Fandom: Celebrity RPS
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Request: "One of them has to be a criminal and the other the victim. There must be some sort of fixation or kink with hands involved. Happy ending optional."
Summary: Harry gets carjacked and kidnapped by a thief on the run. The fact that the thief seems to "like" him just makes things worse.
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: I'm declaring Harry an American for this, just because. I've never heard him speak or anything so it's just easier to have one of the guys be someone from my own culture; it lets me reasonably set this in the US, in an area I know. Consider it an acting job if that helps. :) Written for moody_girl's request in the_challenger.
Thanks to tarnished_raven for helping me wrestle the ending into submission. :)
Harry was never gonna live it down, not if he lived to be a hundred. Which wasn't looking too likely at this point and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. But his friend Jeff had always nagged him about locking his car doors while he was driving and Harry'd always ruffled his hair and said that he wasn't a skinny little punk and that if someone popped in uninvited he'd give 'em a good ass-kicking.
Well, the joke was on him because here he was -- non-skinny, non-punk Harry Sinclair had gotten carjacked by an admittedly hot blond thug with a thirty-eight and a bulging backpack Harry suspected was full of money or whatever all he'd stolen from the place with the alarm going off that Harry'd idly registered as he'd driven by a couple of blocks away.
A threat to crash the car had resulted in the blond calmly putting on his seat belt, then pulling a knife out of his pocket and cutting the socket half of the latch off of Harry's. "Try it," the thug had said. "I'll be fine and you'll go through the windscreen."
"Fucker," Harry'd muttered.
"Not while I'm working but later if you like. You just keep going where I tell you -- left at the next light, then onto the freeway."
He was a level headed bastard, Harry'd give him that. Cold, too. Although that last taunt hadn't been cold and under other circumstances Harry'd have been happy enough to take him up on it. The guy was about Harry's height, at least sitting down, with a roughly handsome face and a rustic British accent that would've sent sexy tingles through Harry's spine and other areas if the situation had been more casual.
Right now, though, they both had other things on their minds. And seriously, sex with loaded firearms involved had never been one of Harry's kinks. Or unloaded ones for that matter. Quick glances at his passenger out of the corner of his eye told Harry that the guy was keeping the gun ready, resting on one thigh. The backpack was tucked down on the floor between his feet while his right hand held the gun aimed more or less toward the steering wheel, not right at Harry but close enough that he wouldn't want to try anything unless he had to.
And the guy's left hand... well, his left hand was rubbing slowly up and down the gun barrel -- just the tips of his fingers, as though he were unconsciously enjoying the smoothness of it. They were nice fingers, too, long and slender but strong-looking, on a big, competent hand.
Harry sucked in a long, slow breath and concentrated on the road ahead.
It was late enough for a Wednesday night that the freeway was light of traffic. They made good time, heading generally south until they'd left the metropolitan area and were driving through dark hills past sleeping cattle and flat fields growing what Harry's nose told him was garlic. If this had been a movie or a TV show, the car would've run out of gas some time past and Harry would've thought of some clever way to signal the attendant to call the cops. Unfortunately this was neither a movie nor a TV show and Harry'd just filled up the previous day. They'd gone almost a hundred and fifty miles -- in about three hours because the blond thug had smacked Harry's shoulder and told him to cut it out when he'd passed the speed limit -- before the dial got close enough to the big "E" that Harry had to mention it.
"Fine," the thug said. "Pull over at the next place where they sell gas." Then he'd grinned and said, "I'll even pay."
"Well, isn't that just gracious of you," Harry muttered.
"No reason we shouldn't be friendly-like. I got no reason to hurt you so long as you don't try anything stupid."
"Right, friendly," Harry said, his voice flat with skepticism. "So long as we're being friendly, I'll point out that we're gonna have to stop pretty soon for a little longer than it takes to get gas. I've been up since five this morning -- yesterday morning, whatever, -- and it's been a hard day and pretty soon I'm gonna start weaving all over the road and waving your gun at me isn't going to prevent it. Unless you wanna swap? You can drive for a while and I'll be glad to hold the gun on you?"
