NEWLIFE, TAKE TWO

Summary: Being the next story in the Townwood Estates universe, sequel to 'Experience'. Spencer and Ryan move to Newport to start again, becoming more involved then they should with some of it's residents. R/misc females.

Disclaimer: Despite my promise to be nice (in the other universes, if not here) I still don't own anything to do with the O.C. or any of it's characters or, really, anything you might recognize here. Just writing for fun and feedback.

Warning: Contains Slut!Ryan and adult themes.

A/N: Anyone who reviews gets a free smut bunny! B/C Waltzy sicced them on me and the horny little buggers bred and it's getting to be like that tribbles epi on classic Star Trek………which may explain certain parts of this fic …….

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''Here we are.'' It was still dark out, sky only starting to turn a paler shade of black, when Spencer spoke the first words in the car since he'd told me where we were going (generally speaking). The specific was before me, and it was pretty weird.

The borrowed truck was pulling into the driveway of a two-story mansion with white stone walls, classic arches, and a roof of orange tiles. It would've been impressive, if every other 'house' in this gated community wasn't a variation on the same design. It looked as if the architect who'd designed this neighborhood had liked one version so well, he just did it over and over again, making little changes in the layouts (front door was on different sides of each place, for instance) so he could claim to be designing 'individual' homes.

. Either that, or he was just lazy.

''We hiding out with one of yours?'' Hopefully so. Strange as it would be for a customer to take us in, it would be apocalyptically worrisome for this to be our new base of operations. Putting aside the obvious money issues; it would be far, far too noticeable, and notice was something we were trying to avoid. Two young guys, within a decade (or less) of each other who looked nothing alike, claiming to be 'brothers', living together (with no girlfriends around) and being secretive about where they spent their evenings? Yeah, people would think that was 'normal', all right; no one would give us a second look.

''Not exactly.'' Spencer pulled out the garage-door opener and pushed it, letting us into the empty structure. The sarcastic son of a bitch who lived in my head had several choice observations about my partner's intelligence (low) and genetic background (chimps, mostly) that I had to fight pretty hard not to voice. This was his great plan? Max would pick up our trail by the end of the week, just off the huge splash moving in here was gonna cause. ''Come on into the living room, it's time for that talk.''

It most certainly was, and I tried to ignore the tightening of my stomach when he pulled out a set of keys and opened the door with them. A knot that got tighter when I saw that the place was pretty much furnished. It all looked new, too; and I had a suspicion I knew where he'd been spending his time, this last week. And spending all out hard-earned money, too; from the look of the audio/visual equipment. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and seriously considered freaking out. Spencer didn't spend like this, he was very thrifty (without being a Scrooge or anything) and never shelled out for stuff that was fancier than we really needed. That was how half the guys (and girls) in the biz got caught, living above their apparent means; so unless he'd won the lottery without telling me, someone else was calling the shots, moneywise. Which in our line of work could only mean one thing.

He was working for someone, had signed on with a 'manager'.

''Who is it?'' I knew it wasn't Max, Spencer would rather drive us both over one of the nearby cliffs than see either of us anywhere near Max. That didn't mean it was anyone I wanted anything to do with, though. I finally had control over my life and I wasn't about to give up being a freelancer to work for anyone. My friend sighed, dropping himself bonelessly into the armchair. I sat cautiously on the couch. Not because I was afraid of him or scared the furniture (solid looking oak and leather) wouldn't support me. No, I was still wearing my stripping gear, and didn't want the embarrassment of my clothes coming off to postpone this discussion.

''Remember Tina?'' I sure did, and my gut twisted tighter, with that little swirl of guilt that occurred whenever I remembered her wedding rings, gleaming at me accusingly from the edge of the sink. Nausea fought arousal, as I remembered not only her blow-job skills (amazing) but that the woman was usually my distraction fodder for 'payoff' time with Oliver. Pushing thoughts of the faggot psycho aside, I groaned, slumping back into the folds of the couch.

