Part Six...

Half an hour into sleep, Grant was awakened by the phone. He fumbled for the receiver in the dark, disoriented, still thinking of the disturbing events of the evening, of the boy he couldn't seem to get out of his head.

"Grant? Why didn't you call me when you got in?" Lisa's voice shook him awake, a wave of guilt washing over him. He should have called her, he knew. But he hadn't wanted to. As usual, he fell all over himself trying to make it up to her. So she wouldn't suspect how lacking he was in passion for her at times. Still, he didn't want to lose her. He was pretty sure she loved him, and he liked her a lot too. She was smart, sexy, successful. His family loved her, his father loved her. She was always the hit of precinct parties and informal get-togethers. Moretti tried to pay better attention to what she was saying, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. She was still awake, she'd been worried. Could she come over? He heard himself saying "Of course, Lise, that would be great."

Lisa wasn't particularly subtle, and he liked that about her. She ran her big brown eyes over him as he lay on the bed, clothing rumpled from his earlier nap, still sleepy. "Happy to see me?" she asked flirtatiously, eyeing the way his pants were tented at the crotch. For a moment, Grant felt like a liar, knowing full well that the erection he was sporting had nothing to do with his girlfriend. He'd woken up from his nap still thinking about Paulie, and it seemed whenever he did that, his body responded.

"What gave me away?" he bantered back, motioning for her to join him on the bed. What the hell, she was horny, he was horny. He didn't want to think about the other man anymore, picture his tight velvet pants hugging the "big, fat cock" he'd claimed to have. But somehow, Moretti couldn't get Paulie off his mind. He closed his eyes as Lisa undressed, listening to the rustle of her clothing, then feeling the sway of the bed as she climbed beside him. How would he feel if that was the boy, crawling closer to him with that sinuous grace? Wanting to touch him? Grant groaned out loud as Lisa's hand brushed his hardon, her fingers fumbling with his zipper, finally freeing his cock. He thought about Paulie's generous lips, wondered how many tricks he knew, of how to coax every drop of pleasure from a dick.

"Suck my cock, please." Moretti didn't even realize he'd moaned the request, that he was already pushing against her stroking hand, leaking, desperate. He only knew he was aroused past thought as he felt the wet heat surround him.

"I want you to fuck me, Grant." Cold breeze on his sensitized skin as she released him, and he groaned. How would the boy want to do it? He was so skinny, so lithe, those supple thighs would spread so easily. Ohgod, he wanted to see that, lay there on his back and watch the boy ride his cock, raising himself up and down as he used Grant's dick to fuck his hungry little ass.

"No, you fuck me," he rasped, pulling his startled lover on top of him, feeling the press of her legs around his hips. "Comeon, use me baby," he urged her . . . him . . . gasping as his dick sunk inside, thrusting up almost frantically. "Jesus," he heard her exclaim as she matched his rhythm, as he tugged his sweater up around his neck and found his own nipples, pinching and twisting them, making a display of his lean muscled chest and stomach as he writhed and moaned his way to a shattering climax. He opened his eyes finally to see her staring open-mouthed at him, flushed and out of breath as she came seconds after.

"Holy shit Grant, what's got into you?" Lisa cuddled up next to him, planting grateful kisses on his neck, murmuring her affection contentedly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you learned a few things from those rentboys you've been arresting about how to be sexy."

He smiled nervously. Had he been acting gay, thinking too much about being with one particular rentboy? "Are you complaining?"

She laid her head on his bared chest, running painted nails gently through the sparse golden hairs there, toying with one reddened nipple. "Not a bit," she said.

They were both sleeping soundly when the phone woke Detective Moretti for the second time that night. In his half-stupor, Grant almost thought he was dreaming. The boy who'd been on his mind all night was now on the phone --- HIS phone --- sounding desperate, pleading. The cop in him wouldn't let him hang up, not when someone else was asking for help. But at the same time, a loud voice in the back of his head was screaming for him to call in a trace and send someone else to pick up the boy, another officer who would keep him safe . . . but not be tempted. Admonishing him to be careful, not to get involved. He thought of his fellow cops at the precinct, how they would react to Paulie, what they would think, or say. Or do. And he knew, without a doubt, that the vulnerability and fear he was hearing in the boy's voice would disappear if a stranger came to get him. He'd disappear back into the shadows of that harsh world, wounded and alone. No, it had to be him. He had to try, no matter what his own complicated feelings were.

Lisa stirred as he got out of bed and pulled his clothes back on, reflexively holstering his gun at his hip, the lump in his throat making it hard for him even to talk when she looked at him questioningly. Luckily, she was accustomed to his profession, and there was no suspicion in her eyes. Jesus, he swore to himself, and why should there be? He was going to help a person in trouble, that was all. Why should he feel guilty about that?

"Emergency?" she asked, already pulling her own clothes on. "God, you never get a break, do you hon?"

