Fic: Jensen's Choice (J2, NC-17)
Chapter One
The bar was dark and smoky and smelled like heaven; spilled beer, tobacco, salty fried food and the rich musky scent of blue collar men at the sweaty end of a long working day.
Jensen made his way to where the barkeep was wiping down the ring-stained mahogany bar top with a grimy grey rag.
“Hi,” Jensen said brightly. “Do you have any craft beer?”
The barkeep paused and looked Jensen up and down, taking in the Nantucket red crew-neck sweater, tan chinos, and brown top-siders with orange and green laces.
“No,” he said flatly.
Jensen grinned, fully aware that he looked like he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue and he really didn’t fit in.
“Okay,” he got out his brown leather wallet, flipping it open and making sure the wad of cash and his black Amex were visible. “Just give me whatever you’ve got on tap.”
Jensen smiled and nodded at the flannel-shirt-and-denim clad man sitting on the bar stool beside where he was standing. The man glared briefly before hunching back over his scotch, something from below the bottom shelf if the scent of rotten eggs and anti-freeze was anything to go by.
“Here,” the barkeep smacked a glass of amber liquid down in front of Jensen.
“Thanks!” Jensen smiled again and handed the barkeep a ten dollar bill with a flourish. “Keep the change.”
He winked and took a big gulp of the beer, coughing and choking and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before grimacing and pulling a face.
“Well,” he said, “it’s not PBR, but it’s drinkable.”
A quick check suggested that most of the people in the joint had noticed him now, so Jensen sauntered over to the pool tables, ignoring the few mutters of ‘fucking fag’ he heard uttered in his wake.
There was a rotating group of seven young guys playing on the bar’s two pool tables and Jensen watched them with wide eyes, clapping and cheering the good shots and buying the occasional round of drinks for them.
“You wanna play?” one of the guys asked finally.
“Really?” Jensen rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’d love to. I gotta warn you though, I’m pretty good. Me and my little sister used to play all the time on our Grandpa’s table and I always used to beat her.”
Several of the guys shared a sly, calculating look over Jensen’s head. Jensen affected not noticing and sipped innocently at his beer.
When someone handed him a cue he beamed and then proceeded to make all the typical rookie errors. He gripped the cue too tightly. He didn’t chalk it. He bent too low over the cue stick, turning parallel to it so that he couldn’t line up his shots accurately. He slipped a couple of times trying to hit the cue ball and he missed the solid balls over and over again. Understandably, he lost.
“Oh man,” he said, throwing his hands up to pull at his hair. “I dunno what just happened! I’m usually good.”
The guy he’d been playing-Matt-smiled condescendingly. “Against your little sister, sure. But this is the big leagues now.”
Somehow, Jensen managed not to laugh. He chewed at his bottom lip. “Let’s play again!”
Matt pursed his lips and looked skeptical.
Jensen got his wallet out before Matt could turn him down. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s put some money on it!” He took a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet and waved it under Matt’s nose. Matt’s eyes widened at the sight of Jensen’s fat, bill-stuffed wallet.
Jensen watched as he wavered and then sighed. “Okay. Why not?”
Jensen lost the next game, but won the one after--just. He crowed and was really obnoxious about it, taunting Matt and making a show of putting the money in his wallet and draining the last of his beer as if he was getting ready to leave.
Matt scowled. “You got lucky. I want a chance to win my money back!
“Okay,” Jensen said, “How about double or nothing?” He placed one hundred on the edge of the pool table. He could practically see the dollar signs in Matt’s eyes as he placed his own cash on top of Jensen’s.
Jensen won. Just.
Matt demanded a rematch and then stomped off to the ATM to get more cash out.
“Double or nothing again!” he said, putting $200.00 down on the edge of the table.
Jensen endeavoured to look worried. He chewed on his bottom lip and then nodded. “Okay,” he put down his own money and then looked up from beneath his eyelashes. “Can I break this time?”
“Sure,” said Matt.
Jensen straightened up, loosened his grip on the cue and changed his stance. He set about making the eight on the break, his best play, and something very few people could do.
Matt’s face became whiter and whiter as the game progressed. When the black ball finally rolled into a corner pocket, Matt shook himself out of his stupor.
“You fucking hustled me!” his voice was thick with rage.
