Chapter Text
December 1982, San Francisco.
He’d first seen him a few days ago, returning from a night out.
This kid, who must have been about nineteen, was sitting on the street corner, just outside James’ apartment complex. He had his knees up to his chest, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his legs. James wouldn’t have paid any attention to him, really, if not for his head of orange hair. It fell down his back and around his shoulders with volume that seemed like it should have been impossible within the bounds of reality. His fringe was equally thick, ending just above his eyes, which were half-lidded and unfocused.
James had walked past, anticipation for the warmth of his bed overpowering, but he’d remembered that mess of orange curls.
He’d seen him the second time in a bar, across the road from the Safeway where James used to work. The boy had been seated at the bar, his long red mane like a curtain around his face as he stared down his beer. A worn denim jacket had been slung over his shoulders, not quite enough structure in its shoulders to disguise the fact he was almost concerningly slim; not quite enough density left in its fabric to provide any real warmth, at least during the current cold spell that had brought with it a thin layer of snow.
A man had sidled up to him, slid him something that James couldn’t quite make out from where he was seated. It was his usual spot when he came here alone: the corner of the leather banquette seating that lined the edges of the room; private enough for him to watch people, dark enough for people to not watch him .
It must have been money, James thought, as the boy downed the rest of his pint before getting up to follow the man out of the bar. James remembers clearly the sick feeling that had settled in his stomach as he watched the transaction. Unless the boy was a drug dealer, the man must have been paying him for sex.
It had made more sense, then, why the boy had been sat outside the apartment complex at nearly three o’clock in the morning.
James had been able to get a better look at his face as he walked out. Now that it was no longer obscured by his fringe, his face was equally as striking as his hair. His nose was long and proud, slightly upturned at the end, ever so slightly red; probably from the cold. His jaw was strong, the line of it defined clearly against the pale blue-pink skin of his neck. The skin of his bottom lip had been bitten red, raw against his otherwise nearly white skin. He’d had a look in his pale eyes that James couldn’t quite define, but he remembers that it had made him inexplicably sad.
James hadn’t stayed at the bar too long after that.
Outside, it was still snowing, and James found himself wishing he had a pair of gloves because his knuckles were starting to hurt. He had thought, again, about that boy, and consoled himself with the fact that even if he was selling himself, at least it’d mean he’d have a warm place to go for a little while.
It wasn’t like James knew for a fact he was homeless; more so that he’d assumed it, based on the boy’s clothes and the way he’d been aimlessly sitting outside the apartment building. It wasn’t like the road was particularly busy at that time of night, so he couldn’t have been trying to recruit another customer. And James didn’t know much about how it’d work for two guys to have sex, but he assumed it wouldn’t be very comfortable to do it repeatedly over the course of one night.
When James saw him for a third time, it was at a show. Across the crowd, he had spotted a head of orange curls thrashing around that could belong to no-one else, and felt his heart rate increase at a rate that was honestly rather embarrassing. Then later, when James had let himself get more into the music and launched himself into the mass of bodies in the centre of the club, he’d ran directly into him.
Knocked backwards into the backs of the people lining the circle, the boy had looked up; his fringe falling away from his face in what had seemed like slow motion. They’d made eye contact for a fleeting moment, before the boy had pushed himself back upright and back into the pit. His eyes were a warm hazel that conflicted with the cold tone of his pale pink skin, bags under his eyes an even colder purplish blue; his eyelashes dark and long as he blinked.
James, inexplicably shaken, pushed through the crowd to get to the bar, feeling like a beer would relieve some of the tension that had been building since he’d become aware of the boy's presence. Even through the process of ordering and paying and drinking he’d been painfully conscious of him, his existence like a beacon in the eye of James’ mind.
James was there with a few of his friends, so he hadn’t felt like he could say anything to him- nor did he have the courage to. But they had made eye contact again, as they were leaving the club
“Do you know him?” His friend Lars had asked, gesturing back at where the boy was leant against the wall.
“No.” James had answered, honestly.
“He looked like he wanted to kill you, dude,” Lars said, giggling. “You kick him in the pit by accident or something?”
James shrugs.
“You guys haven’t heard about him?” James’ other friend, Kirk, piped up. “Name’s Dave. I heard he put a guy in the hospital last week ‘cause he couldn’t pay the money he owed. And the week before he broke someone’s arm for looking at him funny.”
