Where There's A Will: Part 8

The second of this weeks triple drop

Chapter Eight

Eddie prowled the dimly lit corridors of the manor like a panther in the night, his powerful frame moving with the coiled ease of a predator in its domain. The antique sconces lining the walls sputtered weakly, their golden glow barely holding back the darkness, casting jagged shadows that stretched and twisted over the polished wood floors. The air was thick—dense with the scent of aged leather-bound books, expensive bourbon, and something muskier, something deeper—like sweat, old secrets, and the ghosts of past sins lingering beneath the surface, waiting to be unearthed.

For the past while, he had stalked the estate, hands running over every ornate fixture, fingers pressing against every elaborately carved molding, every gilded candelabra, every hidden seam in the walls. Arnold had been a greedy bastard in life, hoarding his power and secrets with a smug grin. Even in death, he remained a step ahead, forcing them all to play his twisted little game. And the mansion—the rotting temple to his ego—refused to give up its ghosts.

Nothing. No passages, no hidden rooms, no secret switches or buttons.  Eddie exhaled sharply, running a hand through his thick jet-black hair, frustration burning hot in his chest. “Typical rich prick,” he muttered. “Spends his whole life making sure no one gets what he’s got—even when he’s laid up in a coffin.”

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

He froze, every muscle locking in place, sharp blue eyes snapping toward the darkness just beyond the bend in the hallway. The manor was so silent he could hear the faint creak of its timbers, the rain pattering on the eves.

And then—two figures stepped into the light.

Cody and Brent. 

Their imposing forms were cast in flickering gold, their shadows stretching long and eerie against the walls. Brent looked rattled, his sculpted chest rising and falling as though he had just run a mile. Sweat glistened on his golden-brown skin, tracing the deep-cut lines of his abs. His damp curls clung to his forehead, and the red mark encircling his throat stood out like a brand against his flesh.

Cody, by contrast, was steady. Solid. He had a firm, almost possessive grip on Brent’s shoulder, his own muscular frame taut with tension. The firelight licked at the deep red of his hair, giving him the look of something smoldering—like embers about to ignite.

Eddie’s gaze flicked between them, sharp with suspicion. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over the broad expanse of his chest. “Well, well,” he drawled, letting the words stretch lazily. “If it isn’t the happy couple. You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Cody’s scowl was instant. “Cut the shit, Eddie. Brent was nearly killed in the gym.”

Eddie arched a dark brow. “Oh? Do tell.”

Brent swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He hesitated, something flickering in his deep brown eyes—something unspoken, something that made the muscles in his jaw flex before he forced the words out.

“It was Gibson,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “He—he set me up. Rigged one of the machines to… to strangle me if I lost my hard-on—” He hesitated again, a flash of discomfort passing over his face before he finished, “It was a game to him.”

Eddie let out a slow whistle, unimpressed. “And yet, here you are. Still breathing. So what—you’re saying Gibson’s got murder on the brain? I’m supposed to buy that?”

Cody’s hands curled into fists. “Believe what you want,” he said, voice taut with barely restrained frustration. “But you need to be careful. Stay the hell away from Gibson. The fat freak is dangerous. I think he did something to Ryley, too.”

Brent nodded quickly. “We’re heading to the master suite. Locking ourselves in for the night.” He rubbed at his bruised throat absentmindedly, and Cody’s grip on his shoulder tightened, like he was anchoring him there.

Cody turned back to Eddie, his green eyes dark. “Look, you’re an asshole, but I don’t think even you deserve to go through what Brent just did. My advice? Go to your room. Hunker down. Ignore Gibson. Ignore Arnold’s games. The only way we win is if we don’t play.”

Eddie scoffed. He let the words sit in the air for a moment before he shook his head. “Oh, sure. Great plan. Go to my room and twiddle my thumbs while you two conveniently find the treasure yourselves. Please.”

He snorted, gaze raking over them. “Let’s not kid ourselves. The only thing you two care about is making sure I’m not competition. You don’t want me safe in a room — you want me out of your way.”

