Devious Resolutions

by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  We have history.

  Unlimited suitcases full of history.

  Cord, a slacker in every aspect of his life—including his marriage—downs his fifth miniature bottle of vodka. They’re handing them out like party favors and this idiot is collecting them like a little kid trick or treating.

  Predictable.

  He stumbles and I snag his elbow with lightning quick reflexes. His grin is lazy under his mask that’s pulled up, just revealing his mouth so he can get wasted. I grit my teeth, biting back the words I want to say to him.

  Three years I’ve waited for this opportunity.

  Three goddamn years I’ve been on this party waiting list.

  If he fucks this up for me…

  He won’t. I’m here and soon he’ll be balls deep in some skank, collecting more diseases to offer his unhappy wife. I’ll be free to roam about without his annoying presence. When he stops to flirt with a masked woman with huge tits, I once again check over my own outfit. When you’re waiting three years to go undercover into one of the most elite parties this country has ever known, you spend a little time coming up with the perfect costume. Unlike Lazy Spider-Man who’s feeling up this chick’s tits. Frustrated, I slip away from him. My heavy, metal-studded black boots thunk along the wood floors. A side door is open, which sends a cool December breeze whipping against my bare, hairy legs.

  I feel so exposed.

  Not just with my costume, but my emotions.

  Despite what I’ve told Cord, this is not about work.

  This is about GLAM.

  My cock twitches at the thought. The obsession I have with GLAM is beyond intense. It’s a living, breathing entity. My own little pet that I feed and pet and fucking spoil. Every thought and every action leads back to GLAM.

  A prickly, nervous heat washes over my chest, making my pectorals itch. I’m painted with black paint from my jawline, over my shoulders and arms, down over my pecs toward my abs. The paint fades the lower down my stomach it gets. My kilt made from leather straps and metal strands of beads isn’t short, but doesn’t quite reach my knees either. Underneath, my dick and balls hang freely, the added element of exposure sending a thrill running up my spine. The paint on my chest hides most of my tattoos although some still peek out. It’s my mask that’s cool as shit, though.

  One giant hook made of shiny, lacquered thick plastic. It’s attached to a tight, black, see-through mask that slides over my whole head. The thickest part of the plastic starts at the base of my skull and curls up over my head. The hooked end sweeps down just in front of my forehead. I feel like some fucked-up version of a Dr. Seuss character.

  Laughter draws my attention back to the party. Familiar laughter. His laughter. I slink past people unnoticed. Despite my massive size and flexing muscles as I walk, people tend to ignore me. I’m stealthy and silent. I like to hide in the shadows. Standing behind a fat pirate, I watch GLAM from afar as he chides his assistant Peter. He kisses Peter as though they are a couple.

  But they’re not fucking.

  I know this because I know everything there is to know about GLAM.

  GLAM tugs Peter behind him toward a bar. He picks up a shot glass with gold liquid in it and downs it. Once he sets down the glass, his eyes scan the crowd. I’m struck by how fucking hot he is. Even with black eye makeup done overdramatically and long, black lashes. Even with black lipstick and pointy fingernails. It has nothing to do with the fact he looks sexy in his gladiator outfit or the fact he wears a crown.

  It’s him.

  His fucking aura.

  He radiates.

  Like the goddamn sun.

  And I’ve been living in the shadows for far too long.

  My dick aches beneath the heavy leather straps of my kilt and I yearn to give it a tug. So many times I’ve brought myself to climax while watching his pornos. Back before he was a Hollywood A-Lister, he fucked on camera for money. Desire heats my skin and settles heavily in my balls.

  I want him.

  I want him so fucking bad it hurts.

  As he struts into another room, I prowl after him. Because of my obsessive studying and my unlimited resources with the FBI, I know all about his darker inclinations. I know about his friend Hades Peirce. I know about the missing men each year. No one but me seems to notice that every year after his annual blowout party, one of his guests comes up missing. He’s clever and hides his tracks. Sends people on wild goose chases, but in the end, all the leads come right back here. New Year’s Eve. Austin Mallari’s massive house.

