The Getaway Car

By Jamie F. Bell

Devon grapples with the crushing weight of Simon's control, packing a meager bag for an uncertain future. A tense, dishonest call with Andrea reveals the chasm between his desperation and her weary resignation.

The streetlights outside Devon's apartment building blurred into smeared halos through the rain-streaked window of the taxi. He hadn’t even realized he’d hailed one, the decision a blur of instinct after stumbling out of Simon’s building. The fare had eaten a significant chunk of his last fifty bucks, but he hadn't cared. He just needed to be *away* from that polished steel monolith, from the scent of sterile wealth and the suffocating weight of Simon’s calm, possessive gaze.

His damp clothes clung to him, smelling vaguely of the city's exhaust and his own cold sweat. The taxi smelled faintly of old air freshener and damp upholstery, a jarring contrast to the filtered air of Simon's office. He paid, fumbling with the wet bills, and slid out, hunching his shoulders against the persistent drizzle. The apartment building looked even shabbier than usual, its brick facade grim under the weak glow of the flickering streetlamp.

The climb up the three flights of stairs felt endless, each step a leaden weight. His legs protested, still shaky from the adrenaline dump. He unlocked his door, the mechanism groaning in protest, and pushed it open to reveal the familiar, comforting chaos of his small studio apartment. Comforting, perhaps, because it was *his*. And for how much longer?

The air inside was stale, smelling of old pizza boxes, damp towels, and the faint, sweet decay of forgotten fruit. His life was laid out before him, a sprawling, unorganized mess. Clothes lay draped over an ancient armchair, books were stacked precariously on every surface, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal sat on his rickety coffee table. It was the antithesis of Simon's meticulously curated world, and for a fleeting second, he almost wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Simon, the architect of sleek, corporate futures, had just claimed *this*.

He kicked off his soaked sneakers, wincing as a shard of something – probably dried mud – scraped his ankle. His feet felt bruised. He padded across the worn linoleum floor, past the mountain of laundry, and stood in the middle of the room, hands shoved into his pockets. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the drip of water from a leaky faucet in the kitchenette. The words replayed in his head: 'highly convertible asset.' 'Under my direct supervision.' The 'rebranding.' Simon's voice, low and intimate, felt like it was still whispering in his ear, a constant, invasive presence.

He shook his head, a violent tremor that sent his wet hair sticking to his temples. He needed to move. To do something. Simon had said 'tomorrow.' His assistant would provide the 'details of your new schedule.' It meant packing. Moving. Leaving. But where? And with what?

He grabbed the worn duffel bag from under his bed, the same one he’d taken on every misguided attempt to 'start fresh' over the past few years. It smelled faintly of old canvas and the lingering scent of stale dorm rooms. He dumped its contents onto the floor – a few crumpled t-shirts, a forgotten pair of swim trunks, an empty bag of chips. His life, in a nutshell.

He started with the practical things, a desperate attempt to exert some control over the encroaching chaos. Three changes of clothes. Not his best, just clean. A hoodie, faded and soft, its drawstrings frayed. A pair of worn jeans that didn’t pinch his waist. He folded them with unusual care, smoothing out the wrinkles, as if the act of neatness could somehow impose order on the mess that was his existence.

His toothbrush, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, the battered charger for his old phone. He tossed them into a small, zippered pocket. His wallet, thin and creased, held a few crumpled bills and his ID. He didn't have much else of value. No expensive gadgets, no precious heirlooms. Just… him. And Simon had made it clear, *he* was the asset.

He paused, staring at the small, dusty box tucked away under a stack of old textbooks. His emergency kit. He’d put it together years ago, after watching some doomsday prepper documentary with his brother. A cheap first-aid kit, a small, crank-powered radio, a box of waterproof matches, a Mylar blanket that always felt like crinkling foil, and a heavy-duty flashlight. It was a relic of a time when his biggest worry was a zombie apocalypse, not a corporate takeover of his soul.

