Fierce & Fabulous (Sassy Boyz) (4 page)

Chapter Six

“What the hell, Bobby, these window spaces were supposed to be moved over three feet. Don’t you remember me telling you that at the Wednesday meeting?” Fitch pushed his fingers through his hair and tried to contain his frustration.

“Yeah, but your pop said we were doing it wrong. Sorry, man.”

“You know you’re supposed to call me when he does this.”

The older crew chief’s shoulders stooped. “I’m used to following his orders, Fitch. He’s been my boss for ten years.” He nervously scratched his oversized stomach, sweat stains forming under his pits. It was only April, but already the temperature spikes were making it hard for them to work.

“I know, but this is a big fuckup. It might cost us the job. Jesus, I wish I could just strap him to his armchair and make him watch
Wheel of Fortune
reruns all day.”

At this Bobby smiled, but his eyes remained sad. “He’d never stand for it. Your pop has to be in the center of everything.”

“Unfortunately he’s getting too old for that. Tell the guys to take the day off while I try to figure out how to deal with this.”

“You sure?”

“There’s no sense continuing if we end up having to tear it apart to fix the problem at our own cost. I need to talk to the client and see what they want to do.”

“All right. Sorry again.”

“Just fucking call me next time. Okay?”

Bobby nodded before heading toward the noise of pounding hammers and running saws. Great, now they’d probably have to eat the cost of materials and labor for this fuckup, which would dig into their profits more than the company could afford. They could lose the client altogether, which would be an even bigger blow. But more important, he had to worry about his old man. This wasn’t the first time his father had become confused on the job.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed his parents’ home number. His mom answered.

“Hey, Ma.”

“How did Meg’s birthday go? I haven’t talked to her yet today. Did she have fun?”

Bright red lips and killer boots filled his mind, and he temporarily forgot where he was and why he’d called. Fun? Would he say last night had been fun? No. It had been confusing as fuck. He’d tossed and turned all night after he’d dropped the girls off. Visions of hard naked abs and long legs kept him aroused until he’d finally jerked off and passed out. Not something he wanted to think about while on the phone with his mother and surrounded by a bunch of burly construction workers.

He took a nervous glance over his shoulder and wondered, not for the first time, if the guys had sensed anything different about him. Logically, he knew, having a moment of strange attraction didn’t change who he was, but he didn’t deny the paranoia he’d dealt with all morning.

Kicking a rock, he tried to remember why he’d called.

“Honey? Did Meg have fun?”

“Oh, um, yeah, I’d say so. I had to drag her out of the place. She probably has a killer hangover today. So be sure to torture the crap out of her.”

His mother laughed.

“Anyway, I’m calling because there’s an issue with the remodel.”

“Oh?” Her tone immediately changed, and there was a rustle as though she were moving into another room.

“I think Pop really needs to get checked out. He forgot about a recent change to the plans. Even if I can somehow work it out with the client, we’ll still most likely end up paying for the fix out of pocket. I can’t keep him away from work, but whenever he’s around, there are always things that need cleaning up.”

“Oh, dear.” His mother sighed.

“I know it’s scary to think of, but it’s time he sees a doctor.”

“I know. I just didn’t want to face it.” He could hear her holding back worry now.

“It might be nothing, but we won’t know until he makes the appointment.”

“You know your dad, honey. He’s stubborn. He’s not going to like this at all.”

“Just promise me you’ll make the appointment.”

“I will, I’ll do it today.”

He didn’t feel any better when he hung up, but at least he’d accomplished something he’d been putting off for months. They needed to know what they were dealing with, even if it was Alzheimer’s or something worse. Now all he needed to do was convince the clients not to hire another team.

He got into his car and started the engine. The remodel was the project of a city developer whose main office was in Tribeca. He could be there and back in time for dinner. He was just exiting the Holland Tunnel when his cell phone rang.

“Hi, big bro.”

“How are you feeling this morning, lush?” He smiled at the sounds of agony coming through the phone.

“Jesus. Don’t shout.”

He laughed.

“Listen, I just talked to Ma and she said you’re going into the city for a work thing.”

“Yeah,” he replied, a little suspiciously because his sister’s voice held a tone he knew like the back of his hand. It was the I-need-a-favor voice and it made him roll his eyes.

“Tara left her purse at the club last night, and since you’re going to be in the city anyway, could you swing by and see if they have, I don’t know, like a lost and found or something?”

“Seriously?”

“I know it’s a long shot, but we’re hoping that since we left so late, no one had time to steal it. Maybe they found it when they were closing up.”

