Candy Boys (Hot Candy 1)

“Distracted?” I mutter.

But she’s already dragging Jet to my car and pushing him inside. She’s talking to him about… Harry Potter?

Huh.

He’s smiling again, though, that secret, real smile, and I shake my head as I settle behind the wheel. Chattering away like kids. About a children’s book. With wizards and shit.

Something Jet has never done, from what little he’s let slip about his past. Something he’d never allow himself to do a few weeks ago.

Lower his defenses. Allow himself to play. Let himself be young for a change. He sometimes feels so much older than his twenty-one years.

Of course, the thought of him playing brings back the memory of him fucking himself with the vibrator, and I hiss as my dick hardens.

Boundaries, right? Context? Clarity?

Yeah, whatever, man. I don’t know which way is up and which down anymore, and that’s the goddamn truth.

***

Jet is quiet as we ride the elevator upstairs and enter our apartment. I want to ask what he’s doing with Candy late at the shop every day, reading Harry Potter of all things, but his silence puts me on edge, and I just flop on my bed, closing my eyes for a bit.

I’m tired. Can’t settle on a single thought. And I’m still hard, dammit. Resting my eyes for a minute sounds like a good idea. Then I’ll see if we can order some takeout and…

Sleep drags me under, even as I struggle to fight it. Darkness presses, heavy, on me and I sink through the mattress, sucked out into the void.

Arms close around me, sending me into a spiral across empty space. It’s warm, though, and the arms make me feel safe.

The darkness clears, and I’m standing in a room with plush furnishings. Velvet sofas and tasseled lamps, lit candles set on the low tables, like a turn of the century brothel, all done in red and gold.

Jet is there. He’s sprawled on one of the sofas, naked, a muscular leg carelessly thrown over an armrest.

Stroking himself. His eyes are closed, he hasn’t seen me, but he’s whispering something. I can see his lips moving.

A hot surge of arousal has my dick hardening. I grip it as I watch him. He’s beautiful, lean and strong, his dark hair in messy spikes, his thick cock in his hand.

I reach down for my hard-on and am not surprised to find I’m naked, too. Gripping my dick feels good. Watching him jack off feels good.

I take a step forward, to see him better, to sit down with him, when space shifts. The darkness rolls as if someone is shaking a dark snow globe and all the black glitter is swirling around us.

Jet’s no longer naked. He’s lying on the sofa, his eyes wide, blood spattered over his face and neck.

“Jet!” My heart is pounding so hard against my ribs. Icy fear closes around my spine. “What happened, man? Oh fuck, Jet…” He looks too young and terrified now. He wipes his hands on his T-shirt, and for some reason it’s not black this time, it’s white, and the crimson streaks he leaves behind twist my stomach. “What the hell happened?”

“Is he dead?” he whispers, and bloody tears slip from his closed eyes, tracking down his cheeks. “Is he dead now?”

“Who, Jet? Who is dead?”

But he won’t say anything else, even when I’m yelling at him to tell me, even as the blood rises around us, drowning us in the past.

***

“J, wake up. Come on, mate. I’m fine. Right here.” A hand shaking me. “You’re not supposed to have nightmares, all right? Don’t fucking do this. Dunno how to deal with this shit.”

“Mmf.” I blink, confused. I’m still seeing a room bathed in candlelight, red velvet sofas and Jet… Jet covered in blood. “Fuck!”

I sit up so fast the room spins. Jet is sitting on my bed, and I make a grab for him before he flees. His face is pale, his eyes wide like in the dream.

“What were you dreaming of?” he whispers. “You were talking in your sleep.”