John Carter lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought, trying, not for the first time, to make sense of an incomprehensible situation. He shifted slightly . . . and was drawn out of his contemplation by a crinkling sound coming from beneath him. He lifted his right arm, squeezed his hand under the small of his back and retrieved the much-crumpled piece of paper. Raising it up over his face he stared at it not fully understanding the meaning of it . . .
. . . That’s not to say he hadn’t translated it. He had . . . word for word, writing the English words underneath those in Croatian, using one of those translating sites on the web. So he knew exactly WHAT it said . . . but he just didn’t understand it.
He let his hand drop to his chest, closed his eyes. He knew it off by heart now so he didn’t need to look at it.
‘HOW FAR ARE YOU PREPARED TO GO? WINNER TAKES ALL. 7.30 PM. THURSDAY. ZIGGY’S
For the umpteenth time he started his program of thoughts, running them in a perpetual cycle, trying to get closer to that elusive feeling of comprehension.
‘How far are you prepared to go?’ What was the usual answer to that question? All the way?
"Fuck." He said, out loud. A Freudian slip? Possibly.
He sighed heavily and pulled himself up in to a sitting position, bracing his left hand behind him on the bed. "Winner takes all." Some kind of bizarre challenge which would lead to . . . what.
He looked at the paper again. Why the fuck did he write it in Croatian? Because the bastard knew that if he had written it in English, so that he could have read it straightaway, he would have dismissed it, tossed it away. This way Kovac knew that he would be sitting here trying to figure it out. "Devious."
"How far are you prepared to go?" If the answer was ‘All the way’ then ‘All the way’ . . . to where . . . to what? "Winner takes all." Takes what?
He collapsed his left arm allowing himself to fall back down on to the bed, no doubt in his mind that Kovac had completely lost it.
"Winner takes all." He sat up again instantly, an _expression of shock on his face. "Abby. It has something to do with Abby. No. It has everything to do with Abby . . . the winner . . . wins . . . Abby."
He threw himself back down on the bed. "He is totally insane . . . mad . . .
Abby! This was a fight for Abby. "Another fucking duel." Another Freudian slip. Possibly. A disturbing image pervaded his mind . . . he deleted it immediately. "Now that’s scary."
But . . . something didn’t feel right, apart from the obvious fact that none of this felt right. Abby wasn’t a prize to be won or lost . . . was she? She made up her own mind about things . . . albeit in a roundabout, fucked up sort of way.
No . . . not about Abby . . . or not just about Abby . . . because of the sexual . . . stuff?
He thought about the way Kovac had gone down on him . . . that was . . . bizarre. He had done it with no hesitation . . . no qualms . . . Strangely he could remember the feel, the heat, of his mouth, the movement of his tongue, the taste of his lips . . . unconsciously, carelessly John’s right hand strayed to his groin, rested there. Then, as though he had been struck by lightening, he jumped up from the bed. "Crazy."
"Sex . . . How far are you prepared to go? A fucking duel . . . emphasis on the fucking. Winner takes all." He paced up and down mindlessly.
But that made even less sense . . . Kovac wasn’t gay . . . unless his recent escapades were an elaborate smokescreen to disguise the fact.
. . . so his mind came back to Abby. "Fuck."
"7.30. Ziggy’s."
He walked into the lounge, picked up the telephone directory from a shelf, flicked through the pages. There it was . . . Ziggy’s. A bar . . . not far from the river. He had never been there and the thought crossed his mind that, perhaps, it was a gay bar. He smiled broadly at the thought of Kovac . . . hanging out in a gay bar.
He closed the directory and threw it back on the shelf . . . and yawned. He was drained . . . yet again. Kovac was sucking him dry. Another Freudian slip. Possibly . . . he really didn’t care anymore. He had spent enough time thinking about this. Kovac was deranged and he would notify all the appropriate authorities and have him certified . . . just as soon as he had some decent sleep.
He went back into the bedroom and closed the drapes against the harsh morning light. Stripping off his clothes he climbed into bed, settled down between the covers. He was just nodding off, finally shutting his mind down, when he was brought abruptly back to full consciousness by the sound of the telephone ringing in the lounge. He lifted his head up off the pillow . . . and decided not to answer it. He knew it would be Abby and he couldn’t talk to her now. Not now . . . not while he was going 10 rounds with her ex-boyfriend. He rolled over and peevishly pulled the pillow over his head.
