by Shadowscast
Barefoot, she padded to the window to look down at the street and see
if he was coming yet. All she could see was a dance of black
umbrellas, protecting pedestrians from the chilly November rain. A red
double-decker bus roared by.
The woman was tall and slender. She wore a yellow peasant blouse, and
bell-bottom jeans which she'd decorated with embroidered flowers. Her
thick chestnut hair, ironed straight, fell freely to her waist. Her
intense brown eyes, thick eyebrows and strong chin gave her face a
powerful look—she might be called beautiful, but not pretty.
The flat's door opened behind her, and she turned with a startled
gasp. "William!"
The man who walked in was tall as well, with a wavy mop of
strawberry-blond hair. He shook his umbrella and regarded the woman
with a confident grin.
"Anita darling, give me a kiss." William put the umbrella to the side
and opened his arms.
"You're all wet," Anita protested, hesitating away from him.
"Now that sentiment is not at all romantic," William scolded her with
a mock pout. He strode across the floor in his wet rubbers, and
scooped her into his arms for a passionate kiss. When she didn't
respond as she usually did, he let her go. "Is something wrong, my
darling?"
"William, I—I'm sorry I—" She turned away with a troubled
expression, and gazed at the floor.
"My dearest girl, do tell me what's wrong," William insisted. He
lifted her chin with an index finger and tilted her face towards him.
Tears glimmered in her eyes.
She spoke very quietly. "I'm pregnant."
There was a moment of silence. She couldn't read him. He stared at
her, a cypher. William was the most romantic and passionate man she'd
ever met. He was the adventure she'd dreamed of when she came to
London, alone, from Canada, and she was desperately in love with him—
but there were times when she realized she knew nothing, absolutely
nothing, about him.
And then he dropped to one knee in front of her, and kissed her hand.
He pulled a small box from a pocket of his overcoat, and opened it.
There was a ring inside, a gold band with a small inset diamond.
"Anita, will you marry me?"
She hardly dared to breathe. "Yes. Oh yes. Oh my God William, you were
going to ask me anyway!" All at once she was laughing and crying, and
he stood up again and caught her in his arms.
"We'll see to it right away, my love. Within a fortnight, your name
will be Anita Ramsey."
Barcelona, Spain, June 1973
"New York?" Anita repeated, suspicious. "And why the hell would we
want to move to New York?"
"It's a fine city, very cosmopolitan," William insisted. He bounced
the baby on his knee and made a cooing noise. "You'd like to see the
New World, wouldn't you, Mac?"
The baby gurgled and squealed, and clapped his hands.
"See? See Anita? Mac wants to go."
Anita was unimpressed. "He can't even talk yet. Don't bring him into
this. This is about that poker game you were at last night, isn't it?"
"How did you—what poker game?"
Anita grabbed the baby from him and stood up so that she could glare
down at him. "I could smell it on your clothes."
"Picture it, darling." William stood up and spread his hands wide,
ready to tell his tale. "The stakes were sky high, and I held in my
hand four kings. I could tell by the twitch of Enrico's eye he was
bluffing. It was a sure thing, the opportunity of a lifetime—of two
lifetimes!"
Her mouth dry, Anita asked, "How much?"
"Everything. And then some."
"And?"
"And he had a straight flush."
"So we have to skip town? Again?" Anita put the baby down on the floor
because the way her hands were starting to shake, she was afraid she
would drop him. He crawled off across the floor in search of a toy to
teethe on.
"Oh my dear, I wish you wouldn't think of it so crudely. We will
relocate—people like us can't be tied down to one place for long."
"People like us? It's you!" Anita's voice rose into a yell; Mac
looked up and whimpered. "You just keep fucking up your idiotic cons,
and we have to run to another country in the dead of night because big
men with guns are coming after us for your money or your blood!
London, Paris, Amsterdam, now Barcelona—it's only been two years and
we're on the run from half of Europe! What are you going to do when
you owe money to someone in every city on Earth, huh? Run to the
fucking moon and start trying to sell green cheese?"
Mac started to howl. A sharp thumping sound came from the floor,
followed by a string of muffled Spanish insults.
"Fuck off, we're having a fight here!" Anita yelled at the
floorboards. Mac started screaming louder.
"You're upsetting the baby," William said. "Calm down Anita. Come
here, let me kiss you. We don't have to leave yet. Enrico isn't
expecting the first payment until tomorrow morning. I'll think of
something before then." He took a step towards her and she slapped
him, hard, across the face.
"No," she said, her voice suddenly calm and cold in counterpoint to
the baby's screaming. "Not again. I'm not falling for it again. You're
charming, William, and you're sexy as all hell, but you've fucked with
me enough. I'm taking Mac and I'm going back to Canada—without you."
Hong Kong, September 1991
"You wanted to see me, Father?" Mac asked, walking into the parlour
where the godfather liked to serve British-style tea. The table was
set with the imported silver tea set and several plates of cakes and
biscuits. Mr. Tang, facing Mac, nodded to him and rose to his feet. A
couple impassive thugs stood near the table; one Mac recognized as a
Tang soldier, and the other must have come with the guest. Mr. Tang's
guest remained seated at the table with his back to Mac. The guest was
a white man with thinning strawberry-blond hair, speckled with grey.
"Yes, Mac," the godfather said with his trademark friendly smile. "I
require your services as a translator."
"Um, pardon?" Mac raised an eyebrow.
"Our guest here does not speak Cantonese and I, as you know, do not
speak English." The godfather said this without any odd emphasis, but
Mac took his meaning. The godfather spoke better English than Mac did
—there was some sort of game being played here. "He has a translator
in his employ," Mr. Tang nodded towards the goon Mac didn't recognize,
"but for the sensitive matters he wishes to discuss, I thought it
would be prudent to have someone in the family translate instead, and
he agreed." Mr. Tang motioned to his own man, and to the translator.
"Leave us now." The two men left.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind the men, the visitor stood up
and turned around.
And Mac felt the ground shift under him.
"Now come on," William Ramsey said, holding his arms open, "Aren't you
going to give your old man a hug?"
Mac staggered a step backwards. "Dad?"
"In the very flesh, my dear son!"
Mac stared wide-eyed at the scene in front of him. His father—Mr.
Tang—still stood near the table, frowning now. And his father—
William Ramsey—stood in front of him, beaming at him and asking for
a hug.
"This is your father, Mac?" Mr. Tang asked in Cantonese.
"No," Mac replied flatly, in the same language, "You're my father.
This is the man who fucked my mother nine months before I was born."
"Language, Mac," Mr. Tang chided.
"I'd appreciate a translation," William said, finally letting his arms
drop from their ridiculous invitation to hug.
Mac glared at William. "He's asking if I know you. What should I tell
him?"
"Tell him the truth, dear boy!"
"What, that you're the one who abandoned me here when I was thirteen?"
William puffed up, taking offence. "I did not abandon you. You
screamed that you hated me and never wanted to see me again, and you
ran out of the hotel. What was I to do?"
"Oh, I don't know.... look for me!?"
"If I may interrupt?" Mr. Tang interjected, in Cantonese again.
"Perhaps we should all sit down. I think you should drink some tea,
Mac. I apologize for the shock—this man said that he knew you, but
he didn't tell me the nature of your relationship."
"Yeah. Yeah, OK." Keeping a wary eye on William, Mac circled around
the table to an empty chair. All three men sat down. Mr. Tang poured a
cup of tea for Mac. Mac picked it up and was appalled to find that his
hand was shaking so much that the tea nearly sloshed over the side—
he put the teacup down quickly, and grabbed a biscuit instead.
"So what the hell are you doing here?" Mac demanded, glaring at
William.
"I came to see you, of course." William took a dainty sip of his tea.
"Please tell Mr. Tang that this is the best tea I've tasted since I
left London."
"He says this is the best tea—" Mac started obediently in Cantonese.
"Jeez, I don't have to tell you what he's saying!"
"Why do you suppose he's really here?" the godfather asked, sipping at
his own tea.
"To con you, probably," Mac said grimly. "That's what he does for a
living."
Mr. Tang shook his head, looking sad. "You should not speak so
disrespectfully of your own father."
Mac met William's expectant look. "He says of course it's as good as
the tea in London—all the good tea comes from China anyway. So how
long have you known I was here?"
"Oh, I heard rumours years ago, and I took heart that you were safe
and in better hands than mine." William set his teacup on its saucer
with a clink, and gave Mac a rueful look. "I really was a terrible
father to you, wasn't I?"
"I'll say." Mac stuffed a biscuit into his mouth.
William took a biscuit himself, and nibbled daintily at it. "Tell Mr.
Tang that these biscuits are very good. Very authentic."
Mac rolled his eyes. He touched his thick linen napkin to the corners
of his mouth to dab away any crumbs, and said to the godfather "Why
did he tell you he was here?"
"He said he had a business proposition. He didn't give details, but he
said that you would vouch for him."
"Vouch for him? The man's been telling so many lies for so long,
he's completely lost his grip on reality!" Mac switched to English,
and turned to William. "He says the baker we buy them from used to
work in Balmoral Castle. He also says you said you have a business
proposition for us."
