Straight Up Chicago Style (1/2)
Title: Straight Up Chicago Style
Pairing: Gabe/William, Pete/Ryland
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Self-indulgence.
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction.
Notes: The stripper AU. This would not have been half as much fun without cupiscent and adellyna, who were also kind enough to beta.
Summary: Six fucking a.m. in Chicago in October, and Gabe can’t believe he’d forgotten how much he missed this.
Chicago’s colder than Gabe remembers. He pops the collar of his jacket when he turns the corner to cross the street, in part to discourage anyone who might think about messing with him and in part because it’s fucking freezing.
Travis’ club isn’t all that hard to find, between the directions Travis had given him over the phone and the peeling numbers on the buildings surrounding it. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but then strip joints rarely do.
The bouncer gives him the eye when he comes in, but Gabe just flashes him a grin to say ‘hey, I’m harmless,’ and checks out what’s happening on the floor.
Rogues & Queens is a pretty cool club for how small it is. There are lights flashing and shirtless guys handing out drinks, and onstage there’s a tiny tattooed dancer working his way across the stage on his back, skimming his hands down across the inked birds on his stomach to frame the bulge in his leather trousers. It’s early yet, but the crowd seems pretty lively. The group around the stage is going nuts.
“Cover is ten,” someone says, and Gabe turns around to see that the bouncer has found him again. He’s not a huge guy, but there’s something about him that Gabe recognizes, a warning in his stance that says ‘try anything and I will fuck you up.’
“It’s cool,” he says. “Gabe Saporta. I’m here to see Travis.”
The bouncer looks dubious, but he just says, “Wait here,” and disappears down into the crowd on the floor. Gabe stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and watches the dancer onstage writhe like a fucking maniac as the music kicks up. It’s not the normal trip-hop techno club mix; it’s something darker, with a beat that’s already pulsing under Gabe’s skin.
“Gabanti,” a familiar voice says beside him, warm and mellow, and Gabe turns to find Travis climbing the stairs to join him on the entrance landing.
“You look good,” Gabe says after they hug. Travis looks better than the last time Gabe saw him, anyway, looks clean and sober and every inch the business mogul he’s become. “Look at you, you fucker, you’ve turned into a suit!”
“You gotta play what you’re dealt,” Travis agrees, making a show of adjusting his tie. “And look at you, Jersey punk, how’ve you been? Didn’t anyone tell you denim jackets went out in ’89?”
“Fuck you, I’m bringing it back.” Gabe thumps Travis on the shoulder, nodding towards the crowded floor. “What’s up with your dancers? When you said strip club, I thought there were hot chicks involved.”
“Not tonight,” Travis says, chuckling. “Wednesday night is ladies’ night, you should come around then. Wednesdays and Mondays, the rest of the time it’s boys’ town in here. This area of the city, we make more money on dicks, you know?” He gestures to the stage, where the leather pants are starting to come off, and claps Gabe on the back. “Come on, man, I’ll show you around. Let you see what you’re getting into.”
“I haven’t signed anything,” Gabe jokes, but he trails Travis down the stairs onto the floor. The noise from the crowd kicks up into a roar, but Gabe can’t see the stage from here, only flashes of tan skin and ink.
They pass the bouncer on his way back up to the landing, and Travis leans in towards him to be heard over the noise. “Pull Frank off and put him on floor duty, he’s about to start a fucking riot.”
The bouncer nods and disappears back the way he came. A few seconds later a younger kid with a dark shock of hair slips past them to cover the door, bouncing a little in time with the music. “That was Bob,” Travis says near his ear, pulling Gabe’s attention back to the floor. “He’s our security. Good guy, strong silent type. He looks after the kids. Does most of everything else, too, so if you ever need me, just look for him.”
“Got it,” Gabe says. He hears the crowd noise rise in disappointment behind them, so he guesses Frank just got the message and is on his way out.
“We’ve got two kinds of workers in here,” Travis continues as they make their way over to the bar. “The permanent staff, who do a little bit of everything, and the talent. The staff work security and the bar, and we’ve only got three, with one more rotating in and out. The talent work two shifts - on the stage, and on the floor. They serve drinks when they’re not onstage or getting ready.”
They reach the bar, and Travis leans over to complete some sort of secret handshake with the bartender, who is - impossibly - even taller than Travis and Gabe himself. “Ryland, this is Gabe, he’s an old friend,” Travis says. “Drinks are on the house. So is anything else he might want.” He winks at Gabe when he says it.
Gabe’s about to reply when he catches sight of the brunette in a short skirt and high heels stretching up to reach something behind the bar, calves pulled taut and curved almost as nicely as her ass beneath the stretchy material.
“No way, man,” Travis says, before he can even ask. “That’s Victoria, she’s one of the talent. She’s way out of your league.”
Gabe scoffs, but the music changes and he looks around at the stage reflexively, feeling the throb of the bass line come up through the floor.
The new dancer is tall and skinny, with not a lot of muscles that Gabe can see since he’s starting out fully-clothed. He thinks twink and then corrects himself, because the kid isn’t that young. Early twenties, maybe, but not a teenager. He does a slow turn around the pole to start, nice and easy, and then hooks one leg around the pole and bends backwards until his hair is brushing the floor. He’s wearing worn jeans ripped so far up that they almost show the curve of his ass, and Gabe suddenly wants those legs wrapped around his waist like nobody’s business.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears Travis chuckle and say, “Nuh-uh. He’s not even in the league.”
Gabe tears his gaze away from the stage and says, “Fuck you, I’m in everyone’s league,” which is what he’d meant to say before he’d gotten distracted.
Travis just chuckles again. “You want to finish the tour, or do you want to stay and check out the entertainment?”
Gabe risks one more glance back at the stage. The skinny kid is losing his shirt, button by button, and the look on his face suggests that the crowd just interrupted him mid-orgasm. Gabe pulls his attention back to Travis and says, “Nah. Let’s do this shit.”
-
“Tell me again why you want to sell this place?” Gabe asks, after Travis has given him the full tour and they’re back on the floor, watching a curly-haired dancer fold himself in half to the heavy bass thrum of something punk that Gabe doesn’t recognize.
“Fifty-fifty,” Travis says seriously, leaning back on the bar. “This place is getting bigger than me. I need to hire more talent, beef up security, maybe even open up another location and split the girls from the boys. Think of yourself as backing capital.”
“I need to see the books,” Gabe says. His mind’s already running through the details, considering how he can make it happen. He holds up his hands and adds, “Not that I don’t trust you, bro, you know better than that. I just need to see what I’m getting myself into.”
Travis bobs his head, serene. “Take your time. We can go over them tomorrow night, if you want, let you spend your first night here having some fun.”
“Man, tonight we’re getting tanked,” Gabe informs him, punching his arm lightly. “You and me. When does this place close up?”
“Six fucking a.m.,” Travis drawls out. “I’ll leave Bob on it, though, take you out at a more reasonable hour.”
“Don’t forget you owe me a ladies’ night,” Gabe reminds him, craning his neck around to watch the hot brunette he’d seen earlier pour shots out for a line of guys beside them at the bar. “I want to see all the wonders this joint has to offer. The perqs of the job, if you will.”
Travis chuckles. “You haven’t even gotten up close and personal yet. You gonna let me buy you a dance?”
Gabe grins and leans in, hand on Travis’ arm. “Aw, honey, you shouldn’t have. For me?”
“Think of it as incentive,” Travis says, grinning. The lights of the club glint on his teeth. Gabe starts to reply, but Travis cuts him off by waving a hand at someone on the floor and calling, “Bill, get your ass over here.”
Gabe raises both eyebrows and turns to look. He’s about to suggest that the brunette behind the bar isn’t technically off-duty tonight and is therefore possibly available for other entertainments - and then he sees who Travis has summoned over.
“You called?” the guy asks, and Gabe gets an eyeful of certain previously-appreciated long limbs up close and personal. He’s doing the fucking hot chick thing, looking at Gabe sideways through his eyelashes and playing coy, and fuck but Gabe loves playing this game.
“William, this is Gabe,” Travis says, smiling wide. “He’s an old friend. I want you to take him into the back and give him a private dance, yeah? Make it good.”
There’s the faintest flicker of affront in William’s expression that Travis would suggest he’s ever anything other than good, but it vanishes without a trace in the next heartbeat. “Sure thing,” he replies, reaching out to catch Gabe’s hand. “Anything in particular?”
Travis glances at Gabe, amusement written all over his face, and shakes his head. “Nah. You just do what you do, baby.”
William tugs, just enough for Gabe to be surprised into pushing himself away from the bar. “Shall we?” he invites, doing the fucking eyelash thing again, and Gabe - unsurprisingly - isn’t saying no. A dance is a dance.
He’s seen the private rooms before, on the tour, but it looks different when he’s actually inside one, being pushed down gently into the chair set in the middle of the room. It’s sticky vinyl, a truly hideous shade of red-orange, and replacing these things is going to be the first order of business on Gabe’s list if he agrees to the partnership. Then William swings one long leg over Gabe’s lap, settling himself lightly over Gabe’s crotch, and Gabe stops thinking about the chairs.
“No touching,” William says, tossing his hair back out of his eyes and gyrating slowly, warming them both up. “You can look all you want, but that’s it.”
“It’s cool,” Gabe promises, stretching his arms back to lace his fingers behind his head. He’s done this before, he knows the drill. He watches with an appreciative eye as William works his way around in Gabe’s lap, leaning back against Gabe’s chest as he rolls his hips. “You get a lot of hands-on guys?”
“Most of them try to grab my ass,” William tells him, grinding down hard and slow, piquing the first stirrings of interest from Gabe’s cock.
“I can see that being a problem,” Gabe agrees sympathetically, “seeing how you don’t really have one.”
There’s the faintest hesitation, Gabe feels it, and then William continues smoothly on like nothing ever happened. It’s game on now, though, and Gabe doesn’t bother hiding his grin.
“You should probably take your shirt off now,” he suggests, spreading his legs a little to keep William trapped and slightly off-balance. “This is a striptease, right? They haven’t changed it since the last time I got one.”
He’s almost disappointed he can’t see William’s expression, because the way his shoulders stiffen suggests Gabe just got a pretty fantastic reaction. He turns around smoothly, though, nothing showing in his face when he resettles, fingers already on the top button of his shirt. He’s still a little sweaty from his stint onstage, skin glistening when he pops the first button loose, slow and coy just like the rolls of his hips in Gabe’s lap.
“You can do mine, too,” he offers when William is about halfway down and has recovered his politely-distant poise; eyes closed, hair falling in his eyes, swaying with the rhythm of his hips. William’s eyes fly open and lock on his, and Gabe grins at him and adds, “If you do that.”
He can see the reply on the tip of William’s tongue, and is almost holding his breath willing it to come out, but Gabe is a friend of Travis’, an honored guest; William bites it back and grinds down harder. Gabe is having the best night of his life.
William’s fingers are cool on Gabe’s skin when he undoes the shirt buttons, one at a time like a tease, not stroking his hands down Gabe’s chest until the last one has fallen away. Gabe lets him touch, arms dropping back to his sides, and comments, “Your hands are cold. Poor circulation?”
This time William doesn’t quite bite it back in time, but his answer is still tempered, falsely sweet. Gabe can almost taste the end-of-the-night fuck and his name on William’s lips. “I was carrying drinks before I got called back, sorry. Do you want me to stop?”
“Nah,” Gabe says, stretching out indolently and nearly unseating William in the process. “Go ahead. I can warm you up.”
William leans in to lick Gabe’s neck, and Gabe has the distinct impression he’s doing it so that Gabe can’t see his face. He enjoys himself for a while, basking in the feel of William’s tongue and his hands and his ass still gyrating over Gabe’s cock, and then offers, “Pants?” William sits back, eyes flying up to meet Gabe’s, and he continues innocently, “I just didn’t want you to forget.”
This time, Gabe gets to see the teeth grind. It’s a sweet, sweet victory, and only sweeter when William pops open the first button on his fly to reveal the first darkening hint of a treasure trail.