Cody exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You think we’re making this up? Brent nearly died, Eddie.”

Eddie smirked, rolling his shoulders, letting the tension build before flexing his powerful arms, the thick muscles shifting under his tank top. “You think I built this body, let Arnold grope me every chance he got, just so I could spend the night hiding in some dusty-ass bedroom?” His voice was full of mockery, disdain dripping from every syllable. “No thanks. I came here to get my hands on that fortune, and your lies won’t stop me.” 

His sharp blue gaze flicked toward Brent then, narrowing slightly. “And judging by how cozy you two are, I’d say you’re not just looking for treasure anymore.” His lips curved into a knowing smirk. “You’re looking to shack up.”

Brent stiffened, lips parting as if to speak, but Cody stepped forward instead—his presence a quiet threat. He wasn’t as broad as Eddie, but there was something dangerous in his stance, something solid and immovable.

“Believe whatever the fuck you want,” Cody muttered, voice low and edged with warning. “But if you get yourself killed, don’t expect me to lose sleep over it.”

Eddie scoffed, waving them off with a flick of his wrist. “Go enjoy your honeymoon, lovebirds.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, the heavy weight of Cody’s glare burning into his back.

Brent shifted, looking at Eddie’s retreating form with unease, but Cody’s hand remained steady on his shoulder, fingers pressing firm.

“Come on,” Cody murmured. “Let’s go.”

And together, they disappeared into the shadows.

--------------

In the cavernous hush of Arnold’s grand study, Samson stood behind the imposing oak desk, his thick fingers skimming over stacks of brittle invoices. The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting flickering amber light across the dark-paneled walls, its glow licking at the edges of the room like some restless spirit. The scent of aged leather and stale cigars hung thick in the air, mingling with something earthier—the weight of old power, of things done in the dark that never quite faded.

Charlie lounged in a high-backed leather chair, his posture deceptively lax, though the restless way his fingers drummed against the armrest betrayed his impatience. His legs were spread wide, one shoe tapping idly against the rug. His sweater stretched broad across his hefty pectorals, his sandy brown hair tousled from the evening’s fraying tensions.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Charlie asked, shifting in his seat, his voice edged with something between curiosity and irritation.

Samson didn’t look up. His focus was razor-sharp, the paper in his hands crinkling slightly as he turned the page. “Over the summer, Arnold had construction done here at the manor,” he said, voice low, measured. “These invoices prove it.” His biceps flexed beneath the snug stretch of his dress shirt as he flipped through another page, jaw tightening. “He didn’t just keep his fortune in a bank, Charlie. He hoarded it—gold, jewels, antiques. Things that couldn’t be traced. Couldn’t be wired away.” He paused, his deep brown eyes darkening as they skimmed another entry. “And over the last six months, all of it was moved here.” 

Charlie straightened, the shift subtle but deliberate. “You’re saying the treasure isn’t just money?”

Samson nodded. “Exactly.” His voice carried weight, finality. “But there’s no record of where he stored it.”

Charlie exhaled through his nose, pushing up from the chair in a smooth motion. He stepped into Samson’s space, close enough that the warmth of his body was palpable in the cool, smoky air of the study. “You think it’s somewhere in the manor?” His voice was quieter now, thick with something unsaid.

The heat of his arm brushed against Samson’s side.

Samson clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus, to ignore the sharp rush of warmth curling in his chest. “Either here or somewhere on the grounds.” He gestured toward a faded invoice near the top of the pile. “Look—” his voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial. “The mausoleum in the family cemetery got some attention in the fall.”

Charlie leaned in, the scent of cedar and old paper clinging to him as he studied the page over Samson’s shoulder. The nearness of him—his breath ghosting warm against Samson’s neck—made something tighten deep in Samson’s stomach.

“General contracting services for… a burial vault?” Charlie murmured. His voice had the faintest edge of unease. “That sounds ominous.”

Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the study in a jagged flash of electric blue. The storm rattled against the windows, thunder rolling in its wake, a reminder that the night itself seemed to conspire against them.

Samson’s fingers curled around the edge of the invoice, knuckles whitening.

