by BA Tortuga
Dale nodded, even though, no, he didn’t know. “It’ll be cool. You like kids, and you’re fixing to graduate.”
“Yeah. Baby won’t be here ’til June.” Buck’s eyes slid over to his smokes, and Dale handed one over without a word, working the Zippo—some flappy-lipped customer’d given it to him for a lap dance—out of his jeans pocket. Gen’d be back by June.
He’d have to decide whether or not to spend the summer watching the world in them big old blue-green eyes or be smart and take two full summer sessions and keep on keeping on.
So he could graduate.
So he’d be free.
THE FIRST few weeks without Dale went well enough. Oh, Gen missed him terribly and called him frequently, but Gen managed. There was actually a great deal of work to be done, work he had been neglecting with Dale there. In fact, Gen had traveled the last two weeks, from Rome to Paris, and from Paris to Brussels, making up meetings he had simply canceled when Dale had been at his home.
Now, though, he was home. And pining for his dancing cowboy.
“Dio, Adriano. Have you heard a word I said?”
“Hmm?” Gen turned his attention back to the phone and his cousin Alessandro, who went on and on about some olive oil export scheme. “Sorry.”
“You are not. What are you daydreaming about now? That little boy you’re seeing?”
“He’s hardly a little boy, now is he?” Gen asked, looking out the window at the waves crashing on the shore, feeling the chill in the air as if he was out there walking on the beach. “And sì, I miss him, hmm?”
“Bah. You are besotted, my friend, and it makes a fool of you. Who knows what he is doing at college with his young friends, eh?”
That had his hand clenching on the phone before Gen made himself calm down and breathe. “I trust him. He would never do that. Not when he has promised to be true while we work at this distance thing.”
“It is easy to promise and easier to break.”
“For you, perhaps.” His cousin had been married at least three times. “For some of us, it means more.”
“If you say so. So do you wish to go in with me on this project or not?”
“Sì, sì. I will do it. Come down to Napoli next week and we will sign the papers.”
“Why don’t you come to Palermo?” his cousin asked. “We could have some fun.”
Gen wrinkled his nose. “I don’t have time. I have to leave for America on business again soon.”
“Business. Hmm. Is that what you call it? Any excuse to go see your American cowboy.”
“I am going to Chicago, not Houston. You worry too much.”
“I simply know you and your obsessions. Very well, I will come down sometime this next week to work out the details. Make sure you are there.”
“I will be. I am still a businessman, Cousin.”
“I hope so.”
They rang off, and Gen sat and stared at the phone for long moments, grumbling to himself. He was not obsessed. He wasn’t. He was simply in the first blush of his passion still. That was why, even as he was telling himself he was fine without Dale, he was reaching for the phone. And hoping Dale was awake.
“DEE. KID. C’mere.”
Dale wiped the sweat off his chest, neck craning to see who was calling. Fuck, it was Jorge, the club owner, looking a little pissy. Goddamn it. If Jorge was gonna bitch about not doing a lap dance for that grabby little fuck, he would quit. The little prick always got grabby and never fucking tipped and then ended up jacking off, which was fucking nasty. He was doing his fucking job. He hated this fucking job. It was getting to where a nighttime security job was looking more and more like something he could manage. “Yeah, boss?”
“I been thinkin’, man. You know Ken?” Jorge had this diamond in his front tooth that caught the light and made it hard as fuck to focus. Really. Dale pulled on his jeans, wincing as the denim rasped along newly waxed bits. Hated. This. Job.
He bet Gen’d like the smooth, though.
“You mean the new guy? Does the Indian thing to Tim McGraw?” He sorta liked that song. Hell, Ken seemed a decent sort. Had that long hair thing working for him. It would be a moneymaker.
“Yeah. Him. He wants to do this cowboy and Indian dance, with rope.” It came out “wit rup,” which damn near made Dale laugh. “Thinks the money will double for you.”
“I don’t do partner dances, man.” It was hard enough to work it single, to ride that imaginary bull. Although it was easier now than it ever had been. He sorta just closed his eyes and thought of Gen.