"Oh yes, well, you know me," William offered with a grin, "Always five
or six balls in the air."
Mac glared at him. "So, what's the con this time?"
His father turned his face slightly and sucked air through his teeth,
as though Mac had slapped him on the cheek. "Such a nasty word, 'con'
—I wish you wouldn't use it. This is straight-and-narrow, up-and-up,
a totally sure thing."
Mac raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Oil, my son. Black gold. Texas tea. A brand new source has been
discovered in Indonesia. And, well, the situation in the Persian Gulf
being what it is right now, you can imagine how hungry certain parties
are for a new source of oil." William tapped the side of his nose and
winked.
Mac sighed. "And where do the Tangs fit into your scheme?"
"Exploration and drilling equipment costs a lot of money up front. We
need investors. Go on, translate this for Mr. Tang."
The godfather looked at Mac expectantly.
"I wouldn't trust him," Mac said. "He always had these crazy schemes
for getting rich, and not one ever worked out as long as I knew him."
"But it's true that you haven't seen him in six years. Perhaps his
luck has changed."
Mac stared at his adoptive father. "Tell me you're not thinking about
giving him money."
"Now Mac, you know I never act in haste. I would need to hear your
father's story confirmed by independent sources before any money
changes hands. Now, ask him whether OPEC knows about this new oil
field."
"Mac," Li Ann said, "if you can't stay still for five seconds, why
don't you go somewhere else and stop bugging us?" Li Ann and Michael
knelt facing each other on the floor, with a disassembled sniper rifle
between them. Michael was trying to show Li Ann and Mac how to clean
it and put it together, but as Li Ann had observed, Mac was pacing
around the room instead of paying attention.
"Sorry, sorry," Mac said, returning to kneel beside Li Ann. Michael
picked up a piece of the gun and opened his mouth to speak, but Mac
interrupted him. "I just had a really whacked-out day."
Michael put the piece down again and, with a sigh, shifted into a more
relaxed, cross-legged position. "We're not going to get any work done
like this. So why don't you tell us what happened?"
"My father's here. My biological father."
Li Ann frowned. "I thought you said he was dead."
"I was speaking, uh, metaphorically."
Michael regarded Mac with interest. "Your father is alive, and he's
here?"
"Yeah. The guy shows up six years after leaving me to die here, and
expects me to talk Father into going into some kind of business deal
with him!"
"What kind of business?" Michael asked.
"Oil speculation. It doesn't matter. My father is a con man, there's
no way this is legit."
"Did you tell Father?" Li Ann asked, concerned.
"Of course!" Mac said. "He wanted to talk to him anyway, though. I
don't know why."
Just then there was a knock at the door. They all looked up—and
William Ramsey walked in.
"What do you want?" Mac asked in an unfriendly tone. "This is William
Ramsey," he added for the benefit of Li Ann and Michael.
"Just the chance for a private conversation with my son, who I haven't
seen in years." William gave Mac a pleading, wounded look.
Mac looked to his siblings for help. Li Ann shrugged. Michael said, in
English, "Why don't you take him to the library?"
William settled himself in one of the big leather armchairs. He took
out a pipe and a pack of tobacco, asking "Mind if I smoke?"
Mac shrugged. He pulled the other armchair around to face the first,
and perched on the edge of its seat. "What do you want from me?"
William completed the business of stuffing his pipe, lighting the
tobacco, and taking his first puff before he answered. "I'd like to
make amends, if I can. Get to know my boy a little better."
"It's too late for that," Mac said quietly. "That boy is gone, and I
was never 'yours' to begin with."
"I was never there for you when you needed me, was I?" William blew a
smoke ring, and watched with a sad, thoughtful expression as it
dissipated.
Mac snorted. "That's an understatement. You showed up what, twice? the
whole time I was growing up. And then it took Child Services four
months to find you after Mom...." His voice trailed off and he
stared at the wisps of smoke drifting by.
"But then I did come, did I not?" William leaned forward, eyes
flashing with intensity. "Deep in the Peruvian rain forests, I
received a telegram that my dear boy needed a father, and in a flash I
made the three day overland journey in two, and boarded a plane to
Canada."
Mac crossed his arms. "That story would be more touching if you hadn't
abandoned me in Hong Kong five months later."
William sucked on his pipe. "I do feel bad about that. You always were
my favourite son. There was something about you, you had spunk,
verve—"
"You have other sons?" Mac interrupted.
William chuckled. "Well, I have sown a few wild oats in my time. But
your mother Lillian will always have a very special place in my
heart—"
"Anita," Mac snapped.
William blinked, momentarily at a loss, and then found his stride
again. "Anita, of course. Wonderful woman. Too bad about the end—"
Mac glared at William. "Who's Lillian?"
"Oh, just my third wife. After Anita. They were both in my life in the
early seventies, so it's easy to get the names mixed up. Are you happy
here, my boy?"
"What?!"
"Are you happy here?" William repeated himself. "To be sure, I can
see that you're well fed, clothed—all the physical necessities are
met. But I fear you may be lacking in affection, nurturing."
William sat back with a thoughtful air and puffed at his pipe, giving
Mac a chance to catch up.
Mac was stunned at the man's nerve—to show up after six years
without a real apology, to come into Mac's new home and new family and
ask a question like that. The worst part was some corner of Mac's mind
was considering the question seriously.
Of course the godfather had affection for Mac. He wasn't
demonstrative, but he let Mac and Li Ann know he cared for them.
And all right, deep inside Mac there was still a lonely little boy who
craved his real father's love and approval. Mac fought against that
little boy, struggling to keep him buried.
Mac set his jaw. "You're just saying all this because you want me to
convince Father to go ahead with your oil field scheme."
"Not at all," William denied, waving at the air. "I know that
approval rests entirely upon the word his own source in Indonesia
brings him."
"Wait a second." Mac furrowed his brow. "I didn't tell you about
that."
"No, my dear son," William said in Cantonese. "He did." William's
accent was quite bad, but he was entirely understandable.
"Son of a bitch," Mac breathed. "You understood every word we said."
"If it's any comfort to you, I am quite sure that Mr. Tang very
quickly figured out that I could understand him."
Mac clenched his fists. "OK. I don't get it. So he knew what you were
saying, and you knew what he was saying, and you knew that he knew and
he knew that you knew—what the fuck did I have to be there for?"
William smiled and winked. "It was all about the game, my dear son.
The grand joust. Mr. Tang and I were feeling each other out,
communicating on many levels simultaneously. It was all very subtle
and exciting. And this is exactly the sort of thing I want to show
you. I want to come back into your life and teach you from my own
experience."
Despite himself, Mac felt his heart starting to beat faster. Maybe
this time he really meant it. It was possible. Now that Mac was grown
up, maybe he was more interesting to this man than he had been as a
child. But... "I'm not leaving the Tangs," Mac warned his father.
"They're my family now, and I owe them everything."
"Of course, of course not," William murmured. "But surely we could
spend a little time together? Consider me an old acquaintance, if
you will. Perhaps we could go out for lunch tomorrow? My treat. You
choose the place—show me what good Hong Kong cooking is. Deal?"
William held out his hand with an expectant smile.
Mac hesitated. But... it had been six years. A man could change.
Besides, this was his father.
Mac gripped William's hand and shook it firmly. "Tomorrow. Lunch."
Hamilton, Canada, May 1978
Mac climbed the three flights of stairs to the apartment where he and
his mom lived, counting the steps. He'd got into counting things
lately.
It was nearly four o'clock. He was late coming home from school, but
he didn't think his mom would notice.
"Mac, you're late!" Anita called out as soon as he opened the door.
Mac stared at his mom. She was dressed in day clothes, and the living
room was all cleaned up!
"Give me a hug and a kiss, sweetie!" Anita said, scooching down to
give Mac a peck on the cheek. Mac squirmed away, but he grinned. Mom
had put on lipstick, and she looked pretty. It was a really nice
change to come home and be greeted by Mom. Usually she'd be spaced out
on the couch, watching TV and smoking a cigarette and not even
noticing that Mac was home. "Why are you late?" she asked. "Where were
you?"
"I stayed after school to help Mrs. Lyon clean the boards and the
erasers," Mac answered, looking up at his mom with unblinking boyish
innocence. What he'd said was totally true, and there was no need at
all to mention that it had been a detention for swearing at the
teacher.
"Oh, that's sweet, honey," Anita said. "Now take off your coat and
shoes and come into the kitchen. There's someone I'd like you to
meet."
Mac followed his mom into the apartment's tiny eat-in kitchen. A man
sat at the table. To a six-year-old boy, he looked huge and old. He
had short strawberry blond hair and a big nose. When the man saw Mac,
he gave him a toothy grin.
"My, how you've grown!" the man said. He spoke too loudly for the
small room, and he had some kind of funny accent. "You're a strapping
young man, now. You've done a marvellous job, Anita."
"Mac," Anita said, putting her hand on Mac's shoulder, "This is your
father."
