Stories I Never Finished

Drugs (Type 1)

P R E V I E W

Michael should've been smarter, looking back at what his life had become he knew he should've.

He should've been wise, or at least wise enough not to wander into territory he had no place being.
He shouldn't have started dealing drugs, and definitely not drugs that weren't his to sell.

In fact, he shouldn't have even been doing drugs to begin with.
No ex-girlfriend should've meant that much to him that cocaine was the only way he could feel alive again. After a year of living off it, he could barely remember why such a pathetic woman had mattered, he no longer cared. All he cared about was going straight and getting his life back together by any means possible.

Though, in retrospect, he figured he abound have dealt with the mess he'd unwillingly created during his obsession of drugs. AKA horrific addiction.

Because when he stopped buying and selling drugs, it only took three months before he was being tied up and hauled into the back of a Range Rover by a group of burly men and women with balaclavas over their heads and guns in their hands.

He supposed he would've been kidnapped sooner if he wasn't securely locked up in a rehab centre for two and half months, though he also supposed that didn't matter in the end. His name was tacked to the agenda of a vile drug lord and it wouldn't matter how long the ring leader would have to wait—he would get Michael into his possession eventually.

And so he did.

When Michael Clifford first met Luke Hemmings, he couldn't say he was too surprised to find the man was akin to a textbook mafia boss; expensive black suit tailored to his body, oozing sex appeal drawing Michael in deeper and deeper from the moment his bag was torn from his head and his eyes could land upon the cruel man.

Luke was tall, or at least tall enough to tower over Michael with threatening ease. His eyes were a violent shade of blue, gleaming with wickedness no matter the expression carved into the perfection of his porcelain face.

His home was a mansion, something Michael eventually was able to wander aimlessly however he pleased—one day striking conversation with the drug kingpin about how stereotypical Italian Mafia the home seemed to be.
Luke, of course, brushed him off; merely stating the home had been his fathers when the old man used to run the family business.

Michael simply argued Luke's response proved his entire point.

The first time the ex-addict met Luke was in the boss's own personal business room.
A space coated in layers of gleaming black, from the marble surface of a self serve bar to the glass of the sleek table between a half circular curve of a black couch and adjoined chairs. It was a room Luke often did highly important business in, business that either meant the death of an enemy or the confirmation of a new partner in crime.

It was a personal space, sacred within the walls of his own home—unlike the cover business of a strip club he ran downtown, where most business was taken care of daily no matter what it may be.

Luke had been sitting on the centre of the curved chair, his dark eyes soaking in every inch of Michael's disheveled, frightened state. From his baggy grey sports team jumper to the black shorts and worn down canvas shoes, Michael had been a shivering—fading red-haired—mess of terror; scared of what the stranger would do to him.

"So you're the infamous Michael Clifford..." Luke mused, his eyes trailing up Michael's body until they finally came to meet tearful green eyes. "How pleased I am to finally put a face to such a stain on my mind."

"I-Why am I here?" Michael spluttered, arms wrapped tight around himself as his eyes darted toward one of two guards standing close to him. He snapped back to Luke, terrified. "I haven't done anything, I only—I only just got outta rehab-"

"Ah but that's exactly why you're here." Luke's lips curled into a vile smirk, his finger pointing almost mockingly at the frightened male. "You were buying my drugs." He lowered his arm. "Every Thursday like smooth oiled clockwork."

"I-...Yes. I was." Michael fretted.

"And then, oh? You stopped." Luke feigned surprise, taunting the man. "Just like that. Poof, and you were gone."

"I—...I went clean."

"Ohh, Michael, I don't care about that, sweetheart. No no no..." Luke shook his head, his eyes gleaming with an odd sense of madness as he said, "I could care less about how clean you think you are, you're still dirty in my eyes."

"Please, what did I do? I-I'm sorry, I don't want your drugs, I—I'll find someone else who-who can replace me, I promise, I-"

"Michael, you wound me." Luke pressed a hand to his heart. "Thinking I'm merely interested in getting your measly two hundred dollars a week back. That's child's money, I don't care for it."

"Now come here..." He beckoned Michael closer with a curl of his pointer finger, expectant eyes watching Michael like a hawk. "Come closer, sweet thing."

Cautious, Michael inched closer to the blond male, stopping short of the long coffee table separating both him and the kingpin.

"That's better." Luke silently ushered his guards away with barely a sway of his hand; the office doors swinging shut after the two brutes, leaving the room to only him and his latest interest.

"Now... Michael." Luke leaned forward slightly, resting his hands in his lap with a cross of one arm over the other. "What I'be brought you here for has nothing to do with you buying my drugs and everything to do with you selling my drugs."

Michael's heart dropped into the acidic pit of his stomach, churning like vomit as fear began to ripple through him worse than before. "Oh god-" he panicked out in a gasp of air and Luke hummed.

"Oh god indeed... You see, I find it quite rude of you to buy from me and then sell it all off again." Luke stood up, and Michael felt nailed to the spot as the blond rounded the table and came toward him.

"I never hired you to do such a thing," Luke said, "so it boggles my mind to wonder why you have." He came to a stop barely a step away from Michael's shivering figure; staring the man down with a cruel glare.

"Tell me, Mr Clifford, what made you sell my merchandise?"

"I—I needed money." Michael spluttered. "F-For more drugs. I'd...I'd sell some for more money a-and buy more drugs from you. I don't have a job, I never did, a-and I always needed a hit s-so I thought—"

"You thought you could sell my stock and get yourself a nice tidy little profit." Luke snarled, his long fingers curling viciously around Michael's chin and forcing the man's head up.

"I-I swear I didn't keep the money!" Michael began to sob, terrified. "I spent it all on drugs! I swear-!"

"Oh I'm sure you did." Luke yanked one of Michael's jumper sleeves up, exposing a litter of fading scars; tiny dots multiplying the longer one would gaze upon them. Endless needles, it had been torment.

"Addicts like you have nothing else to do." He roughly let Michael's arm go; his eyes staring into the depths of the poor man's soul. "So I'm gonna be nice... just this once, Michael... and you're going to pay me back for the filth you cast on my name."

He released the man completely, watching as Michael stumbled back a few steps; wide eyes locked onto Luke.

"You're going to work in my club, sweetheart. Use that body of yours to earn me back all the money you wasted."

Michael would later learn Luke's initial plan was to cast him back into the drug dealing world and earn his respect back that way.
But Luke wasn't entirely cruel, he would respect Michael's clean state; and in turn Michael would respect the man who owned every inch of his body for however long he desired.