The carjacker barked out a laugh and nudged Harry with his elbow again. "Sense of humor," he said. "I like that."
But when they finally pulled in for gas there was a motel across the street and Harry was directed to pull in and park.
When they were sitting in front of the dimly lit office, the blond said, "I shouldn't have to say this 'cause I'm sure you've seen it on the telly a million times, but just for drill, we're going in together. You register, everything's calm and quiet and we'll all be fine. If I even suspect you're trying to pull anything I'll shoot you and the motel guy both and take the car. I'll be another hundred miles away at least before anyone even knows anything's wrong. So we play this nice, yeah?"
"Yeah, fine. I suppose this is going on my card?"
"Well, I'm hardly going to use mine," the guy said wryly. "Okay, let's do it, and behave." He slid out of the car, his backpack in one hand and the pistol positioned casually behind it.
Harry went in and got a room, his companion right behind him. The "motel guy" turned out to be a woman in her fifties, sitting behind the counter watching an old movie on a small TV set. Harry had to show ID to register but when the woman asked the blond for his name he'd just smiled and said, "Sean Carmichael. Dull evening, hey, love?" with both the accent and the charm turned up full blast.
The woman melted, her smile widening into a flirt. Harry signed the ticket and took the key while the other two went back and forth, figuring that the guy -- Sean, if that was his real name -- must be pretty sure he hadn't gotten caught on camera, or even seen by anyone who could talk to a police artist.
But Harry'd seen him, and now the motel woman, and that made Harry wonder just what Sean had in mind for getting away at the end. He had to have some goal in mind and some plan for just how he and Harry were going to part company. Harry just hoped that he himself would still be in one piece and functional when that happened.
The room was small and dingy but reasonably clean. It had two queen-size beds and a bolted-down television. Sean ranged around the room, keeping one eye and the gun on Harry. He peered into the bathroom, then said, "You take your shower before bed or in the morning?"
Harry just stared for a moment; such a mundane question coming from a thug pointing a gun at him struck him as a little bizarre. Finally he said, "Umm, morning, usually."
"Need the loo?"
Harry nodded and Sean said, "Go ahead, then." Harry half expected to have company in the john but when he got there he saw that the window was small and set high up in the shower stall. A professional burglar could probably get through it but Harry couldn't and he'd likely need to drag something over to stand on to even get up into it. Sean must've seen that when he scoped the bathroom out and knew it was safe to leave Harry in there alone, at least for a few minutes.
When he was done he came back out and cocked his head in inquiry, wondering what they'd do next.
"All set for the night?"
"Good, " Sean said. "Get ready for bed, then." He nodded toward the bed beside the bathroom wall, away from the only door out, then leaned up against the wall and watched.
It was obvious what he meant and Harry was tempted for a second to just kick off his shoes and crawl into bed. He hadn't brought any other clothes, though, and the thought of sweating in them all night without being able to change overrode his reluctance to get undressed in front of a stranger. A handsome and sexy stranger. A handsome and sexy stranger with a gun who'd probably shoot him before they parted ways. Right -- remember that part. Harry shucked his shoes and socks, pants and shirt and left his briefs on.
Once he was seated on his bed, though, Sean stuck the pistol into his waistband and moved across the room to where he'd set down his backpack. He rummaged around in it and came up with a coil of thin, black nylon rope. The look on Harry's face must've been pretty expressive because Sean said, "Can't have you dashing off while I'm in the loo, now, can I?"
Harry swallowed and thought for a crazy moment about going for the gun when Sean approached, but he'd never used one before and his sane and rational side was pretty sure who'd come up the loser in that kind of a scuffle. So instead he just slid under the covers and lay down, restricting himself to glaring while Sean lashed his wrists firmly but not too tightly to the headboard. He left him with enough play to move around a little, but not enough to bring his hands together or reach the knots with even one hand.
"There," Sean said when he was satisfied. "You get some sleep. I'm going to grab a shower and I'll be out in a few. I'll be leaving the door open -- if you make any noise I'll come back out and knock you out so just stay quiet."
