Chapter Eleven

Mitchell hadn’t slept all night. Unshaven and bleary eyed, he sat at the table in Brian’s kitchen, took a swig of coffee and glanced at his best friend. Brian was a rock, solid and dependable. And dressed to kill. How did the man do it?

“What’s your day like?” Mitchell took a sip of his coffee.

“Well, I have an appointment with a new client this morning at eight-thirty. Then I was going to catch up with some of my cop buddies and talk to them about this Donovan character.” Mitchell poured his coffee into a mug that said Firemen Are Flaming Hot.

“I’d like to get the tires fixed on my car.”

“How about after lunch? We’ll take them off and then go over to the tire place on Studemont.”

“Sounds good.”

“What are you going to do until then?” Brian watched him over his cup.

“Don’t worry. I have no plans to sit around here and mope. I’m going to take a walk.” Mitchell got to his feet, went to the counter and poured another cup of coffee.

“You’ll find him.”

“Maybe.” Mitchell didn’t hold out much hope. Sammi had been on the street for a few years, so he knew how to hide, how to survive. Who was to say he was even still in the neighborhood? But he had to keep trying. It was the only thing he held on to, the hope of finding Sammi again.

Brian stood and gave Mitchell’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “I think you will. I have a feeling.” Then he scooped up his cell phone and keys and he left.

It was seven a.m. when Mitchell left the house and walked to Montrose.

 

* * * *

 

At seven-fifteen, Moretti pulled up outside Mitchell’s apartment and parked the Mercedes behind the Jetta. Two of its tires were still flat. He chuckled at how he’d fucked up Collins’ car. Maybe he should flatten the other two while he was there, just to let the man know he wasn’t forgotten.

He got out, went up the stairs and pounded on the door. It had been fixed, so he’d been back at least. Where the hell was he? Not at work? Moretti had made pretty sure the bastard would get fired.

He got out his cell phone, searched for Collins’ work number and dialed. He leaned against the porch column.

“Hey, can I speak to Mitchell Collins?”

The operator paused. “I’m sorry, but he’s no longer employed here.”

Moretti laughed as he disconnected. “Fuck you, Collins!” So he wasn’t at work. Where was he? He suspected he was hiding inside.

“Come on out, Collins!” He banged again.

After waiting a few minutes and pounding once more, he tossed around the idea that either Collins wasn’t in or he wasn’t coming out to face him.

Across the street, a woman came out of her door. She locked it, then headed down her steps to a car parked in the driveway. For a moment, she stared at him. He waved, as if nothing was wrong and she almost waved back, then got in her car and drove off.

People were stupid.

Hell, the neighborhood was waking up and people were starting to come and go. Good thing he hadn’t kicked in the door. Miss Busybody would have definitely called the cops on him.

Collins wasn’t getting away this easy, no way in fucking hell.

Frustrated, Moretti gave the door a final blow with his fist and decided to come back later.

 

* * * *

 

By nine a.m. Mitchell had walked most of the strip from the West Dallas, past Westheimer, and up to Richmond. His feet were holding up, thanks to his sneakers. Without a photograph of Sammi, he had nothing but a verbal description to go by.

The bars, where it would be most likely Sammi would go, wouldn’t be open until later that night, so he’d started with hitting all the coffee shops, twenty-four-hour video porn stores, and diners that were open. Maybe Sammi had gone someplace to eat.

He had to eat, right? Sure, he’d probably find him sitting at a table, having lunch. Mitchell held on to that slim hope, clinging to it like a rope dangling over a cliff.

More likely Moretti had caught Sammi.

Mitchell’s belly rolled at the thought of that goon finding Sammi. And he almost threw up thinking of whoever the hell Donovan was getting his hands on Sammi. Mitchell stopped, put his hands on his knees and swallowed down several deep breaths until he got his stomach under control.

He’d hidden his near-panic at Sammi’s disappearance from Brian, but now, on the streets, it surged through him. “I’m going to find him.” He took another deep breath, pushing the fear back down. “He’ll be safe.” He exhaled then straightened.

