“Where’d you buy the shirt?” Stevie said then.
“No place you’d have heard of.”
“Because I’m too poor to shop there?”
“Don’t take it wrong. No, not because maybe you’re poor, but because I’ve got a tailor who makes things for me and I didn’t think you’d have heard of him.”
Stevie looked at him a long time, then he put his hand under the table, touched the man’s pants. “Did he make these too?”
The man’s voice seemed to crack as he said, “Yes, and it’s less expensive than you might think. I have to wear good clothes for work–appearances help lot with client confidence.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “This stuff’s old, I’m not sure.”
“About?”
“Maybe a thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” Stevie said. He kept his hand on the man’s pants, the fingers moving from the knee to the thigh, then back down.”
“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go someplace.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not? I’m crazy about you, swear to god.”
Stevie sipped his vodka. “I just don’t know–see, men–the reason I’m careful is I’ve been lied to by so many men. In the night they’re all crazy about me, but I’m not so much once the sun starts shining.”
“I’m not like the others,” the lawyer said.
“How can I know that for sure?”
“You can’t–you’ve got to give me a chance to prove it–we’ll go to the new club awhile–”
“What if they won’t let us in?”
“No problem, I’ll pay whatever it takes, doormen are doormen, I’ve got lots of cash, and we’ll dance a little and talk a lot, really get to know each other, we’ll drink and tell each other stories…”
During this, Stevie’s fingers were back under the table, moving up from his knee to his thing, then back down.
“Go all the way up.”
Stevie hesitated.
“Just do it.”
Stevie did.
“That’s what just talking to you does to me. Imagine what it’ll be like when we really know each other.”
Stevie stood.
He did too, started for the main door of the Stall. Stevie headed for the side entrance. “Shortcut,” he said.
He followed him.
“Careful, it’s dark,” he said, as they left the bar, moved into the dark alley.
When the door had closed behind them, the man put his hands on Stevie’s buttocks, pulled him into his arms, kissed him full on the lips.
“Don’t do that.”
“You want me to. You been sending out signals all night.”
“Stop.”
“I will if you really want me to.” He kissed him again.
“Mmmm…” Stevie moaned softly.
“You don’t want me to stop, you know damn well you want me too.”
The man’s hands were squeezing Stevie’s buttocks hard while his lips were mashed against his.
“Undo my pants, you’re making me crazy.”
Stevie brought his hands to the man’s crotch and felt his hardness there, and then quickly undid the top button and unzipped him, exposing his fullness to the night air.
The man took a half step back and looked at Stevie’s face in the dim light. “Those lips …” he murmured, and gently pressed Stevie’s shoulders down.
Stevie allowed the pressure to move him down until he was crouching in the alley with his face level with the man’s cock, his hands gripping the man’s ass where his wallet was pocketed. His cock was not as big as Morgan’s, he noted, but still very nice.
He let the man’s hands take hold of his head and pull him inwards, opening his lips wide to take him into his mouth. At first contact both Stevie and the man moaned with pleasure.
Morgan’s first punch landed while the guy’s eyes were closed and he was lost in the pleasure of those beautiful lips wrapped around his cock. Morgan’s eyes were adjusted to the darkness–he pushed Stevie to the side, half turned, and landed another blow directly into the man’s stomach, taking away his air. Before the man could even react, the third punch was already on its way, a short jab into the cheek and nose.
The big man went down.
Morgan was lifting him back up almost before he’d fully fallen, dragging him back into the rear of the alley, propping him in a corner, so that the body stayed upright and Morgan could use both hands. The jealous rage took over, and he landed two more blows in quick succession.
“Morgan–Morgan stop–”
“Why?”
“You’ll hurt him.”
“I already hurt him.”
“I know, but stop.”
“Why?”
“You’ll hurt him too much.”
“I want to hurt him. What do I love most in all the world?”
“Touching me–”
“And what do I hate most?”
“When anybody else touches me.”
“Well I saw him touching you–and I saw what you were doing to him.”
“Yes, he was touching me,” Stevie was almost goading him now.
“Aaarghh,” Morgan landed another blow on the guy.
“And yes, I had him in my mouth–”
“Damnit, tell me why I shouldn’t kill the guy!!”
“Because I’m hard–I’m so hard, Morgan, and I need it, I need it. My … derrière … I need you inside me now.”
And then they were both heading for the backseat of the limousine, and Stevie threw the door open as he ripped at his jeans and his hands worked the fly of his pants and when he lay on the backseat he spread his legs up high and Morgan lunged and then they were rocking, in lust and rocking, eyes shut in the darkness, listening as their bodies worked. Both moaning.
Just out of their earshot was another set of moans from the figure in the corner of the alley.
A silent witness heard both sets of moans. Minutes before, as his quarry had started for the side entrance, Jones had left the bar by the front, circled around, entered the darkness of the alley, and moved in as close as he dared.
He was there for the end of the punches, the discussion of hardness, and he was still there as they found passion in the backseat of the limousine.
He’d seen them in action before. What a pair. Perverse, sociopathic, driven by strangely compatible lusts, and without limits. And, as far as Jones was concerned, just perfect.
When they were finished, he knew, they’d toss the man’s now-empty-of-cash wallet into the dumpster over there and drive away. Jones would be patient and wait until the man recovered enough to drag himself off to wherever to lick his wounds. Of course the man would not go to the police, as men who came to the Stall did not want their wives or girlfriends to know. Then Jones would retrieve the wallet with its various credit and identification cards. And he’d have another name for his candidate list.
* *
The second he saw Stevie coming into the Stall, Brad knew nothing good was going to happen. He was always eye candy, for sure, a head-turner that ranked with the best. Only tonight there was a difference. For the better. He studied him as he moved toward the bar, wondering what it was, then cursed himself for not knowing immediately.
Tonight the jeans seemed to be painted on. And a different color. Black, this time. When Stevie played pool, as he eventually would, Brad found himself half praying the jeans would split open and give him a peep.
What he wouldn’t give.
Except, of course, Morgan would kill him. They were so weird, the two of them. Good customers most of the time, no problems. They’d come in, buy their drinks, sit, laugh together, play some pool, spend their money. But every so often Stevie would come first, play some pool, and leave with some guy.
Bad for some guy.
A week ago he’d found blood in the alley again, a trail of it leading to wherever the guy had crawled off to.