by Tara Lain
“Probably best to keep him far from Michaela.”
“Probably.”
As they approached the taco stand, Eddie waved. “Hey, Wendell, man. Cómo está?”
“Good, Eddie. We need food. This is my friend Peter, and I’ve told him that no one in New York makes better tacos than you.”
“Nothing but true, man. I’ve got some great enchiladas and chiles rellenos today too.”
“We need it all.”
“You feeling flush?”
Wen glanced at Peter. “Maybe a little. True. Maybe a little.”
Wen gazed in the small display case at drinks while Eddie boxed up the meals.
Beside him, Peter gasped.
Wen turned to look at him, and Peter’s eyes stretched wide as a fawn. Wen glanced around. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, uh, nothing. I just thought I saw someone I know, but I was wrong. I mean, I must be wrong.”
“Why?”
Peter turned toward him and seemed to be forcing a smile. “Because the person I thought I saw wouldn’t be in this neighborhood.”
“It sure doesn’t seem like you’re anxious to see this person, whoever it is.”
Eddie reached down from the taco truck with the first two boxes, and Peter grabbed them. “Yeah, well, that would be right.”
Tink—aka Tiffany Kingston, although practically nobody knew that—stomped her way toward Neverland. She’d gone home with the Boys, but they refused to understand why Peter was in trouble. They just brushed her off like she was a firefly and talked about music and girls and other boy crap. Dammit, Peter could get sucked in. He was already half drowning in profane commercialism, and his light was dimming. But the Boys didn’t see it. They’re just excited about him making a bunch of money so they can all buy beer.
She wrapped her checkered shawl around her and slipped past Gregor the doorman with a wave. She got in because she was a Lost Boy—sort of. They let her hang out on the stage with them, pound the tambourine, and sing background because she made them look weirder, and at Neverland, weird counted.
The place wasn’t officially open yet, and the bartenders rushed around stocking beer and hauling ice. On Saturday night Neverland hosted so many people of so many different colors, languages, and styles, they could’ve been their own small country.
Tink headed for the stage to check the sound system. On Fridays and Saturdays, they had an opening act before the Boys. She didn’t like them messing with their stuff.
A hand clamped on her shoulder, and she spun with her fists clenched. “Getoffme!”
Vadon Hooker threw his hands up and laughed. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”
She gave him a mean look. I don’t trust the dude for five feet, but man, he’s a looker.
“How’s our lovely Tink tonight?”
“Howdoyathink?”
“Angry and upset from what I’ve seen.”
She crossed her arms.
“Anything you want to tell Uncle Vadon?”
“No.”
“Oh?” He mirrored her crossed arms. “Nothing about our baby Peter hanging out with that pretty, uptight business type who our boy said was hassling him but who doesn’t seem to be so unpleasant to him after all?”
“Howdoyouknowthat?” She got up in his face.
“Noneofyourbusiness.” He stuck his face an inch from hers and snorted. He stood again and ran a hand over his smooth dark hair. “Would you like a drink, Tink?” He chuckled at the rhyme.
She shrugged. She kind of did want one, but—
He smiled, put a hand on her waist, and walked her to the bar. “Hey, RJ, give Tink whatever she wants. What do you like, dear?”
“Beer’sokay.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a champagne cocktail?”
“Champagne?” She could feel her eyes lighting up and stared at her shoes.
“Um-hm. Give her one, RJ.”
The bartender looked surprised, but Hooker got what he wanted. That was kind of worrisome, but umm, champagne. She’d hardly ever had it.
RJ set the stemmed glass in front of her, the bubbles floating up in the pinkish liquid. A cherry perched on the rim.
Tink didn’t want to grin, but she did.
Hooker extended a finger and pushed the glass a tiny bit closer. “Drink up.”
