Gay Erotic Stories

by P.H. Colley

West Hollywood, July, 1992

Preston slowly stirred his coffee and gazed at the day's date on his kitchen calendar. He thought fondly of the same date the previous year. Taylor and Reggie had tricked him into believing that he was being taken to dinner at a fancy restaurant, but had driven him to a house in Hollywood Hills instead. Taylor had convinced Preston that they were stopping off to feed the cat of a friend traveling in Europe and would be delayed only a minute. As they entered the house, the lights came on and 60 friends and acquaintances yelled, "Happy Birthday, Preston!"

Blowing across his cup of coffee, he felt the pain of missing Reggie, who was now living happily with a retired Army sergeant in Tucson. A feeling of grief wafted over him as he allowed the image of Taylor into his mind. Taylor had died of AIDS two months ago. And then, there was his "ex-lover," Ronald, whose memory elicited a forlorn shake of the head. Reggie and Taylor had convinced him to drop Ronald and not allow him to move in. "He's just a cheap hustler who'll take everything he can get and leave you hanging," Taylor had said countless times. "Why can't you fuck someone over twenty-five, Preston?" Reggie would ask.

Today, Preston hit 57, but looked 47, thanks to his exercise program of aerobics and weight lifting at a West Hollywood gym. He had grey temples and ruddy, good looks, but he was shy. And, now that his two best friends were no longer around, it was easier to call up some "model" in the gay publications than go out and meet someone. Having spent too many evenings being ignored by all the young clones, he had given up the bars long ago.

Resigned to being alone on his birthday, he dressed and drove to his dental offices near U.C.L.A. He was an oral surgeon and shared facilities with two associates, both of whom were in trouble with the state board. One lost a patient when he failed to monitor vital signs during "twilight sleep" anesthesia. The other pulled the wrong four teeth on a lawyer. Many times, Preston seriously considered going back to a one man office, but knew he couldn't afford it.

Having handled a seemingly endless line of patients for over seven hours, he left the offices at 4:00 p.m. and began the trip back home. Santa Monica Boulevard was congested, as usual, and there were the usual bottlenecks in Beverly Hills. In West Hollywood, the traffic began to move faster and the scenery became more interesting. He loved young, well-built men and they were legion in West Hollywood. It was a source of anxiety for him as he drove by one after the other. A powerful feeling of lust seemed to billow from his groin, and he drove slightly faster than normal. Sensing the start of a powerful erection, he drove up the steep, secluded driveway to his house, which was not visible from the street. He became intent upon masturbating with the fresh image of a young man he saw four blocks back.

Disarming his security system and entering the swank hillside home, he threw his coat and tie onto a couch, followed quickly by his shoes, socks and trousers. With his shirt half unbuttoned, he rushed into his bedroom, just as the door bell rang. Frowning, he went back to the living room and looked out the front window, but could only make out a pair of bare feet. Slowly opening the door, he came face to face with a nude, muscular young man with a banner around his chest. The banner said, "Happy Birthday, Preston."

"Happy Birthday, Big Daddy," sang the young man.

Preston's mouth was agape and his eyes darted back and forth, trying to find out where the others were. He laughed nervously. "Oh, my God," he finally said, feeling increasingly giddy. "Who . . . ?"

"I'm not supposed to tell," said the young man. "I'm just supposed to be your birthday present."

"Uhhh . . ."

"I'm yours for the evening."

Preston surveyed the young man and marveled at his powerful physique. He was well over six feet tall and had short, blond hair with sea-blue eyes. Preston guessed that he was no more than 22 or 23 and weighed in at well over 220 pounds. The young man's cock was long, thick and semi-erect.

Preston's mind raced. The young man wasted no time in playfully pushing him into the living room, finally kneeling in front of him and pulling down his shorts. As Preston gasped and sucked in a huge quantity of air, the young man went down on him.