Mitchell walked on, to the next coffee shop on the street. He went inside and slid into a stool at the counter. A few people sat at tables, and a few seats down the counter was an older man. The breakfast rush was over. The waitress met Mitchell with a menu and a carafe of dark brew. The smell of coffee and breakfast filled the air.

“Coffee?” She handed him the menu.

“No. Iced tea, please.” Mitchell’s walking had proved thirsty work.

She put the pot away, poured him a glass of tea, and placed it in front of him. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing. But I do need some info.”

She cocked up a perfectly sketched eyebrow. “What kind of info?”

“I’m looking for a friend. He’s about five-ten or so. Black hair cut short on one side and long on the other side. Thin, but built. Wearing jeans and a black hoodie.” He couldn’t describe Sammi any better, unless he went into a detailed accounting of Sammi’s body, and he was pretty sure she wanted to hear any of that.

She rolled her eyes. “Man, you’re talking about most of the boys around here.”

Mitchell sighed. “Yeah, I know. But it’s the best I can do.”

“Honey, I came on at five. I didn’t see him this morning. But we’re open all night. Maybe you can come back tonight and catch the other waitresses?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Mitchell downed the tea, tossed out a five and got off the stool to leave.

He’d stepped outside and paused on the sidewalk as he glanced down the street and the next place.

The door to the café opened and the man who’d sat at the counter came out.

“Hey. You looking for someone?”

Mitchell turned and faced him. “Yes.”

“Heard you with the waitress.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I seen a guy like that last night.”

“What time? Where?” Mitchell’s heart banged in his chest.

“Late. He was walking with this old dude. But it was down the street, not here.”

“Where exactly?” Mitchell wanted to grab the guy and shake it out of him.

“Over near W. Gray.”

“You sure it was him?”

He shrugged. “Lean. Black hair, cut in one of those high and tight on one side, the other covering half his face. Black hoodie. Yeah, I think that was him.”

Mitchell nodded. “Thanks.” He stuck out his hand and the other man shook it.

“Glad I can help.” He turned to walk away.

Mitchell bit his lip. “Hey.” The man turned back. “Do me a favor? If anyone else, someone like a big, bald thug, or someone like that, asks if you’ve seen him, can you say you haven’t?”

The guy shrugged. “Sure. He’s in trouble?”

“Yeah, if I don’t find him, he might be.”

The man nodded. “Okay.” He made the motions of zipping his mouth shut then he walked away.

Mitchell’s heart danced and he wanted to do a fist pump and jump up and down. His first lead and it sounded pretty good.

Sammi was still in the area, that much he now knew for sure, although he had no idea who this old man might be. Had Sammi found another ‘mark’, someone to take him in, like he’d done? Well, as long as Sammi was safe, Mitchell didn’t care.

He intended to walk the strip that night, as well.

Around ten a.m., he began canvassing the video porn stores. At the third one, he asked about Sammi and the clerk nodded.

“Yeah, man. Dude was in here last night. Had a photo of your boy, flashing it around. Told him same as you. I didn’t see him.” The guy shook his head and his dreads danced. “And I don’t want to see him with friends like that hunting for him…” He shook his head again. “They some bad-ass dudes, man.”

“Thanks. What size men are we talking about?” Mitchell wanted to confirm if Donovan’s gorilla was searching in the same area.

“Hell, man, they was all big, you know? Scary, too.” He sniffed. “You want to watch a movie with me? I got a free room in the back.” He jerked his head to a black curtain that hung in a doorway.

“No, thanks. Gotta go.” Mitchell left. If Donovan was still searching for Sammi last night that meant Sammi was still free, still out there. Or that Donovan had found him and Sammi was lost to Mitchell.

The rest of the morning, as Mitchell trudged up and down Montrose Avenue, he ran into more people who’d been asked about Sammi by what sounded like the same guys. Big, scary, and with photos of Sammi. Mitchell’s gut told him there was something more going on than just a jilted lover.