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At 7.35 John Carter stood across the road from Ziggy’s Bar. He studied the exterior carefully. It didn’t look like a gay bar . . .and it certainly wasn’t in a gay part of the city. In fact, there was nothing unusual about it all. The usual electric signs advertising different types of alcohol, different types of food, different types of amusements.
He frowned, furrowing his brow, hands deep in his pockets, not knowing why he was there. It was a bar for God’s sake. He had no reason to go to bars anymore. But, of course, Kovac knew that. That’s why he had chosen it, because he knew that John would have a problem with it. He shook his head at the arrogance of the man and with mind made up he crossed the road and entered.
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John looked around trying to make a quick appraisal of the place. The décor was best described as eclectic being a strange mix of nautical objects, memorabilia and 50s kitsch: the most noticeable item was a large plastic shark hanging absurdly over the bar. He noted that the various patrons seemed to be just as diverse as the items hanging on the walls: bikers, men in sports coats, some laid-back hippie types, young women dressed in black . . . and one moody, fucked-up, European doctor seated at a table at the far end of the bar.
Of course, Luka had seen him first, appraised him as he made his appraisal and he nodded his head, acknowledging his arrival. John stared at him, trying to keep his face in neutral. He looked around him again as though deciding what to do and then made his way slowly across the room.
Luka had one foot casually propped up on a chair next to him and when John finally arrived at the table he lifted his foot and kicked the chair out for him to sit on. John stared at it and then, pointedly, pulled out another and sat down.
"Would you like a drink?" Luka inquired politely.
John shook his head in the negative, not saying anything. In fact, he was determined not to say anything, wanting Luka to say what he had to say. He looked around him again . . . at the posters on the wall . . . the detritus on the floor . . . the map of Lake Michigan hanging on the wall above Luka’s head.
Finally, patience worn thin, he snapped. "Well?"
Luka took a sip from the bottle in his hand, swallowed and licked his lips. "Well?"
John shook his head wearily. "You are seriously pissing me off . . . you know that?"
"I know." Luka said lightly . . . almost sympathetically.
John shook his head, again, tried a different line of approach. "You seeing anyone . . . you know a psychiatrist . . . therapist?"
Luka didn’t reply, took another sip of beer and continued to stare at him.
Exasperated, John, gesturing with this hands, stated boldly, "I think you need . . . therapy."
Luka smiled gently. "This is therapy."
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"
Luka looked at his watch and then leaned forward in his chair. "You read my note?"
"Well obviously I read it," he said, gesturing with his hands. "I didn’t understand it . . . but I read it."
Luka leaned back again, shrugged his shoulders. "Well?"
"Well what? I didn’t understand what the fuck it meant . . . so how can I respond."
Now it was Luka’s turn to look puzzled. "Then why are you here?"
John looked at him not knowing what to say, conscious of the heat rising in his cheeks.
Luka sighed. "How far are you prepared to go? Simple enough question."
John snorted derisively. "Simple enough question . . . in the right context. What context are you phrasing it?"
"A contest . . . the winner takes all."
John’s face darkened. "Abby."
Luka shook his head. "This has nothing to do with Abby."
"Nothing to do with Abby."
"No."
There was a long pause . . .
"Then what . . . I don’t understand."
Luka groaned, rolled his head, stared up at the ceiling. "Are you being dense . . . or just difficult? . . . . . . . . You and me . . . a contest . . . the winner . . . gets . . . whatever he wants." He said the last bit looking directly into John’s eyes.
John smiled and then laughed . . . loudly "Ha . . . What makes you think I want . . . that I want anything from you?"
"Then leave." Luka waved his hand in the direction of the door.
But John didn’t move. Strangely, now that Abby was out of the picture he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he relaxed back into his chair eyeing Luka curiously. He had never really noticed how intense his eyes could be. Finally he broke eye contact, concentrated on a speck of dirt on the table, stabbed at it with his finger. He smiled again and shook his head.
"What kind of contest?" he said evenly.
Luka smiled and nodded and then, to John’s surprise, stood up and walked over to the Foosball table.
