Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ If It Makes You Happy ❯ Chapter Five ( Chapter 5 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
He's NO ONE'S GOLD BITCH...for now
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.19.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 5.3K | Visits: 952 | Status: Completed
He's NO ONE'S GOLD BITCH...for now
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.19.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 5.3K | Visits: 952 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I do not own Static Shock and associated characters. Just manipulating them against their will.
Warnings: SLASH, violence, swear words galore, and...uh..we’ll see what else later on.
OooooooooooO means scene break
If It Makes You Happy:
Chapter Five
Hotstreak was steaming by the time he’d returned home. His frustration in that Ebon continued to challenge him seriously ticked him off. All this angry energy of his was boiling within him, and he had no way to really vent, unless he wanted Static coming after him. Growling low in his throat, he hit the worn, battered door of his studio apartment, and kicked the thing in. The lock had stopped working a few years back, and everybody knew better than to mess with his things, so he felt safe leaving his home behind while he conducted ‘business’.
An end table became victim to a savage kick, and his entertainment center, devoid of anything entertaining save for a few empty malt bottles, was yanked from the wall. It crashed to the floor with an almost satisfying banging, and he switched his attention to the couch. Lifting one end up, he heaved it over the battered coffee table and kicked in an armrest.
Venting his anger out in this manner left him worn after a few minutes, and he panted heavily as he fought for some composure. Punching the wall for good measure, feeling the skin of his knuckles tear at the fierce contact felt somewhat satisfying. All this drained him, and he stared at the damage he’d created with a sense of gratification. But, his anger in that Ebon pulled what he had was still riling him, and with a scowl, realized that battering his studio wasn’t going to do any good. He glared up at the clock on the wall, and decided to take a walk. Glancing out one of the windows to observe the falling darkness, he bypassed the mess he’d made to change out of his clothes and into some fresher ones.
For a Wednesday night, Dakota was quiet–there were police sirens in the distance somewhere, and he could hear the shouts coming from a nearby basketball court. In this section of the city, there were a majority of blacks present, and he was the rare few of his own majority that took his chances in living out here. Everyone outside this section was so confident that coloreds were the worst they could get, but it wasn’t that way at all–it was the metas that they should be more concerned about.
Hotstreak had built a strong enough rep to withstand any taunting and tormenting from those around him, and when people recognized him, they usually hurried in another direction, or kissed ass to make themselves valuable. He’d gotten off on the power he found in this instance–his powers, once he learned how to dominate them, had come in handy when it came to laying down his law.
He hadn’t any trouble in the past in doing that, but once he was given fire to play with–he’d just turned downright deadly. Unfortunately, while he built that street cred that he was so proud of today, he was just one of many that many people in Dakota feared. He had to work twice as hard to prove himself and his worth against metas as well.
Which was startlingly easy–everyone knew him as a psychopath, but also as the ‘B-Rad’ of Dakota. So he grew up black in white skin–everyone that grew up in a section of town that was a majority tended to turn out like his peers, no matter the color of his skin. So what if he spoke thug and mimicked the rappers’ in the videos? The blacks that grew up in white communities often turned prep and wore Ralph Lauren. He wasn’t bothered by this fact, though–race wasn’t that big of an issue, especially when he had power in his hands.
But one thing he was bothered by was those looking down on him. Like Ebon. The kids at school. A majority of the authorities. So what if he broke a few things here and there when his temper raged out of control? So what if he’d had to bloody a few faces to get his point across? So what if he’d taken out cars, blocks, buildings with his big bang given abilities? There were more insane criminals out there they needed to focus on–like Ebon. Ebon was the type to pluck children from families that owed him, and make them ‘disappear’. Hotstreak wouldn’t touch that factor–he liked beating up people that couldn’t fight back, but he didn’t touch kids. He considered himself ‘cold’ in certain factors, but he wasn’t downright Satanic, much of which people liked to disagree with.
Which is why he had such a hard time with Ebon–both of their personalities clashed based on personal opinions, and for the fact that they both wanted to be top dog. Ebon had it in his head that Hotstreak had to obey him and follow him, and Hotstreak wanted none of that. No one was going to boss him around. And since he posed enough of a threat to Ebon, Ebon considered him a rival.
This situation was no different–Ebon had come to him for something, but had started off the wrong foot with him. Things had escalated from there–Hotstreak had to bet that this turf war started only because he’d basically said ‘no’ to whatever Ebon had planned. He was still curious as to what it was Ebon had wanted to see him about. But that was something he had to force behind him. He had to focus on the here and now.
By now, it had to be damn obvious who was running the show between the gang wars. Dakota was full of gangs, but not all of them were led by Ebon and Hotstreak, so they were receiving a lot more attention than a normal war would have. He had the press to thank for that.
He was curious as to how this situation was going to end–until either one or both of them were dead? Or until either one or both wound up in prison? He knew Static and Gear were going to find themselves involved one of these days–he was a little surprised that they already weren’t. It had been two days since that day in the park, and the only casualties taken were those men he’d burned yesterday. Guns were fun to handle, but if one didn’t know how to aim, especially in a panic situation like those of today and yesterday, it just caused a lot of damage. Innocent people hadn’t been hurt–yet.
Which brought to mind Richard Foley. Really, the guy had very bad luck, and Hotstreak felt exasperated just conjuring up that nerdy face of his. It was just a clash of bad luck that the guy found himself blind–Hotstreak could blame himself for that, but he didn’t regret kicking the guy’s ass behind gym the other day. He asked for it. It was also another clash of bad luck to wander in the middle of a gang fight–Hotstreak’s only thought at the time was that his possible death would point all fingers at him, and he’d get a harsher sentence if he were caught. While he wanted Ebon’s crew members dead, that was in battle–everyone basically knew what they were doing in battle. But Richie had just been there, in the middle of it all, a sure pick for a stray bullet–or five–and Hotstreak had just...reacted. He was closest, so he did the only thing he’d never imagined doing–rescuing the kid.