  My heart clenches in my chest.

  Austin.

  Disgust ripples through me when I think of when Austin was ripped from his small town, boring life and thrust into a media frenzy. A tall, skinny high school basketball player, barely turned eighteen, had a sex tape leaked. It wasn’t just any sex tape. This sex tape revealed him in all his dark, kinky glory. His willing victim had a bag over his head, his arms bound tight behind his back with an extension cord, and was fucked into oblivion by gay little Austin Mallari.

  Clenching my teeth, I remember seeing that video hundreds of time. I ached for both boys. The wrongness that had escaped when the tape was leaked. Their privacy was a thing of the past. Only difference between Austin and the masked boy was that it was Austin’s face and impressive dick that was showing up on every porn site from sea to shining sea. The other boy, to this day, remains unknown. Despite constant heckling, Austin never revealed who it was.

  Austin died a few months later.

  He was plucked from his life, replanted in LA, and he grew into GLAM.

  His fiery personality has been devoured by the media ever since. For ten years, he’s been a Hollywood darling, snagging up movie roles faster than they can be offered to him. Because of his lean, muscular build and sharp jawline, the fashion industry just eats him up. He’s on every cover of every goddamn magazine. A Fashion Week favorite. His clothing line is wild and over the top, but the drag queens on the West Coast love his edgier version of style. He’s rolling in money, but in every smile in every interview, I see past the façade.

  I see the darkness.

  The thirst for revenge.

  Lust for blood and violence.

  My cock twitches again, begging for attention. I need to focus, not dream about all the ways I can rub dicks with the guy.

  GLAM is a killer.

  I latch my gaze onto his ass as he bends down to talk to a woman sitting on a white armchair. The cape he’s wearing has slid off to one side, showing off the nice curves of his ass in his leather shorts. His high heels make his long legs look incredibly longer. Every gay man in this place eyeballs his sweet ass, including me.

  “What a fucking twink,” Cord slurs from behind me.

  Fire burns in my veins at his choice of words. “You’re already wasted,” I complain. “Nice.”

  “I can drink,” he argues back. “Who am I again? I’m not Cord. Not tonight.”

  “You’re a fucking dumbass,” I growl.

  He laughs. “Lance. Lance Newberry. Up and coming action movie star.” He sidles up next to me and elbows me. “And you’re Granger Mills. Famous director.”

  For tonight, yes.

  But usually, I’m just Rage. It’s fitting. I gained that nickname in the Marines as I desperately tried to sort through my anger issues. I’m still pissed as fuck over my life, but I’m learning how to manage it better. Patience is quite satisfying once you manipulate it to your benefit.

  “I need a drink,” I mutter to him. “Make yourself useful.”

  He laughs and saunters back over to the woman with giant tits. She takes his hand. After hauling her to her feet, he disappears down a hallway with her.

  Good.

  Fucking stay.

  Turning back to my target, I realize GLAM’s no longer there. Anxiety spikes through me, desperate to see him again. I step between people, careful not to bump into them as they chat. Being noticed isn’t what I want. I want to blend in until I have G
LAM cornered and all alone.

  Some rose petals are scattered along the hardwood floors, seemingly creating a trail. Since Peter was wearing roses, I follow the trail, hoping to sneak up on the both of them. Barely, I peek my head around the corner. The two of them stand just inside a bathroom door as GLAM attempts to reattach a rose to Peter’s chest. When Peter hisses in pain, GLAM’s face lights up with deviant glee.

  And my needy cock rises, peeking past the leather straps of my kilt like a curious snake on a hunt for dinner.

  GLAM would be the tastiest goddamn snack.

  Something catches my eye on the far end of the hallway. A red mask. The man watches me before disappearing into the shadows. It unnerves me, but I’m not worried about him. My goal is GLAM. Tonight, I will have his attention. Tonight, I will tell him I know all about his dirty little secrets.

  Sure, I’m stronger than him. Taller. Cut like a motherfucker from my stint in the Marines and then an obsessive relationship with the gym. But GLAM isn’t some pussy twink like Cord thinks.