Jensen shrugged. “Hey, I said I was good. Not my fault you didn’t believe me,” he reached for the cash and stiffened when Matt grabbed his wrist.
“You’re not taking that! You cheated, you fucking fag!”
Jensen turned, his eyes dark and intense, his teeth clenched and his lips pressed together. “Get your hand off me,” his voice was pitched far lower than it had been the entire time he’d been in the bar.
Matt hesitated. He glanced at his buddies and seemed to gain courage. “Make me,” he said.
Jensen’s lips twitched with cruel glee and without another word he twisted and spun, yanking Matt’s arm up behind his back and then smashing the boy’s head down onto the edge of the pool table, once, twice, and someone tried to grab him from behind. He drove his elbow backwards and connected with a soft gut, and then he slammed his head back and hit a face with a satisfying crack.
Jensen was at the very center of the ecstasy of violence that followed, punching, kicking, head-butting; he picked up a cue stick and wielded it like a weapon…which in his capable hands it was.
“Are we having fun yet, boys?” he yelled, as he took another guy’s legs out from under him.
The cock of a shot gun stilled him.
Jensen grinned. Place like this? Should’ve known the barkeep had a shot gun behind the counter.
“Get out,” said the barkeep.
“Really?” Jensen pouted. “But I was just starting to have a good time.”
Beside Jensen, a would-be assailant tried to take advantage of his distraction. Jensen pulled out his flick knife before the guy had even finished taking a step.
“I once saw somebody get a Columbian neck tie,” he mused. “Always wanted to try it.”
Nobody moved.
During the fight, Jensen had pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and one of his pool buddies was now staring at the demonic skulls, hellfire and dripping blood on his forearms.
“See something you like?” Jensen challenged.
The guy nodded, but wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Jensen snorted and pulled off his sweater, revealing a white wife-beater and his extensive collection of tattoos.
The guy closest to Jensen gasped. He was staring at a small tattoo worked into the sleeve on Jensen’s shoulder; one that he really should’ve had inked over years ago.
The guy saw Jensen watching him and took a step back, holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey man,” he said. “We don’t want trouble with HellSpawn.”
There was an up-swell of muttering.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, Sir,” the barkeep said apologetically.
Jensen sighed. “Sure. Okay. You guys are no fun anyway.”
The bar patrons parted for him as he walked to the door, flick knife still in hand, just in case. It was a very different walk to the delicate, clenched-ass mince he’d affected when he walked in; this was his natural way of moving. Loose-limbed and powerfully careless, it revealed the predator.
Back in his black BMW, Jensen tossed his flick knife into the glove box and pulled out a packet of Marlboro Reds, lighting up and sucking in a lungful of strong, creamy smoke.
He switched on the engine and You shook me all night long blasted from his speakers, loud enough to shake the dashboard.
Jensen nodded along. What a rush it was to hustle a bunch of bigoted douchebags and then get into a bar fight with them. Man, he hadn’t had this much fun in years.
He glanced at the clock and swore under his breath. Sticking his cigarette between his lips he put the car into drive and sped from the parking lot, gravel spitting up from his tires.
--
Jensen pushed open the chrome and frosted glass door into Dr Samantha Ferris’s consulting suites. The receptionist, a pretty, petite blonde girl with big blue eyes and a southern drawl, batted her eyelashes at him.
“Nice to see you again, Mr Ackles.”
Jensen gave her his most charming smile. “Always a pleasure to see your pretty face, Sweetheart.”
She was barking up the wrong tree, but it never hurt to be nice to people who could be useful.
The door into Sam’s office opened and Dr Ferris stood in the opening with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling an ‘uh oh’ face at the receptionist and then winking, before breezing past Sam and into her office. He threw himself down into one of her bucket chairs and waited while she closed the door and crossed to sit in the one beside him.
“Our appointment time was 5.30pm,” she said. “It’s now five to six. By rights I should ask you to reschedule.”
Jensen shrugged as if he didn’t care. And on the one hand he didn’t. On the other hand his dad would give him hell if Dr Ferris reported that he’d missed an appointment.
Jensen looked up at her from underneath his eyelashes and found her looking at him closely. Jensen considered his appearance for a moment, knew his hair was tousled from the bar fight; knew his eyes were bright with the rush of the hustle; knew the conclusion she would reach.
