Bob kept his anger held on a tightly controlled leash as he walked
back into Paul's flat. Stopping in the middle of the large minimalist
main room, all wooden flooring, white walls, the only furniture the
black leather couch and the bed.
"What the hell did you think you were playing at tonight?"
"We've had this argument already once this evening, remember,
back at the club."
Paul was standing just behind him; Bob could feel the quiet soft
Scottish accent rippling through him, Paul's breath warm on his neck. It
just goaded him further.
"Oh we had the argument. What we didn't have was the answer.
Doesn't look like I'm going to get one now either, does it?"
There wasn't an answer, just silence. Eventually Bob turned, temper
still simmering. Paul was just standing there with that lost little boy
look he did so well, eyes large and shining with tears.
<Oh Shit>, Bob thought, <what have I done now? >
"Paul, come on, we've got a job to do. It's almost over now, just
one more day, then all this pretence is finished with." He tried in
his most reassuring tone.
"For you maybe." It was said so quietly Bob scarcely heard
it. He cursed inwardly again.
Brittle, fragile and emotionally dependent that had been his report
on Paul's emotional state, and it was true, especially the last bit.
Sometimes Bob just found it infuriating, other times like now, when he
could see the pain that Paul carried within him, it cut right through
him and that urge rose inside to try and take the pain away, an urge he
clamped down on ruthlessly.
Never appear vulnerable to your informant, never ever tell him
anything personal, anything important. Let him become dependent, but
again that very dependence angered Bob in ways he couldn't explain. Not
to his colleagues, certainly not to himself.
Paul sighed and sat down on the leather couch. "I'm going to
lose everything, my Dad, my best friend. Chris Dixon will kill me for
grassing him up, if Robbins doesn't do it first, and my freedom, for
what? To help you put me in prison."
"Christ, Paul. You know the deal, if you don't help us, you
won't be there for your dad when he needs you. He'll die on his own
Paul, you'll be inside on remand, you know that. We're this close to
arresting you all. It's your one chance Paul, think of your dad, don't
blow it." Even as he said it, he felt a tendril of disgust for
himself worm its way inside him.
"Bastard." Paul spat back, and then closed his eyes as he
leant back on the couch.
Bob groaned to himself, he was just making things worse. And the last
thing the Squad needed was Paul pulling out the night before the
building society job. His Guv, Charlie Scott would crucify him.
You're not supposed to like the bad guy; that was the problem. But
Paul wasn't a bad guy was he? Just a decent one who'd had a lot of hard
knocks; discharged by the RAF for being gay; his father slowly dying
from Leukaemia; and the misfortune to be loyal to a best friend, the
only friend he could see that could help him. Pity that friend was an
armed bank robber with a sideline in dousing his victims in petrol. And
now Bob was going to bring Paul down, put him in a jail he doubted he'd
survive right now.
Bob walked over to the small kitchen area, picked up a half full
bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses then moved back to the couch,
sitting down next to Paul. He put the bottle and glasses down on the low
coffee table in front of them then leaned back, sprawling slightly
sideways in a strange parody of the first time he'd been in this flat.
That night he and his police colleagues Alan and Ted had staged the
incident in the pub that had led to Paul bringing him home, bathing
Bob's battle scars from defending him, and finally making that pass at
him.
Paul still wasn't moving, lost in his own thoughts. So Bob snagged
the bottle and glasses and filled both to near the top. "Here, take
it."
Paul did turn his head to look at him then. Then he smiled. God he
was infuriating. Who else switched back and forth between biting sarcasm
and painful vulnerability like Paul did?
"You should have seen your face in that gay bar, especially when
medallion man was eyeing you up." Paul laughed at him. "You
deserved it as well, payback time for that first night."
For once Bob wasn't going to argue back, it wasn't worth the hassle
of antagonising Paul now. He'd got the information he needed. The
building society raid was going ahead tomorrow night and then playing
the part of Paul's boyfriend would soon be a happily distant memory.
Just keep him on side till then that was all he needed to do.
"Well" he said, downing the last of his whisky, "I'll
be off... see you tomorrow," he paused. "You'll be arrested
along with the others remember, to make it look good, and don't worry,
they won't know. You just stay calm and it'll all be over."
"No."
"No, what?" Bob snapped back, alarmed. Paul had better not
have changed his mind, not after what he'd had to go through on this
case.
