The Jigsaw

Well, this chapter took me some time, but it's longer than the previous one.
Enjoy!

Anon - here you are. The progress ;) Is it what you had in your mind? ;) :D

AeroChan - I'm honored. Stay with me then and I'll try not to disappoint you :)

Anonymous Sister of the Author - thank you for your constant company, it's very precious :)

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The engine of a blood-red BMW screamed through the night silence and the car braked with a screech of tires in front of a small hotel.

A round-faced woman in her sixties at the reception desk lost her tongue at sight of the guest. She couldn't tell which was the most scary: the black eye-patch, the black, sharp eye, or the strange black tattoo on the left side of the man's neck and cheek.

The clerk cleared her throat, trying to hide her shock. "Good evening, sir. I assume you'd like to rent a room?" She gave Sam a questioning look.

"One week."

"Single?"

"Do I look like I’m in the plural?" His voice wasn't particularly impolite, but the woman's heart jumped, alerted.

"Of course. Is the first floor fine with you?"

"Whatever."

"Well, we don't have an elevator, sir...."

"I said it was fine," Sam cut in. "Can I have my key, please?" His "please" sounded insistent, more like an order or a threat than courtesy.

The woman pursed her lips and handed him the key. "We serve breakfast from seven to nine-thirty, and the restaurant—" She was still trying to fulfill her clerk duties, but Sam's glare cooled her off immediately. She fell silent and merely indicated the way upstairs. When he disappeared, she relaxed with a sigh and shook her head. Really, what a weird individual!

---

Sam peeked at his watch. It was well after nine. He dropped backwards onto the bed and the spring mattress bounced him up.

Why the hell had he agreed to come here? He couldn't remember one good reason. He yawned widely and stretched his body. Fuck, I'll die of boredom....

It was still an early hour, in his opinion, so he decided to go and take a look around. For a moment he even considered calling Casey, but before his hand reached for the mobile, his mind gave up this idea and his mouth laughed it off.

The hotel was small and quiet. Just like everything else in that town, Sam noticed. So far he hadn't seen any sign of other guests, but that was all the better for him; nobody would care about his goings-on and complain about possible inconveniences.

Sam took a shower, put on worn hip-huggers and a black shirt, grabbed a leather coat, and left. The November days and nights, especially the nights, were getting colder, but Sam had hot blood flowing in his veins. He hardly ever felt cold.

The lady at the reception desk followed him to the door with her eyes, cringing from where she stood behind the desk.

At the street Sam looked to the right, then to the left, and finally moved in the direction that seemed a little better lit. He got lucky. From one of narrow streets he heard a muffled hubbub of voices and music.

---

Monroe's hand stopped in mid-air, before the coca-cola with lemon could reach her lips. Her eyes had just caught an extraordinary sight. Casey broke off, seeing that the woman had completely ignored his last sentence, and followed her gaze. When his eyes reached her target, he turned pale and tensed. His heart sped up, and the blood began to pulsate in his temples. He swallowed hard, his mouth and throat feeling suddenly dry.

And then Sam noticed them. A wide, mesmerizing smile brightened up his handsome face as he slowly approached their table. Monroe was still staring open-mouthed at him, which he politely pretended not to notice, and Casey couldn't bring himself to give his face a more welcoming expression. Finally the woman came back to reality and looked first at Casey, then again at Sam, slightly confused.

After a few seconds of awkward silence between them, Sam showed Monroe his beautiful set of white teeth and said, "Well, I guess our friend is too surprised to do the honors. Let me introduce myself, then. My name is Sam. We work together." He bowed his head slightly.

"Nice to meet you, Sam. I'm Monroe. Join us, please." She smiled charmingly, making room for a third person at the table. "Cas? Hey, Cas...." She nudged him meaningfully. "What does that face mean?"

"He's afraid I'll steal his company." Sam laughed in a way an objective observer would believe sincere as he threw his coat at the chair back and sat down. He gave Casey a long gaze that said, Man, I'm going to have as much fun as I can get out of this. And you'll play along with me.

Casey made an effort to relax his wry face and finally managed to utter a few words to Monroe, his voice abrasive. "We had a small clash a couple days ago, so...."

"C'mon, friends don't hold a grudge for long." Sam winked at the woman.

"Yeah, we’ve also had some friction lately," she chimed in. "You two must have a lot of stress at work, right?"

"Definitely. A lot of stress." Sam nodded. His voice sounded polite and serious, but his one eye was full of scorn when it rested on Casey.

"So you're a computer scientist too?"

"No, Monroe." He said that "Monroe" in such a way, his voice deep and soft, that if she had been standing, her knees would have gone weak. "I'm no match for such a brain." He smirked, his expression challenging. Of course, only Casey noticed, but it was Casey for whom the expression had been meant. "I work in security."

"Oh, so you must be good at martial arts? Casey told me he trained with people who are very good."

"I am good at fighting, but it's not the same. Well, so is he." This time the look Sam gave Casey was honest. Casey was too cautious to rely on this impression, but it seemed that Sam really meant it. "He almost saved my life, you know?" Sam continued, not letting Casey stand his ground, and pulling Monroe deeper and deeper into his game.

"Really? How? What happened?" Her eyes went wider.

"We had, uhm, an incident, and I got hurt. See?" He pointed at his covered eye. "He carried me out of the mess almost risking his own life. Almost a hero!"

