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Freddy waits until he hears the door click shut before turning, tense and jerky like a dog bristling for a fight.
“What is this?” he says.
Frank Ferchetti, broad-shouldered and big, moves past Freddy without really looking at him and dumps a file down on the table.
“Are you serious with this shit?” Freddy tries again.
“Newandyke, chill the fuck out.” Ferchetti flips open the file.
“Where’s Holdaway?”
“Unavailable.” Ferchetti braces his hands on the table and looks down at the file. “He knows we brought you in.”
Freddy’s waiting for more, but Ferchetti’s just reading through the file.
“What are you trying to do?" Freddy keeps his voice level with an effort. "Are you trying to blow this whole thing? You pick me up when I’m on the fucking job? - when I'm in there with a guy?”
Ferchetti straightens up.
“You aren’t here as a cop. You’re here as the piece-of-shit-thief Cabot’s just brought onto his team.”
Freddy finds his gaze drawn to the large two-way mirror that dominates one of the walls of the small interview room. He briefly imagines someone’s on the other side, watching him. He’s about to look away when he catches his eye in the mirror and feels a weird jolt of dissociation. He’s dressed as Mister Orange – jeans, white t-shirt. Wedding ring. Just half an hour ago he was sitting in a car having a conversation with Mister White about Miami Vice.
“What about the other guy?” Freddy says sharply, turning back to Ferchetti.
“Dimick?”
“What? I mean the guy – the guy who was with me.”
“Yeah, Dimick. We checked him out. Lawrence Dimick, A.K.A. Lawrence Jacobs, A.K.A. Alvin Jacobs.”
For a moment Freddy's speechless. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I’m not hearing this. This – this is a fucking mess. Why didn’t anyone tell me you were planning this shit? Have you charged him? I mean – this fucks everything. Once Joe finds out you picked us up, he’s going to call off the job-”
Ferchetti holds up his hand. “We haven’t charged Dimick with anything. We haven’t told him anything. He’s got no fucking clue.”
“Yeah. Yeah, him and me both.”
Ferchetti points at the file on the table. “This is your back story. It's all here. Petty theft. Grand theft auto. The Portland hold-up.”
Freddy knows all this already. He's pacing, can't keep still.
“This is the stuff you fed Cabot about the various jobs you done. Supposed to be, you did a job in Portland?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“You had some scumbag corroborating your story? It was on his say-so you got in the door?”
“Long Beach Mike? Sure. What's this got to do with anything?”
“Holdaway thinks you’ll be out on your ass in the next couple days.”
“What?”
“Cabot’s done it before, dropped guys at the last minute.”
“I checked in with Holdaway last night. He never said anything about this.”
Ferchetti shrugs.
“I’ve got these guys, man, I’m in there,” Freddy says. “Eddie checked me out, I passed. He believes I’m the guy I say I am.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We need this airtight. Here’s how it’s going to happen. We put your buddy behind there.” Ferchetti nods to the two-way. “Let him see what’s happening to you in here.” He rests his knuckles on the table, on top of Freddy’s file.
“You want – you want White to see me getting leaned on?” Freddy’s face twists with incredulity. “Jesus. Why don’t you just send Cabot a tape, you want to be that fucking obvious about it –”
“Alright, simmer the fuck down.” Ferchetti goes over to the mirror. “Point is this: it can’t look like it has anything to do with Cabot, not on the surface. This is you and Larry Dimick. The situation is as follows: according to your story, you held the shotgun in that Portland job a couple months back. Nothing to do with Dimick, nothing to do with Cabot. This was your little stunt, and you’ve been very pleased with yourself about it. Far as you know, it went off without a hitch. Only thing is, there was a hitch, and now, at this most inconvenient of moments, it’s come back to bite you in the ass. We get a stray tip off Portland’s vice squad, we catch you rolling through town, decide to haul you in. No evidence, but we know your punk ass was in on that job. So, maybe we don’t have anything to pin you, but we figure, hey, this prick’s sailing around? We knock the wind out of him, maybe we get an easy confession.
“Now, it comes to pulling you over, we’re in for a surprise. Who do we find in the car with you but Larry Dimick. Old hand, real pro. So we’re thinking we’re onto a big thing here. Maybe Dimick’s the guy behind the whole Portland job. We throw some questions at him in a room down the hall, but it’s obvious we don’t got shit on him. Meanwhile, next door, we’re coming down real hard on you. We know you were involved. We’re getting nothing out of Dimick. So...we sit him back here. Let him enjoy a little peep show.” Ferchetti gestures to the mirror.
“Front row seat to watch his buddy getting sweated. Bad for morale, we figure. But of course all Dimick’s going to see is you taking the heat and still keeping it together. A rat you ain't. End of the night, we got to release you. Dimick walks away from the whole thing thinking you’re a real trooper. Undercover cop is the furthest fucking thing from his mind.”
Freddy’s watching Ferchetti narrowly. “And then what? The whole story gets back to Cabot and suddenly I'm his number one guy?”
