Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

by 6 Author Anthology

  He cringes again. “Anyways, I forgot that … Carlos talks to you guys over Facebook and that you had me on your phone as Mr. Ito. So, when I sent you that text, I thought you’d know it was from … you know, me.”

  He’s irresistibly awkward and finally pauses long enough to see he’s demolished the avocado. He adds the onions and peppers and cilantro and stirs.

  Because it doesn’t look like he knows what to say, I remind him. “The text from Mr. Ito that said, ‘Can we meet someplace private and discuss a 10k donation.’ I didn’t want Van to know, because it felt so … fishy.”

  “Right, so you asked me to the bar, which I thought was the private place.”

  That moment flashes by in glaring clarity.

  “Carlos, what do you make of this text?” and I’d handed him my phone.

  He’d read it and looked at me with confusion. “I … well—”

  “This is a guy I met at a charity ball. Tall Japanese fucker. I reached out with his business card earlier today. But this … meeting in private—does that seem unsavory to you?”

  And Carlos had squirmed. Not because he was sweet, not because this was vulgar. But because I’d been talking about him and he had no idea how to proceed.

  Kind of like just now. Carlos shakes a little as he spoons the guacamole into a serving bowl. “It put me in an … interesting position. I haven’t had a lot of luck with, well, I never had a sense of … how to get close to people before. And now with the, you know, money it’s just—”

  He puts the spoon down and flattens his palms on the counter and admits bluntly. “My last boyfriend dumped me after I paid off his college debts and bought him a car, so I have … no idea how to trust people normally anymore.”

  Carlos flexes his fingers on the granite as if he’s drawing the strength to meet my gaze. When he does, he’s terrified. Deeply aware he’s fucked up, but still hopeful. “But with you … I had the chance to … I mean, I could get to know you as Carlos, just some raggedy stagehand.”

  He shifts away from the counter as if the memory requires him to give me distance. “But then … you guys needed … such a small investment. And I thought the game would be over once you got to the apartment. I thought you’d bring Van. Or you’d recognize me, and it would be a funny little joke. A misunderstanding and I’d donate the rest of the money right there, and you’d go home, and we’d all be friends still. But then … that text you sent back.”

  If I’d been the sort to feel shame, I might have blushed. “Yeah. I basically gave you an erotic menu. What did I say?”

  I lean on my arm to see if he remembers.

  He swallows hard and recites, “You said: ‘I love role play, light bondage, blindfolding, hate water-sports, pet-play, whipping. Happy to top or bottom or just give head. Surprise me.’”

  Yeah, that was it, all right.

  On my way here, I’d pored over it, regretting every lousy choice in my life. Now the whole thing seems infinitely amusing. I’m not letting on yet, though. I can play his games, too. I’ll never get him quite as good as he’s got me, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.

  “I mean, I know I…” A delightful blush covers not just Carlos’ cheeks but his neck and ears. “I should have told you sooner when you and Carlos … I mean, when we started getting closer, but … I was terrified I’d lose you.”

  He looks up. “Have I lost you?”

  He certainly has not, but I want to make him squirm for a little bit longer. “I don’t know.”

  Carlos is crushed, and I can’t stand it.

  I dip my finger into the guacamole he’s been making. Fucking delicious. “You’re a pretty decent cook and a damned good lay. I think I could forgive a little eccentricity from a crazy, awkward billionaire.”

  He smiles with relief, collapsing into pure joy.

  I lean closer to him on the counter. “Want to take it again from the top, Sweetness? Try to get it right this time?”

  ****

  Halfway through our third annual summer camp, everyone is exhausted during the morning production meeting.

  Scissors draws idly on her iPad, struggling to get the right look of “authentic scribble” and “polished art” for the costume sketches that will be released as promotional material. Faizz and Mercy argue about the talent and the rehearsal time for the choir we want to hire. It’s a bit of showmanship so they can get the one they want.

