When the two visitors had gone, Olivero gave Manuel's buttocks a slow, thoughtful squeeze. "Go to your own room, chico. I want to think tonight."
The dark-eyed glance that Manuel gave him was understanding. Usually he slept with Olivero, but there were certain nights, nights when he had a lot on his mind, when Manuel was sent to 'his' room. Manuel went directly there. As he stripped, he once again examined the room.
It might have been that of a typical teenage boy--back in the eighties. That 'deja vu' feel came from the posters and accessories scattered carefully around the room. On one wall was a poster of The A-Team. Manuel was familiar with that--it was quite popular on late-night television. It was the ambition of many of the lower class young men to be able to wear as many gold chains and medallions as the scowling B.A. The other poster showed two good looking young men in jeans, one fair and one dark, leaning on a souped up car. The legend said DUKES, and it had actually been signed by one of the stars, he wasn't sure which one.
Olivero had spent a lot of money to get his hands on that. One day when he was feeling particularly brave Manuel had asked him why it was so important. Olivero had just replied that that was how it had been.
Manuel removed all his clothes, then went to the dresser. Manuel had never heard the term 'preppy', and merely considered the clothes too conservative. He sighed as he extracted a pair of baggy, white cotton boxer shorts. He much preferred briefs or jockeys, but when Olivero wanted him to sleep here, he wanted him to wear these.
Manuel shut off the lights. The last thing he did before slipping into bed was unlock the French doors that opened out onto the balcony. Then he slipped between the sheets and settled down. Olivero preferred for him to be truly asleep when he came to visit, and he could tell if Manuel was faking it.
Olivero had another drink after Manuel went up to bed, then turned out the lights and climbed the stairs to his own room. He did not turn on the lights, but switched on the lamp beside the bed, turning it to low. He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer, reaching inside.
He lifted out a carved wooden box, about the size of a double deck of cards. He took off his shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. For long minutes he just sat, running his fingers over the polished surface, tracing the delicate geometric patterns etched in the wood. Cypress wood. It wasn't a common material for these sort of things, but he'd stipulated it. Cypress trees were native to Louisiana.
Finally he lifted the lid from the box, setting it aside. The box was lined with white satin, and it held one item. Olivero reached in and lifted it out, setting aside the box.
It was a hank of hair--not very long, only about as long and thick as his middle finger. Olivero looked at it, remembering how he had prepared it. He had carefully inserted each strand into a bit of wax, then wrapped the wax in a gold-green satin ribbon. There was not danger that any of the precious hair would be lost.
The hair was a rich, dark, sable brown. Olivero passed it through his fingertips, feeling the silky glide. Closing his eyes, he lifted it to his face and sniffed deeply. The scent, still familiar after all these years, filled him, and he remembered...
Twenty years earlier
Diaz watched Olivero. The young man was moving with an even greater swagger than usual. *You are very pleased with yourself, de la Montana. What have you been up to?*
He worked steadily, but Diaz noticed that his eyes kept sliding toward the door. Diaz knew what he was looking for--or rather who he was looking for, but Duncan didn't show up.
At lunch time they went into the kitchen, as was their habit. Olivero frowned when he saw that Luisa was alone in the kitchen. He sat at the table and opened his lunch and began to eat, but his eyes never left the door that led into the house. Diaz watched as his edginess grew. Finally Olivero said, "Luisa, is Duncan ill?"
She looked up from the potato she was peeling. "Que?"
"Duncan, the young senor. He usually joins us."
"Oh. Senor Duncan is gone."
Diaz noted the sudden flex of Olivero's fingers, but the boy's tone was casual, "He does not usually care to go into town with his mother."
"No, not into town. He is..." she made a waving motion, "gone. Back to America."
Both of the older people were startled when Olivero stood up abruptly, his chair crashing to the floor. They gaped at the tall young man, who glared at them with hot, angry eyes. "No!"
Luisa stuttered, "But... but, yes. Early this morning. The sun had not even risen when the patrone took him to the city. They were going to the airport."
"No!"
"Olivero!" Luisa cried his name as he stalked out of the kitchen, making his way into the house. Only very select servants were allowed into the family quarters, and Olivero de la Montana was most definitely not one of the chosen few.
Olivero ignored her, moving through the lower level to the stairs. His pace increased as he walked, till he was taking the steps two at a time. Upstairs he dashed down the hall, heading for Duncan's room. He had never been there, but he knew where it was--Duncan had described it's location to him, and pointed out the window.
