Where There's A Will: Part 6

A Suprise Double Drop for Today's release :-)

Chapter Six

Cody stood in the musty basement room, a stale darkness coiling in every corner despite the single overhead bulb that dripped weak light onto the cluttered workbench below. The pungent smell of potting soil and old fertilizer mixed with the acrid tang of rusting metal, filling the back of his throat with a familiar but unwelcome taste. It was here, in this cramped space, that he’d spent countless late nights and early mornings hauling equipment, sharpening tools, and repairing battered lawnmower blades at Arnold Mortimer’s behest. The same room where he’d endured the humiliating ritual of appeasing the old man’s indulgences when twilight fell and they were alone among the rakes and bags of peat moss.

Decades of hauling mulch and pushing unwieldy lawnmowers had carved his six-foot-two frame into something as solid as the earth he tended—pecs that rose like slabs of granite, arms wreathed in thick cords of muscle, and a neck that tapered from the bulge of his traps in a show of raw power. His skin bore a perpetual bronze hue from working shirtless among the hedges and flowerbeds, and even in the dim basement light, one could make out faint tan lines at his hips. His half-open plaid shirt stretched around his chest and clung to his ribcage, and a pair of worn jeans that hugged his massive thighs and left little room for the imposing bulge packed at the front.

On any given summer day, Arnold would insist he strip down to little more than a threadbare jockstrap, parading that carved torso and extraordinary, heavy endowment for the old man’s voyeuristic delight. Even now, the memory of those long hours in near-nudity seemed etched into his posture—the way he stood with legs slightly apart, torso angled, as though ready at any moment to flex and display. A faint sheen of sweat still glistened at the base of his neck, caught in the short, fiery red hair that curled into a trimmed beard across his jaw. When he breathed, the ridges of his abdomen pushed against the tight cotton of his shirt, and the musky scent of hard-earned exertion drifted from him, mingling with the pungent fertilizer odor that already clung to the basement’s walls.

He’d come down hoping to gather himself, to cool his head after the tense dinner that had turned into a macabre spectacle. Instead, he found a dusty tape recorder placed squarely on his bench like a final insult, a sticky-note with his name half-curled on top. From the beginning, a sense of dread slithered through him at the sight of that contraption—he recognized Arnold’s handwriting immediately — CODY spelled out in looping cursive letters. For a moment, he hovered, debating whether to simply ignore it. But curiosity, anger, and the memory of Arnold’s mocking grin spurred him to press the button. A crackle of static filled the room before the late Arnold Mortimer’s voice emerged, that imperious British timbre echoing:

“Cody, my dear boy,” the recording began, a feigned warmth dripping from the words. “Thank you for your years of tireless service, manicuring my lawns and gardens, ensuring every flower was meticulously pruned and every hedge sculpted to perfection. I do appreciate those long hours ensuring that the grounds remained… fresh and unspoiled.” 

Cody’s stomach churned. The praise was hollow—he knew it was no true compliment. Arnold’s voice had that edge, that smiling cruelty he had come to know so well. And that phrasing – “fresh and unspoiled”. Cody’s mind raced – did the old man hold a grudge?

“But I cannot overlook that you hid certain things from me,” the recording continued. “You went and marked what did not belong to you, like a disobedient dog claiming his master’s territory.” The tone dropped to a menacing hush. “To you, my overhung, overmuscled runt, I leave you what manure you can carry out with your bare hands from this basement tomorrow, as a reminder of precisely how full-of-it you are. That is, assuming you make it to morning…”

A hateful spark flared in Cody’s gut, but the voice droned on, layering threat atop derision.

“Consider yourself lucky, Cody. All you need to do before the clock strikes seven is… keep your hands clean.”

The recording ended in a burst of soft static. Then silence. Cody exhaled, the tension in his jaw reaching a fever pitch. The double meaning of Arnold’s “keep your hands clean” was obvious enough. He had no illusions that the old pervert wasn’t referring to far more than just literal dirt.

