Wasteland
by Becca Abbott
Part 12
Guy stood beside the remaining peacekeeper and the thief. "Mauler, huh?" he said, eyeing the big fighter who waited in the middle of the ring. The man wasn't quite as tall as Raoul, but he was much heavier, his body packed with muscle. His skin bore the evidence of many fights, scars both large and small. Half an ear was missing. Guy looked uneasily at Raoul who seemed almost ethereal in comparison.
Mauler's ugly face contorted in a contemptuous smile. He puffed out his chest and stalked back and forth, playing to the audience, ignoring Raoul who stood without expression and watched him. Raoul was a bureaucrat, thought Guy. He sat around in an office all day and watched people get their minds turned inside out. What chance did he have against this monster? Then the mongrel remembered the bathroom and the incredible strength in those lean, elegant hands as they crushed him into the bottom of the tub. He smiled crookedly.
"Your boyfriend's gonna get creamed," said the peacekeeper without malice. "Too bad. He's a looker."
"Heh."
Mauler turned finally to face his opponent. He pumped his shoulders and chest, pounded one fist into the other with a resounding crack. Raoul looked bored. The crowd shifted and called out.
"Hey gorgeous," shouted the fighter. "I'll try not to mess up your face. I get first go at ya after I win! Klee says so."
The thief giggled.
Raoul said nothing, only waited. Guy shifted the Blondie's coat and then, as Mauler began to circle slowly toward Raoul, thought – the ring controller! Quickly, Guy searched the coat. The guns were there, but there was no control unit. Damn.
With a howl, Mauler suddenly launched himself at Raoul – who wasn't there. Mauler hit the fence with a crash, bounced off and regained his balance in time to get a swift, savage blow to his face. A collective gasp ran through the crowd. He recovered at once, however, lunging forward, fists swinging. One connected with Raoul's jaw, sending the Blondie sprawling in a cloud of dust. Mauler roared and leapt on him. The crowd screamed encouragement.
"Think I'll take him over to Bailey's," sneered Klee, "and charge to watch him get his guts fucked out."
Guy winced, seeing Mauler's great fist rise and fall. There was so much dust it was hard to make out if the punch landed. The noise grew as the crowd smelled blood.
Abruptly, Mauler was thrown off. There was a flash of whipcord black and Raoul was on his feet again. He was bleeding from a cut on the cheek. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, skin pale and luminescent against the black fabric. Guy felt something primal stir inside him as the lean, powerful form turned with smooth grace, kicking out with eye-popping speed to catch Mauler square in the gut. The bulky fighter staggered back, struggling to retain his balance, but Raoul was relentless. As if he'd only been testing his opponent, the Blondie seemed to switch into high gear. A rapid-fire series of kicks and punches drove Mauler back and back until he was up against the fence, only an arm's reach from Guy, Klee, and the peacekeeper. Face streaked with blood, dirt and sweat, the Blondie still had a terrible beauty and Guy, transfixed, could only stare. The noise of the crowd dropped away to nothing.
Klee made a small sound of dismay as Raoul caught sight of him over the fence. Holding the little man's panicked eyes, his own filled with a fierce, red light, Raoul struck at the fighter one final time. Bleeding profusely from nose and mouth, one arm at an odd angle, Mauler's eyes seemed to pop out of his skull. There was a crunch audible in the deadly silence, then the big man toppled heavily to the ground and was still.
Challenges weren't supposed to be death matches, although there was no rule against it. The stunned silence stretched on. Raoul straightened, shaking back his long hair and stalked along the curve of the fence to the gate. Someone sprang to open it for him. The peacekeeper backed hastily away when Raoul approached. Wordlessly, Guy handed back the long, leather coat.
Someone had brought the bike. Raoul glanced at it now, then at Guy. "Bring it."
People moved hastily out of their way as the two men walked away from the arena. Guy stared up at his companion, trying to figure out what was different. Raoul's perfect features were as still as ever, but there was an air of suppressed wildness that clung to him, that came through the edgy grace with which he moved.
"Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?"
"Instinct."
"Where are we going?" Guy ventured finally.
"Back to our rooms," replied Raoul, voice thin. He seemed to be barely holding himself together. Guy's unease deepened.
This time there was no nonsense about leaving the bike in the hall. Guy brought it in. Raoul slammed shut the door. Guy heard the bolt being pushed home as he set the bike against the wall. Then, as he turned, he was suddenly grabbed and thrown into the next room. He staggered and went down on his back across Raoul's bed. At once, the breath was knocked out of him by Raoul's greater weight as the Blondie fell onto him. Guy had time only to gasp before Raoul's mouth was on his in a brutal kiss.