''Spence, Tina's a freak.'' There was no arguing with that, and he knew it. The woman had more kinks than your average Afro, with the money to see them satisfied. I rubbed at my face with my hands. I hoped she hadn't had anything to do with this 'escape plan' of my 'brother's'; the woman was about as subtle as a train wreck.

''Yeah, which is why she had to go to L.A. for her fun. Her usual contact, here in Newport, didn't have anyone willing to double-team her.'' Okay, that (if it was true) relieved most of my concerns. One, the contact didn't make anyone do anything against their personal set of rules (hence the 'willing' part of the sentence). If we could trust this person to stick to those principles, this wouldn't be so bad. Two, a two-guy-one-girl three-way was considered to be such a twist, in this place, that 'Tina' had been moved to go to Los Angeles in search of her thrill. That meant most of the jobs would be vanilla, the biggest danger about 'working' here might just be boredom. And three, if there was still no one willing to do double-teams, then Spence and I could really clean up. So the only problem remaining was the concept of working for someone else.

''I dunno.'' Working for a pimp or a Madame had always struck me as stupid, and my partner wasn't stupid. So why were we here? Having this conversation? How did this help us hide out from Max? Spencer leaned his head back, closing his eyes tiredly. It occurred to me that I was being a little selfish, concerned over my career and the niceties of what I was willing to do while he'd been scrambling to protect us both from a literal fate worse than death. ''Is there a strip club?'' His mouth quirked a little, probably at the eagerness of my tone. I couldn't help it. It was Saturday night (well, technically, early Sunday morning) and I was used to enjoying the rush of my stripping fix (two sets in front of the screaming crowd) by now. My body was throbbing, and not just from the stress.

''I'll have to ask.'' That didn't bode well, that he'd been in such a hurry that he hadn't checked. Although, it couldn't have been too much of a hurry, to get this place set up. Something about the worried quality of my silence (or maybe because he wanted me to have all the facts) spurred him to continue. ''Max has my real name.'' Oh shit. He was so screwed. Even the best false identity would eventually crumble, and there was no way he dared to use his real one; not with that woman on the lookout for him. ''She doesn't have any of my working monikers, or either one of your names, by the way; but she does know we've been hanging out. I think she assumed I was setting up a stable.'' Yeah, that would be a theory the bitch'd come up with. Her knowing his real name was the more worrisome aspect, to me, though. How the hell had ………?

Shit, shit, double shit. Piled up to the Rockies and beyond.

Oliver.

A surge of killing rage pushed me off the couch to stand, hands fisted, glaring away from my friend at the front door. I could see myself running out of it, finding a way back to L.A., tracking the son-of-a-lying bitch down and strangling the life out of him. All this time, all this time; I 'd been paying the fucker off and he'd ratted my partner out, anyway, the asshole. Next time I saw him, I'd grab him by the throat instead of the hair and…….wait a minute………wait a fucking minute. I started to smile, glad my face was turned away, so my friend wouldn't ask why I was grinning so widely.

What 'next time'? There wasn't going to be a 'next time'. In our running away from the bigger threat, we'd left his little blackmailing ass in the dark as well. It was over, and no one had to go to jail, or get killed, or do anything too depraved. I hoped he'd enjoyed those three blowjobs he'd given me, because it was over, and I was free. I was pulled out of that euphoric thought by Spencer's voice.

''Our cover is that I hit it big in Vegas and came back to take care of my illegitimate half brother. There was some problems, because your mother had died while I was away; but after a trial period, they agreed to give 'Trey Atwood' custody of his brother, 'Ryan' and we moved in a few weeks after that.'' He really sounded wiped, and a little depressed. I guess he figured one of his friends at the country club had ratted him out. I wished there was a way to ease his mind without telling him about Oliver, but there wasn't, and no way was I ever 'fessing up to that hellish experience; was gonna do my best to forget it entirely, in fact.

