by L E Franks
When I did, I dreamed of FatBoy.
He sat next to me on my bed, stroking my cheek. His lips were warm as they caressed my temple, and I was afraid to move, afraid I’d jostle myself into full consciousness, losing this time with him.
I dreamed I hummed as he ran his hands over my body, petting me, and I didn’t want him to stop.
“More…” I murmured, my dream self and real self merging in a single desire.
“More.”
“You have to wake up, Nicky, if you want more.”
“You’ll leave me,” I protested, fighting off the feeling of my body floating to the surface of a placid lake.
“I promise, Nicky. I won’t leave.” I drifted higher.
“Promise….” The water became brighter and the sounds of the waves lapping on the shore were audible, cries of gulls, shattered the peace.
My dreamscape faded some more.
“Come on, Nick. Wake up.” The lips were back, moving across my face, under my chin, down my neck.
“Wake up… wake—” I felt teeth nibble at the base of my neck. Heat surged through me, and I groaned, half-awake, confused by the emerald green haze covering my eyes.
I brushed my shirt away and hallucinated.
FatBoy sat, holding my hand. He smiled at me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I always wanted to know what you looked like first thing in the morning.”
Didn’t that just give me a thrill.
“And?”
“You’re like a kitten. Warm and soft and innocent. Your claws all safely tucked away…”
I snorted. “If I’m so innocent, why are we having this conversation in jail?”
“How else was I going to get you alone?” His tone was flirty, but I heard the undercurrent loud and clear. Not that this was my fault, per se, but that we’d been having a string of bad luck stretching back weeks.
I sat up, swinging my legs over the side to sit next to him.
“Seems to be the question of the day.”
And it was.
I felt like this was it for us: make or break, do or die… or any other cliché I could think of. We’d either get through this together or we’d walk away as friends.
“What happened? One minute you pulled that biker off me, the next you were gone.” My voice quivered a little, and I hated it. I hated feeling weak, sounding needy.
FatBoy gently bumped shoulders with me—the good one fortunately—and unclenched my fist, rescuing my shirt from my grip, to hold my hand. He pulled our linked fingers onto his lap, stroking my palm with his thumb. And began to talk.
His touch was enough of a reminder of my dream that I began to squirm. It felt like he’d drawn a straight line between my hand and my dick.
I fought against a surge of desire, trying to follow what he saying, watched his mouth move, forming words. Important words.
“—he respected the suit first, guess he didn’t want to damage a Hugo Boss.” He grinned at me to make sure I was paying attention.
And I was.
I was riveted.
Close enough his spicy woodsy cologne made my mouth water, made me want to lick his throat… taste it for myself.
“—was spotted by a member of the IRT I’ve worked with before. He recognized me as part of Blake’s team, pulled me aside to help them with…”
I reached up to touch, but he had my good hand and stretching across his body from where I was sitting was a no-go with my shoulder throbbing in time with my groin.
I was conflicted but motivated.
FatBoy turned to me, seeking the connection between us.
“I tried, Nicky—” He was so earnest my heart clenched. “—tried so hard to get back to you, but they had me cornered in Blake’s office.” There was pain in his eyes, belief that he’d failed me.
I shook my head.
No.
“Not your fault.”
He kept going, not listening to me.
“I… I kept asking after you… told them you were in charge of the bar… not the fighting.” He dropped his head.
Ah.
“That makes more sense.”
I tried to keep my laugh light and free from the bitterness for his sake. I could still taste the time spent on my knees in handcuffs, ruining all the hotness from that particular scenario.
“When they finally got my name, everyone scattered. Must be why they gave me a single.”
“They kept me for over an hour before bringing me to the station, by then you were gone…” The pain he shared in a single glance slayed me.
“Nothing you could do,” I murmured, reassuring him, entwining our fingers together. “It was pure chaos. You were there… I’m just glad you’re here now.” I nuzzled under his chin and felt the tension leave his body. I knew if I bothered to look up, I’d see his familiar smile.
FatBoy slid his hand free and pulled me close. The heat from his body raised goose bumps on my arms. He ran his fingers through my hair.
“They’re just waiting to finish processing everyone before they’ll think about releasing us. Blake is furious. He’s been raising hell with Dupree—but there’s nothing he can do… too high profile. They have foreign nationals, known gang members, and a couple of bankers from Memphis. Didn’t know we were so popular… Did you?”
“Seriously?”
“Would I lie to you, cher?”
He let his French linger on his tongue, knowing it drove me crazy, the bastard. Our too-few necking sessions having led to wholesale recitations of passages of 17th century poetry as I climbed his leg.
I felt the urge again and looked around. As far as privacy was concerned, I’d done more with less. From the sound of it, we’d be here for quite a while yet.
What could they do if they caught us?
Arrest me?
I barely paid FatBoy any more mind as he rattled off details of the damage, of who’d been unlucky or too drunk to avoid the police, and who should have been arrested but were too lucky to actually pay for their actions. Wouldn’t karma be a bitch? Cam.
When he got to the recitation about the rest of the staff—stuck back at Frisson giving statements to police—I made my move, decorum be damned.
