Work Text:
Work on the Track
Single Chapter: Money In Hand, Panties On The Floor.
[...]
The light that filtered through the beige silk curtains and spilled across the polished marble floor had no power to move the man lying on the couch. Michael De Santa, all 48 years of him weighing down on every line of his face, woke up late not out of luxury, but from a complete absence of reasons to get up. The mansion in Rockford Hills — the one he'd fought so damn hard to get — now felt like a gilded mausoleum, a silent reminder of every shitty choice that had led him here. The silence was so goddamn oppressive that the flatscreen TV, flickering on mute, seemed to be screaming at him.
He'd made a promise. To Amanda, to himself, to whatever scraps were left of his sanity. He wasn't going back. No more gunfire, no more sirens echoing in his skull like some phantom hum, no more looking over his shoulder. That life was dead and buried back in North Yankton, right alongside the name Michael Townley. But tonight, staring at the bank statement glowing on his phone's blue-lit screen, Michael knew he was already back. It was just worse.
So much fucking worse.
There wasn't the acrid smell of gunpowder, none of that metallic tang of adrenaline. Just numbers. Red numbers, negative numbers, numbers aggressive as a shotgun blast to the chest. Fees. Interest piling up like fucking rabbits. The name "Martin Madrazo" was still throbbing in his skull, a little reminder that owing two and a half million bucks to a Mexican cartel boss had consequences that went way beyond bank fees. Those "can't miss" investments Lester had suggested? They'd tanked right along with the goddamn stock market. The impulse buys — the little luxuries to pretend he was still that big-shot rich guy who bought himself a new life — all of it just brought him right here. Amanda was trying, or at least he thought she was, to rein in her spending binges, but the damage was already done. The kids, Tracey and Jimmy, were just ungrateful black holes, sucking up whatever scraps of patience and cash he had left. Michael ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble. Humiliating. Michael De Santa, the goddamn bank robber, the guy who masterminded multi-million dollar scores, was counting pennies.
The whiskey bottle in the kitchen, to his absolute fucking dismay, was bone dry. The last memory of his hangout with Trevor — a dried-up puddle at the bottom of the glass. He stared at it with pure contempt before trudging back to the living room and collapsing onto the couch, his eyes glued to the spotless plaster ceiling. He needed to vent. His family — just a bunch of strangers who happened to live under the same roof — only knew how to judge and mooch. Amanda called him a "hypocritical, murdering traitor" during their worst fights, and Jimmy and Tracey weren't exactly lagging behind in the ingratitude department.
He grabbed his phone again. Scrolled through his contacts. Franklin Clinton. The kid was the closest thing he had to a functional son, but unload about money troubles to him? No way. Franklin would just see him as a failure, and Michael desperately needed someone to still see him as the "brains" of the operation.
His eyes landed on the next contact. Trevor Philips. The mental image hit him like a fucking truck: the filthy flannel shirt, those bloodshot eyes, the stench of meth and gasoline, that godforsaken desert hellhole of Sandy Shores he called home. Last time the three of them got together, somewhere between shots of cheap whiskey, Trevor had confessed to his foot fetish — a detail so goddamn bizarre that Michael and Franklin had razzed him about it for weeks. The memory made him wrinkle his nose. Nah. Trevor was a live grenade with the pin already pulled. He'd just drag up everything Michael wanted to keep buried: North Yankton, the betrayal, Brad's screams crackling over the radio.
That's when his thumb stopped. Lester Crest. The brilliant, calculating mind behind all his biggest scores. The guy was a crippled misanthrope glued to a computer screen, but he understood numbers and, more importantly, he understood secrets. With Lester, there was no past to dredge up. There was just the problem, and the solution — preferably something illegal. Without thinking twice, Michael hit the call button.
"Lester. It's me. I need a drink. And I need to talk."
[...]
The low rumble of Michael's black Obey Tailgater's engine cut through the suffocating quiet of the night in El Burro Heights. Lester's place was a goddamn fortress of paranoia, bristling with satellite dishes and piles of electronic junk. Michael knocked on the metal door and heard Lester's reedy voice yell from inside: "Come in, it's open! Was startin' to think you forgot the way!"
The inside was organized chaos, computer screens blinking with indecipherable data streams, the whole place reeking of dust and hot circuitry. Lester — an obese man with shrewd blue eyes behind those thick-ass glasses — was hunched over his keyboard, his pudgy fingers flying across the keys in a symphony of clicks.
"Still at it, Lester? You got nothing better to do than hack some poor bastard's fortune?" Michael's voice was heavy with a weariness that went way beyond just being tired.
