Men of London 06 - Flying Solo (5 page)

“Sí, dipstick.” It came out ‘deepsteek’ as Cruz’s Spanish accent made itself known, normally more when he was stressed. “Pete will play along. If Craig sees you with Pete dressed like
that
”—he waved a slim, brown hand and bit his lip imploringly—“he will
have
to believe I am not interested in you or you in me ‘that way.’”

Gibson huffed and glanced down at the outfit with a sense of unease. The silver hot pants complemented his hair, although they would cover virtually nothing of his arse or his hips. And as for his dick…he shivered. He was cut, and wearing those, the whole world would know about it. The black mesh tee shirt with straps and buckles was, well, tight, but wearable. As were the shoes. A pair of glittery, two-inch-high silver boots, with red laces, which he thought he was supposed to tie around his calves.

Cruz sighed. “It’s a theme evening tonight, bebé. Gladiators and Glad Rags. You don’t own anything like this so I had to borrow this outfit from someone for you. I couldn’t loan you any of my clothes or Craig would think we are together.”

“Tell me again how making Craig think I’m fucking someone else when I’m not is going to help you get him back?” Gibson and Cruz had never had that sort of relationship; Cruz was like his brother, but for some reason, Cruz’ ex had never accepted it. The pair had had a heated argument over it a week ago.

Cruz rolled his eyes and blew a strand of ink-black hair off his forehead. “Because he will see you and Pete making out, and I will be like”—he draped a dramatic hand to his forehead—“I don’t care, I want you, and Craig will realise what he is missing and that he adores me, and then we will make mad, passionate love at the club.”

Gibson thought there might be a flaw in this plan somewhere. “And Pete isn’t going to take this too far, is he? I mean, you said he’s a nice guy but I don’t want to have to get serious with him.”

“Sexy dancing, bumping, your usual slutty stuff,” Cruz said helpfully.

Gibson scowled. “Yeah, thanks for that.” He heaved a sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it. You are
so
going to owe me one.”

Cruz’s face sparkled with a smile showing off white teeth. “Thank you, sweetie. I love you.” He leaned forward and planted a smacking kiss on Gibson’s cheek. “Now I need to go home and get ready. I’ll meet you outside Innuendo at nine. I have our VIP tickets so we don’t need to queue, but I left them at home.” He waved goodbye and flounced out of the bedroom.

Gibson heard him calling to Jack. “Bye, Het Man, please make sure Gibson gets dressed on time.”

Gibson suppressed a grin at Jack’s snarl at his hated nickname. Cruz loved to tease him. Jack loved superheroes and had often enquired plaintively why he couldn’t be ‘Muscle Man’ or ‘Sex God’ rather than ‘Het Man.’

Hours later, after showering, man-scaping, shaving and moisturising, making sure he could fit all his man bits into the clothes he was wearing, Gibson was ready. He looked in the mirror and took a deep breath.

The man looking back at him was willowy, yet toned, with broad shoulders and strong muscled arms from swimming.

Gibson might be short but he was all in proportion. His fair-skinned legs were devoid of hair—he only had faint blond wisps on them even when he didn’t shave—and his mousse-styled platinum hair was artfully sculptured. He’d changed his glasses to his clubbing pair, a trendy pair of dark silver frames, which enhanced his green eyes. He couldn’t wear contacts; his eyes were too sensitive to use them for long.

He twisted around and gave a grin when he observed his arse in the mirror. Tight and perky. Just the way he liked it—and others did too. There was quite a lot of his cheeks and crack on show but there was nothing he could do about it. He sat on the bed, and pulled on the boots, wrapping the long laces around the bottom of his legs.

For good measure, he slid in a barbell to his pierced belly button. The shirt and shorts didn’t meet over his stomach, leaving a vast expanse of pale, toned skin and the start of a four pack, of which he was quite proud. He popped another earring into his ear and wrapped a few leather bracelets around his wrist. The final look was damn sexy, slutty and, even if he said it himself, mighty fine. He pursed his lips in the mirror and blew himself a kiss.

“Pete, my man, you are not going to know what hit you tonight. Make sure you know the boundaries or I’ll have to kick you in the nuts.”