“Have you been using?” Dr Ferris’s voice was shaded with suspicion.
“No.”
She inclined her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“This is my session, right? If I’m not gonna be honest, why I am here?”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Don’t quote the therapy handbook at me. I wrote it. And we both know you’re here because you don’t want your daddy to have you committed again.”
Jensen tipped his head back and then sighed dramatically. “Fine. You want me to pee in a cup?”
Sam looked at him steadily and then told him that he knew where the cups were.
Jensen stood up with another sigh and then strolled into her ensuite bathroom, leaving the door wide open. He took a specimen cup from the shelf and half-filled it, put a cap on it, washed his hands and then strolled back out, dumping the cup on Sam’s desk on the way past.
“Happy?” he demanded.
“I’ll let you know when I get the results. In the meantime, would you like to talk about your exhibitionist tendencies?”
Jensen laughed, genuinely. “Well I ain’t gonna deny that I’ve got those, but you ain’t even on my radar, Darlin’. You’re also my doctor. I figure watching me pee into a cup is all part of your gig.”
As usual, he got absolutely no reaction, save for a small hmm, and a scribbled note. “Okay. Let’s move on to why you were late this afternoon.”
Jensen began to spin his chair on its castors, just a little; toward Sam, toward the fake palm tree in the copper plant pot, toward Sam.
“I just lost track of time. That’s all.”
“I see. And what were you doing that caused you to lose track of time?”
Jensen rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was playing pool.”
Sam’s trademark look of concern ratcheted up a notch. “Jensen, you know you’re not allowed to play pool. You’re not even allowed in any location where there’s a pool table. What were you thinking?”
“What was I thinking?” Jensen stopped spinning. He slouched in his seat, his legs splayed. “I was thinking that I was bored fucking shitless and I wanted to have a little fun.”
“The pool scene is a huge trigger for you,” Sam said. “Why not find some other way to have fun?”
Jensen snorted.
“Or maybe you could even find something more fulfilling than mere fun. Have you given any more thought to going back to college?”
Jensen rolled his eyes. “My dad put you up to that?”
“He worries.”
Jensen huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. About the Ackles name. About what effect my reputation’s gonna have on his.”
At least Sam had the good grace not to argue the point. She was big on honesty, after all.
“Then surely,” she said, “with all the resources at your disposal, you should be able to find some ‘fun’ that doesn’t involve a pool hall.”
“It was a dive bar.”
Sam shook her head. “Like those are any better. What about the tennis? Are you still playing tennis?”
“Yeah. Every Monday. With Ryan, the son of Dad’s CFO,” he waited a beat. “I fucking hate tennis. And Ryan?” Jensen got to his feet and began to pace. “Ryan is deeper in the closet than Father Mahoney down at St Pat’s. I managed to talk him into letting me give him a blow job,” Jensen shook his head. “It was like having a dead fish in my mouth. A really tiny one. So I said to him, I said, just…grab my head and fuck my face like you mean it, and you know what he did? He pulled out and he pulled me to my feet and he hugged me. He hugged me, Sam! And he promised to ‘help me through my issues’,” Jensen’s voice rose indignantly.
“How do you feel about that?” Sam asked.
“Really?” Jensen stopped pacing and raised his eyebrows. “My look of horror and outrage doesn’t clue you in to that answer?”
Sam simply sat patiently and waited.
Jensen leaned back against her desk and folded his arms. “We’ve all got issues. Maybe I’ve got more than my fair share. But liking sex? Ain’t one of ‘em.”
“Liking rough sex?”
“Nothing wrong with rough sex, so long as everybody consents.”
“Which Ryan clearly didn’t.”
“Huh,” Jensen frowned. “Yeah. I guess,” he went and sat back down next to Sam. “Anyway, we’re still playing tennis, but uh, he’s acting like I need to be coaxed over some kind of sexual trauma,” Jensen shook his head. “I dunno what my dad’s been telling people about me.”
“Are you and Ryan in a relationship?”
“Hell no. He’s engaged to Savannah Scott-Wright.”
“So you’re having an affair?”
Jensen frowned. “No. We’re fucking around in the locker room after tennis.”
