West of Hollywood, Part III

[speakingwosound]

Part I | Part II | Part IV

October 2010

Halloween is the best night of the year at M Cat 67. They host a costume party, complete with anonymity, live music, and free Miller Light. Most years, Anže and Sasha come dressed in tandem costumes that make it clear how available they are. This year, however, Anže presents Sasha with a pair of Lakers’ shorts. Sasha’s eyes go wide and adoring as he pulls them low onto his hips and turns around in front of the mirror. Anže laughs at him, but it feels good. And, dressed in his Kings’ jersey and short black shorts, Anže feels just as complete as Sasha does.

Anže knows it’s risky. To anyone else here, the jersey and painted-on black eye is a joke, a cute costume that shows off his thighs and accentuates his athleticism, pretty much the only thing he has going for him in the looks category. If Anže is truthful, however, he isn’t dressed for any client here but Jon, who he hasn’t seen in the 48 hours since that first night. He ignores how dangerous it is that he’s been counting.

He doesn’t care, though, because the jersey feels good against his bare skin and he’s already four beers in and doesn’t argue when Sasha leads him out onto the dance floor. Sasha’s skin is warm where Anže’s holding his hips, and Anže pulls him close, fitting his knees along Sasha’s as they rock into the music. He knows how they look together, and as Sasha grins at him, Anže knows that Sasha’s thinking the same thing.

Neither Sasha nor Anže tend to have trouble attracting clients. It took years to develop, but now they both have a reputation for discretion and loyalty that not only attracts high-profile clients, but keeps them coming back. Anže has heard the whispers in the escort community, whispers that he and Sasha must have something of their own to hide, and, although no one has guessed at their true identities, it makes Anže nervous. Not for the first time, he thinks about his brand - the physical mark of his secrets - and he glances down to make sure that both their hips are covered.

Sasha follows his gaze and rolls his eyes. He pulls Anže closer, his lips brushing against Anže’s ear. “It’s Halloween. No cops here, and even if they are, they’re not paying attention.”

Anže wants to argue. The whole point of this night is to be noticed, if not recognized. Tomorrow’s November 1st, and they have a stack of bills on the kitchen table, and they’re both banking on a decent night tonight. Even if Anže would be lying if there wasn’t one person he wanted it from.

“You’re distracted.” Sasha whispers and Anže’s stomach leaps guiltily. This is wrong. So wrong.

Forcefully, he raises his head to scan the dance floor. M Cat 67 attracts a particular crowd on Halloween, including a number of closeted Hollywood elites who, on normal days, are too recognizable even for the underground clubs. Anže stops on a bare-chested Gladiator in dark Aviators who looks just desperate enough, and he nudges at Sasha’s chin, motioning towards that corner of the dance floor.

Sasha’s eyes go dark and he pulls back from Anže before pausing. “You sure you don’t want?”

“Nah.” Anže shakes his head. “He looks more your type.”

Sasha pauses for a moment, eyeing Anže as if he knows that there’s more to it and Anže holds his breath for a moment, but then Sasha grins and pushes his way through the dance floor. Anže watches Sasha work, worming his way into the Gladiator’s space, until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Who’s that?” Jon motions to Sasha and the Gladiator.

“Roommate.” There’s something about the way Jon is standing in front of him, dressed in board shorts and a Bauer shirt and looking painfully normal, arms crossed protectively across his chest that makes it near-impossible for Anže to lie. He regrets it immediately.

“Roommate?” As if roommate might mean something else.

Anže bites his lip and nods. “Yeah.” Jon is here, in front of him, finally, and Anže doesn’t know what to do with how that makes him feel.

Jon watches Sasha for another couple of moments before he tears his eyes away, his gaze lighting on Anže. His cheeks go pink and he visibly swallows. “Nice jersey.”

It’s the perfect thing for Jon to have said and, suddenly, Anže remembers what this is between them. He gives Jon a small smile and steps forward to run a finger up Jon’s chest. “Yeah?”

Jon drops his eyes to Anže’s finger, as if he finds it hard to think when Anže’s touching him. It makes Anže feel warm and powerful and Anže pushes the feelings away before he can be terrified enough to run. He presses his palm flat against Jon’s chest and can feel it when Jon takes a deep breath. “What are you supposed to be?” He prompts.

“Hockey player?” He suggests, but then he glances around them and his shoulders slump as he gives Anže a self-deprecating grin. “I forgot.”

“About Halloween?”

“Yeah.”

Jon looks so chastised about it that Anže laughs, deep and real, and, after a moment, Jon chuckles, his chest moving under Anže’s hands and Anže is reminded of what Jon looks like naked. He swallows, hard, and Jon’s eyes move to his throat before trailing lower.

“You, um-” Jon runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, you look really good in that jersey. Like you belong in it.” He pauses for a moment, as if he wants to say more, but it’s too perfect, too close to the things Anže’s always wanted, and Anže leans forward to kiss him.

It takes Jon a moment, but then his fingers are bunching the fabric at Anže’s hips, pulling their bodies flush together and Anže can feel Jon already half-hard against his thigh. Anže drops his hand between them, pressing his palm lightly between Jon’s legs, the movement hidden by their bodies. Jon groans, his whole body shaking as he pulls his lips away to pant into Anže’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Jon whispers.

Anže shivers, himself, and pulls his hand away to press against Jon’s lower back. “Sorry. Too forward?”

Jon chuckles, his breath warm and short against Anže’s neck. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Jon’s body is shaking a little under his hands, and Anže presses against his back, a little bit amazed that, despite Jon’s obvious discomfort, he is here. Again. With Anže. Anže turns his head to press a kiss to Jon’s ear, before capturing his earlobe between his teeth gently to remind Jon of his arousal. Jon groans again, pulling back to grab Anže’s hand.

“Can we get out of here?”

Anže nods, glancing behind him to find Sasha’s arms around the Gladiator but his eyes on Anže. Sasha grins and Anže raises an eyebrow, but allows Jon to pull him through the crowd and into his car for the second time in two nights.

