Fierce & Fabulous (Sassy Boyz) (3 page)

Sharp arousal spurred him further and he pushed those rough palms down his abs to rest on his hips. He held them there as he rode Fitch’s lap like they were fucking. He groaned as the image came to life in his head, but never looked away from the dark, grumpy face beneath him.

Fitch’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his body shivered. Then, with a slow blink of extra-long lashes, he finally looked up with a sort of confused wonder in his eyes.

Ansel stopped breathing, stopped moving. The music faded away. The crowd around them disappeared. The only sound was the throbbing pulse of his own heart.

He walked the knife’s edge. And usually he got off on the unknown, on the potential danger that lurked just beneath the surface. That was why he enjoyed flirting with the straight ones. But this was different. This was stronger. Deeper. Scarier.

This was something real.

He didn’t like it. If he were honest, it freaked him the fuck out. But Christ, it was as if his body, his whole being, had been taken over by aliens because he leaned down and pressed his lips to Fitch’s mouth. And what shocked the shit out of him—more than his own insanity—was that Fitch let him in.

Ignoring everything, even his own instinct to run like hell, he swept his tongue in and tasted the chocolate-mint flavor.

Yes, he was a Slut with a capital S. He fucked strangers, loved one-night stands, and usually didn’t even bother to ask for names. But this was different.

This felt inevitable.

He was caught in an electrical storm. Every nerve popped and danced, every cell shivered in pleasure. And then Fitch’s grip on his waist tightened, fingertips dug into the flesh of his ass, and Ansel gasped.

The kiss ended with them both stunned. A second later reality rushed back in.

Frozen with shock, he looked over Fitch’s shoulder. The girls stared at them with their mouths open. Something ugly solidified in his gut—regret. And another feeling, so totally out of character, he was half-convinced he’d died—guilt.

He was not familiar with guilt. Not since he made the decision to leave home and never look back. Not since he’d realized trying to please everyone else would end up killing him. He didn’t know how to handle guilt so he ignored it. Or he tried to.

He swallowed, gathered himself, then winked and flashed his signature smirk at the girls.

“There, I think he learned his lesson, don’t you? Try not to give him such a hard time in the future. He was a good sport.” Doing his best fake laugh, he flipped his hair over his shoulder perfectly and capped off the performance.

Their audience smiled, sort of, enough to break the tension. But beneath him, Fitch ground his teeth together, his mouth bruised and covered in red lipstick. The sight caught hold of Ansel’s chest and squeezed.

Shaken, he stood and wiped a thumb over Fitch’s mouth to remove the evidence.

“See you around, handsome.” He spun on wobbly legs and sashayed away.

Chapter Four

What the hell?

Fitch couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to punch something, or someone. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to lose his shit and forget everything that had happened in the past two hours.

He couldn’t do any of that. He couldn’t even fucking stand because of the raging boner that wouldn’t fucking die. His heart thudded like a goddamn jackhammer. Not letting him deny. Not letting him forget. He’d never forget the fact that he’d kissed a dude.

And he’d loved every fucking minute of it.

God, how far would he have gone if his sister wasn’t sitting three feet away? Would he have taken the guy into the bathroom and gotten his dick sucked? Jesus Christ. Yes. He couldn’t lie to himself. Yes. He would’ve loved to watch those goddamn lips devour his cock. To see those gorgeous big green eyes blinking up at him with the long lashes and the sexy eye shadow. And he wouldn’t have cared that they belonged to another man. He wouldn’t have cared one fucking bit.

He had to calm down. He needed to get himself under control because damn, he wasn’t alone. He could feel his sister and her friends staring at the back of his neck, waiting.

The dancer had played the whole thing off as lighthearted and fun, thank the Lord. Hell, that’s probably all it was to the guy, just one more lap, one more dance. And Fitch couldn’t—wouldn’t—dwell on that because it was his only safeguard at the moment. Right now, all he needed to do was keep the charade going.

With a deep breath, he plastered on the are-you-happy-now face his sister knew so well and turned to face the music.

“Satisfied?” he asked with as much calm and nonchalance as he could muster.

Meg blinked at him, her eyes wide, and for once in her life she didn’t speak, she just nodded.

Thank God for her girlfriend, who stood and pulled Meg onto the dance floor with an, “Oh my God. I love this song.”