Sam shook her head. “Okay. I think I understand. You feel as if every aspect of your life is currently unsatisfying?”
Jensen nodded.
“And you’re looking to fill that void?”
“Yeah.”
“With something that isn’t cocaine.”
“Exactly. I needed a rush.”
Sam sighed. “You’ve been clean seven years, even got a bronze medallion in your wallet to mark five years sober. But you’re still driven by the same needs and you still don’t seem interested in changing; in developing a healthier way of living.”
Jensen shrugged. “I just want to be me. And you know what? I don’t have a problem with me. It’s everyone else who has the problem.”
Sam pursed her lips and then looked up at the clock. “Our time’s up. I’ll see you again next week. Please be on time.”
Jensen escaped gratefully out to the car. He sat on the hood in the parking lot and chain-smoked half a dozen cigarettes before climbing behind the wheel and heading home.
His father’s Mercedes was already in the garage. Jensen put his hand on the hood and the engine was cool.
Shit.
Friday nights were ‘family dinner’ night-but only when Warren Mason Ackles could make it. If he was late, well, that was just business. If Jensen was late, a lecture on family values was almost a foregone conclusion.
Jensen typed his pin into the car key safe and then locked his key inside it.
He keyed his entry code into the pad beside the door and then opened it with his swipe card.
He took his shoes off and then tiptoed toward the stairs, hoping he might make it upstairs before he attracted anyone’s attention.
“Mr Jensen, Sir?”
No matter how many times he told them to just call him Jensen, the staff couldn’t seem to lose either the Mr or the Sir. Or maybe they’d been told not to.
Jensen pasted on a smile and turned. “Yes, Maria?”
“Your parents are waiting for you in the semi-formal dining room.”
Fanfuckingtastic.
“Thank you.” He met her eyes and smiled and Maria blushed and ducked her head.
Jensen walked down the long corridor, past the austere portraits of his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather and so on, his socked-feet gliding across the highly polished floorboards. He stopped beside the requisite room, took a deep breath and then pushed the door open.
The polite tinkle of silverware greeted his entry.
“Jensen,” his father said after a moment. “So good of you to join us at last.”
“Sorry. My appointment with Dr Ferris ran over time.”
His father peered at him over the top of his spectacles. “Being particularly difficult, were you?”
“You know me,” Jensen shrugged expansively. The place where he usually sat had been cleared of tableware. “You want me to get myself a plate?”
“No, Dear,” his mom said. “We had Lucy make you up a plate to keep warm in the oven. You can wash up and then go and eat in the kitchen.”
Jensen managed not to fist pump until he got back out into the hallway. “Yes!”
Maria, who was hovering in the hallway, tittered and Jensen winked at her and then bounded up the stairs, to his bedroom. He changed into a ratty pair of old jeans and a Led Zeppelin tee-shirt and then went and washed his hands and splashed water on his face.
Whenever possible, Jensen ate in the kitchen. In the kitchen, he didn’t have to worry about his posture, and keeping his elbows off the table, and a million and one other etiquette things that he didn’t give two shits about. It was comfortable and homelike and Lucia wasn’t actually old enough to be his mother, but he sure wished his mom was more like her.
“¡Buenas noches, Lucia!”
“Sit, sit,” Lucia said, plucking up a pair of oven mitts and taking a tin-foil covered plate out of the oven.
“¿Qué hay para cenar esta noche?”
“Chicken and dumplings,” Lucia put the now uncovered plate in front of him, along with cutlery.
“Gracias.”
Lucia smiled. “Enough practice now, I want to talk. Is everything okay?”
Jensen picked up his fork and dug into the food. “Eh. You know. As much as it ever is. Did he pitch much of a fit that I was late?”
Lucia wrinkled her nose. “Oh boy. He was not happy.”
They chatted a little more while Jensen ate, mostly about her little boy, Matias, who was back home in Santiago with her sister and her family.
Maria joined them as Jensen was mopping up the last of his sauce with a piece of bread.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but your parents want you to join them in the drawing room when you’re finished.”
Jensen pushed his plate out of the way and then clunked his forehead against the wooden table top with a groan. “Fuck my life!”
