Wheels and Heels

by Jaime Samms

  Men crowded closer to the stage, making Jed nervous. It wouldn’t be hard at all for anyone to hop up there and take liberties. He began watching the crowd more than the dance, and his unease grew. The bouncer to Jed’s right was fixed on the dancer, enthralled almost. He wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the people watching.

  The other bouncer, far down the stage to the left, was gazing out over the dance floor, a bored expression on his face. If something happened on stage short of a bomb going off, Jed doubted he would notice. The dancer didn’t seem to care. He accepted the cash thrust at him, stroked hands and arms, but danced nimbly back if anyone looked like they might be inclined to get grabby. He knew what he was doing, no doubt about it. And the guys watching appreciated him, even if some of them were maybe too drunk to be civil.

  In the end, Jed had no doubt the dancer had collected a healthy taking by the time he sauntered off stage.

  By then, Landon had arrived with their drinks—two each because he worked in a bar and knew to think ahead—and they clinked glasses. Another act came on, this one even more risqué than the last, and Jed found himself more and more watching the crowd for trouble, rather than the show.

  Ugh. Herschel was right about him and his protectiveness.

  He barely noticed when the act changed again, intent on a few rowdy assholes closest to the stage, and the bouncer to his right, who was now in a corner doing a thorough tongue exam on the tuxedo-dancer’s tonsils. It was only when the catcalls got meaner, the whistles more shrill, that he looked back to the stage to find out what had the audience so riled.

  His heart stopped.

  He noticed the flippy tartan skirt, the sleeveless blouse tied in a knot at the waist, sure. He even took in the thigh-high boots with the dangerous heels that made Ira’s legs look like they went on forever.

  But Ira.

  Jed’s heart skipped back on track.

  His Ira.

  Dancing for these lewd assholes who had nothing but contempt for the luminous beauty that was his Ira, on stage, dancing. And Ira knew how to dance, he knew how to use the music, how to use his body. He was sexy, graceful, incandescent.

  Jed’s cock noticed all these things. His brain screamed at him to cover his treasure up, because these cretins didn’t get it. They wanted skin and sex. Ira was temptation. Promise. Delight. Perfection that made Jed’s skin hot and his blood rush. He wasn’t for these idiots who now jeered at Ira to “Take it off.”

  “These guys are . . .” Landon’s words got lost in a loud surge of catcalls and suggestive shouts. His expression showed the same disgust at the crowd Jed felt. He tapped Jed on the arm and motioned toward the front of the bar, as if he was ready to leave.

  Jed shook his head. Not a chance.

  Landon let out a groan, but leaned on the table, putting his face close to Jed’s. “This guy does not belong here.”

  Jed could not have agreed more. Ira should not be up there. He shouldn’t be accepting the scraps of cash being handed to him as enticement to take off his top.

  One guy waved a brown bill enticingly, and Ira’s eyes widened. That was one hundred bucks. Guys didn’t just hand that kind of cash over for nothing. Not the kind of guys who came to dives like this one, anyway. Jed tensed as he watched the stage.

  Ira fiddled with the knot of his blouse, the first motion since stepping onto the stage that wasn’t made of fluid grace. The guy snatched the bill away when Ira reached for it. He shook his head, waggled his finger, and leered, saying something Jed didn’t have to hear to understand.

  The guy was telling Ira to take off his shirt, and he’d give him the hundred dollars.

  Resignation settled over Ira’s features. It was brief; a flash of disappointment, but then he grinned, nodded, and in a heartbeat, the shirt was off and he was up there, bare chested, skirt barely long enough to cover his package, never mind his sweet, round ass, dancing for the asshole teasing him with what amounted to payment for services.

  Jed growled low in his throat.

  “I want to smash that asshole’s face in,” Landon shouted over the audience’s roar of appreciation.

  Jed could so get behind that sentiment.

  Then Ira did the unexpected. He turned sex on like a switch, not abandoning the beauty of his previous routine, but enhancing it. Jed thought he might have a heart attack. The crowd ate up his performance. Even more than tuxedo guy, the crowd loved Ira. They wanted him. Jed understood the reaction. The men tossed tens and twenties at his feet and he gathered them, one by one, like every single bill was a promise in the making.

