Games Boys Play (8 page)

He shimmied his shoulders, sweat collecting between his shirt and the seat back. He thought of other things the intruder could do, with him trapped in the chair this way, unable to defend himself. He could come back in and blindfold him. Lay the chair down on its back, leaving him feeling even more helpless than he did now, with his toes pointing toward the ceiling and his weight pressing down on his bound wrists.

He could drag the chair over to a closet and shut him inside, in the dark. If he could fit the chair in a closet.

Brian’s thigh muscles tightened and relaxed in time to his thoughts. Tightened, his muscles took up more of the already scarce room in his jeans, trapping the head of his cock against the fabric. It also did something in his groin, though he wasn’t sure quite what.

It made his breath quicken, though. It made his pulse swarm in his ears.

His intruder could throw a sheet over him, he thought, just pretend he wasn’t there anymore, that he was old furniture.

Or he could add more tape, binding his thighs to the chair, his hips. Making it more and more impossible to get free.

A fresh sheen of sweat filmed his forehead.

His breaths were ragged against the tape.

He tightened his thigh muscles and relaxed them, tightened and relaxed them, imagining the intruder standing behind the chair, taping the rest of his face, leaving only a hole for his nostrils.

Then
dragging the chair into the closet.

OhmyGod.

He held his thigh muscles taut, and held them, and held them, sweating, blanking his mind.

Stop it.

A trickle of sweat made its way free of his hairline and trailed slowly down his temple.

Relax.

Relax.

Relax.

Do. Not. Think.

Do not.

Dylan’s boot heels made short, light thuds against the floor. The door slid closed.

Brian leaned his head against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, a moan held at bay far back in his throat.

The slats of the blinds rattled and shushed against each other as Dylan replaced the lock bar.

His body stilled, save for the rise and fall of his chest.

His heart slowed.

He pulled a deep draught of air through his nostrils, picking up the hint of cigarette smoke that had come in with Dylan.

An errant drop of sweat skimmed the shell of his ear.

But he was okay. He was okay. He had gotten control before he’d shot an embarrassing load in his pants.

He blinked his eyes open and was surprised to find himself looking at his apartment, to be back in reality, to have it all look so normal.

He looked over. Dylan—
the intruder
. The intruder had settled back on the couch, unaware. Just the black bulb shape of his hood visible above the couch cushions.

Brian eased his head against the wall again.

Despite the slight tingling in his upper arms and the beginnings of aches in knees that wanted to unbend and walk around, he felt like he could just stay there. Just…on end. For the evening, the night, the week. Whatever. A part of his brain knew he couldn’t really, but the rest of his capacity for reason had shut itself down and sunk into a warm, vaguely vibrating nectar. Like curling up in a honeycomb in an active hive.

He heard Dylan’s boots again and didn’t bother to look. Felt him approaching. Sensed him standing over him. A few not overly gentle taps on the side of his face brought his eyes open a crack.

With a thumb, Dylan pulled one of Brian’s eyelids up.

Half groggily, Brian turned his face away.

Dylan curved his glove around the back of Brian’s neck. “You still with me?”

Brian nodded. He brought his face forward, blinked at Dylan, then nodded again.

Dylan scrutinized his face before patting his cheek—again not quite gently—and turning away, taking a cell phone from his back pocket as he went, tapping in a number, lifting the phone to his ear. Waiting.

Then: “Hey. Where are they?”

They?

“It’s after nine already. They were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

After nine?
He had no idea what time they’d started.
Shit
. He should have paid attention.

“I’m not a fucking babysitter. That’s not what you guys pay me to do.”

A longer pause came, Dylan pacing the tiny kitchen, two steps to the stove, turn, two steps to the end of the counter, turn.

“It’s not like you guys didn’t know this was tonight.
You
gave
me
the job info.
You
set the fucking sched—” He turned away and opened the fridge, its light shining around him as he looked over its contents. “Twenty minutes. You’re sure? You’re sure now? Okay, twenty. You guys don’t show up, I’m taking off, fuck all of you. You pay me to get in and immobilize them—”

Something hot and slick shifted inside Brian at the sound of
immobilize
. He fought back a moan.

