He tapped his desk. It was Sam, the Annoying One, looking at him again. Gene could put up with a lot – he did, every day – but Sam was an itch he desperately wanted to scratch. Too close to home, though, too dangerous.
Pretty. Tight. Smart. Sam was everything that tempted Gene, and he knew where that led, and he knew that this time it would not be safe. Not one of his own, no one from CID. He swore off that a long time ago, after that kid, what was his name? John. Little John, they joked, because he was. Smaller than Sam, even, light and fine boned and Christ just too pretty. His bones fragile and white like porcelain now, the few bones Gene had left. Gene squinted, jutting out his chin, thinking of Sam. Were his bones as delicate? Or was he a big boy thin on the frame? No way to tell from a distance…
No, Sam was out. A good way to tip his hand. Gene enjoyed his freedom too much, and Little John nearly cost him that. If he had not framed that stupid junkie boy-lover Warren handed him as a favor, Gene would be in gaol by now. Or dead. Probably dead. No one liked a cop killer, especially if he was a cop himself. He tried not to remember how good it felt at the time, to bite into Little John's skin, to rake the muscle off the bones, to suck the marrow. Sam would be even better, older like fine wine. But no. Gene had control, he always maintained control, and he would not allow himself to take Sam. Despite those eyes, oh how Gene wanted to hold those eyes.
Gene took it to the fringes again, the canal scum he hated the taste of but who were throw-aways. He left the pub late, making pissed, and everyone laughed at the Guv wandering aimlessly drunk down the roads as usual, but the drifters by the canal knew he was trouble, even if they did not know why, as his walk straightened up and his muscles tightened.
New kid, young and not beat up by life yet. Not ripe, but juicy, and Gene 'nicked' him and none of the other drifters were surprised when that boy just never showed up again.