  The guy who’d given him the hundred was leaning on the front of the stage, lapping up every move Ira made, as though the dance was solely for his benefit. Ira stayed just out of his reach, leaving the bills closest to him to lie where they had been tossed.

  Then the guy started sweeping money into a pile, reaching farther and farther onto the stage, collecting everything he could reach in front of him. A lure.

  Jed would never have believed the ferocious look in Ira’s eyes possible. Jed could see it from ten feet away. His eyes, bright and shining with the high of dancing, sharpened to a dangerous glitter. They sparked as he stalked to the front of the stage. No doubt the guy wanted a good look under Ira’s skirt. Maybe a grope.

  But he was not getting away with taking what Ira had rightfully earned, and that fact was as clear in Ira’s expression as if it had been announced over the sound system and tattooed on the asshole’s forehead.

  Of course, the instant Ira was within reach, the jerk struck, grabbing his wrist, holding fast as Ira pulled back, giving the guy leverage to jump up on stage.

  The bouncers were nowhere in sight.

  Ira’s expression went from furious to outraged to horrified, and delved deep into terror as the guy wrapped an arm around his waist.

  Jed didn’t think. He was on stage, ripping the asshole away from Ira and tossing him back before he registered what he was doing.

  Ira glared up at him for an instant, terror and vicious rage in his eyes. Then he seemed to recognize Jed, and his face went soft. His body sagged, and Jed pulled him against his chest.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered, breath brushing along Ira’s neck.

  Ira shoved himself free. “Wait,” he croaked, and dashed for the front of the stage.

  Landon was there, gathering up the money, and he handed it up to Ira, who took it and stuffed it into the waistband of his kilt. He nodded his thanks and turned back to Jed, who waved at Landon.

  “Okay?” Landon asked, though Jed had to read the question on his lips because the music had changed to a driving dance beat. Jed nodded Landon off with a motion of his hand up to his ear, universal for “call you later.”

  By then the bouncers and the tuxedo dancer had joined them on stage, and Ira turned an enraged glare on the other dancer. “Thanks for nothing, Mitch. You said this was a good gig.”

  “Did you see how much you raked in?” Mitch replied. “Chill out. It’s just a little groping. No big deal.”

  “No big—” Ira snarled at him, took Jed’s hand, and stomped off across the stage toward the steps to the main floor, dragging Jed with him.

  It was good Jed allowed himself to be dragged, because Ira was on a mission and Jed was not going to slow him down. At the same time, he wasn’t leaving Jed behind. He didn’t want to be too far from him. And that bothered him. Experience told him to keep away from possessive, overattentive assholes. But Jed. He wanted Jed close, but didn’t have the focus to examine why right then, or what made him different from—

  Fuck. Don’t think about it. Don’t paint Jed with that brush.

  He threaded through the stray chairs at the back of the club, found the door to the change room, and slammed it open.

  The two dancers inside jumped when the door crashed against the wall. One of them—Rob, Ira thought his name was—laid his phone upside down on his thigh like he hadn’t just been glued to the video Ira had glimpsed. He
’d recognized the gaudy, lit-up archway over the club’s stage. It wasn’t really a shock someone had defied “policy” and videoed the dancers. Not in this place.

  “Dude.” Rob stared at him. “What the fuck? That was crazy, right?” He glanced at Jed. “Who’s he?”

  The other dancer, the cowboy kid whose name Ira couldn’t remember, just stared, eyes huge pools of shock.

  “Get out,” Ira said, far too quietly to convey his need for privacy so he could freak the hell out. His chest hurt. His throat ached and felt like it was closing off his air. He didn’t dare look at Jed. The fury on Jed’s face when he had stormed up on stage had been almost as terrifying as being unexpectedly grabbed in the middle of his routine. Ira didn’t want to see the sharp glitter of green fire in Jed’s eyes again. He didn’t want to face the man’s disapproval, especially in front of strangers.

  “Dude,” Rob said again.