He pulled it out, the cardboard gritty under his fingers. The flashlight was surprisingly heavy, cool and metallic. He clicked it on. A weak, yellow beam cut through the dim apartment. It felt absurd, holding this small beacon of preparedness in the face of an enemy far more insidious than any zombie. But he tucked it into the duffel bag anyway. A small defiance. A small hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d still need to be prepared for something *he* chose.

His phone vibrated on the coffee table, startling him. He snatched it up, expecting Simon's assistant, a chilling new form of notification. It was Andrea. His gut tightened. Andrea. The one person who still tried to tether him to a version of reality he could recognize, even if it was frayed and worn thin.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. "Hey," he said, forcing a casual lightness he didn't feel. He walked over to the grimy window, looking out at the city lights, trying to imagine he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

"Devon. Finally. You ignored my calls. You know how worried I get." Her voice was a familiar blend of exasperation and genuine concern, a tight thread that held them together. It stung, the worry. He didn't deserve it.

"Sorry, Andrea. My phone died. And then… I was busy." He winced at the lameness of the lie. She knew him too well.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a sigh. "Busy doing what, Devon? Another one of your… ventures?" The word 'ventures' was coated in a weary sarcasm, a testament to years of his failed schemes.

"No, it's… different this time," he said, staring at his reflection in the dark glass of the window, seeing the pale, strained face looking back. He needed to sell this. For her, if not for himself. "I actually… I got a job. A real one."

Another beat of silence. "A job? Where?" Her tone was flat, devoid of hope. She'd heard this before.

"Up north," he blurted, the first thing that came to mind. It sounded remote, far away, plausibly out of reach of Simon’s immediate grasp, even if it was a total fabrication. "A logging camp. Good money. They need guys who aren't afraid of hard work."

He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "A logging camp? Devon, since when do you even know which end of an axe to hold?" The humor was forced, brittle.

"It's… not all about axes, Andrea. It's construction, heavy equipment. I can learn. I pick things up fast, you know that." He tried to infuse his voice with a confidence he absolutely didn't possess. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, even in the cool air.

"Right." The single word hung there, heavy with all the things she wasn't saying. *I don't believe you. You're lying. What mess have you gotten into now?*

"No, really. It's a fresh start. Good pay, honest work. Away from… everything." He let the 'everything' hang, hoping she'd fill in the blanks with vague notions of his past failures, not the stark reality of Simon's ownership. He clutched the phone tighter, his knuckles white.

"Devon… are you okay? You sound… weird." Her voice softened, a flicker of genuine alarm piercing through her exhaustion. It was the concern he both craved and dreaded, because he couldn't return it honestly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just… tired. Lots of paperwork for this job." More lies. Each one felt like a small, sharp stone in his throat. "I'm leaving… first thing tomorrow. They want me there by the end of the week."

"Tomorrow? That fast? Devon, this is really sudden." He could hear the wheels turning in her head, connecting dots he desperately wanted to keep separate. Her suspicion was a palpable force across the phone line.

"Yeah, well, when opportunity knocks, you gotta answer, right?" He tried a laugh, but it came out as a ragged gasp. He hated himself for lying to her, for dragging her into the periphery of his mess, even if it was just to keep her safe from the full, horrifying truth. He wanted to apologize, to tell her everything, but the shame choked him.

"Devon, please… be careful. Whatever this is. Just… don't do anything stupid." Her voice was small now, a thin wire of vulnerability. It wasn't about the logging camp. It was about his life, his history of near-misses and disastrous choices. She wasn't pleading for him to be careful with a chainsaw; she was pleading for him to be careful with himself.

"I will, Andrea. I promise. This is it. No more… messes." The promise felt hollow, a desperate prayer. He stared at his reflection, at the gaunt, haunted face, at the memory of Simon's calm smile that seemed to flicker in the dark glass.

"Okay, Devon. Just… call me. When you get there. Don't disappear on me." The unspoken 'again' hung in the air.

