Chapter 61 Levi #2
The elevator is the plain steel box they put in for Mickey’s wheelchair, back past the swinging door where the kitchen noise covers everything. There’s a sign on it that says ‘Staff Only’. I check the hall both ways like a man in a heist movie and hit the button.
The doors open on darkness, and a hand takes a fistful of my shirt and hauls me in.
My back hits the wall with Dante’s mouth already on mine and the elevator doors grinding shut. I’m laughing into the kiss, and then he takes the laugh too. He gets the hat off me one-handed, whispering Levi in my ear. His thigh pushes between mine for half a second — then it’s gone.
Without a single word he drops to his knees right on the damn floor, unzips me, and pulls my cock out.
Dante’s warm mouth, wet heat, the full filthy slide of it.
He takes me deep, no teasing, just steady, hungry suction while the steel box hums and the kitchen noise stays safely on the other side of the doors.
One hand braces on my hip, the other strokes the base of me in time with his mouth.
“Fuck, Dante… fuck. Oh my God. What are you doing?”
I’m already wrecked, one fist buried in his hair, the other braced against the wall so I don’t fall. Every promise he typed tonight, delivered right here on the floor of Mickey’s elevator.
He doesn’t stop. He takes me all the way there — tight throat, relentless rhythm — until I come hard, shaking against the wall.
He swallows every drop, clean, leaving nothing behind.
Then he pulls off, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and reaches past me to hit the button.
Light cracks in. He sets my hat back on my head, squares the brim, and smooths his own hair down with one pass of his hand.
Not a strand out of place. Not a crease in his shirt.
“Nice meeting you, stranger,” he says, and steps out into the noise. “See you around.”
The doors start to close on me still standing there with shaky legs.
I catch them with one hand, tuck myself away, and walk back into the bar.
Not one soul looks up. Dante’s already back at the bar, Sheila sliding another bourbon in front of him.
He lifts it and takes a sip, giving me a cool, bored look over the rim.
Tonight’s a joke we’re both inside, in a room full of people standing guard over it. No press, no Freddie, nobody watching but a family whose job tonight is to look the other way and grin while they do it.
Sheila got buried the second the bus doors opened, so Benji appointed himself her salvation, plus a one-man cabaret, in the same breath.
He’s got a tray balanced on one hand, glitter at his temples, taking orders off a table of session players like he’s hosting the Grammys.
When he reaches mine, he plants the empty tray on his hip.
“What can I get the famous Mr. Streeter?” he says, loud, eyes dancing.
“A beer’s fine.”
“Fine,” he repeats, scandalized. “Absolutely not. Tonight you are the centerpiece, and centerpieces get dressed.” He’s already turning to go, but on the pivot he leans down close in my ear, drops the bright act for half a second, and whispers, “Did you find the elevator?” Then he’s sweeping toward the next table, throwing one last look back at the corner, at Dante, with an eyebrow that says everything the family’s too decent to say out loud.
The conspiracy, in eyeliner, carrying a drink tray.
Minutes later, a drink the colors of a Gulf sunset lands in front of me, garnished within an inch of its life.
“It’s called a Bertha’s Revenge,” Benji says.
“There are eight limes in this building tonight and six of them are on your glass, so you will drink it facing the room. I don’t spend garnish on a man who hides his glass.
” He leans in closer again. “There’s no alcohol in it.
You might need stamina tonight. I see what you two are up to. ”
I drink it facing the room and try not to make a face while I do.
The taste reminds me of a key lime pie. Not necessarily in a good way.
It’s later, in a lull, that Benji lands beside me at the end of the bar while I’m signing for the bill.
He’s restocking glasses, close enough that the words belong to just the two of us.
His volume goes down and the speed stays up.
“By my latest count, you’ve signed eleven napkins, four hats, and one human forearm tonight, and you smiled at every single one of them like they were first in line.
I count things. It’s a neurotic condition.
Mickey does it too, so we understand each other.
” Then the bright drains off him. “I want to say one thing quick while I have a chance. I saw what it did to him when he found out who you really were. He answered me with the word ‘fine’ eleven times in eighteen hours. He showed houses like nothing was wrong and went home and sat in that sad apartment with a packet of paperwork. I’ve known him since I was twenty-one, and I’ve seen him go cold plenty of times. I’ve never seen him like that.”
He squares the glass bin and hesitates.
“He’d hate that I told you. I’m telling you anyway, because I see your heart.
Whatever the two of you are building, stake it down like a tent you can’t afford to watch blow away.
He’s one of a kind. I can’t fix anything and I’m not trying to.
I just needed you to hear the part he’s never going to say.
Be good to him. He deserves it. And by the way, your music is growing on me.
The concert was a blast! Can’t wait until the next one! ”
Then he’s gone, calling out a drink order from memory.
Somewhere in the thick of it, it settles on me.
Tex is four sentences deep into a brand-new story, Big Bertha’s smoking the entire beach, Benji’s sparkling like a birthday candle in the middle of it all, and Dante’s pretending to scroll listings while he waits on my next text.
This is what I want in my life. Not the stage or millions of fans.
This right here. I want the people here.
I want it for good too. Not one stolen Tuesday that ends when the bus pulls out.
All of it. For keeps.
Sheila waves me over after midnight and leans on the bar. “How are you doing tonight, baby?”
“I’m good, Sheila. Thank you for putting up with my crew tonight.”
“It’s a good night. Another one on you.” She cuts her eyes toward the end of the bar where Dante is nursing a drink. “Remember back when I said you needed to work harder for that one?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sure do. Thank you for the advice.”
“Don’t let your foot off the gas. You’re not at the finish line yet. But we’re rooting for you, baby. Make Mama Sheila proud. You can call me that now.” She pats my hand and goes back to work. “You’re one of my boys.”
Eventually last call comes and everybody pretends not to hear it.
Since I brought the crew here, I figure it’s my responsibility to get them out.
The bus slowly reloads with people who’ll wake up hungover.
Every one of them clutching a bottle of water Benji presses on them at the door like a parting gift.
Stormy starts wiping down the mahogany bar.
At the corner table, the black-haired stranger stands, stretches, decides to call it a night. He passes close on his way out. Doesn’t stop. Just slow enough, for half a second, that only I can hear it under the noise.
“Out back,” he whispers. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
He’s gone into the parking lot as if we’ve never met. And I’ve got to stand here, shake six more hands, sign a cocktail napkin, be Lee Streeter with everything in me aimed at the door.