Page 21 of Petrichor

“Do that,” I hiss between gritted teeth. Doc takes a trembling step back hearing my menacing tone. After injecting the sedative, hegrabs his leather bag and hurriedly leaves the bedroom. A few seconds later, I hear the beep and click of the front door.

Silence reigns again. I stare at Fly with heavy eyes. He looks pale and even asleep, troubled. This sight clashes with the memory I have of him. I feel angry. Why did he come here tonight? In this fucking condition? Forcing me into this situation.

Christ! He’s so fucking troublesome and weak.

I grunt and slide my phone out of my pants before finding Carlo’s number.

“Sir?” He picks up after one ring.

“Ask around if somebody heard about a beating tonight. A young man, long blond hair, light eyes, dainty built. His name is Fly. Find out who the aggressor was. Want to know ASAP.”

“Yes, sir,” Carlo replies before I hang up. I leave the phone on the nightstand and stare at Fly.

His small torso moves with each deep breath. The shirt is still open revealing the lace and battered body. Fuck! I roll my shirt sleeves up. I want a cig, but I should get this over with first. I pull off Fly’s shoes. Socks and shorts go next, revealing a pair of blue cotton panties with a slightly darker bow on top. They look obscene on him, sinful. Maybe because of the bulge in the front or the way they perfectly wrap around his narrow hips. They seem intact, no tears or stains. I lift Fly’s lower torso, pulling on his legs to get the shorts off all the way. The panties are a thong, the skimpy strip of fabric disappears between the smooth, pale, round cheeks.

I quickly lay him down again and move to the shirt. He’s wearing what I think is called a bralette underneath. The flimsy blue piece of stretchy lace lies flat on his hairless chest, covering the pink nipples. No pretense at a push-up effect because there’s nothing to elevate. Noteven a muscled pec since Fly is lean, bordering on skinny. Still, it suits him—if I ignore all the bruises—looking almost insubstantial on him. The hooks are on the front, and I open them one by one. The belly chain’s pendants tinkle as I free him from the translucent fabric. The scent of fresh rain combines with sweat and the penny smell of blood.

My twitching dick confuses me, and I flex and clench my fist around the soft, blue lace in my hand—it has kept some of Fly’s warmth. I toss it on the armchair on my way to the living room where I retrieve the towel and bowl I left on the coffee table earlier. The water is still warm, so I move back to the bedroom and start cleaning his body.

I’ve never done something like this before. I have my crew or Doc for that, so why am I not waiting for him? Fly helped me with my migraine, I’m just returning the favor. Plus, if he gets an infection, I’ll never get rid of him. I try to wash his wounds with care, my rough hands are made to inflict pain, not soothe it. He winces in his sleep a few times, especially when I move to the deep scratches on his thighs. It looks like his aggressor dug his nails forcibly into the skin with the intention of leaving a mark. The bruises on his arms and collarbone show that he was grabbed and tossed around. Punched or slapped in the face repeatedly. Held by the waist, maybe pinned down. He must have been assaulted by more then one person. Cowards.

When I’m done, the water has turned pink inside the bowl. I toss the towel in and start with the ointment. His skin feels cold to the touch, but silky. At a close look, his biceps are more defined than I expected. The only extra flesh on his body is on his plump ass. I’ve always been more of a breasts guy, though. Why the fuck am I thinking that?

I decide to let Doc take care of the wounds on Fly’s face later. I cover his body with the blanket at the foot of the bed and leave the light from the small lamp on. When I’m back in the living room, Itake the pack of cigarettes from where I left it on the kitchen counter. I light one while moving toward the balcony. Through the open glass doors, the night air enters. It feels calm, fresh, not chilly, but it still makes me shiver for a moment.

The bracelet around my wrist feels heavy, the bullet pendant digs into my skin as I lay my forearms on the stone rail. Since I’ve met Fly, I’ve done things that are out of character for me. Getting a BJ from a man, let him take me home while driving my car, taking care of his injuries, and now wanting to pulverize the guy who reduced him to this. It’s not out of some sort of selfless altruism, though. Fly owes me money. I don’t get a penny if he turns up dead. Simple as that. And I am quite the simple man.

I normally follow my impulses. Seb is the mind, while Luca and I are the fists. There’s no need for me to think more deeply than I do. But I don’t like situations that I can’t control. Nevertheless, Seb ordered me to keep an eye on Fly. I just need to treat him like I do the rest. I need to find his weaknesses and use them to dominate him.

My eyes fall on his bag lying on the entrance floor. I leave the cigarette in the ashtray on the small metal table and move to get the black bag and place it on the coffee table. It’s heavy with crap. After a few seconds wasted looking through the inner mayhem, I turn it upside down and empty it on the table.

It’s like a beggar’s cart. Why the hell does he carry mosquito trap sticky strips and a mannequin’s plastic foot? A bag of cat treats and a tin box filled with buttons and pins?

I finally find his phone. The lock screen is a black and white rainy street. I don’t know the passcode, so I put it down and move to his wallet. He has a cash card and a driver’s license, dozens of old receipts, ten dollars in coins, and a pic of an old lady smiling.

My phone vibrates inside the pocket of my pants. It’s Carlo.

“Got a name?” I answer it, tossing all the useless stuff back in the bag.

“Yes, sir. Jerry Evans from the Enzinos.”

The same fucker who claimed to be Fly’s boyfriend. I grab my Glock and suit jacket from the entry closet. “Got your eyes on him?”

“Jo’s. I’m three minutes away from your place, sir,” he efficiently replies.

“Good. Tell Santo to come here now and keep guard outside my place. No one gets in or out. No one,” I order, before ending the call.

Carlo has come a long way from the hesitant kid who got shot ten years ago. He’s hardworking, sharp, and very loyal to the family. A good soldier with a bright future ahead of him.

As I leave the penthouse, I send a message to Doc telling him to come in a couple of hours—I think that’s enough time to give Jerry Evans a taste of his own medicine before coming back.

I put on the suit jacket after rolling my shirtsleeves back down and pat the side pocket to feel the hard shape of my gold knuckles. I almost ignore the night attendant greeting me from behind the entrance desk when I remember Fly. I turn around and stare down at him with a threatening look.

“Do you know who I am?” I hiss at him, eyes burning a hole in his insipid face. He should since I own the top five floors of the fucking building.

He bobs his head frantically, shivering like a leaf at the mercy of the wind.

“Why wasn’t I informed someone was coming to my penthouse? And how the fuck did he get there?”

---