“You got it.”
“No way. I’m sorry. No.” Freddy wheels in a circle, comes to a halt again facing Ferchetti. “It’s already over. As soon as Cabot hears that we got booked, as soon as he knows you’ve got our names tied to this, he’ll either drop us and bring on some other guys, or he’ll call off the whole thing. It’s over.”
“Cabot won’t do the job without Dimick. Holdaway had a hunch that whoever this Mister White was, he was Cabot’s point man for this job. He called him in from out of town especially. He’ll use Dimick because he trusts him, Dimick vouches for you on this, Cabot won't have any doubts left.”
“Do I even get a say in this?” Freddy throws out his hands. “I’m the guy who’s out there, I’m the guy dealing with these people, is my perspective fucking worthless here?”
Ferchetti looks at him indifferently.
“Sure,” he says flatly. “Mister invincible. You’ve got perspective. They’re a bunch of dumb fucks, is what you’re thinking. You think you're untouchable. Lying right to their faces this whole time, you think they're swallowing it. Got them wrapped around your finger, right?”
Freddy’s lip curls. It’s been months since he’s had to deal with a cop who isn’t Holdaway. He’s not in the right frame of mind. He’s too far into Mister Orange.
He cocks his head and gives Ferchetti a small smile – Fuck you.
Ferchetti snorts softly. He crosses the room in a couple of strides. Freddy finds himself squaring up as he gets near but he's got no idea what he's going to do if Ferchetti really wants to hit him.
Ferchetti looks him up and down.
“Undercovers,” he says. “All alike.”
A weird feeling creeps over Freddy’s as he looks at the guy. Ferchetti? What was Ferchetti? Another fucking cop. And Freddy? What was he? Some messed up fucking thing. Freddy blinks a slow blink. He feels detached, giddy, like the back of his head’s falling out.
“So, are we doing this or what?” Ferchetti says.
“You think you’re giving me a choice?" Freddy says tonelessly.
Ferchetti just watches him.
“I’ll do it,” Freddy says, and looks away. “Is it going to be you, or what?”
“It’ll be me." The bite's gone out of Ferchetti's voice. He's all business. "Me and two other guys.”
Freddy’s eyes flicker to the table before he can stop himself. He balks then, his shoulders slumping slightly, his mouth going slack.
Ferchetti’s face hardens. “I won’t go further than I have to,” he mutters, and turns away.
Freddy can't move for just a second. Then he’s forced himself forward, taking wide steps, almost managing a swagger. He reaches the table. Drops down into the chair and hangs his arm comfortably over the back. He doesn’t know if he’s in character or not.
His throat is dry, he can hardly swallow. He bites the tip of his tongue and fixes his gaze straight ahead. He won’t look Ferchetti in the eye again.
Ferchetti goes to the door, opens it and sticks his head out. He barks something Freddy can't make out, then comes back in.
“Okay. Let’s get this done.”
“Your guys – they know who I am?” Freddy says.
“No. That’s how it has to be.”
Freddy wets his lips and smirks. There’s no amusement in it, just an edge of hysteria.
“Jesus Christ.” His leg’s jumping under the table.
“Just remember, Dimick’ll be behind that glass in a second.” Ferchetti puts his hands in his pockets and looks at Freddy like he’s waiting for him to call it off. Freddy swallows, says nothing. He’s looking at Ferchetti’s tie but he’s not really seeing it.
He lets his last chance slide away. Then the guys are coming into the room. Like Ferchetti, they’re real big bulls, shirt sleeves rolled up at the elbow revealing heavy forearms. Fucking lumberjacks. Freddy keeps still and silent while the three of them go into a corner and huddle shoulder to shoulder, muttering, coughing. The smell of cigarette stings Freddy’s nose, warm and familiar. The tension’s worse than Freddy imagined. His upper lip tingles with sweat but he doesn’t move to wipe it. He keeps his pose, loose and careless, making a conscious effort to stop twitching his foot.
The cops finally break up and come to the table, one of them walking around behind Freddy.
Freddy doesn't move, he only moves his eyes to stare at the corner of the ceiling. He tells himself he'll keep his eyes on that corner for this whole thing. From behind, the guy suddenly grabs a hold of his elbow and jerks his arm up, snaps some cuffs on his wrist. Freddy tenses up like he’s going to fly out of his chair, but he stays put somehow. The cop gestures for Freddy to give up his other hand and Freddy does it, what else can he do? He puts his hands behind his back and the metal bites into his wrists and then that’s that.
“Is this really necessary?” Freddy mutters stiffly, sounding to his own ears like he’s quoting a line from a movie.
Nobody says anything. The second guy – close-cropped dark hair, blue shirt, .38 plugged in his shoulder holster – takes a seat opposite.
Freddy senses the guy behind him move off, hover just out of view. He tries not to think about it and makes a show of slouching in his seat, letting his bound wrists hang slack behind his back.
“So, what, this a tough guy we got here?” Blue shirt says. Ferchetti comes right up close and plants both his hands on the table.
