Taking the Fall

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Elis should have gone home, crawled into bed and, if his head injury didn’t kill him, wake up in the morning, ready to take action. Instead, with thoughts of Latham jabbing relentlessly at his brain, he went to another pub, deciding drinking himself into a stupor was suddenly not the worst idea.

He had enough sense to go somewhere relatively safe. He went to Jerry’s; a former associate of Mullen’s who’d got out of the business when Elis was a kid. Now Jerry ran a dingy little pub in the Lower. He let Elis have some of the good stuff. Well, what he told Elis was the good stuff, but tasted just as cheap as the watered-down swill he served his usual customers.

Deep into his cups, and after winning a few rounds of arm wrestling with the thick skinned, tattooed, grease and grime covered men in attendance, snarling at him with tobacco-stained teeth surrounded by grisly beards, the barbed edges surrounding memories of Latham had dulled a little.

They were rank and a little grotesque, these men, the same stock which had bred Elis, but from whom he had escaped thanks to Mullen. Elis was at home in these pits, just as he was at home in the fighting ring. He knew the rules here, knew where he stood, understood the scents, the violence, the flavor of sweat, beer and blood.

It sang in him now as he took on the next man, a beefy bloke who smelled of clove scented cologne and smiled with surprisingly white teeth as he held out his hand for Elis to take. Elis swallowed back his lukewarm shot of whisky and straightened in his seat, taking the man’s offered hand, feeling the heat and sweat of his palm, the strength of his fingers, watching the vein corded muscles up his arm bulge. Elis swallowed, ignoring the heat rising in his face, how easily he was mistaking the flush of drink in the man’s face for something worse, something lecherous. He wouldn’t bring that here, not to this place, so far removed from what he and Latham had shared.

Yet he felt it, that similar heat, even as the man before him was nothing, absolutely nothing, like Latham. Just a man, like any other. Like the ones surrounding him now. But the way his eyes followed Elis, the way they bore into him and looked as though he wanted to eat Elis alive, had bile rising in Elis’s throat.

The man’s fingers flexed, tapping the back of Elis’s hand. His grip tightened. Elis matched it, meeting the man’s smiling eyes and gritting his teeth.

A roar from their audience and a bang of a fist on the table signaled them to start. The beefy chap was strong, and Elis was struggling from the off. He clenched his teeth and gave back as good as he got. Their clasped hands began to shake. They were at a stalemate. Each of them huffed and bared teeth like growling animals. The man wore a snarling grin. He stared into Elis’s eyes with something Elis recognized; that same hunger from before, though more blatant and disturbing, making Elis want to pull away, to fight. But it nudged against the dark pit of loneliness in his gut, something he couldn’t ever recall feeling until Latham.

Elis felt sick. His grip wavered, his arm twisting under the man’s strength. Elis snarled, pulled himself together and fought back, pulling their arms vertical again.

“Ain’t gonna let you win this, pretty boy,” the man huffed between grunts. “Why don’t you just give up now?”

Rage shook Elis, but he pooled it into his arm and watched with satisfaction as the tide turned in his favor. The man’s arm began to bend. His eyes widened at Elis’s sudden bout of strength.

The crowd around them surged as the tension grew, deafening Elis. He concentrated on the other man, on his impending humiliation, on his twisted face as his fist came closer to kissing the table. With a grunt and a bang, his knuckles hit the beer-soaked wood, and it was all over. Their spectators cheered, hooted and jeered. To Elis’s irritation the other man merely shrugged and smiled at his heckling friends and fellow drinkers.

Elis collected his winnings and moved away, feeling the man’s eyes follow him through the crowd.

Elis took a seat at the bar and Jerry came over. “You should come here every night. Place hasn’t been this packed in weeks.”

Elis grunted in return and ordered another drink.

Jerry didn’t move to pour it. He leaned on the bar, looking worried. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, son?”

“You’re in no position to refuse a paying customer.”

“On any other night I’d agree with you.” He surveyed his stinking pub and its equally vile horde of Lower patrons before focusing on Elis again. “But since you’ve helped me out, I think it’s my turn. I’ve seen what Mullen’s like when you report to him hungover.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Elis slurred then regretted opening his mouth when Jerry’s eyes filled with solemn understanding.

He slapped a commiserating hand on Elis’s shoulder. “You’re better off out of it, lad.”

“Just get me another f*****g drink.”

“Elis—”

“Two pints,” said a new voice. Elis turned and saw it belonged to the man he’d bested at the table. “You got a problem serving me?” he added when Jerry didn’t move.

With a shake of his head, Jerry grabbed two fresh glasses from under the bar.

“Don’t want anything from you,” Elis said, leaning more heavily on the bar as the world swayed.

“Too bad. I can think of a few things I’d like to give you.”

Elis glared at him, but the man only smiled.

“Come on, I know somewhere we could go, just us two.” He pressed against Elis’s side, his body heat soaking into Elis.

“Get the f**k off me,” Elis snapped.

“Come on, darlin’. I know what you want.”

“f**k off,” Elis growled.

The man’s face reddened, still smiling, but it had an unfriendly edge to it. “Suit yourself.” He shrugged and walked out of the pub, casting Elis one last lingering glance before disappearing, his pint forgotten.

Elis sat awhile, letting his blood cool, feeling the alcohol reach his limited tolerance then decided he should go home. He didn’t want to vomit hot beer and bile on Jerry’s floor, couldn’t stand the humiliation or the lecture he’d receive.

He stumbled out the door and the cold night air hit him like a slap in the face. He breathed in and held it until the dark world came into wobbly focus. It had been snowing, but the clean white layer had long been mashed into the filth, creating a dangerous slurry of mud and ice underfoot.