Downstairs he heard a babble of female voices, but they signified little. He found the door and opened it, then stepped inside. The room was neat, with none of the casual clutter he would have expected in Duncan's room. Olivero went to the closet and jerked it open. There were nothing but empty hangers on the rod, and single, battered pair of shoes discarded in the corner.
Olivero went to the dresser and pulled open each drawer, not bothering to close them. All empty. He jerked the last one from the dresser, throwing it on the floor.
"What are you doing?"
Olivero's head jerked around, and he saw the angry Anglo woman standing in the doorway--Duncan's mother. "Where is he?"
She frowned. "You know very well that you're not allowed up here. And look at what you've done! Well, you don't have a job here anymore, I can tell you that."
He took a step toward her. "Where have you sent him, you bitch?"
Her eyes hardened. "It looks like I was right. He's back in the United States. He'll be attending a good prep school in Louisiana, where he can be with his own kind. And I didn't send him--he wanted to go."
Olivero felt a stab of pain. "You lie."
"Why would I lie about that? He didn't just want to go, he insisted." She shook her head. "I think the boy would have gone by rowboat if I hadn't agreed. Now, get out of here, and get off my property."
Olivero glared at her, but she didn't flinch. He almost felt a bit of respect for her--almost. He shoved past her and went down the stair, but he did not go back to the kitchen. No, he left by the front door, and he left it standing wide open. He was through using the servant's entrance.
Seven months later
Bartolo entered the bar and paused near the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. It was a better class place than he was used to. They actually washed the glasses between customers. He saw the hand extend from the back booth and beckon him, and he walked back.
Olivero looked up at him. As he slipped into the seat, Bartolo reflected that Olivero's eyes were even flatter and more unreadable than they ever had been. He had always been hard, but since his chico ran away he was frightening.
There was a bottle of whiskey and an extra glass on the table, and Bartolo helped himself to a drink. Olivero watched him, sipping his own drink, not speaking. When Bartolo poured his second drink he said simply, "Well?"
Bartolo nodded. "He is back. It is their Easter vacation. Uh... spring break? He will be there a week."
Olivero ran his fingers up and down the glass, studying the amber liquid. "This isn't quite the color of his eyes. If I added a bit of absinthe, for the green..." He swallowed the last of the drink, then poured some more.
"You going to go see him, 'Vero?"
Olivero laughed shortly. "Yes, and have the senora call the police to haul me away. No, he'll have to come to me. If he comes back to your place, send him to me."
"Si." *It won't happen, Olivero, and not because he's worried about his mother's opinion. I suppose I'll have to tell him, but I'd better be ready to jump.* He said slowly. "He... brought a friend."
Olivero went ominously still. "Yes? Tell me about this friend."
"He is one of the teachers, I think, but not old, not yet thirty. He is blond." Bartolo paused. He knew it was dangerous, but some perverse urge made him continue. "He is very handsome--muy macho."
There was a grating sound. Bartolo felt a chill up his spine. It was Olivero, gritting his teeth. But Olivero's voice was quiet. "What is this person's name?"
Bartolo frowned in concentration. "I think it is... Gilbert. Gilbert Martin." Olivero grunted. "The senora seems very happy to have him there. Luisa says the lady thinks he is a good influence on her son. He will keep the boy from what she calls his 'low tastes'." Olivero did not reply, but continued to study the liquor that he swirled in his glass.
*He's going to do something, and it's not going to be nice. It is only a question of how far he will go, and whether he goes after both of them, or just one of them,* Bartolo thought.
De la Montana had been very busy in the last few months. Without his job at the plantation to distract him, he was able to concentrate on his less legal, but much more profitable, activities.
Olivero already had another three marijuana patches, one of them a fair-sized field, and it was more than he could handle on his own. Bartolo worked for him part-time, tending and harvesting a particularly lush patch. His friend paid well, and allowed a little sampling of the product, but he still turned a hefty profit. That was due mainly to the fact that his men were diligent and honest in their accounting. It was safer that way.
One peon who had 'misplaced' a kilo of the best leaves had... strayed. One day he simply could not be found, and Olivero turned management of that particular patch over to Bartolo. Bartolo, in the process of picking the choicest leaves for delivery to a favored dealer, had discovered a large patch of bloody earth in the midst of the plants. He had kicked more dirt over it, thinking, *Something made a kill. Something.*
Being of service to such a man, Bartolo mused, might pay off in the long run. He said carefully, "Surely they will not remain on the plantation the entire time. The young senor will want to show his friend some of the local sights. The family's driver is a reasonable man. He has expressed his desire to go to his family in Bogota. A few hundred dollars would be all he would need. Then, perhaps, when the chico and his friend take a ride they may see more sights than they imagined."
