Any Place You'll Allow (Rogues and Queens) [1/3]
Title: Any Place You’ll Allow (Rogues & Queens)
Pairings: Frank/Gerard (Gabe/William, Pete/Ryland, Brendon/Ryan)
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Sequel to Straight Up Chicago Style.
This would not have been possible without the support and cheerleading of more people than I can even remember now. Thanks to softlyforgotten, who served as beta and inspiration when she sent me the song Striptease by Hawksley Workman. I’ve listened to it so many times while working on this that I’ve honestly lost count. Thanks also to the usual suspects splendade and adellyna, and to cupiscent, whose input was invaluable.
It’s about three a.m. when the guy comes in, Frank guesses, because he’s just getting the itch for a cigarette but knows he doesn’t have another break coming for a while. The guy is young, although not that young, not a college kid on his first strip joint tour or hazing for a frat, and anyway he doesn’t look like the type.
He looks, more or less, like a regular guy, but he’s not a) balding, b) hugely overweight, or c) wearing anything that looks particularly grimy, which puts him light-years ahead of the last three guys Frank danced for.
He also looks a little lost, which is unofficially Frank’s specialty.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, cutting Pete off by the bar. “Mine.”
Pete changes course without missing a beat, although he’s got a good-natured smirk on his face which means later he’s going to give Frank shit about stealing his customers. Whatever, Frank totally saw this one first.
Up close, the guy’s maybe a little pudgy, his clothes a little wrinkled, but it’s hardly the worst Frank has ever had to deal with. They’ve only had one fit, clean-cut guy walk in here within the last few months, and that one ended up buying in on the club, so Frank isn’t holding his breath.
“Hey,” he says with a smile. “I’m Frank. Can I get you a drink?”
The guy actually recoils at that, and Frank thinks he might be just startled, but then the guy shakes his head, dark stringy hair falling into his face, and no, definite miscalculation.
“Ice water?” Frank presses, at his most charming. “Soda? We offer a full range of Pepsi products as well as several quality juices.”
The guy stares at him. Frank just keeps smiling. Eventually black-haired dude breaks the standoff, looking down and tugging at the hem of his black hoodie. “Um, sure, thanks. Pepsi’s fine.”
“I’ll be right back,” Frank promises, but hooks the guy’s wrist just to be safe, bringing him down further onto the floor. “Why don’t you have a seat here?”
“I’m not actually…” the guy begins, and then stops, looking confused. Frank crosses his fingers that the guy stays put and doesn’t freak out, and then sashays his way hastily over to the bar.
“Pepsi, and make it quick,” he says in a low voice to Ryland across the bar. “I think I’ve got a runner.”
“Pete says I’m supposed to sabotage you for getting him first,” Ryland replies, but he’s already filling a glass, ice tinkling as it floats to the surface. “How do you always end up with the runners?”
“It’s a gift,” Frank tells him honestly, and then makes his way back over to where the new guy is sitting, fidgeting in his chair and keeping his eyes obviously off the stage. Frank doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Butcher; he recognizes the song, even if he wasn’t already keeping track of the sets.
As predicted, new guy starts to stand just as Frank reaches him, looking ready to bolt. Frank stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a smile, pretending not to notice how the guy jumps at his touch. “Pepsi,” he says cheerfully, waiting until the guy’s seated again before passing him the glass. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, and the unease seems to double when Frank swings into his lap and perches lightly on his thighs.
“Hey, relax,” Frank says. “I’m just getting comfy. What’s your name?”
“Gerard,” new guy says. “Look, uh…”
“Frank,” Frank supplies again.
“Frank,” Gerard echoes. “I’m not really…I mean, this is kind of an accident.”
Frank’s heard it all before, in a variety of guises. ‘I’m not gay’ is one of the top-rated, followed closely by ‘I’m not really married,’ ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ and ‘I’m only here for a friend.’ He arranges his face into an appropriate listening expression and does a little reassuring bounce in Gerard’s lap. Gerard does a little bounce of his own, surprised by Frank’s move, and nearly spills Pepsi on both of them.
“Sorry,” Gerard says, licking soda off of his fingers and wiping the rest on his shirt. “Shit, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Frank assures him. “I’m washable.”
His pants are, anyway, and that’s all he’s wearing right now. He can’t stand having a shirt on after his first set, once he’s warmed up and working the floor, and he likes showing off his tattoos, the illusion of being clothed in ink under the club’s strobe lights.
Gerard’s eyes flick down like he’s only just noticing that Frank’s shirtless, and then they snap back to his face. “I was looking for a comics store,” he blurts suddenly. “I got the address mixed up, and I saw the lights and heard the music, and I thought…”
“You were looking for a comics store at three a.m.?” Frank asks doubtfully, taking the opportunity to scoot forward in Gerard’s lap.
Gerard gestures in a circle with his soda glass. “Yeah, I know, but I’d just finished the last issue and I thought…” He stops, the tips of his ears turning pink where they stick out from his greasy hair, and rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “I know, it’s pretty lame, right?”
“It’s adorable,” Frank tells him, and he actually means it. He’s not sure what’s more endearing; the fact that this guy isn’t bothering to concoct a story to cover his lame-ass reason for coming to a strip club, or the fact that the real story is lamer than anything anyone else could have possibly come up with or admitted to. “But hey, now that you’re here, do you want a dance?”
Gerard’s eyes do a crazed dance of attempting to avoid Frank’s. “I really shouldn’t,” he says, which Frank has heard before, and which definitely isn’t a no.
“Come on, live a little,” Frank taunts, sliding forward again and taking the Pepsi from Gerard’s limp-wristed grip before it ends up on their pants. “I’m worth it.”
“This is gonna cost me, isn’t it?” Gerard says, and it’s not quite mournful, something closer to rueful resignation. Frank can’t stop himself from grinning in return.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll give you this one for free, and then if you want, you can tip me whatever you think I’m worth.” It’s a bargain that’s worked out well for him in the past. New guys paying for dances don’t tip, because they think they’ve already paid for it; new guys grateful for their first dance often give more than Frank would charge. And even if he doesn’t make that much on this one, it’s not a huge loss. There aren’t that many people in the club right now, and the biggest tipper is keeping William extremely busy in the corner. Pete’s still serving drinks, which means no one else is ready to bite. Frank can afford to spare fifteen minutes or so on a newbie.
Gerard opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say gets lost as Frank covers the last few inches and finds the hard bulge poking up from Gerard’s pants.
Gerard’s face flames, and Frank laughs, rocking forward. “Relax,” he says. “It’s a compliment. Just try to enjoy this, okay?”
Gerard nods, apparently struck speechless, and Frank closes his eyes and tunes into the music, letting the beat get into his body. He finds it in his hips first, grinding hard and dirty along with the bass line, and then the guitar kicks in and his whole torso undulates, head thrown back to drag in air.
He’s got another minute-fifty on this song, maybe, which means he didn’t time it quite right, but he hadn’t wanted to spend the time dawdling in case the guy really did decide to book it. He throws himself into the beat to make up for it, rolling his hips and dragging his hands down his chest, feeling fresh sweat blooming under his palms as he starts to really get into it. Gerard’s hands are white-knuckled when he risks a look, clenched hard on the side of the chair. Frank tugs one loose, puts in on his stomach and shows off the ridges of his abs, rolling the muscles taut under Gerard’s warm fingers.
Gerard jumps a little again when Frank finally gets the alignment right, working his hips over Gerard’s hard cock, and his fingers twitch against Frank’s bare skin. Frank laughs, leans in and asks, “First dance?” with an easy grin.
“Frank,” Gerard says, and then stops talking when the last chorus kicks in and Frank grinds the shit out of him, rocking forward until he’s covered in sweat and Gerard is panting, starting to push up unconsciously into the pressure of Frank’s hips.