The blond sucked masterfully and Preston began to shake wildly, finally crying out in anguish as he began to ejaculate much too quickly. Preston watched as the young man stopped sucking, directing the premature stream of semen to the carpet. He saw stars and staggered to the bedroom, where he fell onto the bed. As his pounding heart began to slow somewhat, he wondered who was behind this wonderful present. He grinned, half expecting Reggie and his Army sergeant to come barging out of the closet, yelling, "Surprise!"

"Reggie! Reggie, where in the fuck are you, you queen!" he yelled, laughing. He looked at the young man, who had fetched his clothing from the front porch and was getting back into them near the bed. He studied the young man's expression, which had completely reversed. "It was Reggie, wasn't it? Who . . . ?"

"How much money do you keep around the house?" He said it casually and softly.

Preston stared at him and wondered if he had heard him correctly. "Pardon me?"

"Any more where these came from?" asked the young man, holding up two diamond rings.

"Oh, my God," mumbled Preston, looking into the young man's ice-cold eyes. He saw callousness in the blond's gaze, sensed a heinous evil radiating from him. "How did you know about my birthday?"

The young man lifted a semi-automatic pistol, pointing it at Preston. "Where is the gem collection?"

Preston felt dizzy and wondered if he would pass out. "What gem collection?"

The pistol glistened in the half-light of the bedroom.

"Don't fuck with me, man," he growled, cocking the weapon and causing Preston to flinch.

"It's in the bank vault."

"You're lying, cocksucker."

Preston felt sweat beads accumulating on his brow. "If I tell you where it is, will you leave me alone?"

The young man laughed and walked briskly toward him. "You dumb fuck! Now I know it's in the fucking house." He abruptly punched Preston in the face, stunning him into semi-consciousness.

Preston felt himself being strangled and an aura of madness seemed to envelope him. Instead of panicking, he began to think of seemingly incongruous things, like a scene from The Godfather. An eternity seemed to pass and, for some reason, he remembered how graphically the movie depicted death by the garrote. As if urged on my some guardian angel, he defecated in his underwear, rolled his eyes up, and let himself go limp.

Only after he heard the front door close several minutes later, did Preston dare to open his eyes. He was paralyzed otherwise and seriously considered that he had indeed died. Suddenly, he began to tremble. Finally slipping to the floor, he crawled to the window and watched as the young man walked halfway down the driveway to a familiar parked car. He carried a pillow case filled with what Preston assumed was over $20,000 worth of jewelry and gemstones he had collected over the years. He strained to recognize the man behind the wheel, but the sun was too bright and reflected off the windshield.

Cleaning and composing himself, he called the police. Several minutes later, two bored-looking detectives showed up to take his statement and make out a report.

After talking on the telephone for an hour with Reggie, he began to wonder if his hustler ex-lover had planned the whole thing. Reggie reminded him of the fact that others had accused Ronald of beating up an older gay man in San Diego. Strangely, Preston had not told the police about Ronald.

Sitting by himself in the darkness, he began to realize that, if Ronald was indeed behind his near demise, the two would soon find out that he was not dead and come back to try again. He knew that he had only two choices:

1. Call the police again and tell them the whole story, including the part about Ronald.

2. Take matters into his own hands and try to get the jewelry back.

Near midnight, he made up his mind and drove to Ronald's last known address in Hollywood. He drove around the block several times and finally stopped across the street from the darkened second floor apartment. He wondered if it was still Ronald's apartment. After all, it had been months. "Probably out trying to find a fence for gemstones," whispered Preston to himself. He thought back over all the things he had shared with Ronald and things became clear. Obviously, it was Ronald who masterminded it all, he thought. But, then, there were things that Ronald had shared in return, like the fact that a spare key was under the welcome mat. He was amazed that he wasn't afraid and wondered if the ingredient keeping him so brave was hatred. Without thinking about it further or having any plan whatsoever, he parked the car two blocks away so that Ronald wouldn't likely see it. With fierce determination, he strode back to the apartment building and, without losing stride, brazenly used the key under the mat to get inside the apartment.