Mac sat in the front passenger seat of his father's car, licking a
chocolate ice cream cone. This was great. Mom never bought him ice
cream cones. She always said she couldn't afford it.
"So, do you like school?" William asked. "What grade are you in?"
"I'm almost done grade one," Mac answered, sitting up straighter with
pride at his father's attention. "School's OK. I like gym class. I
can't wait for summer vacation. My teacher's an old witch."
William braked abruptly at a red light. Mac slid forward in his seat,
and barely managed to save his ice cream from the dashboard. He
laughed with excitement. It was so cool that his dad didn't make him
wear a seatbelt.
"Are you doing well? Do you get good grades?"
Mac rolled his eyes at the typical grownup questions. He caught a drip
of ice cream with his tongue just before it got to his hand. "I guess
so," he hedged. "I like math better than spelling."
"Your mother tells me that your teacher thinks you're very bright, and
you'd be at the top of your class if you'd apply yourself."
Mac snorted, but in a weird way he was enjoying this. This was exactly
the kind of thing that the kids who had fathers complained about. Mac
felt like he was earning membership in some exclusive club. "Mom
doesn't even care if I do my homework," Mac mumbled around a mouthful
of ice cream.
"Does she ever talk about me?" William asked.
"Who, Mom?" Mac shrugged. "She said she didn't know where you were.
That's all she said about you before. She's really happy you're here
now." Mac had seen his mom smiling and laughing in the past week more
than he could ever remember. She got dressed every day, and even
cooked all sorts of food. She hadn't screamed at Mac all week. It was
great, and Mac hoped his dad would stick around forever.
"How would you like to go to a movie, son?" his dad offered.
Mac grinned so wide it almost hurt. "All right!!"
Mac woke up. It was dark, and his mom was yelling.
"Bastard! Asshole! I hate you!" she screamed. "Fucking prick! I hate
you!" There was the sound of glass smashing.
Mac hid his head under his pillow. That way his mom's voice was
muffled and he couldn't make out the words, but he still heard more
things smashing.
After a while, things got quiet. Then Mac's bedroom door opened. Mom
came in, and he felt her sitting at the foot of his bed. She was
sobbing quietly.
Mac shoved the pillow to the side; it flumped to the floor. "Is Dad
gone?" he asked in a very hushed tone.
Anita drew a shuddering breath. "Yes, sweetheart," she said. "Daddy's
gone."
Hong Kong, September 1991
"I've had word from my source in Indonesia," Mr. Tang said.
Mac swallowed. The godfather's expression was tight-lipped, and grim.
"There is no oil. The supposed oil field is, in fact, filled with
carbolic acid."
Mac felt slightly nauseous—but he couldn't claim to be surprised.
"The old man's not much of a chemist, I guess," he muttered.
"I'm afraid there's more bad news," Mr. Tang continued. "There's no
sign of your father anywhere. He seems to have left Hong Kong."
Mac nodded, acknowledging the information. It was amazing—it really
was the exact same physical sensation as getting punched in the gut,
an experience Mac was all too familiar with.
"I am truly sorry, Mac," the godfather said. He rose, gave Mac a
slight bow, and left Mac alone in the parlour.
With a howl of rage, Mac punched the sofa cushions. It didn't help.
Nothing would.
Michael bowed to Mac. He shifted his feet and bent his knees slightly,
coming into a fighting stance. He held his bo steady in a defensive
position, waiting for Mac's attack.
Mac bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, feinting once or twice
with his own bo. Michael held his place, gazing steadily into Mac's
eyes and watching for the flicker that always preceded Mac's real
attack. The attack came and he blocked it; Mac followed through with a
flurry of ineffective blows until Michael caught one between their
chests and pushed Mac away. The younger, lighter man was thrown off
balance and fell backwards, flat on his ass. With an angry scowl Mac
jumped back to his feet and assumed a defensive position.
"You're still projecting your attacks, like I told you before,"
Michael lectured, circling Mac now and feinting a couple times
himself. "Your eyes always flick sideways the moment before you
strike."
"Jesus, who's going to notice that besides you?" Mac grumbled,
managing to parry a couple playful blows.
"A skilled opponent will notice the second time you do it, and kill
you on the third," Michael said, and started attacking Mac in earnest.
Mac dodged, parried, and counterattacked skillfully, as Michael had
taught him. The thwock of wood hitting wood rang out again and
again, in an irregular and staccato percussion, and Michael felt sweat
trickling down the side of his face.
There was something wrong today—something off about Mac's fighting.
His reactions were fractionally too slow. His movements were a bit
jerky, and there was something dark behind his eyes. All this was very
subtle—Michael noticed only because he'd been training with Mac
every day for years, and he knew the young man's every movement and
expression as well as he would know a lover's body.
"You're upset about your father, aren't you?" Michael guessed. "I
heard he left." Mac missed a beat and Michael got his bo in past Mac's
defences, to tap his young adoptive brother lightly on the side of the
head. "Got you. Keep going."
"That man is nothing to me," Mac insisted, though his scowl and the
fury of the blows he directed at Michael said otherwise.
"He didn't stay long, did he?" Michael blocked Mac's volley easily as
he spoke. He circled Mac, waiting patiently for a good opening. Mac
clearly wasn't thinking about his attacks, he was just lashing out
randomly. "How was lunch yesterday?"
"I had to pay. All he had in his wallet was fucking Icelandic kronur."
Mac lifted his bo to block Michael's high snapping counterattack—and
the weapons met with a different sound, a soft crunch.
Mac made a choked, gasping sound. His bo dropped to the mat and rolled
away, as Mac sank to his knees and then toppled slowly sideways,
clutching his left hand close to his chest. Mac's face had gone
completely white, and his jaw was clenched. "fuck fuck fuck
fuck..." he chanted through gritted teeth.
Michael's heart started pounding harder than it had during the combat.
Mac had made a novice mistake with that block, and now his hand was
probably broken. Normally Mac was very skillful with the bo—not as
good as Michael, but very good. His real father's leaving must have
shaken him a lot.
Michael knelt on the mat beside Mac. "Hey. That was a bad mistake.
Remember it."
Mac nodded, his eyes squinched shut against tears and his jaw clenched
shut against screams.
There are a hell of a lot of nerves in the hand. Michael knew Mac was
in severe pain. "If this is real combat, I kill you now while you lie
there," Michael pointed out. "The hand is a non-lethal target, but if
you go down like this it'll kill you anyway."
With a low moan, Mac uncurled his body and forced himself to his feet,
swaying a bit. Michael stood up with him. "We're still in combat,"
Michael insisted. "What do you do?"
Mac lashed out with his right fist, a lightning punch to Michael's
head. Michael deflected the punch and countered with one of his own,
and Mac side-stepped away. Mac danced away a few more steps to give
himself space. His left hand was protectively tucked against his
chest, and his right was held loosely out, ready to block or attack.
He shifted his weight and aimed a side kick at Michael. Michael
stepped aside and punched at Mac, left hand followed by right. Mac
instinctively tapped the second punch aside with his left hand—and
couldn't stop himself from crying out at the pain. Combat forgotten,
he clutched his wrist and swayed, his face even whiter than before.
Concerned that Mac was about to pass out, Michael stepped forward and
put an arm around him. He felt Mac shudder at his touch. "That wasn't
bad," Michael said, intending to comfort Mac.
Mac made a gulping noise and his right hand flew up to cover his
mouth. He tore out of Michael's grasp and dashed to the sink at the
edge of the training room. He clutched one-handed at the side of the
sink for support while he vomited into the white porcelain basin.
Michael came up behind Mac and turned the water on. Mac cupped his
right hand under the stream, and washed out his mouth. Michael put a
hand on Mac's back, and he could feel the young man trembling. "Let me
see your hand," Michael said.
Mac lifted his left arm. The hand was already looking a bit swollen.
"Can you move your fingers?" Michael asked.
Mac stared at his hand—his fingers didn't move. "Uh, no. Oh fuck,"
and he bent over the sink, retching again.
Michael was fascinated by Mac's reaction to this injury. He should be
scornful of the weakness Mac was showing—falling over, nearly
passing out and then vomiting—but instead, Michael found the whole
thing strangely appealing. Mac was usually so brash and full of
himself. The intense pain had broken past that, to a place where Mac
was vulnerable—where everyone was vulnerable, in fact. Michael
realized with surprise that he enjoyed the feel of Mac helpless in his
arms.
Michael put a steadying arm around Mac. "It's probably broken."
"No shit," Mac moaned.
Michael looked Mac in the eye. Mac's pupils were dilated wide, and his
face was still pasty—even for a white guy. His too-long bangs were
stuck to his sweaty forehead. He looked hurt, ill and vulnerable, and
suddenly younger than his nineteen years. Michael reached up and
brushed Mac's hair away from his eyes—which motion earned him a
startled look from Mac.
"I'll take you to the hospital," Michael said.
None of the Tangs' regular drivers were around, so Michael hailed a
cab on the street in front of the Tang residence. He gave the name of
the nearest hospital with an ER, and opened the door for Mac.
At first Mac stared out the window, and Michael stared at Mac. Then
Mac turned a wry grin on his older brother and said "Next time we use
pool noodles, OK?"
