The Bones: Chapter Three
For paid subscribers only. Reeling from his run-in with Trevor, Max is angry, horny, and resolved to expose the jock who called him "a pretty little faggot," even if, some way, somehow, he liked it...
Read Chapter One of The Bones here and Chapter Two here. They’re free for all subscribers.
—
“What the fuck did he call you?!” Nolan asked as we walked back across campus, his face aghast.
My voice got low. “A…pretty little faggot.”
Nolan’s eyes might as well have been replaced by giant red exclamation marks.
I mean, it had shocked me, too.
I’d stared back—stunned, silent—as Trevor had pulled away, discarding the used paper towel in the garbage bin before turning and exiting, the door slamming tight behind him.
“You gotta report him,” Nolan continued, snapping me back to reality. “He could get expelled for that shit!”
“No one would believe me,” I demurred. “We were alone. And besides, it didn’t exactly feel like a slur.”
Nolan stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean? He called you the f-word! I don’t even think I could bring myself to say it.”
Sweet, sweet, innocent Nolan, ever the ally, even if he was tired of hearing about my sexual exploits.
“There was something different about it. Something…seductive.”
“How can anyone calling you something like that be sexy?” he asked, that familiar judgment in his tone.
“I dunno, fuckface, but it was.” I couldn’t explain it. “He’s hot, I’ll give him that.”
“Him? Really?” Nolan made a face in disgust.
I grinned back at him, amused. “Oh? Not your type?”
Trevor Shults was objectively attractive. 90s Abercrombie model/movie star/bedtime beat off attractive.
“No,” Nolan said, giving me a light punch on the shoulder. “I like my boys prettier.” He smiled. “Like you.”
My ride or die until the end.
We convened in the Chronicle’s offices, rather less glamorous than one might expect for a 175-year-old publication at an elite institution. Instead of a gleaming new setup, it was a hovel located in the bowels of the science building. It hardly mattered that we were relegated to the subterranean since our exploits were mostly nocturnal—burning the midnight oil in the name of high-stakes prep school investigative journalism.
The leadership team found its seats, with Ethan Pomerantz, our editor-in-chief, at the front. While a tad uptight and humorless, he was handsome and a benevolent, consistent leader. Raised in Newton, BB&N for middle school, summered in Newport—you know the vibe. I’d spent the last two plus years doing my best to win his favor in the hopes of becoming his replacement. Editor-in-Chief of the Chronicle was the perfect starting point for a lifelong career in journalism.
“So what do we have for this week’s closing?” Ethan asked, passed a final printed rundown by his lieutenant Vivek, ever ready with collateral.
Vivek began rattling off a long list of top stories. “The opening of the new performing arts center, our major loss to Exeter last weekend…”
“And the flag burning today, right?” I interjected.
The pair peered back at me. “It’s too late to run anything before print,” Ethan started. “We should hit it for next week.”
I knew for a fact it wasn’t too late, and in fact, that it would be too late if we waited until the next issue. Anything that wasn’t timely would be cut, deemed old news, or, in this case, killed by the school board intervening for fear of bad publicity. It certainly didn’t reflect positively upon the student body, burning shit in the middle of campus in broad daylight.
Either way, we had to hit it fast.
“We can’t wait—it’s too big a story!” I replied, annoyed. “It’s all anyone is talking about. Today.”
It was an open secret that the Bones operated on campus, their ranks under a shroud of secrecy. It was just a matter of narrowing down the list of suspects who might be involved. Trevor Shults was the perfect start, and from there, all the most illustrious characters were likely involved.
“This is what happens every year,” I continued. “The Bones come out of hiding, swing their dicks around, and then go back into the shadows as if they don’t exist. They’re taunting us, reminding us of their power before we have enough evidence to follow them.”
“Next week,” Ethan said, not budging.
I leaned in seductively, affecting my best whisper. “Hitting too close to home?” I asked.
Nolan hit me involuntarily.
The “most illustrious characters” included journalists. Ethan could very likely be one of them. Plus, I’d always had a bit of a crush on him, my flirtation of great amusement to me if not him.
