Rogue Vampires - Vampires Aren't Real Part 2

Chapter Three.

Lights. Camera. Action. I love the smell of gay clubs around the midnight hour. Strobes everywhere in a rainbow of colors, mouth-watering men b.u.mping and grinding, and yep, there are actual cameras too, taking shots of various dancers. There are half-a-dozen in town, and we'd been to all but one -- a new kid on the block, and what looked like the best one ever.

Babylon, eat your heart out. You might be the biggest, but you ain't the best.

Contrary to expectations, a lot of gay clubs will let a woman in without the bouncers changing their oh-my-G.o.d-kill-me-now att.i.tudes of total boredom. Unclick the rope and I walk right in, no fuss, no muss.

They probably think I'm a lesbian or a tranny, or possibly the acceptance has something to do with leading Dusty on a black leather dog's leash. Once inside, some men treat me like estrogen is contagious, but most of the guys are live and let live and love it when I get my groove on on the dance floor. They don't go for the t.i.ts, but I get more gropes to the a.s.s than Charmin gets squeezes. Doesn't bother me.

What? Would anyone sane complain about hunkalicious men showing some hands-on appreciation? Besides, see my earlier comment about how gay and bi men respect the female a.s.s.

Dusty loves this kind of place so much he started bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet when we walked through the doors. Warren gritted his teeth. "Gilly, do you think this is a good idea? It's past midnight and my G.o.d, where do you put all the alcohol and why aren't you even a little tipsy?"

"Natural talent, Cap'n." I blew him a kiss. Didn't completely erase his frown, but the turn of his mouth flickered upside-down for a sec. "Come on. You don't want to dance, don't dance. We'll find some seats at the bar, which you can hold for us while Dusty and I go knock our socks off."

"We're not wearing socks, Gilly."

"Figure of speech, sugar. But hmm, good idea. Kick off your boots."

"I like these boots."

"So do I. Who wouldn't?" A s.e.xy pair of steel-toed s.h.i.t-kickers gives a man a definite rrawr look. "I want to see my slave boy go barefoot."

"The sign says no shoes, no shirt, no service," Warren pointed out.

I rolled my eyes. "Pedant. If you'll look around, ninety-nine percent of the men here are completely shirtless. I don't think anyone's going to kick Dusty out for bare tootsies."

"You won't let anyone tromp on my feet?" Dusty asked dubiously.

"If they do, I'll kick 'em in the nuts." I preened in my own footwear, white leather domme boots up to the thigh with four-inch-long stiletto heels. "I won't kick with the blunt end, either."

Dusty and Warren both went pale. Honestly. I wasn't threatening them. Men and their common bond of sympathy when it comes to a crotch-shot. I tugged Dusty's leash. "Come, boy. Take those shoes off. Now."

"Yes, Mistress." Dusty grinned wide and toed off his boots. He held them up for approval and I nodded. "What do you want me to do with them?"

"Carry the boots under your arm for now. When we find a table -- ah-ha, I see three spots at the bar, so hustle your a.s.ses -- we'll put them under your chair. Move, boys, move!" I helped them along with a hand to the middle of each one's back, maybe using a touch more strength than I usually pretended to have, and we got there just in time to beat out a bear who really should have reconsidered the not-shaving option and his hopefully legal twink.

They shot us death glares. I gave them my best sunny smile and swung daintily up into my, my, my bar stool. That's the were in me. Graceful and protective as h.e.l.l of my territory. Apparently they were the sort who are terrified by double-X chromosomes, because they scrambled fast enough to leave cartoon clouds of dust in their wake. Metaphorically.

As Warren and Dusty claimed a bar stool on either side of me, I flagged down the 'tender. Ooh, yummy. Had a sort of George Clooney look to him, maybe twenty years younger and fine as good wine. Gay as pink ink and seriously easy on the eyes. "What can I get you gentlemen... er, and you, miss?"

I don't b.i.t.c.h about "miss" versus "ms.," and I can deal with "ma'am" if the speaker is looking up while on their knees. This guy had a sort of old-world courtesy you don't often find these days. Fluid as flowing water, smile like we were old friends, and holy momma s.e.xy hands.

"Slippery Nipple," I said sweetly, to see how he'd react.

