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Last Run By Anel Viz © Anel Viz 2009 “You can go straight home from this delivery,” the manager told him. “No need to come back to help us clean up. We’d be done by the time you got here.” “That big a load?” “Nah, only three stops, but one of ’em’s pretty far away. Seven, eight miles. Maybe ten.” “Why didn’t they order from somewhere closer?” “Dunno. Maybe everything there is closed already. Didn’t want to take their order, but it was a big one - three large, breadsticks, fried mozzarella. Better make it your last stop or the locals’ll get mad. And like I said, go straight home when you’re done.” “And the van? And my car?” “You can hang on to the van. Just remember to turn off the oven. And get it back before one o’clock tomorrow. You can do that, can’t you? Your car will be safe in the lot.” The address on the box said 124 Washington. Cal looked for it on the GPS. What the fuck? Barry was sending him to the inner city after midnight! And how the hell was he supposed to know what apartment bell to ring when the only name the guy gave was Jake? Well, maybe it was a storefront and some people were having a party. That would be safer, anyway. The apartment buildings stopped and the streets emptied after the 600 block; after that there was nothing but warehouses with only one streetlamp at each intersection. Well, at least he’d find a place to park and wouldn’t have to go walking through those dark streets. But when he reached the 100’s he saw cars lined up on both sides of the street in both directions and around the corner too. He’d have to double park. 124 was a single shiny black door windowless building, the three large numbers painted on in white. He rang the bell and was buzzed in immediately. Before him was a poorly lit staircase, steep and narrow, with a reddish glow. He went up two flights and came to what looked like a ticket booth at the cinema, chest-high and glassed in except for a slot at the bottom to slip in your money, and a door on the wall to the left with a potted tree and a plaster cast of Michelangelo’s David on either side. Disco music was playing in the background. The thin, middle-aged guy working reception wore a white tee-shirt with the logo 124 a couple of inches below the right shoulder and black Spandex shorts that outlined everything they were meant to cover. Without raising his head, he crooned, “Good evening,” and slapped a towel and a key on an elastic ring down on the counter. “Nothing but lockers left,” he said. “I can put you on the waiting list for a room. Twenty bucks if you can prove you’re under twenty-five.” Then he looked up and saw the pizza boxes. “For Jake,” Cal explained. The man switched on the intercom. “Jake to the front desk. Jake to the front desk.” Then he said, “You’d better come inside and wait in the lounge. It may take him a while to get here if he’s otherwise occupied. Those boxes won’t fit through the slot anyway.” Cal stepped through the door and laid the pizzas on the counter to the right. An open door behind the bar led into the office cubicle. On the wall to his left, a bulletin board with business cards from masseurs, tattoo parlors, lawyers, restaurants, etc. A few men with towels around their waists sat on low sofas watching a young blond guy sucking off another blond guy on a TV set on a shelf near the low ceiling. They may as well not have worn the towels, since they sat with their legs spread to display their equipment. One of them was actually stroking himself. He seemed more listless that excited. Cal did his best not to stare. It wasn’t easy. The guy winked at him and patted the empty spot next to him. Cal shook his head. Jake showed up about five minutes later. The towel around his waist came only a quarter of the way down his thighs and stood out in front of him as if supported by a tent pole. “Oh, the pizzas are here. Wait a sec, I’ll get your money. Three large sausages, right?” The guy playing with himself snickered. Jake returned with a bunch of his buddies. “He’s cute!” one of them said. “A real babe!” Cal pretended he didn’t know the guy meant him. Unsuccessfully, because then the guy looked straight at him and asked, “Stay for a slice?” “Can’t. I’m doubled parked.” “So pull around the block and come back.” “Hafta get back to work.” Jake gave him four twenties and told him to keep the change. “And here’s an extra tip for you.” He moved close to him and slipped a bill in his shirt pocket, groping him as he did. “Hey, I like what a feel.” He gave his cock a friendly squeeze, and Cal realized he was hard. The receptionist was watching from the bar. “Watch it!” he called out. The last thing we need is complaints.” “Would it be OK to take him to my room and gave him the tip he deserves? Five minutes?” “If you pay his way in.” Cal pulled back, stammered “No thanks,” and hot-tailed it to the door. He was still shaking when he reached the van. He drove a couple of blocks, turned into an alley, and unzipped his fly. He came in less than a minute. and shot all over his shirt and jeans. Cal leaned back in the seat, panting heavily. Then he remembered the money Jake had stuffed into his shirt. He took out the neatly folded bill. Fifty bucks! Shit, if he’d known it was that much he’d have let him stick his hand down his pants!
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