"I don't think that would be properly instructive," Michael replied
stiffly.
Mac crossed his eyes at Michael. "Can't we ever just have fun?"
Michael didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he said "I
apologize for mentioning your father while we were fighting. I didn't
know it would throw you off so much."
Mac's head snapped around to look out the window again, avoiding
Michael's eye. "Like I said, he's nothing to me."
They rode in silence for a few more heartbeats. Michael felt like
prodding at this wound a little more to see what would happen, but
before he could think of what else to say, Mac interrupted his
thoughts with a strangled, choking noise.
Michael frowned, concerned. "Mac?"
Mac made the noise again. Michael tried to remember if Mac had had
something in his mouth that he could be choking on now. Quickly, he
wondered whether it would be possible to perform the Heimlich
manoeuvre seated in the back seat of a compact car. Then Mac made the
noise for a third time and Michael noticed the new wetness gleaming on
Mac's cheek, and he realized that Mac was crying.
At first Michael could only stare in horrified fascination while the
tempo of Mac's sobs increased. He'd never seen Mac cry before. Never.
When Michael's father had first brought Mac home, Mac had been a
skinny, dirty street rat, unusual only because of his race.
Predictably, Mac had played it tough and distant back then. Michael
hadn't been much interested in the kid, but the godfather had insisted
that Michael treat Mac like a younger brother, so he'd let Mac tag
along with him sometimes. When history repeated itself about a year
later with Li Ann, Michael was content to let the two strays amuse
each other, but his father had other ideas. Mac and Li Ann were
schooled and groomed and trained until it looked like they might
actually be useful after all. Gradually, Mac had lost his
I'm-from-the-streets-and-don't-you-forget-it prickly bravado, and
replaced it with a frequently annoying mixture of wicked playfulness,
impulsive boldness and spoiled petulance. But behind all that there
was a real, honest toughness. Just thirteen years old, Mac had
survived on his own in Hong Kong for half a year, somehow—without
even knowing ten words of Cantonese at first. Sometimes, Michael even
thought he admired the kid. And he knew for certain that never in six
years had he seen Mac cry.
It was because his father had just abandoned him again, obviously. And
then the intense pain of the broken hand had been the single drop of
water that makes the cup overflow.
The driver glanced back curiously in his rear-view mirror, but didn't
say a word. Michael reached over and pulled Mac towards himself. Mac
let himself fall against Michael's chest, still shaking with harsh
sobs.
Michael wrapped his arms around his younger brother, and held on. He
felt a muted contempt for Mac's weakness, but that feeling was
overpowered by a strange excitement at this new dynamic. Michael had
never comforted anyone before. It was a powerful feeling.
Michael looked up from the newspaper he was reading. Mac was walking
towards him through the hospital's waiting room, waving his left hand.
It was encased in a white plaster cast which went halfway up his
forearm.
"We can go now," Mac said.
Michael folded the newspaper, tossed it onto a table, and stood up. He
took a close look at Mac. Mac's bangs were stuck to his forehead with
sweat and he didn't quite have his normal colour back, but he seemed
cheerful.
"They gave me codeine," Mac explained. "I feel good. Don't let me
operate any heavy machinery, though. I've got this prescription for
more painkillers."
"We can pick them up on the way home," Michael offered.
On the way home, Michael felt his gaze drawn again and again to the
cast. It was beautiful, in its sterile whiteness. The pink tips of
Mac's fingers protruded from the end, reminders of the soft
vulnerability inside the shell. When he looked at it, Michael
remembered the crunch of his weapon against Mac's hand, and Mac's cry
of pain. Michael felt gentle stirrings of arousal at the memory; this
disturbed him a little, but it was a good feeling.
"You want to sign it?" Mac asked.
"What?" Michael said. They were in the cab on the way home, and Mac
had just caught Michael staring at his cast.
"You want to sign the cast?" Mac tapped it with his right index
finger. "Do you do that here? When I was ten I broke my arm, and
everyone in my class signed the cast. I kept it, after—'till I had
to leave home, anyway."
Michael smiled. "Sure. I'll sign it."
As soon as they got home, Michael found a felt-tipped pen and drew his
characters on the cast in jet black ink. "There, now I've put my name
on you, you're mine," he joked.
"Yeah...." Mac said, in a suddenly distracted and sad tone.
Michael frowned. "What's wrong?"
Mac shrugged it off. "Nothing. Hey, Li Ann'll probably want to sign
too."
"You were just thinking about your father again, weren't you?" Michael
guessed.
Mac glared at him. "All right. Yeah. So, he put his name on me, didn't
he? Ramsey. But he never really wanted me."
Mac's tone was belligerent, but the pain in his eyes was clear.
Michael remembered the cab ride to the hospital, and the way Mac had
just collapsed, sobbing, in his arms. Michael wondered how Mac felt
about that now—if it had changed the way Mac saw him. For sure,
there was power in this. Michael wondered how far it might go.
"You want some ice cream?" Michael suggested.
Mac frowned slightly, understandably confused. Michael had never
suggested a late-night snack together before. He generally avoided Mac
and Li Ann when he could—which meant whenever they weren't training
together. "All right," Mac agreed.
They went to the Tang household's well-stocked pantry. Michael found a
tub of mango ice cream in the deep freeze. He scooped some into bowls
for himself and Mac.
"The dining room's already laid out for breakfast tomorrow," Michael
pointed out. "Let's go to my room."
Mac raised an eyebrow in surprise, but shrugged 'OK.'
In Michael's room, they both sat cross-legged on the mat in the middle
of the room. Mac folded himself skillfully into position, holding the
bowl of ice cream with his good hand and not using his broken hand at
all.
The ice cream was frozen very hard. Michael watched as Mac tried to
cut into it with his spoon, but the spoon slipped off the surface of
the ice cream and the bowl slipped across the mat. With two hands,
Michael had no problem; he held onto his bowl and cut into his ice
cream. Mac growled with frustration—he was on a short fuse. He tried
to brace the bowl against his cast to keep it steady, but that didn't
work, it just skidded to the side. "Fuck!" he swore.
"Sorry, it's really hard," Michael said. "You could wait for it to
warm up a bit."
"I hate melted ice cream," Mac complained. Michael could see that Mac
was really angry. He was probably upset at the realization that there
would be a lot of things he wouldn't be able to do for the next few
weeks, but Michael guessed the anger was mostly leftover from his
father's leaving.
Suddenly, Michael was struck with a crazy impulse. He dug out a
spoonful of ice cream himself—and then held it up, offering it to
Mac. "Here."
Mac put his spoon down and reached for the one Michael held out, but
Michael shook his head. "Open your mouth." He felt his heart beating
faster—would Mac do it?
Mac laughed, and Michael could see the angry tension in him easing up
a bit. "You're the mommy bird and I'm the baby bird?" Mac opened his
mouth, and let Michael slide the spoonful of ice cream in, and then he
closed his lips over it. Michael pulled the spoon out again. Mac
closed his eyes, tasting the ice cream. "That's good. Thanks."
Michael got another spoonful of ice cream and offered it again. Mac
gave him an amused look, and opened his mouth for it.
"So what's with this?" Mac asked after he swallowed, while Michael
took a spoonful of ice cream for himself. "All of a sudden you're
acting like you like me, or something. Are you feeling guilty for
breaking my hand?"
Michael glared at him. "No. That was your fault."
"If you had more control, it wouldn't have happened." Mac stated this
matter-of-factly. He didn't seem to be particularly pissed off with
Michael; training accidents were a regular part of life. He was just
trying to nettle Michael, probably out of habit more than anything.
Instead of rising to the bait, Michael just smirked and offered Mac
another spoonful of ice cream.
Mac took the spoon in his mouth again, giving Michael a puzzled and
challenging look at the same time. Michael, for his part, watched
Mac's lips. Mac had such full, almost bruised-looking lips—they made
the simple act of licking ice cream off a spoon startlingly sensual.
"Have I got ice cream on my face?" Mac asked, noticing Michael staring
at his lips.
"Yes," Michael lied. He licked his finger, and then rubbed the corner
of Mac's mouth. He felt a surge of excitement as he did this. This was
all very unexpected—he'd never thought of Mac sexually before. "Got
it."
Mac reached for his spoon. "It's soft enough now," he noted, digging
the spoon successfully into his ice cream.
Michael sat back and ate the rest of his own dessert. When Mac had
finished, he said good night and left.
Michael left the bowls where the maid would find them, and got ready
to go to bed. Once he lay in his bed, though, he couldn't sleep. His
mind kept teasing him with images from the evening: Mac shaking and
sick in the training room, Mac sobbing in the cab, Mac letting Michael
feed him ice cream. As the scenes played in Michael's memory, he felt
himself becoming distinctly aroused.
Michael liked to be in control. The women he slept with were always
very pliant, providing no challenge. Michael had always thought that
was the way he liked it—he'd always sought out particularly
submissive women for his lovers. Mac, on the other hand—he was
definitely not submissive. When Michael found himself comforting Mac,
in that unexpected position of power, it was a victory over a will as
strong as Michael's own—and that was exciting.
