by Solace Ames
They all did good business after that as the crowd swelled. The noise from the subwoofer stall around the corner grew so loud that his father simply took out his hearing aid. From then on Jay had to take care of all the customer interactions while his father boxed dolls and counted change. The thump thump thump of the subwoofers was incessant. Irritating. Almost drowning out the agitated shouts coming from the entrance—Wait.
“¡Llega la pinche migra!”
Jay still felt an atavistic jolt of fear, even though his family was safe. ICE was here. They raided for counterfeit goods as well as immigration enforcement.
He didn’t have to warn Pilar and Arnulfo. They were already stuffing their T-shirts into duffel bags, moving with military precision. No panic on their faces, just grim determination.
“Good luck,” Jay said.
“Try going out the east-side loading dock if they’re watching the back,” Jay’s father said.
Two quick nods of gratitude and they were gone like ghosts.
It was about five minutes before ICE agents came up their aisle. The Gucci-Chanel stall vendors, who had taken way too long to pack up, were led away in handcuffs.
Jay noticed a packet of T-shirts lying on the ground and discreetly edged them under his chair.
“Hey,” an agent called out. He was a beefy white guy with ridiculously clichéd mirrored sunglasses. “You. Let me see those.”
Shit. “Those aren’t for sale,” Jay said. “We sell dolls. We’ve got reseller licenses.”
He loomed over the table now. “Lemme see.”
Jay gritted his teeth and put the packet on the table. On the front of the T-shirt, chola Betty Boop brandished a pistol in front of a lowrider Cadillac, and a cold anger filled his chest.
“That doesn’t look like it’s something Time Warner licensed,” the agent said.
“What the—Betty Boop isn’t Looney Tunes! I’m pretty sure she’s public domain. And I can’t believe we’re arguing about this. Don’t you have, like, terrorists to catch?”
“Que pendejo,” said his father. According to Jay’s older siblings, he’d been a by-the-book kind of man until retirement, when his respect for authority vanished entirely, along with his tact.
The agent stabbed his finger at Jay, who didn’t move an inch. “Did that guy just call me a pen-day-hoe?”
“No, dude, you’re paranoid. You need to lay off that confiscated weed.”
“That’s DEA. We’re ICE.”
“They’re all the same pendejos,” said Jay’s father.
“He did!” the agent shouted.
Jay wondered if the ambulance-chasing lawyer who’d handled his personal injury lawsuit would have enough legal firepower to extract them from a federal lockup.
Probably not. And oh fuck...he was supposed to see Paul tomorrow.
* * *
The hotel room was small and clean and nondescript, so filled with comfortable furniture that pacing back and forth would feel ridiculous. So Paul sat on the side of the bed and picked up the closest book at hand, which was, of course, the Bible in the nightstand. He leafed through the pages, not reading the book at all, just testing the feel of the onionskin pages.
The session with Adriana hadn’t ended well for him. He’d done his best to stay away from his studio since that night, only returning when he was exhausted and ready to sleep. Her presence had done something strange to the ambience. When she left, it went bad. Now being there set his teeth on edge.
Then Jay had booked a session. Paul’s mood had soared. Then Jay had canceled the session with a bizarre email, subject line Cockblocked by the Feds! and alternating waves of concern, bemusement and frustration dragged Paul right back down again. The core problem was being overinvested in the client relationship, obviously, but he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to fix that. He was good at controlling his emotions, but everyone had limits.
When Jay said he wanted to reschedule, Paul had quickly accommodated him. Even though the time edged onto a much more lucrative travel trip. Even though he didn’t understand why Jay wanted to meet in a hotel, especially one so bland and mid-range as this.
There was a knock at the door.
Paul set the Bible aside and went to answer it. With every step, he cleared his mind, not driving away his thoughts as much as leaving them behind. He accepted being here, in this body, in this room, this space that was so neutral it conformed to whoever filled it.
He was ready.
