trickle through him. "I'm sure if I drove a fancy car and lived in a big ol' mansion I'd be an alcoholic, too."
"Fuck you, it's not like that." But his tone is soft, and he's still not looking at Chris.
"Yeah? Then what is it like, Tobias?"
That gets the spark back in him; he glares at Chris, and the softness disappears from his voice. "It's nothing you'd ever understand, so just drop it, okay?"
Chris takes a drag and blows the smoke straight at Toby. "Now why would I drop it when I've got you all riled up and shit?"
The handcuffs suddenly clink loudly as Toby makes a half-hearted attempt to lunge at him. He's pushing back again, and it's so fucked up, the way it makes Chris's heart beat a little faster in...anticipation? Couldn't be, there was nothing this guy could do to Chris; he might be smarter than him, but not stronger. Not quicker. And yet, Chris finds himself eager to give back.
"They got AA at that prep school of yours? Help get you ready for the real world?"
"At least I'm not running around kidnapping people for money," Toby shoots back without any hesitation. There's a small flicker of embarrassment (fear?) in his eyes--Chris can see their color now as Toby's glasses slip down his nose, a shade of blue too light, and when the fuck did it even matter?--and Chris just smiles. He shoves the whiskey out of Toby's reach.
"Someday you'll learn what it's like to live off of the shit you actually earn."
To Chris's surprise, Toby smirks back, a nasty little sneer that makes his bottom lip stick out just a little. "So glad I can help you make a living."
Shit. If the guy's this bitchy after two drinks, Chris is definitely cutting him off. He finishes his cigarette, stubs it out in the ashtray by the bed. "Bet you're just the life of the party," he mutters under his breath.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Nothing." He glances at the clock on the wall. It's barely a quarter till ten.
~~
"Thought they were gonna call you back."
Chris shrugs. Four cigarettes and what's likely half a dozen shots later and he's still not remotely enjoying himself. Maybe because a portion of those shots were shared. "So did I. But I guess your dad's not workin' out according to plan." He sits up on the bed and draws his knees to his chest.
Toby is no longer wearing his tie; it's balled in the corner, like a lazy burgundy silk snake. He'd yanked it off after his last hit of whiskey, mumbling something about fucking dress codes.
"Whose plan?" His body is slumped so far down in the chair Chris almost holds his breath for the inevitable moment when he falls to floor. It's like his half-assed attempt at getting comfortable with a handcuffed wrist.
"Joe's. Hell if it ain't mine." Chris doesn't care about disclosing details anymore. If Joe wanted secrecy, he should've sent some goddamn entertainment.
Toby holds his hand out for the bottle and Chris hands it to him. It's become this silent routine between them, and Chris wonders why it happened without him realizing.
"Where's the gun?"
"Think I'm still gonna shoot ya?"
"No. And whatever, you weren't gonna shoot me." Toby lets the bottle dangle from his free hand as he cocks his head to the side. His hair falls across his forehead as he gives Chris a long, hard stare. "You're kinda shitty at this stuff."
If Chris were slightly more sober, he'd deck him. Instead, he sighs and digs out another cigarette. "Look, just 'cause I didn't take some fucking 'Kidnapping for Dummies' class doesn't mean I can't do a job. I got you this far, didn't I? Hell, I could've broken into the wrong car and fucked it up from the get-go."
"Alright. But where's the gun?"
Chris grunts in frustration and paws around on the bed for a moment, then checks his pockets. He's on the verge of getting pissed--at himself, not at Mr. Know-It-All for being right, 'cause he isn't--until he sees it lying on the counter in the bathroom.
"You left it there an hour ago."
Ah, hell. "It's not like I can't still kick the shit out of you if I need to," Chris mumbles as he takes the bottle away from Toby a little too quickly.
Toby rolls his eyes, and suddenly there's the vaguest hint of a smile. A real smile, not a smirk, and it completely changes his face, lights it up, like a tiny glimpse at what he looks like when he's truly happy.
It makes Chris uncomfortable, thinking about the guy's smile. Maybe getting drunk on the job isn't such a hot idea.
"Tell me your name," Toby's saying.
"No." He isn't even Chris's type, anyway. Chris goes for older guys, the ones who know when to shut up and get down to business, not younger, yappy guys who more than likely have never had anyone, male or female, lay a hand on their cock. Not preppy virgins.
And now Chris is wondering whether Toby is a virgin or not, which makes him think about how Toby would react if Chris simply reached out and cupped his hand over the front of Toby's khakis, right over his--
"Fine. I'll just wait until you pass out and then look at your driver's license."
"I'm not passing out. Shit. I can probably out drink you any day, I don't care how big of a fuckin' alcoholic you are." He can sense a heat in his cheeks, and Chris chalks it all up to the whiskey.
"I'm not a--" Toby huffs again, drops his head back as he rubs at his neck. "I...I have a lot of shit going on right now, is all."
"Yeah? Daddy puttin' pressure on you or something?"
"Sort of. College bullshit, stuff like that. You know how it is." He says it honestly, like he really does think Chris knows, and it's not until he looks over and sees Chris's smirk that his eyes widen and he's stammering. "I-I mean....y'know....um--"
Chris waves him off, hands him back the whiskey bottle. "'s okay, Toby."
"You...you graduated high school, though, right?"
"Naw, I was too much of a genius for them to handle."
Toby doesn't quite know how to process that information, and the conflicted expression on his face makes Chris laugh, which is another bad idea on his part. "Toby, really, it's cool. You think I'd be doing this shit if I had something better bein' offered?"
"You could go back--"
Yeah, back to high school. That was a great fucking plan. "No thanks." But he still smiles and shakes his head as he uncurls his body and gives a long stretch across the bed. The bottom edge of his gray t-shirt rides up a little, exposing the bare skin of his abdomen just above the waist of his jeans. He starts to pull it back down, but he notices the way Toby's not looking him in the eyes anymore; his gaze has somehow wandered lower and is tracking the movement of Chris's hands.
He leaves his shirt alone; instead, he trails the tip of his index finger over his skin, circles his belly button in a deceptively absent pattern. Toby looks away after several moments and focuses on his hand cradling the whiskey bottle.
Chris tells himself he's drunk and this doesn't mean a damn thing, but he can already feel an erection starting, pushing against his fly. It should worry him, but it doesn't, not when Toby's licking his lips and looking everywhere but in Chris's general direction.
He's back to thinking about touching Toby again and whether he'd moan or whimper or growl, and when the loud pounding on the door starts it takes him a moment to come to.