"I won't. I'll call you." He meant it. This time. "Look, I gotta go. Lots to do. Say hi to… everyone for me."

"No one's here, Devon. Just me." Her voice was soft, sad. "Just… be safe." It was her final plea, full of a love and worry he hadn't earned, but desperately needed.

"You too." He hung up before she could say anything else, before his resolve shattered completely. The phone felt heavy in his hand, a cold dead weight. The lie was out there. The bridge was burned. He was adrift, now, truly alone, propelled forward by a force far greater and colder than any northern wind. He sank onto the edge of his bed, the springs groaning in protest, the duffel bag a meager testament to the life he was leaving behind. The apartment, once a sanctuary of his own making, now felt like a temporary holding cell, waiting for the guards to arrive and escort him to his 'new schedule,' his 'rebranding,' his total 'liquidation.'

He closed his eyes, and Simon's face materialized behind his eyelids: the sharp, intelligent brow, the faint, satisfied smile, the dark eyes that had promised him stability and a future, all wrapped in a velvet glove of absolute control. The thought sent a shiver through him, not entirely of fear, but of a perverse, consuming dread mixed with a strange, unwilling recognition of something profoundly magnetic. He wasn't just trapped; he was utterly, irrevocably caught in Simon's orbit, a satellite pulled into an inescapable gravity. The air in the room seemed to crackle with an unseen tension, a phantom electrical charge left by Simon's words, by the sheer, unyielding force of his will. Devon was the affected, the reactive, his breath catching in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, helpless beat against the relentless rhythm of Simon’s unseen pursuit.

The Getaway Car

Devon, a handsome young man, packs a duffel bag in a messy apartment, with a subtle, overlaid mental image of Simon, another handsome young man, observing him. - western boys love, romantic tension, corporate power dynamics, emotional control, lies and secrets, survival story, debt and consequences, small town struggle, contemporary romance, satirical fiction, Short Stories, Stories to Read, Boys Love (BL), Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-Boys Love (BL)
Devon returns to his chaotic apartment after his harrowing meeting with Simon, facing the grim reality of his new 'arrangement'. He frantically packs a single bag, unearthing a forgotten emergency kit, before making a final, fraught phone call to his friend Andrea, fabricating a story about a new job up north. western boys love, romantic tension, corporate power dynamics, emotional control, lies and secrets, survival story, debt and consequences, small town struggle, contemporary romance, satirical fiction, Short Stories, Stories to Read, BL, Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-BL
By Jamie F. Bell • Western Style Boys Love
Devon grapples with the crushing weight of Simon's control, packing a meager bag for an uncertain future. A tense, dishonest call with Andrea reveals the chasm between his desperation and her weary resignation.

The streetlights outside Devon's apartment building blurred into smeared halos through the rain-streaked window of the taxi. He hadn’t even realized he’d hailed one, the decision a blur of instinct after stumbling out of Simon’s building. The fare had eaten a significant chunk of his last fifty bucks, but he hadn't cared. He just needed to be *away* from that polished steel monolith, from the scent of sterile wealth and the suffocating weight of Simon’s calm, possessive gaze.

His damp clothes clung to him, smelling vaguely of the city's exhaust and his own cold sweat. The taxi smelled faintly of old air freshener and damp upholstery, a jarring contrast to the filtered air of Simon's office. He paid, fumbling with the wet bills, and slid out, hunching his shoulders against the persistent drizzle. The apartment building looked even shabbier than usual, its brick facade grim under the weak glow of the flickering streetlamp.

The climb up the three flights of stairs felt endless, each step a leaden weight. His legs protested, still shaky from the adrenaline dump. He unlocked his door, the mechanism groaning in protest, and pushed it open to reveal the familiar, comforting chaos of his small studio apartment. Comforting, perhaps, because it was *his*. And for how much longer?

