West of Hollywood, Part I
Part II | Part III | Part IV
Prologue
January 2000
It hurts.
The needle flicks against his hip bone, his twelve-year-old body too lean to have any muscle or fat over the spot, and Anže tries to squirm in the restraints. All it earns him is another nick to the bone as the tattoo needle catches on a curve, and Anže lets out a whine.
“Anže-”
Anže turns his head to see his father, arms crossed over his chest, leaning his hip against the wall and watching as if he doesn’t care that his oldest son is going through the humiliation of the Branding. But Anže knows better. He recognizes his father’s coaching face, the one Matjaz wears when Jesenice is losing and the press is asking stupid questions. Matjaz nods at him, a small, barely perceivable tilt of his chin, and Anže bites his lip, determined not to make another sound.
The brander makes a swish of his fingers and the needle catches hard against Anže’s stomach. Anže’s body tenses, shuddering, and his fingers grip the restraints but he doesn't scream. It’s January in Slovenia, the snow is blowing in under the door and whipping around his father’s boots, but Anže feels overheated, warm and clammy and sweat is dripping down his forehead and over his ears. His knuckles are white and aching, his thighs burning from being clenched with the pain, and there is a fire in his hip, spreading out to his stomach, his chest, and it’s hard to breath.
“Previdno.” The brander’s voice is soft, gentle, and Anže almost relaxes into the hand that the brander rests on Anže’s left hip, but then the fingers start to caress, dipping under his already low-slung boxers, and Anže squirms for a whole other reason.
“Nehaj!” Matjaz’s voice is cold as he pushes off the wall, but the brander raises the hand with the needle to wave him off.
“Skoraj končano.” His thumb swipes under Anže’s boxers again as he returns the needle to Anže’s right hip and applies one last, hard stroke. “Na!” Smiling, satisfied, he removes both hands and sits back, eyeing his handy-work. Matjaz walks to stand over the brander’s shoulder, boots loud on the concrete floor. The brander raises an eyebrow. “Lepa, noben?” Anže wiggles under the gaze and the brander’s eyes darken. “Lep fant.”
The tone is somehow familiar, and Anže frowns until he remembers the agent who had brought them here. The agent had looked at him in the same way, whispered strange, confusing things in the same tone, and had caressed his back with the same gentle, uncomfortable touches. Not for the first time since this began, Anže wishes that he had never pulled Marko behind the playground and kissed him. It had felt fun, good, sweetly forbidden, and they had giggled together as Marko had learned forward, fumbling with his fingers at the waistband of Anže’s track pants, and kissed him.
For a moment, Anže smiles at the memory, but then the brander is undoing the restraints and Matjaz’s hand is grabbing Anže’s shoulder roughly, pushing him up and forcing him to slip into his clothes. The tattoo stings and burns as his elastic waistband brushes it, but his father ignores his flinch and pulls him out into the snow. Anže’s feet are barely in his boots and the snow is making his feet cold. “Umiri se!”
“Noben.” Matjaz glances behind them, as if he’s worried the brander is following them, before pulling Anže around a corner and swinging him up into the old pick-up truck.
Anže grunts in pain, curling in on himself in the seat, and whimpers when Matjaz puts the truck in gear and pulls quickly onto the road, the wheels squealing and whirring in the newly fallen snow. Anže frowns at his father. “Kako boli.”
Matjaz glances at him quickly, before turning his eyes back to the road. “Vem.” His voice is gentle, soothing, and as they pull onto the country road, Anže closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.
Translations:
previdno = easy (cautious)
nehaj! = stop!
skoraj končano = Almost done
na! = there (expressing satisfaction)
lepa, noben? = beautiful, no?
lep fant = beautiful boy
umiri se! = slow down!
kako boli = it hurts
vem = I know
***
September 2010
Anže holds his left knee to his chest, using his free hand to wipe sweat from his forehead. He grunts, biting his lip and tipping his head back. Above him, Brian swears, his hands pressing to either side of Anže’s head as he snaps his hips, hard.
“Yes, god, so tight. Fuck-” Brian’s eyes go dark and he tilts his hips, catching Anže’s prostrate and Anže’s body shutters. “Yes, yes, good, Aron, tighter.”
Anže grins, letting go of his knee and wrapping his ankle around Brian’s hips, urging him in deeper. Brian swears, tipping his head back, spine going rigid and arms shaking as he comes. He holds himself still for a moment, panting and regaining his breath before he slips out of Anže and rolls off the bed, dropping the condom in the wastebasket. Anže straightens his legs, wincing as his knee cracks, but smiles as Brian zips the fly on his suit pants and grins at him.