He picked up his bum bag, stuffed in what he needed and hot-footed it into the hallway. He ran into a muscled man mountain on his way out and gave a startled cry.

“Jack, I didn’t know you were still here. I thought you’d gone to Beth’s.” Beth was Gibson’s favourite lady other than his mother. He liked the spritely red head.

Jack stepped back, his eyes wide, mouth open in what looked like gob-stopping alarm.

“Gib, what the hell? You can’t go anywhere dressed like that. Someone will kick your arse.” He pushed long hair behind his ear as he stared at his friend in trepidation.

“Who are you, my mother?” Gibson said in irritation. “What the hell?” He pushed his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, hoping Jack got the hint.

Jack’s eyes roved down his body in disbelief. “You…you have hardly anything on. I mean, I can see your damn dick, like...” His Adam’s apple bobbed as looked at Gibson in dismay.

Gibson threw him a fierce stare. “Yeah, what about it? It’s a Gladiator party, and I, my man, am one sexy gladiator.” He twirled around and took great glee seeing Jack looking ready to faint. “Come on, you’ve seen me in club wear before. What’s the big deal?”

“Not like that.” Jack’s voice was faint. “I mean—half your arse is hanging out.”

“All the better to feel me up, or stick it in,” Gibson quipped.

Jack blanched and Gibson took pity on him.

“Oh for God’s sake. I’m wearing my long coat over this outfit. You didn’t think I’d get on the tube dressed like this, did you? Credit me with a little bit of sense.”

He stomped into the entrance and grabbed his long trench coat off the peg.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Well, ’scuse me for worrying my best friend is going to be fresh twink bait for the bears and haters out there. The coat makes you look like a damn flasher.”

“Jack, I’ll be fine, promise. I’ll get a lift home anyway, if I come home. I might get lucky and it’s Saturday tomorrow, so no work. I’ll text you, though, if I don’t come home.” He shrugged into his coat and fastened it.

“You’ll have them lining up to do you that the way you look tonight,” Jack grumbled.

Gibson narrowed his eyes. “You know, I might think you were jealous if I didn’t know you were a very straight man and my best buddy since forever. What gives?”

He was shocked to see Jack looked apprehensive. They usually teased each other about Gibson’s lifestyle but not to this extent.

“Have you been watching the news lately?” Jack asked quietly, all traces of teasing gone from his tone. “Every time you switch it on lately there’s something about some gay or lesbian being bullied or beaten.”

Gibson sighed. “Sure, it happens. I can’t live my life worrying about it though.”

“I worry about you. I’m a big guy; people think twice about trying to take me down. But a little shit like you…”

Gibson’s heart ached and he stepped forward and laid a hand on Jack’s arm. “Hey, nothing is going to happen to me.” He motioned to his bag. “I have a whistle, a can of Mace Cruz gave me, and I can run fast. I’m prepared.”

Jack’s eyes were still shadowed. “Please be careful, Gib. That mouth of yours can sometimes run away with you too and I’d hate for you to attract some wanker’s attention.” He grimaced. “Especially given what you’re not wearing. Promise me you’ll watch out for yourself.”

“I will,” Gibson promised. A surge of affection at his friend’s concern made him lean forward and kiss Jack’s cheek. “I have no desire to become a victim. “He punched Jack on the arm. “’Sides, I’ll sic you on him afterwards if anyone tried anything. And no one wants the Sex God coming down on his sorry arse.”

Jack looked unconvinced. “Let me know if you stay out or I’ll worry.”

Gibson nodded and crossed his chest. “Scout’s Honour.”

“You were never a scout, half pint,” Jack said with a slight smile.

Gibson pouted. “Neither were you, Het Man.” He dodged Jack’s punch and flung open the door. “I’ll text you if I get lucky,” he yelled as he made his way to the lifts.

He didn’t have time to hear what Jack shouted after him as he stepped into the lift and the doors closed.

Maxwell stood sipping his strawberry daiquiri as he watched the dancers writhing on the dance floor. The new club was heaving and he already regretted coming. He’d been given a ticket by a friend, and if he hadn’t used it said friend would be as pissed as hell. The tickets were rare, like a Willy Wonka chocolate bar.

