Tough Love

by Heidi Cullinan

  Though he did wonder about something else. “What’s Mitch’s better-than-love?”

  Randy snorted. “He and his slut-bunny husband are those disgusting nougat-center people who just flat out like being in love best. And fucking. Which, I gotta admit, is hot as all hell to watch.”

  Chenco, remembering the view beneath the curtain in the semi cab, blushed as he silently agreed.

  Randy’s eyes darkened, and so did his grin. “Somebody owes Uncle Randy a dirty story. Time for a tea break where you spill the dish. First, though, we’re buying those shoes.”

  “Yes.” Something deep inside Chenco eased as he said the word. He grinned, hugged the boots against his chest and laughed. “First we’re buying these shoes.”

  WHEN STEVE ARRIVED at the theater at six to pick up Chenco, he was surprised to find not only was Chenco not there, he hadn’t been in all day. He was in the middle of texting him when Ethan appeared and explained Chenco had gone off earlier in the afternoon with Randy.

  “To do what?” Steve demanded.

  “Randy things,” Ethan replied.

  Had they done another scene? Without telling him? No, one look at Ethan told him this wasn’t playtime, whatever Randy and Chenco were doing, but he couldn’t work out what the hell was going on. They stared at each other for several long seconds in silent communication, Steve telegraphing he wasn’t pleased, Ethan reflecting back he wasn’t exactly happy, either.

  “What’s going on?”

  Ethan’s expression didn’t change. “He came to me this morning, wanting to talk.”

  About you was heavily implied. Steve glanced around, half expecting to see angry big brother waiting in the wings. No Mitch, but the theater had quietly cleared out, and it was just the two of them now. Steve glanced up at the security camera and raised an eyebrow.

  Ethan waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not Crabtree, and you’re not going to end up as dry bones in the desert. But yes, I wanted to talk to you. Chenco is upset. We had a talk, but I don’t think I helped. Randy showed up, and from what I hear, they’re having a good time. Lunch. Shopping. Sam met them to collect their purchases, and now the three of them are on their way to a party, as I understand.”

  Randy things. Steve wanted to be annoyed, but the only person to blame was himself.

  Ethan seemed to agree. “He has this idea he’s somehow made a mistake and upset you, except he can’t think of what he’s done wrong. Thankfully he’s got enough presence of mind to realize if this were the case, you should have told him.” When this bald scrutiny got under Steve’s skin, Ethan bared his teeth—and then he really did look like Crabtree. “Don’t insult us both by saying this isn’t any of my business. I haven’t involved Mitch or Crabtree yet, for now.”

  “Crabtree already knows,” Steve confessed.

  Ethan’s expression turned grim. “That’s not a good sign. If he’s not actively pushing on you, he’s written you off.”

  Was Crabtree pushing Steve? He’d given him plenty to do on the security upgrade, but nothing else. Steve didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked away.

  Ethan sighed, frustration leaking out in the sound. “If you’re giving up, don’t stay here and fuck with Chenco.”

  Now Steve glared. “I’m not giving up.”

  “Then get your shit together.” Ethan put his hands on his hips, fanning out his suit jacket. “Is this about Gordy?”

  “Partly.” Steve pursed his lips and held up a hand. “Look, I’ve got this. You can stand down.”

  “The hell I can.” Ethan aimed a long, elegant finger at Steve’s chest. “I don’t know what’s going on, but consider me officially on a mission to find out. If Crabtree’s willing to invest in Chenco but will write you off, this is serious. I like you, and I know Randy and Mitch feel you’re family. You’re well on your way to being that for me. You can fight me if you like, but you won’t win. I won’t insult you by explaining why. You have my attention, Mr. Vance. What do you wish to do with it?”

  Steve drew a deep breath, pushed aside his pride and said, “I want to fix this.”

  “Good answer.” Ethan pulled out his phone, punched in a text then waited a second to see the reply. “I’m told I can bring you at nine.”

  “Where is he?” Steve asked, trying not to demand. “Where is Chenco?”