Scowling, Cody took an unsteady breath. “Bastard,” he muttered to the empty room. He shifted his gaze around the clutter—bags of soil, stacked pots, coils of hoses. Every inch of the place reminded him of the exploitative arrangement he’d endured for years. True, he’d been well-paid, more than any landscaping gig could ever offer, but the cost had been steep. Arnold demanded more than a groomed lawn. Cody’s memory clawed at him—he could still see Arnold leaning against the worktable late at night, wearing a satin robe that barely closed around his withered frame, holding a whiskey glass in shaking, liver-spotted fingers. The old man’s watery eyes glittered with lust as he waited for Cody to drop to his knees, boots and gloves still on, his massive cock flopped over the waistband of his jockstrap and dripping onto the floor, his sun-bronzed body glistening from the day’s labor. “Yes sir,” the two words that Arnold always commanded from him. No request refused.

“Yes sir,” those words swirled inside him like a poisonous fog. That he would debase himself so much for the old lecher. That mix of revulsion and twisted necessity haunted Cody’s every step, even now that Arnold was dead.

But there was something else, something that made his blood hammer more fiercely than simple loathing. The knowledge that Arnold had discovered his budding relationship with Brent. He closed his eyes, remembering that intense summer.

Brent. The boy—no, the young man—had arrived next door barely over a year ago. A freshman in high school, Cody initially assumed, judging by the polite wave he offered over the fence one afternoon while Cody was trimming rose bushes at the far edge of Mortimer’s property. Yet the first time Cody truly looked at him—looked at his body—he’d been astonished to see a physique that rivaled champion bodybuilders. The thick columns of Brent’s arms seemed sculpted from marble, and his broad shoulders tapered into a tight waist. And then there was the swirl of easy camaraderie in Brent’s hazel eyes, the eagerness in his smile. It gave Cody a jolt each time they interacted, even if he tried to ignore it. But ignoring it became harder with every chance encounter. 

At first, it was innocent: Brent would toss a football from his yard toward the manor, “accidentally” letting it sail past the hedgerow. Cody would retrieve it, their eyes meeting. Brent always apologized with a sheepish grin, but Cody detected a flirtatious spark behind the boy’s downturned lashes. The tension was palpable. Over time, those “accidental” tosses increased. Brent’s outfits got skimpier—shorts slung dangerously low on his hips, a tank top cut down the sides to expose the ridges of his obliques. Eventually, even the tank top disappeared, replaced by a threadbare jockstrap that concealed little. Cody was stunned by the sheer size of the bulge beneath that thin pouch, stretched nearly to mid-thigh and barely able to contain the huge gonads within, not to mention the shape of Brent’s glutes, tanned from the scorching summer sun.

Cody, 33 years old and proud, had never been shy about his own near-pornographic endowment or the carved lines of his body. Working outdoors for hours each day in minimal clothing had made him something of a local legend. Arnold paid him handsomely to parade around the gardens in next to nothing. But seeing that same raw physical magnificence mirrored in Brent’s developing physique was a shock to his system. It stirred in him a confusing mixture of desire and protective instinct.

“I can’t do it,” he’d told himself whenever Brent lingered too long, obviously hoping for Cody to admire him. “He’s too young. Even if he’s built like a demigod.” So Cody kept up a veneer of easygoing banter, acting the wise older friend, tossing harmless jokes about training regimens and how “Coach sure must be proud of those guns,” each time Brent flexed his huge arms. Yet the tension between them simmered, boiling beneath every glance. With each day, the boundary between playful and forbidden grew thinner.

Summer was at its peak when it finally happened. On a sweltering afternoon, they found themselves in the shade of Mortimer’s hedge maze, out of sight from the mansion’s windows. Cody had discovered Brent sprawled on the grass, tapping through his phone, wearing only that worn, near-transparent jockstrap. The boy’s skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat, every muscle sharply etched. With a grin, Brent patted the space beside him, and Cody sank down, the smell of cut grass enveloping them.

They shared contraband beers from a battered cooler stashed behind a tall hedge, each drinking in comfortable silence. The air buzzed with insects, heavy with the heat of late July. Eventually, Brent shifted closer, resting one massive arm across Cody’s chest. Cody felt the muscular weight of it, heard the rustle of the boy’s breath, and the surging in his own chest was impossible to hide.

