The Cross of Sins (4 page)

Jake said nothing, conscious only of the pain and the exposure of his body to this Brazilian stranger. It seemed he had little choice but to trust the man. Lying there, vulnerable and wounded, he looked the Brazilian in the eye.

"You don't want to die on a fishing boat," the Brazilian said. He gave a reassuring smile. "Besides, the Professor needs a man like you. He's had an eye on your work for some time."

As the needle slid into his forearm, Jake managed to ask, "The Professor? My work? I don't know what you mean—"

"Perhaps work is the wrong word. Perhaps 'adventures' is more accurate."

Jake's head was spinning with questions, but the drugs were already sending him into a deeper spiral. The soothing voice of the Brazilian slowly began to slip away. "Close your eyes. When you open them again, you'll feel better. I'll look after you, I promise..."

II

San Diego, California

Young Will Hunter leaned with both palms flat against the white tiles of the shower room and held his head under the rush of water, letting the cool cascade trickle over the bruise that was already forming around his left eye. With one hand, he gently massaged the tender cheekbone.

He was alone in the showers now. He'd been abandoned by his team. All the other guys left without saying so much as a goodbye to him. He'd screwed up, he knew it, and while his teammates were content with the old silent treatment, it was Coach Kelly who had laid it on the line.

"Another stunt like that and you're not only off the team," he'd shouted at Will as the young footballer hauled off his shoulder pads and jockstrap, "but I'll make damn sure you're kicked out of this school for good. And I don't give a damn if your ancient history professor defends you or how good your grades are. Another scene like that and your college days are over!"

Will wanted to tell his coach to go to hell. In fact, the way he felt right now he wanted to tell the whole world to go to hell. He wanted to tell the coach it wasn't his fault, that damn Sandy Banks, the quarterback for the other team, was a goddamn loose cannon. He was an asshole, and he deserved the right hook that Will had given him.

But then again, Sandy Banks would probably say the same thing about Will. It didn't help matters that after last year's Interstate Awards night the two of them had fucked. They went to bed drunk, woke up—awkwardly—as friends, and now after all these months, with not a single phone call, not even a text between them, the two teenagers faced off as competitors on the field.

Too much testosterone.

Too much history—

—or perhaps not enough. Perhaps both boys wanted more than history had handed them.

Now the fight on the field was over.

And the game was over.

San Diego had lost, and everyone on his team seemed more than willing to blame Will for their defeat, whether the fight had anything to do with it or not.

"Hey!"

The voice came from behind him with such force it echoed through the shower room. Will spun about, expecting to see the coach back for another lecture, or maybe one of his teammates ready to teach him a lesson. But instead he saw the enemy himself.

Sandy Banks.

He stood at the entrance to the showers in his red letter sweater and gym bag hooked over one shoulder.

The first thing Will did was smirk at the bruise he'd left on Sandy Banks' handsome square jaw, despite Will's own eye coming up black and bruised.

"What are you laughin' at?" Sandy demanded.

"Your face. What are you doin' here?"

"To tell you off the field, face to face, that I think you're an asshole."

"The feeling's mutual. Are you looking for another fight?"

Sandy shook his head. "I also wanted to tell you I think you're the best player out there. But you're way too fired up."

Will let the hint of a smile slide across his face. "My life is—more complicated than you think."

"Whatever," Sandy shrugged, pissed, as the two 19-year-olds eyed each other through the steam drifting and swirling around the shower room. For a moment, Will tried in vain to suppress the physical feelings he'd felt all those months ago, but it was no use.

At the same time, Will watched as Sandy's eyes—voluntarily or not—wondered over Will's naked body: his muscular chest, his buff stomach, his thick legs, his hardening cock. Will didn't try to hide it now, why should he? On the field, Sandy was his worst enemy. But off the field, there was no denying the guy was hot, with his dark hair and blue eyes and chiseled young face. If Sandy had a problem with Will's increasingly evident appreciation of that fact, he could turn his back and leave now.

Instead, Sandy let his gym bag slide off his shoulder and onto the floor. "I waited for you to call."

"So did I."

"Like I said, you're an asshole. You're not the only one with a complicated life, you know."

Will smiled. Perhaps Sandy didn't quite get the entire gamut of Will's complications. But then again, with someone like Sandy Banks standing in front of him—now peeling off his letter sweater and the shirt underneath and kicking off his boots—Will didn't see the need to complicate things even further.

He could see the head of Sandy's cock before Sandy even got to the drawstring of his track pants. Will watched, letting the water cascade over his own body, trickling around his now erect penis, as Sandy dropped his track pants. The young quarterback's rock-hard cock flicked up, slapping against his six-pack stomach.

Will let Sandy come to him. He watched as he walked up to him, the muscles in his legs and arms still hard after the game. As he neared, Will reached out and wrapped his hand around the back of Sandy's neck, pulling him under the shower. Their mouths locked in a hard, ruthless kiss. Their smooth wet stomachs pressed against each other, their hard cocks stabbing at one another.

Sandy groaned, as though a lifetime of denial was suddenly escaping his body. Will grinned, treading assuredly, excitedly, on very familiar territory. "I don't know why I'm doing this again," Sandy mumbled, looking into Will's hazel-green eyes. "I don't know why I came here. I just had to, I couldn't help myself. If we get caught doing this, I'm screwed."

"And if you don't get caught, you'll be screwed, too," Will grinned. "So why worry?"

It was all the convincing Sandy needed. He practically melted into Will, their hands groping and fingers clawing each other as if the two young footballers wanted to tear each other to pieces. Water cascaded all over them, splashing off their hungry faces, their broad shoulders, their frantic heaving chests. Within seconds, Sandy dropped to his knees and grabbed Will's cock in his fist. He devoured him, almost whole, with an appetite that, for a long time, had yearned to be satiated.

