PART EIGHT

What the fuck was going on? Grant stumbled over his own shoes as he made his way across the room, slamming the door closed with one foot, so furious he couldn't stop himself from lashing out, even if it was at inanimate objects. He ripped off his pants, nearly tearing the material in his rage, throwing them across the room. Not caring that they knocked over some expensive bottles of cologne on the dresser, relishing the crash as they tumbled to the floor.

"Goddamn fucking little WHORE, you piece of shit little faggot, you . . . you . . . " Grant sputtered helplessly, stomping his feet with every word like a two year old having a tantrum. "Fucking whore, fucking goddamn whore . . . " He broke off into a groan and sunk to the bed, holding his head in his hands despairingly. What the hell had he expected? Paulie WAS a whore, he'd never pretended to be anything else.

Moretti pressed the heel of his hands to his suddenly throbbing temples, massaging his scalp, trying to force himself to think clearly. Jesus, had he just committed a crime himself? He'd picked up a prostitute and gotten a blow job. Maybe one he'd even have to pay for. Had the boy really meant that? Was that all he was --- a trick?

Grant groaned again at the thought. What an ironic turn of events that was. Immediately he was overcome with guilt, easy prey for the self deprecation that always lurked in the back of his mind. A fine officer of the law he'd turned out to be. Ordered to get the whores off the streets, and what had he done instead? Oh, he'd gotten this one off the street all right - and into his own house, down on his knees swallowing the officer's eager throbbing cock. Where was all his training when that was happening? Where was his sense of right and wrong, his determination to just help the boy and nothing more? It had all dissolved with the first touch of his fingers to Paulie's slender wrist, the quiver he could feel run up the boy's thin arms at the unexpected contact.

When Paulie had fallen into his arms, he'd lost the ability to do anything other than follow his feelings, quench his nagging hunger for this beautiful dark-haired boy. The way those swollen lips had felt on his neck, the wet heat of his tongue, so eager to taste him. Unconsciously Grant ran his fingers over the tiny bruise there, where Paulie's teeth had sucked at his skin, remembering. How slight the boy had felt in his arms, his shoulder blades and hip bones sharp under the soft skin, the firmness of his ribs pressed against Grant's torso. Hadn't there been a moment there, as he held Paulie in a tight embrace, that he could feel the boy's need of him? Not just desire, though Paulie had definitely been aroused, there was no hiding that. But real need --- a glimpse of desire for something more, more than sex, more than being used. He'd seemed so sincere, blue eyes gleaming with emotion, when he'd blurted out 'I'm not pretending.'

Moretti threw himself down across the bed in frustration. Obviously he HAD been pretending. Wasn't that his JOB, after all? To make every john believe he was special, that the whore wanted him, would even do him for free, just for the pleasure of it? Grant suddenly felt like the biggest fool in the world. He'd been duped, completely. Played like a violin. He'd driven out there, picked the boy up after he'd committed a serious crime, taken him to his own fucking home, and let the boy seduce him like some sex-crazed teenager enslaved to his own hormones. Hadn't even bothered to find out what Paulie had done before he'd laid the boy out on the table to admire his big cock and get his mouth around it.

The detective was suddenly so disgusted with himself that his stomach lurched with nausea. Who was the bigger slut, him or the boy? Even after hearing his girlfriend's voice on the answering machine, he wasn't willing to stop, was he? Didn't want to. When Paulie dropped to his knees and played the whore, he was only too happy to encourage him. Fuck, he'd even said the words. Asked Paulie to be just what he was, and just what Grant was supposed to be arresting him for. Instead he was begging for those cocksucker lips around his dick, watching the boy's beautiful battered face as he nuzzled and licked and worshipped the detective's twinging organ. With a sinking feeling of certainty, Grant realized he would have said anything at that moment, done almost anything, just for the sight of himself fucking Paulie's mouth raw, the bliss of cumming down his slender throat.

Moretti rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, suddenly remembering the boy's sarcastic words about not needing one. The coldness in Paulie's voice as he'd turned away, refused Grant's touch. Made the act a one-sided unfeeling one, instead of the hot emotional and physical connection Grant had started to believe would happen. Who was he kidding? The boy was a user, that's what he did. And Grant was just a fool who couldn't admit his own desires until they were running away with him.

