A/N: Been a while, huh? Thanks to folks who read and reviewed the last chapter of this one. Much appreciated. Look for a new chapter of this tomorrow, too. Mox is determined. Leakee ain't having it. Enjoy.
IV. Tossed Away
While Leakee's off - ostensibly - beating his meat, Mox takes the opportunity to dump double-handfuls of nails into whatever-the-fuck bins he feels like. Doesn't even bother to be quiet about it or try to make it look halfway even, either.
Once the last of the pokey fuckers are put away, Mox slips his tee shirt out from under his butt and wads it up to use as a pillow for his head.
He's earned a nap.
Tiled floor isn't exactly the most comfortable place to crash, but he's slept in worse places.
He's not actually expecting to fall asleep - Leakee's probably a two-pump chump - but sure-shit, he drifts off right there on a patch of sunlit tile, full belly and the hangover-throb in his temples finally quieted down.
How long he's down, he has no idea, but what brings him back something cold and sharp raining down on his legs. His fuzzy brain shoves a dumb question at him - 's this a match? 'S that glass? - in the half-second it takes him to kick his way out of sleep.
More things fall on him.
Nails, he realizes belatedly right as another bin of them falls on his legs. "Rise and shine, Moxley."
"What the...?!" Mox yelps, instinctively scrabbling backward. The sudden movement sends a painful jolt licking up his wrist - one he has to grit his teeth not to scream through. "God, what the fuck?"
"You did the nails wrong," Leakee says in a flat, no-bullshit tone. "Do them right. Stop screwing around. Thought you had important things you needed to go do."
"Are always this big an asshole after you get off?" Mox bites back. He pulls himself up slowly to sit.
"I didn't get off."
Mox leans closer to sniff in Leakee's general direction. "Smells like you did."
It doesn't, but he gets a kick out of the rush color that reddens Leakee's wide face. "Get your ass back to work," the big guy grunts. "Stop screwing around."
"I'd rather be screwing you, honestly," Mox drawls, all lazy-like. He drags the fingers of his uninjured hand across his nipples, holding Leakee's gaze the entire way. "Or you be screwing me. You didn't have to run away and jerk off, man. I would've been happy to give you a hand. Or a mouth. Or an ass. Or just watch, if that's your thing."
He's pretty sure Leakee's eyes fog over for a second, but dude can't seem to stop fighting himself. "What the hell is your problem, Moxley?" he asks unevenly. "I'm trying to help you here. You made this mess and all I'm asking is for you to do the right thing and help clean it up. I'm not making you pay for anything. I'm not calling the cops on you - which I should. I've given you food and aspirin. All I want is for you to clean up your damn mess."
"And I'm just tryina say I ain't worth a damn at cleanin' up messes," Mox says. "I can make 'em, but I don't clean 'em for shit. I told you. You're better off fuckin' what you want outta me and sortin' out your nails yourself. I'd just fuck it up anyway."
But a big old balloon of a thought pops in his head:
Judging by the condition of that hovel upstairs, Leakee here ain't much at cleaning up messes, either.
No wonder the dude's being so fucking stubborn about this.
Said stubborn fucker shakes his head and says, like the stubborn fucker he is, "I'm not having sex with you. Stop saying that."
Mox pinches a nipple, slow to play off how fucking awkward it is left-handed. "Your mouth says no, but the come stain on your shorts says yes."
Leakee's mouth drops open as looks down at the front of his shorts.
There's no stain there, of course, and Mox falls back on his ass, laughing. This is too fuckin' easy. Feeling brazen, he shimmies out of his shorts, mindful, as he does of the nails scattered all around him.
"Put your clothes on!" Leakee yells.
"Nah," Mox says, arranging himself cross-legged right there at Leakee's sandaled feet. "'S comfortable." A wadded up tee shirt and shorts provide his bare ass at least a little padding. It's maybe a little cool here with his tool hanging out, but the outrage on Leakee's broad face is de-fucking-licious.
Guy looks like he can't decide if he wants to tackle Mox here or fuck him.
And Mox, he curls a couple clumsy fingers around his dick and gives it an experimental tug or two, never once breaking eye contact. His dick stays soft, but it gets all warm and interested like it could be hard with a little more attention. It's like What's up, man? We gettin' some?