"And you got nothin' better to do than come over here and bitch about your life, hypocrite?" Lester shot back, without even glancing away from the screen. With a visible grunt of effort, he hauled himself up, leaning heavily on his cane. Michael, almost on instinct, crossed the room and helped him grab two glasses and a bottle of Bourbon.
They sat. The first sip burned Michael's throat, a familiar fire dropping down like an anchor. They shot the shit about nothing — a parade of cynicism about the state of the world, the decline of Los Santos, the sheer stupidity of the human race. Lester laughed, a dry, sarcastic sound. It was safe.
Until it wasn't. "I'm broke, Lester. The month... it's just done. But the bills ain't," Michael just dumped it out there, no beating around the bush.
He laid out his whole goddamn laundry list of misery: Amanda and her shopping sprees, the kids who treated him like a walking ATM, the investment schemes gone tits up, the long fucking shadow of Martin Madrazo. "I made a promise, Lester. I promised I wasn't gonna go back to robbing. No more heists, no more guns. But I... I ain't good for nothin' else. What the fuck do I do? Sell the mansion? Get a security gig at Amanda's goddamn tennis club?" The bitterness in his voice was venom, and he was drinking it himself.
Lester heard him out in silence, his blue eyes blinking with that cold, calculating intelligence of his. "You're in a classic trap, Michael. Think you can keep the lifestyle without keepin' the crime. Doesn't work that way. I got some jobs. Small stuff, clean, you know? Franklin could handle 'em."
"No. Keep the kid out of it. I... I ain't doin' it." Michael's refusal was firm, but the hesitation was a goddamn canyon between his words. "I'll just wait 'til next month. Somethin' will come up."
They changed the subject, but the conversation lost all direction. The Bourbon started flowing faster, and soon cheap beer took its place. The booze dissolved Michael's defenses, leaving his raw desperation out in the open. His once-confident posture was now slumped, utterly defeated. "Is there nothing, Lester? No... safe job? Something nobody needs to know about? Something that doesn't involve shootin' anybody?"
Lester cleaned his glasses with his flannel shirt, a thoughtful little gesture. A crooked smile crept onto his lips. "Michael... you ever think about turning tricks?"
The effect was like a bomb going off. Michael choked, spraying a mist of beer across the room as he shot up off the bed like the mattress had caught fire. "Have you fuckin' lost your goddamn mind, you crippled idiot?!"
Michael's fury exploded into a torrent of insults. He'd been a lot of goddamn things in his life, but a fucking prostitute? "I used to be a pimp! I bankrolled strippers, hookers — I know how that world works! That's how I met Amanda, for Christ's sake! And now you want me to be the goddamn merchandise?!" His mind flooded with images of Amanda back in her stripping days, when he'd paid for those big fake tits of hers. "Besides, Lester, take a good look at me! I'm a fat, out-of-shape old man! Who the hell is gonna pay to fuck me?!"
Lester didn't even flinch at the outburst. He took another sip of beer, his expression utterly analytical. "You'd be surprised, Michael. Takes all kinds in this town. Guys our age, got money, no time — just want a hole to stick their dick in and not ask questions. I know some... acquaintances. Vinewood, Vespucci Beach. The track's full of 'new opportunities.' And trust me, the money is insane."
Michael scoffed, but the seed of doubt had already been planted. While he kept grumbling about the humiliation, Lester — with surprising speed — swung back to his computer. His fingers danced over the keyboard, and he started scribbling numbers on a nearby notepad. "Just trying to help you out, Michael. Look."
Lester showed him the math. What an average hooker could pull in a night, times a week. It was a goddamn fortune compared to the zero sitting in Michael's account. Lester laid out the pros (quick cash, no questions) and the cons (STDs, violence, the very real risk of running into someone you know). The explanation was long, methodical, and weirdly calming. It was just another "job" that needed a plan.
"Fine. Alright, Lester. I'll... I'll do this shit. But I ain't got a goddamn clue where to start." Michael's surrender was a defeated whisper.
"You sure, sure, sure you wanna do this, or is this just the booze talkin' and you agreein' to any goddamn thing?" Lester pressed him, his keen gaze trying to cut right through the alcohol fog.
"Fuck off, Lester. I'll do it. Just... wait 'til I'm sober."
[...]
The Los Santos sun beat down without a shred of mercy, mocking Michael's miserable state. Sober now, he steered his Tailgater through Hawick, every muscle in his body wound tight with paranoia. "Amanda's tennis club is right around here, Lester. If she sees me... if anyone sees me..."
