Hired

by Zoey Castile

  I inch closer. Magnets. Trains. Whatever we are. I need to be closer.

  It’s strange being naked like this. Not trying to cover up the lines of stretch marks on my thighs I’ve had since my first growth spurt, or the way my breasts bounce when I edge closer to him. Though by the look of where his eyes fall, I know he doesn’t mind.

  “Your tits. God, your tits. I could suck on them for hours. For days.”

  “Be careful of the promises you make.”

  “Let me show you.” He loops his arm around me and closes the space between us, burying his face between my breasts. I lean back and sink into the sensation of his thumb massaging one nipple while he nips at the other with his perfect teeth, tongue lapping at my skin like I’m water and he’s endured a drought.

  I hook a leg over his thigh and dig my heel into his ass cheek, and then we’re tangled again. I never want to unravel from the feeling around us.

  Aiden groans against my tit when his erection and my wet heat are lined up. And then he comes up for air. Only a moment, and then his eager mouth is on mine. I get a little too excited in the way I wriggle against him, so slippery that in the next movement I can feel the thick head of his dick press against my opening. The pressure of it sends an alarm through both of us, and I gasp.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and pulls back. “I wasn’t trying to—”

  “I know, I know.” I take his face into my hands and kiss his unblemished cheek. “I think we both got carried away.”

  That’s a terrifying thought. Because I’ve never let someone inside of me without protection. I’ve never wanted to. But with Aiden, I want to feel every part of him, his skin, his muscle.

  “Look,” he says. “I just want you to know that I always wear a condom. Always.”

  His eyes are a bit terrified, and I wonder if it’s for the same reasons that I’m afraid. That it felt too good. That I kind of want to know what he feels like raw and bursting inside of me. I’ve never known a man that way, and that heart-pounding fear takes root within me alongside the lust. I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to him.

  “It’s a good thing I’m prepared,” I say, and reach for the condoms on the bed, which he rips open in a frenzy.

  And I’m glad I bought a whole box.

  15

  Sin Contrato

  AIDEN

  I make it back to my hotel in a hazy dream.

  I take a Lyft blasting ska music, and I’m pretty sure it runs on old cigarette butts and Abercrombie & Fitch spray. But it doesn’t matter because I spent the night buried deep inside of Faith Charles.

  Her mouth, her sweet perfect pussy, her grabby hands.

  You know, it’s nice to be appreciated. But the best part of being with her is the face she made just before she came. Every. Single. Time. Like the sensation appeared out of nowhere, like she’s never really ready for it, but when it hit her, it was a surprise, a wish granted—damn. I could die a happy man if the last thing I saw was her O face and I was the one who made her feel that good. It’s starting to get me hard again, so I breathe in the cigarettes and high school football-player cologne and my wood goes away.

  I walk into the Hotel Sucré wearing the same clothes I left with yesterday, minus a beautiful blazer, and the doorman gives me a knowing fist bump.

  “What’s up, paisa?” I ask.

  “Life’s good, can’t complain,” he says, and I feel that in my bones.

  I go to my room to shower and change real quick before doing something that I promised Faith I’d do.

  Although, I did break my promise to suck her tits for hours. I was distracted by the rest of her, soft and plush and mind-bendingly sexy.

  But this is not a sex kind of promise.

  This is something that I’ve been dreading for weeks. I hit up Fallon, and he gives me the information that I want.

  I head two floors down and find room 413.

  When he opens the door, I’m not sure if he’s expecting me or if I never truly noticed how calm Rick Rocket is in demeanor. He’s wearing what his version of casual clothes is, trading his brightly tailored suit jacket for a button-down and a pair of artfully distressed jeans. His dark blond hair is freshly cut and swept back. A few months shy of forty, Ricky is a man who pulled himself up by the bootstraps to create an empire of naked men and pleasure. And I’m among the most recent line of fuck-ups who let him down.