''That's a good one.'' I could tell the truth in such a way that people would assume the rest of the story for me. Lying without lying, my partner called it. Since Max didn't have my name, she'd never be able to find us working here; especially with ……''Shit!'' He sat up and looked around wildly, frowning at me when he saw that I wasn't upset or hurt. ''Spencer, it's brilliant!'' He was still scowling at me and I reminded myself that he was probably too wiped from the stress and the drive to realized I'd figured the best part out. ''Signing on with someone else is the last thing Max will expect us to do. She'll look for us to stay freelance, maybe even go our separate ways.'' The last of my nervous tension drained away. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

''True enough.'' He stood, stretching a bit as he yawned. ''Look, Ry, I'm beat. When I get up, I'll call the boss; let her know we've moved in. There's a party at the country club around seven; if you decide you want to get a look at her, be back by then.'' He headed towards the stairs, paused. ''I turned the master bedroom into a gym, your room is on the left….'' He motioned to the stairs, shrugging. ''…..wear a suit if you're coming to the party.'' He was pretty relaxed, he must have a lot of faith in this woman. Or maybe he was just exhausted.

I grabbed some of my stuff from the truck and went upstairs to find 'my' room. Spence was passed out, face down on the bed in the room to the right. Shaking my head, I slid into the room and found a blanket to shake out over him. Crossing the hall to the other room, I wondered who'd look out for him those rare times his common sense went lacking (like tonight, passing out cold without covering his shirtless self) if I passed on this deal. The room was nice enough (put me in mind of an up-scale hotel), a little bare, which I suppose was only to be expected. I stripped off my gear and grabbed some stuff for a shower, padding down the hall bare-assed. Living with the guy for as long as I had, doing the kind of work we usually did, and it wasn't really that amazing how few issues about nudity I had left.

The bathroom was nearly a religious experience. My first thought that it was just shy of being opulent, my second was that I liked it. I'd only seen places like this on television (MTV cribs, stuff like that) or in magazines (Better Homes, Architectural Digest, etcetera). An actual Jacuzzi tub took up most of the floor space, one half of a wall was mirrors (above the two sinks), and the shower's hydraulics had to be experienced to be believed. All of it in a faded teal and beige pattern that I guess was supposed to imply the seaside but just looked like swirls to me. It was kind of soothing, actually. At least the faucets weren't shaped like shells or gilded gold or something.

When the hot water hit and my muscles started to loosen back up (it'd been a stressful couple of hours since I'd left the club) I began to have trouble thinking. My usual routine for Sunday (even as early as it was) had me either running, riding, or 'working' off the charge of my stripping high. Blood was pounding in my ears, my skin felt alive and electric. No way I'd be able to reach any kind of sensible decision in this state, time to take matters in hand, as it were. I hadn't actually had to do what I was about to do for months. Didn't mean I'd forgotten, how, though.

Some things, a guy just doesn't forget.

I slicked my hand with soap and wrapped my fingers gently around my cock, sighing a little at the pleasant sensation. As tension relievers went, this beat smoking, drinking, or drugs hands down. Sex was great and all, but sometimes nothing beat good ole reliable Rosy Palm and her five nimble sisters. Rhythm was easy to establish and there were no demands for foreplay or false romance. I didn't have to concentrate on anyone's pleasure but my own as my hand stroked faster and faster, rushing me towards easy completion. So maybe I took advantage of my solitude for a couple more (satisfying) rounds, that was all right.

Rosy understood.

In a much better (or at least, more relaxed) frame of mind for thinking about my future, I finished rinsing off, toweled dry, and got dressed in my old stomping gear (sneakers, jeans, jacket over wife-beater). Prying my bike out of the truck, tucking the extra keys into a pocket; I glanced around the still darkened streets, choosing a direction for my explorations at random.

Time to see what Newport was like, the morning after.