"You're buying lingerie as a gift for your wife, Michael. It's the oldest excuse in the book. Nobody questions a miserable married man buying panties," Lester replied with that unassailable logic of his.
The lingerie shop was a goddamn temple of satin and lace — a pink and black universe that made these two middle-aged men feel like complete fucking aliens. The awkwardness was a physical fog in the air. Lester, with his usual practicality, headed straight for the sizes, giving Michael's body a critical once-over that made him squirm. Michael, for his part, found himself weirdly drawn to the fabrics. Tiny little shorts, cropped tops that barely covered anything... and the bras. Maybe it was his thing for tits, but he caught himself admiring the lace numbers, imagining the feel of the fabric against his own skin.
Lester cut his daydreaming short, tossing a whole set into his arms: a black lace push-up bra, a microscopic thong, long black stockings, a tight pair of black denim shorts, and a loose, dark blue cropped top.
Michael's face, already pale, went about the same color as the cropped top. "You gotta be shittin' me."
"I'm not. And you need to try it on. Quietly." The logistics were a goddamn nightmare. They distracted the young, bored cashier with some dumb-ass question about gift cards, then slipped stealthily into a fitting room meant for women. Inside, in that cramped space, Lester turned his back to the wall, taking off his glasses.
"I don't fuckin' believe I'm doing this," Michael grumbled, his voice muffled by the velvet curtain. The fabric slid over his skin. The thong was an insult to basic comfort, the bra squeezed his goddamn ribs, and the cropped top... well, he was wearing a goddamn cropped top. "Done."
Lester turned around. His blue eyes, now uncovered, swept over Michael from head to toe with clinical coldness. "It's not terrible. Fits. But you're gonna have to shave. Nobody pays for a hairy tranny."
[...]
The wig shop was a whole new level of surreal. Synthetic and human hair in every color and style imaginable hung from the walls like hunting trophies. Lester hobbled — or rather, limped — between the displays, his cane tapping out a slow, deliberate rhythm on the floor. "Nah... nah, too common... too goddamn loud... that one makes you look like Tracey after a bad fight with a hairdryer..."
Suddenly, he stopped. His bony finger pointed at a long wig, flowing all the way down to the waist, with soft waves and a cute, fluffy set of bangs. The color? Baby blue.
Michael blinked. "You're shitting me. I'm not wearin' that. That's a goddamn billboard saying 'I'm a hooker.'"
"You are a hooker, Michael. And a hooker's gotta stand out. Nobody's gonna pay to bang the girl next door. They want a fantasy. This is yours. End of discussion." Lester shoved it into Michael's hands. "Now go on. Try the damn thing on."
[...]
Back in the car, Michael was a walking, talking fountain of complaints. About the money, about the humiliation, about the shop, about the goddamn ridiculous wig in his lap. "What else, Lester? What the fuck else is left for this whole goddamn charade?"
Lester, unbothered as always, showed him a spreadsheet on his phone. A goddamn menu of services and prices. "Blowjob," "Quickie," "Full Fuck," "Fetishes." Michael looked away, disgusted. "Whatever. I just want the cash."
When he pulled up in front of his mansion, Lester gave him the final marching orders. "Now, you get ready. A full shower. And... makeup. Heavy."
Michael froze. "Makeup? Lester, I don't know how to put on fuckin' makeup! Last time I used lipstick was to cover up a bloodstain on a goddamn shirt!"
"Use the resources you got, Michael. Tracey's got more makeup than a goddamn Sephora. Ask her for help. Make up an excuse." Lester dumped the shopping bags into his lap. "Good luck, Michael. You're gonna need it." And with a smile that never even came close to reaching his eyes, Lester slammed the car door shut.
[...]
Inside the house, life was humming along with its usual dysfunction. The muffled sound of Jimmy screaming curses at someone in his video game echoed down from upstairs. Tracey was locked in her room, probably gossiping away on her phone. Amanda was likely at the tennis club, or off banging her yoga instructor, or both.
Michael locked himself in the master bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror framed by vanity lights. The deep bags under his eyes, the lines a life of lies and violence had carved into his forehead, the graying stubble. "Michael De Santa... just what the fuck have you come to, you greedy son of a bitch?" The slap he landed on his own face echoed off the tiles. It was an act of self-loathing so pure it made him shudder.
He grabbed the razors and, methodically, stripped every last hair from his body. Legs, arms, chest, armpits, crotch. The smooth, exposed skin made him feel vulnerable, naked in a way that went way beyond just being bare-assed. The hot shower that followed was some kind of weird cleansing ritual, as if the water could wash away more than just the shaving cream — as if it could rinse off his whole goddamn identity.
