The Old Wheel, page 5
part #2 of The Adventures of Holloway Holmes Series
“It’s an interesting problem. And I’ve been bored. And it’s a good way for you to make some money; like Sherlock and John Watson, we’re consulting detectives now.” He brought his leg up and side-kicked the closet wall. Nothing spectacular happened—not unless you count the visual reminder of that jack-in-the-box ass. The cinderblocks didn’t give way, a secret door didn’t pop open. He didn’t even smash through the wall Robocop style. H made an annoyed noise and went back to his examination. “And I don’t think Aston meant anything personal by it.”
“Killing you is pretty personal.”
He made that same noise again.
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’m going to take it personally. For both of us.”
“Whatever you like,” Holmes said in a tone like he hadn’t actually heard me.
Holmes spent some time examining the rest of the room. He came to a stop next to the TV, and he frowned. Crouching, he lined himself up with the bed. He got on his knees, pressed his cheek to the carpet, and stayed still for a long moment. Then he stood and moved to the door.
He opened it so quickly that Aston, who must have been pressed up against it, started to fall. He caught himself, gave Holmes a nasty look, and tried to play it off. “What—”
“When did you rearrange the furniture?”
“What?”
“The bed. When did you move the bed?”
“I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago.” Aston glanced at me. “What’s going on?”
“H found some dust bunnies. He’s going to prosecute you for disorderly bedroom in the first degree.”
“The only person on campus who has committed disorderly bedroom in the first degree is currently standing here with us,” Holmes said primly, “and he is not Aston Young.”
“What the hell, H?”
“I found pizza in your desk drawer.”
“They were pizza rolls, big shot, and that could have happened to anyone.”
“Anyone who mistook their desk drawer for a repository for bite-sized breaded pizza products.”
“Did you come up with that on the fly? The legal definition of a pizza roll, I mean.”
A hint of color rose in his face. “It’s hardly a legal definition.”
“Holy shit, you’ve been saving that one.”
“I was not saving it!”
“You were. You were saving up a zinger. This is the best day of my life. Wait, why were you going through my desk?”
“I do not save zingers. And I needed a pencil, which I thought would be in your desk, not—as you later showed me—in your underwear drawer because, quote, ‘you were coming over, so I straightened up.’”
“What are you two talking about?” Aston shouted.
“I had some pencils and loose change on my dresser,” I said, “so I just kind of swept them into the top drawer because H has this thing about my bedroom—”
Holmes shook his head. “It’s a war crime.”
“It’s a normal bedroom at normal, messy bedroom levels.”
Aston slapped the door. “Hey! You’re supposed to be helping me!”
“The second photo—” Holmes reached for the picture, but when I shook my head, he stopped. “—was clearly taken from that side of the bed. That wall is solid; there’s nowhere a camera could be hidden. Therefore, some other possibility had to explain it. The television stand is at the right height, and when I inspected the carpet, I found marks that suggested the furniture had been moved recently.”
Some of the color bled from Aston’s face. He hugged himself, and his voice was shallow when he said, “It was over there. The bed was here; I swapped them because—” He hugged himself tighter. “—because Dawson suggested it.”
I glanced at Holmes. “Want to pop next door and see if there’s anything interesting in Dawson’s room?”
“Obviously.” To Aston, he said, “Return to class. I’m going to collect these—”
“No!” Aston interposed himself between Holmes and the papers on the bed. He shook his head.
Holmes looked at me. “If there are fingerprints or other trace evidence, I may be able to lift them.”
“He’s the client,” I said. “If he says no, that’s his choice.”
“No,” Aston said again. “I don’t want anybody to—” He stopped and shook his head again.
“Then you may want to find a better hiding spot than—” Holmes frowned and checked me for confirmation. “The pillowcase?”
“Don’t show off,” I said.
Holmes didn’t say anything, but he did look unbearably satisfied with himself.
“What am I supposed to do?” Aston asked. “Should I tell them I’ll pay them?”
“Of course not,” Holmes said, sounding slightly offended. “Did they give you a way to communicate with them?”
“No, but—”
“Then how would you tell them anything?”
I shook my head and nudged Holmes toward the door. “Don’t do anything yet. We’ll be in touch.”
We left Baker House and went next door to the unfortunately named (at least, for a boys’ residence) Woody Hall, where Dawson had his room. One of my keys got us into the building. It was quiet as we climbed the stairs—which made sense, with most of the kids either at class or taking a study hall. When we emerged onto the second floor, a hint of weed hung in the air. It didn’t smell like the cheap shit I’d been getting from Lehi, which meant somebody had their own stash. Or, worse, somebody might be trying to horn in on my business. Music was playing too—a steady, thumping beat that grew louder as we got closer to Dawson’s room.
“Doesn’t anybody in this place go to class?” I asked.
Holmes’s face stayed perfectly smooth.
“Stop it,” I said.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re calculating my tardies and absences.”
“The most distressing one is geometry.”
I groaned. “You’re not even in my geometry class. I’m always on time. I’m a model student.”
“You do realize that you can eat chicken tenders from the dining hall every day, don’t you? You’re not contractually obligated to stay until you clean out the dining hall.”