Of course, this lapse in judgement had Ebon all over his ass for something or another–thinking that the kid was something of use against him. Which was totally the wrong idea–he had no idea why Ebon thought Foley could be used against him. He didn’t care about the guy. He just didn’t want the blame heaped on him for getting the guy killed.
Now that Ebon had dragged him into the scene, it was going to be impossible to explain to the authorities. This was why Hotstreak didn’t rescue people–he’d fucked up a few times in such efforts before, and he always thought he’d learned his lesson, but apparently he hadn’t. This was a clear example of why he shouldn’t be interfering with niceness!
He snorted at himself as he crossed an intersection, ignoring the outraged horn of a vehicle that had tried to turn, but had to stop shortly to avoid hitting him. This section of town was as quiet as it had been the other night he’d been here–the neighborhood was humming with silence. Hell, if it weren’t for the sprinklers that were running here and there, he would have thought that it was abandoned. There weren’t any kids running about like they did in his area–he recalled the story of a sexual predator that lurked around these parts, having registered under state law. That was probably the reason why the streets were so empty.
Scowling as he wondered why the authorities couldn’t pay more attention to these people rather than focusing on him, he made his way toward the simple two story house, and wondered what he was going to witness today. He made sure his hat and hoodie were on, making sure he wasn’t that recognizable as he glanced around.
The driveway was empty–he remembered that there had been a dull green colored Corolla parked there the last time he were here, so he was going to assume that somebody was out. It wasn’t dark enough for him to snoop safely from window to window, so he walked on by, glancing from the corner of his eye to see if Richie were even home. Hell, when Hotstreak had been living with his father, he made special effort to keep from coming home most of the time. And when he did, it was only for a few things, and for a short time.
They were two of a kind, actually, when put in that perspective. Richie’s father beat the hell out of him and his mother; Hotstreak’s father had done the same. Which...came in handy, actually. He could use this to lord over the guy if he felt Richie was stepping out of line.
Time passed by pretty quickly when he found a comfortable spot to wait in a nearby park. No one bothered him, but he was sort of spooked by the lack of kids in the playground area. Not that he cared, or anything–just...having kids around to make some noise made him feel a little more relaxed. He was used to that sort of activity, and to be in an area that had the suckers closeted up because of some real freak–? Well...
By the time he made his way back to the Foley house, the Corolla was in the driveway, but all of the lights were out. He walked around the house, checking the windows to see what he could find, but came up empty in that area, for all of the curtains were drawn tight. When he came to the balcony, he found that it was pretty easy to climb–it also looked well worn in that aspect.
Making his way up, Hotstreak found himself feeling a little bewildered at what he was doing. He really had no idea why he was going through all this effort, especially when he was going to see the kid at school, tomorrow. Maybe it was just to bother him, to find out what the hell Ebon was talking about that day. Or just because..he was curious...in that...uh...homework. Yeah. Homework for fifth period. For...something. He scrunched his face as he muttered to himself. That sure made a whole lot of sense. He was here to talk to the Foley kid about Ebon. Where’d this nonsense come from about homework?
He reached out to access the balcony door, finding it open and accessible. Glancing in, he saw that the room was dark, and there was no one inside. But it was obvious this room was Richie’s–through the shadows, he could distinguish teenage interest and aspects, including an electric guitar and an amp. He rolled his eyes in annoyance. He made this big trip all the way out here, climbed a fucking tree like a lovestruck idiot–waitaminute! ‘Lovestruck’? What the fuck? Where did THAT come from?
Muttering to himself, he made his way down the tree, and found himself jogging very quickly to leave the area.
Lovestruck...what a fucking crock of shit.
OooooooooooO
The next day at school, he wasted no time in locating Richie. The guy was with Virgil, who was talking a mile a minute–did he EVER shut up?–and their little low-key group was standing near an open locker. Hotstreak had a couple of pals on hand, both of them bored as well, and wasn’t at all intimidated by the fierce glare Larry had on his face as he watched them approach.
Felix, Virgil, and some dude named Ducky were shoved aside, everyone looking mighty surprised that he was up and moving so early in the morning.
“Mercy!” Richie cried in startled surprise, sounding as if he were making fun of the situation when Hotstreak grabbed his arm.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Hey, wait a minute! What the hell’s goin’ on?” Virgil demanded, throwing off his backpack as he pulled on Richie’s backpack, yanking the startled blond back.
Hotstreak yanked on Richie’s arm once more, bringing him to his side. “It ain’t none of your business, monkey-face!”
“It is so my business, if my answer machine slash best friend isn’t around for first period!” Virgil snarled, yanking Richie back.
“Guys! I’m not a damn toy!” Richie cried in frustration as Hotstreak yanked him back.
“This don’t concern you!” Hotstreak snarled back, both of them pulling at Richie, who looked ready to cry.
Larry immediately interfered, shoving them both away from the blond. “Knock it off, you two!”
“I’M NO ONE’S GOLD BITCH!” Richie screamed, everyone in the hall pausing in their actions to look over at him in confusion.
Virgil blinked; Hotstreak looked clueless, and their gaggle of friends looked plain lost.
Ready to rip his hair out, Richie glared at Virgil. “Hey, wait a minute. Why am I your answering machine first?”
“Uh...”
“And you–!” Richie growled, facing Hotstreak.
“WHAT?” Hotstreak snarled back.
“Eh...um...it’s not that important,” Richie quickly amended with a sheepish cringe.
“Anyway, what’s this all about, F-Stop?” Virgil drawled, activity resuming once more in the hall. “Can’t you just leave him alone? He don’t like you. No one does.”
“I don’t fuckin’ care,” Hotstreak ground out, giving him a sneer. “An’ what I gotta say ain’t for your ears.”
Virgil’s eyes widened, and very un-subtly, he nudged Richie’s arm. In a stage whisper, he asked, “Is there something you ain’t telling me?”
“Get off me!” Richie demanded, shoving at him.
“Let’s go. Before I get very pissed off.”