"You don't look like the type to want mixed drinks."

A point for him, a definite point. "You're good," I approved.

He winked at me. I liked him more and more by the second. "How about a

martini? Cla.s.sy, some might say erotic, and we have some great quality gin with a bite drier than the Sahara."

Pretty, smart and well-spoken. If I didn't already have my hands full with Dusty and Warren, I'd have asked him to try a swinger's night. He probably wouldn't want me, but hey, I have no problem with sitting back and watching. "Martini it is."

"Shaken or stirred?"

"Go with the James Bond cla.s.sic."

"And for the gentlemen?" Hmm. An amorous glance at my boys. Maybe the

swingers' night wasn't out of the question. "Coffee, tea, me?" Okay, move that from a question to a definite possibility. "We're with her," Warren informed him with a scowl. "Both of us." "Lucky lady." He took my hand in a super-smooth move for a kiss on the back of my knuckles. I enjoyed the thrill. Warren's lips tightened. Dusty watched with the eagerness of a soap opera fan for the next thrilling twist. "First round is on the house. What would the gentlemen care to drink?"

"Give Dusty the Slippery Nipple." I wrapped my boy's leash around my wrist. "The grouchy one can tell you what he wants himself."

"Beer." Warren clipped the word off like a bullet. "Australian."

"Coming right up. By the way, if you need anything my name's Dmitri." Dmitri bowed and went to do the mixing and shaking bartenders do best. I enjoyed the view while he stood with his back turned -- hey, I'm committed, not blind -- and entertained myself with fantasies about our own personal Zorba the Greek.

Warren scowled and turned around on his bar stool to watch the crowd of humping, pumping, mostly-naked and sweaty-gleaming men. A cornucopia of riches. Trouble is, Warren can't dance and he knows it for a fact. The man has less rhythm than a Weeble, although he does do all right with slow songs. Those are basically hugging someone and swaying.

Slow songs are, however, in short supply in gay rave clubs. Right then they had something electronically techno blasting, seriously hot ba.s.s line with pounding drums, and I was ready to get out there for some sweet funky. I stood up and pulled Dusty along behind me. "Come, dollface. Our public awaits."

"We're dancing?" Dusty perked up. "What about our drinks?"

"They'll keep. Warren can watch them until we take a break."

"Okay." Pause. "What's a Slippery Nipple?"

I pretended to mouth an explanation he couldn't hear over the boom-boom-boom of the music. Dusty, bless his heart, smiled and nodded and followed like a good puppy.

One tiny if curvaceous woman leading six-feet-plus of ripped male perfection onto a gay dance floor does draw a few stares. I like to think some of them were due to my outfit, which consisted of nothing more than incidental, matching underwear and the translucent blouse, which hung down to a couple inches above my boots. Satisfied with the impression we'd made, I gave Dusty enough leash length to jive properly and wound the rest around my wrist.

I'm not the best dancer ever, but I'm not shabby and frankly, a few undulations and some suggestive gestures (thank you, Madonna; you're good for something after all) while holding a prime piece of man meat by a strap of leather while he goes to town works just fine. Dusty, for his part, dances like a gay Swayze with an extra dollop of habanera-hot s.e.xuality.

"G.o.d, this is fun!" I read his lips as saying. Didn't really need to hear the words, though. His huge grin and the shine in his eyes said it far better: "Wheeeeeeee!" I'd have mussed up his hair if I hadn't been going for the big bad domme look. As it stood, I took him by the chin and gave him a shake. He brightened further, almost glowing. My darlin' thrives on knowing he's done good.

Now, what would he look like when f.u.c.king Dmitri? Dusty switches, so I was able to develop nice mental images of my man both on top and bottom. Would Dmitri have a good c.o.c.k? I'd have laid odds he did. Men that carefree are usually easy-going because they don't have anything to prove. Which could mean anything anywhere else, but in a gay dance club it's usually got to do with d.i.c.k size.

A hand, presumably belonging to one of the dancers behind us, landed on my shoulder. A big, thick hand with the weirdly contrasting long fingers of a pianist. I would have delivered a backwards kick, but he intrigued me enough to turn around and see who had the b.a.l.l.s to interrupt.

That was my first big mistake.

