First comes research.
I found out his full name was Nicholas McNevin Chase. From some small town in Nebraska that I don’t think is there, anymore. Very corn-fed, middle-American background. Moved to LA straight out of high school and, thanks to his amazing looks and being six-one in height, landed modeling jobs, straight off. Even got an agent with connections to the big-dog advertising groups.
His casual masculine grace and seriously heterosexual sensuality made him big. Got him on sit-coms and cop shows in a walk-on basis. Not the best of actors, but workable. And I don’t know how he did it, considering the stories I’ve heard about how the modeling world is nothing but a pack of liars, frauds and thieves, but he made money enough to have a nice condo in Santa Monica’s north side while driving a fifty year-old Chevy Blazer, four-by. Black on black. In primo condition.
I checked out all of his underwear ads, thank you Google AI. Commercials he did, thank you YouTube. Designer shows Vance had access to. Social media accounts. Everything.
What I liked most about him, aside from his Greek-god physique, was how he didn’t like to shave his body like so many other guys did. He usually had lovely whispers of hair over his pecs and belly as well as up and down his legs. Nor did he get caught up in the latest male coif-fad but kept himself simple and eternal in look and style. Wore an old cowboy hat whenever he was in a white t-shirt and ratty jeans that fit but weren’t skinny. And, of course, the requisite cowboy boots.
To say he had a slavish gay following on YouTube, Tumblr, and a dozen other sites of varying decency and reach would be an understatement. Which came with all kinds of questions about his sexuality, but nothing absolute. He was seen with gals, palling around with guys, traveling all over the world to do his job. He was the epitome of impossible to reach.
He was also known to be a real asshole to anyone who recognized him and wanted a selfie or something. I happened to catch one encounter, on the pathway.
I’d worked out that when he wasn’t working he actually left his condo at precisely two-ten on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays to do his skater thing. So I set up cameras to record during the time he would normally zoom past...and got some fine images of him in all his glory. But on one occasion he nearly ran a woman on a bike down. Had to jump into the sand to keep from hitting her. He was pissed, of course. How dare she get in his way?
Then she recognized him as he brushed sand off himself and became apologetic and tried to get a photo of him on her cell phone, but he grabbed the phone from her and threw it towards the surf. As she scrambled to retrieve it, away he went. Hints of sand still glittering on his torso and legs and hair, screaming to me.
Making my lust for him even more glorious.
Of course, Ben and Liam being the observant critters that they were, they caught on to my obsession with Nicky and even began letting me know when he was using the skate park for his pleasure. Which wasn’t often, but he did make use of...and wasn’t all that far from me. So I’d scoot over and, as Nicky focused on rolling and running and jumping and all the attendant nonsense, I’d get some lovely shots of him.
And he was always in shorts.
Always shirtless.
Always fucking gorgeous.
And he never fell.
Ben and Liam did, on occasion, as did I when I was showing off, but not Nicky. Never, that I saw. Which I found remarkable. But seriously, there was not one cut or scrape that ever appeared on his amazingly smooth skin, that I could see.
I know he noticed my interest...probably after the tenth time I appeared at the park while he was there. He’d cast me sharp wary glares and keep on with his business before scooting away. I think he figured I was just paparazzi.
Silly boy. All I was doing was scoping him out to see the best way into his pants. And I don’t meant just to suck him off; I mean ass and...well, he had the epitome of that infamous movie saying, “You sure got a purty mouth.”
And seriously, I didn’t care whether he wanted to do it or not. My intent was locked and loaded.
You see, there’s something in my genetic makeup that kicks in, at times, and takes complete control of me. It’s like a switch that flicks on, starting up a maniacal focus mixed with a willingness to use violence to get my way.
I first really paid attention to it in eighth grade. I used to doodle a lot, and wound up sketching women for the boys in my classes. Beautiful women. Anatomically correct...and very, very nude. Got those randy little shits feeling their testosterone. I’d sell them for a dollar and did okay business.
But then two schoolyard bullies...Kenneth and Leon...got hold of one and threatened to turn me into the principal if I didn't give them half of what I made.
I told them, "Go ahead." Automatic, on my part. Nobody blackmails me.
So they did, and I got into huge trouble. Dragged into the principal's office. My folks were brought in. I was called a pornographer and horrible and needed to rethink my path in life and on and on. Slapped me with a two week suspension, and I was told if I was caught doing it, again, I’d be expelled.
As if that would be a punishment. I hated that school.
So I said nothing in response. Wouldn’t have made any difference, anyway.