  “Get out!” Hysteria drove the words to a shrill volume. Hot shame scorched them brittle around the edges, and they cracked and fell in on themselves. He wanted to throw something.

  Rob stood, draped a floral robe over farmer boy’s shoulders, and led him from the room. “Come on, Av. Give them some space.”

  The kid allowed himself to be shuffled to the door without protest.

  “Chill, dude,” Rob mumbled as he passed. “You’re scarin’ the newbie.”

  The new kid should be scared. But if Ira opened his mouth to respond, he’d scream. He clamped his jaw until it hurt and his teeth ground audibly.

  At least the others left and he was alone with Jed. Ira didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He bent to haul his bag out from under the dressing table, felt the cool air on his ass and crouched, mortified at the show he’d just given Jed.

  “What are you doing?” Jed asked, as if Ira had not just put all his assets on display for him.

  “Getting my shit. I gotta get out of here.”

  “Stop.” Jed took his arm and gently pulled until Ira stood. They stared at one another through the mirror. “Take a breath.”

  Ira tried. He gulped in air, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted a shirt. Pants. He dug through the bag until he found a T-shirt, but Jed pulled him around to face him before he could put it on.

  “Ira.” He lifted Ira’s chin with a forefinger. “I need you to talk.”

  Ira shook his head. “Nothing to say,” he muttered, still clenching his teeth and determinedly holding back emotion that would send his tone into the upper registers.

  “Then listen for a minute.”

  Ira gazed up at him. The green of Jed’s eyes was deep, endless like the darkest, most fathomless parts of the ocean. No sparks. No judgement.

  “I—”

  Jed shushed him. “Take a breath.”

  Ira did, and was surprised that it didn’t catch and tear on the razor wings in his gut before it could fill his lungs. His jaw loosened and his teeth eased apart.

  “Good.” Jed stroked a hand over his head, smashing down some of his carefully coifed tousle, but he didn’t care. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  Ira shook his head. He didn’t think so. Scared him. Pissed him off. Physically, he was fine, though he desperately wanted to kick the asshole in the ’nads.

  He never hurts me. Just fucking appears when I least expect him.

  “Okay.” Jed’s hand slipped from Ira’s hair to his cheek, then to his shoulder. “Okay.”

  Ira feared Jed would pull him into another hug. He wasn’t ready . . . He couldn’t. Then Jed took a small step away and took the T-shirt from him. “Are you sure you want to leave?”

  “What?” Why wouldn’t Jed be pushing him out the door? Didn’t he care what Ira had done up there? Didn’t it bother him?

  “You said you eat at work. Have you eaten?”

  “Not here!” Ira would sooner starve than trust something coming out of a kitchen run by someone so incompetent he couldn’t train a bouncer to keep assholes away from his staff.

  Jed’s eyes narrowed. “Then where?”

  Shit. “I—” Ira snatched the T-shirt back and popped it over his head.

  The door slammed back against the wall again, and Mitch flew in. “That was jacked up!” He bounced on the balls of his feet and his gaze darted around the room. “Where’s everybody?” His flushed cheeks pinked more when his gaze lighted on Jed. “Man, dude, you rocked that shit. Well done!” He pounded Jed’s shoulder, ignoring the scowl directed at him as he turned to Ira. Hey.” He plucked at Ira’s shirt. “What’s this?”

  “I’m out,” Ira muttered, turning back to his bag.

  “Dude, you can’t!”

  Ira whirled on him. “Like hell I can’t.”

  Mitch’s flush blotched, broken by a wash of pale as his eyes widened. “Man, I told Bernie . . . I promised you’d get asses in the seats. You can’t bail now.”

  “You promised me it was a good gig.”

  “And it is. You fucking cleaned up out there.” He grinned and waved a hand at Ira’s body. “Look at you, dude. They loved you. They’ll tell their friends. You have another set, and it will be fucking packed, I guarantee.”

  “No.”

  “Come on.” Mitch took his arm and pulled him closer, groping at the bulge at Ira’s waist where he’d stuffed the tips into a pouch he’d sewn inside the kilt. “Did you see how much you raked in? And that was just the first set. You always make more in the second half. You know that.”