Olivero smiled grimly. "An interesting suggestion, Bartolo, but who is to say that the driver will not develop a conscience, or, worse still, greed? Thank you, but no." He looked away. "I may be hard to find for the next few days."
Gilbert Martin trotted backward smoothly, his arm swinging back. Then he lashed forward with vicious speed and strength. He was satisfied when he heard the *thwang* and felt the solid shock run down his arm, telling him that he'd connected solidly with the tennis ball.
The ball sizzled across the net, clearing it by a scant half inch. Duncan Broussard lunged for it, arm outstretched. He didn't make it. The ball kissed the rim of his tennis racket, smacked onto the clay court well in-bounds, then shot off to land in the lush green grass. Duncan stumbled, swearing, and barely caught himself from falling. He threw his racket down pettishly, his voice rising above the clatter and the sound of his opponent's laughter. "All those hours of lessons, and I'm no closer to beating you than I ever was!" His golden eyes narrowed as he planted his hands on his hips and stared at the other man. "Gil, I suspect you of holding out. You're only going to teach me so much, but never enough to beat you."
The older man hopped the net with casual grace, muscles flexing in his long, brown thighs. "You're paranoid, Dunc." He pointed at the discarded racket with his own. "And spoiled, and destructive. That's a fine racket--it cost your old man a bundle."
Duncan shrugged, kicking at it. "So? It's not like he can't afford it. He's happy to pay for anything that keeps me out of his hair." His eyes glinted at the other man, and the corners of his full mouth curved in a sly smile. "That's why he was willing to pay for your ticket."
"Oh, really? So I'm supposed to be a babysitter?" Gilbert moved closer, his step fluid and lazy. As he approached, he quickly scanned the immediate area, paying particular attention to the house. He could see no one. He slid an arm around Duncan's waist and pulled the boy against his body with a quick, rough jerk.
Duncan rested his hands lightly on the older man's chest and looked up at him through his lashes, a move that never failed to heat Gilbert's blood. "Don't you like being my daddy, Gil?"
Martin growled, and kissed Duncan--hard. As always, the boy's lips parted under his, his tongue snaking out to twine with Gilbert's in an erotic dance. Duncan claimed that he'd only been fucked by one other man. Gilbert was a little skeptical, but he liked the idea.
Even if he'd had scant experience with being penetrated, the little Louisiana boy certainly knew about sex. Gilbert had been delighted to find Duncan Broussard in his calculus class. At first he'd been disappointed that the boy was so good at mathmatics--he'd been hoping for intimate tutoring sessions. But then Duncan had come to him and asked for tennis lessons. (Gilbert, like most of the teachers at the small, exclusive school, had several duties, and tennis coach was one of them).
Duncan had pleaded for a late practice hour, citing other obligations and the need to study, so they had not gone to the court until nine o'clock. It was almost eleven, and the rest of the school was asleep when finally, sweaty and with Duncan sporting a grazed knee, they'd gone in to the locker room.
Gilbert had blessed the fact that the school still had (in the belief that they were teaching their students to 'rough it') a communal shower. Under the steamy spray, Gilbert had felt his mouth go dry, looking at the coltish beauty of his student. On the pretext of examining Duncan's scrape, he'd bent down, his hand on one firm, young thigh--for balance.
His eyes had wandered. He'd seen that Duncan was aroused, his cock lifting from the damp tangle of brown curls at his groin. Unable to resist, Gilbert had sunk to his knees and fellated him to a whimpering orgasm. Then he'd dragged the boy out into the locker room, bent him over a bench and fucked him, using a squirt of hair conditioner for lubrication. It had been fantastic. He and Duncan had a lot of late night practices after that.
If only the boy's parents had been away Gilbert would have pushed him down on the clay court and fucked him under the wide blue sky, but there was the scant chance that someone might came out, so he'd have to wait. He pushed his crotch against Duncan, letting him feel the warm firmness he'd created, then stepped back. "Do you know what I'm going to do with that later tonight?"
Duncan bent over to pick up the racket, deliberately pointing his ass at his lover. He knew that the sight of the firm swells, barely covered by his tight, white shorts, would inflame him even more. "Does it involve me being in a position like this?"
"You are such a little slut, Duncan."
"Yes. Aren't you grateful?"
They continued teasing each other as they walked back to the house. Neither noticed the slight rustle of the bushes near the court. If they had, they would have assumed that it was just an animal. In a way, they would have been right. Olivero squatted in the brush, his hands tearing at the grass as he watched the two men disappear into the house. He settled himself comfortably, and waited for night to fall.