Their faces are very close together. Frank usually gets a little more into the oral action, at least when the customer seems to have had a shower recently, licking and biting to enhance the experience. He’s considering it now, considering how close Gerard’s mouth is and the way he’s biting his own lip, how easy it would be for Frank to bite instead, maybe suck, tease with his tongue. Gerard’s eyes fly up to meet his like he’s just become aware of the same thing, and he stops breathing.
A glass breaks somewhere to their left. Frank twists around, seeking the source of the noise automatically, and sees Brendon with both hands up, backpedaling away from a burly guy in a suit who’s too red in the face to be anything but completely fucking trashed. Frank’s not the only one to have noticed; William’s spotted them, but he’s got his hands full, and the guy he’s with doesn’t seem particularly willing to relinquish his entertainment. Pete’s halfway across the floor, watchful, and Ryland’s already throwing his bar towel out of the way.
Gabe’s the one Frank’s really watching, though. Gabe has a hot streak hidden under the casual demeanor, and a fierce protectiveness over every employee in this place. If it was William, Frank thinks, the guy’s skull would already be busted open, but Brendon isn’t too far behind on the list of people Gabe will crack heads for.
Bob’s got the drunk jackass. Frank goes for Gabe.
“Sorry about this,” Frank apologizes, climbing out of Gerard’s lap. “Just gonna take care of something, won’t be a sec.”
If Gerard says anything in return, Frank misses it. He picks up speed as he crosses the floor, and lowers his center of gravity to hit Gabe almost in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
“Don’t do it,” Frank says, low and fast under the blare of the music, cutting in ahead of whatever Gabe was about to bite his head off with. “Man, if you start a fight in here, you’ll only make it ten times worse. Let Bob deal with it.”
Gabe relaxes only a fraction, but enough that Frank takes a step back, still keeping an eye on him. “He can’t start shit like that in here,” is all Gabe says, and he’s still itching for a fight, Frank can tell, but almost willing to let this one go.
“He’s getting thrown out on his ass,” Frank promises, because even without looking, he knows Bob has the guy’s arm twisted behind his back none-too-gently and is escorting him personally to the door. He’s seen it enough times to know. “You’ve got to let it go.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gabe says, but he’s almost completely calm again now, only his eyes showing the temper burning underneath the cooling exterior.
“Motherfucker, I start more fights in this place than you’ve ever seen,” Frank replies, taking another step back to take himself out of Gabe’s space. Gabe flashes a smile at him, tight but there, and Frank flashes one back.
He heads for William’s corner next, because that’s where Gabe’s attention has re-focused, and right now all it would take is a hand too high on William’s thigh for Gabe to come over and start breaking fingers.
“Gabe,” Frank says in William’s ear. “Tag-team. Go.” He slides gracefully into William’s place on big tipper’s table, stretching out on his back and smiling. Inwardly, he shakes his head and wonders what the fuck Travis was thinking, keeping them both here at the same time.
Outwardly, he says, “What can I do for you?” and keeps the smile fixed on his face even when big tipper leers and starts putting his fat greasy paws on Frank’s ink.
Whatever, Frank’s had worse.
He gets free half an hour later when the guy finally decides to leave, sees that William’s been detained near the stage giving a dance to someone in one of the public chairs, and only then does he remember Gerard.
“Motherfucker,” he says, smacking a fist against his thigh. He scans the club, but Gerard is nowhere in sight, undoubtedly long gone.
He sighs and heads back to the bar, sliding in between the stools to see if Ryland needs anything.
“Table of three, near the stage,” Ryland says, pouring the last shot on a full tray and nudging it over to Frank’s side of the bar. “They’ve got a tab open, so feel free to linger. Pete was working it earlier, but he’s about to go onstage.”
“Thanks,” Frank says, picking up the tray.
He’s about to turn, dropping the swagger back into his hips, when Ryland adds, “Oh hey, some guy left this for you. I was going to put it in the till, unless you want to carry it. Just remind me later.”
He holds up a bill, hopelessly wrinkled but the numbers still legible, and Frank’s jaw drops. “Holy shit,” he says.
“That’s what I was going to say,” Ryland says, sliding the fifty out of sight into the cash register behind the bar. “What did you do, blow him in the back alley?”
“In your dreams,” Frank says, turning away with a grin. He does a little shimmy of celebration on his way over to the table of three, and if they think it’s for them and tip him a little extra for it, that’s just fucking fine with him.
-
Gabe has ideas for this place. Some of them are a little outrageous, and no way in hell is Frank agreeing to dress like a go-go boy, but some of them are actually really good. The one they’re about to embark upon definitely falls under the heading of ‘good idea.’
“I don’t know about this,” Travis muses, stroking his chin. “Who wants to think about spring break in the middle of February?”
“Everyone,” Frank answers, echoed with feeling by William and Butcher, who are both holding down full-time degree programs on top of this job. “Everyone wants to think about spring break in the middle of February,” Frank promises, tugging the white cotton t-shirt over his head and making a face as it sticks to the sweat he’s already worked up on the stage. “They’ve been thinking about it since January. Gimme the gun.”
William passes it over solemnly, presenting it like it’s a fucking broadsword and not a kids’ toy made of neon-colored plastic. Pete’s already got his in hand, pumping the handle with wicked glee.
“You’re the one explaining this on the tax forms,” is Travis’ parting shot, before he turns to head back out onto the floor. Frank gives his gun a few pumps and an experimental squirt.
“Super-soakers are a valid business expense,” Gabe shoots back, reluctantly handing the last gun over to Butcher, who slings it over his shoulder like a trained commando. Gabe salutes the three of them and says, “Go get ‘em.”
He also slaps William on the ass, Frank notes as he turns to go onstage, but William has good aim and years of practice dealing with roving hands. Frank hears the yelp behind him and grins.
The stage is mostly dark, only spotlights weaving a crooked pattern like drunken searchlights to herald their entrance. Then the lights come up and Pete hoots, “Welcome to spring break, Rogues & Queens style,” and the audience cheers.
Frank picks his spot carefully, sizing up the crowd and finding the corner with the mildest onlookers. He doesn’t want to have to deal with being groped too much while he’s concentrating on kicking Pete and Butcher’s asses.
Not that it’s a competition, Frank reminds himself.
Yeah, right.
Pete’s the first one to get a hit in, probably because Frank and Butcher are having a battle of wills over who’s going to draw first. Frank feels the spray hit his chest and swears without thinking about it, swinging his gun up in Pete’s direction just as Butcher opens fire on him as well.
It only takes a few minutes before they’re all completely soaked. It feels good, especially in the heat of the club, so Frank doesn’t really mind the concentrated bursts of water plastering the shirt to his skin. Butcher’s shirt is drenched to transparency, his tattoos standing out in vivid color beneath the thin white cloth. Pete’s still got a few dry patches here and there, but he’s wet enough for Frank to see the collar of thorns over his chest. Frank’s own ink has long since shown through, revealed under the dual attack by Butcher and Pete.
Pete, unsurprisingly considering his aim, is the first one to run out of water. He gets a weird gleam in his eyes, and Frank has maybe half a second to think oh shit before Pete tackles him, bringing them both crashing down onto the stage.
The noise from the crowd redoubles in an approving roar, and Frank squirms just enough to put on a show, rolling his head from side to side as he struggles. He tries to find a balance between sexy and effective as he flips them over, slamming Pete’s wrists down against the stage and grinding his hips into Pete’s as Frank straddles him. Pete grins up at him like a maniac, and Frank nearly goes sprawling when Butcher takes him by surprise, emptying a shocking amount of cold water from his super-soaker tank onto Frank’s head.
Frank splutters, and Pete takes advantage and rolls them over again, doing some grinding of his own. Neither of them are more than half-hard, but this is a performance anyway, no one needs to know. Frank winces a little when Pete brings his full weight and muscle to bear, and then he laughs his head off when Pete gets the rest of the water from Butcher’s tank.
