Second shot, p.7
Second Shot, page 7
“I can’t wait to undo all the other buttons…and, then do other stuff.”
Jimmy couldn’t wait either. He downed the backwash of his beer. “Let’s go.”
The word no had ceased being an option.
* * * *
Manhattan in September, you could never anticipate what the weather would be like. Could still be summer, all heat and humidity and sweat, each fueling a temptation that lived inside yourself. Tonight, though, it had suddenly grown cooler, a tease of autumn, hardly the first tease of the night. As Jimmy and Brenden walked along busy sidewalks, they wanted to create their own level of hot, keep their own summer alive. Turning onto Ninth Avenue, Jimmy noticed that Brenden didn’t ask where they were going. He took that as a test of faith. Of trust. That he liked.
“You grew up here, right?” he asked.
“Born and bred. Hell’s Kitchen. It lives up to its reputation. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”
“I’m more of an East Side guy.”
Jimmy paused, smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
“That a bad thing?”
“No. Because I can tell you have a bit of West Side edge roiling inside you. Like tonight.”
Just then Jimmy felt Brenden’s hand connect with his. There was a tight squeeze before he released it. Jimmy felt his heart race. Was this about to happen? Was he ready for this? It felt odd, being with another man. Anticipating the how and the what and the when. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long walk from Gaslight, and soon they were approaching the building which housed Paddy’s Pub on the ground floor. The red lights flickered. Jimmy stopped.
“My uncle’s pub. If you want another.”
“How about later?”
“My office is one flight up.”
“Just an office?”
“It has amenities.”
“Does it have a bedroom?”
Jimmy shook his head. “We’ll figure things out.”
One flight up, one turn of a key, one flick of the light switch, and soon both men were inside Jimmy’s studio-cum-office. Music from the pub below could be heard pumping up through the floorboards. Friday night was always a busy one at Paddy’s. Jimmy knew from experience. He also knew that the loud sound worked to his advantage, too. Because as soon as he closed the door, Brenden was on him. Pushing him against the door. Lips on his, bulging crotch grinding fiercely against him. Wasting no time, probably for the best. If Jimmy gave thought to this situation, he’d probably put a halt to it. Instead, he grabbed Brenden’s ass with surprising aggression, cupped Brenden’s tight cheeks and pulled the man harder against him. Like he wanted the two of them to be one.
They would be, and soon.
As their kiss ended, Brenden took a step back. Jimmy could feel Brenden’s eyes scanning him.
“Do you like that shirt?”
Not a conventional question. “It’s okay, I’ve got others. Why?”
The answer came with an easy tearing of fabric. Shreds of his shirt were imbedded between Brenden’s fingers, torn pieces quickly discarded. A button flew across the room. What he wanted lay buried beneath the shirt, Jimmy’s exposed chest, with its nice layer of hair. A dark brown mat, coiling down his flat stomach in an enticing trail.
“Perfect,” Brenden said, launching his tongue between Jimmy’s pecs. He licked Jimmy and he absorbed Jimmy and then when Jimmy came up for air, he just stared.
“Fuck foreplay. I need to feel you inside me, Jimmy.”
Jimmy thought of several responses but spoke none of them. Instead he led Brenden to the sofa situated in the middle of the room. It would have to do. He often slept on it. There were times he’d had sex on it. Tonight, he supposed, would be the latter. But it was Brenden who became the aggressor, pushing Jimmy onto the cushions. His excitement was noticeable through the material of his jeans. Jimmy’s also.
Just then Brenden lifted his shirt and tossed it off. He was fit, tight, smooth. Nipples erect. Then Brenden climbed on top of him, kissing him, caressing him and grinding against his crotch. Jimmy had rarely met a man as eager and dominant, but he went with it, returned the sweaty heat. All while feeling an awakening within him. Like he’d sprung back to life. He pushed all thoughts of past relationships onto a flash drive, relying on a new memory. A new file. He felt Brenden’s lips on his neck, Brenden’s hand grabbing at his chest hair. He looked up to find Brenden looking down at him.
Two men. Four eyes. One intention.
Brenden stood up and he stripped down to nothing but skin.
