Wesley (3 page)

Did he? Or would he rather run away and lose himself, and his leopard, and, eventually, his life?

Wes had decisions to make, the first one being whether or not he was going to grow up instead of being a churlish brat. Yes, Sully had hurt him, but would he let that be the focus of everything in his world? Or would he make himself into a better man, one he liked and others might, someday, admire?

Chapter Two

Armando Gutierrez loved his job at the Sunshine Shelter. The centre for homeless LGBTQ youths in San Antonio was a much-needed haven for many kids whose family had cast them out. The facilities had been donated by a company after they’d learned they couldn’t build their row of houses on the large lot on the south side of San Antonio. Armando remembered spending more than one night in the unfinished shells when he’d been on the streets. It was ironic, or perhaps fate, that he now helped run a centre for kids who lived a parallel life to his youth, and in the very buildings he used to squat in.

Sitting behind his desk, with sunlight streaming across his back from the window behind him, Armando almost relaxed for a few minutes. Then he saw him. Armando’s thoughts scattered as he watched the new volunteer at the Sunshine Shelter. Tall and too thin, he still had enough of the same look as his brother Sully that there would be no mistaking who and what he was. Armando hadn’t known Sully was a leopard shifter when they’d first met. He’d just thought he was a hot mark, a potential stud and a way to make a few bucks.

Maybe, in the end, Sully hadn’t been all of those things, but Armando couldn’t sort out the good from the bad. Things had happened that had resulted in Sully being jumbled up in his mind with some very bad shit Armando tried not to think about—fuck what his shrink said. As far as he could tell, going to a psychiatrist hadn’t done any damn good at all.

Maybe if I’d actually confide in her.
But there were secrets Armando just couldn’t share, horrific things he didn’t want to ever think of, much less speak of. Writing it in a journal like Dr Borrego had suggested wasn’t an option, either. Armando didn’t want to see those words written. It’d give them power, he just knew it.

Armando had his share of superstitions, and probably people would laugh at him about them. Some of those he had actually shared with Dr Borrego, and she hadn’t laughed at him. She’d been very cool about them. Regardless, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about any of the other really bad stuff that had happened to him. He had to admit it wasn’t her fault therapy was a great big fail.

Movement across the rec room pulled Armando from his thoughts. He watched the newbie, Wes. Wes Ward. Armando was glad his parents hadn’t had a fucked up alliteration fetish. Wes Ward was probably about the same age that he was. Armando would put him at about twenty, but there was an innocence about him—like there had been with Sully when Armando had first met him.

There was also something very much like pain that Armando would swear he was picking up somehow, but that was ridiculous. He was just projecting, because yes, Armando knew all too well about pain. He’d had enough of it, more than enough, starting with his childhood.

Armando shoved aside those memories and went back to watching Wes. The boy was so much like his brother. Armando hated thinking about Sully, but with the man’s doppelganger here, it was impossible not to.

For the past week, Armando had hung back and steered clear of Wes. He had told himself the fluttery sensation in his belly was nausea, but Armando really wasn’t so sure that was the truth. Wes…fascinated him, although Armando tried not to admit it to himself. Much.

It wasn’t like Wes had even noticed him. There were things Armando did to make sure no one noticed him in a sexual manner anymore. Things his seventeen year old self from years back would have been horrified of seeing. Armando had quit trying to be what he now thought of as ‘starving chic’. He was young enough to be a twink, but he wasn’t.

Not now, anyway. Armando had gained enough weight that he had some strength to him, but he hadn’t gone all muscular. Every gay man he knew or used to know had admired a sleek or sculpted physique, and he didn’t want anyone’s admiration, so he veered from either of those. While he wasn’t grossly overweight, he had a nice layer of what he considered protection to his body.