Duncan stretched voluptuously as Gilbert paused in pulling on his pants to watch. The boy noticed his lover's gaze. Smiling, he reached behind himself and drew his finger down the crease of his buttocks. It came away smeared with come, and he rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. "You come like a fire hose, Gil. My poor little asshole is going to be tender all day tomorrow."
Gilbert leaned over and slapped his ass lightly. "Just so long as you're ready again tomorrow night, darlin'." He sat on the edge of the bed again and probed gently at the spot Duncan had just touched. He slipped a finger into the still loosened back passage, feeling it slide easily in the spunk he'd just deposited there. Duncan shuddered and purred when Gilbert located his prostate and caressed it. "Tell me again, honey."
"Tell you what?" Duncan's voice was coy.
"You know."
Duncan laughed. He pulled free of Gilbert's probing finger and turned to throw his arms around the older man's neck. "Oh, you are so vain! All right. You're the best I ever had, Gil. Only one person ever fucked me before you, and he wasn't much better than a rutting animal. All he knew was pound, pound, pound. You--you're a real man."
"I'm better than he was," Gil demanded.
"Much better. Infinitely better. I wish I'd never let him touch me. I wish I'd waited for you to be my first."
"Your first?" Gilbert's tone was laced with irony.
Duncan slapped his shoulder. "You! All right, the first one to bugger me. Satisfied?"
Gilbert gave him a licking kiss. "For tonight, anyway." He stood up and headed toward the French doors that led out onto the balcony. His room was next door, and he'd used their shared balcony to go back and forth to Duncan's room without worrying about alerting anyone in the household.
"Do you have to go? I've slept with guys, but I've never actually slept with anyone, you know?"
"I know. Maybe we can arrange something when we get back--both of us take a weekend and go to a motel." He opened the doors, and began to step out. "but until..." He made a sneezing sound.
"Till when, Gil?" No response. He could see Gil's back, his hand on the door handle, but the front of his body was obscured by the open door. Gil's hand jerked on the handle, fingers flexing. "Gil? Honey, what's wrong?"
Gilbert took a step back, turning toward Duncan. For a confused moment, Duncan thought that Gilbert must have put on one of his T-shirts while he wasn't looking--a red one. Gil made a gurgling sound, and Duncan noticed that the red did not have the matte texture of cloth, but was shiny--wet.
Giblert took a faltering step back toward the bed, and Duncan said softly, "Gil?"
He had his hands clutched over his belly. They dropped to his sides, and a glistening mass spilled over his waistband to dangle almost to his thighs.
Duncan started to hitch in deep, whooping breaths. He thought vaguely that he'd eventually let it out in a huge scream, but at the moment he didn't seem able to exhale. He just kept drawing more air in as Gilbert sank to his knees, and his dangling intestines, bathed in the blood from his slashed throat, hit the floor.
A shadowy figure moved into the room, brushing Gilbert, who slowly toppled over. Duncan drew one last huge breath, ready to scream, then the knife was held before his eyes, and he stopped. It was huge, curving, and wicked, slick with his late lover's blood. He didn't scream.
A soft voice said, "Don't scream, chico. I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to."
Duncan, unable to take his eyes off the knife, whispered, "You killed him."
"Yes. He touched what is mine. Will you cry for him, chico?"
"Olivero... please."
"Please what, chico?" Duncan scooted back on the mattress as Olivero advanced. "That's far enough." Duncan stopped with his back against the headboard. Olivero climbed on the bed, moving till he was kneeling astraddle Duncan's outstretched legs.
Olivero laid the flat of the blade against the boy's smooth cheek. "I missed you, chico. Badly." He stroked the cold steel across Duncan's cheek, and the boy whimpered. "Your bitch of a mother told me that you wanted to go. She lied, didn't she, mi corazon?"
"I... yes, Vero. I didn't want to go. I screamed and I cried, but she made me. I didn't have any way to tell you... I didn't know how to write you. They wouldn't let me come home for Christmas."
"Poor lonely little boy." He backhanded Duncan. The only sound the boy made was a gasping sob. Olivero's voice was flat. "I watched you, Duncan, you and your stud. I listened to you." Olivero began to unfasten his pants. "I'm not much better than an animal. All I know is pound" he slapped Duncan. "Pound" He slapped him again. "Pound." A third slap.
Duncan was crying now, but too frightened to struggle, or even try to defend himself. He had been afraid of de la Montana before--now proof of all of which he was capable was bleeding on the floor.