“Wow, like that hasn’t happened before,” Virgil muttered, then opened his mouth to protest as Richie began walking with Hotstreak. His hand rose, as if ready to snatch his best friend back, but he lowered it slowly as Richie didn’t look back. With confusion, he watched the small group walk away, the others murmuring in question.
“What’s goin’ on, Virgil?” Ducky asked, confusion plain on his face. “When’s Richie talkin’ to Hotstreak?”
“I dunno, man.”
“‘Ey, what’s the dilly on that, yo?” Larry asked, pointing after them. “What’s the guy got on Rich? They all buddy-buddy suddenly.”
“I don’t know–”
“Hey, Virgil!” Freida ran over, her eyes wide, books cradled to her bosom. “Why’s Richie with Hotstreak?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Virgil shouted, fists raised. “If he’d just TELL me what’s goin’ on, I’d let ya’ll know! But for now, I don’t know! Do you see what this means?”
The four looked blankly at Virgil’s upraised fist. He shook it manically, spittle flying everywhere as he said, “This says, I don’t KNOW!”
“He’s lost it,” Ducky muttered to Larry.
“And this shoe? Says ‘I don’t know’! And you know what the text on my underwear says?”
“‘Change me?’” Freida quipped with an eyeroll.
“Close! But it says, ‘I DON’T KNOW’!” With an annoyed huff, Virgil tugged his backpack over his overly baggy jacket, and stomped off, muttering to himself.
Felix let loose with a low whistle. “Damn, man. You’d think Hot took off with his momma, or somethin’.”
“Bad Felix, bad,” Ducky murmured, hustling them toward their classes.
Once Hotstreak managed to persuade Richie to come outside with him, the bell signaling the start of first period rang.
“C’mon, Francis,” Richie complained, frowning as he shifted his backpack into place. With all the yanking from earlier, he felt as if he had to readjust his underwear. “As much as I love pow-wowing with you over things–”
“Go away,” Hotstreak commanded to the two boys that were following them around. The two, dressed in various combinations of red and yellow, shrugged and walked off. Once they were out of sight, Hotstreak turned to look at Richie. “Now...what’s this shit Ebon been sayin’?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s actin’ like he has somethin’ on me!”
“I know, but–!”
“What’s this shit about you bein’ my bitch?”
“I DON’T KNOW! And I’ll tell you once again, I am no one’s fucking Gold bitch!”
“Why do you keep sayin’ that? I don’t even know what the fuck you be meaning!”
“Never mind,” Richie said on a sigh, feeling rather embarrassed that this subject was being discussed. “Look, it’s all just a general misunderstanding–!”
“You gotcher glasses back.”
The statement threw Richie off course. He blinked; once, twice, then another as he shifted a confused expression to the older male. He shifted said glasses up his nose–his father had them laid out on the counter this morning, and he was very grateful to have them back. Being able to see again made a world of difference in things–it especially kept the headaches away.
“Um...yeah. I did.”
Hotstreak shook his head quickly, as if unable to believe he’d brought that up. “So, uh...Ebon...what he mean by what he was doin’?”
“When?” Richie was terribly embarrassed by the suggestion, and because he knew what Ebon was saying. Just having to say it out loud, to the person involved, was enough to make him flush in humiliation. Static’s words–“...if two guys like that wanted me to be their bitch...” made him cringe. Surely...surely this wasn’t anything like that.
“You know when.”
“I don’t know anything. Damn it, I told you that. Both of you are harassing me over something incredibly ridiculous!” Richie declared. “I told you before–I am not involved. I don’t know why I keep getting dragged into the middle of your little game, but I’m telling you now–I want out! And I want out five minutes ago!”
Hotstreak gave a sarcastic exhalation of air, his lips curling into a smirk. “You know, when you shriek, your nose twitches.”
Richie stared at him in silence, then felt oddly creeped by the assessment. But he also found himself distracted by that bit of observation. “...No it doesn’t. And I don’t ‘shriek’.”
“It does. Like...like yer sniffin’ somethin’. An’, yes, you do shriek. Like a girl.”
“I do not. And I do smell something. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s coming from you. Oh, yeah, now I know what it is–a repeat of tenth grade!”
Hotstreak glared at him, then reached out to grab the collar of his jacket, pulling it awkwardly up and over his head. From there, he shoved Richie to the ground, and stepped over the struggling mass to enter school. “I’ll come get you later, you lil’ shit,” he muttered as he walked in, slamming the door behind him.
Richie managed to uncover himself, through he had to remove his backpack to do so. Sighing in an exhausted manner, he asked the emptiness of the campus–“Why me?”
On his way to his first period class, Hotstreak held a bewildered expression on his face, something entirely different from his usual scowl. Did I just say that shit to him? He wondered to himself. Then he scowled and shrugged his shoulders. An’ his nose does twitch...and he does shriek like a girl...
OooooooooooO
“I’m telling you, V, this is seriously leaving me unhinged!” Richie exclaimed in the locker room before gym. They were changing for the current period, but Richie was too busy talking to really change. Actually, he was just stalling. He was grateful for Virgil’s lack of depth perception when it came to things, and he knew how to keep Virgil from asking why he wasn’t changing just yet. He was just too self-conscious to change in a locker room where everyone was either mad-buff, or...really muscled. He’d be laughed straight out of the room. Well...more than usual, actually. But that wasn’t the point.
“I don’t know who’s going to be there when I turn around! I seriously don’t know what I did to deserve this!”
Virgil grinned at him as he tugged off his t-shirt, and Richie found himself looking away, too scared to look. Oh, he knew what Virgil looked like without his shirt–defined shoulders, compact muscles that stretched and bunched, and a serious set of abs that often made Richie weak in the knees. Virgil had been doing this superhero business since he discovered his powers, and had added weight lifting to his workout regime when the going got tough. As a result–the boy was built. He may look different in his overly baggy clothes, but once they were stripped from that proud body...that was an entire different story. Once Richie began realizing his attraction to Virgil, especially the physical part, he began forcing himself to find something else to look at when he found himself in these situations.
“Like you said yesterday, bro–everyone’s just now realizin’ how hot you are,” Virgil quipped. “They all wanna piece of you.”