Michael finally drifted into a light sleep.
He woke to the sound of knocking at his bedroom door. He blinked at
the glowing clock near his bed—it was 2:43 a.m. "Who is it?"
"It's me." It was Mac. "I forgot to get the painkillers from you."
Michael got up, wrapped a silk robe around his nakedness, and went to
open the door. In the dim light Mac looked like a pale, glowing ghost.
His hair was rumpled, he was barefoot, and he wore a robe similar to
Michael's.
"Come in," Michael said. They were both speaking in hushed tones, just
because it was the middle of the night.
Michael turned on his desk lamp. "Are you sure you need the pills?" he
asked.
"My hand's throbbing. I can't sleep," Mac said.
Michael took pleasure in the raw vulnerability of Mac's words. He
decided to see if he could get Mac to stay with him. He found the bag
from the drugstore. "Here they are." He handed the bottle to Mac.
Mac looked at it, sighed, and handed it back to Michael. "I can't open
it."
Michael smiled. "Right, sorry." He'd known that; he'd just wanted to
make Mac say it. Michael checked the label, then twisted the cap off
and shook out two pills. "Here."
Mac popped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry.
"You want a glass of water?" Michael asked. Mac shrugged. "Wait here,
I'll get you one," he said, and left before Mac could object.
When he came back with the water, Mac was sitting on Michael's bed.
Michael handed him the water, and Mac chugged it. "Thanks," he said,
wiping his mouth with the back of the hand that still held the glass.
"Why don't you stay here until the pills take effect?" Michael offered
softly, sitting down on the bed beside Mac. He took the glass and set
it aside.
"No, I'm fine," Mac said, going to stand up. Michael put an arm across
his waist and stopped him.
"I can see you're in pain," Michael disagreed. "You shouldn't be
alone."
Mac gave Michael a startled look. "What's it to you?"
"You're my brother, aren't you?"
Mac just stared at Michael for a heartbeat. Then he grinned. "Yeah.
You can tell 'cause we have the same nose." He pinched Michael's nose
between his thumb and index finger, grinning wider when Michael batted
his hand away.
"I'm serious, Mac!" Michael lay a hand on Mac's knee, and looked
steadily into Mac's eyes. Mac had been hurt by his father's leaving—
Michael was sure he could step past Mac's defences now if Mac saw him
as surrogate family. "When Father first brought you home, he told me
that I had to treat you as my brother. I never had a brother before—
I didn't know how to treat you. I know I was impatient with you a lot
of the time. I'm sorry for that."
Mac shrugged. "No big deal. That's a pretty normal thing between
brothers anyway."
"Do you have any real brothers?" Michael asked, suddenly curious. He'd
never thought of Mac as having a real family before—Mac came from
the street, that was all, and Li Ann came from the brothel. Now that
he'd met Mac's biological father, it seriously occurred to him that
both of them must have had a mother and a father at some point, and
maybe siblings, too.
"No, I was an only child." Mac frowned. "Actually, I might have
half-brothers somewhere. Dad said something.... but I don't know."
"I had a sister," Michael said suddenly. Inwardly, he cringed. He
hadn't meant to say that. It had just slipped out. He was trying to
draw out confessions from Mac, not make them himself.
"What happened?" Mac asked, of course.
"She was killed with our mother, in the car crash."
Mac put his hand on Michael's. "I'm sorry."
Michael jerked his hand away from Mac's. "It was a long time ago," he
said sharply. "I was ten. It doesn't bother me anymore." He couldn't
let Mac comfort him—that was an unacceptable shift in the balance
of power. And truly, the memory of the accident didn't bother him
anymore. It had been so long, he could barely remember his mother's
and sister's faces.
Mac looked apologetic; he rubbed his upper arm with his hand, as
though erasing Michael's touch. "I never even knew how your mother
died. I asked Father once, right at the beginning, where Mrs. Tang
was, and he told me she was dead. That was all he ever told me."
Michael wanted to change the topic—he was not interested in
discussing that time with Mac. "What about your mother?" he asked.
That was an effective distraction. It was almost visible, the way Mac
drew in on himself and closed up. "What about her?" Mac said.
"Where is she?"
"She's dead." Mac's gaze dropped to the bedspread. "She died when I
was a baby. I don't even remember her."
"So your father raised you?"
"Nah, he wasn't around much. I grew up in foster care, mostly."
Abruptly, Mac shifted to the edge of the bed and stood up. "I really
should get to bed. I've got class in the morning."
Michael ignored Mac's last statement. "We both lost our mothers. That
makes us true brothers."
"Whatever." Mac started for the door.
Michael still thought he could get Mac to stay. "How's your hand?"
"It fucking hurts!" Mac spun around to face Michael, angry now. "What
did you think? Of course it fucking hurts. You broke it!"
Michael didn't react to the anger Mac showed, but he was quietly
pleased—provoking Mac into losing control was a good first step in
gaining control over him. "I want you to know that I don't think any
less of you for what happened in the cab on the way to the hospital,"
Michael said.
Mac's expression darkened even more. With a low growl, he spun around
and punched the door frame. The thud of the impact was so loud that
Michael half expected the wood to shatter, but the Tang's residence
was of solid construction. Mac raised his fist to his mouth, his back
still to Michael.
Michael stood up and padded towards Mac. "You want to break the other
one, too?" He kept his voice low and soft, as though he were talking
to a spooked horse. "You're right, you should go to bed. It's been a
long day. Maybe I asked too many questions. I'm sorry." He was close
enough now to touch Mac; Mac still hadn't moved. Michael laid a hand
on Mac's shoulder and Mac twitched at the touch. He was practically
vibrating, he was so tense. Michael slid his hand along to Mac's other
shoulder, so that he had his arm around Mac. "I'll walk you to your
room. Come on."
Mac let himself be guided to his own bedroom. It was as though some
sort of spell had been cast on him—he was tripping on anger and
hurt, but he couldn't speak.
Michael left him on his bed, only to return with a bag of ice.
Mac looked up in surprise; he hadn't moved from the position Michael
had left him in, sitting on the edge of his bed.
"For your hand," Michael explained. He sat beside Mac and took Mac's
right hand and looked at it. The first and second knuckles were
already swollen, but it didn't look too bad. "Can you wiggle your
fingers?" In reply, Mac gave him the finger. "Hey." Michael grabbed
Mac's fingers and pressed them closed, into a fist; he squeezed. "All
I ask is that you treat me with respect." Mac winced at the pain, and
Michael let up. "Here, take this, it'll hurt less." He held the bag of
ice against the back of Mac's hand.
Mac tried to take over holding the bag of ice by placing his other
hand, in its cast, against it. Michael let go and the ice slipped to
the floor. "That's not gonna work," Mac observed in an impartial tone.
"And you're not supposed to get the cast wet, anyway," Michael
reminded him. The bag of ice wasn't leaking, but it was already beaded
with condensation. He picked the bag up. "Lie down. Get into bed."
Mac gave him a challenging look, but then he shrugged out of his
dressing gown. He had boxers on underneath, Michael noted with mild
regret. Mac crawled under his sheet and lay on his back, with both his
hands on top of the sheet. "Give me the ice," he said.
Michael put the ice on Mac's right hand—and held it there.
"Leave it," Mac said.
"It would slide off."
"No it wouldn't."
"It will when you move."
"What do you care?"
"I'm sorry I hurt you," Michael lied. "Just relax, OK? I'll leave when
you fall asleep."
Mac closed his eyes, but he complained anyway. "I can't fall asleep
with you here. It's like napping with a tiger in the room."
Michael glowed secretly at the comparison. He would be a tiger to Mac.
The thought added to his already considerable arousal. "I'll help you
relax. Roll over and I'll rub your back."
Mac's eyes popped open again. "Really?"
"Sure."
Mac finally smiled a bit. "Well... I've never said no to a back rub."
Michael smiled too, at the slight sexual innuendo in Mac's words.
Mac rolled onto his stomach, lifting his arms over his head. Michael
put the ice bag on Mac's right hand—it didn't slide off. Then he
climbed onto the bed and knelt, straddling Mac over the small of his
back.
Since Michael was wearing a bathrobe with nothing underneath, there
was nothing but the thin sheet between Mac's skin and Michael's balls.
Michael smiled with this secret knowledge, and his erection twitched.
The sheet was pulled up right to Mac's shoulders; Michael pulled it
down so that Mac's back was exposed. Then he started by kneading Mac's
shoulders.
Mac's shoulders were like one big knot, he was so tense. He gasped
with pain at the roughness of Michael's touch, and Michael relented,
working the knotted muscles more gently. If he hurt Mac too much at
this point, Mac would just ask him to stop.
Michael was patient; he had nowhere else to go, nowhere he'd rather
be. As he got the knots to release, one by one, he worked his way down
the sides of Mac's spine. He stopped when he got to the small of his
back. Then he started rubbing Mac's back in lighter, circular motions.
Mac's skin warmed under his touch. Michael wished he had some oil to
use, to make the motions smoother.