  Joanna is having none of it, and the music-men are only saved from a verbal bitch-slap because our intern, with the timing of a god, brings coffee. She’s in her last year of college, under-paid—though she has no idea—and is right on track to become Joanna’s mini-me.

  Carlos dozes off on my arm and only stirs when I reach for our drinks. He blinks to reorient himself, then takes his tea. He’s been working too much. Staying late at his company—new product launch soon. Coming in early at the theater before the kids to smooth out some of their sloppy, but functional work.

  “We’ll talk about the choir later.” Van tables it and turns to Carlos. “How’s those practicals coming?”

  Carlos is sipping his tea—my boy’s got a sacred relationship with food—and it startles him to be addressed while he’s drinking.

  Joanna and the intern both smirk in the moments it takes him to recover.

  “Oh, well, uh.” Carlos sits straighter and rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “We’re working on the puppets today. But the background practical…”

  Was too ambitious. The dance for the finale is a weird and wild take on a Victorian tea party complete with octopus. The background he was talking about is a kind of Ferris wheel, which we might use for other acts, but might not.

  “It’s approaching PoC.” Then Sweetness translated. “Sorry. Proof of Concept. Sorry. I mean, it’s functional but not safe for the kids yet.”

  Van looks up from her clipboard concerned. “So, you’re behind your estimate?”

  Before Carlos answers, I do. “But ahead of schedule. You can’t honestly be giving him a hard time for not having a fucking Ferris wheel built when we haven’t even hired the choir.”

  Scissors looks up, stunned. The intern recoils and looks at the door like she shouldn’t be here for this. Faizz and Mercy exchange a “shots fired” glance.

  Joanna is the one who defuses, with her customary mean laugh. “Oh, Papa Bear’s getting defensive.”

  Everyone laughs, mostly because Carlos has gone new shades of pink and is trying to hide behind his tea.

  “I’m just saying. As choreographer. My students are nowhere near ready to use a practical yet. Hell, I’m not sure I’m ready to use it. No need to feel extra pressure and stay late.”

  Van agrees at once. “Oh definitely. Not at all.”

  Mercy teases. “Papa Bear wants Baby Boi at home tonight.”

  Carlos chokes on his shyness, and just to torture him, I put an arm around his shoulder and give him no escape. “Papa Bear’s got his places around the theater.”

  Except for Carlos and the intern, who both look scandalized, they all laugh.

  “I couldn’t stay late anyway. My other job…” Carlos writhes under the attention, but doesn’t squirm away in public like he used to. He realizes he doesn’t need to justify anything. “It will be finished and ready for the kids by next weekend.”

  “I’m not worried.” Van waves dismissively. “Okay, I’m done. Let’s go surf the internet or whatever it is we get paid to do until the kids gets here.”

  Immediately the intern steps up to Joanna. “Excuse me, ma’am. About those postcards you wanted me to hand out in Times Square? Do we need a permit or—”

  “Just hand them out until someone stops you,” Joanna answers. “If those grody Elmos can get away with it, so can we.”

  And Van, probably just to be a shit, says, “No. Let’s look into the permitting. See if it’s worthwhile to bring the kids out.”

  The intern is confused when everyone else laughs.

  ****


  Since Carlo is staying late at his company, I stay after with Scissors. Cheap bar food for dinner and cutting cloth because we don’t trust middle-schoolers with patterns. Not intensive work but time-consuming.

  Still when I enter the apartment everything is dark, even the little footlights around the sunken den. It worries me that he’s not home yet. I fish out my phone, debating the right words to show support without making him feel guilty. I drop my bag and kick out of my sneakers as a matter of course. Probably, I’ll chicken out and end up sending him something vapid and flirty. Need dinner, boss? or you better come home before I get my own kept man.

  I flick on the light switch, but the lights don’t turn on.

  My immediate thought is that somehow the power has been shut off, but that doesn’t happen in penthouses. Not without help.

  It’s just past sunset, so the sky is a purple bruise above the regimented glitter of the city. The curtains waft a little, ghostly in the darkness. The room seems colder in the dark, foreign though I’ve lived here for nearly three years.