“Ew...”
“You ever seen Hotstreak with a girl, lately?”
“Uh, Aqua Maria. Shut up, V.”
“He’s got a gay-spot in him, Richie-Rich, and he’s lookin’ at you to penetrate it.”
“Shut up, V! That’s disgusting.”
Virgil laughed, reaching into his locker for a can of spray-on deodorant. Didn’t want to scare the ladies once he worked up a sweat...
Richie was just trying not to notice that Virgil’s boxer-briefs and pants were clinging that tender area just below his hipbone, defying gravity just to stay in that spot. Of course, this provided ample viewing of the way his muscle curved from the rock-hard definition of his abs, forming a ‘v’ that pulled attention to his groin area. He’d always imagined himself running a fingertip over that definition, tracing it from Virgil’s abs to groin, curious to see what sort of reaction the black boy would give...
“Besides alla that,” Virgil continued, unaware of Richie’s flushed problem, “we got some serious after school activities to catch up on.”
“Um, about that...I can’t make it tonight, V,” Richie stammered, ducking his head to scratch at his ear. How could he NOT notice the way Virgil’s proud black buttocks curving deliciously away from his body? Really, he had Virgil’s mother to thank for that bubble-butt...often, he found himself wondering if it felt hard, or soft. Fingers itching, he balled his fists and crammed them into his pockets to keep from reaching out and finding out for himself. Of course, he was NOT looking. “I got a, uh, thing. Tonight. Uh...yeah. At home.”
“A ‘thing’? What ‘thing’? You meetin’ somebody?”
Oh, God, put on a freakin’ shirt! Richie’s inner demon roared fiercely.
“Oh, my mom’s making this really big dinner, tonight, and we’re going to be...uh...I dunno. Eating it. I guess.”
Virgil snorted, sliding on his gym shirt. Richie wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but it was at that instant when the pants came down. Those muscled thighs of Virgil’s came into view, displaying smooth skin that rarely saw the sun, and muscled definition. He really liked reveling in the differences between his and Virgil’s skin color. Even at his palest, Virgil’s skin was the color of mocha, and at his darkest, was the color of coffee. Ever since Richie had come to live in Dakota, he found himself unattracted to boys of his own color–it was those with color that had him fascinated. Virgil’s unabashed display of his body often led Richie into trouble.
“Whatever, man. I still say you seein’ someone, an’ ain’t confessing.”
“I am a man of secrets, V.”
“You can’t keep a secret to save your life, Rich!” Virgil said on a snort, pulling on his gym shorts. Richie could breathe, now. “Just the other day, you were tellin’ me something Freida swore you to secrecy with.”
“Never, V. Must have been imaginin’ things. I never tell a lie.”
“Shut up! Hey, see you out there, ‘k? Need to straighten some things out with Daisy. She be all up on my ass for looking at another woman.” Virgil rolled his eyes, as if this occurred daily, and slipped his shoes on.
Richie sighed, shoulders slumping as Virgil left the locker room. With an exasperated sneer on his lips, he muttered, “Daisy this, Daisy that. Daisy, Daisy, Daisy. When’s it ever going to be just me, Virgil?”
He kicked Virgil’s locker door shut, and rose from the bench to quickly change into his own clothing. He wasn’t as defined as Virgil was, but he wasn’t soft, either. He had definition in his arms and upper torso. He was also at a normal weight for his size, and he knew for a fact that he wasn’t delicate. But he felt shamed of himself, for being a lighter color, for having less definition than Virgil had. Pausing before throwing a shirt on, he looked down at his chest, noting the coral colored nipples, slim waist and hips. There were a few bruises here and there from the other night’s patrol, and from what he’d gained from yesterday’s ‘fun’ with Ebon. He touched one, winced, and hurriedly pulled on his shirt at the sound of approaching footsteps. He lifted his gym shorts to go to the stalls to change, too embarrassed to change out where people could see him (and make fun of him for being so pale and unmanly like they were).
He never noticed Hotstreak standing off to the corner of the teacher’s office, having heard every bit of their conversation and witnessed Richie’s reaction to his friend.
OooooooooooO
Meanwhile, at that same instant, Ebon contemplated the worn softness of the hoodie that one of his crew members had found in his car earlier that day. It was from the first attempt his men had made in trying to get Richie Foley to come with them yesterday. It was a hideous color–teal green and orange, making him wince, but it was so...mesmerizing. The material was soft, suggesting many washings, and the tag was so worn that the instructions had been washed right out. It was probably something picked up from a local Mervyn’s, or Wal-Mart. Whichever, the scent clinging to the soft garment was both tantalizing and curiously new.
He brought it to his nose, inhaling the now familiar odor of Richard Foley’s unique smell and some other scent that escaped him. It was a soft mixture of cinnamon and mint, of soap and lotion. It was intoxicating, and somewhat creepy that he was smelling the guy’s sweater. For one thing, he wasn’t that much attracted to males–but he ignored this when time in prison spread him too thin. For another, the guy was just a kid that didn’t mean much to him. But because he was connected with Static and Hotstreak, this made Richie seem very valuable and priceless. Mainly because he could do a lot of damage to both if he had the guy in his hands.
Plus...he did have a thing for white folk. Their skin color, their hair, their light colored eyes...their entire difference from his own skin color made them a commodity. And being close to this one, yesterday, was making him think. Sure, he spent some ‘time’ with the guy some days earlier, trying to use him against Static, but yesterday had been different. He was trying to see in him what Hotstreak saw in him, and what he was realizing was that Richie Foley was actually an attractive piece of ass. If one looked past the glasses that screamed geek and for the fact that he had no inkling of fashion sense...
The door to his room opened, and he tossed the sweater away from him before he could be seen sniffing the thing.
“What?” he snapped at Shiv.
“Uh...just...came to tell ya that we’re ready,” the maniacal metahuman stammered, giving Ebon a strange expression.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothin’, sir. Want some chicken?”
“...No.”