Which was like baseball, but different. Real different. Did they have baseball in Italy? He’d have to ask, because damn. Baseball. He still wasn’t over the no-football thing. Weird-assed country.
Really, fucking soccer? Shit.
Where was his clean shirt? He knew he’d brought one. Oh, man. Time to wash the chaps. Ew.
“…Saturday?”
“What?” Fuck. Focus.
“I said, if he’s right and you two is good, you can have the good nights.”
Oh. Oh, dude. Headliner nights meant way more money and more nights off to study. More nights off to study meant more scholarship money and shit. Fucking-A. “I might could handle that. So what? I just go talk to him?”
Jorge grinned again, and that damn tooth went to sparkling. Shit. It was like a fucking hypnotism thing or something. Jorge and his Amazing Fucking Sparkly Tooth performing in the dressing rooms Tuesday and Thursday. Come on down! Lord. “Nah. You say yes. I talk to him. He says yes. Then you two come in tomorrow and make up a show.”
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. “I have class from eight to eleven, but I can be here at noon.”
If he had more money, he could maybe swing a call to Gen. A new swimsuit for the trip Gen’d been talking about to the Mediterranean. Maybe new tires for the truck.
Dude.
“Noon is okay. I will talk to Ken. You two will make up something.”
Yeah, yeah, he reckoned they would.
“MAY I get you anything else, sir?” the stewardess asked, slipping a pillow behind his head.
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
“Then I’ll let you nap.” She gave him that dry-lipped smile that so many flight attendants had and left him alone, treating him as if he were on an overseas flight.
Which he was not.
Gen had debated hard about going to Houston. In fact he had taken commercial flights, just to make it more difficult to travel. His business was in Chicago, and he should have returned home soon after.
Instead he was on his way to Houston to surprise Dale.
It came as something of a surprise to him, as well, how much he needed that sweet golden body and pale hair, though he thought he might need Dale’s laugh even more than his touch.
Stunning.
He checked his watch one more time. Another forty-five minutes at least. He had the choice of driving himself mad thinking about what Dale was doing without him, or of opening his laptop and getting some work done.
Gen chose the latter, hoping he could get his mind to settle.
There would be time to be with Dale soon enough.
For now he needed to regain some of his former discipline and handle his own life. Before it got out of control.
HOUSTON WAS rainy. Gen smiled a little. It had been rainy in Chicago too, right before he left. He hoped that was not a sign.
Gen called after he got out of his meeting, but Dale did not answer at home or on his cell phone, so Gen assumed he was working and went to the club.
Dio, he had missed Dale so much. Not only the sweet, hot body, but Dale’s darlin’, drawling voice and bright eyes and amazing smile. He had missed conversing and showing Dale Italy and lying beside Dale at night.
They deserved some time.
He got to the club late enough that he had to show his passport to get in, and Gen settled in his usual semiprivate box after asking a waiter if “Dee” was on. The smile the man gave him when he indicat
ed an affirmative made something hard and angry rise in Gen’s belly, but he shrugged it off and waited, watching one lovely young man gyrate for ten minutes before the next dancer came out. The dancer who should be Dale.
“One of them’s a cowboy from the West; the other’s his Indian outlaw. Please welcome our own Dee and Keno!” The announcer’s voice was grating, ingratiating, and utterly aggravating, the tone scraping down along his nerves as badly as the words did.
Then the lights came up, Dale’s body glowing golden in the light from where he was bound to a fake log, wearing nothing but a hat, G-string, straps, and a rope. The music started and Dale answered it, shifting in time, a muscled, dark man in war paint and doeskin gyrating around him.
Gen watched, his mouth twisting up as pure male rage shot through him. Dale worked alone. The job bothered Gen, but he’d let it go, because Dale worked alone. He supposed things changed.
As he watched, Dale seduced the other man—Keno, what a ridiculous name—into untying him, letting that fine body move under the lights. First one arm was freed, then the other, the damned stranger rubbing against Dale, slick skin rubbing against slick skin.
