# Dead Reckoning – CH. 2

- Link: https://mkarsenault.com/2026/09/24/dead-reckoning-ch-2/
- Published: 2026-09-24T23:06:58+00:00
- Author: M.K. Arsenault

CHAPTER TWO: THE SETUP “You piss in the cup?” Merve asks. Merve is my parole officer, and every Tuesday I have to drag myself to this rundown office next to the precinct to, among other things, pee in a cup that they then test for drugs. As a condition of my parole, weekly drug tests are mandatory. More than that, I have to find a job—gainful employment, they call it. Me, the convicted felon with a record that makes potential employers go pale and suddenly remember they’ve filled the position. Yeah, I don’t know how they expect me to pull off half the shit they’re requiring me to do, but I don’t really have a choice if I want to stay on the outside. And I have to stay on the outside because my plan falls apart in the most epic way if I end up back in jail before I get to carry it out. I’ve had three years to plan out my next moves, three years to come up with one contingency after the next, and this plan is damn near perfect. Subscribe now “Merv, can I ask you something?” “What?” He doesn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk. I look him straight in the eye when he finally glances up, my expression serious and forthcoming. “Has anyone, at any point in your life, called you Merv the Perv?” His pen stops moving. He stares at me for a long moment, his jaw working like he’s chewing on whether to throw me out or laugh. “Doyle,” he says finally. “Yeah?” “Get the fuck outta my office.” I stand and walk toward the door. It takes me a total of two steps—that’s how small this place is. “Merv, in all seriousness, my cell was bigger than this. This is a closet.” “Ehh, fuck off!” he says, but I catch the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. “See ya next week,” I say, catching the door and spinning into the hallway. I hear him yell from his desk as I’m already halfway down the corridor. “And get a job!” “Maybe I’ll get one building you a real office,” I call back as I cut the next corner and head for the exit. Ratchet’s real name is probably something boring like Richard or Robert, but nobody calls him that. Corbin told me the guy got his nickname because he could fix anything—locks, security systems, problems. The kind of guy who knows which screws to turn and in what order. We meet at a dive bar in Southie called The Tap. It’s the kind of place where the floor sticks to your shoes and nobody asks questions. It’s also the kinda place you go for shady business dealings. I get there first, order a beer I don’t drink, and wait. He walks in ten minutes later. Early-fifties, short cropped hair, gray at the temples, wearing a Carhartt jacket and work boots. Kinda looks like Jason Statham with hair. He looks like every other tradesman in Boston. But I suppose that’s the point. He slides into the booth across from me without preamble. “Rufus?” “Yeah.” He gives me a look—assessing, maybe a little amused. “Your name’s not really Rufus.” I lean back against the cracked vinyl. “And Ratchet’s printed on your birth certificate?” We stare at each other for a moment. His eyes are sharp, calculating. This is a test, I realize. He’s measuring whether I’m serious or just another wannabe with more mouth than sense. Finally, something shifts in his expression. Not quite approval, but close enough. “Corbin says you need to access to something,” he says. No handshake. No small talk. I like him already. “Whitmore Capital Management,” I say. “Financial district. It’s on the fifteenth floor of the Devonshire building.” Ratchet pulls out his phone, taps a few times, studies the screen. “New construction. 2019. They upgraded security after COVID—keycard access, biometric scanners on executive floors, cameras in every hallway.” “I know.” He looks up. “You know?” “I’ve done my homework.” And I have. Three years of it to be exact. I know Sean’s office is corner suite 1507. I know the building uses Lenel OnGuard for access control. I know there are four cameras on the fifteenth floor—two in the main corridor, one at the elevator bank, one covering the emergency stairwell. I know the cleaning crew comes through between 10 PM and midnight on weekdays and the night guard makes rounds every thirty minutes. I know all of this because I’ve spent every spare moment in the prison library researching Sean’s world. Building blueprints are public record. Security system specs get leaked in vendor proposals. LinkedIn tells you who works where and when they started. You’d be amazed what you can learn when you’ve got nothing but time and motivation. “What do you need?” Ratchet asks. “Keycard access. Fifteen minutes inside without triggering alarms. And I need to know the camera blind spots.” “When?” “Next week. Thursday night. 