  I look for the kabuki mask, squinting in the dark. There is no trace of gold or silver, no indication if the demon is watching or if he’s somewhere waiting.

  My heartbeat quickens, and I grin into the dark, while biting my lip. I first discovered that expression when I was playing a madman, and the only lover who’s made me feel that way is Carlos.

  No, Mr. Ito.

  I stay tense and still for perilous seconds, waiting for the TV screen to blink on. For some command. The low hum of a music player. Or the clinking of chains. I wait for the light to rise on a new costume or a yellowed piece of paper.

  “Mr. Ito?”

  No change in the darkness or silence.

  Sneaky sexy bastard.

  I take a step towards the stairs and sing a little into the darkness. “Mr. Ito?”

  Nothing.

  I carefully step on the stairs, fully expecting the motion censor to trigger. When it does not, I wonder again about the power. I mean, summer blackouts happen even on 5th Ave., right?

  At the bottom of the stairs, the cool marble chills my feet. When I am still in darkness, I take out my phone’s flashlight and aim it around. The light catches on the mask, in its place on the wall. Then on a Post-it note the TV screen.

  I bring my phone closer to read it. I guess I was supposed to come home during the daylight. Maybe poor Sweetness fell asleep waiting for me to fall into his trap.

  I chuckle at the thought. Maybe I’ll put on the mask. Give him a scare.

  The Post-it reads, “Go to the kitchen and brace yourself.”

  My attention snaps up to the dark counters, and I aim the phone’s flashlight there. Hoping to catch him. The kitchen, broad and open, is empty.

  Brace myself?

  I walk away from the windows, aiming the flashlight from the edge of the sunken den to the kitchen. Where the hell is—

  Something thin and flexible wraps around my chest and shoulders, and I’m jerked back. Hard and fast. I drop my phone.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  I’d fall backward, if his body wasn’t there to catch me. It’s a cashmere scarf wrangled around me, then his hand on my throat. My phone’s flashlight aims uselessly up at the decorative beams on the ceiling.

  But I see the glint of gold, before the hard edge of the mask caresses the side of my cheek. “You’ve got places around the theater?”

  “Sorry, boss. I must’ve forgot who I was talking to.” I gamely struggle away from him, but he’s holding me inescapably. Those diamond handcuffs latch behind my back, and when I’m restrained his hand gropes my ass. Squeezing hard and pressing the khaki of my shorts against my soon-to-be-raw skin. Once again, serves me right for not wearing underwear.

  “I’m in for a world of torment tonight, aren’t it?” My best attempt to emote despair can’t mask the sudden rush of lust. I can give Mr. Ito what he wants.

  “Not more than you deserve, Omocha.”

  And I get what I need.

  The End

  Find more books from author L.J. Longo:

  www.evernightpublishing.com/l-j-longo

  OR SOMETHING

  Loralynne Summers

  Copyright © 2020

  Chapter One

  Vladislav Carson—just Carson to anyone and everyone else in the world, though, because thanks, Mom and Dad—stared at his blank screen in disbelief. After the video conference had ended, he hadn’t moved for long enough that his laptop went into sleep mode.

  He’d gotten the job.

  He’d gotten the job!

  “Hah!” he shouted, clapping his hands together. On the couch, his cat jumped, eyes wide as her front claws dug into the blanket she’d been sleeping on. “Sorry, baby!” he said with a laugh as he scooped her up. She protested slightly, and looked rather put-out when he kissed the top of her head. “We’re moving, sweetie. Daddy got the job!” She squirmed, and he set her back down before she could scratch him.

  “How should we celebrate?” He looked around the small studio apartment. “This won’t take long to pack.” ZIM Tech, Inc., his new employer, had given him two months to relocate to the city. It’d probably only take him two days to pack. And they were providing housing in apartments near the office building until he’d be able to find a place—many agencies had months-long waiting lists. He didn’t have time to search for and tour places from halfway across the country, and when he got there, he’d be busy learning the job. They wanted him there sooner than later, hence the free short-term housing. Plus, they were paying the moving expenses. It was almost too good to be true. He didn’t have this kind of luck.