But perhaps, this time, I’d gone too far. Nolan’s face seemed to say so.
“Hardly,” Ethan replied, breaking out into a blush before pulling himself together. “But we can’t compromise proper journalism for the sake of a scoop. So we wait and go in depth next week.”
I looked at Vivek and the rest of the team, all of whom nodded in deference. I was outnumbered.
“Fine.”
I sat back in a huff. I suppose this meant I’d have more time to snoop around, particularly if I was doing it on my own. If I could crack this, I mean really crack this, then I’d have the story of a lifetime. They’d have to make me Editor-in-Chief of the Chronicle, and the rest of my life would be made.
Ethan and the team moved on, divvying up tasks to finalize the layout for the next week’s issue.
“It’s mine, then?” I asked, interrupting. “The byline?”
“Unless anyone else objects,” said Ethan, scanning the room for dissent.
The remainder of the team looked back silently.
He placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Then by all my means—the byline is yours.”
—
I left the Chronicle meeting, making my way back across campus to the Student Affairs office, the slip of paper Dr. Campbell had given me that morning burning a hole in my pocket.
It was time to face the music, to learn what my punishment would be.
“How may I help you?” the clerk asked, looking up at me with her default mild irritation.
“I was sent by my professor,” I started, assuming my most conciliatory smile. “You see, I have some tardies…”
She looked down at the piece of paper. “All right, give me a few minutes.”
I was about to protest, make a sound, reasoned argument for why I should be cut loose, but she had already walked away, lost to the deep recesses of the office.
I stood there, annoyed, hoping that nobody would see me, when out of the corner of my eye a lumbering figure appeared.
Fuck. No. Of course.
“Headmaster Skinner!” I said brightly, trying to put forth an air of innocence and professionalism.
Skinner was the ne plus ultra of Hanover alumni, the golden cock who had come back to roost. If there were a mascot for the Hanover man (other than that deranged-looking gorilla that showed up at sporting events), it would be him.
Early 50s, full head of hair still intact, Skinner had a flawless jawline and a deeply worked-out body. He was, in short, a hunk—the epitome of a man who had aged gracefully. Put less elegantly, he was a Daddy. A very, very, sexy, hot Daddy. I’d always had a little bit of a crush on him, his visage serving as perfect beat off material in my earliest days as a student. Even now, Reed would comment on him in his dopey way.
“That ass,” he’d say, staring during assemblies as Skinner spouted off some dumb announcement wearing khakis that were criminally tight. ”I need to see that ass.”
Reed was an idiot, but in this case, he was right. I wanted to see that ass too, though such an opportunity was unlikely to come to pass. Married and then divorced, he seemed decidedly straight.
But now, here the man was, live and in the flesh, but unfortunately facing towards me rather than away.
“Hello, Max,” he responded, warm but gruff. He’d been classmates with my father so many years back, my presence likely to set off some alarm bells. “What are you doing here?”
I turned, sheepish, deflecting. “Just, uh….picking something up for a friend.”
His eyes narrowed, about to call my bluff—no one really ever came here unless they were in a spot of trouble—but before he could ask anything further, I shifted into reporter mode.
“Crazy about the fire this morning. Anything you’d want to say about it for the paper?”
He looked back, bemused at my gumption. But he played ball. “Horrible. Deeply concerning.” I nodded, expression serious, about to reach for my phone to take notes. “But nothing else I can say before our all-school meeting tomorrow morning.”
My face fell.
So much for getting a first comment.
A voice came from behind me. “All right, Mr. Granger.” I turned to the clerk, now back at her desk. “Looks like you’ve been given laundry duty for your censure.”
“Censure?” Skinner raised his eyebrows
I glanced back at him, embarrassed.
“I—” I stammered, trying and failing to summon a further reply.
Skinner’s face turned grave. “Are you sure there’s nothing I, or your father, should be worried about?”
I put on my best smile. “Nothing at all. Just a little confusion around class start times.”
He smiled back at me tightly, voice melodic. “Then, best to get…unconfused.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving me high and dry. No scoop. No nothing. Just a pile of dirty jockstraps and a likely call to my parents.
How fun. How festive.