“Cody,” Brent said, turning that open, earnest gaze upward. “I gotta tell you something.” He hesitated, licking his lips. Even in that simple motion, Cody noticed the flex of Brent’s abdominals, the tension in his neck. “I’ve never been with anybody.”

A wave of relief mingled with heartbreak. Cody had suspected as much, seeing the way Brent’s breath quickened whenever they got physically close, how his eyes shone with curiosity and hunger. Cody tried for a gentle reassurance. “Hey, that’s normal, bud. I mean, you’re still young—”

“I’m turning eighteen in two months,” Brent cut in, his voice low but determined. “And it’s more than that. Coach won’t let me… jerk off. Says it helps my performance on the field. He claims it keeps my testosterone high.” He exhaled, glancing down at the thick bulge that strained his jock. “I’ve never come in my entire life. Not once.”

Cody swallowed hard. Desire waged war with caution. He took a quick gulp of beer. “That’s… intense, man. And if it works for you, well, no wonder you’re unstoppable on the field.”

Brent pressed on, adjusting himself self-consciously, his cheeks tinted pink. “When I turn eighteen,” he said quietly, “I want you to be my first. My first everything.” He lifted his gaze, eyes blazing with sincerity, fear, and longing all at once. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I dream about it every night, about you and me right here, in the grass, in the sun.”

Cody recalled that moment as if it were etched in stone. The breath caught in his throat, and for the first time since he’d begun working for Arnold, he felt truly vulnerable. He had known crushes, flings, experiences with both men and women that ran the gamut of playful to sleazy. But Brent, with all that youthful energy, that chiseled, superhuman form, and that raw sincerity—it rattled Cody’s cool exterior.

“Brent,” he murmured, finishing off his beer with a shaking hand. “I—I’d love that. But, you know, it’s complicated.” The next words were reflex, a final attempt at reason. “Arnold… you never know when he’ll turn up. And if you’re not actually eighteen yet—”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Brent’s face. “I’m old enough to decide for myself,” he insisted. “Anyway, it’s just two months, and then we can do it right. I just… need you to promise me, okay?”

Cody had wanted to gather him close in that moment, to press a kiss to his mouth, feel Brent’s chest hot against his own. But the hum of an approaching limousine engine broke the tension. Both of them jolted upright. Brent swore softly, while Cody scrambled to toss the empty bottles into the cooler. And then, just at the edge of his awareness, he heard a faint rustle in the hedges, like footsteps or a shifting presence. But the engine noise grew louder, and soon they parted, each carrying a secret longing in his chest. 

As the days inched closer to Brent’s eighteenth birthday, their clandestine get-togethers grew fewer. Brent’s texts became scarce, and whenever Cody tried to catch him outside, the boy was nowhere to be seen. At first, Cody feared the worst—that Brent had met someone else or lost interest. But something about the forced distance felt manufactured, like an invisible wall had been erected. Then, on a day he thought Arnold to be out of town, Cody tried to pay a visit to Brent’s house next door. A matronly housekeeper said Brent wasn’t home—he was “over at Mr. Mortimer’s, the big estate,” which puzzled Cody more.

Disturbed, he decided to risk confronting Arnold’s domain directly. He left his lawnmower by the orchard and stormed into the manor through the front entrance, stomping muddy footprints along the polished floor. The silence was oppressive, the corridors empty. Yet faint voices wafted from upstairs—a murmur of conversation drifting through thick walls. Guided by anger and dread, the hunky landscaper followed the sound until he reached Arnold’s study. The door was ajar. What he saw inside stopped him cold:

Arnold stood behind his desk, that gaunt face poised in a triumphant grin. Brent hovered above the oak table top, backwards red cap on, wearing a mesh football jersey that did nothing to hide the sculpted curves of his muscles, his basketball shorts slung dangerously low, exposing the alluring curve of his lower back and the top of his golden asscheeks as he bent over. Next to Arnold stood a slight, bespectacled man rummaging through paperwork—Paul, the lawyer, if Cody recalled correctly. And off to the side, half-shrouded in the gloom of a tall bookshelf, was Beckman, the old butler, quiet as a shadow but with an eerie glint in his eyes.