"Hey." Toby sets the bottle on the nightstand and snaps his fingers in Chris's face. "You gonna get that?"
He blinks a few times before he gets up to check the peep hole.
Outside the door stands a cop.
"Fuck." Chris panics for a split second as the thought of prison--not juvie, fucking prison--flashes though his head. The panic turns to anger--fuck Joe and his money, I'm not simple--and then the anger turns into survival instinct.
He takes the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket and unlocks Toby's hand. "It's the cops. You gotta act like everything's normal, you got me?"
Toby rubs his wrist as he stands up slowly, and that mean little smirk creeps back. It disappoints Chris, though he doesn't want to think about that. "I could scream, you know."
Without thinking, Chris shoves him back against the wall and slaps his hand over Toby's mouth. Too late, he realizes they are pressed together, chest to thigh, and in the midst of everything it dawns on him that he's only an inch or two taller than Toby.
"You scream and I fucking shoot you. I mean it." But his voice has turned all soft and breathy and since when did he ever talk like that?
Toby shakes his head and pulls Chris's hand away. "No, you don't. And I won't, I swear," he whispers. "I was kidding."
Chris doesn't know how to respond, so he glares at Toby and ignores the heat he can feel through the thin layer of Toby's shirt. "This isn't a joke." He shoves him one last time for good measure and turns back toward the door, scrubbing his hands over his face in effort to find some sort of expression of bored indifference.
He opens the door and pretends to yawn. "Can I help you, officer?"
The cop actually smiles politely at him. "Sorry to bother you so late at night, but there's a Ford Explorer in the parking lot over there"--he waves his hand over his shoulder--"with no license plates. Someone called it in, thought maybe the plates had been stolen, and we're questioning all the guests to see who the car belongs to."
"Oh." Relief pours through him, and Chris almost laughs out loud. "Naw, not ours. Sorry."
The cop glances past Chris and into the room. "You boys all alone tonight?"
Chris looks over to see Toby sprawled on the bed, flipping through channels on the busted TV. "Aw, no, my dad went out to get some food. He'll be back soon."
He nods like he's satisfied. "Okay, well, you two be safe."
"Thanks, officer, we will." And damn it all if he doesn't hear Toby snort in the background.
~~
It's two in the morning and there has been no phone call from Anders. But it hardly matters; Chris and Toby have almost finished the bottle of Jack, and they've discovered that the television does, in fact, work. Works so well, there's even free porn.
Grainy, muted, crappy porn, but porn nonetheless.
Chris has yet to handcuff Toby back to the chair. He'd started to, but then Toby had shaken his head and insisted it wasn't necessary, he wasn't going anywhere. Then he'd laughed and told Chris he'd probably be better off getting him shitfaced, because then he wouldn't have the coordination to run away.
"That's your plan B, since the gun's obviously not working out," Toby'd snarked at him, looking way too smug for Chris's liking.
Now they're both lying on the bed, Toby's head at the end while Chris is propped up against the headboard with the pillows. Every once in awhile Toby will absently knock his foot into Chris's shoulder, but it's no big deal.
"Those aren't real," Toby mumbles into his folded arms as some nameless blonde chick rubs her tits over some nameless guy's dick. Chris thinks he might've already seen this one a few months ago; the girl looks kinda familiar.
"Fuck yes, they're real. You can tell."
"No, you can't."
"Seen alotta naked tits in your day, Tobe?"
He doesn't turn around, but Chris sees the twitch in his shoulders. "Doesn't matter."
"Sure it does. See, the fake ones are always too round and shit, they got more definition to 'em. Plus, they don't sag at all."
He watches the way Toby shifts subtly against the bedspread, and Chris is drunk enough now to enjoy the sight of his prepster alcoholic getting slowly turned on.
"Soooo..." Toby draws it out like he's not sure what he wants to say, and his voice is soft and a notch deeper than a few minutes ago. "Do they, like...feel different, too?"
Chris barks out a laugh and lets his hand slap the back of Toby's legs. "Yeah, they do, but it's not like that's a bad thing."
"Huh." He's trying to sound all scholarly, like this is some fucking science experiment, but Chris knows better.
"And it's kinda obvious that that chick there gives damn good head," he says nonchalantly, sitting up to switch positions, lying on his stomach and lining his body up with Toby's, shoulder to shoulder. He tucks a pillow under his chin and points at the screen, where Nameless Blonde's cheeks hollow out as she sucks Nameless Guy's dick with plenty of fervor. "I'd kill to find a girl who'd put that much effort into sucking my cock, y'know? Good head's hard to find."
Toby makes a weird little sigh/grunt as he buries his face a little deeper into the security of his arms, his eyes never once leaving the screen. Even his nose is bright pink.
"What do ya think, Toby? Ever gotten really good head?" Chris's heart is pounding and he's hard, really hard, just from watching Toby lose himself in the arousal; he's pushing his hips slowly into the mattress in what's likely an unconscious movement, and Chris wonders if he'd even blink at the touch of Chris's mouth against his neck.
He decides to test the theory, so he leans closer, chin barely brushing Toby's shoulder, and whispers, "Well?"
"You can't get good head in high school." Toby's words are almost inaudible, but Chris is more concerned with the fact that he's not pulling away.
"Probably right. Sucks for you then, huh?" His mouth skims the surface of Toby's shirt sleeve; it's soft and warm and smells like clean fabric softener.
Toby doesn't answer. Chris doesn't move any further, and after a long, silent moment, Toby turns his head away and says, his voice muffled, "What are you doing?"
"I don't know. You tell me." He goes for broke and nuzzles his nose into the dark blonde curls resting just above Toby's collar, and then he really does kiss Toby's neck, a simple open-mouthed press of lips to flushed skin that sends a full body shudder through Toby, making him gasp and tuck his face further away from Chris, and it's way fucking better than anything Chris has imagined.
"Stop." But he's not moving, not pushing at all, and Chris just keeps kissing him, not even sure if he'll obey the command when Toby truly means it. He licks the underside of Toby's ear and it all happens much faster than he expects--Toby lets out a long, breathy moan and rolls over onto his back, his eyes closed as he blindly grabs for Chris to pull him closer. The kiss is whiskey-tinged and wet, slightly rough around the edges as Toby becomes frantic. But Chris thrusts his tongue deep and easy into Toby's mouth--god, baby, has no one really touched you?--and slides his leg over Toby's hips, straddling him but not resting his full weight on him.