It was years since my first and only lesson in giving a lap dance.
“Uh-huh.” I kept up a string of I’m-listening noises so he wouldn’t try and stop me as I slid into his lap, wrapping my good arm around his neck. They’d confiscated his tie, which was disappointing. Some of the best stripper moves came from playing with a client’s tie.
“Whoa!” His surprise was comical. He looked around nervously, jumping at every loud noise. I was afraid he’d dump me back onto the mattress and call a guard to move him in with the drunks.
I had to move fast if this was going to work. We hadn’t been alone together for so long….
“Don’t think,” I purred, mimicking Celeste-the-stripper from my memory, and began undulating, rubbing myself against his abs—fortunately he was too stunned to laugh.
“Oh fuck, Nick!” His brain must have tripped a circuit, or he’d become very obedient, following my command, because gone was the hesitation. He gripped me hard, pulling me close. I felt his erection through our clothes and ground against it, white sparks flashing behind closed lids, his mouth covering mine.
I lost myself in sensation, riding his lap, letting friction wind me up. FatBoy’s hands slid along my sides until they settled, gripping my ass and holding me, a steady counterpoint to his thrusts.
He bit my lip, and I tasted fresh blood from the reopened split. I didn’t care. I was so close. I dug my fingers in the short hair of his scalp, trying desperately to keep his mouth on mine when he seemed determined to suck at the skin behind my ear.
I loved his mouth. His tongue. His taste. I wanted…
“More.” The words escaped me, a moan in his ear, as he worked a hand under the waistband of my black jeans, searching for skin.
“So you said.”
If he’d been trying for composure, he’d made a tactical error. I’d popped the button on my jeans and had already turned to working my hand into his briefs, fingers seeking his hard-on before he’d realized how exposed he was.
“Touch me, Davis.” I moved his hand to my zipper, pressing it there. His eyes were dazed as his fingers hovered in place, trembling.
“Touch me.”
My demand was lost in his sudden indrawn breath, gasping as I curled my fingers around his length and started a slow, steady jerk. I squeezed his penis, and he thrust back, sliding across my hand.
Dipping my thumb in his slit, he flew apart. Spreading his pre-cum across the head, I continued to work his prick while he writhed.
He’d made himself completely vulnerable to me, giving himself up—the trust he had in me was immense. It was no longer about long-delayed physical release or fulfilling some tawdry porn fantasy of jailhouse sex; it was an act of completion, the cementing of the connection between us that had been driving us both crazy since our first kiss.
I almost came from the picture he made, his arms hanging limply and outstretched in supplication. I intended to grant him peace, just not all at once.
More determined than ever, I rose over him, ignoring pain coming from every direction. Wrapping an arm around his neck, I covered his mouth with mine, pouring every single thing I felt for him into my kiss, thrusting my tongue against his, keeping time with the rhythm of my hand on his cock.
“I sure hope they captured your good sides, boys, because from this angle, the view is spectacular—”
From over my shoulder, I could see Rachel Renoir, Esquire leaning against the bars with a big, fat smirk plastered across her face.
* * * * *
We had one thing going for us: only FatBoy was exposed and I was draped across him like a hundred-dollar hooker, so he was safe enough from prying eyes.
At least his dick was.
Only someone who’d been raised in a box on the top of some peak in the Himalayas without any human or animal contact would be confused by what we were doing to pass the time.
I sat up, calmly swatting FatBoy’s hands as he struggled to tuck his dick away, getting tangled up in his panic.
I zipped him up, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose before rising to my feet, carefully keeping my back to Rachel. I did a shimmy to readjust myself, and FatBoy buttoned my jeans for me, his panic subsiding somewhat after a wary look around confirmed she’d come alone.
I walked over to join her at the bars, noting the skintight suit in fire engine red. She had a matching patent leather briefcase and a couple of envelopes tucked under an arm. She looked loaded for bear, in full-on attorney mode.
“You two yahoos owe me a buck each. I don’t work for free.”
I almost choked on my tongue.
“I thought you were going home to get your girl back?”
“Oh I did. Thank you, Nicholas. I’m here to return the favor, and then we’re hitting the road. We have a six o’clock flight out of Knoxville.”
She motioned to someone out of view. “I told them I need to confer with you privately before your release.” She barked out a laugh. “Little did I know I’d be so prophetic.”
I shared a blush with FatBoy. I could see her slipping this into conversations, dropping innuendos over shots of tequila for the next fifty years. Hopefully, her liver would fail quickly. I’d have to make sure I poured her doubles from now on.
FatBoy still looked like he was about to puke. He reached down and picked my shirt up off the floor, shaking it out of its folds and raining dust over the painted concrete.
He gave me a look, like it was my fault I’d gotten it dirty and not a mutant biker’s for tossing me against a wall. Not that I cared. I could see we were steps from freedom, and I was anxious to go.
“Come on, boys, shake a leg—” Rachel slapped her thigh. “Oh wait… you already did!” She tee-heed.
FatBoy stoically ignored her in favor of redressing me.
Any other time, having FatBoy’s hands all over my body would be a treat.