“That was good. Even better than usual.”
Anže nods. “It’s been a while.”
Brian slips on his dress shirt, not bothering to button it up. He rests a knee on the bed and kisses Anže’s cheek. “Next time I’m in town, yeah?” He stops at the door. “The room’s paid for another hour.”
The door closes and Anže sighs, reaching down to wrap his fingers around his half-hard dick. He doesn’t always get hard when he’s working, but Brian’s a regular, and he pushes Anže better than most. With the hour already paid for, Anže takes the time to tease himself, fingers ghosting lightly up and down his dick. His feet press against the mattress, hips thrusting, and he focuses on the ache in his ass, still feeling open and full. His other hand caresses his balls, before slipping back and brushing against the smooth skin that always makes him shudder. “Ahh,” he closes his eyes, slipping three fingers into his ass, pumping hard and fast until he comes into his fist.
He waits until his sated calm has passed, before glancing at the clock and swearing at how far into the hour he is. He makes quick work of the shower, then straightens the sheets, opening the window a crack to air the room out. Satisfied, he grabs the envelope of cash off the bedside table, stuffing it into his bag and heading out to catch a cab.
***
“Hej,” Anže calls as he enters the apartment. It’s quiet. The TV is on, but muted, and there are lights on in the kitchen, so Anže calls louder as he locks the front door and dumps his keys in the bowl beside it. “Hej, Sasha.”
Sasha comes out of his bedroom down the hall, dressed in yellow Lakers shorts pulled halfway down his hips so that they fall well past his knees. Anže bites back a laugh and, when Sasha gets close enough to kiss him lightly on the cheek in greeting, Anže pulls the shorts far enough up to cover the tattoo on his hipbone.
“Anže,” Sasha whines, swatting his hand away. “To je kul.”
Anže shakes his head, stepping around him and dropping onto the couch in the living room. “We have to be careful.”
Sasha rolls his eyes, pulling on an over-large basketball jersey and going to the fridge for a Gatorade. “Želim eno?”
“Yeah.” He catches the bottle Sasha throws at him, perhaps a little harder than necessary. He shakes the sting out of his fingers and frowns at Sasha. “And speak English. You need practice.”
“Whatever.” Sasha rolls his eyes again as he opens his bottle and takes a long sip.
“You have a client tonight?”
“Yeah. Later.” Sasha’s words are accented, but clear. “Pick-up game first. Wanna come?”
Anže waffles, but his ass is still a little sore and he’s a bit tired and, besides, he has other plans for the evening, so he shakes his head. “Nah. I need a shower. And a nap.”
“Going out again tonight?”
“Nah, probably not. Brian always pays well.”
“You get all the good ones.” Sasha grins at him, reaching over the couch to kiss his cheek again. “Don’t wait up.”
“Pazi.”
Sasha gives him a cocky grin, “seveda,” before disappearing out the door.
Anže sighs, opening his Gatorade. He loves Sasha. He’s Anže’s best friend, his countryman, the only one in Southern California who can cook decent smorn and the only one who knows Anže’s real name. Without him, the apartment is unsettlingly quiet, and Anže knows that Sasha feels similarly agitated when Anže isn’t there. Sasha knows everything, and Anže’s stomach twists at the thought of lying to him. But, if Sasha found out what he was planning, he’d rant and yell, tell Anže that he was being reckless, and Anže doesn’t need Sasha to tell him that. He can berate himself well enough on his own, and, in the end, none of it matters because he’s going to do this anyway. He has to. It’s in his blood.
Smiling to himself, he finishes off the Gatorade, drops it in the recycling bin, and grabs his things from the back of his closet. Triple-locking the door behind him, he can’t stop grinning as he practically jogs to the corner to call a cab.
Translations:
To je kul = This is cool (slang)
želim eno = want one?
Pazi = be careful
Seveda = of course
Smorn = traditional Slovenian pancake
***
Most of the time, Jonathan Quick is grateful to the Browns. When he was a rookie, they put him up in their guest room, and Nicole was never anything but gracious to him even though she was a newly wed and pregnant and had every right to resent him for disrupting their last few quiet months. He had been young, gangly, unsure of himself, and they had been kind and gentle and patient.