Toby bucks up and whimpers in the back of his throat, barely letting their mouths part for air. He's clawing at Chris's t-shirt, and Chris smiles against his lips as he takes Toby's hands and pins them above his head.
"Easy, baby, easy. I ain't goin' anywhere," he whispers before he kisses the hollow of Toby's throat, his free hand flicking open the buttons of Toby's shirt. When his shirt parts, Chris is surprised at how hard the lines of his body are; he's thin, but not skinny, lean muscle flexing just beneath the surface of pale, smooth skin, over the slight dip of his stomach. A dusting of blonde hair trails across his lower abdomen and disappears into his khakis.
He's...beautiful. And now Chris knows he's really fucking drunk. But it's too late now.
He lets go of Toby's hands and uses both of his own to open Toby's fly. As he pulls the zipper carefully over the stark curve of Toby's erection, Toby suddenly grabs his hands.
"Wait."
Chris looks up, takes in the sporadic rise and fall of Toby's naked chest, the flush of arousal in his cheeks...he wants this, he does, Chris knows he does, but...
Disappointment cuts through the drunken haze and it irritates him. Fuck, he's so stupid--
"Tell me your name," Toby asks for the second time. He bites his lip, and he'd look nervous and maybe a little scared if he wasn't gasping for air and trying not to thrust his hips closer to Chris's mouth.
It's just a name. This doesn't mean anything, they're both drunk, and it's just a job, Toby's just a job...
"Chris." He doesn't know why he kisses Toby's chest as he says it.
"Chris what?"
"Keller. Want my birthday, too?" But he's grinning as he works his way back down to Toby's crotch.
"No, that's...that's all I...ah, fuck...wanted to know..." His head falls back and he hisses through his teeth when Chris finally jerks his pants and boxers down.
Chris has always been good at giving head. He enjoys it, sure, but he's learned that it's also a means to an end; it's an excellent way to establish control early in the game. But this--this isn't a game. It should be by all rights, except he's never done this to someone so...so eager. So responsive and desperate.
He runs the tip of his tongue along the underlying ridge of Toby's cock, tracing the head, tasting the pre-come that's already soaked the front of his shorts. Toby swears and his body convulses.
Chris wants to ask, but he shouldn't. He does, anyway. "Am I your first, baby?" He wets his lips and rubs them against the shaft.
There's no answer right away; he glances up to see Toby screw his eyes shut and press his cheek into the mattress. Like he's hiding again.
Chris wraps his hand around the base, circles his thumb over the top of Toby's balls. "I won't tell, I swear."
Toby groans like he's dying. "Fuck...yes."
He goes so intensely hard, he has to press his hand into his crotch and catch his breath. Until now, Chris thought sucking off virgins was lame.
I'll make it good for you. The thought flashes through his head and in this moment, he's not sorry for thinking it. He means every word.
He takes it slow, filling his mouth as much as he can before applying any suction, his hand still squeezing lightly. He lets Toby's length slip all the way out, slicks his bottom lip over the tip, then takes him back in, a little faster, harder, catching a glimpse of Toby's balled fists clinging to the comforter, his knuckles almost white. Chris picks up the pace, sucking earnestly now, changing his angle and pressure with every sound that leaves Toby's mouth.
It's when Toby cries out, "Please, Chris," that Chris decides he can't let Toby come alone. He tears into his jeans as he hauls himself up Toby's body, kissing him deep and long, opening his mouth wide and letting him taste himself on Chris's tongue. His hands start to shake and he's fumbling to get his own dick free. He never fumbles.
The initial touch of their bared skin makes Toby jerk and panic, a reflex action Chris is vaguely familiar with. But Toby has nothing to be afraid of; he doesn't know how lucky he's got it.
"It's okay, it's okay," Chris whispers as he kisses along Toby's jaw. "You're okay." He gives a trial thrust, lets Toby get that first rush of sensation.
"I just...I can't, no..." But he still leans up, takes Chris's face in his hands to kiss him, his thumbs sweeping over Chris's cheekbones.
"You're okay." Chris repeats it over and over, a soothing mantra. "There's no pressure here, nothin'. It's just us."
Just us. Christ, he's such a chump. He can't think about that now, though, because Toby's finally opening his eyes and giving him a wide-eyed, pale blue look of so much trust it scares the living shit out of him.
He slides his hand between their bodies, wraps it around their cocks in a tight, hot fist, and just lets go. Toby doesn't last long, but Chris isn't far behind, and all he can think of as he's coming all over Toby's stomach is that he's not taking the rest of Anders's money.
~~
They barely managed to clean up, and they fall asleep without pulling back the covers, Toby sprawled on his stomach, his arm slung across Chris's chest.
The phone rings a few hours later. Toby just grumbles in his sleep and tucks his arm back against his body, leaving Chris free to slip out of bed and tug the phone back into the bathroom.
"Leave the kid, it's fucked." Anders doesn't even say hello.
"What? But you said--"
"Naw, man, it's over. Beecher's got the cops involved, possibly the FBI. The whole house is bugged, and I think they found the kid's car. Joe and I're getting the fuck of out Dodge, and you should, too."
Chris drops down onto the ledge of the bathtub, his head already starting to throb with the onset of a monster hangover. "Jesus, what am I supposed to do with the guy?"
"I don't know, let him go, dump him somewhere. I don't give a fuck, just get the hell away from him."
He doesn't ask about the money and Anders doesn't bring it up.
"Thanks for going this far, Keller." Anders hangs up, and Chris sits there with the receiver in his hand, listening to the dial tone. He eventually hangs up the phone and goes back into the bedroom. Everything is dark except for the dim light from the parking lot filtering through the blinds; he can just make out Toby's bare arm, the curve of his right calf.
He puts his jeans back on, leaves the gun still sitting in its spot on the bathroom counter. He sets the keys to the Explorer on the nightstand by the empty Jack Daniels bottle.
Chris doesn't look back as he quietly shuts the door behind him. But he leans against the door jam for a moment, closes his eyes, and sighs.
Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,700
Disclaimer: HBO and Tom Fontana = not me
Summary: An AU in which an 18-year-old Keller, who never went to Lardner, is paid to kidnap the son of prosecuting attorney Harrison Beecher.
Warning: Includes scenes of underage sex. If you have issues with an eighteen-year-old sexing a sixteen-year-old, this fic ain't for you.
Notes: Um, so this isn't "Small Favors". Sorry about that. I blame this on the trailers for the movie Alpha Dog.
