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Author's Note: Inspired by Who you gonna call? (The gays!) by queerosian.
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Alonzo hadn’t gone out drinking for pleasure since he was a teenager. Hadn’t had the time. Selling on the street had graduated to selling in clubs, selling at private parties, and next thing he knew he was running clubs of his own. Throwing his own private parties. Hiring guys to sell for him.
But nostalgia was a bitch, and sometimes, to appreciate how far you’d come, you had to revisit the gutters you rose up out of – which is how he found himself in the shittiest gay club in town on a Saturday night, nursing the worst vodka martini he’d ever had (seriously. How do you fuck that up?), wearing a cheap wig and contacts, scanning the sweaty drunken crowd for someone to pass the time.
He spent a good 45 minutes of idle people-watching, punctuated by the occasional line in the toilets (which were so unbelievably horrific he was considering trying for the ladies’ next time), before anyone caught his eye. Black duster, black shirt, hunched over a little table in the corner – eyes darting around the room like an animal trapped in a cage. That sort of desperate macho energy that guys sometimes had in the early days of denial.
Who are you fooling, sugar? We’re all fags here.
Alonzo unfolded himself from the barstool he’d been perched on and strode across the room, slipping into the booth beside him. “All by yourself, handsome?” he purred. The guy looked startled, uncomfortable.
“Waiting for someone.”
“Oh? Been waiting awhile.” Alonzo cocked his head playfully. “Sure you weren’t waiting for me?”
A grunt. “Been watching me or something?”
“Or something.” He tapped a lacquered fingernail against the guy’s empty glass. “What are you drinking, sugar?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I can see that, darling, but would you like to be drinking something?”
“Look, thanks or whatever, but I’m not interested. Like I said, I’m waiting for someone.” The guy hadn’t met Alonzo’s eyes since he’d sat down, but he hadn’t moved away either. It was all very familiar. Very cute. Poor conflicted little baby. Too full of desire to help yourself, too repressed to let yourself go. It was a dance he hadn’t done in over a decade, but he still knew all the steps.
“Well, why don’t I stay here and keep you company? While you wait for your boyfriend, of course.”
“Don’t got a boyfriend.”
“No? My stars. It must be my lucky day.”
The tiniest little smirk. Breakthrough. “‘My stars’. What are you, my aunt Brenda?”
“I can be your aunt whoever.”
A full laugh this time. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”
“Always served me well.” I own 12 clubs in New York City alone. I have a net worth of $4.2 million. I could find out everything about you before you wake up tomorrow with a single phone call. I could have you killed in your sleep and your body would disappear without a trace.
But it’s your lucky day, sugar, because all I want from you is something very, very simple.
“You got a name, baby?”
The guy picked up his glass, toyed with it. “Ryan,” he said finally.
“Ryan. Pleasure to meet you.”
“You got a name?” Ryan countered.
Alonzo thought for a moment. “I liked Brenda.”
“You can’t be Brenda. Pick something else.”
“Marilyn Monroe.”
“Come on.”
“Anne Bonny.”
“The pirate?”
Alonzo smiled. “The pirate.”
“Why a fucking pirate?”
He shrugged innocently.
“Vodka soda,” Ryan said, setting the glass down.
“Cheers.”
Alonzo scooped up the glass and headed for the bar, downing the rest of his own drink in one gulp. Gross. Gross gross gross.
It was a 10 minute wait (he’d normally chalk it up to the perils of presenting too femme, but the bartender just seemed to be stoned out of his fucking mind) for the two vodka sodas (double for Ryan, single for him), and he might’ve been worried if he hadn’t glanced back upon reaching the bar in the first place just in time for Ryan to quickly look down at his lap. This was too easy. It was almost boring how easy it was.
He slipped back into the booth. “Miss me?”
Ryan downed his drink in one go. Jesus. “Want to go out for a cigarette?” he asked.
“I don’t smoke,” Alonzo lied, “but I’ll keep you company.” A cigarette. Sure. If it actually was a cigarette, he still had some coke left. Better to do it behind the dumpsters than step foot in that warzone of a bathroom again.
Ryan got up and headed for the door, not looking back to make sure Alonzo was behind him. A jolt of electricity went up his spine as he followed. Wait, this was actually happening. How long had it been? 12 years? 13? He’d never been interested in casual sex, even as a teenager (at least, not in being a participant himself), and his relentless focus on business had gotten in the way of any romantic pursuits. He’d been mostly okay with this, as most people weren’t interesting enough to gain a foothold in his heart anyway.
Mostly. It did get a bit lonely.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and exited into the cool night. It might just be a cigarette.
It wasn’t.
Alonzo immediately found himself pushed up against the wall, Ryan’s mouth crushed against his, tongue probing for entrance. Jumping right into it, I suppose, he thought breathlessly, and forced himself to relax into the kiss. Another old dance, one eased into as comfortably as though the last time had been yesterday. Hands groping, one slipped under his shirt, one down his pants – jumping right into it – and he barely had time to wonder if maybe he’d made a mistake, maybe this wasn’t what he wanted to be doing at all, before his own hands roaming Ryan’s body brushed against hard metal.
Holy shit. Pay dirt.
Ryan felt where his hand had ended up a second too late and tried to pull back, but Alonzo already had the gun out and pointed at him. “Hands up,” he panted, and smiled. “This is a robbery.”
Ryan’s hands went up. “Drop it,” he said. “C’mon. Quit playing around. Give it back.”
Alonzo cocked the gun. “Don’t think I will, sweetheart.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Wallet.”
“Fuck you. You fucking fag.”
