by J. M. Snyder
* * * *
He lets me use his shower. I almost think he might join me—and I’m surprised to find that I almost want him to. If he did, I wouldn’t turn him away. And I wouldn’t ask for more than the hundred bucks, either. I like him, I really do. Not like that, I hastily add, sponging myself in the shower and trying to ignore how aroused I am thinking about him.
But a little voice inside me whispers, Maybe you do.
I tamp the voice down and don’t let myself think of anything at all as I jerk off under the hot spray. Maybe I just really need to find a girlfriend. All this sex with other guys is screwing with my head. And I’m not only talking about the one between my legs, either.
After my shower, I towel dry and pull back on the same clothes I wore earlier. I wander into the kitchen, where Ryan is standing by the stove. He hears me come in and gives me a grin over his shoulder. “Hey, want to stay for dinner?”
I hesitate, and he hurries to add, “It’s okay to say no. You probably already have plans…”
“No, actually, I don’t,” I admit. And, honestly? I don’t want to leave just yet. “Dinner sounds great.”
I expect standard bachelor fare—my idea of eating dinner at home is reheated takeout or cold pizza. My freezer is also stuffed with frozen entrees. If I can’t microwave it, I’m not going to try cooking it.
But Ryan knows his way around the kitchen as well as he does in the bedroom. The dinner he whips up—his words—is restaurant quality, on par with our dinner Friday evening. Spicy Thai chicken breasts with sticky rice and mushrooms, and a fresh salad with sesame seed oil and vinegar dressing on the side. It’s better than any takeout I’ve ever ordered, and my moans of pleasure while I’m eating rival those earlier in bed. “God, this is heavenly!” I cry.
“It’s just something I threw together,” Ryan says with a disarming grin.
I shake my head in amazement. “At my place, the only thing I can throw together is a cup of ramen noodles and a bottle of beer.”
Ryan ducks his head in charming embarrassment. “You really are straight, aren’t you? I didn’t think anyone ate ramen after college.”
“Hey, it’s cheap,” I point out. “And I know how to boil water. Anything more and I have to order in. You’re a fabulous cook, you know that?”
Ryan sort of nods. “I can do a bit more than just boil water,” he admits.
But I don’t stop there. “Hell, I don’t know why you have to pay for sex. I mean, look at you. Sexy, rich, great in bed, awesome in the kitchen. You’re like the perfect catch.” He stares at me for a long moment, until I feel I have to add, “For…you know, a gay man looking for Mr. Right. Don’t look further, right? You’re it.”
“You really think so?” he asks softly.
I’ve said too much, I know it, so I stare at my plate and concentrate on scooping up every stray grain of rice with my fork. Too late, I realize I was sort of gushing, and I can’t take back what I said.
Ryan clears his throat, and I hear his fork clatter against his salad bowl as he spears a lettuce leaf. “It’s hard for me to meet guys,” he tells me. “I don’t know. They’re all so fake, and they’re more into my house or my TV or my golf clubs instead of me. That’s why I like hanging out with you.”
“Yeah, but you’re paying me to be here,” I remind him.
He catches my gaze and holds it, the hint of a smile on his face that ignites his eyes. “I paid you to fool around this afternoon. You stayed for dinner because you wanted to. Or am I wrong?”
No, he’s right. “You’re fun to be with,” I say, but it sounds lame even to me.
Ryan sets down his fork and folds his hands in front of himself on the table. “Let me ask you something,” he says, leaning forward a little.
A mix of dread and hope rises within me, and I stop chewing to stare at him like a game show contestant waiting to hear what my prize will be if I choose the correct door. “What?”
“Have you ever felt anything for a guy?” Ryan wants to know. “One of your…I don’t know, your clients, maybe, or a friend you fooled around with back in school. Anything at all?”
You mean like the way I feel about you?
The words are on the tip of my tongue and I have to press my lips together to bite them back. I don’t feel anything for him, I try telling myself. I barely know him. He’s a guy I met online, someone who paid to please me orally, and besides, I’m not gay.
