Chapter 7: The Van Interrogation
The tracker had been blinking steadily on the small screen in Ghost's palm for the better part of three hours before it finally stopped moving.
He'd been patient. Mostly. He'd let the little brat think he'd won, let him slip out the service entrance in the east wing, let him stumble through the hedges and down the darkened street with all the subtlety of a drunk baby deer. Ghost had given him a ten-minute head start, just to see what he'd do. Just to see where he'd go.
The tracker had led him to a part of the city that smelled like piss and stale beer, a strip of dive bars and tattoo parlors where the neon signs buzzed with electrical desperation. The Rusty Nail. The name was painted above the door in peeling gold letters, and the windows were so grimy Ghost couldn't see more than a few feet inside.
He'd had a feeling. A dark, sinking certainty that tightened in his chest like a fist.
Ghost pushed the door open and stepped into the bar.
The air hit him first—a wall of smoke and cheap cologne and spilled liquor, so thick it coated the back of his throat. Then the noise: a jukebox wailing something with a heavy bassline, the clatter of pool balls, the low murmur of voices that died down the moment he crossed the threshold. Eyes tracked him, the kind of eyes that belonged to men who'd learned to size up trouble before it got close.
Ghost ignored them.
His gaze swept the room, methodical, clinical. Bar along the left wall. Booths along the right. A pool table in the back, ringed with bodies and cigarette smoke. His eyes moved past all of it, searching for—
There.
The corner booth. Darkest corner of the room, where the light barely reached.
Drake was straddling a man's lap, his back arching, his hands fisted in the stranger's collar. His hips were grinding down in a slow, desperate rhythm, and even from across the room Ghost could see the way his jeans hung open, the button undone, the zipper dragged down.
The stranger's hand was down the front of them.
Drake's head had fallen back, his mouth open on a silent, breathless sound, his brow furrowed like he was fighting something he couldn't quite catch. A constellation of fresh marks bloomed across his neck—dark, angry hickeys, bruised and wet and possessive.
Ghost's jaw tightened.
He moved. Fast, silent, cutting through the crowd without a word. The stranger saw him first—a flicker of fear widened his eyes, his body instinctively tensing beneath Drake—but Drake was too far gone to notice. His hips kept rolling, his mouth open and panting, a low whine building in the back of his throat as the stranger's hand worked inside his jeans.
Drake's body clenched. His thighs squeezed around the stranger's waist, his hands scrambling for purchase, and he bit down on his own fist, muffling a desperate, trembling sound. He was close. Ghost could see it in every line of his body, the way his hips stuttered, the way his face flushed red, the way his eyes screwed shut like he was trying to hold back the flood.
Ghost reached down, grabbed the boy's collar, and yanked.
Drake came off the stranger's lap like a kitten being scruffed, his legs flailing, his shirt rucking up to expose the pale skin of his stomach. The stranger's hand fell away, slick with something Ghost didn't want to think about, and a string of protests died in his throat when he saw the look on Ghost's face.
"Hey, man, he was into it—"
The words hit a wall of silence. Ghost didn't even glance at him.
Drake, meanwhile, had gone limp in his grip, his head lolling, a stupid, sloppy grin spreading across his face as he blinked up at Ghost with unfocused eyes. "Oh ho ho," he slurred, the words thick and syrupy. "Daddy's here! You here to watch or join?"
He laughed, a high, breathless sound, and then his legs were wrapping around Ghost's waist, his heels digging into the small of Ghost's back with surprising strength for a man that drunk. His fingers curled into the collar of Ghost's tactical vest, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against Ghost's neck before he bit down. A little nip. A tiny, sharp sting of teeth against skin.
Ghost's hand clamped down on Drake's jaw, forcing the boy's head back. The drunk haze in Drake's eyes didn't clear, but something shifted—something small and instinctive that made his breath catch.
"Outside," Ghost growled.
"Kinky," Drake managed, and then he was being carried, his legs still locked around Ghost's waist, his arms looped around Ghost's neck as the crowd parted around them like water around a stone.