When their second son was born, Jon had quickly realized that the house was too small for him and their growing family. When he had approached Dustin with the idea of moving out, however, Dustin had called his bluff. The next morning, there were contractors and painters and construction workers to convert the space above the garage into a fully-functional apartment. Well, functional for a hockey player.
Jon is forever grateful. He’d be lost without the noise and the people and the homemade cooking. A night or two a week of babysitting duties is a small price to pay for the family he gets in return. Sometimes, however, Jon craves a night lounging on the couch in his boxers with only a beer and Homer Simpson for company.
“Jon?”
“Up here,” Jon calls, sighing and swallowing the rest of his beer as he sits up to make room for Dustin on the couch. “Hey.”
“Hey? You’ve been gone for two months. All I get is a ‘hey’?”
“Fuck you.” Jon grabs Dustin’s head in a headlock and kisses his cheek, loud and wet.
“Ugh.” Dustin wipes his cheek, but he’s grinning. “Welcome back.”
“Yeah, thanks. Beer?”
Dustin shakes his head. “No. We’re going out.”
“Out?” Jon glances at the clock. It’s almost midnight. “Training camp starts tomorrow.” Dustin shrugs and Jon rolls his eyes. “You’re the captain. You should be more, you know, responsible.”
“I am.” Dustin’s still grinning. “Responsible, that is.”
Jon rolls his eyes and leans his head back along the back of the couch. “Whatever. I’m exhausted.”
“Time change.” Dustin nods his head sagely. Jon hits him with a pillow. “Best way to get back on California time is to stay up late.”
“It’s midnight.”
“Almost.” Dustin agrees, standing up and holding out a hand to Jon. “Come on. And bring a sweatshirt.”
Reluctantly, Jon takes the offered hand, but before he can argue any more, Dustin’s gone, down the stairs and out the door. Grumbling, Jon wonders, not for the first time, what Lombardi was thinking making Dustin captain.
He hears a honk from outside, and he knows that Nicole is going to blame him if Dustin’s impatience wakes the kids, so Jon wanders into his small bedroom. He hasn’t even been home long enough to unpack, so he digs through his suitcase and finds his Kings’ hoodie before jogging down the stairs and climbing into Dustin’s dirty Mercedes.
“Dude, you need to wash your car.”
“I’ll put it on your list of chores.”
“Yeah, not going to happen.” He bends his head to fiddle with the radio until Dustin slaps his hand away.
“Stop.”
“You dragged me out in the middle of the night - we’re gonna listen to something decent.” He settles on a rap station that he knows puts Dustin’s teeth on edge. Without looking over, he settles against the window and sings alone even though he only knows every few words. He can almost hear Dustin’s teeth grinding.
Dustin doesn’t rise to the bait, however. In fact, he seems excited and full of pent-up energy as he drums his thumbs on the steering wheel along with the music. He’s off-rhythm, and Jon’s just about to call him on it when they pull up outside of “The Staples Center? Seriously?”
Dustin ignores him as he puts the car in park and jumps out. “Come on.”
“We have camp in the morning. Won’t you have enough time to torture me then?” Jon whines, but he gets out of the car and follows. When they get to the side service door, Dustin pulls out a key that Jon’s sure he isn’t supposed to have. “In LA for 24 hours and we’re already breaking and entering.”
Dustin holds the door open and ushers Jon in. “And now you’re an accomplice, so don’t bother bitching about it.”
“Cops would totally believe me over you.”
Jon glances back and Dustin raises an eyebrow at him. And, right, Dustin’s the Captain and has that trusting face and Jon knows he’d be totally screwed if it came down to a he said-he said. Dustin takes the moment to step in front and lead the way through the bowels of the Staples Center until they come out around the top of Section 101.
Dustin takes a seat in the middle of the row and Jon falls into the chair next to him, pulling on his sweatshirt and slipping off his flip-flops to rest his feet on the chair in front of him. “What are we doing here?”
Dustin nods out to the ice and Jon follows his gaze and suddenly he forgets that it’s 4 am Connecticut time and he forgets that he’s been goading Dustin all night for bringing him here. Dropping his feet to the floor, he rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, squinting his eyes. “That’s-”
“Yeah,” Dustin says softly, but Jon ignores him in favor of watching Anže on the ice. Anže’s good. Very good. He’s playing a modified game of three-post, dodging imaginary defensemen and forcing himself to shoot from near-impossible angles. The puck clangs off the post 8 times out of 10 and each time the sound rings through the empty arena, Jon leans forward a little bit more.