“Oh yeah, Steve. Thinks he’s Joe fucking Pesci, this guy.”
Steve pulls on his cigarette and looks Freddy over.
“Yeah? You gonna to tell me to go fuck my mother?”
Freddy cocks his head and gives the guy a bored little grin. He guy smiles thinly back at him.
“Alright, let’s go one more time,” Ferchetti says, straightening. “We were talking about Portland. You remember Portland?”
“No,” Freddy says. “I never been to Portland. Like I said.”
“You never been to Portland,” Ferchetti repeats. He glances at his buddy. Freddy doesn’t know what kind of look passes between them, but he can anticipate what’s coming next.
Ferchetti coils up, swings, smashing a fist across Freddy’s mouth. Freddy’s head snaps back sickeningly, then he’s staring down at the rip in the knee of his jeans and not quite processing what’s just happened. His whole jaw’s burning, an intense hum. His tongue’s all slick. Maybe his cheek tore inside his mouth.
“You sure about that?” Ferchetti says mildly. Freddy gets a funny fluttering feeling rising up in his chest like he’s going to start giggling. He makes a rough little noise and straightens up in his chair. He tosses his head, trying to shake his hair out his eyes.
“You sure you weren’t holding up a poker game? Huh, tough guy?”
“I never…been to Portland,” Freddy says, talking slowly. Maybe he shouldn't have pissed Ferchetti off earlier.
“He got bodies on him?” Steve asks.
“One. Portland boys found a guy out in the pool with his head blown off,” Ferchetti says. He rubs his knuckles, staring down at Freddy dispassionately. “Was it you did that?”
Freddy says nothing.
Ferchetti goes for him again, hitting him twice in the face, then once in the gut. Freddy’s curled over on the armrest, his jaws parted. A thin dribble of blood and spit trails from his lip to the carpet. He's not sure how he expected this to feel, but it wasn't anything like this.
“Well?” Ferchetti says, looming over him. Freddy grits his teeth and lifts his chin.
Steve gets up from his seat. He comes round and leans on the table on Freddy’s other side. They’re crowding him, two big guys. Freddy’s eyes snap from left to right.
“You a tough guy? Tough little fucker?” Steve takes his cigarette from his mouth and holds it in front of him for a long moment. Feels like there’s a nerve caught somewhere that’s got Freddy’s whole body rigid. He can’t take his eyes off the lit end of the cigarette.
Come on. Ferchetti won’t allow that. Come on. Come on.
Freddy doesn’t move while Steve turns and puts the cigarette down carefully on the lip of the ash tray on the table. He doesn’t move in the seconds before the guy swings at him. It’s agony this time, really - just glancing his nose. The pain of it has him cursing, hunched up in the chair, breath wet, bloody-mouthed.
Ferchetti gets a hold of his chin and forces his head back. Freddy sets his teeth together, panting, blowing out his cheeks.
“Was it Dimick set the job up? Was it him?” Ferchetti shouts. “Tell us, kid!”
“I don’t know –” Freddy inhales roughly. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
“Larry Dimick, we got him next door, he’s the guy selling you out.”
“I don’t know who he is!” Freddy thrashes in his chair. Ferchetti’s grip on his chin slips, the blood’s making it hard for him to keep a hold. He grabs Freddy around the back of the head instead.
“You're trying to tell me you don’t know don’t know who Dimick is?” Ferchetti says. “You always drive around with strangers, huh? Maybe you were just there to suck his dick. Huh, pretty boy?”
Steve chuckles appreciatively.
"Here’s what we think happened," Ferchetti says. "Dimick, yourself, and a couple other lowlifes hold up a poker game, shoot some poor fuck, cut and run. You and Dimick are cruising down this way, you think you got away with it. What you don’t know is we got evidence placing you there the night of the job. We’ve got you. No point protecting him, kid. He’s singing next door, you know that, don’t you? You think he gives a fuck about you? You're nobody. This is Larry Dimick. Larry knows how to look after himself. You think he gives a shit what happens to you? What're you gonna do, huh? You gonna help yourself? Talk. Dimick ran the whole thing, didn't he?”
Freddy errupts. “He wasn’t fucking involved!”
“Oh?" Ferchetti says, quiet. "Just you then?”
“I wasn’t either. I don’t know shit about it.”
“So who held the place up? Who took that guy’s head off and left him floating in the pool? Fucking Santa Claus?”
“I don’t. Fucking. Know.” Freddy speaks each word clearly, spitting. Ferchetti stares down at him and doesn’t say anything. After a few seconds he lets his head go. Freddy slumps in his chair. Ferchetti paces the room. Steve stays put. He’s got his cigarette back between his lips.
“How’d you meet Dimick?” Ferchetti asks.
“Met him in a bar in town.” Freddy’s mouth feels alien to him. He’s forming his words awkwardly now.
“When?”
“Couple nights ago. I never seen him before that.”
“You don’t know who he is?” says Steve.