Who the fuck was Donovan? From some of the descriptions the people gave, he must have at least four guys out looking for Sammi. No way in hell they were good friends of Sammi’s. More like Donovan’s paid muscle, if the guy who’d come to his work was any indication.

What Mitchell did know was that he needed to catch up to Sammi before Donovan or his men did.

 

* * * *

 

Sammi and Otis trotted across the street and down the alley to the restaurant’s back door. Otis unlocked the door and they went inside. Sammi began setting out all the clean dishes, wiping down tables, and filling salt and pepper shakers and ketchup bottles.

Otis fired up the grill and fryer and started to prep his work area. There were fresh tomatoes to cut, lettuce to wash and tear for salads, onions to chop, and lots and lots of potatoes to cut into fries.

Sammi kept his eye on the old man as he worked, in hopes of picking up some idea of what a cook had to do before he even started to cook. At the penthouse, he’d often spent his free time in the kitchen, watching the housekeeper prepare their meals. Sammi hoped a time would come when Otis would let him do some prep work, but for now, he was content to wash dishes, clear tables and do whatever was asked of him.

He finished his work and came over to Otis. “Mind if I watch?”

“Sure. Knock yourself out, son.” Otis chuckled, then gave Sammi a side glance. “Okay, you want to learn?”

“Yes!” Sammi bounced on his heels.

“Calm down, boy. See, this is an easy chop. See how I hold the knife?”

Sammi nodded.

“Now, I curl my fingers under, like this, so I don’t add something extra to the chop.” He demonstrated for Sammi, who hung on every movement of the man’s deft fingers and the slicing of the wide blade.

“This is a coarse chop. I use it for the soups.” He brushed the cut veggies into a pot and put it to the side. “I’ll add some chicken stock to this, the shredded-up chicken, some noodles and we got our chicken soup.”

“Sounds delicious.” Sammi licked his lips.

Otis laughed. “Okay. Now, I’m doing the onions for the burgers. We grill them first, then add them to the patties.” He pulled over a peeled onion and sliced it. Sammi watched and took mental notes as Otis lectured him on the prep work.

“It’s nearly eleven, boy. Time to open up for the lunch crowd. You got the tables ready?”

“Yes, sir!” Sammi saluted.

Otis pulled out his keys. “Here. Go open the door and flip the sign on.”

Sammi took them and navigated his way through the café to the front door. His first real day of work was about to start and he was so excited.

Today, he’d work enough hours to earn seventy-five dollars. With what he’d made yesterday, he’d have one hundred twenty-five dollars. He hadn’t had so much money in his pocket since he’d worked the street.

Hoping he’d earn enough this week to rent a room somewhere, Sammi’s spirits rose. The thought of staying at one of the shelters made him shudder. When he was younger, he’d been beaten several times at them, over stupid things like where his cot was, or that he had someone’s blanket. Most of those men were angry at the world, and Sammi had been a convenient punching bag. Never again.

He wasn’t going to be anyone’s punching bag, or anyone’s whore, ever again. He had a better plan for his life now.

Without Mitchell, his life might never be complete, never happy. But maybe, for once, he could be proud of the life he did have.

 

* * * *

 

Moretti decided to swing by Collins’s place again. Ever since he’d called the fag’s work number and had been told Mitchell Collins was no longer an employee, he knew he’d made the man’s life a disaster. He’d cancelled his credit cards, emptied his accounts and destroyed most of the idiot’s property.

Teach him to fuck with him or Donovan.

Now he wanted to catch the bastard alone, lean on him, break a few bones, knock out a few teeth, and make him tell where that little shit Sammi was hiding. Make him beg Moretti not to hurt him anymore.

Did Collins really think the kid was worth all this grief?

The car still sat on the street, tilting to one side from the two flat tires. Moretti laughed. It was a bitch to have one flat, but two? What a pain in the ass that would be to fix. This time, he didn’t bother getting out of the car—he just pulled over across the street and parked. It still appeared like no one was home. Maybe the guy was out hunting for a new job. Maybe he was wherever he had hidden the kid.