Arnold had been planning this for years. Years of meticulous scheming, of dangling power just out of reach, of weaving his web while keeping even his most trusted assets in the dark.

And yet, he had never let Samson in. Not once.

Not a single goddamn word.

The betrayal burned under his skin, a slow, simmering thing that coiled in his chest. Samson dragged a hand over the sharp stubble along his jaw, exhaling hard. His gaze flicked toward Charlie, searching—for what, he wasn’t sure.

For reassurance.

For reason.

For some explanation that didn’t make him feel like a fool.

His voice, when it came, was rough. “And I thought he trusted me,” he muttered. “After everything.”

Charlie’s fingers pressed against his shoulder, firm yet careful, the touch sinking into the tension knotted beneath his golden skin. It wasn’t just a gesture of comfort—it was grounding. A tether to something real.

“No one can fault you for what you had to do,” Charlie said, his voice low, knowing.

Samson’s lips pressed into a thin line as his mind drifted back—back to the beginning, to the night Arnold first set his sights on him. He’d been young then, still in law school, drowning in tuition debt and exhaustion. He'd worked nights at Hollywood Colts, a smoke-choked, neon-drenched strip club on the fringes of Cambridge, where the patrons were just as washed up as the floors.

And Samson? He was the star attraction.

He was more than just a dancer—he was a spectacle. Nearly six and a half feet of sculpted, sweat-slicked power, carved by genetics and the iron discipline of the gym. His presence alone dominated the stage, his bulging musculature catching the light with every flex, his movements controlled, tantalizing, his barely-contained endowment a promise that kept the crowd ravenous. The mere suggestion of what lay beneath that minuscule scrap of fabric was enough to drive men mad. Hanging nearly to his knees, bulging obscenely. He'd pour baby oil across his muscles as he gyrated his hips to some lame electronic beat, the slick substance soaking into his white thongs, turning them obscenely translucent. So sheer that you could see the tracery of veins along his massive horsecock. He'd always turn, too, bend over, rub the oil into the crack of his huge glutes, turning back to eye the men, smirking as he strung out the thong for an instant, before it snapped back onto his skin. He knew how to perform a show.

And Arnold? Arnold had always been there.

Center seat. Front row. His rheumy eyes devouring Samson with a hunger that never waned. The old bastard never missed a show, always watching, always waiting. And when the time was right, he struck—dangling crisp stacks of cash like bait, offering Samson an escape from poverty and a golden road to Harvard’s hallowed halls. And Samson had always obliged his favorite customer, especially when that customer took an interest in his legal studies at the finest law school in the nation.

But much like attendance at an Ivy league, Arnold’s generosity came at a price for the struggling young hunk.

A retainer, he called it. A mutually beneficial arrangement. First, as a benefactor. Then, as a client. Then, as something far more insidious. 

Late-night meetings in the dim glow of Arnold’s study—flimsy legal dilemmas that never held weight. Paper-thin lawsuits invented solely to keep Samson within reach. And when Samson, with all his intellect and ambition, inevitably unraveled the charade, Arnold would pounce. He would twist words, spin consequences out of thin air, wield his power like a garrote around Samson’s throat.

How tragic it would be, he’d muse, if one of my connections at the bar association were to catch wind of a little... ethical lapse in your past. How devastating if your little scholarship suddenly disappeared. He would coo, running a finger down the third-leg stuffed inside the young hunk's dress pants, feeling it throb and jump at his touch.

And so the game went on. Samson, the towering, Italian stallion stud, bound in chains of silk and iron. Arnold, a man who could be crushed beneath his sheer strength alone, yet never had to fear. Money, power, control—it was the only leverage the old ghoul needed. 

Samson had hated him.

And yet—he had thrilled in it.