Jon seems a little less nervous as he buckles his seatbelt and pulls out onto the busy holiday streets. “You can play whatever on the radio.”

Anže leans forward to flip through the presets, settling on Pink’s Raise Your Glass. It was playing in the club as they left, and Anže’s knees automatically twitch to the beat. Jon glances at him, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

Anže stops humming and glances over, worried that Jon is going to decide that he can’t do this and leave Anže on the side of the road in not much more than a hockey jersey, a ridiculous, insecure fear that he’s never had before. He swallows. “What for?”

Jon doesn’t look away from the road as he turns onto the highway. “I don’t like to dance.” He settles into the middle lane and frowns again, glancing at Anže’s knees. He amends his statement. “I can’t dance.”

Anže releases the breath he was holding. “It’s just a means to an end. For me.”

Jon shrugs, his shoulders stiff and his knuckles white against the steering wheel. “You like it. It’s Halloween and I dragged you away.”

Anže laughs. “My only goal was to get your attention. Worked, didn’t it?” It’s an admission that, again, he shouldn’t be making, but the relief that Jon isn’t backing out is so strong that he reaches over to rest a hand on Jon’s thigh.

Jon’s body loosens and he smiles as he pulls up in front of the Hilton. Anže squeezes his knee quickly, then gets out and follows Jon straight to the elevator bays. He raises an eyebrow at Jon, who flushes again and pulls a key out of his wallet. “I’m prepared this time.”

Anže shakes his head. Jon always keeps him off balance, teetering between jittery and unsure and a level of preparedness and foresight that Anže isn’t used to in his clients. It makes the whole arrangement feel raw and real in a way that sex hasn’t felt since that first hand-job Anže had exchanged at age twelve.

Jon opens the door, stopping just inside, and Anže has to squeeze in to let the door close behind them before he wraps an arm around Jon’s waist and kisses his shoulder. Anže slips his hand under Jon’s shirt and rests it flat against his stomach.

Jon shivers, dislodging Anže’s hand as he turns to press Anže hard against the door. Jon’s kiss is hungry, desperate, his hands flexing against the Kings logo on Anže’s chest. Anže kisses back, letting the door take his weight as he wraps his right calf around Jon’s thigh. Jon’s skin is warm and soft, the muscles in his legs reminding Anže that Jon, too, is an athlete and Anže doesn’t have to be careful or gentle.

Anže feels his own arousal growing and he pulls back, fighting for breaths and sagging against the door. He needs to get himself under a little bit of control. Fast. “I’m-” He takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna take a shower. Get this off,” he motions to the black-eye still painted on his face.

Jon looks disappointed, but he nods and steps back. Anže can’t handle that look on Jon’s face, so he kisses him quickly as he moves past and into the bathroom. The door is halfway closed before he remembers to call out, “money on the table.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Jon seems flustered, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Can you, um, can you still be wearing the jersey? When you’re done?”

Anže grins. “Sure.” He closes the door behind him and leans against the sink to take a deep breath. This is part of his routine, mainly meant to let him clean off the sweat and grime of the street and, for many clients, to prepare himself when his client is more interested in getting off quickly than in foreplay. With Jon, however, he needs the moment. He feels anxious and aroused and Jon makes it way too easy to forget that this isn’t about him, it’s about Jon and Jon’s pleasure at the expense of his own.

Taking a deep breath, he strips and starts the water. His dick bobs against his stomach and, as he waits for the water to warm, he wraps his hand around it and pulls, hard. He doesn’t have a lot of time, but he needs to take the edge off. He steps under the spray, using the warm water to slick his way. He closes his eyes, tipping his head back, and images of two nights ago flash through his head, images of Jon’s fingers pressing into Anže’s legs as he throws his head back, face open with awe and ecstasy.

Anže isn’t really worried that Jon won’t be careful with him, but out of habit he reaches behind himself, pressing two fingers in and scissoring them to open himself up. As his fingers press against his prostrate, he twists his fist and he comes against the wall.

He feels better, calmer, if still humming with an undercurrent of arousal as he cleans up. He scrubs at his eye, making sure that the make-up is completely gone, before stepping out and drying off quickly.

He stops for a moment, looking at the jersey folded neatly next to the sink. This might be the only way he’ll ever have of fulfilling his dream of wearing it. It’s sad, disheartening for a moment, until Anže remembers that it’s Jon on the other side of the door and, well, if he can’t play for the Kings, this is the best consolation prize he can think of. He slips on the jersey, deciding to forego his shorts, and opens the door.

He hadn’t realized how anxious he was that Jon might have given in to his nerves and left, but when he steps out and sees Jon, he feels a knot uncurl in his stomach. Jon is leaning back against the headboard, naked, palming his dick in slow, lazy strokes and Anže groans, his spent cock giving a little twitch of appreciation.

Anže tears his eyes away just long enough to make sure that the money is on the dresser before he turns back to Jon. “Started without me?”

“Mmm.” Jon’s hips give a little unconscious thrust into his fist.

Anže puts his knees on the bed, straddling Jon’s legs and placing his hand over Jon’s. They pump together in the same, easy motions and Jon’s eyes slip closed. His breathing is ragged as he continues.

“You took awhile.”

Anže blushes, grateful that Jon’s eyes are closed so that he can’t see it. “Yeah. Make-up was harder than I thought.”

Jon opens his eyes, lifting his free hand to trace around Anže’s eye. “You looked good with a black-eye. Like a hockey player.”

Anže ignores the little twinge at how good that sounds and focuses on the feel of Jon’s fingers, gentle and warm on his face. “That why you wanted me to keep the jersey on?”

“Mmm hmm,” Jon nods. He pulls his hands away, leaving Anže to take over the hand-job, so that he can pull lube and condoms out of the bedside table. He squeezes the bottle onto his fingers, warming it gently before pushing one into Anže’s body.