“He didn’t tell me his name.” Freddy swallows. The blood’s cloying on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth. He feels an almost overwhelming temptation to look straight at the mirror. Larry Dimick – Mister White – is standing on the other side right now, watching. It feels obscene. ‘Peep show’, Ferchetti called it. Freddy wants to see White’s face. He wants to know what seeing this is doing to him. Incoherent scenarios flicker through Freddy’s head like moths knocking against a bulb. He shudders, tries to turn his body away from the mirror. The handcuffs are feeling really fucking uncomfortable now.
“Where were you two going today?” Ferchetti says. Freddy takes a minute to work out what he’s talking about.
“We were going to get –” He swallows thickly. “Going to get some tacos.” His lips stretch into a crazy crocodile grin.
“Yeah? You don't know the guy's name, you're goin to get tacos with him?” Ferchetti’s back, standing over him. Freddy rolls his head around to squint up at him.
“You a fucking fag, kid?” Steve says. He stubs out his cigarette.
“Fuck you,” says Freddy.
“I’m going to ask you one last time. What happened in Portland?” Ferchetti’s voice is soft and dangerous. Freddy’s waiting for him to hit him again. He feels like one more will finish him.
“I’ve never been to Portland,” he says.
Ferchetti shakes his head. He’s very still for a few seconds, then with a crack like a gun going off, he backhands Freddy across the face. Freddy hears it more than feels it, and then he’s out.
When he’s next aware of what’s going on, he’s in the back of a car and someone’s slapping his face, not hard, but not gentle either.
“You with me, man?” a voice is saying. Freddy looks blearily around. Holdaway is sitting next to him, gripping his shoulder and staring hard into his face. “You need me to throw some fuckin water on you?”
Freddy can’t say anything. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed up with cotton. There’s a low throbbing in his temples. His whole face is burning.
“I know I’m the last son of a bitch you want to see right now,” Holdaway says. “We definitely got some shit to work out. But it’ll have to wait. We’re dropping you at your place. You’re gonna go in, you’re gonna get yourself together. One of Cabot’s guys might be there already, otherwise you should expect a phone call. If you don’t hear anything, then we can assume Cabot’s dropped you, meaning all this was for shit. I don’t want to kick a man when he’s down or nothing, but that's how it is.”
Freddy’s barely taking any of it in. His arm’s crooked up against the car door. He cranes his hand around and has a feel of his face. His fingers come away sticky. He examines them blankly by the pulsing streetlights. Holdaway’s still talking, but Freddy's not listening. The car rounds a bend, slows. Holdaway reaches across Freddy and pushes the door open.
“Hey, man, you did a good job,” he says. Freddy catches that much as he rolls away from him, rolls out of the car and staggers on unsteady feet into the empty street.
The door slams behind him and the car drives away. Freddy looks around for a minute. He holds his stomach, bends suddenly and grips his knees because he thinks he might vomit. Nothing happens.
He straightens up and wipes his chin with the back of his hand, then he makes his way slowly to his apartment.
Mr. White’s there, waiting for him, sitting on the steps just inside. He gets to his feet when he sees Freddy and walks to him, moving slow and cautious like he thinks Freddy might bolt or something.
“Jesus Christ, kid…” he mutters as he comes down off the sidewalk, comes near enough to get a good look at Freddy’s face.
“I’m okay.” Freddy's voice comes out sounding thick like he’s got a head cold.
“Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers. Come here.” White’s got a handkerchief out. “I was starting to think they were gonna keep you in all night.”
Freddy accepts the handkerchief White puts in his hand. He raises it to his mouth and holds it there, but he doesn’t do much more than that. White is staring at him.
“It’s fine,” Freddy says.
"Like fuck."
White's quiet for a bit like he's too angry to speak. They stand in the street. Freddy turns over the handkerchief clumsily and wipes his nostrils sticky with blood.
"Your nose broke?" White says.
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me take a look.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Freddy says, but White's already close, raising his hands.
“That hurt?” He’s gentle, pressing with blunt fingers. “Not too bad? Okay, it ain’t broke. You want some ice on it anyway. Where’s your place?”
“It’s only one flight up,” Freddy says. “Listen, you don’t ah you don't have to... don't worry about it.”
"What are you saying? Come on." White's ushering Freddy along to get him out of the street and into the apartment building.
He takes Freddy by the shoulder when they reach the stairs, then his hand slips to Freddy’s lower back and stays there, warm and shepherding, as they start up the steps. Freddy holds onto the rail. The sound of White’s footfalls are quiet and neat beside him. They get to the landing and Freddy reaches into his jeans pocket for his key. He’s trying to keep quiet but his breath’s coming out a little ragged. The muscles in his stomach ache like hell. He gets the door open.
There's striped orange light on the wall from the streetlight outside. White shuts and locks the door. Freddy snaps on the light. He wants to go lie down on the couch, but he stays where he is.
“Hey, you got a cigarette?”
White pulls a pack from his pocket.