James raised his eyebrows, zipped up his jacket; did his best to look uninterested. Dave, he had thought.
“Guy’s insane,” Kirk added. “I guess you’d better watch out.” He had elbowed James to add emphasis to his words, smiling, like Dave was all a big joke.
James had found himself at the bar across from Safeway more nights than usual that following week. It hadn’t paid off until the Friday, when Dave had materialised at the same seat he’d been sat at last time, his long ginger hair again around his shoulders; curtain-like, cutting him off from the rest of the world.
James hadn’t wanted to talk to him quite yet. He’d nearly given up hope of seeing him- Dave, he’d had to remind himself- and therefore hadn’t put as much thought into his outfit as he had done the rest of the week. It had been, at that point, just that Dave was inexplicably cool . Mysterious, even; with his circulating rumours and unpredictable comings-and-goings. And then there was the exchange James had seen, the man that had led Dave from the bar, the money tucked into the back pocket of his tight blue jeans. Even though James knew that logically he should have been repulsed by it, in reality, he had felt rather different. Something about it intrigued him. Or perhaps ‘intrigued’ wouldn’t be the right word: it wasn’t that James wanted to hire him, or take up the career himself. It was more so that it made him want to run up to Dave to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he understood how stupid it was to live life that way; how dangerous, how idiotic. How he was worth more than that.
So it confused even himself when he chose sat at the bar instead of his usual shadowed seat, his uncared for hair all loose in his face, hanging in stiff, dry waves about his shoulders. He just hoped that it had fallen in front of his cheeks enough to conceal the extent of his acne scars and the way he was all flushed from being out in the cold.
He’d ordered a beer from the bartender; jealous of the way she’d been able to use makeup to make the pimples on her chin less obvious, and made his way through half of it before he gained the courage to glance over at Dave.
Dave was already looking at him as he turned his head.
“I saw you.” He had said. “Watching me.”
His voice was somewhat low, obviously californian; rough around the edges.
James swallowed. He hadn’t been expecting Dave to talk to him at all, let alone for him to lead with such a direct line of questioning. The look on his face was pointed; accusatory, even, and made James feel like he'd been caught doing something wrong.
He’d taken another sip of his beer in the hopes that it would quench his suddenly rather dry throat; frantically trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t freak Dave out, or make him look like some sort of stalker. He was sure that Dave probably had enough creeps to deal with already.
“Sorry,” He had said, which hadn’t been exactly what he’d imagined his first words to Dave would be. “I didn’t mean to- I didn’t mean to stare. I guess I just noticed you around. And- you just kind of stand out,”
Biting at his lip, James managed to retain enough confidence to look back over at Dave; who looked incredibly unimpressed. His full lips were set in a straight line and his eyes, still the same shade of golden brown, were narrow beneath the strong lines of his eyebrows.
“Was it the orange hair?” Dave asked, eventually. The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly.
“I mean-” James had swallowed again, unable at all to read Dave’s face; the knowledge that he was for sure making a fool of himself proving speech difficult. “It’s difficult not to notice.”
Dave had smirked, then; James remembers it well because something deep inside of him had flipped instantaneously at the sight of Dave’s wide smile; the way it slightly leaned to the left; the depth of the lines that appeared around his mouth, enough baby fat still on his face for the roundness of his cheeks to be apparent above the crevices.
“So what, you got a thing for redheads?”
The bluntness of the question had seemed to hang in the air whilst James, for what seemed like the millionth time, floundered for a response.
“No, I-” James swallowed again, forcing himself to calm down before he said anything else for Dave to laugh at. “I’m not- I wasn’t watching you ‘cause of that.” He bit at his lip again and felt his face grow even warmer.
“So what, are you looking for company tonight? You don’t look like the usual client.” Dave had said, abruptly, probably having grown tired of James’ floundering. Even though he hadn’t quite managed to have a proper conversation, James still couldn’t help but feel disappointed that Dave was viewing the whole interaction through a business lens. As stupid as it was, he had hoped that Dave noticing him had meant something; that perhaps he could be as stand-out to Dave as he was to him. But, James was forced to acknowledge, albeit with a heavy heart, Dave didn’t seem to think that way. The question was poised with an almost sarcastic drawl, like he was making fun of James only James wasn’t in on the joke.