He sighed and scrubbed his jaw. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to the scene of the crime.

“Please, she had her wallet and phone in there and some really important class stuff.”

“I’m already at the client’s office.” He pulled into a parking garage and found an open spot. “I’ll do it after. What does it look like?”

Meg’s sigh of relief eased some of his annoyance. “It’s a bright blue clutch with a silver clasp. Thank you so much, you’re the best.”

“Yeah, I am. You better remember this because I will expect repayment.”

He hung up and slammed his head back against the headrest in frustration. Forced to go to the club again, damn it. His stomach knotted and he gripped the phone still in his hand. It was the middle of the day, there was slim chance the dancer would even be there.

He couldn’t figure out if that thought made it better or worse.

* * *

“Do it again, only this time, Ansel, you need to pop your hip on five and walk forward on seven. And make sure you don’t hit Z in the arm when you flick your wrist,” Tam instructed. “Ready? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Yes.” As he counted, Tam clapped out the beat.

They’d been putting together the new routine to Pink’s “Slut Like You” for the past hour, and Ansel got the sense his friend was upset.

“Can we take five? I need a drink,” Ansel asked.

“The last thing you need is another drop of alcohol,” Tam said, his usually calm and sweet voice gone cold and angry.

“Okay, I knew you were pissed. And I wasn’t talking about alcohol. I need water. Agua. H-2-fucking-O. Why are you mad?”

“You were an uber-bitch last night, babe,” Z put in while stretching his hamstring.

“I’m always a bitch. What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah, you’re usually bitchy to me or Z, but never to Tam.” Lirim straddled a chair and pulled his hair into a messy knot on the top of his head. “And we’re talking explosive bitchatude. Even I wanted to punch you.”

“Tam, hon, whatever I said or did, I’m sorry, okay?” Ansel said. “I was totally out of it last night.”

“You’re always out of it. When was the last time you went to bed sober?” Z asked. “Hell, for that matter, when was the last time you came to rehearsal sober? Or at least without a hangover? How many times in the last year have you been too drunk to even make it to rehearsal? We’re lucky you haven’t missed a performance yet because Castor would fucking shit a brick. It’s getting out of hand. Last night was just another in a long line.”

“Fuck off. I’m serious.”

“Oh, you’re serious? Well, I guess I better back off then. Since you’re
serious
and all.” Z rolled his eyes, but before Ansel could say anything he’d regret, Tam interrupted.

“Listen, Ansel, I’m not mad because you hurt my feelings. I’m not even that upset about your drinking, though Z is right. I’m pissed because you never called to let me know you were okay. I spent the whole fucking night worrying about you. With your games, I’d thought you’d finally gotten yourself killed.”

Ansel rubbed his chest to dispel the sudden ache. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

“We all know what it’s like not to have people care about us, but that’s changed now. We have each other. At least, I thought we did. But if you’re going to keep acting like that, I won’t be bothered to deal with it. I’ve got my own shit to worry about, we all do.”

“I was just...I just had a bad night is all,” Ansel tried to explain.

“Why?” Z asked. “What made last night any different from every other night?”

“The fucked-up thing is, I don’t know. And anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s get back to work. I need to sweat the funk out of my system.”

Tam sighed but let it pass. “All right, we’ll start again from the top with music and then work on the chorus choreo.”

They got into position and Tam started the music. Even though things were tense they ran through what they’d accomplished so far, then Tam broke down the steps for the next two eight-counts and clapped out the beats at half speed. The routine was fast and sexy, and by the end they were all dripping with sweat. It was three and a half minutes of wild fun. Their audience would love it. They just needed to work on the transitions between the two songs and they’d be ready for tonight’s show.

They were doing a final run-through to music when the front door squeaked open. The club was closed. And the door should have been locked.

Ansel glanced toward the noise and stopped in his tracks. The figure silhouetted by the morning sun looked familiar, which seemed completely absurd.

Goddamn it.

The bottom dropped out of Ansel’s stomach.

Fitch.

No. It couldn’t be him. Why? There was no logical reason for the guy to come back, especially not at this hour. But then the door banged shut and the light shifted, and Fitch’s rough square jaw and deep-set eyes were easy to see.

It only took a second, from the moment the door opened to the instant it slammed shut, but Ansel felt like there was a lifetime of emotions caught between the space of time. And in the next breath, Z collided into his back with a hollered “fuck.” And they both tumbled to the stage floor.

“What the hell?” Z asked, dusting off his knees. “Why’d you stop?”