Lucia smacked the back of his head. “I know Mr Ackles can be a difficult man,” she said, “but he puts the roof over your head, the food in your belly. You owe him some respect.”
Jensen turned his head. “Well maybe if he didn’t forbid me from doing any of the things that actually interest me, he wouldn’t have to!”
“Why don’t you just leave then?” Maria said.
Jensen snorted. “Tried that. Didn’t work out so good for me.”
Lucia put a hand to his arm. “You were eighteen, Papito. You’re twenty-eight now.”
Jensen wrinkled his nose. “Yeah. And I’m still paying for the mistakes I made back then.
He got up from the table and stretched. “Gracias por la cena.”
Lucia patted his cheek and Jensen took his leave, making his way down to the drawing room where he found his mother working on her tapestry and his father smoking a Cuban cigar and drinking Cognac from a crystal brandy-balloon.
“Cotillion tomorrow night,” Jensen’s father said, glancing up at Jensen and eyeing his outfit with distain.
Jensen frowned. “Really? That’s tomorrow?”
His father pursed his lips. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that you’re escorting Mary Beth Ellison.”
No, Jensen hadn’t forgotten. He just wasn’t looking forward to it. Mary Beth was all right. Quiet, shy and harmless. But the whole Texas Country Club scene made his skin crawl.
“You’d make a good match,” his father mused. “Her father’s in oilfield equipment.”
Right, Jensen thought sarcastically, because what your daddy did was the most important factor in any relationship.
“You haven’t forgotten that I’m gay, have you?”
His father swirled his cognac around in its glass. “Nonsense, Jensen,” he said. “I know you went through a phase when you started college in LA, but that’s all behind you now. It’s time to stop with all that nonsense and start getting serious about a wife.”
Jensen’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? You don’t just stop being gay. It’s not something you do, it’s something you are.”
“You’re not…that,” his father said, nose wrinkling with disgust. “No son of mine is going to be a pervert! Maybe you were exposed to unnatural things when you were in LA, but--”
Jensen laughed; harsh and ugly. “I figured out for sure that I was gay when I was fourteen and I blew Toby Morrison in the locker room after baseball practice.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Dear,” said his mother, her hand fluttering to the locket at her chest.
“It’s over,” Jensen’s father said. “As of now. There will be no more degrading filth. You’ll court a nice girl, like Mary Beth, you’ll marry and you’ll give us grandchildren. Is that clear?”
Jensen stared at his father and then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
--
“You might wanna slow down, Son,” said Jensen’s buddy Chris.
Jensen was sitting with Chris Kane and Chris’s boyfriend Steve Carlson at a small round table right in front of the stage at The Midnight Rebels Saloon.
After his father’s proclamation, Jensen had gone upstairs to his closet (he’d had a smaller bedroom when he’d been living in LA) and picked up the Go Now bag, that it was his habit to keep packed. He shoved his feet into a pair of black combat boots, grabbed his leather jacket and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder before hurrying out to the garage.
Keys. BMW. He clicked the remote to open the garage and then reversed out onto the driveway, despite his father’s preference that he use the revolving disk to turn the car around.
Chris and Steve hadn’t been home; hardly unusual for a Friday night, so Jensen had picked their lock and let himself in, playing Call of Duty on the sofa until he’d fallen asleep.
He’d woken the next morning about eleven to the smell of bacon and coffee. Someone had put a blue woollen blanket over him during the night and Jensen wrapped it around his shoulders when he went out into the kitchen.
“Hey.”
Chris turned around, spatula in hand.
“Uh oh,” Chris said. “You got that look.”
Jensen frowned. “What look?”
“The one you got right before you lit out for California, months before college was due to start.”
Jensen leaned against the counter. “He wants me to get married.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.”
Jensen sighed. “You’ve heard him on the topic of gay people being allowed to marry-or as he likes to call it ‘the sick and sinful gay agenda of normalizing degradation.’ He wants me to marry a woman. Possibly Mary Beth Ellison.”
Chris’s response was satisfyingly lurid.
He and Steve had a gig that night, but they said that Jensen was welcome to come with them.
Jensen spent the afternoon on Chris and Steve’s sofa, smoking his way steadily through two packets of cigarettes and drinking his way through a six pack-and-a-half of Bud.