“Hi, Jay,” he said, and smiled to show his deep satisfaction at the sight of Jay. Jay, who twisted to one side and then froze, so high strung and full of energy that he seemed to vibrate without even moving a muscle. “Glad you could make it. Come in.”
Jay’s answering smile was quick and nervous and searingly beautiful while it lasted. He slipped into the room and leaned back against the wall as Paul closed the door. “I’m so sorry about canceling,” he said. “I feel terrible about it.”
“It’s all right.” Paul stepped closer, facing Jay. He laid his palms flat against the wall, one to the right of Jay’s head, one to the left of his waist, caging him in. Jay took a deep breath and tipped his face up, his dark eyes half-masked by heavy, thick-lashed eyelids. So emotionally responsive. Maybe he was happy to be so quickly forgiven.
Or maybe he just wanted to fuck.
Either, both—Paul was glad. He traced Jay’s jawline with the edge of his right hand, nice and slow. Jay’s chest rose and fell; he was wearing a thin cotton shirt that draped over his collarbones.
“Am I in charge now?” Paul asked. “You seem to like that.”
Jay’s lips twitched. On the second try he managed to speak. “Sure. I don’t like pain, or...well, names. Except for slut. In a nice way. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes,” Paul said patiently.
“But when you tell me what to do, that’s really fucking hot.” Jay’s eyes widened, opening to Paul, inviting him—look at me, look into me, I’m yours. Irresistible. “Do you want me to suck your cock? Like get down on my knees right now and suck you off? Give me a few minutes and I’ll work up to deep-throating. Or you can grab my head and go to town, I don’t mind.”
Paul laughed. “I love the mouth on you. Once you get started...”
“That’s how I got into trouble at the flea market. I mean, mouthing off, not, umm—”
Paul kissed his clever mouth, praising him wordlessly, then deepened the kiss, letting his hunger show. Cupping and stroking Jay’s throat. A need rose up inside Paul, a desperate need to know if the man in his arms felt anywhere near the same intensity of desire. Jay’s neck thrummed with a racing heartbeat—Paul could feel it pounding right there under the skin—and his mouth welcomed the kiss.
I need more. I need to know.
This wasn’t about what he needed.
Paul broke off the kiss. Jay tasted so damn good, he couldn’t bear to pull back all the way—he left their lips touching, their breath shared.
“That was great,” Jay said. Paul felt the words as much as he heard them, their vibrations, the way they made his throat tremble. “You’re an awesome kisser.”
“Thanks.” Paul didn’t have time to process that crazy flash of desperation. He was afraid it would hit him like a fist later, but for now, he was back in control. Or maybe a little pleasantly out of control, high off Jay’s own high. He stroked Jay’s neck some more, licked and gently bit at his bottom lip, enjoying the responding low moan. “You can get on your knees now. But I want you to take your time blowing me. Do it sweet and slow and look up every now and then, all right?”
“Okay.” One half of Jay’s smile was puppy-dog delighted. The other was teasing-knowing, as if to say oh yes I’ll take my time, you’ll see.
Jay sank to his knees and ran his hands down the sides of Paul�
�s jeans. Not making any move to unzip them yet, he leaned in and kissed the fly and the seam and looked up through heavy eyelashes, embodying some ideal vision of cocksucking promise—impossibly ideal, better than anything Paul had ever imagined.
Right here. Kneeling, worshipping. Fuck.
Paul unzipped, pulled out his dick, and, because he could tease too, fisted its stiff length slowly, inches away from Jay’s face. “How did Adriana get to be so good with her mouth?” he asked. “Did you teach her?”
“A few tips.” Jay’s hands gripped harder. “But she was always very oral. Like me. You want the two of us together again, don’t you?”
“I won’t lie. You’re my favorites.” He took his hand off and ran it through Jay’s thick, pin-straight silky hair.
Jay’s mouth enveloped him into heaven.