“You don’t stuff, do you?” Gabe asks, voice low, when William leans in again to balance himself as the second and third buttons come undone. “That could be awkward, I didn’t think of that.”
“Let me worry about that,” William says, much more evenly than Gabe thinks he really wants to say, and starts working his jeans off in a practiced undulation. Gabe thinks about kicking his legs out wider so that William can’t pull it off this gracefully, but he decides not to. It’s better to just enjoy the show.
“I’m not rushing you, am I?” Gabe asks, and if it comes out slightly breathless, it’s because William has apparently decided that the best method of shutting Gabe up is to just ride him until he can’t think straight.
William drags their chests together and bites Gabe’s earlobe, just hard enough to sting. His fingers dig into Gabe’s shoulders, kneading the muscle, and slide up to tangle in Gabe’s hair. “No,” he says flatly.
“Because we can go at your pace, if this isn’t working for you.” Gabe can’t help pushing his hips up when William rises, following the friction that’s been getting better and better by the minute. “I’m easy.” He leers when he says it, just in case William is slow to catch his meaning.
William isn’t. William swings around to drape himself against Gabe’s chest, drags his ass excruciatingly slow over Gabe’s cock, and sucks on his earlobe. “You talk too much.”
Gabe turns his head, close enough that their noses bump. William is finally starting to breathe faster, sweat breaking out anew on his skin, almost near enough for Gabe to stick out his tongue and lick up. He clenches his hands in Gabe’s hair, pulling hard enough to make him gasp when he says, “You should hear me in bed.”
“I don’t think I have to,” William says, and his ass grinds down, hard enough for Gabe to see stars and reflexively grip the sides of the chair to keep himself from grabbing William’s hips to hold him there. There’s a moment of white fuzz in his brain, and then he realizes the screaming agony he’s feeling is his cock protesting the sudden complete lack of friction. Protesting, because William is gracefully swinging back out of Gabe’s lap, pushing his hair back and pulling up his jeans.
“You have the room for another ten minutes,” William informs him, doing up the last button and shrugging on his shirt. “Tissues are in the corner.”
He tosses the box into Gabe’s surprised hands on his way out, and Gabe watches the relaxed swing of his hips all the way until the door swings shut.
He should resent that last insinuation, he thinks vaguely. But hey, he has the room for another ten minutes. It’s not like he isn’t going to use them.
-
Gabe had forgotten how much he appreciates being around someone he couldn’t drink under the table in less than three hours. They’re nearing hour four now, and both of them are totally plastered, but also totally still upright. Gabe personally considers this an achievement worthy of note, especially after the last two lemon drops.
They’re on their way back to the club now, because: “It’s Friday,” Travis had said, only slurring a little, tugging the brim of Gabe’s hat sideways to match his own. “Payroll night. They’ll have my balls.”
Six fucking a.m. in Chicago in October, and Gabe can’t believe he’d forgotten how much he missed this. “I’m never leaving,” he tells Travis as they sway with their arms around each other through the back door of the club. “Fuck it. Give me the papers, I’m staying.”
“Man, you haven’t even looked at the contract yet,” Travis says, but he’s grinning, a big dopey friendly grin, and Gabe gives him a big dopey friendly grin in return.
“He’s back,” someone calls from further in, and “Travis, get your ass in here and pay us,” someone else yells, and Travis pauses to bellow, “I’m comin’, keep your shirts on,” and Gabe nearly lands on his ass because he wasn’t prepared for the sudden stop.
“They’re strippers, bro,” he manages after he regains his balance, doubled-over laughing. “Isn’t that sort of counterproductive?”
“Off-duty strippers,” Travis counters wisely. “Trust me, it’s a whole different game.”
“Bring it on,” Gabe challenges, although he’s not sure exactly what he’s challenging, and the two of them stagger through the door together onto the floor of the club.
It looks different with the lights on, everything washed-out and bare, all of the dancers clustered around the bar and dressed like normal people in sweaters, coats and jeans. Gabe almost doesn’t recognize one of the strippers from earlier, because he’s wearing fingerless skeleton gloves, a hat and a gigantic blue scarf, bundled up so he almost looks like a marshmallow man. The attitude gives it away, though, especially when he smiles and yells pleasantly, “McCoy, sign my fucking check so I can get home and sleep for three hours, you jackass.”
“I’m right here, Frankie, hold it in,” Travis tells him, pulling an envelope down from over the bar and clicking open a ballpoint pen. “Ryl, you get tips?”
“Done,” the bartender says, sliding across a sheet of paper and an envelope full of bills. “We’ve split it already, you just need to sign off.”
“I’m so fucking drunk right now,” Travis says, passing out checks with more or less steady hands. “None of you better be calling me in the morning to tell me this shit bounced.”
“Stop forgetting to deposit money into your checking account,” Ryland tells him wisely, flipping over a neat row of shot glasses. “Then we’ll stop calling. All right, everybody, let’s fill ‘em up.”
Gabe watches as the skinny dark-haired kid from earlier pours tequila in a sloppy line down the row of glasses. “Friday night tradition,” Travis informs him, taking a glass for himself as the others do the same. He pushes the extra shot over to Gabe, then raises his glass and says, “To us.”
“To us,” everyone echoes, and then there’s a brief pause for drinking followed by the satisfying slam of empty shot glasses onto the bar. The tequila burns the back of Gabe’s throat, and he’s feeling a little fuzzy from all of the drinking, but he’s pretty sure he’s still missing something. Or someone.
“Hey,” he objects, listing a little against the bar. “Where’s my favorite lapdancer?”
“Bill went home already,” Ryland answers, directing it mostly at Travis. “He said he’d pick up his check from you tomorrow.”
“Smart kid,” one of the other dancers says, a short guy with streaks of red in his hair and huge white teeth. “We didn’t know you’d keep us waiting for half an hour.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Travis protests, although in fairness it was probably more like twenty-five. “You’re all fuckin’ needy. Hey, have you met Gabe?”
“Pete,” the short guy says, sticking out a hand that Gabe shakes firmly. “So you’re the one buying us out?”
“Partnership,” Gabe corrects. “And I don’t know yet, I have to look at legal stuff or some shit. Think it over.”
“Fuck, that’s not what you were saying ten minutes ago,” Travis drawls. “What happened to ‘I’m never leaving Chicago, show me where to sign?’”
“I sobered up,” Gabe says, although that’s an outright lie, and his cheesy grin probably shows it.
“Fuck that,” Travis says, sliding the bottle across the bar away from Ryland. “Have another drink.”
Gabe begs off only because he’s got to piss and he’s already going to be hungover as hell tomorrow. He finds the bathroom with minimal difficulty, and when he comes out everything’s gained that surreal clarity that comes from being drunk at 6 AM in a strange place with your entire future still wide-awake and waiting ahead of you. It feels good. He’s disappointed that his lapdancer already left, because drunk or not, Gabe had plans for tonight.
It doesn’t stop him from sidling up to the hot brunette, Victoria, when he sees her outside in the alley, hunched into her coat against the cold and lighting up a cigarette. “Want a ride?” he asks, only leering a little bit on account of the amount of focus it requires to keep standing up straight. He really should have stopped before the lemon drops.
“From you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows and blowing a thin stream of smoke in his direction. “No thanks. You’d better be taking a cab.”
“Already called,” Gabe assures her, because he’s ninety-five percent sure that’s where Travis is now, getting them hooked up. “Want to share? Could be cozy.”
“You couldn’t get it up tonight even if I said yes,” Victoria says, cocking her head so that her hair doesn’t fall forward into her eyes. Gabe wants to protest, but the truth is she’s probably right and she knows it.
“I refuse to believe any man couldn’t get it up with a woman as beautiful as you,” he compromises, leaning against the wall because it’s a convenient source of support and it also makes him look cooler. He’s practiced the wall lean for many flirtations before this.
Victoria smiles at that, but the smoke she exhales isn’t a seduction, it’s a decline. “Save it,” she advises, stubbing out her cigarette. “You’re not even really trying.”
She’s right about that, too, unfortunately. If William were here, he thinks, that might be another story. That’s an insane thought to have, though, so he puts it out of his mind. Victoria is hot, and she’s here, and she’s got curves like nobody’s business. He shouldn’t be giving anyone else a second thought.
“Hey, you’re not driving, are you?” he asks, straightening up with a frown. “Friday night shots followed by everybody-goes-home is kind of a shitty tradition.”
“This is Chicago and we’re at a strip club, nobody here fucking drives,” Travis breaks in, and his arm wraps around Gabe’s shoulder a second later, warm and solid. “We don’t even own cars. Cab’s on the way.”
“Thank fucking god,” Gabe says. He’s joking, but he’s also beat. Sunrise is the worst time of day, when the night is over but you’re still not home yet to sleep it off and get ready for the next. The light makes his eyes itch.
He leans in against Travis while they wait after Victoria leaves them, walking across the street to catch the bus. Travis hums and leans back against him, and they wait in companionable silence for a while, listening to the city wake up around them.
“You’re really thinkin’ about coming back, huh?” Travis asks finally, when it’s gotten light enough that Gabe can see his breath fogging up the air in front of him. He says it like it’s not just a question, like he’s hoping he already knows the answer.
Gabe bobs his head a little, too tired to really think about what it all means, and says, “I’m thinking about it, bro. Just give me some time.”
-
Travis isn’t on the floor when Gabe arrives the next night, after sleeping for ten hours straight and then going to the greasiest spoon he could find for a meal that was worth at least three heart attacks. It feels like any other day after a night with Travis, and Gabe is feeling great.
Bob says he’ll go find Travis, and a few minutes later Gabe hears, “He’s up in his office, but he says hang tight, he’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Gabe says, turning around, and then adds, “Woah, hey, you’re not Bob.”
“Brendon,” the kid in front of him says, bobbing a little. “We sort of met last night. I help Ryland at the bar.”
“Excellent,” Gabe says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You can get me a drink.”
William’s on the stage, Gabe sees as he makes his way through the crowd to the bar. He’s not performing as much as he had yesterday, more moving to the music and providing background entertainment for the party going on at the edge of the stage. It looks like a whole group came together, and they’re paying more attention to one of the guys at the center - birthday boy? groom? - than they are to what’s happening onstage. Which is a pity, because William’s shirtless, working his way down the pole in a lazy, twisting slide, and his jeans are tight enough that they’re not hiding anything.
“On the house,” Ryland says when Gabe finally reaches the bar, sliding a full glass across the polished wooden surface.
“Yo, you need to stop giving me drinks for free,” Gabe jokes, toasting him with the glass. “It’s bad business, I’ll never leave.”
“We’re all under orders to be nice to you,” Ryland replies. “You get one more and then I start demanding tips.”
“I see how it is,” Gabe says, but he’s already making a mental note to leave a ten before he takes off tonight. He leans back against the bar because here’s as good a place to hang as any, and Ryland seems like a cool guy. Bartenders are pretty much universally awesome. “Busy tonight?”
Ryland shrugs philosophically. “It’s Saturday night. Weekend crowd always gets a little more rowdy. Are you staying in town for long?”
“A few days, at least,” Gabe answers, keeping one eye on the stage as he talks. William is gyrating slowly to the backbeat of the song thumping over the sound system, and Gabe abruptly and vividly remembers what that feels like when it’s happening in his lap.
As he watches, one of the guys in the big group pulls out his wallet and holds up a single, and William drops gracefully onto the stage and crawls over slowly to retrieve it. Gabe keeps watching as William rolls onto his back and raises his hips for the guy to slide the bill into the low-slung waistband of his jeans, and then he half-turns to Ryland and asks, “Got change for a twenty?”
“Are we in a strip club?” Ryland returns rhetorically, bumping the cash register open with a jingle and counting out a stack of bills. “Don’t make too much trouble,” he advises. “We’re all fond of that one.”
Gabe trades him for two twenties and says, “Keep the change, I’ll start a tab.”
“You got it,” Ryland agrees, and Gabe pockets the bills and heads out across the floor to the stage.
