AngiePen (angiepen) wrote,
AngiePen
angiepen

Fic: A Lost Boy, Chapter 21

Title: A Lost Boy
Author: AngiePen
Pairing: Liam Neeson/Orlando Bloom, minor Liam/Johnny Depp, plus a few other pair-ups among the supporting characters.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: 1) Set in poisontaster's Kept Boy universe -- FAQ here. See Chapter 1 for more notes.

Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty



Thewlis waited and watched. He'd charmed the night manager of a nearby 7-Eleven (only a quarter mile away, in a tiny strip mall next to another shabby casino) by telling the young man he was a representative of the tabloid media hoping to get photos of a very famous celebrity (whom he could of course not name) who secretly had a house nearby. In exchange for a promise of a couple of prints once he got the pictures, Thewlis negotiated bathroom privileges. Cleaning up in the chipped porcelain sink once every day or so was sub-optimal, but the best he could manage under the circumstances; grunge was a silent and familiar partner when one was alone on stake-out and he hardly noticed it anymore.

Eleven days later, a man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tie and carrying a briefcase pulled into the driveway, got the mail from the box at the curb, went into the house, stayed only six minutes, then left, still carrying the briefcase. It definitely wasn't Marty. Thewlis followed him to the Silver Oasis, where he parked in a section of lot around the back marked off for employees. Thewlis cruised past and memorized the license plate number.

An hour and a half later he had the man's name, knew that he was the head of security for the casino and that he'd been hired shortly after Marty bought the place. Interesting but not informative.

Thewlis went back to his spot and kept watching the house.



Kevin didn't make it into body-slave training the second time around. His age was working against him, and he was "insufficiently sensual" according to the basic trainer's final evaluation. He'd made it in fine before, but maybe the extra youth points back then had made up for the lack of natural sluttiness points, or whatever.

On the one hand, Kevin was happy enough not to be sold to someone as a fuck doll. On the other hand, he was sort of insulted. He told himself he'd get over it. Besides, if his plan worked he wouldn't be with his new owner for very long anyway.

Although he wasn't body-slave material that time around, he was "presentable," which meant he wasn't ugly enough to scare away customers or houseguests. He tested out smart, too, and was good with both words and numbers, so between that and Kevin's faked-up background experience he'd gotten a recommendation for clerical or entry-level admin, with a bonus rec for being cooperative and enthusiastic.

Body-slaves were bought like dogs -- showcased so prospective masters could wander through, grab ass and check teeth, imagine themselves fucking one or another of the bodies on display, and finally point and say "That one." Kevin had unconsciously expected to have to go through that again, but clerical types were purchased based on record, experience, test scores -- the kind of stuff a buyer could look over on the computer. Kevin spent the time while he was listed for sale locked in a barracks room with a bunch of other slaves in the same situation, bored and antsy.

Four days later, one of the staffers hauled him out and shoved him into a small room containing one table, one chair, and one huge Black man who looked him up and down, then pointed to the floor next to where he was sitting and said, "Kneel."

The man had a deep, resonant voice which was pretty obviously used to being obeyed. Kevin walked to the indicated spot as gracefully as he could and sank into a kneel.

The man said, "I'm looking for someone to organize my personal business. Mail and appointments and bills, make sure the house is stocked -- groceries and such -- send out the laundry, that sort of thing. Think you can handle that?"

Kevin said, "Yes, sir." Sort of a secretary or house-manager kind of thing. Boring but perfect. Mail meant access to e-mail.

"I need someone who can keep things running on their own, while I'm seeing to business."

"I--" Kevin paused. He needed to be careful here. This guy obviously wanted someone who could work unsupervised, without being nagged about everything. He'd liked what he'd seen about Kevin's file, but was cautious about the "likes direction" part. Kevin could do what the guy needed, but couldn't go too far outside the persona he'd built for the evaluators. "I think I took on too much, sir," he finally said. "In my previous life, that is. I was overwhelmed and in over my head and didn't know what to do or how to handle it. I've learned better, though, and have a better sense of the scope of my abilities. I'm sure I could handle your personal business."

"Huh. Well, we'll give it a shot, then."

Kevin let himself smile slightly and said, "Thank you, sir." It'd been close, but there were more people wanting slaves than there were slaves to be had, and that'd worked out in Kevin's favor.

He stayed kneeling while the man walked out of the room, until a handler came to fetch him and take him to Escrow. He was there for a day and a half, then went home with his new master, a Mr. Duncan.

Mr. Duncan had Kevin sit in the passenger seat in front, and drove himself. His car was nice and reasonably new but not luxurious. He seemed to be well off but not filthy rich.

Of course there were people who were filthy rich but were just odd about pretending not to be. Kevin didn't think Mr. Duncan was that kind of man, though. He'd met one or two of them and they had a kind of stuck-up shabby thing going on. Mr. Duncan seemed solid and competent, not pretending to be anything he wasn't.

