BA Tortuga - Private Dances.pdf - B. A. Tortuga - chillipi

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of

the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,

organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of

either the author or the publisher.

Private Dances

without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or

reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

ISBN: 978-1-934166-437, 1-934166-43-X

Printed in the United States of America.

Torquere Press electronic edition / November 2006

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

http://www.torquerepress.com

Private Dances - 2

Private Dances

By BA Tortuga

"I Wanna Be a Cowboy" blared over the speakers, the lights bright and blinding in his eyes. It

was always a little chilly up on stage for the first fifteen seconds or so, then the lights on his

oiled skin and the dancing warmed him up. Made him sweat.

Dale moved, one hand on the pole, one hand up in the air like he was riding eight seconds. He

couldn't see the eyes watching him, couldn't hear the hoots or hollers from the crowd, but still, he

knew they were there, were watching him, trying to see his face under the shadow of the wide

brim of his cowboy hat.

Watching his prick, his ass framed by the leather chaps.

Shit. No thinking, Dale-man. No thinking. Just listen to the music and dance. That's it. Five

minutes more and then the shift was over.

Five hundred bucks in his back pocket, baybee. One semester's worth of books for a night's

work.

Hoo-boy.

He was just leaving the stage, ready to get his shit and go tip out with the DJ when the stage

manager stopped him. "Hey, man, I know you're about off, but there's an offer from one of the

boxes. You up for it?"

"How good an offer?" He really needed to study. He had a test tomorrow in anatomy, but rent

was coming due....

"Two hundred and you don't have to tip it out." Which meant no ten percent off the top before he

ever left the club.

Two hundred. Groceries, man. For a month . "Okay. Which one?"

"The far north box. They've been apprised of the rules." Manny clapped him on the back.

"Thanks, man."

"No sweat." He slipped on a g-string, then headed up the stairs, whistling along with Rick's

music, the Latin beat catchy, fun, bouncy. There were two guys in the shadowy box, both suits.

One was the sort he was used to, Hell, he thought maybe he'd seen the guy before. A little on the

hefty side, thick graying hair, thick lips. Not hideous, but nothing he wanted too close to certain

parts of him.

The other guy was more in the shadows, sitting back in the lounge chair, a lowball dangling from

his hand. Dale was pretty sure he'd never seen that guy before. Not at all. Cheeks like

razorblades and eyes that sparkled in the low light; the guy watched him with predatory ease,

none of the blustering and pretending he wasn't interested coming from him like it did the other

guy.

"I'm Dee. Y'all asked for a private dance?" He tipped the hat low, let his body move to Rick's

music. He wasn't so good at this part -- the talking part.

"We did." Oh, that voice was like the look. Dark and sharp, with just a hint of an accent. "Don't

talk, Dee. Just dance."

"Yes, sir." Okay, buddy. Close your eyes and listen to the damn music. No thinking.

None.

Except about the money.

And pizza.

Oh... that sounded good.

Maybe mushroom and sausage. Extra cheese.

There was no touching. No inappropriate groping. Just the music and the sound of the big guy

breathing hard and the... unnerving silence from the other one. He could feel those eyes on him.

He really could.

It made him nervous, made his heart race a touch.

Sorta started to make him hard, which was weird as all Hell.

The song ended and another started up, not really Rick's sort of thing, more his own, which was

okay, just a little freaky. But it was a little easier to ride the bronc to. It made him smile, thinking

about bronc riding, about the way horses felt when they were moving and how he had managed

to use that to make money in the big city.

Go him.

There. Now somewhere there at the end of that song he heard a sound, and it wasn't the big guy

whimpering, though that was there too now that he was listening. It sounded like a growl. That

was his last bar on that one, and he had one song to go. That was how it went. Private dance was

three in a row.

The next song was slow, sultry, the house lights going low as George and Hank did their damn

near fucking on stage act. It was surprisingly hot, the guys' relationship new enough that the

emotions weren't faked, weren't fucked up.

Well, that and that black light body paint shit they used in their act was fucking cool.

"Dance, not watch, Dee."

His cheeks just burned and he ducked his head, hiding behind his hat. Great, asshole, blow your

tip. Think sexy, sultry. Think about the shit Ollie taught you about dancing. One more song.

Private Dances - 4

He could still see the guys writhing on stage out of the corner of his eye, though, and it helped

with the rhythm, helped him concentrate on the music so he could get this over with.

The song picked up tempo and his hips followed it, hand sliding up to work the hat, let it dip

low.

He thought it was all gonna go south when the big guy reached for him, because that wasn't

allowed up here and if they got kicked out he'd never get his money, but one of the other guy's

hands shot out, grabbing the big guy's wrist, a rough, foreign sounding word snapping out.

He backed away, stayed closer to the wall, well out of reach until the song ended, the applause

from the main floor loud. Okay. Three songs up. Three songs down. Good money. "Hope you

enjoyed your dance, fellas."

"We did." He could see the glint of a gold ring as the guy, the one with the hot eyes, held out

some bills, waiting for him to come take them.

"Thanks." He moved over, teeth chewing his bottom lip a little. Come on, Dale-man. Get your

pizza money and go. His fingers touched the money. "Y'all have a good one."

"Do you dance again tomorrow?" The man's fingers never touched his, but he didn't quite let go

of the cash.

"No, sir. Friday through Monday. Every week." He had classes tomorrow and Thursday.

Wednesday was all his.

"I see. Thank you, Dee." The money slipped into his palm, just the barest touch of warm, dry

fingers closing his hand around it. "You were most entertaining."

"Thanks." He tipped his hat to both of them, backing out of the door with a smile. "Come back

and see us."

He heard the dark one laugh as he left, would swear he heard an, "Oh, yes. I will."

***

The club was so not his usual thing. Hell, doing business in a club wasn't his thing. Gen had only

gone because Dimitri had insisted, and he'd sort of taken it as an insult, as Dimitri's way of

making a statement about Gen's... oh, what was the best word? Proclivities?

That was before the kid with the chaps came out and made it all better, as far as he was

concerned. Maybe Dimitri wasn't such an idiot after all, and had known there was a bit more

quality to this place than he'd thought. Possibly a lot more.

The private dance was an indulgence, one he usually didn't bother with, but damn. And it wasn't

just him. Dimitri had tried to touch the kid, probably without even thinking about it. Gen had

wanted to himself. He was just a little better at self-control.

BA Tortuga - Private Dances.pdf

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