Sean unzipped his jacket and quickly stripped down. One of the things he took off was an arrangement of black nylon straps that looked like a climbing rig or a rappelling harness or something like that. Harry doubted very much that Sean had just come from a high-end gym before barging into the car that night and he had wild flashes in his head of scenes from "Mission: Impossible" and Tom Cruise whizzing down from a skylight on a rope just like the one currently knotted around Harry's wrists. Lovely.
When he was naked, Sean said, "Behave, now," and then he was gone. Harry heard the shower start and indulged himself in a round of muttered cursing.
The whole situation was just thoroughly fucked. Which Harry was sort of hoping he wasn't going to be when Sean got out of the shower. Which wasn't to say that Harry hadn't fooled around with some light bondage with lovers before, on both sides of the ropes, but that was always with someone he knew and, more important, someone he trusted, which definitely did not apply to a stranger who'd carjacked and basically kidnapped him. He had no idea who Sean Carmichael was or even if that was his real name. He had no idea what he was capable of or what plans he had for later on; even if he wasn't actually planning to dump Harry's mangled body in a ditch somewhere later on, he might still be the sort of guy who'd indulge in some rape when he had a guy tied to a bed. That didn't sound like any kind of fun from Harry's point of view, no matter what games he might've played with lovers in the past.
Of course, fretting about it didn't offer any solutions so when Sean came strolling out of the bathroom with his hair damp and a towel wrapped around his hips, Harry's heartbeat hiccupped in his chest and he felt his muscles tensing in an anticipation he had to admit to himself was based on fear.
"Nice and quiet," Sean said. "Smart boy." He crossed the room and double-checked that the drapes were pulled completely closed over the windows, then checked the load on his pistol and set it back down on the nightstand on the opposite side of his bed from Harry's. He fiddled with the cheap clock-radio glued to the center nightstand, then yawned. Harry just watched.
"No questions?" Sean asked. He cocked his head and smirked down at Harry. "By now I'd've expected all sorts of questions about who I am and what I did and what's in the bag and when I'm going to let you go."
"Do this often?" Harry shot back. "Sorry if I'm not familiar with the script but this is my first time with the whole carjack-and-kidnapping thing." Okay, that probably wasn't smart but Harry was tense and edgy and hadn't thought before opening his mouth.
Sean just shrugged, not answering the one question Harry had asked. "Just making conversation. Most people'd be curious, whether it was smart or not. You're a smart bloke, though, aren't you?"
Harry shrugged back, as well as he could in his current position.
"Smart enough to keep your mouth shut most of the time. Not too hard on the eyes, either." Those eyes were roaming across Harry's body, tracing its outline under the cheap motel blanket. Sean reached out and ran one hand up Harry's outstretched arm -- warm palm on the way up to the bound wrist, then a light slide of fingertips on the way back down to the shoulder. "It's been a tense day," he said, his voice lower and more intense. "Like some help relaxing?"
Harry shook his head in a fast, spastic jerk. "No. No, I don't. Thanks anyway." His heart was pounding again and his eyes were wide. He hoped Sean couldn't tell just how frightened he was but doubted he was that lucky, not the way the guy was studying him.
"Pity, that." Sean removed his hand and swung his legs up on his own bed, leaning back against the pillows. "Hope you don't mind if I indulge, then."
"Make yourself at home." Harry was rather proud that his voice hadn't broken or squeaked, 'cause the relief flooding through him had his muscles unwinding in jerky shudders and he was amazed he had any control whatsoever over how he sounded.
Sean grinned at him and ran one big, fine hand across his naked chest. Harry's eyes followed it without specific instructions, just on their own out of habit. Smooth skin, tiny pink nipples and just enough muscle definition -- if Harry'd met this guy in a bar....
The other hand slid beneath the towel and started moving rhythmically. Harry looked away but quickening breaths and a low moan slithered into his brain and painted pictures that had his heart pounding again but not in fear this time. What he was imagining was so vivid that actually looking was less bothersome so he did.
Well, at any rate actually looking was no worse than what he was imagining so no reason not to look, right?