Fuck. He’d gone too far, drunk too much. But for once, he was longing for his bed, to curl under his sheets and sleep the alcohol away. He took a few carefully placed steps.

A hand gripped his arm and dragged him into a tight, shadowy jitty. He fought as best he could, feet slipping on the ice and his vision blurring at the edges. He got a firm grip on the throat of his attacker and slammed the bigger bloke into the wall.

The man gave a pained grunt, washing Elis in clove scented cologne. “Easy there, darlin’. Just wondered if you’d changed your mind.”

Elis released the man, repulsed, but when he tried to step back his heel slipped and huge arms came around him, saving him from falling.

“Whoa, darlin’. Careful. I’ve got you.”

Elis swallowed hard, but didn’t fight, the heat and strength of that hold keeping him trapped, warmth seeping into him. He shook himself and tried to pull back.

“Easy, easy. I won’t hurt you.” Big hands stroked the planes of Elis’s back through his coat, firm and kneading, chasing away Elis’s fight. “That’s it. Want to treat you right.” One of those big hands moved and found Elis’s crotch and squeezed.

Elis clenched his teeth to choke off a moan rising in his throat. “Get off.”

“You want me to?”

Elis grunted. “Get off.”

“You’re hard.”

No.

“You want it.”

“No.”

The big man’s cold hand thrust into Elis’s trousers, rough fingers gripping the hard length of his c**k. Elis’s knees buckled. The large man held him up.

“f**k. You’re so f*****g hard.”

The man began pumping Elis’s c**k, rough and graceless. Elis clamped his jaw shut, refusing the groan of relief trying to escape his mouth. The grip was just on the right side of too much, tight and firm and Elis didn’t try to move away. But all the while he kept thinking, it’s not right, it’s not how Latham did it, with velvet lined words of encouragement and shallow breaths as though Elis’s pleasure sparked his own.

“So beautiful, Elis.”

Elis keened as the ghost of Latham’s voice soaked through his skin.

“f*****g gorgeous.” The man’s voice was rough with drink and harsh against Elis’s ear.

Shut up.

The man’s hoppy breath wet the side of Elis’s face, followed by a long, hot lick to his mouth. Elis cringed and shook his head away.

“You close, sweetheart? Yeah, you want it so f*****g bad.”

His grip tightened and Elis growled, thrusting his c**k through the man’s fist. Not right. Not Latham. Latham knew what Elis wanted, knew how to make him ask for it.

Even in Elis’s inebriated state, it didn’t take long, and he came in a shuddering, shame filled mess over the other man’s fist, come soaking into his underwear and making him feel filthy, disgusting. Guilty.

“That’s it, darlin’. Now it’s Joe’s turn.” The big man’s hands were on Elis’s shoulders, pressure pushing him down. “You’re gonna show your gratitude like a good bitch.”

Elis was almost on his knees when a wave of revulsion collided with fierce rage. He straightened, knocking the man’s hands off his shoulders and shoved him away. “I’ve had enough,” he murmured, pulling his clothes together with clumsy hands as he made to move out of the jitty.

The man grabbed his wrist and pulled him back with alarming ease and rubbed Elis’s hand over his bulging crotch. “We ain’t done here yet, sweetheart,” he growled.

“Get the f**k off me.” Elis tried to pull free, but Joe wasn’t letting go. His other hand snaked around Elis and grabbed a meaty handful of his ass, crushing their bodies together. Elis fought, his elbow going to Joe’s throat.

Joe snarled. “f*****g cunt.” He brought his hand up and delivered a hard back hander across Elis’s face.

Elis’s ears rang, his vision swam, the sting of the slap a secondary thought. The pain in his skull erupted and he felt dizzy, but rage won out and he rammed his knee into Joe’s balls. The man roared silently as the air rushed from his lungs. He went to hit Elis again. Elis was quicker and slammed his fist against Joe’s jaw. It forced enough space between them and Elis shoved the fucker to the ground. Elis kicked him a couple of times until Joe stopped struggling and brought his hands up in surrender.

“Stop. Stop! Please!”

Elis leaned over him, fist raised. Teeth bared, nostrils flaring, bile rose in Elis’s throat. He waited as long as he could, making sure Joe wasn’t going to try anything else, then straightened and stumbled away. He got as far as the next street when the ringing started in his ears again. He stumbled, leaned against a cold, frozen moss-covered wall and threw up mostly hot beer, whisky and stinging bile. When his stomach gave up all its contents he fell into a series of dry heaves. The cold air, when Elis was able to straighten and stumble toward his flat, stung his raw throat with every shuddering breath.

Snow began to fall as Elis reached Stapes Street. His entire body ached, protesting every step, the dark and cold weighing him down, his empty stomach and throbbing head telling him to just give up and curl into a shivering bundle on the floor, to join the rest of the hopeless vagrants littering the alleys and doorways this time of night. Only the fear of being mugged of his winnings kept him going, or in case Joe summoned his courage and came after him.

He made it. His numb, stiff fingers fumbled to get his door unlocked then he shouldered his way in. It wasn’t much warmer than outside. He had enough wherewithal to lock his door before shuffling to his bed. He knew he should light his stove, but just wanted to strip off his wet, street filth splattered clothes and crawl into bed.

Shivering, he stripped, growing irritated with his clumsy fingers and spinning vision. His trousers and underwear were sticky. He felt sick again but had nothing else to bring up. He threw his clothes across the flat, disgust and shame roiling inside his empty gut. He got into his bed and nursed his throbbing head. Screwing his eyes shut, he tried to forget the scent of Joe’s skin, his breath, his arousal and told himself to sleep. It took a long time, pain and dizziness keeping him floating just above the surface until nothing but plain, good old-fashioned exhaustion pulled him under.