Mid-afternoon he switched his cell phone back on and wrinkled his nose at all the missed calls from a ‘private number’ that he’d received. That’d be his dad. Not personally, of course. Probably his PA. Fuck him. Jensen took another swig of beer. And then he pulled the sim card out of his phone and broke it in half. He reached into his duffel bag and rummaged around until he found the envelope with the pre-paid sim card. He inserted the card and gave Chris his new number.
When it was time for Chris and Steve to head out to The Midnight Rebels Saloon for their gig, Jensen was nicely buzzed. Chris didn’t want him to drive, but there wasn’t enough room for him in the van with all their gear and Jensen didn’t actually care if he crashed the beamer.
“I promise I won’t kill anyone,” he said. “I’ve driven way more fucked up than this before.”
Chris glared and shook his head, but he didn’t try to stop Jensen from throwing his duffel bag into the trunk of his car and sliding behind the wheel.
Chris raised an eyebrow. “You’re not sticking around?”
Jensen shrugged. “Sooner or later he’s gonna send someone looking for me. And yours is the first place they’re gonna look.”
Every line on Chris’s face was etched with concern. “You make sure you say good-bye before you take off,” he pointed an accusing finger at Jensen.
Jensen promised that he would, but he made that promise last time, and then didn’t tell his best friend when he took off.
While Chris and Steve set up for their gig, Jensen sat at the bar and did Tequila shots.
“I like these bar stools,” he told the barkeep. “They’re like saddles. They’re awesome.”
He moved to the table reserved for the music act once the guys were set up and continued to drink, prompting Chris’s suggestion that he slow down.
Truthfully, Jensen could drink a lot before it had much of an effect, but he was planning on driving and a DUI charge would be annoying, so he switched to soda.
Chris and Steve went up on stage and Jensen sat, feeling calmer and less restless than he’d felt in years. Maybe Maria was right. Maybe what he’d needed all along was to get out there on his own again. Maybe he could make it work this time.
Chris and Steve’s music was loud raucous country, and Jensen was deep in his own head, trying to decide what his next move should be. He didn’t notice the men in the Hellspawn MC cuts until they were sitting at his table, one on either side of him.
“Hey, Dean,” said the one on his right, a big bald guy, wearing a black bandana.
Oh shit.
“I’m sorry,” Jensen smiled tightly putting on the most hoighty toighty son-of-an-oil-baron voice he could manage. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. My name is Jensen. Jensen Ackles. Of Ackles Oil.”
The men both looked supremely unimpressed. Baldy reached into the inside pocket of his cut and pulled out a folded piece of letter-sized paper. He unfolded it and placed it on the table in front of Jensen.
Jensen looked down at it.
Oh, he was fucked.
“Wow,” he said. “That guy could be my twin. Why does your club want him?”
The men looked at each other and then the guy on the left grabbed hold of Jensen and Baldy pulled up the sleeve of his tee-shirt to reveal the tattoo of the red-eyed hellhound with blood dripping from its bared teeth and the words HellSpawn MC printed in a curve underneath.
“You wanna explain this, Jensen?” he said.
Jensen sighed. “Okay, fine. You got me. But my name really is Jensen Ackles.”
“I don’t give a fuck if your name’s Ronald McDonald,’ said Baldy. “The Beast sent us to pick you up and drive you down to LA and that’s what we’re gonna do.”
Jensen snorted.
“You gonna come quietly?” asked Baldy.
“Why would I wanna do that?”
The other guy leaned in close. “Because right now you’re the only one who’s fucked. You really wanna drag your buddies,” he nodded toward the stage, “into this?”
No, Jensen really didn’t. He stood with a sigh and the bikers both tensed.
“Relax. This is me going quietly.”
Jensen pulled his leather jacket off the back of the chair and put it on. “Let’s go.”
The men rose and Jensen sketched Chris a salute and then turned his back and walked out of the bar, flanked by the bikers.
Outside, were two Harley Davidson Dyna Super Glides. Jensen lifted an eyebrow.
“Well that ain’t gonna work. You can’t expect the guy you’re kidnapping to ride bitch.”
“We’re just going to the clubrooms,” said Baldy. “We’ll get a different ride there.”
“Nah,” Jensen reached into his jacket pocket. The bikers both reached behind them, but before they could draw, Jensen threw his car keys at Baldy. “We’ll take the beamer,” he said.