The rest of the group followed, leaving him in peace. For that blessing alone, he’d have to go to church on Sunday to thank the big man upstairs. He grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped his mouth, just in case. He didn’t want to go the rest of the night wearing evidence of the kiss. He wished there was such a thing as a napkin for your brain, but he knew these memories wouldn’t be removed so easily. He’d be lucky if he could ever think of anything but the seductive feel of that hard body beneath his hands or the scent of that addictive perfume.

He sighed. God fucking damn it. Motherfucker. What was he going to do? He looked down at the napkin, at the faint red smear across the pristine white surface, and the rest of his life played out in front of him, clear as day. His future was plain as the paper he crumpled in his fist. He had a plan and one little kiss wasn’t going to change his whole life. Even if, deep down, he kind of wished it had.

He stuffed the napkin in his pocket and looked toward the bar to see if he could flag down a waitress. He couldn’t get swamp-ass drunk tonight because he was the designated driver, but another Coke would help wash away the sweet taste of the dancer’s kiss.

* * *

“Terry, give me the rainbow.” Ansel ran a shaky hand through his hair and avoided eye contact with the bartender.

“The full rainbow? You all right?”

“Fine. I just need a little color in my life.”

“Don’t we all, sugar, don’t we all.”

Ansel kept his head turned toward the dance floor. The last thing he wanted to do was explain the roil of emotions threatening to drown him.

How could he even begin to? It didn’t make any fucking sense.

It was just a silly little kiss, nothing to get flustered over. Except he was. His heart was beating a wild cadence and he was struggling to catch his breath. All because some stranger had looked at him—
seen
him.

Really seen
him
.

Fuck.

He just needed to get drunk or—even better—high as a fucking kite. Erase all these pesky emotions and float away into the clouds.

Lirim probably had a stash in his bag.

Terry went to prepare the drinks, leaving him alone at the end of the bar. God, why was he so shaken? It wasn’t like he’d never kissed a trick before, though it was rare. Usually it was a tactic for a better tip or to lure them into another dance. It had never been because he couldn’t help himself. Where was his usual detachment?

The shots would help and so would taking whatever he could pilfer from Lirim.

Terry lined up eight shot glasses and started pouring the mixture. From left to right, the rainbow took shape. “There you go, dollface.”

He tossed the first shot back and sighed. “Thanks, Terry.”

“You know your lipstick is smeared, sugar?”

Ansel lowered his eyes. Of course his lipstick was smudged. Half of it had transferred to the guy he’d just worked over. He downed the next three shots and willed himself to forget the incident.

It was just a dance. Same as any other night, same as any other trick.

The tingles started between his shoulder blades, a warm, pleasurable sensation of being watched. Without turning around, he knew Fitch was looking at him. It could have been anyone in the club; any number of his regulars were in the room waiting for him. But the heat, the comfort, and the fucking panic that darkened the edges of his psyche were a specific combination. One he’d never felt before tonight.

Fuck, he needed to get some air. His hand shook as he tossed back the rest of the colors. With a final thank you, he pushed through the crowd to the dressing rooms backstage. After eight shots, he had the beloved tingling in his fingers, the beginning of numbness that he craved, but it wasn’t enough.

Lirim’s bag hung on the back of the chair, a canvas carryall with a long strap.

He didn’t waste time. He dumped the contents on the counter and began pawing through in search of something, anything, to help him forget. He pushed aside lip gloss, a pen, a scrap of paper and some receipts, a case for glasses, which Lirim didn’t wear, some candy, and his friend’s phone. With every item, he cringed. This was a huge fucking invasion of privacy, and Lirim would probably kick his ass if he knew what he was doing.

But right then, all he cared about was forgetting.

He needed to be numb, damn it. How could he survive all these fucking feelings? His stomach clenched as he remembered the sweet taste of Fitch’s lips. And right after, the sting of his mother’s hatred, the memory of lying in the hospital too scared to confess the abuse.

The shame. Always, always so much fucking shame. He closed his eyes and forced it all away. He was older now. Stronger. He’d been through the muck and come out fresh and shiny. Fuck ‘em. Fuck ’em all.

He grabbed the case just as the door to the dressing room creaked open behind him.

“What the hell?” Lirim cursed, his normally soft voice turned angry.

Ansel spun, caught still clutching hard plastic in his fist. “Sorry, I just...”

Lirim shoved him away and started restoring his belongings when Tam came into the room.

“What’s going on?”

“That bitch has no fucking boundaries, that’s what’s going on.” Lirim refocused on Ansel. “Christ, Ansel. Are you drunk already? You’re lucky I don’t strangle you.”

