He jogged down the front steps with as little effort as a teenage athlete. He ran to the car, put his arms around Treston, and kissed him on the mouth. As their tongues met, Treston had to admit he’d never experienced this kind of electricity with a man, not even Harlan Rocks. That was all the more reason to push Chad away and say, “Thanks for not being a complete asswipe.”
Chad let him go; he backed away and shrugged. “Thank you for making me laugh in bed for the first time. I never did that before. In a way, you took my virginity again.”
Treston couldn’t resist the temptation. “Well, I find that hard to believe. With little blond pussycat up there I’d be laughing the moment she opened her filthy mouth and started begging to get her man-pussy fucked.” He hated it when gay men switched pronouns, but sometimes it was hard to avoid.
Chad didn’t seem amused. “I’m serious. I had a good time tonight.”
When Treston saw his expression and the intense look in his billion-dollar steel blue movie star eyes, he felt a sting in his own eyes. He knew he would never see him again. So he stepped forward and reached for both of Chad’s forearms. He held them tightly and said, “I think you can change. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
“Maybe I just need the right guy to change me.”
With that comment, Treston knew it was time to leave. He released Chad’s arms and said, “That’s not how it works, trust me. I’ve been trying to change men like you all my life.” Then he kissed him one last time on the lips, caressed his cheek, and climbed into the limo. After he closed the door, he didn’t glance back. He had a feeling Chad was standing in the middle of the driveway, watching the limo disappear. For the first time since he’d met Chad earlier that night, he realized this was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. It shouldn’t have been this hard. There was something wrong with him; he should have expected it. But he knew if he did glance back, he might change his mind and tell the driver to stop. Chad Pratt was everything he’d ever wanted in a man, plus more. He had all the worst qualities a man could have, yet he was decent deep down. But then Treston had told himself all this so many times with other men, he couldn’t trust his own instincts. He’d given those men everything he’d had, from money to emotion. It just wasn’t something he was willing to do anymore.
Chapter Ten
When the limo pulled up to Treston’s apartment, he took his time getting out, hoping one of his nosy neighbors would see him. They noticed everything else he did. They’d hung their heads out their doors the night he’d met three bikers with beards and tattoos and the bikers had carried him out of his apartment in his underwear and thrown him in the pool as a joke. They’d noticed the cute little college guy with the goatee and sagging jeans he’d dated for a while between lovers. Treston’s neighbors seemed so interested in his personal life he often thought they had hidden cameras set up just to see who he was coming and going with. His next-door neighbor, an older woman who had once been married to a used-car salesman who’d left her for a younger woman, even had the nerve to ask him what had happened to Harlan Rocks. Evidently, she’d been watching Harlan come and go, and when she didn’t see him anymore, it must have driven her crazy. Treston just smiled and told her Harlan had moved to Los Angeles, without going into any details. But the one night he pulled up to his complex in a chauffeur-driven limo owned by the one and only Las Vegas Shark, Chad Pratt, no one even cracked a dusty venetian blind to see him get out. It figured.
He wasn’t going to let his night with Chad go completely ignored. That was why he hadn’t returned the autographed photo to Chad. Though he had no intentions of ever seeing Chad again, he couldn’t resist mentioning Chad the next night at work. He swaggered into the dressing room with a half-smile and a playful expression. Lyon and J.D. were there getting ready for the show. Lyon was undressing and J.D. was already wearing his jock strap, trying to pack his humongous dick into a pouch that seemed to be two sizes too small again. When Treston walked up to him and set his backpack down on a bench in front of his locker, he sent J.D.’s dick a glance and said, “I don’t know why you just don’t pack that obnoxious thing into a quart mason jar and be done with it.” The jock he was wearing that night was one of those sock-jock affairs Treston had seen in catalogues, with a pouch up front, a waistband, and no straps or strings in the back. Most normal men wouldn’t have had a problem with it.
“Where the fuck were you last night?” J.D. asked.
“I had an important engagement,” Treston said. He wanted to wait to tell them the story. “Chickey knows all about it.”
J.D. made a face. “Aren’t you the grand little queen of Downton Abbey?”
Lyon smiled, pulled down his baggy shorts, and laughed. He pointed to J.D.’s dick and said, “Seriously, man. I think your thing’s getting bigger. It’s like the monster in those old black-and-white movies: The Dick that Ate Tokyo.” Like most of the straight male strippers at the club, Lyon always wore those loose, old-man boxer shorts. The ones he wore that night were a drab beige color. Treston would never get this. With all the cute, sexy underwear in the world, why on Earth would any man want to wear boxer shorts that made him look as if he were in the army?
J.D. threw a dirty sweat sock at Treston and said, “Stop complaining and get over here and give me a hand. I don’t think I can do this alone.”
“Hold on a minute,” Treston said. He’d just removed his shirt and his shoes. His jeans were open and he wanted to take them off first. He’d splurged that afternoon and bought a new pair of underwear. He’d been eyeing them in the window of a small boutique and saving money on the side to get them. He’d never be able to wear them in the show because they were made out of sheer black fabric and trimmed in red leather. They were completely transparent and he knew Chickey would never allow him to show so much of his body. But he liked wearing them under his jeans. They made him feel sexy and put him in a good mood.
When he removed his jeans, he turned his back to Lyon and arched it slightly. He did it on purpose to see how Lyon would react to his new underwear. Although Lyon was straight, he’d always said—joking around, of course—Treston’s ass was as good as any woman’s ass. Treston knew the other competitive gay guys wouldn’t say anything if he looked too good in his see-through underwear; they tended to be catty and only complimented him when he looked bad in something. But he could always depend on Lyon for an honest comment. Straight guys didn’t have that vicious streak with gay guys.