“No, I-” James had stuttered, sure his face was just as red by now as the bar’s sticky carpet. “That’s not-”
“No need to be embarrassed.” Dave said, and with the smirk on his face James had been absolutely sure that he was laughing at him.
“I’m not interested in that,” James tried to say, despite the fact he was curious; only tangentially- only in concept, because he wasn’t gay.
“Really?” Dave had replied; his wide lips still stretched into that mocking smirk. “You’ve certainly been looking at me like you’re interested.”
And really, how was James supposed to argue against that? Tell him he just thought he was cool? That he just liked Dave’s long, wild hair? That he was simply worried about a guy he’d never even talked to?
James faltered again, staring down into his near-empty beer instead of at Dave. The intensity of his amber eyes had become too much to bear. And even though he wasn’t looking at him anymore, James could still feel the heat of Dave’s stare, his narrow eyes direct and analytical in their focus.
Dave had laughed at his silence: a short, barked snigger that made James jump slightly from his stool.
“Well, you know I won’t tell anyone if you do want company .” Dave said. “You’re not gay, whatever. I don’t care.”
James took a long, shaky breath in, the thick air of the now crowded bar unsatisfying; doing nothing to quell the fuzziness of his head. It was his own fault for drinking on an empty stomach, he supposed. Anyway, the alcohol could be his excuse for raising his head to look again at Dave- and would also be an excuse for what he had done next: against all of his better judgement and all his hours of overthinking, James had nodded.
“Okay,” He had said, sounding just as sheepish as he felt; wishing, as stereotypical as it was, that the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. He had avoided Dave’s face whilst he finished the rest of his beer, unable to face the precise nature of his stare.
Dave had said nothing. The only reaction he’d had to James’ submission was to let his smirk slip into an open-mouthed grin; before downing the rest of his drink and pushing himself up off his stool.
James had followed him, stumbling slightly as he got up: his limbs weren’t quite acting in sync with the rest of his movements; vision milliseconds behind the fleeting movements of his eyes; legs and arms all too long to be properly controlled. As he’d followed Dave from the bar, he could have sworn all the other patrons were watching. His back had felt hot with their stares; and he had been sure they all knew.
That was how James had ended up in his current situation. Stood outside in the freezing cold wearing only a t-shirt and a well-worn leather jacket, Dave standing at his side with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his own. It was a defensive stance, James thought. Dave looked rather like a spooked cat; hackles raised; eyes fixed in a sharp glare; ready to pounce.
James watched the flash of car headlights in a puddle of melted snow gathered at the junction between the sidewalk and the road. As soon as he’d stepped into the open air, he’d felt awake; shocked out of whatever trance Dave had put him in at the bar. He was suddenly aware of Dave as a real, breathing and thinking human being; aware of the size of him; totally and completely conscious of his tangible physical presence. Aware- electrifyingly so- of what must lay beneath his jacket, beneath his t-shirt, beneath his jeans that were more hole than jean. And even though no part of his body yet touched him, James was also aware of the heat of him. He could, he was sure, hear the thrum of his heartbeat, as they began to walk.
“You want to go to yours? Or a hotel?”
Dave asked, tearing James from his musings.
“Um,” He mumbled, mentally counting the coins in his wallet. Definitely not enough to pay for a room. “Mine?”
“You’ve never done this before,” Dave stated. “Have you?”
James shook his head.
“Okay,” Dave replied, now sounding rather exasperated. “You can afford this, right?”
James bit his lip, which had now been bitten at enough for him to taste the tang of iron, and wished to God he’d just gone to his usual seat , so he wouldn’t have ended up here.
“Um,” He mumbled, again. “Probably?”
Dave huffed a sigh.
“Fifty,” He said, sounding incredibly bored. “Fifty dollars and you can fuck me. Or I can fuck you. Whatever,”
James took another long, trembling breath inwards, and let it out again slowly; watching the warm steam of his breath disperse into the night. He definitely did have fifty dollars- at least back at his flat- and could be sure of it since he’d been saving it. Half of his wages went into the box, on which James had crudely drawn a guitar: a scrawled, barely recognisable Gibson Flying V. Ever since he’d seen one displayed in the window of the guitar shop he passed every day on the way to work, it had been all he’d been able to think about (at least, until he’d first spotted Dave). The shape of it, somehow futuristic and classic at the same time, was so impeccably cool. It wasn’t like he was in a band or anything where he’d be able to put it to proper use, but maybe, he thought, it would serve as an inspiration.
