Littlest Lifeguard

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 5 By Ocean Lover Guy

"How you doing, Tim?"

Tim opened his eyes and saw Kyle standing in the doorway to his room. It was a double, but there wasn't anyone else in here at the time.

"Come in, stay a while. I'm stuck here until tomorrow at least. It's kinda lonely."

Kyle walked in and sat down.

"Visiting hours are over pretty soon, but I'll stay until they kick me out."

Tim smiled.

"Did you have fun on the slopes?"

Kyle lit up. "I had a great time. Pat met a girl, of course. Sean had a bit of an accident."

"Is he okay," Tim asked. He tried sitting up in his bed, but winced in pain at the motion. He wanted to see Kyle's face and figure out if Kyle was telling him the whole truth. The buy wasn't a good liar -- his words came out fine, but his face twitched every which way.

"Listen to you. You're in the hospital and you're hoping that Sean's okay." Kyle laughed. "He ran into a tree and cut his face up. Pat had to leave his girl to help take care of Sean. I was scared then, but now it's kind of funny."

Tim laughed a little bit. He was tired but couldn't sleep. His mind kept wandering over every little bit of information.

"Are your parents gone for the night?"

Tim nodded. "Not a moment too soon. They were getting pretty weird on me."

"Well, I was freaked, too, when I called and spoke to your mother. You were off in some weirdo's house and you'd been beaten to a pulp."

Kyle's voice broke and he stopped talking.

"I may look ten but I'm not. I'm not a china doll and I don't break just because I'm small, Kyle. I can kick your ass in the pool and I'm not half bad getting down a slope. You can run faster than me, but that's just cause you've got gazelle legs."

"Hey, nothing about the legs, kid. Can I help it if my old man is a runner?"

"You were getting all sappy, Kyle. I'm alive. You don't have to mourn me."

"Who'd want to go to your funeral, Tim? You're a right bastard."

Tim rolled his eyes. His friend went off on Anglophile kicks from time to time. All his insults in the present moment seemed to be drawn from British culture.

"What exactly happened, Tim?"

Kyle had always been the one who could get Tim to talk about anything. Kyle had cracked the secret of what happened to Tim when he was 11. Kyle could find out anything he wanted to know. The best part, for Tim, was that Kyle would never say a single word to any one else, ever.

Tim told him the same things he'd told his parents. Kyle wasn't completely buying it, though.

"I'll get it all out of you, Spencer. I'm good. The CIA has already come sniffing around like they want to hire me."

Tim laughed.

"I'll tell you the rest, but maybe later, okay?"

"Is it bad?"

Tim paused before answering. In their shared language, `bad' had a very specific meaning.

"No, not like you're thinking. Such a thing was proposed and rejected. By the Security Council of me," Tim said.

Kyle rolled his eyes. Tim was such a geek some days.

"I'll torture you until you tell me, we'll start our first session tomorrow."

The young men were silent then, just sitting and staring off into space or at each other, until a nurse came to chase off Kyle.

"Tell Sean to get better. He can come see me and scare me better with his ugly mug," Tim said.

"I'll tell him you said that," Kyle said, laughing as he walked into the hallway.

Tim smiled and, twenty minutes later, nodded off. He got a couple hours sleep before the nurses woke him up so they could give him a sleeping pill.

Herbert Tate wasn't exactly sure what he would say to the kid. He knew nothing about him, only that Preston King had done, or tried to do, awful things to him.

It was early in the morning, but Herbert was sure that the nurses would have woken the kid by now. Herbert had only a name, provided by the sheriff's department, and a lot of guilt. He was good with words usually, so he'd have to make something up before he got to the kid's room.

He'd thought about bringing flowers or a small toy, but that wasn't something for a total stranger to do, was it?

Herbert's steps slowed as he walked down the final corridor. The room was just ahead and Herbert's mind was still a blank. He stopped in front of the room and looked inside. They put thick, strong doors on every room and then refused to close them in this hospital.

Herbert stood at the doorway and couldn't take his eyes off the small person in the bed. He was asleep it seemed, but he was bathed in the early morning light. He looked like a small angel, the better angel of a person's conscience. He looked so familiar, too. He looked like a miniature Paul, a living, breathing Paul.

