The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  “Watch it!”

  “Fuck yourself.” Ricky wasn’t taking crap off anyone, and to make his point, he grabbed the man’s partner for a blistering kiss, noticing only when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder that he had someone he knew smashed against his chest.

  “It’s okay.” Logan made no attempt to get away. “Leave him be.” He came back for an equally intense version of Ricky’s attack and snaked an arm around Ricky’s waist. “All that time together behind a locked door today—you could have had this earlier.”

  “Didn’t want it then.” Ricky let go abruptly, not making any attempt to steady Logan, who had to hold tighter not to stagger. “Not sure I want it now.” He pulled away, shoving Logan toward the other man and not pausing to see if Logan kept his feet.

  There in the corner at their usual table lounged a few of his posse. Ricky flung himself into the booth and snagged a chicken wing off the plate. Kip materialized, waiting while Ricky stripped the meat from the bone and swallowed. “Better get another plate of these.” His companions’ faces brightened, then split into grins when Ricky continued, “And another pitcher, good stuff, not this shit, and some potato skins.” So what if that menu suggested to the boys that all was not well in Ricky’s world? Fuck ’em. Well, he would, but not until he’d eaten. He ripped apart the last chicken wing and slipped the bones between his teeth, bringing gulps and stares from his companions. He’d wash it all down with the beer, and meanwhile, he’d scout the action some more.

  Being barbecue-sauced to the third knuckle wasn’t going to interrupt his hunt—washing it off still brought opportunities. The guy with gel-spiked bleached hair who held a condom up between index and middle fingers and grinned at him in the mirror was a candidate until Ricky thrust his now-clean hand into the guy’s groin and decided he didn’t like what he found. Or maybe it was the condom as invitation: condoms made him think of Jon, and he didn’t want to think of the one man who’d turned him down. Damn him for leaving, damn him for arguing, damn him for not being putty in Ricky’s hands and going along with the plan. Damn him for wanting consistency. Damn him for saying “no” before Ricky’d come. Damn him… for not being here now. Damn him.

  Stalking through the dancers and the onlookers, gripping this one’s ass and pulling that one’s head back by the hair for unfettered access to neck or jaw, Ricky searched for the one who’d scratch his itch tonight. He wasn’t so far gone in his wrath that he failed to notice that some men moved into his path, others moved out of it, but he was big, muscular, and well-known enough that no one tried to stop him, though Georgie Boy did play “Hungry Like the Wolf,” laughing huskily into the microphone on the start. Kip met him halfway around the room with a drink in his hand and an imploring look on his face.

  “Got something for you; come sit down and sip it,” Kip begged. “On the house—it’s that lemon vodka you like.”

  “What else is on the house tonight, Kip?” Ricky downed the vodka in two gulps with one arm around the server. “You gonna come improve my mood?”

  “Love to.” Kip’s eyes were wide, with white showing. “But I’m on shift.”

  “Yeah, yeah, everybody’s got a prior commitment.” He didn’t miss the pleading look Kip cast over his shoulder, whether at the manager for a long break or for a bouncer to come remove the momentarily stationary problem patron. The icy-hot alcoholic burn down his gullet calmed him enough to recall that getting tossed out would slow him getting his ashes hauled. “I’ll put a lid on it out here for you.”

  “Thanks, Ricky.” Kip ran a hand up and down Ricky’s back, hesitantly at first but with more firmness as Ricky calmed. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He threaded his fingers through Kip’s hair and brought him close for a kiss, much more gently than he’d handled any of the others. “Just fine.”

  Of course he was fine, once he remembered he was there to get laid, not to find twu wub or even five minutes of conversation. Ricky headed for the backroom, issuing tossed-head invitations every few steps. Quite the gaggle followed him. Once he’d found, or maybe created, a clear area next to the wall, hands reached to him: stripping, peeling, stroking hands, hands from everyone who could find a spot close enough to touch. He didn’t look at their faces, just let them take his shirt off, lifting his arms and feeling the cool air kiss his skin, followed by hot mouths and more hands. Someone knelt at his feet, unbuttoning his fly and lowering his zipper, finding his hard cock. Wet heat engulfed him, and only that mattered, soft tongue against soft skin, firm pressure against hard flesh.