  “Ophelia, baby, I’m going out tonight! I haven’t been laid in forever. Let’s see how good this luck is today!” The cat regarded him with one eye before tucking her nose back down into her paws. Still laughing, and in better spirits than he’d been in for weeks, he went to change.

  Like usual, he ended up at The Hot Box. He loved it for its unassuming nature. At first glance, it looked like any other bar or pub—booths for actual sit-down eating, a couple of pool tables, a few dart boards, televisions, and a jukebox—until you took a closer look at the clientele and the décor. It was his favorite place to end the night, no matter where he started, if he didn’t just start there anyway. It was warm and comfortable and felt safe. This was his family, and as he pulled the door open, he was hit with a wave of emotion as he realized just how much he’d miss them all.

  He stood in the entrance, eyes roaming the place, trying to burn it into his memory. He noticed a new silhouette, a shoulder-to-waist ratio so gorgeous that the man could be a damned Dorito chip for how perfect it was. His heart rate kicked up a notch, but before he could take a step for the empty barstool next to the new man, a body was in his way.

  “Hey, Lexi,” he said, eyeing the person in front of him—it was a Lexi day, not an Alexander day.

  “Oh, Carson baby, why do you look so sad? Come here, let me make you feel better,” she said, pulling him into a fierce hug.

  “Aww, it’s a happy sad. I’m good. But thank you, girlie.”

  Lexi gasped and pulled back, hands gripping Carson’s shoulders tightly.

  “Did you get it?” she whispered.

  Carson couldn’t stop the smile that split his face in answer.

  “Oh my God!” she squealed, and began bouncing up and down in front of him. “Carol!” she hollered, dragging him towards the bar. “Get this man a drink on me! We’re celebrating tonight!”

  Cheers rose in greeting, and Carson was passed from friend to friend for hugs and congratulations. Eventually they all settled down, and before he knew it, he’d been sucked into playing pool. After his third game, he felt eyes on him. When he looked up, he was staring into the face of the newcomer, who’d turned around on his stool to watch him play.

  “Carson! My turn!”

  Carson closed his eyes and groaned internally, before he schooled his expression and turned to Tommy
with a smile.

  “Sure thing, buddy!”

  “I’ve been practicing, I’m getting better!” Tom answered enthusiastically.

  “All right, show me what you’ve got, big man!” The words were spoken to Tom, but Carson’s eyes were locked on the stranger’s as he said them.

  The man cocked an eyebrow at him, but couldn’t keep the slight smirk from curving one side of the full lips Carson desperately wanted to gnaw on. With an answering wink, Carson turned his attention to Tommy and the game. Halfway through, a deep voice, warm and smooth, sent shivers down his spine.

  “So. Celebrating, huh?”

  Carson eyed the stranger as he came to stand at his side. He was only slightly taller than Carson; he judged his height around six-foot-two. His hair was on the longer side of short, neatly trimmed and styled but still long enough to run a hand through, the thick sweep on top just begging to be disheveled and used as a handle as Carson fucked into his face, past the close-cropped beard that did nothing to hide the strong jaw beneath it.

  “Yup. Got the job I wanted. Gotta move now, but it’ll be worth it,” he said with a slight lift of one shoulder. “What brings you here? Never seen you before.”

  “Business trip. Needed some dinner, didn’t want room service. This place is close to the hotel.” The man eyed Carson up and down. “The reviews on the food were good. They didn’t mention how good the décor was, too.” The man held eye contact while he slapped his quarters down on the edge of the pool table. “I’ve got the winner,” he said.

  You can have me, he managed to not say aloud. Carson finally looked away from the ice blue eyes—they were breathtaking up close—and down at the table. He had one ball left to sink—the eight ball. Tom still had half of his, and he was a lousy shot. Carson had been going easy on him.

  “Sure,” he said. “I can go another round.”