His hands clenched on his thighs, and Gen rumbled a little, the loud music hiding the sound as he waved the waiter away. This was… he had no words for it. In English or Italian. He simply had a sick feeling, clammy and shaking.
The lights swirled and sparkled, Dale’s face hidden under the hat brim, stomach muscles shining with sweat as he grabbed on to the pole he’d been bound to, started humping it. Dale never failed to move him. Not ever. But even the sight of Dale’s beauty could not distract him now, though. Not when there was another touching what was his.
The lights fell, and the crowd screamed and waved cash, both men heading to the main floor to collect tips and compliments. So confident. His Dale seemed to have lost some of that delicious innocence.
He did wonder if that was his own fault.
As much as Gen wished to confront Dale about this new development, he had to respect that this was Dale’s workplace. Only that kept him from forcing Dale to leave, naked if need be. Instead he put a business card in a twenty.
“Give this to Dee, please,” he told the waiter. “I will be watching.”
He watched as the waiter made his way toward Dale, who was avoiding an ancient man’s hands with a particular skill. When Dale read the business card, those bright eyes shot up to the shadows where he waited. In the room where he’d watched Dale dance the first time.
That smile was almost happy enough to make him forget his fury.
Almost.
Torn between pride and rage, Gen waited, knowing Dale would come to him. Soon.
Dale made his rounds, then disappeared as another man took the stage. Gen nearly vibrated with the waiting, the tension.
Then the little door opened, Dale’s eyes dragging over his body. “It is you. Really.”
“Amazing, hmm?” See how composed he could be? “I can see you certainly did not expect me.”
“No. No, not for another few weeks.” Dale stepped in, still shining with the sweat from his dance. “It’s good to see you.”
“Is it?” It was not like him to be cruel, but he held himself away.
“Yeah….” The smile faded away, Dale stopping short, the hat brim dipping and hiding those eyes.
Gen reached up and snatched the hat off. “You have a new dance partner, hmm? You did not tell me that, caro.”
“What?” Dale reached for the hat, the act immediate and instinctive.
“No. I want to see your face.” Tossing the hat back on the couch behind him, Gen moved closer to Dale, staring into his eyes. “Who is this man?”
“Which man? What the fuck’s up, Gen? Who pissed in your Wheaties?”
“You!” His voice rose, and Gen took a deep breath. “You dance alone. You always do. Why have you suddenly started letting someone else touch you for money?”
“This is about me doing a dance with Keno? You’re shitting me, right?” Dale’s cheeks got red as ripe cherries, his eyes flashing. “I needed the fucking cash, Gen. I make a third more dancing with him, and they let me have three good nights instead of four shitty ones.”
Gen’s eyes narrowed. “I have told you many times if you need help, you can ask.” As if he had done something wrong. Dale was the one who had omitted the news of his new job status. “If you had at least told me, I would not have been surprised by that display.”
“I won’t take your money, man. I can’t. Hell, I didn’t think you’d give a shit. It ain’t sex. It’s just work.”
“He was touching you.” It came out as a growl, almost too guttural to be English, but he thought Dale understood.
“We were working! How many fucking assholes do you think touch me a week? How many men want to feel up the redneck? I’m a goddamned pole dancer, Gen. You came in here to gawk the first time, just like everybody else.”
“I….” Gen cursed, and viciously. That was true enough, but somehow another dancer was different. More of a threat. “It is not the same,” he said, sticking his chin out.
“Bullshit.” Dale stared him down, vibrating where he stood. “I ain’t the kind to fuck around. You oughta know that.”
“I know very little. You had to leave when we really started to get past the, how do you say? The darlin’ moon.” He knew he was being a bastard, but so be it.
“Yeah, I guess.” Dale’s lips twisted, fingers balled up into fists. “I’m gonna get changed.”
“I will wait. We have more to discuss.” Somewhere else. Surely he could calm himself once away from the bar.
“’Kay.” Dale grabbed his hat, moving carefully so they didn’t touch. “I gotta tip out and stuff. I’ll be fifteen or so.”