He doesn’t know how much time passes as he sits like that, barely moving, before Dustin’s hand presses down on his shoulder. Jon glances over, and Dustin tips his head to the side. Without a word, Jon follows him out and back into the car.
They’re halfway home before Jon leans forward to turn off the radio. “He’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s he from?”
Dustin shrugs without taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t know.”
“Damn it Dustin-”
Dustin sighs, turning off the highway and glancing over at Jon, whose eyes are wide and hands are shaking. “I don’t know much more than you do. Last week I went to the rink for a late-night workout. He was there. And he’s been there almost every night since.”
“Huh.” Jon turns his head to look at Dustin. “Do you know his name?”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“Huh.”
“But, Jon-” Dustin swallows, hesitating for a moment. “We’re so close. It’s almost our time. I can taste it. And it’s up to me.” He glances over. “And you. We’ve been waiting so long, and- And he could be that last piece we need.”
Jon nods. After years of being on the outside looking in at the playoffs, they had suffered their first, heart-breaking first-round lost last May. And while the organization has so far allowed them the time and space to grow and develop, Jon is beginning to feel the same press of expectation that Dustin feels.
For now, though, Jon’s mind is back at the Staples Center.
Dustin reaches over and squeezes his knee. “Go to bed. We’ll deal with the rest in the morning.”
Jon hadn’t noticed that the car stopped, but, looking up, Jon sees that they’re home. He just nods distractedly at Dustin, before slipping out of the car and up to his garage apartment without saying another word.
***
“So, what’s the plan?”
Dustin looks up as Jon practically bounds into the kitchen the next morning. He looks rested and energized, so different than the person he was yesterday, and Dustin grins as he turns back to trying to get Mason to eat his oatmeal. “A plan for what?”
Jon stops fiddling with the coffee maker just long enough to glare. “To get the kid.”
Dustin’s still grinning as Mason accepts a spoonful. “My plan was to show you, so that you could come up with a plan.”
“We should talk to Coach Murray.”
Mason makes a face as he pushes the bowl away, and Dustin sighs, letting him hop off the chair and race into the other room. Jon snags the vacated seat and takes a bite of his peanut butter toast. Dustin reaches for the coffee maker to refill his cup. “We need to know more first. We don’t even know the guy’s name. Or where he’s from. Or why we’ve never heard of him before.”
Jon shrugs. “Maybe he was injured.”
“Maybe.” Dustin shrugs. “But until we know more, I think we should keep this just between us, yeah?”
“Sure,” Jon agrees, taking a long sip of coffee and already making plans in his head.
***
Anže’s running late. It’s the first time that Anže’s been foolish enough to skate before an appointment with a client, but it had been a few days since he’d been to the rink and the client didn’t want to meet until late. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity, even if his thighs feel shaky and spent and he’s still sweating at his hairline.
It doesn’t help that this new client wants to meet at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The place makes him nervous, with its marble entryways and white leather sofas and its lobby full of true Hollywood elite. The client had asked to meet in the lobby, so Anže stands next to a Venetian column, trying not to look unrefined and underdressed in his tight jean shorts and black t-shirt. After a moment, he feels ridiculous, so he takes a seat in one of the large, over-stuffed, white leather armchairs and hopes that he’ll stick out a little less if he crosses his legs.
It’s getting late, and he’s halfway through his second time reading September’s edition of Cosmo when he feels feet stop next to him. He drops the magazine to the coffee table and stands.
“You’re-” The man glances down at a crumpled napkin in his hand, squinting to make out the writing on it, before peering over the top of his glasses at Anže, “Aron?”
Anže nods.
“Good, good.” The man stuffs the napkin into his pocket. “I’m sorry I’m late. There was traffic on the 110 and then the valet wasn’t- You know what, never mind. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s fine,” Anže says quickly, before his client can talk himself out of this meeting. “I’m patient.”
The man seems a little unsure of what to make of that. “That’s, um- That’s good.”
Anže tries to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s really fine. I haven’t been waiting long.”
The man opens his mouth, obviously wanting to ask something else, but then he seems to remember where they are, what they’re doing, and he closes it again, his lips thinning. Instead, he wipes his palm on his thigh and holds out his hand. “I’m Matt.”
Anže takes his hand, shaking it. “Matt.”
“Yeah, ah-” Matt stops, dropping Anže’s hand and glancing over his shoulder before moving his head closer to Anže’s. “David told me you were discrete, but, this is- You’re good.” Anže nods reassuringly. He’s good at discrete. It’s why most of his clients are sent to him. But then Matt frowns, looking closer at him. “You, um, you really don’t know who I am, do you?”