He stopped when he heard faint snoring. Michael sat back, satisfied.
Mac had relaxed and trusted him enough to fall asleep while he was
there—while he was touching him, even. It was a good start.
Michael got off Mac, careful not to disturb him. He took the
half-melted bag of ice and put it on the floor. He turned the light
off, and let his eyes adjust to the dark.
Mac had a double bed, and he was lying to one side of it. There was
plenty of room for another.
Quiet like a cat, Michael crawled onto the bed and lay beside Mac. He
was on top of the sheets, while Mac was under them, but other than
that he was in bed with Mac. Mac lay on his belly still, with his face
turned towards Michael. Seen dimly in the near-darkness, and in sleep,
Mac's face looked peaceful and trusting. Staring at his adoptive
brother's face, Michael reached into the folds of his dressing gown
and wrapped his hand around the end of his penis. He started to stroke
himself, slowly and gently. He would not let himself climax—not
here. But he could enjoy the exquisite torture of bringing himself oh
so close to the edge, again and again.
After a while, Michael fell into a trance-like state, but he didn't
sleep. In this state, hours passed like nothing until the peace was
broken by Mac frowning in his sleep, mumbling, and rolling over.
Michael came quickly into full wakefulness, shifting closer to the
wall so that Mac wouldn't bump into him. Mac was quiet again for a
moment, and then his legs scissored and his head tossed back and
forth. He grunted, nothing like distinguishable words, but the tone
was high-pitched, like fear. Then suddenly his hands flew up toward
his face, and he banged himself in the eye with his cast. He woke up
with a yell of shock and pain; he sat straight up and, seeing someone
in bed with him when he thought he was alone, scrambled backwards away
from Michael. His legs tangled in the sheets and he fell over the edge
of the bed; amid the general thud of Mac's body hitting the floor
there was the sharper sound of his cast hitting the wooden
floorboards. That was presumably the reason for the next yelp of pain,
followed by a string of desperate profanities.
Michael crawled over the bed and got down onto the floor where Mac lay
in a heap, curled around his hands.
"Are you OK?" Michael whispered, laying a hand on Mac's head. His hair
was damp with sweat. "Were you having a nightmare?"
Mac didn't say anything, but he was breathing hard. Abruptly a gasp
caught in his throat and turned into a sob. For the second time that
night and the second time ever, Michael drew Mac up into his arms and
felt the young man shaking with sobs.
"What were you dreaming?" Michael asked again.
"...the b-blood..." Mac gasped out. "M-mom..." And then he buried his
face in Michael's chest.
Michael frowned. "But you don't remember your mother."
Mac ignored him, if he heard him at all.
Michael stroked Mac's hair. The intensity of the moment was so pure.
Mac had utterly abandoned himself into Michael's embrace. Michael
wondered whether Mac had nightmares often, or whether it was only
because of the pain and the drugs. If he spent more nights with Mac,
would he get to see Mac like this again?
And how far, in his pain and disorientation, would Mac let Michael go?
Michael bent his head down to brush the top of Mac's head with a kiss.
Mac gave no sign of noticing. Michael ran a finger along the edge of
Mac's face. It was damp with sweat and tears. Mac noticed that touch;
he was startled into near silence, broken by shuddering breaths.
"Come back onto the bed," Michael whispered. "I'll make it all go
away."
Mac let Michael lift him up onto the bed. Michael pressed a tissue
into Mac's unbroken hand. "Clean yourself up," he instructed him.
Meanwhile, Michael rubbed the back of Mac's neck.
When Mac tossed the wadded-up tissue away, Michael leaned in to kiss
Mac's neck. He felt Mac's pulse throbbing wildly under his lips.
"What are you doing?" Mac whispered.
"Don't you like it?" Michael lifted his face so his nose and Mac's
were almost touching, and he caressed Mac's cheek with one finger. His
cheek was rough with stubble. Michael had never done this with a man
before, but it didn't seem to make much difference. Just like the
women always did, Mac looked at him with eyes full of trepidation and
longing. Michael leaned in fractionally closer so that their lips met.
Mac drew a startled breath, opening his lips at the same time; Michael
pressed their lips harder together, and let the tip of his tongue
flicker between Mac's lips. It was just like kissing a woman, only
rougher around the edges. Through slitted lids, Michael saw Mac close
his eyes. Mac's good hand clutched at the front of Michael's dressing
gown.
Michael let the kiss continue, gently exploring, for a while. Then he
laid a hand on Mac's crotch. He had just enough time to feel the
satisfying warmth and hardness of the bulge there before Mac pulled
away from him.
"What are you doing?" Mac whispered, the same question as before.
"I want to make you happy," Michael said. "I want to erase yesterday
for you."
"Yesterday?"
"It's dawn now." The window had a pale glow, and shapes in the room
were becoming more clear with each passing moment. Michael could see
dark bruising around Mac's eye where he'd hit himself with his cast.
That made him want to kiss Mac again; he did, and Mac didn't resist.
Then Michael took hold of Mac's right hand. He looked at it—the
first and second knuckles were a dusky purple. He kissed them. "Does
it hurt much?"
"Not too much."
Michael took Mac's hand and guided it through the folds of his
dressing gown. Mac met Michael's gaze, unblinking, and didn't pull
away. Michael laid Mac's hand on his hard, aching dick, and took his
own hand away. "You see how much I like you," he murmured.
Michael felt Mac's fingers close around his dick. Mac's hand was rough
with calluses from weapons training, and much bigger and stronger than
a woman's. It felt similar to Michael's own hand when he pleasured
himself—but different, too, because he didn't know what Mac would do
next.
Michael was surprised that it had all been this easy. He'd
half-expected Mac to attack him when he first kissed him. Michael
wondered what exactly Mac's co-operation meant—had he fallen
completely under Michael's spell so quickly, or had there always been
potential here, that Michael simply hadn't seen?
In a quick motion that took Michael completely by surprise, Mac went
down on him.
Michael gasped at the sudden sensation of tight, wet warmth. Mac's
tongue danced crazy figures on the head of Michael's dick, while he
caressed Michael's balls with his hand. Michael closed his eyes,
leaned back, and groaned with pleasure. His whole body felt suffused
with glowing, tingling warmth, with a white-hot centre at his groin.
Losing himself, floating away, he grabbed at Mac's hair and tangled
his fingers deeply in the warm, damp curls. Mac's hand wrapped around
the base of Michael's penis, squeezing it, and Michael groaned. He
felt Mac's head bobbing up and down. Mac took in more of Michael's
length than any woman ever had. Michael swore at the ecstatic torture,
and twisted his fingers harder in Mac's hair, pulling it. He felt the
vibrations of Mac's cry of pain, muffled around his dick, and that
sent him over the edge. In an endless moment of throbbing, sweet
release, he ejaculated into Mac's mouth.
Michael lay back, boneless, momentarily relaxed and at peace. He felt
the bed creak as Mac lay down beside him.
"Can I kiss you?" Mac asked softly.
Michael imagined the taste of his own semen—ugh. That would be going
too far. "No."
"All right."
"You've done this before," Michael realized.
"I'm good, huh?" Mac sounded sad, rather than proud.
"When were you with another man?" Michael felt unexpected twinges of
jealousy. He knew Mac had had a couple girlfriends, and that didn't
bother him—but he'd expected to be Mac's first male lover. This was
Michael's first time with a man—if Mac was more experienced than he
was, that gave power to Mac, and Michael didn't like that.
"After Dad abandoned me. Before Father took me in."
"Oh." Michael turned his head so he could see Mac. Mac was staring up
at the ceiling. Michael lifted a hand to cup Mac's cheek. "I'm sorry,"
he said, and actually meant it. "I hadn't thought of that."
Mac shrugged. "I lived."
"I never really thought about how you lived," Michael confessed.
"I've never had to worry about where my next meal was coming from."
"Food wasn't the problem," Mac said, still staring at the ceiling. "I
could steal food. But I needed protection from the gangs. That's why I
stayed with Tom."
"Tom?" Michael prompted. Mac didn't say anything. Michael wanted him
to keep talking—the more he knew about Mac's past, the better he
could control him. "Who was he? What was he, your pimp?"
"I never knew his real name. Everyone just called him Tom around me.
He wasn't a pimp. He was... my boyfriend, I guess. He liked me. He
liked to have sex with me. A couple times he loaned me out to his
friends, but I don't think they paid him. I was thirteen. He spoke
some English, that's how we hooked up at first. He seemed old to me at
the time—I guess he was in his mid twenties." Mac told his story in
a low tone, without expression. At some point Michael took Mac's good
hand in his, to encourage him; Mac squeezed back, hard, and held on,
without looking at Michael. "He pulled some weight on the streets.
People were scared of him. I think he'd killed a guy, before I met
him. Everyone knew he was connected somehow with a real gang, one of
the big crime families. Actually it was the Tangs—I didn't know that
'till later. He was just an informant for them, but still, people who
aren't connected don't mess with people who are. So once everyone knew
I was under Tom's protection, people left me alone."