Tam ran to the music and turned it off and all Ansel wanted to do was crawl beneath the floorboards and die. Instead, he stood and pulled at his shirt.

“Sorry, lost my place. Let’s go again.”

“It’s the boom-boom-flick-spin. You just had it,” Tam said, annoyed. Ansel couldn’t blame him, he probably thought this the fault of partying, not an overactive imagination and a rush of unexplainable fear.

“Yeah, I remember now.” He didn’t look up even though he could feel Fitch’s stare slide over him like warm syrup over pancakes.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He brushed his damp, ratty hair off his sweaty forehead and looked down at his old drop-crotch sweats and ugly-ass T-shirt. He looked like shit and felt worse. Why, oh why, did the guy have to show up now? If he was about to get his ass kicked, he preferred to look his best. Plus, he felt way too raw and vulnerable to deal with everything Fitch made him feel.

He drank from the bottle of water Lirim pushed into his hand and took his position for the routine. Tam hit Play and the music drifted through the speakers.

This time, he didn’t lose the steps.

This time, he danced the hell out of it.

Because Fitch was watching.

Chapter Seven

So much for slim chances. Fitch had known he was in trouble when he walked into the dark club. As soon as he’d heard the music, his heart went wild. In that moment, he’d known—he’d been hoping to see the blond again.

But the urge didn’t stop the irrational fear he’d been fighting since their kiss. Hell, before that even, since the moment he saw that face. With his stomach in knots, he tried to reason it out, repeating Meg’s lectures.
Attraction was a chemical reaction in his brain
,
gender wasn’t binary
,
and sexuality could be fluid.
There was no reason to freak out just because he suddenly found himself drawn to another man.

The logical arguments helped, a little.

Leaning against the bar, he watched them dance. Even without the lights, the makeup, and the costumes, it was still hot. No one else was around except the four guys onstage. They were so talented, the way they moved, precisely hitting every note for extra emphasis.

And his dancer, wow.

Shit. When had he started to think of the guy as
his
dancer?

He didn’t even know the blond’s name.

His
dancer looked over his shoulder and Fitch swallowed. Christ, he was in trouble.

For a beat, he debated walking out and never looking back, but he couldn’t seem to get his feet unglued from the floor. Something unnerving surged through his veins along with the repeated mantra. He wasn’t gay.

I’m not gay.

Really? Then why was his entire body pushing him toward this guy? If he had the same urge about a girl, he wouldn’t hesitate to make a move. Granted, it was weird as fuck because he’d never been into men before, but gender wasn’t the only deciding factor in attraction. Thanks to Meg, he had a greater understanding of the world outside his hetero-view. Maybe he was bi, though that didn’t seem right. But who really cared which label he used?

The attraction to his dancer was too strong to ignore. He’d made a promise to himself when Sara left him. He was tired of living for everyone else, tired of pleasing people just to dodge some discomfort. Christ, he’d wasted six months with Sara because he couldn’t tell her goodbye for fear she’d be crushed. And in the end, she’d left him because he refused to force his father into retirement and take over the company.

No. No more letting life happen to him. It was time he started participating, taking action. And there was definitely a craving under all this angst. Did it matter that the person he craved had male parts?

He wished like hell he had a cigarette. No such luck. He’d quit smoking two years ago when Meg brought home her research paper on lung cancer and begged him to stop. It had helped that his girlfriend at the time refused to kiss him after he’d smoked. Quitting had been the easy choice.

He took a breath and consciously relaxed his shoulders. He’d just ask the guy’s name and introduce himself properly. Maybe, if things went smoothly, he’d offer his number. ’Cause that was what he’d do if it were a girl.

But
his
dancer wasn’t a girl.

Which was why his heart jackhammered. When the song ended, the blond flipped his hair out of his face and met Fitch’s gaze. The heat in Fitch’s groin shot up to his wild heart and back down to his toes. It was not the flirtatious look a woman might send a man. It was a direct, in-your-face, dominating glare. It said
What the fuck do you want?
and
When can we get naked?
all at the same time.

Fitch tried not to fidget but failed. His pesky cock was bent at a painful angle and he had to adjust his pants. The dancer noticed. His precise blond brows rose and that arrogant smirk from last night returned. Half tease, half challenge, and it was just as mind-blowing without the lipstick. Was this how guys flirted with other guys? Usually, he played it light and nonchalant, because he was a big guy and women got nervous around him when he went full-on macho. Instinct told him another guy wouldn’t react the same. Especially since he was still held in an indecipherable stare.

