On Best Behavior (C3) (34 page)

“Sir? Are you all right?”

Ricker coughed and hoped his woody wasn’t too obvious. “Is he singing tonight?”

The woman glanced at her watch. “He starts in twenty-five minutes.”

His second break. Madsen must have ordered the boy’s pizza from a hotel phone. “Thank you.” He smiled, showing all his teeth.

“You’re welcome, sir. Would you like to make a reservation for your mother?”

“I will call. Later. The lounge—is this way?” He pointed to the right, beyond the poster with Mr. Fuck-Me Eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

Ricker thought for a moment. “And the gift store?”

“Our gift shop is in the same direction, on your left.”

The blood pooling in his crotch was almost painful at this point. “Excellent.” He was about to head to victory when he heard the Englishman speak.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Ricker turned to his left and shook the man’s extended hand. “You too, my good chap.” The lad’s smile intrigued Ricker. “I will be at Capone’s Spirits if you would like to join me later.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

As Ricker watched that perky ass head to the elevators with his bag in tow, his heart pounded with excitement. This was turning into a good evening. A
very
good evening.

***

The black Chicago Bulls cap shadowed his face and hopefully hid his blond hair. Ricker found a table far enough from the stage to avoid detection by Madsen. Oh, sorry—
Saylor
. What the fuck? Too bad the stage was empty, but there was an excited buzz throughout the growing crowd. Bobby Darin sang “Mack the Knife” on the speakers, and Ricker wondered if anyone in the lounge knew the German origins of the song. Probably not.

A cocktail waitress came to his table, and he barked out his drink order. His cash advance from Enzo had dwindled with alarming speed, and the price of drinks at a nice joint like this wasn’t helping. But he felt like celebrating now that Enzo’s son was in his grasp. And soon he’d have too much cash to count. He hoped Enzo would call him from prison tomorrow so he could share the good news.

Easing back in his chair, he noted couples at most of the nearby tables.
Dummkopfs
. When would they learn that monogamy never worked? His American father—at least he’d been smart enough not to hang around after he’d stuck his dick in his mother and knocked her up.

Every fucking night his mother had whined about his father leaving her, and her bitching had been even worse when she was drunk. But the dumbest thing she’d done was keep searching for a man to marry her. She’d been a looker once, before the booze turned her skin saggy and tired, and she’d always been able to hook some loser for a few months at a time. Though when the john would start feeling trapped—or realize Ricker would fight off his attempts to beat or rape him—he’d always leave. Every time. And Ricker would be left to deal with his mother’s endless complaining, hollering in her scratchy smoker voice about men being the scum of the earth.

He shook his head. That’s why he’d come to America…land of opportunity. Land of fresh starts. Land of the free. Too bad he’d spent most of his stay behind bars.

When two more couples walked in, Ricker watched the host guide them to a primo table near the stage. One of the chicks looked like a brunette Kate Moss—yeah, he’d do her—but why was she with that older, barrel-chested guy? What could
he
possibly offer? The other couple was a black-haired guy with a blond woman in a red dress—at least Black Hair was slightly younger and more attractive. As Black Hair held out a chair for Blondie, he scanned the bar with a shrewd and steady gaze. His eyes met Ricker’s, and Ricker immediately looked down.
Fuck!
He needed to be more careful.

Patting his left coat pocket, he took out his phone and pretended to respond to a text. By the time he looked back at Black Hair, all four were seated at the table. The older man spoke to the waitress in a way that made him take notice. Her tray visibly shook in the crook of her arm. He sat up. Who
was
this gray-haired man, and why was his buddy scanning the room like a fucking SS agent?

“Sorry this took so long,” Ricker’s waitress said as she set an amaretto sour on his table. She also set down the leather wallet containing the check.

“I want to start a tab,” Ricker said. It would be easy to drink and dash in a swanky place like this.

“Sorry, sir, we only run tabs for patrons we know.”

He grunted and opened the wallet to reveal the exorbitant bill. As he fished out some money from his pocket, he glanced at the table of interest and watched the waitress set down four shot glasses and a bottle of vodka. No leather wallet.

“I guess
they
are well-known patrons?” He cocked his head toward the group without looking their direction.

“Yes. They’re big fans of Mr. Saylor.”

Ricker felt vibrations in his cock. “Really. Who are they…do you know?”

“All I know is they’re Russian and very rude. One of them
screamed
at poor Alice for messing up an order once. Yet our manager keeps making her serve them.” She shook her head. “I’m just glad I don’t have to.” She scooped up the bill. “Would you like change?”

“You keep it.”

“Thank you. We’re busy tonight, but I’ll be back to check on you later.”

And I will be gone
. Once he’d tailed Madsen home, he’d pursue other locales, where the beer, sex, and domination were free. Time to drop in on his little Cuban amigo. But then he remembered Jude Lawless he’d met in the lobby. So many men, so little time.

As soon as Madsen stepped on stage, though, all thoughts of other men vanished.
God, he’s beautiful.
Madsen still possessed shining blue eyes, smooth olive skin, and buzzed black hair. But he’d filled out a bit since prison, making him more man than boy, and he swaggered up to the microphone with poise and confidence Ricker had never seen.

Madsen seized the mic as a nondescript brown-haired man joined him on stage and slid onto the piano bench. A woman seated two tables away from Ricker whooped, drawing Madsen’s eyes to the upper tier of the seating area. Ricker slumped in his chair and tugged the bill of his ball cap down to his nose as his cock strained in the opposite direction. Other chicks echoed her catcalls and elicited a shy grin from the man on stage. Ricker closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to wrestle back control of himself.