  More wet heat found Ricky from the back; someone, he didn’t know who, nor did he care, nipped and nuzzled his buttocks, finding the way to the center and seeking the hidden target. Ricky bent to let the unknown have better access, glorying in the licking and probing that matched the sucking and bobbing in front. Little Dustin was close to hand—his best charm at the moment was being the right height for Ricky to lean against. And one more way to play: Ricky leaned on Dustin’s shoulder to unfasten his jeans.

  Dustin was well-hung for a short guy; Ricky wrapped his hand around the little guy’s cock, playing him to some rhythm that intermittently matched what was going on before and behind. All his senses full, his mind floating in the haze of the stimulation, Ricky stopped thinking and gave himself over to feeling.

  So lost was he that when the licking in back stopped, only to be replaced with pressure, he didn’t object, didn’t ask who, what, or whether there was latex between them. In, in, shoving him full, pulling out again and sliding back, hands on his hips and a mouth at his neck, a warm open throat to take him deep, Ricky questioned nothing, only felt the orgasm rise. The orgasm that had been denied, spoiled earlier, now came back with a vengeance, propelled by every man who touched him in any way, and he had to cry out with every pulse and thrust. Only the hands that had stroked and caressed before kept him from falling now, and he staggered against Dustin, nearly bringing them both to the floor. The hands at his hips didn’t let him fall; steadied by the man who sucked his pleasure down, steadied by the man who pounded him from the back, Ricky kept his feet, but barely. Grunts and gasps from behind said Ricky’s unknown partner was on the brink of his own orgasm, and then he came, jammed deep and cursing.

  Dustin had come somewhere in there, leaving stickiness for Ricky to find when he caressed the head of the man who’d sucked his cock—the only thanks the guy, talented as he was, would get. Ricky wanted to keep puddles out of his clothing; gripping the condom on his partner prevented accidental messes. Reaching around behind before they disengaged, Ricky couldn’t find the sheath. “Did you use a rubber?”

  There’d be hell to pay later if the guy hadn’t, and so it was only slightly reassuring to hear a too-familiar voice tell him, “Yeah, I did.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  MORNING meeting again—Jon listened to the others’ plans, volunteering that he expected to take his profits soon on Orewatt. “I’ve ridden it down about as far as I want to. There could be a dead cat bounce, and that would cost me some bucks for the next project.” The lascivious look from across the room wrenched him; Ricky expected to have their traditional “successful trade party” on the couch. Jon’s profits would be enormous, his position on top. He didn’t want to meet Ricky’s eyes in front of everyone, lest he confirm their expectations that the executive washroom would be locked for a while this afternoon.

  Kate might as well have announced that instead of saying, “Oh, I think I’ll close out my airlines positions next week.”

  At least Logan didn’t comment outright, though the corners of his mouth lifted knowingly. Too knowingly, and his gaze on Ricky was nearly proprietary. Ricky turned his head to speak to Kate, showing a dark bruise above his collar.

  All the frustrations Jon had tried to work out in the gym last night came back. Had he made his mistake in leaving, or had his true mistake been in getting involved with Ricky at all? Now, looking at the man, he remembered why he’d risked becomi
ng lovers with someone who might as well have had “I will hurt you” written across his forehead.

  Logan met Jon’s eyes, and his face was a conspirator’s. Flicking a glance to Ricky, he dropped one eyelid partway, and did that quick tip of the head that said, Nice, huh? No. Not nice at all—Jon wouldn’t look at either of them again.

  The memories persisted after the meeting broke up and Ricky joined Jon in the office, behind a well-closed door.

  The greeting was long and unquotable. Ricky gathered Jon against his chest and kissed him, sweetly, tenderly, with little lippings and lickings, small nuzzlings that grew into something that threatened to break Jon’s heart. “I’m sorry, Jonny, I shouldn’t have said all that crap and I missed you all night long.” Ricky’s nose bumped gently into the side of Jon’s, and his tongue stroked soft requests for entry between Jon’s lips. Torn between taking everything Ricky offered and his own self-preservation, Jon pulled back. He touched the hickey, making Ricky flinch.

  “Did Logan do this?”

  Ricky shrugged. “Might have.”

  Heart sinking, Jon tried not to imagine how Ricky couldn’t know. “How many?”

