Against the Wall Read online

  Against the Wall

  by Alexa Land

  a Male/Male love story

  Book Seven in the Firsts and Forever Series

  Dedicated to the

  M/M Community on Facebook

  It’s a wonderful thing

  when a reader or a fellow author

  becomes a friend.

  Thank you, each of you,

  for the love, support, and

  encouragement!

  Chapter One

  It was time to go.

  It was past time, actually. I knew this. But even as part of my brain was chanting come on, come on, come on, another part was thinking almost there, just one more minute, that’s all I need. The part of my brain that promised one more minute was a liar. One minute always turned into two, then five, then ten.

  I shook the can of pink paint in my hand. According to the label, it wasn’t actually pink. It was Ferocious Fuchsia. Who named these things? I stretched up as high as I could, the pile of pallets beneath me swaying just a bit, and brought my arm around in a wide arc as I pushed the nozzle with my index finger. The oh-so-familiar smell of spray paint flooded my senses and with my free hand, I tugged the black bandana that was wrapped around my face up an inch, so that it covered my nose completely.

  With a few quick movements, I used the pink paint to highlight the enormous face of a young girl, just beginning to take shape on the back wall of a condemned apartment building. Then I leaned back a bit to assess the mural, which was tough to do in the dim light. It didn’t help that I was wearing sunglasses, both to protect my eyes from the paint and to hide my face from the security cams that dotted the city. My unsteady perch wobbled, and I crouched down a bit to lower my center of gravity.

  Leave it, Christian, you can come back later. You know you’ve been here too long. The rational part of my brain always lost out to the adrenaline junkie though, the ‘one more minute’ part of me that needed to be here, painting, creating, all while on high alert, just waiting for the police or some random street thug to roll up on me.

  That adrenaline rush was as much a part of this as the need to make art. I knew this about myself. I probably could go through legal channels and get permission for my murals, but where was the thrill in that? I absolutely lived for this. I really didn’t want to get caught, though. Jail was so not part of the plan.

  Given that, it was incredibly stupid that I was out here so early on a Friday night. It wasn’t even one a.m. The city wasn’t asleep yet, not fully, but I’d been obsessed with this painting all week. I saw it so clearly in my mind’s eye, this little girl in a field of daisies, and I needed to make her real. Well, little wasn’t quite the right word. By the time I was finished, she’d be almost twenty feet high.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out and glanced at my best friend’s name on the screen. I hesitated for a long moment, considering letting it go to voicemail. But then I felt like a douche and answered the call with, “Hey, Skye.”

  “Hey yourself, Christian. You haven’t been returning my texts.”

  “I know. I got busy but I was just about to text you.” I stifled a sigh. Liar. I really was a douche.

  “What are you doing? Feel like going on an art supply run with Dare and me?” Skye was a metal sculptor, and what he really meant was dumpster diving, probably on private property. Normally, I enjoyed scavenging with him. But since he’d gotten engaged, I felt totally obsolete around him and his fiancé.

  “Thanks, but I’m actually working on one of my projects right now.”

  “You’re painting already? Isn’t it kind of early?”

  “Yeah, a bit. This part of town isn’t exactly party central, though.”

  “I miss you, Christian,” he said. “Promise me we’ll get together sometime this weekend.”

  I wanted to make excuses, but instead I said, “Are you going to be at the warehouse tomorrow? If so, I’ll come by and see how the boys are doing.” He’d already completed what could have been his senior project, an absolutely amazing sculpture of a male dancer in mid-leap, inspired by his fiancé. But then he got incredibly ambitious and decided to make two more sculptures, showing the same dancer beginning and ending that leap. Each piece stood ten to fifteen feet high, and I knew he was going to stress himself out trying to get the two additional sculptures completed by June. Still though, I admired what he was trying to accomplish.

  “Yeah. Dare, Benny and I are spending tonight at the warehouse and plan to work all day tomorrow.” Benny was their dog.

  “Alright, I’ll be by tomorrow then. Not early.” After we disconnected, I sighed as I slipped my phone back in the pocket of my jeans. I really had to get a grip on the fact that my best friend was engaged.

  I’d been attracted to Skye when I first met him. We’d even gone out a couple times before some things happened that redefined our relationship as firmly platonic. But when he’d started going out with Dare I’d gotten kind of panicky and, in a rash moment I wasn’t proud of, I’d kissed Skye. It had felt really wrong and we both knew even as it was happening that it was a total mistake. But that was how desperate I’d been not to lose him.

  That was crazy on so many levels, though. His relationship with Dare was a really positive thing. It made him happy, which was what I wanted for my best friend more than anything. Besides, I was going to have to say goodbye to him when the school year ended, so it was great knowing he wouldn’t be alone.

  When the police cruiser pulled into the south end of the alley, it took me a moment to notice since I was lost in thought. My heart leapt in my chest when I saw it, even though I totally knew that would happen tonight. I quickly capped the spray paint and dropped it into the backpack I was wearing, then pressed myself against the part of the brick wall that didn’t have fresh paint on it. Sometimes, the police drove right past me. The stack of boxes and pallets under me was more than ten feet tall, maybe they wouldn’t glance up. My heart was pounding in my ears. I swallowed hard.