He holds up the first bill when he reaches the edge, casually twitching it from side to side. William’s spotted him; Gabe sees the flicker of his eyes glancing to the side and back, but he isn’t biting yet. The guy he’s dancing for is playing coy, waving a bill around without actually handing it over. Gabe rubs his fingers together casually and makes one turn into two.
The other guy notices, of course, because William’s attention is definitely split now, considering Gabe’s offer versus what he’s dealing with now. The guy frowns, digging for his wallet like he knows where this is going, but he doesn’t tuck the bill he’s holding into William’s waistband, so he obviously doesn’t. Gabe unfolds another bill, two into three, and grins.
William’s still hesitating. Gabe guesses this probably has something to do with how much shit Gabe gave him last night, so he goes up to four easy, still leaning casually against the edge of the stage and waiting. The other guy’s getting annoyed now, handing over the bill in his hand and fishing out another, trying for William’s undivided attention.
He’s not getting it. Gabe’s grin stretches wider when he sees the cock of William’s eyebrow, silently asking whether Gabe’s going to make it worth his while. He fans four into five, waggling them a little from side to side, and almost laughs as the other guy scowls and yanks a fistful of bills out of his wallet to match it.
William stays where he is, with the arrival of further incentive, but he’s holding himself angled, keeping one eye on Gabe. Gabe lets the guy get in a good grope, stuffing his bills down William’s pants with very little grace, and then he licks his finger and starts casually counting through his stack of singles.
William makes it over to him before Gabe hits sixteen. “What do you want?” he asks, sliding onto his knees at the edge of the stage, legs spread wide so the denim pulls tight across his crotch.
Gabe looks up innocently and smiles. “Your attention,” he replies casually, shuffling the bills back into a neater stack.
“You’ve got it,” William answers, arching until his back hits the stage, hips rising to counterbalance. “But you’d better be serious about those, because I just gave up a good tipper for you.”
“You weren’t getting anything more out of him and you know it,” Gabe says, sliding the first bill easily over William’s stomach to tuck into his waistband. “He was a dud. I, on the other hand, am the real deal.”
William’s expression is distinctly skeptical, but he doesn’t move away. He pushes his pelvis up into Gabe’s hand when he tucks the next bill in, muscles going taut under hot skin, and rolls his head to the side to watch Gabe through half-lidded eyes.
Gabe lets the next bill trail lightly over William’s skin before he relinquishes it, watching for a reaction. “You left before I got back last night,” he says, tucking the next one in amidst the crinkling wad of money already there. Male strippers really need more of a costume, he thinks. This shit is a lot easier with the addition of a brassiere.
“Exotic dancers aren’t actually the same as prostitutes,” William says, rolling his hips almost lazily into Gabe’s touch, although his eyes are alert and wary. “No matter what the modern media may suggest.”
“I don’t pay for my good time,” Gabe informs him, smiling wide. “Roll over, I’m running out of room.”
William narrows his eyes, considering, but Gabe just waits him out and eventually it pays off. He rolls smoothly onto his stomach, stretching out like a cat before pulling back onto his knees with both arms spread out on the stage in front of him. Gabe takes a second to appreciate the view before tucking the next bill into place.
“You really do have no ass,” he comments, although it’s not technically true, there’s the slightest curve visible between the small of William’s back and the spread vee of his legs.
“I don’t have a vagina either,” William says, arching his back and sliding forward again. “So I’m doubly confused as to what you’re doing over here.”
“Enjoying the view,” Gabe tells him truthfully. The muscles in William’s shoulders are bunched tight under the skin, pulled taut as he rolls his hips against the stage. “You smell like sweat,” Gabe continues, dropping his voice lower, making it a caress. “I want to lick it off of you.”
“You smell like alcohol,” William counters, rolling onto his back again, eyes hooded. “I really want a drink. We can’t always get what we want.”
Gabe tucks three more bills into William’s waistband, one at a time. “Are you always this hard to get?” he asks. “Or is this just for me?”
“Yes,” William answers simply. He bends his legs and pushes his hips up as Gabe slides the last bill into the pocket of his jeans, then rolls over onto his hands and knees. “Travis is looking for you.”
Gabe twists around to look, and catches sight of Travis’ curly head above the rest of the crowd, back near the door marked ‘Staff Only.’ When he turns back, William is on his way offstage, hips swaying and waistband bristling with crumpled bills. Frank’s on his way out to take his place, already shedding a light t-shirt to bare skin and ink.
“Well fuck,” Gabe says, somewhere between annoyance and admiration. It’s uncomfortably closer to the latter than it is the former. He shakes it off and goes to meet Travis.
-
“So we’re up to five new hires, not including another bartender, renovation on two rooms and a raise for everyone who’s been here full-time for more than a year,” Gabe recites, tossing another piece of paper into the pile that’s been steadily growing on top of Travis’ coffee table-cum-desk.
“And an expansion for the stage,” Travis adds, holding up another page with a rough picture sketched in on it. “Two more poles, maybe a balcony and a way to get up there. Frank and Pete are climbers.”
“Stage expansion,” Gabe echoes, adding the page to their pile. “Are you sure about only adding one more security, part-time?”
“Man, I’m not sure,” Travis admits. “The way it’s set up now, they can take care of themselves. Add another level in and expand the back, and there’s more Bob can’t see.”
“Plus, we put Brendon on the bar full-time and there’s no one to cover the door.” Gabe turns their pencil-sketch drawing of the stage around to get a better look at it. “Unless you or I are here constantly, and even then…”
“Even then, shit comes up,” Travis finishes. “Fuck it, let’s do it. Add another one to the list. We can hold off on that until the renovations.”
Gabe makes a little squiggle on the coffee-stained piece of scrap paper in front of him, frowning at their list of tallies and figures. “Was the $40,000 before or after we figured on the stage expansion?”
“Man, I don’t even fuckin’ know,” Travis says, sliding down in his seat on the low couch. “I lost track three thousand dollars ago.”
“Maybe we should add an accountant,” Gabe jokes, but in truth, he’s lost count as well. He stands up and stretches, dropping the pen onto the coffee table. “I’m going to piss. Let’s call a five, yeah?”
The club is already starting to lose some of its novelty, he realizes as he winds his way through the dressing rooms to the backstage bathroom. He hopes he doesn’t get turned off of strip clubs and half-naked bodies as an unexpected side-effect of buying in on this place. That’s a sacrifice he’s not sure he’s willing to make.
There’s no one backstage, all of the staff out on the floor or the stage, so it’s a surreal experience walking back to Travis’ office, with the heavy bass muffled and the lights all bare fluorescent bulbs. The paint is peeling off of the walls and someone has rigged a bed sheet as a curtain where one of the dressing room doors has gone missing. Gabe makes a mental note to add replacing it to the list. In for a penny, after all.
He’s almost to the door when he sees a familiar silhouette duck into the office ahead of him, coming from the entrance to the club proper. He pauses for a moment, wondering, and then continues on, pushing open the door William’s left half-ajar.
William goes straight to Travis, ducking under his arm when Travis holds it out for him. It’s a practiced move, like the way William turns just slightly to the side to fit himself against Travis’ side. Gabe lounges against the doorway, watching, and tries not to be annoyed by how close they are, and the fact that Travis is now slowly rubbing William’s back.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were fucking. But he knows Travis, which just makes the whole thing even more unfair. Travis doesn’t even like dick, and yet he’s still the one with a six-foot-something exotic dancer hanging off of him.
Travis kisses William’s temple and says, “I’ll take care of it,” which seems to be William’s cue to leave. He freezes when he sees Gabe leaning against the doorframe, surprised. Gabe just raises his eyebrows, and William ducks around him, vanishing down the hallway before Gabe can try a line.
Gabe turns back to Travis, who isn’t paying any attention. “What was that about?” he asks, keeping it light. It’s not Travis’ fault that guys can’t keep their hands off of him, after all.
“Fire marshal,” Travis tells him, grabbing the suit jacket from where it’s slung over his chair and adjusting his tie. “We’re in violation of some code or something. Add it to the fucking list.” He pauses on his way out, checking his reflection in the rectangular mirror pane he has propped up against the wall. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Go check out the club, see how it’s doing. We’ve been holed up in here half the night. Get another lapdance or something.”
“I’m already going through months of inventory sheets and payroll statements,” Gabe jokes, moving aside so Travis can leave. “You don’t have to keep bribing me.”
“Incentive,” Travis tells him, clapping Gabe on the back as he goes. Gabe laughs, and gives one more look towards the haphazard jumble of papers on the table before heading out after him.
There’s a lights show going on onstage, which means the dancers are swapping out. Thanks to this evening’s cram session on learning the club’s operations, Gabe now knows which dancers are where, how long they’re going to stay in rotation, and who’s most likely about to come out onstage. It’s either Butcher or William at this time of night, but since he just saw William backstage fully dressed, odds are Butcher just finished. Gabe doesn’t know whether he’s happy that he knows all of this, or whether it’s just another layer of the magic being stripped away.
Things seem to be going well on the floor. Pete’s serving drinks, giving Gabe a wink on his way past, and Frank’s on top of someone in one of the ‘public’ chairs, head thrown back and hips circling. Gabe’s surprised to realize that he recognized tattoos before he did faces, and wonders where Travis got this many exotic dancers who also grew up punks. It doesn’t seem like something you’d be able to just find on the street.
He’s just looking away to check on whether Ryland’s busy when he sees the guy with Frank reach up and grab his hips, pulling him down closer abruptly enough that Frank drops his rhythm and his foot slips a little on the floor, losing leverage. Gabe doesn’t even really think about it before he moves, although this isn’t his job, not yet. It’s Travis’, or Bob’s, or maybe Brendon although god knows what he’d do in a situation like this, but that doesn’t stop Gabe from getting hold of the guy’s greedy grabbing arm and saying, “Hey, hands off.”
Frank looks just as surprised as the overweight balding guy he’s currently grinding on. “Woah, dude, chill,” he says, sitting back a little to raise a hand in mollification. “It’s cool.”
Gabe pauses, one hand still on the guy’s arm and the other ready to deck him or drag him out if necessary. “I thought the rule was no touching,” he says carefully. The righteous indignation has stalled, leaving him uncertain about whether he’s actually in the right. The bald guy doesn’t look like he’s spoiling for a fight, especially; he mostly looks terrified of Gabe.
“What?” Frank asks, brow wrinkled in confusion. They all hold still, a bizarre tableau, and then Frank’s expression clears and he says, “Oh no, dude, that’s a Bill-rule. He’s got wrists like twigs, guys tend to get a little rougher with him than he can handle when there’s no one else around to keep an eye out.”
Gabe wonders if Travis will forgive him for the lawsuit that might come out of this. He could just add it to the list on his side of the expense sheet now, save them both the surprise later on. He’s still wondering what to say to diplomatically relieve the tension of the situation and make amends when the guy says meekly, “Um. You’re hurting my arm.”
“Sorry.” Gabe pulls his hand away, taking a step back to give the guy more space. Or as much as he can have, anyway, with Frank still in his lap, watching curiously. “Shit, I’m sorry. My mistake.”
“No big deal,” Frank puts in cheerfully, rubbing the bald guy’s shoulders. “I appreciate the thought. I can usually take care of myself, though, so don’t sweat it. Guys give me trouble, I go for the balls. And not in the good way.” He looks down at his patron, rolling his hips once and smiling with just an edge of warning. “Got it?”
The poor guy - some businessman, it looks like, probably here for the first time - squeaks a reply and holds his hands out as far away from Frank as he can possibly get them. Frank rubs his shiny head approvingly.
“Sorry again,” Gabe says, taking another step back. “I’ll just let you get on with it.”
“It’s cool,” Frank promises. He rolls his hips again, almost thoughtfully, getting back into the rhythm of the dance. His eyes rove once over Gabe, considering, and then he says with a sly smile, “William, huh?”
“Gotta go,” Gabe counters. He pulls out his wallet and tosses a twenty at the traumatized guy currently soaking the armpits of his shirt with sweat. “Hey, have a dance. On me.”
“Later,” Frank says cheerfully. Gabe waves one more time and makes his way back to the bar. He needs a drink.