Pete’s dripping all over Frank, the two of them mock-wrestling in what’s now a huge puddle on the stage, their jeans squeaking as the fabric drags over wet wood. Frank catches sight of Ryland half-frowning behind the bar and acts without thinking, leaning up to lick a long, wet stripe across Pete’s cheek. Pete jerks back, startled, and Frank tips Ryland a wink.
The performance doesn’t last long after that. Frank and Pete go for Butcher together, bringing him down in a mess of flailing limbs, and all three of them crawl over each other suggestively for a while until they get bored and start actually wrestling each other. Butcher quite wisely calls it quits when Pete nearly sinks his teeth into Frank’s arm, and Frank judiciously removes his knee from Pete’s crotch and rolls to his feet to blow a kiss to the crowd, following Butcher offstage. They leave their super-soakers behind for someone to grab during the break.
They’re loud backstage, soaking wet and hyped up and ready to go right back out and do it again. Brendon passes out towels, looking wistful, and Frank makes a note to get him involved next time. He might not have the ink the rest of them do, but Frank doesn’t think anyone would object to seeing him in a wet t-shirt.
“See? What did I tell you?” Gabe crows as they jostle for space in the hallway, toweling off and wringing out their wet clothes. Frank peels the shirt off and grimaces when he takes a step forward to chuck it into the plastic laundry basket; wet denim is no one’s friend. He shimmies out of the jeans a second later, and grabs a fresh set of working clothes before he ducks into one of the dressing rooms to strip out of his wet underwear.
“Go, dry,” Travis says to someone still out in the hall. “If you guys take your breaks later, I’ll give you ten extra minutes and free cigarettes. There’s a whole club full of people out there who can’t wait to get their hands on you three.”
Frank fist-pumps and grabs for his dry jeans. Free cigarettes, fucking yes.
-
Half an hour and three dances later, things finally start to calm down. Frank thinks he might just be able to get on drinks duty if the group near the door actually gets their act together and leaves. His hair has finally stopped dripping onto his bare shoulders, but he’s still sticky with sweat, and only most of it is his. He makes a face at the thought of the last customer, sidling up to the bar.
“Got anything for me?” Frank asks, tapping the bar and leaning in to be heard over the music.
Ryland spares him a look and an eyebrow. “Not for you,” he replies.
Frank pouts, hiking himself onto his toes so he can lean his full weight onto his elbows. “Are you mad ‘cause I licked your boyfriend?” he asks mock-sadly.
Ryland clucks his tongue. “Not my boyfriend,” he says. Frank rolls his eyes, then yelps when Ryland dislodges one of his elbows and dumps him back onto the floor.
“Fucker,” Frank accuses cheerfully, rubbing his elbow. He turns too fast and ends up bumping into a customer, nearly bowling the guy over before he recoils enough to catch his balance. “Shit, sorry…”
He stops when he sees the guy’s face, a dim light bulb of recognition surfacing. “Hey, hi,” he says. Shit, he has no idea what the guy’s name is. He doesn’t think ‘you again’ is the sort of employee service Travis is hoping for.
“Hi,” the guy says. He’s cuter than Frank remembers; maybe it’s the slight gleam suggesting his hair’s been washed in the past twenty-four hours. “Um, I’m Gerard? I was here a few nights ago.”
“I remember,” Frank says, name clicking into place along with the memory. Lapdance, Pepsi, fifty dollar bill. “Hey, do you want a drink? Pepsi?”
“No, thank you,” Gerard answers politely. Frank catches himself smiling without thinking about it. Gerard looks briefly puzzled, but smiles back. “I saw your, uh, water fight. Looked like fun.”
“You’ve been here all this time?” Frank asks, surprised. He usually keeps a better eye on the club’s patrons; even with all the dances he’s been giving, he’d thought he would have noticed Gerard.
“Yeah, I’ve been, um…” Gerard’s face colors, just the slightest bit. Frank is unexpectedly delighted. “Lurking.”
Frank laughs. “Hey, we don’t bite,” he promises. “Not unless you want us to.”
Gerard manages not to flush further at that, straightening up a little and jamming his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I just wanted to make sure you got the money,” he explains. “The guy behind the bar said he would give it to you, but…” Gerard sneaks a quick, guilty look in Ryland’s direction. “I just wanted to make sure. Was it enough? I don’t know what you usually charge.”
Frank almost laughs out loud. ”More than enough,” he assures Gerard. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Gerard seems lost for what to do after that, but then he grins, surprisingly bright. “That was it, I just wanted to check. And, uh, say hi.” His pocket wiggles, catching the outline of his splayed fingers as he waves.
Frank’s caught by the glimmer of an idea, and he follows the impulse before it disappears. “Hey,” he says, catching Gerard’s arm as he starts to turn. “Do you want another dance before you go?”
Gerard looks torn. Frank tightens his grip, decisive. “My treat,” he promises, starting to pull Gerard along with him away from the bar. Gerard resists for a fraction of a second, but Frank thinks it’s more confusion than actual reluctance.
Gerard turns automatically towards the public chairs, but Frank tugs him in the other direction, smiling reassurance at Gerard’s look of confusion. He gives Bob a brief wave to let him know he’s going back with a client, and pushes Gerard gently through the door to the second room, closing it lightly behind them.
“Private dance,” he says, grinning at Gerard’s bafflement. He guides Gerard backwards until his knees hit the back of the chair and he sits with a surprised thump. Frank climbs into his lap and smirks. “Like I said, you waaaay over-tipped me.”
He rolls his hips once, nice and easy, warming up slow. Gerard’s hands flutter in the air before settling lightly on his hips. “Is this…okay?” he asks, eyes fixed on Frank’s.
Frank grinds again, feeling Gerard’s hands stay with him but not too tight, following without gripping. He bites his lip and drops his head back, letting himself go a little more, finding the rhythm. “Yeah,” he says, grabbing onto the back of the chair for support. “Good.”
William and Pete are better at this than he is. Frank doesn’t strip, for one thing; he starts half-naked and when he wants more to come off, he usually ends up kicking his jeans away in a tangle. It’s not especially sexy. He’s got rhythm, though, and he’s good at letting go once he gets started, just letting his body do whatever it wants.
Gerard’s hands creep up his sides, but his touch is still feather-light, ready to disappear at a moment’s notice or a word from Frank. When Frank opens his eyes after pulling up from a low, sweeping backbend, Gerard’s looking up at him with something like awe.
This isn’t the average dance. Gerard is a hell of a lot more attractive, for one thing, and for another there’s still energy fizzling under Frank’s skin from earlier, adrenaline coursing through his veins in the aftermath of the water battle. He feels buzzed, a little reckless, and for once he’s enjoying the rare drag of his bare chest against someone else’s shirt.
Gerard’s hands continue to drift over his skin, almost wondering. Frank bites Gerard’s earlobe before he thinks better of it; not all guys like teeth. Gerard just makes a soft noise, high and nasal, and his hands tighten on Frank’s waist. Frank is, unexpectedly, getting really fucking turned on right now.
He catches Gerard’s lower lip in his teeth, worrying it for a split-second before releasing and spinning around to grind his ass against Gerard’s lap. Gerard’s hands have relocated to his waist, helping to hold him steady as he moves, and Frank’s breath comes faster as he leans back, draping himself over Gerard’s chest. He blows on Gerard’s neck and grins at the squeak that provokes, eyes falling half-shut.
When he turns around again to straddle Gerard properly, he grabs the back of the chair with both hands and makes a snap decision that he’ll probably regret later, but not right now. Right now he feels good and Gerard feels better and Frank’s just going to go with it, all the way to the end.
He’s never given a lapdance hard before, or if he has it’s been too long for him to remember it, and it was never like this. Frank’s cock isn’t getting quite as much friction as he’d prefer, but he slides down half an inch when he leans back too far, and Gerard straightens up to help him balance again, and suddenly the alignment is just right and Frank rocks down hard enough to see stars.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rolling his hips with single-minded determination. Gerard makes a garbled noise of agreement and swallows hard when Frank licks his ear. His breath is coming in pants now, quick and shallow, and he feels Gerard tense beneath him a second before he’s ready, hisses, “Shit, fuck,” and grinds down hard enough to make Gerard cry out in order to get there himself at the same time.
