With A Twist (Grim and Sinister Delights Book 2), page 1
With A Twist
Sinister Delights
Kate Sherwood
Copyright © 2020 by Kate Sherwood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Thank you
Warning
These books are for adult readers who enjoy stories where the lines between right and wrong are blurred. High heat, twisted and tantalizing, these are not for the faint of heart.
Oliver Twist has been taking care of himself for years, ever since he ran away from his last foster home.
Life isn’t great, but at least Fagin makes sure Oliver’s clients pay him what he’s worth. And a night with Oliver is worth quite a lot.
John Brownlow has been searching for Oliver for years. He needs to be sure his old friend’s son is being taken care of, but that’s not all he wants. Oliver has inherited his father’s gift for manipulating energy, a skill that makes him as powerful as he is attractive.
Forced together to fight Monks, a government agent with similar powers, Oliver and John go on the run. If they want to survive, they have to fight back, and that means they need to stop fighting each other. Trusting each other may be the hardest battle of all.
Chapter One
The house was all concrete and glass. Cold. Hard. Unforgiving. In the daytime, Oliver knew from experience, it was at least bright, with natural light streaming in through every window. At night, though?
Oliver gave himself the luxury of a deep, steadying breath before ringing the doorbell. At night, the house added ‘dark’ to all its other unpleasant descriptors. It was strange how a building with so much glass could somehow still feel like a cave. A dungeon. Whoever had bought this place for Fagin had clearly had its end use in mind.
The door was made of frosted glass, so Oliver could see a shape approaching from the far end of the hall but couldn’t make out any details. Tallish. Light-coloured clothes. A pause at the door, as if the person on the other side was taking his own steadying breath—or an anticipatory one. Then the door opened, and there really weren’t many new details to absorb. White guy, maybe mid-thirties, in faded jeans and a white dress shirt. Lean, but not skinny. Beige. That was the overall impression. Not in the details, necessarily, but the vibe? Oliver and his friend Dodger used imaginary aura tints to classify people, and there was no doubt where this guy belonged. Beige. The most boring of all colours.
“Noah?” Mr. Beige asked.
Oliver nodded and gave his shy Noah-smile. “John?”
“That’s right.”
The name was appropriate, given the reason they were meeting. And it was interesting to see that Beige John was nervous. Fagin had said Oliver was going to have to be gentle with this one. Patient. He’d scowled at Oliver when he’d said that. “You hear me? Gentle and patient. He asked for you special, based on your looks, so I’m sending you, but this guy does not need any of your shit. Behave yourself or there will be consequences. Understood?”
Oliver had just rolled his eyes. Back when this had all started he’d been terrified of Fagin, but that was long past.
Now? Oliver smiled again, and said, “John,” as if the name was special. He wasn’t worried about Fagin’s ‘consequences’, but he was a professional. If this guy needed gentle and patient, Oliver would give it to him. “Should I come in?”
“Oh, of course. Sorry.”
John backed out of the way and Oliver stepped into the foyer, brushing a little closer than was strictly necessary. Expensive cologne. Soft, thick cotton shirt. Sometimes clients scrimped and saved for years in order to treat themselves to a night with someone like Oliver, in a house like this one, but that wasn’t the case here. Oliver’s nose was well-tuned to sniffing money, and he could absolutely smell it on this guy. So that was nice. A little less pressure for everyone involved.
“Can I get you something to drink?” John asked.
Ah. So it was going to be one of those. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
“Bailey’s and cranberry juice?” John said. “You’re sure?”
It was surprising enough—disgusting enough—that Oliver turned to look at John. That was a mistake. The raised eyebrow, the twinkle in the man’s eye? Oliver didn’t need to see that. He didn’t need to start liking a client.
John smiled. Joke issued, received, left behind. “I’ve got a bottle of red open. Sound okay?”
“Sure.” Oliver let John lead him into the vast kitchen, where stainless steel took dominance over the concrete and glass. Oliver had been in this house many times before, but Noah? Noah was new here, and needed to be shown around. “Nice place.”
John turned away from the wine bottle and made a face. “You think so? It’s not really my style.”
“But you chose it?”
“Not the place.” John splashed some wine into one of the oversized glasses. “I mean, not based on the architecture. Or interior design. Honestly, I’m not sure which design professional is to blame for what’s going on here. But, no, I didn’t choose the house, as such.”
Of course he hadn’t. Sometimes clients wanted to pretend they were the real owners—the ones who’d been saving for years were also the ones who wanted the most desperately to seem rich—but John wasn’t playing that game. “You chose me?” Oliver asked. Honored, naturally, but too shy to believe it.
John turned, two glasses in his hands, and extended one to Oliver. He was watching. Appraising. Possibly not quite as naïve as he’d seemed. Oliver would have to be sure he didn’t overdo his own innocent act.