-
“Fancy meeting you here,” Frank says, draping himself over the back of Gabe’s appropriated chair. Gabe’s on his second rum-and-coke, Travis having fucked off to who knows where with the building inspector, so his smile is perhaps a little friendlier than is warranted, but Frank doesn’t look like he minds.
“You weren’t using it anymore,” Gabe points out, stretching his legs out in front of him. He offers his glass to Frank, who says, “Travis will kill me,” but steals a quick sip of it anyway.
“What I’m really dying for is a smoke,” Frank admits, passing the glass back. “I don’t suppose you have one of those hidden somewhere, do you?”
“Jacket pocket,” Gabe informs him regretfully. “Trav’s office.”
“Fuck. Well, I get a break soon anyway.” Frank stretches out a little bit, loosening limbs probably well-warmed from dancing. “Enjoying the show?”
Gabe considers pretending he hasn’t been watching William work the stage for the past fifteen minutes, but that would obviously be a lie, considering where he’s sitting. It’s hard to pay attention to anything else when William is up there. “How’s the guy?” he asks instead. “Is he going to sue?”
Frank snorts. “He got a free lapdance, I don’t think he’ll be complaining anytime soon. Just don’t go all caveman on my customers next time.”
“Will do,” Gabe agrees solemnly. He’s barely drained the rum-and-coke when Pete appears at his elbow, mirroring Frank on his other side like a pair of tattooed bookends.
“Do you want another?” Pete asks. “Give me something to do, otherwise I have to serve that creepy fucker in the back who keeps staring at my stomach.”
“Could be worse,” Frank says philosophically. He doesn’t turn around, but Gabe sees him casually change the angle of his body, getting a better view of the club floor. “Could be that guy from last week who kept trying to stick his tongue in your ear.”
“Gross,” Pete says flatly. He leans against the other side of Gabe’s chair, then straightens up suddenly and says, “Oh shit, you weren’t going to dance, were you? Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Gabe says, as Frank adds, “I’m going on break in five minutes, I’m not risking my nicotine fix by tempting some horny dude into asking for a dance. This is the safe zone.”
“I’m good stripper cover,” Gabe jokes, and then for some reason - probably because he catches sight of William again, bent backwards and writhing - he takes a second to actually think about that and says slowly, “Hey.”
“No,” Frank says immediately. “Cigarette. Besides, you’re a friend of the boss, about to become the new boss. I’m not that stupid.”
“I am,” Pete says immediately, grinning. His teeth glow in the club lights. “What are you thinking?”
What Gabe’s actually thinking is how he felt when he saw William pressed up against Travis in the office, relaxed and comfortable, and the ugly twist of jealousy in his stomach. He thinks maybe a little payback is in order. William’s not the only one who can make a scene.
“Want to take a break from the creepy dude and make a reasonable amount of money with minimal effort?” Gabe suggests guilelessly.
Frank snorts again. Pete says, “You’re on,” and swings himself into Gabe’s lap. He’s wearing leather pants and matching wrist cuffs, creaking a little when he settles. Gabe readjusts in the chair to steady both of them and Pete grins at him.
“I’ll take this,” Frank says, plucking the forgotten glass out of Gabe’s grip, and disappears towards the bar and - undoubtedly - the back alley. Gabe looks up at Pete and raises an eyebrow.
“What are we going for here, show?” Pete asks, rolling his hips a little without actually making more than brushing contact with Gabe’s cock. The leather framing his hips squeaks as he grinds, barely audible beneath the pulse of music coming through the club’s speakers.
“Just enjoy yourself,” Gabe says, folding his arms behind his head and relaxing back into the embrace of the chair. “I’m an easy customer to please.”
“Not what I hear,” Pete comments, leaning back a little to show off his chest. His abs ripple as he moves; Gabe makes a mental note to go to the gym sometime next week.
“No?” Gabe tilts his head back, just enough to watch Pete through hooded eyes and also, incidentally, keep an eye on the stage. William isn’t paying them any attention, but they’re dead center in front of the stage. He has to notice sooner or later.
“You pissed Bill off pretty good last night,” Pete replies, swinging both arms around Gabe’s neck to give himself better leverage. He rolls his hips for a few seconds, still barely making contact, and then asks, “Is he watching?”
“No,” Gabe says immediately. He realizes what he’s said even before he sees the laughter in Pete’s eyes, and can’t think of a retort fast enough to cover.
“Hey,” Pete says, “we’re doing each other a favor. I think the creep’s getting ready to leave.” He leans in close, pretending to nuzzle Gabe’s throat but probably checking out what’s going on in the corner, then adds, “Grab my ass, I don’t care if you touch.”
Gabe does, and has to admit that it’s a pretty fantastic ass. It also helps Pete balance more easily with Gabe supporting him, so he leaves his hands there, idly watching the stage while Pete grinds in his lap. “Creep gone?” he asks, when Pete makes a quiet noise of triumph and does a victory-roll of his hips.
“On the way out,” Pete informs him. He twists around, leaning back against Gabe’s chest, and Gabe relocates his hands to Pete’s abs. They crunch up into rigid definition when Pete gyrates, and seriously, Gabe needs to hit the gym. Or maybe become a stripper, because it seems to be working for Pete.
That reminds Gabe to slide a bill into Pete’s waistband, and he receives a grin thrown over Pete’s shoulder for his efforts. “Thanks,” he says. “I think that’s all you’re going to get, unfortunately.”
He doesn’t mean the dance, Gabe knows, because both of them are keeping an eye on the stage now, and William hasn’t given more than a cursory glance in their direction. He tries not to look crestfallen and probably fails, because Pete twists around again and perches on his lap with sympathetic cheerfulness.
“Trying to make him jealous probably isn’t going to work,” Pete advises, tucking the money Gabe gave him further out of sight and adjusting his leather cuffs. “You have to take a more sideways approach with Bill.”
“Right,” Gabe replies, already speculating on what that approach might entail, and whether having another rum-and-coke might be a good starting place. He notices as he glances over that Ryland is glaring at him from behind the bar, kind of hard. Like, scary-creepy hard. “Dude,” he says with only mild alarm, “What’s going on with Ryland?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pete assures him, standing up and smoothing his hands over his pants. “Hey, thanks for the tip. You want another drink?”
“No thanks,” Gabe answers, because he’s not all that sure right now that Ryland wouldn’t poison it. “I’m good.”
“Suit yourself,” Pete says cheerfully. “I’m back on the clock.” He heads off into the crowd, turning on the charm along with the swing of his hips.
Gabe gives one more baleful look at the stage, where William has the attention of a couple of younger guys and is milking them mercilessly for tips, and heads back to the office. He has work to do.
-
Gabe keeps working for a while after Travis goes to close up the club for the night, but he gives up when things start to get hazy and he can’t remember which piles he’s sorting things into. Being a night owl isn’t something that takes a lot for him to get used to, but six am is six am.
The staff is huddled up around the bar, having once again made the transformation from scantily-clad exotic dancers to bundled-up Chicagoans ready to face the bite of autumn. Frank is holding something up against his face, and Butcher keeps pulling at it, checking underneath. When Frank slaps him away and drops his hand, Gabe sees the first dark bloom of a black eye above Frank’s cheekbone.
“What the fuck happened?” Gabe asks, coming in to join the circle around the bar.
“Someone got a little grabby,” Frank tells him, baring his teeth in what’s not really a grin. “I got a little grabby back.”
“He was a jerk,” William says, lounging against the bar next to Travis. “I don’t blame you.”
“Next time, wait for me,” Bob says grouchily, but he’s the one wrapping up a fresh ice pack to replace the one currently dripping water down Frank’s sleeve. “You don’t need to fucking crowd dive. It’s a strip club, not a mosh pit.”
“He wouldn’t let go of my leg,” Frank defends, sticking his chin out.
“This is why we don’t put you on at the end of the night when they’re all drunk,” Travis says, cuffing the back of Frank’s head affectionately.
Frank shrugs, half-apologetic and half-fatalistic. “We were short.”
“Sorry,” William and Pete say simultaneously, then glance at each other.
“Oh, by all means,” Travis says with a smirk. “You two need to stop getting guys to order private dances at twenty a pop, it’s dragging this place down.”
“We’re going to be shorter next week,” Butcher points out.
This time it’s only William who says, “Sorry.” Travis reaches out to tug him in by the back of his neck, kneading the muscles there when William ducks his head forward.
“I could…” Brendon begins, with a hopeful light in his eyes.
“No,” Travis says. “Then we’d be short on the bar, too. We’ll work it out.” He jabs a finger at Frank, waggling it for a brief moment before returning to his slow massage of William’s neck. “Frankie, take care of that.”
“I’ve got two days off,” Frank points out, pulling the ice away to blink experimentally. “It should be mostly healed by then.”
“You can use my makeup,” Pete offers. Frank makes a face but doesn’t disagree, just holds the ice back to his eye. Bob fusses with it until Frank stops fidgeting and lets him swap out for the new pack.
“This happen often?” Gabe asks Pete, who’s loitering nearest to him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tiny pants. Pete really is a short dude.
“Only to Frank,” Pete answers, cocking his head. “The rest of us just throw tantrums until Bob comes. We’ve learned.”
“It’s a good thing you make this place so much money,” Travis declares, giving Frank another friendly cuff.
“Fuck off, you love me,” Frank replies, tugging his hat lower over his eyes. “I’m heading home. See you losers next week.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Travis drawls. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but I think some people might need their beauty sleep.” He lifts one shoulder to gently nudge William, who’s half-turned to rest against Travis’ chest and is breathing slowly and evenly, eyes closed.
“Mmm,” William replies, not moving.
Gabe doesn’t notice Pete moving, but there’s suddenly a quiet voice closer to his ear than he’d realized, murmuring, “Just for the record, the jealous thing doesn’t work well on him from the other side, either.”
Gabe tears his gaze away from William and Travis, raising both eyebrows. “Who said anything about jealous?”
Pete smirks, an expression that suggests he knows more about Gabe and his motives than Gabe would really prefer. “No one. His last boyfriend got a little crazy on him towards the end, though. Just an FYI.”
“Sounds like a jerk,” Gabe says casually. He’s not fishing, not really. If Pete volunteers information, that’s just a bonus.
“Nah, he was a good guy,” Pete says. “He just got sick of random dudes in a club seeing more of Bill than he did. I don’t blame him.”
Gabe watches Travis peel William off of him and send him sleepwalking in the direction of the dressing rooms. “I guess the relationship thing kind of sucks for you guys, doesn’t it?”
“Not for all of us,” Pete says with a grin. “Anyway, I’m out. See you around.”
Gabe says an absent goodnight, and once again ends up surprised when he turns around to find Ryland towering over him - and not many guys can do that - with a glare.
“Do we have a problem?” Ryland asks, relatively calmly for the force of the glower he’s got going on.
Gabe blinks a few times, and tries to figure out what parallel dimension he’s stepped into. “No?” he tries.
“Good,” Ryland says, and slaps him on the back just a little too hard to be considered friendly. “Glad to hear it. Have a good night.”
Gabe watches him go with supreme confusion, and then turns to Travis, who’s watching him and chuckling. “What the fuck?”
Travis shrugs. “He and Pete have got kind of a thing going. They won’t call it dating, but they end up in the same place every night and they don’t fuck anyone else, so I don’t know what else they’d call it.” He grins at Gabe and says, “Most of the staff caught your little show tonight.”
“Well fuck,” Gabe says in surprise. “Pete didn’t tell him it was because of the creeper in the corner?”
“Pete gets off on the jealous act,” Travis tells him. “He’ll probably tell him tonight. After round two. You’re having the guys give you dances to save them from actual paying customers? I’m starting to reconsider how good you’ll be for my business.”
“He was a creep,” Gabe says absently. “You should really keep them out.”
“They don’t come with stamps on their foreheads,” Travis says. “And even if they did, I can’t keep them out. Just keep an eye on them.”
“When I’m a partner,” Gabe announces, “the creeps will have stamps.”
“Get the fuck outta here,” Travis replies, shaking his head and smiling. “Calling you was the worst business decision I ever made.”