The sweat-drenched nights, the silent battles of dominance and submission. Samson, muscles taut, fists clenched, every fiber of his body burning with rage even as his stallion-like endowment throbbed at Arnold’s touch and vicious penetrations. The old man ignoring his titanic erection and slamming his rotted cock into Samson's bubble ass. The huge, hairy hunk a groveling plaything to the lecherous old fuck as he used him, abused him, weekly -- in the offices of his law firm, in the shadows of his parlors, even in the washrooms of urban cafes where Arnold would meet him for a quick lunch catch-up.  Shame and desire, coiling together like a noose. The power of being owned. The sick satisfaction of knowing he could break Arnold in half if he wanted to—and the darker knowledge that, deep down, he never did -- or wanted to. Not even being the stud of the scene in New York was enough. Samson would always -- always -- find his mind wander back to Arnold. At some point, he wasn't even sure it was for the money anymore. A thought which roiled his stomach on those late nights when he was pounding out some K-holed twink at a club.

But the games never ended. Arnold’s hunger only grew, his appetite for control metastasizing into something deeper, something grotesque. And now, all roads had led here—this mausoleum of a manor, where ghosts of the past lingered in every darkened hall. The men Arnold had used, degraded, broken in pursuit of his own perversions. The ones he had bought, shaped, discarded. And now, the ones who had returned, drawn back by the same thing that had always bound them:

The promise of fortune. 

Samson exhaled slowly, his breath heavy with the weight of memory. His voice, when it came, was low and certain.

“He was a ghoul.”

Charlie said nothing. There was no need.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Samson continued, turning to face him. His dark eyes locked onto Charlie’s, something electric passing between them as he grasped his hand.

“But the only way we get payback—is by finding that fortune.”

Before Charlie could respond, the door swung open with a heavy creak. The air shifted as if the room itself was holding its breath. Instinctively, Charlie withdrew his hand from Samson’s and took a measured step back, putting space between them just as their visitor strode in.

Eddie.

The personal trainer cut a striking silhouette against the dimly lit hallway, his powerful frame framed by the flickering glow of the fireplace. Muscles carved like living marble, his tank top barely containing the sheer bulk of his sculpted chest and broad shoulders. His thick thighs strained against the fabric of his workout shorts, the heavy bulge at their center leaving little to the imagination.

“You’ll never guess who I just ran into,” he said, voice smooth, tinged with something almost smug.

Samson frowned, pushing a pile of papers aside with a deliberate motion. “Arnold back from the dead?”

Eddie ignored the jab. “Cody and Brent. Looking a bit worse for wear.” He strolled over to the fireplace, leaning against the ornate mantle like he owned the place. The firelight licked at his tanned skin, casting shadows across his carved pecs and hard stomach. He stuck his hands toward the heat, flexing his fingers, letting the moment breathe before he continued.

“Just saw them in the hallway. They were heading up to Arnold’s master suite. Holed up in there like it’s a bunker.” He turned his sharp blue eyes on Samson and Charlie, his pause deliberate, meant to stir tension. “They told me Gibson tried to kill Brent in the gym.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. His stomach twisted. “What?”

Eddie shrugged, the motion sending a ripple through his thick traps. “Apparently, he rigged a cable machine to strangle Brent if he lost his hard-on.” He smirked slightly, shifting his stance, one large hand adjusting the weight in his shorts with an obscene lack of urgency. “Real sick stuff. But between you and me?” He dropped his voice, conspiratorial now. “I don’t believe a damn word of it. They’re trying to scare us off. Keep us from looking for the treasure.”

Charlie swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably. The thought of Brent—struggling, choking, fighting for breath—was enough to make his skin crawl. He glanced at Samson, but Samson wasn’t looking at him. His dark gaze was locked on Eddie, eyes unreadable.

“If Gibson really did that,” Charlie said cautiously, “then Julian could be in danger.”

Samson turned to him sharply. “Charlie—”

“No,” Charlie cut in, shaking his head. “Think about it. Ryley is missing. Brent was almost killed. Hell, Gibson probably killed Arnold.”

Eddie scoffed, pushing off the fireplace mantle. “If Gibson killed Arnold, why would Arnold leave him half his estate?” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest, looking at Charlie like he was an idiot. “Do I need to remind you two geniuses that Arnold—while dead—has managed to outmaneuver all of us using pre-recorded cassette tapes?” He shot Charlie a pointed look. “Arnold wasn’t a fool. He was a maniac and a lecherous, sadistic freak, sure”. He paused, “But he wasn’t stupid. If Gibson killed him, trust me—we’d know.”