It feels good, better than it should, and the thrum of arousal that hums through Anže’s body every time Jon is around makes him press down against Jon’s hand.

“So responsive,” Jon whispers, reverently, slipping a second finger in.

Anže doesn’t have a suitable answer for that, so he leans forward to kiss Jon, slipping his tongue in to explore Jon’s mouth. Jon groans, pulling away only to kiss and nip at Anže’s collarbone. He finds the spot right at the crook of Anže’s neck, and Anže feels himself start to harden as Jon attacks the area. Under him, Jon’s hips thrust off the bed and Anže stills his hand, pulling back and reaching for the condom.

“Ready?”

Jon nearly chokes, his face taught and focused as Anže rolls the condom onto his erection. Then Anže sits back, sinking slowly down until he is seated fully on Jon, both of them groaning at how deep Jon is.

“Jesus, Aron, what you do to me,” Jon whispers, brushing a strand of hair off of Anže’s forehead. “Move? Please.”

Anže raises himself on his knees, the muscles in his thighs flexing, and Jon’s hand instantly reaches out to touch him, feeling along those muscles as Anže sets a quick rhythm. Jon lets him do most of the work, his head thrown back against the pillow, eyes slitted and dark as he watches Anže work.

Jon’s hands move off his thighs, pushing upwards to rub across the jersey. He presses on Anže’s nipples, rubbing the fabric against them until Anže is aching and he lets out a pained little noise. Jon’s eyes open quickly, leaning up for an apologetic kiss that Anže grants him, feeling guilty and unprofessional for letting the noise out. With Jon, though, it’s hard to pay attention, to remember his training and his profession, when all he wants to do is get lost in the sensations.

Jon makes it so easy, as his hands move back down, caressing Anže’s sides, and slipping under the jersey. His fingers play in the crease of Anže’s thighs, before finally reaching his dick and wrapping it in a warm, lubed fist. Anže tries to protest, tries to tell him that this isn’t about him, but it tumbles out in Swedish and Jon kisses him to shut him up anyway.

Jon’s thumb rubs across the head and Anže arches his back, the angle shifting on his downstroke so that Jon’s dick catches his prostrate and he lets out a loud, long, guttural moan, leaking on Jon’s fist. “Fuck, Aron.” Jon looks lost, awed, as he lets go of Anže’s erection, letting it bounce against his jersey, streams of precome marring the black material. It looks hot to Anže, but it does something spectacular to Jon, as he grabs onto Anže’s hips, holding him still as he uses his hips to thrust, hard, into Anže’s body.

Anže lets him, relinquishing control to Jon’s pleasure. It’s amazing to watch Jon fall apart like this, knowing that he did this, he caused this - Jon, who is quiet and soft-spoken and nervous, to surrender to his passions, moaning and gasping and crying out.

“Fuck, Jesus, I can’t- I don’t-” Jon surges up, presses an open-mouthed kiss to Anže’s mouth as he comes, his hips arching off the bed and his entire body shuddering for long moments until he collapses back against the pillows. Anže gives him a minute, caressing his body with light, slow touches until Jon opens his eyes again, grinning.

“Can you- I mean, I want to watch you-” He motions at Anže’s dick, straining hard against his belly, and Anže nods. He lifts onto his knees so that Jon can see him, grasping his cock and it only takes a few strokes before he’s coming in long, white strings across the crest-ed logo.

Jon groans, giving one more thrust upwards, into Anže’s body, before he slips out, spent and sated and happy. He reaches a hand up, though, to run his fingers through the mess, bunching the material in his fist and swallowing dryly. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Anže feels a ping of jealousy that Jon can get off on this, because he gets to wear this jersey, for real, almost every night. But Jon’s face is so open, innocent, enthralled when he gazes at Anže that Anže can’t be angry, and he can’t pretend that sharing this with Jon wasn’t some of the hottest sex he’s ever had.

He leans forward to kiss Jon, quickly, before pulling him into the shower for a blowjob.

***

It’s early afternoon by the time Anže wakes up. He had snuck out of the hotel room around 4 am and fallen into a cab. When he got home, he hadn’t done anything more than check in on Sasha and brush his teeth before falling into his bed and sleeping another eight hours.

He wakes up feeling rested and much more alive. He takes his time in the shower, fingering the red marks across his chest. He won’t be able to take another client until they fade, maybe three or four days without an income beside Jon’s. In daylight, without Jon here, in front of him, around him, this all seems a lot more dangerous.

When they’re in bed, Anže can follow his instincts without having to think too hard about what he’s allowing to happen. It’s easy, simple, and good enough that Anže would be crazy not to lose himself in it. When he’s here, however, in his own ugly teal shower, with Sasha banging around in the kitchen and his brand glaring dark and obvious on his hip, Anže can’t pretend anymore.

This is risky. Rather than feeling powerful, he feels exposed and vulnerable. Anže can’t lie to himself anymore. Without meaning to, Jon could be the end of everything but, even knowing all of this, Anže doesn’t think he can stop.

The water’s growing cold against his neck and Anže washes the rest of the conditioner out of his hair before stepping out quickly. He dresses slowly in sweatpants and a sleeveless t-shirt and makes his way into the kitchen.

Sasha glances up from his spot on the couch. He mutes the episode of The Simpsons he’s watching, even though Anže is pretty sure that Sasha doesn’t understand half of it. Sasha grins at him. “Dober dan. Late night?”

Anže grunts. There’s still some coffee in the pot and he pours himself a cup before digging milk and cereal out of the refrigerator. He doesn’t say anything until he curls up on the other side of the couch, careful not to spill his overflowing bowl. “How was the Gladiator?”

Sasha makes an obscene gesture as he answers, “Hung,” and Anže chokes on a spoonful of milk as he laughs. Sasha raises an eyebrow. “How was yours?”

“Jon?” Anže cringes as he uses Jon’s name.