Moretti waited another fifteen minutes, the whole time grinding his teeth and beating his fist on the steering wheel. He dug out his cell and flipped it open to check in with each of his men by group text.

 

Report.

 

Moretti’s fingers flew over the letters as he stared at the house, still hoping Collins would return while he was still there. You never knew.

One by one, his guys answered.

 

Nothing going, boss.

 

I got nothing. Not even a whiff of the fucker.

 

Sorry, boss. No one’s seen him.

 

He closed his phone with a final growl and a curse, then drove off. He’d swing back this afternoon. With a hard exhale, knowing what awaited him, he headed back to the penthouse to report in. As he drove he thought of Donovan’s ire and what form it might take. The bastard had better not try anything physical. Moretti didn’t care about yelling or cursing, he just blocked that shit out. But lay a hand on him?

No fucking way would he let that happen.

Donovan wasn’t going to like what Moretti had to report, but tough shit. It is what it is.

If he were in Donovan’s place he’d be pissed too. A half million was a shit ton of money to lose out on. And to tell the truth, Moretti would sorely miss his cut of the money.

At this point, Moretti knew it would be sheer luck if he found Sammi. What he didn’t know was if Sammi’s good luck would finally fail, or if his own luck would finally kick in.

 

* * * *

 

Mitchell had had it. His feet were aching and hot and he was drenched in sweat. Despite the cool weather, the humidity was up in the nineties. He wanted to beat his head against a wall, his fists against Moretti, or Donovan, and just scream, but he swallowed it down.

He’d been on the streets all day with only one sighting to show for it. He checked his phone. Nothing.

He hit Brian’s number. “Brian?”

“Yeah. Did you find him?”

“No. But I found someone who saw him last night.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing, right?” Always the optimist, his best friend Brian. Mitchell couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah. Better than nothing.” Although, nothing was all he had right now.

“Look, I’m heading home. Be there in thirty.”

“Right. See you there.” Mitchell disconnected and shoved the phone back in his pocket. He straightened his shoulders and headed to Brian’s place.

Mitchell, dragging his feet, spotted Brian’s SUV in the drive. He’d have to fix his car, because he couldn’t do all this walking again tonight.

He knocked on the door and Brian let him in.

“Don’t look at it as a waste of time, man.” Brian eyed him, then slapped him on the shoulder. “Come in the kitchen before you drop.”

“Thanks.” Mitchell pulled out a chair at the table and slumped into it.

Brian opened his huge professional-grade refrigerator, pulled out two ice-cold beers and handed one to Mitchell. He twisted off the cap and tossed it in the garbage can.

Mitchell opened his beer and downed it in two long pulls. Brian watched him, that odd look on his face, as if he knew something about Mitchell, but was trying to decide whether to say something.

“What?” Mitchell tossed the bottle in the recycle bin next to the trash.

“Nothing.” Brian shrugged. “Are you ready to work on the tires?”

“Yeah, might as well. I need my car running so I can look for Sammi tonight. I can’t walk another step.” Mitchell stretched out his legs and exhaled.

“Well, let’s go. We can stop by your house and you can change clothes. I figure we can jack up one wheel, take it off and put on the spare, then take off the other one and get both fixed at the same time.”

“Good idea. Do you think one of us should stay with the car?”

“No. I don’t think anyone will bother it.”

Brian’s cell rang as they headed to the door. He unclipped it from his belt and answered. “Yep. Great. I’ll meet you there later. I have an errand that’s going to take an hour or two. Thanks.”

“Who was that?”

Brian locked the door and they got in the SUV. “One of my buddies on the force. He’s got some info for me on Donovan.”

“Great. Maybe we can figure out who this guy is and why he wants Sammi so badly.”

“I was wondering about that.” Brian started the car and pulled out.

