Joy and Pain
Joy & Pain
Celia Kyle
Published: 2011
Published by Summerhouse Publishing. Copyright, Celia Kyle. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
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Celia Kyle
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
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Dance is a song of the body. Either of joy or pain. ~Martha Graham
I’m down to my g-string, hips slinking from left to right, hands stroking my chest, tugging at my nipples and I’m letting my eyelids half close. My attention’s on the guys at the edge of the stage and I slip my right hand beneath the hem of the spandex, pretending that I love what I’m doing, that it’s getting me off.
My cock is soft.
But I still pretend. Pretend that the men yelling my name are the hottest things on the block, that they do it for me.
The music drowns out any sound I make, but still I moan and breathe fast, trying to get into the dance.
God, the dance. I love it and hate it at the same time. It’s good to be moving, interpreting the music, trying to find beauty in each note.
It’s hard to do when dollar bills are littering the shined stage.
I lean against the pole, metal cool against my back, and arch and pump my hips, hump the air, close my eyes and bite my lower lip. The guys are going wild, hooting, telling me to come, shoot my load and prove how good-looking they are.
They’re idiots. Idiots who give me money to fake an orgasm, but idiots none the less.
This song ends on a crescendo, a few final beats and then I freeze, back curved, muscles in my neck strained, mouth open on a shout and the pervs go wild.
I relax, raise my head, eyes heavy-lidded and a small smile on my lips. I’ve practiced this pose, the self-satisfied smirk of a man who’s come while they didn’t.
Slipping my hand free of my g-string, I grab my camouflage pants and make a show of wiping my hand, men yelling, asking if they can have a small taste.
Creepy.
A small wink at the loudest of ‘em and I exit, stage right, ass wiggling. The bouncer will collect the take. I always slip him a quarter of my tips, just for handling that part for me. I don’t like getting close to the audience and the guys seem to eat it up. My distance, the aloof Army twink.
Down a few dimly-lit hallways and the main dressing room is to my right. I slip in, find it empty. Not too many guys working a Thursday night and I know Marcus goes up after me.
I strip the poor excuse for underwear off and slip back into my jeans, legs of ‘em big enough so that I don’t even have to lose the boots. They hang low on my hips, tiniest bit of my pubes showing above the waist, but the customers like being able to see that bit of teasing. My favorite vest completes the extent of my dressing. It doesn’t provide much cover, but that’s not its purpose. The idiots in the front of the place like to have something to touch, play with, tug on when they want me a bit closer. It does that.
One last breath for courage and I’m heading down another hallway, giving myself a pep talk. I mean, it’s no different than meeting with the benefactors after a performance of Swan Lake, right?
Wrong.
Rich patrons aren’t staring at you like they’d like to bend you over the bar.
Okay, some of them used to look at me like that, but they never said a word.
These customers do. They offer money, a good time and, probably, disease.
Yeah, thanks but no thanks.
The main area of the club is dim and I still a moment while my eyes adjust, Marcus’ music already thumping as he gyrates on stage. Now, Marcus loves this life, the money, the attention. And, honestly, I’m happy for him, that this works.
The customers don’t notice my reappearance yet, so I amble toward the bar and Luca, the bartender and owner, places a bottle of water on the smooth cherry surface at my approach.
I slip onto a stool with a small smile and murmured thanks.
“No problem.” He goes back to polishing glasses, moseying toward the other end of the counter and topping off some guy’s drink.
He’s a big man, thick thighs, scary-as-shit bi’s. Guy could crush me, no problem. So, I’ll stay where I’m at and pretend he’s not there. I’m supposed to be sociable, but...
Luca’s still talking to the guy so I swing around on the stool, back against the bar, sipping at my water and watching Marcus move.
He’s not a “real” dancer. Then again, I’m not either. I shouldn’t judge.
He’s getting a good amount of attention. At least enough to keep ‘em away from me, so I’m a happy camper at the moment.
“Tevin!” That’s the boss calling for me and I turn toward him, pulling my brows together when I see him waving me over.
Fuck. He wants me to play nice with the big mother-fucker.
I slink toward them. Slink. That’s right. The practiced roll of my hips that screams sex, pretty pout on my lips that’ll make him wonder what it’d be like to fuck my face.
I won’t, but a strip club is about the tease, right?
I ease onto the stool next to Luca’s new friend, making sure, I brush against him and he just looks at me, single brow raised. As if saying, “Excuse me?”
I turn away from him and focus on my boss. “You beckoned?”
“I’d like you to meet Zeke. Zeke, this is Tevin.”
I hold out my hand for Zeke and he envelopes me with his bear paw. I remain passive, grip loose. I’m sex incarnate, submissive and just a play toy. At least, I pretend to be for customers.
“Hello.” I purr. Honest to god.
Again I get a single brow before Zeke releases me and turns that look on Luca.
With a sigh, my boss growls at me. “Quit it, Tev. He’s not a customer. He’s a buddy from the Army.”
Really?
So, I turn it off. The sexy invitations vanish and I’m just a twenty-two year old ex-ballet dancer again. Complete with horrible posture. My instructors always bitched about that.
“You have the most beautiful extension on-stage and you slouch like a slob off-stage.” This proclamation was typically followed by a cluck of their tongue.
