THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB Russo Written by Lady Poetess egiggles at moose-mail.com /~bbp Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This story has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive. ONE "Motherfucking son of a bitch!" With callused fingers raking through his short, neatly-trimmed hair in frustration, the man uttered more exclamations that had John Martin Willenborg thinking that a new record had been set in the use of gutter language in a single sentence. "Fuck!" "You really should tone down your language," said John, keeping the tone of his voice friendly because he didn't want to set the man off. He was also genuinely being friendly. "You can use it around me because I sure as hell don't mind, but it's not wise to blow up on TV." John winced at the memory of staring in horror at the TV screen as his friend called Bernard Shaw of CNN on live TV a "fucking asshole whose head is shoved so deep past your fucking rectum that you could see what you ate for breakfast, duckweed!" after an argument about the importance of education on Wall Street. "Sure, I'll fucking tone down my language, even though it'll be a bitch to - oh, fuck that shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" John bit back a grin. He was from traditional old-school old-money background, where he was so spoiled since birth that by seventeen, he was bored with life because he had fucked, drank, ate, abused, and vomited out anything and everything his money and good looks could get him. Ever since knowing Christopher Russo, however, he had learned enough ways to swear that would drive his mother crazy. That was the beauty of being from old money: for example, John could take the cock of his father's married business associate up his ass when he was fifteen, not that John would ever admit to that if people asked him about it, and people wouldn't bat an eyelid as long as John was discreet, but swearing in public, on the other hand, was a sign of uncouth manners. But Russo was different: he had only a high school diploma but by thirty-one, he had hustled his way into making his first million dollars when he was twenty-four and now he was one of the most aggressive stock brokers in the country. Unfortunately, Russo's tenacity came without tact. He had no sense of decorum or propriety. It was common to see him showing up for a meeting in a sports T-shirt and khaki knee-length shorts that revealed that permanently tattooed smiley face on his right knee. People tolerated him because he made them a shit load of money. But Russo's firm was expanding beyond his expectations. With a man of his exceptional track record and almost clairvoyant-like ability in predicting the stock market, he was becoming more and more successful and his portfolio kept increasing whether he liked it or not. While his clients found him delightfully crass and uncouth - "eccentric" was how they euphemistically described him - the media, however, didn't. And if Russo didn't behave, his PR would get a beating so badly in a manner that even his reputation as a brilliant financial guru couldn't overcome. Not when the media made sure that there was a campaign to tar his reputation and made his contacts and clients embarrassed to be publicly connected to him, and this was dangerously close to happening if Russo kept offending respected economists and powerful people in the media. John knew Russo rarely meant to offend. It was just that old hustler from Long Island with the thick accent to show for it didn't understand why he couldn't be upfront and say what he thought about matters the way he always did. Because he was now playing in John's world, Russo was finding it very hard to adapt. And John, having invested heavily in Russo's boiler room, now had to make sure that he could help Russo and therefore protect his own investments. "Maybe you can hear my suggestion," John said to Russo. Russo eyed John suspiciously. John didn't take offense - Russo always viewed people of privilege like John in a manner someone would put on when confronted with something that he or she just couldn't fathom. "You need someone to help you with your PR," said John. "Do I fucking look like I need a charm school?" "Yes you do," John said bluntly. "You need someone educated and cute to do your talking for you if you refuse to tamper your aggressiveness. Right now half of Wall Street hates your guts and the other half is scared of even talking over the phone with you. You're smart. You know what the media is portraying you as. If this goes on, everyone would start thinking that you are borderline insane and stop doing business with you." "Is it because I don't have a college degree?" John closed his eyes, an instinctive reaction to the raw hurt in Russo's quiet questioning. "Life isn't fair, Russo," said John. He didn't know what else to say. "We can all talk about giving street- smart people their due, but if you behave like a street-smart person, many people won't give you your due. You're not a lawyer like Rob Mariano who used people's perception of him as a dumb Bostonian lughead to catch his opponents by surprise in court. You are a financial consultant. You need to work with people." "Shit." But Russo was at least not swearing angrily like he was a few minutes ago so John looked at the man hopefully. Russo rested his forehead against the wall and remained silent for a few