Ansel leaned against the wall, letting the brick cool his heated skin. “I know, sorry. You’re always carrying. I just wanted a little hit to calm my nerves. Tell me you’ve got something. I’m going crazy.”

Lirim pinned him with an odd look, his brows pinched together, his soft blue eyes going hard and calculating. Then he shook his head and sighed. “Why? What happened? Did that prick Castor proposition you again?”

“What? No. No. Nothing happened. I just need to take the edge off.” He pushed away from the wall, walked over to the emergency exit and propped open the heavy door. He sucked in a deep breath of the cool evening air.

Tam came to his side and draped an arm over his shoulders. “If something is eating at you, you should let it out. It’s unhealthy to keep your problems bottled up.”

He squinted at his friend. “Yeah? Did your therapist teach you that? I don’t see you spilling your guts, hon. So, no offense, but fuck off.”

At Tam’s shuttered expression, Ansel accepted a second dose of guilt. Yeah, he was an asshole. He’d totally deserve it if they left his sorry ass to rot.

Lirim walked over and pressed a rolled joint into his palm. “Next time, just fucking ask.”

Ansel blinked, then met his friends’ understanding eyes. He curled his fingers around the gift. “Sorry.”

“Fix yourself up, get over whatever it is, and get back to work. Life is tough, but so are you, right?”

He nodded and swallowed his emotions. Yes, he was tougher than this—harder, steadier. He’d had to be. He’d spent the past six years learning how to survive on his own. And this situation didn’t even make it to the top fifty on his list of shit he’d had to wade through. A little fucking kiss was nothing compared to assault, abandonment, or near starvation.

Lirim helped him light the joint and he breathed the drug into his lungs. God, what was he getting so worked up about?

He rolled his eyes at himself.
Idiot.

Still, it took the whole joint before he felt brave enough to face the crowd again.

Chapter Five

“Okay, Meg, time to go.” Fitch slipped an arm around his sister’s waist and propped her up with his hip.

“No. We still have time to dance,” she said. Or at least that’s how his brain translated her slurred words. What it really sounded like was
Nustimdants
, accompanied by a little wiggle.

“They announced last call, you lush. They’ll be closing soon anyway. And you have class tomorrow.” At this, he chuckled. Yeah, class. If only he could be there in the morning when she woke up with the inevitable hangover.

Again Meg whined, but this time she tried to walk with him toward the exit. It was more like he was dragging a life-sized sack of potatoes out of the club because she could barely support her own weight. Thank God her friends weren’t as wasted. There was no way he’d be able to manhandle five girls out the door.

Tara walked beside them and smoothed a hand down Meg’s hair. “Don’t worry, the party isn’t over yet. The sooner we get back to the dorm, the sooner I can give you your present.”

“Gross.”

Meg laughed and hit him in the ribs.

“How do you think I felt every time Debby Singe used to come over to hang out and you two ended up making out in the rec room,” Meg mumbled and only years of translating Meg-speak allowed him to understand her.

“Debby Singe? You were only seven when I was dating her. How do you even remember that?”

With a wild, floppy hand Meg tapped the side of her head. “Brilliant. Remember?”

He gave a nod. “Yeah, you’re a genius who’s going to be puking her guts out in about thirty minutes.”

Meg’s face scrunched and she shook her head a little too hard. “Ouch.”

“Trust me. I know a thing or two about getting drunk. I’ve had more years of practice, newbie.”

Meg scoffed but rested her head on his shoulder as they continued to his Chevy. Tara opened the door and helped him position Meg into the backseat while the rest of the girls piled in afterward.

It was a just after four on Friday morning. He needed to be at the remodel site to check on the progress of the framework by nine. Thirty minutes to get Meg and her friends back to the NJCU campus and tucked in, and another thirty to get back to his apartment. If he was lucky, he’d be in bed by five, which meant he’d get maybe three hours of sleep before he had to start his day.

But the muttered “Best night ever” as he slid into the driver’s side and started the engine made it all worth it. He could handle no sleep if it meant his sister had an awesome birthday. Even when she pestered the crap out of him.

All in all, it had been a successful night. One Meg would remember for a long time with fond memories. He’d done his brotherly duty and even earned some brownie points he could cash in later. And he would.

After that lap dance, Meg owed him big time.