Baldy looked suspiciously at the keys and then at Jensen. “You boost this? You hopin’ to get us picked up by the cops?”
“Jensen Ackles,” Jensen repeated slowly. “Ackles Oil. My daddy’s a billionaire.”
The bikers stared at him, slack-mouthed.
Jensen sighed. “If you don’t believe it’s mine and I’m me, my licence and registration are in the glove box.”
Baldy unlocked the car and opened the glove box. “Well fuck,” he said, after examining the documents, “Pellegrino ain’t gonna like this.”
--
They’d offered him cocaine.
Jensen hadn’t accepted it and he still wasn’t sure why. This was probably the last day of his life, so what did it really matter? Except that he’d cleaned up his act; he’d gotten this far and he kind of wanted to see it through to the end. So to speak.
They also hadn’t tied him up or anything. They seemed to believe they could rely on him not running as a matter of honor, which was hilarious. Jensen was first and foremost a hustler. He might’ve been an MC prospect, but only because the club’s sergeant-at-arms, Christopher Heyerdahl, had liked his hustling skills and his talent for violence. Combining the two skill sets had made him an excellent interrogator and for a while, Jensen had thrilled in the role. Then he’d been ordered to do some things he hadn’t been comfortable with, and it had all gone downhill from there.
Jensen was far more concerned with his life than with his honor, but he wasn’t making a run for it for two reasons. Firstly, he didn’t want the Club to go after Chris and Steve; and they would if Jensen ran. And secondly, Club President Mark Pellegrino hadn’t known that Jensen came from money. The HellSpawn Original Charter in LA had known him as Dean Winchester, an alias he’d been using back then, and they’d believed he was a talented hustler who’d worked his way up from the streets.
Dean Winchester wouldn’t be able to give back the money he’d stolen from the Club, but Jensen Ackles could. He was hoping he could give them back their money and convince Pellegrino that it would be best to avoid the heat that killing the son of a billionaire would bring. And okay, maybe Pellegrino would want to punish him. So long as he didn’t die, Jensen figured he could handle that.
In the meantime, Jensen sat in the back of his own BMW, one arm slung across the back of the bench seat, slowly chain-smoking his way through his second packet of Marlboro Reds. He’d even slept a little.
They’d hit a truckstop just outside of Tuscon and Jensen had shouted them all a hot breakfast, before going to hit the head.
As Jensen had been expecting, Baldy had accosted him in the rest room and demanded a blow job. The biker had obviously been expecting fear and horror rather than the eager enthusiasm he actually got from Jensen, and he’d pushed Jensen away and called him a freak.
Jensen had laughed. “Didn’t do your homework properly, did you Sweetheart? HeyDay and The Beast liked my cock sucking skills as much as they liked my pool skills and my interrogation skills,” he licked his lips. “I like having a dick in my mouth,” he cocked his head. “You sure you’re not up for it?”
“Fuck you,” Baldy said, and stomped out of the restroom.
In Jensen’s experience, most bikers were hyper masculine and even though many of them weren’t above taking pleasure where they could in prison, the sex in those circumstances was more often about dominance and establishing hierarchy than anything else and when it wasn’t, most of them had a ‘what happens in prison, stays in prison’ attitude.
Mark ‘The Beast’ Pellegrino was an exception to that rule. He was openly bisexual and happily welcomed gay or bi members. Some bikers-even some of the HellSpawn members in other charters-didn’t like that about him, but Pellegrino was a genuinely dangerous and frightening man. He’d made HellSpawn the most powerful and successful one percenter MC in the country and no one would ever dare say anything about his sexuality to his face. They wouldn’t even say anything behind his back, in case it got back to him.
Jensen lit another cigarette and the other guy-whose name was Franky-groaned.
“What?” said Jensen. “I’ve got the windows rolled down.”
“I’m gonna die of lung cancer before we get to the LA clubhouse,” Franky grumbled.
“We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Baldy (whose name was actually Lewis, but Jensen thought Baldy suited him better) said.
Jensen started to get nervous again.
