by Cat Kane

The pink neon sign reflected in a black pool of rainwater. A cab droned down the street, wheels splashing through the puddles. The inverted image shattered like fragments of a glittering mirror, until, after a few still and silent moments, the pieces slid seamlessly back into place.

The doorway of the boarded up store across the street offered little shelter, but at least it kept the rain off his cigarette. A steady formation of discarded stubs grew around his feet, none of them burned down entirely. He liked the sound they made when they hit the damp sidewalk, the fizzling, spitting struggle before the embers died.

Letting his current cigarette dangle precariously between his lips, he carefully pulled the photograph from his pocket, studied it for a moment, then put it back.

*****

It had been three days since Frankie Gillespie had showed up at the narrow room that passed for Kieran Murphy’s office. He used to have a swishy place of his own; all he could get now was a room above an Italian restaurant. Clients could salivate at the rich aroma of pizza and pasta sauces drifting from downstairs while they poured out their grievances about a cheating spouse or a missing uncle who’d run off with a go-go dancer, a .38, and all the savings they kept in a mason jar in the kitchen.

Frankie Gillespie’s savings wouldn’t fit in a mason jar -- well, maybe the amount he’d acquired legally might.

He’d strolled in with a swagger that spoke more of ambition than position. Kieran had to admit that if style really did compensate for substance, Gillespie should have been out of these minor leagues by now. He hadn’t waited for an invitation, just swung out the chair and took a seat.

“How’ve you been doing lately, kid?”

Kieran wasn’t quite young enough to be called 'kid' anymore, and Gillespie wasn’t old enough for it to be cute, but he’d let it slide. “Fine.”

“Good, good. Heard a while back you were having some problems.” It hadn’t been a question, but Gillespie had let it hang in the air as though it were, as though he were expecting an explanation.

He didn't get one. “I dealt with them.”

“That’s my boy.” Gillespie had smiled wide, showing too-white teeth. Despite the words, he wasn’t a man who liked people dealing with their own problems, not when he could have a hand in them. It was a shame to miss out on the potential debt, financial or otherwise.

Kieran hadn’t owed Gillespie money, and from the way the other man looked at him, he hadn't been sure he wanted to know what 'otherwise' would be.

“What do you want?”

Gillespie had reached into his coat pocket, withdrawn a small rectangle of paper and slid it across the desk, smiling like a card shark who knew he was dealing a joker. Kieran had reached for it warily, anticipating anything as he picked up the photograph.

What he’d seen had been innocuous enough, so he'd asked, “Who is she?”

Gillespie'd chuckled, smiling at him for a long moment as though he were expecting Kieran to rephrase the question somehow. “Someone I’d really like to find.”

“What for? She owe you money?”

“No.” Gillespie had smiled again. “Nothing like that.”

Kieran had glanced at the blonde in the photo again. “She must be the only one around here who doesn’t.”

Electric blue eyes had gazed up at him from the photo, soft pink lips smiling in a pout that looked as though it’d be velvety to the touch. He’d fought the urge to do just that, to run the pad of his thumb across the photograph just to make sure.

“So she’s missing?”

“Not at all. I just need to,” Gillespie smiled broadly, “open a line of communication, as it were.”

He’d raised a brow, trying to turn surprise into dull indifference. “Don’t you have people who can deal with this? Or don’t they want to get their hands dirty?”

Gillespie’s eyes had narrowed slightly at that remark. Maybe it was true what they said, that good ol’ Frankie got extremely defensive when it came to his men -- like a prize dog breeder, only there were goons, not puppies, on the ends of the leashes.

“I don’t think that’s important to you.”

“Is there anything you do think is important enough to tell me? I can’t just pull facts out of my ass if I have nothing to go on.”

“Really? That'd be a show.”

Kieran had ignored him. After a moment, Gillespie had gotten the message.

Gillespie'd tapped an index finger on the photo. “Goes by the name Sherri, works most nights as a dancer in a club down on 10th. Nice place.”

There'd been something in his tone that had made Kieran certain he was the butt of some colossal joke.

“You’d like it, or so I’m told.”