He flopped back to his side, then turned restlessly onto his back, staring at the ceiling. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself that's all it had been, that he'd been duped into paying for the privilege of Paulie's expertise, Moretti couldn't quite buy it. He'd always been a good judge of people, able to read them, sense their dishonesty or guilelessness. It had helped him in his work --- he had a reputation for being able to find the holes in people's stories, the alibis that didn't stand up to scrutiny. The true criminals. And his instincts were telling him that some of what Paulie had said hadn't been a lie.

Could his father really be a Congressman? Could this cold, calculating, beat-up little queer who sucked dick for a living be the son of a well-known politician with aspirations for re-election? And if he was, how must that have been for his son? It was difficult enough to be the not-quite-macho son of a beloved police captain. Humiliating enough to be caught with another boy and never allowed to forget it, no matter how many women he'd buried his cock in since. True, Grant's father had made him feel disgusting, made him feel that what he'd done, and what he wanted to do again, was wrong. But he hadn't been sent away. He'd been given another chance, to live up to what his father expected. The price had been steep --- a denial of his own desires, of his own identity. But Grant had paid willingly, and been rewarded with the life he'd always wanted. He was a cop. Small price to pay, to deny so much of who he really was. Wasn't it?

Moretti glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Nine a.m. and he was as wide awake as if he'd never worked the night shift. Sleep was definitely going to elude him today. Grant sat up in bed, pulling his knees up and resting his chin on his hands as he wrapped them around his legs. Thinking.

Paulie had made a very different decision for his own life. Perhaps he could have denied who he was and kept the life of privilege and comfort. Kept his father's acceptance or his mother's affection. If in fact he'd ever had them. Or maybe that was never an option, maybe the mere hint of scandal had been enough to make them turn their own child away, hide him in a place that must have been some kind of hell for a pretty effeminate boy like Paulie. Without options, he'd just traded that hell for another, a life on the streets that had now left him battered physically and emotionally. And a criminal. Moretti realized that even if that were true, he wanted to know. The truth . . . and the person.

If what Paulie had said was true, the boy must be scarred pretty badly. Guarded. No wonder he was so defensive, so easily frightened. The more he thought about it, the more Moretti wanted to believe that the boy had, for a few minutes at least, allowed himself to reach out to the detective. To be just the slightest bit vulnerable. His more reasonable side told him that was just what he WANTED to believe, but Grant got out of bed and pulled his pants back on anyway. Fuck, he couldn't sit here in his bedroom all day anyway. But he didn't want to wake the boy, couldn't face another confrontation. Barefoot, Grant walked as quietly as he could to the closed door, inching the knob around until it unlatched, each creak sounding like an explosion to his anxious ears. He peered through the crack of an opening, but was unable to see the couch from his vantage point. He'd have to chance it.

Slowly Grant pushed the door open and stepped into the hall, walking with exaggerated caution. Perhaps if he stepped slowly enough, it wouldn't sound like footsteps. Wouldn't wake the boy who was, hopefully, sound asleep on his couch. Moretti had a brief flash of panic --- what if Paulie had helped himself to some valuables and taken off while Grant was tossing and turning in the bedroom? Had he been incredibly foolish to leave Paulie alone out there? Grant made his way to the living room mostly to reassure himself that the other was still there.

He sighed to himself as he saw Paulie's small form curled up on the couch. The boy had his back to the cushions, so Grant had a clear view of his face, relaxed in sleep. Other than the purple and blue around his eye and the swollen bottom lip, Paulie looked like an angel, all the hard lines of his rough life erased for the moment by the temporary peace of exhaustion. His hands were drawn up below his chin, clasped tightly as though to shut out the world, and his knees were drawn up too in an attempt to make him invulnerable to whatever was out there looking for him. Moretti stood silently watching, running his eyes over Paulie the way he hadn't dared when those smoky blue eyes were staring at him.