seconds, no doubt thinking over the issue from every conceivable angle like he always did. With a furious roar that startled John, Russo slammed his fist against the wall. But when he turned to speak to John, he was calm - too calm. "If I don't agree, the other shareholders will not be amused," he said. John nodded at Russo's unasked question. "They won't be as understanding as I am, Russo. If you give me a good answer that I can give them to calm their fears, I can hold them at bay. But I need a good answer, Russo, and telling them to fuck off isn't good enough." Russo chuckled without humor. "I will have to ask only one man to help me then. Only one man I can trust because I know he is as good as me." His expression was impassive and his voice a dull monotone as he stared at his bruised fist. "You have no idea how this fucking idea of yours made me mad, Borg, but yeah, you're right. I'm a street hustler who knew how to make money and that's what they will think of me until I pretty up and speak sweetly like a fucking blue blood, no offense to you, of course." "No offense taken, Russo, so don't worry about that." "I don't like him. He doesn't like me. No, he hates my guts. But there is no one smarter than he is. He's good. And best of all, he comes from a respectable background. He speaks pretty, looks pretty, and probably fucks pretty as well." "Who is this person, Russo?" asked John. "Wesley Abraham Moss. Even that name sounds fucking pretty, doesn't it?" Russo gazed outside the window, seeing something in the distant that only he could see. "I'll just have to swallow my pride and let him have at it." TWO Wes Moss was tired to the bone as he walked into his office and placed the stack of papers he had to grade on the table. How did it happen that he grew to entertain this trepidation when he had to walk into this office that he once loved? He built this company from his blood and sweat but now, analyzing and helping people turn their savings into means to make their dreams come true had become just that, his fucking job, while he had a more fulfilling time working for free for Rotary International, HERO, and a few more charities and lecturing at Emory. The newspaper he had left earlier on the table reminded him one of the reasons for his disillusionment with his job. He had circled the article in the gossip column with a red pen and, in a rare loss of temper, stabbed a hole through the page. There, in all its black and white glory, was his associate's latest embarrassing debacle reported in a snide manner that made Wes cringe. What the hell was Todd Everett thinking to actually get that thankfully unnamed woman to give him a blow job in a fucking private function thrown by the mayor, of all the fucking events he could get a blow job at? No, Todd wasn't thinking, that was the problem. "You are trying to cut me off." Wes jumped at the unexpected voice of the man he was, mentally, kicking the shit out of his ass. Todd, his fashion model handsome looks twisted in an expression of fury that made him actually looked ugly, flung the documents Wes had his lawyers put together six weeks ago that Wes hadn't found the heart to show Todd. Wes calmly caught the bound documents Todd threw at him and placed them on the table. "You expect me to do anything less?" he asked calmly as he crossed his arms and watched Todd. That was how he dealt with Todd when Todd plunged deeper into his downward spiral of sex, alcohol, and drugs - he behaved like a disapproving parent and Todd always fell under his glare even as he hated Wes more. Wes picked up the newspaper and, mirroring Todd's gesture, threw the papers to Todd. Unlike Wes, Todd didn't try to catch the papers and instead let them hit his chest. "This should answer your question," said Wes simply. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do." "I made this place as much as you!" Todd snarled. "You can't deny that." "No, I can't. We started this place together." That hurt Wes more than the collapse of their partnership, the collapse of their friendship. "But you're doing more than your share in destroying it." And with that, Wes' control snapped and all his frustrations leaked before he could control himself. "The clients wouldn't trust us if one of the firm partners is an alcoholic who indulged in drunken public displays of embarrassing behavior." "No, we can't have that," Todd said in a sneering tone that made his apparent agreement more of a cutting insult. "I'm too tired to fight," said Wes. "Please, can we do this on another day?" Todd opened his mouth but apparently he thought better of it. He instead shut his mouth and stormed out of the door. Wes knew he wouldn't be hearing the last of this matter though. He wished Todd would apply his tenacity to their firm. Once, Todd did. But Todd just changed overnight a few years ago and Wes didn't recognize the man that Todd was now. His temper simmered down to a tolerable level when he began reading through his students' papers. This time around, his students were decent in the sense that there were only a few of them who gave him headaches. In fact, after giving his third "B+" in a row, he was actually feeling like his old self again. Perhaps it was time that he became a full-time teacher. "It must always happen," Wes grumbled to himself when his mobile beside his right elbow rang. "Let this be someone nice. Tell me the IRS has decided to exempt me from