The cold night air hit them like a slap, and the rusted door of the van yawned open. Ghost didn't bother with ceremony; he pitched Drake into the back like a sack of grain. The boy's body hit the metal floor with a muffled thud, and before he could scramble up, Ghost slammed the door shut, the sound ringing through the empty parking lot like a gunshot.
The interior was cramped, a narrow coffin of bare metal and tired upholstery. The air was thick with stale cigarettes and the ghost of old sweat, and the only light came from a weak, flickering bulb near the roof that cast everything in a sickly orange glow. Drake was sprawled on the floor, his shirt rucked up around his ribs, his jeans hanging open, his breath coming in fast, drunken gasps. His eyes were glassy, his lips swollen and obscene, a smear of someone else's saliva glistening in the corner of his mouth.
"Fuck," Drake mumbled, giggling. "That was rude."
His fingers fumbled at his jeans, clumsy and uncoordinated, working at the button with the kind of desperate, drunk determination that suggested he'd completely forgotten everything except the ache between his legs. He was muttering under his breath, half to himself, half to the universe at large.
"Finish what I started," he slurred, his voice thick and syrupy. "Need to finish... c'mon, you stupid..."
Ghost moved. He crossed the cramped space in a single step, grabbed Drake by the collar, and hauled him up off the floor. Drake let out a squeak of surprise, his legs flailing, and then Ghost slammed him back against the van's wall. The impact rattled Drake's teeth, and before he could catch his breath, Ghost's hands were on his wrists, pinning them above his head against the cold metal.
The position forced Drake's chest out, his spine arched, his hips tilted forward at a helpless angle. The bruise-dark marks on his neck were stark in the amber light, a map of someone else's mouth, and Ghost's gaze lingered on them for a long, dangerous second.
"You think this is a game?" Ghost growled.
His face was inches from Drake's. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, the cheap perfume of the stranger. Drake's eyes were half-lidded, slurred, but there was a spark in them. A glint. He laughed, a sloppy, breathless sound, and rolled his hips up.
His cock was hard. Painfully hard. The shape of it strained against the open fly of his jeans, and when he rolled his hips, it dragged against Ghost's thigh through the layers of fabric. Drake's lips parted, a loose, wet sound escaping him, and he did it again, grinding down with the shameless, graceless rhythm of a man who had given up on pretense.
"C'mon, Ghosty," he breathed. "You know you wanna. You've been teasing me all week. Just fuck me already, or let me go back inside."
Ghost's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His grip on Drake's wrists tightened, the pressure turning sharp, and Drake winced, a flash of genuine pain cutting through the drunk haze before it smoothed away again.
"You're drunk."
"So?" Drake slurred, biting his lip, his teeth catching on the silver ball of the piercing. "I'm still legal. And I'm still horny. So either you use me, or I'm going back to that guy who actually knows how to have a good time."
The challenge hung in the air. Thick. Electric. Drake's chest was heaving, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes fixed on Ghost's with a kind of defiant, sloppy hunger.
Ghost's eyes darkened.
Something dangerous slid into them, something that made the air in the van feel too thin. He released Drake's wrists slowly, deliberately, letting them drop. And then his hand was on Drake's jaw, his fingers digging into the bone, tilting the boy's head up until he had no choice but to meet Ghost's gaze.
"You want me to use you?" Ghost's voice was low. Rough. A gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the space between them. "Fine. But you don't get to complain when you can't walk tomorrow."
Drake's breath hitched. His pupils dilated so fast it was almost visible, the black swallowing the whiskey-addled brown. His lips parted, his tongue touching the piercings, and when he spoke, his voice was a dry, cracked whisper.
"Promise?"
The word hung between them like a struck match, waiting for oxygen. Ghost's hand stayed on Drake's jaw, his thumb dragging across the boy's lower lip, feeling the heat of him, the slight tremor. Drake's eyes were still glassy, but something sharp had cut through the drunk haze. Something hungry.
"You have no idea what you're asking for," Ghost said.
"Then show me."