Sasha raises an eyebrow at him. “That his real name? He looks familiar.”

“Yeah.” Anže focuses on finishing his breakfast. When he’s done, he curls his knees under himself and hugs his hands around his coffee. He takes a deep breath. “He plays for the Kings.”

“Oh.” Sasha’s face lights up in recognition. “Oh. I’ve seen him play. Flexible, yeah?”

Anže blushes, but nods his head.

Sasha laughs. “He’s cute. Haven’t seen him around, though.”

“He’s new.”

Sasha’s smile dampens, as if he senses that this conversation is different than the conversations they tend to have the morning after. Those are usually coded, with fake names and fake jobs. Client discretion is even more important than the trust they have for each other. All these little chats usually are is a sharing of anonymous sexual exploits.

Sasha seems to realize that this is more than that. He turns on the couch to look at Anže, speaking slowly. “You called him by his first name.”

“Didn’t mean to. Just slipped out,” Anže promises. “I just met him a couple days ago. At M Cat.”

“You didn’t mention it a couple days ago.”

Anže shrugs. “Wasn’t important.”

Sasha runs a hand through his hair. “He plays for the Kings.”

“I know.” Anže looks down, picking at a seam on the edge of his sweatpants. “I didn’t seek him out. He found me.”

“I want to believe you.” Sasha shakes his head. “It’s too perfect, no?”

Anže swallows. “It’s a job. He’s a client.” Sasha is looking at him as if he doesn’t believe a word, and Anže drops his chin, giving in a little. “Best client I’ve ever had, but still a client.”

“You can’t forget.” Sasha could mean that Jon’s a client. He could mean who they are. He would mean what it was like, in Slovenia. Anže doesn’t want to think about any of it.

Sasha’s voice is gentle, his eyes soft and sympathetic. “Anže, I know you, I know how you are, but you can’t, okay?”

Anže swallows hard. “Can’t what?” Because he needs Sasha to say it, needs someone to remind him what’s at stake here.

Sasha shifts on the couch so that he’s close enough to lay a hand on Anže’s crossed arms. “You can’t fall for him.” The because you could, because he’s perfect, because he’s everything you’ve ever wanted is left unspoken. Sasha squeezes Anže’s arm to let him to know that he gets it anyway.

Sasha’s soft-spoken, “Just think about it, okay? You don’t wanna end up back in Slovenia any more than I do,” does nothing but make him angry.

Anže wrenches out of his grip, pressing into the corner of the couch. “Fuck you. When have I ever put us in danger?”

Sasha doesn’t move, he just rests his chin on his hands and gazes up at Anže. “When have you ever had someone like Jon before?” Sasha lowers his head. “I want to believe you, Anže, I swear.”

“Good.”

Sasha bites his lower lip. “I just- I’m not sure you’re seeing straight on this one.”

Anže’s eyes flash. He’s been holding back the anger and frustration in deference to fear for years, and it’s all bubbling over. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe,” Sasha nods in deference.

“You don’t understand.”

Sasha’s eyes grow dark, and for a moment Anže flashes to Sam, the basketball player who’s had intentions on Sasha for months. Sasha’s back straightens and he doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s harder than it was a moment ago. “I’m the only one who understands.”

Anže’s normally the one who’s careful, the one of them who worries and frets and, sometimes, he forgets that Sasha has just as much to lose here as Anže does. When they should have been running far and fast from anything Slovenian, they agreed to tie their lives together in the most dangerous of ways. It matters, to have someone, his best friend, here every day, reminding him why it’s all worth it.

Usually it’s enough. More than. But, for the first time, Anže wishes he were free, wishes his decisions were his own to make. He set himself on this path when he was twelve years old, and he’s been careful ever since, but just this once he wants to fuck up and he wants it to be okay.

Anže crosses his arms and frowns at him, because he has nothing to counter with. Sasha stares back, and they’re at a stalemate for long moments until Sasha sighs. “Look, I’ve never seen you like this, and it’s scarring me a little bit.”

Anže deflates, his anger leaving as quickly as it came in the face of Sasha’s vulnerability. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers.

“I’m not asking you to. I just- I just want you to be careful.”

“Yeah.”

Sasha sighs, standing up and resting a hand on Anže’s shoulder. “I have a pick-up game. I’ll be back in a bit. Ràd te imam.”

Anže watches him leave, wishing that he could promise Sasha that he has nothing to worry about. But he can’t promise that. Sasha threw his best at him, and Anže still can’t convince himself that it isn’t worth all the risks.

Translations:

Dober dan = good afternoon
Ràd te imam = I love you

***

November 2010

“Where are the rest of the guys?” Jon asks as he settles across the table from Matt, two pints in his hands. He slides one across to Matt.

Matt shrugs. “Brownie said you’ve been weird lately. Said I should deal with you.”

Jon frowns. “Weird? Brownie has no right throwing the word ‘weird’ around.”

Matt ignores him. “Quiet. Distracted. Normal goalie stuff, but he insisted that I talk to you.”

“Why you?”

“Don’t know. I’ve known you the longest? Guess it’s my cross to bare.” Matt puts a hand to his chest.

“Asshole,” Jon laughs as he flicks a napkin across the table. He’s known Matt Moulson a long time. Since Juniors. He introduced Matt to his wife, Alicia, who’s the sister of the girl who grew up next door to Jon. Jon tends to think that he deserves more respect for making that happen, but Matt’s kind of an asshole, so he doesn’t normally push it. Matt is also, possibly, his best friend outside of his teammates.

“Mmm.” Matt picks up the folded menu on the table and glances at it. “Nachos?”

Jon grabs the menu from him. “And potato wedges.”

Matt makes a face, but when the waitress comes he orders for them. Once she’s gone, he leans back in his chair, beer in hand, and stares at Jon until Jon is shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“What?”

“Brownie tells me that you haven’t been spending the night at your apartment.”