Anže peers at him. Something’s wiggling at the back of his mind, but he tries to remember if Matt looks like one of the guys from the clubs or one of Sasha’s clients, and nothing comes to mind. He smiles apologetically. “No. Should I?”
Matt shrugs. “I’m famous.”
Anže raises an eyebrow. “Everyone in this town is famous.”
“Right.” Matt frowns for a moment, then he grins and shakes his head. “This,” he waves his hand between their chests, “is gonna work out fine. Just fine.” He takes Anže’s elbow and steers him towards the elevator bays.
They step in, Matt’s hand on the small of Anže’s back ushering him forward, and Matt doesn’t move it when the elevator door closes. It’s quiet, Matt shifting anxiously behind him, and Anže clears his throat. “What are you famous for?”
“I’m an actor,” Matt tells him, but it’s not the normal, pompous, ‘I'm an actor,’ that Anže normally gets from Hollywood A-listers. Matt gives him a self-deprecating little smirk and Anže decides that he likes him. “You really don’t know me?”
Anže shrugs. “I’m Swedish.” All his clients believe he’s Swedish.
“Swedish?” Matt looks thoughtful for a moment. “I was in Stockholm once for a press tour.”
“You liked it?”
“Yeah.” Matt’s hand tightens on his back. “Nice people.”
Anže nods. “Very.”
“Friends was dubbed in Swedish. I think.” They reach their floor, and Matt leads him down the hall as he fishes in his pocket for his key. “It’s a television show. A famous one.”
“I watch a lot of movies.”
Matt lets out a choked chuckle, shaking his head and grinning at Anže. “You’re refreshing, you know that? Do you mind if I call you again?”
“You don’t know if you like me yet.” Anže points out, motioning his chin towards the bed as they enter the room.
Matt closes the door, slipping his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans and eyeing Anže’s body. “I’m not worried.”
***
“Jebanje.” Sasha swears as he settles on the couch next to Anže. “I’m sore.”
Anže laughs, but gets up to pour him a cup of coffee. “You shouldn’t work out on nights you have to work.”
Sasha glares, but gratefully accepts the mug. “I need to keep in shape.” He flexes his bicep at Anže, who laughs hard enough that he has to place his own cup on the coffee table. Sasha hits the back of his head. “It’s not that funny.”
“It is,” Anže promises.
“Magarac,” Sasha grumbles. Anže just flashes him a smile and grabs the remote control off the coffee table. He flips through the channels before settling on a generic, slickly-produced gangster movie. They watch for a while, waiting for the coffee to kick in, until Sasha sits up a little straighter and kicks Anže’s ankle where it rests on the coffee table. “Hey, where were you last night?”
“Huh?” Anže pretends to barely hear him, taking a long sip of his coffee.
“When I got home, you weren’t here. You didn’t say you had a job.”
“I didn’t?” Anže feigns. Anže hadn’t known how to explain away the hours spent at the Staples Center before meeting Matt, so he hadn’t told Sasha about any of it.
Sasha peers at him seriously. “Anže, we promised to never go on a job without letting the other know.”
“I know, I know. And I won’t.” Anže frowns. “Again.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Jebanje, Sasha, I know that.” Anže turns to look at him, sighing deeply. “I went to the gym,” he lies. “Before I met the new client. He’s an actor,” Anže tries for distraction.
Sasha ignores him. “At one in the morning?”
Anže shrugs. “I was feeling restless. Needed to get out for a bit.”
Sasha looks him over, as if expecting to find some physical proof that Anže is lying to him. He frowns. “Zaskrbelo me je zate.”
Sasha’s gaze is too much, so he rests his head against Sasha’s shoulder. It’s comfortable and warm and Anže feels so bad about lying that he almost tells his secret, but instead he says, softly, “Žàl mi je.”
“It’s okay.” Sasha says quietly, kissing his forehead. “Just leave a note next time.”
Anže chuckles. “Obljubim.”
Sasha must believe him, because he leans forward, his eyes sparkling. “What kind of actor?”
Translations:
Jebanje = fuck (Bosnian - as there are few curse words in Slovene, most Slovenians curse in Bosnian, Serbian, or Croatian)
Magarac = jack ass (again, Bosnian)
Zaskrbelo me je zate = I was worried about you
Žàl mi je = I’m sorry
Obljubim = I promise
Part II