Educating himself, and yeah, okay, therapy, had taught him that his reaction to being sexually assaulted was supposedly normal. Armando didn’t think there was anything normal about him, or trying to recover from being raped. It had completely destroyed him, and two years later he was still trying to get past it. He felt like he never would most days, and so Armando had done his best to keep hidden and to bury his own sexual desires. That last had been easy as he’d not experienced any at all since the night he’d been attacked in Sully’s boyfriend’s bar.

No, Sully’s husband. They had that ceremony with the pack and shit.
The memory brought Armando back to the present, to the young man still chatting away to a resident in the rec room.
Wes. He looks like he’s never had a bad experience or been hurt in his life.
Armando pushed back some petty feelings of jealousy. There was no way he’d let himself turn into a shitty person who begrudged others their innocence or happiness. But he wished he wasn’t so curious about Wes. Surely that was all it was.

He was fortunate in that he knew what Wes was—a shifter. Remus had given Armando a soap and spray that helped neutralise his scent. He wouldn’t have wanted Wes or any other shifter to pick up on his fear or discomfort. If they did, it’d be from his expressions or words, not from the potentially arousing—as he’d heard it described by Remus—odour of either of those emotions.

A couple of years of living with shifters had taught Armando several things about them, mainly that they weren’t all evil. But there were also their enhanced senses, and Armando was only human. He didn’t want to be at a disadvantage. He might smell offensive or weird and odourless to shifters, but that was a hell of a lot better than them knowing they made him nervous or whatever.

Wes made him something, he wasn’t sure what. Armando put it down to him being Sully’s brother. Armando had what he knew was an unreasonable grudge against Sully, but he couldn’t seem to shake it. In truth, he hadn’t really tried. It was easier to be mad than to risk letting anyone close enough to hurt him again, physically or emotionally. Sully had been a friend, and maybe, once upon a time, Armando had, for all his sexual experience, had a rather innocent crush on Sully.

That was over now, and he needed to let it go. Armando lowered his sunglasses from on top of his head, using them to shield where he was looking. Who cared if he was inside? No one was going to say anything to him about it.

His gaze was drawn to Wes’ eyes, but from the distance, and with the shades on, Armando couldn’t make out the colour. He’d seen them before, but he hadn’t really paid attention. Wes’ hair was darker than Sully’s, and thicker. Longer, too, reaching past Wes’ shoulder blades. There was almost enough curl to it to form ringlets. Armando found himself folding his hands into fists, as if he could grip that luxurious-looking hair from where he sat. He forced his hands open and shifted uncomfortably in his seat when he looked at Wes’ lips, wide and just lush enough to bring images of how they’d look wrapped around Armando’s cock.

The arousal was such a surprise that Armando jerked his gaze down to his lap. He hadn’t been horny in…
ages.
He wasn’t going to think about why. He glanced back to where Wes was now having a rather animated conversation with Kristin, one of the long-term residents of the youth shelter. Wes was waving his hands in the air and talking rapidly, and Kristin was doing something, although Armando didn’t know what. He wasn’t willing to look away from Wes.

The warm sensation of being turned on spread from Armando’s groin, heating his belly as his erection firmed up more. He’d bet he was even flushed, his skin turning darker everywhere he felt tingling.

Armando picked up a folder and stood, keeping Wes in his peripheral vision. The shifter didn’t even seem to notice him, which was good. Using the folder to cover his hard-on probably was an obvious move and Armando would rather not be called on it. It occurred to him that his hoodie might work better so he turned and plucked it off the back of his chair. In short order he had it on, but his cock was no less hard. Wes had chuckled, and damn him if it didn’t make Armando want to whimper and beg for something he’d sworn never to do again.

A few short strides had him in the restroom. Armando locked the door and hit the switch for the fan. He hadn’t masturbated since…just since. There’d been erections, sure, but Armando had ignored them. This one, he couldn’t. His dick ached, his balls ached, his gut cramped with the force of his need. There was a once familiar but almost forgotten tightening of his anus, an instinctual clenching as desire coursed through Armando. It almost killed his erection—almost, but his body was demanding a release it’d been denied for too long.