  “An old friend of Randy’s is having a leather party, and Chenco is there with him and Sam. We’re to come and bring Mitch.” Ethan glanced at his watch. “We’ll leave from the house at eight thirty, so you’ll want to get ready, perhaps grab a bite to eat. I’ll finish up here and join you shortly.”

  The idea of waiting two and a half hours to go to Chenco when something was clearly wrong made Steve crazy, but he did as he was told. He went back to the house and took another shower, standing with his eyes closed under the hot spray, calming himself down. He put on his side-laced leather jeans, his vest, and put a polish on his motorcycle boots. The black-and-white cat came in to supervise him, and while he glared at it, he didn’t kick it out, either. Be good, he told himself, and he tolerated the animal. If he convinced Chenco to stay with him, he’d have to get used to them eventually because Chenco wanted one. Chenco deserved to get what he wanted.

  Out on the patio, Steve lit up a cigar and settled in to wait. Mitch joined him before too long, looking good. Mitch favored Levi’s over leather jeans and stuck to his well-worn cowboy boots, but he wore chaps and a thick leather band on his left wrist. He accepted the cigar Steve offered him, though he murmured something about only a few days left under his breath. He sat lounging as he savored the initial bouquet.

  “Been a while since I put this getup on,” he said after a period of silence. He nodded at Steve. “Everything going all right with your work? No trouble with the location change?”

  “No trouble,” Steve said. Mitch was very carefully, he knew, not asking about Gordy. Steve sipped the mescal he’d brought out with him and passed the bottle and a clean glass over to Mitch.

  Mitch accepted but only poured a small finger of liquid. They spoke of idle things, Mitch reporting on some of the jobs he’d taken lately and ones he hoped to find in the future. The two of them were talking about moving in formally to Randy’s old house, renting at first and then maybe buying it. Steve listened as Mitch confessed how a faltering economy hurt a long-distance driver, how jobs had become tougher for Sam to find. How he wanted to settle somewhere for a bit, how Sam hated the desert but loved being near the boys. How Mitch hated being tied down but hated feeling like he wasn’t taking care of Sam and making him feel safe.

  Steve listened, and he let himself yearn. This is what I want, this struggle, this love, this life. I want it, and I want it with Chenco.

  Just before eight thirty, Ethan appeared, and Steve had to give an admiring smile when he saw Ethan Ellison in gear. He was in full leather—a close-fitting black polo with side vents and a line of grommets along the sternum, soft, elegant black leather jeans, and a pair of half boots looking as if they had come out of an Italian showroom.

  Ethan, however, frowned as he took the finger of mescal Mitch poured for him. “Mitch, does this outfit really work?”

  “Fuck yeah. Randy wouldn’t have picked it out for you if it didn’t. That boy knows poker and clothes like nobody I’ve ever met.” He leaned back in his chair and waggled his eyebrows at Steve. “From what I hear, he dressed our boys.”

  Steve could feel the other man watching him closely. He raised his glass in toast. “Then let’s go see what they look like.”

  They went in Ethan’s convertible, top down, and Steve took the backseat, letting the wind caress his skin. The party was in the historic district, so they had quite a bit of a drive ahead of them given evening traffic, and by the time they pulled into the neighborhood, it was almost nine thirty. As they parked on the street and walked toward the door, Ethan caught Steve gently by the elbow. “Are you doing all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Steve ground out. “I’m he
re to see Chenco.”

  “You’re here to have a good time with your friends and make new ones,” Ethan corrected, and led him inside.

  The house was as grand as Ethan and Randy’s, but it was an older home, its construction style dictating it was no newer than the 1960s. The whole first floor was nicely appointed in the same way any higher-end home would be—open seating plan, nice furniture, a sunken lounge area with an active bar off to the side. The guests were all men in leather, most with drinks in their hand as they chatted and milled about. There was a bit of everything—young twinks in short shorts and harnesses, older bears looking like aging Toms of Finland, bulked-up early thirty-somethings trying not to show they were still feeling their way around a whip.

  There were several men in puppy gear too, some on leashes and some bounding about with their paws. They were happy, playfully enjoying a role, a game, expressing themselves. None of them used the gear to hide, the puppy mask to terrorize. They were boys playing and nothing more. One stared at Steve, and it tugged at his heart, making him think of Gordy and what could have been. What should have been.