Mitchell leaned back in the seat. “Fuck. Brian, it’s gotten worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This morning I found out Donovan’s had several men out looking for Sammi. They have flyers, as if he were some lost kid.” Mitchell ran his hand over his face. “They’ve been all over Montrose, flashing it and asking about him.”

“Well, makes sense he’d have a picture. Sammi was with him for a long time. He’d have pictures of him.”

“It’s just weird. Like I’m in some sort of Twilight Zone episode. I’m searching for Sammi, but only because Donovan is, you know? I think if none of that shit had happened to me, if Sammi had just spent the night with me and left, I’m not sure I’d be looking for him right now.” It took a lot to admit it, but he knew Brian would understand.

“You’d just count it as love lost, right?” Brian nodded.

“Yeah, exactly.” He sighed and stared out of the window. “I should stop.” Had this gone far enough? How much more of his life would be destroyed? How much more could he take?

“Stop looking or blaming yourself?” Brian cocked an eyebrow.

“Both, I guess. It’s time I realized it’s a lost cause. If Sammi wanted me, he’d be with me.”

Brian glanced at Mitchell as they pulled up behind Mitchell’s car. “Maybe he does, but for some reason you don’t know about, he can’t.”

“Maybe.” Mitchell got out, opened the Jetta’s trunk and retrieved the spare and the jack. He leaned the spare against the bumper and put the jack on the ground near the rear tire.

“You’re still going out tonight to search for him, right?” Brian popped the hubcap off with the crowbar and placed it to the side of where Mitchell knelt.

“Yeah.” Mitchell gave a wry laugh. Brian knew him better than anyone in the entire world. Except for Mitchell’s mom. Nobody knows you like your mother.

Mitchell’s mom had known he was gay before he knew it.

They changed the tires, brought them to the tire shop, and waited for them to get fixed. Mitchell slipped the service guy a twenty to get them done A.S.A.P. They loaded them in the back of the SUV and headed back to Mitchell’s house.

Mitchell got the tires from the rear and leaned them against the Jetta. Together, they changed each tire. When the last one was on and the car was sitting on all fours, Mitchell felt a bit better.

He needed to change his clothes before doing anything else.

“Come up for a beer?”

Brian shook his head. “Can’t. I’ve got to make this meeting. Should take about an hour. I’ll see you at my place, okay? We’ll have an early dinner and you can get back to the search.” Brian climbed back into this car and leaned over to talk to Mitchell out of the far window.

“That would be great. It’s a date.” Mitchell gave him a wave as he drove off.

Mitchell went up the steps and into his house. The front door was still intact, thank God. If he’d found it broken again, he’d just sit down and cry.

Once inside, he headed to his bedroom, stripping off the sweaty clothes. He tossed them into the hamper and went into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, waited for the hot water, then climbed in.

Memories of him and Sammi assaulted him. Mitchell’s legs shook and he slid to the floor. The water beat on his back and head, washing away all the sweat and tears.

“Sammi, where are you?” Mitchell opened his mind again, like Sammi had taught him, but received no answer. How could Sammi just cut him off like this? He thought they’d meant a lot to each other, thought they were something special.

Sammi didn’t answer, but Mitchell couldn’t just give up. Something inside him knew Sammi was alive and needed him. He pushed up to his feet, did a quick wash and rinse, then got out of the shower.

He dressed and felt better in clean clothes. There was some time between now and meeting Brian and he didn’t want to let a minute go to waste. Mitchell grabbed his phone and his keys from the front hall table and headed out of the door.

He trotted down the steps, hopped in the car and fired it up. He half-expected the car not to start or to explode like in the movies, but it started. No explosion.

Mitchell pulled away and drove down to the park. He spent the rest of the afternoon cruising though Hermann Park, then back and forth on Montrose. At five, he went back to Brian’s to meet him.

When six o’clock rolled around and Brian hadn’t shown, Mitchell started the car. He flipped open his cell phone, hit Brian’s number and it rolled to the answering service. “Brian, it’s me. I’m at your place. It’s six. Sorry I missed you. See you later.” He hung up and drove off.