“Very well.” Gen watched Dale go, all of the pleasure lost for both of them, and he sighed. Was it so wrong to want Dale for himself?
It took twenty-three minutes for Dale to appear, dressed in jeans and a simple black T-shirt, hat pulled low over his face, shadowing those eyes. Gen thought Dale was leaner, perhaps—not thin at all, but more spare, muscles more defined.
Jealousy surged in him at the thought of Dale working out to look better for someone not him, but Gen pushed it down, trying for an even tone when he asked, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah. My truck’s in the lot.”
“Will you follow me to the condo, then? Or I could give you a ride.” The long silences hit him hard, completely unused to them as he was.
“Are you gonna let me… want me to stay?”
“Of course I want you to stay.” He wanted to push Dale against the car and kiss him now. The urge was a violent, immediate one, and he was actually moving forward with his hands out before he thought to stop.
“Oh.” The tension in Dale’s body seemed to change, Dale taking a step toward him. “I’ll ride you. With you. Shit. With you.” That quick grin flashed at him, then disappeared under the shadow of that hat.
Gen chuckled, that little slip of the tongue doing wonders for him. “Come on, then, caro. I want to be somewhere I can touch you.”
“Yeah.” Dale’s fingers brushed his wrist. “Missed you fierce, darlin’.”
“And I you, caro. That was why I….” Gen sighed again. “I was. Well, many of my friends say you are too young for me. That you need someone your own age.”
“I’m not a kid. I know what I need.”
“I should trust that, hmm?” They finally got in the car, and Gen turned, pulling Dale to him to take a short, harsh kiss. “I need you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, like breathing.” Dale nodded, fingers twined with his and squeezing tight.
“Good.” Gen held on a moment before starting the car and heading off, needing to get to the condo. Now.
They didn’t say a word on the way to the house. He drove; Dale watched him. The drive was interminable.
When they got to the parking lot, he turned off the car and sat a moment, trying to compose hi
mself. He smiled when Dale gave him a look, feeling rueful. “Sorry, caro. I’ve been swinging wildly from thought to thought.”
“You want to go inside? Have a beer?”
“I do. Among other things.” Patting Dale’s knee, he got out of the car and led the way, moving fast enough that he had to stop to hold the door open for Dale. Dale nodded to him in thanks, tipping his hat at the security guard in the lobby.
ONCE THEY got inside his rooms, he gave in to the urge to grab Dale and pull him close for a kiss, one that bruised them both. Dale wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, rubbing him and keeping him close. Hungry. His Dale dove into the kiss, tongue pushing against his own.
Everything else could go away, at least for a while. He kissed Dale back, his hands sliding down that perfectly formed spine, all the way down to squeeze Dale’s ass. Dale was hard—from the broad shoulders to the stiff prick, all the way down to those taut buttocks, knotted in his hands.
Gen wanted to see that body, see what sort of work Dale had been putting into it. He wanted many things, most of them obscene.
Dale’s eyes were flashing, holding his, staring into him. “Gen. I—want, yeah?”
“Sì, caro. Now. Now.” His own prick felt too hot, too hard, almost painful. He started in on Dale’s clothes, tugging at the thin T-shirt.
His fingers dragged over Dale’s muscled belly, the skin smooth and waxed, still slick with the oil they used for dancing under the lights. Gen moaned, wanting to erase the touch the other dancer had left there, and he started to do just that, the path burned into his eyes. Dale rippled, muscles shifting, almost dancing for him. It was enough to make him growl, remembering that same dance for another man’s hand.
Turning, Gen gave Dale a push, sending him stumbling back toward the bed. There had to be… difference. He didn’t want Dale to do for him what he did for others. Not ever.
“Gen?” Dale landed on the bed, hat going flying. “What are you thinking?”
“That I want to feel your skin under my hands, caro. That I want to be the one touching you now and forever.” How self-indulgent that sounded. Gen moved, pushing Dale’s legs apart so he could step between them.