  The silence that stretches between us goes on for too long, and then I’m like a fucking little kid toeing the carpet with my Adidas flip-flops and not saying a word. I never had an older brother to look up to, or a father who would reprimand me in the ways I might have needed. But I think that if I had, and I’m not talking about my dad, this is the feeling I might have had. Like he’s not mad but “disappointed.” For so long, I felt like I wasn’t missing out on anything. Then being with Mayhem City and Ricky became the family I’d never truly had.

  “Are you going to stand there all fucking day?” Ricky asks. Even after fifteen years in the States, he has a remnant of his Aussie accent just like I have mine. “Or are you going to hug me like a man?”

  And maybe it’s the emotional residue of last night’s fuckfest (which I haven’t 100 percent processed completely) or it’s because I’ve missed him and all of my brothers. Whatever the reason, I wrap my arms around Ricky and squeeze tight. He’s shorter than me but super built in that Hugh Jackman-in-peak-Logan kind of way. He gives me a solid pat on the back.

  “Hey,” I say, because I’m weak when it comes to more than just Faith.

  “Took you long enough to write, didn’t it?” he says. “Come in.”

  I walk into his balcony suite and make myself at home in the living room. From here there’s a view of Dauphine Street, and it comes with all of the noise. It’s ten in the morning, but it’s New Orleans, and also, it’s us, so he takes two beers out of the fridge and pops them open. We cheers, and for a moment, I’m about to ask, “What should we cheers to?” But that’s my thing with Faith.

  “Salud, my friend,” he tells me, then drinks.

  “I’m sorry, Ricky,” I say, and launch into everything I’ve wanted to say to him since I quit. “I got wrapped up in all of the things I never had, all of the things that I wanted.”

  “I could have helped you get that. I thought that’s what we were all doing.”

  I shake my head, drink my Abita beer, and keep talking. “It’s just when this woman approached me about starting her own group, her own show, I thought it would be an amazing idea. I didn’t know she was trying to screw you. I didn’t think she’d leave me high and dry when all was said and done. It’s what I deserved.”

  We do that thing guys usually do, stare down the bottle necks of our beers instead of look at each other in the eyes. Why do we do that shit?

  “You were primed,” Ricky says, leaning back into his armchair. I feel like I’m begging my mob boss to spare me a round with a gun, Al Pacino–style. “I was ready to hand everything over to you, Aiden. But do you know what my mistake was?”

  I couldn’t bear it if he said the mistake was trusting me. My whole life that’s the one thing that I longed for. Someone who believed in me. Someone who put their faith in me.

  And just like that, I’m thinking of her again. Faith’s incredible smile, her asking me to promise that I’d do this. Even if it hurts, I’m glad I’m in this moment.

  Something catches in my throat, and I take a swig of the cold brew to wash it down. I say, “I’m too immature?”

  “That’s the thing!” Ricky scoots forward. “You’re not immature. My mistake was thinking you were ready. Don’t get me wrong. You’ve got years on where I was when I was twenty-five. At your age I showed up to this country with two hundred bucks in my pocket and a pair of croc-skin boots . . .”

  “Which you still have,” I finish for him.

  “You’re damn right I still have them,” he says proudly. “It took me years to get to a place where I could build something. I thought yo
u were ready, Aiden.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why did you fuck me over?” Ricky shouts. In a way, I’ve been wanting this shouting. It’s cleansing. What did Harry say? Waning moon and all that. Before I think of letting this go, I have to face it. “Why did you leave the very week you were scheduled to take the show over for yourself? You didn’t even tell me. You just left. What happened?”

  I look down at my toes. I look into my beer. I think back to that day. “Margaret was waiting for me in the location she’d found. She’d been paying me a lot of money to keep her company at the blackjack table. I didn’t have to do anything, just blow on her dice before she rolled. My usual deal. She was an heiress of whatever.”

  “Of almond milk,” Ricky says, and I could fucking punch Fallon in the throat for running his mouth.

  “Anyway, when I think back on it now, I see myself. A life-size toy there for her amusement. Because that’s what she was doing. Fucking amusing herself at no cost to anyone. Except it cost me everything.