Herbert took a step inside the room. He was moving quietly. He'd let the kid sleep, but he wanted to watch him sleep. He'd spent hours watching Paul, his chest expanding under the semi-soiled sheets testifying to their mutual exertions. The lump forming in Herbert's throat reminded him how he reacted, with emotion, with lust, with love, to his dead lover even when asleep.

Herbert walked over to the bed and looked the kid over carefully. Close up, with all the blood wiped away, the "kid" looked older, maybe seventeen. He was able to grow a fair amount of scruff on his face. This was a young man, a beautiful one, who looked like an angel in heaven, Herbert's own personal angel.

Herbert studied the young man's face. There were differences. The guy in the bed didn't have the same faded scars Paul had, the pokes and pricks of an active, adventurous life. No, the one in the bed had led, or been forced to lead, a more sedate and sheltered life. He wouldn't have the same scars on his chest, either. This one, by all the laws of probability, would not also have a congenital heart defect.

The biggest difference, though, was the size. Paul had been taller than Herbert and Herbert wasn't a small man. This young man in the hospital bed, he couldn't be more than five feet four inches. He was smaller, more petite, but he looked well muscled and compact.

"Sir," someone hissed. "Visiting hours aren't until nine."

Herbert turned around and looked at the nurse.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know."

"Who are you," she asked.

Herbert thought for a second. "Friend of the family," he said. He knew it was true.

Ryan Spencer hadn't slept at all. His brain had been functioning in a loop ever since Mom called. God damn.

He kept seeing a broken little boy, years younger than his brother now was, lying in a heap. He kept seeing himself beating the shit out of his best friend, the guy Ryan had once caught with his hand down's Tim's small underwear. A seventeen-year-old feeling up an eleven-year-old boy. Ryan couldn't understand it. He didn't need to. His fists had done the talking and the thinking then. Bob hadn't tried to defend himself then, either. He'd been in the wrong and he'd let his fifteen year old friend put him in his place before their friendship was over forever.

Ryan went to school four hundred miles away from where his family now lived. Had he gotten on the road yesterday after he'd gotten the call, he'd already be talking with Tim. But, Mom put her foot down. `He'll be alright, Ryan. You're in your last year. You take care of your degree and your father and I will take care of your brother and sister.'

They did a great job. Ryan curled up to his sleeping girlfriend and held her, more for his own benefit than for hers. He didn't know how long he'd hated his parents, but it had been a long time.

Dad, also known as Doctor or the Major, because he'd had the army put him through medical school, always said that an army marches on its feet. It made his work a growth industry. Dad was much better with feet than with the rest of a person. He had fooled a lot of people into respecting him; hell, maybe he was a great guy with his patients and friends. At home, however, he was another man.

Ryan rolled off the bed, the decision already made. Ryan hadn't always kept his little brother as safe and secure as either of them would have liked. But he was stronger now and Ryan had let his little brother lead his own life. Now, it seemed, Ryan was needed again. This time, Ryan knew, he'd have to intermediate between Dad and Tim.

Tim didn't know how much Ryan cared for him. Tim could have asked for anything, any time. Ryan knew that Tim would never ask, though, not even if he were bleeding in a deserted street. He was a pretty self-contained little guy, self-reliant long before he should have been. Hell, the little guy had started doing his own laundry, insisting on it, when he was eight.

Ryan knew that Dad would be awful. Tim would never say a thing, though. The Major would just keep making jokes and jibes -- how the small boy couldn't protect himself, how he'd gotten himself in that situation, how he'd wanted the bigger, older boy to manhandle him. Dad, the Major, seemed to think Tim was gay. If it were true, Ryan would love the little guy even more because of all the shit it would bring down on him. But Ryan was pretty sure the guy was about as asexual as a summer squash. He was a hot little guy, but he wouldn't have anything to do with anyone when it came to swapping bodily fluids.

Ryan pulled his pants on over his naked lower half. He'd given up underwear the moment he arrived at college and no longer had a nurse-mother obsessed with hygiene. Ryan was always clean.

"Cyn," he said. He rubbed the girl's shoulder. "Cyn?"

"Yeah," she murmured.

"I have to go home today. My brother's in trouble."

"Oh," she said. "I didn't hear the phone ring."