She grabbed the glass very carefully. Don’t want to spill any. Staring at the level of the liquid so it didn’t slosh, she brought it to her lips and slowly stuck her tongue in it. O. M. G. Fizzy, a tiny bit sweet, a little bitter, utterly enchanting. She sipped and her eyes closed all by themselves. Wow, wow, wow.
“You like it?”
She grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll have to see you get some more.”
“Youwill?” Her eyes widened.
“Of course. You add so much to the club with your talent and sense of style.”
“Ido?”
“Of course.” He leaned on the bar and looked at her sideways. “Plus we share a mutual concern for Peter. We don’t want that boy getting sucked into trash world, right?”
“Soright!” She took another sip. Man, wish this was a bottomless glass.
“I mean, he probably had enough of that as a kid, right? Doesn’t he strike you as someone who grew up smothered in stuff? You know, like a rich kid or something?”
She shook her head sharply. “Don’tknowdon’tthinkso.”
“So what’s he doing hanging out with this trash-world-type guy? That’s not our Peter. What’s this guy doing to him?”
She sucked in a breath, which pulled bubbles into her nose and made her sneeze, and that spilled a tiny bit of her precious remaining liquid. “Shit!” She glanced up at Hooker. “Hejustlikesthekids.”
“Kids?” Hooker’s eyes got kind of bright and glassy.
“Gottagocheckthesound.” She set the glass on the bar, still containing a tiny bit of champagne, and she so wanted to drink it down, but that made sure he’d win, and she didn’t like the look in his eyes. Twirling, she powered across the still empty dance floor. No, she didn’t like that look—at all.
“Man, those are good tacos.” Peter chewed and licked his fingers at the same time.
John gave him a conspiratorial glance. “Eddie makes the best.”
“I’m a member of the Eddie fan club.” He picked up his second taco, which followed his second enchilada. He glanced at Wen, who was watching the kids, probably to be sure they ate enough. It was weird being in a real home where one person was like a parent and felt responsible for the children. Peter and the Boys and Tink all hung together and shared stuff, but no one was really in charge. They looked out for each other, but it wasn’t the same as being taken care of. What would that be like? Of course, if you let someone care for you, they got power over you. Peter shuddered.
Michaela daintily wiped her mouth. “Do you think you’ll finish the painting tomorrow, Peter?”
“Yep. All indications point to it. I never quite know what’s going to happen next in my paintings, but I think it can’t take more than another day.”
She picked up the plate she’d served the tacos on and carried it to the kitchen, saying ever so casually, “Do you think your friends will come back to help you get everything home?”
He glanced at Wen in time to catch the frown line that popped between his eyes. “I think Samu will come over. The others didn’t really help. They just showed up.”
John leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach so it sounded like a drum. “I sure hope we get to hear the Lost Boys play sometime soon.”
Peter said, “Could happen, but the only place their instruments are set up is Neverland. I mean, Samu plays keyboards, and he can’t really bring them here.”
“Maybe we could go to Neverland.” John drank down the last of his milk.
“Not old enough.”
“They aren’t open during the day.” He said it with a huge grin that featured more than one shred of
lettuce.
Wen looked up sharply. “Quit lobbying, John. Peter and his friends have enough to do without setting up private shows for boys who don’t know when to be grateful for what they have.”
John stared at his plate. “Sorry, Peter.”
He looked up and Peter gave him a wink, which restored his good humor immediately.
Chapter Nine
Wen grabbed plates and started walking them toward the sink. “Want to watch a movie before bed?”
John yelled, “Yes. What’s your favorite movie, Peter?”
Oh dear. He’d better not say Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Think fast. “I really like Tarzan.” That was true. Hell, who could deny Alexander Skarsgård’s chest?
“I haven’t seen that.”
“We could probably find it to rent?” He looked up at Wen, who nodded.