White holds the lighter for him and Freddy tilts his head close, gets the tip of the cigarette going cherry while they stand close. Freddy's lungs fill with smoke and it feels like the first real breath he’s taken in hours. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, exhales. He can feel White watching him.
“I look like shit?”
“You just need a little cleaning up,” White says. “Go on, sit down. You got any spirits?”
“In the kitchen. On the counter.” Freddy lowers himself into a chair at the table and pulls on his cigarette some more. White goes out the room. Freddy can hear him moving stuff in the kitchen, the quiet clink of bottles. It's comforting to listen to.
White comes back a minute later with a tray of ice he’s dug out the freezer, a bottle of vodka and a dish cloth. He pulls up a chair in front of Freddy and wets the cloth, then reaches out and starts dabbing.
“Jesus Christ!” Freddy jerks back.
“Yeah, I know, hurts like a bitch.”
Freddy sits stiffly forward again, hands clasped on his knees. White avoids the split in his lip and starts wiping the blood off his chin, the skin under his nose. He folds the dishcloth over when it gets too stained, wets a clean corner with more vodka, then he goes back to cleaning Freddy’s face, doing it careful and unhurried.
He sits back when he’s done, wraps some ice in a clean kitchen towel and hands it to Freddy.
“Get that on your nose, it’ll take the swelling down.”
Freddy does like White tells him. The hard ice through the cloth hurts at first against his tender skin. After a little while he can’t feel anything. He blinks his eyes tiredly and leans forward on his elbows, his head bowed.
White screws the cap back on the vodka.
“I spoke with Eddie. He knows what happened.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” White licks his lips. “I, ah…saw what they did.”
Freddy raises his head.
“What?”
“They had me watching through the mirror.” White’s mouth is a tense line. He’s rubs his hands restlessly together.
“What the fuck for?” Freddy’s voice is dull. He hopes White puts it down to confusion.
“They expected you to break. Making me watch, they figured I’d start talking too.”
Freddy studies White and takes a long drag of his cigarette. He lets out a stream of smoke, taps ash on a sports magazine that’s lying open on the table, and says, “I fucking shit my pants in there.”
“Hey, you got balls, kid,” White says sharply. “I know plenty of guys would have folded under that kind of heat.”
“Yeah, well. It’s my own fault.” Freddy shakes his head. “Fucking Portland.”
Right now, he feels so deep in this shit, his mind’s so hazy – he could easily start to think that he really did hold up a poker game with a shotgun in Portland.
“What the fuck happened with that?” White says. “They kept on about it. I didn’t have a fucking clue.”
Freddy considers reeling off the monologue he used on Nice Guy Eddie back before Joe had seriously been considering him for the team. Looking at White, he decides to cut it down. Spinning it any more than he strictly has to with this guy makes him feel like a piece of shit.
“It was a job – just some job I got involved in a couple months back. Guy called Long Beach Mike set the whole thing up. It was us and two other guys. I thought it went off clean. Obviously someone fucked up. Cops said – well, you heard. Fucking body floating in the pool.”
“So you didn’t shoot nobody?”
“No way, that’s what I’m saying. It was clean, far as I know. And if Mike’s fucking me around…no, it has to be one of the other guys.” Freddy sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry you had to get involved in my shit, I really am. Cops only dragged you into it because you were there.”
“Forget it. They’ve never needed an excuse with me,” White says. He moves in his chair, a small restless movement. “I can’t believe they came down on you like that. They didn’t have shit. They were grasping. Fucking halfwit pigs.”
They’re silent for a beat, then Freddy says, “If Joe…I mean, shit, once he knows…” He rubs his forehead. “He’s going to drop us. I’m sorry, Larry. I’ve fucked this up for both of us.”
White looks at him, startled.
“You calling me Larry now?”
“Huh?” Freddy pauses. It was a genuine slip. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. Just surprised me.”
“Did they tell you my name?”
“No,” says White.
Freddy lowers the ice pack from his face, puts it on the table.
“Listen…this is bullshit,” he says. “I don’t care if you know my name.” And he doesn’t. Not right now.
White considers him, thinks it over.
“No. Better not to, kid. Joe’s got his reasons.”
“What’s he gonna care? He’s dropping us anyway –”
“He’s not dropping us.”
Freddy stills.
“How do you know that?”
“Like I said, I spoke to Eddie. He spoke to Joe. He’s keeping us on the job, so don’t worry about it,” White says.
Freddy laughs weakly.
“Thank fuck.” He rubs his eyes. He’s actually relieved for a moment before he processes what this means. Then a leaden feeling settles over him and he can’t work out his own reasoning. Wearily, he rakes his hair back from his forehead.
“You impressed me back there, you know that, kid?” White says.
Freddy makes a dismissive gesture and takes a final pull from his cigarette before stubbing it out.
“No, really. I mean I was…” White laughs dryly. “I was going kind of crazy behind that glass. Watching those sons of bitches go at you.”