Driving through the front gates of MorningStar Motors brought back a lot of memories for Jensen, not all of them bad. He’d had some good times here. The Club partied hard and Jensen had drunk a lot, done a lot of drugs, and had a lot of debauched sex right here in the club rooms. Some of the best nights of his life had happened right here. As well as some of the worst. Being back again was an emotional roller coaster and as Jensen got out of the car, he swallowed against his need to ask for the cocaine he’d turned down earlier.
They were waiting for him in the Chapel: Mark ‘The Beast’ Pellegrino, Chris ‘HeyDay’ Heyerdahl, Mark ‘Rolly’ Rolston, Mark ‘Crossroads’ Sheppard, Freddy ‘Yellow Eyes’ Lehne and at Pellegrino’s right hand, wearing the VP patch, some young, smokin’ hot guy who Jensen didn’t recognize.
“Dean Winchester,” said Pellegrino. And then he gave a loopy grin and shrugged. “Or I guess I should say Jensen Ackles. And I’ve gotta say that was a surprise and not much surprises me anymore,” he pointed a finger at Jensen. “Back then, nothing about you suggested you were anything more than a punk-ass street kid with a talent for pool and sucking cock,” Pellegrino inclined his head. “Actually, nothing about you suggests you’re anything more than that now.”
Jensen pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and tossed it on the table.
“Ooh, a black Amex,” Pellegrino gave an over-the-top shiver. “I’m not so impressed by the $400 in cash; one hustle could earn you that back in the day. So the question is…are you really who you say you are, or have you graduated to long cons?”
“I’m really Jensen Ackles. Sole heir to the Ackles Oil fortune and black sheep of the family. Look, I’m sorry about the money I stole, okay? I was young. I panicked. I can pay it back.”
Pellegrino stared at him. “It isn’t about the money. It’s about the disrespect. You gotta be punished for that,” he inclined his head. “By rights, I should have you killed.”
Jensen’s heart started to beat way too fast.
The young VP leaned in and whispered something in Pellegrino’s ear. Pellegrino’s grin became wolfish and he nodded. “Well that’s definitely a win/win. Gotta say the thought of that fine ass getting eaten by maggots wasn’t really appealing to me.” He looked back up at Jensen. “Jensen, I’d like you to meet my VP, Jared Padalecki.”
Jensen nodded. “What happened to JD?”
A flash of sorrow crossed Jared’s face.
“He died,” Pellegrino said. “Anyway, Jared here has kindly offered to take on responsibility for your debt and your punishment. You get what you deserve and Jared gets a brand new fuck toy,” Pellegrino grinned brightly. “Let’s hope you last a little longer than the last few. Jared has a tendency to wear his toys out real quick.”
Jensen swallowed.
Jared was huge, but he had kind eyes and Jensen was having a little trouble imagining him being truly cruel. He even had fucking dimples. He was certainly capable of manhandling Jensen; of overpowering him physically, and Jensen honestly hoped he would do that, and then follow through with a hard, rough fucking. If the man was proportional… Holy fuck. Jensen was getting hard just thinking about it. If Pellegrino thought rough sex with a hot guy like Jared would be some sort of punishment for Jensen, then he really didn’t know Jensen very well at all.
Jensen watched as all six foot four of Jared stood, stretched and then strode purposefully toward him. Jeans. White tee-shirt. Leather cut. Tattooed sleeves. Shoulder length brown hair.
“You gonna fight me on this?” Jared asked and Jensen could hear a faint Texan twang in his voice.
Jensen shook his head. This giant puppy would be child’s play to manipulate.
Jared grinned, his eyes suddenly glinting darkly.
“You know how to ride bitch?”
Jensen nodded.
“Good. We’re gonna go back to my place and get to know each other,” Jared leaned in close. “We’re gonna get to know each other real well.”
Jensen swallowed again at the hint of genuine darkness in Jared’s voice. Where had the puppy dog gone?
Jared took hold of Jensen’s arm and began to pull him toward the exit. Jensen let him. Just as they reached the door, Pellegrino called out.
“Oh, Jared?”
Jared turned.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing. I’ll expect to see bruises on him.”
Jared’s answering smile was frightening in its ferocity. “Oh, you can count on it,” he said.
A feeling that Jensen was all too familiar with began to settle in the pit of his stomach; he was beginning to realize that, once again, he was in way, way over his head.
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