He shook his head, trying to still the rapid pounding of his heart, the adrenaline that was making him want to move a little bit too quickly, to rush her along so he could be on his way. "I know, it sucks. I'm sorry, Lise."

"That's okay," she answered agreeably, "I can let myself out, you go ahead."

"No!" Panic seized him at the horrific thought that she might somehow still be here when he returned with a half-naked hustler. She looked up at him with a quizzical _expression, and he hurriedly added, "I have time to walk you out. It's . . . it's early, I don't want you walking to your car alone."

It seemed to take her an hour to finish dressing and gathering up her things, while Grant stood waiting, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wondering what had happened, if Paulie was still in danger. If he would even still be there when Grant arrived. As he watched her finally drive away, he gave in to the impulse to sprint to his own vehicle, throwing it into gear and screeching out of the driveway. He drove far too fast on the way, knowing he could always claim he was responding to an emergency. After all, that's what it was, right? Then why did he have such butterflies in his stomach, more than he did when rushing into a crime scene even. He shook his head, raking his fingers through his tousled hair impatiently. Calm down Moretti, he ordered himself. Don't get carried away again.

Grant swallowed hard as the phone booth came in sight on the corner Paulie had indicated, and he slowed the car, straining his eyes to see if he could spot the boy. His heart sank when he realized the booth was empty, and he let out an audible sigh of disappointment and frustration. He was too late. Paulie had given up on him, or had to flee from whomever he'd gotten into trouble with earlier. Moretti stopped the car and pounded the steering wheel with one hand in his anger. Fucking kid, calling him like that, getting him all worked up, dragging him out of bed . . . then he spotted the boy. He'd been sitting on the far side of the booth, out of sight of the street, leaning against the dirty glass with his knees pulled up to his chest, his bare arms wrapped tightly around them. Slowly, suspiciously, he rose to his feet as Grant's car approached, narrowing his gaze to be sure it was the detective in the vehicle.

/What are you doing?/ the voice in his head demanded, as Moretti reached over to unlock the passenger door. Paulie swayed as he walked, not with the swaggering hip-swinging he'd shown before, but with exhaustion. His velvet pants had dark splotches, his bare chest and neck were splattered with what looked like dried blood. And his pretty face was marred by a still-oozing bloody nose, a swollen split lip, and an already purpling black eye. Even his long hair was sticky with blood, adhering to the side of his face stubbornly.

"Jesus, what happened?" he asked as Paulie climbed into the car, looking smaller than he had before as he slumped against the seat back.

The boy's voice cracked again as he answered, his response barely audible. "Can I tell you when we get to your place? I'm pretty fucked up right now."

/No, not your place/ the voice admonished him sternly. Could this be a trick? A way to get inside his place, case it for a future theft? But no, the injuries were real, that was clear. And Paulie seemed too depleted, too unnerved, to be doing anything that required clear thinking. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital," he offered, trying to be reasonable.

Paulie sat up straighter, instantly more alert. "No . . . no Moretti, please. I don't need a doctor, I just need to clean myself up. Get some sleep."

When Grant looked unsure, Paulie tried again, the desperation returning to his voice. "You know with what I do, I can't take that chance," he pleaded with the detective. "Please? I'll be gone tomorrow, I promise. I just . . ." He broke off mid sentence, sinking back against the seat dejectedly, his thin fingers playing with the upholstery nervously as he struggled to explain. Moretti couldn't help but feel the boy was trying to be honest with him, trying to ask for help instead of being an asshole. "I just don't have anywhere to go. I don't have anyone, okay? No one." Paulie's thin voice shook as he admitted his predicament, and Grant could hear the despair in his words.

He paused for only a moment before answering. "Okay, one day. Just to keep you safe from whoever you tangled with tonight. Understand?" /Who are you kidding?/ the voice in his head asked sarcastically.

Paulie half turned his head to nod, enough that Grant could see the gratitude in his smoky blue eyes. "Thanks man," he mumbled, before turning his head back to the window, away from the driver. It wasn't long before his head fell forward, nodding against the glass, as the boy fell into an exhausted sleep.

As Detective Moretti approached his driveway, he realized this wasn't going to be easy. It was already 7 am, and his neighbors were getting ready for the commute to work. How was he going to explain a half-dressed beat-up boy in tight velvet pants asleep in his car? Fuck. He really hadn't thought this out very well, had he? Fighting the anxiety he felt in the pit of his stomach, Grant drove around the block, hoping Mike from next door would be gone when he came around again. And luckily, he was. The coast was clear, for the moment. Moretti drove quickly into his driveway and stopped short, jarring his sleeping passenger roughly into alertness.

"What? No, get off me, fuck . . ." the boy swore, instinctively lashing out with both hands at the air before he realized where he was. Grant put a hand on his arm to still him, but Paulie shrugged it off, backing against the door. Moretti could see the fear in his eyes, even through the swelling. The detective raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance, waiting for the boy to calm himself. Paulie looked like a wild animal when he was like that, a cornered one, and Grant couldn't help but wonder what sort of traps he'd found himself caught in over the years.