"It's a long story, Cyn. I'll probably be gone a couple of days, though. You just stay here."

"Bed's getting cold without you," she said.

"You keep it warm for me," Ryan said.

"Umm," Cynthia mumbled and curled back asleep. Ryan would have to call her later to let her know again that he'd gone home. She hadn't woken enough to actually know what was going on.

Ryan stood up and walked to his closet. He was renting a place with three other guys. Two of them, the basement boys, were kind of slobbish, but Bruce was a pretty good guy. He had the room across the hall. Ryan pulled a shirt out of his closet and, pulling it on, went into the hall to let Bruce know what was going on.

"Yeah," the tired voice said. Bruce was wearing boxers and nothing else. They were a few sizes too big, and turned inside out, so they obviously weren't his, probably Kurt's. Those two, Bruce and the football team's cornerback, were trying to make a go of it. Four months and counting.

"If Cynthia wakes up, remind her I had to go back home today."

"Jesus," Bruce said. "That's a drive."

Ryan nodded. "It's important. I told her once but she was pretty groggy."

Bruce nodded. "Family stuff?"

"The worst kind."

"Drive safely, brother."

Ryan nodded and smiled. He went back into his room, kissed Cyn on her shoulder, and tucked in all his pocket junk.

Ryan had a long drive. It was Monday. He had only one class and no papers and exams all week long. He'd give a week of his time for his brother, no problem. He'd give more, up to and including his anal virginity if Tim ever wanted it. Ryan had never touched another guy in a sexual way, but if Tim needed something like that, Ryan would hand it over without too much whimpering.

Ryan got in his car and started on the drive. He'd be there before dinner.

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 6 By Ocean Lover Guy

"Bert, what are you doing here this time of day?"

Herbert Tate stood up and looked at his lawyer and friend. "I needed to talk with someone."

"Come on in," E. Rory McCallum said. Everyone called him Ripper, but Herbert insisted on calling him Rory.

The pair entered into the lawyer's office and took their accustomed chairs.

"Selling another book? Have another contract for me to review?"

Herbert shook his head. "This is personal." The lawyer nodded.

Herbert explained what his former assistant had done and how he had found a battered kid in his kitchen. He explained his sojourn earlier that morning to the hospital. He explained what it felt like to see a miniature Paul laying, alive but unconscious, in a hospital bed.

"You didn't come find me because you're fearing a lawsuit? Because someone got assaulted on your property?"

Herbert shook his head.

"I'm not a priest. I don't absolve guilt because you hired a big-dicked unreliable asshole."

"Hey," Herbert started to say.

"We're off the clock here, Bert, so I can speak as frankly as I want to. Sure, you say the kid had some writing talent, but it appears that he's just turned you over and fucked you royally. I'll bet you'd love it if Paul had been reincarnated in a tiny kid's body."

Herbert looked like he'd been slapped.

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Bert. I've been your friend since we were in high school. All your friends then were younger. You like them young."

"No. Paul was twenty-one when we got together."

"He looked like he was fifteen."

"I've guessed it for years, Bert. In fact, a couple of us who knew you way back when, we thought you'd been born in the wrong country."

Herbert wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion.

"We all thought you should have been a British schoolmaster. `Oh, Mr. Pederast, first-year student Roger Buggery is here for his personal appointment.'"

"Rory, that's not funny, god dammit."

The lawyer sighed and then nodded.

"I'm not condemning you for what you are, Bert. I'm just trying to help you realize what you are."

Herbert sat in his chair quietly. After nearly a silent minute had passed, he looked back at his lawyer.

"What do you think I should do about all this? This whole mess?"

"Whole mess, that covers a lot of ground." Rory looked at his desk for a few minutes.

"Here's what I think you should do," the lawyer began. He outlined his suggestions and Herbert didn't move.

"I don't know if I want to meet him now," Herbert said when he'd had a chance to think over everything Rory had said.

"I think you have to."

Herbert nodded. "I'll call them."

"It's the right thing to do," Rory said.

It still hurts, Herbert thought. Like a limb ground up in a machine that's still alive, still feeling, still coursing with nerves.

