Chapter Ten Cruising, dir. by William Friedkin #3
“All right, time to change things up a bit,” the DJ says, one song seamlessly blending into the next. “Everyone, I want you
to please welcome to the stage your favorite drag triplets, Mary, Kate, and Ashley!”
Another Lady Gaga hit rocks the club just as Eli gets his drink order.
He carefully does his best to balance the three cocktails in hand as he turns around.
The rest of the club gets into the performance, throwing dollar bills at the trio, all of them dressed in bloody knitted sweaters and blonde bobs à la Drew Barrymore from her opening kill in Scream .
One twink rushes past Eli, angel wings knocking right into him, causing Eli to stumble into another person, and—more importantly—spill
two of the drinks all over himself.
Only Patricia’s is spared.
“Ah, dude...” he groans.
But the guy doesn’t even notice. He just takes the hand of the man next to him and pulls him to the dance floor.
“You okay?” a voice asks, one that might normally sound low and mysterious but, thanks to the volume of the music, is booming.
And yet, somehow, still sensual. A firm hand grips Eli’s bicep in an effort to keep him from totally falling to the sticky
floor.
“Yeah!” Eli shouts back. “Thanks. The glove makes it hard.” He sets Patricia’s drink on the counter and reorders Rose’s, deciding
he doesn’t need that whiskey sour, pulling off the knife glove while he’s at it and abandoning it on the bar.
“Do you need any help?” the mysterious man asks.
That’s when Eli sees the man truly for the first time. Strong, taller than Eli by at least a foot, and dressed in a black
jumpsuit, his cherub mask pushed to the top of his head so that Eli gets a full look at his handsome face, a line of scruff
running along a jawline that Eli’s sure would cut him if he traced it.
“Are you the killer from Valentine ?” Eli can’t help but ask.
“Oh, yeah!” The guy seems surprised. Eli swallows when he realizes just how pretty the man is. It seems so unfair, with his
neat hair, eyes as sharp as his nose, plump lips. “You’re the first person to get that.”
“I love that movie.”
“Me too. I mean... you probably could’ve guessed,” he says with an awkward smile.
Eli feels that fluttering in his stomach.
Despite the jumpsuit covering 90 percent of the man’s body, there’s no doubting that underneath he’s strong.
Almost as if the outfit would rip if he flexed the right way.
And it’s so easy for Eli to pictures the muscles, glistening with sweat from the heat of the packed club.
“So... do you need help carrying those?” The man nods to the two drinks. “Unless you don’t want to share them.”
“Oh, I mean... they’re for my friends. Not for me.” He puts out the feelers. Okay, so maybe he didn’t want to come out
tonight, but if it means he gets to leave with a beefy guy like the one in front of him, he certainly won’t complain.
At the very least, that means he gets to leave the club early.
One eyebrow goes up. “Just friends?”
Eli nods, biting at his bottom lip. “Yep. Just friends.”
“Well, let’s go meet them.”
The man takes the drinks for Eli, following as Eli navigates around the dance floor again, finding their table miraculously
still free, which is impressive considering that Rose and Patricia are nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, well... they were here,” Eli says, his voice a little softer now that they’re further away from the speakers.
“That’s okay,” the stranger says. “Now I get you all to myself.”
“Someone’s a flirt.” Eli sets his hand on the table.
And the man puts his on top of it, wrapping Eli in this safe web. “Only with guys as cute as you.”
“Pfft, I bet you say that to everyone you meet.”
“No, I don’t,” the man dares to say.
For a moment, Eli weighs his options. He hadn’t even wanted to come out tonight, and yet, here he is, standing in front of
a man who is very interested in him. And Eli’s just as interested.
He’s always had a thing for men bigger than him, who look like they could throw him around given the opportunity.
Hopefully in a sexual context. Though he’s never gone on the internal journey to really parse out what that means exactly.
So why is there this voice at the back of his brain that he doesn’t have the time to listen to, not when a strong hand is
placed at the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss? The stranger’s lips taste like honey and whiskey, the flavor bitter
on Eli’s tongue as it slips so easily into his waiting mouth.
He leans against a nearby column, letting Eli fall forward, almost into his lap where he can feel the growing erection underneath
the jumpsuit.