“The best,” Gabe corrects. “You just wait and see.”
Part Two
Pairing: Gabe/William, Pete/Ryland
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Self-indulgence.
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction.
Notes: The stripper AU. This would not have been half as much fun without cupiscent and adellyna, who were also kind enough to beta.
Summary: Six fucking a.m. in Chicago in October, and Gabe can’t believe he’d forgotten how much he missed this.
Chicago’s colder than Gabe remembers. He pops the collar of his jacket when he turns the corner to cross the street, in part to discourage anyone who might think about messing with him and in part because it’s fucking freezing.
Travis’ club isn’t all that hard to find, between the directions Travis had given him over the phone and the peeling numbers on the buildings surrounding it. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but then strip joints rarely do.
The bouncer gives him the eye when he comes in, but Gabe just flashes him a grin to say ‘hey, I’m harmless,’ and checks out what’s happening on the floor.
Rogues & Queens is a pretty cool club for how small it is. There are lights flashing and shirtless guys handing out drinks, and onstage there’s a tiny tattooed dancer working his way across the stage on his back, skimming his hands down across the inked birds on his stomach to frame the bulge in his leather trousers. It’s early yet, but the crowd seems pretty lively. The group around the stage is going nuts.
“Cover is ten,” someone says, and Gabe turns around to see that the bouncer has found him again. He’s not a huge guy, but there’s something about him that Gabe recognizes, a warning in his stance that says ‘try anything and I will fuck you up.’
“It’s cool,” he says. “Gabe Saporta. I’m here to see Travis.”
The bouncer looks dubious, but he just says, “Wait here,” and disappears down into the crowd on the floor. Gabe stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and watches the dancer onstage writhe like a fucking maniac as the music kicks up. It’s not the normal trip-hop techno club mix; it’s something darker, with a beat that’s already pulsing under Gabe’s skin.
“Gabanti,” a familiar voice says beside him, warm and mellow, and Gabe turns to find Travis climbing the stairs to join him on the entrance landing.
“You look good,” Gabe says after they hug. Travis looks better than the last time Gabe saw him, anyway, looks clean and sober and every inch the business mogul he’s become. “Look at you, you fucker, you’ve turned into a suit!”
“You gotta play what you’re dealt,” Travis agrees, making a show of adjusting his tie. “And look at you, Jersey punk, how’ve you been? Didn’t anyone tell you denim jackets went out in ’89?”
“Fuck you, I’m bringing it back.” Gabe thumps Travis on the shoulder, nodding towards the crowded floor. “What’s up with your dancers? When you said strip club, I thought there were hot chicks involved.”
“Not tonight,” Travis says, chuckling. “Wednesday night is ladies’ night, you should come around then. Wednesdays and Mondays, the rest of the time it’s boys’ town in here. This area of the city, we make more money on dicks, you know?” He gestures to the stage, where the leather pants are starting to come off, and claps Gabe on the back. “Come on, man, I’ll show you around. Let you see what you’re getting into.”
“I haven’t signed anything,” Gabe jokes, but he trails Travis down the stairs onto the floor. The noise from the crowd kicks up into a roar, but Gabe can’t see the stage from here, only flashes of tan skin and ink.
They pass the bouncer on his way back up to the landing, and Travis leans in towards him to be heard over the noise. “Pull Frank off and put him on floor duty, he’s about to start a fucking riot.”
The bouncer nods and disappears back the way he came. A few seconds later a younger kid with a dark shock of hair slips past them to cover the door, bouncing a little in time with the music. “That was Bob,” Travis says near his ear, pulling Gabe’s attention back to the floor. “He’s our security. Good guy, strong silent type. He looks after the kids. Does most of everything else, too, so if you ever need me, just look for him.”
“Got it,” Gabe says. He hears the crowd noise rise in disappointment behind them, so he guesses Frank just got the message and is on his way out.
“We’ve got two kinds of workers in here,” Travis continues as they make their way over to the bar. “The permanent staff, who do a little bit of everything, and the talent. The staff work security and the bar, and we’ve only got three, with one more rotating in and out. The talent work two shifts - on the stage, and on the floor. They serve drinks when they’re not onstage or getting ready.”
They reach the bar, and Travis leans over to complete some sort of secret handshake with the bartender, who is - impossibly - even taller than Travis and Gabe himself. “Ryland, this is Gabe, he’s an old friend,” Travis says. “Drinks are on the house. So is anything else he might want.” He winks at Gabe when he says it.
Gabe’s about to reply when he catches sight of the brunette in a short skirt and high heels stretching up to reach something behind the bar, calves pulled taut and curved almost as nicely as her ass beneath the stretchy material.
“No way, man,” Travis says, before he can even ask. “That’s Victoria, she’s one of the talent. She’s way out of your league.”
Gabe scoffs, but the music changes and he looks around at the stage reflexively, feeling the throb of the bass line come up through the floor.
The new dancer is tall and skinny, with not a lot of muscles that Gabe can see since he’s starting out fully-clothed. He thinks twink and then corrects himself, because the kid isn’t that young. Early twenties, maybe, but not a teenager. He does a slow turn around the pole to start, nice and easy, and then hooks one leg around the pole and bends backwards until his hair is brushing the floor. He’s wearing worn jeans ripped so far up that they almost show the curve of his ass, and Gabe suddenly wants those legs wrapped around his waist like nobody’s business.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears Travis chuckle and say, “Nuh-uh. He’s not even in the league.”
Gabe tears his gaze away from the stage and says, “Fuck you, I’m in everyone’s league,” which is what he’d meant to say before he’d gotten distracted.
Travis just chuckles again. “You want to finish the tour, or do you want to stay and check out the entertainment?”
Gabe risks one more glance back at the stage. The skinny kid is losing his shirt, button by button, and the look on his face suggests that the crowd just interrupted him mid-orgasm. Gabe pulls his attention back to Travis and says, “Nah. Let’s do this shit.”
-
“Tell me again why you want to sell this place?” Gabe asks, after Travis has given him the full tour and they’re back on the floor, watching a curly-haired dancer fold himself in half to the heavy bass thrum of something punk that Gabe doesn’t recognize.
“Fifty-fifty,” Travis says seriously, leaning back on the bar. “This place is getting bigger than me. I need to hire more talent, beef up security, maybe even open up another location and split the girls from the boys. Think of yourself as backing capital.”
“I need to see the books,” Gabe says. His mind’s already running through the details, considering how he can make it happen. He holds up his hands and adds, “Not that I don’t trust you, bro, you know better than that. I just need to see what I’m getting myself into.”
Travis bobs his head, serene. “Take your time. We can go over them tomorrow night, if you want, let you spend your first night here having some fun.”
“Man, tonight we’re getting tanked,” Gabe informs him, punching his arm lightly. “You and me. When does this place close up?”
“Six fucking a.m.,” Travis drawls out. “I’ll leave Bob on it, though, take you out at a more reasonable hour.”
“Don’t forget you owe me a ladies’ night,” Gabe reminds him, craning his neck around to watch the hot brunette he’d seen earlier pour shots out for a line of guys beside them at the bar. “I want to see all the wonders this joint has to offer. The perqs of the job, if you will.”
Travis chuckles. “You haven’t even gotten up close and personal yet. You gonna let me buy you a dance?”
Gabe grins and leans in, hand on Travis’ arm. “Aw, honey, you shouldn’t have. For me?”
“Think of it as incentive,” Travis says, grinning. The lights of the club glint on his teeth. Gabe starts to reply, but Travis cuts him off by waving a hand at someone on the floor and calling, “Bill, get your ass over here.”
Gabe raises both eyebrows and turns to look. He’s about to suggest that the brunette behind the bar isn’t technically off-duty tonight and is therefore possibly available for other entertainments - and then he sees who Travis has summoned over.
“You called?” the guy asks, and Gabe gets an eyeful of certain previously-appreciated long limbs up close and personal. He’s doing the fucking hot chick thing, looking at Gabe sideways through his eyelashes and playing coy, and fuck but Gabe loves playing this game.
“William, this is Gabe,” Travis says, smiling wide. “He’s an old friend. I want you to take him into the back and give him a private dance, yeah? Make it good.”
There’s the faintest flicker of affront in William’s expression that Travis would suggest he’s ever anything other than good, but it vanishes without a trace in the next heartbeat. “Sure thing,” he replies, reaching out to catch Gabe’s hand. “Anything in particular?”
Travis glances at Gabe, amusement written all over his face, and shakes his head. “Nah. You just do what you do, baby.”
William tugs, just enough for Gabe to be surprised into pushing himself away from the bar. “Shall we?” he invites, doing the fucking eyelash thing again, and Gabe - unsurprisingly - isn’t saying no. A dance is a dance.
He’s seen the private rooms before, on the tour, but it looks different when he’s actually inside one, being pushed down gently into the chair set in the middle of the room. It’s sticky vinyl, a truly hideous shade of red-orange, and replacing these things is going to be the first order of business on Gabe’s list if he agrees to the partnership. Then William swings one long leg over Gabe’s lap, settling himself lightly over Gabe’s crotch, and Gabe stops thinking about the chairs.
“No touching,” William says, tossing his hair back out of his eyes and gyrating slowly, warming them both up. “You can look all you want, but that’s it.”
“It’s cool,” Gabe promises, stretching his arms back to lace his fingers behind his head. He’s done this before, he knows the drill. He watches with an appreciative eye as William works his way around in Gabe’s lap, leaning back against Gabe’s chest as he rolls his hips. “You get a lot of hands-on guys?”
“Most of them try to grab my ass,” William tells him, grinding down hard and slow, piquing the first stirrings of interest from Gabe’s cock.
“I can see that being a problem,” Gabe agrees sympathetically, “seeing how you don’t really have one.”
There’s the faintest hesitation, Gabe feels it, and then William continues smoothly on like nothing ever happened. It’s game on now, though, and Gabe doesn’t bother hiding his grin.
“You should probably take your shirt off now,” he suggests, spreading his legs a little to keep William trapped and slightly off-balance. “This is a striptease, right? They haven’t changed it since the last time I got one.”
He’s almost disappointed he can’t see William’s expression, because the way his shoulders stiffen suggests Gabe just got a pretty fantastic reaction. He turns around smoothly, though, nothing showing in his face when he resettles, fingers already on the top button of his shirt. He’s still a little sweaty from his stint onstage, skin glistening when he pops the first button loose, slow and coy just like the rolls of his hips in Gabe’s lap.
“You can do mine, too,” he offers when William is about halfway down and has recovered his politely-distant poise; eyes closed, hair falling in his eyes, swaying with the rhythm of his hips. William’s eyes fly open and lock on his, and Gabe grins at him and adds, “If you do that.”
He can see the reply on the tip of William’s tongue, and is almost holding his breath willing it to come out, but Gabe is a friend of Travis’, an honored guest; William bites it back and grinds down harder. Gabe is having the best night of his life.
William’s fingers are cool on Gabe’s skin when he undoes the shirt buttons, one at a time like a tease, not stroking his hands down Gabe’s chest until the last one has fallen away. Gabe lets him touch, arms dropping back to his sides, and comments, “Your hands are cold. Poor circulation?”
This time William doesn’t quite bite it back in time, but his answer is still tempered, falsely sweet. Gabe can almost taste the end-of-the-night fuck and his name on William’s lips. “I was carrying drinks before I got called back, sorry. Do you want me to stop?”
“Nah,” Gabe says, stretching out indolently and nearly unseating William in the process. “Go ahead. I can warm you up.”
William leans in to lick Gabe’s neck, and Gabe has the distinct impression he’s doing it so that Gabe can’t see his face. He enjoys himself for a while, basking in the feel of William’s tongue and his hands and his ass still gyrating over Gabe’s cock, and then offers, “Pants?” William sits back, eyes flying up to meet Gabe’s, and he continues innocently, “I just didn’t want you to forget.”
This time, Gabe gets to see the teeth grind. It’s a sweet, sweet victory, and only sweeter when William pops open the first button on his fly to reveal the first darkening hint of a treasure trail.