“I don’t get it.” He hadn’t wanted to go down that conversational tangent, either, especially not with the likes of Gillespie. The man would file every little nugget of information, even something as insignificant as Kieran’s private life, for potential use at a later date. He was like a smarmy, dangerous Rolodex. “You know who she is, you know where she is. What do you want me to do? Go set up your damn communication yourself.”

“Next time I see our lovely Sherri, it’ll be across a courtroom when they try sending two of my best men down.” Gillespie had sat back, tone conversational. “I’d like it if that didn’t happen.”

The pieces had locked into place then, and had made Kieran all the more reluctant. “I don’t do this sort of thing anymore. I’m a private investigator, not hired muscle.”

“Really?” Gillespie had leaned forward, chin resting on steepled fingers. “I don’t think you’re in any position to pick and choose, Murphy. Word is you’re not dealing at all. So, be a good boy and do what you’re told. Fuck, kid, I’m not asking you to shoot anyone’s brains out; I’m just telling you to convince Miss Sherri that testifying would be a really bad idea.”

Gillespie'd had him in a corner, and the bastard had known it from the moment he'd walked in. Kieran couldn’t afford to turn him down, in any sense of the word.

“How?”

“You’re a smart boy.” Gillespie had stood with a smile, striding back out of the office. “You’ll think of something.”

*****

Three days later, Kieran doubted he was as smart as Gillespie gave him credit for.

Flicking away the last cigarette, he turned from his sanctuary, crossing the wet street toward the club.

The music only reached him once he was inside, an indiscernible noise that was flat and tinny all at once; it sounded as though someone had just put a badly recorded tape in an old stereo. The music jangled roughly off the walls, dull industrial grey stained with old smoke.

Newer smoke cast a haze over the room, acrid scent mixing with stale beer and cheap perfume. The middle-aged guys sitting around the short catwalk must have taken root there years ago and never left. Shadows moved in grimy corners, unidentifiable shapes locked in contact he was glad he couldn’t see. No one so much as looked up when he took a seat at the bar.

The bartender didn’t even ask what he wanted; she just arched a heavily penciled brow in bored question. He ordered a scotch – minus the rocks – that arrived lukewarm and watered down anyway. When the music changed, something with a deeper bass line kicking in, no one else paid any attention. Maybe they were here so often they got used to it.

There were already three bulbs missing from the catwalk lights, black gaps like missing teeth in a white glowing row. There wasn’t much difference when the rest of the lights dimmed, a single backlight illuminating a ratty burgundy curtain at the rear of the stage. A silhouette moved against it, long and slender. What light there was left glinted on the polished leather of knee-high boots, on the glossy sheen of long blonde hair, on the shimmer of barely-there hot pants.

As the music began to blare in earnest, lights flared like a high school disco. The blonde strutted in gravity-defying heels toward the pole at the end of the stage. Taking a half leap at it, holding on with one hand and one knee wrapped around the metal, she slid back down slowly, back arched, hair almost touching the floor.

The photograph didn’t do her justice. It didn’t show those ridiculously long legs, the way she filled out those scraps of clothes, or the wickedness of her smile.

Okay, so she wasn’t what he usually went for, but a guy’d have to be dead not to acknowledge there was something about her, some kind of aura that transcended the whims of preference.

One hand still on the pole, Sherri rose back up, legs either side, body undulating against it like the pole was a talented lover. Pushing away, she slinked over to the edge of the stage in a flick of hair and glitter, hands still roaming with a lazy sensual grace over the tight clothes.

Another leap at the pole, this time sliding right down to the floor and staying there, she kicked away with a fluid movement till she was lying on the edge of the stage. One of the men there stood, eyes fever bright in a gaunt face, lips parting as he slid a hand up her thigh, squeezing, before tucking a crumpled bill into her waistband. A roll, another kick and she was on her hands and knees, hair mussed and in her face. She said something that seemed to please the man, who sat back down with a smile.

Kieran should have been pleased, too; if there was no one watching out for these girls when a creep wanted to grab a quick grope, then it would be easier for him to disappear into the back, easier to find her alone.

