Page 36 of Three
“Yeah,” I reply, and it’s the truth. I like my job. “I’m free to bend the rules if necessary, don’t have to follow a schedule, and can choose my clients. I’m my own boss.” There’s also the fact that prison changed me. Five years in the jailhouse hardened me. I’m not the same young, naive, foolish, law-obedient guy ready to impart justice. I’m dirty, and I like it.
“Yes, filthy.” He gives me that tacky, almost lame wink.
Did I say the last part out loud?
I pull the last thorn and carefully take off his glove. His palm is filled with small red punctures.
“Do you have some disinfectant?”
“Hand sanitizer in the glovebox.” I round the car and get into the passenger seat to retrieve the little bottle of gel. Then I take his hand again—slowly this time—and drop a blob of gel on it. He doesn’t hiss, grit his teeth, or adjust his posture. Alcohol on any open wound burns like a bitch, but Ramiel looks totally unfazed. Who is this guy? He’s surely grasping my attention the more time I spend with him.
I rub in the sanitizer, and he softly utters a thank you. His head is turned toward the windshield, eyes staring at nothing in particular.Then he clears his throat and adds in his usual teasing tone, “You should put sexy nurse under your list of talents.”
Our gazes meet, and that triple-dimple smile is on his face. I feel an uncanny force pulling me toward him all of a sudden.
I half grunt, half snort and let go of his hand.
“Where are we going?”
“To a club.” He sends a very wicked smirk my way. “You’re going to love it.”
And I know the opposite will be true.
Twenty minutes later, we are in downtown Chicago entering a posh gay club called Sly Fox. The place is packed, the music too loud, bright lights keep changing on the dance floor. It smells like booze, sweaty bodies, mixed perfumes, and sex in here. It almost clogs my airway. The waiters are moving around, wearing only very tight red shorts and rainbow suspenders. Ramiel is smiling like a loon next to me. We sit at one of the tables around the dance floor.
“Where’s your guy?” I have to bend over the table to be sure he hears me over the loud music.
“He’ll be here,” Ramiel replies, signaling a waiter. He stops near our table, holding a tray full of empty glasses. He’s short, lean with a baby face, and his eyes zero in on Ramiel. He leans toward him, and although I can’t hear what they are saying, judging by their body posturing and facial expressions I know they are flirting.
I grit my teeth, feeling slightly annoyed by it, just like the time at the café. Only because it’s not professional—no other reason. Someone tried to kill me, and Ramiel finds the time to fucking flirt.
I turn toward the dance floor. The throng is swerving, twisting, and weaving in all directions. Faceless people grope and hump each other while following the loud music.
I suddenly feel a foot slowly sliding along my calf, knee, then inner thigh. Ramiel's still smiling at the waiter while he keeps his exploration going. I let the cheeky fucker reach higher than I should, and he halts his hike just before touching my hardening dick. His toes dig right between the base of my cock and my thigh. Massaging. Pressing hard, then gently circling. Tempting me.
Damn it! I hiss and catch his shoeless foot. “Are you done?”
“Not even started,” he mouths. His eyes are full of filthy promises, but he pulls his foot back. I tighten my grip on it before letting it go. My stiffened cock hates it. I don’t even realize the waiter has disappeared until he comes back with what looks like a glass of whiskey on the rocks for me and a Bloody Mary for Ramiel.
“Your favorite,” he lets me know, pointing at the drink in front of me and ignoring the huffing waiter. He puts the straw of his cocktail between his lips and sucks hard, looking straight into my eyes. The little shit likes to hit on everything that moves, it seems.
I wear my unbothered mask and take a sip from my glass. It is indeed my favorite whiskey. “You really did a thorough job in researching me.”
“I always do,” he replies, leaning toward me. After a few seconds, he turns his glowing eyes on the dance floor. “Art! There he is,” Ramiel yells. He leaves his chair, and before sauntering toward the dance floor, he bends over me, and his warm whisper hits my ear. “Take your time, Bear, to…deflate.”
I can’t make myself stand up. Primarily, because my cock is still hard. But also, because his teasing giggle resounds in my head even though he’s standing ten feet away, talking to a very conspicuous twink, who must be Art, the informant.
His neon green net shirt and barely-there gold shorts put on display his slim shoulders and long legs. He has shoulder-length long blondhair, and the black eyeliner turns his cat eyes predatory.
Art’s small hands go to Ramiel’s pecs, and he tilts his head all the way back to let out a laugh. Ramiel looks uneasy at the contact, but the twink doesn’t seem to notice or care as he starts jumping with excitement when a new song comes on. His narrow hips begin swaying with the music. Ramiel smiles at him, not the triple-dimple smile, but there’s lightness there.
They start dancing together while they talk. Ramiel keeps bending to his level to hear what he has to say, and the twink takes advantage of that, plastering himself against Ramiel’s heavily muscled frame.
He looks more relaxed now. Like he’s enjoying it. My fingers curl more tightly around the glass, and I narrow my eyes at them. Art is stroking his body all over Ramiel’s, spinning around and grinding his ass against the red-headed techie. The twink’s arms lift, and his fingers curl around Ramiel’s neck as he keeps shaking his butt.
But Ramiel’s eyes? Those heated, wicked, golden-brown babies are on me. Like quicksand, I’m sinking deeper into them. They compel me to watch. Force me. I can’t look away. I know he’s putting on a show for me, and my half-standing dick likes it and hates it—hates the sight of other hands on him, but likes the challenge in his gaze.
Still I don’t like these kind of games. And if he’s hoping for some kind of reaction, he’ll have one alright. I down my drink, enjoying the burning path it leaves inside my throat, and stand up with the intention of getting a new one when something changes.