I put my elbow on the bar, prop my chin on my hand and turn to Zeke. “So, what brings you to our fair establishment? Other than naked boys.”
I get a smile then, even a chuckle. Well, I can’t hear it, but his chest (big assed chest) shakes. “I’m just checking out Luca’s bar. I moved here a couple of weeks ago and he’s been asking me to come down, have a drink.” He pauses, gaze taking me in from head to toe. “Check things out.”
And just like that, I don’t give a damn that he’s checking me out. His voice is deep, growly like the bear he is and I can just imagine what he’d look like naked.
There’s a bellow from a customer and Luca disappears, leaving me with Mr. Army Guy.
“So, how are you finding things in our little old town?” I brace my feet on the stool and lean over the bar, snag a little bowl of peanuts to nosh on.
When I turn back to him, I find him looking at me. Not in the “we’re having a conversation” kind of way. Oh, no. It’s the “let’s find a flat surface” kind of way.
He takes a swig of his beer, sets it down as he turns toward me and gives me a better look at how well built he is.
I thought his thighs were thick, bi’s are enormous, hands as big as dinner plates, but his shoulders are as wide as an axe handle. Swear to god.
This dude doesn’t just have muscles, he is a muscle.
“It’s nice. I live over by Crestview, small neighborhood, quiet. But at least I can still find some nightlife and entertainment.”
And he’s not looking at me like he’s thinking this club is his idea of “nightlife and entertainment”.
“Yeah, Crestview is a pretty gay-friendly community and we’ve got a lot of different events for us queer folks.” I wink at him and he smiles big, reaching all the way up to his bright blue eyes. Hot damn.
Why’d I have to meet him here?
“Good to know.”
And I can’t figure out if he’s happy to know about the events or that I’m one of the queer folks. “Yeah, there’s a munch-”
I stop myself, realizing I probably just told a vanilla guy about a kinky lunch. Okay, I’m into kink and Luca’s into kink, hence the knowledge of the munch, but who knows if Zeke is?
“Really?” His eyes seem to light up a bit, like he knows exactly what he’d be getting into.
So I nod and take a sip of water. “Yeah, there’s a little restaurant in your area. Gianni’s?” He nods and I continue. “We meet at twelve thirty. Patrick has reserved the back dining room for us. Just tell him you’re with the Callan party. He runs the local club and sets these up once a month for his friends.”
“You’ll be there?”
And he sounds like he really wants me to say yes. So I do. I had planned on running some errands, but being with Zeke, this giant of a man, seemed like more fun. Okay, honestly, I just wanted to stare at him some more. “Yup, I’ll...”
I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Angry yelling and glasses breaking come from my left and I look over to find Marcus on stage. Nude. Fuck, but we’re not a nude club. We all know that, but I know he needs money which is probably what prompted him to go bare. He’d get fired, but the extra cash on the stage would probably be worth it to him.
I watch as some of the idiots climb on stage, others breaking furniture. The bouncers swim in and protect Marcus while they try to calm the crowd, but it isn’t going well.
This business...well, it isn’t always just pretty boys and dollar bills.
Zeke rose from his stool, big man seeming to grow to six feet in front of me, and leans toward me. “You’re too good for this, Tevin. Too good for all of it.” His eyes are sparking, glaring, trying to make me see just how much he hates that I’m working at the club.
He’s right. I know it. Won’t stop me from showing up for my next shift, though.
Zeke gives my hand a gentle squeeze and then leaves me there, sitting on my stool, while he wades in, tugging men apart. He’s not violent, not looking to hurt people, just easing the tension and getting the idiots away from each other.
The man’s a contrast. Angry and sweet, all within a second.
His back’s turned, attention on the shouts and fists flying, so I hop from the stool, head toward the side door and to the sanctuary of the dressing room. It’s empty, Marcus’ stuff’s gone and I shake my head. There were a lot of things he could have done that wouldn’t have ended up with Luca’s place being destroyed by angry drunks.
I grab my bag, slip the strap over my head and tromp to the back door, into the night.
The darkness envelopes me and I let thoughts of the gentle giant, the man who could crush me without a thought, drift from my mind.
I can’t afford not to.
I’d never told Zeke that I lived near Crestview, too. That I’m within walking distance of Gianni’s.
The trek is quick, a few blocks at most and I’m walking through the door, enveloped in a big hug by Luca. He’s my boss, sure. But that’s at the club. Here, in the outside world, he’s a friend and sometimes play-partner.
“I hear you invited our friend.”
I roll my eyes. “No, I invited your friend, dork.”
He straightens, glaring at me. “That’s Master Dork to you, puppy.” He swats me on the ass. I squeak and shuffle ahead of him toward the back room. The dining room’s gotten enough of a show.
I try to keep my composure as I navigate through the tables. I know Luca’s following close on my heels and he’s sure to tease me a little more when we get behind closed doors. My only hope is to hide behind someone bigger.
Preferably, Zeke.
That thought nearly brings me to a standstill. I fiddle with the knob on the door, pretending that my halt is due to trouble with the handle and not with the fact that I’m a little more than attracted to the man. And scared shitless.