The guy, Anders, pays in hundreds, all crammed into a brown paper bag. Chris starts to count them to be sure--all out in the open across the diner counter--and the guy gets pissed.
“What, you don’t fucking trust me? It’s all there, hot shot.”
Chris wonders how five thousand in cash can feel so small. Then again, he’s never been good at math.
“You remember all the details, right?” Anders asks.
Chris sighs, shoves the bag under the counter. “Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow, three o’clock.”
“And the car?”
“Black BMW. Do I get graded on this shit in the end, too?”
“Look, I’m just covering all the bases here. This took a lot of planning on my part and I don’t need you runnin’ your mouth off.”
Chris smirks. “If you’re so great at plannin’, how come you got me doing your dirty work?”
“I like things simple. And you, my friend, are simple.” Anders vaguely motions to the bag in hiding. “There’re two sets of keys in there, along with your insurance. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
It isn’t until he’s halfway home that Chris reaches into the bag, lets his hand close around the butt of the gun. He’s never had one given to him before now.
But the thrill of owning his own gun wears off when he finally counts the money, and realizes he was right to wonder.
Only twenty-five hundred. Paper-clipped to the bottom of the stack is a note.
The rest you get when the job is done.
~~
The car is slick-shiny, waxed to the hilt, with leather seats and a manual transmission. It is not the car of a sixteen-year-old, and before Chris ever lays eyes on him, he hates him.
He’s crouched down in the passenger seat, waiting for school to let out and getting a sick pleasure out of the fact that such a rich car can be so disgustingly easy to bust into. Like the kid's just asking to be ripped off, or worse.
This kid, Toby--Tobias. Christ, the name matches the car. Tobias Beecher. Chris feels he should be wearing fucking white gloves when he says it out loud. Yeah, this kid is so asking for it, or his parents are for giving him a name that screams wealth.
The car sure as fuck isn’t doing little Tobias any good.
He runs his hand over the gear shift, and a small swirl of anxiety blooms in his chest. The gun is under the seat, but he won’t use it, not unless…not unless he has to. Unless the kid fights him.
When the back door opens, Chris holds his breath and scoots down, his heart racing. A backpack is tossed into the back seat, and finally, as the front driver door swings open, Toby sighs and crawls in behind the wheel, and Chris gets his first glimpse of what a prep school kid with his own Beemer really looks like--the usual khakis, oxford shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, and a standard plain burgundy neck tie hanging loose and crooked.
Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun. “Nice car.”
Toby jumps, slams back hard against the door. “What the hell--?!”
Chris nudges the gun out from under his seat and kicks it slightly, letting lay there on the floor in plain sight. “Just drive.”
His eyes are wide, hidden slightly behind the flashes of light reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses. A deer in the headlights for sure. “I…I don’t have any money on me. You can check my--”
“Aw, that’s real cute, Tobias.” Chris lets his head roll toward him on the headrest as he grins all big and bright. “But it ain’t your money I’m after. It’s you.”
The kid shoves his hair back, panting and muttering, “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” over and over.
Chris picks the gun up and lazily sets it in his lap. No big deal. “So what d’ya say? Let’s go for a drive.”
~~
They’re on the road for all of five minutes when the kid starts babbling.
“You won’t get away with this, it’s impossible. My dad’ll--”
“Pretty sure your dad’s the cause of all your troubles, kid.” Chris is still scrunched way down in the seat, the gun still sitting in his lap. He’s wedged his shoulders between the seat and the passenger door in order to keep an eye on him.
“So who was it? Your brother got life without parole or something? I know you probably think you’re real creative, but this isn’t the first time someone’s threatened to kidnap me to get my dad’s attention.” The kid enunciates his words carefully, like he’s trying to sound older than he really is. Like he’s trying to sound like a goddamn lawyer.
“I don’t really care if I ain’t your first,” Chris says, letting the words turn soft and nasty. It makes Toby’s cheeks flush. “Besides, threatening isn’t actually doing.”
“No, it’s less stupid and gets you less time in prison.”
It’s the self-righteous tone in his voice that gets to Chris, and he has to remind himself about the stack of cash that’s riding on all of this.
“How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and keep drivin'?” He lays his hand over the gun and drums his fingers against the barrel.
A muscle in Toby’s jaw twitches as he watches him out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look away from the road.
~~
They switch cars behind an abandoned gas station way beyond the city limits an hour and a half later. Chris makes Toby park the BMW beside a beat-up green Explorer--Anders’s car, although the plates are gone--and when Toby cuts the engine, Chris digs out a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.
He tosses them in Toby’s lap. “Put those on.”
Toby glares at him. “Fuck you.”
“Now who’s not being creative?” He grins and adds, “Put ‘em on, or I do it for you.”
“They’re gonna find my car. My dad’s probably already looking for me right now.”
“I’m sure he is, since a clean-cut, squeaky clean kid such as yourself never gets into shit.” Chris gets tired of waiting; he grabs Toby’s wrist and jerks him across the console, slapping a bracelet on and enjoying the way the kid winces. “Now give me your other hand and it won’t hurt as bad.”
There’s a quick, angry huff of breath before Toby holds his hand out.
“You can hate me all you want, kid. Makes no difference to me, but you should know that I ain’t the one with a beef against your old man,” he says as he drags Toby out of the car and over to the Explorer, where he shoves him into the passenger seat and cuffs him to the door handle.
“Then…why…?”
Chris shrugs. “A job’s a job.”
He slams the door before Toby can comment.
~~
“How old are you?”
Christ, the guy never shuts up.
“None of your fucking business.” Chris figures they’re only twenty minutes from the motel; the sun has almost completely faded into the horizon and he hates driving in the dark in unfamiliar territory.
“You’re not that much older than me. I can tell.”
“Swell, a rich fuck and a mind reader.”
Toby keeps nudging at his glasses with his shoulder, and the handcuffs clink with each shift of his hands. It’s annoying as hell; just his luck the damn radio is busted.
“So you’re like, what, eighteen?”
“Like I’d fucking tell you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He tips his chin up and has the nerve to smirk. “Which means you’ll get tried as an adult.”
Chris realizes his first mistake of the evening was not gagging the kid when he had the chance.
~~
The motel room is already bought and paid for through the night. There is a single queen size bed in the center of the room, with a ratty chair, desk, and a small nightstand on the side closest to the door. The TV, like the car stereo, looks broken.
“Home sweet home,” Chris says, pushing Toby into the chair. He hooks Toby’s arms around the back and under the armrests, where he recuffs his wrists.
