Page 8 of Fitch

A silver fox with a commanding body and a glorious cock. He had short hair, greying at the sides, tanned skin, blue eyes. And big hands that knew exactly how to hold me, how to position me, and he knew how to fuck me and fill me.

That was why I had to leave.

Now, I’d serviced Dom a few times over the last couple of months, never straying too far from Wylde or Oxford Street. Usually a quick fix: blowjobs and that one time in the hotel.

But at his home? Where he took care of me and took me apart several times, and seeing him as something else other than a client. As a man with a life in full dimension, and not just a two-dimensional john and quick fifty bucks. It was a dangerous game, and one I wasn’t sure I could afford to play.

He’d paid me the money, gave me the best railings of my life, fed the daddy craving that burned in me, and then said he’d cook me pancakes after he showered.

And I loved pancakes.

I almost stayed.

But the voice of self-preservation in the back of my mind was telling me to bail.

Get out while you can.

Leave while the leaving’s good.

So while the shower ran in his bathroom, I dressed, pulled on my Converse, made sure I had my phone and key, and slipped out the front door.

I could breathe a little easier the further I got from his place. Which was in Double Bay, mind you. Where degrees of wealth were an equation I’d never comprehend.

I should have asked him for more money. He’d probably spent more than three hundred bucks on a single glass of whisky.

Oh well. Lesson learned.

I smiled as I hit Oxford Street. The familiarity, the people. Much more my style.

Home.

Figuring I had some extra cash and could splurge on one iced coffee, I hit the 7-Eleven. “Hey, Mr Stephanopoulos,” I said as I walked in and went straight to the fridge. He’d been the owner ever since I’d arrived. A real sweet man, maybe sixty-five, with thin white hair and a dark grey moustache and kind eyes. He looked out for the boys that worked and lived on Oxford, and wedid the same for him. Rumour was he’d been around with the original 78ers, though I was never game to ask.

“Oh, Fitch,” he said, signalling for me to come closer. Then he spoke in a hushed voice. “Listen, listen. Is Benji okay?”

Fear struck me. I hadn’t been home, hadn’t texted him. I instinctively pulled out my phone. Only texts from Ky. “Yeah, I’m sure. Why do you ask? Did something happen?”

“Some men were looking for him last night,” he replied. “Not-so-nice men.”

Fuck.

I knew exactly who he was referring to.

“They asked in here and in some other places up and down, apparently. I told them I’d not seen him before,” he said. “You tell that boy he needs to be careful.”

“I will, thank you.”

“He needs to lay low for a little while, yeah?”

I nodded. God-fucking-dammit. “Thank you, Mr Stephanopoulos. I’ll tell him.”

I paid for my iced coffee and had my phone to my ear before I was out the door.

“Come on, Benj,” I mumbled. And I never called. He should know it was urgent if I called... “Pick up.”

No answer.

I shot out a quick text.

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