“Hello, Chicago!” Madsen boomed, and now everyone in the audience cheered and clapped. He pointed to the guy on the piano bench. “The talented stylings of Andy Beecham on piano…” He paused as the cheers continued. “And I’m Mick Saylor, your cruise director. We’re taking you on a McRockin’ and McJazzin’ ride to
night!”

When the crowd erupted in applause, Ricker’s forehead creased. Was McDonald’s a hotel corporate sponsor or something?

The piano player banged out the first notes of a melody, and apparently Ricker was the only one
not
to recognize the tune. Whistles and shouts rose up around him. Madsen started off slow, his voice surprisingly deep. When he sang something about throwing a kiss, those full lips mesmerized Ricker.

“Woo!” called a woman from the table next to him, and her friend giggled.

Mine
, Ricker wanted to hiss back.

Ah,
now
he recognized the song, as soon as Madsen got to the lyrics about Chicago…“My Kind of Town.” No wonder the Windy City crowd was close to orgasm.

A couple of upbeat songs followed, and Madsen tossed in a few dance moves. Ricker’s eyebrows arched at the man’s grace. This sexy performance made him want this fine piece of meat more than ever. Was that even possible? Given his nonstop fantasies about Madsen since he’d left Gurnee, he hadn’t thought so.

Madsen walked to the back of the stage and returned carrying a wooden stool.
I’d like to push up
his
stool
, Ricker thought with a wicked grin.

Madsen looked around the crowd then focused on the table of Russians. “Since starting this show at Capone’s Spirits, I’ve searched for songs to represent what’s going on in my life—to capture a particular mood, a turn of a phrase. When I came across this song by Frank Sinatra, I knew I wanted to sing it to you tonight. You see, my girl just broke up with me.”

A collective “Awww” emanated from the ladies, interrupted by one woman shouting “Date
me!”
which drew laughter from the audience and a precious blush from the performer.

Madsen had dated a chick?
Interesting
. Not that it mattered—he’d have Madsen either way.

“Here’s Frank Sinatra’s ‘A Man Alone.’” Madsen closed his eyes during the piano introduction. He had such pretty eyelashes…Ricker couldn’t wait to deflower that tight, puckering rosebud hole. He’d stick a stem in there and let it grow, and Madsen wouldn’t be alone for long.

All too soon the song was over, and when Madsen announced he was taking a little break, Ricker groaned along with the rest of the crowd. He could sit and listen to that voice for hours. Ricker fought the urge to sprint up to the stage and take Madsen right there—“They Can’t Take That Away From Me” style.

But like a good boy, he pressed his muscular buns into the chair and waited it out. What he saw intrigued him: Madsen made a beeline for the Russians. How did he know them? Ricker watched him shake the older man’s hand with a sense of deference, and…was that
fear?
Madsen’s shoulders tensed like he thought Gray Hair would hit him or something, and his body language didn’t relax any when he shook Black Hair’s hand. What the fuck did an Italian Mafiosi have to do with a group of Russians?

Ricker’s head hurt from thinking too hard—he’d let Enzo figure it all out tomorrow. He stroked his cheek, feeling his two-day-old stubble. He bet Madsen’s angelic face was freshly shaved, and he couldn’t wait to nuzzle that smooth, beautiful skin once he’d subdued him.

19. Convinced

L
INDSAY
S
IDLED
U
P
to Ben as they walked out of physics class. “Can you believe the season’s almost over?”

“It’s
my
last practice today,” he replied, managing to keep his voice from shaking. Ever since she’d met Dot, Lindsay had started talking to him. There really was a God. “But you’ll qualify for the state meet for sure—you’ve still got a couple weeks left.”

She tilted her head in that cute way of hers, and Ben realized he was now slightly taller than her.
Score!

“You’d be going to state too if you’d started swimming as young as I did. It takes years to learn good technique.” Her smile revealed her slightly uneven teeth.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as you.” Once the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back.
Way to sound like you freaking
worship
her!

The little dimple in her cheek appeared. “That’s so sweet, Ben.”

“Do you…” He swallowed. “Do you want to walk to practice, um…together?”

“Oh! Well, I told Liv I’d meet her at her locker.” She twirled a strand of hair before tucking it behind her ear. “See ya on deck?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. See ya.”
Now she thinks you’re a psycho stalker
. He watched her walk away, zeroing in on her long legs and remembered her giggling as Dot squirmed in her arms. Would it be okay to bring a dog to the pool?

After tossing some books in his locker, he bounced out of the school and headed to practice. Wow—it was even sunny outside! He turned the corner on the sidewalk and heard someone call his name. When he looked to the street, he saw an open passenger window on a black car that crept down the road. He leaned forward to see who called for him.

“Hallo, Ben.” Hans waved him toward the car.

Oh, no. What did
he
want?
“I’m late for swim practice!” He pointed ahead of him and kept walking.

“Your mother needs you!”

That stopped him in his tracks. “She does?” He stepped over and heard an SUV honk behind Hans’s now-stopped car. He leaned in the open window.

“Your mother asked me to pick you up. She had an accident.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.” He glared. “Get in.” The SUV honked again.

Ben’s heart galloped. “What happened to my mom?
Tell
me!”

“She…uh…she had hot water…she ran into another waitress and got hit with boiling water.”
Honk!
“We have been at the hospital for hours. Come! We must go!”