The Wealthy Old Man’s Palm-Sized Pet - Chapter 6

Inside the luxury sedan, Song Zhiyuan and Fu Xingnian sat side by side in the back. Since Song Zhiyuan got in, Fu Xingnian hadn’t spoken, nor had he asked where they were going, but the car drove steadily onward. After a moment, Song Zhiyuan provided his home address.

Chu Wei, the driver, glanced at Fu Xingnian in the rearview mirror. Seeing no objection, he turned onto the main road leading toward the boy’s neighborhood.

Having changed out of his club uniform, Song Zhiyuan was now wearing a simple white T-shirt and light blue jeans, his hair soft and loose. He looked like a vibrant, sunny youth—a sharp contrast to the club, where he had looked like a child playing dress-up in adult clothes.

The car was silent. Song Zhiyuan felt that Fu Xingnian was in a bad mood, and he was curious why the man had left the party so early. Seeing the blazer Fu Xingnian was wearing, Song Zhiyuan remembered something and reached for a bag beside him. “Mr. Fu, thank you for the clothes.”

Inside the bag, the expensive suit jacket was folded perfectly. It was the second time he had returned a garment, and Fu Xingnian shot him a flat glance before taking the bag and tossing it aside.

In the quiet night, the sound of a long, loud stomach growl was painfully obvious. Song Zhiyuan instinctively clutched his stomach. He’d only had a bowl of instant noodles earlier; despite the fruit Fu Xingnian had fed him, he was starving. “I’m sorry, could we stop for a moment?”

A late-night eatery was nearby. Black car pulled over, and Song Zhiyuan asked, “Mr. Fu, would you like to join me?”

Song Zhiyuan was truly hungry, and a bowl of seafood porridge brought him deep satisfaction. However, Fu Xingnian barely touched the bowl in front of him. Song Zhiyuan was surprised the man had even agreed to enter such a small shop.

Once fed, it was time to go. The car soon stopped at the entrance of Song Zhiyuan’s complex. “Thank you, Mr. Fu,” the boy said.

Fu Xingnian gave a hum that was barely more than a breath, but Song Zhiyuan heard it. He patted his stomach. “Thank you for the treat. I’m very full.”

In the dim light, Fu Xingnian remarked, “So you were lying when you said you were full at the club.”

Song Zhiyuan looked him in the eye. “I was full then.” From this angle, the tiny red mole on his Adam’s apple was clearly visible. He added, “Mr. Fu, will you really not consider it?”

Fu Xingnian didn’t answer. “Get some rest.”

Song Zhiyuan opened the door to leave but paused. He turned back and gave Fu Xingnian a light, brief hug. “Goodnight, Mr. Fu.” He vanished quickly into the night.

The car still carried a faint trace of the boy’s scent, particularly on Fu Xingnian’s clothes. Later, lying in bed, Song Zhiyuan thought about his bold move. Fu Xingnian hadn’t pushed him away. He suspected the man’s claim of “not liking him” might not be entirely true. If he didn’t like him, why drive him home? Why go for porridge?

Song Tianlai had been “missing” for a long time. Every day, Song Zhiyuan dialed the number that had long since become a dead line. His grandmother recently asked why she couldn’t reach his father; he made up an excuse, relieved that the collectors hadn’t found her yet. He feared her health wouldn’t withstand the shock.

Lately, at the club, the collectors hadn’t come for him perhaps they didn’t dare enter such a high-end establishment. Song Zhiyuan learned from the manager that Fu Xingnian didn’t visit often sometimes only once every few months. It had been half a month since the car ride, and there was still no response. He began to think that perhaps Fu Xingnian wasn’t his only option.

The club manager was waiting at the door when Fu Xingnian arrived unexpectedly. He personally led the way. Each room’s privacy was high, but as they passed a suite with a door left ajar, Fu Xingnian stopped. His friends paused too. “What’s wrong?”

Inside the suite, a beautiful boy was drinking. “If you finish these three glasses, I’ll give you thirty thousand yuan. Cash on the spot.” Without a word, the boy drained the cocktails. The man kept his word and transferred the money immediately.

Fu Xingnian’s friends didn’t understand the hold-up, but through the crack, they saw the scene. Such things were common—some came to play, others to make money. But Fu Xingnian’s brow was furrowed. The boy was Song Zhiyuan.

A friend noted the anger in Fu Xingnian’s eyes and wondered if he was seeing things. Inside, another man grew excited by Song Zhiyuan’s compliance. He held up a glass of high-proof cocktail. “Drink this one, and I’ll give you fifty thousand.”

The man’s gaze was full of greed. He had never seen a boy so beautiful—thin waist, long legs, looking soft all over. He wanted to get him drunk and have his way. Song Zhiyuan agreed without hesitation.

“But,” the man added, “I have to feed it to you myself.”

Song Zhiyuan caught sight of the tall figure standing outside the door. He’d been there for a while. With a smile in his eyes, the boy said, “Okay.”

The man beamed and held the glass to Song Zhiyuan’s lips. He wanted to see the boy get drenched and look helpless; the thought was exhilarating. Song Zhiyuan sat in the center, facing the glass panel. In the dim room, amber liquid spilled from his lips, trickling down his chin and neck, soaking his thin shirt until the skin was visible beneath.

The high-proof alcohol made Song Zhiyuan’s eyes water and his cheeks flush red. He coughed, his long lashes trembling like a beautiful, piteous butterfly. The man grew even more excited. “One more, and I’ll give you a hundred thousand!”

THUD!

The door was kicked open. Silence fell as Fu Xingnian entered, looking menacing. Song Zhiyuan lowered his head to hide a smile before looking up with tearful, pleading eyes. He looked like an abandoned kitten waiting for someone to take it home.

The men in the room were furious at the interruption. “Who the hell are you? Get out!”

Fu Xingnian’s gaze locked onto the hand on Song Zhiyuan’s wrist. He stepped forward, kicked the man away, and pulled Song Zhiyuan behind him. As the man struggled to get up, he ordered his friends to “get him,” but two of Fu Xingnian’s bodyguards blocked their path.

Pulled into the hallway, Song Zhiyuan heard the sounds of a scuffle coming from the suite. Fu Xingnian dragged him into his own private room.

“It hurts…” Song Zhiyuan whispered. His wrist was gripped tight, and he’d been bumped against the wall. Fu Xingnian didn’t let go; instead, he squeezed harder, his own grip overlapping the marks left by the previous man.

“Mr. Fu, it hurts,” Song Zhiyuan repeated with a piteous look.

Fu Xingnian finally released him. “Song Zhiyuan, do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“I’m making money. For tuition and living expenses.”

“Making money like that?”

“What’s wrong with it? I’m not stealing or robbing,” Song Zhiyuan replied. “Mr. Fu, if there’s nothing else, I’m going back to work.”

As he turned to leave, Fu Xingnian pulled him back onto the sofa. Over the past weeks, Fu Xingnian had investigated the boy’s past: the divorce, the missing mother, the gambling father who fled from debt, leaving the son to face the threats alone. He looked at the boy and wondered: If he can seek help from me, will he seek it from anyone else? Will he smile for them? Hug them?

“Song Zhiyuan, from now on, you stay by my side. I will give you whatever you want,” Fu Xingnian declared. “Now, immediately, quit this job.”

Song Zhiyuan blinked. “Mr. Fu, what do you mean by that?”

Fu Xingnian threw his jacket at him. “I’m not repeating myself.”