Instead, he was fighting the sudden and powerful urge to go over there and smash the guy’s face into the edge of the stage, pound his eyes into the broken light bulbs for even daring to look at her that way.

When Sherri’s gaze fell on him, she seemed taken aback, and he wondered if it was the anger showing on his face, or simply the shock that there was a new customer in tonight -- one under forty that didn’t look as though he’d spent the past year lost in the bottle and sleeping in an alley. It must make a change.

Something softened in her eyes as she pushed her hair back from her face, smile gentle and quirky, more real than anything he’d seen tonight; or maybe all the schmucks here believed that, too.

It didn’t stop his pulse thudding a little faster, didn’t stop him shifting a little on the barstool, trying to sit more comfortably. He was as bad as the rest of them, and he didn’t even have the excuse that he’d come here to fawn over women. He didn’t fawn over women, period, but his body seemed willing to make an exception this time.

Back on her hands and knees, Sherri crawled over to the edge of the stage nearest the bar. There was a look in those blue eyes that made the rest of the room disappear, a look that said this was a private show just for him -- as though each movement was a plea, a glimpse of the way she’d move under him; as though each slow slide of her hands across her body was an instruction, a demand.

Moving over to the pole, Sherri kneeled up, eyes closed, back arched, movements matching the rhythm of the music, eyes still fixed on the bar as if to say, 'Are you watching?'.

If he could've wrenched his stare away, he would have. He wasn’t here to think with his dick, but that’s what he was doing -- just because of her, because of the way she smiled. He finished his drink, fingers grasping the glass so tight his knuckles turned white.

She finished with one last leap at the pole, clinging high along the metal beam and sliding down slowly, head flung back, one arm outstretched in a flourish, waiting for the music to end and the lights to cut.

Sherri was gone when the lights came back up, and the entire performance barely yielded a clap.

Kieran left the glass on the bar, hissing softly through his teeth as he slid off the stool, jeans stiffly tugging across the hardness that seemed to linger just to remind him of its presence. He promised it ample alone time with that photograph later, if it just behaved itself now.

The bartender wasn’t interested in where he was going as he loitered near a door marked "private", taking a cursory glance around before backing through the doorway, letting the door close behind him.

There was only one occupied room along the corridor, light trickling out from a slightly ajar door. He watched through the gap as she fluttered around the broom closet of a dressing room, a butterfly in this sleazy dive, something pristine and fragile. She hadn’t even given the audience the full show.

Then again, she wasn’t that pristine if she was caught up with Gillespie.

No one had followed him, no one was watching as he pulled the gun from the back of his jeans. The incredibly smart plan was as simple as trying to frighten her into compliance, and hope she didn’t see through the threats he’d never carry out. It'd just better be enough.

He waited for the right moment, when she couldn’t reach for anything to throw at him, when her guard was down.

Her back was turned. She reached her hands back, sliding them under that long glossy blonde hair to unfasten the black lace bra, its straps slipping down from her shoulders. There was such a disheveled vulnerability to her in that moment, he almost faltered. The shove that sent the door flying open wasn’t as forceful as he'd wanted, and he nearly forgot to aim the gun.

He knew something was wrong, even before those summertime blue eyes met his in the small dressing table mirror -- even before rose petal lips parted in a cry that never came, and even before he wound one arm around her waist, the other pressing the gun against her spine, and growled, “Don’t scream.”

A sculpted brow raised in the mirror. “Wasn’t planning on it, sugar, at least not unless you'd asked me more nicely than that.”

The bra hit the floor with a much heavier thud than it should have, and for a second his mind couldn’t reconcile that low, purred -- but distinctively male -- voice with those glossy lips.

Even as the pieces slid into place, he couldn’t quite believe it, couldn’t admit how badly he’d misjudged this. His hand slid up from "Sherri’s" waist, the smooth flat chest confirming what his brain knew and his mind couldn’t compute. The young man in his arms laughed lightly, deliberately wriggling back slightly.

“Well, that’s definitely a nicer 'hello'."