Robin Loftin Spencer was sitting on the couch in his den when the phone rang. When he was home, Robin rarely if ever picked up the phone. The general line was never for him. He had a pager and a cell phone. Both of those were pretty much always meant for work needs. The life of a podiatrist wasn't too filled with emergencies, thankfully, as people didn't often develop life-threatening foot fungi.

For some reason, Robin reached over and picked up the phone. "Spencer residence."

"Mr. Spencer," the voice asked.

"Yes," Robin said.

"My name is Herbert Tate. I believe your son, Tim, was attacked in my home."

Robin bristled and felt enormous curiosity at the same time. He recognized the caller's name, of course, hell, his family lived in a subdivision called The Pines at Tate Farm. But he didn't want anyone to know about what happened to his son.

The strange thing, according to the newspapers, was this guy was almost a total recluse. He didn't do interviews anymore; he couldn't even be coaxed out to talk to his fans beyond the strict limits written into his book deals by the publishers. The papers speculated a few times a year about what he was up to. He'd kept up his charitable giving, but he didn't attend the benefits anymore. The man was a mystery.

Robin relished a good mystery, too. His insides were churning between the desire for privacy for him and his family and for the need to figure out what would compel a man like this one to call him.

"My son, Tim, was injured, yes. May I ask why you're calling?"

The words had come out with a harsher tone than Robin had intended. The man on the other end of the line was quiet for a few moments.

"I'd like to meet you and your family. I'd like to apologize to Tim for what my former employee did."

The answer wasn't at all what Robin had expected. He'd expected no admission of wrongdoing; he'd expected wheedling and trying to get the family out of the mindset of a lawsuit. People could sue over a too-hot cup of coffee; they could definitely sue if someone got assaulted.

This proposed meeting was almost too embarrassing to consider. Robin wanted to help his son heal and then forget that this attack had ever happened. He'd always wished for his second son to be a larger boy, a stronger one.

"I'll pass along your apology to Tim, Mr. Tate, but I don't think a meeting is a good idea at this time. We just got him back from the hospital^Å"

Robin had more to say, more excuses to manufacture, when the phone was pulled from his hand.

Robin heard the other end of the line say, "I understand" before he heard his older son shush into the phone.

"Hello," he said. He listened to the phone before he started speaking. "This is Ryan, I'm Tim's older brother. I took the phone away from my dad because he's acting like a coward again."

Ryan looked like a ferocious animal. Robin was still taller than his son and had twenty pounds on him, but he thought Ryan could rip him limb from limb if he'd wanted. The misbehavior of his son hadn't yet penetrated into his foggy mind. He was still spinning the lies he wanted to tell. The family had an image to maintain: the older boy at Stanford on his way to becoming a doctor, after only seven or nine more years of schooling; the younger boy sharp as a whip and a hellion in the pool; the youngest, a daughter, a beauty and a brain. Nothing was supposed to cloud up this ideal.

"Robin hasn't been a great father to Tim, sometimes," Ryan said. "I make it my business to look after my little brother. I would like to meet you and so would Tim. He'd met you before, but you probably don't remember him."

Ryan listened and Robin began to fume.

"Why don't you come over for dinner tonight. We live at the end of Lodgepole Pine Drive." Ryan listened. "Six o'clock would be great."

Ryan put down the phone and turned to look at his dad.

"I love my little brother more than you love money and respectability. I think it'll do him good to get an apology for what happens to him. That it's coming from someone he respects is just icing on the cake."

"How?"

"How did I know? I picked up the phone a second after you did. You'll have to wake up a lot earlier in the day to pull one over on me, dad."

Robin closed his eyes and tried to feel human again.

"Treat him right, dad, or I'll make a phone call you won't like."

Robin slumped. He slowly, but definitely, nodded his head.

Ryan walked out of his father's den and didn't bother to look back.

Preston King woke up and didn't know where he was. Every part of his body ached. He tried to move and found that his right wrist was shackled to his hospital bed. They were hospital-style restraints; they were police issued. Preston had spent more than one evening voluntarily lashed to a bed in cuffs much like the ones he now wore. He hadn't remembered giving consent this time.

Preston, known as Trance to his shrinking number of friends, realized he was probably in trouble. He looked around the room and nothing jogged his memory. He didn't know why he was here or what had happened. That kind of made it difficult to control the situation. He didn't know which lies he could tell; he didn't have a foundation to start from.