Twenty minutes later, they’d all pitched in to clean up the kitchen, made a huge pan of popcorn, and were clustered around the TV as Alexander’s clothing got scantier. Fortunately a lot of animals and action occurred at the same time, so John stayed enraptured. He especially loved the moment when Tarzan got down on all fours and rubbed and nuzzled the lions. Michaela looked pretty enthralled with the hero and the romance. Something for everyone. That included him, because he’d somehow managed to end up on the couch next to Wen with John on Wen’s other side. Every time John leaped up in enthusiasm or grabbed for more popcorn, the lumpy couch cushions tilted, pushing Wen a little closer to Peter.
Two-thirds of the way through the film, as beautiful Jane fell more and more into jeopardy and John expressed his hatred for the bad guy more enthusiastically, Peter’s thigh pressed full-length against Wen’s. Wen’s heat oozed up Peter’s leg to his dick and sent tendrils of electricity zinging into his balls. A couple of times he actually jumped and pretended it was because of Tarzan’s dire straits. But the fact was, he hadn’t had sex in, well, call it a while, and he couldn’t get the sweet taste of Wen’s lips out of his mouth. The closer Wen got, the stronger his scent of lemongrass with a little underlying tinge of musky sex filled Peter’s nose and his brain.
Peter stared at the screen as John cheered and Michaela quietly wiped her shiny eyes. Why the hell am I lusting after this dude who buys art for peanut butter campaigns? Hell, why am I selling him art? He breathed out slowly and let his eyes shift sideways so he could see Wen in his peripheral vision. Serious. Wen seemed to be enjoying the movie, but he was still tense, like something not appropriate for the kids might suddenly come up. Jesus, he never relaxed. How does he have any fun?
Finally the movie ended and the popcorn was gone.
Wen said, “Okay, John, time for bed.”
“Aww. Is Peter staying?” He looked up. “Are you staying, Peter?”
“Uh, yes. If it’s okay. That way I can paint tomorrow morning.”
“I could sleep in with Peter, Wen. Then Michaela could have my room all to herself. I could put my sleeping bag on the floor. Okay?” He stared at Wen, wide-eyed. Would Wen say yes?
“No, John. You’re not going to crowd Peter.”
“Aw, Wen.” He screwed up his face and crossed his arms.
Peter said, “Actually, you shouldn’t breathe the paint fumes. I’m used to it, but it could make you sick.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It will dissipate quickly after I take the paints away, but right now it’s not the best for sleeping.”
“Oh. Okay.” Head hanging, he trudged toward the bedrooms.
“How about if I come back and talk with you after you get in your pajamas, okay?” Peter smiled when John’s face broke into dimple craters.
A couple of minutes later, he walked back and sat on the edge of the bed, where Michaela would sleep later. John lay on top of a sleeping bag he’d rolled out on the rug. Peter said, “So, what would you like to talk about?”
John shrugged.
“What do you like to do when you’re not in school?”
“I like acting.”
“Really? That’s kind of unusual. What kind of acting?”
“Plays mostly. I go to a performing arts school, and I get private acting lessons sometimes.” He stared at his hands. “When we can afford it.”
“How long ago did your parents—” He stopped. Maybe it was too painful to say anything about John’s parents?
“Die? Two years ago, when I was nine, my dad died. My mom was still alive, but we never saw her. Then she died, I guess.”
“So Wen’s been taking care of you for two years?”
“No. Longer, really. When my dad was alive, he mostly worked to try to make enough money for us to live, so Wen was always in charge.”
“What about your mom?”
He shrugged again. “She was…” He sighed. “She was kind of bad at being a mother.” He looked up. “But she was pretty and funny and interesting.” He smiled a little as if those things mattered to him, but he glanced toward the door like maybe he didn’t want Wen to hear him say it. “Where are your folks?”
Peter startled a little. Didn’t see that coming. “Uh, they live in a different state, and I haven’t seen them in a long time.”
His eyes widened. “Really? But didn’t you live with them when you were little?”
“Yes, for a while. Then I went away to school and didn’t see them much after that.”
“Wow, that must have been some kind of weird school.”
