Seeing Stars

by A. Sanchez

  Once I'd calmed down, I got back to work, and we cut and fit the plain black and tan tiles together perfectly, finding out we both took our time to do things right. I loved working beside him in silence or singing along with the jukebox. I'd never felt so happy in my life. Everything I traipsed all over Europe looking for was sitting on a tiled floor drinking a beer, his legs spread enticingly. We were done, but I didn't want to go yet. The mood was so relaxed and the bar was cleaner than it had ever been. I wanted to enjoy it. “Let's play a game of pool,” I said, offering him my hand and pulling him up, then against me, and in for a kiss.

  We were doing all right, neither of us interested in keeping score or complicating the rules. If it was our ball and it went in the hole, we were fine with that. We drank up all our beer and ended up drinking the cheap crap until we were too intoxicated to notice it anymore. I was making terrible decisions, going for shots I had no hope of making, and Glen forgot he was stripes and started hitting my balls instead and I was having too much fun watching him to say anything. If he bent over, I didn't care what he was doing. I wanted him so badly, last night was on constant replay in the TiVo of my mind. I imagined what else we could have done, how far we could have taken it, and I wanted that scenario played out before my blurry eyes right now.

  “I'll be right back,” I said, leaving him alone to figure out what he was doing.

  “Wait, Marshall! Am I stripes or solids?” he asked, as if neither looked right to him anymore, and rubbed his head. I just smiled and darted off, a delicious little plan forming in my mind.

  When I came back a few minutes later, I tried to act like nothing was amiss and ignored the eight ball was missing when we still had three balls left. I had a plan. I would make my move as soon as it was his go again. I would come up behind him and rub myself shamelessly against him, get him excited, drop his pants and fuck him bent over the table. It was simple and flawless. A little to-go cup of oil rested safely in my pocket. I hate underestimating people...

  I made my move, ignoring my vibrating phone. “Ooh, you need to get that?” Glen said, both pleased with my roaming hands and wondering why I wasn't answering the call.

  “Whoever it is, is not as important to me as you,” I said, finding I was kind of romantic when drunk. I undid his jeans, wrapping my arms around his waist, and pushed them to the floor with a sly deftness which can only happen at that perfect point of intoxication between sobriety and incoherence; where everything you do is just awesome. I ran my hands over his warm ass cheeks, delighting in the smooth hairlessness of them. I slid my hands up and over, divesting him of his shirt in one swoop, throwing it to the corner of the table. His skin was flaming hot against my lips. I didn't notice he'd kicked off his sneakers and extricated himself from my cunning trap.

  He turned around and grabbed me by the waist. Just as I was getting used to kissing the front of him now, he picked me up and sprawled me flat on my back on the table. He whipped off my shoes and jeans and shirt like it was a race, and before I knew it, the hot overhead lights of the pool table were illuminating me like a museum display. We were both completely naked, and it felt a little racy to be so exposed in a public place, even if it was just me and him, like the ghosts of drunks were watching us.

  He climbed on top of me and settled between my legs, adoring and devouring me with his mouth, like the floodgates of his mind had broken, and he was just doing whatever he pleased. He was sucking and biting at my skin so hard I knew my shoulders and chest would be covered with marks, and he wanted it that way. He stopped and looked me over, running his fingers over where he'd marked me with a sly smile. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him back down to me, wanting to feel his weight knock the air out me. I didn't need it anyway, his breath in my mouth all I needed to stay alive.

  I rubbed my cock against his, the bright lights blinding me to everything but him. I wanted to say so much to him then, but at the same time, was so tired of words. He stopped his ministrations when my phone began to vibrate again. “Marshall, is there...someone you need to talk to?” he asked suspiciously.

  “God no! Of course not,” I panted, my lips wet, my eyes wide. He couldn't think I had someone else, could he? “No Glen, don't even look at me like that! It's only you,” I insisted, hating my phone as much as that distrustful look in his eyes.

  “Whoever it is, they're too late,” he said, his hands gripping my shoulders roughly, “because I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name, much less theirs.”

  He got up and went toward the kitchen. I sat up in a panic. Shit! He was mad at me? Jealous? There was absolutely no chance whoever was calling was anyone I was interested in or had ever even been with. My phone was an empty vessel with a few friends and a mahjong app in it. No hook-ups, no exes, no dick pics, nothing! I laid back and banged my head on the green felt in frustration. Where the hell was Glen?

  I started to climb off the table to look for him when he came back and said, “yes. Right there, don't move.” I was on my stomach, gripping the table, one leg hanging off. I guess I did look wanton as hell.

  “What's the Crisco for?” I asked, noticing the industrial sized container in the crook of his arm. I really, stupidly thought he was making us quesadillas.

  He smiled and removed the plastic lid, threw it off into the ether, and took a good amount out. When he spread it on his dick, I gasped. “Ohmygod,” I breathed over my shoulder, watching him take a little more before sitting the container on a cocktail table, then near me.

  He slapped my ass so hard I felt his entire hand print stinging red across my skin. “Open,” he demanded, so I spread my leg still on the table out wider.