John laughed. "You’re kidding . . . right?" He stood up, walked to the other side of the Table. He spun one of the rods in his hand shaking his head in disbelief.
"I thought that you would pick something a bit more . . . I don’t know . . . physical."
"Well I thought about it . . . but I didn’t want to wait."
"Wait . . . for what?"
"For you to gain a few pounds . . . for a more even contest."
John sneered indignantly, pointed at Luka’s waist. "How about waiting for you to lose a few . . ."
Luka smiled weakly glanced at his watch, then at the machine and then back up at John. "Have you played?"
John nodded "Yeah. I’ve played."
"Are you good."
"Good enough."
Luka put out his hand, offering it to him. John looked at it, shook his head uncertainly.
"This is . . .the dumbest thing . . ." he tailed off. He knew that this was dumb but more than that . . . it was . . . positively dangerous. He stared at Luka’s hand as it hovered there . . . irresistibly enticing. With a feeling that he scarcely understood he stuck out his own hand out and took hold of Luka’s gripping it firmly.
Done.
They held hands for a few seconds before Luka abruptly took his back and checked his watch again. John was about to ask why he was so preoccupied with the time when the answer came from behind him.
"Hey Luka . . . Carter."
John twisted round on the spot. Susan . . . But not only Susan . . . Deb, Pratt and then Gallant bringing up the rear. He turned back to Luka, unable to keep his jaw from dropping open. Luka grinned playfully, flicked his eyebrows.
Susan walked up to them. "Can I get anyone a drink . . . hey . . . are you about to have game?"
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John hadn’t counted on having an audience and he was inwardly fuming. But, for some unknown reason, he resisted the urge to just walk out. Instead, he waited in silence as the group got their drinks and settled around the table.
Pratt put his arm around Susan’s shoulder. "Hey . . . how about a side bet . . . just to make it interesting?"
John looked at Luka, saw how the words amused him.
"You’re on," Susan replied cheerfully. "I’ll take Luka . . . sorry Carter."
He smiled at her graciously. "No problem."
"Okay then I’ll take Carter." Pratt turned to Gallant and Deb. "How about you two?"
Deb put her arm through Pratt’s. "Oh . . . I’ll go with Carter."
"And I’ll go with Dr. Kovac."
The table played 7 balls. John hadn’t played in years, a fact that was obvious from the start as Luka picked up the ball from the centerline and passed it forward and scored in a matter of seconds. 1-0.
"Can I change my mind," asked Pratt.
The second ball rolled down the centerline and John managed to flick it forward into Luka’s defense. But the shot on goal was so feeble that Luka easily blocked it. He then wrist-flicked the ball down the other end of the table, tic-tac-ing the ball between the men, directing another ball into John’s gaping goal. 2-0.
Pratt waved his hands in disgust. "Come on man . . . your losing . . . badly . . . don’t spin . . . flick your wrist."
John tossed him a withering look but took the advice he was throwing and to his complete surprise he managed to score by catching a loose ball directly under the center man of his front three-man rod. 2-1. With grim determination he managed to equalize shooting at goal as Luka’s hands flailed at his goalie’s rod. 2-2
Luka managed to pull ahead again by trapping a stray ball under a toe of his two-man defense, pinning it to the table and then expertly passing it forward as John tried vainly to swat it away. 3-2.
Luka then tried a long shot from his two-man defense but John managed to intercept it slicing the ball at an angle and once again hitting an open goal. "Yes." He yelled. The game was now tied at 3-3.
Pratt continued to offer encouragement "That’s it . . . don’t worry about speed . . . it’s all about control." John looked up at Luka and their eyes met for a moment, hands clasped on their rods. They both knew that this was about control and each man’s face became fixed in a grimace of concentration, each one determined to be the victor
"Hit the ball straight . . . pass it . . . Watch your defense . . . hold the two-man rod . . . keep ‘em pointing down . . . you can’t protect your rear if your ass is up in the air . . . . . . . . . . Watch it . . . . . . . Aaaaargh . . . Shit."
. . . It was over . . . the last ball shot straight into an open goal.
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"You are such a bad loser . . . it’s only a game . . . there’s no need to be so pissy about it," Susan admonished.
John sat at the table scowling at everyone . . . everyone, that is, except Luka whose eyes he didn’t dare meet. He couldn’t believe that he had lost. More incredibly . . . he couldn’t believe what he had lost. If they only knew . . .