"Let me get you inside, okay?" he urged, looking around apprehensively for more nosey neighbors. Paulie seemed to come back to himself as he understood what the detective was worried about, and nodded. "Thanks," he said softly, following Moretti to the door and stepping into the detective's apartment.

Grant didn't think he'd ever felt so self conscious, so unsure of himself in his own house. /That's because you're out of your fucking mind/ the voice in the back of his head explained, annoyingly. But there was no use second guessing himself now, what was done was done. The boy was here, and now he had to deal with it. Looking around with curiosity in spite of his condition.

"Umm . . . I guess, well, do you wanna take a shower or something? Get cleaned up?" Moretti felt rather helpless. He'd been so sure that helping the boy was the right thing to do, but what did he really need? How much of the blood that covered him was even his own --- and whose was the rest of it? He didn't even know what Paulie had done. Wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Paulie nodded, running his hand absently over the stickiness on his bare chest as though he'd only just remembered that he was in dire need of one. Grant busied himself with gathering clean towels, desperately needing something to occupy himself, then led the way to the bathroom. "There's shampoo there, and soap, and there's conditioner, and towels here." Moretti was acutely aware that he was talking way too much and way too fast in his nervousness, that Paulie's very presence was making his heart hammer in his chest and his stomach queasy. "Do you need anything else?" /Jesus, what the hell else could he need? The boy probably hadn't had a decent shower in ages./

"No, I don't think so. Thanks," he replied, his voice still much softer than before, still sounding defeated and uncertain. He accepted the towels that Grant held out to him, meeting the detective's eyes briefly before turning away. He didn't bother to close the bathroom door before peeling down his soiled velvet pants, and Moretti had a tantalizing glimpse of Paulie's ass before shoving the door shut determinedly. Promising himself that this was merely a rescue mission. A good deed. Telling himself that he hadn't felt a stab of lust shoot straight to his dick at the sight of the boy's firm rounded cheeks, at the thought of his cock sinking between them.

Grant made coffee. Picked up some stray clothes. Wiped down the counter tops. Anything to keep from thinking about the naked boy in his shower. Suddenly he realized, with a shock of alarm, that naked is exactly what Paulie would be when he stepped out of the bathroom, because Grant hadn't given him anything to wear. Jesus, how stupid was that? He'd already been in there a long time, surely he'd be getting out any minute. Moretti dashed to the bedroom and grabbed the first clean clothes his hands latched onto, a white oxford shirt and a pair of cut off denim shorts, and ran to the bathroom, rapping on the closed door urgently and then opening it. Before Paulie could throw open the curtain to see what he wanted, Grant tossed the clothing on the counter, called out that he was leaving something for him to put on, and retreated.

By the time the bathroom door finally opened, Moretti had nervously consumed three cups of coffee, and would have had a cigarette or two if he'd still been smoking. He listened to the sound of Paulie's bare feet, waited for him to round the corner to the small kitchen where Grant was sitting. He told himself that he was calm now, that he'd allow the boy to rest on his couch for the day, try to figure out what had happened, and go from there.

But all his rational thoughts left him when Paulie appeared. The boy's dark hair was already drying, and the long strands shone in the morning light, a stark contrast where it brushed his shoulders in the bright white cotton. Although Grant was thin himself, the oxford shirt was too large for Paulie's spare frame, and he hadn't bothered to roll the slightly too-long sleeves, so that they half obscured his hands, giving the impression of a boy in his father's dress shirt. It was too long for him as well, almost covering the shorts he wore underneath. He hadn't buttoned it, and a glimpse of bare chest and flat belly showed between the flaps. The too-large shorts rode low on his skinny hips --- too low, Grant thought as his eyes roamed over the boy in spite of himself.

Now that the blood had been cleaned away, Grant could see the damage that someone had done to Paulie's face as well. His nose didn't seem to be broken, but his lower lip was split and swollen, and one eye was slightly blackened. Strangely, it seemed to make his eyes even more striking, vivid blue against the dark circles. And his mouth, always generous, was now plumped into a full pout. As Grant stared, Paulie played with the gash on his lip with his tongue, darting it over the drying blood there with a worried expression on his face.

The boy's vulnerability hadn't been extinguished, not yet anyway, and it wasn't lost on Moretti. Almost without thinking, he rose from the table and took the boy's wrist, rolling the long cuff gently up his arm, his fingers brushing the soft skin beneath. To his surprise, Paulie didn't flinch at his touch. A fleeting moment of trust passed between them, as Grant reached over to roll up the other sleeve, then stepped back again. Finally, gulping down his nervousness about what he was going to hear, Moretti met the boy's eyes.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asked, hearing the tremor in his own voice.

continue...