He stepped out of the shower, wearing nothing but his boxers, his breath heavy as he stopped in front of Tracey's bedroom door. He knocked.
"What?" His daughter's voice came through, muffled and bored as hell.
He opened the door. Tracey was sprawled across her bed, feet swinging lazily in the air while she texted furiously. "Oh. Hey, Dad. What d'you want?"
He sat down on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Tracey... I need a favor. A big one. And you can't tell your mother. You do this, I'll... I'll give you a good allowance next month. For real."
Tracey's eyes lit up with that greedy, teenage gleam. She sat right up, shoving her phone aside. "'Kay. What d'you need?"
Michael took a deep breath. The silence stretched on for a goddamn eternity. "Can you... do my makeup?"
Tracey blinked. Once. Twice. And then she burst into a fit of laughter so loud and high-pitched that she actually fell off the bed, rolling around on the plush carpet.
"Not fuckin' funny, Tracey! You gonna do it or not?" Michael growled, his face flushing bright red.
"Okay, okay, chill! But why?" she asked, still giggling as she wiped a tear from her eye.
"Never you mind. Just... do it. Something... good. Not too plain, but nothing over the top either. Something... like a real woman would wear." The words came out like pulling teeth.
Tracey, clearly still tickled pink by the whole situation, grabbed her giant makeup bag and made him sit at her vanity. With the skilled hands of someone who'd spent hours watching online tutorials, she got to work. She applied foundation to even out his skin, then powder. She picked a baby blue eyeshadow —which just happened to match the wig he had stashed in his room perfectly — and blended it into a soft purple in the crease. She used contour to slim down Michael's wide nose and highlighter to try and hide those deep bags under his eyes. Big, doll-like false lashes were glued on with practiced precision. Finally, a bold red lipstick and some gloss finished the whole goddamn transformation.
Michael looked into the little mirror Tracey handed him. The person staring back wasn't Michael De Santa. It was some stranger — a porcelain doll with tired, blue eyes. "Thanks, kid," he muttered, his voice rough. He got up and walked out before she could ask any more questions.
The next step, he learned off the internet, locked back inside the bathroom. He searched "how to tuck" and found a video of a trans woman casually explaining how to hide your junk using the thong and a little bit of tape. The pain was sharp, a constant little pinch that reminded him exactly where his body ended and the illusion began. There. He was, quite literally, hiding who the fuck he was.
He put on the rest of the outfit: the lace bra, the tight shorts, the stockings, and the cropped top. He grabbed the baby blue wig and fitted it on, adjusting the fluffy bangs. The finishing touch... the shoes. He opened Amanda's vanity, but his big goddamn feet weren't going into any of her skinny-ass heels. He huffed in frustration and slipped on a pair of flat, boring little slip-ons she wore to go to the grocery store. He grabbed his phone and called Lester.
"Lester. You forgot the goddamn shoes. My feet won't fit in any of Amanda's crap."
"Figured as much. When you pick me up, we'll sort it. Stay calm." The line went dead.
Michael De Santa had been erased. In his place, born from pure desperation and raw necessity, stood Kissy Misha.
[...]
In the car, on the way to the shoe store, Lester gave him another one of his appraisals. With the makeup, the wig, and the getup, the transformation was disturbingly complete. "You look like a real professional, Michael. You could pull a hell of a con on those rich old pervs up in Vinewood."
"Fuck you, Lester. One month. One goddamn month, and I'm done with this bullshit." Michael's voice, now forced into some high-pitched squeak, was the last weak link in the whole goddamn chain.
Lester bought the shoes by himself, leaving Michael in the car to practice his lines. "Hey there, handsome... lookin' for a good time?" No. "You need some company tonight?" He sounded like a fuckin' robot. "Wanna fuck?" Too direct. He punched the steering wheel, cussing himself out under his breath. Every attempt just made him feel more like a goddamn clown.
Lester came back with a box. "Blue stilettos. Your size." To Michael's genuine surprise, the shoe fit like a goddamn glove. The high heel made him stumble at first, but he got the hang of it pretty quick. The sound of that heel clicking on the pavement was the soundtrack to his new fucking life.
[...]
The chosen spot was the parking lot of an abandoned burger joint out on the fringes of the Grand Senora Desert, right where the sad, glossy facade of Los Santos civilization started crumbling into the dust and neglect of Sandy Shores. The traffic, shockingly enough, was decent. Other hookers — hardened veterans with cold eyes and bodies sculpted by cheap silicone — already had their spots staked out, throwing appraising, jealous looks at the tall, clumsy newcomer.
