Page 1 of All The Things: The Last Thing He Needs Omnibus

Chapter One

Leaning his head back against the cool brick wall, Tommy O’Shea tried to block out the stench of the dumpster and the faint skittering sound to his left. He wasn’t a fan of rats. Or roaches.

He heard a stifled groan come from the mouth slowly working his cock but didn’t bother to glance down. This was just another night, another trick to get off with after work before heading home to God only knew what. C’mon, I don’t got all night….

It wasn’t the fault of the eager stranger on his knees. It was Tommy’s own racing mind. Hope Colleen remembered to turn off the stove when she finished dinner. And Jesus, if Mike didn’t do the dishes like I said, I’ll bust his ass in the morning. And so it went for several minutes, making things take much longer than they normally would.

“That’s it…,” he finally whispered, swallowing hard as the guy—what was his name again?—took him down that extra inch, deep-throating him while playing with Tommy’s balls. “Yeah, don’t stop,” he added, more for himself than the other guy, forcing himself to rock his hips a little, trying to get into the moment and out of all the other scenarios spiraling through his head.

Wonder what kind of bullshit I’m going home to tonight? He didn’t know what it would be, but he knew it would be something. Cheryl, his stepmother, might have made a few friends in whatever gutter she and his father were in and brought them back to the house. They could be shooting up on the living room sofa. The kids could be there, seeing it all, or hiding upstairs. He could get home to find the police already on their doorstep. It might even be the same two cops who usually showed up at the most inopportune moments. They’d been by the house so many times, dragging his parents home from the street or responding to another domestic disturbance, the kids all knew them by name.

Officer Sanders was an older guy who didn’t seem to care one way or another as long as he wasn’t being shot at or pissed on. But Officer McAlister—Bobby, as Tommy had known him briefly in high school—was still a rookie and always seemed a little pained, a little worried every time he had the misfortune of dealing with Cal and Cheryl O’Shea.

Bobby was something else, something pure and clean and pretty, with those striking blue eyes and that fair skin—even his hair was curly and blond. Christ, he was even a choirboy when they were kids. Real angel, Bobby was. Still an angel: guarding, protecting, concerning himself with the troubles of others. Tempting.

Tommy thought back for a moment, remembered Bobby on the track at school, his skin slick with a sheen of clean sweat, his breath pounding out hard as his feet tattooed a heavy rhythm no one could touch. Tommy almost laughed. Hell, he even flies like an angel. The gently mocking humor died a second later as he remembered them both in the locker room after gym. Wet with soap and hot water, steam rising, muscles defined and sinewy….

He came with a grunt, biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood.

The trick in front of him politely tucked him back into his jeans. Tommy started to wonder if he’d gotten his name to begin with, because for the life of him, he still couldn’t remember it. He was about to ask before his back pocket started to buzz. “Shit,” Tommy muttered, nodding a thanks to the guy and preparing to jerk him off for his efforts even as he tugged his phone free and flipped it open. “What’s wrong?” he asked, feeling tension creep up his shoulders as what’s-his-name dusted off his knees and looked expectantly at him.

“Nothing’s wrong, exactly, but….”

The soft voice of one of his younger sisters sounded hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if this was something worth bothering him over. She was barely eleven and the one with the tenderest heart of all of them. Tommy sometimes thought he worried about her the most, but really, he worried about all of them for different reasons on different days.

“What’s goin’ on, Carrie?” He tried to ease his tone as he reached for what’s-his-name and started to pull at the button of the guy’s jeans.

“Just…. Sorry to bug ya, but Max has been crying for half an hour and he’s pulling at his ear again, and Zoe has a fever. We’re outta the drops for them, and I don’t think—”

Tommy still had his fingers wrapped around the guy’s cock, but his progress had stopped, even as the guy tried to shift and push against him. “How high is her fever?”

“Hundred point two. It’s not bad, but…”

“Yeah, Christ, the doc even said if Cheryl and Pop would quit smoking around them they wouldn’t get the damn ear infections. You haven’t been laying them down with their bottles, have ya?” He slowly pulled his hand free from the other guy and tried to look regretful.

“No, swear to Christ, Tommy, we stopped that when the nurse down at the clinic said it would make their teeth come in rotten.”

The babies were seven months old and there were so many dos and don’ts when it came to raising them, even Tommy had a hard time keeping it all straight.

“Good girl, Carrie. I’ll be home soon and I’ll pick up some stuff at the drugstore. Can I talk to Colleen?”

“She’s got Max and Zoe in a bath, tryin’ to see if it helps.”

“’Kay, good, I’ll be home soon. Good job.” Tommy snapped his phone shut and looked into the face of a very disappointed stranger, thinking it would be really bad form to ask the guy to spot him a twenty until payday. “Sorry.” He shoved his phone into the inside pocket of his dark blue work jacket. “Hate to, well, leave ya like that.” Tommy managed to bury his smirk as he glanced down at the probably painful hard-on the guy was sporting. “Kids need me, I gotta get.”

“What? Now?” The guy was a little indignant, but who wouldn’t be? “You’ve got kids?”

Tommy did laugh then. “Yeah, seven of ’em. I’m tryin’ for my own baseball team.”

And with that, Tommy O’Shea lit a cigarette and walked quickly out of the alley behind Smarty’s Pub where he’d just washed an assload of dishes and gotten his cock sucked. He rounded the corner into the early spring night, hoping to hell he could find a pharmacy still open.

The closest thing he found between 212th and home was an all-night gas station, but they had a little convenience store attached. He hoped it would do.

Squinting under the bright fluorescent lights, Tommy didn’t ask where anything was but milled around a little. He knew he had nearly eight dollars on him but had no idea how much the stuff would cost. He, like half the neighborhood, also knew the camera in the corner didn’t work. Convenient indeed.

He thought he probably looked suspicious in his tight jeans and heavy boots, with his dark hair hanging in his face and covering his clear green eyes, but that couldn’t be helped. Tommy walked up the candy aisle and down the chip aisle, back to the sodas and then the small automotive aisle. Trying to come off as indecisive rather than like he was casing the place, Tommy grabbed a can of soda—on sale for less than a buck—and then a small bag of chips—only a dollar there. Then he wandered over to the aisle with pain relievers and PMS relievers and pads and diapers. The guy behind the counter didn’t even bother to watch him, probably didn’t give a shit as long as no one pulled a gun. The little bottle of infant drops was over nine dollars.

The electronic sensor on the door dinged as it opened. Tommy didn’t look to see who it was but grabbed two boxes of the acetaminophen and hoped the clerk had glanced over at the new customer rather than in Tommy’s direction. Indifference would only go so far and lifting something in plain view wasn’t a chance he wanted to take.

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