“Yes, my boy,” Arnold cooed to Brent, tapping a line on a legal document. “Sign here, next to your parents’ name—just a final detail or two.”

Brent did as told, eyes downcast, silent. A wave of red-hot fury flared within Cody, and before he could quell it, he shoved the door open.

“What’s going on in here?” he demanded, voice booming with a confidence that felt brittle. Dust motes danced in the overhead light. The thick rugs muffled his steps as he advanced.

Arnold’s head snapped up. “Cody. How delightful that you should witness this little arrangement.” There was a smug curl to his lip. “You remember Brent, don’t you? The young man who lives next door. I’m sure you’ve seen each other.” Arnold said, the barest hint of contempt in his voice.

“He’s just finalizing a contract that’ll ensure he remains with me, unspoiled, for a lifetime. You see, dear Cody, Brent is about to become my newlywed husband.”

Cody’s heart pounded. He turned to Brent, searching his face for some sign of refusal. But Brent only looked at the floor, cheeks burning in a mix of shame and helplessness. Paul, the lawyer, clicked his pen shut, tidying the paperwork as though everything was perfectly routine.

Arnold continued, “Once he’s eighteen—ah, so soon, so soon!— this legal contract stipulates that he and I shall be married. And with that, I intend to share my vast fortune. In return, he will belong exclusively to me.” He chuckled, eyes flicking to Cody, then to Brent’s body, so obviously displayed under his jersey, the powerful musculature subdued by a caress of Arnold’s thin, grey fingers. “Isn’t that right, dear boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Brent mumbled, refusing to meet Cody’s gaze. Cody’s heart felt as though it were being crushed by spikes. From the corner of the room, Beckman’s slight smirk twitched at the edges of his thin lips, as though he found the entire transaction perversely amusing. 

Cody felt his fury flare. “How can you do this to him? He’s—he’s a kid. He’s—” He trailed off, noting how Arnold’s expression hardened into icy disdain, his eyes flickering to Cody’s boots.

“How dare you track your filthy footprints across my carpet,” Arnold snapped. “Soiling my property!” The insinuation could not have been clearer, though Cody couldn’t tell whether Arnold’s rage was born out of jealousy or covetousness. 

The old creep continued: “You have a job to do, do you not? Is there something you are looking to help us with? Perhaps come to fertilize some petunias?” Then he barked a short, mocking laugh. “No, I suspect you only came in to cause trouble. Now, dear Cody. Why don’t you go see to your weeds and pull them, like you are so proficient at doing?”

A hush stretched, tense and venomous. Brent’s gaze finally rose, just for an instant, meeting Cody’s eyes. The heartbreak there said everything. Cody saw it clearly: Arnold had discovered their connection, threatened Brent’s financial security, cornered his family. He was forcing him into an agreement to stave off ruin, leveraging his billions to trap the young man in a lifetime arrangement.

But Cody could do nothing. The old man’s hold over Brent—over the entire region, practically—was absolute. With fists clenched at his sides, he forced himself to swallow a thousand angry words. “Yes, sir,” he said instead, voice quivering with suppressed rage. He glanced at Brent one last time—caught a flicker of regret in those hazel eyes—then turned, marching from the room in a haze of disgust and self-loathing.

He made it halfway down the corridor before he heard rapid footsteps. Brent, out of breath, grabbed him by the waist from behind, burying his face between Cody’s broad shoulder blades. Cody could feel the tremble in the younger man’s arms, sense the frantic beat of his heart.

“I’m so sorry,” Brent whispered. “I didn’t want this, but my dad … we lost so much money, and Arnold offered a solution. If I go through with it, my family won’t lose the house. My dad won’t go bankrupt. We won’t have to move away.” He lifted his chin, eyes brimming with tears. “I couldn’t bear leaving without you.”