“Oh, in case you wanna know, Ebon, I didn’t see you sniffing that sweater. Your secret’s safe with me.” Shiv shrugged, shutting the door behind him as he left.
Ebon was just happy that no one could see his face flush with embarrassment.
Warnings: SLASH, violence, swear words galore, and...uh..we’ll see what else later on.
OooooooooooO means scene break
If It Makes You Happy:
Chapter Five
Hotstreak was steaming by the time he’d returned home. His frustration in that Ebon continued to challenge him seriously ticked him off. All this angry energy of his was boiling within him, and he had no way to really vent, unless he wanted Static coming after him. Growling low in his throat, he hit the worn, battered door of his studio apartment, and kicked the thing in. The lock had stopped working a few years back, and everybody knew better than to mess with his things, so he felt safe leaving his home behind while he conducted ‘business’.
An end table became victim to a savage kick, and his entertainment center, devoid of anything entertaining save for a few empty malt bottles, was yanked from the wall. It crashed to the floor with an almost satisfying banging, and he switched his attention to the couch. Lifting one end up, he heaved it over the battered coffee table and kicked in an armrest.
Venting his anger out in this manner left him worn after a few minutes, and he panted heavily as he fought for some composure. Punching the wall for good measure, feeling the skin of his knuckles tear at the fierce contact felt somewhat satisfying. All this drained him, and he stared at the damage he’d created with a sense of gratification. But, his anger in that Ebon pulled what he had was still riling him, and with a scowl, realized that battering his studio wasn’t going to do any good. He glared up at the clock on the wall, and decided to take a walk. Glancing out one of the windows to observe the falling darkness, he bypassed the mess he’d made to change out of his clothes and into some fresher ones.
For a Wednesday night, Dakota was quiet–there were police sirens in the distance somewhere, and he could hear the shouts coming from a nearby basketball court. In this section of the city, there were a majority of blacks present, and he was the rare few of his own majority that took his chances in living out here. Everyone outside this section was so confident that coloreds were the worst they could get, but it wasn’t that way at all–it was the metas that they should be more concerned about.
Hotstreak had built a strong enough rep to withstand any taunting and tormenting from those around him, and when people recognized him, they usually hurried in another direction, or kissed ass to make themselves valuable. He’d gotten off on the power he found in this instance–his powers, once he learned how to dominate them, had come in handy when it came to laying down his law.
He hadn’t any trouble in the past in doing that, but once he was given fire to play with–he’d just turned downright deadly. Unfortunately, while he built that street cred that he was so proud of today, he was just one of many that many people in Dakota feared. He had to work twice as hard to prove himself and his worth against metas as well.
Which was startlingly easy–everyone knew him as a psychopath, but also as the ‘B-Rad’ of Dakota. So he grew up black in white skin–everyone that grew up in a section of town that was a majority tended to turn out like his peers, no matter the color of his skin. So what if he spoke thug and mimicked the rappers’ in the videos? The blacks that grew up in white communities often turned prep and wore Ralph Lauren. He wasn’t bothered by this fact, though–race wasn’t that big of an issue, especially when he had power in his hands.
But one thing he was bothered by was those looking down on him. Like Ebon. The kids at school. A majority of the authorities. So what if he broke a few things here and there when his temper raged out of control? So what if he’d had to bloody a few faces to get his point across? So what if he’d taken out cars, blocks, buildings with his big bang given abilities? There were more insane criminals out there they needed to focus on–like Ebon. Ebon was the type to pluck children from families that owed him, and make them ‘disappear’. Hotstreak wouldn’t touch that factor–he liked beating up people that couldn’t fight back, but he didn’t touch kids. He considered himself ‘cold’ in certain factors, but he wasn’t downright Satanic, much of which people liked to disagree with.
Which is why he had such a hard time with Ebon–both of their personalities clashed based on personal opinions, and for the fact that they both wanted to be top dog. Ebon had it in his head that Hotstreak had to obey him and follow him, and Hotstreak wanted none of that. No one was going to boss him around. And since he posed enough of a threat to Ebon, Ebon considered him a rival.
This situation was no different–Ebon had come to him for something, but had started off the wrong foot with him. Things had escalated from there–Hotstreak had to bet that this turf war started only because he’d basically said ‘no’ to whatever Ebon had planned. He was still curious as to what it was Ebon had wanted to see him about. But that was something he had to force behind him. He had to focus on the here and now.
By now, it had to be damn obvious who was running the show between the gang wars. Dakota was full of gangs, but not all of them were led by Ebon and Hotstreak, so they were receiving a lot more attention than a normal war would have. He had the press to thank for that.
He was curious as to how this situation was going to end–until either one or both of them were dead? Or until either one or both wound up in prison? He knew Static and Gear were going to find themselves involved one of these days–he was a little surprised that they already weren’t. It had been two days since that day in the park, and the only casualties taken were those men he’d burned yesterday. Guns were fun to handle, but if one didn’t know how to aim, especially in a panic situation like those of today and yesterday, it just caused a lot of damage. Innocent people hadn’t been hurt–yet.
Which brought to mind Richard Foley. Really, the guy had very bad luck, and Hotstreak felt exasperated just conjuring up that nerdy face of his. It was just a clash of bad luck that the guy found himself blind–Hotstreak could blame himself for that, but he didn’t regret kicking the guy’s ass behind gym the other day. He asked for it. It was also another clash of bad luck to wander in the middle of a gang fight–Hotstreak’s only thought at the time was that his possible death would point all fingers at him, and he’d get a harsher sentence if he were caught. While he wanted Ebon’s crew members dead, that was in battle–everyone basically knew what they were doing in battle. But Richie had just been there, in the middle of it all, a sure pick for a stray bullet–or five–and Hotstreak had just...reacted. He was closest, so he did the only thing he’d never imagined doing–rescuing the kid.
Of course, this lapse in judgement had Ebon all over his ass for something or another–thinking that the kid was something of use against him. Which was totally the wrong idea–he had no idea why Ebon thought Foley could be used against him. He didn’t care about the guy. He just didn’t want the blame heaped on him for getting the guy killed.