But- fucking Dave? James had questioned, mentally. Was that really what he wanted? And to pay for it, too. He wasn’t one of those guys who paid for sex. Even though he- self-admittedly- was not the best looking guy around, he’d had his fair share of girlfriends. It was just that he was in-between things at the moment. That was why everything felt so bleak; why he had seemed to lose his spark with that sort of thing. With everything, he thought, in the back of his head.
Maybe it’d get Dave out of his head if he went for it. Maybe it was desire that had led his fascination with the man, James attempted to convince himself. But he knew what desire felt like; and he was sure that it didn’t fully explain what he felt in regards to Dave. He was drawn to him, instinctually, by a force deep within the hollow of his body, like a moth to a flame.
“Yeah,” James said. “I can- I can afford that.”
His voice came out far quieter than he heard it in his head, barely audible over the cars whipping by. But Dave managed to hear.
“At least I’m not wasting my time.” He replied, impervious smirk back on his face. “You got a job? Well paying?”
“Record store,” James told him. “You know Rough Trade ? Over on sixth street.”
He paused for a breath, surveying the building entrances ahead of him for the door that belonged to his apartment complex. The old brick buildings all looked the same to him, and he hadn’t lived there long enough to be able to distinguish the wear patterns and smashed-or-not-smashed windows that would indicate where his building was without reading the numbers.
“Wouldn’t say it’s well paying, but it covers rent,” James continued. “And- I guess it’s fun.”
“I’ve been there.” Dave said. He paused a few steps behind as James rooted about in the inside pocket of his jacket. He could hear the jangle of his keys but couldn’t quite get a proper grip on them; either his hands were too cold or Dave’s watchful eye was enough to make his hands tremble. He cursed as he finally managed to fish them out. The metal was freezing to the touch even though they’d been pressed between the outer layer of his jacket and his t-shirt, and when James had turned the outer key in the lock it dug into his skin enough to make him wince from the pain; flesh made all tender from exposure to the cold.
Inside the apartment building’s stairwell, it was still cold; the old-fashioned exposed brick walls not built to insulate. James held open the door for Dave, and watched as he climbed the few steps up to the door. Once inside, Dave shook out his hair from where it had been pushed back by the wind, his orange curls readily springing back into their usual position. His eyes were wide as he looked about. James didn’t think there was anything particularly interesting about his cheap little apartment block, but Dave didn’t seem to agree. James watched as his eyes lingered on the yellowed floor tiles; the trampled leaflets scattered around the door that no-one had been bothered to pick up; the vintage communal payphone that no-longer worked, an artifact from when the building had been first built; the post lockers with flat numbers shoddily painted on.
“I’m on the top floor,” James told Dave as he began to climb the staircase. “Sorry there’s no elevator.”
James didn’t look back at Dave until they reached his landing, but he heard his footsteps echoing loudly in the stark, undecorated stairwell. The top floor was the sixth storey, and by the time they’d climbed to it James could feel the way his face was ruddy both from the cold and the exercise- if he was ascending by himself, he’d probably have paused around the fourth storey to catch his breath. After all, the ceilings were high and the steps were steep; and he was a little drunk. But with Dave following in step, he’d felt almost like he had a point to prove.
The inner key turned a lot more smoothly in the lock: James’ hands had evidently warmed up slightly. He had to shove the door a little with a shoulder to get it to open.
“Fire door,” He explained to Dave, as he leant on it to keep it open. “Heavy.”
There was a smile on Dave’s face as he walked past.
James locked the door behind them, leaving the keys in the door. He didn’t want Dave to feel like he was trapped.
When he turned around, it seemed that Dave found his apartment just as- if not more- interesting as the stairwell had been. He surveyed the cheap little kitchen that James ought to do better at keeping free of dirty cutlery and dishes; the leather sofa that was quickly developing cracks in its hard, cold exterior; the coffee table that was really just a plank of wood James had propped up on bricks someone had discarded outside the apartment block; the curtain-less windows that looked over the road below.
“It’s not much.” James said, tone apologetic. “I haven’t been living here too long, so it’s not very- not very comfortable. ”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Dave replied, as if he hadn’t been mentally catalogued the contents of James’ apartment seconds earlier. “I’ve seen worse.”