"No, you're not leaving. Chris is coming over first thing
tomorrow morning, you're the one told him we were off for an early night
remember, he'll expect to see you here."
"Tell him we had a fucking row."
"No way."
"Paul, I'm not staying, this couch is way too small."
"Now who said anything about the couch?" Paul smirked.
"Oh for Christ's sake, I left for work early, right?"
"That won't work Bob. Chris is paranoid. He won't trust a thing
you say."
"What are you saying here? He vouched for me to Robbins and the
others."
"Yeah, he said "you being with me wasn't an issue", he
never said a thing about trust. Believe me Bob; I know what Chris is
capable of. He could turn up anytime night or day, and he'd want an
explanation of where my boyfriend had gone. And I think you'd know how
well, 'he's left early to go off to his job with the Flying Squad' would
sound"
"You're not that stupid or suicidal, so cut the blackmail, I
told you, tell him we had a row, its feasible, all too feasible."
"Bob, please... It's not just that. It's me, there's no way I'm
going to be able to stand up to him on my own and lie through my teeth
to him. I'm frightened Bob. Really."
Paul had a point. Right now, Bob needed to keep Paul safe and above
all calm. Calm enough to go through with the robbery tomorrow night
without giving himself away.
"All right you win. But that couch no way."
"It's my bed, I'm not giving it up. Trust me Bob, we can share,
your honour is safe with me," Paul's evil smile belied his words.
"Let's get this straight from the beginning, you try anything
with me, and I'll break your neck, tomorrow night or not, get it?"
"Yes Bob."
It was still dark outside; he was drowsy, warm and heavy, a delicious
tingle from his morning erection drawing him to wakefulness. Bob groaned
softly, beginning to appreciate the feel of a warm soft body in his bed,
rubbing his face against the silky blond hair next to him. Yet something
wasn't quite right, the spicy scent, the body more muscular. Snapping
wide-awake, he realised who he was in bed with. Paul!
Even as Bob thought it Paul rolled over half across him, wrapping his
arm firmly around his waist.
"Paul," he squawked hoping to get him to move off. But Paul
only hugged him tighter, snuggling contentedly, and bringing his cock
into direct contact with Bob's. The resulting electric shock made Bob's
insides contract in a sudden rush of pleasure.
'Down boy', he prayed. But Paul was increasing his movements, rubbing
gently against Bob. The bastard was awake.
"Paul, cut it out, now."
Paul looked at him then, but his face wasn't the usual expression of
mischievous glee he'd expected, just mindless misery.
"Sorry, wishful thinking, I just woke up and... I didn't mean
anything, honest."
For once he sounded genuine.
"It's ok mate,' Bob started again, trying not to let his concern
show. 'Come on, what's up?" Then he laughed at his own
unintentional double entendre.
Paul appeared oblivious. "You know, the usual, Chris, dad.
You've no idea what all this is doing to me, you did take advantage of
my grief over dad, and you used it to get me to betray my closest
friend. I feel like a fuckin' Judas."
"There's a bit of a difference between Jesus and an armed bank
robber."
"He's still my friend. He kept an eye on my dad for me when I
was in the air force. He protected me from the kids at school, the ones
who took great delight in making the life hell of anyone who was
different. Do you have any idea of what it was like growing up in
Glasgow with the kids calling you queer, beating you up at every
opportunity? Chris stuck up for me, when everyone else just walked
away."
There wasn't a lot Bob could say anymore, guilty as charged. Yes he
had used Paul's grief to intimidate him into informing. Instead he
hugged Paul closer, hugged the man he had grown to know, one he could
have called friend in another life. Almost without thinking he caressed
the silky blond hair, running his fingers through the long strands on
top, down the shaved sides.
Paul lifted his head in wonder to gaze at him, blue eyes soft, yet
wary looking, eyes that looked directly into Bob's soul. What he could
see there Bob didn't know, but it was enough for Paul, he lowered his
mouth with agonising slowness onto Bob's, kissing him oh so gently.
A wave of pleasure spiked through Bob again, it wasn't supposed to be
like this, feel like this, it wasn't supposed to, not with another man.
But when Paul kissed him again with the same hesitant gentleness Bob
kissed him back, pushing Paul over onto his back, rolling on top of him.