Michael parked. Lester, in the passenger seat, held the gun Michael had given him, resting it in his lap. "Anyone tries to snatch you, I'll blow 'em away. Don't you worry."
"Good luck, Michael. I'll be watchin'." Lester's voice was uncharacteristically soft.
Michael got out of the car. The desert air was hot and bone-dry. He leaned against the hood, Amanda's stolen purse hanging off his shoulder. He lit a cigarette to calm his goddamn nerves, the smoke mingling with the heavy layers of makeup.
The first few minutes were just a goddamn parade of humiliation. Cars rolled past, slowed down, and he could feel their eyes burning right through him. They'd ask about prices, listen to his forced, shaky voice, and then just drive the fuck off. An experienced hooker next to him, a woman with platinum blonde hair and a skintight latex dress, shot him a look of pure contempt. Michael felt the full weight of failure pressing down on him. Getting rejected even in the goddamn gutter... that was a whole new kind of defeat.
[...]
That first hour crawled by. Nothing. Just headlights flickering by and drivers stealing sideways glances. Michael's anxiety was a knot twisting up his guts.
Then, a shiny black SUV pulled up. A guy in a gray suit, looked to be in his forties, had that classic face of a married, regretful executive, stepped out of the car all sheepish, like he was the one committing a fucking crime. He walked up, his eyes raking over Kissy Misha's body. "You're new, ain't ya?"
"Yeah... first night," Michael answered, his forced voice coming out as a raspy whisper.
The man asked for the rates. Michael recited the goddamn list Lester had made for him: "Fifty for a blowjob, honey. Seventy for a quickie... a hundred and fifty for the whole shebang." The words tasted like ashes in his mouth.
Without a second's hesitation, the man pulled a leather wallet out and handed him a hundred and fifty bucks. "Let's go."
Before he climbed into that SUV, Michael glanced over at his own car, where Lester was sitting like some goddamn vulture in glasses. Help me, Lester... The thought was a silent scream inside his own head.
[...]
The man, who introduced himself as "John," drove them to a dark, dusty alley on the outskirts of Sandy Shores. There, Michael blew him. Seven minutes. The taste was salty and bitter, a weird texture that made his stomach turn. His mind drifted a million miles away — to the bills he had to pay, to Amanda's face, to the crushing silence of his empty mansion. When the guy finally came, straightened himself out, and drove off without so much as a backward glance, Michael just stood there in the alley dust. A hundred and fifty bucks in the pocket of his little shorts. The taste of defeat lingering on his lips. He walked back to the hood of his car and waited for the next one.
[...]
It turned into a goddamn routine. Three nights a week, Kissy Misha owned that track. Regulars started showing up: "John" himself, a trucker named "Rick" who always paid extra if she wore a specific shade of red lipstick, a weird-ass European couple with bizarre, performative kinks that Michael's brain just refused to hold onto, and two cokehead buddies who'd do lines off his body before they all fucked. Eleven grand in the first month. Mortgage was paid. The credit cards were cleared. The name "Madrazo" stopped throbbing inside his skull. And nobody at home asked a goddamn thing.
But Kissy Misha was just a hollow shell. Michael De Santa — the man underneath the makeup, the wig, and the too-tight thong — was slowly erasing himself. Every fuck was a little death, every swallow of cum was just another brick in the wall he was building around his own goddamn identity.
[...]
Tonight, he'd made up his mind. It was gonna be the last one. The money was good enough. He was starting to worry about his health, about catching some goddamn disease. He had to make a doctor's appointment next month. Enough was enough. He was gonna burn this whole goddamn outfit, toss the wig in the trash, and never speak of this shit again.
Until, right in the thick of the night, a red Canis Bodhi pickup, covered in desert dust and mud, screeched to a halt right at the curb in front of him. The rumble of that engine was unmistakable, and so was the figure that climbed out of it.
Trevor Philips.
He came at him with that vulture-like walk of his—a grimy flannel shirt open over a stained white tee, his beard filthy and unkempt, those bloodshot eyes sparking with that goddamn manic energy. The stench of meth and stale sweat rolled off him like a goddamn toxic cloud.
"Well, good evenin', dollface," Trevor said, his voice a raspy, hungry growl. His eyes traveled up and down Kissy Misha's body, lingering on the high heels, a smile of pure, lecherous delight spreading across his cracked lips. He was already pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.