“This is why I said stop.”
“If I were to plot your tardies by time of day, there would be a significant correlation with meals and sleep.”
Fortunately by then we’d reached Dawson’s room, and I didn’t have to throw myself down the trash chute or climb out a window. I took out my keys, saying, “I’m not sure if I have one that will open this—”
But Holmes reached past me, touched the handle, and turned it. The door swung open.
The first thing I saw was naked bodies.
They were mid-fuck, facing us doggy style. Dawson was bottoming, his face flushed and his body shaking as the other man pounded into him. The top wasn’t anyone I recognized: maybe my age, maybe a bit older, with almond skin. He had dark hair in a faux hawk, thick eyebrows, lips so full they looked pouty. His stiff nipples looked like bronze.
Dawson let out a strangled squawk, but the top kept drilling.
I opened my mouth to say something—I wasn’t sure how you asked, Who the hell are you? while also apologizing for walking in on a guy mid-bone, but I was going to give it my best try
Before I could, though, the top noticed us. He straightened, slapped Dawson’s ass hard enough that Dawson cried out, and smirked. “Oi, Holloway, want to have a go?”
Chapter 6
Cage Match
Holmes’s face was on fire, of course, but he didn’t look away from Dawson and his fuck-buddy. He reached over and hit the speaker, and the music cut off.
“Should we—” I whispered, touching Holmes’s elbow.
“No,” he said at a normal volume. “You can’t turn your back on him. Dismount, Paxton. And both of you, cover up.”
I’m not sure if anyone, in the history of the world, had been ordered to dismount while balls deep (maybe pony play, the filthy part of my brain suggested), but the top—Paxton, Holmes had called him—took it in stride. His smirk grew, and he swatted Dawson’s ass again and said, “Ease up, luv; you heard him.”
I wasn’t exactly a good person, but I had aspirations of one day being a decent one, so I did my best not to look directly at them as they separated. Holmes seemed to suffer from no such qualms. His face was redder, if that was possible, but he stared fixedly as Dawson wrapped himself in the towel that had been under him and Paxton slid off the bed. That was the point when I gave up on ever being a decent human being because I couldn’t help myself. Paxton had some serious equipment. Big, red, angry tackle. And, I mean, good for him, although it was hard not to wonder—
“Jack,” Holmes said.
“Right.” And then, because I couldn’t stop the next word: “Sorry.”
Paxton gave me a grin over his shoulder as he pulled up a pair of red briefs; that only made it worse, in some ways, because they fit him perfectly and let the imagination run wild. He straightened, ran a hand through his faux hawk, and considered us. Me, mostly. I’d seen that look on guys and girls before, so it wasn’t anything new. The blush lighting me up, though—that was new.
Briefs in place, Paxton padded over to us. Holmes tensed, and I shifted my weight to move forward. Holmes shook his head, so all I did was watch as Paxton kissed his cheek.
It didn’t last long: a brush of lips, maybe not even a full second. It seemed to go on forever. Long enough for me to remember the Wikipedia article on World War III—they hadn’t listed this situation as a possible cause, so I’d need to edit the page and add it. Einstein had a quote on there, about fighting World War IV with sticks and stones. As Paxton pulled back, I thought maybe I’d run outside and find one. You could fuck somebody up with the right stick.
Holmes, of course, didn’t even break Paxton’s arm or anything, which was simultaneously disappointing and unbelievable.
“Hello, luv,” Paxton said in a different voice—a quiet one, that sounded like it was meant for Holloway alone. “Missed you.”
Holmes still held himself rigid. “Move away.”
Something I couldn’t read crossed Paxton’s face, but he stepped back. His gaze returned to me, and a crooked smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “You’re gorgeous, aren’t you? But then, Holloway always liked them pretty.”
Holmes didn’t exactly grab my arm or step in front of me or, you know, brand my ass, but he bristled, and his tone sharpened. “Sit on the bed, Paxton. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Hands raised in surrender, Paxton stepped backward. He sat on the bed—not too close to Dawson, buddy distance, the way you would with a guy if you hadn’t been, for example, fucking his brains out a couple of minutes before.
By that point, Dawson seemed to have recovered. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, and his caveman forehead was furrowed. “You can’t be in here—”
“Don’t speak unless I ask you a question,” Holmes said.
Dawson’s mouth opened, but he stopped, swallowed, and didn’t say anything. Paxton did an exaggerated wince.
“H,” I said, “want to tell me what’s going on here?”
The color in Holmes’s cheeks—those perfect red circles—had only intensified since the kiss, and his pulse hammered in his neck again.
“H,” I said again, as gently as I could.
He blinked. Then I watched as that ferocious will took mastery again. It was like watching someone smooth water into stillness by sheer concentration: his breathing slowing, his hands uncurling at his sides, the tension in his jaw easing, and finally, last of all, the color softening in his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the look he turned on me was a mixture of embarrassment and, I was fairly sure, a hint of fear. Of punishment? Of having lost control? I didn’t know exactly, but I knew who had put it there. Another gift from Blackfriar Holmes.