  Ira didn’t want the thought of doubling his take to make him hesitate. He thought about the hard grip on his arm, the wiry muscle circling his waist, the heavy stench of beer and the familiarity of stale cologne as his assailant had tried to pull him closer, to nuzzle, to remind him of something long past. He shuddered, then shook his head. But the lure of not just paying his rent, but stocking his pantry with a few staples was shiny.

  “Yeah, see?” Mitch crowed. “I knew it. You need the cash, I need Bernie not to take this out of my ass, okay? Please?”

  Fuck. “What do you mean ‘out of your ass’? What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, man.” Mitch glanced at Jed but immediately dropped his gaze. “Nothin’.”

  Ira shook his head, balled his fists. But the butterflies were gone. He looked at Jed, who was staring at Mitch, his face once more stormy, eyes churning seas now. He looked like he was ready to deck someone, and Ira placed a hand on his arm. “Jed?”

  “Do I need to have a word with this Bernie asshole?” Jed ground.

  Mitch looked up, startled. “Dude. Chill.” He curled a lip. “I’m a fucking grown-up.” He looked to Ira. “Whatever, dude. I can deal with him. You’re the one missing out. You could fucking rake in a fortune.” He shrugged. “But whatever. Do what daddy bear here tells you.”

  Now Ira wanted to punch him. “Fuck off,” he chirruped, voice shrilling again. He turned his back and began rooting through his bag as Mitch stormed out of the room. He could deal with whatever was in his fucking pantry. He didn’t need this shit.

  “Ira.” Jed’s voice was a low rumble that got right under his skin.

  Ira shook his head. “Forget it.” It was none of Jed’s business. He didn’t get a say in what Ira did with his own body. He didn’t have to watch. “What are you even doing here?” he asked, turning.

  “I came with a guy from work. I had no idea . . . Look.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck and studied the floor. “This is none of my business. I know that. But—”

  “You’re right. None of your business.” He went back to looking for jeans in the tangle of clothing in his bag.

  “When’s the last time you had a real meal?”

  Ira froze in the act of pulling out his pants. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  Crickets.

  He’d heard all right. That wasn’t any more Jed’s business than the dancing.

  “I saw your fridge, remember?”

  Ira was gritting his teeth again. It made his jaw ache.

&nb
sp; “Do you even have a job where you get fed? Or was the last good meal you had the one I made you? A week ago.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You need the money.”

  “So . . . what?” Ira faced him. “You want me to go back out there? To dance? You like that? You like to watch?” Ira slammed the jeans back in his bag and whipped the T-shirt off again. “This what you want to see?”

  Jed’s cheeks flushed. The colour crept up through the hairs of his beard, over his cheek bones, but the deep, dark focus of his eyes didn’t change. “You don’t want to be judged. But you can judge me because I think you’re beautiful.” Jed’s gaze held his.

  Beautiful? He thinks I’m beautiful?

  Ira had nothing.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Jed went on. “I want you to be okay. I’d say I’ll take you to the grocer and get you what you need, but I know you won’t accept. So.” He picked up the top Ira had worn on stage and draped it over his shoulders. Ira slipped his arms into the arm holes. “Let me protect you from the skeeves while you dance”—he buttoned the shirt as he spoke—“then I’ll take you to the shop, and you can pay for some real food. If you want, we’ll go back to mine and I’ll cook you something.”

  Once the shirt was buttoned, Jed took the tails in front and tied them in a loose, messy knot. Ira watched and tried not to grimace at the muddled, off-centre knot. He wasn’t sure he was hearing Jed right. “I thought you were pissed at seeing me up there. Now you’re saying you’re all for it.”

  For a heartbeat, Jed’s lips curled in to disappear behind his mustache. Then he nodded once and squared his shoulders. “Not going to lie. I got a little possessive. But I kept it to myself until that asshole touched you. Do I think this is the best thing ever?” He cupped Ira’s face for a bare instant, then dropped his arm, shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and kicked at something on the floor. “I don’t get to make that call. But you are beautiful. And I will protect that. In whatever way I can.”