(Author's note: this chapter is rated R for sexual content and will become NC-17 in subsequent chapters.)

It felt like some kind of kamikaze maneuver when he crept up from his bed and pulled his door open, leaving it ajar just an inch or two. He tiptoed back and listened to his mom and Larry in the living room. They'd turned the television on after he'd left, keeping it low out of consideration for him. He couldn't tell what program they were watching. Every so often he heard his mom's familiar giggle and it set his teeth on edge. He imagined Larry sneaking kisses along her neck, or clumsily reaching inside her blouse. It was masochistic.

He wasn't fooling himself any longer. He'd always liked both genders as long as he could remember. He took his females soft and sweet, but he liked his men older and rough. Fuck, the reason he jerked off to Magneto was that he was a villain. Granted, a tortured, formerly-oppressed villain with a twisted world-view... but mature, competent and sharp around the edges. Larry struck him as a man who could throw a mean punch or knew how to handle a gun. Freddy wondered if he had any tattoos. He seemed the type.

Filled with a bravado he couldn't justify, Freddy pulled his blankets back and freed himself from his boxers. He was so hard his cockhead was completely exposed, foreskin pulled tight. Illuminated by the sliver of light coming in from the hallway, Freddy looked down and gripped tightly. Precum smeared against his fingers and he began to move his hand, careful to keep quiet.

Larry's deep, throaty laugh echoed from the living room and his cock twitched in response. Freddy closed his eyes, sucking in his breath. His hand moved faster and he knew it wouldn't take long to make himself come. Suddenly, he heard footsteps in the hallway and froze.

The figure moving outside his room stopped. It was Larry. He could make out the height, the color of his shirt. Against all reason, Freddy stroked himself again, long and slow, mouth parted. He kept his eyes on the gap in the doorway.

With sudden certainty he knew. Larry was watching. Adrenaline coursed through his system, his heartbeat thundering inside his chest. He moaned, just barely enough to be audible. Larry moved suddenly, continuing down the hallway to the bathroom. Freddy gasped and came as hard as he could ever remember. He reached down for a kleenex and wiped the come off his stomach and thighs, wondering if Larry would take issue with him going to the bathroom to throw out the evidence of his orgasm.

He decided against it.

~*~

If Larry stayed the night, he never knew. By the time he woke up the next morning, almost crippled with mortification at what he had done, there was no evidence to suggest it. He never asked his mom; she spoke to him tersely for the next few days, still angry at his smart-mouth behavior, yet totally unaware of the free show he'd given her boyfriend. Freddy felt torn-up inside, hating himself yet fueled by the fantasies that the incident had given him.

The next time Larry came over, he gave no indication that he'd seen anything out of the ordinary. Freddy had been dreading the evening for hours and felt thrown off kilter when nothing happened. He kept darting quick glances at Larry all night, but was only met by passive brown eyes and a polite smile. It was both perplexing and infuriating at once.

Larry and his mom seemed to be getting serious. In the weeks that followed, whenever Freddy came home from work or class, Larry had either just arrived or showed up a few minutes later. He usually had some booze or food in tow, so Freddy couldn't complain. His mom was happier, relaxed. She and Larry definitely got along, which made Freddy's gut squirm with an odd mixture of relief and jealousy.

He found that the easiest way to avoid further complication was to immediately retreat to his room or piss off with some friends (in reality, acquaintances he barely knew from school; but he was good at pretending to fit in and they usually just went to the movies or an arcade, neither of which required much conversation).

One night he stumbled through the front door, tired and irritated after a shit day behind the register, to find Larry sitting on his couch and rolling a reefer on their coffee table. He glanced up, smiled.

"Hey kid. Your mom just called; she's not going to be home for a few hours. Wanna watch a movie?"

Freddy gaped and blinked, glancing back and forth between Larry and the weed.

"Is that code for 'smoke a joint'?" he finally croaked out.

Larry laughed, full and deep-throated, eyes twinkling. He patted the cushion next to him and licked a long line across the cigarette paper; the man could roll a fucking good roach.

"You ever seen Once Upon a Time in the West?" Larry asked, pulling his zippo from his pocket.