Deb joined in the derision. "You are so competitive . . . ." She turned to Pratt. ". . . You should have seen him as a med student . . . he was always chasing after procedures . . . always trying to outdo me."
Finally, not able to cope with the stream of comments, John stood up and stalked off in the direction of the men’s room, hoping for a little privacy in which to collect his thoughts. He didn’t notice Luka following behind him and he flinched visibly when he suddenly whispered in his ear.
"You should try being a bit more gracious in defeat . . . instead of acting as though you have . . . a cock up your anus."
John stopped dead in his tracks not fully believing what he was hearing and Luka passed him grinning victoriously. Not wanting to be alone with him, John turned round and went back to the table and slumped back down in his chair.
Susan tried to make small talk to dispel the mood that was threatening to darken her evening. "So . . . when does Abby get back?"
John looked at her glumly but managed to salvage some semblance of civility. "Tomorrow night."
Susan smiled "You miss her?" and off the nod of his head she added, ". . . probably explains why you’re in such a foul mood. Haleh said you’ve been really twitchy these last few nights."
He looked at her, opened his mouth to say something, when Luka rejoined them at the table. He scowled and then stood up announcing "I’m gonna go . . . get an early night."
"It’s only 9 . . . you’re not on tomorrow." Susan declared trying not to sound too desperate, not wanting the evening to end so soon.
"I know . . . but I’ve got things to do." Avoiding as much eye contact as possible he put on his coat and said his ‘good-byes’. He made his way to the door relieved to get out onto the street . . . except . . . it was raining . . . heavily . . . the final damper on his evening. "Thank you God," he moaned. Pulling up his collar, and hugging his coat tightly around him he trudged off into the night.
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John was soaking wet by the time he got home and he needed to shower just to get warm. As he stood there, willing the heat to penetrate his skin, he replayed the evening over in his head not quite believing that it had ended the way it had in such a short space of time. What in hell had possessed him . . .?
Of course, there was no way Kovac was going to follow up on this. It was a joke, right? God, he must really despise him to go to such lengths to fuck with his head.
Adequately warmed he got out of the shower, dried himself, pulled on T-shirt and sweatpants.
It was as he was on his way from the bathroom to the bedroom that the knock came to his door. He froze. No. It couldn’t be. Kovac didn’t know where he lived. He stealthily made his way to the door, looked through the door viewer. Yep. He sighed, resting his forehead against the door. Another knock but this time more forceful, more demanding. John lifted his head and stepped back from the door and opened it. Luka stood there, collar turned up against the cold, hair damp from the recent rain.
"Couldn’t wait, huh?" John sneered, crossing his arms defiantly and waiting for Luka to say something. But Luka didn’t say a word. Just stood there feet rooted to the spot like some large immovable object.
"How did you know my address?"
Luka grinned. "Susan. She likes to be helpful." Seeing the doubtful look on John’s face he patted his coat pocket and added "I told her I had your cell phone . . . that I forgot to give it to you."
"You brought it," he asked holding out his hand.
"No."
John dropped his hand, shook his head perplexed by how easily Luka deceived . . .
. . . a noise down the hallway caught his attention . . . the elevator . . . stopping on his floor. John stepped forward and, to Luka’s surprise, grabbed hold of his collar and pulled him into his apartment. He closed the door and looked through the viewer. He then turned to face Luka . . . but Luka was no longer there. John walked down the short hallway and into his lounge . . . in time to see Luka take off his coat and sling it over the back of a chair.
"Make yourself at home," he grumbled, folding his arms.
Luka smiled at him and they ended up staring at each other, eyes locked together . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Time seemed to stand still with neither man willing to be the first to look away . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . until the telephone rang . Two pairs of eyes flew to it . . . a draw.
John walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. "Hi . . ." He looked towards Luka, checking where he was.
Luka walked nearer to him, and John, sensing his presence, put out his hand placing it on his chest, keeping him at arm’s length. Luka allowed himself to be stopped but leaned forward into the hand . . . and John was obliged to keep it there to prevent him falling in to him.
Aware that John was talking to Abby, Luka tuned in to listen to the one-sided conversation.