Jon swears. He supposes he should have known that Dustin would notice the absence of his car in the driveway over the last few weeks, but he’s really been too busy to think about it. “Since when do you and Dustin talk so much?”

Matt studies Jon with an inscrutable look before he tips his head back and finishes his beer. “We talk. Want another?”

They’re four or five beers and a plate of nachos and potato skins in before Matt brings it up again. “So, you’re seeing someone?”

Jon chokes on his beer. “No.”

“Alright, seeing is a strong word. You’re - what? - fucking someone?”

“I’m not-” And then Jon stops, because, well, paying a prostitute for sex almost every night has to at least count as fucking. Or something.

“Hah.” Matt points a finger at him and Jon has to adjust his eyes to see it and suddenly he feels a bit drunker than he did a minute ago. “Where’d you meet her?”

Jon struggles for the words, before settling on, “I didn’t?”

Matt frowns. “So, you fucked her but you didn’t meet her?”

“I- Fuck, Matt, just leave it alone, alright?”

“Can’t.” Matt shakes his head. “Promised your Captain I’d get to the bottom of this.”

Jon frowns, reaching for his beer and finding that his glass is empty. He motions to their waitress before turning back to Matt. “Dustin already knows this.”

“Knows what?” Matt shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “I feel a little behind here. Wanna fill me in?”

“Not really.”

“Jon-”

Their waitress arrives with another round and Jon wraps his hands around his beer but doesn’t take another sip. He drops his voice. “Okay, fine, there is. There’s someone. Sort of.”

Matt grins, leaning back so that his chair is resting precariously on two legs. “I knew it. Who is she?”

“She’s not-” Jon swallows, closing his eyes for a moment, before plunging ahead. “She’s not a, well, a she.”

“What?” Matt looks confused for a moment, before the chair comes crashing down on all four legs. “What are you telling me?”

Jon shrugs. “His name’s Aron.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while, but I just never knew the right time and-”

Matt looks wildly around as if nhl.com reporters might be sipping gin and tonics at the bar. “And you decided that this is the right time?” He hisses.

Jon frowns. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. “I’m sorry. I thought-” He shakes his head. “We’ve known each other so long. We’ve shared a room. I assumed you had already guessed.”

Matt pauses for a moment before he takes a deep breath and leans as far across the table as he can. “Jesus, Jonny, I can’t lie to you. I- I’ve had suspicions, but- You should never have told me.”

Jon can feel himself shutting down. Dustin’s the only other person that Jon’s ever come out to, and Dustin had just grinned and clapped him on the back and told him that it was about time. This - telling Matt after ten years of friendship - this was supposed to be good, easy, a release of years of tension, but Matt’s staring at him with regret and hurt and something else that Jon can’t place. This is none of those things and Jon just wants to take it all back. “Forget it. It’s nothing. Just- just pretend I never mentioned it.”

Matt straightens up and pushes Jon’s untouched beer towards him. “That’s a good idea.”

Jon looks at it for a moment, then their waitress is there, asking if they need anything else and Jon doesn't think before he says, “Two tequila shots.”

“I don’t want a shot.” Matt’s voice is soft, full of pity, and it makes Jon furious.

“Good. They’re not for you.” Their waitress is back and he accepts the shots, downing them in quick succession before she has a chance to hand him the lime slices. She raises an eyebrow and Jon just smiles at her. “Long day.”

She shrugs at him, dropping the lime slices onto the table with their bill and walks away. Jon turns back to Matt, who sighs, running a hand through his hair before pressing his elbows to the table and leaning forward again. “Look, Jonny,” his says, his voice low and even and hard. “You know I don’t care, alright? If you weren’t a hockey player, I’d say fuck it, good for you, go enjoy yourself.”

“I am a hockey player.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jon’s voice is rising and he stops himself at Matt’s sharp look, taking a deep breath, his lungs burning from the tequila. “Something, fuck, anything.”

Matt raises an eyebrow. “Fine. You want my advice?”

Jon’s having a hard time focusing on Matt, but he’s already half-way in this, so he leans forward and hisses, “Yeah, jackass. I don’t know why the fuck, but I really do.”

“My advice,” Matt says slowly, “is to forget about this. Forget about this Aron guy. Find yourself a nice girl. Bring her to Christmas parties and company picnics. Hell, have a kid or two and buy a house in the suburbs and have Cribs do a story on how nice and simple and normal your perfect fucking life is.”

“Jesus, Matt,” Jon’s finding it hard to swallow and he knows his voice sounds strangled. “You don’t know me at all.”

Jon’s hands are gripping the edge of the table and Matt reaches out to touch one. “I don’t want to be the one telling you this, but, I care about you. You introduced me to my wife and now I’m repaying the favor.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, damn it, you have to listen to me. You’ve gone soft in LA, man. You’ve forgotten what it’s like, playing back East. The press follows you to the goddamn grocery store. If they caught wind of this- If anyone ever finds out-” Matt swallows audibly. “The league isn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever, hell, I don’t know but- If you, now- Fuck, Jon, you’d be finished.”

“They can’t. I have a contract.”

Matt shakes his head. “They can’t force you out. But they can make you miserable ‘til it’s your decision. And then that’s what they’ll tell the press: it was your choice, you didn’t want to mess up the mood in the locker room. For the good of the team, they’ll say.” Jon stares at him and Matt sighs, his voice gentling. “I’m sorry. I know you don't want to believe it, but I saw it happen.”

Jon licks his dry lips. “When?”

“In Juniors. His name was Rob. He was good. Fast. Could shoot the puck. One day his roommate came home and Rob was in bed with another guy and, well, Rob didn’t finish out the year.”

“And?”

Matt shrugs. “I don’t know. I heard a while back that he was working at Tim Horton’s, living with his parents.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Matt pats his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Jon pulls his hand away and pushes back from the table, standing. “Yeah, of course. I get it. Thanks for, you know.” He throws a couple of $20s onto the table before he stumbles out onto the sidewalk. It’s November and it’s getting chilly, but he doesn’t really feel it past the beer and the tequila and the numbness. He knows he should go home and sleep it off or maybe talk to Dustin, but there’s adrenaline and alcohol rushing through his system so he pulls out his phone and dials.