  “No, I meant your ass. Spread it.”

  I blushed. I was on lighted display and he wanted me to... I shakily brought my hands back and bared my entire self to him, cringing at how open I was, the heat from the lights burning me and the air cooling me, making my hole open and close in its confusion.

  “I see you're eager,” he said with a smile, nearing me. I was, but I was also almost shaking with the feel of the hard table against me, a pool ball resting by my foot and the light making Glen a shadow slowly closing in on me.

  I felt the cold Crisco against my entrance and I shivered. I turned my head down and inhaled the scent of chalk and felt, my eyes closed tightly. He slid a finger in easily, going slow at first, then speeding up his thrusts, I bucked beneath his hand and arched my back. Everything about what we were doing was so weird and wrong and right all at once, my mind was a crashing Jenga tower.

  The second finger breached me and I started riding them, pushing back against his hand like a total slut. “Damn it, Glen, more,” I breathed, spreading myself as wide as I could.

  I meant more pressure, more thrusting. I felt a third finger and almost lost my mind right then and there at the stretch and burn. My legs quivered and I gasped. I couldn't lay like this much longer, the hard edge of the table bruising me and my arms getting tired. I felt him pull out after a minute or two and I was wiggling and gasping on the table like a fish, rubbing my dick on the table for some relief. He climbed up on top of me and slid in without a word. I took my hands away then and tried to adjust myself, but he weighed me down just as I was.

  “I love you, damn it,” Glen breathed in my ear as he thrust hard, his arms caging mine, propped up on his elbows. “You hear that phone?” It had started vibrating again. I nodded. “I don't like it.” He rammed me harder. “lift your ass.” He backed off enough for me to do so, then grabbed my shoulders, still low enough to avoid the overhead lamp.

  “I—I don't know who it is, I swear,” I breathed as he kept fucking the air out me. That's when I realized he'd said he loved me. I closed my eyes tightly and smiled, completing the circle of feelings coursing through my veins; love, fear, lust, beer, happiness and trust.

  “What are these stars for?” he asked, pushing a thumb into the center of one as his hot, hard dick started hitting against my prostate.
I moaned and writhed beneath him, delirious. “It's—a—an ex. Mistake. Ugh, so many stupid mistakes, Glen,” I admitted under the influence of torturous pleasure. I'd tell him anything he wanted to know.

  “No, they're a part of you. I like being able to say making love to you has me seeing stars.” He chuckled, then reached around me for my poor neglected cock.

  I was going to come all over this damned pool table! I closed my eyes as his rough hand worked me so exquisitely, and the truth in my heart came pouring out of me. “I love you... I want you... Fuck me, Glen... Christ, I want you so much...” I was just full of things to say.

  He put all his weight on me and let loose then. He bit the back of my neck, holding me down so primitively, not letting go. I started coming a second before him, our moans drowning out A Well Respected Man playing on the jukebox in the other room.

  I laid there beneath him, breathing hard while the song faded out and then we were left in silence. I'd let my entire heart out there on the pool table and I was scared. I'd never felt so exposed and controlled and desired. Where did things go from here?

  He slowly pulled out and maneuvered himself off me. My back felt cool when the air hit it and I lazily pushed a ball by my hand into the corner pocket. My phone began vibrating again and I growled. “get the phone from my pocket,” I whined. “Answer it.” I had nothing to hide and I was tired of this shit.

  “You sure?” Glen asked digging around our pile of clothes. He found the oil and held it up to me questioningly. When I blushed, he pursed his lips, holding back a smile. “Gotcha.”

  “Yea. I have nothing to hide. Tell whoever it is that we're fucking.” I slowly slid myself off the table with a groan as he answered. I was glad he did. He needed to know he could trust me, what with him having such issues.

  “It's a girl. Cynthia,” Glen whispered with a frown as he listened. He nodded, cursed and made other small noises as the blah blah blah of her voice echoed in his ear. My ears perked up. Cynthia never bothered me like this. Was she okay? I neared him, ignoring the cum sliding down my legs and the mess on my stomach. “Is she okay?”

  He nodded, but he looked worried. “No, that won't happen, I promise,” he told her angrily. “Thank you for letting us know,” he said, then ended the call. He gave me my phone back and said, “Orlando's paid someone to have you killed.”

  Chapter 8

  I just stood there, messy as I was, and stared at him. Was this some kind of sick joke? “What?” I asked at last, my mind still foggy from beer and sex.

  “The police came to your house to check on you and when you weren't there, they started asking your neighbors when the last time anyone had seen you.” He looked worried and angry. Cynthia was my neighbor. They must have asked her and she had flipped out.

  “But how do the police know?” I asked, wanting to get dressed but covered in stickiness. I looked around for something to wipe off with.

  “Come upstairs,” he said, gathering our things. “There's a small shower across from the office.” He slapped my ass as I bent down to put my shoes on, but I was too confused to give it the attention it deserved. I went after him and found he wasn't lying. It was a very small shower. A literal closet. I got in and closed the glass door. Glen stayed by the open door a foot away. “The guy Orlando approached was a customer here. He liked you and thought the request was fucked up, so he ratted him out. I don't know more than that, though. Cynthia said the police asked if she knew him.”

