"Yo, there, buddy. Lookin' for somethin'? Cause I got somethin' for you."
Corbin took a good look at the burly man who had materialized from behind a stack of metal barrels beyond where the light over the alley door into the Christopher Street bar reached. He took a good look, reaching a quick decision because of the overly friendly way the man was extending a hand toward him.
"Ummm, no, I don't think—"
"I could show you a real good time. A tasty little trick like you."
"Sorry, just made a wrong turn back there," Corbin mumbled and backed out of the alley and into the street-lit gay bar district just up from the Manhattan docks.
He stumbled up the street, toward the upper end of the strip. That was where it was. Back there in the alley. He was sure of it. But it was a bad idea to come down here again. What did he think he'd find? And what did he think he wanted to get out of it if he did find it.
"Got a light?" The man was older, maybe in his forties. He'd been quite a looker in his day. Still not too bad. But there was no way he was right. He was built well enough, but not built like Corbin was looking for. Corbin didn't even have to think about seeing it. He was OK . . . and on a normal trip down here . . . maybe before what had happened, what Corbin was now obsessed with finding . . . it would be just fine. But this wasn't what Corbin had come down to Christopher Street to find.
"Aw, come on. I can pay well for the right service. Up front. And I've got a room. It's a nice room. Clean and just here. Just over there across the street." He gestured toward the Christopher Hotel. Corbin knew it well. He knew it had recently been refurbished and the rooms indeed were clean and better than most here on the strip—certainly better than one of the back rooms in most of the bars here. And better even than the one he'd been in three nights ago.
"I was just ready to leave . . . to go on home," Corbin answered. But that wasn't true. He had checked out more than three bars yet and he had been determined to walk the whole strip tonight until he'd found what he was after. He'd steeled himself for this for two day. Had wanted it again for two days. Had thought about little more than having it again, even though it made him shudder to even think about it.
The man came up close and put an arm around Corbin's waist, loosely though, as if not wanting to push him . . . too much . . . but not wanting him to bolt away either.
"Come on, sweetheart," the man whispered in Corbin's ear. "Good money and I give a good ride."
He smelled clean and the musky scent of his cologne was intoxicating. He felt firm. Trim and well dressed. He probably did have a fat wallet.
"I was going to go home. I just wanted to look in at a couple of more bars and then call it a night." It was true that he was going to check some more of the bars—at least that was what he'd planned to do before the encounter in the alley. That had unnerved him a bit. Too much like the other night, but not the right one. Not the right one at all.
"I can ride all night, and good money each time," the man murmured. "You're sweet. The best I've seen down here all night. You want to go into bars, I'll take you into bars. Give you whatever you want to drink. Here's Joey's right here. Come on it and let me buy you a drink."
It had been Joey's Corbin had been in three nights previously, and he indeed had planned to go in there to check. He had had high hopes that that was where he'd find what he was looking for. He'd come all this way down here—ignored what he should do. Go to the police is what he should do. But he'd built up courage to come down here. It would be a pity to cut and run now.
"Well, maybe just one drink. Here in Joey's."
When they entered the bar, Corbin's eyes scanned the room. Not many in here tonight. Very few of the build he thought was right. Several turned their faces toward him and smiled as he came through the door with his smooth-talking, well-dressed forties guy. The men always smiled for Corbin, and most showed interest. The forties guy put a hand on the small of Corbin's back and guided him toward the bar, his eyes also sweeping the room, challenging, claiming territorial rights.
Corbin continued to look, but what he wanted to see was the right-hand wrist of any guy who was anywhere close to the right build. He wasn't seeing what he was looking for.
Later, Corbin was thinking that the refurbishment if the Christopher Hotel hadn't really changed a couple of things that probably should have topped the list in getting fixed. The bedsprings still made that tinny, irritating grating sound and the headboard still thumped against the wall.
The forties guy had been right. He sure could ride. And he could get back in the saddle fast. Corbin lay on his stomach, naked, on the white chenille-covered bed, his hips raised to give the forties guy, knees clutching Corbin's thighs and fists pressing in the hollows below Corbin's shoulder blades, a good angle to bottom out as he seemed to want to do as he rode Corbin's ass.