The towel had slid open and was dangling off the edge of the bed. That hand was still working up and down Sean's cock, one thumb teasing the foreskin every couple of strokes. Harry sucked in a long, slow breath of his own and tried to will his own body not to respond, which was tough because he couldn't even cover his ears or anything. By the time Sean grunted and arched into an orgasm, Harry was only half hard himself and he considered that a success.
Sean looked right over at Harry and grinned at him while wiping his hand on the discarded towel. "Sure you don't want a hand?" he asked.
"I'm sure. Thanks," said Harry, his voice just a little tight.
"Suit yourself." Sean tossed the towel and slid under the covers before turning out the light.
And of course it hadn't occurred to Harry before that the evil fuck must've left the light on deliberately. Bastard.
Sean's breathing evened out within a few minutes and he was pretty obviously sleeping. Harry, who actually needed sleep, had a harder time of it. His shoulders were aching and his cock was still whining for attention and his brain was buzzing with thoughts -- ideas and worries and possibilities, what-ifs and if-thens and if-onlies. He did eventually fall asleep, although by the time Sean woke him up in the morning while untying his wrists, it didn't feel like he'd gotten nearly enough.
"Get your shower," Sean said when he was free. "We'll get some breakfast for take-away and then get back on the road."
Harry nodded without saying anything. He hunted around on and near the nightstand where he'd tossed his clothes the night before, then carried the bundle into the bathroom. He took a chance and closed the door; Sean didn't come to open it.
He'd made some decisions while lying there in the dark. There was no way he could trust Sean, not with his life. Sure, he might leave Harry tied up someplace where he'd be found within a reasonable length of time, just take the car and give himself a head start to wherever he was going. But there was always that dead-in-a-ditch option and Harry couldn't make himself discount that possibility, not when Sean had threatened to kill both him and the desk lady. Maybe he'd been bluffing but maybe not and this wasn't the sort of gamble you wanted to be wrong about.
He sat on the toilet for as long as he thought he could get away with while frantically writing notes on squares of toilet paper. By the time his nerves were about to snap because he was sure Sean was going to come in and check on him any second, he had fourteen copies, all of which basically said, "HELP, carjacked, kidnapped, armed man named Sean, Wednesday 11:10PM, San Jose" with his name and the cross streets where Sean had grabbed him, plus the model and color of his car and its license number.
Inspiration struck -- he gasped a few times, then gave a low, loud moan, not-quite-stifled, then counted to ten before flushing the toilet. There, that'd give Sean a believable reason why Harry'd taken so long, assuming he was listening and wondering.
He kicked off his briefs and turned on the shower. Under cover of the spraying water he poked at the window. It was too small for him to escape through, yes, but it was already open a couple of inches and he could push on the battered screen just enough to give him an opening to the outside. It was less than a finger wide but that was more than he needed. He slipped his "notes" outside, one at a time. With any luck the wind would blow them around and someone would find one. If he was really lucky, the person who found it would take it seriously and call the police. And someone would start tracking his car. And catch up with them in time. And figure out a way to separate Harry from Sean without making a mess.
That was a lot of luck. Harry figured it was better not to think about it.
He soaped and shampooed and rinsed off in the lukewarm water, then towelled himself dry as quickly as he could and got back into his clothes. They didn't stink too badly; he'd worn worse in college and he had more vital things to worry about anyway.
When Harry opened the door and emerged, Sean brushed past him and gave the bathroom a once-over, probably making sure Harry hadn't written any "Help!" notes in the condensation on the mirror or something. Just as well he hadn't.
Twenty minutes later they were on the road again, munching on breakfast. Harry'd gotten a breakfast burrito he could eat reasonably well with one hand. Sean had gotten the wake-up platter with pancakes and eggs and bacon and sausage and hash browns, but then he could use a fork, with the styrofoam container balanced on his lap and the thirty-eight tucked between his thighs.
Harry had a brief fantasy of the thing going off, like in one of those "stupid criminal" e-mails that went around the net, but the way his luck had been going the bullet would ricochet around the car and hit him so it'd probably be just as well if that didn't happen.