John didn’t call him on it this time. Instead he said, “Yes. I chose you.”
Oliver smiled. Flattered and pleased. Noah loved his work, wanted to be good at it, wanted to make his clients happy. Oliver might not give a fuck, but Noah absolutely did. Noah liked to pretend he was on dates. Nothing transactional, not in Noah’s deluded little mind. He was meeting a new person, a new friend, and if that new friend happened to want to do dirty, depraved things with Noah’s body? Well. Noah was surprised, of course, but he was also generous. He’d do whatever it took to make his new friend happy.
Noah was an idiot, but he made good money.
“How old are you?” John asked, a little suddenly. “Sorry if that’s too personal—I’m not sure exactly what the rules are, here. But—how old are you?”
There were lies for this, of course. Times when clients wanted someone younger. Rare occasions when they seemed to want someone older. But this time? The truth seemed like a reasonable option. “Twenty. Just had a birthday last week.”
“Happy birthday.” John sipped his wine. “You look younger.”
Dressed as Noah? Torn skinny jeans with a floral print shirt under an oversized cardigan. Tousled dark hair and honest-to-god pink gloss on his lips? Yeah, he looked younger. He looked like he’d been rejected from a K-Pop boyband for having the right aesthetic but just being too damn white, that’s what he looked like. He shook his head and looked up through his bangs. “No. I’m twenty.”
“And this line of work. You’ve been doing it for a while?”
Yeah, Oliver had. But Noah? “I started a few months ago. I did a couple years of college, but it wasn’t for me. I just couldn’t find anything I was interested in.” Another shy smile, but this one with a hint—just a hint, just something Noah-sized—of naughtiness. “Turns out what I’m mostly interested in? Well. The same thing most guys my age are mostly interested in.”
John nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer. Noah wasn’t forced into the sex trade because of any trauma; he was just a horny kid who’d found a way to turn his passion into a career. A success story, really.
“How about you?” Oliver asked. Time to get this show on the road. He was scheduled for the whole night, but sometimes clients would dismiss him early if they were satisfied. Dodger had the night off and the two of them had about seven shows cued up to watch on Netflix. If Oliver could get this over with…. “What are you looking for?”
John took another sip of wine. “I—I think I need to tell you a bit. Give you some background. Is that okay?”
Oliver’s sigh was internal; Noah’s smile was welcoming and intrigued. “Of course.”
John took another sip, then looked at the glass, gulped what was left in two big swallows, and reached for the bottle. He poured, then gave Oliver a sheepish look. “Sorry if I’m being dramatic. I’m not quite sure how to say what I need to say.”
“You want me nak ed?” Oliver asked. He saw John’s shocked expression, remembered Fagin’s warnings, and thought that Noah probably wouldn’t have asked that question, or at least not quite that way. Well, fuck it, the words were out. He’d just have to see where things went. “It might make you more comfortable. You know—trading vulnerabilities, or something. And it’s fine with me. I’m not a huge fan of clothes, in general.”
“Uh….” John frowned like he was genuinely considering the option. “Shirt off, maybe?”
Oliver carefully set his wine glass on the counter, then shrugged his cardigan off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor. Then he reached over his head, grabbed the back of his shirt, and pulled. One easy move and it joined the cardigan. He took a quick mental note of the location so he wouldn’t have to scramble all over the house searching for his clothes when it was time for his getaway.
John was staring at Oliver’s chest like it was the most erotic thing ever, which was kind of flattering, but also kind of weird. Oliver exercised and watched what he ate, but he wasn’t a bodybuilder or anything. His torso was good, but not remarkable.
But John had an imagination. John knew he was going to be able to touch all that skin, could touch it any time he wanted, could do practically anything to it. It wasn’t the chest itself that had distracted the man; it was the promise of more.
Just for fun, Oliver ran his open hand over his chest, hovered briefly over his nipple, and then trailed down past his belly button to the waistband of his jeans. “More?” he asked. Yeah, he could get things moving, get this all over with.
But John pulled himself together. “I—no. Not yet.” He shook his head. “Obviously my brain doesn’t work too well with even this much skin, and I really do want to be sure we’re on the same page before we get started.”
Damn. Oliver needed to slow down, because apparently it wasn’t just Noah who wanted to pretend this was a date. Was John going to pull out one of those lists of all sorts of weird sex stuff and see what Noah was into? Did he not understand that this was about getting paid, not getting off?
“Do you ever feel as if you’re two different people?” John asked. “Like there are elements at work within you that you don’t totally control?” There was something in his tone that made Oliver think he needed to be paying attention. Was this about pretending to be Noah? No, not quite. But John was getting at something.
Oliver shrugged noncommittally. That seemed safest. “I have moods, for sure. Is that what you mean?”
John shook his head. “More than that.”
