Page 47 of Pieces of Me

He made his way wearily back to Sloan’s, passing booths full of underwear models and leather-daddy displays, some with even light BDSM demonstrations. This part of Pride was held in a separate building away from the rest of the family-friendly events, obviously, and there was a strict eighteen-and-older admittance policy along with an ID check if necessary. The whole thing made for one sexually charged atmosphere, and Rylan had been feeling the effects of it all day.

Like Sloan had warned him, being a good sport during this gig was paramount. He’d been complimented, propositioned, groped a few times, and yes, been asked to suck a candy penis for the prurient enjoyment of the person who’d bought it for him and shoved it in his hand. Tips in mind, Rylan had thrown himself into each “blow job” with apparent enthusiasm, tongue on full display, cheeks hollowed as he drew the lollipop in and out slowly.

A few times there had been suggestions that he do the real thing afterward, and he had been grateful he could say with utmost truth and sincerity, “No messing around on the job or I’ll be fired.” Rylan had quite the collection of phone numbers and Grindr usernames stacked on his tray, and as he passed in front of a row of trashcans, he grabbed the pile of business cards and scrap paper and tossed them in. No thanks.

A glance at his watch showed straight-up five p.m., and he didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to see that time of day in his life. It was over. He could get paid, go home, take a long hot shower, and then treat himself to a decent dinner.

Rylan pushed his way into Sloan’s booth and walked up to where he was sitting at the folding table, feet up, counting his money. Rylan put the empty tray down on the floor and handed Sloan the small money bag he’d been making change from.

“It’s all there, boss,” he said. Sloan unzipped the bag and peered into it eagerly.

“You did great, kid,” Sloan said approvingly, pulling out a handful of bills. “Sold all your merchandise, and you really hustled out there. Awesome job.”

Rylan nodded wearily, and Sloan continued, “Go get changed, and I’ll separate out your tips. I think you did okay, cupcake.”

Blowing out a breath, Rylan stepped behind the curtain, pulling it closed. Finally he could get out of these “clothes” and back to his normal―what the fuck?

“Uh, Sloan?” he called out. “Did you move my stuff from in here?”

“Nope,” came the reply. “I told you to leave your clothes on the chair in there, and I haven’t touched them.”

Rylan clutched his hair. “Well, they’re not here!” he shouted. “Where are they, Sloan?”

Sloan yanked back the curtain, staring the empty folding chair. “Huh. I only left for about ten minutes to grab a turkey leg from the booth outside. Someone must have come in and taken them, probably thought you had money or your phone stashed in them.”

Rylan whirled, hoping to see his clothes crumpled somewhere, anywhere, on the floor. There hadn’t been any money in them, or his phone, thank fuck, but his house keys―

“I can’t believe this,” he exclaimed. “You said they’d be safe in here!”

“Ain’t never had a problem before,” Sloan said, and unbelievably he shrugged and went back to his table to count his money.

Rylan gaped at him. “What the hell am I supposed to do, man?” he demanded. “My clothes, my house keys. Jesus Christ!”

“Can’t be responsible for your personal belongings, cutie. I said you could leave ’em in here, not that I’d guard ’em with my life.”

“But you said they’d be safe!” Rylan could hear the hysteria in his voice, and in the next instant registered the mulishness in Sloan’s expression at the borderline accusation. Get a grip, Ry. You still haven’t been paid.

Rylan took a huge breath in and blew it out slowly, reaching deep inside himself for composure. At least he’d been smart enough not to bring his wallet or cell phone; clothes and keys could be replaced. He hoped.

“It’s okay,” he said more calmly. “I was surprised, that’s all. It’s―it’s not your fault.” Rylan thought the conciliatory words would strangle him, but he managed to force them out, relieved when Sloan’s face smoothed into a smile as he continued counting out Rylan’s tips.

“Obviously I’m going to need to keep these clothes until I get home.” Oh God.

“Sure,” Sloan replied with a wave of his hand. “Just bring ’em back by tomorrow morning. The next guy is gonna need them, unless you want another day. If you do, it’s all yours, cupcake. I’ll tell the other dude to fuck off.”

All Rylan heard was “next guy.” Oh fucking hell. How many men had worn this outfit before him? Had it ever been washed? Rylan felt like his balls would crawl back up inside his body, and he suddenly felt itchy all over. Holy fuck, his ass and most intimate parts were resting on fabric that―he couldn’t think about it anymore or he’d throw up.

“Of course,” he forced out. “Do you want me to―wash the shorts?”

He closed his eyes when Sloan said, “Nah. That fabric is dry-clean only. I do it once a month.”

Fuck my life, Rylan thought in despair. Fuck everything about my life.

“So do you want the gig tomorrow or not?” Sloan asked with a cheerful smile, and Rylan fantasized about bashing him over the head with the heavy wooden tray.

“No, thank you,” he managed to say somewhat pleasantly. “I have some other things I need to do tomorrow. I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Pity,” Sloan sighed. “Well, your loss, baby. Here’s your money.” He handed Rylan a fistful of bills, and Rylan counted it eagerly: $230. Damn. The tips had seemed like much more, but Rylan didn’t think Sloan would cheat him that way, no matter how much of a slimeball he seemed otherwise.