What makes it even better is that Leakee peeks.
Of course he does.
Dark eyes flick downward and hover long enough for things to start getting all nice and toasty in Mox's hand. Another pair of lazy rubs, and blood zooms down to firm things up. And still Mox smiles up at Leakee, this lazy, dirty curl of a thing. He gives his thumb a nice long lick, curling his tongue all the way around for emphasis, and then drags the wet ball of that same thumb along the tip of his dick.
Oh, he's got Leakee's attention there, doesn't he? Big guy's just staring down with his mouth open, his toes maybe six inches from Mox's knees. That's want if Mox has ever seen it, drool practically pouring through Leakee's scraggly beard.
Ain't a bad-looking dude, Leakee, even with the messy hair and beard in desperate need of a trim.
"Seein' somethin' ya like?" Mox drawls, husk and rasp, a cat napping in sunshine. He gives his thumb a lick again and tastes a hint of bitter salt. This isn't as revolting as he thought it would be. "'S all yours, dude. Just gotta take it."
He decides to chance it, and lets go of his dick to sneak three fingers under the edge of Leakee's hoodie. They slip between warm elastic and even warmer skin, and start to tug down.
Gotcha, big boy. Oh, I got you.
Leakke clamps a meaty hand around Mox's wrist. He has huge hands. Mox isn't exactly a small dude, but Leakee's paws are big enough to circle his wrist and then some.
"Get up," Leakee says, voice almost cracking with impatience.
Mox lets himself be dragged to his feet and across the hardware store, careful not to step in any of the glass or anything still laying around. "Y'wanna…? We doin' this on the counter there, or…? Are we goin' back upstairs?"
Not that he wants to fuck in that disgusting shithole, but if it gets him out of this, it'll be worth it.
I asked for it, he reminds himself. I asked for this.
It's a song he wishes he didn't have to sing so damn often, but his life lately is a neverending series of roads that end up in this same place: him having to use his scarred-up, worked over body as currency. Light tubes getting shattered over his back or a dick without enough lube shoving hard into his unprepped asshole - end of the day, it always came back to a pound of his flesh.
It'll be worth it.
Except instead of heading back up those creaky stairs, Leakee opens the alley door and pushes Mox out onto the concrete stoop. Then he holds out Mox's cell phone, which Mox doesn't even remember setting down. "You wanna fuck me in the alley?" he asks, confused. "Doin' it in the rear - yeah, that's a funny joke, but-"
"Go," Leakee cuts him off. "Get out of here."
Mox eyes Leakee narrowly. "What?"
"I'm calling the cops," Leakee says, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm filing a report. Figure I'll be sporting and give you a five-minute head start. Better run."
"Very fucking funny," Mox says, uneasy.
"Who's joking?" Leakee says, and the walks backward into the shop, nudging the door closed behind him.
"I'm naked, you fucking fuck!" Mox shouts. "This isn't funny."
He tries to open the door, but it doesn't budge. Fucking thing is locked tight.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Like a complete fucking idiot, he bangs the side of his injured hand against the door. Pain explodes along his entire forearm like some huge mousetrap has just slammed down on it. He dances away shaking it. "Ow! Fucker! Son of a cuntfucking bitch! Ow!"
Laughter drifts through the door.
"Oh, you fucker!" he bellows, a raging wildcat. He fetches the door a hard kick with a bare heel. Which does exactly jack and shit except jar him all the way to his teeth. "Lay-ah-key! Gimme my fucking clothes back! Lay-ah-key! Hey! Gimme my shit back!"
He's out there bare-ass naked, junk flying every which way while he tries in vain to kick the fucking door down. His fucking blood pressure has spiked so high it feels like his head's about to pop off.
After maybe a minute, he hears a window slide open somewhere overhead, followed by Leakee's chuckling, "Here, pro. You're used to running around in your underwear, aren't you? It's what you 'wrestlers' do. Here ya go. Tick-tock. You got four minutes."
Something small and blue and wet sails down onto the pavement in the middle of the alley. It lands with a slap in the middle of a circle that looks like a water balloon had just blown up.
