by Willa Okati
“Pay?”
“Don’t act so innocent. You were at the Pleasure Palace. You must know what goes on there.” Christian’s temper was rising. “What do you want? I’ll do anything, as long as it can be in private.”
“How many times do I have to say this? I only want to dance.” Ewan was frowning. “Just dancing is what makes me happy.”
“So ‘dance’ is a euphemism for getting it on, now?” Euphemism. Fake-out. Psych.
“Getting it on?” Ewan’s frown deepened. “Pal, all I want to do is move with the music. This is fun, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m having the time of my life. Look.” Christian grabbed Ewan by the collar. “I’ll be as clear as I can. What do you want? A blowjob, a quick fuck? Just tell me what you’re after, and I’ll find us a quiet space.”
Ewan brightened. “No kiddin’? You want to be alone, just the two of us? That’s movin’ kind of quick but, hey, I could go for a quiet drink. What about you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Christian bit his tongue. This wasn’t the way to charm a guy into keeping his mouth shut. You had to be sweet and tender, cozen them along until they thought they were special, and then give them what they wanted.
But what if he doesn’t go away after that?
The song ended, and the tempo changed back to a pulse-pounding rhythm. The group of fauns broke apart from one another and ringed back to surround Christian and Ewan, driving their pelvises to the beat. “You promised one of us this dance,” Devil-boy said in a voice almost like a snarl, but one that curled around Christian like dark smoke, luring him in. “Choose a male from our circle. Or do you want to keep on dancing with the troll?”
Oh, shit. Trouble. Upset. Chaos. Christian paused. Why’d he call Ewan a troll? Is that some kind of club lingo I don’t speak? Double shit. I have to keep it together. Words, words, words.
Christian flat-palmed his hand against Ewan’s chest. “We have some business to conduct,” he said, making his voice as charming as he could. “Ewan, would you excuse me? I want to dance with these guys now. I’ll pay you later, I promise.”
“And what do you owe to a troll?” Devil-boy rumbled. “The fee to cross his bridge?” The horned men burst into laughter, but Ewan looked deeply embarrassed. Red spots bloomed on his cheeks, and he drew back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I only wanted to dance,” he muttered. Christian wouldn’t have heard him over the music, but he’d gotten pretty good at reading lips.
“Later,” he replied with abandon, and then swirled into Devil-boy’s arms. “Right now, I’m going to have some fun.”
This could be a problem. Dilemma. Issue. But if Ewan just keeps his mouth shut long enough, I can dance with these guys and no one has to be the wiser.
Devil-boy laughed -- rather, chuckled -- and stole the first dance from the redhead. He swung Christian against him, grinding their pelvises together. Christian was startled to realize that Devil-boy was hard, but the contact didn’t put him off. It turned him on, knowing that the erection was all for him and the way he danced.
Humping and thrashing to the music, Christian began to lose his head again. He tilted his throat back, letting his consciousness wash away on the tidal wave of sound and motion, and the feel of a good hard body that knew how to dance pressed tight against his own. God, this was the life. If he could just go on like this forever, he’d die a happy man.
He blended with the music again, became one with the sound. So it came as something of a surprise when he realized that Devil-boy was talking to him. “... a turn.” Christian shook himself back to a conscious state with some effort and raised his voice for clarification. “Say it again?”
Devil-boy leered. “I told you, you’re going to dance with each one of us in turn. But after that, what do you do? What if we want something else?” Hands slid up his arms, then held them tight. “You can choose, but one of us gets a little bonus.”
Oh ... hell. Christian’s heart sank. “We can’t just dance?” he asked despairingly.
Devil-boy shook his head. “You joined us,” he said firmly. “We let you in, and we crowned you king, but you have to give the winner -- the best dancer -- a prize. A kiss from those pretty lips, a little show, a little tell.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Nothing is free. And here I am selling myself again. Damn Liam for putting that whole whore idea into my head!