This time he only got as far as the one arm before my hiss of pain had him in full damage control. Rachel’s bat-hearing zeroed in on me.
“No one told me you’d been injured, Nick!” Again it was my fault.
“Nicky?” FatBoy’s concern was colored with a depressing lack of faith in my judgment.
“I’m not hurt,” I protested.
“He’s not hurt,” The officer, who’d walked up to Rachel at her signal, agreed, checking his clipboard with a shake of his head. “It’s not marked off on the form.” He pointed something out to Rachel who rolled her eyes.
“Have you actually put your eyes on my client?” She cast an elegant crimson claw in my direction.
I swore FatBoy took a small step back, maybe to avoid whatever hostile voodoo she employed as a lawyer. I hoped it wasn’t because he didn’t want the officer to get the wrong 'right’ idea and think FatBoy was actually touching my ‘gay’.
“Look at his face! Look at his clothing! Look at the way he’s standing, for fuck’s sake!”
I might have been babying my shoulder—a little. FatBoy’s attempt at chivalry almost unmanned me when he had grabbed my arm earlier.
I straightened up under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes, swallowing a grimace as fire flickered under my skin. I wouldn’t look at FatBoy—I’d never pull nonchalance off with him. He’d have me strapped in the back of an ambulance in under a minute if he could.
Rachel, it turned out, was worse. “Did the EMT check you out at the bar?”
“Ummmm.” I felt his breath down my neck, like an attack dog on alert.
“Did they?” Softly, with menace, FatBoy breathed the words from behind, apparently forgetting that we were being observed.
“Ummmm… no?”
“I’ll be making a report on this, Officer.” Rachel withdrew an expensive looking notepad from a side pocket and whipped out a pen and her smartphone. She made a show of taking down the officer’s badge number and shooting pictures of FatBoy and myself behind bars, before he could stop her.
“Evidence,” she said.
Blackmail was more like it.
She motioned the officer to spring us, and I was the first one out, digging through the envelope for my phone (fifty missed messages) and belt. I ignored an urge to crush the shamrock pin.
FatBoy snatched my shoelaces, and I suffered the indignity of having him treat me like a four-year-old, at least until I thought about bending over.
I left him to it, resting against the bars with my eyes closed. I smelled Rachel’s oddly sweet perfume before l heard her.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Not really. Nothing these guys did.” I paused to think. “Keeping my arms cuffed sucked, but I don’t suppose they’ll care.”
“Maybe not, but it’s always good to remind them they overlooked an injury during an arrest. Sometimes it makes the paperwork go away.”
Crouching, FatBoy’s head thrown back to look at Rachel with eyes wide and bright, I could see the kid he’d been and I wondered if he ever let anyone follow him under the bleachers.
“We’ve been arrested?”
He reached up, taking his own envelope, peering inside. He fished out his laces and set to work on his own shoes.
“No. Just ‘detained’. It’s unlikely any charges will be filed. Not on you two. According to Dupree, witness statements confirmed that Nick was acting in defense of a subordinate and you’re head of security—it’s your job to maintain order…” Rachel trailed off. It hadn’t been a banner night for either of us.
“So that’s it? We just walk out of here?” I mentally crossed my fingers, the h
ours weighing me down. I wanted her answer to be ‘yes’.
“Yes. Let’s go.” We followed along behind her, the heels of Rachel’s blood red stilettos tapped out stories fit for crime novels against the aging cement floors—her percussive stride echoing off the institutional green walls of the holding cells.
As we went, I stuffed my shirt into my right back pocket, letting the excess drape behind me like a flag. FatBoy, coming up behind, snorted.
He pulled up next to me to whisper, “Good to know, Nicky… good to know.”
When I realized I’d just flagged myself a bottom, I switched pockets, giving him food for thought, and felt a tingling at the base of my spine.
I hoped it was my sex drive waking up and not a warning I was going to lose all feeling from the waist down.
I can’t survive another cosmic cock-block.
We passed along the cells, now crammed full of Frisson’s bottom line for my Saturday night—mostly passed out in beer and whiskey saturated heaps—and I cringed at what I’d find once we returned to the bar trying not to think of my budget bleeding red ink for the foreseeable future.
“Oi! Nick!” My name, barked out in that familiar Irish lilt, cut through the cadence of our retreat.
Swiveling, my foot stuttered, catching a toe against the floor. I used it to slow myself down and pull out of Rachel’s slipstream. I wasn’t counting on FatBoy’s flat palm, smacking into the middle of my back, propelling me three feet farther along the walkway, well out of Corwyn’s reach as he hung through the bars.
“Nick! You can’t leave without speakin’ to me.”
I made a move to go to him, but FatBoy gingerly captured my elbow.
“We need to go.” There was no more warmth or concern in FatBoy’s baby blues.
“Dammit, Davis!” My hissing echoed along with everything else. Shaking him off, I turned back to the Irishman.
Corwyn was in a cell with ten other men, all but one of them part of the Irish team. The odd man out was Lorcan, snoring peacefully from his spot on the floor.
“Are you guys okay?” They looked about as battered as they usually did coming in from practice, for all I knew, the fight was just another day at the office.