He stood inside the door until his eyes were completely dilated, and then searched the apartment in the darkness. On top of the refrigerator, he found a flashlight, which he used to search the back bedroom. Scattered across the top of a dresser were all but two of his rings and all of the gemstones, except his blood-red, 3.4 carat, Burmese ruby. He sighed and scooped up the jewelry and gemstones, placing them inside his pockets.

In a bathroom, he found a plastic bottle of a prescription drug he immediately recognized as a strong amphetamine, along with a package of disposable syringes and crack smoking paraphernalia. In a chest of drawers, he found a loaded .38 revolver; inside a closet, he found a loaded shotgun. As he stared at the weapons in his hands, however, the enormity of what he was doing finally hit him. He trembled with acute anxiety over being inside the apartment. "Call the cops," he whimpered to himself. "Where's the fucking phone?" He searched frantically for the telephone, finally finding it in the living room.

A car door slammed down on the street, followed by the sound of Ronald's voice. He looked for a back way out, but there was none. He looked down toward the street and watched as Ronald and the blond man stood on the curb, arguing with each other. Quickly, he dialed 911 on the telephone and watched as the two men began to make their way up the stairway. A woman answered on the other end and Preston's voice froze in fear of being heard through the open window. Silently, he hung up the phone and retreated into the bedroom.

From the darkness of the bedroom, he watched as the two men entered the apartment and turned on the living room light. Seeing Ronald again, he felt an alien emotion. He was still as Preston remembered: a short, stocky Adonis, complete with sparkling, dishonest, green eyes, heavy tan and capped teeth. As before, Ronald's image made his groin churn.

"Aw, get fucked!" yelled the muscular one, "You ain't gonna get more than that for a goddamn ruby."

"Hey, man, I know what this shit is worth, you know?" said Ronald. "Preston told me that ruby was worth at least seven grand. And you wanted to dump it for two bills, man. You get fucked!"

"You blew it, asshole!"

"You blow it out your ass," countered Ronald. "I know this jeweler in West L.A., man. He'll give it to us, man."

"You're dreamin', dude," said the muscular one, storming into the kitchen.

Preston's pulse raced; he reached for the shotgun, stuffing the .38 inside his belt. He watched Ronald start for the bedroom, then stop abruptly, spinning around.

"And I told you about the fucking gold chains on the chest of drawers," continued Ronald, "but no, you forgot!"

Preston suddenly remembered what Ronald had caused and felt enraged. He lifted the shotgun and aimed it at Ronald's head, his finger twitching on the trigger.

"Let's go back, then!" yelled the other man from the kitchen.

"You go back!" Ronald shook his head with disgust and continued into the bedroom, turning on the lights.

Preston had to smile as Ronald's face registered recognition. He could graphically see the facial color fade and knew that Ronald's brain was being deprived of blood. As Preston expected, Ronald fell into a chair in shock.

"I ain't goin' back there, motherfucker," continued the other man, still from the kitchen. "I'm gonna make me a sandwich and drink this beer."

Hearing a television set come on in the kitchen, Preston inched toward Ronald and relieved him of a 9 millimeter pistol stuck inside his belt. He stuffed it inside his coat pocket and backed up toward the doorway to wait for the other man.

He heard the other man mumble something unintelligible and walk toward the bedroom. With a shaky hand, Preston turned off the light and stepped back into the shadows, keeping a wary eye on Ronald. The muscular man turned on the lights and stood, staring at the muzzle of the shotgun with a huge piece of sandwich hanging from his mouth. One of his hands held what was left of the sandwich and the other grasped a can of beer. Quickly, Preston took the familiar pistol from his belt and nodded toward the bed. The man quickly complied and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Okay, guys, say your prayers," said Preston, aiming the shotgun and pointing it at the muscular young man, who promptly vomited up what was in his gullet. He then pointed it at Ronald, who began to weep softly.