But did he mind? Really? A quickie was a small price to pay for dancing all night long in the arms of these supremely sexy men. “All right,” Christian said brashly. “I’ll give one of you a prize.” He shimmied against Devil-boy. “The kind of prize you could write home about, but wouldn’t want to.”
Devil-boy grinned, his teeth flashing white. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, whirling Christian around. “But first, we dance. It’s what my brothers and I were made for, spending the whole night long lost in the music. We’ll keep you here until dawn.”
“Amour Magique doesn’t close?”
“Until we have to leave,” Devil-boy amended. “It’s up to you if you want to stay with us after the first round, though. After you’ve danced with us all and done one of us a favor. We can dance through every song.”
Christian sighed in pleasure. “Every single song?”
“Until your feet give out.”
“Not too damn likely.”
Devil-boy hooted and sounded approving. “You’re a mundane, but I’d swear you were made to be one of us. I got you for this one, but who’s next? Our red-haired friend?”
A hand appeared on Christian’s arm. “Me, please. He’s gonna dance with me next.” Christian glanced up to see that the hand was attached to Ewan, who looked intensely serious. “He and I, we have unfinished business, right?”
Devil-boy rolled his eyes. “This troll isn’t going to leave us alone until you do whatever it is he wants,” he said in disgust. “Go ahead, king among us. Take care of your business, and we’ll wait for you. But make it quick. The music waits for no man.”
Christian stared at Devil-boy. “But I -- I want to stay with you.”
Devil-boy gave him a shove. “I said, do whatever the troll wants. Then we can keep you for ourselves.”
The push sent Christian into Ewan, who grasped him from behind, nuzzling into the crook of Christian’s neck. “There,” he said. “This is better, right? Now you and I can finish what we started.”
Oh, the hell with it. It’s not like half the other couples on this floor aren’t doing the same thing. And maybe I can show the fauns what they have to look forward to.
“Sure thing, sugar.” Christian squirmed around. Standing on tiptoe, he pressed a hard kiss to the man’s mouth, tasting the stone that he’d smelled previously and puzzling at the odd flavor. Ewan made a noise of surprise, but then kissed him back eagerly, arms going around his waist.
Christian ended the kiss before Ewan could deepen it. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, making them glisten. “So, you want your payment, do you?” He felt the beginnings of a hard-on underneath Ewan’s loose jeans and knew he’d guessed right. “Fine. Everyone else can get an eyeful.”
He sank slowly to his knees, working his way down Ewan’s body as if he were the pole back at the Pleasure Palace. Vaguely, he sensed that the fauns had gathered around the two of them, each one dancing in place to the music. So. The others wanted a piece of the action, did they? Christian’s face burned. Fine. Maybe he wasn’t any better than a whore. He’d act like a whore, then.
Shove that up your ass, Liam.
He gazed up at Ewan from the floor, making sure an expression of passion was on his face. “I’m all yours, darling. Tell me what you want.”
Ewan was shaking his head. “I don’t understand. I wanted to dance with you, yeah, but not -- not yet --”
“Sure, but I don’t have all night.” Frustrated, Christian reached for the zipper to Ewan’s jeans --
-- and found his hand being slapped away. He stared up to s
ee Ewan goggling at him, eyes wide in shock. “What the hell are you doing?” His voice was loud enough to rise above the music. “I didn’t ask -- I mean, come on, I don’t want --”
“Yes, you do,” Christian insisted. “That’s the price, right?” He slithered back up Ewan’s body. “That’s what you want in exchange for not telling everyone where I work, isn’t it?”
Ewan shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand.”
“You want sex, so you won’t tell everyone I work at the Pleasure Palace!” Christian yelled -- just as the music stopped.
Oh, fuck.
Heads turned in their direction from everywhere that Christian could see. He felt himself going scarlet, and stumbled out of Ewan’s arms. Turning to the fauns for support, he saw a sly grin on Devil-boy’s face. “So you’re one of the pretty boys who dress up like pretty girls?” he asked, his voice nasty. “No wonder you’re such a good dancer. You shake that tight ass for money every night.”