They made a brief stop in some little bedroom community in the desert south of LA to grab some sodas and hotdogs. Harry pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, next to a dark blue Ford. He was very aware of Sean's pistol, stuck into his belt under his jacket and did his best to act like a guy on a road trip with a buddy, which was just as well because Sean didn't get more than an armspan away from him the entire time and Harry didn't have a chance to try anything, talk to anyone, leave a message, anything. There were a couple of customers in the store -- a Hispanic guy about Harry's age with a coffee and a hotdog and a girl in her early twenties with a slurpee and a magazine -- and Sean smiled and nodded where appropriate but not too much. They got their stuff and headed back out.
They were nearing San Diego when Sean said, "So, Harry, speak any Spanish?"
"Umm, no. I mean, sure, I can say 'yes' and 'no' and 'please' and 'thank you' and order a beer and count to twenty but that's about it. Why?"
"Right." Sure, just wondering. At first Harry'd thought they were heading for LA, but when Sean had told him to just stay on the freeway and they'd passed right through without stopping he'd started to wonder about Mexico. And now Sean had to be playing with him because the obvious interpretation of his question was that he'd been wondering whether Harry'd be any use to him down in Mexico, that maybe Sean himself didn't speak Spanish and was wondering if Harry did, except that was total bullshit because there was no way in hell someone in Sean's situation would let a kidnap victim talk to people in a language he himself didn't understand. He might as well just tell Harry to drive to the nearest police department and give himself up, save a lot of time and hassle and possible flying bullets.
Of course, Sean might just think Harry was dumb enough to buy the obvious interpretation -- to hope that Sean just might let him live, take him along rather than let him go, sure, but still, not do the dead-in-a-ditch thing, if only Harry could make himself useful. And if Sean was willing to think Harry was that dumb then it could be to Harry's advantage to let him go on thinking it.
He had to be subtle, though. If he acted on it right away, Sean'd see through it and know Harry was trying to outsmart him. So he made himself be patient and let Sean make the first move. It came just a little while later when they were just past San Diego and back into the desert, when Sean shifted in his seat and rested his hand on Harry's thigh.
Great. If he couldn't play translator then he was being given another chance to try out for the bimbo slot.
Harry didn't jerk away, which he would've done last night. Instead he kept his leg still for a moment, then moved it just a little, and slowly, back and forth under Sean's palm, as though encouraging a feel. He figured it was okay for him to look kinda nervous so he didn't try too hard to squelch that particular reaction; he kept his eyes on the road and concentrated on driving, his jaw tight and his arms tense.
Sean let out a satisfied-sounding breath and his hand started to wander.
Wonderful. Now what?
What, or at least next, was a blue Ford pulling slowly up next to them. Harry looked out his window to see the Hispanic guy from the 7-Eleven looking at him. He mouthed, "Help me" silently and as clearly as he could and immediately looked away. The blue car accelerated just enough to pull up in front of him, opened up a few lengths of distance, and they were driving along together.
Please be a cop, please be a cop, please be a cop....
"Ever wanted to visit Mexico, Harry?"
"Umm, what?" Harry scrambled to switch mental gears. Concentrate on Sean, worry about the cop (please!) later. "I mean, sure. It's supposed to be a nice place, right? Good weather, cheap, nice people if you stay away from the law. And they have those cool pyramids -- I saw a thing on TV about them and they look a lot more interesting than the ones in Egypt." Okay, enough babble, shutting up now....
Sean chuckled and squeeze Harry's thigh. "Yeah, it's a nice place. You can get a nice house and a lot of land for cheap, at least by our standards. Make sure the neighbors are a long way off." His hand slid up and started caressing Harry's crotch, rubbing and kneading.
Harry squeaked a little and sat up straighter, then made himself close his thighs on Sean's hand, pretending to encourage him to keep it there. "Uhh, sounds like a great set-up. I could never afford anything like that here."
"No one can, 'cept a few rich fuckers. You play by their rules and you get buggered with no lube. The only way to win is to make your own rules."
That big hand squeezed again and Harry felt a surge of warmth pulse through his crotch. He swallowed hard and told himself that that was good, it'd help make his act convincing.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. A little hesitant, just enough reluctance.... "I mean, I do okay, you know? I've got a nice place and a good job and I can afford to do some things I want. It's not bad and I don't have to look over my shoulder."