Change this fucking subject. “So are you in a play now?”
John still looked very curious, but he accepted the deflection. “Yes, I’m in West Side Story.”
“You sing and dance?”
“Yes.” He snapped his fingers in rhythm.
“Which gang are you in?”
He flattened his lips. “Are you kidding? Who’d believe I’m a Shark? I’m a baby Jet. The high school kids get most of the best roles.”
“You’ll be there soon.”
“I hope I grow.”
Peter ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry. You will. You’re bigger than I was at your age.”
“Hmm. Compared to Samu, that’s not saying much.” He grinned.
“Derp.” Peter stood. “Scoot in. Time to sleep.” John slid into the sleeping bag and let Peter tuck it up to his neck. Funny. John was taller than Peter had been but seemed younger than Peter remembered being at eleven. Being cared for and about probably kept you younger. “Night.”
“Night, Peter. Can’t wait to see the finished painting.”
“I can’t wait to see it either.” Laughing, he walked out and pulled the door partway closed.
After a few more minutes of TV, Michaela said she was tired, and Peter echoed her. Peter yawned grandly. “I think I’ll tuck myself in.”
Michaela said, “Is it really okay to sleep with that paint smell? It is pretty strong.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Wen walked in, drying his hands from where he’d been washing the popcorn bowl. “If it’s not comfortable for Peter, I’ll let him sleep on the couch, and I’ll put the two chairs together.”
She gave him a sideways look. “Oh, good idea. Of course, you’ll probably fall through on your butt, but good idea.”
Peter snorted. He hadn’t heard her sound like a teenage girl much.
Wen raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll try John’s sleeping bag strategy. Let’s not worry about it until Peter tells us he’s dying of asphyxiation.”
“That could be too late.” She laughed and kept giggling as she disappeared into the same bedroom as John.
Peter glanced at Wen, who looked—serious, as usual. “So I guess I’ll turn in.”
“Okay.” He didn’t quite meet Peter’s gaze. Sort of a bouncing of eyes.
Peter hesitated for another few seconds. Maybe he’ll say something to keep me in here.
Nope.
“Okay, well, good night.” He used the hall bathroom, then walked into the bedroom where he’d painted all day, stripped to his boxer briefs, and crawled
between the sheets. Fuck.
He’d gotten all the way to deep breathing when the door opened.
Peter tensed.
“It smells awful in here,” Wen whispered.
“I really am used to it,” he whispered back.
“But I’m not.”
Uhh—?
“And I’m going to be crawling in next to you unless you come out to the couch with me.”
He slowly sat up. “What if one of the kids comes out of the bedroom?”
“They won’t, but I put a sleeping bag on the couch along with some blankets. Camouflage.”
“Planning ahead?”
“Might be.” He grinned. “Remember how you said I looked like I needed kissing?”
Peter half smiled. “Yeah.”
Wen held up a hand. “Back atcha. Now it’s your turn.”
Peter’s face wanted to frown. He controlled it. What’s wrong with what he said? It’s what I said to him. He just wants to pay me back. But maybe it’d be fun to feel a little of that caring he threw around so readily.
Quietly they slipped into the hall and padded to the living room. Peter shivered in his briefs and his skin. Wen hadn’t turned on a light, but in the glimmer of the streetlights shining into the apartment windows, Peter could see the multiple layers of blankets on the couch. Maybe his brain wanted Wen to be dying to kiss and hold him, but Peter’s cock didn’t care what his motivations were. Just the promise of some action of some kind made it poke out the top of his briefs and strain the waistband for space. I wish I didn’t think he was doing this just to pay me back for a little friction.
Wen made a bow and sweep of the arm at the couch.
Peter walked toward it and paused. Without turning, he said, “Are you sure you really want to do this? I mean, we can just sleep.”
“Do what?” Wen chuckled.
Peter blew out his breath. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”
Quiet except for a little rustling.