Page 58 of The Cartographer

I assumed he did, though it’s easier for me, knowing he’s likely not getting what he gets from me from other people. I mean, what do I care if he’s out at clubs, flirting with other guys, maybe bringing them home? Would he suck them off? Or is he still keeping up the pretense he doesn’t enjoy bottoming? That such a virile, masculine man prefers to suck cock and get fucked as opposed to being on the other side? Bring on the eye roll if I haven’t made him believethat’sridiculous. If he’s at ease enough with himself to get that from someone else, I should be pleased. It means I’ve done my job, and that should make me happy.

We’ll ignore the part of me that’s experiencing jealousy. Maybe a smidgeon of resentfulness. Mostly it’s protectiveness. He’s not ready yet. Because if he were, I wouldn’t be feeling this way.

I wouldn’t.

We wend our way through the house, Allie trying to keep the walking-through-Wonderland look off his face, although he’s not successful. The man’s been around live ammunition and a sickening amount of violence, and I bet he didn’t flinch. Take him on a tour of debauchery? He gets all jumpy. Lucky for him and his puritanical little heart, though, I know one of Elouisa’s favorite hobbies and he’s going to like this one too.

As we make our way through the bacchanalia, I keep an eye out for drugs. I know Elousia indulges in private, but she doesn’t usually permit them at her parties. Sometimes people think rules don’t apply to them, though. If that’s the case, I’ve got to get Allie out of here. If he ever feels as though he’s got the chance to go back into the military, I wouldn’t want him to be prevented from it by an arrest. He wouldn’t touch them, but I’m not going to give some douchebag cop who shows up for a noise complaint any excuse. But I see no evidence of coke nor smell any evidence of weed.

Finally, we get to a room where people are dancing, including a sweat-glistening and happy Elouisa. She’s wearing this impossibly glamorous sixties-style gown, her black hair done up in a beehive, and as always, seeing her brings a smile to my face.

“Rey!” Her exclamation parts the sea of people cavorting around her, and when she reaches me, she kisses both my cheeks. “How’s my favorite sadist?”

I don’t think Elouisa has a sadistic bone in her body, but she’s never seemed put off by my proclivities, understanding my partners are people who find the flipside gratifying. If everyone’s enjoying themselves, I don’t think she gives a shit what anyone does.

“Very well, thanks. You’re looking radiant as usual. Hope you’re feeling the same.”

“Oh, you know me. If I don’t feel that way, I fix it. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Hart, this is our hostess, Elouisa. Elouisa, this is Hart. He’s finding your soiree quite…educational.”

Allie looks far more at home now that we’re in a room that could be a club, except the music is from the sixties, that distinctive Wall of Sound. They smile and shake, a comfortable greeting, but soon Allie’s searching over Elouisa’s shoulder. Does he know someone here?

“Your friend looks as though he wants to get out on the dance floor, Rey. Don’t let me stop you.”

It’s true. I know Allie likes to dance. God help me, my balls ache with the thought. Having him grind up on me, his body hard and lithe at the same time, his movements intimating sex in a deliciously unsubtle way. Fuck me. I hadn’t planned on doing anything with him here because he’s not exactly an exhibitionist. Maybe the Motown classics won’t be so bad. Surely I can control myself during Chubby Checker’s middle school dance classic “The Twist?”

Except when Allie drags me farther into the crowd and starts to move, I realize I’m a total and utter goner. The movie was calledDirty Dancingfor a reason. It’s because, despite the bubble-gum pop sound and production values that sound downright juvenile now, this music is sexy as fuck. The way hemoves…

“I thought you were more of a house music kind of guy.”

Allie shakes his head as he rolls his hips into me, pressing his ass right up against the erection throbbing in my pants. “I listened to my Jackson Five tapes so much they broke. This is the music I learned to dance to. What my dad liked. My first love.”

The word coming out of his mouth stabs a knife through the easy veil of the evening, but I don’t want to let it show. I want to keep dancing, have him close to me, show him a good time. I want him to think fondly of me when all this is over.

Over.

I should start looking for someone else for Allie. A suitable partner now that he’s more confident and comfortable asking for what he wants and not being ashamed when he gets it. Maybe not a forever-type partner because he’s still so green, but at least someone to show him what else is out there. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll find someone he can bring to those family barbeques he mentions occasionally, who won’t have to fabricate what they do. Who they are.

I don’t mind playing, but I can’t see him wanting to live like that. Besides, it’s not an option. I’ve helped him, and it’s time to let him go. Like flipping a house. It’s what I do, except with people. Buy the ones no one else wants and, with varying amounts of time, money, and effort, turn them into someone’s dream home. Then I move on. I’ve made a good living this way, and I’ve been happy doing it. Deeply satisfied. Some of them have taken longer to rehab and some have been harder to let go of than others, but in the end, I find them good partners.

Helping people is the best and most important thing you can do.

The frenetic pace of the last song has melted into the slower, more sensual beat of Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs, imploring his lover to stay. Allie turns to face me, moving in close and resting a hand on my hip. When I don’t tut or scold him immediately, his eyes meet mine, asking for permission.

This moment, this dance, I don’t need control of, so I raise my chin. He grips me harder, the pads of his fingers digging into my flesh possessively and pulling me in until we’re so close I feel his every inhale, can smell the scent of his exertion. We’re pressed together from chest to hip, the layers of fabric between us providing the sweet frustration of friction. His erection is a not-so-subtle pressure at the juncture of where hip meets thigh, and I’m rubbing against him the same way.

He sets a suggestive rhythm, and I let him. Allow him to circle his pelvis, rocking into me, frustrating me. His sweat between us dampens our clothes, and I slide a hand up to the back of his neck because I want to feel it, the small, wet beads of effort. Because I can’t get enough, I tug at him, bringing his forehead down to meet mine so our breath intermingles and we become a single sultry being.

As Maurice entreats his partner, so too do I. “Stay.”

“Hmm?”

Allie’s forehead wrinkles in confusion against my own, and I resist the urge to tell him I didn’t say anything.

“Stay,” I repeat, stroking the side of his neck with my thumb as my ribcage shrinks a size. That’s by far a more likely explanation than my heart beating hard enough it feels as though it’s trying to escape into Allie’s body through layers of cotton, wool, blood, and bone. When I said it, I knew somewhere deep down I hadn’t meant it lightly. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I foster people; I don’t keep them. So like a fucking coward, I continue. “Tonight. Come home with me.”

“Sure.” He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I imagine that easy smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. Because obviously he’s coming home with me. Why wouldn’t he when he knows what’s waiting for him is a veritable smorgasbord of carnal delights? I should be relieved he didn’t read any more into it than that. Somehow disappointment leaches out of my core, and suddenly it’s not sex-imbued sweat between us. It feels like sour panic, and I want to forget this cloying uncertainty as soon as possible.

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