Ghost's grip tightened for a heartbeat. Then he let go. Drake's head lolled forward, his breath coming in shallow, unsteady gasps. He didn't move. He just stood there, pressed against the van's wall, his hips still angled forward, his cock still straining against the open fly of his jeans.
Ghost's hand moved to the collar of Drake's t-shirt. The fabric was thin, worn soft by too many washes. He fisted it, twisted, and pulled.
The shirt tore down the middle with a sound like ripping paper. Drake gasped, the sound turning into a laugh, high and breathless, as the shredded cotton fell away from his chest. His piercings caught the light. Small silver bars through his nipples, hard and peaked in the cold air. The tattoos that covered his ribs shifted with every rapid breath, ink and muscle and pale skin.
"Fuck," Drake breathed. "Rude. That was my favorite shirt."
"You'll live."
Ghost's hands found Drake's waist. Skin, hot and smooth under his palms. He dragged them up, feeling the ridges of muscle, the dip of his ribs, the flutter of his pulse under his thumb. Drake shivered, his lips parting, but the bratty smile never left his face.
"Gonna admire me all night, or are you gonna do something?"
Ghost's hand closed around Drake's throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. A reminder of exactly where he was.
Drake's breath stuttered. His knees buckled slightly, and Ghost caught him, his hand sliding from Drake's throat to the back of his neck, gripping the short hairs at his nape. He hauled the boy forward, spun him, and shoved him down.
Drake hit the van's floor on his knees. The impact jarred through him, and he let out a grunt, his hands bracing against the metal. When he looked up, his face was flushed, his hair a mess, his chest heaving. The smile was still there. It was smaller now, shakier.
Ghost loomed over him. The van's amber light carved him into shadows and edges, a monolith of tactical gear and restrained violence.
"You wanted this," Ghost said. It wasn't a question.
Drake's tongue touched his lower lip. His hands were trembling, but he reached for the waistband of Ghost's cargo pants anyway. His fingers fumbled at the button, clumsy and desperate.
"Been wanting it all week," Drake slurred. "Been thinking about your hands on me since the foyer. Since you grabbed my jaw. Since you told me to—"
Ghost's hand shot down, catching Drake's wrist before his fingers could make it past the button. The boy let out a sound, high and needy, a protest dying on his tongue as Ghost leaned down, his mouth next to Drake's ear.
"Then take it out."
Drake's breath caught. For a second, the brat flickered, something vulnerable and uncertain crossing his face. Then his jaw set, and his fingers went back to work.
The button gave. The zipper came down. And his hand was inside Ghost's pants, wrapping around the hard length of him, and Drake let out a small, breathless noise, something between surprise and satisfaction.
"Fuck," Drake whispered. "You're huge."
"Get your mouth on it."
Drake's eyes flicked up, meeting Ghost's. The challenge was still there, buried under the drunk and the desperate and the needy. But there was something else now. Something softer. Something that looked almost like trust.
He leaned in.
Drake's mouth was hot and slick around him.
He went down sloppy, no finesse, all drunken hunger and tongue. His lips stretched wide around the thick length of him, the silver balls of his piercings dragging cold against the overheated skin, and Ghost's breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. The boy only got the first third in before he gagged, throat spasming, and pulled off with a wet gasp.
"Fuck," Drake rasped, blinking up through damp lashes, spit stringing from his lip to the flushed head. "Okay. Okay, wow. Give me a second."
"You've got until I lose interest."
"That's not a lot of time."
"Then stop wasting it."
Drake laughed, breathless, and went back down. This time he took it slower, jaw dropping wider, letting Ghost slide heavy over his tongue. His hands braced against Ghost's thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of the cargo pants, and his eyes fluttered shut. A muffled, greedy sound vibrated up through Ghost's cock, and his stomach tightened.
Ghost threaded his fingers into the shaggy black hair. Not guiding. Just holding. Feeling the skull shift under his palm as the boy worked, the wet drag of his tongue along the underside, the way he pulled back to circle the head with slow, sloppy licks like he was savoring it.