"Are you kidding me? That's Leone, man. He's a god."

"Mmmmm," came the agreement. Larry took a strong pull and sat back against the couch, expelling the smoke with superhuman restraint. He held out the joint, nodding.

"Wait, so I'm not allowed to drink your liquor but I can have this? I'm getting mixed signals, here."

"Weed won't fuck you up like booze will," Larry shrugged.

"That's pretty progressive of you, old man."

"Shut up and put in the movie, sonny boy."

The laugh was accompanied by a wink so Freddy couldn't bring himself to refuse. When he returned from the VCR he grabbed the roach from Larry's hand and took a deep tug at the soppy end. He had a limited experience with marijuana; just enough to know that Larry's shit was top end.

"God damn, you aren't fooling with this."

Larry grinned long and easy and took the joint back. The movie started and the two men watched in enrapt silence. Freddy felt his head hit the back of the couch; he kicked out his legs. They lazily passed the roach between them every few minutes, peripherally aware as it began to dwindle. By the time Freddy got down to the stub, he was swearing and laughing as he tried to steal one last lungful, Larry cheering him on.

(Oops, chapter 9 should've had an illegal drug use warning. Chapter 11 will be R or NC-17!)

The air conditioning unit was broken. Students sat in miserable silence, mired in their own discomfort and the monotony of the lecture. Freddy's teeshirt clung to his back, wet under his armpits, heavy around his neck. He shifted in his seat and stared at his page. The calculus was gibberish; it blurred as he blinked his eyes and lost focus on his surroundings.

Everything seemed so vivid. The memory bubbled like a wellspring as he leaned forward, head resting against his hand. The smell of the kernels, freshly popped, drizzled in butter. Larry bringing it out from the kitchen, crouching down to help him lean up against the front of the couch. They'd sat next to each other in tense silence, staring intently at the television screen but not digesting a word of what was being said. Freddy had reached down into the bowl between them and grazed Larry's fingers with his own. Neither of them had acknowledged the contact, but it set Freddy alight, his entire body coiled tight and heated. He'd snuck a quick glance down at Larry's lap. His jeans were tight enough that Freddy could see the bulge nestled between his legs. Freddy had licked the salt from his lips and prayed silently for a glass of water.

The recollection receded as the teacher dismissed them, assigning homework. Freddy threw his books into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, hurrying to exit the cramped classroom. He spent the entire walk home silently cursing himself out. There was no longer any doubt in his mind; he wanted his mom's boyfriend. Freddy was completely fucked.

~*~

Now that the knowledge was there, cold and undeniable, Freddy didn't know what to do. Whenever Larry was over - which was often - he felt awkward and jumpy. He avoided eye contact and kept his side of the conversation confined to one-word answers. His mom began to stare at him with poorly-disguised concern and it just made him spiral deeper into guilt.

It was like someone had turned on a switch in his brain and everything that Larry did was either adorable or unbearably erotic. Just standing at the sink drying dishes, biceps flexing as he twisted the towel inside a glass, or balancing a cigarette casually from one side of his mouth as he spoke... ridiculous, small, mundane things that Freddy would have never noticed before. They began to accumulate, contributing to everything he associated as "Larry". Freddy felt completely out of control.

One night, about two weeks after the reefer incident, all three of them sat in the living room, the late edition news flickering on the television. Larry had his arm curved up over the top of the couch, body turned so as to accommodate Olivia's sleeping form nestled against his chest. Freddy sat on the floor in front of them, math textbook spread between his legs. The talking head on the screen chattered on about a heavy Israeli airstrike on Beirut.

Suddenly, Freddy felt the ghosting touch of a single fingertip against the fine, downy hair on his neck. He froze, blood pounding in his ears. The touch grew bolder, tracing down against the slope of his spine, teasing under the fabric of his collar just softly enough to almost go unnoticed. Freddy felt dizzy with arousal, but he kept his eyes glued to the television set, refusing to turn his head. He couldn't bare the thought of looking at his mother. Larry grew slightly bolder, like he wanted to earn his acknowledgement; fingers stroking up, against his scalp, through the thick curtain of his hair. Freddy leaned forward, pulling away. He got up without looking behind him, holding the textbook against his chest, not ashamed of his erection.