“My hands will go to sleep like this.”
“Good, maybe your mouth’ll sleep with ‘em.” He desperately wishes for some duct tape.
"So what happens now?" Toby keeps talking like Chris isn't glaring death at him. "Wait for a phone call, get some ransom money? My dad doesn't negotiate with kidnappers."
Chris drops onto the bed and sighs. "He tell you that himself?"
"No, but I know he won't."
"I still got that gun." He pats the back pocket of his jeans.
There it is again, that weird little snort that either means the kid's nervous or pissed. He makes that sound a lot. "You won't do it."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. You're fucking stupid, but you're not that stupid."
The self-righteous tone is back, which is bad for Chris; it makes him not think straight. The next thing he knows, he's rolling onto his side to face Toby as he pulls the gun from his pocket. He cocks the hammer and points it at him.
"And you're pretty fucking stupid for not knowing when to shut your trap."
Toby swallows hard and flinches. His lower jaw starts to tremble. "Look...I..."
"No, you're done talkin'." The gun feels unnaturally hot in his hand, but Chris ignores it. Fuck, five grand isn't worth this shit. "Conversation time is over. You got me?"
The kid ducks his head and nods.
Then the phone rings.
~~
"What the hell do you mean, 'over night'?"
"Exactly what it means, smart ass."
Chris drags the phone into the bathroom and slams the door. "You said this would last the night, tops. You never said nothin' about me having a fucking slumber party with the guy."
"Jesus, will you calm down, Keller? The kid's dad isn't answering his phone, and Joe's all worried he's getting the cops to wire the house, trace the calls. He wants to sit on it for a few hours and let the guy get antsy."
Anders's brother is responsible for everything; it's Joe's crime (armed robbery), Joe's trial (three weeks with a legal aid schmuck who got lucky), and Joe's innocent verdict, which Harrison Beecher, the prosecuting attorney, is just shy of overturning. Kidnapping Beecher's son was an eleventh hour decision on Joe's part to keep from seeing the inside of a courtroom--and prison cell--again.
Chris only knows them through a friend of a friend. He still thinks Joe's a greasy fuck and Anders isn't much prettier, but they'd offered Chris cash when he was dead broke, and at the time Chris figured it'd be the easiest five grand he'd ever make. Grab the kid, hold him until Daddy backs down, then set him free. Easy as cake.
Except nothing is ever easy for Chris. He doesn't know why he's surprised now.
"So I'm just supposed to sit on this kid until you say so?" He slumps against the bathroom door, quietly banging his head against it.
"Just keep him there and don't leave."
"And just where the fuck would I go, huh? I got a piece of shit car with no plates and a guy who'll turn me in before I'd ever get out the door."
"You think you're such hot shit, you figure it out. But don't fucking leave. I'll be in touch." The line goes dead in Chris's ear.
He almost throws the phone through the wall.
Toby's trying not to look at him when Chris comes out of the bathroom. He chews his bottom for a second and asks, "Are you gonna let me go?"
"Did you not hear any of that in there?" Chris paces in front of the chair, running his options through his head. Or at least attempting to, seeing as how there are none.
"I-I just heard something about you leaving and I thought maybe--"
"Yeah, well, you thought wrong. We're stuck here, get used to it." He's too goddamn sober for this shit. If Anders is going to make him baby-sit his brother's collateral, then he's gonna figure out a way to pass the time.
He braces his hands on Toby's knees, gets right in his face. Toby gasps but doesn't pull back, which is so strange to Chris; since the very start this shiny rich kid has tried to hold his own against him, pushing back when Chris can smell the fear on him. It makes Chris want to push him as hard as he can, just to see how far he'll go.
"I'll be right back," he says. "Don't do anything stupid." He keeps his voice soft with just a hint of a threat; it's enough to make Toby lick his lips and nod without looking him in the eyes.
"Good boy."
~~
There's a convenience store across the street, and Chris buys a pack of cigarettes and a fifth of Jack Daniels. He doesn't really smoke, but nicotine is the closest drug he can get his hands on that doesn't come in liquid form. The guy behind the register doesn't look at the fake ID Chris flashes, the one that says Chris is twenty-five and has green eyes.
When he gets back to the room, Toby's panting a little and his cheeks are slightly flushed. Chris takes one look at his handcuffed hands--the kid's wrists are rubbed raw.
"What the fuck you tryin' to do, tear your hands off?" He dumps the smokes and the booze on the bed and goes into the bathroom for a washcloth, which he soaks in cold water. "Guess I can't blame a guy for trying," he yells over his shoulder.
Toby doesn't answer, but he hisses in pain when Chris comes back into the room and wipes the cloth over his scraped skin.
"Better?"
A long moment of silence goes by before he nods.
"Don't do this again."
"Why, 'cause I'll be damaged goods?" Toby winces, like he doesn't mean to say the words out loud.
"No, 'cause I'm a shitty nurse." He finishes as best he can and tosses the rag in the sink. "People'll think I beat you up or something."
Toby mutters, "Yeah, that's so much worse than kidnapping," under his breath, and for some weird reason, it makes Chris smile.
"What else would you be doing tonight, Toby?" He stretches out on the bed, left leg dangling off the side as he unscrews the cap off of the bottle of Jack, drinking straight from the bottle without fanfare. "I kinda find it hard to believe it'd be anything this exciting."
Toby eyes the bottle and doesn't reply, but he does watch rather intently as Chris takes another drink.
Chris recognizes that look, and his smile morphs into a smirk. "See something you like?"
"No. No, I'm good." If Toby wasn't suddenly blushing, Chris might believe him.
"Well, I guess I just got the answer to my question." He scoots to the edge of the bed and holds the bottle out to Toby. "Probably too blue collar for your tastes, but I bet you ain't picky."
He starts to squirm a little in the chair, turning his face away from the whiskey. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." And because Chris can feel the first warm licks of alcohol in his blood stream, and because he just wants to make things more interesting, he uncuffs Toby's right hand and puts the empty cuff around the opposite armrest of the chair.
"There, you're mobile. Now..." He offers Toby the whiskey again. "Drink?"
Toby rests his freed hand in his lap, flexes his fingers that have most likely gone numb. He stares at his feet and says nothing.
"Fine, whatever." Chris sets the bottle on the nightstand by the bed, just within Toby's reach. "But your secret's safe with me." He winks at him, and he's oddly fascinated again by Toby's pink cheeks even as his hand clenches into a fist. A minute later he's grabbing the bottle, taking a long, healthy swallow. He doesn't even blink or cough; the whiskey might as well be Gatorade.