“It’s ok,” I said, cocking my head at the door. “Maybe we should—”
“No.” He let out a slow breath. “No, Jack. We can’t. Paxton is…slippery. He cannot be trusted.”
“Now that’s a bit harsh, innit?” Paxton asked from the bed.
“You’ve got to help me out,” I said. “I can keep an eye on them if you need a minute to, you know…” Pull yourself together wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you said to Holloway Holmes, but I didn’t have a good alternative.
“I’m fine, Jack. Thank you.” Holmes breathed slowly again for a few seconds. “Jack, this is Paxton Adler. Paxton, Jack Moreno.”
Paxton winked at me.
“You know each other,” I said.
“Well, that’s us sorted,” Paxton said with a laugh. “You got a smart one, Holloway.”
“Yes, we know each other,” Holmes said. “He is an…acquaintance of the family.”
“He’s my cuz.”
Holmes shook his head, but he didn’t say anything.
When the silence had stretched out long enough, I said, “And he just happens to be here fucking Dawson because…what? Dawson’s a cheap piece of ass?”
“Hey!” Dawson said, sitting up, but he shrank down again when Holmes glared at him.
“Excellent question,” Holmes said. “What are you doing here, Paxton?”
“It’s a school, innit?” Paxton gave us wide-eyed innocence and shrugged. “’Nuff said.”
“You’re no longer of an age for school.”
“I’m a bit slow; takes me longer.”
Holmes gave a shockingly nasty laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”
Paxton leaned back, hands behind him on the mattress. He had a defined chest, a flat stomach, minimal body hair. Groomed, I thought. I put him at twenty, twenty-one. He was still smirking at Holmes, and Holmes’s control was fraying again, his chest rising and falling more rapidly, the red in his cheeks darkening.
“Tag me in,” I whispered to Holmes.
He looked sidelong at me.
“Wrestling?” I said. “Cage match? You tag out by tagging me in.”
“What are you talking about?”
I cocked my head.
After a moment, he hissed a furious breath and nodded.
“That’s proper beautiful,” Paxton said. “Love that.”
“Stop messing with him,” I said, turning on him. “I think you might genuinely like him, so knock it off.”
“But it’s fun, innit? Twisting his tail?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Holmes’s jaw dropped. “Jack!”
“What? It is.” To Paxton, though, I said, “But enough is enough; knock it off.”
Paxton studied me; his smile changed caliber—more serious, more authentic, more dangerous. I wasn’t sure what it meant.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
In a very soft voice, his dark eyes unchanging, he said, “Going to school, right?”
Ok, I thought. Message received. I turned to Dawson. “This is why you needed that Viagra?”
He flushed and shot me the bird.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Apparently I was less threatening than Holmes—or Dawson had been saving this up for the first question. “What’s going on? What’s going on? What’s going on is a couple of fuckwad freaks broke into my room, which is breaking and entering and trespassing and—and violates my civil rights. And you’d better believe that when I tell the headmaster, she’s going to kick you both out and fire your dad and what the fuck are you going to do about that? And then, you know what? Then I’m going to find you, and I’m going to beat the shit out of you. I will fucking kill you, understand?”
Hands on knees, I got to eye level with Dawson. He stared back at me, buzzing with adrenaline. “Here’s the deal, Daw. You’re upset because we barged in on you, and that’s embarrassing. And for a guy like you, maybe it’s more embarrassing because we walked in on you taking dick like a champ, although, hey, no reason to be embarrassed about that. Maybe you’re embarrassed because you thought this was your secret, and you’re afraid we’re going to tell someone. And maybe you’re still mad at me because I wouldn’t sell you that shit on credit. I understand there’s a lot going on right now, and that might be making you say things and do things you wouldn’t normally say and do. But I’m going to level with you: I don’t give two shits. You ever say something like that about my dad again, you ever even come close to threatening him, and we’re going to settle it right then. Hear me?”
He dropped his chin, and his eyes cut away.
My heartbeat pounded like a metronome in my ears. “I asked you a question.”
He jerked out a nod and mumbled, “Yes.”
I stepped back and looked out the window. The sun had climbed higher, and the snow caught like a blaze. When I closed my eyes, the afterimage was a banner of yellow and green. I opened them and turned back to the two on the bed.
“Well, what is it?” Paxton asked. “Not that we mind a visit, especially if you want to stay and play, but you did interrupt us.”
“Aston Young is being blackmailed,” Holmes said, his gaze settling on Paxton. “I think I have an idea by whom.”
Paxton laughed. “Not me, luv.”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you know anything about this?” I asked Dawson. “The other boy in the pictures is you.”
He directed his words to the carpet: “I don’t have to talk to you.”
I shared a look with Holmes; in his subtle Holmes way, his face mirrored my frustration.
Dawson swiveled toward me, regaining some of the tough-shit aura he usually carried—you know, the days somebody hadn’t walked in on him taking it long and deep. “What are you waiting for? Get out.”
The tone settled something inside me—everything had been so fucking weird since the moment we stepped into the room, and Holmes still wasn’t acting like himself. I didn’t know what to do about Paxton or the effect he was having, but I did know how to handle spoiled Walker boys.