They both sit there for a minute, breathing hard and staring at each other, and then Frank grins, happy and sated. “Nice,” he says, spine pleasantly liquid when he rolls it out. “Wow. Fuck.”
Gerard makes another noise. His face is flushed, bits of hair clinging to his forehead, and his eyes are wide and shocked. Frank takes another few seconds to make sure feeling has returned to his tingling legs before swinging out of Gerard’s lap. He’s still a little wobbly, but he catches himself before he falls and lets out a little surprised giggle.
“You turned my knees into jam,” he says, then adjusts his jeans and makes a face. “Fuck, now I need to change.”
Gerard’s still staring, hands fidgeting oddly at his sides. Frank wiggles his fingers a little towards the chair, a gesture of mixed gratitude and farewell. “That was fantastic,” he says.
“Um,” Gerard says.
“If you still want that Pepsi, tell Ryland it’s on me,” Frank offers, mouth running off in post-orgasmic lassitude. “Or whatever. You don’t drink, though, right? Fuck, I should go, I think I’m up on stage soon.”
He adjusts his jeans again, grimacing, and wonders whether he can possibly be lucky enough to have a second spare set of pants here in the club somewhere. He doesn’t think so, which means he’ll probably have to borrow some from Pete, and they’ll be tiny and too-tight and probably bedazzled or some shit.
Gerard blinks a few times. He has really pretty, long eyelashes. Frank can’t believe he just dry-humped him in one of the private rooms. He stifles another giggle and ducks out the door. “Thanks for that,” he calls back, and takes off in search of clean clothes.
-
Friday night Frank’s spread out on the bar letting a pair of giggly drunk chicks doing shots lick salt off his nipples. It’s nice work if you can get it, so Frank doesn’t give the small group of college-age guys more than a cursory glance when they come in. He has more important things to focus on.
“You’re totally gay, right?” girl number one giggles. “You have to be gay.”
“I’m equal opportunity,” Frank says, grinning and arching his back a little. “Go ahead, lick the other one.”
“Another round?” Ryland asks, ignoring Frank’s prone body with remarkable aplomb as he leans over him to address the girls. “Same thing?”
“My turn,” girl number two says, already sprinkling salt on Frank’s bare torso. It tickles. He squirms a little; Ryland pinches him just above his ass, out of sight of the girls. Frank thinks about cursing him out, but he’s got a good thing going here right now, so he just smiles at the girls and lets them lick him some more.
A minute later they’re heading to the bathroom together, holding hands and still giggling, so Frank hops down off the bar and starts swabbing the worst of the mess off his chest. “This is worse than after gay sex,” Frank tells Ryland, wrinkling his nose. “At least that shit isn’t grainy.”
Ryland’s about to reply when the catcalls break out. A whole chorus of them, obnoxiously loud. Frank twists and sees the group of guys who’d just come in, all hanging out near the back of the club in a clump. He glances at the stage to see if anything unusual prompted it, but William looks just as thrown, his rhythm broken as he fumbles an easy slide. Frank starts to climb over the bar, but Ryland clamps a hand down on his shoulder. “Bob’s got it,” he says, nodding to the blond head moving through the crowd from the door.
Frank’s about to go anyway, just on principle, when Pete brushes past him, heading towards the guys. “Five-oh-fucking-four-Plan,” he calls, a wide grin splitting his face. “What the fuck are you doing in our club?”
Frank relaxes minutely. If Pete knows them, it doesn’t mean they’re necessarily any less likely to be complete asswipes, but at least they probably won’t cause too much trouble. He leans back behind the bar next to Ryland, eyes hooded, while Pete exchanges back-slapping hugs with all of the guys and leads them back to the bar.
“Thought you were on tour,” Pete’s saying when he comes back within hearing range. Frank pushes off the back wall, deceptively lazy, and eyes up the newcomers.
“We were,” one of the guys says, a skinny thing with a big smile. Another one, tousled blond with bee-stung lips, says, “We are.”
“We hope to be again soon,” chimes in a third, sliding onto a barstool. His ‘s’ is a little sibilant, caught behind his teeth. He looks happy and a little sleepy, already scouting out the liquor selection.
“You should have called,” Pete says. “What the fuck?”
“That would have spoiled the surprise,” the first guy says.
“Should I ask if anyone wants a drink?” Ryland asks mildly. “Or, considering that you’re friends of Pete’s, should I ask if I should be opening a tab?”
“Shit, sorry,” Pete says, reaching out apologetically in Ryland’s direction. “This is Nick, Tom, Jon, and Mike, they’re old friends. Guys, this is Ryland, and that’s Frank.”
“A pleasure,” Nick says, holding out his hand for them to shake in turn. “Now, about that drink you mentioned.”
They’ve attracted a small crowd, Gabe and Travis coming out of hiding to check out what’s going on. Butcher seems to know everyone as well, because he stops by on his way to the stage and there’s another round of quick hugs.
“You assholes,” William’s voice chimes in over the constant rounds of introductions. “I can’t believe you.”
Jon lifts his head from where he’d had it propped up in his hands, smiling. “Don’t be like that,” he says, making a shitty but hilarious attempt at placating. “We wanted you to feel special.”
William rolls his eyes, but he hugs Jon anyway, and the other guys in turn, chiding them at length for their interruption. When he gets to the blond - Tom - there’s a slightly awkward fitting of limbs, like they can’t figure out what to do, but then they slide together like interlocking puzzle pieces and Frank gets it. When Tom’s touch lingers as they pull away, his eyes soft on William’s face, it’s easily confirmed. Frank knows the way people touch each other after they’ve been together and broken up. From the look on Gabe’s face when Frank glances over at him, he recognizes it as well.
“We have a show in two weeks,” Jon is saying, ostensibly to Travis now. “Kicking off the next tour. This is kind of our down time, getting to spend a few weeks at home with our families and pets.” The lisp is even more pronounced with the extended statement. Frank bites his lip before he smiles and thinks it’s oddly charming.
“You’re coming, right?” Nick asks. “You’re all coming. You two, though…” He pokes William in the chest and jabs the same finger at Pete. “Your presence is required. We already have tickets on hold.”
“What night is it?” William asks, already looking at Travis for permission. He leans back a little, and Frank sees Tom’s hand brushing William’s thigh before he takes a step away. “We’re only off Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays.”
“Not next Wednesday,” Gabe says. His gaze is focused on the space between William and Tom, and his smile is just a little sharp, even for Gabe. “We have a special corporate event.”
Frank groans. “That’s a chicks’ night,” he protests, although he supposes the extra cash won’t hurt anything. He might even be able to splurge on groceries next week.
“That’s why I said special event,” Gabe stresses. He raises his eyebrows and asks with perfectly-feigned casualness, “Did I mention it’s a dress-up fetish party?”
“I’m in,” Pete says promptly. Ryland smiles fondly at him. William glances at Tom and sways into him for a split-second, then back out again.
“Fuck, I think I’m in,” Jon announces, somehow having acquired a full glass of beer and toasting them with it. “Do you have any spare costumes?”
“Don’t joke about things like that,” William warns. “Travis will have you on that stage in less than an hour.”
“The concert’s on a Sunday,” Nick says, refocusing the conversation. “Think you can make it?”
“We’ll be there,” Pete promises. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“With bells on,” William murmurs. His eyes are focused somewhere in the vicinity of Tom’s shoulder, and Tom’s are watching his face, still with that same soft look. William glances up and meets it, just for a second, before looking away again.
Frank pulls his gaze away and ends up catching sight of Gabe, leaning against the end of the bar. His eyes are hooded and dark, watchful. Frank forces himself to look away.