"You smoke, too?" Chris asks as he opens the pack of cigarettes.
"No."
"Neither do I." He digs around in the nightstand for a matchbook, and when he finally lights up, Toby has already taken a second drink.
"Sorry your life's so fucking miserable," Chris can't help but say, feeling that irrational sense of resentment trickle through him. "I'm sure if I drove a fancy car and lived in a big ol' mansion I'd be an alcoholic, too."
"Fuck you, it's not like that." But his tone is soft, and he's still not looking at Chris.
"Yeah? Then what is it like, Tobias?"
That gets the spark back in him; he glares at Chris, and the softness disappears from his voice. "It's nothing you'd ever understand, so just drop it, okay?"
Chris takes a drag and blows the smoke straight at Toby. "Now why would I drop it when I've got you all riled up and shit?"
The handcuffs suddenly clink loudly as Toby makes a half-hearted attempt to lunge at him. He's pushing back again, and it's so fucked up, the way it makes Chris's heart beat a little faster in...anticipation? Couldn't be, there was nothing this guy could do to Chris; he might be smarter than him, but not stronger. Not quicker. And yet, Chris finds himself eager to give back.
"They got AA at that prep school of yours? Help get you ready for the real world?"
"At least I'm not running around kidnapping people for money," Toby shoots back without any hesitation. There's a small flicker of embarrassment (fear?) in his eyes--Chris can see their color now as Toby's glasses slip down his nose, a shade of blue too light, and when the fuck did it even matter?--and Chris just smiles. He shoves the whiskey out of Toby's reach.
"Someday you'll learn what it's like to live off of the shit you actually earn."
To Chris's surprise, Toby smirks back, a nasty little sneer that makes his bottom lip stick out just a little. "So glad I can help you make a living."
Shit. If the guy's this bitchy after two drinks, Chris is definitely cutting him off. He finishes his cigarette, stubs it out in the ashtray by the bed. "Bet you're just the life of the party," he mutters under his breath.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Nothing." He glances at the clock on the wall. It's barely a quarter till ten.
~~
"Thought they were gonna call you back."
Chris shrugs. Four cigarettes and what's likely half a dozen shots later and he's still not remotely enjoying himself. Maybe because a portion of those shots were shared. "So did I. But I guess your dad's not workin' out according to plan." He sits up on the bed and draws his knees to his chest.
Toby is no longer wearing his tie; it's balled in the corner, like a lazy burgundy silk snake. He'd yanked it off after his last hit of whiskey, mumbling something about fucking dress codes.
"Whose plan?" His body is slumped so far down in the chair Chris almost holds his breath for the inevitable moment when he falls to floor. It's like his half-assed attempt at getting comfortable with a handcuffed wrist.
"Joe's. Hell if it ain't mine." Chris doesn't care about disclosing details anymore. If Joe wanted secrecy, he should've sent some goddamn entertainment.
Toby holds his hand out for the bottle and Chris hands it to him. It's become this silent routine between them, and Chris wonders why it happened without him realizing.
"Where's the gun?"
"Think I'm still gonna shoot ya?"
"No. And whatever, you weren't gonna shoot me." Toby lets the bottle dangle from his free hand as he cocks his head to the side. His hair falls across his forehead as he gives Chris a long, hard stare. "You're kinda shitty at this stuff."
If Chris were slightly more sober, he'd deck him. Instead, he sighs and digs out another cigarette. "Look, just 'cause I didn't take some fucking 'Kidnapping for Dummies' class doesn't mean I can't do a job. I got you this far, didn't I? Hell, I could've broken into the wrong car and fucked it up from the get-go."
"Alright. But where's the gun?"
Chris grunts in frustration and paws around on the bed for a moment, then checks his pockets. He's on the verge of getting pissed--at himself, not at Mr. Know-It-All for being right, 'cause he isn't--until he sees it lying on the counter in the bathroom.
"You left it there an hour ago."
Ah, hell. "It's not like I can't still kick the shit out of you if I need to," Chris mumbles as he takes the bottle away from Toby a little too quickly.
Toby rolls his eyes, and suddenly there's the vaguest hint of a smile. A real smile, not a smirk, and it completely changes his face, lights it up, like a tiny glimpse at what he looks like when he's truly happy.
It makes Chris uncomfortable, thinking about the guy's smile. Maybe getting drunk on the job isn't such a hot idea.
"Tell me your name," Toby's saying.
"No." He isn't even Chris's type, anyway. Chris goes for older guys, the ones who know when to shut up and get down to business, not younger, yappy guys who more than likely have never had anyone, male or female, lay a hand on their cock. Not preppy virgins.
And now Chris is wondering whether Toby is a virgin or not, which makes him think about how Toby would react if Chris simply reached out and cupped his hand over the front of Toby's khakis, right over his--
"Fine. I'll just wait until you pass out and then look at your driver's license."
"I'm not passing out. Shit. I can probably out drink you any day, I don't care how big of a fuckin' alcoholic you are." He can sense a heat in his cheeks, and Chris chalks it all up to the whiskey.
"I'm not a--" Toby huffs again, drops his head back as he rubs at his neck. "I...I have a lot of shit going on right now, is all."
"Yeah? Daddy puttin' pressure on you or something?"
"Sort of. College bullshit, stuff like that. You know how it is." He says it honestly, like he really does think Chris knows, and it's not until he looks over and sees Chris's smirk that his eyes widen and he's stammering. "I-I mean....y'know....um--"
Chris waves him off, hands him back the whiskey bottle. "'s okay, Toby."
"You...you graduated high school, though, right?"
"Naw, I was too much of a genius for them to handle."
Toby doesn't quite know how to process that information, and the conflicted expression on his face makes Chris laugh, which is another bad idea on his part. "Toby, really, it's cool. You think I'd be doing this shit if I had something better bein' offered?"
"You could go back--"
Yeah, back to high school. That was a great fucking plan. "No thanks." But he still smiles and shakes his head as he uncurls his body and gives a long stretch across the bed. The bottom edge of his gray t-shirt rides up a little, exposing the bare skin of his abdomen just above the waist of his jeans. He starts to pull it back down, but he notices the way Toby's not looking him in the eyes anymore; his gaze has somehow wandered lower and is tracking the movement of Chris's hands.