  “You and this goddamned bar,” I shouted over the running water. “There's not a single low-down piece of shit who hasn't been in here!” I was outraged. “Why couldn't you have a normal restaurant over by the park, selling caviar and brioche or something?” I complained.

  “Because no one with any sense is irresponsible enough to blow their entire paycheck on one meal. The people around here do,” he said with a smile meant for my wet naked body. “I wouldn't know how to run a place like that, anyway.”

  “I would. I'd make it so beautiful and...clean,” I dreamed, washing my hair.

  He broke my reverie, bringing me back to Earth. “We need to go to the police and see what's going on. I could watch you soap yourself all day, but...”

  After that, we went to the police station and found out Orlando and his crew had absconded. Mad as we both were, there was nothing to do but carry on. Glen invited me back to his house that night, and I never moved out. I can make a pretty good omelet now, and I learned the secret to getting into Glen's ass was dirty talk and Czech beer. Never failed.

  Eventually, Orlando was caught in Florida, which we both found hysterical. He'd stolen forty thousand dollars from Glen, which we slowly figured out after hours and weeks of going back through all the records. We didn't find that part at all humorous. He was being charged, along with two waitresses and interestingly, John's boyfriend Felipe, who had been helping them sneak the money out. The rest of them were never charged, but at least it was something.

  I tried to upmarket the bar a little, but fights still broke out all the time and every damned nice thing I tried to put in there was broken or stolen. I soon gave up, but I did get some pretty dependable workers in at last, once they knew how much money they could be making and the risk to their lives minimal. The biggest change I made was closing on Mondays, giving Glen and me time to go to the lake or get out of town for a while.

  I rented out my cottage and became Cynthia's daughter Stephanie's godfather. The nickname stuck, and somehow I became known as such by everyone who came to Mars Bar. Glen was a little miffed, because he said he'd always wanted to have a cool nickname, so I called him Gustikcito for a while until he took me up to his office and almost fucked me through the mattress. After that I just called him Grrr.

  We'd been together a little over two years when Cynthia came by and threw me a fortieth birthday party, some of my old friends joining her and the drunks like Afropuff, Tractor and Amigo de Todos (I gave them all nicknames in return) made up the rest of the extravaganza, complete with noise makers and a huge cake. Glen and I took to the dance floor, Latin dancing the night away with each other, Cynthia, and I even convinced a trucker to dip me in a tango. By the end of the night, I was a little drunk on shooters and adrenaline. That's why it took me a little while to focus on what Glen was trying to tell me. “You found a what?”

  “A purse. In the parking lot,” Glen was saying, coming around the bar and handing it to me. I didn't want it.

  “God, I don't even want to know what might be in it.” I didn't understand women, and purses contained things that frightened men. I didn't know what those things might be, and that scared me more. In this area, there might be drugs in it, too. “No, no no no. Throw it out,” I insisted, refusing to take it.

  “Maybe there's an ID in it. Just look in there and see! Come on, I have to run the report,” Glen said, a little bit irritated. I couldn't see the point. He could have done it himself in the time it had taken for him to explain. He thrust it in my hand and went to the register, doing his thing.

  I was scared, but I opened it. And then I was really, really scared. “Glen! Oh shit, Glen!” I yelled, throwing it on the bar, wanting it far away from me.

  “What is it?” He wasn't even paying attention to me!

  “Oh God, someone's robbed a bank or something and I touched the evidence!” I was beside myself. The purse was crammed full of hundred dollar bills, all neatly secured in currency straps of $10,000. I felt faint. Someone was probably laying there dead in our parking lot.

  “Why do you think that, honey? What's in there?” He was running his report and counting down the register, still only half paying attention to me.

  “One, two three, four...” I was counting the stacks. “It's a hundred grand in here,” I breathed, looking around me, truly afraid. “We have to call the police.” I reached for my phone and Glen's hand clamped down over mine so fast I hadn't seen it coming.

  “Happy birthday.” He kissed me.

  “Wha--” I fe
lt like I'd been shot. “Why?” That bastard! Once I got myself together, I was going to take him out back for this, scaring me!

  “I want you to open your own business. Do your thing.”

  My eyes started getting blurry. I was going to cry and I was fighting it so hard my face was red and I was shaking. “You don't want me to manage Mars?” I looked away from him.

  He grabbed me in his arms and said, “I do, you're like my big bloodhound, and I love you. But I want you to go out there and own life. Make something you're proud of. Open that café by the park with caviar and brioche.” He kissed my forehead.

  “I can't take your money and then say I did it on my own,” I said with a huff. I'd rather stay here and manage.

  “Then treat it like a loan. If you're late with your payments, we'll work something out.” He winked. “But do it right. I'm going to sell this place and I'll need you to take care of me.”

  No pressure... I felt faint. He was selling Mars? Now that was a birthday present! “OhmygodI'msohappy,” I breathed, pulling him into a bear hug.

  And I was. I was completely happy from then on, right where I was, in that small town with Glen.