Preston began to realize he was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 7 By Ocean Lover Guy

Herbert Tate hadn't even touched the door to the Spencer home when it flung open and a tall kid appeared in view.

"Welcome," the young man said. "I'm Ryan, Tim's brother. Please come in."

Herbert felt a hand close over his own. He felt his body drug into the house. When he caught a second to look at his surroundings, Herbert took in his eager captor. Herbert lost his breath. Instead of seeing a miniature version of Paul in a darkened hospital room, he was being dragged around by a full-grown doppelganger of his dead lover.

Herbert blinked twice and tried to halt his acceleration through the house.

"Tim wants to meet you, Mr. Tate. It's just upstairs."

The voice was very similar, too. Herbert found himself becoming aroused at the touch and sound of this insistent young man. By the time Herbert started up the stairs, he was completely rigid inside his underwear. This young man, Ryan, reminded him exactly of Paul, eagerness and impetuousness included.

Ryan pulled Herbert up the stairs and into a room, a room with no one else in it. He stopped moving, shut the door, and then looked at Herbert.

"Where's the young man," Herbert asked.

"I wanted to talk with you first," Ryan said. "I love my brother a lot and I'd do just about anything for him. I think meeting you, and hearing your apology, will be good for him."

Herbert remained pretty much slack jawed until Ryan nodded at him.

"It's the least I could do."

"I want to be clear, Mr. Tate. I'm not letting you off the hook with just an apology, though."

"What?"

"My dad's an asshole towards Tim, maybe you noticed some of the things he was saying earlier? Stuff that sounded as kosher as a ham and cheese sandwich?"

Herbert nodded. His eyes were raking up and down his dead lover.

"Tim's a tough guy, probably too tough, but Dad's never played fair with him. Dad's never hit any of us, but he can turn on the cold, the emotional freeze, without blinking. Mom's a nice lady, but she's never stood up to dad, not when it comes to Tim."

Herbert just stood staring. His mind was catching the words, but his eyes were trying to drink in every speck of the living, breathing beauty in front of him.

"What does this have to do with me, young man?"

"I can't be around all the time. College is hard work and I have a girlfriend and, basically, a life of my own. But I need to make sure my brother is safe, that there's someone watching out for him."

Herbert shook his head. He wasn't following.

"Your house he got beat up in. Your employee, if what Mom told me is true. So, to some extent, this is your responsibility. It's your job to help make it right."

"I don't know the first thing^Å"

"About children? I'd guess not. After we talked, I dug up what I could about you. I don't suspect you've ever been within fifty feet of a kid, have you? Too scared of what people would think?"

Herbert looked shocked. He wasn't sure how to read the comment. Did Ryan just accuse him of being a pedophile? How did he know?

"In my research, no one came out and said you were gay, but there were lots of comments about your assistants and companions. How young they were. How male they were. I can read between the lines, Mr. Tate."

Herbert had never felt so scared or so hot in his life. His cock wanted to crack it was so hard and bent in such a strange position inside his tight underwear.

"Why would you trust me to protect your brother?"

Ryan smiled. "My brother could take care of you if you tried something, mister. He's a wiry, muscled up bastard and he hates bullies. But he's never been strong against dad, never could be. You're here as a buffer. You've got money and power and you can make people jump. You'll do it, too, if my brother needs you to. Your job is to keep my brother sane and safe until he can be out on his own, you know?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Be a friend. Be someone who can listen to him. Help him out if he gets into trouble. And help keep my dad on a very short leash."

"Why me?"

Ryan looked at Herbert and smiled. It was impossible to read what he meant.

"Just because I'm here," Herbert asked. "Just because I called?"

Ryan's smile widened. He wasn't going to answer this question.

"Why should I?"

"I'll make sure my dad doesn't make a big stink about what happened at your house. You know, he seemed timid on the phone with you, but his greedy little mind would gnaw at him over weeks and months until he finally did something. I know how to prevent that," Ryan said. "Plus, you'll like Tim. He's a great guy."

Herbert didn't know what to believe. His dick was trapped inside the waist band of his underwear and he was leaking all over himself right now. He just wanted to reach out and caress the bundle of energy standing in front of him.

