The dance floor was filling up and I invited Mrs. Becker to dance with me, who surprised me with some sassy moves. Everyone was having a good time and as the night wound on, Danny started to relax and enjoy his party. This was more than just a benefit for my friend–it was an opportunity to celebrate those closest to us.
Mrs. Becker went to take a break and as I made my way toward the back of the stage, I felt a pair of hungry eyes on me. I wasn’t sure what made me glance over my shoulder, but I did and the biggest smile creased my face.
My brat walked in, dressed modestly in a black long-sleeve and ripped jeans, the curls of his dark hair swirling around his face. He was scanning the crowd and I allowed myself to think he was looking for me.
With a growl of excitement, I intercepted him, his eyes brightening as he spotted me. I knew that look and likened the excitement to a predator setting its sights on its prey.
“You seriously suck at your job,” he said over the din, the bite of his words pleasurable. “How many times have I slipped past your meatheads? I’ve lost count.”
“You’re overestimating yourself. I told them that if you showed up, to let you in,” I countered, leaning down so I could get a whiff of him under the guise of making sure he could hear my words. Nothing fancy, just old-fashioned soap.
He slid his sassy eyes up to me, his breath brushing across my throat. “So, you admit that you’re hot for me? You’re desperate to see me. You’re in love with me and want to tap my ass. Go on and admit it. You want to worship my–”
I let him drone on, savoring every word. Two could play at this game and I made a silent promise that it would be his jaw on the floor tonight. “Shut your trap and do me a favor. Go buy a ribbon at the bar. They're twenty bucks and it’s for a good cause.”
Before he could respond, I turned on my heels and rushed behind the stage, just as Miss Scarlet Chiffon was announcing the next round of entertainment. I quickly shed my clothes and slipped into a pair of beat-up jeans and a plaid shirt cut off at the shoulders. It had been many years since I’d shaken my goods on a stage, but I was doing it for Danny and I was willing to dredge up my problematic past if it helped him out. But the sudden electricity zipping through my veins had more to do with getting on the stage for the first time in fifteen years.
Miss Scarlet Chiffon announced my name and I burst through the curtain, the lights momentarily blinding me. The music blared Joan Jett, getting my blood pumping, and putting me in the mood. I was surprised at how easily everything rushed back to me, as if I hadn’t spent years off the stage.
I moved my assets in a seductive dance, the crowd’s cheers egging me on. I shook my hips causing my jeans to slidedown my thighs to reveal the skimpy thong underneath, and the crowd went wild.
I realized how much I’d missed this life. This part of myself. The wild, free, and young gay man I’d put away.
As hungry boys pushed ribbons into my thong, I searched the crowd for my brat. He was standing where I’d left him, watching me with hooded eyes and a little smile that let me know he enjoyed our sparring as much as I did. I busted out my best moves, ignoring the little ache in my lower back.
The crowd moved around him as if he were an island bastion, lush and full of fruit, a promise to chase away the chill of my lonely, boring life. If he asked me to join him in paradise, I wouldn’t turn him down. I wasn’t sure what it was about him that made me want to break my promise.
Ronnie, Danny’s friend, pushed a ribbon into his hand and Jere helped him to the front of the stage. I lowered my hips to his level and he stuck a ribbon into my thong, his cheeks the color of summer strawberries, but he was grinning like the happiest guy in the world.
I couldn’t keep the music from getting into my system and reviving the part of me I thought I’d buried. As I locked eyes with my brat, I thought this might be the night I broke my promise to abstain from casual sex.
Something passed between us. Electricity, as if we were running on the same frequency. He cast one last longing look before leaving out the front door. I hoped it wasn’t the last time I saw him.
CHAPTER ONE
MATTEO
December
I tapped my fingers on the smooth leather of the chair’s armrest, the notes ringing in my mind as clearly as if I were at my grandmother’s grand piano. I went through the motions ofGymnopedie no 1, the melancholic and slightly hopeful melody summing up everything I was feeling right now. I’d been in this chair countless times over the years, listening to my lawyer as we discussed my inheritance. It hadn’t gotten any easier.
“I’m expecting your parents to mount a legal challenge to your inheritance,” my lawyer was saying, flipping some papers over on his big, polished desk. “I’ve already drafted a response.”
I couldn’t help grinning at that. “They’ll probably wait until the last minute to do it.”
“Of course. All is fair in law and war,” he said, his eyes blazing as if he were looking forward to the fight. “They don’t have a legal leg to stand on, so anything they do throw at us will just be fodder to delay the inevitable outcome.”
Mr. Leander Salvatore of Kensington, Salvatore, and Associates, was far too attractive to be a lawyer, in my opinion. With golden undertones of classic mediterranean skin, perfectly cut bone structure, and a habit of filling out his expensive suits like shrink wrap, he deserved to be on the cover of a modeling magazine. But I wasn’t here to ogle him. Besides being disgustingly hot, he was one of the top estate lawyers in the country. There was a reason my grandmother had chosen him to handle my inheritance–because he had a fierce reputation of being a pit bull in court.
“I’ve also taken the liberty to devise a response should they challenge your mental faculties,” he added and sat backagainst his cherry-leather chair, the city of Chicago looming behind him as if he were a monarch standing over his subjects. “Which, of course, we are expecting them to do.”
I blew out a breath and switched to my favorite sequence in “Lacrimosa”. “Will I have to have a psychological evaluation?”
“Possibly, but we will deal with that when the time comes. I’ve included a provision in which you agree to speak with a counselor on a weekly basis for two years. I figure it is a minor inconvenience if it means receiving what you’re due.”
Flipping my eyes to him, I took in the entirety of his dove-gray suit, from the Brioni tie, to the pearl cufflinks, remembering what it felt like to have silk and wool against my skin. That seemed like a lifetime ago, when in reality it had only been three years. I’d gotten used to the feel of cheap cotton and denim and the heaviness of dirt and oil on my skin.
I longed for the early winter mornings in the living room of my grandmother’s house. I’d be dressed in khakis and a wool vest over the softest button-down, the sweet notes of Debussy and Liszt streaming out from the grand piano. I’d lost hours there, the morning melting into afternoon, the weekdays blending into the weekend, and the years of my childhood slipping away. It was a shadow of a memory now and sometimes I wasn’t sure those simple and beautiful days had ever existed at all.