He leaves his shirt alone; instead, he trails the tip of his index finger over his skin, circles his belly button in a deceptively absent pattern. Toby looks away after several moments and focuses on his hand cradling the whiskey bottle.
Chris tells himself he's drunk and this doesn't mean a damn thing, but he can already feel an erection starting, pushing against his fly. It should worry him, but it doesn't, not when Toby's licking his lips and looking everywhere but in Chris's general direction.
He's back to thinking about touching Toby again and whether he'd moan or whimper or growl, and when the loud pounding on the door starts it takes him a moment to come to.
"Hey." Toby sets the bottle on the nightstand and snaps his fingers in Chris's face. "You gonna get that?"
He blinks a few times before he gets up to check the peep hole.
Outside the door stands a cop.
"Fuck." Chris panics for a split second as the thought of prison--not juvie, fucking prison--flashes though his head. The panic turns to anger--fuck Joe and his money, I'm not simple--and then the anger turns into survival instinct.
He takes the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket and unlocks Toby's hand. "It's the cops. You gotta act like everything's normal, you got me?"
Toby rubs his wrist as he stands up slowly, and that mean little smirk creeps back. It disappoints Chris, though he doesn't want to think about that. "I could scream, you know."
Without thinking, Chris shoves him back against the wall and slaps his hand over Toby's mouth. Too late, he realizes they are pressed together, chest to thigh, and in the midst of everything it dawns on him that he's only an inch or two taller than Toby.
"You scream and I fucking shoot you. I mean it." But his voice has turned all soft and breathy and since when did he ever talk like that?
Toby shakes his head and pulls Chris's hand away. "No, you don't. And I won't, I swear," he whispers. "I was kidding."
Chris doesn't know how to respond, so he glares at Toby and ignores the heat he can feel through the thin layer of Toby's shirt. "This isn't a joke." He shoves him one last time for good measure and turns back toward the door, scrubbing his hands over his face in effort to find some sort of expression of bored indifference.
He opens the door and pretends to yawn. "Can I help you, officer?"
The cop actually smiles politely at him. "Sorry to bother you so late at night, but there's a Ford Explorer in the parking lot over there"--he waves his hand over his shoulder--"with no license plates. Someone called it in, thought maybe the plates had been stolen, and we're questioning all the guests to see who the car belongs to."
"Oh." Relief pours through him, and Chris almost laughs out loud. "Naw, not ours. Sorry."
The cop glances past Chris and into the room. "You boys all alone tonight?"
Chris looks over to see Toby sprawled on the bed, flipping through channels on the busted TV. "Aw, no, my dad went out to get some food. He'll be back soon."
He nods like he's satisfied. "Okay, well, you two be safe."
"Thanks, officer, we will." And damn it all if he doesn't hear Toby snort in the background.
~~
It's two in the morning and there has been no phone call from Anders. But it hardly matters; Chris and Toby have almost finished the bottle of Jack, and they've discovered that the television does, in fact, work. Works so well, there's even free porn.
Grainy, muted, crappy porn, but porn nonetheless.
Chris has yet to handcuff Toby back to the chair. He'd started to, but then Toby had shaken his head and insisted it wasn't necessary, he wasn't going anywhere. Then he'd laughed and told Chris he'd probably be better off getting him shitfaced, because then he wouldn't have the coordination to run away.
"That's your plan B, since the gun's obviously not working out," Toby'd snarked at him, looking way too smug for Chris's liking.
Now they're both lying on the bed, Toby's head at the end while Chris is propped up against the headboard with the pillows. Every once in awhile Toby will absently knock his foot into Chris's shoulder, but it's no big deal.
"Those aren't real," Toby mumbles into his folded arms as some nameless blonde chick rubs her tits over some nameless guy's dick. Chris thinks he might've already seen this one a few months ago; the girl looks kinda familiar.
"Fuck yes, they're real. You can tell."
"No, you can't."
"Seen alotta naked tits in your day, Tobe?"
He doesn't turn around, but Chris sees the twitch in his shoulders. "Doesn't matter."
"Sure it does. See, the fake ones are always too round and shit, they got more definition to 'em. Plus, they don't sag at all."
He watches the way Toby shifts subtly against the bedspread, and Chris is drunk enough now to enjoy the sight of his prepster alcoholic getting slowly turned on.
"Soooo..." Toby draws it out like he's not sure what he wants to say, and his voice is soft and a notch deeper than a few minutes ago. "Do they, like...feel different, too?"
Chris barks out a laugh and lets his hand slap the back of Toby's legs. "Yeah, they do, but it's not like that's a bad thing."
"Huh." He's trying to sound all scholarly, like this is some fucking science experiment, but Chris knows better.
"And it's kinda obvious that that chick there gives damn good head," he says nonchalantly, sitting up to switch positions, lying on his stomach and lining his body up with Toby's, shoulder to shoulder. He tucks a pillow under his chin and points at the screen, where Nameless Blonde's cheeks hollow out as she sucks Nameless Guy's dick with plenty of fervor. "I'd kill to find a girl who'd put that much effort into sucking my cock, y'know? Good head's hard to find."
Toby makes a weird little sigh/grunt as he buries his face a little deeper into the security of his arms, his eyes never once leaving the screen. Even his nose is bright pink.
"What do ya think, Toby? Ever gotten really good head?" Chris's heart is pounding and he's hard, really hard, just from watching Toby lose himself in the arousal; he's pushing his hips slowly into the mattress in what's likely an unconscious movement, and Chris wonders if he'd even blink at the touch of Chris's mouth against his neck.
He decides to test the theory, so he leans closer, chin barely brushing Toby's shoulder, and whispers, "Well?"
"You can't get good head in high school." Toby's words are almost inaudible, but Chris is more concerned with the fact that he's not pulling away.
"Probably right. Sucks for you then, huh?" His mouth skims the surface of Toby's shirt sleeve; it's soft and warm and smells like clean fabric softener.
Toby doesn't answer. Chris doesn't move any further, and after a long, silent moment, Toby turns his head away and says, his voice muffled, "What are you doing?"
"I don't know. You tell me." He goes for broke and nuzzles his nose into the dark blonde curls resting just above Toby's collar, and then he really does kiss Toby's neck, a simple open-mouthed press of lips to flushed skin that sends a full body shudder through Toby, making him gasp and tuck his face further away from Chris, and it's way fucking better than anything Chris has imagined.