Paul willingly let his mind slip, allowing for a purer sensation. The tip of Jay’s tongue was alternately probing and pliable, hard and soft, but always circling, circling. And then Jay cupped Paul’s sac with his artful fingers and pressed the heel of his palm against the root of his pleasure. Sucking, stroking, circling, slick and wet and loving every second and grateful. Both of them.
Paul rested his forearm against the wall and leaned his head against his forearm so he could stare down at Jay’s rhythmically bobbing head. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a full load the first time,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you now, hmm? Fill you up.”
Paul could come right this fucking second, but no, he wanted to make this last the perfect time, until Jay’s lips were wet and a little swollen but his jaw wasn’t tired and he still had that eager light in his dark shining eyes.
Jay let out a stifled moan. At last, his tongue stopped circling. Come on, boy, Paul thought, and Jay did, pressing forward, impaling himself, gagging around Paul’s cock for just a second—don’t come don’t come oh fuck—before pulling back, breathing deeply, casting his eyes up at Paul as if for approval.
“You’re doing great. Lick my slit for a while, and then do that again.”
Jay set to work, the pink tip of his tongue flicking flower-pretty against the angry dark red of Paul’s cockhead, the feathering sensations setting off miniature explosions of pleasure for Paul. He touched Jay’s cheekbone. Felt Jay’s eyelashes beating against the back of his hand.
“You’re beautiful,” Paul growled. “So fucking—God.”
Jay swallowed him down. More tight-squeezed bliss. The texture of the back of his throat was slick satin, and Paul gloried in the privilege of experiencing that, of being so deep inside him. Jay’s throat convulsed, and he pulled back to breathe and suck and swirl as Paul petted his hair and whispered all the ways they’d fuck tonight.
After a few more tempting tries, Jay ended up deep-throating him like a champion, all the way—his face, with those amazing wet spiky eyelashes, pressed right up against Paul’s stomach.
Paul told him he was perfect, cradled his head, pulled back a little and came in his mouth, filling him according to promise, every nerve raw and screaming with joy. He pounded a fist against the wall as the last hot spurt emptied him out.
“Good?” he asked Jay, his voice broken but proud.
Jay swallowed down the thick mess of it, and licked Paul clean, and licked his lips, and looked up, and only then spoke. “Mm-hmm. Oh yes.”
Paul extended his forearm, as courtly as he could. Jay took it and raised himself up, unsteady and coltish. Jay’s face shone with uncomplicated happiness, his smile bright and searing as the sun, just like when he walked in the door, except it was so much worse now because, oh God, he was that much closer to walking out.
We still have time, Paul told himself.
They kissed again.
Chapter Nine
The restaurant ran like a well-oiled machine until a ten-person party of designer-suited drunks fired off a series of complicated orders. A waiter made a mistake. The expediter made another one. Chaos and discord roiled through the back of the house. Adriana felt the falling apart down to her bones, a low buzz-sawing whine, never fading.
“Who the fuck orders fucking gluten-free pasta? I’ll tell you! Fucking pussy-ass bitch-fags, that’s who,” the sauté cook yelled, steam on his stubbled face dripping down in fat beads.
“Eyes on the number four burner, asshole,” Adriana yelled back. “And shut the fuck up!”
Whether it was the tone of her voice or her knife tip pointed roughly at his heart, there was a rapid onset of shutting the fuck up at the sauté station, which gave her the headspace to swing around the corner and hammer out the problem with Terry, then run back to the salad station and take over for the cook she’d bumped to the fry station. The buffalo mozzarella was waiting on the cutting board, a big delicate lump exuding milky water and fresh goodness. She sliced it in half with a sure, rapid stroke.
Her knife didn’t go through.
When she’d cursed before, it was more for show, something expected of her—now, filled with white-hot rage, she clenched her fist tight around the knife and didn’t speak any words at all.
Sabotage. Someone had put a metal skewer in the mozzarella. Her precious Masamoto, the most expensive thing she owned, had a big chip in the blade. She’d heard of this before. It was a hazing trick for new chefs. Which she, of course, was not.
