Some kids would have knuckled under and done whatever the teachers wanted or the bully said.
Not Morgan.
He was a fighter. So he came out swinging. Trouble was, his growth spurt came late, so he was among the smallest, and the bully and his gang kept kicking the crap out of him. Morgan grew up with bruises and bloody noses. He watched videos on self-defense, and that helped, and his mom sprung for a used set of weights one birthday, but he was still smaller and out-numbered.
When he was 16, he sprouted to almost six feet and filled it out with muscles from hours spent with his weights.
The day he turned 17 he quit school and joined the army. And found boxing.
The army gave him good basic training and they saw his enthusiasm for boxing, where his quickness and his aggression were an asset. He was quick on his feet and he had stopping power with both hands. When he was fresh and especially when he was feeling angry at the world, even the more seasoned boxers took him seriously.
But he still had a problem with authority. There were only so many stupid orders a man could take in a day, and when you’re a private you’re at the low end of the totem pole with lots of sergeants and lieutenants and other inflated-ego types who like to boss you around. So he was written up for insubordination rather too often and given all sorts of crap punishment duties.
It didn’t help that the asshole sergeant had caught him naked in the shower room a couple of times, being serviced by other privates. That was one good thing about the army. Lots of men living together without any women around, and once the other guys saw what Morgan had between his legs, well, who could blame them for wanting to service that or blame Morgan for letting them get down on their knees?
But the army didn’t see it that way, and by 18 they said goodbye and discharged him.
At 20 he was driving a cab. Maybe drinking a little too much. But still hitting the weights and now a punching bag he’d acquired along the way.
By 25 he’d almost saved enough money for a down-payment on a limousine–the fancy cars were where the big money was–and at 25, two years ago, a guy got in his cab, a kid in jeans and sandals with lips and a derrière you could die for. He bought him a beer and told him so.
The crap life was behind him. He had one limo. Almost enough saved up to get another. And an incredibly hot boyfriend.
Up ahead now was the Stall. Morgan looked at his watch. Closing in on midnight. In the darkness alongside the bar was the alley where he parked his limo. He pulled into it until he was just past the side exit. Then he turned out the headlights, killed the motor, got out, and moved into the darkness.
And put on leather gloves to protect his hands.
* *
Jones sat alone at the corner of the bar, quietly elegant in his three-piece suit. He had an ordinary face and an ordinary name, and somehow he was not the sort of man you’d notice or remember unless you made an effort to. He’d positioned himself so that without seeming to intrude he could watch the movements of the couple that had begun their sex dance at the pool table but were now seated at a secluded table.
He’d seen Stevie in action before, and he was a tempting option. Though Stevie was also a magnet for other good-looking men, and that expanded the range of candidates, which made Jones’s job easier. He worked for a highly select clientele, so it was good to have as many options as possible.
“You only want what I’ve got physically,” Stevie said, sipping the beer the man had bought for him, seated at the corner table in the Stall, looking into the man’s eyes. The clock on the wall said it was about twenty minutes to midnight. “And like the others you just want a quickie or a one-night stand.”
“I’m not like that, I told you already,” the corporate lawyer said.
Stevie shook his head.
“Why don’t you trust me?”
“Because men lie. They all lie, especially when it comes to sex. I’m not counting my boyfriend, he’s different.”
“Some attentive guy your boyfriend is, if you ask me–leaving you alone at night in a rough place like this.”
“He has a job.” Stevie reached across, placing his hand on the little table next to the man’s, and looked him in the eyes. “How many years of education do you have?”
“Enough to get a law degree.”
“I barely finished high school, think we’re a match?”
“I like you, Stevie. You’re honest. That’s unusual these days. When we first started talking what did you say right away? That you had a boyfriend.”
“Most guys I meet only want one thing,” Stevie said. “So I tell them that in self-defense.”
“But you did let me buy you a drink, and you’re sitting with me in this corner. So maybe you’re sensing that I’m an exception.”
“Maybe,” Stevie said, as though considering. “But aren’t relationships about commitment? I know that everyone has needs, sometimes special needs, and that maybe no one relationship can give you everything you want–”
He saw a shadow pass across the man’s eyes at that.
“–and so maybe there are exceptions. But I think they’re rare.”
The man’s eyes brightened at that, and his voice changed the subject–“You want a double vodka? I’d like a double vodka.”
“Do you think you can get me drunk, lawyer?”
“Boy, you really don’t trust men.” He stood up quickly.
Stevie watched as the man went to the bar, ordered, got the drinks, paid, came back and started to sit across from him. He patted the chair alongside. “Sit next to me if you like; I don’t mean to imply nothing, but it’s easier to talk if someone’s close, don’t you think?”
“Oh, a lot.”
“And it’s getting noisier.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He sat by him.
Stevie picked up his glass of vodka. “What do they say? Foreigners I mean? When they clink glasses before a drink?”
“Skol?”
“I think it’s an old Viking word.”
“Skol.” The man drained the double.
“I’m impressed,” Stevie said. He did the same with his, or tried to. Halfway through he coughed, and took a long pause before he finished it.
“Another?” the man offered.
“If you promise you don’t get ideas, lawyer man.”
“I promise, I promise,” and then he was hurrying back to the bar, getting the refills, returning. He sat down, pulled his chair closer.
Stevie licked his lips, took a sip, and said, “You move well for a big guy, you know that? I watched you when you got the drinks. And your coloring? Do you have Viking ancestors?”
He shrugged. “Somewhere northern European in the past. Not sure.”
“You have a good face too. Handsome, at least to my way of thinking.”
He held up his glass. “Here’s to your way of thinking.” Stevie picked up his. “Skol,” he said. “Did I get the accent right?” “I’ve never heard it said better.” Stevie smiled at him. “You like me?”
“No complaints so far.”
“Then why haven’t you told me your name yet?”
“David.”
“Your real name?”
“Boy, you do have trust issues.” He flipped his wallet. “Name’s on all my credit cards.”
Stevie shook his head. “I don’t need to know–if you’d let me see, I don’t have to. Anyway, I like calling you ‘lawyer.””
“I like the way it sounds when you say it.” He put his wallet back into his pants pocket.