The words have Freddy tensing up inexplicably. He hunches with his head bent, twisting his fake wedding ring around his finger, trying to think of something to say. He wishes he hadn’t stubbed the cigarette out so quick.
“You handled yourself well.”
“No, man.” Freddy’s face is getting hot.
“You did.”
“I wish you hadn’t fucking seen all that,” Freddy mutters. He really means it.
“Hey, you haven’t got anything to be ashamed about. You didn’t break, kept your mouth shut. When that Mike guy hears how much heat you took for him…”
Freddy’s shaking his head. “Don’t. Let’s not even talk about it.”
“You can’t take a fucking compliment, kid, that’s your problem,” White says, but there’s obvious fondness behind his words.
Freddy looks at White: his open expression, his strong square jaw and lined brow, the wry little smile creasing the corners of mouth. There’s something about the way White’s looking at him that has Freddy floored.
“Christ, I’m,” Freddy huffs a quiet little laugh. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“You’re exhausted is what you are.”
“Ah, Larry…” Freddy says. The words come out strange and almost slurred. He’s swaying ever so slightly in his chair. “Larry? Mr. White?” Freddy’s watching him, eyes heavy-lidded.
“Yeah, kid,” White murmurs. “You really gotta get some rest. You’ve had a long fucking day.” He reaches out and pats the side of Freddy’s neck with easy affection. His palm’s hot and smooth. A shiver runs right the way down Freddy’s back. White’s hand lingers just a moment too long. Freddy swallows and holds his gaze levelly. And then White’s withdrawing, sitting back in his chair.
“If you want…” Freddy says, his voice low, intimate, foreign to his own ears.
“It’s late,” is all White says.
“Yeah,” Freddy agrees, but the way he says it sounds more like a question. He’s going to leave it at that, but then he finds himself saying: “Come on, I mean…you want something to eat?”
White smiles, charmed, and scratches his eyebrow like he’s considering it.
“Nashville Skyline.”
White’s over at the CD player. He turns the CD case over in his hand and studies the back for a minute, then lifts the disc out and puts it into the player. The first rhythmic strums of Girl from the North Country fill the apartment and White shakes his head.
“I haven’t listened to this in years.”
Freddy’s sitting at the table with their plates and empty beer bottles, smoking, watching White move around the room.
“This is a good fucking album, you know,” White mutters.
They sit together filling the air with smoke and White gets to talking about the old days. Lay Lady Lay comes on and White's telling Freddy about jobs he's done. Freddy looks while he listens, he looks at White's hands, his fingers, looks at his mouth while he talks.
Freddy takes a second to realise White's gone quiet while he's been staring.
White smiles, drops the stub of his cigarette down the neck of his empty beer bottle and says,
“What’s on your mind, kid?”
“I was thinking...” Freddy imagines saying what he wants to say, the moment presses on him, he knows he's not going to say it because it's not something he can do. He grins and picks at the label of his beer bottle. He shakes his head.
"What?" says White quietly.
Freddy looks at him and White's gaze seems to capture him, and then he's saying, “I was thinking about fucking.”
White doesn’t react. Freddy holds his gaze, his heart thumping, arousal curled tight in his belly, his whole body washing cold in shock at his own words. White’s keeping still and quiet and it’s more than a little terrifying. If Freddy’s read this whole thing wrong… There's no way he’s up for another round. If the situation flips, if White wants to kick the shit out of him, there's not a lot he's going to be able to do about it.
Reckless, taking his chances, Freddy shifts, slouching just a little more, his knees falling open just a little wider. Something flickers in White’s calm face, and then suddenly he’s rising out of his chair, coming over, and Freddy doesn’t move, but he’s tensing up for a fist, his body tightening with the urge to get to his feet if this is about to become a fight.
White bends over him, grips the arms of his chair and leans his face in close to Freddy’s. The gesture’s so relaxed, so easy, a single pluck of Freddy’s mouth, firm and warm. The cut on his lip protests just for a second. White does it again and Freddy tilts his head to be kissed. The third time, Freddy gets his hands fisted in the front of White’s shirt and the older man drags him to his feet.
They stand pressed together for long moments, struggling almost wrestling slow and clumsy.
"Wasn't gonna fuckin do this — " White says, his hands in Freddy's hair.
Sense-memories of the women Freddy’s been with over the last few years, soft curves, heavy hair – recede into the darkness. He runs his hands over solid, flat planes of muscle, pulls at the fabric of White’s shirt. Freddy’s around men all day, every day, but he keeps himself on a tight leash. Now all at once he’s conscious of everything – White’s smell, thick in his nostrils: sweat, the scent of his skin, cigarettes. The day’s downy beard that’s formed on his cheek rasps viscerally against White’s stubble. Their tongues roll together. Wet, deep strokes. White’s hands press the small of his back, rub him up and down. He knows how to touch. Freddy’s intoxicated.