Every instinct Guy possessed was to throw off his attacker. He struggled desperately, pushing at Raoul, only to have his wrists seized and slammed into the mattress over his head, the grip so strong he was sure it would snap his bones. Then the pet ring flared and he screamed, the sound lost in Raoul's mouth.
How? he wondered dimly, how was Raoul activating it? The Blondie was using both hands to – oh, god! Another wave of agony convulsed him. When it cleared, Raoul was lifting his head. Guy saw the flushed, beautiful face through a shimmer of tears.
There was a saying in Ceres that Blondies had two expressions, boredom and indifference. Neither was evident now. The blaze in Raoul's eyes was positively feral. His chiseled lips were twisted into a hard smile. Releasing Guy's captive wrists, he sat up and struck the mongrel across the face. Now thoroughly terrified, Guy lifted his arms, trying to protect against the next blow he saw coming. Snarling, Raoul knocked them away. Once again, the universe rocked.
"NO! Please!" The cry tumbled out of Guy. "God, no! What did I do?"
Raoul seemed to freeze. Those demonic eyes were fixed on Guy's face.
Tears were trickling from the corners of the mongrel's eyes. His wrists in Raoul's viselike grip ached fiercely. He was trying to breathe, but fear closed his throat and made his heart race. He could do nothing but lie under the Blondie and pray that whatever madness had infected the man would pass.
With a growl, Raoul bent his head again, mouth crushing against Guy's. Guy tasted blood, his own. Raoul's tongue pushed past his battered lips, thrusting his tongue aside, stroking, diving deep. When he was again released, Guy lay dazed and trembling, drawing long, sobbing breaths.
Raoul bound his wrists in swift, rough movements with a strap from the saddlebags. The vinyl cut cruelly into Guy's swollen skin. Then he was half-lifted from the mattress, the rest of his clothing stripped away, and thrown back down. Instinctively, he curled up, his throbbing wrists held tight against his chest. "Don't...."
The Blondie rose and ripped off his own clothing. Climbing onto the bed, he threw Guy over onto his belly and forced his legs apart. Seizing Guy's hips with bruising strength, he pulled them up. Suddenly, Guy was back in the whorehouse, in the dark, stinking room with its steady stream of men seeking release for their anger and their lust.
No hope. No choices. Only submission. Guy reached out with his bound hands to grip the metal bedframe. His head rang from Raoul's blows. His trembling was uncontrollable now, but it didn't matter. Here was a body. Use it. Get it over with.
Penetration was swift and savage. Raoul didn't even bother to prepare himself, so far gone into his madness was he. Pain tore through Guy, robbing him of breath. He felt his flesh ripping and clung to the steel bar for dear life as the pounding began.
He was being torn apart. Raoul's body slammed against his again and again, but Guy couldn't even scream. Blood, warm, ran down his legs. There was a roaring in his ears. Not again. Not again.
Raoul's shout filled the small room. He drove into Guy a final time, crushing him into the mattress. Reality dimmed, flickered and went out.
The door to Iason's cell crashed open. The Blondie sat up quickly. It was Minton. The man said shortly, "On your feet, freak."
Iason rose. Minton had his hand on the collar control, threat clear. With a level look, Iason walked past him and out into the hall. They went straight to the security offices. Inside was the woman, Jelly, Crane, and several other soldiers whose names he didn't know. They were all clustered around a computer screen. As Minton and Iason approached, they scooted aside. Minton shoved Iason forward. "Recognize them?"
Iason stared at the screen, heart leaping. Guy! The handsome and much-despised mongrel was standing in front of a fence with several other men. How the hell had he escaped Midas? Then, belatedly, Iason recognized one of Guy's companions and in that moment wasn't sure whether to laugh or curse. That tall, stunning mongrel with a possessive hand on Guy's shoulder was none other than Raoul!
"No," he said, voice steady. "Never seen them before."
They grabbed him and pushed him down, smashing his face into the counter beside the monitor. "Look again," suggested Minton.
Nose bleeding, head spinning, Iason dutifully did so. "No," he croaked. "Who are they?"
"Someone asking questions."
"Mongrels," Iason said, bleeding contempt into his voice. "Why would I know them?"
Which, naturally, triggered their short tempers. They knocked him around a bit, but he didn't care as long as it distracted them. Afterwards, they dragged him back to his cell and left him heaped inside the door like a pile of rags. He made no attempt to get up, mind reeling. Raoul and Guy? In the Wasteland? It defied understanding. Guy's presence there he could easily understand. The creature was well suited for such a vile cesspool, but Raoul? Quiet, fastidious, civilized Raoul? And together? He wiped blood from his chin – they'd split his lip again – and got up, making his way back to his bed. For the first time in days, irrational as it was, he felt the warm, seductive glimmer of hope.