"Please, Press," he whined. "I didn't want you hurt."

"It was all his fucking idea!" countered the other.

"Take off your belt, Ron, and tie him up," ordered Preston, gesturing toward the man on the bed. "Face down on the floor . . . Now !"

Ronald scurried to comply.

The other secured on the floor face down; Ronald slowly rose and sat stiffly in the chair, still whimpering. Preston inched backward toward the bathroom and pulled out a roll of adhesive tape he had seen during his previous search.

"Now, it's you're turn," said Preston, gesturing for him to lie on the floor like the blond.

Ronald obeyed.

"Now place your hands behind your back."

Preston cautiously approached Ronald and shoved the barrel of the shotgun into the back of his sweat-slick neck. With one hand, he started the tape around the clasped wrists, then put down the gun and wound the rest of it. Sure that the tape would hold, he checked the tightness of the belt around the blond's hands. He sighed and crawled to the opposite wall, where he sat, staring at the two frightened young men. "You got anything stronger than beer?"

"Huh?" said Ronald, dumbfounded.

"How about Scotch?"

"Uh, we uh . . . have some tequila in the pantry," said Ronald, at length.

"It's been a really bad day," said Preston.

The two young men glanced at one another as Preston walked into the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of tequila from a cabinet. On the kitchen table, he saw a huge bowl filled with pills and capsules in every shape, size and color. Nearby was an envelope, filled with a white substance he assumed was cocaine.

When he returned, the two men seemed even more apprehensive. Preston chuckled, and then slid down the wall into a sitting position on the floor. He sipped tequila out of the bottle and studied them. "If you're wondering what I'm going to do with you, the answer is that I don't really know yet." He took a deep swig and sighed as the liquor burned downward into his stomach. "What I do know, however, is..." he laughed. "...that I sure as hell won't fuck with hustlers any more. What I'd like to know is WHY? What'd I ever do to you to cause you to try to kill me? Jesus, I gave you everything."

"I'm sorry," sobbed Ronald, "things just got tough, man. When you dropped me, I didn't know where my next meal was coming from. I couldn't get a job, man."

"Oh, bull shit!" shouted Preston. He nodded toward the kitchen. "You got a fucking pound of white shit in there, four guns, probably cash in the goddamn mattress and twenty thousand dollars worth of MY money!"

He glared at Ronald. "Even those goddamn capped teeth in your rancid mouth are mine, remember that? Huh? I paid for that!" He leaned the shotgun against the wall and looked into the bottle of tequila. He lifted the bottle and looked through it at Ronald, then the other man, then back to Ronald. "You sell the two rings?"

"Yes," whispered Ronald, swallowing hard.

"I almost gave you one of them, you know that?"

Ronald glanced up, and then looked back into the carpeting.

"You almost had it all, would have if Reggie hadn't told me about that old man in San Diego you beat up." He took another sip. "Why didn't you beat me up? Huh?" He studied Ronald for several seconds, and then suddenly kicked at Ronald's face, causing both prostrate men to flinch and whimper. "Why didn't you do the dirty work, instead of this asshole!" He succeeded in kicking the other man on the shoulder. The blond flexed his muscles and his nostrils flared in rage. Preston countered by placing the shotgun barrel against his nose.

He studied them for several anxious moments, and then a slightly mad look came to his face. Ronald saw this and became white-faced again.

"Where is the ruby?" asked Preston, softly, menacingly.

"It's . . . it's in my left pocket," said Ronald, quickly.

Preston reached inside the pocket and pulled the ruby out, handling it gently and lovingly. He slipped it inside his own pocket and smiled. "Where do you keep the pliers?" he asked, after a long sigh of relief.

There was a period of silence as the two young men studied each other for a clue. "Pliers?" repeated the other man, flatly.

"Pliers . . . You know the little tool you pull things out with." He glared at Ronald. "Like teeth."

Both men stared at him in bewilderment. Ronald moaned as the image of pliers against teeth sickened him.