If there was one good thing about his apartment, it was certainly the fact the heating worked. James shrugged off his jacket and slung it across the poor excuse for a dining table; a tiny, cheap table provided with the apartment that would collapse without being leant up against the wall like James had learnt to do. He cleared his throat, crossed his arms, uncrossed his arms. Dave’s presence in his living space was so huge that it made the room itself feel small; made him feel all bare and exposed.
“Do you want something to drink? Or- uh, you can sit down, if you want?” James offered, his voice cracking slightly as he turned to face Dave.
Dave raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening.
‘You’re nervous.” He said, cutting James off before he could ramble any further. He moved to the sofa, sinking into it with an easy confidence that made James feel rather unsteady on his feet. Dave draped an arm over the back of it, letting his legs splay wide.
“Relax. If you want me to sit, I’ll sit. You’re paying me .”
He smiled, open-mouthed, which did nothing to help James’ nerves. Turning his back to Dave, he prayed for there to be beer left in his fridge as he pried it open. He heard Dave scoff from behind when the door swung open; evidently, he was amused by the way there was nothing in James’ fridge aside from beer. James had gotten into a bad habit of buying takeout more often than not.
“Healthy,” Dave said, eyebrow raised again when James turned, two cans in hand.
Not like you can talk, James thought, but didn’t dare say. Dave looked even skinnier without the cladding of his jacket, which he’d discarded over the arm of the sofa. The long expanses of his arms were pale, his veins visible and blue, elbows red.
James watched the way Dave took the can from him as he leaned over to pass it. His fingers were delicate and long, knuckles bruised purple and yellow, nails bitten down. James perched on the ‘coffee table’ and popped the tab to the beer, watching the foam creep out of the opening instead of watching Dave.
“How do you want to do this?” Dave asked.
James took a swig from his can. Dave was always so straight to the point; so blunt. He’d been attempting to kid himself into believing Dave was there in different circumstances to relieve his nerves, but Dave didn’t appear to want to cooperate with his mental re-organising.
“Um,” James began. “You mean-”
“I mean, do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you ?” Dave intejected, his tone implying an invisible you fucking idiot.
“The first one,” James said, face burning. He couldn’t imagine letting anyone do that to him: he was sure it would hurt, and he was also relatively sure he wasn’t gay- at least if he was the one doing the fucking then it wouldn’t be too dissimilar from being with a girl. Dave- in a strange way- was prettier than most he’d met, anyway.
“Look,” Dave said, leaning forward. “If this is too weird for you, we don’t have to do anything. No harm, no foul.” His voice was softer now, less cutting, but still carried that roughness, like the muffled crunch of underfoot snow. James blinked, caught off guard by the offer. It wasn’t what he’d expected from someone with a reputation like Dave’s. All of his sharp edges, the violent rumours, this whole transactional arrangement- it had painted a different picture. But here Dave was, giving him an out.
And yet, James didn’t want to take it.
“It’s not…” He paused, exhaling. “I mean, it is weird. Not you , but this. I’ve never done it before.”
James swallowed, and then hastily added “With a guy, I mean.”
“I can tell,” Dave replied smugly, sipping at his beer as he leant further back into the sofa. James marvelled at his relaxed posture, wondered what that felt like, to be so at ease in a situation like this. Then again, he supposed, this was probably just an average night for Dave.
He tried not to dwell on that as he attempted to relax his own posture. Tried not to dwell on the amount of guys’ apartments Dave must visit in a week; didn’t think about the amount of men who’d touched him; the amount of men that had been inside of him.
James found himself surprised by the lack of repulsion he felt. It was more, he thought, pity- although probably pity wouldn’t be the right word- and certainly Dave wouldn’t like to hear that. It was more just a general sadness; a deep-rooted heavy feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach, almost like dread; a sense of loss. The same feeling, he remembered, that he had felt when he first saw Dave exchange with the man in the bar.
“You got a shower?” Dave asked. “Wasn’t really expecting this for tonight, ‘cause I don’t usually work this area. The clientele’s not exactly thriving.”
James understood what he meant. This area certainly wasn’t known as a gay area, which likely explained the way he’d never seen Dave out-and-about before he’d been sitting on the curb outside, now a few weeks ago. He supposed the guy he’d seen the other day must have just recognised him from a previous encounter.