Paulie was thin, almost scrawny. Lying on his side, his profile dipped at the waist, making the bony outline of his ribcage and hipbone strikingly apparent. The shorts he wore sagged on him, the waistband gapping at his almost concave belly, and around his skinny thighs. Barely more than fuzz on his arms, his long legs, his smooth face. Grant wondered how old Paulie really was, realizing that his own crime could be even more serious than he'd already feared. Fuck. And yet what he really wanted, as he stood there transfixed, was to run his hands over that smooth hairless flesh, feel the contours of the boyish body. There was nothing childish about Paulie's cock, and Grant wanted to touch that again too, feel the boy's body stir at his touch, harden and twitch against his lips. Why had he said no when Grant had wanted to touch him? Moretti wished he understood.

Paulie stirred in his sleep, shifting and mumbling words Grant couldn't make out, then curling up tighter, his small pink nipples hard with the chill. Moretti forced his gaze away and returned to the bedroom, grabbing a pillow and spare blanket. Gently, as though tending to a child, he eased the pillow under Paulie's head, one hand smoothing his long silky hair as the boy tossed restlessly, then burrowed into the softness with a sigh. Moretti spread the blanket over him, tucking it around his thin shoulders, covering his bare feet. In his sleep, Paulie stretched, his contracted body lengthening a little as the warmth spread through him.

It was more than seven hours later when Grant heard the rustle of the blankets from where he sat across the room, and watched Paulie stir to wakefulness. He hadn't put any lights on, and the sun was beginning to sink low enough to dim the room in spite of the partly open blinds, bathing the boy in a pattern of slatted light and shadow. He looked like a work of art decorating the sofa, thin bare arms painted zebra-like by the sunlight, brown hair gleaming mahogany where a beam of light played over it. The boy rubbed at his face as if trying to remember why it was sore, then gave a slight start as he realized where he was and that he wasn't alone in the room. He sat up quickly, the blanket falling from his shoulders, and fixed Grant with a suspicious stare.

"What the fuck are you staring at, Moretti?" he demanded, instantly on the offensive. Then his gaze caught the pillow under him, and the blanket pooled around his waist. He swallowed hard, raising his eyes back to Grant's uncertainly. The detective forced himself to stay calm. Telling himself not to take the boy's brashness to heart. His gesture of caring hadn't been lost on Paulie, of that he was sure, but the boy was clearly not used to kindness. The mistrust was evident in his steely blue eyes.

"I was watching you," Grant replied honestly.

Paulie scowled back. "Like what you see?" he asked bitterly. "You thinking you wanna go another round with me, is that it?"

The boy wasn't going to make this easy. Grant took a deep breath, trying to keep his own temper under control. "No, just watching." Well that was stupid. Moretti tried to make his brain work, come up with something that would get them back to that place they'd been for a few minutes, that small moment of tentative trust when Paulie had let himself be held. Why were words so inadequate when it was emotions that you needed to convey?

Paulie was still regarding him suspiciously. "I suppose you want me outta here."

"No," Grant answered too quickly, then struggled to explain. "I mean, you don't have to leave now, it's still early."

"Well, how much time do I have exactly? Why don't you give me my deadline, so I won't overstay my welcome." Challenging, always anger underneath the boy's cold words. Grant could hear it, feel it. Punching at all his buttons relentlessly, wearing at his resolve to be calm. Paulie had perfected the art of keeping people at arm's length, and he wasn't giving Moretti even an inch of an opening. Grant had the sinking feeling that he'd had that opening once, and he'd blown it. Now there was no way Paulie was unbarring the door again. And yet he knew he wanted desperately to get behind those barriers, see what else was inside that quick mind. Moretti could almost hear the wheels turning, but Paulie's face was inscrutable, not allowing even a glimpse of what he might be thinking or feeling. It was fucking frustrating.

"You're welcome to stay until 8:00, when I have to go to work. It's about 6:00 now."

Paulie knitted his finely drawn brows, taking the information in. "I slept for that long?"

"Yeah, for about seven hours." Grant paused, attempted a little smile. "I think you really needed it."

The boy regarded him carefully for a minute, studying the detective's expression for a hint of criticism or sarcasm. Finding none, he softened almost imperceptibly, pulling the blanket around his waist unconsciously. "Yeah," he answered softly. "I guess I did."