  GLAM is a force of nature.

  A violent F-5 tornado.

  Destruction and chaos swirled up into something pretty to look at.

  Make no bones about it. He will destroy what’s in his path.

  And me?

  I step willingly into it.

  Glam

  “Stay still,” I instruct, swatting Peter’s hand away.

  “It hurts, pooks.”

  “Yes, gummy bear, that’s what happens when you hot glue flowers to your pretty boy chest.”

  “Do I have to put them back on?” he whines, his upper lip curling.

  I’m about to tell him he most certainly has to glue the damn flowers back on because we are not wild animals. We are throwing the hottest party of the year. And I’ll be damned if I let my assistant look like a homeless bitch. All words die in my throat when I feel eyes on me. Stepping away from Peter, I sweep my gaze out into the hallway.

  A shadowed form walks a few feet before stopping. For a moment I’m mesmerized by the whole weird-ass ensemble he has going on. He’s tall, solidly built, with deliciously dark chest hair curling up through the black paint on his chest. A yummy happy trail dips down between his well-defined V muscles and into his kilt. The mask is mysterious and sleek, revealing nothing about the man beneath. I skim back down his chest, appreciating the delicious curves and deciding I might make this piece of man meat tonight’s conquest, when I notice movement within his kilt straps.

  His cock.

  Free and hard, rising up to say hello.

  Yum, yum, come to GLAMMY.

  “Austin,” the man utters huskily.

  All heat that had been burning fire straight to my dick instantly freezes to ice.

  No.

  Nononono.

  NO!

  Chase Forage is not in my house.

  Nope.

  “Can we talk?” he asks, stepping closer, his heavy cock bouncing with the movement.

  “Who is it?” Peter hisses behind me, peeking over my shoulder.

  I need to think.

  Fuck.

  I slam the door right in Chase’s face, quickly turning the lock. Swiveling around, I grab Peter’s shoulders and walk him back to the far wall. My lips find his ears.

  “It’s him,” I whisper.

  “Your mark for tonight?”

  “No,” I choke out. “Him, him. The man who created yours truly.” I step back and wriggle my fingers over my gorgeous body. “Chase Forage. The one who leaked my tape and hid like a little bitch while the media tore me apart.”

  Peter’s eyes flare with fury. “What do you want me to do, pooks? Send him away? How did he even get here?”

  Chase knocks on the door and I shudder.

  “He’s a sneaky bastard,” I growl. “Faked his way in somehow.”

  Peter gapes at me. “Oh my God! This is all my fault!”

  Pulling him to me, I hug him, careful not to crush his roses. “This is not your fault, gummy bear. But I have a plan.”

  “Your mark?”

  Grinning evilly at him, I nod. “We have to somehow convince him to go to my playroom.”

  “And what will you do when you get him there?” he hisses, his blue eyes shining bright with uncertainty.

  “I end what he started ten years ago.”

  Pulling away from Peter, I strut over to the door. Once I unlock it, I fling it open. On the other side stands my nemesis. My once secret lover. Someone who had my heart and flung it carelessly away.

  “Chase.”

  He steps closer to me until our chests nearly touch. The hook of his mask makes a clinking sound when it bumps against my crown. His scent is no longer familiar. Far more masculine than when we were in high school. A spicy musk floods my nose, making me want to lick my lips. When something hard brushes against the front of my shorts, I realize he’s still hard at the sight of me.

  Hate blazes up inside of me like an inferno from the depths of hell. I clench my jaw tight to keep from saying something that will have him running away. Now that I have him here—the reason I have these dark tendencies in the first place—I don’t want him to leave. Not until I’ve exacted my revenge from him inch by inch. So many times I dreamed up ways to make him bleed and cry and beg. I want to hurt him. Destroy him. Make him see that his attempt at ruining me was a waste of breath. He made me instead. I became a god and he became a ghost.

  “I go by Rage now,” he reveals, his low voice tickling parts of me I don’t want to be fucking tickled.

  “Hmmm,” is all I say. “Care for a drink, lollipop?” I attempt to lay on the sweetness, but if I know the real guy underneath the sexy, creepy outfit and the name Rage, I know he’s not buying my niceties.