". . . no . . . Sorry . . . I went out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Susan, Deb . . . the usual crowd . . . . . . . . . ." John flicked his eyes to Luka, aware that he was listening. ". . . Sorry . . . what did you say . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . oh right . . . . . . . . . . no . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Really? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that bad huh? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . No . . . . . . . . . . . Sunday . . . why Sunday?" another flick of the eyes " . . . . . . . I know but what can you do? . . . . . . . but . . . . . . . so . . . . . . . . . . I’m not . . . mad . . . . . . I just don’t see the point of you staying . . . . . . . . . . . I’m sorry . . . . . . No . . . . I’m just . . . tired . . . you know . . . . . . . . . . Look . . . let me get something to eat . . . . . . . and I’ll call you later . . . when it’s more pr . . . um. . . . comfortable. Then we’ll talk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I’m not . . . . . . . . . . I do . . . . . . . . you know I do . . . . . . . . . . it’s just that I’ve . . . . just got in," John looked at Luka again, looked away ". . . Okay. Yeah . . . Okay . . . . . . . .I know . . . . . . and you."
He replaced the receiver and turned towards Luka who seemed to be deep in thought. Suddenly aware that he was touching him he dropped his hand . . . and Luka was suddenly aware of the creeping coldness left in its place.
"Okay, let’s get this over with," John stated, almost daringly.
Luka moved towards him and without ceremony pulled at his sweatpants roughly.
"Seduce me why don’t you." John’s voice was heavy with sarcasm and he shook his head. "Are you really going to do this?"
Luka stopped what he was doing, raised his hands up, grabbed the back of John’s head and pulled him close to him pushing his mouth onto his. As John was about to say something Luka’s tongue easily found its way into his open mouth and he kissed him deeply, passionately. Luka pulled him closer and John found himself leaning into him . . . leaning into him so far that when Luka finally let go he almost fell over.
Luka returned his hands to John’s waist, pushing the sweatpants down. The coldness about his legs alerted John to his senses and he was about to protest when Luka pushed him backwards and he plopped down on to the couch. Luka knelt down and pulled the sweatpants from his feet and flung them to one side.
John was completely taken aback by Luka’s single-minded determination and he ended up just sitting there watching him not saying anything, not doing anything.
Luka kneel-walked between his legs pushing his thighs apart . . . and this time John found his voice to protest. "Hands are cold," he muttered.
Luka smiled . . . not a full smile . . . that blink and you’ll miss it twitch of a smile. John missed it, laying his head back against the back of the couch, glaring silently up at the ceiling, hands lying limply by his side, trying not to think about what Kovac was doing.
Luka ran his hands up John’s inner thighs and around and under his ball-sac, pushing it up so that it cushioned his cock nestling softly in his pubic hair.
John curious at the gentle caressing risked a peek and cast his eyes downward so that he could see. And he was hit . . . powerfully . . . by the image of Luka Kovac kneeling between his legs, the soft material from his shirt brushing against his inner thighs.
The inevitable happened: his cock twitched . . . not a full twitch . . . that blink and you’ll miss it kind of a twitch. Luka didn’t miss it despite John’s too obvious attempts to distract him by coughing and sliding his butt around on the couch.
Luka stared at John’s cock . . . as though he could affect it with the power of his mind. But it was the power of John’s mind that was having the affect. His cock slowly unfurled as the blood flowed into it. He sighed heavily trying to illustrate the fact that he wasn’t enjoying this in any way . . . that this was in fact just business, payment . . . no not payment . . . made him sound like a whore . . . although if he was the whore . . . then why was Luka doing . . . what he was doing.
Luka lifted John’s hardening cock and gripped the base firmly with his right hand whilst continuing to manipulate his balls with his left. He then slid his fingers up the shaft and rubbed the naked, cut head with his thumb. He then let go and John’s cock bobbed under its own volition. Luka bent his head down, stuck his tongue out and licked gently at the head. It pulsed upward and he licked again . . . and again it pulsed. Obviously pleased he licked up the entire shaft to the head and popped his mouth over the top.
John closed his eyes . . . allowed the sensations to wash over him.