“Just give me a sec. I’ll be right back.” The dancer’s sultry, melodic voice sent shivers down Fitch’s spine and he had to force his heart not to sprout wings and fly away.

He smoothed out his jeans and watched his obsession strut down the stairs and prowl toward him. The dude was not coy or demure, not with his walk or the direct eye contact.

“The club is closed. You shouldn’t be here.” He’d lowered his voice so it became an angry half whisper.

“The door was open.” He studied the guy and noted the differences from the night before. The scent was a big one. His dancer wasn’t wearing the perfume Fitch hadn’t been able to escape. Nor was he wearing makeup, and the small bit of scruff on his jaw was disconcerting when paired with the feminine lips and long eyelashes. Confusing but not repulsive. In fact, part of him actually found this unarmored version more appealing.

“Do you make a habit of entering every open door you come across?” The guy rested a hand on his hip and cocked his head so the long blond locks fell to the side.

When Fitch smiled at his catty tone, he gritted his teeth and scowled.

“Not usually, but this was a special occasion.” Fitch tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. The dancer glanced down at the motion and subtly checked out his goods. Hell, that was hot. Experimentally, Fitch widened his stance and adjusted his fingers to better frame his crotch.

The bob of the blond’s throat made him itch to push further, to see where this attraction might lead.

The blond squinted angrily. Oddly enough, his stare was just aggressive enough to make Fitch pause. With his bulk and muscle mass, he could easily overpower the other man, but his size didn’t seem to faze the dancer. Then again, the heels gave the guy a good four inches on him. Maybe the height gave a false sense of superiority.

The dancer ground his teeth and took a threating step forward. “What do you want? An apology? I’m sorry, okay? I got carried away last night. Do you want to hit me? Is that it? Not gonna happen.” He waved a hand in front of his own face. “This is my money maker, you got it? I will fucking cut a bitch if—”

“I’m not gonna hit you. Jesus.” Fitch cut him off. Did his dancer get threatened so often that he thought it was the only possible outcome?

The blond bit his bottom lip and his brow furrowed.

Fitch held his hands up, palms out. “I came to find a lost purse, that’s all. But since I’m here, maybe I could get your name?”

Instead of calming the guy, though, this seemed to agitate him even more. He took a step back and tensed. “My name, why?”

That was a good fucking question. At a loss for a plausible lie, Fitch went with the truth. “I’d like to think of you as something other than
the dancer
.” He left out the part where his brain had claimed ownership.

Those green eyes scrunched in suspicion. “Why think of me at all?”

Fitch’s stomach came alive with jitters. Everything in him screamed for another sample, another touch, one more—just to be sure. If he loved it just as much the second time, he’d need to face his fears. His perception of himself could need a drastic renovation.
He might not be so straight after all.

So what if he wasn’t?

He was caring less and less with each passing moment.

He exhaled anxiously and took an awkward step forward, closing the gap between them. The blond didn’t move, but his green gaze did flick down when Fitch licked his lip. Fitch’s heart began the tango against his sternum and his palms grew damp. “I tried not to,” he admitted. “Not fucking possible.”

With a trembling arm, he reached out and clutched the back of his dancer’s neck. Then, with a tentative breath, he tilted his head up so their lips met.

As soon as they touched, the tension in his stomach exploded in a cascade of fireworks that ignited every nerve in his body. He forgot everything but the contact, the man’s taste, the odd feel of a stranger’s scruff against his own. He swept his tongue into the welcoming heat and groaned at the spicy flavor. His dancer kissed him back, wrapping strong, slender arms around his waist.

Fitch plundered and rocked his hips, while the other man clutched and groaned and met each move with a purposeful counter move. His limbs grew heavy even as his nerves tingled with unspent energy.

So good.

Better than last time—which didn’t seem possible, but there it was. Every cell came alive as their tongues entwined and their lips caressed.

They kissed for so long he became lightheaded. Fitch ended the kiss on a bitter sigh, but he didn’t pull away. They both remained where they were, staring into each other’s eyes, panting. Beneath his thumb, he counted the rapid pulse of the man’s heart and was thrilled to note it beat just as fast as his.

“Ansel.” The dancer’s tongue peeked out to wet his kiss-swollen bottom lip. “My name is Ansel Becke.”

“Nice to meet you.” Fitch breathed and forced his fingers to release their grip. “I’m Fitch Donovan. Can I give you my phone number?”

Ansel bit his lip and the carnality of the act made Fitch want to kiss him all over again.