At some point, he knew he’d have to give up the hunt for Sammi, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.

 

* * * *

 

Brian pulled into an empty parking spot in the downtown police station garage. He got out and headed inside to meet his old friend Pete Schwartz, now a detective with Vice.

At the front desk, he gave the desk sergeant his name and Pete’s and waited until the man motioned him over. The door opened and Pete appeared.

“Brian! Come on in.” He stepped aside to let Brian pass. “Let’s to my desk. I think I’ve got some info for you.”

He sat in the chair to the side of Pete’s desk and leaned forward. “You got something on Donovan?”

“Hell, yeah.” Pete shook his head. “If you’re friend is mixed up with this dude, he’s in trouble, or will be.” Pete pulled out a folder and flipped it open.

Brian edged it closer so he could read it. “Fuck! Why isn’t this guy behind bars?”

“Well, the witnesses against him keep disappearing. And his people won’t roll over on him.” Pete shook his head. “He’s got the fear of God burned into them, I guess.”

“Prostitution, huh?” Brian hadn’t wanted to tell Mitchell he’d suspected it all along.

“Worse. Sex slaves. He branched out from good old regular prostitution a few years ago. Now, he’s high end. These are not the kind of sex slaves we find huddled in houses, chained to the floors, fucking johns on mattresses. No, sir. Donovan has upscale clientele. People with money who want specialty items.”

“Like?” Brian glanced up.

“Underage kids. Boys. Little girls. We know he throws private parties, but no one will talk about it. No one wants to get their names dragged through that particular gutter.” Pete shrugged. “What we need is evidence.”

“Like someone who’s been a slave?”

“Sure. If you got someone like that, you let me know. I’ll have a warrant signed faster than you can say ‘illegal sex slaves’.” Pete closed the file. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Brian. Do not, under any circumstances, try to take this bastard on alone. He’s fucking dangerous. He’s a sociopath and he won’t think twice about killing anyone who gets in his way.”

Brian stood. “I promise. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know. Then you bring the fire power and I’ll just stand back.” He grinned and stuck out his hand for Pete to shake.

“Good man. I don’t want anyone hurt unless it’s Donovan and his men.” Pete shook hands and showed Brian back to the door of the detectives’ area.

Brian had suspected something like this, but hearing that the man Donovan was so ruthless and powerful made him sick. What the hell had Mitchell gotten into with Sammi?

But he could see Sammi as a sex slave. Sex and trouble.

But did trouble mean death for his best friend?

Not if he had anything to do with it.

 

* * * *

 

Fucking roaches.

The dance floor seethed with men. Moretti weaved through them to the bar. He’d been in this place twice in the last week, but there was still a chance he might hit pay dirt.

At the bar, he motioned to one of the bartenders he’d never seen before. Holding out the photo of Sammi, he asked, “Seen him?”

The man took the photo, stared at it, then shook his head. He handed it back to Moretti as if he were already bored. Turning around to face out into the club, Moretti steeled himself for another quick pass through the back tables, where couples sat holding hands, kissing and giggling as if they were a bunch of schoolgirls.

It made him sick.

He’d pay Rhonda a visit tonight and fuck her brains out. Of all the whores he knew, he liked Rhonda the best. She could take it rough and that’s how he liked it. Besides, it had been too long since he’d fucked and the time he spent around these fags just made him crave female companionship, if only for an hour. And with Rhonda, he didn’t need to make small talk or anything. Just wham, bam, thank you ma’am and leave his money on the dresser.

Rhonda could wait for a while longer. He needed to hit a few more bars before he called it a night. Donovan was running out of time and demanded more and more as the clock ran down.

If he didn’t find Sammi tonight, he didn’t hold out much hope for ever finding him.

 

* * * *

 

Mitchell exited the bar and stood on the sidewalk. He’d been down both sides of Montrose and, in a few blocks, he would hit Westheimer. He’d have to go back to the parking lot of the club where he’d left his car, if he wanted to drive. And he wanted to drive. He felt as if he’d been walking all night and his feet were killing him, still sore from the day’s hike.