“You don’t stuff, do you?” Gabe asks, voice low, when William leans in again to balance himself as the second and third buttons come undone. “That could be awkward, I didn’t think of that.”
“Let me worry about that,” William says, much more evenly than Gabe thinks he really wants to say, and starts working his jeans off in a practiced undulation. Gabe thinks about kicking his legs out wider so that William can’t pull it off this gracefully, but he decides not to. It’s better to just enjoy the show.
“I’m not rushing you, am I?” Gabe asks, and if it comes out slightly breathless, it’s because William has apparently decided that the best method of shutting Gabe up is to just ride him until he can’t think straight.
William drags their chests together and bites Gabe’s earlobe, just hard enough to sting. His fingers dig into Gabe’s shoulders, kneading the muscle, and slide up to tangle in Gabe’s hair. “No,” he says flatly.
“Because we can go at your pace, if this isn’t working for you.” Gabe can’t help pushing his hips up when William rises, following the friction that’s been getting better and better by the minute. “I’m easy.” He leers when he says it, just in case William is slow to catch his meaning.
William isn’t. William swings around to drape himself against Gabe’s chest, drags his ass excruciatingly slow over Gabe’s cock, and sucks on his earlobe. “You talk too much.”
Gabe turns his head, close enough that their noses bump. William is finally starting to breathe faster, sweat breaking out anew on his skin, almost near enough for Gabe to stick out his tongue and lick up. He clenches his hands in Gabe’s hair, pulling hard enough to make him gasp when he says, “You should hear me in bed.”
“I don’t think I have to,” William says, and his ass grinds down, hard enough for Gabe to see stars and reflexively grip the sides of the chair to keep himself from grabbing William’s hips to hold him there. There’s a moment of white fuzz in his brain, and then he realizes the screaming agony he’s feeling is his cock protesting the sudden complete lack of friction. Protesting, because William is gracefully swinging back out of Gabe’s lap, pushing his hair back and pulling up his jeans.
“You have the room for another ten minutes,” William informs him, doing up the last button and shrugging on his shirt. “Tissues are in the corner.”
He tosses the box into Gabe’s surprised hands on his way out, and Gabe watches the relaxed swing of his hips all the way until the door swings shut.
He should resent that last insinuation, he thinks vaguely. But hey, he has the room for another ten minutes. It’s not like he isn’t going to use them.
-
Gabe had forgotten how much he appreciates being around someone he couldn’t drink under the table in less than three hours. They’re nearing hour four now, and both of them are totally plastered, but also totally still upright. Gabe personally considers this an achievement worthy of note, especially after the last two lemon drops.
They’re on their way back to the club now, because: “It’s Friday,” Travis had said, only slurring a little, tugging the brim of Gabe’s hat sideways to match his own. “Payroll night. They’ll have my balls.”
Six fucking a.m. in Chicago in October, and Gabe can’t believe he’d forgotten how much he missed this. “I’m never leaving,” he tells Travis as they sway with their arms around each other through the back door of the club. “Fuck it. Give me the papers, I’m staying.”
“Man, you haven’t even looked at the contract yet,” Travis says, but he’s grinning, a big dopey friendly grin, and Gabe gives him a big dopey friendly grin in return.
“He’s back,” someone calls from further in, and “Travis, get your ass in here and pay us,” someone else yells, and Travis pauses to bellow, “I’m comin’, keep your shirts on,” and Gabe nearly lands on his ass because he wasn’t prepared for the sudden stop.
“They’re strippers, bro,” he manages after he regains his balance, doubled-over laughing. “Isn’t that sort of counterproductive?”
“Off-duty strippers,” Travis counters wisely. “Trust me, it’s a whole different game.”
“Bring it on,” Gabe challenges, although he’s not sure exactly what he’s challenging, and the two of them stagger through the door together onto the floor of the club.
It looks different with the lights on, everything washed-out and bare, all of the dancers clustered around the bar and dressed like normal people in sweaters, coats and jeans. Gabe almost doesn’t recognize one of the strippers from earlier, because he’s wearing fingerless skeleton gloves, a hat and a gigantic blue scarf, bundled up so he almost looks like a marshmallow man. The attitude gives it away, though, especially when he smiles and yells pleasantly, “McCoy, sign my fucking check so I can get home and sleep for three hours, you jackass.”
“I’m right here, Frankie, hold it in,” Travis tells him, pulling an envelope down from over the bar and clicking open a ballpoint pen. “Ryl, you get tips?”
“Done,” the bartender says, sliding across a sheet of paper and an envelope full of bills. “We’ve split it already, you just need to sign off.”
“I’m so fucking drunk right now,” Travis says, passing out checks with more or less steady hands. “None of you better be calling me in the morning to tell me this shit bounced.”
“Stop forgetting to deposit money into your checking account,” Ryland tells him wisely, flipping over a neat row of shot glasses. “Then we’ll stop calling. All right, everybody, let’s fill ‘em up.”
Gabe watches as the skinny dark-haired kid from earlier pours tequila in a sloppy line down the row of glasses. “Friday night tradition,” Travis informs him, taking a glass for himself as the others do the same. He pushes the extra shot over to Gabe, then raises his glass and says, “To us.”
“To us,” everyone echoes, and then there’s a brief pause for drinking followed by the satisfying slam of empty shot glasses onto the bar. The tequila burns the back of Gabe’s throat, and he’s feeling a little fuzzy from all of the drinking, but he’s pretty sure he’s still missing something. Or someone.
“Hey,” he objects, listing a little against the bar. “Where’s my favorite lapdancer?”
“Bill went home already,” Ryland answers, directing it mostly at Travis. “He said he’d pick up his check from you tomorrow.”
“Smart kid,” one of the other dancers says, a short guy with streaks of red in his hair and huge white teeth. “We didn’t know you’d keep us waiting for half an hour.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Travis protests, although in fairness it was probably more like twenty-five. “You’re all fuckin’ needy. Hey, have you met Gabe?”
“Pete,” the short guy says, sticking out a hand that Gabe shakes firmly. “So you’re the one buying us out?”
“Partnership,” Gabe corrects. “And I don’t know yet, I have to look at legal stuff or some shit. Think it over.”
“Fuck, that’s not what you were saying ten minutes ago,” Travis drawls. “What happened to ‘I’m never leaving Chicago, show me where to sign?’”
“I sobered up,” Gabe says, although that’s an outright lie, and his cheesy grin probably shows it.
“Fuck that,” Travis says, sliding the bottle across the bar away from Ryland. “Have another drink.”
Gabe begs off only because he’s got to piss and he’s already going to be hungover as hell tomorrow. He finds the bathroom with minimal difficulty, and when he comes out everything’s gained that surreal clarity that comes from being drunk at 6 AM in a strange place with your entire future still wide-awake and waiting ahead of you. It feels good. He’s disappointed that his lapdancer already left, because drunk or not, Gabe had plans for tonight.
It doesn’t stop him from sidling up to the hot brunette, Victoria, when he sees her outside in the alley, hunched into her coat against the cold and lighting up a cigarette. “Want a ride?” he asks, only leering a little bit on account of the amount of focus it requires to keep standing up straight. He really should have stopped before the lemon drops.
“From you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows and blowing a thin stream of smoke in his direction. “No thanks. You’d better be taking a cab.”
“Already called,” Gabe assures her, because he’s ninety-five percent sure that’s where Travis is now, getting them hooked up. “Want to share? Could be cozy.”
“You couldn’t get it up tonight even if I said yes,” Victoria says, cocking her head so that her hair doesn’t fall forward into her eyes. Gabe wants to protest, but the truth is she’s probably right and she knows it.
“I refuse to believe any man couldn’t get it up with a woman as beautiful as you,” he compromises, leaning against the wall because it’s a convenient source of support and it also makes him look cooler. He’s practiced the wall lean for many flirtations before this.
Victoria smiles at that, but the smoke she exhales isn’t a seduction, it’s a decline. “Save it,” she advises, stubbing out her cigarette. “You’re not even really trying.”
She’s right about that, too, unfortunately. If William were here, he thinks, that might be another story. That’s an insane thought to have, though, so he puts it out of his mind. Victoria is hot, and she’s here, and she’s got curves like nobody’s business. He shouldn’t be giving anyone else a second thought.
“Hey, you’re not driving, are you?” he asks, straightening up with a frown. “Friday night shots followed by everybody-goes-home is kind of a shitty tradition.”
“This is Chicago and we’re at a strip club, nobody here fucking drives,” Travis breaks in, and his arm wraps around Gabe’s shoulder a second later, warm and solid. “We don’t even own cars. Cab’s on the way.”
“Thank fucking god,” Gabe says. He’s joking, but he’s also beat. Sunrise is the worst time of day, when the night is over but you’re still not home yet to sleep it off and get ready for the next. The light makes his eyes itch.
He leans in against Travis while they wait after Victoria leaves them, walking across the street to catch the bus. Travis hums and leans back against him, and they wait in companionable silence for a while, listening to the city wake up around them.
“You’re really thinkin’ about coming back, huh?” Travis asks finally, when it’s gotten light enough that Gabe can see his breath fogging up the air in front of him. He says it like it’s not just a question, like he’s hoping he already knows the answer.
Gabe bobs his head a little, too tired to really think about what it all means, and says, “I’m thinking about it, bro. Just give me some time.”
-
Travis isn’t on the floor when Gabe arrives the next night, after sleeping for ten hours straight and then going to the greasiest spoon he could find for a meal that was worth at least three heart attacks. It feels like any other day after a night with Travis, and Gabe is feeling great.
Bob says he’ll go find Travis, and a few minutes later Gabe hears, “He’s up in his office, but he says hang tight, he’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Gabe says, turning around, and then adds, “Woah, hey, you’re not Bob.”
“Brendon,” the kid in front of him says, bobbing a little. “We sort of met last night. I help Ryland at the bar.”
“Excellent,” Gabe says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You can get me a drink.”
William’s on the stage, Gabe sees as he makes his way through the crowd to the bar. He’s not performing as much as he had yesterday, more moving to the music and providing background entertainment for the party going on at the edge of the stage. It looks like a whole group came together, and they’re paying more attention to one of the guys at the center - birthday boy? groom? - than they are to what’s happening onstage. Which is a pity, because William’s shirtless, working his way down the pole in a lazy, twisting slide, and his jeans are tight enough that they’re not hiding anything.
“On the house,” Ryland says when Gabe finally reaches the bar, sliding a full glass across the polished wooden surface.
“Yo, you need to stop giving me drinks for free,” Gabe jokes, toasting him with the glass. “It’s bad business, I’ll never leave.”
“We’re all under orders to be nice to you,” Ryland replies. “You get one more and then I start demanding tips.”
“I see how it is,” Gabe says, but he’s already making a mental note to leave a ten before he takes off tonight. He leans back against the bar because here’s as good a place to hang as any, and Ryland seems like a cool guy. Bartenders are pretty much universally awesome. “Busy tonight?”
Ryland shrugs philosophically. “It’s Saturday night. Weekend crowd always gets a little more rowdy. Are you staying in town for long?”
“A few days, at least,” Gabe answers, keeping one eye on the stage as he talks. William is gyrating slowly to the backbeat of the song thumping over the sound system, and Gabe abruptly and vividly remembers what that feels like when it’s happening in his lap.
As he watches, one of the guys in the big group pulls out his wallet and holds up a single, and William drops gracefully onto the stage and crawls over slowly to retrieve it. Gabe keeps watching as William rolls onto his back and raises his hips for the guy to slide the bill into the low-slung waistband of his jeans, and then he half-turns to Ryland and asks, “Got change for a twenty?”
“Are we in a strip club?” Ryland returns rhetorically, bumping the cash register open with a jingle and counting out a stack of bills. “Don’t make too much trouble,” he advises. “We’re all fond of that one.”
Gabe trades him for two twenties and says, “Keep the change, I’ll start a tab.”
“You got it,” Ryland agrees, and Gabe pockets the bills and heads out across the floor to the stage.
He holds up the first bill when he reaches the edge, casually twitching it from side to side. William’s spotted him; Gabe sees the flicker of his eyes glancing to the side and back, but he isn’t biting yet. The guy he’s dancing for is playing coy, waving a bill around without actually handing it over. Gabe rubs his fingers together casually and makes one turn into two.