Luka started sucking gently moving his mouth up, down and around John’s cock, occasionally swirling his tongue around the head, lapping at it gently. So exquisite did it feel that John . . . moaned . . . out loud. He opened his eyes to look at Luka . . . to see if he’d noticed . . . and, obviously, he had. Luka knew exactly what he was doing, totally aware of the effect he was having . . . and it was this moment that Luka upped the intensity sucking harder, occasionally nipping the delicate silky skin with his teeth and pulling at his ball-sac with his fingers.
Feeling the heightened intensity John bit down on his lower lip, trying to prevent any further sounds emanating from his traitorous mouth. But in trying to control his mouth he failed to keep a check on his hands . . . which had somehow made their way to Luka’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. Luka, once again, upped the intensity, something that John hadn’t thought possible.
It was almost painful. John gasped, knotting Luka’s shirt in his hands, twisting the back of his head into the back of the couch, screwing his eyes shut. "Oh shit." If Luka kept this up he was going to cum pretty soon. In fact, any se . . .
. . . then suddenly it all changed. He felt one of Luka’s hands gripping his balls pulling at them sharply, felt his other hand gripping the base of his cock tightly. The . . . deliciously . . . hot wet mouth vanished and all the wondrous sensations ceased and he was left only with a wet cock assaulted by the cool frigid air. He opened his eyes to glare at Luka expecting to see his face mocking him. But Luka’s face was . . . unreadable . . . his eyes piercing into him.
John did something that he had very rarely done. His right hand slid from Luka’s shoulder to the back of his neck, slid up through his hair and . . . he pulled . . . pulled Luka’s head back down towards his cock . . . his painfully aching cock. He felt resistance and he groaned. "Bastard."
Seemingly satisfied Luka allowed his head to be pushed back down and he opened his mouth taking in the whole length. John groaned again . . . and abruptly sat upright bracing his left arm behind him on the back of the couch. His right hand he kept firmly on the back of Luka’s head, fingers knotted in his hair. Luka accommodated this change of position managing to take John’s length deeper into his throat. John looked down . . .
. . . ."Oh shit . . . oh . . . fuck . . . fuck." John threw his head back. The intensity of the moment was heightened by his apprehension . . . not knowing if Luka was going to stop again. He flexed his fingers in Luka’s hair . . . just in case. But Luka didn’t stop . . . he kept going and going . . . and John came . . . exploding deep into Luka’s mouth . . . and Luka took it . . . continuing to suck until he had taken all of it. "Ffffuckkk."
Spent . . . or, more accurately, drained he collapsed back down onto the couch, dislodging his cock from Luka’s mouth. He sat there trying to regain control of his breathing, not wanting to open his eyes, wanting to relish the moment.
He finally, reluctantly opened his eyes . . . and saw Luka staring at him with that same fucking enigmatic _expression on his face. John didn’t know what to say . . . not quite sure of the etiquette involved in such a situation. He slipped out his tongue, licked at his lips and opened his mouth to say something . . .
. . . but it was Luka who broke the moment. Placing his hands on John’s knees he pushed himself up. Then walking to the chair where he had placed his coat he picked it up and pulled it on. John, not for the first time, was dumbfounded.
"Is that it?"
Luka smiled softly, shook his head. "Change of plan. Consider that the consolation prize." He pulled his collar up around his neck, ran his fingers through his hair. "I have work tomorrow . . . be at my place at 6." He walked towards the door and then stopped, turned. "Oh . . . one more thing . . . the handcuffs . . . you still have them."
"Yeah . . . why?"
"I want them back . . . . . . . . . please."
John looked at him thoughtfully and then stood and walked towards the bedroom. He was half-way there before he realized that his butt was naked and he spun round, pulling his T-shirt down to cover his genitals. Then, much to Luka’s amusement, he backed his way butt first into the bedroom. He went to the dresser rifled through a drawer and found the handcuffs and turned . . . to find Luka standing in the doorway, staring. He threw the handcuffs at him and Luka caught them, jingled them in his hand before putting them into his pocket.
"Remember . . . 6 o’clock."
"What if I don’t . . . what are you going do . . . sue me?"
"I trust you to keep your word." Luka stepped back from the door and disappeared. John grabbed a fresh pair of sweatpants out of the drawer and shoved one leg in, hopping his way to the door. He managed to get his other leg in by the time he got through the door . . . just in time to hear the click of the latch.
To be continued . . .
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n