And before I could remember to check out his rear view, he was already long gone.
Drat.
The clerk handed me back a new piece of paper.
“You report tomorrow evening. 7 pm sharp.”
“7 pm?” I asked. “Why so fucking late?!”
“Language!” the clerk huffed.
“Sorry, it’s just…I’m on the Chronicle. We work at that time. Can’t it be earlier?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “End of the day’s when all the dirty stuff’s…dirty. And you’ll be there to clean it.”
Yes, I would be. With bells on.
If only I had an underwear fetish.
I left student affairs and made my way down to the mailroom, the vestibule having thinned out after the early afternoon rush. Classes were mostly done, people were on their way to sports by now, or spending the free time getting a jump start on their homework.
Laundry duty? Seriously? Couldn’t I be on library duty or something, putting away books or shushing freshmen?
I pressed my key into my mailbox, turning the lock and pulling out a small pile of correspondence. Party invites, an issue of The Nation, a copy of the International Male catalogue—how did they get my address!?!—and then a small, crisp black envelope.
Pristine, actually. Thick cardstock. It looked expensive.
I dropped the other items on the table, glancing around before sliding my finger along the flap on the underside. Inside was a note, the same dark black as the envelope.
My jaw dropped.
Engraved in perfect white embossed font were two words.
WE’RE WATCHING.
And just below was an insignia, small but distinguishable nonetheless.
A skull and crossbones.
I set the card down on the table, looking around as if under surveillance, as if someone were waiting for this exact moment. But the hall was mostly empty, just a few nerdy-looking freshmen lingering around before heading to PE.
My mind raced. Could they know that I was onto them already? I’d only run into Trevor a few hours ago. Assuming he was the sort to be involved, maybe he’d already given word that I was on the trail?
Not that it mattered. I’d hardly made a secret of going after them.
But it did mean something, the fact that they’d acknowledged my efforts.
Because if they were trying to frighten me off the trail, then one thing was certain.
I was a threat, and they knew it.
Nobody tried to intimidate someone they weren’t afraid of, or at least concerned by. No, this wasn’t just a scare tactic. It was affirmation. I was doing exactly the right thing.
All right, I thought to myself. If they were upping the ante, then I was game.
This wasn’t just an investigation. This was war.
—
Where was I?
I was in complete darkness, wherever I was, the space utterly pitch dark. I felt around, my eyes slowly adjusting as I got my bearings, desperate to understand what was happening.
I could discern only a few things.
I was naked, knees hard and aching against the concrete, my dick hanging erect between my legs.
The air was cold, sending goosebumps along my skin, my nipples small and tight against my chest.
And despite only being able to make out shadows, I knew I wasn’t alone.
I blinked, straining to focus, and then I saw it—him—the figure slowly approaching and coming into view.
It was Trevor Schult’s shirtless form, lumbering above me.
He looked good, better than good—he looked fucking amazing. High, weighty pecs. The narrow of his waist and a six-pack that gave way to cum gutters, smooth as if carved in marble. And a pair of tight, white briefs rested on his hips, barely concealing his dick.
All right. Maybe I did have an underwear fetish
I struggled with my hands, gleaning the truth—they were tied behind me.
I was trapped.
I continued in my attempts to wriggle free until I noticed Trevor shifting, a hand slowly lifted in the air, suspended. And then, before I could think twice, it lowered, slapping me hard and rough across the face—not so hard as to break skin, but certainly hard enough to feel it.
I recoiled, smarting along my cheek. And then I turned back to face him, my blood beginning to boil as it had in the bathroom the day before, eyes welling in anger.
But before I could speak, he hunched down before me, face spitting distance away, saying those same words to me, the ones that had haunted me since he’d first uttered them.
“You really are a pretty little faggot.”
I stared up at him, rage pulsing through my body. And then I observed as it slowly morphed into something else.
Fuel. Desire.
He placed his hands on his briefs, slowly grazing his fingertips along the waistband.
No.
His thumbs found their way beneath the elastic, gripping its edge, flicking it as he began pulling them down, the white of the jersey lowering to give way to blonde whisps of his pubes, the first stretches of his cock appearing when…