"Look at you," Ghost murmured. The van's amber light caught the shine of drool at the corner of Drake's mouth. "Couldn't even wait for me. Had to go spreading your legs for some prick in a bar first."
Drake pulled off just enough to talk, lips still brushing the wet tip. "He was a placeholder."
"A placeholder."
"Practice." His tongue flicked out, lapping at the slit, and he grinned around it. "Warm-up. You were taking too long."
Ghost's grip tightened in his hair. Drake's grin cracked into a gasp, and Ghost used the opening, pressing forward until the thick head caught against the boy's soft palate. Drake's eyes went wide, wet, and his hands scrambled against Ghost's thighs. A choked whine buzzed in his throat.
"Breathe through your nose," Ghost said, level, like giving an order on a comms channel. "Slow."
Drake's chest heaved once, twice. Then he relaxed, jaw going slack, and Ghost slid in deeper. Deeper. Until the boy's nose pressed into the rough fabric at his hip and his throat rippled tight around him, hot and clinging, and the groan Drake let out nearly undid him.
"There you go." Ghost held him there, feeling the flutter of the boy's swallowed breaths, the desperate flex of his fingers. Then he pulled back, slow, letting him drag a shaking inhale through his nose before he thrust in again.
The rhythm he set was cruel. Deep, measured strokes, each one bottoming out against the back of Drake's throat, each one pulling a wet, strangled sound from the boy's ruined mouth. Drool ran down his chin. Tears leaked from the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes, cutting clean tracks through the flush on his cheeks. His hips were rocking helplessly against nothing, his cock trapped still inside his unzipped jeans, and every thrust into Ghost's hand, every drag along his throat, punched a little muffled noise out of him.
Ghost looked down at the mess of him. The shredded shirt hanging off one shoulder. The hickeys on his neck. The tattooed knuckles of one hand with FUCK printed across them, white-knuckled on Ghost's thigh. His chest ached with something low and dark and satisfied.
"That stranger in there," Ghost said, driving in deep and holding, watching the boy's throat convulse around him. "Did he get you like this?"
Drake couldn't answer. He could barely breathe. He just shook his head as much as the grip in his hair allowed, eyes watering, and the needy, humiliated sound that crawled out of his chest said everything his stuffed mouth couldn't.
"No. He didn't." Ghost pulled back, letting the boy slurp down air, his cock dragging wet and gleaming across Drake's swollen lips. "Because you don't want him. Do you."
"No," Drake gasped, hoarse, throat wrecked. His voice came out wrecked and scratchy and honest. "No, I want you. I've been going out of my fucking mind, you bastard, do you have any idea what you've been doing to me all week?"
"Show me."
Drake surged back down on him with a new kind of desperation. No rhythm now, just frantic, hungry sucking, his tongue working the underside, his hand wrapping around the base of Ghost's cock to stroke what his mouth couldn't reach. The obscene wet sounds filled the cramped van, echoing off the metal walls, mixing with the jukebox bass still thudding faintly through the walls from the bar.
Ghost felt the pressure building at the base of his spine, a slow coiling heat. He let it build for another minute, watching the boy wreck himself, watching the drunk desperation burn off into something more focused, more obedient. Then he fisted Drake's hair and hauled him off.
Drake whimpered at the loss, lips chasing, eyes glazed and indignant. "Hey, I was working on that—"
"On your feet."
"Fuck you, I'm not finished—"
"On. Your. Feet."
Drake's mouth snapped shut. His face flushed darker, and Ghost watched the word settle into him, watched his whole body go soft and pliant with it. He scrambled up on unsteady legs, swaying, his jeans hanging open, his cock flushed dark and leaking where it jutted out of his briefs.
Ghost turned him, planted a hand between his shoulder blades, and bent him forward over the metal bench that ran along the van's side wall. Drake caught himself on his forearms, cheek pressed to the cold upholstery, ass presented high, his spine arching in a shameless curve that had Ghost's cock aching.
"Jeans down."