Mox curls his uninjured hand around his junk and makes his cautious way over. It's his underwear, all right, the blue briefs completely soaked. Gritty, too, since they'd landed in some dirt.
He shakes them out best he can and drags them on anyway, wincing at the cold, sandpaper feel of them. It's better than walking around with his balls all flopping around everywhere, he guesses. Even so, he sends a one-fingered salute to the upstairs window. He can see Leakee's dirty-ass hoodie through the gap in the curtain.
"Fuck you!" Mox yells at the top of his lungs. "Fuckyou fucker!"
Jon Moxley in an alley with impotent anger.
Leakee pulls the curtains apart and taps a cell phone against the window. Then he holds up three thick fingers.
Three minutes.
There's a fist-sized rock near one of the dumpsters, and fuck, Mox is tempted to throw it up at that window just to see the big man jump.
Self-preservation kicks in, though, those well-honed instincts: he has a mighty need to not to be arrested in soaking wet underwear - have some shitty mugshot taken and somebody like Zandig catching wind of it. That ice is paper thin. Last thing he needs is some ridiculous news story like that circulating around. An arrest on his record would probably be the death kiss for his wrestling career.
So he runs, bare feet slapping painfully over rough concrete, phone clutched tight in his good hand, bad hand cradled to his chest. Every step jars his fucking wrist like crazy, and he grits his teeth against the pain-flairs. He's sure he looks like some feral dog, bared teeth and wild eyes and shaggy hair in his eyes, but he's not going to let himself get caught like this.
Luck's on his side because there isn't a soul on the sidewalk when he's vomited out of the alley's mouth. Couple cars floating by on the street to his right, but none keeping him from dashing across into the next alley. It's all shade and about fifteen degrees colder than the street, but Mox breaks into a sweat halfway down, lungs burning. He can't run as fast as he wants to because there's busted glass in front of half the fucking dumpsters, but he goes a hell of a lot faster than a walk.
If Leakee calls the cops, it'll probably take them fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the store. Probably another ten minutes before they'd start looking.
Fucking prick kept the wallet, but all that was in there was his Ohio driver's license and a couple of maxed-out credit cards. Nothing with Sami's address on it. Nothing with anybody's address on it. Nobody in Ohio outside of Cody Hawke even knows where the fuck he is right now, so there's a better than even chance he can at least make it back to Sami's place.
Right now, it's empty alley after empty alley, and Mox running blind, trying not to get his feet - or any other part of him - cut to shreds.
Four alleys later, his side gets a bad stitch in it, and he slows to try to get his bearings. Smells like garbage and fresh coffee, and he pauses between a couple of dumpsters, panting. He dials Sami's number again with an impatient thumb, and puts the phone to his ear, shifting his weight between his feet while it rings and rings.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he mutters.
Sami picks up on the fifth ring with a thick, "'S up?"
"It's me, Sami," Mox says. "You and Chrissy still out running errands?"
There's a pause before Sami says, "Just finishing lunch. You need a ride still?"
"Yeah," Mox says. "Soon, if you can. Kind of in a jam here."
"What kind of a jam?" Sami asks.
"The kind where I'm kinda standing in my underwear behind a coffee shop," Mox admits.
On the other end of the line, Sami chuckles. This isn't even the strangest state Mox has been in when he's called. "I don't even want to know, man. Did you call Zandig?"
"Yeah, he said I'm benched for like six weeks, but I can come down for TOD. That's fine. I think I fucked up my hand anyway. Kinda hit a wall earlier." Mox looks down at it. There's some definite bruising starting to happen on the back. It's swollen, and his knuckles are blood-crusty. He can't really make a fist or bent it up or down without a pain-bolt.
"'Kay, well," Sami says in his dry trucker's rasp, "tell me exactly where you are, and we'll be on our way."
Mox does.
Then he steps back into the shadows to wait.
Mox honestly breathes a sigh of relief when Sami's old rustbucket of a car pulls into the alley.
Sami and Chrissy take one look at him and just laugh.
"Fuck you guys," he mutters, wedging himself into the narrow backseat. "Fuck everything about this fucking day."
And fuck Leakee, too.
A/N: "By Def" and "Fever Pitch" are still on hiatus. I want to knock out some of these smaller stories first. Thanks for reading.