Anyone else might have added a thank you, but Moretti wasn't going to hold his breath expecting one. The very fact that Paulie had agreed with his simple statement without a biting comment was enough. Grant considered it some small progress, and decided to take advantage.

"So, are you hungry?" He didn't wait for Paulie to answer, instead getting up and going to the kitchen to retrieve the plate of food he'd made up earlier. Partly to soothe his frayed nerves with something practical to keep himself busy. Partly because in spite of his better judgment he wanted Paulie to like him. Three times he'd changed his mind about what to cook, twice he'd decided on a different mug for the coffee. More times than he could count he'd rolled his eyes at himself for his ridiculous behavior.

But it seemed worth it to watch Paulie's surprised expression when he returned with the plate of food. So quick with his taunts, the boy seemed to be at a loss for words in response to kindness he clearly hadn't expected. Grant's stomach flipped with excitement at the look of stunned appreciation on Paulie's face, feeling suddenly like a giddy teenager, tongue-tied when a longstanding crush finally takes notice of his gawky admirer. For some reason he couldn't fathom, that's how this boy made him feel.

Like all the most basic human endeavors, eating was a common denominator that relieved the tension between the two men, equalized the disparities that kept getting in their way. Moretti sat on the far side of the couch and sipped his own cup of coffee, watching Paulie consume every morsel with gusto, smiling to himself at the boy's zeal. He felt as though he could be content to watch the everyday ritual forever, just to take in this boy's beauty with his eyes. Everything about him was intriguing. The slenderness of his supple wrist as he twisted the fork busily from plate to mouth. His long thin fingers wrapped around the handle, dexterous as they had been that morning when they'd wrapped themselves around the detective's swollen penis. The way he stretched his slender neck, opened his voluptuous mouth, with each bite.

Paulie was well aware that he was being studied, and from time to time he paused to regard Grant from beneath the thick dark lashes that fringed his eyes. Flirty, as though he couldn't turn it off. Sexual in a raw and obvious manner that Moretti had never experienced before, not even with the few men he'd dared to be with. Paulie was something entirely different, and every time he turned those sapphire eyes on the other man, Grant felt it in his gut. It made his nipples tingle, twisted like a coil of heat in his balls. Tensed the muscles in his tight belly. Never had he wanted someone like he wanted Paulie. It was agony not to touch him, not to force some physical contact. Anything.

"Grant?" He was almost surprised to hear Paulie use his first name, instead of the accusatory 'Moretti' he was accustomed to eliciting. The boy put down the almost sparkling clean plate and crossed his long legs beneath him, giving Moretti a tantalizing view of his sinewy pale inner thighs. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

Trying to tear his eyes from Paulie's crotch, Grant shook his head. "No." Even as he spoke the word, he could hear his more reasonable side screaming at him. What the hell did he mean, no? He was a police officer, it was his duty to find out what the boy had done. But the rest of him, his heart and his body and his instincts that seemed quite capable of drowning out the voice of reason, only wanted to protect Paulie.

"No?" The boy spoke softly, disbelieving. He leaned forward to capture Grant's gaze, long hair falling in his face. "Don't you have to know?"

Moretti swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat, unable to resist reaching out to touch the other man. He brushed a long lock of dark hair from Paulie's eyes, carefully tucking it behind his ear, fingers lingering on the ends as if not wanting to break the contact. Finally, reluctantly, he let his hand fall and met Paulie's inquisitive look. "All I need to know is where he is. The --- the man you, the one who you fought with." Moretti didn't want to admit what he already knew, that Paulie had stabbed someone, might even have killed him. "The less I know, the less I'll have to . . . " He swallowed again, as the boy interrupted.

"Lie?"

"No," Grant insisted, working hard to rationalize what he was doing. "Leave out. The less I'll have to leave out when I make my report." God, what WAS he doing? Thinking of risking his career to protect some hustler?

Paulie seemed to be thinking the same thing. He snorted derisively. "You can't do that Moretti, I know you. You'll have to turn me in."

Grant was suddenly angry, frustrated with the boy's refusal to believe that he wanted to help. That he cared. "You don't know a fucking thing about me," he shot back, pale eyes flashing with emotion.

"Oh yeah? I know you're a cop." He said it like an accusation, as though that alone defined all parameters of Grant's life.

