Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov

27

Who even knew what the “right” strategy was anymore? That particular train of thought hadn’t just departed, it had jumped off the rails, rammed a mountain side and exploded. Search crews in high-vis jackets were now combing through the wreckage.

In some ways it was easier to just accept death. But, like that night on the bridge, he’d met an unexpected fellow traveler on the way to hell, and that changed everything. Strangely, Sal Rausa understood him better than Andrea or anybody else ever had, and he didn’t seem to judge Jack for any of it.

“I know you’re not interested in negotiations.” The way Sal’s shoulders immediately squared and he lifted his chin confirmed that. Jack smiled tiredly. “I understand. If you let me go, I’ll find out who killed her.”

Sal grimaced, baring his teeth. “Only difference that makes is that I’ll know which corpse to piss on.”

Sal was lying, though. It meant a lot more to him than he let on. He fell back on his gruffness when he felt his position weaken. At least that was Jack’s working hypothesis. Jack rubbed his face, tried to clear his head more. He was getting better, feeling less hung over, less heavy and drugged with every minute that passed, but he was nowhere near back to his usual sharpness. He needed forty-eight hours of restful sleep, several bottles of water, a good, hard run, and a couple sessions in a sauna to work the last vestiges of the drugs out of his system. Not for the first time this month, he felt every year of his age. Twenty years ago, he’d have let this weekend wash over him and emerged completely dry and ready to fight.

And then there were the other issues. How to survive the war. How to deal with having failed so spectacularly at keeping the peace, the one thing he’d been good at. How to avoid the impression that it was him who’d sold everybody out to save himself. He’d have to leave town, the state, and ideally the country, in case somebody came calling to collect on that debt. Without the Lo Cascio, he had no protection.

And all that because he couldn’t suppress those distracting emotions and needs? Didn’t that confirm that men like him couldn’t be trusted? That he was, on the most fundamental level, flawed and weak?

No. He’d seen enough men make terrible decisions because of money, drugs, or ego. Sometimes all three. He was no worse, and also no better. He’d tried for decades, and none of it had made even the smallest difference. He’d gone into the life willingly and with open eyes. Part of the draw had been that his father, who always found fault with him, had failed to get made. And, yes, he’d rubbed it into the old man’s face when the money started flowing. Because money was a language his father understood. The only one he spoke.

What mistakes Jack had made had nothing to do with his sexuality, because he’d spent so much energy on suppressing it and excelling in everything else. He’d worked so hard in part because he didn’t have to deal with demands from lovers or spouses or children. “You’re a machine”, his old capo used to say, part proud, part exasperated.

No, not a machine at all.

Sal Rausa came around the breakfast bar and placed both his hands on his shoulders, as he’d done right at the start, but now Jack’s body only welcomed the touch. It was firm and strong and warm, and with a sudden flashing heat he remembered that touch on his bare skin. All those pretensions—his role, his duties, his past—had bled away, and he had been no different from any other man, just as vulnerable and brittle as any other human being experiencing such intense pleasure.

If he could have that again—if he could strip away everything that had separated him from being just some man, just anybody, whose deeds and decisions ultimately meant nothing, had no lives or power riding on it … If he could even conceive such a life, maybe he could start again. Start better. Far away from Port Francis. Maybe he’d find somebody for himself, somebody who accepted him as he was, somebody he could lean on as much as he himself was willing to support. A relationship of equals, without lies and subterfuge. If he found that, it could be the kind of love that made Sal’s voice break when he spoke of his wife.

“Finding out who killed Catia … is that the only reason you can give me to keep you alive, Jack?” It was said almost with affection, and Jack swallowed. If he could have, he’d have scrambled to pull the comforting blanket of that drug back over his mind and emotions, because feeling those things while sober was too damn intense.

“I got nothing else. Andrea would have me killed if he knew what I am. That cat is out of the bag. There is no hiding now.”

“You could. Plenty of guys leave the closet, and plenty go back inside.” Those hands tightened on his traps, and all Jack could remember was that heated kiss and the taste of another man.

“It’d take even more rope than last night to keep me there.”

Sal gave a low chuckle that made the hairs on Jack’s arms stand up. “I’m pretty handy with a length of rope. Try me.”

Try me. Jack looked up and saw Enzo watching them, looking alert, but not surprised. If anything, there was a hint of amusement around his lips. Something in Jack’s perception had clearly changed because he could see easily why Sal would be attracted to Enzo, and vice versa. Maybe his brush with death had opened his eyes, or he now allowed himself to contemplate masculine beauty without a deep-seated terror that that alone might condemn him to death. Enzo was objectively very attractive, although Jack didn’t feel any erotic charge. But Sal Rausa was stunning, metaphorically and literally.