Michael froze solid. His heart slammed against his ribs in a frantic rhythm, like a trapped animal trying to claw its way out. Panic swallowed him whole—a cold, paralyzing wave that locked up his muscles and blurred his vision. He forced out Kissy Misha's voice, but it came out shaky and utterly ridiculous. "Fif... fifty for a blowjob, sugar. Seventy for a quickie..."
Trevor stepped in closer, his sheer physical presence a goddamn oppressive force. His crazy eyes narrowed as they scanned Michael's face with an unsettling intensity. "You're a tranny, ain't ya, dollface? Knew it. Somethin' was... off."
Nervous as hell, Michael just nodded, taking a step back until his ass hit the cold hood of Lester's car.
Then, with a move as quick as a rattlesnake's strike, Trevor lunged forward and ripped the baby blue wig right off Michael's head. The night air hit his sweaty scalp. "No!" Michael yelled, trying to snatch it back, but Trevor just held it high above his own head, out of reach.
Trevor stared at Michael's face. The smeared makeup, the ridiculous fake lashes, the raw, genuine terror in those blue eyes. A slow, furious recognition dawned across his features. "Well, would ya look at that. There he is. The great Michael Townley. Or De Santa—whatever the fuck you're callin' yourself. The criminal mastermind. The goddamn brains of the fuckin' operation. Now you're a roadside whore!"
"T... I... I can explain...!" Michael's voice was a thin thread.
"Shut the fuck up! Just shut your goddamn mouth!" Trevor's fury erupted, his face twisting into a mask of pure rage. "You hid it from me. Again! You faked your own fuckin' death and left me to rot, thinkin' you were dead! And now, 'stead of comin' to me for help, you're out here, dressed like a goddamn clown, sellin' your ass for chump change?! You'd rather do this than trust me?!" The pain in Trevor's voice was just as raw and primal as the anger. The betrayal back in North Yankton was a wound that had never even begun to heal.
He grabbed Michael by the arm, his fingers digging into the flesh like claws. "Get the fuck in the truck. Now!"
With no other choice in the world, Michael obeyed.
[...]
The red Bodhi was parked haphazardly beside the trailer, its engine's rumble dying out like one last ragged breath. Trevor dragged Michael out, his calloused hand a vise around the other man's arm. The night air in Sandy Shores was bone-dry and thick with the smell of dust and sagebrush, but inside the trailer, a whole different kind of stench was waiting for them — a sour cocktail of old sweat, methamphetamine, and Trevor's own sickly musk.
The place was a goddamn pigsty. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling in the main room cast a sick, yellowish glow over the chaos. An ancient TV with a shattered screen flickered nothing but a mosaic of colorful static. A half-empty case of Pißwasser sat on the table next to an overflowing ashtray and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. A calendar, still flipped to August, hung crooked on the wall beside a faded poster of some pin-up model named Hailey Downs. On the floor, a rolled-up sock — the one Trevor used for huffing gasoline — lay discarded near the greasy couch.
But Trevor's eyes weren't on any of that. They were locked on Michael. He shoved his old friend, sending him stumbling backward onto the couch. The stained upholstery groaned under his weight, releasing a puff of dust.
"So this is what the great Michael Townley's been reduced to, huh?" Trevor's voice was a low snarl, vibrating with a fury that simmered just beneath the surface. He loomed over Michael, his lean, disheveled frame practically trembling with pent-up energy. "The brains of the whole goddamn operation. The criminal master-fuckin'-mind. Now you're just some cheap little whore on the side of the road. Sellin' that fat, hairy ass for scraps!"
He grabbed Michael by the collar of the blue cropped top and yanked him upright. Michael found himself sitting right in Trevor's lap, his wide, panicked blue eyes meeting the other man's bloodshot stare. Trevor reeked of meth — sour and chemical — and underneath that, the body odor of someone who hadn't seen a shower in days.
"You hid from me again, Mikey." Trevor's growl was low now, almost intimate, and way more dangerous than any of his screaming. "You faked bein' dead. You left me in that frozen shithole in North Yankton to fuckin' rot, thinkin' you were gone! And now... you'd rather turn yourself into a goddamn fuckin' slut than come to me for help? You trust a bunch of horny strangers more than you trust me?!"
"T... I wasn't..." Michael tried to speak, but it came out as a thin, reedy sound.
"Shut the fuck up." Trevor cut him off, his hand shooting up to grab Michael's jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You don't talk. You don't explain. You just fuckin' obey. You got that? You owe me. You owe me nine goddamn years."
And then, without any warning, he crushed his lips against Michael's. It wasn't a kiss. It was a goddamn possession. His tongue, rough and tasting of cheap beer, forced its way inside, exploring Michael's mouth with a hungry, desperate urgency. Trevor's teeth scraped against his lips, and Michael tasted blood mingling with the cheap red lipstick. Trevor's unshaven stubble rasped against his face — a harsh friction that snapped him right back into the brutal reality of the moment.