Casey knew that "almost" made a huge difference. Sam's words, as well as his almost innocent look, hit him hard. How good an actor Sam was! If Casey had thought it would be impossible to get more mockery and cold derision than he’d already got, he apparently had been wrong.

Now he just stared at Sam, unable to utter a single word that would both make sense and let him keep his dignity. He just took a drag on his cigarette, focusing on it as if his life depended on it; the only thing he could manage to do was put on a poker face.

"God! That’s unbelievable. Does it hurt? I mean...your eye...." Monroe blushed, both curious and embarrassed.

"No. Not any more. I have an artificial one, but it looks weird so I usually keep it covered." Sam didn't add that his eye-patch was made of a special fabric that allowed him to "see" through it with his new eye. "Besides, it looks interesting this way, doesn't it?" He winked at her again, making her blush even harder. "I'll show you someday." He smiled warmly.

Fuck...I didn't even know he could be so delusively sweet. Snotty viper. Casey didn't feel like joining the conversation. He knew he couldn't win against Sam in wickedness, so he decided to go with a wait-and-see policy. Sam's behavior seemed pathetic and somehow disgusting to him, for he knew how much cold calculation there was in it; on the other hand, it couldn't be denied that there was a prick of jealousy in the mix of Casey's feelings. Sam had never smiled at him like that. Neither had he ever told him, "I'll show you someday." There was no "someday" in their twisted relationship.

"Cas, you didn't tell me anything about it." Monroe pushed Casey slightly in reproach. Apparently she hadn't caught that "almost" nuance.

Well, of course she didn't.... "’Cause it's not true," he answered flatly, holding back a shrug. "I didn't save his life. I only found him there and waited until an ambulance took him. So it's not a big deal, right?" He ground out the butt in an ashtray.

Monroe looked at the men attentively, not knowing how to interpret their behavior and uncertain about where she stood with them.

"See, Monroe," Casey continued, "no matter how much I wish we were friends with this guy, we’re not. He loves to tease and all he’s doing now is trying to throw me off balance. Which he'll eventually do, of course, but hopefully not today." He gave Sam an intense, though indifferent gaze, and got a weird smile in exchange, a mix of surprise and anticipation of further development of this game. "Wanna beer?" Casey asked Sam, raising his brow. He hoped he was giving a strong impression of being unaffected, if not bored, although to tell the truth, it wasn't easy.

"Sure, Cas," Sam said tongue-in-cheek, with a half-smile, but Casey pretended not to pick up on it. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t let Sam provoke him. Not yet, at least.

"Monroe?" He gave Monroe a questioning look. "A beer?" He smiled inwardly, knowing she'd refuse.

"Uhm...." She wanted to say no, but.... Her eyes rested on Sam, then went back to Casey, and she answered, "Yeah, why not?" thinking, Oh, what the hell....

Casey's brows cocked up in surprise but he said nothing, just started making his way toward the bar. Yeah, the mold eats everything it touches. Monroe would never drink alcohol with him. Or...maybe she would now? She had taken a smoke with him, after all.

"So...." Sam's lingering look traveled down Monroe's neckline, descending to the point where the way of pleasure started. "What do you do?"

She caught his gaze, hot and shameless. She could almost feel it crawling over her skin. It was scary and too direct, but at the same time – well, so exciting. Nobody had ever looked at her like that; not even Casey. Her cheeks blushed and her heart sped up.

"Uhm, I'm a translator. I graduated in French."

"French." It sounded so lecherous when Sam tasted the word.

Not good, thought Monroe. She didn't have much experience in the field of seduction and other adult games but she instinctively sensed danger. Unfortunately, her instinct had a poor connection with her reason.

Sam knew when to slow down, so he didn't carry on with the subject of French, although he had some comments ready about France being the capital of physical love and other bullshit. He was perfectly aware it was bullshit, but he also knew that the whole clue lay in not what he wanted to sell, but how he presented it.

"Are you good friends with Casey?" He decided to give her some space for now, to let her feel secure.

"Yes, I think so. Well, that’s my impression, at least." She smiled, visibly relaxing. "We've known know each other for years, since we were kids. Is it true what he said?"

"What?" Sam pulled out a cigarette. "May I?" He showed it to Monroe with a questioning look.

"Sure, I don't mind." She shrugged. Actually she did mind usually, but not in a club where almost everybody smoked, including Casey. "He said you weren't friends."

Sam lit his Marlboro and puffed a cloud of smoke to the side. His eyes wandered over the wooden ceiling. "I don't do friends, I guess."

"So you don't like him." It was stated, more than asked.

"If you put it that way, I just can't say I like him."

"He's a nice guy," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, he is," Sam agreed. "But that doesn't mean I have to love him, does it?" He smirked, flicking the cigarette with the tip of his tongue.

"I always thought you needed a reason not to like someone." She blushed, distracted by Sam's flirtatious act.

"Well, I need a reason to like someone."

"Seems like it takes a lot to give you a reason."

"Dunno, never got one." He grinned roguishly and Monroe gave him a forgiving face, taking his words for a melodramatic exaggeration.

"Anyway, I have plenty of reasons to like Cas." She shrugged, leaning back against the chair.

"He's an annoying, short-tempered big-head who always knows better." Sam put on a philosophical expression. "A pain in the ass."