“Like a split personality?”
A shrug. “Less than that.”
God. Couldn’t they just fuck and get on with their lives? But Noah wouldn’t think that way. Noah would be intrigued. So Oliver smiled and said, “I’m not sure. Do you feel as if you’re two different people?” And is one of them a bit less annoying?
John sipped his wine. “Sometimes. There’s the person I’m supposed to be—the one everyone expects me to be.” He waved a hand down at himself as if to demonstrate his conformity to social norms. “But I have other—interests. Proclivities. Abilities. They aren’t socially accepted, of course.”
“That must be difficult for you,” Oliver said in Noah-voice, soft and sympathetic.
“It can be.”
Something there, something Oliver should be paying attention to, but he was getting too impatient to care. “So now you’re interested in exploring your other interests, with me.”
“I believe you may be the right person, yes. But I want to be sure. And I don’t have much time. Only tonight. It would be better, of course, if I—we—could take our time, but unfortunately that’s not possible.”
Because he had a wife or a husband or something he was hiding all this from. Great. Of course, Noah knew that everyone has to make compromises. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do, entirely. But we have to proceed anyway. And I don’t want to force you into anything. I want to be sure you’re open to all this.”
“You sound like you’re being really responsible.” Really beige.
“I—yes. I try to be. That’s important to me.”
“I appreciate it,” Oliver lied. “But, really, I’m pretty open. You’ll have heard the terms when you made the appointment and that’s all fine with me. Really. I’m good with it.”
“I’ve heard the terms from your—handler. But I haven’t heard them from you.” John frowned. “I’ve read studies about sex work. I know there are different reasons people get involved in this. Different levels of consent, from almost none to enthusiastic participation. Is that accurate? And would you say you’re at the enthusiastic end of the scale, or somewhere else along it?”
Oliver told himself to think of it as part of the fetish. This wasn’t just about some BDSM bullshit, it was also about this consent-kink. Whatever. He dragged up Noah and said, “Absolutely. I—I find it all intriguing, to be honest. Voyage of self-discovery, when done properly.”
John nodded. Worldview confirmed. All people are good and sensitive and deserving of respect and all relationships are best negotiated through reason and dialogue. Too bad Noah wasn’t real, because he and this chump would have made a great couple. Then John said, “I’m going to make you afraid of me.”
Well. Okay, Noah wasn’t crazy about that, but Oliver widened his eyes appropriately.
“No,” John said. He set his wine glass down and stepped closer. “I don’t want you to pretend to be afraid. I need you to truly feel fear. I—I plan to make that happen. I don’t want safe words or pre-established limits or a fucking list of acceptable kinks. None of that.”
This was not beige.
Oliver let go of Noah, at least for the moment. He let real Oliver come out with a raised eyebrow and the casual words, “Don’t you think you’ve made that kind of difficult? With all this consent bullshit? I mean, how am I supposed to be really scared of you now, after—”
John was so close Oliver didn’t see the entire motion. He just heard a smash, felt liquid splash against the bare skin of his belly, and then he was being shoved until his back hit the cold concrete wall. John’s forearm was tight against Oliver’s throat and then John raised his other hand and let Oliver see the stem of the wine glass, the glass he’d smashed against the counter to send red wine splashing like blood. John raised the jagged stem in front of Oliver’s eyes, then brought it in closer, let the sharp tip of it rest against Oliver’s cheek, cold and burning all at the same time. “I think I can make you afraid,” he said. “But I want to hear you consent. No safewords, no boundaries. And fear. That’s what I want.”
Oliver could say no. There had been a time, back when he’d been a kid, when he’d been powerless and meek, lost and bewildered in the harsh, strange world he’d been thrust into. But that was long ago, and he was a different person, now. He could walk away from all this, no consequences beyond an unpaid night and some bitching from Fagin. He could walk, and he damn well should walk. This wasn’t friendliness; this wasn’t what Noah expected.
When he answered, then, he didn’t have Noah to hide behind. When he answered, it was Oliver’s voice that said, “I consent.” And that meant it was Oliver who would have to take the consequences.
As soon as the words were past Oliver’s lips, John stepped away. He let his arm fall from Oliver’s throat, and set the remains of the wine glass carefully on the kitchen counter.
Was this what John had meant by having two parts to himself? But he’d said it fell short of a split personality, hadn’t he? Then John said, “Clean this up,” and there was a growl in his voice that made it clear he hadn’t shifted entirely back to beige.
The cleaning? Well, Oliver did it. He wasn’t a big fan of humiliation or submission, but he was getting paid, and he was absolutely a fan of avoiding red wine stains on Fagin’s precious stone tiles. So he picked up the bits of glass, wiped down the counter, the floor, and his own body with paper towels, then looked at John. There was a splash of red right across that expensive white shirt.