"I own a security company," Mr. Duncan said. He kept his eyes on the road while driving and Kevin was fine with that. "Provide bodyguards for Hollywood stars, politicians, a few business people, folks with enemies or just folks who attract whack-jobs. I've got people to handle stuff for me on that end, though; your job'll be keeping the house running.

"Sometimes I'm there, sometimes I'm not. I don't see any point to having a full staff -- waste of money when I'm gone so much. One person should be able to keep things in shape, sort the mail and pay the bills and all. That's you."

He paused for a few seconds. Kevin wasn't sure whether he was focusing on traffic or expected a response, so to be safe he said, "Yes, sir."

"Your file didn't say whether you can cook. If you can, that's fine. If not, I'm used to ordering in anyway. I've got a cleaning service, comes in once a week. You can make the beds and pick up towels and do dishes. Laundry's sent out."

"I could do that too, sir, if you want." Not that Kevin was turned on by the smell of detergent or anything, but it never hurt to earn a few brownie points.

"That'd be fine," Mr. Duncan agreed. "You ruin anything, though, I'll take my belt to you."

Jerk, thought Kevin. He looked down at his lap and said, "Yes, sir."

"I'm not a tough man to get along with," Mr. Duncan continued, "but I have a low tolerance for bullshit and screw-ups. You do your job, don't make any stupid mistakes, we'll get along fine."

"Yes, sir."

Fine, whatever. Kevin could put up with anything temporarily.



The guy from the casino showed up again two weeks later, got the mail, spent five or six minutes in the house, then left.

It was becoming clear to Thewlis that Marty didn't actually live there. Unless he just happened to be on an extended vacation, this was only an address of record and not a place he actually stayed. There was hardly any mail delivered -- junk-fliers on Wednesdays and little else -- no newspapers delivered, no trash nor recycling taken to the curb for pick-up. The landscaping was a stylish mix of native plants and decorative rockery, which needed no mowing or trimming nor even watering. The place was empty and their lead had fizzled. Time to try something else.



One afternoon, Mr. Anderson came in and said, "We're going to transfer you to another Commerce office, David. They'll finish your training and find you an owner."

David stood up obediently and followed Mr. Anderson out into the hall. When the man closed the door of David's cell behind them, he must've caught a glimpse of a question on David's face, because he added, "This is only a small office, and most of our sales here are for farm laborers and a few low-level clerks. We can get more for you in a more metropolitan area."

"I see," said David. It did make a certain amount of sense. And he was happy to hear he wouldn't end up doing farm labor. "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Anderson nodded and led him toward the back of the building, stopping at the reception desk on the way to pick up a briefcase and his suit jacket. David had a vague memory of having come in this way, but it was fuzzy, like a long-ago dream.

They drove south through heavy traffic for what felt like a long time. David didn't have a watch but figured it was at least a three-hour drive, maybe more.

It was fully night time when they pulled into the parking lot of the Commerce Processing Center for Santa Ana, according to the large sign out front. Mr. Anderson pulled in around the back and parked in a space right near the rear entrance. The rear lot only had a few cars in it and the front lot had been completely empty. There were a couple of lights visible through windows, but they were small and low, like night-lights or security lights. David had glanced into the front reception area, through the glass window-walls, and it'd been dark and empty.

They got out of the car and Mr. Anderson led David through a small, solid metal door and into a small, bare reception area similar to the one in Bakersfield.

He said, "Hey, Parker," to the man sitting behind the desk. Mr. Parker, a skinny blond man with an impatient look on his face, said, "Anderson," and gave David a quick but penetrating inspection. The sharp gaze was uncomfortable and David had to fight not to shift his weight or fidget.

Mr. Anderson set his briefcase down on the desk and opened it. He took out a file with David's name on it, and a white business-size envelope, and handed both to Mr. Parker.

"All his records," he said. "And paperwork on his debt."

Mr. Parker opened the white envelope first. He didn't take anything out of it, but looked inside, nodded and put it into a desk drawer. Then he looked over the papers in the folder.

After a minute or so, he looked up at David and scowled. "Says here you're a liar, boy. And a troublemaker."

David felt a chill down his spine and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, sir. I was...." He felt off-balance and confused. He still couldn't remember much beyond the... month? however long it'd been since he'd been brought to Commerce. He glanced up at Mr. Anderson, then said to Mr. Parker, "I was confused. I can't really remember."

Mr. Parker snorted. "And why should I believe you can't remember? Awfully convenient, that."

David opened his mouth but couldn't think of what to say. He looked at Mr. Anderson again, but the man just looked back at him and offered no assistance. David went to his knees, bowed his head and repeated, "I'm sorry, sir."

"Well. We'll see." He and Mr. Anderson shook hands and Anderson left without a word to David. Mr. Parker made a sharp gesture and David stood up and followed him into the heart of the building.

Next Chapter: Chapter Twenty-Two

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