Part Two
Pairings: Frank/Gerard (Gabe/William, Pete/Ryland, Brendon/Ryan)
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Sequel to Straight Up Chicago Style.
This would not have been possible without the support and cheerleading of more people than I can even remember now. Thanks to softlyforgotten, who served as beta and inspiration when she sent me the song Striptease by Hawksley Workman. I’ve listened to it so many times while working on this that I’ve honestly lost count. Thanks also to the usual suspects splendade and adellyna, and to cupiscent, whose input was invaluable.
It’s about three a.m. when the guy comes in, Frank guesses, because he’s just getting the itch for a cigarette but knows he doesn’t have another break coming for a while. The guy is young, although not that young, not a college kid on his first strip joint tour or hazing for a frat, and anyway he doesn’t look like the type.
He looks, more or less, like a regular guy, but he’s not a) balding, b) hugely overweight, or c) wearing anything that looks particularly grimy, which puts him light-years ahead of the last three guys Frank danced for.
He also looks a little lost, which is unofficially Frank’s specialty.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, cutting Pete off by the bar. “Mine.”
Pete changes course without missing a beat, although he’s got a good-natured smirk on his face which means later he’s going to give Frank shit about stealing his customers. Whatever, Frank totally saw this one first.
Up close, the guy’s maybe a little pudgy, his clothes a little wrinkled, but it’s hardly the worst Frank has ever had to deal with. They’ve only had one fit, clean-cut guy walk in here within the last few months, and that one ended up buying in on the club, so Frank isn’t holding his breath.
“Hey,” he says with a smile. “I’m Frank. Can I get you a drink?”
The guy actually recoils at that, and Frank thinks he might be just startled, but then the guy shakes his head, dark stringy hair falling into his face, and no, definite miscalculation.
“Ice water?” Frank presses, at his most charming. “Soda? We offer a full range of Pepsi products as well as several quality juices.”
The guy stares at him. Frank just keeps smiling. Eventually black-haired dude breaks the standoff, looking down and tugging at the hem of his black hoodie. “Um, sure, thanks. Pepsi’s fine.”
“I’ll be right back,” Frank promises, but hooks the guy’s wrist just to be safe, bringing him down further onto the floor. “Why don’t you have a seat here?”
“I’m not actually…” the guy begins, and then stops, looking confused. Frank crosses his fingers that the guy stays put and doesn’t freak out, and then sashays his way hastily over to the bar.
“Pepsi, and make it quick,” he says in a low voice to Ryland across the bar. “I think I’ve got a runner.”
“Pete says I’m supposed to sabotage you for getting him first,” Ryland replies, but he’s already filling a glass, ice tinkling as it floats to the surface. “How do you always end up with the runners?”
“It’s a gift,” Frank tells him honestly, and then makes his way back over to where the new guy is sitting, fidgeting in his chair and keeping his eyes obviously off the stage. Frank doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Butcher; he recognizes the song, even if he wasn’t already keeping track of the sets.
As predicted, new guy starts to stand just as Frank reaches him, looking ready to bolt. Frank stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a smile, pretending not to notice how the guy jumps at his touch. “Pepsi,” he says cheerfully, waiting until the guy’s seated again before passing him the glass. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, and the unease seems to double when Frank swings into his lap and perches lightly on his thighs.
“Hey, relax,” Frank says. “I’m just getting comfy. What’s your name?”
“Gerard,” new guy says. “Look, uh…”
“Frank,” Frank supplies again.
“Frank,” Gerard echoes. “I’m not really…I mean, this is kind of an accident.”
Frank’s heard it all before, in a variety of guises. ‘I’m not gay’ is one of the top-rated, followed closely by ‘I’m not really married,’ ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ and ‘I’m only here for a friend.’ He arranges his face into an appropriate listening expression and does a little reassuring bounce in Gerard’s lap. Gerard does a little bounce of his own, surprised by Frank’s move, and nearly spills Pepsi on both of them.
“Sorry,” Gerard says, licking soda off of his fingers and wiping the rest on his shirt. “Shit, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Frank assures him. “I’m washable.”
His pants are, anyway, and that’s all he’s wearing right now. He can’t stand having a shirt on after his first set, once he’s warmed up and working the floor, and he likes showing off his tattoos, the illusion of being clothed in ink under the club’s strobe lights.
Gerard’s eyes flick down like he’s only just noticing that Frank’s shirtless, and then they snap back to his face. “I was looking for a comics store,” he blurts suddenly. “I got the address mixed up, and I saw the lights and heard the music, and I thought…”
“You were looking for a comics store at three a.m.?” Frank asks doubtfully, taking the opportunity to scoot forward in Gerard’s lap.
Gerard gestures in a circle with his soda glass. “Yeah, I know, but I’d just finished the last issue and I thought…” He stops, the tips of his ears turning pink where they stick out from his greasy hair, and rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “I know, it’s pretty lame, right?”
“It’s adorable,” Frank tells him, and he actually means it. He’s not sure what’s more endearing; the fact that this guy isn’t bothering to concoct a story to cover his lame-ass reason for coming to a strip club, or the fact that the real story is lamer than anything anyone else could have possibly come up with or admitted to. “But hey, now that you’re here, do you want a dance?”
Gerard’s eyes do a crazed dance of attempting to avoid Frank’s. “I really shouldn’t,” he says, which Frank has heard before, and which definitely isn’t a no.
“Come on, live a little,” Frank taunts, sliding forward again and taking the Pepsi from Gerard’s limp-wristed grip before it ends up on their pants. “I’m worth it.”
“This is gonna cost me, isn’t it?” Gerard says, and it’s not quite mournful, something closer to rueful resignation. Frank can’t stop himself from grinning in return.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll give you this one for free, and then if you want, you can tip me whatever you think I’m worth.” It’s a bargain that’s worked out well for him in the past. New guys paying for dances don’t tip, because they think they’ve already paid for it; new guys grateful for their first dance often give more than Frank would charge. And even if he doesn’t make that much on this one, it’s not a huge loss. There aren’t that many people in the club right now, and the biggest tipper is keeping William extremely busy in the corner. Pete’s still serving drinks, which means no one else is ready to bite. Frank can afford to spare fifteen minutes or so on a newbie.
Gerard opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say gets lost as Frank covers the last few inches and finds the hard bulge poking up from Gerard’s pants.
Gerard’s face flames, and Frank laughs, rocking forward. “Relax,” he says. “It’s a compliment. Just try to enjoy this, okay?”
Gerard nods, apparently struck speechless, and Frank closes his eyes and tunes into the music, letting the beat get into his body. He finds it in his hips first, grinding hard and dirty along with the bass line, and then the guitar kicks in and his whole torso undulates, head thrown back to drag in air.
He’s got another minute-fifty on this song, maybe, which means he didn’t time it quite right, but he hadn’t wanted to spend the time dawdling in case the guy really did decide to book it. He throws himself into the beat to make up for it, rolling his hips and dragging his hands down his chest, feeling fresh sweat blooming under his palms as he starts to really get into it. Gerard’s hands are white-knuckled when he risks a look, clenched hard on the side of the chair. Frank tugs one loose, puts in on his stomach and shows off the ridges of his abs, rolling the muscles taut under Gerard’s warm fingers.
Gerard jumps a little again when Frank finally gets the alignment right, working his hips over Gerard’s hard cock, and his fingers twitch against Frank’s bare skin. Frank laughs, leans in and asks, “First dance?” with an easy grin.
“Frank,” Gerard says, and then stops talking when the last chorus kicks in and Frank grinds the shit out of him, rocking forward until he’s covered in sweat and Gerard is panting, starting to push up unconsciously into the pressure of Frank’s hips.