The other guy notices, of course, because William’s attention is definitely split now, considering Gabe’s offer versus what he’s dealing with now. The guy frowns, digging for his wallet like he knows where this is going, but he doesn’t tuck the bill he’s holding into William’s waistband, so he obviously doesn’t. Gabe unfolds another bill, two into three, and grins.
William’s still hesitating. Gabe guesses this probably has something to do with how much shit Gabe gave him last night, so he goes up to four easy, still leaning casually against the edge of the stage and waiting. The other guy’s getting annoyed now, handing over the bill in his hand and fishing out another, trying for William’s undivided attention.
He’s not getting it. Gabe’s grin stretches wider when he sees the cock of William’s eyebrow, silently asking whether Gabe’s going to make it worth his while. He fans four into five, waggling them a little from side to side, and almost laughs as the other guy scowls and yanks a fistful of bills out of his wallet to match it.
William stays where he is, with the arrival of further incentive, but he’s holding himself angled, keeping one eye on Gabe. Gabe lets the guy get in a good grope, stuffing his bills down William’s pants with very little grace, and then he licks his finger and starts casually counting through his stack of singles.
William makes it over to him before Gabe hits sixteen. “What do you want?” he asks, sliding onto his knees at the edge of the stage, legs spread wide so the denim pulls tight across his crotch.
Gabe looks up innocently and smiles. “Your attention,” he replies casually, shuffling the bills back into a neater stack.
“You’ve got it,” William answers, arching until his back hits the stage, hips rising to counterbalance. “But you’d better be serious about those, because I just gave up a good tipper for you.”
“You weren’t getting anything more out of him and you know it,” Gabe says, sliding the first bill easily over William’s stomach to tuck into his waistband. “He was a dud. I, on the other hand, am the real deal.”
William’s expression is distinctly skeptical, but he doesn’t move away. He pushes his pelvis up into Gabe’s hand when he tucks the next bill in, muscles going taut under hot skin, and rolls his head to the side to watch Gabe through half-lidded eyes.
Gabe lets the next bill trail lightly over William’s skin before he relinquishes it, watching for a reaction. “You left before I got back last night,” he says, tucking the next one in amidst the crinkling wad of money already there. Male strippers really need more of a costume, he thinks. This shit is a lot easier with the addition of a brassiere.
“Exotic dancers aren’t actually the same as prostitutes,” William says, rolling his hips almost lazily into Gabe’s touch, although his eyes are alert and wary. “No matter what the modern media may suggest.”
“I don’t pay for my good time,” Gabe informs him, smiling wide. “Roll over, I’m running out of room.”
William narrows his eyes, considering, but Gabe just waits him out and eventually it pays off. He rolls smoothly onto his stomach, stretching out like a cat before pulling back onto his knees with both arms spread out on the stage in front of him. Gabe takes a second to appreciate the view before tucking the next bill into place.
“You really do have no ass,” he comments, although it’s not technically true, there’s the slightest curve visible between the small of William’s back and the spread vee of his legs.
“I don’t have a vagina either,” William says, arching his back and sliding forward again. “So I’m doubly confused as to what you’re doing over here.”
“Enjoying the view,” Gabe tells him truthfully. The muscles in William’s shoulders are bunched tight under the skin, pulled taut as he rolls his hips against the stage. “You smell like sweat,” Gabe continues, dropping his voice lower, making it a caress. “I want to lick it off of you.”
“You smell like alcohol,” William counters, rolling onto his back again, eyes hooded. “I really want a drink. We can’t always get what we want.”
Gabe tucks three more bills into William’s waistband, one at a time. “Are you always this hard to get?” he asks. “Or is this just for me?”
“Yes,” William answers simply. He bends his legs and pushes his hips up as Gabe slides the last bill into the pocket of his jeans, then rolls over onto his hands and knees. “Travis is looking for you.”
Gabe twists around to look, and catches sight of Travis’ curly head above the rest of the crowd, back near the door marked ‘Staff Only.’ When he turns back, William is on his way offstage, hips swaying and waistband bristling with crumpled bills. Frank’s on his way out to take his place, already shedding a light t-shirt to bare skin and ink.
“Well fuck,” Gabe says, somewhere between annoyance and admiration. It’s uncomfortably closer to the latter than it is the former. He shakes it off and goes to meet Travis.
-
“So we’re up to five new hires, not including another bartender, renovation on two rooms and a raise for everyone who’s been here full-time for more than a year,” Gabe recites, tossing another piece of paper into the pile that’s been steadily growing on top of Travis’ coffee table-cum-desk.
“And an expansion for the stage,” Travis adds, holding up another page with a rough picture sketched in on it. “Two more poles, maybe a balcony and a way to get up there. Frank and Pete are climbers.”
“Stage expansion,” Gabe echoes, adding the page to their pile. “Are you sure about only adding one more security, part-time?”
“Man, I’m not sure,” Travis admits. “The way it’s set up now, they can take care of themselves. Add another level in and expand the back, and there’s more Bob can’t see.”
“Plus, we put Brendon on the bar full-time and there’s no one to cover the door.” Gabe turns their pencil-sketch drawing of the stage around to get a better look at it. “Unless you or I are here constantly, and even then…”
“Even then, shit comes up,” Travis finishes. “Fuck it, let’s do it. Add another one to the list. We can hold off on that until the renovations.”
Gabe makes a little squiggle on the coffee-stained piece of scrap paper in front of him, frowning at their list of tallies and figures. “Was the $40,000 before or after we figured on the stage expansion?”
“Man, I don’t even fuckin’ know,” Travis says, sliding down in his seat on the low couch. “I lost track three thousand dollars ago.”
“Maybe we should add an accountant,” Gabe jokes, but in truth, he’s lost count as well. He stands up and stretches, dropping the pen onto the coffee table. “I’m going to piss. Let’s call a five, yeah?”
The club is already starting to lose some of its novelty, he realizes as he winds his way through the dressing rooms to the backstage bathroom. He hopes he doesn’t get turned off of strip clubs and half-naked bodies as an unexpected side-effect of buying in on this place. That’s a sacrifice he’s not sure he’s willing to make.
There’s no one backstage, all of the staff out on the floor or the stage, so it’s a surreal experience walking back to Travis’ office, with the heavy bass muffled and the lights all bare fluorescent bulbs. The paint is peeling off of the walls and someone has rigged a bed sheet as a curtain where one of the dressing room doors has gone missing. Gabe makes a mental note to add replacing it to the list. In for a penny, after all.
He’s almost to the door when he sees a familiar silhouette duck into the office ahead of him, coming from the entrance to the club proper. He pauses for a moment, wondering, and then continues on, pushing open the door William’s left half-ajar.
William goes straight to Travis, ducking under his arm when Travis holds it out for him. It’s a practiced move, like the way William turns just slightly to the side to fit himself against Travis’ side. Gabe lounges against the doorway, watching, and tries not to be annoyed by how close they are, and the fact that Travis is now slowly rubbing William’s back.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were fucking. But he knows Travis, which just makes the whole thing even more unfair. Travis doesn’t even like dick, and yet he’s still the one with a six-foot-something exotic dancer hanging off of him.
Travis kisses William’s temple and says, “I’ll take care of it,” which seems to be William’s cue to leave. He freezes when he sees Gabe leaning against the doorframe, surprised. Gabe just raises his eyebrows, and William ducks around him, vanishing down the hallway before Gabe can try a line.
Gabe turns back to Travis, who isn’t paying any attention. “What was that about?” he asks, keeping it light. It’s not Travis’ fault that guys can’t keep their hands off of him, after all.
“Fire marshal,” Travis tells him, grabbing the suit jacket from where it’s slung over his chair and adjusting his tie. “We’re in violation of some code or something. Add it to the fucking list.” He pauses on his way out, checking his reflection in the rectangular mirror pane he has propped up against the wall. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Go check out the club, see how it’s doing. We’ve been holed up in here half the night. Get another lapdance or something.”
“I’m already going through months of inventory sheets and payroll statements,” Gabe jokes, moving aside so Travis can leave. “You don’t have to keep bribing me.”
“Incentive,” Travis tells him, clapping Gabe on the back as he goes. Gabe laughs, and gives one more look towards the haphazard jumble of papers on the table before heading out after him.
There’s a lights show going on onstage, which means the dancers are swapping out. Thanks to this evening’s cram session on learning the club’s operations, Gabe now knows which dancers are where, how long they’re going to stay in rotation, and who’s most likely about to come out onstage. It’s either Butcher or William at this time of night, but since he just saw William backstage fully dressed, odds are Butcher just finished. Gabe doesn’t know whether he’s happy that he knows all of this, or whether it’s just another layer of the magic being stripped away.
Things seem to be going well on the floor. Pete’s serving drinks, giving Gabe a wink on his way past, and Frank’s on top of someone in one of the ‘public’ chairs, head thrown back and hips circling. Gabe’s surprised to realize that he recognized tattoos before he did faces, and wonders where Travis got this many exotic dancers who also grew up punks. It doesn’t seem like something you’d be able to just find on the street.
He’s just looking away to check on whether Ryland’s busy when he sees the guy with Frank reach up and grab his hips, pulling him down closer abruptly enough that Frank drops his rhythm and his foot slips a little on the floor, losing leverage. Gabe doesn’t even really think about it before he moves, although this isn’t his job, not yet. It’s Travis’, or Bob’s, or maybe Brendon although god knows what he’d do in a situation like this, but that doesn’t stop Gabe from getting hold of the guy’s greedy grabbing arm and saying, “Hey, hands off.”
Frank looks just as surprised as the overweight balding guy he’s currently grinding on. “Woah, dude, chill,” he says, sitting back a little to raise a hand in mollification. “It’s cool.”
Gabe pauses, one hand still on the guy’s arm and the other ready to deck him or drag him out if necessary. “I thought the rule was no touching,” he says carefully. The righteous indignation has stalled, leaving him uncertain about whether he’s actually in the right. The bald guy doesn’t look like he’s spoiling for a fight, especially; he mostly looks terrified of Gabe.
“What?” Frank asks, brow wrinkled in confusion. They all hold still, a bizarre tableau, and then Frank’s expression clears and he says, “Oh no, dude, that’s a Bill-rule. He’s got wrists like twigs, guys tend to get a little rougher with him than he can handle when there’s no one else around to keep an eye out.”
Gabe wonders if Travis will forgive him for the lawsuit that might come out of this. He could just add it to the list on his side of the expense sheet now, save them both the surprise later on. He’s still wondering what to say to diplomatically relieve the tension of the situation and make amends when the guy says meekly, “Um. You’re hurting my arm.”
“Sorry.” Gabe pulls his hand away, taking a step back to give the guy more space. Or as much as he can have, anyway, with Frank still in his lap, watching curiously. “Shit, I’m sorry. My mistake.”
“No big deal,” Frank puts in cheerfully, rubbing the bald guy’s shoulders. “I appreciate the thought. I can usually take care of myself, though, so don’t sweat it. Guys give me trouble, I go for the balls. And not in the good way.” He looks down at his patron, rolling his hips once and smiling with just an edge of warning. “Got it?”
The poor guy - some businessman, it looks like, probably here for the first time - squeaks a reply and holds his hands out as far away from Frank as he can possibly get them. Frank rubs his shiny head approvingly.
“Sorry again,” Gabe says, taking another step back. “I’ll just let you get on with it.”
“It’s cool,” Frank promises. He rolls his hips again, almost thoughtfully, getting back into the rhythm of the dance. His eyes rove once over Gabe, considering, and then he says with a sly smile, “William, huh?”
“Gotta go,” Gabe counters. He pulls out his wallet and tosses a twenty at the traumatized guy currently soaking the armpits of his shirt with sweat. “Hey, have a dance. On me.”
“Later,” Frank says cheerfully. Gabe waves one more time and makes his way back to the bar. He needs a drink.