“I pay my bills.” Christian heard his voice shaking as the music started back up. “Please. Let me dance with you.”
“We don’t share our circle with anyone who does it for money rather than love,” Devil-boy said with disdain. “Go back to your Pleasure Palace, kid. God, and to think we could have given you everything.” When Christian would have grabbed his arm, he jerked back. “Go on, I said! We don’t want you anymore.”
The group tightened again. Christian saw his big chance slipping away as the fauns began to dance with each other, losing themselves in the music. They shut him out completely, seeming to forget he was there.
He felt utterly lost for a second, then rage bloomed behind his eyes. He rounded on Ewan. “Your fault!” he shouted. “This is all your fault!” Balling both of his hands into fists, Christian attacked the tall, pale man, battering him as hard as he could. Ewan raised his hands to protect himself but made no effort to fight back.
Christian landed one last punch to the man’s stomach, and then stopped, breathing heavily. “Well, guess what?” he asked, his voice laden with irony and anger. Upset. Distraught. Distressed. “The secret’s out, so you get absolutely jack shit from me, understand? Stay away, or I’ll really kick your ass. You got it? Keep away!”
“Hey, I so do not understand,” Ewan said, reaching for Christian. “Why’d you hit me? What in hell did I do wrong?”
“Oh, God. Just -- hands off, and they don’t go back on. Leave me alone!” Christian slapped at Ewan’s hands. “Just leave me alone!”
And, turning his back, he ran into the crowd, dodging dancers, hopefully leaving Ewan far behind. As far behind as his chances of spending the night wrapped up in the group of wild dancers, forgetting about the rest of the world.
He couldn’t forget. He could never forget.
He was a whore, and everyone was going to remind him of it as long as he lived.
Chapter Four
Christian stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the cool air rushing from its vents drying the sweat on his skin and making him shiver. That’s the only reason, he swore to himself. He held a balled-up, wet paper towel in one hand; the other was curled into a fist.
Slowly, he looked at himself in the glass. A young man gazed back, his eyes like two burned holes. He wasn’t crying, though. He was way too old to cry, and he’d been through enough without shedding any tears. Didn’t matter how he felt. He wouldn’t let himself go that far. He couldn’t.
He stared, taking in all the details, from the disheveled light brown hair to darker amber eyes to full lips. Christian tried the old trick of popping out of himself ... but it didn’t work.
When his eyes half closed, he could see himself the way he looked in the mirrors at the Pleasure Palace. Smoky eye shadow, dark kohl ringing his lashes, and heavy mascara. Red paint on his lips and dark smudges of blusher on his cheeks. He could almost feel the itchy weight of a wig settling on his scalp.
What was so wrong with earning a living? His fist tightened around the towel he held. It wasn’t as if there weren’t other men in drag out on the floor of Amour Magique. He’d seen more than one pair of fake breasts and a few skintight leotards with the obvious proof their goods were well tucked back and fixed in place.
No. They hated him because they knew what he was. Whore, Liam’s voice echoed in his mind. Hooker. Tramp. Slut.
He’d tried his hardest to find some other group to dance with, but none of the other circles would let him in. He’d even tried elbowing his way into the rough moshers that Bree had been with, but Bree was nowhere in sight, and they’d pushed him back out again. When he found single dancers, gyrating alone and tried to join them, they’d turned their backs and kept on dancing by themselves. It seemed like everyone in the building had heard him blurt out his secret, and now he wasn’t good enough for any of them.
Not because he danced in drag. Because of what he did for extra money.
God, I wish I’d never come here. Christian raised the wet towel and began to scrub at his face, especially his lips. He could almost swear he felt the greasiness of lipstick staining him, and he wanted it off. He also thought he could taste the gamy skin of a hundred tricks, and felt as if their hands on him were all showing up like scarlet tracks along his skin. If I’d never come, I’d never know what I was missing out on.
Those men, the fauns, God -- they had been so perfect, and they’d loved him. He’d ached for a dance with the redhead, the blond, the one with parti-colored horns -- he’d had a taste with Devil-boy, but it hadn’t been enough. And they’d promised him he could have danced all night long with them.
