The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 3 By Ocean Lover Guy
"Get the fuck away from me," Tim said as he kicked out his foot in the kitchen of the writer's house. "Fucking pervert."
The kick knocked Trance's breath from him. He fell down and stayed down on the stone floor.
Tim looked down at what he was wearing. He was stuck here, really, and without warm clothes. His cell phone was locked in the bastard's car -- he'd probably intended that as an insurance policy. Tim decided to walk back to the pool house and start opening clothes bags until he found a phone and some warmer clothes. He had his license, so maybe if he found some keys he'd borrow one of the cars and get himself the hell out of this place. He'd never seen anything like it.
He should have known when he drug out the mats. He should have known what they were for. They had a lot of them here, like it was a regular thing to do in the pool house.
Tim felt dirty. He wanted a shower as soon as he got back to his parents' place. He moved toward the door when he felt Trance grab his ankle.
"We're not done yet, lifeguard. I'll have my money's worth."
Trance yanked hard on Tim's ankle. Tim lost his balance and came crashing to the floor. Trance was on top of the kid in a second. It only took two punches before Tim lost consciousness.
Preston put the last box in his car. He pulled the diseased keys off the key ring and threw them on the ground. He was thoroughly done with the place.
He needed to get out of this place before the kid woke up. When he'd gone down like that, Preston had freaked. The fact that the kid stopped moving and kept bleeding sent Preston out of the house triple fast. His ever-hard dick wouldn't be rising to the occasion anytime soon. Fear did a great job diluting excess lust.
Bert's plane would be landing in half an hour. Without his customary pickup, he'd waste a lot of time figuring out what to do. Preston took out the cell phone Bert had given him, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it.
By the time Bert got here and saw what had happened, Preston would be in another state. He had his whole life ahead of him.
Herbert Tate was pissed. His soon-to-be-ex-assistant wasn't answering his phone and it had taken half an hour to find a cab in the busy regional airport. Herbert hated traveling with a passion, as he got air sickness more often than not, so this was the last straw. The kid had inserted himself into Bert's bed more times than he cared to admit, but he was unreliable and an asshole most of the time. Talent wasn't enough in this business; you had to be a good person, too.
When the taxi made the final turn, Herbert told the driver to stop. There were easily twenty cars parked in front of his poolhouse. Herbert paid the fare and absently gave the man an excessive tip.
"What the hell," he said. He was eyeing the cars perched on his grass and trying to figure out why they were there. In every writerly scenario that percolated up through his head, Herbert could only think of one name: Preston King.
"Kid threw another orgy and didn't clean up the mess this time." Herbert was definitely muttering to himself now. Preston had insisted on buying the mats; he'd insisted on having a key for the pool house even though he didn't swim. Herbert felt powerless around the kid after the he climbed off his well-fucked ass. That had been Preston's idea, too. Herbert loved the big guy's technique in bed, but the kid was an asshole.
Herbert pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the number for the sheriff's office. Living pretty far out in the styx was great, but it took a more proactive person to make sure everything stayed safe and normal. A few people had wandered onto Herbert's land in the past, some fans looking to meet the author, others perhaps with less flattering intentions. Herbert Tate made it a point to stay in the good graces of the local law enforcement community. He'd even put a brief literary portrait of one of the former sheriffs into his books.
"This is Bert Tate at the Tate Farm," he said into the phone. "I've had a break in at my place. And it looks like they're still here."
After going through some questions, the lady on the other end of the line instructed him to stay put. A deputy or two were on their way out to his place.
Herbert passed the time by walking over to the cabin that Preston had lived in for two years. The door was flapping in the wind. Herbert walked inside and saw it was a shambles, messy as all hell. But, all of Preston's things -- his clothes, his computer, and all his manuscript drafts -- were gone. The kid had left for good.
What a nice parting message. Herbert would have preferred a `Dear John' letter. What he saw around him was a kind of violation, all too personal and bent on cruelty.
Herbert suddenly felt older than his thirty-seven years. He felt like a dry, dead animal, a faggot without an ounce of vitality left. He'd been chasing the young, hung things and had now, finally, got his whiskers burned off from the excess heat.