"Look who's talking," a sour voice said from above Sam's head. He arched back and looked up at Casey, who stood there holding two glasses of beer.

"Missed you, decent boy!" It had been a long time since he’d called Casey that.

Casey put the glasses in front of Monroe and Sam and dropped onto his chair.

"Decent boy?" Monroe asked with an indulgent smile.

"Yeah, he is one. Right, Cas?" Sam pouted his lips at the innocent joke. "He's a very decent man. Oh, and a nice guy."

"I was, Sam," Casey sighed. "I really was. And I wish I still was one."

"God, he's in his soap opera mood!" Sam snorted, shaking his head and giving Monroe a conspirational wink. "When you feel like talking about something other than existential dramas, let us know." He rolled his eyes impatiently and raised the glass to his lips.

"Us?" Casey smirked. "So it's already us, you and Monroe? Fuck, you're quick." He laughed, amused at how brilliantly insolent Sam could be.

"Live quick, die young." Sam showed him his middle finger.

"You'd better hurry. You're getting old." Casey twisted his lips in an ugly sneer. "So, what can we talk about, huh? Any good ideas?" His brows drew together warningly. Monroe immediately sensed the change in his attitude.

"I thought you had some backup topics." Sam's smile also vanished as if wiped off his lips.

"I guess that must have been the last one. Your call, asshole."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Monroe waved her hands. "Would you stop, please? What the hell is wrong with you? You have some unfinished business – go ahead, you can even kill each other." Casey tensed. God, does she even know what she's saying? "Just do it somewhere else, not here, with me and all these other people around." Her face was serious and angry.

She still held her hands in the air, alert and confused, when Casey slowly reached for the packet of Sam's Marlboros lying in front of the agent. Neither Monroe nor Sam reacted, both following Casey's hand with attention. He pulled out one cigarette and with a deliberately lazy movement he slipped it between his lips. Then he rose just as lazily and bent over the table, supporting himself with his elbows, moving his face closer to Sam's. "Give me a light," he hissed through his teeth in a flat voice, his expression blank. For a moment they stood as if in a freeze-frame, only their eyes flashing and their muscles tensed, then Sam slowly leaned forward. His black eye sparkled with a red glimmer when he touched the tip of his cigarettes to Casey’s and they both inhaled deeply.

Monroe watched the scene like one bewitched. It was almost unbelievable, full of tension, strength and...eroticism. Yes, definitely: it was hot.

"What—" she started— "what was that?" She shook her head in disbelief. "One second you're flying at each other's throats and the next you behave like this!"

"Actually, I thought he'd use a lighter." Casey's lips twisted in a wry smile as he let the smoke out of his lungs and sprawled casually in his chair.

"I thought you'd chicken out." Sam didn't smirk, although Casey expected him to. Instead, his gaze was thoughtful.

"Half a year ago I would have. You have no idea what I'm capable of now." Casey managed to keep a poker face although he felt like grimacing with irony. Actually he was going too far with that dramatic threat, for it was nothing more than a dud cheque. He was perfectly aware there was nothing he was capable of that Sam wasn't. Unfortunately, the rule didn't work as well in the opposite direction. But the die was cast and he couldn't take the words back now.

Sam bowed his head slightly; from under knitted brows he looked Casey straight in the eyes. Now he was honest. Dangerous. "Surprise me."

That was it – a direct challenge. Casey didn't know if it was his chance or his doom, but whatever the case was, it would end badly for him, he was sure of it.

---

Harry Moore sat on a park bench. He was very nervous.

What should he do now?

The night before, the bug, set in the handle of his suitcase, had presented him with a nice bonus. He was lucky enough – or unlucky, time would show – to eavesdrop on a conversation, carried out in a public phone booth, judging by the noise. He was still jittery about what he’d heard, and he needed some time to decide what he should do with his knowledge.

Good evening. It's me.

...

Yes.

...

I'll have them.

...

No, together – with photos.

...

They don't suspect anything.

...

Who? Do I know him?

...

Why do you involve new people? It's an unnecessary risk!

...

No. It must be you, nobody else. Otherwise I'll keep it all to myself. It's your business, after all.

...

Good. Saturday evening at Central Station. Take the first train after eight o’clock and sit in the first car. I'll find you.

...

Don’t mind the train direction. Just take the first one after eight.

...

[Sigh] Check the timetable.

...

Okay.

...

Do you have anything new for me?

...

Well, goodbye then.

Harry almost had a heart attack when he realized what he’d heard. The man was a spy! But who did he work for – another group? The police? The FBI? And who was he?

Okay. He knew something important; that might be his trump card. So where should he go with the knowledge? What could he buy for it?

Too many questions, too many unknowns....

Harry sighed. I need to calm down. He took a few deep breaths. The wind tugged his tweed coat and ruffled his hair that was touched with grey, but the man didn't even feel it. His eyes stared blankly out through the trees while he tried to sort out his scattered thoughts. Step after step, from a chaotic set of vague ideas, a sketchy plan of action crystallized. The first train leaving Central Station after eight on Saturday. He would go there and simply check. Maybe he could spot the guy. Nothing better came to mind. He'd prepare a copy of the recording and leave it somewhere as a guarantee of his safety.

---

"Excuse me, I'll take one!" A tall man waved his hand to stop the waiter circulating among the guests with a salver of champagne glasses. He took one and with an air of casual superiority of the type common to high society, learned since he’d joined the family, he ignored the waiter's bow.