"I'm going to bed now, Mr. Dimick."

He'd never called Larry that before. He knew the tone of his voice had been a blatant invitation, and nothing resembling a rebuke or a dismissal. He'd crossed that line, made his choice. Freddy retreated to his bedroom and closed the door, stripping himself naked as he dove under his covers, still shaking from the boldness of his words. Larry would either get up and follow him. Or he wouldn't. It was out of Freddy's hands.

TBC

(This chapter is rated NC-17 for sexual content.)

Rufus had pissed off for a late lunch, leaving Freddy alone to mill around behind the cash register, staring vacantly at the television screen. He'd already flipped through all the new issues from their last shipment. One middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses and a dubious haircut was loitering in the back aisles, grabbing all the issues with big-titted heroines on the cover. Freddy had quickly determined that he was harmless and subsequently blocked out his existence, electing to watch music videos instead. He rolled his head lazily against his hand, elbow resting on the counter. His lids drooped, eyes glazing over. Too pop-heavy. Not enough hip-hop.

The shrill ring of the telephone catapulted him out of his stupor. He picked up, cradling the receiver between his jaw and shoulder.

"Rufus' Pound. This is Freddy, how may I help you?"

A warm, familiar laugh rumbled through the line.

"What the fuck kind of name for a store is that?" Larry asked, smile evident in his voice.

"It's a remarkably unwitty pun," Freddy huffed in agreement, face burning.

"Uh huh. I'd tell Rufus not to quit his day job, but..."

Freddy laughed in earnest and glanced over to the back of the store. The cave troll was still mingling. He turned around and gripped the receiver closer.

"Why are you calling me here, man? Is mom okay?"

"Olivia's fine. Still at work. I got the afternoon off and was thinking about going to a movie."

"What's that got to do with me?" Freddy's voice was defiant. He felt light-headed, torn between resentment and flattery.

"I thought I'd ask the resident geek what movie's worth my money."

Freddy's stomach dropped. He licked his lips and rocked against the counter. His brain caught up a minute later.

"Um, Raiders is out in limited re-release. If you haven't seen that, it's really good. Tron is more sci-fi, but the special effects are fucking awesome. Oh! The Wall just came out. I dunno if you like Pink Floyd, but I heard it's pretty trippy..."

"Hmmm. I dunno if any of that is really down my alley, kid."

"Why don't you go buy something new on video?" Freddy asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the customer. The guy hadn't moved.

"It's just not the same to watch it alone. At least a theatre is kinda communal, you know?"

Larry trailed off. Freddy fidgeted and stared down at the carpet. He heard the contained exhale on the other end of the line and it all clicked into place.

"You're not calling me to get movie advice, are you?" he asked, voice low.

"You got me, kid."

"What are you wearing?"

The second he said it, Freddy's entire body burned hot in embarrassment and arousal. It was so cliche he felt like banging his head against the counter. The other end was static. Larry had probably hung up on him.

"Jeans, a polo shirt," came the husky reply.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Freddy had just initiated phone sex at his place of employment. With his mother's boyfriend. He felt suddenly giddy and struggled to tamp down a fit of giggles.

He threw his bag over near the couch and dropped to his knees, not even bothering to take his sneakers off. Larry almost jumped back as he walked through the door, but Freddy's hands gripped his hips tight, stopping him.

"Jesus, kid..."

"Close it," Freddy ordered, nuzzling the bulge of Larry's erection. He didn't have to ask twice.

His hands fumbled to open Larry's fly. In one quick yank, he pulled both his jeans and underwear down so they rested mid-thigh. Larry's cock was just as impressive as he remembered, even more so now that he could study it in the light of day. He gripped tight against Larry's balls and brought his face close, taking in the heavy, masculine scent. One long, slow lick up the underside and Larry leaned forward and dropped a wide palm on top of his head. Not gripping or forceful, just steadying.

