Tough Love (39 page)

“Fuck yeah. Randy wouldn’t have picked it out for you if it didn’t. That boy knows poker and clothes like nobody I’ve ever met.” He leaned back in his chair and waggled his eyebrows at Steve. “From what I hear, he dressed our boys.”

Steve could feel the other man watching him closely. He raised his glass in toast. “Then let’s go see what they look like.”

They went in Ethan’s convertible, top down, and Steve took the backseat, letting the wind caress his skin. The party was in the historic district, so they had quite a bit of a drive ahead of them given evening traffic, and by the time they pulled into the neighborhood, it was almost nine thirty. As they parked on the street and walked toward the door, Ethan caught Steve gently by the elbow. “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m fine,” Steve ground out. “I’m here to see Chenco.”

“You’re here to have a good time with your friends and make new ones,” Ethan corrected, and led him inside.

The house was as grand as Ethan and Randy’s, but it was an older home, its construction style dictating it was no newer than the 1960s. The whole first floor was nicely appointed in the same way any higher-end home would be—open seating plan, nice furniture, a sunken lounge area with an active bar off to the side. The guests were all men in leather, most with drinks in their hand as they chatted and milled about. There was a bit of everything—young twinks in short shorts and harnesses, older bears looking like aging Toms of Finland, bulked-up early thirty-somethings trying not to show they were still feeling their way around a whip.

There were several men in puppy gear too, some on leashes and some bounding about with their paws. They were happy, playfully enjoying a role, a game, expressing themselves. None of them used the gear to hide, the puppy mask to terrorize. They were boys playing and nothing more. One stared at Steve, and it tugged at his heart, making him think of Gordy and what could have been. What
should
have been.

Ethan introduced Mitch and Steve to their host, Ricky, a man who looked slightly younger than Crabtree and who boasted a harnessed bear cub on each arm. He welcomed them with a smile and a heavy wink as he suggested they head out to the pool area where he was fairly sure they’d find some pleasant entertainment.

The entertainment, as it turned out, was Chenco and Sam.

They stood on a platform constructed at the far end of the lawn, dancing to club music under soft spotlights. Sam wore tight leather boy shorts, a studded collar and heavy eye makeup, his hair looking like it had already been tousled by rough sex. Chenco was something of a foil. He wore a mix of brown and black leather—brown shoes, black captain’s cap with silver studs, brown suede vest, black fingerless leather gloves, brown chaps over dark jeans with a pouch designed to highlight the bulge of his cock. Like Steve, he wore no shirt under his vest, but he also sported a pair of nipple clamps with a long, silver chain between them.

Chenco looked like an ad for the leather he wore, and he was beautiful.

What caught Steve, though, was the way Chenco moved. He’d seen him dance a million times, but never before as a man. Heels and sequins, wigs—yes, but Chenco the man had not danced.

The man danced now. Chenco held himself differently than Caramela—Steve could sometimes see the drag queen flickering on and off inside the boy, snapping his hips harder, making him bend deeper—but the dance was Chenco’s, not hers. He danced with a confidence that had nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with himself.

Mitch’s husband was clearly halfway under his dancing partner. Chenco pulled Sam to him, and Sam melted against his brother-in-law, raising his hands and clasping them behind Chenco’s neck to let Chenco’s touch roam over his mostly naked body.

He slid his hands over Sam’s skin, down his body, skimmed leather-clad hands down Sam’s bare thighs. Steve had seen Sam dance—on official dance floors and while he did the dishes—and he was no slouch, but next to Chenco he looked a little bit bumbling. Even here, Chenco was generous. He led Sam, easing him into the moves, altering his own undulations to match what Sam did. Sometimes Sam turned to him, and then they danced together, bodies merging, arms tangling. They were fluid, they were free.

They were so far from the farce Steve felt inside, they made him ache.