He took in the exquisite crowd in the room, smiled a forgiving smile at guests expressing elegance with wild amounts of gold, and sighed. Five years. God, it had been a long time. He’d even managed to make friends here. Sometimes it was difficult for him to say which team he was playing on.

"Luke?" A voice behind him shook him out of his contemplation.

"Mario!" He put on a cheerful face upon seeing his friend. Mario Manzani was one of those who looked like a Christmas tree hung with baubles. "Are you having a good time?"

"Oh, well...just between us, it's boring, but you can eat for free!" Mario chuckled.

Luke shook his head, smiling politely. He knew Mario had so much money that he could sleep in it. " Old habits die hard, huh?"

"You know me, Luke." Mario patted Luke's shoulder. "People don't really change."

"You mean in general, or as individuals?" The tall man raised his brows and took a small sip from his glass.

"What?" Mario blinked. "C'mon, don't make me think too hard today. It's a party, not a lecture on philosophy."

"That's right. I'm sorry. So," Luke changed the subject, "did you come to Phoenix just for a meeting? Or will you be staying longer?"

"Well, I'm a busy man," sighed Mario. "I have a couple of business meetings arranged for this week. I'm lucky to have my girl with me, so I'm not bored." He chuckled obscenely, something he did only when Sarah wasn't around.

"And where is your companion? Introduce me. I can't wait to meet that wonder of nature."

Mario laughed, flattered. "She's a gem, indeed. Do you believe she isn't interested in other men at all?" He took all the credit for this state of affairs, attributing it to his charm and appeal.

"That's suspicious, don't you think?" Luke's brow cocked as he gave his friend a teasing look.

Mario didn't catch the joke. "No, why? She likes me and I can make her happy."

"I'm sure you can." Luke agreed politely. "So where did you hide her?"

"She went to the bathroom. Oh, here she is!" A wide, honest smile lit the small man’s face as his eyes rested on a red-headed beauty marching toward him. To his amazement Luke saw that Mario was really in love with the woman. "I missed you, sweetheart." Italian man kissed his lover on her crimson lips.

Well, but she isn't in love with you, Mario. That's for sure, Luke thought as he observed the scene. The way she offered her lips to Mario didn't escape his notice. Be careful, my friend. Be careful. There’s nothing more dangerous than a faithful beautiful woman.

"Sarah, meet my friend, Luke LaVay. Luke, this is Sarah." Mario was proud and happy. Showing off and healing his complex gave meaning to his life, and the beauty of his woman was supposed to be the measure of his value.

"I'm honored to meet you." Luke bowed gallantly and kissed Sarah's fingers. When he met her eyes he was surprised by their sharp, almost hostile expression. Her face was kind but tense, as if she was forcing herself to be nice.

Luke was right. Sarah had spent the last fifteen minutes in the bathroom, trying to bring her emotions under control.

Finally! She had found the man she’d been looking for. She had recognized him. It was George Curtnay, the one who had killed her father.

She had swallowed three pills, given herself a shot into a vein, and vomited into the toilet bowl, a reaction to the mix of drugs and stress. Then she’d eyed her reflection in the mirror critically, with silent despair. She had been wrecking herself at lightning speed, and the effects of that treatment had become hard to hide under makeup.

And now she had to go out there and be nice.

"Time for the show," she told herself. She took a deep breath, put on a mask of a smile, and went to meet Mario's friend, "George".

Who the hell are you? Luke managed to keep himself from knitting his brows. Years of experience under cover had taught him to catch those seemingly insignificant, indefinable details. He was better at the game of appearances than Sarah, so he kept his anxiety for himself, putting on an indifferent face. Well, I'll find out. He shrugged his shoulders inwardly and paid Sarah some casual compliment on her faultless elegance, which was actually sincere, just to see her relax.

The conversation continued but Sarah had more and more trouble following it, as her whole being was busy dealing with her inner world of sorrow and vengeance.

Just till Saturday...on Saturday everything would be finished and her heart would be finally at peace.

---

After the meeting, things accelerated dramatically. As if let off the leash of duties and the strict discipline of base life, suppressed feelings broke out, making Casey’s life a hell on earth.

He felt torn. He was madly in love with Sam, the fatal, bestial magnetism of the one-eyed man attracting him like a moth to the candle flame; yet at the same time he hated Sam for being a man he had fallen for. He felt humiliated and he blamed Sam – that dirty, cruel bastard.

The more Casey fell under Sam's charm, the stronger his resolution became to not give in. Soon it increased to a blind, stubborn determination: I'll never give you the satisfaction. Never!

It was Tuesday.

The training room was bathed in the bright, cool light of the sun’s rays bursting in, giving people and objects alike a touch of white gold.

They stood facing each other as sparring partners. Monroe had talked them into putting on a little show for the Green Rock training group, of which Casey used to be a member. He hadn't wanted to do it, but Sam had insisted, cleverly using Casey's ambition, and there they were – standing on a mat, in black uniforms, eyeing each other attentively. Casey was boiling inside and waited impatiently for the opportunity to vent his frustration in a fight, his eyes sparkling with anger. He knew it worked to his disadvantage, for he should be concentrated and calm before a fight, but this time it wasn't about skills. It was about rage. He didn't care about kung-fu or about the show. He just wanted to kick some asses. Well, one particular ass. Even if he got killed afterwards.