I’m not.
And yet…
Maybe I wait too long to answer, because Ryan shakes his head with a soft laugh. “Never mind. I’m just being silly. You’re straight, I get it. You don’t like dick.”
“I like your dick.”
It’s out before I can stop it, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, my eyes wide in shock above my fingers. I didn’t just say it. I didn’t.
Ryan’s smile returns slowly and he reaches out across the table to cover my other hand with his. My fork clatters to my plate, forgotten. I need to get out of here. I need to go home. I can’t ever see this man again.
But when his fingers curl into mine, I can’t seem to pull away. “Really?” he asks.
There’s something so gentle in his voice, something so real, that all I can do is nod, and it feels so freeing to be able to admit it finally. Yes.
Removing my hand from my mouth, I whisper, “I can’t stop thinking about you. I just can’t. I’ve never been this way before, about anybody. Guy, girl, client, friend. I should go.”
“No.” Ryan clasps my hand in both of his now, urgent. “Greg, please. I like you, too.”
The thought terrifies me. Pushing back my chair, I shake my hand free from his and stand. “I can’t,” I tell him. “I’m not…I mean, this isn’t…I just—I have to go.”
He catches me before I reach the door. I feel his touch on my shoulders and, when I turn, I find myself in his arms, caught in a strong embrace. “Greg…”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “I like you—I do, and yes, I like you like that, but I’m not gay. I’m not.”
“You don’t have to be,” Ryan whispers back.
I try a different approach. “I have clients booked out for the rest of the week. I can’t fall for one guy. I need to keep these appointments. I need to make money—”
“I’ll buy out your whole week,” Ryan assures me. “Tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after. If you like me—”
“I do,” I sigh. Damn it, I do.
His perfect mouth curves into a seductive grin. “And I like you. I know I want you, and only you. The thought of any other man touching your body makes me want to just cry. So cancel all your appointments, and schedule me in instead. Let me buy up all your free time. I want to be the only man to please you from now on. Just name your price.”
The thought is terrifying, but it’s exhilarating, too. He wants me all to himself. I don’t know what to say, even when every fiber of my being wants to crow in triumph.
Me! Yes.
But I can’t let myself get carried away. Taking a deep breath, I try to steady my pounding heart. It’s hard to do, though—the closeness of his body has my blood racing and my thoughts bound out in a whirl.
“We’ll start small,” he whispers, leaning towards me. His words fan my cheek and tickle my skin. “How much for a kiss?”
Before I can respond, his mouth closes over mine. They’re tangy and sharp from the spices in the dinner, but when he parts my lips and licks between them, a sweetness fills me like nectar. His tongue is warm and soft and gentle, tasting me, testing. When I don’t resist, his kiss deepens, and he draws me to him like the very breath he needs to live.
I give into him wholly, savoring our first kiss and hungry for more. The labels straight and gay no longer have any meaning to me. The only word that feels right between us is love.
THE END
Hot Merchandise
It’s almost eight o’clock on a Friday night, one hour left until the mall closes, and the music store aptly ca
lled Da Hot Spot is jumping. Hip hop music pounds from the sound system, rattling the windows and drawing a young crowd. The aisles are jammed with kids, mostly high school age and up, rifling through rows of CDs, jostling each other for a turn at the listening stations, flipping through the poster racks, thumbing through the discount DVDs. Many of them aren’t there to buy anything—they want to be seen, so they stand in small little groups of friends and flick their collars, straighten their jackets, slick their hands through already perfect hair.
In a small city with little else to do, this is the place to be.
At one end of the sales counter, as far from the noisy cash registers as he can get, night manager Bill Jackson is hunched over a notebook, finishing up his leakage report for the week. By now, he no longer notices the din—the music, the chatter, the laughter and shouts and shrieks…he’s deaf to it. In his mind, he’s already skipped ahead to a time when the store empties out, the gates come down, and the staff cleans up the mess left behind, like a catering crew after a VIP event. The vacuum needs a new belt, he remembers, making a note of it on a stray slip of receipt paper close at hand. And the speaker behind the poster rack sounds a little scratchy, he’ll have to have someone come in to look at that…
“Hey, Bill?”
