Page 1 of Sin Deep
1
Winter Love wasn’t giving up anything for Lent; he never had and he never would, but he participated in Fat Tuesday every year as if he planned to starve himself until Easter. He’d pulled on a rich, green shirt, a gold tie, and a brand-new purple and gold masquerade mask for the occasion, and he was looking forward to a night out. Maybe Mardi Gras was a New Orleans tradition, but The Big Apple could give The Big Easy a run for its money.
Along with the New Year’s Eve ball and the Halloween costume party, Mardi Gras was one of his favorite nights at Sin Deep. He’d been a member of the kinky club almost as long as he’d lived in New York. Nearly as long as he’d held his job at the public library. He’d started out as a young man, eager to experience new things, to lose himself in the scene.
Winter studied his boots as he sat in the back of a black sedan. He’d been through countless pairs of chunky, authoritative black boots over the years—boots with buckles or zippers, punk and biker and military style, even a tall pair with silver studs going up the back when that was in fashion. The pair he’d stepped into tonight was new; he’d treated himself as an early fortieth birthday present. They had a nice western heel and toe and the leather was rich and soft. They were more stylish than intimidating, but possibly the most comfortable pair of boots he’d ever owned.
They suited his almost forty-year-old image better too. He wasn’t eager now. He wasn’t cocky like he used to be, or forward, and he wasn’t one to pursue men anymore. He didn’t feast quite like he used to; he’d grown into a man who preferred to taste and savor rather than devour. He’d earned plenty of respect and was one of the establishment members now; he didn’t need to impress anyone. He liked to watch, have a drink, occasionally make an overture…and he was never turned down.
Winter’s car pulled up in front of Sin Deep, and he stepped out onto the sidewalk. The tall, heavy front doors stole his breath for a moment as they always did and he instantly broke out in goosebumps.
Who was he kidding? That confident, forty-year-old club elder was essentially a fantasy. He’d never hunted anything more than a drink at Sin Deep, and although he knew that man intimately in the privacy of his own mind, the persona vanished in a puff of awkward smoke every time he walked through the front doors, leaving little more than a facade behind.
He needed the place though. It was the closest thing to home he’d ever had. He was never more present, more relaxed than when he was here. Sin Deep was his drug of choice, his pleasure and his weakness, and Mardi Gras was always a good party, even for wallflowers.
2
“Lord have mercy, man.” Harley plopped down with a sigh, grinning over at his roommate. “I busted my hump today.”
No one had ever warned him that Yankees were just as bad about ragging the little guy as any bunch of rednecks. He’d done proved himself—he was nothing if not strong as an ox and stubborn as a mule with a burr biting his butthole—but Giorgio and Miguel knew what he could do and drove him like a prize pony.
Paid him damn well for following directions, carrying shit from one place to a truck, then from the truck to another place. All-in-all, he came home with cash, burning muscles, and the knowledge that his muscles didn’t come from a gym.
Today was a harpsichord. Who the fuck used a friggin’ harpsichord? Who moved a goddamn harpsichord?
This little gal with fake boobies, bright pink hair, and a tattoo of a bird on her goddamn face, that’s who.
Oliver snorted. “You bust your hump every day. Jackson told me two things about you. He said we were going to get along great, and he said I would definitely not have to worry about the rent while you were subletting his room. I totally believe him. What do you do for fun?”
“Sleep.” He sprawled out, as far as he could. “Uh…back home I went to a couple bars, hung out, I guess.”
“Exciting.” Oliver rolled his eyes and wandered into his bedroom. The apartment was small enough they could carry on their conversation without even raising their voices. “What is your drink of choice?”
“I drink Bud Light. Shiner if we’re being fancy. I been known to like a margarita too.” But that was something you drank with your momma or your cousins. Not with the guys, which was stupid, but true.
“Oh no, no, no, Harley. Sweetheart. That won’t do. Why don’t you come out with me tonight and let me buy you a real drink?”
That ‘sweetheart’ always made him blush.
He’d come to stay for a couple months just because Jackson swore this was a friendly place, somewhere he could just be him, and he was having a ball. Especially now that Jackson had decided to stay in Rome for another couple-three months, and he could keep on keeping on.
“Yeah? You want to?” He had a pair of pretty clean jeans.
“Yes. Be my date. It will be an adventure. Trust me. Go get dressed.” Oliver came out of his bedroom in his signature skinny jeans and a shiny gold jacket. He didn’t comment on the gold high-heeled booties, but they made Oliver look tall and lean, and there was glitter in Oliver’s short but curly dark hair. “It’s a Mardi Gras party.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay.” He put on his cleanest jeans and a black t-shirt with his leather jacket and his boots. He didn’t wear his Stetson, because he’d learned quick that meant getting knocked around a ton. He had a cap.
“Oh, you look so handsome! No hat? Are you sure? Would you like some glitter for your hair?” Oliver held out a mask covered in purple sequins. “And here. You’ll need this.”
“No glitter, thanks.” Lord, could anyone imagine? “I’ll wear my cap.”
Oliver rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might pop out. “Suit yourself. Take the mask, though. You ready? My Uber is here.”
“I am.” He grabbed his wallet and the mask. “Let’s hasta.”
He did like him an adventure.
The car ride didn’t take that long, but that didn’t mean he had any idea where they ended up. “My guess is you’ve never been to a party like this one, sweetheart. Just stick with me for a bit until you get your bearings.”