“—not wipe their noses and sit around waiting for girlfriends and shit to unexpectedly drop by.” A beat passed. “Twenty fucking minutes, and that’s
it
.” He tapped the screen, still standing in the light of the refrigerator.

Brian watched him push the phone back into his pocket.

“You want anything to drink?” Dylan asked.

Brian swallowed the spit that had pooled in his mouth, his muscles working against the tape gag to do it. He shook his head.

With a shrug, Dylan swung the door shut. “Suit yourself.” He left the kitchen, heading toward Brian. At first he just did a check, running a hand over the tape around Brian’s torso, down at his ankles, reaching behind the chair to check his wrists. When he straightened, instead of simply checking the gag, he bent Brian’s head forward and rubbed at the tape end to peel it free, the motions sending shivers skating down Brian’s neck. Dylan tipped Brian’s head up to come across the front, then down to go across the back again. Where the tape was stuck to skin, it smarted coming off, making him wince. At one spot, it had a good grip on some short hairs, and he gasped through his nose as it tore free. Fresh, cool air dissolved against the sweat on newly exposed patches of his cheeks and chin. After one more time around, he was left with just the original three strips Dylan had pressed in place. Dylan dropped the crumpled wad of tape and grasped the edge of those strips. With one quick pull—and a searing sting that made Brian yelp—they were gone, and sweet, fresh air filled his mouth. He gulped it in and then gulped some more until Dylan clamped his glove over Brian’s mouth, the acrid taste of cigarette spreading across the tip of his tongue before he could get it out of the way.

“If you make one sound, I will dig a pair of socks out of the bottom of your dirty laundry, piss in them, stuff them in your mouth, and tape your mouth shut again. Do you understand me?”

Brian nodded.

“Good.” He pulled his hand away, leaving the taste of his glove behind.

As Dylan—the intruder—walked back to the couch, Brian tasted his lips with the tip of his tongue. Sweat and the faint memory of cigarettes. He wiped his cheeks against his shoulders, drying some of the sweat. Dylan dropped onto the couch lengthwise, sliding down so his head rested on the arm. Brian could just see the top of his hoodie sticking out from the end.

As much as he was sweating just sitting in the chair, it had to be worse inside a ski mask and a hood.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes—maybe less—and it would come to an end.

Shit.

Part of him was already starting to miss this. The other part needed to take a leak and swallow a jug of cold water. Take a shower. Lie naked on his bed, limbs stretched out any way they wanted to be, air from the ceiling fan skating over his skin. Jack off, thinking back on all this, reliving it—thankful he hadn’t seen Dylan during any of it, just the faceless intruder. He could pretend Dylan hadn’t seen
him
during any of it.

That part of him was looking forward to falling asleep, exhausted and sated, maybe jerked from sleep at some point by dreams of a masked intruder breaking into his house.

But the other part of him…the other part wasn’t looking forward to this being over already, in another twenty minutes or so. He wasn’t sure if it was a sadistic bent or a masochistic one—or a little of each. It was the same panic he felt when the ice cube in the bottom of the sock started to get small. Time flying by too quickly.

The blurry glow on the stove clock changed shape slightly, once every sixty seconds, marking time, one minute after another.

His muscles jerked when a ringtone sounded off, echoing in the quiet room.

It seemed to take forever for Dylan to lift his hips, slide the phone free, look at the screen, and bring it to his face.

Brian was riveted.

“You’d better be calling to say you’re on your way up the stairs right now.” After a short pause: “Jesus…fuck.” Dylan was on his feet. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’m a little tied up here, you know?” He thrust an arm in Brian’s direction, as if whoever was on the phone could see. He was standing by the table at this point. “You guys are un-fucking-believable. Right. Right. I’ll fucking be there in five. What a fucking joke,” he said as he tapped the call off and shoved the phone into his pocket.

He dragged the backpack across the table, checked its contents, zipped it, and hiked it over his shoulder. And started toward the door.