Freddy loved it. He reached the tip of Larry's cock and held the head between his lips, sucking gently, teasing. Precum leaked out and he swallowed it down, moaning, staring up at Larry through heavy lids.

"You gorgeous little cocksucker," Larry hissed, combing his fingers through loose wisps of hair.

Slowly, inch by inch, Freddy eased his mouth down, willing his throat not to constrict. His eyes watered; tongue pressed flat, lips stretched wide to accommodate the thickness of it. He huffed in air through his nose and kept going, careful not to graze Larry with his teeth. When Freddy finally felt the tickle of pubic hair against his chin he wanted to cry out in victory. Instead, he just pulled back all the way to the tip and did it again, but faster. He almost gagged but covered it up by hollowing his cheeks and sucking as hard as he could.

"Oh, fuck!"

Larry jerked forward and suddenly climaxed. His semen was slightly bitter, a bit salty. Freddy thought it didn't taste much different than his own as he swallowed it down. Sitting back on his haunches, he looked up and held Larry's shell-shocked gaze.

"What next?"

"Christ, give me a minute, will you?" Larry laughed and reached down to pull up his jeans.

"Don't do that," Freddy stopped him, "we should be getting more naked."

"Listen, kid, it's gonna take me a little while..."

"That's okay. I just wanna see you. Touch you and stuff."

Freddy blushed and stared down floor, suddenly feeling much younger than he was. He heard a soft sigh as Larry's fingers brushed his bangs out of his eyes.

"Okay. Where would you be comfortable?"

"The couch is good," Freddy looked over at the living room, "you wanna just put on a movie or something and relax?"

"Sounds great."

Freddy grabbed The Thing from its box and let it load in the machine. He turned down the volume on the television so it wouldn't be too intrusive. Larry was standing awkwardly in front of the couch when he turned around. His jeans were still unzipped and he'd taken his shirt off. His chest was broad and smooth, framed by powerful arms and shoulders. The griffin tattoo stood in stark contrast against his pectoral muscle; a jade dragon coiled over his shoulder. He was thick through the middle, like a bare-knuckle bruiser. Freddy thought he was in heaven.

A few short steps and Freddy stood in front of him, reaching out tentative hand to trail the lines of the griffin. The flesh there tightened into goose bumps. Freddy leaned forward and sucked a nipple into his mouth, laving it gently.

"You're going to be the death of me," Larry breathed, hands reaching under the hem of Freddy's teeshirt.

He only had to tug once for Freddy to reluctantly pull away. It came off easy, up and over. Larry tossed it into the corner. They were the same height, but their bodies couldn't be more different. Where Larry's muscles were filled out with just a little extra weight, Freddy's were corded and defined. He was all sinew and angles; strong shoulders tapering into a slim waist. His skin was pale, dusted by the lightest smattering of freckles. He hunched forward under Larry's silent scrutiny, suddenly self-conscious.

(Author's note: this part is rated NC-17 for sex.)


It was approaching the end of August. Freddy's math course was ratcheting up its intensity before the final exam. When he wasn't at work he was studying. Larry's schedule was seemingly as flexible as ever; he'd come over whenever whimsey struck him, often bringing food when Freddy's mom was working late.

Larry was respectful of his busy itinerary. He hadn't brought up the subject of sex once since their incredible - but ultimately failed - encounter on the couch. They would exchange soft touches and long, hungry kisses in the hallway or against the kitchen counter, but nothing more. At night, Freddy frantically jerked himself off to the memory of Larry's mouth on him, his cock inside him... but he was being pulled in so many directions that he could hardly think, and he didn't want to make a mistake that could end up being permanent. So, he contented himself with their relatively chaste demonstrations of affection.

Even when she was home, his mom rarely took a moment to breathe. She loved being busy, loved seeing the product of her tireless labor. He and Larry did the laundry, dishes, or the odd fix-it job, but she insisted on cooking. She was a putterer; it was an achievement when she sat through an entire film without getting up to get them a snack, or wipe down the counter, or re-adjust the items on their book shelf. It drove Freddy crazy, but he was too steeped in his own guilt to say anything.