Their faces are very close together. Frank usually gets a little more into the oral action, at least when the customer seems to have had a shower recently, licking and biting to enhance the experience. He’s considering it now, considering how close Gerard’s mouth is and the way he’s biting his own lip, how easy it would be for Frank to bite instead, maybe suck, tease with his tongue. Gerard’s eyes fly up to meet his like he’s just become aware of the same thing, and he stops breathing.
A glass breaks somewhere to their left. Frank twists around, seeking the source of the noise automatically, and sees Brendon with both hands up, backpedaling away from a burly guy in a suit who’s too red in the face to be anything but completely fucking trashed. Frank’s not the only one to have noticed; William’s spotted them, but he’s got his hands full, and the guy he’s with doesn’t seem particularly willing to relinquish his entertainment. Pete’s halfway across the floor, watchful, and Ryland’s already throwing his bar towel out of the way.
Gabe’s the one Frank’s really watching, though. Gabe has a hot streak hidden under the casual demeanor, and a fierce protectiveness over every employee in this place. If it was William, Frank thinks, the guy’s skull would already be busted open, but Brendon isn’t too far behind on the list of people Gabe will crack heads for.
Bob’s got the drunk jackass. Frank goes for Gabe.
“Sorry about this,” Frank apologizes, climbing out of Gerard’s lap. “Just gonna take care of something, won’t be a sec.”
If Gerard says anything in return, Frank misses it. He picks up speed as he crosses the floor, and lowers his center of gravity to hit Gabe almost in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
“Don’t do it,” Frank says, low and fast under the blare of the music, cutting in ahead of whatever Gabe was about to bite his head off with. “Man, if you start a fight in here, you’ll only make it ten times worse. Let Bob deal with it.”
Gabe relaxes only a fraction, but enough that Frank takes a step back, still keeping an eye on him. “He can’t start shit like that in here,” is all Gabe says, and he’s still itching for a fight, Frank can tell, but almost willing to let this one go.
“He’s getting thrown out on his ass,” Frank promises, because even without looking, he knows Bob has the guy’s arm twisted behind his back none-too-gently and is escorting him personally to the door. He’s seen it enough times to know. “You’ve got to let it go.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gabe says, but he’s almost completely calm again now, only his eyes showing the temper burning underneath the cooling exterior.
“Motherfucker, I start more fights in this place than you’ve ever seen,” Frank replies, taking another step back to take himself out of Gabe’s space. Gabe flashes a smile at him, tight but there, and Frank flashes one back.
He heads for William’s corner next, because that’s where Gabe’s attention has re-focused, and right now all it would take is a hand too high on William’s thigh for Gabe to come over and start breaking fingers.
“Gabe,” Frank says in William’s ear. “Tag-team. Go.” He slides gracefully into William’s place on big tipper’s table, stretching out on his back and smiling. Inwardly, he shakes his head and wonders what the fuck Travis was thinking, keeping them both here at the same time.
Outwardly, he says, “What can I do for you?” and keeps the smile fixed on his face even when big tipper leers and starts putting his fat greasy paws on Frank’s ink.
Whatever, Frank’s had worse.
He gets free half an hour later when the guy finally decides to leave, sees that William’s been detained near the stage giving a dance to someone in one of the public chairs, and only then does he remember Gerard.
“Motherfucker,” he says, smacking a fist against his thigh. He scans the club, but Gerard is nowhere in sight, undoubtedly long gone.
He sighs and heads back to the bar, sliding in between the stools to see if Ryland needs anything.
“Table of three, near the stage,” Ryland says, pouring the last shot on a full tray and nudging it over to Frank’s side of the bar. “They’ve got a tab open, so feel free to linger. Pete was working it earlier, but he’s about to go onstage.”
“Thanks,” Frank says, picking up the tray.
He’s about to turn, dropping the swagger back into his hips, when Ryland adds, “Oh hey, some guy left this for you. I was going to put it in the till, unless you want to carry it. Just remind me later.”
He holds up a bill, hopelessly wrinkled but the numbers still legible, and Frank’s jaw drops. “Holy shit,” he says.
“That’s what I was going to say,” Ryland says, sliding the fifty out of sight into the cash register behind the bar. “What did you do, blow him in the back alley?”
“In your dreams,” Frank says, turning away with a grin. He does a little shimmy of celebration on his way over to the table of three, and if they think it’s for them and tip him a little extra for it, that’s just fucking fine with him.
-
Gabe has ideas for this place. Some of them are a little outrageous, and no way in hell is Frank agreeing to dress like a go-go boy, but some of them are actually really good. The one they’re about to embark upon definitely falls under the heading of ‘good idea.’
“I don’t know about this,” Travis muses, stroking his chin. “Who wants to think about spring break in the middle of February?”
“Everyone,” Frank answers, echoed with feeling by William and Butcher, who are both holding down full-time degree programs on top of this job. “Everyone wants to think about spring break in the middle of February,” Frank promises, tugging the white cotton t-shirt over his head and making a face as it sticks to the sweat he’s already worked up on the stage. “They’ve been thinking about it since January. Gimme the gun.”
William passes it over solemnly, presenting it like it’s a fucking broadsword and not a kids’ toy made of neon-colored plastic. Pete’s already got his in hand, pumping the handle with wicked glee.
“You’re the one explaining this on the tax forms,” is Travis’ parting shot, before he turns to head back out onto the floor. Frank gives his gun a few pumps and an experimental squirt.
“Super-soakers are a valid business expense,” Gabe shoots back, reluctantly handing the last gun over to Butcher, who slings it over his shoulder like a trained commando. Gabe salutes the three of them and says, “Go get ‘em.”
He also slaps William on the ass, Frank notes as he turns to go onstage, but William has good aim and years of practice dealing with roving hands. Frank hears the yelp behind him and grins.
The stage is mostly dark, only spotlights weaving a crooked pattern like drunken searchlights to herald their entrance. Then the lights come up and Pete hoots, “Welcome to spring break, Rogues & Queens style,” and the audience cheers.
Frank picks his spot carefully, sizing up the crowd and finding the corner with the mildest onlookers. He doesn’t want to have to deal with being groped too much while he’s concentrating on kicking Pete and Butcher’s asses.
Not that it’s a competition, Frank reminds himself.
Yeah, right.
Pete’s the first one to get a hit in, probably because Frank and Butcher are having a battle of wills over who’s going to draw first. Frank feels the spray hit his chest and swears without thinking about it, swinging his gun up in Pete’s direction just as Butcher opens fire on him as well.
It only takes a few minutes before they’re all completely soaked. It feels good, especially in the heat of the club, so Frank doesn’t really mind the concentrated bursts of water plastering the shirt to his skin. Butcher’s shirt is drenched to transparency, his tattoos standing out in vivid color beneath the thin white cloth. Pete’s still got a few dry patches here and there, but he’s wet enough for Frank to see the collar of thorns over his chest. Frank’s own ink has long since shown through, revealed under the dual attack by Butcher and Pete.
Pete, unsurprisingly considering his aim, is the first one to run out of water. He gets a weird gleam in his eyes, and Frank has maybe half a second to think oh shit before Pete tackles him, bringing them both crashing down onto the stage.
The noise from the crowd redoubles in an approving roar, and Frank squirms just enough to put on a show, rolling his head from side to side as he struggles. He tries to find a balance between sexy and effective as he flips them over, slamming Pete’s wrists down against the stage and grinding his hips into Pete’s as Frank straddles him. Pete grins up at him like a maniac, and Frank nearly goes sprawling when Butcher takes him by surprise, emptying a shocking amount of cold water from his super-soaker tank onto Frank’s head.
Frank splutters, and Pete takes advantage and rolls them over again, doing some grinding of his own. Neither of them are more than half-hard, but this is a performance anyway, no one needs to know. Frank winces a little when Pete brings his full weight and muscle to bear, and then he laughs his head off when Pete gets the rest of the water from Butcher’s tank.