He looks up to find Angie leaning on the counter beside him. She’s a seasonal employee, only helping out for the Christmas break, but she worked there this past summer when she was home from college and she’s like a walking Wikipedia when it comes to music. The customers love it—if someone’s looking for a certain song but doesn’t know the title or artist, Bill directs them her way. She’s scary good. “A song about a waitress from the eighties?” he heard her say earlier in the evening. “That’s easy. ‘Don’t You Want Me’ by the Human League.” Then later, another customer with a different request—“A girl singing about taking a cab? On the radio now? Try ‘Party in the USA’ by Miley Cyrus or…hey! It might be ‘Waking Up in Vegas’ by Katy Perry. Check that one out.”
Now she stands so close to Bill, he almost thinks she’s flirting. Her arm rests against his and she cups her chin in her hand as she leans down to peer at his notebook. In a nonchalant voice, she tells him, “Don’t look now, but I think those guys over by the new releases are stealing something.”
Of course, Bill’s head swings up automatically and he sees them. Two young African-American guys in their twenties flip through the store’s newest CDs. One wears a long white T-shirt, even though it’s the middle of December and about thirty degrees outside. The shirt hangs down past his waist and, where the hem ends, Bill sees a thin strip of striped boxers above the drooping waistband of the guy’s jeans. His hair is a mess of curls, as if he hasn’t bothered cutting it for a few months now, and the end of a hair pick sticks out from it at a jaunty angle.
Bill knows it’s the other guy Angie suspects of shoplifting. He’s slightly larger, with darker skin, hair cropped so close it fades into his scalp, and a smoke-colored bubble jacket in a style that’s so popular nowadays. His hands are fisted deep into the jacket’s pockets, but Bill knows there’s plenty of room for a CD or two crammed down in there, too. The guy wears sweatpants and, when he turns, Bill sees a large bulge in the front that might be stolen goods.
Or it might be ten inches curved into a jock, Bill reminds himself. He’s always thought sweatpants show off a man’s best assets, and this guy’s hung.
The kicker, though, is the glance he throws Bill’s way before he turns back to his friend. Just a little look, nothing anyone could point out, but Bill saw it. From across the crowded store, those honey-colored eyes found his, and what he saw in their depths made his knees weak. Sweet Jesus. Ten inches, then. At least.
Angie nudges him in the side, breaking the spell. “He keeps doing that,” she says with a frown. “Like he’s trying to make sure you’re not watching him or something.”
Or something, Bill agrees silently. Now that he caught the look, he knows what Angie must think it is. Glancing at his watch, he sees they still have a good hour left before closing. Then they have to clean up, and he’d planned to ask a few employees to stay and restock the shelves, and he still has the deposit to make…the last thing he needs on a busy night like this one is to make a scene over a potential shoplifter. And when it turns out Angie’s wrong about the guy…
Beside him, she hisses, “Should I call security?”
“No.” The last thing Bill wants is a bunch of mall cops storming the music store. Even without an arrest, news would spread fast. Most shop owners might like to scare off black teenagers who scope out their goods without buying anything, but those are Bill’s best customers and he knows it. If word gets out they’re shaking down customers, his business will dry up. Sales are already down because of file sharing and online retailers selling MP3s—if he loses the hip hop and rap sales base, who’s going to buy his stock? He can only sell so many country western CDs and Clint Eastwood movies before he goes under.
“Why not?” Angie wants to know.
Bill sighs. Not tonight. “I’ll do something,” he promises. With a final look at the two—the taller guy is watching him again, a faint smile playing over a pair of full, dark lips—Bill turns back to his notebook, mind racing. “Just…keep an eye on them and let me know when they’re heading out.”
“Um…” At the hesitation in Angie’s voice, he looks up. “I think they’re heading out now.”
