Part Two...
Initially, Detective Grant Moretti had been excited by the assignment. Flattered. First the promotion to detective, then the opportunity to do some undercover work. It almost made up for the existential trauma of turning thirty and having to examine who he was and whether or not he'd gotten to wherever the hell it was one is supposed to be at this age. He was determined to do a good job at it too, to prove himself. That was always a priority for Grant, to prove himself. Or rather to prove TO himself. That he was capable, responsible. Strong. Able to live up to the legacy left him by the Moretti who preceded him on the force, the gruff determined man who clawed his way through the ranks to Captain before a bullet forced an early retirement.
If his heart was beating a little too fast as he neared the run-down part of town where the whores and hustlers plied their wares, Moretti told himself it was because living up to a legacy was so fucking hard to do. Especially for a boy who'd always looked more like a Boticelli's angel than a hardnosed cop like his father. One who'd more often been found in the library or music store than the boxing ring where his dad and uncles had grown to manhood. Grant had tightened his grip on the steering wheel at his first sight of the skinny wet boy in the red leather pants lounging against the side of the abandoned building. He'd show them, he thought with resolve, show them all how tough he could be. Not a pretty girlie boy like they'd all teased him, like they still teased him --- not like this anonymous little fag with the long dark hair and lush red mouth who tracked the approach of the car with his hungry feral eyes.
Moretti's hands had grown moist clamped around the steering wheel as he stared at the boy, taking in the lean lithe body, the pants slung low on skinny hips to show a strip of flat stomach. The arrogance of the boy's stance as he displayed himself, the pout on those full lips, it all broadcast one message with alarming clarity. Sex. The forbidden kind. Come and get it.
In spite of his resolve, Grant couldn't force his foot to move to the brakes the first time around. Instead he'd kept on driving, trying to stop his heart from pounding, slow his breathing back to normal. Nothing to be afraid of, he told himself over and over. Just a dirty little whore, probably an addict, spreading disease. Detective Moretti mobilized all his well-learned righteous anger, convinced himself of his own superiority, as he'd pulled up to the curb.
But Grant hadn't expected flirting. Hadn't expected the boy to have a personality that burst from him like firecrackers and immediately endowed him with humanity, made it impossible for the detective to see him as a mere criminal who needed to be brought to justice. Moretti felt at a disadvantage from the moment the boy leapt into the car, his very closeness making the detective's mouth go dry, his throat tighten. Even cold and wet, the younger man was strikingly beautiful, his pale eyes alluring under a thick fringe of lashes, his high cheekbones framed by long damp tresses of dark hair. His inscrutable smile alarmingly genuine as he looked his potential trick over approvingly.
Grant found himself thinking that the boy must make a small fortune luring men to pay for the privilege of that face, looking up at them from swallowing their dicks. He'd suddenly felt like a fumbling teenager, unable to play the cool and collected john, unable to pull off the acting required to succeed in making the boy give himself away. Unable to react at all when the boy had draped that lean body over his own, those lips that he'd been thinking about suddenly working over his neck, licking and nipping at him . . . nails unerringly finding one sensitive nipple . . . and then, oh god no, the sudden shock of pleasure as the boy pressed an experienced hand against the erection he didn't know he had.
His fear had given him away, the force with which he frantically pushed that pleasuring hand away. He'd failed. And as if that wasn't horrible enough, the little slut had actually enjoyed his victory, savored it even. What balls this kid had, to continue to taunt him even after he knew Grant was a cop. Everything seemed to happen so fast after that, without warning. Without time for Moretti to gather his thoughts or his resolve to stop it. It was like he was in shock, frozen and helpless, overcome with his own swirling emotions, as the boy's mouth sought his own, his hot tongue eager and persistent, taking advantage of the detective's immobility. Not until he felt his fingers make contact with the other's hard cock did Grant shake himself out of his stupor. The flash of rage and fear that flooded him at the sudden knowledge of what he was doing made the blow he dealt the boy harder than he intended, but it had the desired effect. With several biting parting insults, the whor! e was gone and Grant was alone.
Heart pounding wildly, face burning with anger and shame, Moretti wiped at his wet mouth as though he'd been infected, desperate to wipe away any evidence of what he'd done. What the fuck had he been thinking, letting that kiss happen? Grant told himself that it had only been a second or two, that he had stopped it as soon as he'd realized what was happening. That he'd needed time to collect his thoughts, decide what to do after the kid had found him out. His hands shook on the steering wheel as he drove away, tires screeching against the wet asphalt in his haste to put the experience behind him.
The next day in the squad room he endured the predictable ribbing. "Whatsa matter Moretti? Couldn't convince the fags you were for real? I woulda thought they'd take one look at you and be SURE you were after some queer ass." Grant forced himself to smile, balancing his cup of coffee in suddenly shaky hands. A rough slap on his shoulder almost caused him to lose his grip completely, "Maybe you just didn't wanna bring the hot little number in, huh Moretti? Maybe you'd rather take advantage of the free fag blowjob?" Again, the harassed detective forced himself to grin with faked good humor, the response automatic. "That's right, don't you know that's why I volunteered for this assignment?" More guffaws greeted his comeback, and Moretti knew he'd defused the ribbing. For now.
He sunk wearily into his worn leather chair, shuffling a small mountain of paperwork. It seemed preferable to hitting the street again, chancing another encounter with red leather pants boy. Today was sure to be a ten-cup coffee day. Last night had been disturbed by dreams, of which only disjointed bits and pieces remained in the haggard detective's consciousness, but all of them were haunted by the same face. He remembered feeling powerful, back in the familiar uniform, his fingers curled around the reassuring hardness of his pistol as he approached the sneering young man who had taunted him. Smiling seductively, red leather pants boy leaned back against the brick wall, shoving his fingers in his pockets to expose more of the hollow between his hipbones, thrusting his hips toward the cop as if to say I know you want my cock, I felt the eagerness in your fingers when you touched me.
Maybe a bullet would wipe the grin from those lush lips, silence that biting tongue that had invaded his mouth without his permission. Yes. But his dream betrayed him, as quickly as his body had in the car that evening. Before he could pull the trigger, the boy dropped to his knees, reaching up to wrap his fingers around the barrel of the gun and pull it downward, holding Grant's stricken eyes. Frozen in that horrible nightmare helplessness, Moretti watched as he opened his mouth and slowly leaned toward the gun, his tongue darting out to flick over the tip. The detective could hear his own tortured groans ringing in his ears as the boy took the barrel into his mouth, sucking with exaggerated relish, raising his face to lock his pale blue eyes to Grant's, teasing him, still taunting . . .
"Moretti!" The coffee cup toppled to the floor, splashing his pants with the cooled liquid, as Grant shook off the disturbing memory of his dream and leapt to his feet. "I said, you're on the street again tonight, I want that area cleared --- and soon." The captain turned and walked away without giving his detective time for a reply. Not that one was needed. It was an assignment, and he would carry it out. But his stomach churned with anxiety immediately as he pictured red leather pants boy. Laughing. Daring him to try again to pull it off. Would he already have alerted the other hustlers, warned them to be on the lookout for a man matching Moretti's description? Fuck that kid, he could have ruined everything. Or would he keep the knowledge to himself, clear the street of competition? There was a ruthlessness in the boy's eyes, a steely edge that probably kept him alive. One that might work to Grant's advantage. Or at least he hoped so.