  “One night she said she wanted to start her own show. She had a hotel, a slot, she just needed a guy to run it. I thought that if I turned her down, it would just slip through my fingers. I thought about everything I didn’t have and I got greedy. I got so greedy and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take that back. When I realized she’d been fucking with me the whole time, I panicked. I’d already no-showed on you for three days.”

  “We thought you were dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ricky.”

  He shakes his head. Those blue eyes of his stare past me to the bright rays that break through the curtains. “Yeah, well. Can’t change what’s happened, can we?”

  “No. But I want you to know that if I could, I’d do it.”

  I know Ricky’s stance on people who screw him over. I’ve never seen it myself, but I’ve heard the stories.

  “Well, you’re doing all right for yourself these days. Fallon let me into your penthouse last night. We drank the whole minibar.”

  I let my face fall for a moment. When I was a kid, I’d always wanted brothers, and the time I spent with the guys of Mayhem City was as close as I was going to get. And I fucked it up. “He told you everything, didn’t he?”

  Ricky rests hands behind his head. He kicks his pedicured feet on the ottoman in front of him. “Oh, yeah. Says you’ve got yourself a girl here. But you met her while you were, mm, on call.”

  I can’t escape the look he gives me. “It’s weird. I’ve never—I mean, I don’t—I mean, I have—Only, not with her—It’s just . . .”

  Ricky throws his head back and cracks up. I really do have the best kinds of friends in the world. “My boy, you are in trouble.”

  I swallow that familiar knot in my throat that forms every time I want to talk about Faith but I can’t. “I know it. Believe me, I know it. I was supposed to tell her the truth yesterday. About what I do. Who I am.”

  “Who you are and what you do aren’t always the same thing. Sometimes one is a means to an end.”

  “I don’t think everyone sees it that way. Fallon didn’t think so when he was with Robyn.”

  “Yeah, well, Fallon can be wrong, too. He’s still an entertainer. Even if he’s not a stripper. Why do you think he’s here this weekend?”

  I didn’t think of that. “He said he was spending time with Robyn.”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it. But I want to expand. That’s why I’m here. That’s why Fallon’s here. That’s why I’m interviewing local choreographers.”

  “You’re going to go on the road and keep the Vegas slot?”

  “That’s the dream.” Ricky finishes his beer and opens another one. Keeping up with him is almost a game in itself, but I do it. Because I want his forgiveness. Because I want my brother back. “I could have a spot for you here if that’s what you wanted.”

  My heart starts buzzing. Here. New Orleans. Ginny and I are done. The only thing that was stopping me from telling Faith how I feel about her is that I didn’t think I’d stay here. I didn’t think I could. But if that’s what Ricky’s suggesting, then this could change things. Possibility fills my chest, and the first person I think about telling is Faith. But she’s with her mother, handling campaign things. And I realize, maybe I shouldn’t. Because a mayoral candidate doesn’t need a male stripper as a son-in-law.

  Son-in-law. What the fuck is wrong with me? Aiden Rios might believe in a lot of things, but marriage is not one of them.

  “There is a whole lot of shit happening in your head right now,” Ricky says. “And I want to help you deal with it, I do. But you have to tell me, Aiden. What do you want?”

  I want him to forgive me. I want to run and find Faith and kiss her, find every secret part of her that makes her sigh those delicious noises she made last night. I want her to choose me. I want her to choose me despite what I have to tell her.

  I want to dance. I want to dance with her in my arms. Fuck. I thought I’d let it go, but a part of me craves the center stage.

  “I don’t want to tell you one thing and then change my mind,” I tell Ricky. “But I’ve missed you guys. I’ve missed the show.”

  “But do you want to be back?” he asks, always a straight shooter. “Do you want back in?”

  “Can I think about it?”

  Ricky nods a few times, tugging on his short beard as he gives me the once-over. “Fallon says you’ve got a masquerade thing next week. Do you have a tux?”