Jack half-turned to meet Sal’s eyes. “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Something distracting you?”

“Yes.”

Sal laughed and stepped back. “Enzo, I’ll go grab a shower.”

“Understood.” Enzo leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Sal leave the kitchen, then re-focused his attention on Jack. “You guys seem to be getting on well.”

“I guess.” Jack rubbed his face. “I don’t know. That horse tranquilizer makes thinking hard.”

“Thinking’s overrated with Sal.” Enzo flashed him a smile. “Want to hear what I’m thinking?”

“Do I?”

“He’s turned on. You’re pushing his buttons, and that shower is so he can clear his head.” Enzo looked very relaxed now.

Jack blinked but it wasn’t mockery, not a joke.

“He’s turned on.”

Well, made two of them. The touch had been intense while his head hadn’t been clear, but if he understood correctly, there was an opportunity for some more of that. Maybe he didn’t need to for that new start—provided he’d live to get the opportunity—to find out what he could feel if he gave himself that freedom. Of all possible men in this world, Sal Rausa had to count among the worst for a test run. But Jack might never get another opportunity to experience this if Sal did decide to kill him. Maybe this was the only chance he’d ever get in his life, and he already had more than his share of regrets.

“You’re pushing his buttons.”

And that was the thing. He didn’t normally feel this way. There had been two men in his life he’d felt attracted to, and both had been friendly first and foremost. The first had been Tony, a fellow soldier, made just a few weeks before Jack, and they’d spent a lot of time together trying to come up with schemes to make money. And while Jack laughed one day about a scheme that was getting more and more harebrained, he’d suddenly realized he wanted to kiss his friend. And now, thinking back, he thought Tony might have had a few such moments of temptation too, even though his success with dating was further bolstered by the way he flashed cash around. Jack had told himself that closeness was because their capo had leaned hard on them, but he’d still realized it wasn’t just about the easy comradery. You didn’t daydream about a friend.

The second man had been the physiotherapist who’d looked after him when Jack had managed to rip his ACL during a skiing trip. The aptly named Dr. Walker had advised him and helped him stabilize his knee with exercises. The man had been a good ten years older, well-groomed, patient, ultra-competent and silver-haired.

They’d hit it off well from the start, and Jack remembered how Dr. Walker had complimented him on his muscle tone and overall fitness and asked him whether he was a professional athlete or model. During the final check-up, he’d suddenly realized he wanted those competent hands everywhere on his body. But he’d pushed the notion away, and ignored what Jack now thought had been coded messages, such as the man indicating he’d gone on a trip to Mykonos with “a few friends” and he could recommend the “sights” on that island.

It was years later when Jack discovered that Mykonos was a famously gay-friendly island in the Mediterranean. Code was lost on those who hadn’t been handed a code book to decipher it. A few times, he’d considered finding Dr. Walker to confirm his suspicion, but he’d never followed up on it, and by now he was likely retired.

Nothing would hold him back this time.

When Jack stood, at least he no longer felt seasick; he was a little unsteady, but he could control his legs enough to walk in pretty much a straight line, though he didn’t dare turn his head and cast a glance at Enzo because his balance was too tenuous for that.

He followed the sound of running water to the bathroom, and saw Sal Rausa’s naked, wet form beyond the glass. His clothes lay in a pile on the chair to which Jack had been tied, shoes thoughtfully placed on the rim of the Jacuzzi, socks stuffed inside.

He noticed how Sal’s dark hair was plastered to his scalp, how his hands moved quickly and efficiently over his skin, and soap suds travelled down those long legs that were solidly braced against whatever the world might throw at him. And where Enzo was pleasant and dangerous to look at, well, Sal was in a universe all his own.

On socked feet, Jack walked across the plastic sheets and headed straight for the door of the shower. He opened it enough to slide under the soft, dense, steaming spray behind the man, and place a kiss between his shoulder blades. Jack was massively overstepping, and there was always the danger that Rausa would explode into more violence, but he was serious about having nothing to lose now.

Sal seemed to laugh tonelessly if Jack read his breathing correctly. He lifted his face into the water and reached behind himself, grabbed Jack by the hips and pulled him closer. “Didn’t even get undressed?”

“It seemed too much.”

Sal glanced at him over his shoulder. “Still hedging your bets, Jack? As the saying goes, there’s no such thing as safe sex.”

“Never heard that.” Jack found himself breathless and struggling for oxygen. He hadn’t thought further than the need to touch Sal, but of course it wasn’t Sal who was the blushing virgin.

“If you’d have ever joined us, my wife would have told you that good sex goes down to the soul like a damn knife.”