"Okay, then," said Preston, smiling. "I'll just find me a pair."

Carrying the shotgun, he searched the apartment very carefully, occasionally returning to check on his prisoners. In the kitchen, he found a pair of pliers in a drawer and stuffed them inside his coat pocket with the pistol. Returning to the bedroom, he surveyed the position of the two men and went into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet. "Who takes the speed? Good God, and what is this stuff?"

Neither young man spoke.

"Hey, Ronald, did you smoke crack when you were sucking my dick for profit?" He turned to gauge Ronald's reaction and smiled.

Ronald gazed into the carpet.

"You're friend here is a good cocksucker, too."

The other man regarded Preston coldly.

Preston closed the medicine cabinet and leaned against the doorway. "You hustlers are something, you know? I'll bet you don't even think that you're homosexual, for crissakes. Do you?" He waited for a response, which never came. "You fuckers will do anything for money. Shit, man, you maggots would suck a corpse's dick if you thought a quarter would ooze out."

Ronald squirmed uncomfortably.

"So, what's it like to snort cocaine, Ron? Hell, I'm in the mood to try a little bit, you know?"

Both men registered quizzical looks and glanced at each other.

"Go ahead and take a hit, man," offered the muscular blond.

Preston smiled vapidly, "How?"

"Uh..." began Ronald, suddenly sensing an end to the madness, "Roll up a dollar bill and pour some coke on the mirror there . . . uh . . . then you just sniff it up your nose."

Preston looked down at them with a playful smile. "You show me."

"Hey, man," said the muscular man. "I have to take a fuckin' leak, okay?"

Preston considered the request, and then nodded. Holding the shotgun on him, he helped the man up and followed him into the bathroom.

Both stared at each other, and then Preston realized that the man couldn't take out his own cock with his hands tied behind him. "Oh, sorry," apologized Preston, who quickly unzipped the man's fly and pulled out a long, thick cock. He stared hungrily at the cock as it expelled urine.

The man stared at him with a combination of fear, amusement and hatred. "Hey, it's yours, man. Be my fucking guest."

He finished urinating and Preston kneaded the cock of excess urine, feeling it swell in his hand. As he ambivalently gawked at it, the muscular man glanced toward Ronald, who was quietly struggling with his bonds. Preston gestured for him to walk to the bed, which he did. The man appeared capable of kicking the ceiling, so he stayed clear of him. "Lie on the bed on your face."

The man complied and Preston quickly tied his ankles together with a belt from the closet. Slowly, he turned the man over onto his back and went down on the huge cock, which was growing flaccid rapidly. Preston looked at Ronald, who was watching with a helpless look, then allowed the cock to slip out of his mouth with a slurp. "You almost got hard in the bathroom." he chuckled. "Bet you thought you were about to kick my brains out, didn't you? Now, you can't and it's no fun, is it?"

"Why don't you just get it over with, huh?" growled the blond.

"What?" asked Preston sweetly.

"Killing us."

"Shut the fuck up, Del!" yelled Ronald.

Preston looked back at Del in amusement. "Del? What an innocent sounding name." he laughed. "Boy, I'll bet your mother had no idea you'd turn out to be such a piece of shit."

Del's jaw tightened and his nostrils flared again.

"I know!" blurted Preston, startling Ronald. "Let's get high!" He jumped up and walked into the kitchen. He found a jigger in the cabinet and poured it half full of cocaine. He picked out four capsules he recognized as methamphetamine and emptied the capsules into the glass. He found two of pemoline and added that. "Triple speed," he mumbled to himself. "It'll blow their heads right off." Chuckling, he broke open several capsules of assorted central nervous system stimulants and poured them into the envelope of cocaine. He stirred it with his finger and set it aside. He then stirred the mixture of powder in the jigger with a toothpick and carried it into the bedroom. As he neared the entrance, he noticed that both men were struggling violently and had succeeded in slightly loosening their bonds. Both abruptly stopped as he entered.