Now that Ebon had dragged him into the scene, it was going to be impossible to explain to the authorities. This was why Hotstreak didn’t rescue people–he’d fucked up a few times in such efforts before, and he always thought he’d learned his lesson, but apparently he hadn’t. This was a clear example of why he shouldn’t be interfering with niceness!
He snorted at himself as he crossed an intersection, ignoring the outraged horn of a vehicle that had tried to turn, but had to stop shortly to avoid hitting him. This section of town was as quiet as it had been the other night he’d been here–the neighborhood was humming with silence. Hell, if it weren’t for the sprinklers that were running here and there, he would have thought that it was abandoned. There weren’t any kids running about like they did in his area–he recalled the story of a sexual predator that lurked around these parts, having registered under state law. That was probably the reason why the streets were so empty.
Scowling as he wondered why the authorities couldn’t pay more attention to these people rather than focusing on him, he made his way toward the simple two story house, and wondered what he was going to witness today. He made sure his hat and hoodie were on, making sure he wasn’t that recognizable as he glanced around.
The driveway was empty–he remembered that there had been a dull green colored Corolla parked there the last time he were here, so he was going to assume that somebody was out. It wasn’t dark enough for him to snoop safely from window to window, so he walked on by, glancing from the corner of his eye to see if Richie were even home. Hell, when Hotstreak had been living with his father, he made special effort to keep from coming home most of the time. And when he did, it was only for a few things, and for a short time.
They were two of a kind, actually, when put in that perspective. Richie’s father beat the hell out of him and his mother; Hotstreak’s father had done the same. Which...came in handy, actually. He could use this to lord over the guy if he felt Richie was stepping out of line.
Time passed by pretty quickly when he found a comfortable spot to wait in a nearby park. No one bothered him, but he was sort of spooked by the lack of kids in the playground area. Not that he cared, or anything–just...having kids around to make some noise made him feel a little more relaxed. He was used to that sort of activity, and to be in an area that had the suckers closeted up because of some real freak–? Well...
By the time he made his way back to the Foley house, the Corolla was in the driveway, but all of the lights were out. He walked around the house, checking the windows to see what he could find, but came up empty in that area, for all of the curtains were drawn tight. When he came to the balcony, he found that it was pretty easy to climb–it also looked well worn in that aspect.
Making his way up, Hotstreak found himself feeling a little bewildered at what he was doing. He really had no idea why he was going through all this effort, especially when he was going to see the kid at school, tomorrow. Maybe it was just to bother him, to find out what the hell Ebon was talking about that day. Or just because..he was curious...in that...uh...homework. Yeah. Homework for fifth period. For...something. He scrunched his face as he muttered to himself. That sure made a whole lot of sense. He was here to talk to the Foley kid about Ebon. Where’d this nonsense come from about homework?
He reached out to access the balcony door, finding it open and accessible. Glancing in, he saw that the room was dark, and there was no one inside. But it was obvious this room was Richie’s–through the shadows, he could distinguish teenage interest and aspects, including an electric guitar and an amp. He rolled his eyes in annoyance. He made this big trip all the way out here, climbed a fucking tree like a lovestruck idiot–waitaminute! ‘Lovestruck’? What the fuck? Where did THAT come from?
Muttering to himself, he made his way down the tree, and found himself jogging very quickly to leave the area.
Lovestruck...what a fucking crock of shit.
OooooooooooO
The next day at school, he wasted no time in locating Richie. The guy was with Virgil, who was talking a mile a minute–did he EVER shut up?–and their little low-key group was standing near an open locker. Hotstreak had a couple of pals on hand, both of them bored as well, and wasn’t at all intimidated by the fierce glare Larry had on his face as he watched them approach.
Felix, Virgil, and some dude named Ducky were shoved aside, everyone looking mighty surprised that he was up and moving so early in the morning.
“Mercy!” Richie cried in startled surprise, sounding as if he were making fun of the situation when Hotstreak grabbed his arm.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Hey, wait a minute! What the hell’s goin’ on?” Virgil demanded, throwing off his backpack as he pulled on Richie’s backpack, yanking the startled blond back.
Hotstreak yanked on Richie’s arm once more, bringing him to his side. “It ain’t none of your business, monkey-face!”
“It is so my business, if my answer machine slash best friend isn’t around for first period!” Virgil snarled, yanking Richie back.
“Guys! I’m not a damn toy!” Richie cried in frustration as Hotstreak yanked him back.
“This don’t concern you!” Hotstreak snarled back, both of them pulling at Richie, who looked ready to cry.
Larry immediately interfered, shoving them both away from the blond. “Knock it off, you two!”
“I’M NO ONE’S GOLD BITCH!” Richie screamed, everyone in the hall pausing in their actions to look over at him in confusion.
Virgil blinked; Hotstreak looked clueless, and their gaggle of friends looked plain lost.
Ready to rip his hair out, Richie glared at Virgil. “Hey, wait a minute. Why am I your answering machine first?”
“Uh...”
“And you–!” Richie growled, facing Hotstreak.
“WHAT?” Hotstreak snarled back.
“Eh...um...it’s not that important,” Richie quickly amended with a sheepish cringe.
“Anyway, what’s this all about, F-Stop?” Virgil drawled, activity resuming once more in the hall. “Can’t you just leave him alone? He don’t like you. No one does.”
“I don’t fuckin’ care,” Hotstreak ground out, giving him a sneer. “An’ what I gotta say ain’t for your ears.”
Virgil’s eyes widened, and very un-subtly, he nudged Richie’s arm. In a stage whisper, he asked, “Is there something you ain’t telling me?”
“Get off me!” Richie demanded, shoving at him.
“Let’s go. Before I get very pissed off.”
“Wow, like that hasn’t happened before,” Virgil muttered, then opened his mouth to protest as Richie began walking with Hotstreak. His hand rose, as if ready to snatch his best friend back, but he lowered it slowly as Richie didn’t look back. With confusion, he watched the small group walk away, the others murmuring in question.