He let go as though the heated skin beneath his hands had suddenly caught fire. The boy watched him, sighing softly. Kieran stared as he turned back to the mirror, removing pins from that mane of hair until the wig slid free. The hair beneath was just as golden, just as glossy, but shorter, barely reaching the boy’s shoulders. He hardly looked old enough to get served drinks, let alone work in a place like this.

He glanced at Kieran’s reflection. “Gillespie send you?”

“I don’t -- “

“Yeah, I bet he did, sly fuck.” The boy turned, shook his head. After a few moments of pacing, heels clicking on the peeling linoleum, irritation melted to amusement at Kieran’s expression. “Bet he didn’t tell you about this place either, did he?”

“Not really.”

“Figures, the bastard.” The laugh was exactly like Kieran had imagined, husky and wry. “Still, you looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

If he’d thought there was any use, Kieran would have refuted that. But every time he closed his eyes, he could see that body undulating on that stage, feel the shivers of imagined touch, and the very real memory, however brief, of how that soft skin had felt against his hands.

There was no arguing with the fact that still pulled the front of his jeans tight. Instead, he lowered the gun, ran his free hand through his hair, watching the boy.

On one hand, this was a pretty nice development. On the other, it was threatening to land him in more trouble than he knew how to deal with. The boy himself looked like more trouble than he could deal with.

He really didn’t want trouble.

“What’s your name? Real name, I mean….”

“Chester. But my friends call me Ches.” He grinned. “Wanna be my friend?”

“Not if you keep a lot of friends like Gillespie.”

“Ah, I’ll deal with him, don’t worry.”

“How?”

“Well….” Ches looked at him, blue eyes intense. “Depends what you tell him, I guess.”

“If I tell him I screwed up, I’m as dead as you are.”

Ches laughed, a startling sound, like an unexpected crystalline peal of church bells on a summer’s day. “So lie, tell him you scared me good! Tell him you had me down on my knees begging you to stop.”

The image and the breathy hitch in Ches’s voice had been bad enough; but when he followed the suggestion and dropped to his knees, looking up at him through thick lashes, Kieran caught himself wondering how beautiful he’d be without the make-up. He was pretty enough with it, all huge eyes and glossy lips; but beneath all that, Kieran thought he’d be absolutely stunning.

“You know, I didn’t think someone like you would be here just for kicks.”

One perfectly manicured hand ran along his thigh, and Kieran tried not to shiver.

“You’re not my regular clientele, y’know? Shame, really, ‘cause I’d have loved to think you’d come here to see me.”

Despite himself, Kieran snorted a soft laugh. “I did.”

“Yeah, but with this gun….” Ches plucked the offending weapon from Kieran’s loose grasp, setting it down on the floor with a disdainful scoff. “If you were gonna come after me, I’d have preferred you’d done it with this one instead.”

A palm pressed against the bulge at the front of his pants, rubbing in a slow circle before squeezing experimentally.

Kieran sucked in a breath, barely managing to ground out a warning. “Don’t….” He reached down, fingers wrapping around Ches’s wrist to pull his hand away. Instead of helping, the sensation of skin beneath his fingers, wrist as warm and delicate as a woman’s, sent a jolt through him. His arousal twitched against its confines, and this time Ches leaned forward, rubbing his cheek against it.

“Stop….” Kieran stepped back, almost pulling the boy off balance.

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t want it.” Even as his lips spoke the lie, his body made a mockery of his attempt.

“Really?” Sliding up against him like he’d slid against the pole on the stage, the words were whispered along his jaw as Ches leaned closer. “You sure you don’t still wanna make me scream?”

Any further protests Kieran might have made were silenced by a kiss that sent fingers of heat stroking along every nerve, just like Ches’s tongue stroked against his, just like long fake nails raked down his arms.

Somewhere in the haze of the kiss, he’d been turned around, only realizing it when Ches backed him into the edge of the dressing table. A couple of cans of hairspray toppled over and clanked to the floor. Ches purred into another feverish kiss as their clothed erections ground together, skin and lips like a furnace against Kieran’s body, hips rocking until they both broke the kiss with a gasp.