"Before I agree to anything, Mr. Extortionist, I have a question," Herbert asked.

Ryan looked at Herbert, waiting to hear what the surprised man had to say.

"Have you ever heard of, or met, a person named Paul Wolfe?"

Ryan pondered the question. He began to shake his head.

"One of my aunts is named Wolfe, but I've never met anyone named Paul."

"Is your aunt's name Veronica?"

Ryan looked perplexed then nodded.

"How did you know?"

"You're not telling me everything I want to know, so I'm going to hold back, too," Herbert said.

Ryan shrugged. "Do you want to meet Tim now?"

"I guess I have to, but, yes, I'd like to meet him."

Ryan's face screwed up in a stunted laugh. The next words out of his mouth were in a faux British accent. "Walk this way," he said. He limped to the door like he was a character out of a Mel Brooks film or out of a Monty Python sketch.

The pair, one limping, the other nearly dripping, walked out of the room and moved down the hall one door. Ryan knocked on the closed door and bellowed out, in his horrifying put-on voice, "Guest for you, my lord."

Ryan opened the door and moved inside. Herbert stood in the hallway and just watched the young man's backside. He was definitely not thinking with the brain in his cranium. He was reliving memories, living memories in moving eagerness and full of glorious sound. This was Paul Wolfe reincarnated. Paul and Herbert, the extrovert and the introvert, the predator and the pursued.

"Tim, this is Mr. Tate," Ryan said. That got my attention and I looked at the small young man lying on a bed. It was the second time Herbert had seen him today, but he didn't mention that.

Tim sat up in his bed and smiled at Herbert. Herbert walked to the boy and smiled.

"Ryan, my throat's dry. Can you get me some water?"

Ryan didn't know what to do. He'd gotten Herbert to agree to his terms, but now he had a request to fulfill. Could he leave the pair of them together, alone? Herbert watched with interest as his reincarnated lover finally nodded his head, "Sure."

"Can I have some lime in it?"

Ryan scurried out of the room.

"And a straw?"

Tim turned to look at Herbert. "I'm not normally a pain in the ass, but it'll take Ryan a while to get all that put together."

"Why," Herbert asked.

"I wanted to talk with you. You know, you didn't have to come."

"I wanted to. It was my idea," Herbert said.

"Even having Ryan blackmail you into being my friend," Tim asked.

Herbert flushed with embarrassment. He'd wanted to meet the kid; Tim's brother wanted him to be a friend; he couldn't even appear genuine.

"How^Å" Herbert began.

"Tim doesn't know it, but the heat vent from his room comes right into mine. I've heard him with his girlfriends before. His bed really squeaks, even when the girls aren't there." Tim laughed. "I've heard everything he's ever said or done in that room," Tim said. He smiled.

The young man pointed to a chair pushed under a desk. "Pull up a seat. Stay a while."

"I wanted to apologize for what happened to you. I never imagined that Preston would do something like this. I should have never trusted him."

"Apology accepted," Tim said.

"In fact, I'm going to hunt him down and make sure he's arrested for what he did to you." What he did to all of us, Herbert though. "I helped him get his first book accepted by a publisher. I'll make sure it never comes out in print." Herbert was ready to continue on with his litany when he noticed Tim's head pivot.

"Is it a good book?"

"What," Herbert asked.

"Is it a good book? Something a lot of people would like?"

Tim had asked a good question. Preston was a gifted writer, but an absolute zero as a piece of humanity. The book was very good; Herbert hadn't had to pull any strings or strong arm anyone into publishing it. He just put it in front of a few likely targets and the rest took care of itself. It would get a couple of good reviews, would sell a couple ten thousand copies, and would set Preston up for a strong reception for a second book. It was a good way to launch a writing career.

"It's a good book. He's not a nice person, but he can write," Herbert said.

"Then I don't want you to keep it from getting published. That would punish Trance, but it would also hurt the people who'd want to read it. You can't do that," Tim said.

Herbert sat for a second considering what Tim had said.

"Then I won't."

Tim smiled. At that second, Ryan came back into the room.

"We didn't have any lime. You'll have to make do with lemon."

Tim smiled and took the glass of water. He tilted his head to look at Herbert and asked a question.

"Who is Paul Wolfe?"