“Hey?” Brian said.

Dylan opened the door, walked through, and pulled it shut behind him.

“Dyl?”

Any second now…

He stared at the door.

Waiting.

The AC clicked on.

The fridge’s ice maker chunked fresh cubes into the bin.

The door didn’t open.

He squirmed against the tape.

There was no key that was going to drop down. No escape mechanism.
Shit
. He leaned forward as far as he could, thinking he could maybe rub the tape at his wrists against the back of the chair seat, maybe tear it a little. He kept his eyes on the door as he tried it, sawing up and down across the chair’s too-fucking-smooth edge.

“Shit.”

He sat back, alleviating the pressure against his chest but resuming the pressure against his forearms.

“Shit.”
Now
he wanted out. All parts of him. “Fuck.” His nerves thrummed in his fingers. Were they falling asleep?
Shit
. His scalp crawled.
Slow breaths. Of
course
he’s coming back. It’s
Dylan.

He threw himself against the tape.

A hot wave of pleasure rolled inside him.

Oh no
. He froze.
No
. No.

Think of the Joy Division discography. The EP
An Ideal for Living
was released June 1978. Tracks: “Warsaw,” “No Love Lost,” “Leaders of Men,” “Failures.”
He could
not
come while he was sitting here in this chair, because Dylan
would
come back, and he’d hunker down next to Brian’s crotch to pull the tape off his ankles, and maybe the load wouldn’t bleed through denim, but Dylan would smell it with his face down there. He’d smell it, and he’d know.

Unknown Pleasures,
released on the Factory label in June 1979, number one on the UK indie chart…

He hung his head.

The single, “Transmission,” was released in October 1979, backed with “Novelty.”

He clenched and unclenched his hands.

Dylan would show up anytime.

Any fucking time.

He couldn’t breathe.

This was what you wanted anyway, wasn’t it?

An ache in the middle of his chest—was he having a heart attack?

Slow. Fucking. Breaths.

He struggled against the tape, whispering, “Fuck.” He was stuck. Really stuck.

He panted shallowly.

The door did not open.

Right. Right, okay.

I just have to get one hand free. That’s all. Just a hand.

Systematically he began twisting and tugging the wrist with the most play.

Chapter Twelve

A knock came at the door.

Dylan. Thank God
. He opened his mouth and nearly called out, but a thought stilled his voice in his throat: what if it wasn’t Dylan? Or what if it
was
Dylan but in character as the intruder? What if he called out, and Dylan-the-intruder came in and made good on the pissy-sock threat?

Shit.

He didn’t think that, in reality, Dylan would actually go that far, but he could see how it could lead to the start of a whole new round, and right now, right this second, he did
not
want a whole new round.

He wanted his full range of motion back. He wanted to stand up and stretch. Walk. Wipe the sweat off his brow and hold a glass of water in his hand.

The knock came again.

If it was Dylan, he knew Brian was in here, and at some point he’d let himself in, probably sooner than later. If it (truly and genuinely) wasn’t Dylan, he’d be in a tough spot trying to explain this anyway. And Dylan would be along eventually. It was fucking
Dylan
, after all.

Name one time Dylan let you down. One time.

“Bri?” Dylan called from outside the door.

“Dyl?”

“Yeah. You going to open the door?”

He let a beat go by. “Uh, just let yourself in.” He twisted his wrists against the tape again. His skin was starting to get sore from pulling. He was sure he was going to find a bruise or three on his elbows come morning too.

The knob turned; the door opened. Dylan walked in—leather jacket, dark blue button-down shirt, unruly hair. He was closing the door, not looking in Brian’s direction, saying, “So what’s got you so tied up you can’t come to—” His eyes lit on Brian. “What the fuck?” He was across the dining area in two strides. “Are you okay? What happened? Shit. Seriously, are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Little help?” Brian leaned forward.

“What happened?” Dylan felt along the tape wrapped around Brian’s chest, looking for a place to start unpeeling it.

“I don’t know. I just… I opened the door, and someone with a gun…”

Dylan gaped at him. “A gun?”