  Ethan introduced Mitch and Steve to their host, Ricky, a man who looked slightly younger than Crabtree and who boasted a harnessed bear cub on each arm. He welcomed them with a smile and a heavy wink as he suggested they head out to the pool area where he was fairly sure they’d find some pleasant entertainment.

  The entertainment, as it turned out, was Chenco and Sam.

  They stood on a platform constructed at the far end of the lawn, dancing to club music under soft spotlights. Sam wore tight leather boy shorts, a studded collar and heavy eye makeup, his hair looking like it had already been tousled by rough sex. Chenco was something of a foil. He wore a mix of brown and black leather—brown shoes, black captain’s cap with silver studs, brown suede vest, black fingerless leather gloves, brown chaps over dark jeans with a pouch designed to highlight the bulge of his cock. Like Steve, he wore no shirt under his vest, but he also sported a pair of nipple clamps with a long, silver chain between them.

  Chenco looked like an ad for the leather he wore, and he was beautiful.

  What caught Steve, though, was the way Chenco moved. He’d seen him dance a million times, but never before as a man. Heels and sequins, wigs—yes, but Chenco the man had not danced.

  The man danced now. Chenco held himself differently than Caramela—Steve could sometimes see the drag queen flickering on and off inside the boy, snapping his hips harder, making him bend deeper—but the dance was Chenco’s, not hers. He danced with a confidence that had nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with himself.

  Mitch’s husband was clearly halfway under his dancing partner. Chenco pulled Sam to him, and Sam melted against his brother-in-law, raising his hands and clasping them behind Chenco’s neck to let Chenco’s touch roam over his mostly naked body.

  He slid his hands over Sam’s skin, down his body, skimmed leather-clad hands down Sam’s bare thighs. Steve had seen Sam dance—on official dance floors and while he did the dishes—and he was no slouch, but next to Chenco he looked a little bit bumbling. Even here, Chenco was generous. He led Sam, easing him into the moves, altering his own undulations to match what Sam did. Sometimes Sam turned to him, and then they danced together, bodies merging, arms tangling. They were fluid, they were free.

  They were so far from the farce Steve felt inside, they made him ache.

  The song shifted, and while Chenco motioned for him to stay, Sam held up his hands in surrender, indicating Chenco should perform solo. The crowd cheered and called out requests. They were right on the edge of rowdy, which almost pulled Steve forward, but that was when Jansen stepped in, deftly pushing them back, checking on Chenco to make sure he was okay. Chenco didn’t seem upset—probably this was nothing compared to the crush at Club 33. He played the crowd, winking at them as he kept out of their reach. He struck poses, flashed nipple, tipped his hat rakishly and let his jaw hang slack while his mouth formed an inviting O. The crowd drank him in, hungry either to possess him or be him. Chenco handled them with grace and deftness, sliding into the next song with a smile.

  He was marvelous, he was beautiful—but it was the dancing that made Chenco beautiful, not the clothes. It was the naked, confident honesty, and it wrapped around Steve’s heart and held him like a vise.

  Except sometimes there was a flash, a moment of pain Steve only saw because of how closely he studied his lover’s face. Chenco continued to dance, his face lit, his smile bright. It took someone who knew him well to see beyond the mask.

  Was Ethan right? Was Chenco upset because of him? Was Steve the one who had given Chenco this pain?

  Was Chenco better off with him or without him? Bitterness choked Steve’s throat—what a dumb question. Absolutely Chenco was better off without him.

  Except as Steve watched Chenco dance, as he felt his own heart rising, aching to connect with the beautiful man before him, Steve acknowledged something else—he was not better off without Chenco.

  Chenco didn’t need Steve. But Steve needed Chenco.

  The impact of the realization made Steve sway on his feet, left him raw and open and terrified. When this had happened, he wasn’t sure, but happen it had. He didn’t simply prefer being with Chenco, he wasn’t sure how he could exist without him. Going back to McAllen, going anywhere without Chenco as part of his future, left him feeling so hollow and bleak he couldn’t let his mind wrap around the concept. He didn’t know how to be on his own.