The song shifted, and while Chenco motioned for him to stay, Sam held up his hands in surrender, indicating Chenco should perform solo. The crowd cheered and called out requests. They were right on the edge of rowdy, which almost pulled Steve forward, but that was when Jansen stepped in, deftly pushing them back, checking on Chenco to make sure he was okay. Chenco didn’t seem upset—probably this was nothing compared to the crush at Club 33. He played the crowd, winking at them as he kept out of their reach. He struck poses, flashed nipple, tipped his hat rakishly and let his jaw hang slack while his mouth formed an inviting O. The crowd drank him in, hungry either to possess him or be him. Chenco handled them with grace and deftness, sliding into the next song with a smile.

He was marvelous, he was beautiful—but it was the dancing that made Chenco beautiful, not the clothes. It was the naked, confident honesty, and it wrapped around Steve’s heart and held him like a vise.

Except sometimes there was a flash, a moment of pain Steve only saw because of how closely he studied his lover’s face. Chenco continued to dance, his face lit, his smile bright. It took someone who knew him well to see beyond the mask.

Was Ethan right? Was Chenco upset because of him? Was Steve the one who had given Chenco this pain?

Was Chenco better off with him or without him? Bitterness choked Steve’s throat—what a dumb question.
Absolutely
Chenco was better off without him.

Except as Steve watched Chenco dance, as he felt his own heart rising, aching to connect with the beautiful man before him, Steve acknowledged something else—
he
was not better off without Chenco.

Chenco didn’t need Steve. But Steve needed Chenco.

The impact of the realization made Steve sway on his feet, left him raw and open and terrified. When this had happened, he wasn’t sure, but happen it had. He didn’t simply prefer being with Chenco, he wasn’t sure how he could exist without him. Going back to McAllen, going anywhere without Chenco as part of his future, left him feeling so hollow and bleak he couldn’t let his mind wrap around the concept. He didn’t know how to be on his own.

He didn’t
want
to be alone. He wanted to be with Chenco.

I want you. I need you, Chenco.

The song ended. Steve went to the edge of the stage, in a daze, grateful when Chenco came to meet him. He was stiff, uneasy. And hurt.

Steve took him by his hands, squeezing them tight. “You’re beautiful. Amazing.”

I love you.

Chenco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Steve, we need to talk.”

“Yes.”
Let me fix this. Let me make this right, because I have to make it right.

Chenco smiled again, a real one this time, and the gesture was like a sun to Steve.

Maybe this will work out. Maybe I really will be able to fix this, to make him happy, and everything will be okay.

Before Steve could speak, though, Chenco’s smile faded, his expression first surprised, then wooden.

Steve turned to follow his lover’s gaze and saw one of the puppies had come up beside them, hood pulled back to reveal a wild, flushed and angry face.

It was Gordy.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Even before Steve’s whisper of the man’s name, Chenco had known this was Gordy. Who else could he be, to make Steve so tired, scared and guilty? As Chenco watched the silent interplay between the two men, he saw the same quiet torture Steve underwent every time he spoke of his friend.

This
was what had Steve so distant, Chenco realized.

He wasn’t what Chenco had expected, and for a moment he could only stare at the small, squat man with wild eyes and hard jaw. The way Steve had described his friend, Chenco expected someone sad and pathetic, but that wasn’t who stood before him now. This man had a wickedness, a coldness to his gaze that froze Chenco’s blood. It wasn’t a desperate soul facing Steve down, glaring with seething hate at Chenco.

This wasn’t a poor soul at all. This was the devil himself.

Mitch and Randy appeared, flanking the scene, and once Gordy saw them, he transformed from a short, scruffy little man with a neat beard into an animal, screaming wild accusations of being held against his will, of torture, rape, every dramatic piece of bullshit he could spout.

For a heartbeat Chenco doubted, wondering if he was projecting. He watched Gordon struggle, alternating between rage and pleading. No—there was no question. This guy played Steve, plucking his strings until they threatened to break. Maybe Gordon wasn’t entirely healthy, but he knew what he was doing. Chenco did too. He’d seen this nasty creature many, many times, had known him intimately.