Sam, not wearing his eye-patch any longer, could see all those emotions rolling through his partner as plain as a pikestaff. The corners of his mouth rose slightly in a subtle expression of provocative mockery. He knew it would work on Casey like a red flag to a bull. Unlike him, Sam remained composed. His fighting mode turned on – he couldn't help it. He had never considered fighting as sport or entertainment, so the whole idea of sparring like this was pretty messed up. His smile faded, his face went expressionless and his look was sharp. The killing machine was ready to work.

They jumped at each other's throats, neither of them even trying to maintain an appearance of being in it for sport. The spectators held their breaths, more scared than impressed, although through many heads flashed the thought that it looked like something in a movie. Trainer Mitch drew his brows together, upset and irritated. He wouldn't have anyone tarnishing his religion, pure kung-fu. And Casey—what the hell was he doing? Mitch couldn't believe this was his best competitor, proud, honest and dedicated. Yes, he’d become faster, certainly more lethal, stronger, but...his purity of mind and martial arts spirit were gone.

"Stop it!" he shouted loudly, stepping onto the mat, but the fighting men ignored him. Or maybe they didn't even hear him, engrossed as they were in a strange game of killing instincts. "Stop it immediately!" Mitch repeated, grabbing Casey’s arms strongly from the back. That short fraction of a second when Casey's hands slowed was enough for Sam to deliver a powerful blow straight to his opponent’s solar plexus. Casey choked, drawing in air with a wheezing hiss, then he grunted and hung heavily on Mitch's hands, his stomach revolting and pushing his lunch back up his esophagus.

The next second brought a surprise for everyone as Sam, not really thinking, hit the trainer in his temple, knocking him down. Mitch was unconscious before he reached the floor.

Casey sank to his knees, holding his stomach and doing his best not to vomit.

Silence reigned over the room, disturbed only by Casey's wheezing sounds and Sam's panting. The young people watched the scene with wide eyes, at once terrified and disapproving of what they had seen.

"Well, we're done, I guess." Sam's voice, low and grim, sounded like a somber bell in that dense atmosphere. His eyes swept the room, making a ghastly impression as the black ball in his orbit shone expressionlessly and motionlessly, piercing them all in a horrible way. "Get a grip, you fucking wimp," he said to Casey, and yanked him up, triggering a series of groans which Casey tried in vain to suppress.

Casey didn't say anything. Not because he couldn't, although that was pretty much the case, but he just didn't have anything to say after what he had demonstrated. All his anger had evaporated, and had been replaced with a sad emptiness. He didn't really regret what had happened. Maybe subconsciously he’d even wanted to present that side of himself – to let his monster free for a while. He didn't raise his eyes, nor did he check up on Mitch, sure the trainer would be okay. He just dragged himself, fighting for every breath, after Sam to the locker room.

He had burned another bridge behind him.

In the locker room Casey dropped heavily onto the bench and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. God, it hurt. His face, pale and covered with sweat, tightened with pain. It took a couple minutes for his diaphragm to relax so he could take a deep breath. When he raised his eyelids he saw Sam sitting motionless across from him, staring at him. Casey held that vacant look, feeling nothing, as if the fight had drained him of emotions.

Sam was looking at him without anger, scorn, or mockery. Just looking. Casey smiled, almost unintentionally, his smile fragile and coy. Sam didn't return the smile. Of course not, why would he? He smiled only when he wanted that pretty smile of his to buy something for him. With gentle resignation, Casey closed his eyes again and reached for the hair tie to let his hair down. He sat like that for another minute; then he shook his head, laughed quietly, and ponderously stood up and took his shirt off. Well, it was time to take a shower and go home. Or maybe go home and take a shower.

"I owe you one blow, I guess," he said calmly, opening his locker.

"Cool. I thought you'd never offer. It's been a while since I had a good blow job." Sam smirked and started buttoning up his shirt.

Casey didn't answer, just rolled his eyes.

"You owe me nothing. I hit that guy for you." Sam rose from the bench and ruffled his hair.

"No, no, no. You did nothing for me. It was your whim. Or just instinct. Whatever. Anyway, you knew I'd win, right?" Casey shrugged and put on his T-shirt.

"Sure. But I got lucky and you didn't. Would you feel better if you hit me?"

"I don't know. Maybe I should try it." Casey gave him another one-shouldered shrug, still standing with his back to the agent.

"Try, then. We don't need a mat. Go on, make yourself feel better," the black-haired man jibed and moved closer to Casey. He shot his hand over his colleague’s shoulder and banged the locker closed.

Casey thought he had already calmed down and regained his composure after the "sparring". But he was wrong. In a fit of sudden rage he turned around, grabbed Sam by his shirttails, and furiously shoved back, crashing into the locker standing across from them. Sam grunted when his back hit the locker's door, but he didn't really try to fight back.

Casey stood in front of Sam, his body pressed against him, enraged and panting, still clenching his fists in the shirt. Their faces were only inches apart, hot breaths mixing and eyes flashing. Casey was still fresh in the job of a special agent, and hitting people didn't come easily to him, especially if – like Sam in his actual condition – they were weaker than him. So he just stood there, fighting an inner battle.