  “I’d love one,” he growls.

  Suppressing a shiver, I poke his hard chest with my fingernail over and over until he’s into the hallway. I reach back and snag Peter’s small hand before stalking down the hallway to the back stairwell. Heavy thuds behind me let me know he’s following. My cape flows out behind me. I should feel powerful and excited. In actuality, I’m unnerved.

  This is too easy.

  What’s his play?

  He’s fucked me over once. Who’s to say he isn’t waiting for an opportunity to do it again?

  Both mine and Peter’s heels clack along the floors, echoing loudly. Peter’s fingers thread with mine, showing his support for me. I’m giving Peter a raise after tonight. He’s a godsend. I’m truly spoiled by the sweet boy.

  We make our way up two flights of stairs to my top floor. It’s accessed by fingerprint. Not even my gummy bear or the maids can get up here without my granting them entry. Swiping my finger over the touchpad, I let out a heavy breath when the door latch releases.

  “This is my playroom,” I say easily over my shoulder. “We can talk in here.”

  The lion behind me walks right into the mouse’s trap. But I’m not just any mouse. I’m like Jerry from the old cartoons. Wily and smart. Unlike Jerry, though, this mouse has fangs and claws and a motherfucking vendetta for a dick. All three of us walk inside and the door closes with a soft click behind him.

  Gotcha, lollipop!

  They can’t get out either. Not without my permission.

  The playroom is painted dark gray. Simple. Sexy. My floors in here are made of custom material that isn’t porous. It doesn’t have any grooves or grout lines. It’s perfectly smooth, polished off with several thick coats of polyurethane. Easy for cleanup.

  “Please sit,” I say, pointing to a single black chair in the center of the room. “Peter, will you make Rage a drink?”

  Peter scurries off like the good little boy he is to the bar in the corner. I sit on the black plastic sofa, crossing my legs. Chase—or Rage now—sweeps his head from left to right, surveying the space through the sheer black material. It makes me wonder if his eyes are the same brilliant shade of green I used to love.

  Once he deems it okay to sit, he sinks into the chair
, sitting with his muscular thighs parted. His dick still peeks through the leather straps. I find it annoyingly difficult to look away. Thankfully, Peter arrives with a cocktail.

  He hands it to Rage and then curls up beside me, leaning his head on one of my hard metal shoulder plates.

  My breath stills in my chest when Rage reaches up to grab hold of the hook on his mask. As he tugs, the material caresses his stubbly jawline, slinks over his full pink lips and dances over his strong nose, before finally revealing his penetrating green eyes. He leans over and sets the mask down, his eyes narrowing at the drain in the middle of the floor, before sitting back up again. Dark brown hair is in disarray on top of his head. I have to fist my hands to push away the urge to smooth it out of his eyes.

  The last time I saw him, I did just that. After having wild sex in his parents’ basement, we spent the next twenty minutes outside his car, making out. I’d run my fingers through his hair as I whispered words against his mouth I wish I could take back.

  I don’t love him.

  I hate him.

  The very next day, gay little Austin Mallari went viral. He’d taped me and carelessly put my dick out there for the world to see. His secret was kept safe. I was openly gay, but my glorious dick was no longer a secret.

  “I wanted to talk about what happened,” he says, his deep voice husky as he implores me with his eyes. Those eyes used to do things to me. He’d be passing me the ball on the basketball court, shoot me that same look, and have me stumbling all over my own damn feet.

  Now, I am immune to his wicked charms.

  “So talk, Chase. No one’s stopping you.”

  He winces. “Rage. Chase died a long fucking time ago.”

  My brow lifts as I wait for him to continue. Peter pets my chest in a loving way that normally would calm me, but my heart is beating too erratically at the moment, and not even my sweet gummy bear can help me.

  “I’m sorry,” Rage utters. “I’m sorry I’m a coward.”

  When I don’t answer, he sucks down his drink before eyeing the drain in the floor again. They always ask what it’s for. Rage remains tightlipped. As though he already knows.