The second was probably failing to choke down my hoot of laughter. Now, I've seen it all and done most of everything during my not-so-innocent life, but this guy took the cream gateau. Glossy black hair falling past his shoulders -- either a really good dye job or great genes -- huge dark eyes, skin so pale it was the blue-white of skim milk, and, going back to jeans, filled out painted-on 501's fit to make anyone tongue-tied with l.u.s.t.

That wasn't what made me crack up. The funny part was the long black Dracula cape he wore along with a red lipstick circle around Magic Marker "bite marks" on his neck.

I mean, please. Hot does not mean you can get away with that kind of s.h.i.t without looking like an a.s.s.

He smiled, sweet yet confident, a nifty mix between Dusty and Warren. "Mistress, may I borrow your slave for the next dance?"

Getting all flattered by being called "Mistress." Third major screw-up. The idea sprang into mind that pa.s.sing over Dusty's leash and sashaying off the dance floor would look h.e.l.la cool popped into my mind and without even thinking I handed over the reins. "Be my guest, but bring him back in one piece. I'll be at the bar."

Mr. Tall, Dark and Strange inclined his head, the picture of politeness. "Thank you, Mistress. I'll bring him back in one piece."

I didn't even ask Dusty if he was okay about dancing with a stranger. My shy Dusty, who needs a lot of hand-holding and rea.s.surance. I still wonder why I didn't see the Clue Stick hovering above my head, ready to smack me one that would knock some sense back in my head. Either way, it missed and I made my way to the bar without a backward glance.

Warren was still sunk in a grouch, but also halfway done with a sinfully dark beer. I slid into my seat, picked up the martini -- it even had an olive -- and took a sip. My mouth puckered. Dry? f.u.c.k, it turned my tongue to parchment. G.o.d bless Dmitri, though, who'd left a gla.s.s of water on the bar as well.

Satisfied, I turned to Warren and dug my elbow into his ribs. With love. "First slow dance up is yours, big man. With me or with Dusty, whoever you want."

"Looks like Dusty's already spoken for." Warren glowered. He gets jealous. I followed his line of sight and, h.e.l.l, what I saw startled me. The stranger had Dusty's leash wound tight enough to nearly choke the poor guy, but Dusty wore a look of stoned bliss, head tilted back, neck arched and eyes closed. He moved slower than the music's tempo called for. For his part, the stranger swayed in a way that gave me the creeps. Couldn't figure out why.

d.a.m.n my fritzing Clue Stick. It picked a h.e.l.l of a time to short out.

"Hey." I nudged Warren. "Don't worry. You know Dusty. He's just in the moment. He'll give the guy a great big smile, or possibly a hug, take his leash back and come join us when the song's over."

Warren grumbled something.

"Say again?"

"I hate it when you two screw around with those leash games," he growled before tossing back a chug of beer like a shot of whiskey. "I mean, where does playing master and slave get fun?"

"Easy, tiger. You mentioned the key word. Playing. Lighten up, huh?"

"Dusty doesn't think you're just goofing off."

I boggled. Yes, sad to say, I did gawp at him. "What?"

"Dusty..." Warren shrugged. "He talks to me, sometimes, when you're not around. The guy seriously gets off on taking orders. He'd probably lick those hooker boots if you asked."

Temper: on the rise. "Hooker boots? Lick them?" I put my martini on the bar and hopped down to get in Warren's face. "Want to rephrase your statement about my wardrobe choices?"

His face turned stone cold and silent as the grave.

"f.u.c.k you too!" I grabbed his beer, fully intending to dump it in his lap. Honey or no, there are some things you don't let a man get away with. "Where the h.e.l.l do you get off insulting me and implying I'm turning Dusty into a slave-boy junkie?"

"All I'm telling you is the truth, Gilly. Face the facts."

"Uh-uh. That's your job, Warren. You like cold, hard logic. I like having fun. You see the big difference here? Last time I checked, you liked my being a free spirit. I seem to recall you using those exact words. So one more time, Warren -- what the f.u.c.k's crawled up your a.s.s?"

I thought Warren would dodge the question again, but instead he looked back at me. Well, first at my b.o.o.bs, then above my head, but still. "Gilly, you can't play forever.

You have to grow up some time. If you're going to be part of a creative team for a network show, you have to change."