"Stop." But he's not moving, not pushing at all, and Chris just keeps kissing him, not even sure if he'll obey the command when Toby truly means it. He licks the underside of Toby's ear and it all happens much faster than he expects--Toby lets out a long, breathy moan and rolls over onto his back, his eyes closed as he blindly grabs for Chris to pull him closer. The kiss is whiskey-tinged and wet, slightly rough around the edges as Toby becomes frantic. But Chris thrusts his tongue deep and easy into Toby's mouth--god, baby, has no one really touched you?--and slides his leg over Toby's hips, straddling him but not resting his full weight on him.
Toby bucks up and whimpers in the back of his throat, barely letting their mouths part for air. He's clawing at Chris's t-shirt, and Chris smiles against his lips as he takes Toby's hands and pins them above his head.
"Easy, baby, easy. I ain't goin' anywhere," he whispers before he kisses the hollow of Toby's throat, his free hand flicking open the buttons of Toby's shirt. When his shirt parts, Chris is surprised at how hard the lines of his body are; he's thin, but not skinny, lean muscle flexing just beneath the surface of pale, smooth skin, over the slight dip of his stomach. A dusting of blonde hair trails across his lower abdomen and disappears into his khakis.
He's...beautiful. And now Chris knows he's really fucking drunk. But it's too late now.
He lets go of Toby's hands and uses both of his own to open Toby's fly. As he pulls the zipper carefully over the stark curve of Toby's erection, Toby suddenly grabs his hands.
"Wait."
Chris looks up, takes in the sporadic rise and fall of Toby's naked chest, the flush of arousal in his cheeks...he wants this, he does, Chris knows he does, but...
Disappointment cuts through the drunken haze and it irritates him. Fuck, he's so stupid--
"Tell me your name," Toby asks for the second time. He bites his lip, and he'd look nervous and maybe a little scared if he wasn't gasping for air and trying not to thrust his hips closer to Chris's mouth.
It's just a name. This doesn't mean anything, they're both drunk, and it's just a job, Toby's just a job...
"Chris." He doesn't know why he kisses Toby's chest as he says it.
"Chris what?"
"Keller. Want my birthday, too?" But he's grinning as he works his way back down to Toby's crotch.
"No, that's...that's all I...ah, fuck...wanted to know..." His head falls back and he hisses through his teeth when Chris finally jerks his pants and boxers down.
Chris has always been good at giving head. He enjoys it, sure, but he's learned that it's also a means to an end; it's an excellent way to establish control early in the game. But this--this isn't a game. It should be by all rights, except he's never done this to someone so...so eager. So responsive and desperate.
He runs the tip of his tongue along the underlying ridge of Toby's cock, tracing the head, tasting the pre-come that's already soaked the front of his shorts. Toby swears and his body convulses.
Chris wants to ask, but he shouldn't. He does, anyway. "Am I your first, baby?" He wets his lips and rubs them against the shaft.
There's no answer right away; he glances up to see Toby screw his eyes shut and press his cheek into the mattress. Like he's hiding again.
Chris wraps his hand around the base, circles his thumb over the top of Toby's balls. "I won't tell, I swear."
Toby groans like he's dying. "Fuck...yes."
He goes so intensely hard, he has to press his hand into his crotch and catch his breath. Until now, Chris thought sucking off virgins was lame.
I'll make it good for you. The thought flashes through his head and in this moment, he's not sorry for thinking it. He means every word.
He takes it slow, filling his mouth as much as he can before applying any suction, his hand still squeezing lightly. He lets Toby's length slip all the way out, slicks his bottom lip over the tip, then takes him back in, a little faster, harder, catching a glimpse of Toby's balled fists clinging to the comforter, his knuckles almost white. Chris picks up the pace, sucking earnestly now, changing his angle and pressure with every sound that leaves Toby's mouth.
It's when Toby cries out, "Please, Chris," that Chris decides he can't let Toby come alone. He tears into his jeans as he hauls himself up Toby's body, kissing him deep and long, opening his mouth wide and letting him taste himself on Chris's tongue. His hands start to shake and he's fumbling to get his own dick free. He never fumbles.
The initial touch of their bared skin makes Toby jerk and panic, a reflex action Chris is vaguely familiar with. But Toby has nothing to be afraid of; he doesn't know how lucky he's got it.
"It's okay, it's okay," Chris whispers as he kisses along Toby's jaw. "You're okay." He gives a trial thrust, lets Toby get that first rush of sensation.
"I just...I can't, no..." But he still leans up, takes Chris's face in his hands to kiss him, his thumbs sweeping over Chris's cheekbones.
"You're okay." Chris repeats it over and over, a soothing mantra. "There's no pressure here, nothin'. It's just us."
Just us. Christ, he's such a chump. He can't think about that now, though, because Toby's finally opening his eyes and giving him a wide-eyed, pale blue look of so much trust it scares the living shit out of him.
He slides his hand between their bodies, wraps it around their cocks in a tight, hot fist, and just lets go. Toby doesn't last long, but Chris isn't far behind, and all he can think of as he's coming all over Toby's stomach is that he's not taking the rest of Anders's money.
~~
They barely managed to clean up, and they fall asleep without pulling back the covers, Toby sprawled on his stomach, his arm slung across Chris's chest.
The phone rings a few hours later. Toby just grumbles in his sleep and tucks his arm back against his body, leaving Chris free to slip out of bed and tug the phone back into the bathroom.
"Leave the kid, it's fucked." Anders doesn't even say hello.
"What? But you said--"
"Naw, man, it's over. Beecher's got the cops involved, possibly the FBI. The whole house is bugged, and I think they found the kid's car. Joe and I're getting the fuck of out Dodge, and you should, too."
Chris drops down onto the ledge of the bathtub, his head already starting to throb with the onset of a monster hangover. "Jesus, what am I supposed to do with the guy?"
"I don't know, let him go, dump him somewhere. I don't give a fuck, just get the hell away from him."
He doesn't ask about the money and Anders doesn't bring it up.
"Thanks for going this far, Keller." Anders hangs up, and Chris sits there with the receiver in his hand, listening to the dial tone. He eventually hangs up the phone and goes back into the bedroom. Everything is dark except for the dim light from the parking lot filtering through the blinds; he can just make out Toby's bare arm, the curve of his right calf.
He puts his jeans back on, leaves the gun still sitting in its spot on the bathroom counter. He sets the keys to the Explorer on the nightstand by the empty Jack Daniels bottle.
Chris doesn't look back as he quietly shuts the door behind him. But he leans against the door jam for a moment, closes his eyes, and sighs.