Bouncing around...

I had an idea to add this bit about Roger Hanson to the part where Simon is being taken to Paley by Garisov and Corelli, and it took much of my focus to even start to get it right...

-------

When Simon left the bank, it was closing in on eleven so he hurried for the bus station. It was only a block and a half away. 

En route, he could smell rain in the air. Up above, clouds danced in the sky. Lightning did its pirouettes, soon followed by grumbles of thunder. The atmosphere began to change, rejuvenated him. He was beginning to feel hopeful and... 

A police patrol car pulled up beside him, Corelli behind the wheel in his uniform. Garisov hopped out on the passenger side, also in uniform, blocking his path as he said, “Simon Halloran?” 

Simon stopped, breathless, and glared at him. “You know perfectly well that’s my...” 

Garisov rammed him against the side of the car and handcuffed him as Corelli got out to watch. “You’re under arrest. Come with us.” 

He yanked the back door open, bundled both Simon and his backpack inside, and returned to the front seat. Corelli got in and put the car in gear, then turned right onto the closest side street and off they went. 

The nearest people were down by the bus station, so all they saw was two cops arresting what looked like a homeless person before driving away. Nothing to see here; move along.

But Simon understood. The police station and courthouse were the other direction. They were traveling out of the city. They were taking him someplace to hurt him...maybe kill him, and he was amazed at how little he cared. 

He looked through the wire screen behind the front seats at Corelli as he drove. Gazed upon his beautiful Roman profile. His thick black hair. The glorious shape of his skull and a neck that would be so nice to break. His broad shoulders showing not the least bit of tension. His eyes focused on the road. 

Too bad it wasn’t you under that streetlamp, Simon thought. Then I might have done something worth killing me for. 

For example, he would still have taken that photo. Maybe more. Then if he had objected like Paley did, offered him money to pose. Back at his hotel. Back where he'd be in control.

He had written such a scenario in one of his earliest short stories. Offer money enough to matter then...

Shirtless, that’s all. Well, what about your jeans’ top button undone? Or down a little? Then off, if you’re wearing briefs. If not, then i have some you can put on. That would show the fullness of your beauty. 

Build trust. Worm your way past his defenses. Let him become vulnerable. Sensuous. Finally naked...no, nude. Always nude. At which time he would be available for fondling and servicing and... 

And what was the name of the young man in that story? Roger? Yes, named after Roger Hanson. A gay-for-pay porn star he’d had a crush on, just before he met Doyle. Floppy hair. Porn-stache. Sweet face. Nice body that wasn’t overbuilt. And circumcised. Described as such.

He was fairly certain he still had the issue of Lancer that Roger was highlighted in. Probably at the bottom of one of his boxes of photos, someplace. Back then, he’d still been willing to pretend seduction was the best way to have a man. Bring him to your bed by making him think he wanted to be worshiped by you for his dick. 

Slow and tender was the way. Something he’d actually done more than once. But men had been more open and available, then...before AIDs.

Like that beautiful Persian pilot. Starting out as talk. Then holding. Then kissing. Then more. So many times in the back of the newsstand after closing. His hands allowed to go wherever he wanted them to as he slowly brought the man to nirvana. No fucking. Nothing crude like that. Just...giving pleasure. And taking joy from having someone lovely to embrace.

Corelli...what he was doing, now...he may be lovely, but he didn't deserve any such kindness or consideration. He was only worthy of being tied down and forced. Like he'd also written stories about.

Simon wished he’d been strong enough to begin taking what he'd wanted instead of retiring into shadows. The wounds Doyle inflicted on him had shattered his ability to show grace...and it had infected his work. Nothing he wrote or drew after that time was kind or generous...or even something he really wanted to do. 

Except in his dreams. 

Except in his fantasies. 

When no one could be hurt.

Until now. 

And now he couldn’t do anything. It was too late. All because that lump of muscle fat, Paley, had been there instead of this fine-looking lad. Who was now destroying his soul for the sake of that monster. Not out of desire or want or need, but out of...out of what? Solidarity with the brotherhood? 

So stupid. So fucking stupid.