Michael didn't kiss back. He just took it. It was pure surrender. His mind, which was always racing with plans and bullshit excuses, went completely blank. There was only the physical sensation, the overwhelming force of Trevor, his smell, his taste.
When Trevor finally pulled back, a string of spit and smeared lipstick still connected them. His eyes were even wilder now, pupils blown wide. "Take it off," he ordered, his voice a harsh grunt. "All of it."
Michael's hands were shaking as he pulled the cropped top over his head, revealing the black lace bra that was shaping a pair of tits that didn't even exist. The cool air inside the trailer hit his freshly shaved skin, making him shiver. He stood up, unsteady on his heels, and unbuttoned the tight shorts, letting them fall to the filthy floor. He stood there, his back to Trevor, wearing nothing but that bra, the microscopic thong that barely managed to hide his painfully tucked-away dick, and the long black stockings. His forty-eight-year-old body, soft and out of shape, was naked and completely exposed. He could hear Trevor's breathing change behind him.
"Turn around." Trevor's voice was low thunder.
Michael turned slowly. He saw Trevor had already shed his flannel and t-shirt, his skinny, hairy chest on full display, a road map of old scars crisscrossing his skin. Trevor stepped forward and ripped the thong off Michael with one brutal yank. The flimsy fabric gave way, and Michael's cock, finally freed, sprang out, already half-hard. Trevor grabbed it roughly, his grip dry and calloused.
"You like this, don't you, you little whore?" Trevor hissed, his face just inches from Michael's. "You like bein' treated like the piece of shit you really are."
He shoved Michael toward the back room, the smaller of the trailer's two compartments. Inside, a double bed with stained, rumpled sheets took up most of the space. A closet with its doors hanging open revealed a pile of dirty laundry. On the wall, a second TV — this one with its screen completely smashed out — was just an empty, useless frame.
Trevor threw Michael onto the bed, and he landed face-first on the rank mattress, the musky smell of Trevor's sweat soaking right into the fabric. Trevor was on him in a heartbeat, his wiry but surprisingly strong body pressing Michael down into the mattress. He didn't waste any time on foreplay. He tore the bra off Michael's back, the metal hooks popping loose with a sharp click. With one hand, he grabbed the back of Michael's neck, shoving his face hard into the mattress. With the other, he guided his rock-hard, throbbing cock right to Michael's entrance.
The penetration was dry. It was painful. Michael gasped, his whole body going rigid. Trevor groaned —a guttural sound ripped up from somewhere deep inside him.
"Yeah... that's it... nice and fuckin' tight..." he grunted, starting to move. His thrusts were brutal, rhythmic, each one forcing a muffled groan out of Michael. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the cramped little room, mixing with Trevor's animal grunts and the rusty squeaking of the old bed frame.
"Say it!" Trevor suddenly ordered, yanking Michael's short hair to pull his head back. "Say the shit you say to your goddamn johns, you whore!"
Michael groaned, his mind a complete blur of pain and humiliation. The words he used as Kissy Misha just spilled from his lips, hoarse and lifeless. "Yeah, babe... just like that... give it to me..."
"Louder!" Trevor demanded, digging his dirty fingernails into the flesh of Michael's hips.
"Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Yeah, babe, come on!" Michael's voice came out louder, an obscene sob that he barely even recognized as his own.
Trevor laughed, a manic, turned-on sound. "Yeah! That's my cheap little slut! That's how you do it? Moan for me like you moan for them!"
He pulled Michael up onto all fours. The new angle let him drive himself in even deeper. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, silent tears leaking out and smearing the cheap mascara down his cheeks. He just let it happen. Every thrust was a punishment, a penance for every goddamn failure in his life. Trevor was moaning filthy things right into his ear, his breath hot and sour.
"Who the fuck are you, huh, Mikey? The criminal genius? Or Trevor's own personal little whore?"
"Fuckin'a... whore..." Michael groaned, his voice thick with tears.
"That's goddamn right. My whore."
Trevor's orgasm was violent. He went completely rigid, letting out one last animal grunt, and came deep inside Michael, his body shuddering for what felt like forever before he finally collapsed onto the bed right next to him.
They lay there side by side on that cramped, filthy mattress, slick with sweat, the sound of their ragged breathing the only noise in the whole trailer. The air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and pure, undiluted shame. Michael kept his eyes shut, his body aching and his goddamn soul in tatters. He felt the mattress shift as Trevor got up. He heard his heavy footsteps on the linoleum floor, and then the sound of him rummaging around in the closet.