Pete’s dripping all over Frank, the two of them mock-wrestling in what’s now a huge puddle on the stage, their jeans squeaking as the fabric drags over wet wood. Frank catches sight of Ryland half-frowning behind the bar and acts without thinking, leaning up to lick a long, wet stripe across Pete’s cheek. Pete jerks back, startled, and Frank tips Ryland a wink.
The performance doesn’t last long after that. Frank and Pete go for Butcher together, bringing him down in a mess of flailing limbs, and all three of them crawl over each other suggestively for a while until they get bored and start actually wrestling each other. Butcher quite wisely calls it quits when Pete nearly sinks his teeth into Frank’s arm, and Frank judiciously removes his knee from Pete’s crotch and rolls to his feet to blow a kiss to the crowd, following Butcher offstage. They leave their super-soakers behind for someone to grab during the break.
They’re loud backstage, soaking wet and hyped up and ready to go right back out and do it again. Brendon passes out towels, looking wistful, and Frank makes a note to get him involved next time. He might not have the ink the rest of them do, but Frank doesn’t think anyone would object to seeing him in a wet t-shirt.
“See? What did I tell you?” Gabe crows as they jostle for space in the hallway, toweling off and wringing out their wet clothes. Frank peels the shirt off and grimaces when he takes a step forward to chuck it into the plastic laundry basket; wet denim is no one’s friend. He shimmies out of the jeans a second later, and grabs a fresh set of working clothes before he ducks into one of the dressing rooms to strip out of his wet underwear.
“Go, dry,” Travis says to someone still out in the hall. “If you guys take your breaks later, I’ll give you ten extra minutes and free cigarettes. There’s a whole club full of people out there who can’t wait to get their hands on you three.”
Frank fist-pumps and grabs for his dry jeans. Free cigarettes, fucking yes.
-
Half an hour and three dances later, things finally start to calm down. Frank thinks he might just be able to get on drinks duty if the group near the door actually gets their act together and leaves. His hair has finally stopped dripping onto his bare shoulders, but he’s still sticky with sweat, and only most of it is his. He makes a face at the thought of the last customer, sidling up to the bar.
“Got anything for me?” Frank asks, tapping the bar and leaning in to be heard over the music.
Ryland spares him a look and an eyebrow. “Not for you,” he replies.
Frank pouts, hiking himself onto his toes so he can lean his full weight onto his elbows. “Are you mad ‘cause I licked your boyfriend?” he asks mock-sadly.
Ryland clucks his tongue. “Not my boyfriend,” he says. Frank rolls his eyes, then yelps when Ryland dislodges one of his elbows and dumps him back onto the floor.
“Fucker,” Frank accuses cheerfully, rubbing his elbow. He turns too fast and ends up bumping into a customer, nearly bowling the guy over before he recoils enough to catch his balance. “Shit, sorry…”
He stops when he sees the guy’s face, a dim light bulb of recognition surfacing. “Hey, hi,” he says. Shit, he has no idea what the guy’s name is. He doesn’t think ‘you again’ is the sort of employee service Travis is hoping for.
“Hi,” the guy says. He’s cuter than Frank remembers; maybe it’s the slight gleam suggesting his hair’s been washed in the past twenty-four hours. “Um, I’m Gerard? I was here a few nights ago.”
“I remember,” Frank says, name clicking into place along with the memory. Lapdance, Pepsi, fifty dollar bill. “Hey, do you want a drink? Pepsi?”
“No, thank you,” Gerard answers politely. Frank catches himself smiling without thinking about it. Gerard looks briefly puzzled, but smiles back. “I saw your, uh, water fight. Looked like fun.”
“You’ve been here all this time?” Frank asks, surprised. He usually keeps a better eye on the club’s patrons; even with all the dances he’s been giving, he’d thought he would have noticed Gerard.
“Yeah, I’ve been, um…” Gerard’s face colors, just the slightest bit. Frank is unexpectedly delighted. “Lurking.”
Frank laughs. “Hey, we don’t bite,” he promises. “Not unless you want us to.”
Gerard manages not to flush further at that, straightening up a little and jamming his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I just wanted to make sure you got the money,” he explains. “The guy behind the bar said he would give it to you, but…” Gerard sneaks a quick, guilty look in Ryland’s direction. “I just wanted to make sure. Was it enough? I don’t know what you usually charge.”
Frank almost laughs out loud. ”More than enough,” he assures Gerard. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Gerard seems lost for what to do after that, but then he grins, surprisingly bright. “That was it, I just wanted to check. And, uh, say hi.” His pocket wiggles, catching the outline of his splayed fingers as he waves.
Frank’s caught by the glimmer of an idea, and he follows the impulse before it disappears. “Hey,” he says, catching Gerard’s arm as he starts to turn. “Do you want another dance before you go?”
Gerard looks torn. Frank tightens his grip, decisive. “My treat,” he promises, starting to pull Gerard along with him away from the bar. Gerard resists for a fraction of a second, but Frank thinks it’s more confusion than actual reluctance.
Gerard turns automatically towards the public chairs, but Frank tugs him in the other direction, smiling reassurance at Gerard’s look of confusion. He gives Bob a brief wave to let him know he’s going back with a client, and pushes Gerard gently through the door to the second room, closing it lightly behind them.
“Private dance,” he says, grinning at Gerard’s bafflement. He guides Gerard backwards until his knees hit the back of the chair and he sits with a surprised thump. Frank climbs into his lap and smirks. “Like I said, you waaaay over-tipped me.”
He rolls his hips once, nice and easy, warming up slow. Gerard’s hands flutter in the air before settling lightly on his hips. “Is this…okay?” he asks, eyes fixed on Frank’s.
Frank grinds again, feeling Gerard’s hands stay with him but not too tight, following without gripping. He bites his lip and drops his head back, letting himself go a little more, finding the rhythm. “Yeah,” he says, grabbing onto the back of the chair for support. “Good.”
William and Pete are better at this than he is. Frank doesn’t strip, for one thing; he starts half-naked and when he wants more to come off, he usually ends up kicking his jeans away in a tangle. It’s not especially sexy. He’s got rhythm, though, and he’s good at letting go once he gets started, just letting his body do whatever it wants.
Gerard’s hands creep up his sides, but his touch is still feather-light, ready to disappear at a moment’s notice or a word from Frank. When Frank opens his eyes after pulling up from a low, sweeping backbend, Gerard’s looking up at him with something like awe.
This isn’t the average dance. Gerard is a hell of a lot more attractive, for one thing, and for another there’s still energy fizzling under Frank’s skin from earlier, adrenaline coursing through his veins in the aftermath of the water battle. He feels buzzed, a little reckless, and for once he’s enjoying the rare drag of his bare chest against someone else’s shirt.
Gerard’s hands continue to drift over his skin, almost wondering. Frank bites Gerard’s earlobe before he thinks better of it; not all guys like teeth. Gerard just makes a soft noise, high and nasal, and his hands tighten on Frank’s waist. Frank is, unexpectedly, getting really fucking turned on right now.
He catches Gerard’s lower lip in his teeth, worrying it for a split-second before releasing and spinning around to grind his ass against Gerard’s lap. Gerard’s hands have relocated to his waist, helping to hold him steady as he moves, and Frank’s breath comes faster as he leans back, draping himself over Gerard’s chest. He blows on Gerard’s neck and grins at the squeak that provokes, eyes falling half-shut.
When he turns around again to straddle Gerard properly, he grabs the back of the chair with both hands and makes a snap decision that he’ll probably regret later, but not right now. Right now he feels good and Gerard feels better and Frank’s just going to go with it, all the way to the end.
He’s never given a lapdance hard before, or if he has it’s been too long for him to remember it, and it was never like this. Frank’s cock isn’t getting quite as much friction as he’d prefer, but he slides down half an inch when he leans back too far, and Gerard straightens up to help him balance again, and suddenly the alignment is just right and Frank rocks down hard enough to see stars.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rolling his hips with single-minded determination. Gerard makes a garbled noise of agreement and swallows hard when Frank licks his ear. His breath is coming in pants now, quick and shallow, and he feels Gerard tense beneath him a second before he’s ready, hisses, “Shit, fuck,” and grinds down hard enough to make Gerard cry out in order to get there himself at the same time.
