by Mary Calmes
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Because you’re such a fuckin’ catch,” he scoffed.
“No, man, it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with how he is. He’s true to who he is, and he doesn’t hide, and he can walk in here and be gay and not give a damn if people care about that fact. He’s real.”
“I’m real too, and so is my family.”
“Listen, I have a lot of friends in the closet for one reason or another, but don’t stand there and tell me that you or them are living a real life. How can you be?”
“I will not stand here and defend my life to you!”
But he was standing there doing that exact thing.
“I’m happy!”
“Yeah, you look it.”
“You’re just trash, and that’s all that comes out of your mouth.”
I smiled slowly. “You’re gonna be dreaming about my mouth tonight, thinking of it sliding over your ex-boyfriend’s beautiful cock and what his face is gonna look like when I do it.” I sighed deeply because suddenly I felt really bad for him. He was obviously still very much in love with Landry Carter. “I feel so fuckin’ sorry for you.”
He backhanded me hard, and I took it because I’d pushed him and my last comment had been totally shitty and rude. Unfortunately, two things happened at the same time. First, my lip started bleeding again, and second, Landry saw him hit me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he roared, outraged and furious, coming fast.
I stepped around Will to intercept him.
“How dare you touch—what the fuck!”
“Baby,” I soothed him, hands on his face even as he tried to lunge by me at Will. “I’m fine. Come here.”
“You’re bleeding!” His face crumpled, but his eyes, his eyes were murderous.
“Not because of him,” I said softly, taking his hand, leading him away fast, down to the last cabana where it was quiet, pulling him after me inside.
“Who hurt…? Trevan, what the hell is going on? Where were you? What’re you wearing? Why…?” He swallowed hard. “Where did you go?”
I fell back on the chaise lounge, pulling him down on top of me to straddle my hips. His moan was loud as his hands went to my chest and he pushed forward over my groin.
“So these people are all nuts,” I told him flatly.
His eyes were all over my face as he winced. “Oh baby, I need to get you some ice. Jesus… who else hit you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to kill them,” he said evenly.
I chuckled, pushing up against him, and smiled as he narrowed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. “It’s okay; this is me we’re talking about. And a split lip ain’t shit.”
He bent close, hands fisted back in my new pale blue sweater as he traced the tip of his tongue over the wound, tasting my blood so gently. My skin heated and I felt the tingly, prickly sensation wash over me as my cock twitched under my lover’s firm, round ass.
“I like the feel of this sweater,” he told me, bunching it in his hands, pushing it up so he had access to my torso. “But your skin is better.”
I arched up against him, and his fingers traced over the deep groove in my abdomen and then back up to the L over my heart. Slowly, he rocked down over my now-swollen groin, sliding his crease back and forth.
“Stop.”
He bent forward and sucked my nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling over the pebbled nub, biting gently.
“Landry,” I breathed his name into his hair.
He got up fast, walked to the covering, and yanked it down, grabbing the zipper pull, closing it fast, letting anyone who came near it know that we were not to be disturbed. But I would not let him be that guy in front of his parents.
And it hurt to move: I was hard and my body ached to be buried in his, but I got up and stood on the other side.
“Lay down,” he commanded me, taking off his jacket and tossing a packet of lube onto the chaise. He draped the jacket over the back of the small chair and started on his belt buckle.
“No, let’s go home.”
He shook his head. “I saw you dancing with those girls, their hands all over you.”
“No one had their hands on me,” I assured him, because I was very particular about my personal space, half because of me and half because I knew Landry hated it.
“Daria was wearing your jacket, and you smell like cheap perfume.”
There was nothing cheap about that girl. I might have smelled like expensive perfume, but not like low-priced anything. “So we’ll go back to the house and I’ll take a shower.”
“No.” He pointed at the end of the chaise. “Sit, put that lube on your cock. I wanna see you stroke yourself, and then I’m gonna ride you.”
“Lan—”
“Do what I say,” he snarled at me, and I saw it then, the fury, the jealous rage simmering right there below his satin-smooth surface.
I had been careful, but the dancing I thought had been benign had caused a rise in him, my disappearance had added fuel to the fire, and when he saw me get hit, the truth was that he wanted to be the one smacking me around.
“I deserve to be hit, don’t I?”
He nodded.
It was inevitable and I wanted it, so I tore my jacket off, threw it down behind me, and yanked the sweater off over my head. I unbuckled fast, unsnapped, unzipped, dragging my dress pants to my knees before I sat down and tore the lube packet open. It was warm from being in his pocket, so I squeezed the packet into my palm and grabbed my own cock tight and hard, pulling, twisting, tugging.
My head fell back and my breath caught.
“Stop,” he growled, smacking my hand away, grabbing my face, tilting it up, and bending at the same time to take raw possession of my mouth. The mauling hurt; I tasted blood, and then it didn’t matter, nothing mattered but his legs on either side of my waist.
I grabbed hold of his firm, tight ass, spread his cheeks, and tried not to come as he sank, slowly but without pause, down over my shaft, taking me all in, deep inside his body until he was fully, completely impaled.