Sean made a scornful noise and squeezed again. "I'll bet you never had any real excitement, the kind that gets your blood pounding and makes the whole world speed up? I'll bet you work in an office and stare at beige walls all day and collect a paycheck after the government's stolen half of it."
Harry flexed his hips up toward Sean's hand, just a little. "Well, yeah. I mean, not completely." Wondering, questioning, let him convince you.... "My walls are burnt orange and I get outside sometimes. I'm an architect, custom homes mostly, and I get out to the building sites two or three times a week usually."
Another snort from Sean. "Bully for you. So you spend your time building mansions for rich people and where do you live, hey?"
Harry shrugged. "I've got a nice condo," he murmured, putting a note of doubt into his voice. Actually it was a lie -- he had a bright and spacious tri-level on an acre and a half, built into the side of a hill with a fantastic view of the valley and piers sunk deep into bedrock so he was sure it'd stay only a "view" of the valley -- as opposed turning into a view of the hill, looking up out of the wreckage of his living room down in the valley after a rainy spring or an eight-point-oh quake. Harry designed very nice houses and had a waiting list for clients to go with his high-six-figure income. His teetering would be more believable, though, if he came across as a cubicle monkey.
"Right," Sean said scornfully. "So what do you owe anyone, eh? If you quit today they'd replace you by Monday and by Christmas no one there'd even remember your name."
"Maybe," Harry muttered. He cast a resentful glance at Sean. "So what of it? Are you offering to do something about it? 'Cause if you're just jeering and bragging then that's fine -- you're the one with the gun so I'll sit here and you can tell me all about what a shit life I've got until we get to wherever we're going. If you have a point, though, then I wish you'd make it." By the time he finished snapping out that last demand he was tense and stressed. He could feel his pulse pounding and sweat breaking out on his temples and it wasn't just the warm desert air. He was taking a chance, he knew, but Sean obviously wanted some sort of response -- he wouldn't be digging and jabbing otherwise -- and Harry had to give it to him. He just hoped it was the right one.
The hand left Harry's crotch, slid around up his back and clamped around the nape of his neck. Sean leaned in close and hissed, "My point is that there are other possibilities out there. You've been a smart bloke so far and I've taken a bit of a fancy to you. You've been useful and haven't tried anything stupid. Doing what I tell you comes real easy to you and I like that.
"I think you like me too," he went on, his voice warming up and coiling slyly into Harry's ear. "You sure enjoyed watching last night, didn't you? You've got a bunch of ideas about what's proper mucking up your head but if you can manage to scour all that out then I think we could get along even better than we have been." Sean took a quick look forward and squinted at a green highway sign coming up in the distance. "Let's stop for a bit. Take the next exit."
The next exit was half a mile up according to the sign, some town Harry'd never heard of called Tres Perros. He just nodded silently, but he made sure to hit the turn signal when they were still well back from the offramp. The blue Ford immediately hit its own turn signal and headed for the righthand lane. Harry followed a few seconds later, hoping as hard as he could that that really was some kind of a cop up there "tailing" him from in front and not just someone who worked in Tres Perros heading to the office.
Just before leaving the freeway he saw another big, green sign. The border was right up ahead, just two more miles and no other towns between there and here. Once they were over, getting away would be a lot harder; if he wanted to make a move it'd have to be then, because if Sean was just fucking with him and planned on making a move on Harry -- a fatal one instead of a recreational one -- then he'd be making it there. Dump the body and run for the border and that'd be that; he'd vanish with whatever he had in the backpack and they'd never find him.
Or hell, even if they did it wouldn't make any difference to Harry.
Sean directed him to a seedy looking area near some railroad tracks and had him park in a dirt lot beside some kind of a warehouse. The blue Ford kept going and Harry saw it turn a corner and vanish a block away.