two years of taxation." It was worse. "Hey, Wes! Russo here! How are you, man?" "Hey, thanks for seeing me. You saved my ass," Russo said as he tried not to tap his fingers nervously on the tabletop. There was no response from Wes. Russo swallowed the instinctive curse that was threatening to escape his lips. Wes was as blond as he remembered, which made him look like a freaking Ken doll. A very cute Ken doll, Russo admitted reluctantly, but. fuck, why was he thinking about Wes' looks? "How exactly did I save your ass, Russo?" Wes finally said. Wes was always so fucking calm that Russo couldn't stand it. Back when they were mere pat racks fighting for a share of the pie in the finance industry, Russo tried his best to push Wes' buttons but he couldn't find any weakness in Wes' icy cool exterior. On the other hand, Wes would only need to look at Russo in that educated blue-blooded way of his, as if he had only disdain for the foul-mouthed uneducated Russo, and Russo would feel like he was some piece of shit that Wes stepped on. "I need your help." It was easier than he thought to say this to Wes. "You want me to help you soothe your PR problems." "Okay, who's the fucker that told?" asked Russo with a scowl. "Andy Litinsky, who is in some real estate venture with John, told me. John isn't the kind of person to keeps his secrets to himself. And of course Andy told me because he wanted my advice on whether he should pull himself from John's real estate ventures. Just in case, you understand, you pull John down - and with John, Andy - with your inability to shut the fuck up." Russo shouldn't be so amused, but he was. "Wow, you said the fuck word," he said. He surprised himself to find himself grinning at Wes. But hell, why not? He now remembered how much he enjoyed matching wits with Wes back in the old days when they were rookies. Back before all that shit that came with him being so successful and people started expecting him to act in a way that he didn't know how. "Yeah, I said fuck. Why the fuck not?" said Wes, a challenging gleam in his eye. "We're all grown-ups now, are we not?" "I don't know about me being a grown-up." Russo shook his head in awe. "Damn, Wes, you're still as good as ever with backhanded shit. I still have never met anyone who can cut the shit down someone with as little effort as you." "And you're as insolent as ever," said Wes. "But yes, I'll accept your proposal of having me buy over your company and taking over as the CEO. That, I agree, will do wonders for your PR." "Fuck, in your dreams!" Russo laughed, even though he knew Wes was egging him to do this. "I'm never selling to you. Remember what I said to you after we finished punching each other at that amazing party back in 1999? I'll get you in a hostile takeover, Wes, not the other way around." "Strange, but I recall that it was I who said that to you at that disastrous party," said Wes. "Russo, what exactly do you want me to do?" "They call you the gentleman," said Russo. "I want you to teach me how to be a little nicer so that the media will like me." "No offense, Russo, but I don't think I can work miracles outside a portfolio. Why don't I just buy over your GunnAllen firm and make you the branch manager?" "Fuck you." "You really should watch your language." "Fuck you, asshole." Wes laughed. Russo paused and watched, fascinated, as he realized that he had never seen Wes laugh before. "Okay, I'll help you." Now Russo was shocked. He never expected Wes to concede so easily. "You will?" asked he. Damn, why did he always have to feel stupid when he was with Wes? "Why?" Wes gave Russo an inscrutable glare that had Russo feeling a little uncomfortable. "Because I want something in return, Russo," said Wes. "I will help you become a gentleman if you will make me laugh at least once a day." That was an odd request but Russo figured that it would be easy to make Wes laugh. How hard could it be? Wes would help him and that was enough for Russo. "Deal," said he. "You're seeing anyone at the moment, Wes?" "No," Russo answered, not seeing any reason to lie. "I don't even have time for one night stands. It's hard to get the cock hard when the world seems to be beating down my door, you know?" "I see that I will have to do something about your lack of brain- to-mouth filter as well," murmured Wes. "But that's good that you're single. I hate to inconvenient anyone in your life with our new arrangement." "And what arrangement is this? I want you to help me handle interviews. What do you want from me?" "I have Fridays free so I want you to take me out on some date. No sex, Russo, so don't look horrified. I haven't laughed in a while so. Russo, just show me some cool hangouts that you go to. I'll try and make it as less painful on you as possible." THREE It wasn't the first time that Todd woke up in a strange bed. In fact, it happened so often in his life that it was a reasonable assumption that his marriage collapsed due to him waking up with a stranger that wasn't his wife one times too many. But like his drinking, he didn't give a damn. If his wife didn't like him sleeping around with other people, he was better off without her. Good riddance to her! Todd never truly liked her anyway. He knocked her up while he was in college and his parents made him "do the right thing" with her. She took the kids with him too - good fucking riddance as well, as he couldn't stand them. No, he couldn't stand them. He didn't miss them. He didn't need them. Because he had been through hangovers so often, this particular hangover didn't truly affect him. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes, making soft grunts whenever his head throbbed too painfully, but soon he was feeling steady and ready to go. He got out of the bed and, ignoring his clothes scattered on the floor, went off to look for whoever it was that Todd fucked the night before. Led by his nose, attracted by the fragrance of coffee, he found himself in a clean kitchen that could actually be accurately described as "white". And there was a bald but unconventionally handsome man humming happily as he went about preparing breakfast. It was then that Todd noticed the world outside the kitchen window: they were obviously in an apartment and more significantly, it was still dark outside. What time was it? Todd looked at the watch on his wrist and groaned. It was just five in the morning. No wonder he felt tired. He was never a morning person. The other man heard Todd and looked up. His smile was so wide and blindingly beautiful that Todd could only stare at the man for a few heartbeats, dazzled into silence. The man wasn't handsome the way Todd was, Todd decided without arrogance (he knew how good- looking he was), but there was a rough masculine ruggedness that belied the man's neat and polished appearance. This was one man who would be more at home at a ranch or an oil rig instead of in a very neat apartment where everything was in its place. "You had a great sleep?" The man's voice was exactly like Todd expected: male and extremely seductive. Todd enjoyed fucking both men and women but he liked his men to act like men just like he preferred his women to be feminine in the stereotypical sense. This man wasn't his usual tastes when it came to d‚cor and demeanor, but the potent air of masculinity emanating from the man's muscular physique and the strong, fine face made Todd's insides melt with desire. "Yeah, I did." Todd's voice was husky and unsteady from desire. "Good. I didn't want to leave you asleep on the floor of the theatre." "Theatre?" asked Todd stupidly. He really couldn't remember. The man gave Todd a look of bemusement. "I figured you won't recall much of last night. You were drunk." He placed a plate of grilled ham, green lettuce, and tomatoes on the table. As he prepared another plate of the same, he gave Todd a wry look. "My name is Bradford. We met last night when you - and a few other men, I have to admit - took me in that theatre." He named an adult theatre that was more infamous for being a pick-up joint for gay men. "You and me?" asked Todd again. Damn, his brain wouldn't function when he was so dazzled by Bradford's masculine beauty that all blood seemed to have flowed from his brain to his cock. He felt cold moisture dripping onto his toes and realized that his cock was now fully erect and bobbing in urgency, the slit of his heavily engorged cock head dripping thick strands of lubricating fluids onto the floor and on Todd's feet with each swing it made in sync with Todd's urgent paces. "You, me, and other men that I've lost count," Bradford murmured as he watched Todd approach him. And then there was no more time for words as Bradford hastily unloosed his apron and could only unfastened his pants before Todd gripped Bradford on the shoulder with one hand and bent the man over the kitchen top before thrusting his cock deep up Bradford's unprepared anus. Russo eyed George Clooney with dislike that he tried very hard to conceal. He didn't stand for idiots and he never practiced trying to be nice to people he thought were idiots, but he was trying hard to remember Wes' advice on how to behave in public, especially when he was on a panel arguing with George over the state of the stock market and predictions on future lucrative investments. There was another man on the panel but he was obviously unused to aggressive confrontations so he was content to let Russo and George duke it out while he tried to look cute for the TV cameras. George was condescending, with his carefully worded phrases mocking Russo by implying that Russo was an uneducated buffoon. Or was he? "Try not to be so sensitive about your high school diploma, Russo," Wes had told him. "I don't care that you have only your high school diploma to boast of when it comes to personal credentials. I respect you because you have proven yourself that you are an honest man who knew what he was talking about. No bullshit, no pretense, all Russo - that's you." "You respect me?" was all Russo could say to Wes. "I thought you hated me." "Do you hate me?" asked Wes. "No." Russo never hated Wes. He was irritated when Wes outdid him or was right and Russo was wrong, but during their clashes in Wall Street, Russo figured that they were tied when it came to who was right and who was. well, not wrong, but not as right either. "I think you're a smart guy, Wes, nearly as smart as me," he admitted generously. "And I think it's great that you have a degree because you deserved that. And I enjoy matching wits with you." Wes seemed surprise that Russo would admit such, but he was as always a calm man who rarely let his emotions show on his face. "Yeah, we're two of the best people when it comes to money," said he. "Damn right we are!" said Russo. Wes laughed at that, making Russo feel like a superhero for doing so. In