He’d lived with a man like this, after all.

Gordy wasn’t a poor, broken, pitiful thing. Gordy was a monster. An asshole. A user, an abuser, a selfish son of a bitch who enjoyed tearing other people down. In a way neither Chenco nor Mitch could ever be, Gordy was the son of Cooper Tedsoe’s heart, a cold-hearted abuser down to his core. This was an Oscar-level performance for sure. But there wasn’t any question in Chenco’s mind. This was an act. This was a game.

This was fucking ending right now.

As Mitch and Randy dragged Gordon off, helped by a cache of burly leathermen, Chenco stopped them, stepping into their path and meeting Gordy’s gaze. He watched the man still, seeing him, measuring him.

Chenco channeled his father and gave Gordy a cold, ruthless smile.

I know you.
He didn’t dare speak the words out loud, but he willed Gordy to hear the furious vows of his heart.
You can fool them all you want, but I know you. I’m stronger than you.

I will never let you have him again.

Gordy swore, spit and kicked. Randy reached out to pull Chenco away, but Chenco had already stepped clear. He walked backward, aiming a finger at Gordy before turning on his heel, putting heavy sass into his hips as he sauntered off, Gordy sputtering in rage behind him.

Chenco smiled.

But then he saw Steve standing off to the side, ashen, visibly shaken. Smile faltering, Chenco found Sam and drew his friend aside, ducking to his ear so Steve couldn’t overhear them. “I need to get him out of here.”

Sam produced keys from his pocket. “I have my bike, but you still haven’t finished your lessons.”

No, Chenco hadn’t, and he was sorely sorry now that he only sort of knew how to drive a motorcycle. Grimacing, he took the keys. “I’ll fake it. Maybe it’ll distract him, the way I lurch and hesitate all over the street.”

“You’ll be fine.” Sam brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Call if you need anything. And good luck.”

Chenco nodded, pretty sure he was going to need all the luck he could get.

He didn’t think it was a good sign when Steve let himself be led like a lamb out of the house and into the driveway, but he was heartened that he balked when Chenco straddled Sam’s bike and indicated Steve should climb on behind him.

“What the hell?”

There you are, Papi.
“You need to get out of here. I’m driving you.”

“Do you know how to drive a bike?”

No, not really, and Chenco wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Why don’t you get on and find out?”

Steve looked ready to argue, but a series of angry shouts told them Gordy and his entourage were exiting the building too. When Steve blanched, falling into the scary space Chenco had seen him in before, Chenco found his steel.

“Get on this bike, Papi, right now,” Chenco ordered.

Steve did.

He hadn’t bothered to put on Sam’s helmet, and neither had Steve, which was especially stupid given how rough Chenco’s driving was. It was a strange moment all around, Chenco as the boy-toy white knight stealing away with his rescued leather daddy. He got about a block before he lingered at a stop sign and glanced over his shoulder.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” he confessed. “I don’t know the way home, or to anywhere, really.”

Steve, who was still tight from the scene at the party, relaxed somewhat and smiled, running a hand over Chenco’s thigh. “Take a right here. It’ll lead you to 159.”

“That’s not an interstate, is it? I don’t think I’m ready for prime time.”

“It’s not an interstate.” The brush of a goatee against his neck thrilled Chenco. “You’ll be fine.”

Chenco did fairly well, and while it was a little weird to be the one driving Steve, he didn’t dislike it. Though Steve didn’t wrap his arms around Chenco’s middle the same way Chenco did when he rode bitch, he did rest his hands on Chenco’s thighs in a comfortable, possessive way that made things feel just right. In fact he was starting to relax when at a stoplight, Steve leaned down and spoke directly into his ear.

“You would do better without me.”

It was a damn good thing they were stopped since Chenco was sure he would have wrecked if he were driving. As it was, he about tipped the bike as he glared at Steve. “What the hell?”