The night before his exam, she somehow found the time to patiently quiz him with flashcards at the kitchen table. Larry courteously left them alone, exiling himself to the back porch with a bottle of beer and a pack of cigarettes. That night, Freddy was too exhausted to feel any anxiety. He slept like the dead.

~*~

"Mom? Larry?"

Freddy quietly closed the front door behind him and ventured inside. Excitement coursed through him; he kicked off his shoes and sat down on the couch. The house was unusually quiet. The disappointment was disarming; he'd wanted to tell them so badly. He heard the back door open and bolted upright.

"You guys here?"

"Just me, kid."

Larry was wearing a white cotton teeshirt, transparent with sweat. It clung to his chest, betraying every angle of him. Freddy struggled to remember the words that had just been on the tip of his tongue.

"Uh, I just wanted to let you both know that I passed."

The authenticity of Larry's joy was disarming. He strode forward and encircled Freddy with his bare arms. He smelled like freshly mowed grass, earth, and musk. Freddy buried his face against the slick curve of his neck.

"I got a B," he laughed, still incredulous over the grade. He'd never expected to do that well.

"You're done," Larry's voice rumbled against him, "you did it."

"Where's my mom?"

The intent behind his question was obvious. Larry stared at him, searching.

"Where do you think?"

"Fuck me," Freddy breathed. His muscles were taut with anticipation. Larry moaned quietly, leaning forward.

"You sure? I need you to be a hundred percent on this."

"I think I've more than fucking earned it."

The world shifted on its side and Freddy struggled to re-orient himself. He was staring at the carpet, Larry's shoulder digging into his stomach, a steady grip on the back of his thighs keeping him in place. Clinically, he'd known how strong Larry was, but somehow, experiencing the reality of it was infinitely more arousing.

"Holy shit."

Larry kept quiet and walked with purpose, mindful of Freddy's head as he turned from the hallway into his bedroom. He shifted his weight, pivoting smoothly with one hip, and tossed Freddy onto the bed.

"Get undressed."

When he walked out of Rufus', he was surprised to see his mom parked in their robin's egg blue Pontiac Phoenix out front. It had been a while since she'd had the time to pick him up from work, let alone be aware of his schedule. He opened the passenger door and got inside.

"What're you doing here?"

"I feel like I haven't talked to you in a while," she answered, face tired but hopeful.

He looked at her hard, for the first time in what seemed like forever. Her hair was limp, pulled up into a roughshod ponytail. She wasn't wearing any makeup; she hardly ever had to. Her complexion had always been peaches and cream, but now she had the beginnings crows-feet at the corners of her eyes that she didn't even try to hide. He respected her for it. He thought it made her look regal and experienced.

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

"Do you like Larry?"

"What?" Freddy answered, heart lodged in his throat.

"I mean, would you get upset if I asked him to move in with us?"

Freddy felt like throwing up. He rolled down the window and let the wind batter his face.

"Do you think he would? I mean, he's over at our house so often, what's the difference?"

"I don't know," she sighed, turning the steering wheel.

"Do you love him?"

Freddy agonized quietly as he waited for her answer. She pursed her lips and resolutely stared at the road in front of her.

"We both know you've been hard on my choices in the past. I used to get angry at you for it, but now that there's some time between me and those relationships I can see where you were coming from."

"You don't need a man to make you whole or any shit like that."

"I know," she responded, exhaling, "I just get lonely sometimes and we can't be all there is for each other."

A sudden, sick realization bloomed and tore into Freddy's stomach.

"Don't rush into anything because I'm graduating! Does it look like I'm itching to move out?"

"You can't live with me forever."

"If you're gonna ask someone to move in with you it has to be for the right reasons,"

Freddy paused for a minute, choosing his words carefully, and continued.

"I like him just fine. He treats us well. That's all I'm going to say on the subject; the rest has got to be up to you."

She nodded and patted his knee.

"You've got a good head on your shoulders, kiddo."

"I don't know about that," Freddy mumbled, leaning his head against the window frame.

They drove in silence as she chewed her lip in contemplation.