And when the blond sank to his knees a second time, the last thing on Kieran’s mind was stopping him. He didn’t care anymore what was false; he knew damn well what was real, and it was nudging Ches’s hands through its cloth barrier, aching and insistent.

Ches made short work of that barrier, slender fingers unfastening his pants with practiced ease.

He didn’t even care who was right or wrong. When Ches’s lips closed around him, lipgloss and saliva smearing slick shimmering patterns along the length of his cock, he didn’t care whose side he was on, or whether he should have been choosing sides at all.

If Gillespie knew Kieran swung this way, why the hell had he sent him to scare a boy who breathed seduction, radiated it in a way that must have been visible from space? It was bad. It was a set-up. It was…the very last thing on his mind.

There was just heat and friction, wet tightness, and the lips he’d wanted ever since he'd seen that photograph driving him crazy. It didn’t matter who was behind that smile – it still belonged to the same beautiful creature who’d made him feel as though he was the only one in that club.

He still didn’t know what was wrong, but he sure as hell knew what felt right.

And it wasn’t Ches drawing back, cold air replacing warm wetness. When he looked down, the blond was smiling lazily up at him, licking his lips like a spoiled kitten.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Ches grinned, standing, kissing him, eyes sparkling wickedly. “It gets better.”

As lust-addled as his brain was, Kieran couldn’t fathom anything better. At least not until Ches turned them around again, leaning back against the dressing table with a smile as he slowly unfastened his skin-tight hot pants.

Kieran leaned in for a kiss, but Ches only rewarded him with a playful peck. With a dancer’s obvious grace, Ches turned in his arms, managing it even with the hot pants in a rumpled tangle around his knees. Leaning across the dressing table, ass raised tantalizingly, he rummaged around, picking up and then discarding several bottles of lotions and potions till he found one he was happy with. Unable to resist, Kieran brushed a slow caress of fingertips over the curve of the blond’s ass, grinning at the giggled squeak it earned him.

“Tease!”

The bottle of lotion smacked him in the shoulder, and Kieran leaned down to retrieve it. When he straightened, Ches held out a small foil square between long fingernails, blue eyes dark as they gazed over one shoulder.

He was wanton and alluring as a coy centerfold. Aura, seduction, it didn’t matter. It was Ches -- an intoxication he’d been addicted to from the first moment.

His hands were trembling with want as he tore open the condom, moaning softly as he slid it onto his erection, knowing it would soon be wrapped in something so much sweeter. Ches whimpered and gasped at every touch as Kieran prepared him, amazed at his own patience as he watched his fingers slide slickly into the pliant, beautiful boy beneath him.

Then Ches pressed back, lithe body sinking onto his, enveloping him in heat, and Kieran’s fingers dug into the blond’s hips, keeping him still for one long, savored moment. Ches snuggled back against him, and as he began thrusting, slow and deep, Kieran doubted he’d ever get his fill of this particular fix. Ches just fit, as though this body had been made to match his, neat and exact as a jigsaw puzzle.

Then even the most whimsical of thoughts were chased away, replaced by more primal, reactionary things; Ches’s muscles rippling around his cock on every stroke, the scandalous little sounds he made, the heat of his erection beneath Kieran’s fingers, and the rightness of it all, even here, even under these ridiculous circumstances.

Then there wasn’t even thinking, just the sparked fire of release dancing and undulating along his nerves in a cascade of lights and glitter.

“You never answered my question.”

It took a moment to kick-start his brain out of its pleasure-fogged state. “Which one?”

Ches laughed, and turned around to kiss him again, warm slender frame pressed against the length of Kieran’s body. “Do you wanna be my friend?”

He could still taste himself on the kisses, and realized he wanted to taste a hell of a lot more. “Yeah…I do.”

“Good.” Ches smiled brightly. Kneeling down, he picked up Kieran’s gun, turning it over in his hands. Sitting up on the dressing table with an agile little bounce, he wrapped his legs around Kieran’s hips, tugging him close again. The smile turned wicked again as those blue eyes met Kieran’s. “’Cause friends do favors for friends, right? And I could really do with a favor….”

-- END --