White pulls back, breathing rough, his eyes dark. Freddy tries to follow his mouth but White holds him off, touching his cheek, feeling the shape of his jaw, stroking his thumb across his lower lip. Freddy presses his body closer, shaking a little, and White rubs him down his back with slow hands, murmuring, “Easy,” and maybe it’s obvious Freddy hasn’t let himself be with a man since he was a teenager.
Almost absurdly, Dylan’s still unspooling lazily in the background – his clothes are dirty but his hands are clean, and you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen…
On the bed. Sinking down into the mattress, stomach muscles catching painfully. He's breathing rough as White lays down over him.
It's nothing like Freddy remembered, overwhelmingly good, White’s hand guiding their mouths together, touching his jaw, guiding him. Freddy lost his t-shirt when they got into the bedroom and White's flat hot palm strokes his chest, over his ribs.
White takes a hold of Freddy's belt, his knuckles brushing the hair under Freddy's navel. The muscles in Feddy’s belly jump, tender as fuck from the beat down. Freddy's panting as their mouths come apart.
White takes his hand off his belt and strokes Freddy's chest instead, thumbing his nipple gently before sealing his mouth over it. It makes Freddy's dick twitch, the way White does it.
"Alright, baby," White murmurs, leaning back to look as he strokes Freddy's nipple again with light fingers. White's eyes rake over him. Freddy meets his gaze, licks his lips. He curls his hand round the back of White’s neck and tries to draw him down, wanting to taste his mouth again.
“Look so fuckin good,” White murmurs against his lips. “You got any idea?” Then his tongue is hot and wet between Freddy’s lips, taking his time. He moves his hand gently down Freddy’s belly again. He starts to ease Freddy's belt open. Freddy tenses up again, his kisses becoming rough and clumsy, his breath coming fast. His hand goes to White’s elbow, gripping him there, feeling the hard shift of muscle. He's very aware all at once of the masculine strength of this body on top of him. He feels a flicker of unease.
Large men leaning over him, cigarette smoke burning his nose, fists connecting savagely with his gut –
“Alright, sweetheart,” White rumbles softly, watching his face and rubbing his thumb in slow circles through the hair under his belly button. Freddy loosens his grip on White’s arm, lays still as White pops the button on his jeans, pulls his fly down. His mouth falls open as White takes hold of him through his briefs, no messing. He tips his head back into the mattress, arching his neck.
"Yeah," White murmurs. He squeezes Freddy’s dick, his hand warm and strong, no hesitation in his touch, it feels so good, Freddy's so hard. Freddy holds White’s wrist for a moment, just holds him there. He turns his head aside, more than a little mortified to realise he's trembling.
“Not going to hurt you, baby.” The low timbre of White’s voice sends a hot bolt through Freddy. White slides his hand down to cup Freddy’s balls through the thin cotton, stroking back up again, squeezing him just right. A choked moan catches in Freddy’s throat.
“That's it,” White says. “That's it.” His mouth closes hot over Freddy's. He goes slow with it, fingers on Freddy's cock moving lazily in time with his kisses, and right then it feels like about the best thing Freddy has felt on his dick in his life.
“You've been drivin me crazy, you know that?” White says. “I been trying to figure you out.”
“Yeah?” is all Freddy can think to say.
“How do you want it?”
Freddy's breathing seems loud in his ears, loud in the quiet room. He swallows, fighting to pull himself together, his cock twitching as White's hand cups and handles him, resettling him in his underwear.
“Tell me, baby.”
Freddy nudges at his shoulder. White goes obligingly onto his back. Freddy crawls over him and White’s hands settle on his hips. Freddy grinds down on him, his hand stroking over White’s chest, hot under the soft worn t-shirt he has on. He can feel White's hard-on, rocks himself against it. He rubs his hand over White's nipple through his tee, shy and just copying what White did to him. Then, acting more ballsy than he feels, he lifts his hips, slides his hand down between them, palms the man's dick through his jeans.
“You want that, baby?” White murmurs, his face easing as Freddy keeps touching him, his lips parting with a sigh.
Freddy leans away a little and works his own jeans down, clumsy as hell, feeling like an idiot, unsure if he should just go the whole way and take his underwear off while he's at it, but he pussies out and just struggles his jeans down his legs then climbs over White again.
White's hand curls firm and warm over his thigh. White guides his thigh over him and then Freddy's rocking down against him, his legs spread, grinding his cock into White's hip. Freddy leans down again, daring to pass his hand up White's chest to touch his nech, his jaw, as he presses his mouth to White's mouth.
White's hands move over him as they kiss, apparently in no hurry. He cups Freddy's ass cheek, lazily squeezes and kneads his ass, and Freddy starts moving again, with White guiding him against his hard-on.
"Fuck," Freddy whispers, breaking away, finding himself embarrassingly ready to come.
White's hooded eyes glitter as he gazes up at him.
“You want that dick, sweetheart?”
Freddy's breath stutters.
"Yeah," he manages. He sits up, his hips still working a little, he's sucking his lips into his mouth to keep quiet, his eyes blinking heavy with arousal.