He looked deep into Paul, searching for something, anything to fight
this with. But Paul's eyes looked back at him guilelessly. Reaching up
to pull Bob's head down for yet another kiss, deeper this time, turning
it into a mock struggle for domination, forcing Bob to act, rolling Paul
back, using his heavier weight to pin him to the mattress. Then he froze
clueless. Yeah he'd chatted up guys undercover in the past, he'd
flirted, progressed on occasion to a quick mutual wank, let some guy go
down on him, but never ever had there been emotion involved. Christ, he
cared about Paul. He had to; most of his women he'd never cared about,
so to let a man get this close...
Paul felt the drawing back, mistook the reason. "It's ok,"
he whispered into Bob's ear. "Sshh." He gentled, and he rocked
upwards, sending those oh so delightful tingles through Bob once more.
Charlie was right; his brain must be between his legs after all, for
the last of Bob's will power disintegrated dissolving into a world
comprised of feeling alone. He thrust back until they moved as one,
writhing sensuously against each other, each touch of Paul's sending him
higher and higher, waves of pleasure that started in his cock, in every
nerve in his skin. Hyper aware of every inch of Paul's burning hot flesh
moving against his own. He couldn't stop, couldn't slow down... groaning
he succumbed to it, letting the waves of pleasure get closer and closer,
upwards and upwards until his brain and body exploded in pure pleasure.
Drowsy he lay there, desperately aware of Paul's still hard cock
pressed into his thigh. What must Paul be thinking of him? He hadn't
come that quick since he'd been an eager raw teenager, desperate to
grope anything female that would let him near enough.
It was embarrassing, but Paul seemed content enough, as he chewed on
Bob's throat, then kissed and licked his way across Bob's abundant chest
of black hair. Paul moved lower teasing out the last traces of semen,
and then sidled back upwards. He raised his head, and looked into Bob's
eyes, then kissed him again. Bob almost gagged at the sudden taste of
himself in Paul's mouth, as it suddenly brought the fullness of what
he'd just done home with a horror which made him want to flee. The Guv
would kill him, putting an operation in jeopardy like this, what had he
done? What had he done... Slept with a suspect, and a male suspect at
that.
Jesus the CPS would make mincemeat of him, after he'd been thrown off
the force, though Charlie Scott and DCI Uttley would kill him first so
that was a moot point.
Paul was looking at him again, a questioning look in his eye. "
My turn now. I... know... you're not used to this, whatever you're
comfortable with Bob, it's ok, just say no if you want." Paul
grasped his hand guiding it down, entwining their fingers together and
taking hold of his cock. Oh god, he couldn't do this, he couldn't.
The bell to the flat rang, "shit, must be Chris," Paul
cursed, swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing his worn robe, as Bob
frantically grabbed his discarded clothes off the floor, and hurriedly
struggled into his trousers.
Chris Dixon pushed his way into the flat's one large main room,
throwing a stare at Bob that sent shivers through him, malevolence, a
touch of jealousy, it was all there, and all aimed right at him.
"Nice night Ladies?" Chris practically snarled it.
"Chris, please..."
Bob could imagine what he looked like, covered in love bites, chest a
sticky mess, pink with embarrassment. At least the cover story was
looking good, but time to leave. He finished buttoning his shirt,
grabbed his jacket and stopped dead as Paul moved right in front of him.
He put all his years of undercover work into practise and held himself
together, "Sorry Paul, I'm running late, got to get back to my
place before work, I'll leave you two to talk." Sod him he'd have
to deal with Chris alone now, frightened or not.
"You've forgotten something..." Paul leaned in and gave him
a quick kiss on the lips, stopping to stare back at the watching Chris
with a smile that made Bob shiver down to his very marrow.
It had been a smile of challenge, a smile to make that evil bastard
Dixon green with envy. One that made Bob suddenly sick at the perceived
betrayal, suddenly more confused in his mind than ever he fished for the
keys to his jeep and practically ran from the flat slamming the door
behind him to the sound of Dixon's sarcastic laughter.
He frantically forced his thoughts into order. Home, shower, get
dressed and be late as usual for the Flying Squad's morning briefing.
Forget what had just happened, he had to, there was no other choice to
make, was there? It had all been one big ghastly mistake. Even come the
day he could give up his reputation as the super-stud of the NW division
of the Squad, Paul was a non-starter. He was a man, he was heading for
jail, and he still held a torch for that bastard Dixon; he'd been used,
big time.
There was no future for him and Paul, and there never could be.
The End?