-
“Fancy meeting you here,” Frank says, draping himself over the back of Gabe’s appropriated chair. Gabe’s on his second rum-and-coke, Travis having fucked off to who knows where with the building inspector, so his smile is perhaps a little friendlier than is warranted, but Frank doesn’t look like he minds.
“You weren’t using it anymore,” Gabe points out, stretching his legs out in front of him. He offers his glass to Frank, who says, “Travis will kill me,” but steals a quick sip of it anyway.
“What I’m really dying for is a smoke,” Frank admits, passing the glass back. “I don’t suppose you have one of those hidden somewhere, do you?”
“Jacket pocket,” Gabe informs him regretfully. “Trav’s office.”
“Fuck. Well, I get a break soon anyway.” Frank stretches out a little bit, loosening limbs probably well-warmed from dancing. “Enjoying the show?”
Gabe considers pretending he hasn’t been watching William work the stage for the past fifteen minutes, but that would obviously be a lie, considering where he’s sitting. It’s hard to pay attention to anything else when William is up there. “How’s the guy?” he asks instead. “Is he going to sue?”
Frank snorts. “He got a free lapdance, I don’t think he’ll be complaining anytime soon. Just don’t go all caveman on my customers next time.”
“Will do,” Gabe agrees solemnly. He’s barely drained the rum-and-coke when Pete appears at his elbow, mirroring Frank on his other side like a pair of tattooed bookends.
“Do you want another?” Pete asks. “Give me something to do, otherwise I have to serve that creepy fucker in the back who keeps staring at my stomach.”
“Could be worse,” Frank says philosophically. He doesn’t turn around, but Gabe sees him casually change the angle of his body, getting a better view of the club floor. “Could be that guy from last week who kept trying to stick his tongue in your ear.”
“Gross,” Pete says flatly. He leans against the other side of Gabe’s chair, then straightens up suddenly and says, “Oh shit, you weren’t going to dance, were you? Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Gabe says, as Frank adds, “I’m going on break in five minutes, I’m not risking my nicotine fix by tempting some horny dude into asking for a dance. This is the safe zone.”
“I’m good stripper cover,” Gabe jokes, and then for some reason - probably because he catches sight of William again, bent backwards and writhing - he takes a second to actually think about that and says slowly, “Hey.”
“No,” Frank says immediately. “Cigarette. Besides, you’re a friend of the boss, about to become the new boss. I’m not that stupid.”
“I am,” Pete says immediately, grinning. His teeth glow in the club lights. “What are you thinking?”
What Gabe’s actually thinking is how he felt when he saw William pressed up against Travis in the office, relaxed and comfortable, and the ugly twist of jealousy in his stomach. He thinks maybe a little payback is in order. William’s not the only one who can make a scene.
“Want to take a break from the creepy dude and make a reasonable amount of money with minimal effort?” Gabe suggests guilelessly.
Frank snorts again. Pete says, “You’re on,” and swings himself into Gabe’s lap. He’s wearing leather pants and matching wrist cuffs, creaking a little when he settles. Gabe readjusts in the chair to steady both of them and Pete grins at him.
“I’ll take this,” Frank says, plucking the forgotten glass out of Gabe’s grip, and disappears towards the bar and - undoubtedly - the back alley. Gabe looks up at Pete and raises an eyebrow.
“What are we going for here, show?” Pete asks, rolling his hips a little without actually making more than brushing contact with Gabe’s cock. The leather framing his hips squeaks as he grinds, barely audible beneath the pulse of music coming through the club’s speakers.
“Just enjoy yourself,” Gabe says, folding his arms behind his head and relaxing back into the embrace of the chair. “I’m an easy customer to please.”
“Not what I hear,” Pete comments, leaning back a little to show off his chest. His abs ripple as he moves; Gabe makes a mental note to go to the gym sometime next week.
“No?” Gabe tilts his head back, just enough to watch Pete through hooded eyes and also, incidentally, keep an eye on the stage. William isn’t paying them any attention, but they’re dead center in front of the stage. He has to notice sooner or later.
“You pissed Bill off pretty good last night,” Pete replies, swinging both arms around Gabe’s neck to give himself better leverage. He rolls his hips for a few seconds, still barely making contact, and then asks, “Is he watching?”
“No,” Gabe says immediately. He realizes what he’s said even before he sees the laughter in Pete’s eyes, and can’t think of a retort fast enough to cover.
“Hey,” Pete says, “we’re doing each other a favor. I think the creep’s getting ready to leave.” He leans in close, pretending to nuzzle Gabe’s throat but probably checking out what’s going on in the corner, then adds, “Grab my ass, I don’t care if you touch.”
Gabe does, and has to admit that it’s a pretty fantastic ass. It also helps Pete balance more easily with Gabe supporting him, so he leaves his hands there, idly watching the stage while Pete grinds in his lap. “Creep gone?” he asks, when Pete makes a quiet noise of triumph and does a victory-roll of his hips.
“On the way out,” Pete informs him. He twists around, leaning back against Gabe’s chest, and Gabe relocates his hands to Pete’s abs. They crunch up into rigid definition when Pete gyrates, and seriously, Gabe needs to hit the gym. Or maybe become a stripper, because it seems to be working for Pete.
That reminds Gabe to slide a bill into Pete’s waistband, and he receives a grin thrown over Pete’s shoulder for his efforts. “Thanks,” he says. “I think that’s all you’re going to get, unfortunately.”
He doesn’t mean the dance, Gabe knows, because both of them are keeping an eye on the stage now, and William hasn’t given more than a cursory glance in their direction. He tries not to look crestfallen and probably fails, because Pete twists around again and perches on his lap with sympathetic cheerfulness.
“Trying to make him jealous probably isn’t going to work,” Pete advises, tucking the money Gabe gave him further out of sight and adjusting his leather cuffs. “You have to take a more sideways approach with Bill.”
“Right,” Gabe replies, already speculating on what that approach might entail, and whether having another rum-and-coke might be a good starting place. He notices as he glances over that Ryland is glaring at him from behind the bar, kind of hard. Like, scary-creepy hard. “Dude,” he says with only mild alarm, “What’s going on with Ryland?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pete assures him, standing up and smoothing his hands over his pants. “Hey, thanks for the tip. You want another drink?”
“No thanks,” Gabe answers, because he’s not all that sure right now that Ryland wouldn’t poison it. “I’m good.”
“Suit yourself,” Pete says cheerfully. “I’m back on the clock.” He heads off into the crowd, turning on the charm along with the swing of his hips.
Gabe gives one more baleful look at the stage, where William has the attention of a couple of younger guys and is milking them mercilessly for tips, and heads back to the office. He has work to do.
-
Gabe keeps working for a while after Travis goes to close up the club for the night, but he gives up when things start to get hazy and he can’t remember which piles he’s sorting things into. Being a night owl isn’t something that takes a lot for him to get used to, but six am is six am.
The staff is huddled up around the bar, having once again made the transformation from scantily-clad exotic dancers to bundled-up Chicagoans ready to face the bite of autumn. Frank is holding something up against his face, and Butcher keeps pulling at it, checking underneath. When Frank slaps him away and drops his hand, Gabe sees the first dark bloom of a black eye above Frank’s cheekbone.
“What the fuck happened?” Gabe asks, coming in to join the circle around the bar.
“Someone got a little grabby,” Frank tells him, baring his teeth in what’s not really a grin. “I got a little grabby back.”
“He was a jerk,” William says, lounging against the bar next to Travis. “I don’t blame you.”
“Next time, wait for me,” Bob says grouchily, but he’s the one wrapping up a fresh ice pack to replace the one currently dripping water down Frank’s sleeve. “You don’t need to fucking crowd dive. It’s a strip club, not a mosh pit.”
“He wouldn’t let go of my leg,” Frank defends, sticking his chin out.
“This is why we don’t put you on at the end of the night when they’re all drunk,” Travis says, cuffing the back of Frank’s head affectionately.
Frank shrugs, half-apologetic and half-fatalistic. “We were short.”
“Sorry,” William and Pete say simultaneously, then glance at each other.
“Oh, by all means,” Travis says with a smirk. “You two need to stop getting guys to order private dances at twenty a pop, it’s dragging this place down.”
“We’re going to be shorter next week,” Butcher points out.
This time it’s only William who says, “Sorry.” Travis reaches out to tug him in by the back of his neck, kneading the muscles there when William ducks his head forward.
“I could…” Brendon begins, with a hopeful light in his eyes.
“No,” Travis says. “Then we’d be short on the bar, too. We’ll work it out.” He jabs a finger at Frank, waggling it for a brief moment before returning to his slow massage of William’s neck. “Frankie, take care of that.”
“I’ve got two days off,” Frank points out, pulling the ice away to blink experimentally. “It should be mostly healed by then.”
“You can use my makeup,” Pete offers. Frank makes a face but doesn’t disagree, just holds the ice back to his eye. Bob fusses with it until Frank stops fidgeting and lets him swap out for the new pack.
“This happen often?” Gabe asks Pete, who’s loitering nearest to him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tiny pants. Pete really is a short dude.
“Only to Frank,” Pete answers, cocking his head. “The rest of us just throw tantrums until Bob comes. We’ve learned.”
“It’s a good thing you make this place so much money,” Travis declares, giving Frank another friendly cuff.
“Fuck off, you love me,” Frank replies, tugging his hat lower over his eyes. “I’m heading home. See you losers next week.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Travis drawls. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but I think some people might need their beauty sleep.” He lifts one shoulder to gently nudge William, who’s half-turned to rest against Travis’ chest and is breathing slowly and evenly, eyes closed.
“Mmm,” William replies, not moving.
Gabe doesn’t notice Pete moving, but there’s suddenly a quiet voice closer to his ear than he’d realized, murmuring, “Just for the record, the jealous thing doesn’t work well on him from the other side, either.”
Gabe tears his gaze away from William and Travis, raising both eyebrows. “Who said anything about jealous?”
Pete smirks, an expression that suggests he knows more about Gabe and his motives than Gabe would really prefer. “No one. His last boyfriend got a little crazy on him towards the end, though. Just an FYI.”
“Sounds like a jerk,” Gabe says casually. He’s not fishing, not really. If Pete volunteers information, that’s just a bonus.
“Nah, he was a good guy,” Pete says. “He just got sick of random dudes in a club seeing more of Bill than he did. I don’t blame him.”
Gabe watches Travis peel William off of him and send him sleepwalking in the direction of the dressing rooms. “I guess the relationship thing kind of sucks for you guys, doesn’t it?”
“Not for all of us,” Pete says with a grin. “Anyway, I’m out. See you around.”
Gabe says an absent goodnight, and once again ends up surprised when he turns around to find Ryland towering over him - and not many guys can do that - with a glare.
“Do we have a problem?” Ryland asks, relatively calmly for the force of the glower he’s got going on.
Gabe blinks a few times, and tries to figure out what parallel dimension he’s stepped into. “No?” he tries.
“Good,” Ryland says, and slaps him on the back just a little too hard to be considered friendly. “Glad to hear it. Have a good night.”
Gabe watches him go with supreme confusion, and then turns to Travis, who’s watching him and chuckling. “What the fuck?”
Travis shrugs. “He and Pete have got kind of a thing going. They won’t call it dating, but they end up in the same place every night and they don’t fuck anyone else, so I don’t know what else they’d call it.” He grins at Gabe and says, “Most of the staff caught your little show tonight.”
“Well fuck,” Gabe says in surprise. “Pete didn’t tell him it was because of the creeper in the corner?”
“Pete gets off on the jealous act,” Travis tells him. “He’ll probably tell him tonight. After round two. You’re having the guys give you dances to save them from actual paying customers? I’m starting to reconsider how good you’ll be for my business.”
“He was a creep,” Gabe says absently. “You should really keep them out.”
“They don’t come with stamps on their foreheads,” Travis says. “And even if they did, I can’t keep them out. Just keep an eye on them.”
“When I’m a partner,” Gabe announces, “the creeps will have stamps.”
“Get the fuck outta here,” Travis replies, shaking his head and smiling. “Calling you was the worst business decision I ever made.”
“The best,” Gabe corrects. “You just wait and see.”
Part Two