  Another shrug. “We had a condom.”

  “You’re killing me, Ricky.” He dropped his forehead to Ricky’s shoulder, unwilling to look him in the face.

  “It was just sex.” Ricky’s cheek slid against his hair, warm, tender. “I’m back.”

  “I can’t do this, Ricky.” He couldn’t let go, but he couldn’t stay with the man who could say that.

  “Come to Fire Island with me for the weekend.” Ricky drew his fingers up and down Jon’s spine. “I still want you to come.”

  “No. I’ll only have to see the smirks and the disappointment on everyone else who’s been there on other weekends. I can’t do it.” Logan’s face this morning hadn’t looked so different from the man who’d caught them coming out of the shower—Jon couldn’t bear to see that again.

  “We’ll have fun, Jonny, we will,” Ricky coaxed. “We’ll walk on the beach and ignore everyone else.”

  “No.” His refusal would probably weigh more if he wasn’t holding on to Ricky like he was drowning, but this might well be the last time Jon would ever embrace this quicksilver man who had, for close to two years, alternately tormented him and made him deliriously happy.

  “Why not?”

  “You have a hickey on your neck the size of a quarter, which I didn’t give you, and you ask that?” Jon lifted his head to look again at the mark that symbolized everything wrong between them.

  Gentle fingers combed through Jon’s straight blond hair—a strong arm held Jon firmly against Ricky’s body, so warm, so hard, so… frequently touched by others. “You haven’t made an issue of my wandering ways.”

  “Every time I do, you shoot me down. You use ‘monogamy’ like a dirty word—you had to have heard me, you have to know that I want it to be just us, and you still….” Jon wouldn’t put it into words, only touched the dark bruise that peeked above Ricky’s collar.

  “Did you have….” Jon stopped, uncertain how to end that. A good time? To do that? “To do it with Logan?”

  “I’m not entirely sure I did.”

  “He sure thinks so.” Logan had acted like he and Jon were both members of some club this morning.

  “If I can’t even be certain, he doesn’t count, and if he thinks it will happen again, he’s wrong.” Ricky was dismissive now, but when the itch took him and Logan was handy? What then? “I come back to you every time, Jon. You’re the one I return to, it’s like the regression to the mean—I may wander, but I come back.” Gentle fingers along Jon’s jaw announced Ricky’s return.

  Jon had told himself things like that before, reassured himself that he was the one constant in Ricky’s eclectic social life, but it was no consolation. Ricky still went with other people, and that, in the end, was all that mattered. “You still leave, for a night, for a weekend, but you leave.”

  “You were the one who left last night.” Ricky drove a spike into a vulnerable spot.

  “I didn’t leave you for someone else; I went home. But you—” Jon pushed against the hickey, drawing a little hiss from Ricky. “You’re doing who knows what with who knows who, and I can’t deal with that anymore. I love you, but I can’t let you keep hurting me.”

  “You’ve never said you loved me.” Serious deep brown eyes from close range showed Ricky’s confusion.

  “Would it have made a difference? Or only been one more bar in your ‘cage’?” Sudden anger colored his voice—Jon was quite sure that baring his soul would have only sent his Casanova running.

  “I—don’t know.” Ricky let his arms drop to his sides.

  “That’s an answer. Get out of here, Ricky. Logan’s waiting, the whole world’s waiting for you; don’t let me keep you.” Jon stepped back and gestured sharply toward the door. “Go make some trades. At least I know you care about that, and money doesn’t care whose pocket it’s in.”

  “Jon—”

  “Just go.”

  He watched Ricky leave with shoulders down and commanded himself not to follow.

  UNBELIEVABLE. Jon loved him? No, that wasn’t the biggest shock—Ricky thought Jon might have felt a lot more than he’d ever admitted to, but—Jon told him to leave. But—leave for now? For an hour? A day? Until the hickey faded? Until monogamy was a real option? Ricky nearly collapsed into the big executive chair and put his head in his hands, elbows on the desk.

  Or did Jon mean forever?

  He shouldn’t have gotten so angry about an innocent relationship; he shouldn’t have tried so blatantly to maneuver Jon. He shouldn’t have spent the evening with Logan and Dustin and with… with…. Who had blown him? Who had given him the hickey? Didn’t matter: Jon hadn’t.