“Jesus, Landry, you’re so fuckin’ hot.”
He lifted and drove back down, seating himself even deeper, pushing forward so I could feel the muscles clenching tight around me, rippling, the spasm milking my entire length.
“I love this.”
“I know,” he rasped. “Me too.”
My head, which had lolled back, came forward and my eyes met his. Normally they were glazed, clouded with passion, but that was not what I was seeing. There was dark, deadly intent there, and I should have been frightened.
“Mine,” he told me as I felt his hands dig into my chest and saw him lean forward, felt his teeth in my shoulder.
“What do you need?”
“I want you to throw up the covering, put me over the chaise, and I want you to fuck me while they all watch. I want them all to see your big fat cock sliding in and out of my ass.”
Why? Why would he need that? Why…?
Sometimes it took a minute. He felt like he was floating away. He needed grounding, to know where he belonged. He was terrified that I would leave him here with his family. That I would go home without him, cast him aside without care.
He felt so good, and as I grabbed hold of his hair, yanking his head back with a sharp jerk, the choked sob confirmed everything.
“Get up.”
No question. He rose fast, and I shoved him forward, standing and then dragging him by his hair to the back of the chaise, bending him over it as I smacked his ass hard enough to leave a handprint on his pale, smooth skin.
“Oh Trevan, please,” he whined, the ache, the wanting, all of it in the plea.
I grabbed his hips hard—my fingers would leave bruises—and slid my slick cock between the round cheeks at the same time he arched his back. I drove forward as he yelled my name.
“Don’t leave me here.”
Stupid man. Like that could ever h
appen.
I pounded into him steady and hard, watching my cock plunge deep, feeling the slippery heat and the suction, the velvet vise fist around me.
“Trevan!”
“Never fuckin’ leaving you… never!”
“Swear!”
“Baby, I fuckin’ swear,” I said, hammering into him as he frantically jerked himself off.
“Gonna come.” His voice cracked. “I need to come!”
“Now,” I ordered him.
His muscles clamped down on me, spasmed and clenched with the violent force of his orgasm. He was loud, my boy, a screamer, and this time was no exception. The volume combined with the pressure and the suction wrung my own climax from me. I emptied into him, deep inside, pumping him full until semen was rolling down the inside of his thighs and dripping off his balls to the floor.
I leaned forward and buried my face in his hair, pressing my nose to the nape of his neck, ready to pull out.
“Don’t.” He stopped me, one hand reaching behind him, grabbing at my hip. “I’m not ready yet.”
I never rushed him.
Chapter 6
LANDRY used the T-shirt he was wearing under his dress shirt to clean us both up and then wadded it up and stuffed it into the garbage can beside the chaise. When we went back out to find his parents, I heard a song I loved and told him I wanted to dance.
“Whatever you want.” He smiled at me with his narrowed bedroom eyes.
I dumped both our jackets on the chair beside his mother and led him to the dance floor. Once we were there, my hands went to his hips and his arms locked behind my head. We swayed together to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,” the version I liked, the Lauryn Hill one. Staring into his eyes, I saw how they glowed and was certain that I looked the same way.
He stepped closer, pressing tight, and I put my hands up under the untucked dress shirt and slid them over his warm, sleek skin. His head went down on my shoulder, and he pushed his face against my neck as I began to sing softly under my breath.
“I love when you sing to me,” he whispered.
Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, I sang oldies to him, or stupid songs where “Landry” replaced some key repeated word. It was his favorite thing.
“And I love you.” He breathed the words over my face.
I squeezed him tight and then moved with him as Sade’s “Please Send Me Someone To Love” came on next. It was nice that no one cared that we were the only two men out there among the other couples. When Landry’s parents moved by us, I looked up and got a luminous smile from Cece and a nod from Neil. It was very nice.
When Janet Jackson was next with “That’s The Way Love Goes”—it was kind of an odd mix—Landry and I put space between us as we danced. I put it on for him, exaggerating my movements, and he started laughing, the deep, throaty sound coming up out of him. I sang Janet’s part and he did the chorus, and his face, the seven layers of happy that it was, made my whole night.
Landry’s parents had sat down, and we walked over after picking up bottles of water from the bar and joined them at their table.
“Oh,” Cece sighed, smiling at us. “You two are so adorable together.”
I turned and looked at Landry and then lifted my hand and pushed his hair out of his face. “Aww, your mama thinks you’re cute.”
He laughed, moved over into my lap, and drank his water as he grinned at his mother.
She could not stop sighing.
The Carter party concluded at eleven since the lounge was needed for other guests with parties that could ensure copious amounts of alcohol would be ingested well into the early morning. Everyone drifted down the elevators to the casino and to other clubs. Landry’s parents went home, but his brothers and their dates and their friends wanted to dance. Since Landry wanted to as well, I followed along with him. Trance music was not really my thing, so I watched him from a safe distance, sitting in one of the booths while he ground it out on the brightly lit floor.
Sitting there, I realized that Scott, Landry’s brother, was uncomfortable and so was his date. After a second, I realized it was because the people in the booth behind them were bumping against it. I got up and Scott reached for my arm to stop me, but I gave his hand a pat and moved by. There were two couples there drinking, and when the one guy slammed down an empty beer glass, he threw himself back hard.