11 PM.” He nods slowly, thinking. “Keycard’s easy—I can clone one from an employee. Cameras are trickier. They’re on a closed network, but I can loop the feed for twenty minutes if you’re fast.” “I’m fast.” “Alarms?” “Motion sensors in the offices after hours. But if I’ve got a valid keycard and I’m not breaking anything, the system reads me as authorized personnel.” Ratchet smiles. Not friendly. Impressed. “You really did your homework.” “Like I said.” He leans back, arms crossed. “This about money?” “No.” “Revenge?” “Something like that.” “Don’t care,” he says. “Just need to know you’re not gonna do something stupid that brings cops back to me.” “I’m not breaking anything. I’m not stealing anything. I just need to be inside his office for fifteen minutes.” “What are you doing in there?” “Installing something.” He waits. “Cameras,” I say. “Small ones. Wireless. I need to see how the sausage is made.” Ratchet considers this. “You want surveillance.” “Yeah.” “How many cameras?” “Three. One behind the bookshelf facing his desk. One in the corner by the window. One covering the door.” “You know where you’re putting them already.” “I’ve got the office layout memorized.” He studies me for a long moment. I can see him doing the math—figuring out if I’m crazy, if I’m dangerous, if I’m worth the risk. Finally, he breaks the silence. “Two grand. Half now, half when you’re inside.” I don’t hesitate. “Five hundred.” “Like hell—” I cut him off before he can build momentum. Before he can talk himself into believing his price is reasonable. “I’ll take my business across the street,” I say, letting the words hang there for a beat. “No, really—there’s a guy across the street who’ll do it for four hundred. But I told Corbin I’d give you my business first, considering how things have dried up for you lately.” The change in his expression is immediate. His jaw tightens. He stares at me like I know entirely too much about him—which I do. I’ve done my homework on Ratchet the same way I’ve done my homework on everything else. You don’t walk into a negotiation blind, not when you’ve only got one shot at this. He’s quiet for a moment, weighing his options. Pride versus pragmatism. The need to maintain his reputation versus the reality of an empty wallet. “Fine,” he finally says, the word clipped. I pull an envelope from my jacket. Gate money from the state—their parting gift for five years of good behavior. Plus what I had stashed away before I got locked up. I slide it across the table. Ratchet counts it without looking down. Muscle memory. “I’ll text you Wednesday with the details,” he says. “Keycard, access codes, camera loop timing. You get twenty minutes from the moment you badge in. After that, the system resets and you’re on camera.” “Understood.” “And Rufus?” “Yeah?” “Whatever you’re planning—make it worth it. Guys like you don’t come to guys like me unless it’s serious.” I meet his eyes and hold them. Let him see that I’m not some desperate ex-con scrambling for revenge. This is calculated. Deliberate. “It’s serious.” He nods once, slow and measured, like he’s filing that information away for later. Then he pockets the envelope and stands. “Wednesday.” Then he’s gone, weaving through the sparse afternoon crowd toward the door. I sit there for another ten minutes, staring at my untouched beer. The condensation has formed a ring on the scarred wood table. I trace it with my finger, thinking through the timeline again. Wednesday gives me one week to prepare. One week to make sure every detail is locked down, every contingency accounted for. The plan is coming together. Piece by piece. Screw by screw. Sean thinks he’s safe in his corner office with his biometric locks and his security cameras. He thinks the past is buried deep enough that it can’t claw its way back to the surface. Well his world is going to come crashing down on him and in epic fashion no less. Later that night, I find myself back at Sean’s house. In the same hedges from the last time I was here, branches pressing against my shoulders, the smell of mulch and damp earth filling my nostrils. This time I have a DSLR camera with a telephoto lens. I’m not snapping pictures—not yet. Just getting a visual. Confirming patterns. Building the map in my head. Sean and his boyfriend are sitting on the couch watching something on TV. They look cozy, cuddled up together with a fire crackling in the fireplace. How romantic. How fucking domestic. My eye starts to twitch. That rage inside me burns hotter, spreading through my chest like gasoline catching flame. I desperately want to walk right through the front door and surprise him. Watch his face drain of color when he realizes the past isn’t as buried as he thought. But not yet. Timing is everything. I’ve been here every day this week to intercept the mail. Yesterday I got what I came for—a letter from the state prison system letting Sean know that I was released. I want him to know I’m a