It was too early to give up. The night was still young and most of the bars didn’t get going until after ten or eleven p.m.

He turned around and headed back to his car.

 

* * * *

 

Sammi leaned against the back door of the cafe as Otis counted out his night’s pay. The owner had given Otis the cash so he could pay his own help, since it was all under the table anyway. Which was good, because Sammi had no ID.

After stuffing the bills into the pocket of his jeans, Sammi waited as the old cook locked up. Then they walked down the alley to the street.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Sammi pulled his bandana lower on his forehead, put his head down and zipped up his hoodie. Someone might still recognize him on the strip.

 

* * * *

 

Moretti exited the bar, shook himself like a dog throws off water, and stepped to the curb where the Mercedes was parked. The driver, Bert, sat behind the wheel waiting for him.

 

* * * *

 

Two men came out of an alley. For a moment, Mitchell halted, staring at the man, his tight ass clad in jeans and wearing a black hoodie, walked away from him.

His heart skipped a beat. He’d know him anywhere.

“Sammi!” he yelled.

 

Moretti’s head jerked up.

He searched for the voice and found the man across the street. He narrowed his eyes to focus, then widened them.

Shit. Mitchell Collins. At fucking last! He growled, his fists tightening.

Collins raised his arm and waved at someone down the block.

Moretti’s gaze tracked down the sidewalk. An old man stood next to a young dude with a bandana tied on his head. Son of a bitch, it was the fag.

He stepped away from the car, a smirk on his face. “Stay here, but be ready when I signal you.” Bert nodded.

Moretti’s good luck had just shown up.

 

Sammi froze. He should’ve run but he couldn’t make his feet move. Fists tight, he turned and his heart leaped into his throat cutting off his air. He let his guard down on his mind.

“Mitchell.”

“Sammi.”

Taking a few tentative steps, Mitchell moved toward Sammi. Letting Mitchell find him might be a mistake, but Sammi didn’t care. It was his Mitchell. His soul calling to him. Their gazes locked. Mitchell broke into a run.

Five feet away from Sammi, he came to a dead stop.

“Sammi. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why did you leave?” Mitchell’s words poured out as he gasped for breath.

“I had to go. I’d caused you so much trouble,” Sammi’s words stumbled out.

The old man stared from one to the other, frowned, but took a step back.

“Fuck it. I don’t care about that.” Mitchell’s eyes were fierce, as if he’d face any fire. “I thought you knew that.” Sammi loved him so much for that, but he needed to understand.

“I did, that’s why I had to go.” Sammi swallowed hard. He’d tried to stay away, tried to keep Mitchell safe, but maybe fate was stepping in.

“Oh God, Sammi.” Mitchell closed the gap between them and, this time, Sammi met him halfway. They embraced with such force, Sammi’s breath exploded out of him.

Sammi opened to Mitchell. “I missed you so much.”

“I want you. Why did you leave?”

“To keep you safe.”

Mitchell’s warmth and love flooded in and encompassed him. Sammi melted against him. Resting his head on Mitchell’s shoulder, Sammi winked at Otis.

“Go on, Otis. I’ll catch up to you later.”

“You sure, boy?” Otis eyed Mitchell, frowning.

“I’m sure, sir. He’s my friend.” Sammi smiled.

Otis gave him a nod and took off.

“Sammi.” Mitchell stepped back into the shadowed alley, bringing Sammi with him. Sammi clung to Mitchell, unwilling to let go. He felt so safe in Mitchell’s arms. Their separation had been a hell he’d had to endure and he never wanted to be apart again.

Maybe he’d made a mistake leaving Mitchell. Inside him, Sammi’s heart leaped and danced. How could this be wrong?

Mitchell jerked the bandana off Sammi’s head. He buried his fingers in Sammi’s hair, tilted Sammi’s head back and his lips came down on Sammi’s in a kiss meant to devour him. Sammi met Mitchell’s kiss, open and eager to taste his lover again.