This wasn't who Herbert was. He didn't have sex with his assistants. He didn't let people into his private life to ruin things. He was a widower of sorts and he should have let the memories of the past keep him satisfied. Henry James, the novelist, the screwiest man in Boston, never touched a single person in his life. But Herbert Tate wasn't Henry James and his cock would still light up when an appropriately tight ass made its presence known.
Herbert plunked his body down outside the cabin. He sat on the landscaping ties until the two cars pulled into his yard. His mind was a blank. The hatred and self-recrimination would wait until later. Herbert would remember all about his beloved, all about what his beloved would say if he were still around today.
"Thanks for coming out," Herbert said once the deputies had walked over to him. He guided them to the pool house. He poked his head inside and surveyed the scene. It looked like the aftermath of a cheesy porn video. Everyone inside was still naked. Most of them were still asleep and everyone looked crusty. It looked like a gay version of hell, something not even Hieronymus Bosch could have conceived for his "Last Judgment."
Herbert didn't stand around to see the deputies start waking everyone up. The two male deputies were either going to find the whole thing really embarrassing or titillating as hell. If Preston had organized this thing, most of the guys had been putting out for each other. The boy knew where all the talented players were.
Herbert walked up to his house to see what the damage there was. He expected that the place was as trashed as the pool house. Would the urchins be fucking on his white living room rug? Would they have mounted up on his granite countertops? How many would he find in his bed?
As he was walking to his house, Herbert decided he'd never hire another male assistant/researcher. He'd had good luck with all the post-college-age kids he'd had to do the job. He had let Paul pick out the best candidate back then. Paul had a better sense for people than Herbert ever had. The only thing Herbert had done right was not push Paul Brewster away when he attached himself like a limpet to his writing teacher in college, just before Herbert started to make some bucks with the schlock he was writing then.
The door to the house was not only unlocked, it was open in the breeze. Herbert's heart sank. This was his special place. It was built small, just for him and Paul. When he entertained, when his editor came to visit or his few remaining family members were here, all of that happened in a cabin or at the pool house. People weren't invited into his house very often. Herbert was beginning to wonder how he could manage to track Preston King down and repay him for all his tricks.
He pulled the door all the way open and poked his head inside. He expected to see piles of young flesh littered everywhere. He didn't see anything unusual. He walked into the house and started down the hallway. The bathrooms had no vomiting teenagers. His sanctum had no uninvited visitors. Preston had been in here, but probably just to tweak Herbert's anger. Preston himself had only been inside rarely and he'd worked for Herbert for two years.
Herbert walked back down the hall and turned into his kitchen. If Preston was in here, he came for the booze, then. Herbert wanted to see if he'd been cleaned out.
As his eyes grazed the floor, he let out a shout. There was a kid, lying in blood, on his floor. Herbert dropped to a knee in front of the kid. He reached out with his fingers and felt the kid's warm skin. His blood was circulating. The kid was breathing, but not moving or cognizant of the world around him.
Herbert stood up and ran outside his home. He kept up the pace, huffing most of the way, until he reached the pool house. A pile of the invaders were now up, moving around, scrambling to get some clothes on their naked bodies.
"An ambulance," Herbert blurted out. "Call an ambulance."
An incredulous deputy moved toward him and Herbert, still breathing hard, explained in a few phrases what was happening. The deputy reached for his radio, got the dispatcher to send out an ambulance and more deputies, and ran up to the house. Herbert trailed along behind him, falling further and further behind.
His mind was full now. Anger, confusion, fear. He saw the kid in his head. He saw Preston and all the naked people he'd corrupted last night. He saw a dead Paul lying in their bed, never ever to whisper again. He started shaking and wanted to vomit.
What the fuck had Preston done?
The Littlest Lifeguard -- Part 4 By Ocean Lover Guy
Tim Spencer's body felt the jab and he came to life quickly. "Wha..."