As soon as Harry shut down the engine, Sean reached over and yanked his head close enough for a devouring kiss. Harry twisted in his seat and relaxed into it and let Sean do whatever he wanted, accepting nipping teeth and searching tongue. When a hand yanked at his zipper, though, he turned his head away and said, "Wait, not here." He jerked his knee forward a couple of times and bonked it against the gear shift. "There's an alley right there, there's no one around," he said, jerking a thumb toward the rear of the warehouse. Sean wasn't looking too pleased so Harry swallowed and added, "Besides, I... uh, I love getting fucked up against a wall. Getting slammed into concrete or bricks or something while a guy pounds me real good, you know?"
He could feel his face heating while he filled in the description a little. He'd never been one for a lot of dirty talking -- he was more into just doing whatever -- but he needed to make sure Sean was more horny than suspicious. There was no sign of the cop coming back, if he was even a cop at all, and Harry's mind was racing through possible escape plans. First thing was to get out of the car. He'd leave the keys and make it enticing. That way if he did manage to make a run for it, if he could get around a couple of corners, put something solid between himself and Sean's gun then maybe it'd look like a better option for the fucker to just take the car and dash for the border. Harry could live with that; he could replace the car without too much trouble and right then his priority was just getting out of this in one piece and without a possibly homicidal blond stud attached to his hip.
It seemed to be working because Sean's glare had turned into a predatory smirk. He said, "Out," snapped his seatbelt open and was out of the car in seconds.
Harry followed him into the alley. This close to mid-day it was brightly lit, for an alley, but there was no one in sight. As soon as Harry came within range, Sean grabbed him and slammed him up against the stucco wall. He pinned Harry's wrists on either side of his head and leaned in to grind their cocks together.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice all rough, dominant mocking. "This is what you get off on, then? Maybe I shouldn't have been such a gentleman last night, hey? You like to be taken?" He yanked the neck of Harry's shirt to one side and sank his teeth into the muscle between throat and shoulder.
Harry stifled a yell of pain and it came out a hissing moan. He arched up and fought his reflexes. Staying still was impossible but he managed not to fight, not to swing with the one free fist, still playing along because Sean still had the gun and Harry still had no idea how to cock it or where the safety was or any-fucking-thing and if he got out of this in one piece he was going to damn well learn but for right now all he could do was hang in there and watch for an opening, hope for an opening, just one chance.
"Yeah, that's what gets you going, ain't it? What gets your heart pumping," Sean muttered. He grabbed the edges of Harry's button-down and yanked. Only the top three buttons ripped but it was enough to give Sean more bare skin to suck and bite. Harry just winced and let him, leaving his hands passively down at his sides.
Until he saw someone walk silently up behind Sean and stop a few paces away.
It was the Hispanic guy from the 7-Eleven and Harry's adrenaline surged. The guy showed him a badge, then mouthed, "Need help?"
Harry wrapped one arm around Sean and loudly moaned, "Oh, God, yes!" then jerked the blond's head up with his other hand and kissed him violently.
Sean froze at Harry's first ever agressive move and it was long enough. A moment later, he was yanked away and hit the pavement with a heavy splat. The cop had a knee between his shoulderblades and the cuffs on him before he'd even sucked in a breath to holler.
"Fuck, am I glad to see you," Harry muttered. "Gun, in his pants." All the strength drained out of him and he swayed back against the wall; it was the only thing holding him up while the cop relieved Sean of his gun and Mirandized him.
"Glad I saw you," the cop said a few minutes later, once Sean was safely in the back of his car. "Lieutenant Cabrera. We got word about your notes at the motel. Good job including your plate number -- most people don't think of that."
"I just... I don't know." Harry shrugged. "It just seemed right."
"That it was," said Cabrera. "How about if you follow me to the local cop shop and we'll take a statement there. Are you good to drive?"
"Yeah, sure, no problem. Believe me, it'll be a pleasure."
Harry gave Cabrera a vague wave and started off toward his car. As the lieutenant opened his own car door, though, Sean yelled from the back, "We could've had something, we could've really lived for a while! I hope you like it back in your cube!"
Harry didn't look back over his shoulder, didn't stop walking. "Mine's bigger than yours'll be. Asshole."
It wasn't terribly witty, but it said pretty much everything he needed to say.