They both sit there for a minute, breathing hard and staring at each other, and then Frank grins, happy and sated. “Nice,” he says, spine pleasantly liquid when he rolls it out. “Wow. Fuck.”
Gerard makes another noise. His face is flushed, bits of hair clinging to his forehead, and his eyes are wide and shocked. Frank takes another few seconds to make sure feeling has returned to his tingling legs before swinging out of Gerard’s lap. He’s still a little wobbly, but he catches himself before he falls and lets out a little surprised giggle.
“You turned my knees into jam,” he says, then adjusts his jeans and makes a face. “Fuck, now I need to change.”
Gerard’s still staring, hands fidgeting oddly at his sides. Frank wiggles his fingers a little towards the chair, a gesture of mixed gratitude and farewell. “That was fantastic,” he says.
“Um,” Gerard says.
“If you still want that Pepsi, tell Ryland it’s on me,” Frank offers, mouth running off in post-orgasmic lassitude. “Or whatever. You don’t drink, though, right? Fuck, I should go, I think I’m up on stage soon.”
He adjusts his jeans again, grimacing, and wonders whether he can possibly be lucky enough to have a second spare set of pants here in the club somewhere. He doesn’t think so, which means he’ll probably have to borrow some from Pete, and they’ll be tiny and too-tight and probably bedazzled or some shit.
Gerard blinks a few times. He has really pretty, long eyelashes. Frank can’t believe he just dry-humped him in one of the private rooms. He stifles another giggle and ducks out the door. “Thanks for that,” he calls back, and takes off in search of clean clothes.
-
Friday night Frank’s spread out on the bar letting a pair of giggly drunk chicks doing shots lick salt off his nipples. It’s nice work if you can get it, so Frank doesn’t give the small group of college-age guys more than a cursory glance when they come in. He has more important things to focus on.
“You’re totally gay, right?” girl number one giggles. “You have to be gay.”
“I’m equal opportunity,” Frank says, grinning and arching his back a little. “Go ahead, lick the other one.”
“Another round?” Ryland asks, ignoring Frank’s prone body with remarkable aplomb as he leans over him to address the girls. “Same thing?”
“My turn,” girl number two says, already sprinkling salt on Frank’s bare torso. It tickles. He squirms a little; Ryland pinches him just above his ass, out of sight of the girls. Frank thinks about cursing him out, but he’s got a good thing going here right now, so he just smiles at the girls and lets them lick him some more.
A minute later they’re heading to the bathroom together, holding hands and still giggling, so Frank hops down off the bar and starts swabbing the worst of the mess off his chest. “This is worse than after gay sex,” Frank tells Ryland, wrinkling his nose. “At least that shit isn’t grainy.”
Ryland’s about to reply when the catcalls break out. A whole chorus of them, obnoxiously loud. Frank twists and sees the group of guys who’d just come in, all hanging out near the back of the club in a clump. He glances at the stage to see if anything unusual prompted it, but William looks just as thrown, his rhythm broken as he fumbles an easy slide. Frank starts to climb over the bar, but Ryland clamps a hand down on his shoulder. “Bob’s got it,” he says, nodding to the blond head moving through the crowd from the door.
Frank’s about to go anyway, just on principle, when Pete brushes past him, heading towards the guys. “Five-oh-fucking-four-Plan,” he calls, a wide grin splitting his face. “What the fuck are you doing in our club?”
Frank relaxes minutely. If Pete knows them, it doesn’t mean they’re necessarily any less likely to be complete asswipes, but at least they probably won’t cause too much trouble. He leans back behind the bar next to Ryland, eyes hooded, while Pete exchanges back-slapping hugs with all of the guys and leads them back to the bar.
“Thought you were on tour,” Pete’s saying when he comes back within hearing range. Frank pushes off the back wall, deceptively lazy, and eyes up the newcomers.
“We were,” one of the guys says, a skinny thing with a big smile. Another one, tousled blond with bee-stung lips, says, “We are.”
“We hope to be again soon,” chimes in a third, sliding onto a barstool. His ‘s’ is a little sibilant, caught behind his teeth. He looks happy and a little sleepy, already scouting out the liquor selection.
“You should have called,” Pete says. “What the fuck?”
“That would have spoiled the surprise,” the first guy says.
“Should I ask if anyone wants a drink?” Ryland asks mildly. “Or, considering that you’re friends of Pete’s, should I ask if I should be opening a tab?”
“Shit, sorry,” Pete says, reaching out apologetically in Ryland’s direction. “This is Nick, Tom, Jon, and Mike, they’re old friends. Guys, this is Ryland, and that’s Frank.”
“A pleasure,” Nick says, holding out his hand for them to shake in turn. “Now, about that drink you mentioned.”
They’ve attracted a small crowd, Gabe and Travis coming out of hiding to check out what’s going on. Butcher seems to know everyone as well, because he stops by on his way to the stage and there’s another round of quick hugs.
“You assholes,” William’s voice chimes in over the constant rounds of introductions. “I can’t believe you.”
Jon lifts his head from where he’d had it propped up in his hands, smiling. “Don’t be like that,” he says, making a shitty but hilarious attempt at placating. “We wanted you to feel special.”
William rolls his eyes, but he hugs Jon anyway, and the other guys in turn, chiding them at length for their interruption. When he gets to the blond - Tom - there’s a slightly awkward fitting of limbs, like they can’t figure out what to do, but then they slide together like interlocking puzzle pieces and Frank gets it. When Tom’s touch lingers as they pull away, his eyes soft on William’s face, it’s easily confirmed. Frank knows the way people touch each other after they’ve been together and broken up. From the look on Gabe’s face when Frank glances over at him, he recognizes it as well.
“We have a show in two weeks,” Jon is saying, ostensibly to Travis now. “Kicking off the next tour. This is kind of our down time, getting to spend a few weeks at home with our families and pets.” The lisp is even more pronounced with the extended statement. Frank bites his lip before he smiles and thinks it’s oddly charming.
“You’re coming, right?” Nick asks. “You’re all coming. You two, though…” He pokes William in the chest and jabs the same finger at Pete. “Your presence is required. We already have tickets on hold.”
“What night is it?” William asks, already looking at Travis for permission. He leans back a little, and Frank sees Tom’s hand brushing William’s thigh before he takes a step away. “We’re only off Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays.”
“Not next Wednesday,” Gabe says. His gaze is focused on the space between William and Tom, and his smile is just a little sharp, even for Gabe. “We have a special corporate event.”
Frank groans. “That’s a chicks’ night,” he protests, although he supposes the extra cash won’t hurt anything. He might even be able to splurge on groceries next week.
“That’s why I said special event,” Gabe stresses. He raises his eyebrows and asks with perfectly-feigned casualness, “Did I mention it’s a dress-up fetish party?”
“I’m in,” Pete says promptly. Ryland smiles fondly at him. William glances at Tom and sways into him for a split-second, then back out again.
“Fuck, I think I’m in,” Jon announces, somehow having acquired a full glass of beer and toasting them with it. “Do you have any spare costumes?”
“Don’t joke about things like that,” William warns. “Travis will have you on that stage in less than an hour.”
“The concert’s on a Sunday,” Nick says, refocusing the conversation. “Think you can make it?”
“We’ll be there,” Pete promises. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“With bells on,” William murmurs. His eyes are focused somewhere in the vicinity of Tom’s shoulder, and Tom’s are watching his face, still with that same soft look. William glances up and meets it, just for a second, before looking away again.
Frank pulls his gaze away and ends up catching sight of Gabe, leaning against the end of the bar. His eyes are hooded and dark, watchful. Frank forces himself to look away.
Part Two