Charlie wasn’t convinced. “The point is,” he insisted, “if Gibson is a murderer, we need to warn Julian.”

A faint frown tugged at the corners of Samson’s mouth. “You can’t go alone,” he said firmly. “None of us should. Who knows what Gibson has planned? What traps are out there?”

“Traps! Murderers!” Eddie let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You two sound paranoid as hell. Look, let me lay it out for you: Ryley’s gone because he left. Brent and Cody are making up bullshit to screw with us. That’s it.” He rolled his shoulders, irritated. “Fine — you know what? Go play haunted house. I’ll stay here in the real world, thanks.” 

Charlie threw up his hands. “Alright, look—maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not. But I think it’s better if I find Julian so we can come up with a plan. Together. Yeah?”

Samson exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “That makes the most sense,” he admitted, reluctant. “Maybe you are right, Eddie. This whole place is messing with my head.” He shot Charlie a measured look. “Go find Julian.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll be back soon.” He took a few steps toward the door but hesitated. His fingers brushed the knob, but he turned, locking eyes with Samson for just a second longer than necessary.

“I’ll see you later,” he said softly.

Eddie watched the exchange like a hawk. His gaze flicked between the two men, reading between the lines. And then, he smirked.

“Well, well,” he drawled as the door shut behind Charlie. “Didn’t peg you for the type, Samson.”

Samson’s jaw clenched. “It’s none of your business.”

Eddie took a slow step forward, then another, until he was standing close—too close. Samson could smell the faint musk of sweat and cologne, could see the way the firelight danced in Eddie’s sharp blue eyes.

“I think it is,” Eddie murmured, gaze dropping. He let his eyes drag over Samson’s powerful chest, barely contained by the snug fit of his button-down. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Charlie’s cute, but let’s be real—he’s not in your league.” He tilted his head, voice dipping lower. “Not like me.” 

Samson said nothing. Didn’t move.

Eddie reached out, fingers ghosting over the dark curls of hair peeking from Samson’s open collar. His hand trailed lower, brushing over the solid wall of muscle beneath the silk fabric. Samson felt the familiar heat pooling between them, felt his cock give a slow, involuntary throb in his slacks.

“You ever wonder why Arnold kept me around?” Eddie murmured.

Samson’s lips curled into something between amusement and disdain. “Definitely wasn’t for your personal training skills,” he muttered.

Eddie chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. “You wound me,” he teased, but his hand kept drifting lower—across Samson’s ironclad abs, down to the thick ridge of his hardening length, straining beneath his pants. He gripped it, firm, testing the weight in his palm. Samson let out a sharp breath, muscles tensing.

Eddie leaned in, breath warm against Samson’s ear. “How much work do you think Charlie needs before he can take you?” he murmured, his hand moving in a slow, knowing rhythm. “Because I don’t need any work at all.”

The smirk never left his face, even as the firelight cast wicked shadows across it.

Samson tensed, every thick muscle in his body coiling like a spring beneath Eddie’s touch.

“And trust me,” Eddie murmured, his voice low, teasing, fingers trailing down the rapidly thickening outline beneath Samson’s slacks. “I know you have a lot you need to let out.”

He pressed himself closer, the heat of his chiseled body searing against Samson’s own. The trainer’s smirk widened as he felt the undeniable response, his strong hand tightening slightly. “Big guy like you,” he went on, voice dripping with suggestion, “bet you could go all night—” 

The door creaked open.

Samson let out a slow, measured breath, his arousal turning to tension in an instant. Eddie withdrew his hand, stepping back just as another figure strolled in.

Gibson.

The bloated little man cut an obscene contrast to the two statuesque figures before him, his pudgy form wrapped in an expensive silk robe that barely concealed his excess. His beady eyes, sharp despite the bloat of indulgence, immediately latched onto Eddie, raking over his physique with a lecherous gleam.

