Millstone – Novel 01 Ch. 06


Millstone – ONE – (Hanging the Chimney Hook)


I had to keep reminding myself we were not actually on the Haines case. The hire from Winter had a tangential attachment to it at best, but I never liked anyone telling me what not to investigate. So, if the guy at the tailor’s wanted me to not look further into it, his demand ensured that I would in some manner. I chose to help the police as much as I could, but Edgerton would not appreciate my meddling. However, if anything from the housewarming developed, that would change things.

Max and I discussed the stranger from the tailor’s shop. It left two questions: who told him that we were involved, in any way, with the case about Tommy Haines, and how did he know where to find us? Only one answer made any sense, either Grey or Winter had said something to someone; they were the only ones to know. Since we couldn’t tell if it were accidental, incidental, or intentional, and I’m not one to point fingers without evidence, I felt we should sit on the information and be mindful of the fact that we were known.

My coming out to myself and Max gave the world a different hue. It was the same, I knew, but the instant you put on those “I’m gay” glasses (at least until it becomes second nature) things are fundamentally changed by your perception. I wondered how far I should take the coming out thing, but I had to be myself and get on with my life. I decided not to announce it, but admit it when asked, and let people assume whatever they wanted, unless their knowing was important.

When we ordered the suits, I made sure Taylor understood that I concealed carried a handgun. He could tailor the jackets to help hide it and had accommodated several police detectives in the past. After lunch we drove to the gun shop on South 3rd Street. It surprised me to discover that it wasn’t the only dealer in town. Conservatives have misconceptions about more liberal individuals. They think that just because someone wants to keep a weapon out of the hands of a lunatic, that they’re against weapons period and therefore don’t own any. They’re mistaken. Apparently, because Franklin existed as the enemy of a contingent of the outside world, the people who lived there had to own weapons. In the past, incidents occurred of idiot outsiders coming to the city to stir up trouble, shooting at parked cars, slashing tires, and there were several beatings resulting in critical injuries including a couple of deaths. We don’t live in a perfect world where only the good guys have access to us. This altered the perception of people in Franklin, and when many self-defense studios opened, the classes stayed full. Between self-defense courses and the weapons training, things improved; when word got out, the number of incidents dropped significantly. Compared to that contingent of the outside world, the citizens of Franklin didn’t obsess over their weapons and wave them about under everyone’s noses. It seemed a more reasonable and subtle level of gun ownership that said to outsiders, “I may look to you like someone you can fuck with but try me.”

The place on 3rd Street, called Weapons Depot, had everything I needed. The owner, an extraordinarily handsome man with dark hair and permanent five o’clock shadow, was named Gunner Marksman (an awesome name for a weapons expert). If the Ramrod sticker on his register said anything, he lived among the Leather community. He wore no shirt under his open black leather vest that held many pins for championships he’d won, as well as from his time spent in the army. He had an impressive set of pecs. His muscular body was seriously shredded, far more so than Max, but I preferred Max’s bigger, well defined, more rounded, and full looking muscles.

During my old life, I carried a CZ-75D PCR compact. I liked that weapon a lot, but since mine had a direct connection to my previous life with its registration, and its ballistics from a different case, I couldn’t keep it. So, I relinquished it to Special Agent Sawyer who had it destroyed.

Gunner tried to sell me on a compact Glock 9, mostly because it was lighter, and he had it in black, but I just wanted to replace the CZ I had grown accustomed to. The only one in stock was a flashy-looking stainless model, so I bought it, along with a set of replacement grips, bullets, and everything required to care for it. He verified my detective license and my concealed carry permit, which allowed me to take the weapon home that day. And since the shop had its own indoor range, I tested and prepped it for carrying in my new padded shoulder holster made of bridal leather (one far better than I had in New York). I wasn’t sure how Max would feel about my carrying it, but he kept a Beretta in his apartment before he moved to the secure building that he had recently vacated.

On the way back to our apartment, we received a call from Albert with bad news. “Edgerton has taken me off the case,” he said. “And then he added, and I quote, ‘tell Millstone, he’s off the case too…oh, that’s Ankara escort right, he’s not an actual police officer.’ Edge also put me on disciplinary suspension for a month. It’s with pay, thank goodness, but it shamed me at the department, so I’ve learned my lesson.”