Seeing this, Sam smirked roguishly. With a lightning-fast movement he grabbed Casey's head with both hands, pulled it closer, and crushed their lips together in a violent kiss. Teeth hit teeth, grinding unpleasantly. Sam's incisors stuck in Casey's upper lip, cutting it deeply and smashing painfully. The bright-headed man grunted plaintively in pain and surprise, and yanked back. He slowly licked the fresh blood off his lips. Sam thought there was something strikingly perverse in that usually nice face, now twisted in an ugly grimace, lips and chin covered with smeared blood. He felt a slight, familiar rush of adrenaline and his breath came faster as he braced himself to continue.

But Casey still couldn't bring himself to pass his breaking point. He needed a trigger to make him act, and Sam was perfectly aware of it. Thus, with a sharp, aggressive glint in his eye, he made a dirty move, ruthlessly grabbing Casey's crotch and squeezing it strongly.

Then two things happened in the same split second: Sam was struck with the finding that what he had touched was quite big and hard – and in Casey, something snapped. One fist landed on Sam's chin, slamming the dark head against the wall, and the other fist delivered a blow to the stomach. For the first time in his life Casey went berserk. His mind had gone empty, his heart filled with anger and a desire for murder. He crossed the next boundary on his way to perdition: he was ready to hurt deliberately.

Sam choked at a piercing pain in his left cheek but did nothing to stop the raging man. He even kind of savored the hell he had unleashed, finding a strange pleasure in being beaten up. For him, pain always had a purifying power. He burst out in a crazy, abrupt laugh, even as his body took punch after punch. "Fuck – it turns me on, you know?" he grunted.

"Sick fuck," Casey hissed through his teeth. "Go to hell!" He tripped Sam up and they hit the ground heavily, Casey pinning his opponent to the floor.

"Already waiting there. Come, decent boy, come...." Sam whooped with insane laughter, pushing Casey beyond the point where boiling rage becomes cold fury.

"You missed something, motherfucker. You killed the decent boy. He's fucking dead!" Casey pressed Sam's neck, choking his windpipe, and dug his fingers between Sam's healing ribs. Sam jerked powerfully, his eyes widening from the sudden excruciating pain, and his real one misted over with tears. He howled, but his voice was stifled by the iron grip. Casey held him strongly in the embrace of his legs and arms, strangling him mercilessly and breaking Sam's resistance with his fingers, flaming up a real fire in the man's side.

His voice was cold and venomous when he said, "I’ve been stupid and naïve. My mistake. I swallowed my pride and drank my share of humiliation. It was fucking hard and exceptionally unpleasant. But you know what? I learned my lesson." He clenched his fingers tighter, completely cutting off the air supply to Sam's lungs. "Maybe being one step ahead of you isn't a bad idea, after all." He leaned forward and kissed Sam hard, pushing his tongue in between his lips that were desperately trying to catch some air. Sam tossed his head to get away, but Casey found his lips again and sank into the kiss as if he wanted to suck Sam's insides out. With a powerful kick his knee squeezed in between Sam’s thighs, parting them, and he pressed against Sam's crotch with his leg. He felt a half-erection.

"Sick pervert...you really are turned on," he panted, breaking the kiss and digging his knee deeper. Sam arched back, incoherently trying to escape the pain and assault. Breath—if only he could take a breath. Casey's face slowly blurred before his eyes; the sharp pain wore off, and his whole body was seized by the hot fire burning in his guts. He desperately clung to the shreds of fleeing awareness, but he felt he was drifting away. Then, just when he was on the point of giving up and relaxing to fall into darkness, the grip on his throat loosened and a wave of air charged into his respiratory tract. He wheezed with all he had and coughed violently, turning his head to the right. His body rocked under Casey, jerked by powerful convulsions. When his breath was recovered at last, he smiled again and chuckled, his eyes closed.

"I told you it turned me on," he panted. "And you're a one fucking hypocrite." He laughed, bending his knee to press it against Casey's manhood.

"Fuck you," the blond man hissed. He grabbed Sam's wrists and pinned them above the man’s head.

"Sounds like a good idea." Sam chuckled and shamelessly rubbed his groin against his assailant's knee.

This time Casey pushed his hips back to meet the agent's knee and a guttural sound escaped his lips. Then he lowered his body, sliding his crotch along Sam's thigh until his hip touched the other man’s hard-on. He buried his head in the crook of Sam's neck, beading the dimple above the collarbone with the humidity of his hot, short breaths.

"Fuck you," he whispered, feeling that his body and mind were betraying him.

Sam smiled wantonly and arched back, sticking his sweaty body to Casey's and rocking slightly. Before Casey knew it, he was responding to that gentle, swaying motion, pushing with his pelvis and clenching his buttocks rhythmically. His face was painfully contorted, his desire both overwhelming and dirty. He was scared, tense, and obsessed.

With his eyes closed, he ran his dry, feverish lips up Sam's neck, his touch light as a feather. Sam shuddered, drawing his brows together. Now his demon was waking up. He’d had enough of pain; he wanted satisfaction.

Sam freed one hand and grabbed the golden hair on the back of Casey's head.

"I've had enough of your rule," he whispered straight into Casey's ear, and pulled his head back to see the man’s face. Casey looked at him with eyes hazy with lust, the meaning of the words only very slowly becoming clear to him. His lips, slightly parted, were dry and swollen. They were so close to Sam's, stretched in an enigmatic smile, that Casey couldn't focus on anything else. He leaned forward to devour those lips but they dodged the kiss and instead he sucked onto the warm, pulsating neck artery. It was salty with sweat, but Casey was past noticing such details.