He woke up early, feeling like shit. His sleep had been restless; he'd awoken multiple times from half-remembered dreams, damp with sweat. With a groan, Freddy leaned over his bed and fished around on the floor until he found his sweat pants. He listened closely, making sure his mom and Larry were still sound asleep, then grabbed his walkman from the top of his dresser and snuck into the hallway.

There were only a handful of meals that Freddy knew how to cook with any skill. His plan was simplistic and somewhat pathetic, but it was the only way to extend an olive branch that he could think of... at least without having to say "I'm sorry" out loud.

Freddy had the ingredients and all their measurements memorized. He quietly arranged them on the counter and grabbed the mixing bowl. His walkman was hooked to the elastic on his sweats, pulling them low on his hips. He put the earphones on and pressed play. The familiar chords of Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force pulsed through him. His hips swayed softly with the rhythm as he stirred the batter.

He was about to switch the skillet on when something moved in his peripheral vision. Freddy froze and glanced over his shoulder.

Larry stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hair tousled from sleep, clad in nothing but a pair of white boxers. Disappointed that the surprise was ruined, Freddy opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Larry quickly strode towards him, eyes blown black.
The kiss engulfed him as his back was pressed hard against the counter. Larry pulled his headphones free, then reached for his sweats, tugging them down to his knees. Freddy gasped, panicking, and squirmed against him.

"Are you crazy? She could come out here any second!" he hissed, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.

"She's out cold," Larry whispered against his ear, palm turning his jaw, "I need you."

The reality of the situation hit Freddy full-force and he struggled to suppress a moan. Strong hands gripped his hips and yanked him around to face the counter; he automatically spread his arms wide to balance himself, then rested his forehead on the cabinet for support as Larry knocked his legs apart, fast and jarring. It was either Larry's rough urgency or the very real chance of them being caught, but Freddy was almost out of his mind with arousal.

"Spit or oil?"

The timbre of Larry's voice went straight to his cock and Freddy had to blink three times before he could manage a response.

"Oil. Over there on the counter. Hurry."

He heard the sound of the cap being twisted off and began to gyrate his ass in anticipation. Larry groaned low and smoothed a palm over the curve of one cheek, a brief moment of tenderness before twisting two fingers inside him. With a sharp, shuddering inhale Freddy pushed back, forcing him even deeper. He couldn't get enough.

"Do it," he pleaded, barely audible.

Larry clamped a warm hand over his mouth just as he pushed in and Freddy thought the floor had collapsed beneath him. His whimpers were muffled against Larry's meaty fingers as quick, shallow thrusts slammed him against the countertop. He gripped the formica and strained to lessen noise of the impact.

There was no finesse too it. He arched his spine and moved his legs further apart, giving better access. Larry tightened his grip over his mouth, forcing his head back. His other hand worked Freddy's cock. They rutted fast and desperate, knocking the flour on its side, a cloud of it settling over Freddy's outstretched arms. Larry ignored it and kept at him like a battering ram.

His orgasm was sudden and brutal; starting low in his gut, burning outwards, his entire body twisting. He whined deep and long into the flesh covering his lips, then fell forward, barely holding himself upright. Larry followed right after, grunting low with each of slap of his pelvis against Freddy's haunches.

The kitchen seemed eerily silent as they recovered and quickly cleaned up. Freddy was too terrified of being caught to feel embarrassed about wiping the come from his ass with a wad of paper towel. He couldn't quite believe what they'd done, or that they'd actually gotten away with it. His head buzzed like he was high. He had to work to suppress a giggle.

The bizarre encounter with the black Cadillac made Freddy recall the heated discussion he'd had with Larry about a career in law-enforcement. Considering that he had all the necessary credits to pursue enrollment in a post-secondary institution like a technical college, he couldn't help but revisit the possibility of joining the Academy as well. There was nothing rushing him into the decision except for the knowledge that even though he worked as many hours as he could squeeze out of Rufus, he was still a financial burden on his mom. He did his research quietly and in isolation; the decision that he finally came to was going to be his alone.

He spent his evenings sequestered his room, scouring brochures and publications, so he initially didn't notice Larry's absence. One night, about four days after his experience with the concealed vehicle, he wandered out into the kitchen and was struck by the house's eerie silence. After checking every room, he made his way onto the back porch, where he found his mother sitting alone. She was smoking a cigarette and staring up at the constellations, tear tracks dried on her cheeks. His stomach lurched.