This explained a lot about tonight, Michael reflected. And it was ripe
with possibilities. Mac must have reacted with Michael as he'd been
used to reacting with Tom. That's why he'd moved so quickly from 'What
are you doing?' to giving Michael the best blow job of his life. Mac's
experience here wasn't an asset to him, it was a liability. He was
used to being taken advantage of by an older man on whom he was
totally dependent for physical protection. That was definitely
something Michael could exploit. "So what happened?" Michael asked,
when it seemed that Mac wasn't going to say anything else. "How did
you end up here?"
"One day Tom had this visitor," Mac recalled. "He sent me into the
kitchen to make tea. I was still in there when I heard gunshots. Then
a man sort of fell backwards through the kitchen door. I hadn't seen
him before, he wasn't Tom's guest. He was bleeding from the chest. He
fell onto the floor. He was still holding a gun." Mac took a deep
breath. "There was shouting in the front room, more gunshots. I
grabbed the gun from the guy on the floor and I ran into the front
room. Tom was on the floor, and this other guy I hadn't seen before
had a gun on Tom's guest. So I shot the guy. Actually I shot at him
four times and I think I only hit once, but it was enough, and he
didn't manage to turn around and shoot me. So it turned out the
guest, the guy I saved, was a Tang soldier, and he took me away with
him. A couple days later he brought me here."
"Did he die?"
"Tom? Yeah."
"No, I meant the man you shot."
"Oh. Yeah, he died too."
Michael felt afraid for a moment, and hostile towards Mac. He took his
hand away. Michael had never killed anyone, not yet. His father had
never let him take on that kind of risk. Michael imagined there was
great power in a kill. He was not going to ask Mac about it. Instead,
he rolled over and pinned Mac's body under his. "That was a long time
ago," he said. "I'm here now." And he kissed Mac, hard. He was pleased
to feel Mac kissing him back after a moment. Maybe Mac had killed a
hit man when he was thirteen, but Michael could still dominate him,
here, now, like this.
Hong Kong, November 1991
Mac and Li Ann sat in the parlour, studying. Li Ann was preparing for
a Biology test the next day. Mac was reading a UNIX manual for the
computer programming course he was taking. A peaceful silence
enveloped them—the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather
clock.
Mac tried to keep his mind on the book, but it was insanely dull, and
he was distracted. He sipped at his can of pop, and let his eyes
wander off the page.
He wondered where Michael was. Michael had been gone for a week. He
missed him.
Since Mac came to live with the Tangs, Michael had been a remote older
brother to him—admired and envied, and distant. And then, just when
he'd been feeling completely abandoned and unloved, it had all
changed. Michael had kissed him. He'd held him. He'd slept with him.
That first morning, Michael had crept out of Mac's room just before
the household would start rising for breakfast. That day, life had
gone on as usual—except for the secret glances Mac and Michael had
shared.
Michael hadn't come back to Mac's bed that night, and Mac had
instinctively known that he shouldn't go to Michael's—not so soon. A
few days later, in the gym (Mac still had to train, even with a broken
hand) Michael had come over to Mac and whispered "Come to me tonight."
Li Ann had been close by, on the rowing machine; the thrill of the
secrecy had shot through Mac. He shared something special with
Michael. Wow.
He loved it when Michael kissed him. It made him feel special, like no
one else ever had. He was glad he could make Michael feel good, too,
by sucking him off.
They hadn't gone all the way yet. Mac knew Michael would only top, and
he didn't mind, but when he thought about actually getting fucked he
got tense and uncomfortable. He'd never exactly enjoyed it with Tom or
his friends, though some times had been better than others. After Tom
died, one of his first thoughts had been that he'd never have to do
that again—and he'd immediately felt guilty for the thought, because
Tom had been his protector and, in some ways, his only friend in Hong
Kong. These days, Mac tried not to think about all that—but it was
hard not to, when Michael started fingering his ass and acting like he
was going to hold Mac down and just do it. So far, Mac had always
convinced him not to.
Mac flexed his left hand, and turned the page in his book. The cast
had come off two days ago. His hand was still weak and kind of
funny-looking, but damn it was good to be able to turn the page of a
book and hold a can of pop at the same time.
Michael had disappeared a week ago. The godfather said he was on a
business trip. Mac wondered why Michael hadn't told him he was
leaving. He missed him.
"I've had enough," Li Ann said, snapping her book shut. "I'm going to
bed."
"Yeah, me too," Mac agreed.
Just then, the door opened and Michael walked in.
"Hi, Michael!" Li Ann greeted him. "Where were you?"
"Yeah, where were you?" Mac repeated. He wanted to bite his tongue as
soon as the words came out—when Li Ann asked the question it sounded
like mere curiosity, but when Mac repeated it, it came out as a
whining accusation, at least to his ears.
"Kenya," Michael replied. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were
bright, and he was flushed—sunburned, actually. "It was a wild trip!
Father wanted me to collect the dividends from the Birchell-Wong
operation. I had two bodyguards with me. While we were driving back to
Nairobi, our jeep was attacked by brigands! They must have known we'd
be travelling that way with a lot of money."
"What happened?" Li Ann asked, wide-eyed. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"No. They shot out our tires, and then they expected us to be scared
into submission." He grinned. "We weren't." He looked at Mac. "I had
to kill one of them." He paused, as though waiting for some reaction;
Mac couldn't imagine what. "We disarmed the others, took them
prisoner. Turned them over to the local police."
"I'm glad you're OK," Li Ann said.
"Me too," Mac added. "Not surprised, though—I've seen you fight."
Michael glowed at the praise. "But I'd never been tried in real
combat before now. Maybe now Father will stop holding me back."
"I hope he lets me do something soon," Mac added. "It seems like
I've been training forever."
"He has plans for us. He's just waiting 'till we're ready," Li Ann
assured her brothers. "And I can't wait, either," she admitted with a
shy grin.
"You worry about graduating from high school, first," Mac told her.
"Like, get some sleep before your test?" Honestly, he wanted her to go
to bed so he'd have Michael to himself.
Li Ann rolled her eyes at him. "You're such a great, responsible role
model." She did gather up her books then and go, giving both of her
brothers a kiss on the cheek.
Mac looked at Michael. 'I missed you,' he thought. He didn't say it.
"So, hey, good work with keeping the money safe and everything. Wanna
have a drink?"
"That sounds good. I want something to eat, too. I'm starving. I had a
snack in Bangkok and some nuts on the plane, but I haven't really
eaten since Dubai."
"Wow, you must be exhausted," Mac said. Looking closer, he saw that
Michael's eyes were tinged with red, and there were shadows under his
eyes. "I guess you'll want to go right to bed."
Michael shrugged. "I should be exhausted but I'm not. I feel
hyper-awake. Maybe it's adrenaline. Anyway, I want to eat. Let's get
the cook to send up dinner and some port to the roof."
Like much of the Tangs' residence, the rooftop garden was influenced
by British aesthetics. Fragrant rose bushes hedged it into sections,
and it was carpeted in soft grass. There was a wooden picnic table; a
canopy was available, but had been rolled back because the night was
clear. The garden was softly lit by Chinese lanterns hung on cords
strung between poles planted in the rose bushes. Shortly after Michael
and Mac ascended to the roof, a servant arrived with Greek salad on a
silver tray for Michael, along with crystal bottles of vinegar and
olive oil. Michael tucked in, while Mac wandered quietly around the
roof. The night was warmer than usual for November in Hong Kong—
somewhere around twenty-eight or twenty-nine degrees Celsius. The air
felt thick and heavy.
Another servant brought a main course, and then the first returned
with a bottle of fine port and two glasses.
Michael poured drinks for two, and Mac joined him at the table,
perching sideways on the other bench. Michael held up his glass. "Chin
chin," he said.
"Chin chin," Mac echoed, clinking his glass against Michael's. "What
are we toasting?"
"The night," Michael replied with his tight smile. "Us. My first
combat."
They both sipped at the strong, sweet drink, and just as they lowered
their glasses the whole scene was illuminated by a momentary stark
white light.
"Lightning," Michael observed.
Michael went back to eating his meal, while Mac silently counted the
seconds, waiting for the thunder. Counting was an automatic reaction;
he didn't even notice he was doing it until he got to six. Then he
realized what he was doing and remembered his mother teaching him the
trick, some summer in his childhood. The thought made him melancholy;
he tried to forget it. The thunder finally rumbled, faint and distant.
"It's over the water," Mac said. "Nowhere near here." He looked up at
the sky. The stars were sparse, as always in the city, but there were
no clouds at all.
Michael put down his fork. "I feel so alive."
"Because you're not dead?" Mac asked.
"Yes," Michael replied, missing Mac's sarcasm as usual. "Because the
man who tried to kill me is dead instead, by my hand."
Lightning flashed again.
Mac took his pocket knife out and flipped it open. He pressed it
against the edge of the table, making a tiny dent in the wood. "So?"
Michael ignored Mac's rudeness in taking out a knife at the table. "I
want to have sex with you. Tonight. Now."
Mac switched the knife to his left hand and reached for his drink. He
took a long swallow, watching Michael over the rim of the glass.