Sam could feel quiet, abrupt puffs of air sweeping over his ear and it gave him pleasant quivers. He smiled again, tilting his head to the side and letting Casey cover his neck, ear, and collarbone with incoherent, feverish caresses. He felt Casey's fingers digging painfully into his wrist, stronger and stronger.

With his free hand Sam grabbed the man's ass and held on. Casey bucked involuntarily, but a moment later he chased that touch, wriggling and grinding against the body he had pinned to the floor of the locker room. Sam snatched his second hand from the possessive grip and added it to the first, squeezing Casey's clenched backside and crushing the man's abdomen against his, slightly lifted. Casey moaned for the first time and rose on his elbows. He pushed his arms under Sam's and bent low over his face. He tried to capture the other man's lips again, but Sam avoided them and whispered into Casey's ear, "I don't kiss."

Maybe Casey would have understood if he’d concentrated for a few seconds, but it was too much to ask. He let the words flash by and moved on, still trying to kiss Sam.

Sam grabbed his face in both hands and shoved it away, making Casey's neck arch. Then he dragged his wet, warm tongue along the exposed throat, licking salt off, and finished with a kiss on the chin, making Casey shiver and moan again. Still holding the golden head, Sam turned them over so Casey, pliant and warmed up, was under him. With a quick movement he tugged Casey's T-shirt up. He took in the smooth, fit body with his hungry eyes and ran his conqueror's hand down the shapely belly. Holding the T-shirt with one hand, with the other he caressed the area of the belly button, sticky from sweat, and lowered his head to close his mouth around one small nipple. When he teased it with his tongue, the body below rocked and arched daintily, pushing into the touch. Short, lecherous grunts escaped Casey's lips.

"Fuck, you're hot," Sam panted, pressing his hard-on against Casey's leg. A helpless moan was the only answer.

It had been a long time since Sam had come across such a body. Normally he preferred clean, sweet-smelling sex, not being an enthusiast of dirty, sweaty bodies, but this body...oh, it was a whole different story.

With his knees, he brutally spread Casey's thighs, squeezing in between them, and lay down to connect their groins.

"Oh, shit!" were the first words Casey managed to stammer. He draped his legs around Sam's knees and with his thighs he squeezed the man who was making him crazy.

Sam started to rock forward, slamming into his partner through the thin pants they wore. His breath went hoarse and whistling.

He simply wanted to fuck.

He needed to possess.

His hand reached impatiently for Casey's belt and tugged on the loose end to undo it. He knelt over the supine man, freeing himself from the embrace of Casey’s legs, and violently pulled Casey’s pants down to his ankles. The impressive cock, buried in a damp tangle of golden hair, sprang out like it was triggered with a spring. Smooth, thick, with a wet, purple head...a gift from heavens.

The owner of that eighth wonder of the world stiffened slightly as this sudden turn of events brought him, partially and not without difficulty, to his senses.

Driven by a mad lust, incomprehensible even to himself, Sam struggled to extract his own shaft from his pants. He didn't bother to take them off, he just lowered them to his thighs, releasing his prominent member. He splayed his knees, shoving Casey's legs apart wider still. Jerking himself off like crazy, Sam wrapped his other hand around the beautiful phenomenon stiffening in front of him and started a synchronous stimulation. For a split second he considered doing it with his mouth. He was good at it, taking it down his throat, but his aversion to the taste and smell of private parts after heavy physical effort was stronger than his desire.

Casey's senses were shot into space at the intense stimulus. A long, libidinous moan forced its way out of his throat as he convulsively pushed into Sam's hand, lifting his hips, clutching the bench and a locker with his fingers. If he could, he'd squeeze into that hand with all his body and soul, both overcome with a fever.

Sam flicked his thumb at the tip of Casey's cock, sending shivers through the man’s body, then with his whole palm he clung to the penis and ran it down all the way to the testicles. He grabbed them both and fondled them for a while, playing with the wet golden curls covering the crotch and cleavage. Casey, laying himself wide open with his knees bent, bucked up and down in a feverish dance of contracting muscles, cooperating with Sam's hand.

Sam was a patient lover, patient and skillful. He could savor sex whenever he found it worth savoring, or make it wild whenever he felt like it. But now he wasn't patient. Now he was obsessed with the only need he had, low and primitive: to fuck. He had no patience for caressing, playing, fondling. He slipped his sticky finger into Casey. Fuck, it was going to be a disgusting mess, with no shower or anything. Although it was completely unlike him, he didn't find that thought worth analysing. Every mess could be cleaned up, after all.

At the sudden intrusion Casey's body tensed and his ass tightened involuntarily. It wasn't used to penetration, and his sphincter wasn't going to let anything barge inside.

"Fuck," the man hissed, and he wriggled to get away from Sam's finger. But the finger followed his movements, inexorably pushing deeper and harder, and Sam pinned his partner by his chest to the floor. His expression was wild, a little absent-minded.

"Fuck!" Casey croaked, fear overtaking his excitement and pleasure. He grabbed Sam's hand to push him away, but with no effect.

The black-haired agent added a second finger inside Casey, making it painful. All thoughts of seventh-heaven sensations and emotions were completely gone now. "Take it out, you fucking sicko!" Casey struggled and pushed a knee between him and Sam. But when he went to pull up his second knee, Sam blocked it and dropped down, pinning Casey with his body and trying to push in a third finger.