free man, but only when I’m ready. Only when I decide it’s time for him to start looking over his shoulder. I focus back on the two of them on the couch. They’re kissing now. Like actually kissing, not just a peck. To the point where Sean pulls off his shirt, tossing it onto the floor beside the couch. I remember that chest. The way it felt under my hands. I remember what it used to do to me, how it made my pulse race. Fuck. I pull the camera down from my face and let the heat in my chest subside. This isn’t productive. I’m not here to torture myself with what he has now. I’m here to take it all away. I leave the neighborhood and catch a bus a few blocks away, putting distance between myself and that perfect little domestic scene. I ride it into town, hop off near the waterfront, and find my way to a nightclub. Nondescript on the outside—just a black door with a small rainbow flag decal in the corner—but that’s on purpose. It’s a gay bar. Sean told me about it years ago, back when we used to hang out. Back when he was teaching me about this world I never knew I’d become part of. When I go inside, it’s like the place is alive, pulsing with energy—nothing like the dead quiet street outside. Music throbs through the speakers, bass vibrating in my chest. Colored lights sweep across the crowd. There are shirtless guys everywhere, walking around like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Some are wearing even less—harnesses, leather straps, things I don’t have names for yet. There are quite a few guys just wearing jockstraps and boots, nothing else. The thing is—none of this used to turn me on. I was only ever attracted to Sean. He was the exception, the only man who ever made me feel that pull. But things have changed. Five years in prison changes a man in ways he doesn’t expect. And right now, all I want is a distraction. Something warm and uncomplicated. A nice tight muscled ass, preferably of the twink variety. Subscribe now I scan the room, letting my eyes adjust to the strobing lights, and that’s when I see him at the bar. He’s got to be in his early twenties, maybe twenty-three at most. He’s wearing a black harness that crisscrosses his smooth chest and a matching jockstrap. His ass is perfectly lifted by the straps of the jock, round and firm. Damn. He makes eye contact from across the room, holding my gaze for a beat longer than casual. He’s got two shot glasses in front of him, and he raises one toward me in invitation. I glance around to make sure he isn’t looking at someone else behind me. When I turn back, he smiles and holds out the shot glass like an offering. I make my way through the crowd toward him. “Hey daddy,” he says, handing me the drink. He tosses his shot back while I do the same with mine. It tastes like lighter fluid mixed with regret. I blink a few times and fight to keep myself from choking on the burn. I knock on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. The bartender comes over—he’s also only wearing a jockstrap, but he looks to be about my age, maybe late thirties. “Two Jägerbombs,” I say. “You wanna start a tab?” he asks. “No, put it on his,” I say, nodding toward the kid beside me. Twink Number One. At least that’s what my brain conjures as his credit in the movie that is my life. The bartender looks at him and he nods his approval. While the bartender goes to make the drinks, I take the opportunity to get a better look at the kid’s ass. He notices me checking him out and smiles. It’s even nicer up close. “I’m Brad,” he says. “Have you had a Jägerbomb before?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Well, let’s just say we’re both gonna forget that question by the time this night is over.” “You’re funny,” he says with a laugh. And you’re young and dumb, but I’m not gonna say that out loud. A few moments later, the bartender returns with two shot glasses filled with dark liquid, two tall glasses, and a can of Red Bull. He pours half the can into one glass and the rest into the other. “Godspeed,” he says as he walks away to help another customer. “What’s this?” Brad asks, pointing to the setup. “Well this,” I say, pointing to the shot glasses, “is the devil’s piss.” “And the Red Bull?” “The piss chaser,” I say, smiling. I pick up one of the shot glasses and one of the tall glasses. Brad follows my lead, watching me carefully. I drop the shot glass into the tall glass and start drinking. Brad follows suit. I drain it all in one long swallow, feeling the burn all the way down. It takes Brad three attempts to get it all down, his face scrunching up with each gulp. “Whew, yikes!” he says, shaking his head. “That’ll put hair on your chest,” I say, slapping his ass. We look at each other for a moment, the music pounding around us, and then without saying anything, we’re moving toward the dance floor, letting ourselves get lost in what I can only assume is some