"You were attacked, kid. Don't move," a guy Tim couldn't see said to him. The pain moved further into his body. The longer Tim was awake, the more he began to feel the other pain radiating through his body. Why he was here -- or where -- he didn't know any of it.
"Where am I," Tim asked.
The question went unanswered.
Suddenly Tim's body began to shiver and the memories of the last night came back at him.
"Trance," he squeaked. "He's gone, right?"
Another voice, deeper this time, asked him about Trance. "Bleach blonde, 5'10", 170 lbs?"
"That's him," Tim moaned. "He did this."
"His name's Preston King, kid, and he's gone."
Tim's shivers started to abate and his breathing returned to normal. "Thanks."
Tim fell unconscious again and gave the paramedics a scare.
When Tim woke up next, his father was looking down at him from the side of the bed.
"Dad..."
"Tim, hold on." His father walked to the door of a strange room, an antiseptic-smelling one, and gestured with his fingers.
"You're in the hospital. Someone cracked your skull pretty good."
Tim started to cry. He could see the pain in his father's eyes. "Where's mom," he asked.
"I'm here," she said. She walked into the room. "When you weren't home this morning, I didn't know what to think. Then we got a call from the sheriff's office. God, Tim."
She was crying now.
"I'm sorry," Tim said. He felt dirty right now. He could see the tubes flowing into his body and wondered what the hell he was doing here.
"You're in the hospital," Tim's father said, "because the doctors thought you might have intracranial swelling. We couldn't keep you awake."
Tim blinked but didn't know what to say.
"What do you remember, Tim," his mother asked.
"I was at a house, to lifeguard, cash. The guy found me at the pool yesterday when he couldn't find his friend, another of the lifeguards there. He made a couple passes at me last night," Tim said, while his mother strangled a scream, "but then he really laid into me. I kicked him, I think, but he did me a lot worse."
"We didn't know where you were," his father said. "Did you tell anyone?"
"Yeah, I called Kyle."
"Did you tell him exactly where you were going? And who you were going with?"
Tim swallowed. His throat felt even drier in that moment. "No."
His father sighed. Tim knew his dad wanted to lecture. He wanted to beat safety into his head. `You're a little guy, Tim, a natural target. You've got to take extra precautions. You've got to be safe.' Tim saw that his dad would save those thoughts for later.
"We love you, Tim," his mother said.
Tim started crying again. "I love both of you," he said. "Did you tell Jessie or Ryan yet?"
His father shook his head. "Tell Ryan he can't come back from college just to see me."
"He already tried that," Tim's father said.
Tim laughed in between his tears. Hearing his older brother's name had driven home the point. Ryan had always been the protector in the family. Tim had only started getting tough in middle school after Ryan had put the smack down on a couple of really persistent idiots. Tim knew that Ryan wouldn't always be lurking just out of sight waiting to save his scrawny hide.
Tim loved his parents, but he'd always loved his brother Ryan more than anyone else. First among equals, he'd thought.
"I was stupid," Tim said. "The guy offered a lot of money to lifeguard a pool party."
"Why did you want money," his father asked.
"I'm saving up."
"A car?"
"Yeah, mom. I want a car."
Tim's father looked sick at the moment. His emphasis on self-reliance, on not looking for handouts -- it had taken hold in his middle child, but with vast unintended consequences.
"You didn't have to work a strange guy's pool party to get yourself a car. I helped Ryan get his," Tim's father said.
"He never told me that," Tim said.
"We don't talk enough, I think," his mother said. "Not enough by half."
"Are you okay, Tim," his father asked.
"Everything hurts," Tim said. He could tell he hadn't answered his father's oblique question. Still, his father nodded.
"I'm not like that, Dad. I didn't want that guy touching me," Tim said, his voice quiet and cold as a frozen day.
His father nodded. His mother looked away, embarrassed that the question and answer were even put into words. They didn't talk enough in that family, not enough by half.
"Where's Jessie," Tim asked. He wanted words to fill in the deadly silence.
His mother and father ran with the chatter, glad for the reprieve from a moment of honesty.
Bert Tate had put a list of things together. He'd call a cleaning service to take care of the pool house and the cabin Preston had left. He'd take care of the blood in his kitchen. That seemed like the least he could do.