Jimmy did the same.
Soon, they were back on the sofa. Jimmy ready. Hard. Brenden ready, hard.
From the back pocket of his jeans, Brenden had pulled out a condom along with a packet of lube. He’d known how this night would go. In moments, Jimmy’s cock was encased, Brenden slick, and then their connection was sealed. Brenden slid down on him. Taking him. Feeling him. Jimmy responded by kissing him. It was an odd response, but he felt it. They weren’t in love. This wasn’t intimacy. This was sex. But it was hot, and Jimmy was turned on to the point that he wanted whatever Brenden asked for. Yes, they had skipped the foreplay and instead wanted, as Brenden had said, to get fucked. Jimmy obliged.
Brenden rode him, sliding up, sliding down. Pumping him. Energizing him.
“Shit, Jimmy, you’re so fucking hot,” Brenden said. “I love your chest, it’s so, uh…it’s just what I like to turn me on. Which I’ve been since I met you at Jameson’s.”
Brenden’s cock brushed against Jimmy’s stomach, an enticing stroke against the furry trail. He leaked pre-cum.
Jimmy stretched, his arms locked behind his head.
“Shit. Yeah, shit, fuck me, Jimmy.”
There was an odd sensation enveloping him. A primal need consuming him, but a hollow one hitting his core as well. Mixed emotions fed the moment. He thrust up, all while Brenden bared down, fast, a piston. Their dual motions added to the heated moment, Jimmy remembering how good sex could be. Here with the first man he’d been with since Frisano, an image he tried to deny but couldn’t. Thinking of Frisano and the last time they’d made love, the last time he’d seen Frisano, half-naked, embracing another man. Conflict raged within him, even as Brenden did his best to heighten their pleasure. He was cute, he was preppy, he was persistent, and tonight he was energetic and engaged. What swirled inside Jimmy now was the fight between the emotional component and the physical release. He knew which would arrive first, but he dreaded the moments after. Sex was organic. It was an in the moment experience, its lingering effect sometimes bitter.
He felt the pressure build within him.
He could tell Brenden was close, too.
Brenden pressed down on him, sliding his hands over Jimmy’s chest. Tasted it. Cried out, loudly, combating the pulsing music emanating from Paddy’s beneath them. And then he shot his load all over Jimmy. It produced a similar reaction in Jimmy, and soon he was unleashing, too. It was a release not just of months of sexual denial but also of avoiding life’s desires, its frustrations, and its complexity, all boiled down to a momentary orgasm that somehow restored his sensitivities. Even while shame swirled around him.
He looked down at his chest. The splatter. Then he looked at Brenden.
“You okay?” Jimmy asked.
“I’m great. Beyond great.”
“Ok, good. You know, sometimes, after…”
“I knew what I wanted.” He paused. “I wanted you. All week.”
“So, is this it? You got me? You leave?”
“You’re pretty insecure, Jimmy.”
Yeah. No. Maybe. “Sometimes I think too much.”
“Stop thinking. Start fucking.”
“I thought I did that already.”
He ran a hand across Jimmy’s bearded cheeks. “The night is young, my furry stud.”
Indeed, it was. They made their way to the hot spray of the shower to clean up, but as the water streamed over their bodies, things got dirty again. Pushing Brenden against the tile, Jimmy set his palms and entered him again, following every command. Finally, soaped down, washed off, Jimmy turned off the spout. Didn’t offer up a towel.
“Come with me.”
“Anywhere.”
Jimmy took him to the sofa, pushed Brenden’s soaking wet body onto his back, proceeded to possess him. Legs up. Jimmy positioned atop him. Their bodies dried naturally as he thrust at him once more, as time held them, as passion drove them. After one more climax, they kissed and they laid together, and in a matter of a few minutes, sleep found Brenden. Jimmy, not surprisingly, stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell had just happened.
The sun’s rising was still hours away. Staring at the sleeping man in his so-called bed, he wondered if he planned to stay all night, or would he stir at four in the morning and slip out? What had he just gotten himself into? Sleeping with a client usually went against his creed. What had changed? Problem was, it was a question he knew the answer to.
