Lord of the Boys
by Foster I. Pines
fosteripines@gmail.com
*Feedback is much appreciated, along with your thoughts on where this story should go.
*I have published a book, "A Boy's Own Island", available on Amazon if you are interested.
*Please consider donating to the Nifty archive.
Part 2
Liam approached the gym in the shadow of oak trees. A lazy Sunday morning had given way to early afternoon. The day's heat was rising.
He scrolled through his phone as he walked. The photos were almost familiar now: Christian Waller's life in pictures played out in reverse with each flick of his thumb. Christian and three water polo teammates poolside and smiling, Christian horseback, Christian and a younger brother hiking. Some were more telling. Christian lounging poolside in a speedo that was far too stylish to be a water polo uniform, a cute blonde boy resting his head in Christian's lap, a different cute boy held tight in Christian's bulging arms.
Liam searched his mind for memories of the night before, maybe some fragment of a scene. Nothing. Not one useful scrap of remembering he could attempt to unravel into something definite, something real. There was a packed, sweaty dance floor at a fraternity house, and then nothing.
Not nothing, Liam thought. There was the water polo cap and red speedo in his hands. Christian Waller's cap. Christian's speedo. He thought about the blackout like Sam had: just an unfortunately lost memory of drunken sex with a hot stud. And some unknown third, he remembered. Who was that? Shrug it off, he thought. But he couldn't; something wouldn't let him.
He rubbed his right wrist without thinking. He turned up his palm and examined the "333" marked on the inside of his wrist. And what the hell is this, he thought?
Liam stood before the locker marked "C. W." and shook his head. Christian Waller's locker was...locked. He wasn't surprised by this, he realized, but rather he was surprised that he was surprised. (And he began to appreciate that he was still mightily hungover.)
What a fucking waste of time, he thought. What was I thinking?
A sudden stirring came from the end of the locker room. The cavernous room was half-lit and Liam saw a shadowy figure appear in a far entryway. A booming voice preceded any visible features on the figure's face.
"Hey!...HEY! You fucking with my locker?"
"Uh...no, no. Just trying to...trying to..."
Christian Waller emerged into the light. He was every bit of the six feet and three inches listed in the water polo team roster. From beneath his sandy brown hair his intent green eyes bore down on Liam. His sharp jaw line heightened the menace of his scowling face. He wore a t-shirt and gym shorts, and his massive frame was evident: long torso, wide shoulders, cannonball biceps.
"Just trying to fuck with my shit! That's what you're up to!"
Christian raised his right hand to jab an accusing finger towards Liam's face. Liam noticed the glint of silver from a bracelet that jangled on Christian's wrist.
"Woah. WOAH. Take it easy! Take it easy!"
Christian's nostrils flared as he brought his face up close to Liam's.
"Fuck that! What is this?"
Liam felt Christian's hot breath on his face. He considered for a moment that he matched up favorably with Christian: inch for inch of height, probably pound for pound of muscle as well. Why shrink away from this guy, he thought? Because he seemed out of control, he answered himself, and he was in some inexplicable rage.
"Jesus! HERE!" Liam pressed the cap and speedo against Christian's heaving chest.
A momentary look of shock flickered across Christian's face, shock that someone had the nerve to put on a hand on him. The nerve not only to put a hand on him, but also to push back. Liam studied him closely; clearly this wasn't something Christian was used to. The surprise, however, quickly gave way to confusion.
"What the fuck do you have this for?" Christian's voice approached a reasonable volume, but wasn't quite there yet.
Liam eyed him carefully. Christian's Instagram made things clear enough, he thought, but this was delicate territory.
"You left it in my room...last night."
"What?" Christian was incredulous. "Your room? Fuck if I know where that is."
So it's like that, Liam thought. Tread carefully, he told himself.
"Maybe you were blacked out--"
"Blacked out?!"
"I mean, I mean...I was blacked out, so maybe...you don't remember being in my--"
"Who the FUCK are you?"
"Liam Carver."
"Who the fuck?"
"Liam Carver."
"Yeah," he said witheringly. "Got it."
They eyed each other carefully in a moment of silence.
"So you stole this or something," Christian said, more calmly now, but shaking the cap and speedo in front of Liam's face.
"No," Liam began slowly, "You left it in my room last night and--"
"I was in fucking Massachusetts last night. What the fuck are you talking about?"
Liam was speechless. He must be a certified closet case, he told himself. But it didn't all add up, and despite the cloud of rage Christian seemed sincere.
"Did you text me?" Christian asked.
"Huh?"
"Did you text me?" He held up his phone. "To come here now. Is this 618 shit your number?"
Liam tried to read the short text on Christian's phone. "No."
"What the fuck?" Christian said in exasperation. "What the actual fuck?"
A quiet moment passed between them. Christian's breathing steadied. He turned to his locker and began to twirl the lock. His rage subsided, now Christian fidgeted about, irritation in his voice and his movements.
"Listen, man," Christian began, "tell whoever put you up to this that it's a fucking waste of my time. Whatever shithead thought this would be funny or something is gonna--"
Christian fell silent. His body froze. The locker door was open enough for him to peer inside, but Liam could not see inside from where he stood.
Liam was about to speak when Christian sprang into action. In one swift motion he lunged at Liam and grabbed him by the right arm. Liam flailed his arm, but he could not break free. Christian was every bit as strong as he looked, and then some.
Christian held Liam's arm, firm and steady, saying nothing. After a moment he slowed turned it upwards and examined the "333" on Liam's wrist.
"Who the fuck are you?" Christian said softly.
"I told you my name," Liam snarled. He shook his arm free of Christian, who fixed him with an unblinking stare. He looked past Christian's intense green eyes. During their struggle the locker door had swung further open; he could see inside now. Amidst the small pile of water polo suits and goggles at the bottom of the locker Liam saw a silver bracelet, similar to the one on Christian's wrist, except that it had several holes cut into it.
About ten holes, Liam thought.
"Here." Christian pressed the red speedo against Liam's chest. "This isn't mine."
Liam pushed Christian's hand away and glared at him. "Well, it's not mine either. And I've got plenty of my own suits."
Christian's eyes grew wide. "I know about you. Already set a school record in the 100-meter free and fly." He huffed. "You're fucking nothing, man. Remember that."
"Fuck you," Liam scowled.
Christian threw the speedo at Liam and he begrudgingly caught it.
"Take it. You might need it after all."
"Whatever."
Christian grabbed the silver bracelet from his locker and slammed the door shut. He stood still and looked to the floor. A wicked smile slowly curled across his face.
Liam's heart raced. Something sinister seemed to spread out from Christian and further darken the dimly lit locker room. He wanted to speak but the words stuck in his throat.
Christian looked up at him, still smiling. He surveyed Liam from head to toe.
"Not a fucking chance."
by Foster I. Pines
fosteripines@gmail.com
*Feedback is much appreciated, along with your thoughts on where this story should go.
*I have published a book, "A Boy's Own Island", available on Amazon if you are interested.
*Please consider donating to the Nifty archive.