The air inside was stale, smelling of old pizza boxes, damp towels, and the faint, sweet decay of forgotten fruit. His life was laid out before him, a sprawling, unorganized mess. Clothes lay draped over an ancient armchair, books were stacked precariously on every surface, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal sat on his rickety coffee table. It was the antithesis of Simon's meticulously curated world, and for a fleeting second, he almost wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Simon, the architect of sleek, corporate futures, had just claimed *this*.

He kicked off his soaked sneakers, wincing as a shard of something – probably dried mud – scraped his ankle. His feet felt bruised. He padded across the worn linoleum floor, past the mountain of laundry, and stood in the middle of the room, hands shoved into his pockets. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the drip of water from a leaky faucet in the kitchenette. The words replayed in his head: 'highly convertible asset.' 'Under my direct supervision.' The 'rebranding.' Simon's voice, low and intimate, felt like it was still whispering in his ear, a constant, invasive presence.

He shook his head, a violent tremor that sent his wet hair sticking to his temples. He needed to move. To do something. Simon had said 'tomorrow.' His assistant would provide the 'details of your new schedule.' It meant packing. Moving. Leaving. But where? And with what?

He grabbed the worn duffel bag from under his bed, the same one he’d taken on every misguided attempt to 'start fresh' over the past few years. It smelled faintly of old canvas and the lingering scent of stale dorm rooms. He dumped its contents onto the floor – a few crumpled t-shirts, a forgotten pair of swim trunks, an empty bag of chips. His life, in a nutshell.

He started with the practical things, a desperate attempt to exert some control over the encroaching chaos. Three changes of clothes. Not his best, just clean. A hoodie, faded and soft, its drawstrings frayed. A pair of worn jeans that didn’t pinch his waist. He folded them with unusual care, smoothing out the wrinkles, as if the act of neatness could somehow impose order on the mess that was his existence.

His toothbrush, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, the battered charger for his old phone. He tossed them into a small, zippered pocket. His wallet, thin and creased, held a few crumpled bills and his ID. He didn't have much else of value. No expensive gadgets, no precious heirlooms. Just… him. And Simon had made it clear, *he* was the asset.

He paused, staring at the small, dusty box tucked away under a stack of old textbooks. His emergency kit. He’d put it together years ago, after watching some doomsday prepper documentary with his brother. A cheap first-aid kit, a small, crank-powered radio, a box of waterproof matches, a Mylar blanket that always felt like crinkling foil, and a heavy-duty flashlight. It was a relic of a time when his biggest worry was a zombie apocalypse, not a corporate takeover of his soul.

He pulled it out, the cardboard gritty under his fingers. The flashlight was surprisingly heavy, cool and metallic. He clicked it on. A weak, yellow beam cut through the dim apartment. It felt absurd, holding this small beacon of preparedness in the face of an enemy far more insidious than any zombie. But he tucked it into the duffel bag anyway. A small defiance. A small hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d still need to be prepared for something *he* chose.

His phone vibrated on the coffee table, startling him. He snatched it up, expecting Simon's assistant, a chilling new form of notification. It was Andrea. His gut tightened. Andrea. The one person who still tried to tether him to a version of reality he could recognize, even if it was frayed and worn thin.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. "Hey," he said, forcing a casual lightness he didn't feel. He walked over to the grimy window, looking out at the city lights, trying to imagine he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

"Devon. Finally. You ignored my calls. You know how worried I get." Her voice was a familiar blend of exasperation and genuine concern, a tight thread that held them together. It stung, the worry. He didn't deserve it.

"Sorry, Andrea. My phone died. And then… I was busy." He winced at the lameness of the lie. She knew him too well.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a sigh. "Busy doing what, Devon? Another one of your… ventures?" The word 'ventures' was coated in a weary sarcasm, a testament to years of his failed schemes.

"No, it's… different this time," he said, staring at his reflection in the dark glass of the window, seeing the pale, strained face looking back. He needed to sell this. For her, if not for himself. "I actually… I got a job. A real one."

Another beat of silence. "A job? Where?" Her tone was flat, devoid of hope. She'd heard this before.