Steve. He had one of his friends do it.
She salvaged the mozzarella, finished the antipasti dishes, pushed this to the back of her mind. But she couldn’t help looking out of the corner of her eyes for telltale snickers. God, she felt like vomiting.
She didn’t panic. She never panicked. That’s why I do this, she reminded herself. Because I can.
As the rush died down, she ducked into the office and called Jay. At the first ring, though, she remembered he might still be with Paul, and hung up, hoping Jay would think it was the accidental call it was, not an emergency. She didn’t have time to process how she felt about the...session. Was it still called a session?
There was a crash from the kitchen. She set the phone aside and jumped into rescue mode.
At the end of the dinner rush, she checked her phone. Jay had sent her a picture of him and Paul, nothing X-rated, just headshots of them both smiling next to each other, smiling at each other but looking slightly toward the camera.
They looked happy, like lovers. It hurt a little. Only a little. Balance.
“Hey,” Graciela said. Adriana’s hand jerked and the phone flew up in the air, but she caught it a second later and stuffed it into her pocket. “Um, sorry—”
“It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just...you know how you said you could show me some stuff?”
“Oh yeah.” She remembered now. The knife skills. “Day after tomorrow would be good. I could pull you off the line for a whole hour, then.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Graciela said. She was looking down at her feet. They both wore stained black leather clogs. “They would say I was getting special treatment. You know. But maybe...I come to your place? Or you come to mine? I live in Downey. I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Adriana smiled. “Downey’s where I’m from, mostly. Sure. I get you. Let’s set it up at closing, okay?”
Graciela nodded gratefully.
When Adriana did another run-through of the stations, she didn’t look out of the corner of her eyes this time. The alluring image of Jay and Paul floated in the back of her mind, keeping the smile on her face and not allowing any room for dwelling on the Masamoto’s shameful chip.
It would take time, but she’d sharpen it out. In the meantime, Jay would be waiting for her at home.
* * *
“Send me a copy, too,” Paul said, and kissed Jay’s ear.
“Okay.” That entire side of Jay’s head tingled now, an awesome feeling
like whatever the opposite of the creepy-crawlies would be if it had a name. Electric stimulation, no batteries required. Wow, he was really out of it, and it wasn’t because of any painkiller.
He put the phone down on top of the Bible and eased himself into Paul’s waiting arms. They’d turned up the thermostat just enough so that lying naked together on top of the sheets was the most comfortable thing in the world. Paul’s body was fantastic to look at, hard and thick in all the right places without being bulky or musclebound, and even more fantastic to touch, tracing the lines and planes of quiet, densely coiled power. Paul had the kind of body Jay used to admire in underwear catalogs and furtively jerk off to under the covers, feeling vaguely guilty afterward because he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to fuck these men or be them, which of course wasn’t possible.
“By the way,” Paul murmured into his ear—Paul seemed to like his ears, very flattering, not to mention ticklish—“there’s no limit on what you can touch. Every part of me is available to you.”
“Okay,” Jay repeated, not really knowing how to respond to that in any verbal form, although his cock certainly responded. God, he couldn’t get any harder than this.
“I’ll even bottom. You can lie back and let me do all the work, ride you until you come. And then I’ll flip you over and rim your sweet ass and fuck you slow and hard. See? I do vanilla too, and I do it pretty well.”
“I don’t know if I’d call myself vanilla,” Jay countered, skimming his palm in circles over Paul’s flawless pectoral muscles. He remembered Paul’s listing saying 100 top, and warmed to the idea of attaining the seemingly unattainable.
“Cinnamon, then. Or caramel.” Paul licked and sucked at his ear, and just as Jay was about to complain—too much, I’ll laugh—licked down the side of his throat. Tasting him. Which was too much, in an entirely different way, and searing hot, never mind the ice cream metaphors.
“You’re objectifying my skin color,” Jay said in mock disapproval. “But you’re...you, so I don’t care. Just remember it’s not caramel, it’s dulce de leche.”