“What’s goin’ on, Virgil?” Ducky asked, confusion plain on his face. “When’s Richie talkin’ to Hotstreak?”
“I dunno, man.”
“‘Ey, what’s the dilly on that, yo?” Larry asked, pointing after them. “What’s the guy got on Rich? They all buddy-buddy suddenly.”
“I don’t know–”
“Hey, Virgil!” Freida ran over, her eyes wide, books cradled to her bosom. “Why’s Richie with Hotstreak?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Virgil shouted, fists raised. “If he’d just TELL me what’s goin’ on, I’d let ya’ll know! But for now, I don’t know! Do you see what this means?”
The four looked blankly at Virgil’s upraised fist. He shook it manically, spittle flying everywhere as he said, “This says, I don’t KNOW!”
“He’s lost it,” Ducky muttered to Larry.
“And this shoe? Says ‘I don’t know’! And you know what the text on my underwear says?”
“‘Change me?’” Freida quipped with an eyeroll.
“Close! But it says, ‘I DON’T KNOW’!” With an annoyed huff, Virgil tugged his backpack over his overly baggy jacket, and stomped off, muttering to himself.
Felix let loose with a low whistle. “Damn, man. You’d think Hot took off with his momma, or somethin’.”
“Bad Felix, bad,” Ducky murmured, hustling them toward their classes.
Once Hotstreak managed to persuade Richie to come outside with him, the bell signaling the start of first period rang.
“C’mon, Francis,” Richie complained, frowning as he shifted his backpack into place. With all the yanking from earlier, he felt as if he had to readjust his underwear. “As much as I love pow-wowing with you over things–”
“Go away,” Hotstreak commanded to the two boys that were following them around. The two, dressed in various combinations of red and yellow, shrugged and walked off. Once they were out of sight, Hotstreak turned to look at Richie. “Now...what’s this shit Ebon been sayin’?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s actin’ like he has somethin’ on me!”
“I know, but–!”
“What’s this shit about you bein’ my bitch?”
“I DON’T KNOW! And I’ll tell you once again, I am no one’s fucking Gold bitch!”
“Why do you keep sayin’ that? I don’t even know what the fuck you be meaning!”
“Never mind,” Richie said on a sigh, feeling rather embarrassed that this subject was being discussed. “Look, it’s all just a general misunderstanding–!”
“You gotcher glasses back.”
The statement threw Richie off course. He blinked; once, twice, then another as he shifted a confused expression to the older male. He shifted said glasses up his nose–his father had them laid out on the counter this morning, and he was very grateful to have them back. Being able to see again made a world of difference in things–it especially kept the headaches away.
“Um...yeah. I did.”
Hotstreak shook his head quickly, as if unable to believe he’d brought that up. “So, uh...Ebon...what he mean by what he was doin’?”
“When?” Richie was terribly embarrassed by the suggestion, and because he knew what Ebon was saying. Just having to say it out loud, to the person involved, was enough to make him flush in humiliation. Static’s words–“...if two guys like that wanted me to be their bitch...” made him cringe. Surely...surely this wasn’t anything like that.
“You know when.”
“I don’t know anything. Damn it, I told you that. Both of you are harassing me over something incredibly ridiculous!” Richie declared. “I told you before–I am not involved. I don’t know why I keep getting dragged into the middle of your little game, but I’m telling you now–I want out! And I want out five minutes ago!”
Hotstreak gave a sarcastic exhalation of air, his lips curling into a smirk. “You know, when you shriek, your nose twitches.”
Richie stared at him in silence, then felt oddly creeped by the assessment. But he also found himself distracted by that bit of observation. “...No it doesn’t. And I don’t ‘shriek’.”
“It does. Like...like yer sniffin’ somethin’. An’, yes, you do shriek. Like a girl.”
“I do not. And I do smell something. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s coming from you. Oh, yeah, now I know what it is–a repeat of tenth grade!”
Hotstreak glared at him, then reached out to grab the collar of his jacket, pulling it awkwardly up and over his head. From there, he shoved Richie to the ground, and stepped over the struggling mass to enter school. “I’ll come get you later, you lil’ shit,” he muttered as he walked in, slamming the door behind him.
Richie managed to uncover himself, through he had to remove his backpack to do so. Sighing in an exhausted manner, he asked the emptiness of the campus–“Why me?”
On his way to his first period class, Hotstreak held a bewildered expression on his face, something entirely different from his usual scowl. Did I just say that shit to him? He wondered to himself. Then he scowled and shrugged his shoulders. An’ his nose does twitch...and he does shriek like a girl...
OooooooooooO
“I’m telling you, V, this is seriously leaving me unhinged!” Richie exclaimed in the locker room before gym. They were changing for the current period, but Richie was too busy talking to really change. Actually, he was just stalling. He was grateful for Virgil’s lack of depth perception when it came to things, and he knew how to keep Virgil from asking why he wasn’t changing just yet. He was just too self-conscious to change in a locker room where everyone was either mad-buff, or...really muscled. He’d be laughed straight out of the room. Well...more than usual, actually. But that wasn’t the point.
“I don’t know who’s going to be there when I turn around! I seriously don’t know what I did to deserve this!”
Virgil grinned at him as he tugged off his t-shirt, and Richie found himself looking away, too scared to look. Oh, he knew what Virgil looked like without his shirt–defined shoulders, compact muscles that stretched and bunched, and a serious set of abs that often made Richie weak in the knees. Virgil had been doing this superhero business since he discovered his powers, and had added weight lifting to his workout regime when the going got tough. As a result–the boy was built. He may look different in his overly baggy clothes, but once they were stripped from that proud body...that was an entire different story. Once Richie began realizing his attraction to Virgil, especially the physical part, he began forcing himself to find something else to look at when he found himself in these situations.
“Like you said yesterday, bro–everyone’s just now realizin’ how hot you are,” Virgil quipped. “They all wanna piece of you.”
“Ew...”
“You ever seen Hotstreak with a girl, lately?”
“Uh, Aqua Maria. Shut up, V.”
