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Tequila
Chapter 10 of "Where There's Heat"
Justin's POV
The first shot of tequila is warm and spicy and harsh, but good. The salt stings and the lime bites but it makes my brain buzz, which is the desired affect. Brian’s already walked off to follow tall, dark and hot to some place that’s dingy and smells like crotch and vodka.
It’s fine, I saw that coming. It’s fine. He needs to prove something. Fine. I get it.
Just hope he can take what he can dish.
Second shot is still warm and still spicy, but not as harsh. My cheeks flush a little and I order a Heineken to chase it that costs eight bucks and reminds why I sort of liked the Pitts.
I get offered drinks and dances and phone numbers, but I don’t take anything from anyone. I’m propped up against the bar, lit by pale blue neon, wearing a look of disinterest.
I don’t need to go looking for anyone, they always come to me. The room is an assembly line of sex and when the right model passes I'll take it for a test drive.
If Brian wants to play fucked up head games with me…well he’ll have to play alone. But I will get my dick sucked just to prove a point. But only because I feel like getting my dick sucked.
The third shot is really warm but very smooth going down. I suck the lime and close my eyes and feel a familiar hand slide up my back to rest on my neck.
“Having fun yet, Sunshine?"
I hate when Brian calls me that. It’s always in the mocking tone he uses when he talks about pathetic employees or shitty clients or his family. When he uses that tone on me I want to break his jaw.
I shrug his hand off. “Tons,” I shoot him a blinding, fake smile.
“Shot?” he orders two without waiting for my answer. Luckily, it’s tequila so I’m happy to take it.
“And a Heineken,” I add, needing another chaser and wanting him to pay for it.
You know, there’s a point when you’re drinking when things get easier. After a couple shots, a couple drinks, a couple beers, the alcohol starts to slide down your throat without any problem, warming you up and making you smile. Then you get a little further, maybe six drinks in, and things are so easy that it suddenly seems insane to stop drinking. Then you get to eight or ten. You should have stopped three or four drinks ago and each time you put the liquid to your lips it gets a little harder to take a sip. I’m getting to that point, the one where my next drink might push me from drunk to puking. But, of course, I’m too lit to notice. That’s the problem with alcohol.
I leave Brian standing at the bar after he makes some comment about how many fuckable men there are here tonight. I head straight for a 18-year-old with bright blue eyes and jet black hair. I pull him onto the dance floor and put a shit eating grin on my face just to piss Brian off. It’s time he got to see that this blond can shake his pretty little ass.
We're about half a song in when the alcohol hits me. I try to stay vertical, but it's very difficult. Luckily I've got four guys latching on to me and grinding against me and I couldn't really fall down if I wanted to.
I watch Brian out of the corner of my eye, as well as I can when I’m seeing double. He leans back against the bar, sips a whiskey and narrows his eyes in my direction. Or maybe I’m seeing things.
I grind and kiss and thrust and touch until some of the alcohol starts to melt out of my body. It’s coming through my pores and making me smell like I live inside a bottle of Jose Cuervo. I can taste the trace of lime on my tongue and I'm sure the guy sucking my neck is getting salty sweat.
Some guy pulls me by the waist of my pants across the dance floor. I blink slowly until he’s in focus. He’s hot. Tall, dirty blond hair, fierce green eyes. Yeah, he’ll do. When we get behind the back bar there’s a long hall that opens into what I assume should be a storage area, but it’s this place’s back room. The back room of the Roxy. I’m in the back room of the fucking Roxy.
Every young gay man hears stories about the clubs in New York. Right now it’s hot to hit Beige and Crobar, even though the later is pretty straight. The Roxy, well the Roxy’s for tourists and twinks and guys who don’t know better. But this back room, this back room is fucking legendary. They say Tom and Keanu and Val have all fucked and been fucked back here. It’s like this tomb that holds the secrets of every famous gay man walking the earth today. And I’m in it.
And I’m getting a pretty decent blowjob.
And Brian’s watching me.
Now Brian’s talking to me.
What?
“What?”
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
Fuck that you jealous bitch!
“Fuck that!”
“No, fuck you. Come on.” He tries to grab my arm and I brush him off.
I knew Brian would do this. I knew he couldn’t take it. He wanted me to come here, watch him fuck around, run away crying with my tail tucked between my legs. Well fuck him!
I glare at him, the room slants on a tilt, gets blurry around the edges, the walls ripple and my knees get weak. Dirty Blond with my dick in his mouth stills my hips and asks if I’m all right.
I shake my head yes and move my eyes back to Brian but I’m talking to the trick, “Fine. It’s Fine. He’s just my stalker.”
Brian walks away.
I slide my hands through Dirty Blond’s thick, curly hair and watch the back of Brian’s head until I can’t see him anymore.
Dirty Blond finished me off, tucks me in, stands my upright and then bends himself in two, grabs his ankles, and lets me fuck the shit out of him. I need it, so I’m happy that he’s so willing to oblige. When we’re done he wants to know if Brian was my boyfriend. I sneer and say that he wasn’t. He says as he leaves that we fight like we’re in love.
I go to the bathroom and puke my guts out.
I drink a bottle of water trying to stop my eyes from watering and my stomach from heaving. The bile rises in the back of my throat and I realize it’s time for me to go home. I won’t sleep until I puke more and I won’t puke more until I’m home and I won’t ever feel this way about anyone again in my life. Fuck.
Fucking Brian Kinney.
I wander out into the street. I pretty much know where I am, just have to find a Subway station with the right train. I need the 9, or is the N? Fuck.
I glance from side to side trying to figure out which way to walk and I see him, standing half a block away, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette, looking really, really pissed off.
I am not walking over there. I am NOT walking over there. Fuck him. He didn’t have to wait. I’m not a child. I can party at a club and get myself home.
I walk towards him a ways. My feet can hardly stop themselves. But then I stop under a streetlight when I’m directly across the street from him. I lean against the pole to catch the breath I didn’t know I’d lost.
He looks across four lanes of traffic at me. The street is pretty dead, even in the city, at this time of night. Our eyes meet and we stare for a long time.
“Where you headed?,” he says just loud enough for me to hear him.
I sigh and shake my head, “No place special.”
He puts his cigarette out under his boots that cost more than my wardrobe, “I can change that.”
He gestures to the car and I cross the street.
We ride back to his place in silence.
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