the weeks since they started hanging out, Russo realized just how little Wes laugh. He realized as well that he didn't like seeing Wes so melancholic. Wes wasn't a man to confide his problems to other people but Russo deduced from watching the man that he wasn't happy with his work. Like Russo hadn't been happy with his work for a long time now. Who would have expected that Russo would have something in common with his rival? Wes then played a copy of Russo's previous and abrasive CNN interview and proceeded to point out how Russo could have behaved better. Banter time was over and Russo proceeded to listen as Wes talked. Over the weeks, Russo realized that he loved watching Wes talk. He became fascinated by the way Wes' full, lush lips move. Wes spoke like a classy gentleman that Russo sometimes wished he was, charismatic yet never condescending. Russo wanted very badly to kiss those lips. Where he once thought Wes looked like a typical fair-headed preppie yuppie, he now found himself thinking about the aristocratic brows that he wanted to lick with his tongue. He wanted to feel his fingers running through the fair dusk of hair on Wes' torso, just as he wanted to see Wes' eyes change color from their rich hue of blue to that light shade of green whenever Wes laughed. And when Wes laughed with abandon, he would emit this rich, unfettered musical laugh that tugged at Russo's heart in a way that Russo still couldn't fathom. But Russo knew that he wanted to see Wes laugh, just like he wanted to make Wes smile and forget whatever it was that made Wes so melancholic. Once, when he took Wes to the snooker hall and cheered like an idiot when Wes, who never played before, managed to finally score a point, Wes threw his head back and laughed. Russo's brain shut down then and he could only stare at Wes, mesmerized by the way Wes' eyes crinkled or the way his normally unperturbed face came to life and even glowed when he was so free with laughter. And he also wanted to break the heads of everyone else who turned to look at Wes, wanting to shout at them that Wes was laughing for him and only him. "Mr Russo?" Russo realized that he had been lost in thoughts while the host was addressing him. Sheepishly, he snapped back to the present and listened as the host repeated her question. He wanted to tell George that the man was a fuck head. But he knew now thanks to Wes' teachings that George was deliberately trying to bait Russo. "They bait you because you make it so easy for them," Wes told him patiently one day. "I know you think you're right, Russo, but you can't always tell people that you are right and if they don't see things your way, they're idiots." George would speak civilly with Wes, Russo thought, looking at the man and trying not to sneer. That was because Wes fit in George's world. Wes wasn't the man they called mockingly the Hurly Burly Prince of Wall Street, Wes was educated, intelligent, and. Russo could hear Wes' voice in his head telling him to snap out of his usual self-pity about his lack of education. And because it was Wes' voice, he listened. "I disagree with you, George," he managed to say with much difficulty to that man. But he would have to content himself with mentioning the man's name in the same condescending manner that George used on him. "Maybe I'll explain why I believe that gold is still a good investment." At the end of the forty minute panel talk, the host seemed relieved that Russo said only two times words that had to be bleeped out instead of the usual bleep marathon Russo's previous TV appearances always ended up as. George was watching Russo as if Russo was something he couldn't figure out. There were more phone calls from audience that Russo could remember, and none of them called to complain about his language or his attitude, which was a first. Instead, many people wanted him to elaborate on certain subjects, when usually people would call him an abrasive asshole and asked the other people in the panel what they thought about this and that. For the first time, Russo felt like he'd done well instead of feeling angry and vaguely embarrassed when everyone avoided him after a TV appearance. In fact, people now came up and tentatively shook his hands. They didn't hug him or joke with him the way they did with George and the other panel member, but he could understand that. He would view the relatively well-behaved Russo with suspicion if he were in their shoes. But it was a start, and Russo felt like jumping and shouting in giddy joy as he made his way out of the studio. He owed this to Wes, he wasn't ashamed to admit that, and he wanted to tell Wes of this at once. And damned if he couldn't understand why they were ever enemies. More and more, Russo couldn't imagine not having Wes in his life. FOUR "Shit, shit, shit!" Wes groaned and covered his face with his hands as they watched Wes' TV appearance over the TV at the bar. "I must have been totally insane to call George on like that!" Russo grinned. He couldn't share Wes' dismay because he was actually pleased as punch. Wes went on TV a few days in a scheduled panel discussion that also involved George and ended up snidely throwing George's treatment of Russo in the previous show to George's face. Wes brought up the fact that he agreed with Russo about the things Russo brought up in the previous show and proceeded to argue with George in a manner where one couldn't directly