  The police car slowed, then stopped just a few feet away. I held my breath. I was dressed all in black and the alley was pretty dark, so maybe I’d get lucky.

  In the next instant, a powerful spotlight mounted to the police car blinded me and a deep voice started barking orders over the P.A. system. Yeah, no, I really wasn’t going to surrender. I grabbed the safety rope attached to the harness around my chest and began to climb. The cops were out of the car now, yelling at me. One of them even threatened to shoot me, which was not going to happen. I’m sure he wanted to, but he wouldn’t really do it. The paperwork for shooting an unarmed graffiti artist in the back was a bitch.

  I made it to the top of the building and hoisted myself over the edge, then pulled the rope up after me. Working quickly, I stripped off the harness and my hoodie. I crammed these inside the backpack along with my sunglasses and bandana, then jogged across the roof in a crouched over position (as if the cops could see me from six stories below) and hid my backpack inside an old vent that I’d scouted ahead of time.

  The question now was whether to leave through this building, or some other way. I ran to the front of the rooftop and took a quick peek over the edge. The police car was double-parked in front of the building, so they were probably already heading up the stairs. I’d thought to barricade the door to the roof before I began painting, so that was going to slow them down.

  I ran to the side of the building so I could use the fire escape, but another police cruiser was parked beneath it and a cop was already starting to climb the rusty ladder. Shit, really? They’d called in reinforcements, just for little old me? Were there no actual crimes being committed in the city right now?

  Alright, time for Escape Plan F, for fucking crazy. I pressed myself against the
half-wall framing the top of the building, then took off at a dead sprint across the rooftop. The building to the left of this one was one story shorter, with a six-foot-wide alley in between. Piece of cake, as long as I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing. Just as the cops started rattling the door I’d barricaded, I reached the edge of the building, leapt up onto the half-wall and pushed off with my legs, propelling myself forward as my heart almost exploded in my chest.

  For just a moment, I was airborne. I flew across the alley and dropped ten feet to the neighboring building. The landing was jarring, but I knew to take it at a roll. Immediately I was back on my feet, running across the roof and jumping over one more alley. Fortunately, the building I landed on this time was the same height as the last one.

  I’d planned ahead, like always. The door to the rooftop was still ajar, just the way I’d left it. I stepped into the hotel and clicked the door shut behind me as quietly as possible, then paused and listened. The only sound was my ragged breathing and the pounding in my ears. I leaned against the wall for a couple minutes as I caught my breath, mopping at my sweaty face with the cuff of my long-sleeved black t-shirt. Then I detangled the elastic band that was holding my hair back in a stubby ponytail and ran my fingers through my brown curls. There was nothing identifying me as the person in the alley now, but the police might still stop me and question me. They did things like that.

  I headed for the stairs, taking in my drab surroundings. The paint was peeling and the carpet was so stained I couldn’t even guess its original color. It had been a nice place once, just enough ornate plasterwork remaining to suggest an opulent past. But that had been a long time ago.

  A door to my right opened and a thin young guy with dark hair and pale skin stepped out, shutting it behind him. He was obviously a prostitute, even though he was dressed simply in a t-shirt, jacket and jeans. I could always tell, though. It was something in the way they looked at you, assessing you in an instant: friend? Foe? Possible john? That wariness seemed to be part of the job.

  He acknowledged me with a nod and headed toward the stairs, a couple paces ahead of me. We descended in silence, but when we reached the mezzanine, we both stopped dead in our tracks and he whispered, “Damn.” There were three cops below us in the lobby of the building. They must have reached the rooftop of the building where I was painting in time to see me duck inside this hotel. “They’re raiding this place? Really?” the guy murmured. “What are they planning to do, go door to door and drag all of us out from under our tricks?”

  I told him, “I actually think they’re here for me.”

  He turned to me, his blue eyes assessing me more thoroughly. “Why?”

  “I broke the law.”

  “Well shit, who hasn’t?” He crossed the few feet between us and frowned a little. “Were you painting graffiti?” I nodded and he sighed. “Like this neighborhood isn’t bad enough.” He raised a slender hand and rubbed the bridge of my nose with the pad of his middle finger.

  “Paint?”

  He rolled his eyes at that. “No. I have a nose fetish and suddenly got this urge to feel you up.” He pulled his hand back and looked at me, then said, “Alright, Basquiat, you’re good to go.” I raised an eyebrow at that and he frowned at me, totally reading my mind. “Yes. The hooker was able to make a cultural reference. Shocking, I know. Really though, I missed the mark. Upper-class white boy like you only wishes he was Basquiat. More like WASPiat.”

  “Are you done?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  We joined hands without discussion, and the guy started talking animatedly about something or another, like we were two lovers out for a stroll. He kept this up as we trotted down the remaining stairs and cut through the lobby. The cops eyed us suspiciously, but for a moment it seemed like they were going to let us go without harassing us.

  Not quite.