Mitchell shot his tongue into Sammi’s mouth searching, touching, tasting. As Mitchell withdrew, Sammi sucked his tongue, claiming it, desperate to keep that sweet taste as long as possible. Mitchell moaned and it rumbled in Sammi’s chest.

“Home.”

“Yes. Home.”

Sammi pressed his back against the wall of the building as he clutched Mitchell to him. Mitchell stroked down Sammi’s arm and their fingers entwined. Sammi grabbed Mitchell’s ass and jerked it toward him, grinding his stiff cock into Mitchell. For his part, Mitchell’s rod, like a long, hard lump, dug into Sammi’s belly.

This was where Sammi belonged. In this incredible man’s arms.

“You’re mine. Don’t ever go again.”

“Forever.”

“Well, well, well. Looks like my lucky day. I found two fags.”

Moretti’s oily voice froze the blood in Sammi’s veins. He wobbled on his knees. Only his back pressed against the wall kept him upright. Mitchell released him, spun around, and placed his body in front of Sammi.

“Get away from us, you bastard.” Mitchell brought his hands up in a fighting stance.

“Or you’ll what? Cry?” Moretti smirked as he reached beneath his jacket and pulled a gun from under his arm.

Deep fear climbed Sammi’s spine as he pressed against the brick wall. “Get out of the way, Mitchell.” He tugged at Mitchell’s jacket, but Mitchell stood firm.

“Sammi doesn’t want Donovan, can’t you understand that?” Mitchell growled.

“Sammi doesn’t have a choice and you’re too stupid to understand that.” Moretti pushed the gun into Mitchell’s belly with one hand and grabbed the back of his neck with the other. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “If you give me any trouble, I’m going to blow a hole in you big enough to walk through.”

 

Mitchell froze as the cold metal dug into his gut. Moretti would do it, eager for any excuse to do it. Mitchell lowered his hands, holding them out in surrender.

“That’s better. I think we understand each other. Now, we’re going to get in the car and take a ride. All of us.” Moretti pulled Mitchell around, twisted his arm up and back. Pain exploded through his shoulder and arm. Moretti jammed the gun into his spine. “Sammi, if you don’t want your girlfriend to die, you’ll do as you’re told.”

“Yes, sir.” Sammi nodded like a bobblehead doll. “I’m coming. Don’t hurt him. Please.”

Moretti whistled, high and shrill. A black Mercedes pulled to the curb as Moretti manhandled Mitchell to the car. He jerked open the door, shoved Mitchell in the back seat, then opened the front door.

Mitchell hugged his sore arm and rubbed it to get the feeling back.

Holding the gun low, Moretti pointed it at Sammi. “Get in the front, Sammi.”

Sammi obeyed and slid into the passenger seat. Moretti closed the door and got into the back seat next to Mitchell, the gun pointed again at his stomach. Mitchell moved as far away as he could until the door stopped him.

“Bert, the penthouse,” Moretti ordered. With a nod from the taciturn driver, the car pulled off and headed toward Westheimer.

All of Mitchell’s thoughts of saving Sammi flew out of the window as he realized how unprepared for any of this he was. Moretti had a gun. A level playing field didn’t exist and once they reached this penthouse, who knew what waited for him and Sammi?

 

Sammi sat in the front seat like a statue, too scared to move. His last meal rose in his stomach and he was afraid he’d puke. He swallowed and closed his eyes. The gun and the fear in Mitchell’s eyes had nearly caved Sammi in, almost had him crawling on the ground to beg Moretti not to hurt Mitchell. There wouldn’t be much time.

He concentrated on his link with Mitchell.

“It will be okay.”

“What’s going on, Sammi?”

“It’ll be okay.”

But it wouldn’t ever be okay again.

Donovan would not be happy.

Sammi would be punished.

Donovan would put him in the closet.

Tears filled Sammi’s eyes and he blinked to stop them. He jerked his chin up.

Sammi would take the closet if it meant keeping Mitchell safe.