I told him, “I am so sorry, Al.”

“No, cousin, you have no reason to be sorry. The fault is entirely mine, but between us, I think I did the right thing, I just went about it wrong. I really need some cheering up, how about the two of you come over for dinner tonight? I have the ingredients for some amazing Ossobuco in bianco. I would love to have you over.”

We agreed to meet him at his place at 7:00 and he texted me the address. He had offered to pick us up, but thanks to Winter, we could get there on our own. He told us not to get dressy and to wear something comfortable, since we were family.

I wondered what Sawyer had told Albert about me. He must not have told him about the witness protection, just other things, but I couldn’t imagine what. Albert still seemed to think of me as his cousin, so Sawyer kept that pretense. After having met Al and Thomas, I liked them a lot. They were genuinely good men, and the fact that Sawyer even considered giving me his grandmother’s maiden name, to make me a family member, even as a pretense, must mean that he held me in high regard. Surely, he hadn’t done that with any of his other cases.

The longer we lived in Franklin, the more I noticed things that I typically took for granted. I was used to a bit of trash on the streets in the low rent district, a few potholes, and sidewalks that were more than merely cracked. In Franklin, even in the low rent district, they kept the streets in good condition, swept them every night, picked up the trash like clockwork, and kept the pavement well maintained. I found it strange to see sidewalks missing the ubiquitous row of parking meters. Franklin had free parking everywhere, one of the many perks of living there. We parked along the street at the side of the building with other tenants and brought up our purchases.

Once we reached the apartment, we both commented how much we needed to pee. So, I set everything into the living room chair, and we shared the toilet, peeing at the same time. Max stood in front while I stood as close as I could at the side.

He already had his dick out, ready to pee. “Here,” he said, reaching for my fly, “let me take care of that.”

I put my right hand on his shoulder and shoved my left into my back pocket. He had nimble fingers for such a big guy and soon he had my length draping over his fingers while he aimed his cock with his right, and we began relieving ourselves.

I saw his smile. “You enjoy this,” I said.

He nodded. “I enjoy every opportunity to touch you, to be with you, to help you. Is that a problem?”

“You are never a problem.” I guided his face toward mine and I kissed him. I brushed my lips against his, and I could feel the heat from his breath. “Do you promise to shake it more than twice?”

His smile broadened. “I’ll shake it wherever, however, and as much as you like.”

When I finished, he shook my cock several times, and I grew more erect in his hand. I moved to hug him, and we kissed for a moment.

He brought his lips close to my ear and whispered in that sexy growl of his, “Your Golden Bear needs his Stallion.”

We hadn’t bothered to button up, and I led him into the bedroom. Once the shirts were off, I dug into the golden fur to find his right nipple and gave it a few nips with my teeth and did the same with the left. He pushed me back onto the bed, removed the remainder of my clothing, and then his own.

I moved further onto the bed, spread my knees, and placed the bottoms of my feet together. He held my dong in both of his meaty fists, jacking it as he licked around the head like an ice cream cone melting on a hot summer day, savoring the trickle of pre that ran from the tip. Stuffing the head in his mouth he drew on it like an enormous straw. His eyes closed, the liquid flowed, and in his own contented little world, he drank from me.

I could have laid there for hours, my hands clasped behind my head, watching my beautiful Golden Bear slowly jacking my cock and slurping my syrup to satisfy his need for phallic intimacy. The longer he nursed, however, the heavier my breathing grew, and he moved from simply nursing to a full-blown blowjob; the sudden rise in sensation had me grabbing the bedding. Erotic slurping sounds filled the quiet apartment, and the longer it went on, the emphasis on every retreat up the length of my cock drew an animalistic groan from deep within me, both primal and uncharacteristic. I fought the intense pleasure to make it last, but my Golden Bear had a thirst that would not be denied. Like a pitcher, he pushed me closer and closer to the edge to see how far he could take me until I tipped off the shelf, spilling my cream down his throat. He had a knack for knowing exactly where to pause; Ankara escort bayan he knew just how long I could teeter on the fulcrum before the pleasure diminished. He held me at the point of release for only a moment, the pressure too much to sustain. He drew up to the head of my cock one last time, and I came, firing off into his mouth. He gulped it down to make room for the next volley, again and again. Max never spilled a drop when he was in the zone, no matter how much I came. He milked my shaft of any remnants, ate the last of it from the tip, and held an expression of deep satisfaction.