He still couldn’t figure out why he’d been so uncharacteristically drawn to the dancer. Even after the guy’s performance, Fitch hadn’t been able to stop himself from watching him as he’d worked the crowd. The fire of some bizarre jealousy had twisted his gut in knots just thinking about all the other men ogling that hard body, smelling that perfume, dreaming about those lips. It had been a relief to leave, as though removing himself from the situation was the only way to stop himself from wanting to punch someone.

Stupid. He was not fucking gay.

So why had he enjoyed the sway of the dancer’s hips so much, or how he walked in those heels? The way he danced. The way he sometimes looked over his shoulder and their eyes met.

The way he fucking breathed.

He was getting hard again. Damn it. He smoothed out his jeans and flipped on the radio. When the soothing melody of a Phillip Phillips hit didn’t cool his libido, he rolled down his window and let the breeze do the work.

He absolutely would not think about the dancer anymore. No fucking more. Christ.

All he needed was a shower. Yeah, that would help. Every breath he took contained little hints of the sweet floral perfume. It was like the scent had hijacked his cock and balls—every time he sniffed, a spark shot down his shaft.

Okay, seriously. That was the last time he’d think about it.

God fucking damn it.

* * *

“Let me suck your cock.” The twink Ansel had picked up after his shift at The Vibe licked the shell of his ear. They moved together on the dance floor of another club still packed with people.

They’d stopped serving drinks about an hour ago, but it hadn’t fazed anyone, especially Ansel. He was still mostly drunk and high and feeling no pain. No pleasure either, really. He was finally numb. The hot piece grinding into his thigh probably wouldn’t like that at all. He bent to paint a kiss over the kid’s lips and squeezed his ass.

The twink wore expensive jeans and a tight tank that read Yes, Your Gaydar Is Accurate. His bleached-blond hair was cut short and spiked with product. He reeked of cologne way out of Ansel’s price range and had an air of immaturity about him. On any other night, Ansel wouldn’t have looked twice at the kid. He was too young, too privileged, and too easy. But tonight Ansel just wanted to get off, get lost, and forget.

Although so far his tactic wasn’t working. Every other second that fucking lap dance popped into his mind and made him crazy all over again.

He tugged the kid closer so he could talk into his ear. “My buzz is wearing off. One of my friends has weed.”

With a quick survey of the crowd around them, he tried to find Lirim’s rainbow or Z’s black silhouette. They’d arrived together after dolling up at The Vibe, but as soon as he’d locked eyes with the cutie still clutching his hand, he’d waved goodbye. Now, he couldn’t figure out where they’d gone. There were too many bodies and too many distractions.

Drawing Ansel’s attention again, the kid smiled and shook his head. “I’ve got something better.” He dug around in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a dime bag with two small blue pills and two capsules filled with white powder.

With a gleeful smile, the kid opened the bag and took out one of each. He placed them both on his tongue and then pulled Ansel in for a kiss. Ansel fucking hated swallowing pills dry, but for this he’d deal. He’d never taken Molly before, mostly because he couldn’t afford it.

“What’s your name?” he asked the kid.

His new best friend swallowed down his own pair of pills, stuffed the empty bag back into his jeans and shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Was he an ass if he admitted it didn’t? Probably. But what else was new? He smiled. “Nope.”

“Come on, the bathroom door locks,” the twink shouted. His pupils were dilated and his lips swollen. How many times had they kissed? Ansel couldn’t remember. It hadn’t affected him. Not like the kiss he’d shared with Fitch.

Fuck, no, he needed to forget about that.

Get your dick sucked.
Yeah, there was the cure.

He nodded and let the guy lead him toward privacy. As they pushed through the crowd he focused on the kid’s pert round ass, trying to picture it naked and spread open for his cock. He didn’t even get a tickle of interest at the image. It was like his libido was weighed down by some invisible stones and his mind had been separated from his body, floating up above in the clouds, calculating the probability of a dire future. The odds were good.

Ansel Becke’s demise was imminent and inevitable.

But high as he was, it didn’t bother him. So his limbs propelled him forward, moving toward the next tragic event, and he allowed it to happen. On autopilot.

In the bathroom the twink pushed him against the door and flipped the lock like he’d done it a million times. Maybe he had. And that was fine because Ansel had been around the block a few times too. As long as they both got what they were after, who the fuck cared?

The kid tasted like cinnamon candy. Every time he shoved his tongue into Ansel’s mouth the spice burst like he’d swallowed a handful of Red Hots. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, certainly not as pleasing as Fitch’s chocolate and mint flavor. Kissing Fitch had been like eating one of those after-dinner mints his grandmother used to give him when she’d visited.