“He’s got a gay-spot in him, Richie-Rich, and he’s lookin’ at you to penetrate it.”
“Shut up, V! That’s disgusting.”
Virgil laughed, reaching into his locker for a can of spray-on deodorant. Didn’t want to scare the ladies once he worked up a sweat...
Richie was just trying not to notice that Virgil’s boxer-briefs and pants were clinging that tender area just below his hipbone, defying gravity just to stay in that spot. Of course, this provided ample viewing of the way his muscle curved from the rock-hard definition of his abs, forming a ‘v’ that pulled attention to his groin area. He’d always imagined himself running a fingertip over that definition, tracing it from Virgil’s abs to groin, curious to see what sort of reaction the black boy would give...
“Besides alla that,” Virgil continued, unaware of Richie’s flushed problem, “we got some serious after school activities to catch up on.”
“Um, about that...I can’t make it tonight, V,” Richie stammered, ducking his head to scratch at his ear. How could he NOT notice the way Virgil’s proud black buttocks curving deliciously away from his body? Really, he had Virgil’s mother to thank for that bubble-butt...often, he found himself wondering if it felt hard, or soft. Fingers itching, he balled his fists and crammed them into his pockets to keep from reaching out and finding out for himself. Of course, he was NOT looking. “I got a, uh, thing. Tonight. Uh...yeah. At home.”
“A ‘thing’? What ‘thing’? You meetin’ somebody?”
Oh, God, put on a freakin’ shirt! Richie’s inner demon roared fiercely.
“Oh, my mom’s making this really big dinner, tonight, and we’re going to be...uh...I dunno. Eating it. I guess.”
Virgil snorted, sliding on his gym shirt. Richie wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but it was at that instant when the pants came down. Those muscled thighs of Virgil’s came into view, displaying smooth skin that rarely saw the sun, and muscled definition. He really liked reveling in the differences between his and Virgil’s skin color. Even at his palest, Virgil’s skin was the color of mocha, and at his darkest, was the color of coffee. Ever since Richie had come to live in Dakota, he found himself unattracted to boys of his own color–it was those with color that had him fascinated. Virgil’s unabashed display of his body often led Richie into trouble.
“Whatever, man. I still say you seein’ someone, an’ ain’t confessing.”
“I am a man of secrets, V.”
“You can’t keep a secret to save your life, Rich!” Virgil said on a snort, pulling on his gym shorts. Richie could breathe, now. “Just the other day, you were tellin’ me something Freida swore you to secrecy with.”
“Never, V. Must have been imaginin’ things. I never tell a lie.”
“Shut up! Hey, see you out there, ‘k? Need to straighten some things out with Daisy. She be all up on my ass for looking at another woman.” Virgil rolled his eyes, as if this occurred daily, and slipped his shoes on.
Richie sighed, shoulders slumping as Virgil left the locker room. With an exasperated sneer on his lips, he muttered, “Daisy this, Daisy that. Daisy, Daisy, Daisy. When’s it ever going to be just me, Virgil?”
He kicked Virgil’s locker door shut, and rose from the bench to quickly change into his own clothing. He wasn’t as defined as Virgil was, but he wasn’t soft, either. He had definition in his arms and upper torso. He was also at a normal weight for his size, and he knew for a fact that he wasn’t delicate. But he felt shamed of himself, for being a lighter color, for having less definition than Virgil had. Pausing before throwing a shirt on, he looked down at his chest, noting the coral colored nipples, slim waist and hips. There were a few bruises here and there from the other night’s patrol, and from what he’d gained from yesterday’s ‘fun’ with Ebon. He touched one, winced, and hurriedly pulled on his shirt at the sound of approaching footsteps. He lifted his gym shorts to go to the stalls to change, too embarrassed to change out where people could see him (and make fun of him for being so pale and unmanly like they were).
He never noticed Hotstreak standing off to the corner of the teacher’s office, having heard every bit of their conversation and witnessed Richie’s reaction to his friend.
OooooooooooO
Meanwhile, at that same instant, Ebon contemplated the worn softness of the hoodie that one of his crew members had found in his car earlier that day. It was from the first attempt his men had made in trying to get Richie Foley to come with them yesterday. It was a hideous color–teal green and orange, making him wince, but it was so...mesmerizing. The material was soft, suggesting many washings, and the tag was so worn that the instructions had been washed right out. It was probably something picked up from a local Mervyn’s, or Wal-Mart. Whichever, the scent clinging to the soft garment was both tantalizing and curiously new.
He brought it to his nose, inhaling the now familiar odor of Richard Foley’s unique smell and some other scent that escaped him. It was a soft mixture of cinnamon and mint, of soap and lotion. It was intoxicating, and somewhat creepy that he was smelling the guy’s sweater. For one thing, he wasn’t that much attracted to males–but he ignored this when time in prison spread him too thin. For another, the guy was just a kid that didn’t mean much to him. But because he was connected with Static and Hotstreak, this made Richie seem very valuable and priceless. Mainly because he could do a lot of damage to both if he had the guy in his hands.
Plus...he did have a thing for white folk. Their skin color, their hair, their light colored eyes...their entire difference from his own skin color made them a commodity. And being close to this one, yesterday, was making him think. Sure, he spent some ‘time’ with the guy some days earlier, trying to use him against Static, but yesterday had been different. He was trying to see in him what Hotstreak saw in him, and what he was realizing was that Richie Foley was actually an attractive piece of ass. If one looked past the glasses that screamed geek and for the fact that he had no inkling of fashion sense...
The door to his room opened, and he tossed the sweater away from him before he could be seen sniffing the thing.
“What?” he snapped at Shiv.
“Uh...just...came to tell ya that we’re ready,” the maniacal metahuman stammered, giving Ebon a strange expression.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothin’, sir. Want some chicken?”
“...No.”
“Oh, in case you wanna know, Ebon, I didn’t see you sniffing that sweater. Your secret’s safe with me.” Shiv shrugged, shutting the door behind him as he left.
Ebon was just happy that no one could see his face flush with embarrassment.