Michael sipped his own drink and held Mac's gaze. The thunder rolled.
"Maybe," Mac said. "Need to drink more first."
Michael stood up, and moved around the table. "I wasn't asking you.
I was telling you." His lips were wet from the port, and his
expression was intense and hungry. Mac felt a shiver go down his
spine. At the same time, he felt stirrings of arousal. Love-play with
Michael was never gentle. To Michael, Mac had already learned, this
was foreplay.
"Wait," Mac warned, holding up the knife. "I said I need to drink
more first."
Lightning.
"I can't wait." Michael kept his distance, but his hands twitched.
"I've been waiting since the road outside Nairobi. I haven't slept
since then. It was... yesterday, I think."
"Well maybe you should just sleep, then. You're jet-lagged. You've
been awake so long you're a little crazy." Mac kept the knife up
between them, switching it to his good hand. He wanted to touch
Michael, he wanted Michael to touch him.... but he didn't want to get
fucked. That hurt. It always hurt.
Lightning, thunder, lightning. The storm offshore was picking up. The
sky overhead remained clear, and the air was heavy and still.
"I need you," Michael insisted. "I'm aching for you. And I know you
want it." His gaze fell pointedly to Mac's crotch. He took one step
toward Mac.
"Maybe," Mac repeated. He stood up quickly, one motion getting his
legs clear of the bench. He kept the knife up, and both brothers
shifted automatically into loose combat stances.
Michael exhaled slowly. The frozen scene flashed white with lightning.
In the moment Mac was blinded by the flash, Michael shifted forward
and, quick like a striking cobra, knocked the knife out of Mac's hand
with a crescent kick. Mac gritted his teeth against the pain and threw
himself at Michael, aiming to head-butt him in the gut. He'd rather
punch the bastard, but his right hand was numb from the kick and his
left hand was weak, just two days out of six weeks in a cast. Michael
leapt aside just in time and used Mac's momentum to throw him forward
onto the ground. Mac landed on his belly in a rose bush with Michael
on top of him. He struggled to free himself. He felt thorns pricking
him all over. He managed to twist around and get on top of Michael,
who showed his teeth in a grin. Mac panted and glared down at Michael.
He couldn't hold on properly; Michael bucked and Mac fell, on the
bottom again and crushing more bushes. The bruised flowers sent a
heavy, sweet scent into the air. The thorns were ripping into Mac more
than Michael, because Mac wore a short-sleeved t-shirt, while Michael
was wearing a blue button-down shirt which protected his arms. Mac's
arms were covered with scratches already, some of them bleeding. He
stopped struggling for a moment, and felt Michael undoing his belt.
Holy shit. Was Michael planning to just hold him down and rape him?
Michael wouldn't do that. No. They were brothers. But Michael did like
it rough, Mac knew that much.
Lightning flashed again. At the edge of his vision, in the grass, Mac
saw a glint of metal. The knife.
Michael had one arm on Mac's neck while he undid their pants with his
other hand. He wasn't in a good position to hold on. Mac kicked and
bucked suddenly and got free, and scrambled for the knife. Michael
dove after him and grabbed his wrist, and they wrestled for
possession. Near-constant thunder accompanied the struggle. The knife
twisted and slashed, not really under the control of either brother.
Suddenly Mac felt a bright flash of pain along his left forearm. He
let out a choked yelp. "Fuck! What are you doing?!"
Seeing the blood, Michael pushed away and came to his feet a safe
distance from Mac. Mac glared up at him, panting. Blood trickled down
his arm. The gash was several inches long.
"I'm sorry," Michael said in a soft, contrite tone. "That went too
far. I was just playing with you."
"I know," Mac said. He did. Michael was like that. If Mac wanted
Michael to accept him, he knew he had to accept Michael, too, just as
he was. He wiped the knife blade on the grass, then folded the thing
and put it back in his pocket. He felt like he was on speed or
something. The lightning acted like a strobe, breaking every movement
into distinct moments. Michael dropped to his knees, and crawled to
Mac on the grass.
"How bad is it?" Michael asked, taking Mac's arm to look at the cut.
Mac shrugged. "Not bad. It'll need stitches, I guess."
Michael leaned in closer, and touched the blood running down Mac's
arm. "I'll take you to the hospital."
"No big hurry." With Michael so close, Mac could ignore the pain from
the cut and his scratches from the thorns. The sex hormones pumping
through him gave him happy feelings. It had been a long and lonely
week with just Li Ann for company.
Michael looked at Mac, and then kissed his forehead. Mac shivered.
"What's wrong?" Michael asked. Mac didn't answer. He just returned the
kiss, on Michael's lips, and they shared that for a while, gentle and
sweet. Mac felt his heart beating like crazy. He knew that Michael
still wanted what he'd demanded in the beginning. He thought now that
he'd give it to him, just to feel Michael's arms around him again.
"Why did you fight me?" Michael asked. "We both want this, don't we?"
His fingers trailed to Mac's waist. He'd already unbuckled Mac's belt;
now he teased the fly of his pants open.
Mac put a restraining hand over Michael's hand. "I'm just not sure.
It's been—I haven't—" He halted, not comfortable with what he wanted
to say.
"Is this about Tom?" Michael asked gently.
Mac's pulse quickened. They hadn't talked about Mac's past since that
first night. Mac had almost fooled himself into thinking Michael had
forgotten what Mac had told him. "Yeah," he admitted. And was shocked
to feel Michael pulling him against his chest, and hugging him. Mac
felt himself starting to shiver, even though the night was sultry hot.
With Michael holding him, Mac found he could speak. "When he—I never
liked it. What he did. Fucking. I just endured it."
"It would be different with me," Michael promised, rocking Mac a bit.
"Why?"
"Because I love you." Michael's arms tightened around Mac. Mac stopped
breathing. His head was cradled against Michael's chest, and he could
hear Michael's heart beating even over the rumbles of thunder. It was
beating so fast, Mac knew Michael was telling the truth.
"All right," Mac whispered. He felt Michael kiss his hair.
"Here, on the grass," Michael said. "No one will come up." He pulled
Mac's t-shirt off and kissed his bare chest.
Mac started unbuttoning Michael's shirt. "But we need some kind of
lube."
"I never used lube before." Michael tugged at Mac's pants, and Mac
moved to let him pull them down. "Is it really necessary?"
"Yeah. It's different than with a woman. If you don't use lube, it'll
hurt me a lot." Mac gave Michael a warning look. "I won't let you do
that."
"All right." Michael shrugged out of his shirt, and touched the
red-black wetness on Mac's arm. "We can use your blood."
Mac's stomach twisted. "Fuck, no! No way in hell." He stared at his
arm. "Damn, that's bleeding a lot."
Michael stroked Mac's face with his bloody fingers. "What, then? What
do you want me to use?"
"There's olive oil on the table. That'll work."
"First I'd better take care of you," Michael said. He picked up Mac's
t-shirt. "This a good shirt?"
Mac shook his head.
Michael tied the shirt around Mac's arm, making it into a bandage. Mac
kept still under Michael's ministrations. Michael loved him. He'd said
it, and now he was proving it with this uncharacteristically gentle
action. Mac felt a warm glow starting somewhere deep inside.
With Mac's arm taken care of, Michael fetched the olive oil. Mac was
already naked; now Michael stripped his pants off and threw them to
the side. He gave Mac a simmering look, and poured some oil into his
palm. "Like this?" he asked, rubbing the oil over his erection.
Mac nodded. His mouth was dry. Michael was beautiful naked, his body
sculpted by years of hard martial-arts training.
"I want you to lie down, on your stomach," Michael instructed him. His
voice was tender. Mac did as he said. The grass tickled his neck.
"You know, we don't have to be in this position," Mac said. He'd
rather be able to see Michael.
"I'd like to, though. Just this first time," Michael said.
Mac felt Michael's dick brushing his ass. Then suddenly, Michael
pushed inside him. Mac gasped. It hurt; Michael was slick with oil,
but Mac had been tense, so it hurt. Not Michael's fault.
Michael gasped too. "Oh, that's good," he moaned. Mac felt kisses on
his shoulders. "That's good. That's wonderful. You're beautiful."
Michael started to move, and Mac felt, unexpectedly, a flash of
ecstatic bliss. His hips bucked automatically into Michael's movement.
"Oh, yesss," Michael groaned, speeding up. "You're incredible, Mac."
Under Michael, Mac whimpered, but not in pain. It was a good feeling
—a better feeling than he'd ever imagined. It had never, ever been
like this with Tom or his friends. It got better and better, white hot
like the lightning. He wasn't sure if the lightning flashes were in
the clouds or behind his eyes. He yelled, and felt Michael crying out
at the same moment, in a fantastic moment of unified bliss.
Michael collapsed on Mac's back, then rolled off. He lay on the grass
beside Mac, keeping one arm over him. Mac snuggled against him,
murmuring nonsense syllables.
"You see?" Michael let the words fall soft, like butterflies. "I love
you."
End Part One.
London, England, November 1971
n a 3rd floor walk-up flat in North London, a young woman kept an
anxious vigil.
"Hey, Michael."