Drake's hands flew to his hips. He shoved the jeans and briefs down in one clumsy motion, catching on his knees, wriggling until they pooled around his thighs. The pale globes of his ass were bare and perfect in the amber light, the ink of his spine tattoos disappearing down the deep groove of his back, and Ghost could see the flush spreading across the backs of his thighs.
He ran one hand over the smooth skin, feeling the boy shiver under his palm.
"All week," Ghost said. His thumb traced the crease, not dipping in, just teasing the heat of it. "Every time I touched you. Every time I leaned in close. You'd go red and run off with your tail between your legs. And then you'd come back for more."
"You were doing it on purpose," Drake accused, muffled against the bench, his voice cracking. "You absolute piece of shit, you knew exactly what you were doing."
"Did you touch yourself?"
The silence was loud. Ghost's hand stilled.
"Drake."
"...Maybe."
"Every night?"
"...Maybe more than every night." The words came out strangled. "Are you happy? Every goddamn night. In the shower, in my bed, sometimes twice. Thinking about your stupid growly voice and your stupid hands and your stupid giant cock that I only found out about tonight, you're a menace, you should be illegal—"
Ghost's fingers slid down and pressed against the tight furl of him, dry, just a blunt threat of pressure, and Drake's rant died in a strangled moan. His hips rocked back, chasing the contact, his hole fluttering against the pad of Ghost's finger.
"Eager," Ghost observed.
"Six months of blue balls," Drake panted. "Sue me."
Ghost leaned back, dug into the med kit strapped under the bench, and came out with a small foil packet and a bottle of lube. He heard Drake's breath catch at the sight of it.
"You carry lube in the van?"
"I carry first aid supplies." Ghost tore the packet with his teeth. "Better safe than walking into a situation dry."
"You're such a romantic. I might cry."
"Face forward. Hands flat."
Drake obeyed, and the obedience itself was obscene, the way the bratty mouth went quiet and his body just offered itself. Ghost worked one slick finger into him, slow, careful, watching the muscle give, watching Drake's back arch and his shoulders shake. The heat of him was tight and gripping even around one finger, and Ghost had to breathe through the image of it around his cock.
"Fuck, yes, okay," Drake babbled, hips pushing back. "More. Come on."
"Patience."
"I have literally none. I'm drunk, I'm horny, and you've been edging me since the kitchen, I have zero patience, give me more."
Ghost gave him a second finger. Then a third, scissoring them, working him open while Drake gasped and cursed and ground back onto his hand, his cock swinging hard and dripping between his thighs. The boy's voice climbed higher with every stretch, every graze of his prostate, dissolving from insults into filthy, breathless begging.
"Please, please, Ghost, fuck, I'm ready, I'm so ready, just put it in, I need it, I need your cock so bad it's embarrassing, I'll do anything, I'll actually be good, I'll follow curfew, I'll wear a leash if you want, please—"
"Leash?" Ghost curled his fingers hard and Drake shrieked, his whole body seizing. "Noted."
"Oh my god, shut up, shut up, just fuck me."
Ghost pulled his fingers free, rolled on the condom, and lined himself up. He pressed the thick head against the stretched, spit-slick and lube-slick rim and stopped there, leaning down over the boy's back, his mouth at Drake's ear.
"Last chance, brat. You sure?"
"If you don't fuck me right now I will actually die," Drake said, turning his head, glaring back over his shoulder with watery, furious, desperate eyes. "I will die and it will be your fault and your employer will fire you. Put it in."
Ghost pushed in.
The head popped through the tight ring and Drake's cry cracked the air, a raw, broken sound, his arms buckling so his chest dropped against the bench. Ghost didn't stop. He fed inch after thick inch into that clutching heat, gripping Drake's hip with one hand to hold him still, watching the boy's tattooed back flex and shudder with every new depth until his hips were flush against that pale ass and he was buried to the root.
Drake was shaking. His breath came in ragged, broken gasps, his fingers clawing at the upholstery.
"Oh my god," he croaked. "Oh my god, you're, I can feel you in my stomach, holy shit."