I stretched out my legs and laid there, catching my breath. Max kissed me and brought his full weight on top of me, making as much contact with my body as possible, and laid his head on my shoulder.

He asked. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, I love this, and I love you.” I wrapped my arms around him and ran my hands in his golden fur as we lay there in silence for a while.

Albert gave us an address for a location in a charming little area called Ivy near the top of the hill surrounded by a third of the city. They named Ivy from Ivy Ridgewood who was one of the main founders of Franklin when it became the place for marginalized members of society to congregate in peace. The city had an ongoing debate about changing the name of Franklin (of which there were 31 other cities in the US with that name) to Ridgewood (of which there were only 16). It sounded like a great tribute to the woman, and hopefully would help deter the Freaky Franklin moniker, one that, in my ignorance, even I had used. Unfortunately, people would probably just call it The City Formerly Known as Freaky Franklin.

Max and I wore casual clothing. For me, that consisted of a pair of black jeans with a gusset (they hide my bulge a bit better) and a long-tailed button-up. For Max, that’s a button-up shirt and pair of loose fit jeans that fit him as though they were regular fit. Due to the sizing issues, he had to overly cinch the waist with a belt. We needed to work on getting Max something better for casual clothes.

Albert lived at the corner of Fairfield and the main road of Halifax. With the darkness, it was more difficult to tell what the area looked like, but we saw several interesting restaurants nearby and passed a middle school on the way. We hadn’t seemed many younger people in the few days we’d been there, but it’s a big city, and the idea that they wouldn’t live there too, sounded silly in retrospect; even marginalized groups had children.

With the front of the building so well lit, I could see the enormous six story structure before we got there. When I saw the name of the place, I laughed. “Does Albert live at a place called the Minotaur?”

We pulled into the lot at the side of the building where about 40 cars were parked, and I had to admit, whatever the place was, it looked popular.

“We’re a few minutes early,” said Max. “Should we go in?”

“We’ll probably be fine.”

We stepped into the main door and it looked a bit like the lobby of a small hotel. The interior had an aged industrial vibe with thick medium-toned reclaimed wood, black wrought iron metallics, and a rustic cement floor that looked like one from an old factory. The air held an intoxicating masculine scent of which I couldn’t get enough. We found the check-in desk directly before us on the main wall with the Minotaur logo behind it, and an elevator on the wall to the right. Both ends of the desk had a wide vestibule entry with a turn, so you couldn’t see farther back. A muscular man wearing white shorts and a red t-shirt, carrying a gym bag came from the left side. He told the man who worked the front desk, who he called Henry, that he would see him the next day and exited the building.

Henry, a gorgeous man of African descent, stood behind the counter, showing a massive muscular torso and a fluorescent green band above each of his enormous biceps. He came from behind the counter and greeted us with a genuine smile, and a big fat dong that flopped with every step. His cock looked impressive, but no where near the size of mine.

“Good evening to you both,” he said. “My name is Henry Cole, the owner of the Minotaur, and what can I do for you handsome gentlemen?” The entire time he stood talking with us his cock began to stiffen until it stood straight up, the head hovering just above his bellybutton. He ignored it, but we couldn’t.

“I’m not sure you can help us. I’m Max Roche, and this is my partner Howard Millstone. We were invited by Albert Sawyer to dinner, but I think we’ve come to the wrong location.”

Henry smiled. “No, you’re at the right place. Hold on.” He retrieved a card from the counter and sauntered over to the elevator. He held the card over the call-button which activated it. “The Minotaur is a private men’s club, so normally tenants greet their guests in the lobby.”

“I see,” I said. “We’ve arrived a few minutes early, so…”

We thanked Henry and, once inside, pushed Escort Ankara the button for the fifth floor. “Henry’s dick sure knows how to give a compliment,” I said.