I loved those two weeks off. We were living in Fontana, at the time, thanks to my dad’s work at the airport. I had to ride a school bus since my folks were both deep into working and couldn’t take me. Half the brats on that bus were complete dicks to me because I wasn’t a cool kid, nor all that built up, back then, and I read a lot. That made me more nerd than they approved of. As for the teachers, they all wanted to make sure I understood that I was not living up to my potential, even though I was getting As and Bs...
Well, except in art class. That dick hated everything I did and often used it as an example of what not to do...like a drawing of boots in a desert should minimize the shadows. Minimize shadows under a desert sun? Seriously? So it Cs only, there...which is part of the reason I shifted my focus to writing. Got As in English.
Anyway, when 1 returned Kenneth and Leon and their little pack started in on me. Verbal harassment. Physical. That included one girl who rode the same school bus as me. She and I had ignored each other, since she got on the bus before me en route to school and had her clique of mean girls to be with on the trip home. But then she started getting on after me in the afternoon and as she passed would smack me on the head with a ring she wore. It had a large, sharp rhinestone on it which she'd shift around to her palm side, to hide what she was doing.
I told her to stop. She wouldn't, so come Friday when she did it, again, I smacked her in the side. She hit me again and I smacked her, again. And again.
This continued until blood trailed down my face. She yelped and quickly moved away to be with her clique, giggling nervously. I just felt for the cut and pressed on it to stop the bleeding.
Fucking bus driver did nothing about it.
When my mother got home she freaked out over the blood on my shirt and backpack, but I wouldn’t tell her what happened. I had locked into this anger and revenge mode. And quickly worked out exactly what to do to Kenneth and his pack, on Monday.
The day came. The pack of bullies swarmed me in a hallway, howling and threatening and snarling...
Until Kenneth shoved me against the lockers.
He hadn’t noticed I had a nice, sharp #2 pencil in my hand. I jerked my arm up and rammed it into the back of his left bicep. Tore in at an angle, and stuck. It was beautiful.
Blood flew. Howls of pain. Students screamed. Teachers rushed over. A chaos of voices roared over each other as Kenneth showed them his arm and his pack pointed at me.
He was carted off to the nurse’s station while I was hauled into the principal's office and told I was going to jail for assault.
But this time I played the wide-eyed innocent and said, “It was an accident. He shoved me and my arm jerked, that’s all.”
The principal didn’t believe me...until one teacher who'd actually seen it but was doing nothing to stop it was dumb enough to say, "He didn't shove you that hard."
Which backed my claim up. As did the security cam that caught it all.
No charges filed. Still a two-week suspension. But after that, the bullies left me alone.
Especially when I whispered to Leon the first day I was back, “Next one goes in an eye.”
Nicky flicked the switch on that attitude when he pulled his first asshole stunt while zooming past me on the bike pathway. It wasn’t overwhelming, yet, not like it could be. But it grew and expanded every time I saw him swooshing past and being a dick...until taking him enveloped me.
Oh, I was still able to write and network like other people in the business. But Vance noticed a new edge to my script-work. A tension that wasn’t there, anymore. It’s probably what got my latest script sold and put into production...a revenge thriller with a female protagonist and some very hot sex scenes between her and the man she’s using to get to the assholes who raped and killed her sister. Sort of a Xena meets Cat Woman mixed with Poison Ivy and more than a little Fifty Shades of Gray, but from a female POV. Which was very big, at the moment, thanks to men whining about women not wanting to put with their bullshit, anymore. The director was already talking about taking it as close to NC17 as he could without losing an R rating.
So I was getting ready to take Nicky.
Of course, the question now was...just how far was I willing to go to get into Nicky’s pants? The answer? To be honest, I had no idea. For the first time in my life I had serious money, a career I wanted, respect from people who mattered, nothing worse than a speeding ticket on my record, and access to any number of guys I might want. Even better? I was still young enough to enjoy it. So why was I obsessing over a man I didn’t even know...and seriously considering the possibility of raping him?
Was I being arrogant. Narcissistic? Self-destructive? No idea. It was a new notion to me and where I knew I should be feeling revulsion at even the thought...I didn’t.
Which I do not understand.
I’ve always thought of myself as an empathetic kind of guy. Sure, I’ve got a temper and attitude, but it’s not the core of my being. Caring about others is. Or was. But my growling need to have Nicky in my bed, no matter what, made me wonder just how serious I was about caring for the well-being of others.
And my head and heart told me flat out, Depends on what you want, just like with anyone.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