Olivero continued talking. "He was better than I." He moved, forcing Duncan's legs apart so that he knelt between them. He grabbed Duncan's legs and jerked hard. Duncan slid down on the bed, his head striking the headboard, as Olivero hefted his knees up over his shoulders. Duncan gave a soft cry as the knife blade stabbed into the pillow beside his face, so close that he could smell Gilbert's blood on the blade. Blood, and a peculiarly earthly smell that had to be the scent of the man's bowels.
Olivero moved forward, fitting the head of his cock against the boy's still relaxed anus, and shoved in as hard as he could. "You wish I'd never touched you!" One hand came down on Duncan's mouth, stifling his scream of pain, and he raped the boy, much more violently than he had the night before he left.
Duncan rode out the assault, enduring the ripping, burning pain in his bowels, feeling the blood mingle with the semen as Olivero climaxed. *I survived this before, I can survive it again. He said he wouldn't kill me. Dear God, let it be true.*
When he was done, Duncan waited for him to pull out. He was ready to tell Olivero that Gilbert had blackmailed him into the relationship. He was ready to tell Olivero that he wanted to run away with him. He was ready to tell Olivero that he'd give him the combination to his step-father's study safe, and access to the cash and bonds therein, and tell them a story about a band of robbers who'd broken in and killed Gilbert. He was ready to tell him anything to survive.
To his horror, Olivero lay on top of him until he got hard, then took Duncan again, even more brutally than before. This time it took him longer to come. By the time he was done, Olivero didn't have to cover Duncan's mouth, because the boy didn't have the energy to scream. Even then it wasn't over. Olivero found several items in the room and used them to sodomize the mewling boy. It went on for several hours. Duncan finally, blessedly, passed out.
The Senora was awakened by Luisa's screams. She went out into the hall in time to see the stout mestizo woman stumble from Duncan's room, her normally swarthy face as pale as cheese.
She caught Luisa's arm before the woman could flee. "What is it? Damn it, what's wrong?"
The sobbing woman was crossing herself, over and over. "La madre de Dios, la sangre! El senor Gilbert... Duncan pequeno..."
"Sangre? Blood?" Terror swept over her, and she shoved the woman aside, running toward her son's room. "Duncan!"
The scene was a surreal horror. Gilbert Martin, that sweet, courtly young man, lay on the floor before the open French doors. He was naked, save for a pair of trousers bunched around his angles, and he was a welter of blood from neck to knees. A wound gaped in his throat, and his intestines spilled over his lap and down to the floor. He looked like a poor little deer she'd come across once while walking with her husband. He had told her that the unfortunate creature had been killed by a jaguar, and that she and Duncan must be very careful, because the creatures still roamed the jungle nearby.
A whimper drew her attention to the bed. Duncan was curled in a tight ball, head tucked, hugging his knees. He was naked, and had pulled himself into the same fetal positon he had used when he floated in his mother's womb, safe from the dangers of this world. She went to him and touched him gently. "Baby! Baby, are you all right?"
Another whimper. She ran her hands over his body, looking for wounds. There was blood, and there were bruises, but she saw no cuts. She absently noticed that his hair was in wild disarray, and a large chunk seemed to be missing. The stubble of the shorn patch was bloody, and it was decided later that his hair had been cut with the same weapon that had killed the poor teacher.
"Duncan, sit up. I'm going to go call the police, but I want you to get up and come out of this room." She pried at this arms, forcing him to uncurl. "Sit up!" He lifted his head, and she gasped. There were only a few bruises on his face, and those weren't too bad, but...
*His eyes! Dear God, he looks insane.* His expression was slack, a bright cord of drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were screaming. "Baby, who did this?"
Duncan shook his head slowly. His hands had been fisted at his waist. Now he held his right hand out to his mother, fingers uncurling slowly. There was a shoelace binding something to his palm, the cord drawn and knotted cruelly tight. She looked closer. It took her a moment to realize what it was. She cast a single, horrified glance at the body on the floor.
Duncan's voice was a hoarse whisper, and it was the last coherent thing he would say for a long, long time. "He... he said that... that if I wanted it so much, I should have it." Duncan's expression crumpled, his voice mournful. "And he was so good with it."
The present
Manuel came awake suddenly, as he always did. This time Olivero was standing over him. Sometimes he did not awaken until the large, hard body was pressing him down into the mattress.
The moonlight that seeped through the open doors glinted on Olivero's dark eyes. *Dios. It's going to be bad tonight.* His cock started to stiffen.
A soft voice said, "Don't scream, chico. I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to."