“Wall-et,” Alonzo repeated in a sing-song.
Ryan swore again, yanked his wallet out of his pocket and threw it on the ground. Shoved his hands back into the air and glared. Alonzo stooped down to pick it up, keeping the gun trained on Ryan. He whistled as he looked through it.
“Wow, high roller,” he said, impressed. “Dealing?”
“Fuck you,” Ryan repeated.
“So rude.” He shuffled through the bills. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to carry this much on a night out?” He shook his head. “Let this be a lesson, baby.”
“You piece of shit. I’m going to kill you.”
“Aren’t you a big man. Jacket.”
“What?”
“That beautiful jacket of yours. I want it. Take it off.”
Ryan shrugged out of the duster, handed it over. Alonzo draped it over his arm. Pointed with the gun.
“Pants.”
Ryan stiffened. “No.”
“Pants.”
“Fuck you.” He took a step forward, as if to try and grab for the gun, and Alonzo fired it past his ear, making him jump out of his skin. The sound echoed in the tiny alleyway, followed by a string of swearing.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Don’t make me hurt you, baby.”
“The fucking cops are going to show up.”
Alonzo laughed. “Look around you, sweetheart. You think the cops give a shit about this part of town?” He watched the dawning fear in Ryan’s eyes with amusement. “Don’t make me ask again.”
Ryan unbuckled his belt, unzipped, stepped out of his pants and threw them at Alonzo full force. Alonzo didn’t flinch. “Underwear.”
The fear was replaced by pain. “Come on.”
“Underwear. Grand closing sale, everything must go.”
“Please. Don’t.”
“Which one of us has the gun? I can’t remember.”
“I’ll do anything.”
Alonzo chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Anything?”
Ryan swallowed. “Please,” he said again.
“Well. Since you asked so nicely.” He pointed with the gun. “On your knees.”
Ryan slowly, carefully, got down on the ground.
“Hands behind your back.”
Ryan obliged.
Alonzo stepped in close, caressed Ryan’s face with the barrel of the gun. Ryan shivered, and the movement passed through the air to send a shiver down Alonzo’s spine too. “Open your mouth,” he said softly. Ryan looked as though he was going to cry.
“Please don’t.”
“Not going to hurt you, baby.” He paused. “Not if you give me a good show.”
Ryan stared up at him for a long minute, then took the cold metal into his mouth.
“Good.”
Ryan closed his eyes as Alonzo gently pushed the gun further in. A little gagging sound. “Too much?” Alonzo murmured, and pulled back. “Why don’t we just try kissing for a bit.”
“Generous,” Ryan said hoarsely. So incredibly pathetic.
“Aren’t I just.”
Ryan kissed along the barrel, running his tongue up and down its length. Alonzo felt his breathing quicken. Sex was nothing to him. He’d seen it all a million times at his clubs, at his parties. This was something new. Something special. He felt an unnatural closeness to the man knelt in front of him. Ryan’s tongue brushed his finger where it lay against the side of the gun near the safety and his pants grew tight at the groin.
I want to kill you. I want to pull the trigger and watch you die on your knees.
But...maybe. Instead...
He pushed the gun into Ryan’s throat again, hard, relishing the sound of him choking. “You’re doing so good,” he said, watching saliva drip out the side of Ryan’s mouth onto the concrete. He noted the tent in Ryan’s boxers with a sadistic thrill. “Touch yourself,” he ordered. Didn’t take a second for Ryan’s hand to whip from behind his back and inside the thin cotton, moving up and down.
“Good. You’re doing great, baby.”
Nothing but the sound of heavy breathing for awhile (his own, Alonzo realized, as if from a distance). Faint music from the club. Buzzing from the neon sign above them. Cars on the highway, far away. Somewhere, glass shattering.
Best idea I’ve had in years.
And just like that, it was over.
He pulled the gun from Ryan’s mouth gingerly, a string of spit connecting it to his lips for a second before breaking. Ryan just stared at the ground, face flushed and eyes red, a single tear leaving a track down his cheek.
“Give me my shit back,” was all he said.
Alonzo tutted. “Wasn’t the deal, sugar.”
Ryan looked up at him. The pain replaced by defeat.
“I said you could keep the rest of your clothes. What you’ve given me remains mine.”
Mine, mine, for all of fucking time.
“Now turn around.”
Ryan got up, unsteadily. Turned around.
“Hands on your head. Walk to the end of the alley. Count to 60. Then, you’re free to do as you please.”
“Fuck you.” His voice sounded hollow.
“Already did, sweetheart.”
He allowed himself to watch Ryan take the first couple of steps before spinning on his heel and walking out of the alley, down the street. Exhilaration flooded his veins.
Better than coke. Better than anything.
He started running. Ripped the wig off his head. Dropped the wallet. Dropped the pants. Tossed the gun into the street. Faster, faster, faster, cold wind hitting his face, his whole body aflame with a fire that felt like it would never be quenched. He ran until he felt like his legs would give out, until his chest would explode.
Tomorrow things would go back to normal. Going over expense reports, contacting distributors (legal and otherwise), business meetings. The same old shit, the life that had once been nothing but a dream when he was peddling his boyfriend’s heroin on the corner and shooting up whatever he didn’t sell.
But tonight, he felt alive. Tonight, he had everything.
He finally slowed to a stop, blood pounding in his ears, gasping for breath. Slumped against a corner and waited for his heartrate to return to normal. He still had the duster, he realized, and held it up to his nose. Cigarette smoke, leather, the faint scent of sweat.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ryan,” he whispered, and laughed.
Fucking pirate, indeed.