"Up north," he blurted, the first thing that came to mind. It sounded remote, far away, plausibly out of reach of Simon’s immediate grasp, even if it was a total fabrication. "A logging camp. Good money. They need guys who aren't afraid of hard work."

He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "A logging camp? Devon, since when do you even know which end of an axe to hold?" The humor was forced, brittle.

"It's… not all about axes, Andrea. It's construction, heavy equipment. I can learn. I pick things up fast, you know that." He tried to infuse his voice with a confidence he absolutely didn't possess. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, even in the cool air.

"Right." The single word hung there, heavy with all the things she wasn't saying. *I don't believe you. You're lying. What mess have you gotten into now?*

"No, really. It's a fresh start. Good pay, honest work. Away from… everything." He let the 'everything' hang, hoping she'd fill in the blanks with vague notions of his past failures, not the stark reality of Simon's ownership. He clutched the phone tighter, his knuckles white.

"Devon… are you okay? You sound… weird." Her voice softened, a flicker of genuine alarm piercing through her exhaustion. It was the concern he both craved and dreaded, because he couldn't return it honestly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just… tired. Lots of paperwork for this job." More lies. Each one felt like a small, sharp stone in his throat. "I'm leaving… first thing tomorrow. They want me there by the end of the week."

"Tomorrow? That fast? Devon, this is really sudden." He could hear the wheels turning in her head, connecting dots he desperately wanted to keep separate. Her suspicion was a palpable force across the phone line.

"Yeah, well, when opportunity knocks, you gotta answer, right?" He tried a laugh, but it came out as a ragged gasp. He hated himself for lying to her, for dragging her into the periphery of his mess, even if it was just to keep her safe from the full, horrifying truth. He wanted to apologize, to tell her everything, but the shame choked him.

"Devon, please… be careful. Whatever this is. Just… don't do anything stupid." Her voice was small now, a thin wire of vulnerability. It wasn't about the logging camp. It was about his life, his history of near-misses and disastrous choices. She wasn't pleading for him to be careful with a chainsaw; she was pleading for him to be careful with himself.

"I will, Andrea. I promise. This is it. No more… messes." The promise felt hollow, a desperate prayer. He stared at his reflection, at the gaunt, haunted face, at the memory of Simon's calm smile that seemed to flicker in the dark glass.

"Okay, Devon. Just… call me. When you get there. Don't disappear on me." The unspoken 'again' hung in the air.

"I won't. I'll call you." He meant it. This time. "Look, I gotta go. Lots to do. Say hi to… everyone for me."

"No one's here, Devon. Just me." Her voice was soft, sad. "Just… be safe." It was her final plea, full of a love and worry he hadn't earned, but desperately needed.

"You too." He hung up before she could say anything else, before his resolve shattered completely. The phone felt heavy in his hand, a cold dead weight. The lie was out there. The bridge was burned. He was adrift, now, truly alone, propelled forward by a force far greater and colder than any northern wind. He sank onto the edge of his bed, the springs groaning in protest, the duffel bag a meager testament to the life he was leaving behind. The apartment, once a sanctuary of his own making, now felt like a temporary holding cell, waiting for the guards to arrive and escort him to his 'new schedule,' his 'rebranding,' his total 'liquidation.'

He closed his eyes, and Simon's face materialized behind his eyelids: the sharp, intelligent brow, the faint, satisfied smile, the dark eyes that had promised him stability and a future, all wrapped in a velvet glove of absolute control. The thought sent a shiver through him, not entirely of fear, but of a perverse, consuming dread mixed with a strange, unwilling recognition of something profoundly magnetic. He wasn't just trapped; he was utterly, irrevocably caught in Simon's orbit, a satellite pulled into an inescapable gravity. The air in the room seemed to crackle with an unseen tension, a phantom electrical charge left by Simon's words, by the sheer, unyielding force of his will. Devon was the affected, the reactive, his breath catching in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, helpless beat against the relentless rhythm of Simon’s unseen pursuit.