“There,” James said, tilting his head towards the door furthest from the sofa. “Can’t guarantee the water will be warm, though. Sorry.”
“Better than nothing.” Dave replied, as he pushed himself up from the sofa, shaking his fringe from his eyes. “Dig out the money while I’m gone.”
Dave disappeared into his bathroom, and James did his best to let the tension that had built up across his shoulders disappear with his presence. He leant back, tilted his head up to the ceiling, and breathed in, slowly.
Ought he put on a record? Or would Dave laugh at that too?
James surveyed his stack of records, sloppily piled against the wall next to his cheap stereo-speaker setup. Okay, he thought. Dave had been at that gig the other day, so he clearly liked music- and his appearance certainly gave that impression, too; unless there was a major style crossover between queers and thrashers that he was unaware of. He’d play it safe, he decided, as he got up. Budgie’s In for the kill was conveniently at the top of his pile; the pouncing bird staring up at him, wings outstretched.
Kneeling, he picked up the sleeve and let the vinyl slip from the cardboard. He balanced it between his fingertips and listened to the shower coughing to a start through the wall; imagining Dave standing in his bathroom; opening the door to his shower; stepping underneath his water.
James gently placed the record down on the turntable. He switched it on and let it work up its speed before picking up the needle arm and placing it down onto the black vinyl; ignoring the way his hand trembled.
He had already retreated to the kitchen by the time the screech of the soaring guitar started to ring from his speakers; by the time the drum hits started he’d opened the fridge; and just as the guitars began to gallop he’d pulled the tab on a second can of beer. The cold liquid did little to calm his nerves, but it was better than nothing- and he knew if he could finish it before Dave finished in the shower his nerves would surely dissipate further.
Burke Shelley’s strained vocals filled the room as James opened the door to his bedroom.
Living ain't easy it opens your head
Layin' and prayin' you wish you were dead
The box of money he’d been stockpiling was on his bedside table- the box he’d promised to absolutely not touch until he was sure there was enough to afford that Gibson V- and as he opened it he couldn’t help but feel shame creep up his spine. Spending the money he’d sworn not to, and on what? Not on anything essential like food or rent, that was for sure.
Shutting the door behind him, he shoved the notes into his back pocket.
When I was born I was given a will
That the meaning of life is
I'm in for the kill
James let himself sink into the sofa, beer in hand, cash in pocket.
Loving, knowing, giving, showing
Love is seeing and ever being
It wasn’t like he had anything to be nervous about, James told himself. Logically thinking, he had plenty of experience; and it wasn’t like he was lacking in endowment either, or so he’d been told. It was just the fact it was Dave that was stressing him- which, itself was ridiculous, because he didn’t know him; and after tonight, hopefully, he would no longer feel the need to know him. It wasn’t good for him to be obsessed with anyone. He knew that all too well.
Motor cruising, midnight boozing
Altar singing and bells that are ringing
The door to the bathroom swung open, and Dave wandered out wearing nothing but James’ towel slung low around his hips. He ran a hand through his hair as he walked, pushing his fringe back from his face; which was all flushed from the shower. His hair remained dry aside from the very ends which had gathered into dark ringlets about his back, and every inch of his bare skin, despite its paleness, seemed to glow.
You got a reason to listen to me
For I am a messenger carrying the key
James fished the bills from his pocket and held them out for Dave to inspect as he reached the sofa. After casting his eyes over the wad, Dave shoved it into the nearest pocket of his leather jacket, still hanging over the back of the sofa. He smiled, in that same teasing, half-lilted way, before settling himself next to James; close enough for Dave’s bare leg to touch James’, still tightly clad in blue denim. Dave’s hand was on James’ thigh, then sneaking its way up his leg to ghost over his crotch; still teasing. Then he was undoing the button of his jeans, sliding down the zipper, saying nothing.
Slowly, Dave looked up, as his hand slipped inside James’ jeans. James’ heart stilled as they made eye contact; his body refusing to bend to his will; frozen in place.
James already knew that he was at Dave’s complete and utter mercy, if by nothing but pure force of magnetism. The look in Dave’s eyes, however, turned the key in the handcuffs he wore: his gaze was focused, deliberate, full of intent; alive and golden.
Money is nothing to hold into wills
And the meaning of life is I'm in for the kill
James knew then that he was well-and-truly screwed.