Armando didn’t think he was going to last long, or make much noise. To be safe, he set a song to playing on his phone, not too loud, just enough for some coverage. People might snicker if they heard, thinking he’d wanted the noise for other reasons, but Armando didn’t care. His cock was so hard he hurt from it, and his nuts were already drawn up to his body, ready to shoot out his load.

A dollop of lotion from the tube he kept in his pockets—his skin dried out like nothing should in the humid San Antonio air, but, whatever, he hated being ashy—and Armando realised his mistake. He should have unfastened his pants first. Showed how out of practice he was.

Since the lotion was only in his left hand, he finagled his cock free with his right. The tip was already stringing pre-cum to his boxers, and he kept seeing Wes smiling, laughing, talking. It should have irked Armando, and maybe it did, but his desire for the tall, sexy man beat out the irritation of being attracted to a shifter, and, worse, Sully’s brother.

Armando pushed away the thoughts of who and what Wes was and closed his eyes, concentrating on picturing that wide mouth sealing around his cock. At the same time, he thumbed the slit of his crown and shivered. Wes’ lips would be soft, his mouth hot, wet. He’d suck so hard Armando would whimper, and he’d tongue the pre-cum right out of Armando’s dick.

“Oh yeah,” Armando whispered so softly he almost didn’t even hear the words, not over the sound of
Baby Come Home
playing on the phone. There was no significance to the song, it’d just been the one he’d touched randomly, but for some reason it resonated with something inside of him.

Stupid
. He wasn’t sentimental, he was horny. Armando stroked down his length and bit his tongue to keep from moaning. He slapped his other hand against the wall to help keep himself upright, and he clenched his ass as he began to really jerk off.

It felt wonderful, not frightening or anything else. Armando didn’t know why he hadn’t been doing this for the past couple of years. Or he wasn’t going to think about why. He tightened his grip and tugged faster, and his knee joints almost gave out on him as his legs trembled.

“Oh God,” he rasped before biting his tongue again. He pumped his length without rhythm, just pushing himself rapidly towards the peak. His heart beat faster, his pulse racing as he lost his breath.

Ecstasy speared up to his cock, spurting out in great shots of spunk that splattered—hopefully—into the toilet. Armando stroked and stroked until he finally couldn’t bear to touch himself any more, his cock too tender for it. He turned and collapsed onto the toilet, almost landing on the floor, his movements were so jerky.

Jesus, he hadn’t come in so long! Armando leaned against the toilet tank and the sink, bracing his back and side as he cradled his head. He felt dizzy, and almost nauseated from his climax. His head was beginning to throb in a way that forewarned of a coming migraine. It’d figure, the most powerful orgasm of his life, and he was going to pay for it dearly.

Armando took several slow, deep breaths and tried to calm his racing heart. He needed to get cleaned up and go back to his desk, get his medicine before his head blew right off his neck. Already his entire brain ached with each hammering of his pulse.

Armando moaned as he opened his eyes and pushed back his sunglasses. He should probably leave them on. His eyes were extremely sensitive to light when he had a migraine. But he needed to see if he’d left a mess anywhere. That almost made him laugh, because he’d all but collapsed onto the toilet seat, so if there’d been cum on it, he would probably be wearing it.

Oh well. It was worth it.
Even if he did want to slam his head against the wall to make the pain stop. Armando told himself to man the fuck up then he stood cautiously. His stomach gurgled, and the idea of vomiting almost made him do just that. His jaws watered and his throat ached as he pressed a fist to his belly. This was going to be a really bad migraine if he was already on the verge of puking.

Armando swiped a few napkins from the dispenser and he wiped the seat down. He didn’t see anything on it, and he would try to get back in here with some cleaning wipes if he could. Chances were that someone would use the restroom before then, though. He did spot a copious amount of cum in the toilet and he flushed before it could freak him out. It was just because there was a lot of semen in there, for him at least, but he supposed he had quite a build-up, if that was possible.