The Gay Blade

A lot of men had passed through Grant Damont’s life but never one that dripped sex the way this guy did. He had healthy, pink, perfectly sculpted lips that he wanted to own, to taste, to feel deep-throating his cock and sucking him dry. He could tell that he was nothing but a smug, over-confident little jerk, but he had a face and body that would haunt him long into the night, causing his arousal to grow to such lengths he had to push it up some guy’s ass or go screaming into the night like a madman. This little jerk probably played with his partners, tempting them until their senses left them, and then threw them away.

Grant knew this because he’d seen his type before. But it didn’t keep him from fantasizing about him day and night. He attempted to fight the desire, to remain noncommittal—to focus on the job he was here to do—but his eyes kept being drawn back to the swaggering guy’s ass like a magnet. He watched the fluid movement of his muscles, the glitter of his white teeth when he smiled, and the carefree way he laughed along with the customers. God, those dimples would drive him crazy.

Grant knew if they did get together, it would be totally physical because they were complete opposites. Grant was rich. He’d made his money early in life, and at twenty-eight he could sit back and see his investments rise in the stock market. This guy had holes in his clothes and not a cent to his name. Grant was older and wiser while this guy was still young and cocky. With his limited funds he chowed down on hamburgers and French fries while Grant’s riches allowed him to dine on caviar and filet mignon. Sure, he knew this relationship would never work, but just like the forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden—he had to have a bite.

“Who is he?” Grant murmured softly as Shayde, his sister, stepped up to the bar.

“Leave him alone, Grant. He’s nobody, just an out-of-work actor who needs to earn a few bucks.”

“Why the hell do you keep hiring these kids that stay a month and then leave?”

“Kid? How old do you think he is?”

“Early twenties. Probably not even old enough to buy a drink, much less sell them.”

“He’s twenty-five, so I don’t think you can call him a kid.”

“It’s not his age. It’s his type. He could be fifty and still be a kid, especially if he’s an out-of-work actor.”

“God, Grant. Give the guy a break,” Shayde said before she turned and walked away.

Grant quickly looked the other way when he saw him walking toward the bar.

“Tom Collins, martini, and a whiskey sour.”

Grant started making the drinks when he noticed the guy watching him with interest, and said, “What are you looking at?”

“I haven’t seen you around here. You new?”

“No. I come in when it’s busy. Like tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. Relief bartender, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Say, I was wondering. How well do you know the owner of this place?”

“Shayde? Pretty well, why?”

“She looks familiar.”

“She’s an actress. It could be that you’ve seen some of her work.”

“I guess so.” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “Say, uh, I was wondering, you think she’d let me off for a few hours?”

“Why? Got a hot date?”

“I wish. Say, are you and…what’s her name? Shayde? You’re not an item, are you?”

Grant smiled, amused. “An item? Me and Shayde? No, we’re not an item.”

“You think she’d go for someone like me?”

Grant cut a teasing gaze toward him. “No,” he said seductively, “but her brother would.”

“Her brother? She’s got a brother?”

“Yeah. Good lookin’ dude, too.”

“So who the hell are you?”

“Me? I’m Grant Damont—” he smiled and winked, “—the brother.”

“Very funny,” the guy said, grabbing the tray with the drinks on it. “Take a good look at this face, bartender.My name is Paris Clayton. You remember that name because someday I’ll be up there on that silver screen right along with this Shayde dame.”

Grant watched as he turned on his heels and walked away, his eyes, as always, watching his ass move around seductively in his tight jeans. Grant didn’t know if the guy was wearing holes in his clothes because he wanted to be in style or he just didn’t have anything better.

He was wiping down the bar when Shayde stepped up to him and slipped him some bills. “Grant, I need a favor. I need a couple of tickets to Spider-Man. Will you go pick them up for me?”

“Why can’t you call it in?”

“I did. I have to pick them up today or lose them. Now, get down there. I’d get them myself, but you know I can’t leave.”

He threw the bar rag down, untied his apron, and said, “Why? Because in your deluded mind you think these people come here to see you?”

“I’m a celebrity, and I’m what keeps this club going.”

“You’re a celebrity in your own fucking mind. Vampire’s Dreamis nothing but a B movie. Have you ever heard of Ed Woods? He’s Walter Grissom’s idol. That fucker can’t make anything but B movies. Wake up, Shayde.”

“You’re wrong. Vampire’s Dreamwill be a blockbuster at the box office.”

“Maybe, if it makes it that far, but don’t bet money on it.”

“Look, you’ve got a career. What’s so wrong with me wanting one?”

“Mine brings in the money,” he said. “I doubt yours ever will.”

“You bastard. You’ll see. You’ll—”

“Please, let’s not go into that again. Look, I’ll be your errand boy tonight, but after that I’m going home to dress for the evening.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Out to eat, another club—”

“Another club? What’s wrong with this one?”

“I see the same damned faces every night, make the same drinks. I’d like to get out and meet people. Hell, I’d like someone to make a drink for me occasionally. You know I’ll never find anyone if I’m stuck here all the time. Excuse me if I want to see something new once in a while. Don’t expect me until late. And don’t play mama hen and wait up for me.”

“Please,” she said bitterly. “I don’t care if you ever come home.”

“Your concern is touching,” he said and then turned and hurried out of the club, jumped into his silver, low-slung Porsche, and sped down the street on his way to the Ticketmaster.