That was too much for the clenched muscle, and a sharp pain radiated through Casey’s whole lower body. Driven by pain and despair he yanked, and, with Sam within reach of his hands, Casey dug his fingers into the soft flesh on both sides of his trachea. He squeezed it, at the same time immobilizing Sam's head with the other hand.

Sam bucked violently, choking, and tried to break free. But one hand was not enough, as Casey was running at full throttle now, and Sam was still a little unfocused. He pulled his fingers out of Casey and grabbed the hand that was crushing his throat. But Casey was faster. With all he had, he struck Sam in his ribs, making him curl up in pain, and pushed him off. Then Casey slammed the agent against the locker, still crushing his windpipe. With his other hand he quickly pulled up his pants, and not until then did he let go of Sam, jumping back to a safe distance. He burned with anger, his eyes flashing.

There they were – back at the starting point.

"Holy shit." Sam laughed with an effort, through a sharp cough. "So the decent boy is really dead." He sat with his back leaning against the locker and circled his knees with his arms. His pants were still down to his thighs and his member was asking for attention, which it wasn’t getting at the moment. He wasn't ashamed or angry, just seemed...amused, as he examined his dirty fingers. That was something Casey couldn't understand, however hard he tried.

"I'm not your doll to blow, motherfucker," he snapped. "You want a hole to load, find a whore. I'm sick of your fucking games." He really was. He’d let himself be a toy for this man again. And just after he’d sworn he would fall for his bullshit no more!

"Do you realize that your language is becoming extremely rude?" Sam gave Casey his middle finger together with a disdainful smile. Then he moved his hand closer to his nose and sniffed his fingers. "Fuck, that stinks." He grimaced in disgust.

Casey jumped forward with the intention of simply kicking Sam in the head, but Sam saw it coming so the foot made a swing that was inches away from the agent's face. "I'll kill you someday," the bright-headed man stated calmly. "Either intentionally or by chance, but I will."

"Keep on trying." Sam performed an obscene mime of fucking the inside of his cheek with one of his clean fingers.

Now it was Casey's turn to twist his lips in disgust. He gave Sam a contemptuous look and started gathering his stuff.

"You made quite a bloody mess in my guts, I suppose," Sam sighed and slowly got up on his feet to put on his pants. "It fucking hurts."

"You asked for it, asshole." Casey shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I see you've learned an interesting word today." The agent burst into laughter.

At those words Casey flew at Sam's throat and slammed him against the locker again. Sam drew a deep breath, his body sore and barely able to endure further assaults.

"What about you? Not having an ass-hole?" Casey sneered. "You sealed there or something? Or maybe you have another fucking black ball or other wonder of science mounted there."

"Why...you interested?" Sam swayed his hips gracefully.

"What if I am?"

Sam tossed his head back, laughing. "Don't bottom," he said simply, shaking his bead, his eyes sparkling with joy.

"God, you're a dipshit." Casey shook his head.

"Well, if there’s anything in this world that’s precious to me, it's my ass."

Casey gave a brief snort of laughter. "Do you even hear how fucking pathetic you sound? Geez, you're ridiculous." He rolled his eyes, raising his brows. "So there’s no way you'd spread for me, but you expected – just like that – that I'd happily put out?"

"Honestly, I didn't give it a moment’s thought." Sam pouted his lips in a childish way. "But I admit, that would be perfect."

He was unbelievable. He was simply unbelievable!

"You know what?" Casey sighed with resignation. "You need a willing chick? Just find a willing chick."

"Be careful what you wish for. It might come true." Sam smirked mischievously.

"Whatever. Just don't involve me any more." Casey turned back, grabbed his things, and started to the door.

"You are involved, smart-ass. You were fucking willing and begging for me, your dick was slavering, and don't try to deny it. I guess your overblown dignity must be suffering like hell, but that's the sad fact." Sam's voice was full of unpleasant irony.

"My dignity—" Casey stopped to give him a long, thoughtful gaze. "There is one thing I've learned from you. Without my dignity I still can manage quite well." Then he left.

As soon as the door closed Sam's smile and the supercilious expression disappeared as if they’d been wiped off his face. He slumped down onto the bench, rested his elbows on his knees, and hid his face in his hands. He’d thought he hadn't so much as a gram of pride left, and it was a devastating experience to find out that it still existed.

For the first time in a long, long time, he felt humiliated. How had it happened that he couldn't control his desires, his body, his behavior? What the fuck?

He squeezed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. Well, he'd have to deal with it somehow. He'd have to deal with Casey. The problem was, he had no idea how. The strange man fell outside all the schemes Sam had managed to work over the years, and all attempts at improvisation were counter-productive. Instead of having Casey cornered, he felt that he himself was dangerously close to getting caught in a trap; too many unexpected circumstances were emerging from the mess their twisted relation had become. He couldn't yet define the trap and think of a way to avoid it, but he realized with shock that he was scared. He didn't remember fearing anyone as much as he did fear Casey.

And the only method he knew for getting rid of things he couldn't cope with was to destroy them.

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And now - a surprise :)
I've already finished... the next chapter! So it'll be published here very soon :)

Still waiting for your reviews :)
I love them. I love it, when you get back to me with your impressions :)