“Yeah?” White says. He holds Freddy's ass, a cheek in each hand. “Fuck, you look so good. You wanna ride that dick? Want to sit on my big dick?”
His voice is a low rough rumble.
“Oh fuck,” Freddy breathes. He drags his dick against the roughness of White's jeans, the beat of his blood in his dick incredible, trapped tight, pulsing, damp and close. He feels sweat on his neck, the itch of it in the hot crease of his armpits.
White leans up, holding Freddy's thigh with one hand, his other hand at his waist. He kisses Freddy's hot mouth.
“You're driving me crazy,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing Freddy's mouth. Freddy can feel his hard-on under his ass and it makes him shudder. “Let me fuck you. Sweet baby. I'll give it to you so good.” His fingers are in the crack of Freddy's ass, rubbing him right there through his underwear. "I'll be gentle with you, baby."
Freddy hears the clip of White’s belt hitting the floor. Freddy kicks his underwear off his ankle and turns back to find the man regarding him with undisguised appreciation. He lifts his chin, trying not to betray his sudden shyness, his skin burning under the intensity of White’s gaze. He turns his body slowly, keenly aware of his own exhibition. White kneels over him, guides his thigh open, feeling every contour of him, stroking the soft, wiry hairs on his leg. White's eyes move over him, burning him with his look.
“Fucking beautiful boy.”
White lays between Freddy's open legs. Freddy stretches his arms above his head, feeling drunk, feeling hair-trigger, and White strokes his hand down the soft flesh of his underarm, cups his hand to Freddy's ribs while he kisses him.
White strokes Freddy’s back all the while with his free hand, murmuring low sounds.
Two fingers has Freddy biting the fleshy base of his thumb, breathing laboured, sweating, his hair in his eyes and stuck to his forehead.
The final time White pushes in, he hooks his fingers at a determined angle. The sensation that rips through Freddy has him crying out hoarsely. He's taken totally unawares, but instinctively he drives himself back against White’s touch. White pulls out of him. Freddy’s grinds his forehead into his arm, eyes squeezed shut, waiting, and White's hands guide him by the hips, pulling him into position. Freddy feels the head of his cock rubbing at him, lining up, it feels huge. White starts then, easing into him.
Freddy’s flanks are trembling in seconds. His skin has a sheen of sweat on it like a race horse's.
“Alright,” White huffs, pushing, pushing. Freddy's breath comes harsh as he takes him, bit by bit, deeper. “Ah, fuck,” White groans. Freddy's got his jaws parted wide, his face tight as White finally bottoms out. White grumbles low in his throat, buried in Freddy.
"Fuck. You alright?" His voice is rough with pleasure, but he's holding still, giving Freddy a minute.
“Christ –” Freddy says. Then: “Yeah, okay…okay…”
“Fucking tight –” White thrusts, slow and measured, giving it to him deep, the wet sound of it and the sensation overwhelming, and Freddy couldn't have kept quiet for anything, whining shaky in his throat, a stunned, questioning note to it, primal and pleading.
“Fuck, baby,” White pants. “Take that prick so good. So fuckin good, baby. Oh…fuck…”
White works him over, until he's driving into him, pounding him firmly, slapping his hips into Freddy's ass cheeks, and Freddy is keening high and reedy like a man in pain, even as he's dribbling pre-come onto the sheets underneath him.
White curls them onto their sides, arranging Freddy's leg, holding him under his knee for a moment, then he's pistoning into Freddy again, slowing only long enough to take Freddy in his hand and pump him. Freddy tenses up, clenching on him, a rough stunned sound escaping him as he's suddenly shooting his load, a rope of come striping up his chest.
"There you go, baby." White strokes him, still slotting his prick into Freddy's ass.
Freddy’s ears are filled with a roaring. It's alarmingly intense, as if he's being shaken apart. It eases off like a cramp or a violent strain relaxing, full-bodied, and then he's loose and rocking with White's thrusting, his head swooning back, his mouth wanting White's mouth. The older man obliges him, kissing him. He rests their foreheads together as he goes on nailing him. White breaks away, eases out of his ass and strokes his hands over him, shows him he wants Freddy on his front, and Freddy rolls onto his belly, groaning as White climbs on him, eases his cock back into him.
White hits his climax with quiet shuddering breaths. He buries himself in Freddy a few more times, his hands braced either side of Freddy, his hips slapping into Freddy's ass cheeks all slow now, their flesh meeting noisy with sweat, and he slows, and he lays over him, his body shaking a little as the last spasms work through him.
He eases out of him and falls down heavy on the mattress beside him.
"Fuck me," he huffs out emphatically.
Freddy lies motionless, poured out like honey, falling asleep right there.
He's dimly aware of fingers brushing his sweat-slicked hair off his forehead. His skin feels pleasurably cooler for it.
“Larry?” he says thickly, his eyes still closed.
“Yeah, kid,” White says. His voice is soft and gravely.
“My name’s Freddy.”
Everything is heaviness and silence. Freddy sighs deeply, his features smoothing out.