"Uh-huh. Yeah." I know a lot about changing, for one, and I can play nice when I want to. I got on the crew of Joe because I was outrageous and quirky and they thought I'd be a great resource for pop culture and colorful characterization. I decided to put rainbow streaks in my hair as soon as I could lay hands on some Manic Panic and possibly get a few more parts of my anatomy pierced.

I don't respond well to challenges. Sorry.

"Gilly," Warren said, his eyes turning old and weary. I really didn't like the look. It didn't suit him, and it pulled in a flood of worry about his giving up on his own dreams. "Someone has to keep you two out of trouble. Help me out and grow up. Be the woman I know you can be."

I had no idea what to say. Zippy wit doesn't work well for moments like those. Warren leaned forward and kissed me gently as a b.u.t.terfly wing, then slipped off his bar stool. "Keep the beer and watch our seats. I'm going to go take care of my guy."

Like a puppet without the necessary hand up its a.s.s, I stayed put, mostly out of shock.

And so I had a really good view of the action as it unfolded.

Warren strode through the crowd of dancers, who parted before him like a reenactment of the Red Sea. He got more than his fair share of awed glances and some admiring salutes -- the whole military man thing, I guess. Men generally go uber-weak in the knees over someone who's had the nerve to buck "don't ask, don't tell," and hey, tall and s.e.xy doesn't hurt, either.

He reached Dusty, still tranced out as a flower child. He didn't bother with the niceties, just grabbed Dusty and hauled him backwards. There was an awkward moment where I feared for Dusty's air supply, but then the stranger let go of Dusty's leash and held his hands up in the universal see? I'm harmless gesture. Or possibly the please don't hit me one. Kind of hard to tell sometimes.

They started to talk. I picked up my martini gla.s.s to have something to grip. Maybe not the best idea, since I lose control of my strength when I'm stressed and gla.s.s has a nasty tendency to shatter, but hey, I wasn't thinking too straight and I figured I'd be all right.

And I was, until a second strange hand gripped my shoulder. I screeched and whirled around, going for the drink-toss this time.

"s.h.i.t!" Dmitri's eyes were squeezed shut as rivulets of gin ran down his cheeks.

"Oh, my G.o.d. I am so sorry. Is there a towel around here? Not the one you use to polish the bar. Please, don't be blind now."

Dmitri mumbled something in Greek and fumbled under the bar. He came out with a fresh white cloth and mopped his face. He blinked a few times and looked kind of red and puffy, but he was laughing. "Remind me never to startle you again. You've got a mean aim, miss."

"Call me Gilly. I think after a.s.saulting you with vermouth you're ent.i.tled to use my name when you yell at me."

"I'm not going to yell." Dmitri gave his chin a final swipe to clear off the last of his martini facial and switched from "tickled" to "concerned." "I wanted to give you a head's up. The Dracula wannabe dancing in the middle of your two guys isn't exactly the kind of person you want to tangle with."

"They're both dancing?" I turned halfway to check for myself, and be d.a.m.ned if both Dusty and Warren the Mighty weren't toking off the same buzz-pipe then, rocking back and forth while the man I labeled "Dracula" did his weird little sinuous sway.

A snake. f.u.c.k. That's what he reminded me of. Not an innocent-type corn snake or blacksnake, but more of a cobra charming its keeper instead of the other way around. "Dmitri, want to tell me what's happening out there?"

"I'm not sure." Dmitri's accent slipped out, probably a sign of nervousness, which in turn amped up my own antsiness. "The guy comes in here around once a month, and he leaves with a new man every time. I figured he had some special trick for getting lucky, but..."

Pauses in this kind of sentence are never, ever good. "But what?" I demanded. I still had Dusty's untouched Slippery Nipple to use as ammunition if necessary. "Either finish what you're saying or feel my wrath. I'm not in the mood for ellipses."

Dmitri rolled his drying cloth into a twist and tugged at both ends. He glanced from me to my menfolk and back again, ping-ponging to keep an eye on everyone. "I don't want to scare you, okay?"

"Uh-huh. You realize that now I'm f.u.c.king terrified and I'm going to rip off your arm and beat you to death with the b.l.o.o.d.y end if you don't talk? Talking would be good."

"Jesus. You mean it, don't you?"

"Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."