accuse him of being rude but there was no mistaking the underlying tension in Wes' always polite and cultured demeanor. George ended up conceding to Wes - and Russo - and laughed as he clapped Wes' back as if he enjoyed the sparring with Wes. George enjoyed a good match of wits, Russo knew that now with clarity, because George came up to him after Russo's appearance on the show and shook his hands. George Clooney was alright if he decided that you were worthy of his respect. Wes didn't have to defend Russo. But Russo was touched that Wes did. That was why Russo, who took the trouble to clear his schedule to attend the taping of the show, came up to Wes after the show and surprised Wes with a kiss. And Wes shocked Russo by throwing his arms around Russo's waist and kissed the man back hard. "Hey, don't do that, man," Russo told Wes now. Wes shook his head and chuckled as he gestured to the waitress and asked for another beer. "You, Russo, are a bad influence on me." Russo couldn't stop the alarm from seizing his heart. "Do you want me to go?" he asked. Wes seemed to know that Russo wasn't just talking about this night out. "I don't think I want you to go." His hand covered Russo's, and before Russo could calm the thunderous beating of his heart, Wes lifted Russo's hand to his lips and slowly, tenderly, pressed his lips to Russo's palm. "It's up to you, Russo, because if I have my way, I will never ask you to go," said Wes in a whisper that Russo had to bend his head closer to the man in order to hear. "I've laughed so much this week because you made me come alive like no one else can. When we argue, it's exasperating but damn, I know that we will get together after that and laugh over our fight. I've never seen anyone like you Russo, and I don't think I will ever love anyone else like I have grown to love you these last few weeks." "I. I." Russo didn't know how to get the words out from the lump in his throat. He could only look at Wes, his beautiful aristocratic golden friend, a man who had been a thorn in his side, his best friend, and now, the man who could love a man like Russo who was so different from what Wes was used to. "I love you back," he said eventually when he had to break off his kiss with Wes to catch his breath. They returned to Wes' place after their first kiss, only because Wes' place was nearer and they wanted to waste as little time as possible before they found a bed to fuck. When Chris took off his T-shirt, Wes was surprised to see that the man had nipple rings and he gave them a playful tug, causing Russo to growl in pleasure. They took turns mounting each other. Both men equally enjoyed topping and bottoming each other until their assholes ached from the abuse they received and they brought each other off again and again with their mouths and hands until it was nearly dawn and they collapsed in each other's arms in exhaustion. It was only a few hours later when Russo showed up at Wes' office. They were supposed to go for lunch together but Wes hadn't gotten up from his seat when Russo unzipped his trousers and started thrusting that thick erection between Wes' thighs as they kissed. Wes' trousers were quickly removed and he had Russo pinned on the table and riding the man's cock with exuberance when the office door opened and Todd Everett walked in. "So this is the bastard you're planning to replace me with?" Todd sneered. Russo hopped off the table and made a swing at Todd but Wes stopped him. That was when Todd punched Russo in the face. "That's it. I've had enough of you!" Wes snarled and slammed his fist into Todd's jaw. Todd groaned and collapsed onto the floor. "Get out of my office. You'll hear from my lawyer, Todd, because your days as my partner end here." It was hard to look regal when Wes was clad only in his shirt and semen was dripping down his thighs, but Russo thought that Wes looked like a king when he defended Russo like that. He didn't know who Todd was and didn't care. "Get the fuck out. You heard him," he told Todd. Todd Everett screamed through his tears when he pounded on Bradford's door and realized that the man was not in his apartment. "Bradford!" he shouted as he slammed his fists against the door until they bled. He ignored the pain. "Bradford!" he cried again and again until he couldn't stand the agony in his heart anymore and collapsed crying onto the floor. He didn't know how long he lay there crying like a broken child, he was only aware when strong hands that he instinctively knew as Bradford's touched him and helped him to his feet. Bradford reeked of semen and sweat. Todd knew that the man had just returned from another anonymous gangbang, perhaps at some park this time. "You okay?" asked Bradford in concern. Todd couldn't stand that man, not when the man would lose himself in anonymous group fuck while Todd needed him so desperately. "You didn't show up or call since that day," Bradford said. "I'm not expecting you." Todd wanted to leave. He didn't need anyone. He wanted to tell Bradford that the man didn't need so many lovers to keep him satisfied because Todd was more man than anyone could handle. He wanted to lose himself in Bradford's arms and forget that he was a fuck-up. But he only ended up sobbing in Bradford's arms. Bradford held him awkwardly. Finally, he lifted Todd's chin and looked at the man in the eye. "You can sleep here tonight," he just said finally and reached for his key.