Page 65 of Dream a Little Dream

The question wasn’t casual. It was a weapon, carefully aimed, designed to provoke. Aaron recognised the shift in tone, and for a moment, his playful mask slipped.

“This thing you’re doing? Is it, like, that technique you were lecturing us about the other day?”

“You tell me.”

Aaron chuckled, but it was hollow. So, abruptly, he let the humour drain from his face for Kenny to see a little of the real him. “Yeah, I feel bad. Course I feel bad. As bad as I can for abloke I barely knew. He made a killer daal, man. Now I’m stuck with Super Noodles. So, yeah, I feelthatbad.”

Kenny studied him. Aaron was good at deflection. At burying anything real under layers of sarcasm or hardened comebacks. But Kenny, no doubt, had seen it all before. And Aaron could feel himself wilting under the expert scrutiny as Kenny poured himself another glass of whisky and created the silence that followed.

Aaron tilted his neck. “Are you psychoanalysing me?”

Kenny once again regarded him with lingering scrutiny. “Always.”

“What do you see, then, doc?”

“I’m yet to make an informed analysis.”

“Well, I do love the spotlight.” Aaron jumped off the stool, then jabbed a thumb over to the other side of the room. Beyond the piano. “That a jukebox?”

“Yes.”

A slow grin spread across Aaron’s face. “Huh. Nice.”

Aaron meandered toward a retro glass jukebox, steps languid, as though he had all the time in the world. In a way, he had. And Kenny followed his every move as if he couldn’t, or daren’t, look away. Aaron thought he better give him a show. Something to look at. Other than who Aaron was.

Placing his hands on either side of the glass casing, he dipped forward to inspect the records within. He felt more than saw Kenny’s eyes tracing the lines of his neck, the delicate curve at the base, the skin exposed just enough as he let his T-shirt ride up. Because it was heavy. Laden.Thrilling.

Aaron’s laboured breaths clouded the glass, and he was glad Kenny was far enough away he wouldn’t see the condensation defacing his beloved surfaces.

Although…he might get a slap for it.

“Youdolove the classics,” Aaron said, scanning the listings of old records, trying to regain control of the situation.

Kenny’s breaths were hard. Deep.Rumbling.

Aaron might explode on that sound alone.

Within a few clicks, he got the jukebox humming to life and the retro machine, with its neon lights and chrome trim, glowed, casting sparkling colours across the black and white box tiled floor. He picked his choice, and the handle slid into place, selecting his chosen record with a mechanical whirr, filling the room with the unmistakable powerful, dramatic orchestral swell of Dusty Springfield’sYou Don’t Own Me.

Kenny said he liked the classics. Let’s see if he liked what Aaron did with them.

With his back to Kenny, Aaron swayed. Jutting his hip to each click and thud of the bass line. He rocked his shoulders from side to side, letting the rhythm seep into his veins. There was something hypnotic about dancing. And seductive about classic ballads. It was as though he was part of the melody itself. Shunted back to a time and place where he felt invincible. Cherished.Looked at. Like when he was in Inferno. He didn’t just dance; he embodied the music. And this wasn’t any old dance. It wasn’t him switching off, getting out of his head. It was him goading Kenny to watch him.Seehim.

Feaston him.

Because Aaron wanted nothing more than for Kenny to eat him alive.

So he turned, locking eyes with Kenny and mimed along to the lyrics. He, too, liked the classics. Or, well, his mother had.Did. And he rolled his hips in time with the pounding bass, movements smooth and languid, gliding a hand over the jukebox’s gleaming surface with an easy sensuality. Teasing. Probing. Every flick of his wrist or sway of his hips, a felineprovocation, pushing the boundaries to keep Kenny watching him.

Watch he did.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and heat pooled in Aaron’s gut as Kenny’s eyes glinted, his nostrils flaring with his rabid breaths. So Aaron added a devilish smirk, cavorting to the rhythm, miming the lyrics that might as well have been written for him. No one owned him. No one could.

But if Kenny wanted to take him for a little while?

Oh yeah, Aaron would let him.

Even if it scared the ever-livingfuckout of him.

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