Cody’s chest tightened. “You’re throwing your life away,” he hissed, though he kept his voice low. “He’s a monster, Brent. He’ll chew you up and spit you out.” 

Brent only shook his head. “I can handle it, if it means my family gets to keep the house. If it means I can still see you, somehow…”

“Don’t,” Cody snapped, voice hoarse. He shrugged free of Brent’s arms. “Don’t talk like that. We’re done. I’m not… I’m not going to watch you sell your soul to that old corpse!” He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the words, but they came out like flames: “Get the fuck away from me. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

It was a cruel lie, spat out in anger and heartbreak. He saw the flash of hurt on Brent’s handsome face, the quiver in those full lips. The boy tried to speak, but no words came. Unable to bear it, Cody turned on his heel and marched away, footsteps echoing along the labyrinthine hall, leaving Brent behind with a silent plea in his eyes.

Now, in the basement, the memory clawed at him with fresh ferocity. The old man was gone—dead, embalmed, mocking them from beyond the grave with that twisted will. And Brent was at least free from the wedding arrangement, if not from the fiasco Arnold had orchestrated. The thought quickened Cody’s heartbeat. After all, Brent was eighteen now, by his own admission, with no fiancé to bar his path.

He wanted to find Brent. Hell, he needed to find him, if only to make sure the boy was safe from the Mortimer family’s clutches. He wondered about the scene he’d witnessed during dinner: Brent, half-flirting, half-challenging Gibson, the sleazy half-brother. A flash of jealousy scalded Cody. He reminded himself that Brent had good reason to do whatever it took to survive in this wretched game. The Mortimers had forced them both into humiliating corners. Maybe he should have stepped in, staked his claim, but caution had held him back. Not anymore.

The corners of Cody’s mouth twitched. Yes, Arnold was gone, but the old man’s manipulations lingered in every dusty corridor. The tape recorder’s final words ran through Cody’s mind: “All you need to do before the clock strikes seven is keep your hands clean.” Cody spat in disgust, glancing at his large, calloused fingers. He’d spent years covering them in soil, fertilizer, sweat, and, on too many nights, the filth of Arnold’s lust. The notion that the old man sought to control him posthumously only flared his rebellious streak further.

“Go to hell,” he snarled at the darkness. He lifted the tape recorder, noticing the faint reflection of his own furious eyes in its warped plastic surface. Thoughts of Brent’s upturned face, that strong jaw and heartbreakingly innocent longing, filled him with a new determination. If there was a fortune hidden in these halls, he’d find it—and then get Brent away from here, safe from any more monstrous demands.

The basement air felt thick and humid. A single droplet of condensation fell from a pipe overhead, landing in a trough of manure with a plop. Cody turned to that reeking pile, set aside for tomorrow’s use in the gardens. Arnold’s mocking threat rang in his ears. He scowled, raising the tape recorder high.

“You want me to shovel manure, old man?” he hissed. “Here’s what I think of that.”

In one defiant move, Cody hurled the tape recorder into the stinking mound. It struck with a dull thud, sinking halfway in. Dust scattered, and the sticky-note with his name fluttered to the ground, half-buried in filth.

And in that moment, an almost electric certainty pulsed through Cody’s veins: he was done following Arnold’s script. The time had come for him to fight back—against the memory of that dead bastard, against Gibson’s leering manipulations, and for Brent, who deserved more than selling his soul to keep his family afloat.

Cody turned from the manure pile, inhaling sharply. He needed to gather his thoughts, plan his next move. The hush of the basement pressed in on him, a lull before the night’s next storm. He set his jaw and left the room, ascending the worn stone steps two at a time. His first destination, the gym, where Brent had hinted he might go. 

The door slammed behind him, echoing off the stone walls, sealing away the memory of Arnold’s vile voice—at least for the moment. He had no illusions that the night would be peaceful, but as he strode through the corridors, adrenaline surging, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Arnold’s reign was over; the old man’s final trap was set. Now it was up to Cody to break it— and perhaps find in Brent the one reason worth risking everything.