“Meet me at the hotel.” He doesn’t give Anže the chance to respond before he’s ending the call and falling into a cab.

By the time Anže arrives, Jon is already naked, lying against the headboard with his dick in his hand. Anže whistles as he closes the door quickly behind him. “Jebanje, you-”

Jon twists his fist on the upstroke and moans, pressing his feet into the bed. “Get over here.”

Anže chuckles, motioning towards the bathroom. “I’m just gonna-”

“No,” Jon whines, his cheeks already flushed, his breathing harsh against his soar throat. “The money’s already on the table.”

“Jesus.” Anže drops his bag and kneels on the bed next to Jon. “Are you okay?” He presses his palm to Jon’s cheek, feeling for a fever.

“I’m good. Great.” He turns his head, catching Anže’s ring finger in his mouth and sucking. Anže groans and Jon lets go, grinning. “A little drunk, maybe,” he admits. “And horny,” he punctuates with a flick of his wrist.

Anže laughs, reaching down to place his hand on top of Jon’s, squeezing around his dick. Anže’s hand is real and strong, and Jon focuses on it, thrusting up into it and, when Anže makes to move away, Jon holds him there. “No, just like this. This is good.”

Anže gives him a questioning look, but then Jon thrusts his hips into Anže’s fist and Anže doesn’t argue. He tightens his grip, using the fast pace with the little twist at the end that he knows Jon likes. It doesn’t take long, before Jon’s whole body arches and he cries out, coming in long, hard bursts across Anže’s fist.

Jon’s mind still feels fuzzy, the familiar room vague and undefined, but next to him, Anže is there and solid. Jon reaches for him, pulling Anže to rest between his open thighs and kisses him desperately. Anže’s barely hard against his stomach, but Jon reaches down to undo his fly and pull his dick from his jeans. He tightens his fist, grinning against Anže’s lips as Anže hardens in his fingers.

Anže pulls back, his breath coming in short, hard breaths and Jon grins harder. “You don’t have to,” he says, softly and out of breath, just as he does every time.

Jon pulls him down. “I want to.”

Jon tightens his fist and he knows that it’s too fast and too hard and just on the edge of painful, but Anže’s kissing him and bucking into his fist and Jon can’t stop. He wants Anže to feel good, to feel Jon and remember him. Even when Anže moans and comes, biting down on the edge of Jon’s lip, he doesn’t stop until Anže reaches down to pull his hand away.

“Sorry,” Jon pants. “I’m sorry, I just- God, I just wanted you.”

Anže bends down for a quick kiss. Jon’s lip stings and Anže pulls back sheepishly. “Sorry. About that.”

Jon’s pokes at the spot with his tongue, but the little bit of pain feels good. “It’s fine.” He glances down their bodies. Anže’s holding himself up, over Jon’s body, and he’s dressed accept for his dick sticking out of the v of his opened pants. “Sorry for mauling you.”

Anže chuckles, lifting himself off and laying on his back next to Jon. “I’m good.”

They lie like that, their breathing evening out, until Jon falls asleep.

***

Over the next few weeks, Anže feels them slipping out of the routine that they’d so precariously established. Jon seems wired and anxious, and there are a number of times when Anže catches Jon staring at him, teeth worrying at his lower lip, as if he wants to ask something. Each time this happens, Anže slides to his knees and slips Jon’s dick into his mouth, ‘cause Anže’s pretty sure that he doesn't want to answer whatever it is that Jon wants to ask.

It comes to a head a few days after Thanksgiving. Between the holiday and the fact that the Blackhawks are in town for a game a few days later, Anže doesn’t expect to hear from Jon for a couple of days. In a valiant attempt to slip back into his normal routine, Anže tells Sasha to dress and they head to M Cat 67 for the first time since Halloween.

It almost feels normal as Anže leans back against the bar, his shoulder brushing with Sasha’s, a glass of tequila in his left hand. They’re attracting looks, just like they always had, before hockey and Jon, and suddenly Anže is overwhelmed by the turn his life has taken over the past few weeks. It makes him itchy and anxious, and he searches desperately through the dance floor, eyes lighting on a tall, blond, fit man who Anže has never seen here before.

He elbows Sasha. “There.” He points to the man, and Sasha’s eyebrow rises.

“Leo?”

Anže frowns. “Huh?”

“I had him a couple weeks ago. He was good.” Sasha blushes and Anže grins.

“Good, huh?”

“Very.”

“You want him tonight?”

Sasha pauses long enough to finish his glass and eye the blond. “Nah.”

Anže glances sideways, trying to determine rather Sasha’s telling him the truth. “You sure?”

Sasha nods to the other side of the room, where one of his higher-paying regulars is watching them over his drink. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” Anže grasps his shoulder briefly before moving onto the floor. The blond is hot and ready, his eyes lighting up when Anže tells him that he’s a friend of Sasha’s.

“Leo,” he offers, hands grasping at Anže’s hips. He turns them so that he’s pressed against Anže’s back, his erection already straining against Anže’s ass, and his hands slipping just under the waistband of Anže’s pants. Anže flexes his thighs, pressing back against Leo and following his lead as the music gets deeper.

Leo breathes against his ear as he pushes forward to ask. “You as good as your friend?”

Anže chuckles, pressing his hips back and rubbing against Leo’s dick. “You tell me.”

He slips a bundle of bills into Anže’s pocket, his fingers brushing against Anže’s dick as he does. Anže turns around, straightening his legs and pulling Leo into a deep, wet kiss.