Bill rolls his eyes so he doesn’t have to lift his head and, sure enough, the duo is heading toward the store’s entrance. The guy in the jacket hasn’t taken his hands out of his pockets, and that looks bad. But Bill’s gaze is drawn to the swinging package at the front of the guy’s sweats. The fleece caresses the bulk hidden beneath it as it moves, outlining a bulge that makes Bill’s throat dry to think of it. He can imagine a thick, black cock encased in a white jockstrap, partially aroused from the sheer motion of the guy’s sexy strut. He pictures his fingers encircling that shaft, pale skin on dark, the purplish-red bulbous tip bubbling over with pre-cum that sparkles like stars in the night sky…
“Bill.”
Angie’s elbow almost knocks him over. At the dazed look he turns her way, she shakes her head. “I’m calling security.”
Bill catches her arm before she gets too far. “I said I’d handle it.”
“Well?” With a jerk of her head, she reminds him they’re heading out. “Whatever you plan to do, you better do it now.”
His palms are suddenly clammy, his throat tight. Wiping his hands on his slacks, he straightens his tie and reminds himself he’s the night manager. This is his store. Even if the guys aren’t stealing, Angie can get him into a lot of trouble if she decides to report his lack of action to the general manager. Sheila would review the security tapes, see the same suspicious activity Angie picked up on, and he’d never hear the end of it. Best to handle it now.
When he clears his throat, he realizes he’s scared. He doesn’t want to do this. But the resolute set of Angie’s jaw tells him he has to, if he doesn’t want to lose face. Damn it.
He hurries down the length of the counter, coming out at the store entrance just as the two guys approach. “Excuse me, sir?” he asks, speaking to the taller guy. He keeps his gaze high, off the sweats, and silently prays, Please.
The guy stops, an amused smirk on his handsome face. “Yo, me?”
His friend comes up beside him and glares at Bill. “Jamal, who the fuck’s this?”
“Chill, man,” Jamal murmurs, holding out his arm as if trying to keep his friend back. To Bill, he says, “What you want with me?”
Oh, God, you don’t even know. The thought flutters through Bill’s head and is gone, but the images that trail in its wake set his heart stuttering. “Listen, ah…Jamal. One of my associates thinks she saw—”
“Bullshit!” the friend cries, surging forward like a baying hound. Only Jamal’s arm blocking his chest keeps him back. “That bitch is profiling. She ain’t seen shit.”
<
br /> “Tyrece,” Jamal warns, his gaze never leaving Bill’s. “Cool it.”
Bill tries to explain. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I’m just asking if maybe you could empty your pockets and we can clear this all up…”
“Oh hell no!” Tyrece whirls to holler at the small crowd that’s begun to gather around the entrance. “This cracker’s whack! See some black kids with low-riding pants and big shirts and you think we stole from you? We din’t steal shit.”
“First of all,” Bill says, trying to stay calm even as his heart hammers in his chest, “I didn’t say you stole anything. This has nothing to do with race—”
Tyrece feels otherwise. “Fuck you.”
Bill explains, “It has nothing to do with your low pants or big shirt or the chains around your neck. It has nothing to do with you at all, really.” He turns to Jamal—he has to look up into the guy’s face and, right now amid the chaos forming in his store, the warmth and amusement he sees shining back seem safe. With a wry twist of his mouth, he admits, “She thinks you might have taken something. I’m real sorry—it’s the jacket. If you’d just empty your pockets and show her—”
“I ain’t showing her nothing.” Jamal’s voice is low and pleasant, but it cuts through the murmurs of the crowd and Tyrece’s filthy tirade, stopping him in mid-rant. Shoving his hands farther into his pockets, Jamal tells Bill, “You want to see what I’m hiding? I’ll show you. Only you. Got it?”
“Fuck that,” Tyrece mutters. “You don’t have to show him shit. We din’t—”
“Tyrece.”
Jamal’s voice is edged in steel, and manages to shut Tyrece up. His eyes hold Bill’s like a dare. Only you. Which means not just away from Angie but away from Tyrece as well, away from the customers pushing against the entrance, away from anyone else’s prying eyes. Alone.