Will let out a cry of pleasure that echoed throughout the shower room. He seized Sandy's dark wet hair in both hands and controlled the thrust and lunge of the quarterback's mouth. Meanwhile, Sandy seized his own throbbing dick in his right hand.

Will could feel the ecstasy mounting inside him. He also knew that at the pace Sandy was pounding his own flesh, the young quarterback wouldn't last long. Suddenly, Will felt the muscles in his back clench tight, his back arched, and with the twisted locks of Sandy's hair in his clenched fists, Will felt himself explode in the quarterback's mouth, turning the warm wet tunnel of his throat into a well of hot come.

Sandy swallowed hard and fast, sucking, gulping, at the same time letting out a muffled groan as his own balls erupted.

Will felt the first jet of Sandy's come hit the inside of his thighs and stick there. The second spurt shot even higher, splashing against Will's balls which were still pressed hard against Sandy's chin.

With his cock still in the young quarterback's come-filled mouth, Will could see Sandy's entire body quiver with the ecstasy of the blow. He could feel his jaw clench and his teeth gently sink themselves into the shaft of Will's cock. Sucking every last drop of come from Will.

Forcing Will's own body to quake and jolt.

His horny teenage lust sucked clean out of him.

Every last shiny pearl painfully extracted.

Every head-rolling gem of jism filling Sandy's hard, heaving belly.

Until finally, slowly, giddily, Sandy released his bite on Will and let him slide his gleaming, still hard cock from his mouth.

As Sandy slowly rose to his feet, Will smiled, the two young men still panting, their chests rising and falling almost in unison. "That probably wasn't too good for the bruise on your jaw," Will said.

Sandy had forgotten all about the pain. He stretched his jaw, touched his fingers to it and shrugged. "Probably not, but it was worth it."

"So was the black eye." Will reached over and turned the shower on next to him. He passed Sandy the soap.

Will gave a wink then—with his black eye—and winced at the pain. Sandy laughed, and then leaned forward and kissed it better.

Sandy Banks left before he missed his team's bus. "They'll be waiting for me," he said, toweling off as fast as he could and pulling on his track pants and sweater. "The coach'll be totally pissed off."

"Fuck him."

Sandy threw his gym bag over his shoulder, and before dashing out of the locker room, he grabbed Will's shoulder and laid a quick kiss smack on Will's lips. He smiled cheekily, "I'd rather fuck you. Maybe next game?"

With that, he turned and dashed.

Will stood there, grinning from ear to ear with complete contentment, watching as the quarterback vanished. Lost in a lingering moment of bliss, Will didn't even realize his cell phone was buzzing frantically in his gym bag until it was almost too late to answer.

Snapping out of his daze, he rummaged through his gear, glanced at the caller ID and answered the call before it rang out. "Professor!"

On the other end of the line, a man responded in a gentle voice, a British accent, pronunciation so proper and precise it was almost Shakespearean. "Will? Are you all right?"

"Sure." Will tossed his fingers through his wet blond hair, trying to mess it dry. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been calling for the last half hour? Are you in trouble?"

"No, not at all. I just had a game on, that's all. A big game."

"How are your studies? Can you spare some time off?"

"Sure, I can cover things here. Anything for you. Is everything okay?"

The Professor didn't answer the question directly. "I've booked you on the first flight to Vienna in the morning," he said. "I've organized transportation for you—your favorite. I'll explain everything as soon as everyone's together."

"I'll be there. What's going down?"

The Professor paused a moment, and then said quite matter-of-factly, "History."

Felix Frazer had a sixth sense when it came to the sound of young Master Will's Ducati tearing down the street. He could sense Will was on his way even before he heard the roar of the bike's engine. Personally, the boy's butler hated that motorcycle. It was noisy and dangerous, and young Will drove the monstrous vehicle far too fast. But it was Will's favorite thing in the world, and for a boy who had grown up barely ever seeing his widowed diplomat father, and then who was Felix—the butler who had practically raised Will from childhood—to deny Master Will one of the few pleasures in his life.

Of course, looking around the beachfront house that Charles Hunter had so graciously given his son on his eighteenth birthday, one would assume that pleasure was something abundant in Will Hunter's life. He owned all the latest in technology, from computers to sound systems to visual hardware.

But, possession and pleasure were two completely different things.

Felix knew that Charles had given Will the house to keep him happy, to send him off on the road of life with a minimum of fuss and bother to Charles' own existence. After all, Charles' career and affairs—both professional and personal—had always taken priority over the raising of his only child.

That's what Felix was there for—raising Will.

He was employed to look after the Hunter household when Will was four. Will's mother, Amelia, became sick shortly after Felix began working for the family. She lost her battle with cancer when Will was six. Charles threw himself into his diplomatic career shortly after the funeral. In the thirteen years since the death of his wife, Charles Hunter had spent a grand total of eleven weeks at home with his son: three weeks in the spring when Will was eight; another month in winter with his son when Will was eleven, and another four weeks leading up to Will's eighteenth birthday when he bought Will his own house. Charles always told Felix how proud he was of Will, how he had grown into a handsome and strong-willed young man. Once, Felix asked Charles if he had ever told Will that himself.

Charles changed the subject.

It seemed strange that after fifteen years together, Felix and Will were complete opposites. While Felix was a peaceful, placid and very organized man, Will liked things perilous and unpredictable. He enjoyed loud music, made impromptu decisions and indulged in the type of sports where bones were often broken. Of course, Felix was well aware, and had been for some years, that Will was gay. When Will was sixteen, he came out to Felix over dinner one night, while making them both eat home-delivered pizza and watch football. Felix asked Will if he was going to inform his father.