Leo’s panting, pupils blown, when Anže pulls back. He reaches for Leo’s hand and pulls him across the dance floor and up against the first open space he finds in the back room. The lights are low and Anže has to fumble to find Leo’s belt buckle as he sinks to his knees. Leo’s pants fall to his ankles and he’s not wearing anything underneath. Anže wastes no time in slipping the condom on and leaning forward to grasp Leo’s erection in his fist and lick a strip from base to hip.

Leo groans, his head hitting the wall with a thump and his moans joining the others who are in this room for the same reason. It feels good, primal, simple. The music filters in from the main room, the beat humming through the floor and Anže’s knees so that, when Anže takes Leo between his lips and sucks, it’s to the timing of Ke$ha’s newest hit.

Leo’s hands are on his head, his fingers pulling at his hair. His hips are thrusting and Anže loosens his throat to take Leo in and he has to press a hand on Leo’s hip to hold him up.

“Fuck, Aron, that’s- fuck.” He gasps. “As good as advertised.” He moves a hand from Anže’s hair to his jaw, holding him still and thrusting his hips forward. Anže breathes through his nose and doesn't stop him.

Anže can tell that Leo is close right before Leo forces his hips back against the wall. He pulls on Anže’s hair until Anže is standing in front of him. “Fuck,” Leo murmurs, pushing Anže around and palming his dick. Anže loosens his belt, pushing his pants and boxers to his knees and holds his legs as far apart as his jeans will let him.

Leo pushes forward without warning, and Anže bites his lip not to gasp, his hands pressing against the wall to hold himself steady. “Jesus, how are you so tight?” Leo groans in wonder, digging fingers into Anže’s shoulder as he rolls his hips before pulling out and thrusting in, hard.

It’s dirty and public and a little painful because Anže’s a little out of practice. It’s also familiar and comforting and Anže feels more in control than he has in weeks. He tightens his muscles as Leo thrusts forward, and Leo falls against Anže’s back, grunting, his hips moving erratically as he comes into the condom.

Leo pulls out without another word and Anže pulls up his pants, checking his pockets to make sure that the money is still there. He has to walk a little carefully back out onto the dance floor, his thighs and ass already starting to ache. He catches Sasha’s eye and grins, motioning towards the door to let him know that Anže’s gotten what he came for and is heading home. Sasha raises an eyebrow, but he looks happy, as if he knows how much Anže needed the normality of this, too, and he nods Anže away.

He’s half-way home, thinking about heading to the rink - another part of his life that he’s been neglecting lately - when he gets a text from Jon. He knows he should ignore it, pretend he’s with someone else, busy, unavailable, but he’s missed Jon over the last couple of days. Pathetically. He pauses for only a moment before he makes a u-turn and heads back towards the Hilton.

He’s a common enough figure by now that no one stops him in the lobby. When he gets to the room that he’s now thinking of as their room, the door is slightly open and he slips in, letting the door shut quietly behind him.

Jon is leaning against the long window, gazing out at the city, and he doesn’t turn around when Anže enters. Anže’s always thought of Jon as strong, tall and firm and sexy as hell, but, shadowed against the window, shoulders hunched and hands buried in his pockets, he looks small and vulnerable and that thing that’s been threatening Anže for weeks clenches tightly in his stomach.

“Jon?” He asks, quietly, not wanting to break the silence but needing to do something, anything, before he gives himself away.

Jon turns his head as if he hadn’t realized that Anže had entered, and maybe he hadn’t. His eyes look far away, cheeks flushed the way they always are after he’s had a few beers, but he gives a shy little smile when he catches sight of Anže. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Anže parrots stupidly. He cringes and forces his feet to move, dropping his bag in the entryway and moving to mirror John on the other side of the window.

“Sorry I texted so late.”

“It’s okay.” Anže follows Jon’s gaze out the window and the city really does look beautiful from up here, all the bright lights and tall buildings and the promise that had brought Anže here all the way from Slovenia. He sighs. “I was out.”

Jon’s posture tightens. “Out?”

Anže catches his eye. This is something they never talk about, and Jon’s not so naïve as to think that he’s been Anže’s only client over the past few months, but Anže also knows that Jon never lets himself think about it like that. Anže doesn’t look away from Jon’s blazing gaze. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes dull a little but his jaw is still clenched and he looks away again, digging his hands further into his pockets.

“I’m-” sorry, Anže wants to say, but he bites it back. He’s sorry for so many things. He’s sorry that he can’t tell Jon that he hadn’t wanted it, can’t assure him that it wasn’t good or promise him that he won’t do it again. He’s already told Jon so many lies, and he can’t bear to tell any more. He risks tracing Jon’s profile with his eyes. He’s beautiful. Anže swallows.

Jon glances at him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business. I just- Fuck.” Jon runs a hand through his hair and Anže cringes as his stomach flips. It shouldn’t make him happy that Jon wants it to be his business. Because it’s not, and it can’t ever be.

“I’m an escort, Jon,” Anže tells him gently. Jon’s eyes immediately jump to the envelope of money already sitting on the dresser and Anže goes over to it, shoving it into his duffle because he doesn’t like the reminder of it any more than Jon does.

When he returns to the window, Jon’s not looking at him again and his voice is small when he starts speaking. “The Blackhawks are in town. Kaner organized a post-Thanksgiving picnic at Brownie’s house. There were wives and kids and all I could think about was that this isn’t my life. It won’t ever be. And that’s sad, you know?”

Anže nods, even though he has no idea. That was never a possibility for him. He has few memories of what his home life was like before he was branded, and the life of a high-end escort is certainly anything but domestic. He’s never thought about a future with kids and a husband and a yard. He doesn’t know what he’d do with those things.

Jon laughs a little, self-deprecating and misreading Anže’s frown. “I know. Ridiculous, right? I play in the NHL. I have everything I’ve ever wanted.” Jon sighs, and it sounds so sad that Anže wraps his arms around his chest to keep in the ache.