  “I’m living out of a suitcase,” I say, but I’m sure Rick Rocket travels with a tux no matter what. “No. I was going to rent.”

  He makes like he’s going to smack me, but smooths the side of his hair. “Have I taught you nothing? Finish your beer. I’m taking you to my suit guy.”

  “You have a suit guy in New Orleans?”

  Ricky smirks that devil-may-care smirk. “I have a suit guy just about everywhere.”

  16

  Lovefool

  FAITH

  “You look mighty happy,” Sunny, my nail tech, says, a telling look in her bright green eyes. Her braids are piled high on her head, giving her the look of wearing an artful crown.

  “I’m always happy,” I say, and follow her to one of the rows of pristine tables.

  “You’re always pleasant.” She takes the seat across from me. “There’s a difference.”

  “You’re too much,” I say, not wanting to spill about Aiden. But something in my heart bubbles like the tang of champagne after a good shake. When she sits and takes a look at my situation, she purses her lips in a way that lets me know I’m not off the hook. “This new place is great. Even if it’s a little farther from me.”

  Sunny’s the only person I let near my nails. Once, I went to a place where I got an infection from a nail clipper. I almost lost a finger. When I was growing up, my mother and aunts always insisted that we had to look our best. Put your best foot forward to the world. Someone is always going to have an opinion about what you wear or what color you paint your nails—or ask if your hair is natural. I never believed them until I went to school and started internships in conservation agencies. When I came back home, finding Sunny was the best thing that could have happened to me after nearly losing a finger to some foul nail clipper. When she moved to a luxury spa, I was just glad it was in the Garden District by me.

  “Well, thank you for bearing the traffic to come see me,” Sunny says, getting to work with my usual blush-pink color. She sets up the UV machine, brings the emery boards and all.

  “Actually,” I say. “I want something different. Let me see your reds and pinks.”

  “Finally. Can you let me give you some extensions, too? Maybe then you’ll stop biting your nails.”

  I pull my hand out of her intense inspection. “I do not bite my nails.” Then add “Anymore.”

  Because for a long time, I was bloodying my thumbs raw from anxiety. It’s gotten better, and treating myself to this every two weeks definitely helps. It’s not a long-t
erm solution, I know. I go through the red and pink palettes. There’s one shade, a bright red that looks the way Aiden makes me feel. A red that is bright and full of life. The red of azaleas and the sway of his hips against mine. The red of kisses stolen on dark streets.

  “Faith Charles, is that you?” A cheerful woman’s voice snaps me out of my Aiden reverie.

  It’s probably a good thing, because I have to cross my legs to calm the pulse between my thighs. The downside is the person sitting at the station beside me. The place is packed with clients, and it’s just my luck that Virginia Moreaux sits next to me.

  “How are you, Mrs. Moreaux?” I ask, and stick my hands into the warm water Sunny has put out for me. There’s no reason why this woman’s presence should make my heart rate spike. I’m glad I can keep my fingers busy with the smooth marbles at the base of the water bowl.

  “Please, call me Ginny. It’s been a long election season for all of us. I hope you don’t mind if I sit here. My usual girl’s out.”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  Virginia Moreaux, the first lady of New Orleans for two election cycles, has always been immaculately dressed. Her family comes from old Massachusetts money. It was her grandfather who lost it all, then her grandmother left the old man, took his two kids, and moved down south to start over. She found success in leather goods and started a small empire. Virginia Moreaux might be married to a caricature of the Monopoly man, but I respect the women in her family. She even has a scholarship program under her maiden name for high school girls in Louisiana. That doesn’t mean it isn’t awkward to see her after her husband’s campaign has tried to slander my mother.

  “What’ve you got going on this weekend?” Sunny asks me, trying to save me from having to talk to Virginia.

  I hold my hands out for Sunny to dry them. Then she gets to filing them almond shaped. “Just quiet nights in, you know.”

  “I heard there’s a new club going to open soon,” Sunny says. “Lots of business coming in this next year.”