The guy was good and the cock was thick and long enough, and Corbin didn't have any trouble giving him the gasps and groans and the usual "Yes, fuck me just like that" and "Give it to me good, Daddy," phrases that were expected of him, as he bunched up folds of the coverlet in his fists and thought about what he'd hoped to find down on Christopher Street tonight. And it wasn't this. But this was safe . . . a lot safer than the other. And maybe he could build up the courage to give it another try in the next couple of days.
* * * *
Ethan had never been in New York before, and the buildings soaring overhead, picked out majestically in the gathering twilight, exhilarated him. In fact, having grown up in Vancouver, British Colombia, he had never been on this side of the continent before, having signed on as crew for Ted Gleason's yacht and pretty much just sailed between Gleason's interests in the United States, most of them in Boston, and his preferred home in Bermuda.
What Ethan did know as he was tying the bow of the yacht up to the pier in the shadow of Manhattan skyscrapers is that he wanted to get laid—and bad. When he'd signed on with the
Seaskipper
crew, Liam, one of his fuck buddies from the fishing fleet in Vancouver, had gone east and gotten this cushy job on the yacht. He had enticed Ethan to follow him and he'd been taking care of Ethan's needs. And he done a great job of it—so good that Ted Gleason wanted Liam to take care of his needs too, and now Liam was laid up on land in Bermuda as manager of Gleason's estate.
Ethan had been four days on the
Seaskipper
without getting any. Liam had told him, with a wink, though, that he'd helped take the yacht to New York before, and that all Ethan needed to do was walk up a street called Christopher Street from where the yacht would tie up and he'd get all of the taking care of he needed. Ethan sure hoped so.
He didn't know what guys wore for cruising in New York—or how they signaled their need. But another guy on the crew had warned him that he'd probably not want to wear his working duds—baggy white cargo shorts, hanging low at the waist; a white cut-off T-shirt, showing his hard-muscled midriff; white deck shoes; and gold stud earrings—around this area of the city if he didn't want to get hit on. And so that's exactly what he wore. He just tied off his auburn hair in a ponytail, and didn't bother to shave his four-day beard—mostly because it made him look older than his nineteen years, and he didn't want guys passing him by thinking he was too young—and started walking up Christopher Street from the docks as soon as he saw where it opened up from the water.
He had been warned correctly. He basked in the cat whistles he heard as he sauntered up the street. A group of three black guys waved at him from across the street and started to cross. Ethan had no experience with black guys—and he didn't like the idea of there being three of them—so he waved and shrugged as if he was meeting someone, and then turned and entered the closest bar door to him. A flashing neon sign over the door told him it was Joey's Bar. The black silhouette of a well-built guy was slouching against the "J" of the bar name with his back, so Ethan figured he'd guessed right on what sort of bar this was. As soon as he entered, he knew he was right.
The light was dim, the music was loud, and there was smoke reflecting in the roving multicolored beams of light revolving around the room, which gave the initial impression that the bar was crowded. But when Ethan's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that that wasn't so. Still, most of the attention of the men in the room—of those who weren't already far into making moves on each other—became focused on him.
The three black guys entered the bar and Ethan moved defensively away from the bar and farther into the area with tables as the three bellied up to the bar and, after voicing their drink orders to a bartender, turned toward the room. All three of them were staring at Ethan and smiling. Ethan moved back farther into the table area, until a hand reached out, gripped his wrist, and pulled him into enfolding arms.
"Hello there, sailor," a deep, gruff voice rumbled from the dimness. Ethan found himself drawn into the lap of a bulky, big-boned, heavily muscled bruiser of a man in jeans and a black muscle T-shirt. The man's strong arms encircled him and held him close. Even before more could be said, Ethan could feel the hardness of the man's staff rising at the cleft of his buttocks. The cargo shorts were light-weight material. Part of his Bermuda duds. A large, strong, calloused palm was pressing on Ethan's belly, holding him firmly in place. "Playing sailor today, are we?"