kind of EDM mix. We dance until we’re nearly sober and before we can get back into the feeling, we’ve missed last call. “Fuck,” I say looking over at the bar. The lights coming back up. “I’d be down for that,” says Brad. It takes me a moment to register what he’s just said and then I catch up. “Oh, shit, wow–how far do you live from here?” “Two blocks.” A menacing smile creeps across my face. Twenty minutes later we’re in Brad apartment ripping each other’s clothes off. Well mine at least, Brad is already ninety percent naked. He goes to unfasten the harness, but I stop him. “Leave it on.” “Yessir,” he says. I push him back onto the bed and he lands with a bounce, legs spread, cock already hard against his stomach. The leather straps frame his chest perfectly—black against tan skin, the metal rings catching the light from the street outside. I’m not gonna say I didn’t have sex in prison because I did, but not like this. I strip off my shirt and Brad’s eyes track every movement. His hand moves toward his dick but I catch his wrist. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” “No sir.” “Then don’t.” I climb onto the bed, knees on either side of his hips, and lean down to bite his neck hard enough to leave a mark. He gasps, arches up into me, and I can feel his cock pressing against my stomach through my jeans. “Please,” he says. “Please what?” “Please fuck me.” I sit back and look at him—this willing, eager thing beneath me. The harness makes him look like a gift someone wrapped just for me. And maybe that’s exactly what he is. A reward for surviving. A tool for forgetting. Or maybe just a warm body that isn’t Sean’s. I unfasten my belt, pop the button on my jeans, and Brad’s watching like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. When I pull my cock out he actually licks his lips. “You want this?” “Yes sir.” “Then get on your hands and knees.” He flips over fast, ass up, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. The harness straps wrap around his torso and I grab one, using it to pull him back toward me. He makes this desperate little sound that goes straight to my dick. I spit on my hand—classy, I know—and work myself over while I line up. When I push in, Brad drops his head and moans into the mattress. Tight. Hot. Exactly what I needed. I start slow, one hand gripping the harness, the other on his hip. I can feel every inch of him wrapped around me, the heat and pressure making my breath catch. But slow doesn’t last. Not with the kind of need I have to satiate. I fuck him harder and he takes it, pushing back to meet every thrust, making these breathy sounds that might be words but I can’t tell and don’t care. The rhythm builds between us—something primal and uncomplicated. The leather creaks under my grip, the sound cutting through the thick air of the bedroom. Brad’s saying something—”yes” and “fuck” and “harder”—his voice muffled and desperate, and I give him what he wants because right now what he wants is exactly what I need. I pull him back by the harness, using it like reins, feeling the sturdy leather straps taut against my palms. He moans louder, his back arching to meet me, his body responding to every shift of my hips. Each time I thrust, the clap of our skin and the slick sound of sweat echo throughout the space, filling every corner of the room. The bed frame rocks beneath us, headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall, adding its own percussion to the soundtrack. I can feel the heat radiating off Brad’s skin, watch the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing with each movement, his body taut and trembling. Brad buries his face in the pillow and his moans pour out of him in long, drawn-out spurts, each one more desperate than the last. His whole body shudders with each impact, trembling beneath me. His fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, like he’s holding on for dear life. The rhythm between us intensifies. I’m not gentle anymore—I don’t have it in me to be gentle. Not tonight. “Is that what you want? Huh? Is this what you want, you little bitch?” “Fuck yeah, daddy,” he manages between moans, his voice raw and breathy. “Fucking tight little hole, that’s all you are, aren’t you? Just a fucking hole to be used!” “Fuck, just fucking wreck my hole!” he manages, pushing back against me with renewed urgency. I drive my hips into him harder, faster, relentless. His moans grow louder and he buries his face again, the pillow muffling his cries. Sweat drips down my chest, my abs, pooling where our bodies meet. The entire atmosphere in the room changes—sweat and sex and the sound of skin on skin. My mind goes blank. Just sensation. Just the grip of leather in my hands, the heat, the rhythm, the sound of Brad falling apart beneath me. Just this. Just not thinking about Sean for five goddamn minutes. What I do think about is the fact that Brad’s hole is tighter than anything I’ve felt in a long time. It’s warm and wet and clenches around me at all the right moments, gripping my cock like a vice every time I thrust deep. The way his body responds to every movement, every shift of my hips, is almost intoxicating. The way he pushes back to meet me, desperate for more. Fuck. Sometimes I don’t give people enough credit. I had low expectations when I swiped right on this guy—just another faceless hookup to help me forget—but I guess random hookups can surprise you. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing, how to move his hips, how to angle himself, how to take it. He’s not just lying there; he’s working for it. “Ohh fuckkk!” he moans loudly as he arches his back, his spine curving in a perfect arc that makes him look like something out of a porn scene. Damn, he’s got a nice ass. Round, firm, perfect handfuls. The kind of ass that looks good in jeans and even better naked. Too bad I’m never gonna see him again after tonight. That’s the rule. One and done. He leans back suddenly, like he wants to kiss me, and opens his mouth. His eyes are half-lidded with lust, pupils blown wide. I’ve learned my lesson about kissing random hookups, though. It just leads to other shit—feelings, expectations, complications I don’t need. The thought alone makes me fuck him even harder, punishing him for even trying. His mouth hangs open in shock and pleasure, a strangled sound escaping his throat. “You want me to kiss you?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. I lean forward and spit directly in his mouth instead. “Fuck that!” “Fuck!” he says, swallowing it down and then opening his mouth again, tongue out, eager for more. I spit in it again, watching it land on his tongue before he swallows. My hips snap even harder this time, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, echoing off the walls. He grunts and falls back to the bed, overwhelmed, his arms giving out beneath him. “You’re fucking trash!” “I’m trash daddy,” he says breathlessly, his voice trembling with need. “You’re just a fuck toy, aren’t you?” “Yessir, I’m just a fuck toy,” he repeats obediently, like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it. “You like when guys use you, don’t you?” I ask as I drive my cock into him again, harder than before, making the headboard slam against the wall with a sharp crack. “Yes-sir,” he starts, but the second half of that gets choked off as I thrust again, stealing the air from his lungs. The thing is–Brad was just a casualty in all of this. Right now, he’s just on the receiving end of all the anger and rage I have built up inside me that needed some way to escape that didn’t involve me going back to jail for violating parole. At least he’s loving this. Fucking whore. “You fucking whore!” Hell, I was already thinking it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Brad cries out, his voice breaking on each word. And for a moment, I can feel his entire body tense up beneath me, muscles going rigid like he’s gonna cum—but he’s not touching himself. I guess he doesn’t need to. I look down and watch as cum gushes from the tip of his dick, spilling across his stomach in thick spurts. “Fucking hell!” I drive harder, pounding into him in quick succession, chasing my own release now. Brad’s body is spent, trembling and slack beneath me, but I still need him for another moment or two. I feel the pressure building in my stomach, coiling low and tight. It starts in my balls and works its way up, spreading into my spine like electricity, and then I feel it—that moment right before the edge, like I’m standing at the precipice of the world with nothing but air beneath me. I pull out and push Brad off me, my hand already wrapping around my cock, jerking it hard and fast. “Turn the fuck around!” He obeys immediately, rolling over and looking up at me with those glazed, fucked-out eyes. Just as he does, I cum hard. “Fuck!” I groan, the sound ripping from somewhere deep in my chest. I shoot my load in about five thick ropes of cum that coat his face, his chest, and his stomach, marking him with it. He collapses back onto the bed, chest heaving, completely spent. I watch him for a second—the rise and fall of his breathing, the mess I’ve made of him—and feel nothing. No connection. No warmth. Just the hollow satisfaction of a need met. But that’s not why I came here. I didn’t go to that club looking for intimacy or whatever the fuck people pretend casual hookups are about. I came here to get off, to burn through the restless energy that’s been crawling under my skin all week. And now that I’ve done that—mission accomplished. Brad, thank you for your service. Your country thanks you…and so does my cock. Share this: Share on X (Opens in new window) X Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook Like this:Like Loading…