“Is that … is that what we’re doing?” Jack felt how Sal guided his hands, and his mind overloaded with the sensation of heated, slippery skin and shifting powerful muscle. Seeing it was dangerous. Feeling it—was far too much. How did people stand it? He placed another kiss on Sal’s shoulder, tasted the water on his lips, and moved closer to a kind of awkward and almost unbearable embrace. He felt Sal take a few deep breaths, his hands still on Jack’s. Nervous about his erection pushing against the wet cloth of his trousers, he wasn’t sure what he’d come for exactly. He had only a theoretical understanding how things would develop, what was even possible, what was wanted.

“I don’t think I have to tell you how fucking hot you are,” Sal ventured. “But that’s not why I don’t want to kill you.”

Jack drew back instinctively, but Sal pushed his hands harder against his own naked skin, holding him in place.

“Why then?”

“You have heart.” Sal pushed back against him. “I respect you.”

“You’ll be the only one in this town.”

“Yeah, but they’re wrong.” Sal laced his fingers with Jack’s and squeezed. “Fuck them. My town, my rules.”

It wasn’t that easy, though right now under the shower, Jack might be able to fool himself long enough to bask in that wholly undeserved level of trust. He rested his head in the crook of Sal’s neck and shoulder, kept one hand where it was, and let the other one slide over the tensing muscles of his stomach,. He felt strangely anchored by how solidly Sal Rausa stood, like nothing could move him if he didn’t acquiesce. All that Sal’s hand on his did was give him confidence, because he certainly didn’t guide him.

When he slid past the belly button, Sal’s breathing pattern shifted, and he trembled very slightly when Jack’s fingers slid over trimmed, wiry hair and closed around his fully erect cock. Sal’s breath was much shallower now, and Jack kissed his neck. “Tell me if I do it wrong.”

“There’s no wrong, Jack. If I get a chance, I’ll show you how many right ways I know.” Sal chuckled again. “Though I’d really like it if you were naked.”

There was no way he’d break the contact now, though, certainly not to deal with pulling wet cloth off his body. He was far too fascinated and aroused by touching another man’s cock. It felt both familiar and very much not, in his hand. If anything, Sal’s was slightly thicker than his own as he ran his hand along the length first teasingly and carefully. He felt the tension in Sal’s body and ultimately it seemed like payback after what Sal had given him on the couch.

With every stroke, Sal’s muscles tightened, and Jack belatedly noticed that Sal’s ass was pushing back against him, definitely an invitation to push as well. It was dizzying, especially when Sal’s free hand deftly slid between them, and squeezed Jack’s cock in his trousers before opening his belt. He let Sal’s chest go to help him open the button and zip, and push the fly apart enough for Sal to slide his hand into Jack’s boxers. Then all control fled and Jack became a reckless, not always perfectly coordinated mess of movement and breath and pleasure. It was good, but awkward enough that Jack couldn’t quite come. And apparently he wasn’t great at handjobs, because while Sal seemed to enjoy himself, he also didn’t come and eventually turned around.

His eyes were positively glowing in his flushed face when he grabbed Jack’s head with both hands and kissed him deeply, passionately, wrecking what breath Jack had left. It didn’t matter anymore how dressed or undressed Jack was, though the next thing Sal did was nearly rip the shirt from his chest and push his boxers down to free his cock.

Sal bared his teeth in a dangerous grin, then winked and kissed him again. He pulled Jack closer against him, taking both their cocks in one hand, which was so intense Jack’s knees felt weak. Between the open-mouthed, heated kiss, and all that skin against his own, Jack lost himself in the pleasure. It was nothing like he’d ever imagined, nothing like what he did by himself—he’d never relished getting off, just considered it something of an annoying pressure valve he had to regularly release. Another part of a normal maintenance routine of sensible diet, good hydration, regular exercise. Sal Rausa blew all of that out of the water with the same abandon that he’d wrecked the rest of Jack’s life.

He felt Sal thrust along his cock, watched him move in the rare moments when they broke the kiss, which now involved tongues and teeth. Sal nipped playfully at his lips, and then Sal’s mouth travelled to the soft skin between Jack’s chin and throat. The sucking kisses and scrapes of teeth pushed him over the edge. Sal’s movements grew harsher, faster, and Sal came right after him, his hot semen mixing with Jack’s and the water.

Jack rested his head against Sal’s shoulder and felt Sal move again, this time releasing him after a few last strokes. Embracing him tightly so they stood under the water, both breathing heavily, Sal held him up as Jack’s knees shook and his skin tingled all over from the sensory overload.

“Tell me when you’re ready to move,” Sal murmured in his ear.

“No.”

Another silent laugh. “Fair enough.”