"Good?"
"Move. Please move. Please."
Ghost pulled out slow until just the head remained, savoring the drag, the way Drake's hole clung to him. Then he drove back in, hard, and Drake's moan cracked into a shout that was probably audible in the parking lot. Ghost did it again. Again. Setting a deep, punishing rhythm, each stroke bottoming out, the slap of his hips against the boy's ass filling the van.
The brat was gone. All that mouth, all that fire, reduced to a babbling, moaning mess bent over a bench, taking it, pushing back to meet every thrust. His pierced nipples dragged against the cold bench with each motion and every graze made him gasp, his whole body a live wire, his voice climbing higher and filthier with every plunge.
"Harder," he sobbed. "Fuck, harder, I can take it, wreck me, you promised, you said I wouldn't be able to walk, keep your promise, keep your fucking promise—"
Ghost's hand fisted in his hair and wrenched his head back, bending him into a deep arch, and growled against his ear. "Greedy little thing. Been begging for it since the foyer, haven't you. Every escape attempt, every smart mouth. Just wanted me to catch you and put you on your knees."
"Yes," Drake sobbed, hips stuttering, his cock leaking a steady stream against the bench. "Yes, yes, I wanted it, I wanted you, please don't stop, I'm close, I'm so close, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"
Ghost released his hair and snaked his free hand around, wrapping his slick fingers around Drake's cock. The boy bucked violently, a broken scream tearing out of him, and Ghost pumped him in time with his thrusts, rough and tight, thumb smearing the wetness dripping from the slit.
"Come for me," Ghost ordered, low and rough. "Now."
Drake shattered.
His whole body locked, spine bowing, and he came with a raw, cracking scream, pulsing hot and thick over Ghost's fist, splattering the bench, his legs shaking so hard he would have collapsed if Ghost hadn't been holding him up. His hole clamped down tight around Ghost's cock, rippling, milking, and the sensation dragged Ghost under with him. He buried himself to the hilt and groaned, low and long, spilling into the condom as his hips ground through the last shudders of it.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint thump of the jukebox through the van walls.
Ghost pulled out carefully. Drake made a soft, dazed noise and sagged over the bench, boneless, a trembling, sweat-damp wreck. His jeans were around his knees. His torn shirt hung off one arm. His eyes were closed, his lips curled in a lazy, fucked-out smile.
"So," Drake slurred, without opening his eyes. "Same time tomorrow?"
Ghost stripped the condom, tied it off, and looked at him. The boy was a disaster. Ink and hickeys and drool, half-naked and grinning in the amber light like the cat that got the cream.
"You're drunk," Ghost said.
"I'm drunk and I just got the best dick of my life. I can be both." Drake finally cracked one eye open, dark and gleaming. "The sober version of me is going to be insufferable, by the way. Just so you're prepared. I'm going to be so much worse now."
"Wasn't aware that was possible."
Drake laughed, hoarse and ragged, and rolled over onto his back on the bench, wincing as his jeans scraped his raw, spent body. He looked up at Ghost through his lashes, and something shifted in his face, the drunk gloss fading just enough to show the sharp, real thing underneath.
"Ghosty." His voice was quieter now. Almost sober. "You're not going to pretend this didn't happen, right? Because I'll burn this van down. I swear to god."
Ghost studied him. The threat marks on his neck. The bruises Ghost's own fingers had left on his hips. His smeared, ruined mouth.
"Get dressed," Ghost said, and tossed him the wreck of his shirt. "We'll talk about terms in the morning. Sober."
Drake's grin split his swollen lips wide, slow and blazing.
"Terms," he repeated, delighted. "Like a contract. God, you're so hot."
He fumbled his way back into his jeans while Ghost watched the parking lot through the tinted glass. The neon of the Rusty Nail buzzed against the night. Somewhere in that bar, the threat that had been hunting the Simmons name was still out there, patient, and Ghost felt the weight of it settle back onto his shoulders the moment the heat drained from his blood.
He'd gotten distracted. It wouldn't happen again.
It absolutely would.