Jimmy rose from the sofa as Brenden’s hand slid off him. Their touch disconnected. He went to a closet where he kept spare clothes, slipping on a pair of boxers before padding his way to the small fridge. It held no food. Just bottles of beer, one of which he grabbed and twisted open. It was a Stella.
His gaze caught the red glow from the alarm clock—3:11. Not quite morning. Never a good time to make life decisions.
Always a time when regret injected its venom into you.
Sitting on the window ledge, looking out at a still bustling Ninth Avenue, his mind was a jumble. He stole a look back at Brenden, curled up, looking young and innocent. The memories of tonight debunked that look but still, it made Jimmy wonder. Just what was this? A one-night stand? The start of something new? He’d wanted the first, not sure he wanted the second.
Did what had happened start with his phone call with Frisano? Hearing his voice. Knowing they would soon see each other to discuss the Wu-Tin case? Jimmy hated that Salvatore had put him in this position, manipulated him. To what end? Was it really about capturing a notorious thug or was it a project to save his son’s career, a life which had seemingly spiraled out of control? Enlisting his son’s former gay lover didn’t seem to be in Sal’s wheelhouse. Except the reality would soon face them. Jimmy had kept their call short. Fine, Monday, breakfast. Text me where, when. I’ll see you then.
It was the last phrase that had led Jimmy to make that other call. To Brenden.
Yes to Friday night.
“I’ll see you then,” he’d said.
A phrase that gave him chills now. Given what had just transpired. Jimmy took a deep pull of his beer. It tasted bitter. Or maybe life did. He wasn’t ready for complications but seemed his city return had produced other plans. It was forcing him back to work, back to life. Love was another story. Nothing could force his heart back to that.
He jumped. A touch upon his shoulder sent a momentary shiver down his spine. He hadn’t noticed Brenden rise from the sofa. The red lights from Ninth Avenue filtered in, creating shadows between them. Like a separation. Jimmy looked up at him and saw that innocence. Was Brenden’s legal bravado just an act? For the first time, Jimmy saw Brenden as a person, not just a client and not just an aggressor, nor just a willing bottom who talked as dirty as any man Jimmy had slept with.
So why was it Brenden who was offering up comfort?
“Hey, you okay?” he asked, bending down, caressing Jimmy’s arm.
“I didn’t know you were awake,” Jimmy said.
“I am now.”
“Any regrets?”
“I’m still here.”
“It’s late. Stay the night.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“What are you looking for, Brenden?”
“I don’t know. Hot sex. A hot guy. I’m not preparing to move in.” He looked around. “Not here for sure.”
Jimmy laughed. “It’s more of an office. But it affords me privacy.”
“So let’s not assign labels to this.”
“I’m working for your firm. Won’t that create problems for you?”
“Mr. Streb is currently banging his secretary, everyone knows and turns a blind eye. I don’t think anyone would care that I got plowed by a hot private detective who was working an independent case for us.”
“Lawyers have an interesting moral code.”
“You want to tell me what had you a million miles away?”
“Not particularly.”
He nodded. “That’s fair. In the gay world, sex often comes first. Motives come later.”
“I have an ex.”
“Don’t we all.”
“I’m seeing him Monday. It’s a case.”
“You’re working another case? You’re a busy guy, Jimmy McSwain.”
“It happens occasionally. I can handle it.”
“I think you can handle anything.”
Jimmy turned from the windowsill, finished his beer. He grabbed Brenden and pulled the man forward, kissed him. Felt the man’s hands again on his chest. Heard Brenden’s sigh. Saw him rise to the occasion. Their lips parted and their eyes remained locked, visible from the streetlight’s glare outside Jimmy’s studio. It filtered in, revealed only what each man wanted to share.
It didn’t take long before Jimmy had entered him again. On his back, on the sofa, deep in him, thrusting hard, eager to please him and himself. Giving breath to those shadows of the late night, those now closing in on them, capturing their rhythms. Their heightened senses creating the soundtrack of the night. Time lost all meaning, didn’t matter if it was three or four in the morning, different emotions emerged during those hours. Lust, desire, passion owned them. Morning could wait, not content until the expectations of the long night were excoriated, indulged. Finally, the two of them experienced the high that came with their fierceness, their urgency.