He walked past them, surveyed the tape very carefully and went into the bathroom, placing the shotgun against the wall. He pulled out a dollar from his wallet, rolled it, and then poured a small quantity of powder onto a mirror. "Like this, huh?" He placed one end of the bill into his nose and the other against the mirror, far away from the white substance. He sniffed twice, bringing only air into his nose, and looked at himself in the mirror. His face flushed due to the alcohol anyway, he pretended to feel a rush and shouted, "Jesus!"

Ronald and Dell stared at him, wondering if his strange behavior truly indicated a change or heart. Both allowed themselves to smile, cautiously.

"Whoowee! This shit is goooooooooood! Here, take a whiff of this." Preston widened his eyes and offered the mirror and rolled bill to Ronald by placing it on the floor in front of him. He knelt heavily in front of Ronald and placed the bill under his nose.

Ronald turned his head away. "Come on, Preston, let us up."

"Let you up?" Preston smiled at Del. "Shit, Delbert," he said in a derisive, twangy, hick accent. "Why didn't I think of that when you had your fat hands around my fucking throat? Hell, Delbert, if I'd asked you to let me up, you would have, wouldn't cha?"

"You're not a murderer, Press," said Ronald, becoming braver. "Come on, the game's over. Walk out before you get hurt."

Preston stared at him and slowly felt an overwhelming anger rising from his core. The feeling surged and gained momentum. Helplessly, he screamed savagely and lunged for Ronald. He turned him onto his back and sat on his chest, groping for the pliers. Grabbing Ronald's nose and upper lip, he pulled upward, exposing the capped teeth. He tried to position the pliers but Ronald struggled wildly. "Give me those teeth back, you little fucking creep!"

And then, Ronald began to cry like a beaten child.

Preston looked into Ronald's wet, red eyes and became swept back in time. He imagined that he could see Ronald when he was an innocent young boy and immediately knew that he couldn't hurt him. He knew that he could never hurt anyone, let alone kill.

Suddenly, he stood and felt a clamminess permeating his entire body. His pulse began to race and he felt as if he was losing consciousness. His face drained of color and he ran from the apartment, gasping for breath. In the throes of a powerful panic reaction, he ran to his car and drove home.

Sitting in the darkness, he felt that he had slipped into the eye of a nightmare. Nothing around him seemed real. The weight of a monstrous anxiety pressed against him and he struggled to keep from hyperventilating. A phantom voice hissed over and over, "They're coming . . . They're coming. Tape won't hold . . . Tape won't hold."

Abruptly, he grabbed the phone and wondered what he would tell the police. "Think, Press, think ! No time, goddamnit!" But the images of questioning police and reporters and headlines assaulted him, pressuring him more. His eyes darted around the room, looking at nothing. Finally, they widened. "Anonymous. Anonymous," he whispered, dialing 911.

He heard a woman's voice and erupted in a staccato monolog about two men being tied up with tape and harboring a fortune in drugs at a certain address in Hollywood. Then he heard the familiar beep, which reminded him that his voice was being recorded. He disconnected and shook violently, wondering if he'd said enough.

Slowly, his trembling began to subside and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. Feeling less anxious, he walked through the house, turning off all lights and making sure that all doors and windows were locked. He grabbed a huge knife in the kitchen and went back to a chair in the living room. From there, he could see the driveway in front. He waited.

An hour passed and he noticed a faint magenta streak on the eastern horizon. Suddenly, the telephone rang, scaring him witless. He grabbed it on the second ring and held the receiver against his sweat-moistened ear. In the background, he could hear service station sounds, but nearer, there was the faint sound of breathing. A low, throaty chuckle came, followed by a click and a dial tone.

He quickly dialed Ronald's number.

On the first ring, an unfamiliar voice said, "Yo!"

"Uhhh . . ." studdered Preston.

"Yeah, Lieutenant. Thanks for calling me back. Uh, looks like we struck pay dirt over here."