  “Hold up.” That came from the biggest cop in the bunch. The man was built like Optimus Prime. “What are you two doing here?”

  Before I could launch into a speech about violating our civil rights by illegally detaining us, my companion clicked his tongue and put on a shrill lilt as he exclaimed, “We’re staying here. What a dump! Are all your hotels like this? And here I thought San Francisco was supposed to be all luxurious! This place should be condemned, isn’t that right, honey?”

  He turned his gaze on me and I jumped in with, “I told you we needed to spend more than fifty dollars a night in the big city, or we were going to end up in a shit hole. Did I not tell you that?”

  “You guys are tourists?” The cop asked.

  “We’re here on our honeymoon. This was supposed to be our dream vacation.” The guy sounded choked up and actually managed to look a little misty-eyed. “But instead, we got this!” He waved a slender arm to encompass our surroundings.

  I fought back a smile and said, “Come on baby, we still have an hour before the clubs close. You know you always feel better when you’re shaking your cute little ass on the dance floor. I’ll even ask the DJ to play your favorite song.”

  “Achy Breaky Heart?” he asked. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing as I nodded. He sniffed and murmured, “That would make me feel better.” The guy was good. He gave me a little apologetic smile and slipped his arms around my neck. “I’m sorry I got all emotional, pookie. I know this place isn’t your fault. It looked nice in the picture on the internet.”

  “I’ll make it up to you, baby. I’ll bring you back to San Francisco for our five year wedding anniversary and I’ll book us at the Best Western. I promise.” My companion covered a laugh, turning it into a sob as he hugged me tightly.

  “I love you so much, pookie,” he exclaimed.

  “I love you too, sugar butt.”

  That was the police officer’s breaking point. He said gruffly, “You two get out of here and for God’s sake, next time read Trip Advisor or something!”

  “Yes, officer,” my companion said sweetly, picking up my hand again and leading me out of the building.

  “Pookie? Really?” I said when we were on the sidewalk.

  “It’s all I could think of. Besides, you did far worse! Sugar butt? What a terrible nickname!”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You basically just called your husband a candy ass.”

  “True, but it got us out of the building. The cop wanted nothing more to do with us after that.” We were no longer holding hands, but we’d fallen into step with each other as we headed down the street. “I’m Christian, by the way,” I added with a grin. “You should know that, as my husband.”

  “Hi Christian. Chance.”

  “Really?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes really. My hooker name is Slutty McFuckmahbutt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Slutty.”

  We both chuckled at that, and then I pointed across the street and said, “That’s one of mine, by the way, so you don’t think I’m just out here adding to the urban blight.” I’d painted a series of life-size dancing people across the top of an out-of-business department store. It had been one of my most challenging murals, since it actually faced the street. Most were tucked out of the way.

  He looked at the mural, then turned to me with wide eyes. “You’re Zane?” That was the name I used for my artwork. I was really surprised he’d noticed my signature. When I nodded he said, “Well, damn. I’m sorry about all the shitty things I’d thought about you.”

  “Likewise. You’re actually a good guy.”

  “For a rent boy.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t need to.”

  We’d reached an intersection and I turned to Chance, gesturing over my shoulder as I said, “I’m parked this way. Can I buy you a drink as a thank you for helping get my ass out of that situation?” There was that look again, another assessment. I added, “Just a drink. No hidden agenda.”

  He mulled it over for a few moments a
s I shivered a bit in the brisk December air. Finally he said, “Okay, but there are two ground rules. Number one, I’m not sleeping with you. Contrary to popular belief, sex workers aren’t constantly looking to give it up to absolutely everyone. Number two, you can’t ask me the question.”

  “What question?”

  “You know. ‘What’s a smart guy like you doing selling his body?’ I really fucking hate it when people start scrutinizing me like I’m a sociology study.”

  “You’re in luck,” I said as I fished my car keys from my pocket. “I have no interest in sleeping with you and I don’t care why you’re a hooker.” I flashed a smile and added, “Come on, I need about five shots of whiskey after this evening.”

  He fell into step beside me again and said, “Just so you know, I only have an hour.”

  “You have someplace you need to be at two a.m.?”

  “Yeah, bent over with some guy’s dick up my ass. It’s Friday night and people start to get desperate as closing time draws near. When they fail to pick up any of their fellow bar patrons, they start looking for options.”

  I stopped at the passenger door to my black Jeep and unlocked it for him, then said, “For someone who doesn’t want to talk about being a prostitute, you’re certainly candid about it.”

  He paused in front of me. He was a couple inches shorter than me, so he looked up and held my gaze as he said, “I’m not ashamed of what I do. I just don’t want to explain the why of it to anyone.”

  “Got it. Any preference on where we go?”

  “Someplace like Freddy B.’s or Rounders would be great.” He’d named huge night clubs that were popular with tourists, both gay and straight. I’d never set foot in either one.

  “Seriously? There would be plenty of horny guys at any bar in the Castro, too.”

  Chance smirked at that. “No shit. Most of those club owners can recognize a prostitute a mile away though, and they really don’t want to incur the wrath of the SFPD by letting us work their customers.”