Mother's Milk by Charles Atkins Page A

and his long fingers. He pictured them around Marky’s throat. He’d watch as the fair-haired man’s face turned bright red. He’d see the fear in his eyes, desire, longing. ‘I need those cells, Marky. Find Jerod and get them. Do you understand?’
    â€˜Yes, Chase … If … when I get them, will you see me?’
    â€˜Get them and we’ll talk.’
At least he’s motivated
, Chase mused, knowing that Marky would do anything, absolutely anything, he asked.
    â€˜I swear I’ll get them back.’
    Chase hung up, and stared at the handsome man on the magazine cover, knowing that could easily have been him. On numerous occasions, since he’d been a teen, he’d been approached by talent agents and modeling executives. They’d tell him he had
the look
, that he could do both commercial and lucrative editorial and high-fashion work. He’d smile, flash perfect white teeth, let them linger on his blemish-free skin, full lips, high cheekbones that gave his face a slightly feline quality, and his thick head of near-black hair that he currently wore a bit longer than usual so that its natural wave could flop casually across his forehead and curl at the base of his neck. But it was his large golden-brown eyes framed by long lashes that were his best feature. They’d offer him contracts and set him up with important photographers to get a book put together – all on them. He’d enjoyed the photo shoots, and more importantly the hard, cold, photographic evidence of his beauty. But his face, his body … his cock were not on the market, at least not to be used by anyone other than Chase; they gave him power and control. Being a male model, or some pretty boy actor, was not the future he envisioned. He was going to have true power, respect, authority, and money; he was going to be a plastic surgeon, and to achieve this he would do whatever it took, which currently included dealing dope to wealthy college kids and the occasional sale of young white girls to foreign brothels or to men with wealth and a taste for something pretty, young, and disposable. Medical school wasn’t cheap, and even with scholarships he was looking at 40K a year for tuition alone, not to mention the taxes and fees on his condo – nearly five grand a month – and his need for high-end clothing. He couldn’t possibly get by on less than two hundred a year and even that was tight.
    His phone rang; it was the receptionist. ‘Hi, Chase,’ her voice slightly breathless, ‘I’ve got your grandma’s aide on the phone. Do you want me to take a message?’
    â€˜No,’ he said, bracing for the worst, ‘put her through’.
    The line clicked. ‘Mr. Strand, this is Dorothy, I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work.’
    â€˜Of course not,’ he said, wondering what this was about to cost.
    â€˜I just thought you should know I’m starting to see skin breakdown on Grace’s lower back, I don’t think second shift have been turning her as often as they’re supposed to.’
    â€˜How bad is it?’ He pictured his grandmother, with her angel-white hair and wrinkle-free face.
    â€˜I think I caught it in time, but she needs an inflatable mattress cover, preferably one with adjustable temperature … Medicaid won’t pay for that.’
    â€˜How much?’ he asked, knowing he’d pay. Grace Strand was the only person in the world who’d ever given him a taste of that most elusive drug – unconditional love.
    â€˜The best one’s about fifteen hundred dollars.’ She was about to say more when he interrupted.
    â€˜Just do it, I’ll pay you this weekend, and pick up some more of those microwavable bed-bath packs.’
    â€˜Sure, and Mr. Strand …’
    â€˜Dorothy, after all these years you can call me Chase.’
    â€˜Chase, I really appreciate how you take care of her,