Why did he keep thinking of Fitch when he had a hot twink ready to blow his mind? Ansel refocused and shoved him to his knees.

“You said you wanted to suck. So suck.”

The kid blinked up at him and smiled before reaching for his zipper. As the kid’s mouth engulfed his semi-soft dick, the euphoria unique to his Molly cocktail fully washed over him and he was lost in the tide of hazy bliss. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t remember a goddamn thing in the morning.

* * *

The sun was rising over the horizon when Ansel finally stumbled up the stairs to the apartment he shared with his best friend in West Vill. It was a run-down building and the stairs were worn in places, making it hard to walk up without holding on to the wobbly railing. They lived on the third floor and there was no elevator. Usually he didn’t complain, but after spending most of the day in heels, his feet were crying so much he practically crawled up the stairs.

Plus, his head pounded and he wanted to puke. Who was the sadistic bastard that invented the forty anyway? He gripped the bottle he’d bought at the bodega near the club. It was almost empty. He’d chugged half of it before he got on the subway. It hadn’t helped. He sat on the stairs and pressed his temple to the wall. Maybe he’d just stay right here and die. He pulled off his pink peep-toed sling-backs and massaged his foot.

He was a fucking mess.

He knew it, but when you were holding on for dear life while the ride whipped you around and around, there wasn’t much you could do to stop the insanity. You just had to close your eyes and pray you didn’t vomit before it all stopped spinning.

That was what he did now. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain and the regret that burned in his stomach. After he’d unloaded on the poor twink he’d done little to reciprocate. The kid had taken himself in hand and finished the job without complaining. Afterward Ansel had wandered back out to the dance floor and searched the club until closing, but the boys had already left.

It wasn’t until he was outside, standing under the light of a streetlamp, that he thought to check his phone. He’d missed four calls and had a dozen texts, escalating from concerned to angry. That was when he’d bought the beer. Because what was better than drowning your liver in alcohol when everything seemed to be so fucked up?

Ansel scoffed. When he’d been on the streets and the only way to stay warm had been to layer old newspaper under his clothes, a little whiskey had been comforting, if not completely helpful. He and Ray had sipped a single bottle for weeks before needing to pander for change to buy another. But back then, the only problems he’d faced were the ones necessary for survival. Somehow they weren’t as troubling as having to fight the dark, tumultuous emotions and pain in his past.

Jesus, he wanted to pass out, but not in the hallway. It smelled like piss and something else he really didn’t want to think about.

He pulled himself up and tripped on a step, catching himself at the last minute. “Shit!” His voice was louder than he’d intended and he immediately regretted the outburst.

Mr. Craig’s dog started barking in 2B and the rustle of a chain and a twist of the deadbolt in 1A echoed in the corridor.

Whoops, he’d woken the landlord. He groaned and tried to climb faster. The only thing that could make this worse would be facing that bastard while he was out of his mind drunk. Who knew what would spew forth. He could be a major bitch when he wasn’t careful.

“Mr. Becke, do you know what time it is?”

He stopped at the top of the stairs on the second floor. Just one more flight and he’d be home. He looked longingly up before sighing and trying to focus on the landlord.

“Mr. Palecheek, ’m sorry I woke you.”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s Policek. Are you drunk?”

“No, nope, not. Nuh-uh. G’night.” He started to climb the stairs as quickly as he could while gripping the handrail with one hand, his heels with the other, and trying to hide the forty under his arm. But the fucking building kept swaying and his stomach protested every move with a nasty gurgle.

“Mr. Becke, I told you when you moved in this type of behavior would not be tolerated. It’s one thing for you to be queer. It’s another for you to flaunt your sinful lifestyle around the building. We have veterans living here. Good, respectable men and women. I will not have you sullying the place.”

The man’s tone was so much like the one his mother had always used, it raked across his skin. His apartment was at the end of the hall and though he could still hear Mr. Palecheek’s angry threats, he concentrated on making it to his door while the corridor kept stretching and swaying. If he could get inside, the night would be over. Everything would return to normal and he could go on with his life.

Just a few more steps.

If only he had a big strong man to carry him the rest of the way. A man like Fitch—tall, dark, muscular, and sexy as hell. He sighed.

But he was not the type of guy people fell in love with. He had way too much baggage. Not that he wanted someone to love him. Love was stupid and imaginary.

He hadn’t been so naive for a long, long time. He hadn’t believed in love since he realized his own mother hated the sight of him.

Love was a fairy tale.