“Well, now,” Gibson purred, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he surveyed the trainer like a prize stallion. “A fine specimen like you shouldn’t be wasting his talents on idle chatter.”

Eddie pulled back fully, rolling his broad shoulders, utterly unbothered. He cast a glance at Samson, then offered the barest of shrugs before drawling, “Shouldn’t be wasting my time on low-status men, either.”

Gibson let out a sharp, delighted laugh, a sound like nails against glass. “Damn right,” he crooned, shooting Samson a disdainful look, his mouth curling into something almost cruel. “For all his height, he hasn’t amounted to much. Not in here, anyway.”

Samson didn’t flinch. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his expression impassive. He’d heard worse.

But Gibson wasn’t done. He slithered forward, taking his time. “Must sting, doesn’t it?” he continued, voice full of mock sympathy. “That Arnold passed you over for that nerdy Boston barrister Paul instead?” He clucked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Tsk, tsk. Not quite the golden boy you thought you were, eh?”

Samson remained silent. A flicker of something—satisfaction, or maybe irritation—crossed Gibson’s face. He waved a hand dismissively. “Psh. Doesn’t even have anything to say for himself.”

That was when Samson’s patience snapped.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Controlled. But edged with something dangerous.

“Did you try to kill Brent?”

The shift in tone was instant.

Gibson’s smirk faltered, just a fraction. But then he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please.” He turned to Eddie instead. “Who told you that nonsense?”

“Cody and Brent,” Samson answered for him. His dark gaze never wavered. “Eddie ran into them in the hall. Said you tried to murder Brent. Used a cable machine in the gym. Rigged it to strangle him.”

For a moment, Gibson’s jaw tightened—just a fraction, the barest hesitation. Then, he let out an exaggerated tsk, shaking his head as though he were scolding a child.

“The boy exaggerates,” he said, flicking a hand in dismissal. “Little me? Hurt a big football star like him? Pah! Load of garbage.” He snorted, bemused. “Honestly, who can trust anyone’s word in this house?” His gaze flicked to Samson, eyes narrowing with meaning. “You, of all people, should understand that.” 

Samson seethed. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, but before he could open his mouth, Eddie suddenly exhaled, breaking the tension with a slow shake of his head.

“All I know,” Eddie said, his voice casual, almost lazy, “is that you’re a man who values someone who can prove himself.” His blue eyes gleamed as they flicked toward Gibson.

Gibson’s smirk returned, slow and pleased. “Indeed,” the fat slob said. His gaze shifted back to Samson, sharp and satisfied. “I’m glad one of you finally recognizes that.”

Eddie took a single step forward, and the deliberate movement sent a ripple of muscle down his torso. His pecs flexed, his abs tightened, every cut of his physique accentuated in the firelight. Gibson’s gaze flickered downward, just for a second, betraying his hunger.

“Then let’s get better acquainted,” Eddie murmured, slipping an easy, knowing arm around Gibson’s thin shoulders. He nodded toward the door, smirking. “I think I owe you a free personal training demonstration in my room.”

Gibson chuckled, his eyes gleaming, his fingers already curling possessively around Eddie’s solid bicep. “Oh, yes,” he purred, voice thick with anticipation. “I’d love to see just how much you can take.”

Eddie shot a cocky glance over his shoulder, directing it at Samson. “Looks like you missed your chance, big guy.” 

Samson said nothing. His jaw was tight, his expression dark. He only watched as Eddie sauntered out of the study, Gibson trailing behind him like a moth drawn to an all-consuming flame.

And then, silence.

Samson exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the tension as best he could. He turned back to the desk, dragging the invoices toward him with a sharp flick of his wrist.

The answer had to be in there. Arnold’s estate. His hidden fortune. The reason they were all still trapped in this godforsaken mansion, circling each other like wolves.

He didn’t have much time. He would find the answers.

And then, he would meet Charlie in the guest suite.

Charlie. The only one in this place who still had something worth trusting.

He just hoped Charlie would find Julian soon. Because Samson had no intention of letting him face the night alone.