"Ma, are you okay?" he asked gently.

Her blue eyes were piercing even in the dark. He swallowed hard and sat down next to her. She offered a sip of her beer, but he declined.

"It's nothing you have to worry about."

He gestured for her cigarette and she handed it over. The smoke filled his lungs and he automatically relaxed.

"I haven't seen Larry the last few nights..."

"He's been here, in and out."

"Everything okay between you two?" he asked, dreading the answer.

She nodded and took a deep pull on her cigarette, its billowing smoke a striking contrast against the night sky.

"He's been distracted lately. Impatient. I asked him something and he turned into a brick wall on me. Walked right out of the house and didn't even say a word."

"What'd you ask?" Freddy pressed, clutching his knees to his chest.

She rubbed a hand across her face and bit her lip, then knocked the ash of her cigarette into her empty beer bottle.

"Something to do with work."

It took Freddy only a moment to make the connection.

"How does Gus fit into this, ma?"

The tears welled in her eyes and she furiously blinked them away, rubbing her face against her sleeve.

"He asked me to confirm that Larry had been here with us on certain dates."

"How specific was he?"

"Specific," she whispered, looking away.

Freddy felt a chill deep in his bones. The wind picked up and he pulled his sweatshirt tighter around him. He was at a temporary loss for words.

"Larry's a good guy, ma."

"I know."

A young mother knelt on the sidewalk, all warmth and hushed tones, arms wrapped around her little boy. He was pointing at the storefront, hysterical, as she gently tried to usher him away. Freddy barely halted in time to avoid them and glanced up just as Larry got into the passenger-side of a vintage Mercedes parked about 15 feet away. His eyes slid over to the driver; ill-fitting suit, bad comb-over. It was Gus.

Larry had lied to him, either to protect Gus or to absolve him of any guilt. Then the realization hit; Gus only would have told Larry about his involvement if it had been absolutely necessary. The situation must have escalated.

The two men were turned away from him, completely unaware that they were being watched. He could make out their profiles as they argued with increasing intensity. Gus gestured forcefully and Larry exploded, face red and contorted in rage. He slammed his fists against the dashboard repeatedly until there was no fight left in him, then cradled his head in his folded arms, shaking. Freddy stepped back, terrified.

Gradually, Larry looked up and began speaking to Gus again. Freddy could just make out the side of his face. It was slick with tears. He'd seen Larry upset, irritated, melancholy... but he'd never actually seen him cry. The image was so disturbing that it made him light-headed.

The argument had ceased. Larry slumped against his window, utterly defeated. As Gus slowly pulled away from the curb, Freddy realized with a morbid finality that he'd never see Larry again. His knees weakened and his vision blurred, but he forced himself to sprint across the concrete.

He wasn't fast enough.

~*~

She couldn't help but blame herself. Olivia wiped the tears from her eyes and took a tentative sip of her wine, barely registering the taste. Freddy had been locked in his room for almost two days, disturbingly silent. Rufus had called when he missed a shift, and the lie had fallen easily from her lips: her poor kid was as sick as a dog, so sorry she hadn't had the chance to call and let him know, but she had more important things on her plate.

Cradling her face against her hand, she thought back to the moment she'd first met Larry. He'd been pacing in the lobby of Gus' office, broad chest filling out a striped button-down. She'd almost stopped breathing when he'd made eye contact and grinned, all dimples and mischief. Back then, if she'd really listened to her gut instinct, she could have predicted the outcome of things. It went against her nature to judge people based on generalizations, but in this case it probably would have saved her a load of heartache. Because really, why else would he have been there in the first place?

She didn't ask how Freddy knew that Larry wasn't coming back. What killed her more than anything was how close they'd been; the two of them had clicked in a way that she'd never seen with any of her other boyfriends. In spite of everything, she would always believe that at his core, Larry was a good man, and he would have made an excellent surrogate father. At least Freddy was older now. He could handle losing another paternal figure.