If it hadn’t been for Ewan.
Christian fought back an urge to punch his reflection. He’d done that once at the Pleasure Palace, when Rich was getting too far into his face. The cheap mirror hadn’t smashed, only dented, and he’d ended up with a sore fist for his trouble. It’d been hell to work the pole after that. Here, in Amour Magique, he’d get his hand sliced to ribbons by sharp shards, and then he’d have seven years’ worth of bad luck.
Hell. Seven years. Didn’t he already have a head start? If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.
Christian swallowed hard. Despite himself, he was beginning to remember things. The night he’d first walked into the Pleasure Palace, out of money and desperate for something, anything at all to earn a little cash ...
* * * * *
“What can I get you?”
“Um, nothing. Really.” Christian shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d worn his tightest jeans, so it was hard to jam them in there. “I’m sort of looking for the boss. I heard he was hiring?”
The bartender laughed, a short and choppy bark. “Better not call him ‘he,’ sugar. Around here, ‘he’ goes by ‘she,’ and you better remember it.” So, his potential employer was a trannie. No big deal; he could cope.
Christian glanced uncomfortably at the stage, where a girl in an obviously fake bubble wig was undulating to Candy Girl. “Okay ... but is there any way I can find her?” Christian hadn’t been out of the closet long, but he knew enough to understand there were all types.
“This place is way gay-friendly,” his friend had reassured him. “And it’s easy money. All you have to do is dance. You love dancing, right? Just get up on stage and shake your groove thang.”
The bartender paused to pour someone a rum and Coke, then leaned back toward Christian. “You want the boss, she’s over there by the stage. She’s usually there near the end of the dance, keeping an eye on things.”
Christian scanned the scanty crowd surrounding the catwalk, his eyes widening a little when he saw a massive man with a beer gut wearing a long blond bouffant. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “That’d be ...”
“Mikey, also known as Michelle. I suggest you introduce yourself to her with that in mind. And I don’t know if she’s hiring. Go and ask her.” The bartender turned to a paying customer, then nodded and reached for a bottle of Scotch. The cheap stuff, Christian
noted absently before moving away and taking a deep breath. He could do this. He could. The girl up on stage wasn’t even taking anything off, even if her dance around the pole looked pretty obscene.
To watch someone do that to music was like seeing a vandal take a can of spray paint to the Mona Lisa. It made his chest ache. You can’t afford to be squeamish, he warned himself. Nauseous. Indigestible. You have no money, no chance of getting anything else besides flipping burgers, and no way to pay the rent or even eat for more than a couple of weeks. Plus, the last day to pay tuition is coming up soon.
You have to earn some money.
Taking his hands out of his pockets, letting them hang loose and easy at his side, Christian made his way through tables half full of tired-looking men ogling the stage, toward Michelle’s side. He almost hesitated to approach because Michelle had an eagle eye on one man who stood at the corner of the stage. The guy held up a fifty-dollar bill and snapped it at the dancer, who blew him a kiss just as the final notes of her song ended. To Christian’s surprise, she disappeared backstage without taking the sizeable tip.
Michelle chuckled and swung around to Christian as if they’d been having a conversation all along. “Keith there knows how to work ’em, right?”
Christian blinked. “Keith?”
“Yeah, when he ain’t strung out on poppers or E. So, you new around these parts?” Michelle thrust out a huge, square hand tipped with long red nails. “What can I do you for?” He eyed Christian up and down. “And I mean that literally.”
Christian felt himself losing ground. “I-I-I --”
Michelle roared with laughter. “Okay, I can tell you’re new. You ever been to the Pleasure Palace before? No? I could pretty much tell. So what brings you here?”
“A job,” Christian rallied himself enough to say. “I heard from a friend of a friend that you were hiring.”
“That so?” Michelle treated Christian to another long once-over. “You’ve got a pretty face. Anyone ever tell you that?”