Maxwell was quite a fan of dress-up, but he thought the Gladiators and Glad Rags event sounded a little ambitious for a collection of ragtag patrons dressed in cut-off sheets and leather belts and straps across sweating bodies. He’d tried his best though. He looked down at his own outfit. He’d spent some of his hard-earned pennies online to get himself a passable tunic crested with gold thread and a pair of Roman sandals. A sword and dagger had been offered with it but he’d not had the money to waste for those. His hair was styled into some semblance of mussed-up magnificence and he’d trimmed his goatee to a light shadow. His hairy, muscled legs stuck out from his short tunic and had already gotten a lot of lip-licking attention. He’d had a few offers tonight. First, he’d been hit on by a huge guy he’d nicknamed Bearzilla; dressed in full Roman regalia, he’d been looking for a willing sub for the night. While Maxwell wasn’t averse to the idea usually, Bearzilla wasn’t his idea of someone he wanted holding him captive.

The guy who’d approached Maxwell afterwards hadn’t been great either, as he’d been with his partner, looking for a third. He’d been spaced out and Maxwell knew the guy was on something. The one thing Maxwell had no tolerance for were drugs and people on drugs. He had a pathological hatred of them and anyone who dealt them. He didn’t even like taking medicine.

Maxwell’s recent dissatisfaction with the way his love life, or lack of it, was turning out made him wonder if anyone else here tonight was looking for the same thing: a little stability in a relationship and not a series of one-night stands.

He muttered to himself, “Hell, yeah right. Like that’s going to happen. I shouldn’t have even come here tonight. I should find a Scrabble club somewhere, maybe a ball-dancing group. That’s more likely to deliver dividends for the start of a relationship than this place.”

He stared idly out at the crowd, noticing a small, sexy, blond-haired guy in silver micro shorts grinding against a tall, well-built Asian man. The blond was familiar in some way, cock-stirringly tasty and very much Maxwell’s type; he even wore glasses. The Asian guy was hands on and Maxwell grunted. It was what you’d expect in a club like this, but he wished it was his hands all over the blond’s pert little arse. He mused whether to go over and cut in, thinking he might as well have fun while he was here and who knew? Perhaps the guy was looking for something a little longer term.

He was about to make a move when he saw the Asian guy’s hand reach down and grip the blond man’s crotch. Maxwell sniggered when the smaller man pulled away, stomped on the other man’s foot with his silver boots, not once, but twice. He snapped something, pushed the grimacing man away then whirled to make his way towards the bar. As he drew nearer, Maxwell’s heart stopped.

“Gibson?” God, the man was sex personified up close. Maxwell’s cock swelled under the tunic, his mouth watering at the vision of a pale-skinned, pale-haired pixie with a scowl on his face and green eyes flashing anger at the world.

Gibson didn’t appear to hear him and gestured to the bartender. “Dan, can I have a Vampira please?” He took off his glasses and started cleaning them with a bar napkin.

The bartender nodded. “Sure, honey. One Vampira coming up.”

Gibson put back his glasses, tapped his fingers impatiently on the bar and the slow burn of something dark welled in Maxwell’s chest.

Doesn’t he even recognise me? Am I that unmemorable?

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He stood a little closer.

Gibson frowned and peered through glasses already steaming up again. “You do look familiar—wait—oh, Maxwell, right? From the plane? Wow, small world. How are you?” He shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, my glasses were mucky earlier from dancing. I couldn’t see properly.”

Maxwell was gratified Gibson at least remembered his name. “Yeah, that’s me.” He gestured towards the floor. “Looked like you handled yourself okay out there with that guy.”

Gibson rolled his eyes. “Yes, he’s okay but he was getting a bit too hands on. I warned him not to take the bloody charade too far but did he listen? Nooo…”

He smiled at Dan, took the drink the bartender gave him and slid a ten-pound note across the counter.

“Charade?” Maxwell watched as Gibson slid the change into the white leather bag he had strapped around his hips. A belly bar twinkled in the light and Maxwell was mesmerised by the sexy shimmer. And the flat, toned stomach it belonged to. And the cheeky curve of Gibson’s arse.