  He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be with Chenco.

  I want you. I need you, Chenco.

  The song ended. Steve went to the edge of the stage, in a daze, grateful when Chenco came to meet him. He was stiff, uneasy. And hurt.

  Steve took him by his hands, squeezing them tight. “You’re beautiful. Amazing.”

  I love you.

  Chenco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Steve, we need to talk.”

  “Yes.” Let me fix this. Let me make this right, because I have to make it right.

  Chenco smiled again, a real one this time, and the gesture was like a sun to Steve.

  Maybe this will work out. Maybe I really will be able to fix this, to make him happy, and everything will be okay.

  Before Steve could speak, though, Chenco’s smile faded, his expression first surprised, then wooden.

  Steve turned to follow his lover’s gaze and saw one of the puppies had come up beside them, hood pulled back to reveal a wild, flushed, and angry face.

  It was Gordy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  EVEN BEFORE STEVE’S whisper of the man’s name, Chenco had known this was Gordy. Who else could he be, to make Steve so tired, scared, and guilty? As Chenco watched the silent interplay between the two men, he saw the same quiet torture Steve underwent every time he spoke of his friend.

  This was what had Steve so distant, Chenco realized.

  He wasn’t what Chenco had expected, and for a moment he could only stare at the small, squat man with wild eyes and hard jaw. The way Steve had described his friend, Chenco expected someone sad and pathetic, but that wasn’t who stood before him now. This man had a wickedness, a coldness to his gaze that froze Chenco’s blood. It wasn’t a desperate soul facing Steve down, glaring with seething hate at Chenco.

  This wasn’t a poor soul at all. This was the devil himself.

  Mitch and Randy appeared, flanking the scene, and once Gordy saw them, he transformed from a short, scruffy little man with a neat beard into an animal, screaming wild accusations of being held against his will, of torture, rape, every dramatic piece of bullshit he could spout.

  For a heartbeat Chenco doubted, wondering if he was projecting. He watched Gordon struggle, alternating between rage and pleading. No—there was no question. This guy played Steve, plucking his strings until they threatened to break. Maybe Gordon wasn’t entirely healthy, but he knew what he was doing. Chenco did too. He’d seen this nasty creature many, man
y times, had known him intimately.

  He’d lived with a man like this, after all.

  Gordy wasn’t a poor, broken, pitiful thing. Gordy was a monster. An asshole. A user, an abuser, a selfish son of a bitch who enjoyed tearing other people down. In a way neither Chenco nor Mitch could ever be, Gordy was the son of Cooper Tedsoe’s heart, a cold-hearted abuser down to his core. This was an Oscar-level performance for sure. But there wasn’t any question in Chenco’s mind. This was an act. This was a game.

  This was fucking ending right now.

  As Mitch and Randy dragged Gordon off, helped by a cache of burly leathermen, Chenco stopped them, stepping into their path and meeting Gordy’s gaze. He watched the man still, seeing him, measuring him.

  Chenco channeled his father and gave Gordy a cold, ruthless smile.

  I know you. He didn’t dare speak the words out loud, but he willed Gordy to hear the furious vows of his heart. You can fool them all you want, but I know you. I’m stronger than you.

  I will never let you have him again.

  Gordy swore, spit, and kicked. Randy reached out to pull Chenco away, but Chenco had already stepped clear. He walked backward, aiming a finger at Gordy before turning on his heel, putting heavy sass into his hips as he sauntered off, Gordy sputtering in rage behind him.

  Chenco smiled.

  But then he saw Steve standing off to the side, ashen, visibly shaken. Smile faltering, Chenco found Sam and drew his friend aside, ducking to his ear so Steve couldn’t overhear them. “I need to get him out of here.”

  Sam produced keys from his pocket. “I have my bike, but you still haven’t finished your lessons.”

  No, Chenco hadn’t, and he was sorely sorry now that he only sort of knew how to drive a motorcycle. Grimacing, he took the keys. “I’ll fake it. Maybe it’ll distract him, the way I lurch and hesitate all over the street.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Sam brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Call if you need anything. And good luck.”