  Jon had just told him that he’d taken one risk too many, that he’d blown up. Lost more than he could afford to lose. Jon’s cologne clinging to his hands was all that he had left, and once the vetiver and citrus scent was gone, it might never be replenished. Ricky inhaled it now, trying to will everything since the last subway ride home undone.

  The one thing that Ricky had never considered to be truly possible had come to pass after all. Jon had said, “No more.” In their time together, Jon had welcomed him back, never thrown a fit over his escapades, only gently suggested that they should stop. Suggested that he’d rather they be exclusive. Never demanded, never issued an ultimatum.

  Jon hadn’t done that now. He’d only said, “Enough,” and Ricky hadn’t seen it coming.

  The rare event had happened.

  DWIGHT waited at his desk for Jon to call him; after seeing the set of Ricky’s shoulders on his way from one office to the other, Dwight wasn’t about to intrude. If Ricky looked like he’d been hit with a steamroller, either Jon did too, or Jon was the steamroller. Besides, a large stack of papers still needed attention.

  The day was considerably advanced when Jon called Dwight in. “Are we sorted on what we want for the put menu?” he asked.

  Handing over a legal pad covered with figures, Dwight avoided looking at Jon’s face. All was not well there, but it was none of his business. Oh, he’d like it to be his business. He’d do about anything to or for Jon, but… Jon was one of the cool guys, and they never wanted anything from the Dwights of the world except maybe a quick blowjob. Jon hadn’t asked for that, nor did Dwight think he ever would, and Dwight couldn’t really offer that or anything else, not even a little comfort to take that haggard look off his face.

  “If we assemble a range on NovoFin, going from 60 down to about 25 over six months, we could make quite a bit from the price drop.” Okay, Dwight had expertise, and Jon wanted that; he’d give it. “Anywhere from eighteen to forty points. Same for Corax, and I’m still working on WideWest.”

  “I still need to figure out how much we’re going to spend.” Poking some numbers into the calculator, Jon scribbled on the sheet. “Oh, and how much do we have to work with?” That bro
ught the first spark of animation into the senior trader’s face—Dwight warmed to see it.

  “Orewatt’s at what right now?” he asked.

  Jon poked a button on the Bloomberg, which obligingly brought up a list of stocks. “Heh, it’s at 7.3.”

  Dwight whistled. “How much did you short?”

  This predatory Jon looked like he belonged on a hedge fund’s trading desk. “Just under 125,000 shares between 49 and 52. In other words, Dwight, my good man, let’s sell the fucking things and put about five and a half million bucks into our pockets.”

  “That was a gutsy trade, Jon.” Dwight could only admire Jon’s willingness to bet against a company that had been a public darling for so long.

  “Not really. Their debt picture was so complicated that it made any three South American countries look simple in comparison, and the best I could figure out was that they were failing to meet debt obligations out of current cash flow by a shortfall of 15 percent. And issuing the sort of new debt that generally signals an imminent fall from grace. Therefore, short it and wait for reality to bite. Very simple.”

  “Simple, right. You’ve been sitting on that position as long as I’ve been here, and I distinctly recall a price of 55 at one point.” Dwight would go get the paperwork ready once he’d gotten Jon to ’fess up.

  “That’s what the calls are for. Just in case the market got feisty and went the other way. I lost about twenty thousand bucks instead of six hundred thou, and I think Edgar will forgive me for being a trifle early in my projections.”

  “I didn’t think Edgar forgave losses at all,” Dwight muttered darkly.

  “This is Wall Street. You can be wrong now and then as long as you’re right bigger. Edgar’s been around a long time, he’s seen all kinds of markets and all kinds of trades. What he wouldn’t forgive is not having my ass covered. And I did. So—” Jon stretched back in the chair and put his hands behind his head, managing to take up twice as much room as his slender body occupied. “We do the paperwork and we do us an historic trade!” Reaching lazily to his computer terminal without undoing his stretch, Jon poked three buttons and a printer chattered outside on the main trading floor. “I’ll sign that….” He picked up the phone and hit an autodial. “Hey, Kimber, we cover all that Orewatt. Yeah, it’s time, could go to zero but….”