He had a life to put back together, a cracked and now-bitter life. He'd put the bitterness in remission, like a deadly cancer, when he thought he'd found someone to care for in Preston. Wild horses can't easily be tamed, though, and they're more likely to trample you than thank you.
He'd have to find someone to keep him organized, a woman this time, older, a real administrative assistant and researcher. Herbert wouldn't be letting the selection process get overruled by his hormones this time. It had been so much easier when Paul had looked at the candidates and picked out the right one. Herbert had joked that Paul would have a role in the Last Judgment: he'd be the one running the scales, weighing the worthiness of each candidate's heart, as if the whole thing were out of an Egyptian fantasia.
Herbert kept most of Paul's things in boxes stored next to the house's mechanicals. He couldn't bear to look at the few pieces of clothing he'd kept or the photos they'd taken of each other. Each of Herbert's books -- all of the best ones dedicated back in one way or another to Paul -- were inscribed back to Herbert in Paul's neatnik scrawl.
Herbert looked down at his list again. His life had fractured several times during his life. He'd used a list to help pull it back together. Every time, he'd lost some of himself, but he'd had someone to help pull him back together. When his father killed his mother and then himself, leaving behind a fucked up homosexual son in his third year of college, leaving behind more debentures than memories of love, Herbert had nearly cracked. Only a lawyer, one of his father's buddies, had the courage to help out. All his dad's other friends had dropped the family like a diseased carcass, worried about guilt by association, but Mr. Richard Thompson, Jr., Esq. had taken on the estate, the banks, and the estate taxes. Most of the land was sold to pay the bank for the massive debt load; another chunk was sold to pay the estate taxes. Herbert Tate had been left with barely two hundred acres of a three thousand acre farm. His only request in all this was that the house where he'd grown up, where his father had killed his mother, was sold off or at least knocked down. The land Herbert got was the worst of it. The only really arable land was where some of the apple and cherry orchards had stood. Herbert still got fresh apples every year -- the cherry trees had been killed off years ago.
Paul had gotten Herbert to use some of his money to repurchase chunks of the old Tate Farm when they came available. Herbert now had about seven hundred acres. He leased most of it out to people who actually wanted to use it for agriculture, but he owned it, like he always should have.
Then his life had crumbled when Paul left it. His agent, probably out of compassion and not-a-little self-interest, had kicked Herbert's ass every time he seemed to drop off in production of pages. That had kept Herbert going for a couple years, but today it seemed like the scab had fallen off and the wound underneath was the same gushing killer of life it had always been.
Herbert wrote more on his list. The sheriff when called hadn't been too forthcoming about the chances of apprehending Preston King. Herbert thought he might call some of his acquaintances and see if anyone could recommend a good detective or bounty hunter.
In all his years writing gruesome stories, Herbert had never seen anything like the scene on his property today. The orgy down at the pool house; the glare of the blood on the light colored stone in his kitchen. Herbert had attended an autopsy once so he could write about it; he'd been in police stations and FBI offices to get the smell and the realism down. But he'd never seen a kid beaten down and bleeding in his own house.
Herbert knew he couldn't work on his current book. He knew he didn't want to write it any more. His agent, and then the editor who'd agreed to buy it, would have strong feelings about that, but Herbert Tate didn't care right now. He wondered if he was now a retired writer.
Herbert wrote a last item on his list. Visit the kid. He'd meet the guy, offer his apologies. Maybe that would be enough to excise these current demons, maybe enough to get Herbert's life back into a sane place. Preston had done everything he knew how to destroy Herbert; that was the problem with trusting people, they knew all too well what hurt the most.
Maybe a quick visit to the kid would be a bandage to stop the psychic bleeding. He'd talked to the kid, the one who Preston assaulted. He'd confirmed, through description, that Preston, calling himself Trance, had done all this.
Herbert hadn't seen the kid, though. Herbert hadn't apologized for what Preston had done. From the size of the body, the kid was young, maybe twelve. Preston was a monster.