When Trevor came back to the bed, his tone had shifted. The crazy edge was still there, but now it was tinged with a sleepy, possessive satisfaction. "Alright... now I wanna see that thing again."
Michael opened his eyes, confused. Trevor was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his gaze locked on Michael's feet. The long black stockings were still on, but the blue stilettos had been kicked off somewhere. His feet were bare, the pale, smooth skin a stark contrast to the dark fabric.
"Jerk me off with your feet," Trevor ordered, his voice a rough whisper. "I wanna feel those little toes on my cock."
And Michael didn't hesitate. He shifted on the bed, sitting down by Trevor's feet. With an overwhelming, desperate eagerness that came from the deepest, most hollow part of himself, he lifted one foot and pressed it gently against Trevor's dick. The skin was warm and still sticky. He started rubbing the sole of his foot up and down, feeling Trevor's member stiffen again under his touch. It was a strangely intimate gesture, somehow even more vulnerable than the brutal fucking from just a few minutes ago. Trevor closed his eyes, a smile of pure, unadulterated bliss spreading across his scarred-up face.
"Yeah... that's fuckin' it... ain't nobody ever done it like this..." he moaned. "Where the hell'd you learn this, Mikey? Who taught ya, fag?"
Michael couldn't answer. His mind was just... empty. This wasn't something he'd learned. It was some primal instinct, a skill born out of pure desperation to please, to just survive. He just kept going, his feet working Trevor's cock while the other man moaned and writhed on the bed. When Trevor was getting close to coming again, he grabbed Michael's ankle and yanked him forward.
"Enough. Now I want a blowjob. Swallow every last fuckin' drop."
Michael slid off the bed and onto his knees on the floor between Trevor's spread legs. The linoleum was cold and rough against his bare skin. He wrapped his hand around the base of Trevor's cock, the salty, bitter taste flooding his mouth as he took him in. Trevor grabbed a fistful of his hair, guiding the motion. Michael sucked him off with that same overwhelming, desperate willingness, his lips and tongue working to push Trevor right over the edge. When he finally came, a hot, salty spurt filled Michael's mouth. He swallowed every drop, like it was some kind of goddamn sacrament.
Afterward, Trevor just lay back on the bed, completely satisfied, his eyes already half-closed. Michael stayed there on the floor, his head hanging low, the taste of Trevor still coating his tongue.
"You're mine, Mikey," Trevor's voice drifted down, slow and sleepy. "My little whore. And nobody else fuckin' touches you unless I say so."
Michael didn't answer. He just knelt there on the cold, dirty floor of the trailer while the silence of the desert night swallowed up the last echoes of what had just happened. He wasn't Michael De Santa anymore, and he wasn't Kissy Misha either. He was just a hollow shell — broken, used up. But in all that insane, violent madness... he wasn't alone. And somehow, that was the most fucked-up part of all.
[...]
When the month was finally over, Michael kept his promise. He set fire to that baby blue wig, to the lace bra, to that goddamn microscopic thong. The orange flames swallowed Kissy Misha whole right there in the middle of the desert, burning her down to ashes that the wind would scatter in no time. He drove his ass right back to his mansion in Rockford Hills, his whole body aching and his goddamn soul in tatters. Amanda was just sitting there on the couch, watching some stupid-ass reality TV show.
"Where the hell you been all month?" she asked, without even bothering to look at him.
"I was out helpin' Lester and Trevor with some business. Managed to get some cash together." His voice was just flat, completely dead.
He reached over and dropped a handbag he'd bought onto Amanda's lap. It was an exact replica of the one he'd swiped from her. "Found this. Just like your favorite one."
Amanda looked down at the purse, her eyes widening in genuine surprise. It was the first goddamn time in years that Michael had actually gotten a gift right. She stood up and gave him a hug. "You found one! I was so bummed out I lost mine. Thanks, Michael."
He hugged her back, his arms wrapping around his wife's body. The scent of her expensive perfume was both a balm and a poison all at once. While he held her, his other hand slipped into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and he silently transferred Lester's cut to his account. A few seconds later, a message buzzed in.
"Beers at my place. Now."
Michael let go of Amanda and stared out the window, at the dull, hazy glow of the Los Santos lights. He grabbed his car keys. The silence inside that house was goddamn deafening. The silence of a dive bar with Lester, at least, was a silence he understood. And knowing your own personal hell... well, in the end, that was the only goddamn thing he had left.
[...]
END!