“Duncs and Seabs were there and they’re such great guys.” Jon pauses, as if he’s waiting for Anže to agree with him. Anže has no idea who Duncs and Seabs are or if they’re good guys, but he trusts Jon’s judge of character, so he just nods. “They asked me if I was seeing anyone, and I didn’t know how to answer that. I mean- Fuck. What are we doing here?”

Jon’s staring at him, eyes beautiful and warm and wet and all the dullness is gone. Anže swallows. “I don’t know.” Jon’s his client, but he’s not like any client Anže’s ever had. His stomach flips every time Jon hires him, and he’s taken to moping at home every night he doesn't hear from him. Anže cares about Jon, there’s no use in denying it any longer. The truth is that Jon is the longest relationship Anže has ever had. Which is sad, and kinda pathetic, and possibly terrifying.

“Glad I’m not the only one.” Jon laughs, high in his throat, and it comes out a little weak and brittle. “I’m not, right? Not the only one who’s feeling lost here?”

Anže should deny it. He needs to.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Good.” Jon sighs, pulling his hand out of his pocket and running it through his hair again. Anže tamps down the urge to straighten it with his fingers. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Jon makes a deep, frustrated noise and rests his forehead on the cool glass of the window. “Not that it matters. We can’t ever have this.”

“No. We can’t.” Anže agrees. “I’m sorry.” There’s nothing else to say.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. Or, not just your fault. I can’t either. Ever.”

Anže frowns. “What?”

Jon motions to his chest and Anže notices that he’s wearing a Kings t-shirt, his number 32 on the back. “I play in the NHL. Can’t be gay and play hockey.”

Jon sounds like he’s quoting something, or someone, and Anže’s fingers clench. Jon sounds so defeated and it feels like a little piece of Anže’s dream is lost, too. Not like he ever thought that he’d make it to the NHL, and he’s never been so blinded by the American Dream to think that things would be different here than in Slovenia. But, it’s disappointing anyway. “I didn’t know that.”

Jon shrugs. “Doesn't matter.” He takes his other hand out of his pocket and reaches out, wrapping it around Anže’s hand and pulling him close. Anže goes, folding himself into Jon’s arms, wanting to give him any comfort he can, and taking his own from the embrace. He feels Jon’s lips, gentle and sweet pressed to the sensitive spot behind his ear. “This is what we have.”

It’s such a simple statement, and Anže aches all the way to his toes. What they have isn’t good and it doesn’t make sense, but it’s theirs, and that has to be enough. Jon’s hands caress down his back and Anže sighs into the embrace, pressing further into Jon’s chest, and then Jon’s hands grasp his ass and even through his jeans it smarts and Anže winces without thinking.

Jon drops his hands as if he was burned and he tries to step back, but Anže won’t let him. “Don’t.”

“I-” Jon struggles with words, and Anže pulls at his arms, wanting him to relax again, and, finally, Jon loosens, resting his forehead against Anže’s shoulder. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” Jon’s voice is broken, and his back heaves under Anže’s hands. “What was his name?”

“I-” Anže swallows. This is breaking more protocols than Anže can count, but if this is what Jon needs, Anže can’t not give it to him. “Leo.”

Jon’s hands move back to Anže’s ass, gentler this time, caressing and massaging. “Leo.” The name sounds sour on his tongue, and Anže doesn’t ever want to hear Jon say it again. He turns his head to kiss Jon and it’s so much more than it’s ever been before. Jon’s tongue is hot and wet and he plunders Anže’s mouth as if he’s trying to lick away every last taste of Leo. “I need you to forget him,” he whispers against Anže’s lips and Anže tries to smile.

“Leo who?”

Jon lets out a feral growl, pulling Anže against him so that they’re pressed together from shoulders to hips to knees. Jon’s hard, pressed against Anže’s thigh, and Anže groans, kissing Jon and moaning into it as he feels his own arousal pooling in his dick.

“Fuck, Aron,” Jon whispers and it’s jarring. Anže had almost forgotten that he’s on a job, but hearing that name roll so gently off Jon’s lips, it fills Anže with rage at their situation. He shouldn’t, he can’t, it’s dangerous and stupid and the absolute last thing he should ever do, but if they can’t have anything else, they can at least have this.

“Anže,” he whispers.

“What?”

“My name.” Anže swallows. “Anže. My real name.”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes go wide, and Anže can almost see him working through it in his mind. And then Jon smiles, “Anže,” he whispers, trying it out, and it sounds so beautiful coming from him that Anže’s stomach clenches.

“Yeah.”

“It’s perfect.” Jon leans forward to whisper in his ear. “I never really believed that your name was Aron. It doesn’t fit.”

Anže blushes. “Don’t, um- I shouldn’t have-”

Jon nods, seeming to understand what a gift this knowledge is, and his eyes are shining as he pulls Anže in again. “Can I?” His fingers are at the button of Anže’s jeans and Anže nods, pushing himself into Jon’s hands.

“Please.”

“You’re not too sore? After-?” He can’t finish the sentence, but Anže shakes his head, shimmying his hips and lifting his feet one at a time so that Jon can peel his jeans off his legs. He pulls his own shirt off and takes a step back, standing, naked, in front of Jon.

Jon gazes at him, caressing his body with his eyes, and even though Anže’s naked in front of clients all the time, his whole body blushes. Jon shakes his head, amazement in his voice. “I don’t understand this.”

Anže doesn’t know how to answer that in any way that he can, and he’s sick of talking. His dick is straining against his belly, already leaking, and he can see that Jon is hard and aching in his own jeans. Anže doesn’t look away from Jon’s eyes as he grabs his own dick and starts pumping slowly. “Come here,” he breathes, his cheeks still flushed and his eyes dark with lust.

Anže sees Jon’s dick twitch and Jon hesitates for only a moment before he gets with the program and steps forward. Anže grins. Sex is something he understands. He knows how to make Jon feel good, how to make him forget all about what came before, and he can only hope that he can forget how different and monumental and absolutely terrifying this night feels.

Part IV