“Hey,” I said, smiling down at them all before my eyes landed on the rambunctious guy. “Can you knock it off?”
“What? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the guy on the other side of you, so if you could not slam backward, we’d appreciate it.”
“See, Brad,” the other guy said and squinted at him. “Just chill out already. You’re drunk, and this shit is annoying not just to us.”
“Oh, fuck you,” he told his friend, and then he looked up at me. “And fuck you, man. What kind of pussy comes over here and—”
I grabbed his shoulder hard, my fingers digging, and leaned down so that we were close, almost nose to nose. “I’m asking you nicely, Brad. You’re being a dick, and if I have to drag your ass outta here I will, because really, who’s gonna give a shit if I do?”
He looked at me, and I stared back.
“Whatever. You guys are all a buzzkill.”
“Thanks,” I said, straightening up and turning away. When I did, I saw a guy get pushed back from another booth. I wouldn’t have cared, would never have even given it a second thought, but he was one and they were many, and Benji Matthews was still weighing heavily on my heart.
“You little fuck, get out of here,” I heard as I got closer.
“Mr. Beale,” the guy began, “you just don’t—you owe me the juice.”
“It was a tie, you dumb fuck.” He laughed, and his table laughed with him. “Get out of here before me and my friends throw you out.”
“I—”
“Run, rabbit,” the guy barked at him, and there was laughter again.
All heads lifted to me as I stepped up beside the guy, my hand sliding gently over his shoulder.
“You the gambler?” I asked the guy sitting dead center of the booth, even though I knew he was Mr. Beale already.
“Yeah, who the fuck are you?”
“I’m his collector,” I said flatly. “And a tie, as we told you when you started, is different at each house. At ours, it’s a push, but you still have to pay the juice. So pay up or you lose your line and your winnings. Your fuckin’ choice.”
“You think you can—”
“Yeah, I can,” I assured him.
“Listen, asshole,” he barked at me. “My friends and I will fuck you up if you don’t—”
“Oh, shit,” I cut him off with a chuckle, “did you think it was just us? Him and me?”
He looked confused.
“’Cause it ain’t. It ain’t just us. You don’t owe Rabbit,” I said, using the name he’d given the runner, “you owe the house. We ain’t shit, but them? The house?”
The first flicker of concern crossed his face.
“We’re talking about guys who know what your car looks like, where you work, and who you know. It’s them knowing that you wouldn’t want everyone to know your business. I mean, what would your boss think if he knew? What would your family think? Maybe nothing, maybe they don’t give a shit about gambling—unless they do.”
His eyes were locked on my face.
“Do whatever you want, we’ll go, but just so you don’t think it’s just us—’cause we ain’t shit, right?”
I had no idea who he was, but looking at his clothes, the girl sitting on his left, and his friends and what they were wearing, I got the frat boy vibe off them. They were young; they smelled like trust fund assholes to me, so I tailored my conversation to meet the needs of the moment. And then I waited. And stared.
The way he was looking at me, right into my eyes, I got the idea that the gaze was supposed to be intimidating. I wanted to tell him that I was from Detroit. I knew third
graders scarier than him.
After another minute, he went into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out cash. He passed ten hundred-dollar bills to my nervous friend and then looked up at me.
“I’ve never seen you before.”
I shrugged. “You’ve never given Rabbit trouble before.”
There was a quick nod of agreement.
“Thanks,” I said, and I left and would have made it back to my booth, but the hand on my arm stopped me.
“Hey.” Rabbit was smiling at me, hand raking through his thick black hair, a wicked smile that showed dimples on full display. “Thank you. You saved my ass, here and back at the house.”
I crossed my arms. “You need muscle to go with you. I mean, yeah, you get the whole ten to twenty percent of whatever you collect if you don’t, but you’re—what?— five ten, one forty, one fifty. Man, you need somebody backing your play.”
His eyes got huge and excited.
“No, I’m a runner too, and even I have backup, so really, think about it.”
He nodded, offering me his hand. “Rush Howard.”
I took his hand in mine. “Trevan Bean.”
He was taking me all in, his eyes everywhere. “Thank you so much,” he told me again, not letting my hand go, lifting the wad of bills toward me. “I want you to—”
“Oh fuck, no.” I scowled at him, dropping his hand. “You never, ever, use your collection for anything. All of it gets back to the house, and then and only then do they take your money out of it. How long have you been doing this?”
“Three months.”
“Okay,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “You need a separate clutch or something with a zipper to keep your money in. Do you keep your totals on your phone or—”
“No, just on a piece of paper.”
I growled at him, and he laughed.
“Baby, you need an electronic spreadsheet so you can just punch in a number and it adds and subtracts for you. Gimme your e-mail address and I’ll send it to you now,” I said as I pulled my iPhone from my pocket.
He took a shuddering breath. “You called me baby.”
My eyes flicked back to him from the screen of my phone. “Sorry,” I said, withdrawing, moving around him.