But Moretti was not to be put off that easily. "And you're a whore."

Paulie blinked at the unexpected reply, and Grant braced himself for the outburst to come. But to his surprise, a smile spread slowly across the boy's pretty face. And there it was again --- that spark of warmth melting those icy blue eyes, the way his lips parted as though giving up for an instant the readiness of his biting tongue. Moretti felt a rush of emotion at just this momentary connection, a blush of relief coloring his cheeks. He'd been right about the boy's intelligence. Paulie had quickly grasped the analogy, the variation not encompassed by those two loaded words.

"You weren't complaining about that this morning," he teased the detective, unfurling his long legs and stretching them out on the couch until his bare feet nudged against Grant's thigh. Immediately Moretti slid his hand along Paulie's thin muscled calf, wishing he could reach higher, the heat of the boy's smooth skin making his own temperature rise.

"I meant you can't judge a man by what he does for a living," he managed to reply.

At that, Paulie giggled, sounding almost girlish and making Grant laugh at his choice of words too. "Man, you really come out with some fucking crazy shit," he snorted, spreading his legs wider, dangling one foot off the side of the couch. Moretti took one look at the creamy pale thighs parted before him and gave in to his impulses with a groan, leaning over Paulie to run his hand up between the boy's legs, stroking the silky smooth skin. Gingerly, he slid his fingers inside the boy's shorts, tangling in his tight curls, feeling the heat at his crotch. Paulie reclined further, sliding closer to Grant, throwing one long leg up over the back of the couch to spread himself still wider. And now Moretti was crawling shamelessly, desperate to get at him, fingers gripping the boy's thighs roughly as he bent to press his lips to the worn denim that was already stretched tight by the swelling flesh underneath. God, how he wanted it. Wanted it to be Paulie crying out in ecstacy this time, wanted to give back the pleasure he'd had that morning. Wanted to prove to himself --- and to the boy --- that what they'd done hadn't been a mere business transaction.

He could feel the boy's dick leap against his lips as he fastened his teeth on its hardness through the thin material, fumbling for the zipper of the shorts. But before he could loosen them, Paulie twisted away, slipping from his grasp and jumping up from the couch. "No," he insisted, leaving Grant breathless and embarrassed, flat on his belly with a raging hardon. The boy's face was flushed, his shorts tented with his own erection. Yet his eyes reflected only misery. And Moretti realized, with a clarity that made his own heart ache, that giving into his lust had only convinced Paulie that the kindness he'd been shown was merely another payment for services to be rendered. A meal for a roll in the hay. Then a quick trip to jail most likely. Fuck. It wasn't true, Grant knew it even if it terrified him. But why would Paulie believe it?

The boy was gathering up his few possessions, determinedly putting on his boots and his blood-stained shirt. If he'd looked like a whore before, he looked even more like one now, his long bare legs appearing decadent and feminine with the leather boots beneath. Grant struggled to find his voice confronted with that picture.

"Paulie, don't go," he began, lamely.

"Don't go?" the boy hissed back, narrowing his eyes in his frustration. "What? You want me to stay? You gonna give me a place to live, Moretti? Be my boyfriend?"

The voices in the back of Grant's head started to scream all at once. What WAS he thinking? Considering throwing everything he'd worked for away for this street whore he didn't even know? Giving up Lisa, his reputation, his chance of any promotion. His father's hard-won half-respect? That was ridiculous, unthinkable. And all the while the other voice pleaded, desperate with emotion. Don't send him out there, don't let him go. Pull him into your arms and kiss him until he knows you mean it. Don't deny your own feelings. But he said nothing.

"Yeah, I thought so." Paulie spared Grant one last blazing stare, his jaw set fiercely, his eyes burning with rage. But through the anger, Grant thought he could see hurt too. Disappointment, loss. Wetness glazing over the bright blue. Paulie turned away before he could be sure, stalking across the room with his shorts slipping dangerously low on his slender hips, yanking them up with one hand every few steps. He slammed the door behind him, leaving Grant alone on the couch, the apartment full of a resounding silence.

You're a fucking coward, Moretti. Grant finally found his voice, hearing it echo through the empty room.

continue...