Jimmy couldn’t speak for Brenden and what he might be avoiding by staying the night. Jimmy knew nothing of where he lived, of his personal situation. He’d have to be content with the end of a day that had seemingly stretched beyond its allotted twenty-four hours.
By doing his best to delay the coming sunrise, Jimmy knew he was denying the inevitable. The return of Francis X. Frisano loomed. While another man was in his make-shift bed, curled up beside him. Sex was fleeting. Intimacy could be cruel.
Chapter 5
Fire was a Wu-Tin specialty. Especially when he wanted to get rid of potential evidence that could be used against him. Crooks were dumb. Masterminds were smart, calculating. Case in point, on this Monday morning Jimmy awoke to, among other news on NY1, an early morning blaze still raging in Flushing, the heavily Asian neighborhood in Queens where his nemesis was rumored to have resumed his operations. Was it a coincidence that on this first official day of the Special Task Force investigation to bring down Wu-Tin’s dangerous empire that a warehouse had gone up in flames? Jimmy thought one thing: coincidences rarely happened.
Did Wu-Tin know the police were aware of his return? No doubt. He had his own guards, except those he’d already had killed. His son, Fong, Mallory’s shooter, Kenji, his right-hand man. He’d been under surveillance by the NYPD since his resurfacing. Two sides sizing each other up. But now it was time for the good guys to ramp up the attack.
That made Jimmy think of his new partner, who, as a former captain of the NYPD, knew that accidents only happened on purpose. Hopping out of the shower, a thick towel wrapped around his waist, Jimmy heard his phone ringing. It still stole his heart when he saw the name, one which he’d restored to his contacts. Not out of want, but out of need. Frisano. Not Salvatore.
“Hi,” Jimmy said. His voice clear from the steam of the shower.
“You saw the news?”
“Watched it ten minutes ago.”
“You think it means he knows what’s up?”
“Seems he’s changing his tactic. Not expanding. Regrouping.”
“I agree.”
That was unique for them.
“Wu-Tin has always been cautious,” Jimmy said. “In my experience.”
“I’m new to this case. You’ll have to fill me in more.”
Which meant doing so in person. But that was inevitable. Personal issues aside, they were a team and they had a common goal. To bring down a criminal who had killed and threatened and extorted many. He needed to be taken down. For Jimmy, it was vindication for what had almost been done to him, what had happened to Mallory. Wu-Tin would either see the inside of a jail, or better yet, a grave. Except death wasn’t what he deserved. Justice always came first.
“So, where are we meeting?” Frisano asked.
“Maybe just head over to Flushing. See about the fire.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
Jimmy paused. “Just so you know. I don’t like this.” No need for an explanation.
There was a longer pause. “I know.”
“This is for Mallory.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t about us.”
“Tell my father that.”
“Fathers don’t always know best.” Though Jimmy’s experience was limited.
Silence. Had he hung up? But then Frisano said, “Ever the poetic detective, Jim. Guess hurt really hurts.”
Now who was the poet?
Frisano’s was a revealing statement, but not one Jimmy wanted to get into, certainly not now. The two of them would have plenty of time to dissect the past in due course. In person. When you could read body language, see the true colors hidden inside his dark eyes. They agreed they would meet at noon. It was nine o’clock now, but Flushing was a hike on the 7 train, so he’d leave sooner rather than later.
The two hung up quietly and Jimmy finished getting ready for a day he wanted no part of. Thankfully the McSwain apartment was empty, Maggie out grocery shopping, while Meaghan had taken Joey for his morning stroll around the neighborhood. It was business as usual for the family, except for Jimmy, who was working a case filled with conflict, assigned to it by a tough-as-nails man who months ago hadn’t been pleased about Jimmy’s relationship with his son. Now working to repair the damage. What had changed? A thought occurred to Jimmy that Salvatore Frisano cared about the outcome. Not of the crime, but of the bond between his son and the man he’d betrayed. It was a double manipulation, fueled by Jimmy’s own emotions.
