Page 19 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

The little guy jolts, and only just stops himself from punching me. Stressed much?

His face remains hard and unapologetic and he glares at the shot. “What does that even mean?”

“I’m still work-shopping that line.” I sit across from him. “Want me to try another?”

He raises his unbroken eyebrow, unimpressed with me.

I lean nearer. “What do we talk about for the next ten minutes before you come upstairs to my apartment and give me that blowjob we were talking about earlier?”

He doesn’t have the courtesy to look flustered. “Terrible line. And I’m meeting with someone any minute now.”

What does this guy want? The confusion makes me twice as determined to get my hands on his ass. Even though he was barely a six.

“So, are you unavailable?”

He sips his whiskey. “Would that stop you?”

No. Not always.

“Of course. But if you’re just intimidated because I’m hot—”

He gives me a very not intimidated smile and picks up the shot. “Tell you what, since you bought the shot, why don’t you tell me what you want to do for me? Drink first.”

Snakebites are lime, high-proof, and truly vile. I slam the empty on the table, making him flinch again, then loom over the little man.

“So, first, I want to remind you why you come to see my teaser every week and give you a private show. Then I’d like to find out what’s under all this flannel.” I stroke the fabric where it lay over his chest. Under the cozy fabric, there was nothing soft. All bone and tense tight muscle. The desolate hardness of his body turned me on more than I expected. “Maybe, if you like all that, engage in a harmless bout of wildly passionate, totally protected sex.”

He regards me with steely eyes, as if beautiful men drip on him every damn day. Then shrugs. “All right. No need for any of that other crap. I’ll suck your cock.”

I’d never received anything but a resounding, “Yes, please,” and the occasional puppy-eyed, “OMG, really!” I feel cheated.

“But later,” he says indicating his tablet. “I’m busy now.”

“Hey!” Jamie, the revue’s cute gender-indeterminate DJ, leaned on the high-top with the disgusting grace of a former ballerina.

I cringe, embarrassed to be seen chatting up Laurence Trockel, certain Jamie would assume I was taking advantage. But damn it, the man had not been easy.

Then they say, “Sorry for being late, Laur. Public transit.”

Trockel all smiles and warmth now, stands and embraces Jamie. “Hey, no worries. I had a real-live East Quay Cutie to entertain me.”

The change, instant as putting on a mask, astonished me. I hate the remarkable ease. I want some of that for myself.

“Chard, you getting interested in advocacy?” Jamie unpacked their backpack, glancing at me uncertainly.

I could stay. Force myself into the conversation, and possibly into whatever advocacy was. Not good behavior. Yeah, that’s the mania making demands. So, I clear the table of the shot glasses.

“Thanks for the drink.” I wink. “Gotta get dressed so I can take my clothes off.”

His brow arches again, but he doesn’t correct me.

Jamie relaxes, my presence at his table explained at last. Once their world turns in the correct orbit again, they launch into a conversation about a homeless shelter and some kind of logistics with a shuttle bus.

So, I wander upstairs, alone. Not what I expected.

I knew who I’d be dancing for. Show Laurence Trockel what he was rejecting.

No, not Trockel. Jamie with their knack for renaming people had it right. He was Laur—unique, secret, and mysterious. A sane man could get inordinately attached to someone named Laur.

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