A/N: Some of you may recognise this character to be the very same Jack Rydon as the one that is found in my male slash story "Kimberly" (Which can also be found on this account). I've got writers block with chapter eighteen and so I took a little break from the plot and decided to try my hand at exploring Jack's teenage years. Therefore, this is what was produced. It's not much, but it certainly helped me get to know him a little better.


Night-time Company

"Thanks for the job, kid."

A dark figure stumbled awkwardly out of the back seat of the car, tottered a few shakey steps and then managed to regain its balance as one hand clutched the nearest wall for support. There was an echoing laughter that emanted from the driver and in the same moment the shadowy car was speeding off down Market Street, leaving the slumped figure alone in the starlight.

It was a Friday night, the sky was clear, the stars twinkled overhead like flecks of glitter on black paper and the crescent moon, soft and bright, hung between them in all her glory. The night was pleasantly calm and quiet, apart from the slight tinkling of music which echoed along the street from Fernshaw's main attraction, The Abstraction Nightclub, and the scattered howl of a dog, or shout from a drunken passerby and Jack Rydon was doing his rounds as always.

"Fucking tosser." The figure muttered, voice thick and muffled as he brought one deathly pale hand up to wipe his mouth. As he pulled his hand away he became suddenly aware of the red liquid streaked across the back of it and he snarled under his breath, like a dog might do when its thoroughly pissed off. "Fucking, fucking tosser." he repeated, scowling down at the blood as it shimmered in the light of the moon.

It seemed that things hadn't been going too well for the eighteen year old that night. The only punter that he had been picked up by had been the one that had just left and boy did he have some abstract ideas! Not only had Jack been forced into doing things that he thought were virtually impossible, but the man had only paid him fifteen pounds, not to mention enjoyed a little voilence on his behalf. Now the youth's lower lip was bleeding and he knew for certain that nobody in half a mind would want to pick him up in that state.

The punters in Fernshaw, usually large men in expensive suits that got nothing from their wives, never picked up boys that had blemishes. They wanted perfection. Some of them even made the boys take off their clothes in the middle of the street so that they could have a good look at them before they picked them up and Jack was certainly no stranger to that particular matter.

The youth sighed, slouching against the wall beside him, which belonged to none other than Sherry's Bakery. He was a rather average looking teen in both the height and the weight department, edging just over five feet and eight inches with a nice lean figure. Not skinny. Not overweight. Just average.

His face was unmarred, apart from the gash in his bottom lip, so much so that not even the slightest trace of freckles could be seen playing over his nose. Oh no, Jack's skin was flawless. With his well defined jaw, chisled cheeks and large dark eyes, the only thing that spoilt the effect, was his nose. Not that it was ugly or anything, it was just, well, a little too large and a little too pointy. Not that he was bothered about that little fact, but it seemed that some of the customer's were and they were the ones that usually wanted to take a look at his entire body before succombing to his pleasurable night-time company.

Still, not matter how pretty he looked tonight, his chances of scoring some good hard cash from the rich men in the flashy cars had been cut incredibly slim by the incident with his last taker, and Jack would only have to wait and hope that some of the extremely drunk men that came out of the club were up for a bit of gay excitement.

It was a shame really, as he'd dressed the part that night. A billowy black shirt hung over his sturdy shoulders, half fastened so that it showed off a glimpse of his slightly toned chest. A white and crimson striped tie hung, lazily fastened, about his neck, the bottom of it stopping just above the waistband of his pretty red and black bondage pants that sagged a little low on his hips. A black studded belt had been thrown about those pants, hanging lopsidedly askew, more there for fashion's sake than anything else and a pair of black leather New Rock boots, adorned with more buckles and studs than the boy could even count, decorated his feet, peering out from beneath the infinite folds of material. Finally, a large leather dog collar was fixed about the male's neck, the silvery spikes growing out from it almost large enough to poke some innocent person's eye out of they got too close. And it was this that he now fiddled idly with as he blinked up at the sky, royal blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

This was a new turn for Jack Rydon. Eventhough he had adored the old school punk scene for as long as he could remember, he was usually merely seen to be modelling a pair of black combats and a random t-shirt, but tonight he had decided that to go all out, in a vague hope that he might pick up more if he stood out from the usual crowd. Unfortunately it was this whole "standing out" thing that had gotten him his cut lip. The punter had been a punk hater and, in response to Jack's little outfit, had treated him like shit. Don't get me wrong here, a lot of the men that picked the boys up treated them like trash, but Jack hadn't yet come across a man who wanted to do such unforgivable things to him, and believe me, the male had been in the business for nearly three years now. Still, it was pointless him hanging around on his corner now, especially since it was nearing midnight and the boy decided that maybe it would be best if he headed on up to Abstraction and saw what was going on down there.

So, taking a cigarette from a random pocket on his trousers and slipping it into his mouth, Jack lit it as he stepped off down Market Street. In the dim orange glow of the streetlamps his two-tone hair fell in and out of shadow. That was the only thing that the boy hadn't changed for his business that night, it was, as always, a ruffled mop of raven with a solitary midnight blue stripe which struck down the centre, that particular area stuck up into a kind of mohawk whilst the rest fell limp into his mirror-like eyes.

Ahh. The sweet, sweet taste of nicotine . . .