Over the nextcouple of weeks, Bayani begins to stretch his wings. When business is slow, he’ll venture downstairs to keep John company, disappearing into the backroom whenever a customer comes inside. He’s also been taking classes online to learn ASL and teaches it to John in the evenings. John admires the boy’s drive and aptitude. His hands make the words come alive in graceful arcs and deft movements, while his facial expressions mirror his passion.
John is clumsier in his execution, and he has trouble combining his thoughts and ideas. Most of the time he feels like a toddler learning how to feed himself, but Bayani encourages him with gentle corrections. There is a lot of laughter too; it fills the once silent rooms of John’s apartment. Like opening the windows to a fresh spring breeze, Bayani brings a lightness and joy to John’s days that he thought had been extinguished forever.
John finds his gaze lingering on the boy—when he’s cooking in the kitchen or lying on the couch playing keep-away with the cat, and even when he’s sleeping, an angel curled up in John’s massive bed. John has memorized every one of Bayani’s expressions, can tell when he’s happy or when he’s feeling blue. He knows which sighs signal exasperation and which ones mean contentment. Bayani is not shy about expressing himself around John–both his frustrations and his joy. The boy’s laugh is the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.
John knows too, the softness of the boy’s skin and the silkiness of his hair, appreciates the fine fit of Bayani’s slender body against his own, his willowy limbs smooth and bare in his light summer clothing. He hears the boy’s quiet moans drifting out to him in the nighttime, noises that can only mean one thing. John lies on the couch listening to Bayani masturbate in his bed and times his own strokes to the arc of his pleasure.
John likes to imagine that he is the one coaxing those erotic sounds from the boy’s sweet lips. Bayani would be so pliant in his arms, like taffy. John would savor the honeyed taste of his skin and drown himself in the soft, warm hollows of Bayani’s flesh. John wants to show the boy tenderness, make love to him sweetly and slowly.
John also wants to hear the boy howl with unbridled passion, drench him in his seed, and claim him like a caveman. John wants to ruin the boy in the best way possible.
The tension between them is a slow simmer that could easily boil over at any moment, but John doesn’t allow himself to slip, not once. And on the occasions when John is consumed by an uncontrollable fever, he beats on the speed bag in his gym and tries to think up ways to smuggle the boy back to his home in the Philippines.
Surely, he’ll be safe from the Hand there?
John is just closing up shop one evening when he notices a sleek silver sports car swerve up to the curb in front of the store—Emile. John hauls ass to the stairwell, hollers at Bayani to stay upstairs and lock the door, then grabs his pistol from behind the counter, hammer down, safety off. Adrenaline surges into John’s bloodstream, and his senses click into high alert—combat mode. He holds the piece in front of him, keeping his arms loose and ready. He can use the counter as a shield if he must, and the freezer door, when open, blocks the hallway leading to the stairs.
John runs through battle scenarios in his mind as Emile strolls in through the door with one of his hired thugs trailing behind him. The bell makes a cheerful sound, at odds with acrimony between them as they size each other up, and though he cannot see the gun in John’s hand, Emile’s eyes glitter with the promise of violence.
“Good evening, John,” Emile says with a smarmy smile.
“What do you want?” John asks without any pretense.
Emile sniffs the air and surveys the room as if looking for something he misplaced. “A little birdie told me that my last delivery never made it to its final destination.”
John never called for one of their drivers to come collect the packages of meat for the dogs. Matthieu keeps a kennel for that purpose.
“Not enough meat to warrant a delivery. Saving it for the next batch.” John should have used animal meat as a decoy, but he was too focused on saving the boy’s life. He doesn’t have the mind for gamesmanship, not like Emile and his father.
“He was a small thing,” Emile agrees, “except that your browser history indicates an awful lot of tutorials on sign language. Have you taken it up as a pastime?”
How in the hell did they get into his computer? Have they been monitoring his online activity this entire time? What about his phone? And the shop? Do they have cameras in his apartment?
“Why are you here, Emile?” John asks as the possible roads laid out before him narrow to one very bloody showdown.
“I had a change of heart, you see. I’m too forgiving. It’s one of my flaws. Despite his vicious attempt on my life, I want to give the boy another chance.” Emile shrugs as if his behavior can’t be helped.
“There is no boy.”
Emile smiles, all teeth. “We both know that there is, John. And I know that he’s here.” Emile’s eyes flicker to the hallway leading to the upstairs apartment. “I came here to collect what’s mine.”
John might argue that Emile forfeited his claim on the boy when he dropped him off on his doorstep, barely breathing, that Emile never had a right to Bayani to begin with, but John is not a man of persuasion, he’s a man of action, so he raises his gun and aims it at Emile’s head, cocked and ready. He’s a good shot, and he knows exactly where the bullet will land. Emile’s thug raises his own piece.
“A Mexican standoff,” Emile trills. “How quaint. All right, John, you’ve made your point. You’ve grown attached to the sulky brat. I get it. Big guy like you probably likes having a warm hole at the ready, and he sings very sweetly when you rub him just right, though perhaps not anymore.” Emile takes out his wallet. “How much are you asking?”
“I’m not selling.”
Emile tuts at him, shaking his head in disappointment. “John, I thought you were a businessman. You have a very specific cut of meat that I’m craving. Simply name your price.”
“Get the fuck out of my shop, Emile.”
The man’s eyes narrow and a heated fury flashes behind his otherwise cool façade. He looks past the gun, straight into John’s eyes. “You’re going to regret making an enemy of me, John. And when I get ahold of the boy, and I promise you I will, I will punish him severely for your disrespect. Last chance.”
“No,” John says with the same stubbornness that earned him more than a few beatings as a child.
Emile shakes his head, snaps his fingers at his man, and turns on his heel. John waits until the car has peeled off down the street before relaxing his shoulders. He waits another five minutes before tucking his gun into the waistband of his pants. After locking the front door and checking on Bayani, he goes back downstairs, pulls out his phone, and dials Matthieu’s private number, the one he was given for emergencies only.
“Matthieu Fournier,” the man drawls upon answering, his annoyance at being disturbed made plain in his voice.