“Get a move on. My shift starts in forty minutes and we still have to work out the transition sequence.”

A dark-haired guy yelled from the stage, and Ansel stepped out of Fitch’s hold and flipped the guy off. When he looked back, he wore that addicting smirk. “All right, Grumpy Bear. I’ll take your number.”

Grumpy bear? He wasn’t going to argue, not when he’d accomplished his goal. He handed over his business card and said his goodbyes. And if he strutted out the door with a little extra swagger, who would blame him?

It wasn’t until he was halfway home that he remembered Tara’s bag.

* * *

“Okay, spill, who the hell was that?” Lirim asked as Ansel returned to the stage.

“Fitch. I met him last night.”

“Oh my God, is that the first guy you danced for yesterday? I could have sworn he was straight.” Z’s surprise was nothing compared to Ansel’s own. He’d thought the same thing. But straight guys didn’t initiate kisses that hot. He was still throbbing from the intensity of those lips.

“Is he why you went off the rails?” Tam, of course, always focused on the heart of the matter.

Ansel did not want to get into the root of his crazy. Yeah, he’d freaked out and run straight into the first bottle he could find. So what? Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Alcohol was the bandage for his damaged soul.

“Well? What did he want? Besides kissing your brains out?”

The corners of his lips tipped up and he mentally kicked himself for the involuntary reaction. He schooled his face into an indifference he didn’t feel and gave a long exhale.

“He wanted to know my name.” He paused before adding, “And to give me his number.” And something about a purse he hadn’t understood.

His friends squealed and clapped their hands.

“Holy hell, stop it.” He covered his ears. “I probably won’t even call him.”

“Are you nuts? He’s gorge. Like, lick-him-from-top-to-bottom-and-never-get-bored hot.” Z fanned his face like he was about to faint.

“He is very attractive.” Tam nodded, but his tone brought to mind a scientist examining an interesting bug.

“Attractive? He was twenty feet away and I could still feel his aura searing my skin.” Lirim and his new-agey bullshit.

“You hookers are so fucking dramatic.” Yes, Fitch was good-looking. And yes, he kissed like a god. But that didn’t mean Ansel had to pant after him like a dog and bend over whenever the guy looked at him.

“We live for the excitement, darling.” Z batted his lashes and smiled. They all laughed. “Seriously though,” Z said, “you should call him.”

“We’ll see. Let’s finish up here so we can get on with our day.”

They spent another twenty minutes working out issues with the transition and adding in steps to smooth it out. As they were about to leave for the afternoon, the manager came out from the back office. Castor had rolled up the sleeves of his too-tight black dress shirt to his elbows, and the gold chain around his neck was tangled in his overly furry chest. He’d slicked back his thinning hair with too much grease so the effect was aging. And somehow, despite his complete lack of style, Castor still acted like he was God’s gift.

“It’s my boys.” He swung a beefy arm around Z’s shoulders and pulled him in for a squeeze. “My pretty pets. How ’bout I order us some pizza and we get naked? Eh? Hundred bucks for each of ya.”

Z’s lips curled in disgust and he pried himself out of Castor’s grip.

“Gross, Cas. We’re not your fucking playmates. You want to get laid, hire a rent boy,” Ansel spat, subtly wrapping a protective arm around Tam.

Castor laughed, not in humor. It was one of those bone-chilling, dangerous laughs that scared the crap out of you. “Never forget, I own you. All of you. You’d best remember to play nice before I decide it’s better just to have you declawed.”

Ansel took Z’s hand and ushered all of them away. “He’s a fucking asshole. We need to find another club.”

“Everywhere else already has entertainment and resident queens to bring in clients.”

“We offer something special and unique. We should be able to find a place.”

Lirim’s face pinched. “I like The Vibe, we just have to avoid Castor at all costs.”

“I saw him selling drugs in the club last week,” Tam whispered.

“What? How do you know it was drugs?” Lirim asked.

“Because I’ve been around enough shady business to recognize a meth addict when I see one.”

“I heard he runs half a dozen online porn sites out of a warehouse in Brooklyn.” Z twisted a lock of his dark hair around his finger as they walked arm in arm down the street toward the subway station.

“Yeah? And I bet he’s connected to the mob, or maybe he leads a cartel and has anyone who crosses him beheaded,” Ansel said. “You guys need to stop being so melodramatic. He’s just a jerk, same as all the other jerks we’ve had to deal with.”

“Except he’s the one who pays us,” Tam put in. “So we can’t bitch-slap him and walk away.”