Max laughed. “How do you feel about looking at men?”

“Would you consider that cheating?”

“No,” he said.

“Neither would I. I see nothing wrong with just looking.”

“Henry had a nice one,” he said, “but he would probably shit a brick if he saw yours.”

“You think?”

The doors to the elevator opened and Albert stood there waiting for the lift.

“I was coming to get you two!”

“Hey cousin!” I moved to hug him.

“Henry let us up,” said Max.

We both gave him a hug, and he led the way down a hall that had the same theme as the lobby. Albert wore his leather uniform pants with the blue stripe down the leg, and his boots, but no shirt. Instead, as part of the leather community, he wore a black and blue leather bulldog harness which showed off his amazing upper body and great tan.

Albert’s apartment had an open concept with a ten-foot ceiling, a concrete floor, an industrial design, and lots of open space. The sitting area, kitchen, and dining were all one room, and only a seven-foot-tall divider made of wood and wrought iron hanging from a metal I-beam separated the bedroom and bathroom from the rest of the space. The kitchen, located centrally on the outside wall, had a series of sleek metal cabinets with an aged patina. He had an induction stove and convection oven in the middle, a refrigerator on one side, and a temperature-controlled wine cellar on the other. The kitchen’s elongated island had a sink and lots of workspace on the concrete countertop. The heavy looking, rectangular table, made of reclaimed walnut and unpainted dark colored wrought iron, sat in front of the island, and had three place settings. Closer to the door, we saw a sitting area on a sisal rug that defined the space. The heavy scent of cooked beef lingered in the air. We both commented on how delicious it smelled and complimented him on his apartment.

“I’m glad to hear you like the place,” he said, “but actually, this building doesn’t have apartments, they consider them living spaces. I own little of what you see here, the seating in the living room, the wine cellar, and my bed; everything else came with the place. Please, seat yourselves at the table.”

The table had attached seating that swung out and tucked themselves under when you left the table. Once everything was doled out and we began eating, I asked him, “What makes this a living space and not an apartment?”

“This is a private men’s club, so it requires a membership to live in or use the facility unless you’re a guest. The living spaces have only a half-bath with a partition for the toilet and no door, so they have no shower or bathtub. The opposite end of the hallway from the main lift has a secure elevator for residents that will take you directly to the locker room. Most of the residents shower immediately after working out, and rarely need it more than that, but if we do, we have access to it 24 hours a day. The ground floor has the largest gymnasium in Franklin, with tons of free weights and machines, an indoor lap pool with seven lanes, and we have a locker room that’s second to none with amenities.

“Henry rejects applicants if they’re not male, aren’t over 18, can’t pass a background check, and haven’t obviously dedicated themselves to their fitness for some time. He wanted to cater to men who have fitness as a priority.”

“We’re in the market for a gym,” said Max. “What are the fees like?”

“He gives discounts to police officers, firefighters, emergency rescue workers, emergency medical technicians, doctors, and nurses who fit the criteria. There’s lots of those guys here. But he also includes local business owners, like the two of you. The discounted rate is only $1200 a year per person. They open the facility for non-residents seven days a week from 4:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. However, residents have access 24 hours a day.”

“That’s really inexpensive for a private facility,” I said.

“He says he didn’t start the Minotaur to make a lot of money. He just wanted to live a good life. He and everyone who works here are tenants.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how much is a lease per month?” I asked.

“Henry made leasing subject to the same criteria as non-residents, and because they’re not actual apartments, the lease is $1500 a month with no more than two occupants, and that includes all taxes, utilities, maintenance and spraying.”

Max and I both asked, “That’s it?”

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“The catch is,” he said, “you must be a member, and only men who wouldn’t mind living a club lifestyle would want to live here, but for those of us that do, we love it. There are a few rules for tenants, but nothing outrageous. If you might consider it, I know the space across the hall is empty, and I would love it if you lived there. Talk to Henry and get an application. If I were Thomas, I would have brought you over here immediately, but I guess he didn’t want to assume things. If you guys stay until they close, I could give you a tour of the facility, and we can have a dip in the pool.”

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