And, in the background, he heard, "Hey, Rizzo! Where you want this?"

"Just leave it there, Joey, for crissakes! Excuse me, Lieutenant . . . We got a closet full of stolen goods and the kitchen looks like a fucking pharmacy. One got away after he tried to waste his buddy two in the back of the head, but he's still alive. A neighbor says that the other guy was screaming and shooting at everyone, sounds like he OD'd on PCP or speed . . . . Lieutenant . . . ? Lieutenant?"

As Preston groped to place the receiver back on the cradle, he was assaulted by an overpowering feeling of remorse with an undercurrent of panic. He grasped the knife and stared out the window toward the driveway.

Minutes later, he heard the distant sound of sirens, which became louder and closer with each second. And then, somehow he knew. When the screaming tires preceding the sirens got very near, he got out of the chair and backed into the hallway to his bedroom. Beams of light bored into his sheer drapes and the sound of an angry car motor filled his ears.

As he ran to the back of his bedroom, a car crashed through the front of his house, sending bricks, wood pieces and millions of shards of glass into all directions. Fearful of being trapped by a fire, Preston ran to his front bedroom windows and looked at the car in the middle of his living room. His jaw slackened as he watched Del struggle to get out of the car. The man's face was gushing blood and his mangled hand held a pistol.

"MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRR!!!" screamed Del, jumping free of the car and firing wildly and randomly again and again.

And then the sirens were all around the house and Preston heard a man yell, "Police! Drop the gun!"

A numbness overcame him as he watched Del spin around and point his pistol at the voice. Myriad popping sounds came and Del's body began to disintegrate. Just before he fell, he turned and looked squarely at Preston with glassy eyes. The image would leave an indelible memory.

Eight months later, Preston lazily stirred his coffee and gazed at the kitchen calendar. Soon, he would be 58 and it was time to think about retiring. It was time to take long cruises and enjoy life for a change. Stepping over unpacked moving boxes, he carried his coffee out to the terrace and took in an invigorating breath of sea air. Waves lapped softly at the beach below and two elderly women walked barefoot on the wet sand. Gulls circled overhead and the sun began to burn through the morning mist.

A telephone rang and he answered on a terrace extension. "Hello?"

"Preston, this is Paul. I tried to reach you last night."

"Yes?" asked Preston, impatiently.

"You got temporary custody. We'll work on the rest."

"Thanks."

"You got it."

He smiled and sighed, slowly hanging up.

"Preston?" came an adolescent sounding voice from inside the house.

"Yeah, babe," said Preston, sticking his head through the sliding glass door. "You want to sit out here with me?"

"Yeah."

Preston opened the sliding door wider and a much thinner Ronald slowly rolled his wheel chair out onto the terrace. His eyelids drooped and he appeared retarded, but his smile was still winning. In the place of the hard young hustler was an innocent boy inside an atrophied man's body.

Preston sat next to him and patted his hand. "Looking good, kid. Want to try to walk on the beach today?"

Ronald smiled broadly and looked down at the beach.

"Just a little bit each day, Tiger. Okay? Got to get some weight on those bones."

"Yeah," said Ronald, with a small, child-like voice.

"And maybe, in a couple of months, we can go on a little vacation. You want to go on a vacation?"

"Sure, Preston." Ronald placed his arms around Preston and hugged him.

Preston looked into the innocent, green eyes and hugged Ronald back. "You remember Reggie?"

"Reggie?" A blank look came to his face.

"He and his friend are coming from Tucson to stay for the weekend. You don't remember him?"

Ronald shook his head, confused.

"That's all right," said Preston, gently mussing Ronald's newly grown hair, careful not to press against the healing tissue from Ronald's third surgery since the shooting.

Ronald wheeled himself to the railing, fascinated by the sudden appearance of a jogger with two golden retrievers running beside him.

"He'll sure as hell remember you, though," Preston mumbled. "He'll shit a brick."