The same hand along his neck drifts up, tangling in Eli’s curls, scratching at his scalp slowly, comfortably, luring Eli in
as Beyoncé sings about a boy blowing up her phone, and the song pauses to play the call between Drew Barrymore and Ghostface.
Eli barely has time to consider where the man’s other hand is going as it leaves his cheek before he feels it firmly on his
ass.
He also can’t help the gasp that escapes past his lips.
“I wasn’t lying,” the man says, his voice warm in Eli’s ear.
“What?”
“When I said I don’t call just anyone ‘cute.’”
Eli takes Rose’s drink from the table, some melon liquor and lemon juice cocktail colored a toxic neon green, then he downs
it in a single shot, cherry and all.
“Well, I’ve never met a serial killer I’ve wanted to sleep with before,” Eli teases, pulling the cherub mask on top of the
stranger’s head down. “So I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Oh!” The man laughs, situating the mask more fully on his face. “Does this do something for you? The mask?”
“Maybe.” Eli’s head already feels fuzzy, and he remembers that he didn’t even eat lunch today and none of them thought to
grab dinner before they headed out, so the alcohol is rolling around in an empty stomach. “But we can leave it off for the
time being.”
“Agreed.” The man takes the mask off with a single pull, discarding it on the table, totally forgotten.
“Makes it easier to kiss you.” He traces a finger along Eli’s jaw until he reaches Eli’s chin, putting forth just enough pressure to get Eli to tilt his head up toward him, giving the chance for their lips to meet again. This time there’s
a fever to the kiss, a heat that boils Eli’s stomach. He moves his legs ever so slightly, doing his best to straddle the man
despite their verticality, his thigh rubbing against the length in his pants.
Fuck me , Eli thinks, barely able to form a coherent thought.
He dares to let his hands find the stranger’s chest, feeling the solid muscles underneath. He wants this stranger. It’s been
months since he last felt the touch of another man, and he’s hornier than he wants to admit, even to himself.
He wants to go back to this man’s apartment, let him do whatever he wants to Eli’s body, painting him in harsh purple marks
as his teeth graze his skin. He wants to follow him back to his bed, to walk home sore tomorrow. He wants to take him into
the bar bathroom, eagerly locking the door behind them.
He wants it all.
So why does it feel so wrong? Why does his stomach twist and churn, why does he feel so...
Guilty.
That’s the word.
“Come on.” The stranger takes Eli’s hand.
“Wait, I...” Eli tells him. “My friends.”
The stranger smiles. “We don’t have to leave the club to have a little fun.” His voice is low. “I’m not sure I could make
it back to my place anyway.”
Going pliant in the man’s grip, Eli allows himself to be led toward the exit, veering off into the tight hallway to enter one of the bar bathrooms. Eli’s never been this type of person before.
Sure, there were times that he and Keith hooked up when the setting was less than opportune.
They’d had to keep their voices down while Eli was fucking Keith in his dorm once, another person on the other side of Keith’s bedroom door during a party.
But he’d never done anything publicly; he’s never thought of himself as an exhibitionist, and perhaps he’d never even consider
this if the melon liquor wasn’t working its way through his system.
The moment the door opens and he’s pulled inside the single-person bathroom, his ass planted on the cool seat of the toilet,
he feels himself sober up. Despite that ache in his thighs, that heat pooling in his stomach, despite how vulnerable he feels
in this man’s arms as he’s pulled in for yet another kiss, only one name comes to his mind through his admittedly horny fog.
Peter .
What would he think about Eli if he walked in? Would he feel betrayed? Would he feel hurt?
And Eli has to ask himself why Peter would even care. They’re not dating.
They’re not.
It’s all fake. It’s all for Peter. It’s all for those articles.
But that doesn’t absolve the guilt.
The man huffs, unzipping his jumpsuit in one fluid motion, letting the top half fall to his waist. For a moment, Eli wants
to run his tongue down the hairy trail that disappears below the zipper, and he can’t ignore how obvious it is that this man
came out to the club without an inch of underwear on, no waistband to be seen.
“Ah, fuck...” The man’s hand goes to Eli’s curls, urging his aching mouth further and further to wrap around him.
But even as Eli wants to lose himself in the moment, to become someone other than himself just so he can enjoy the experience,
he just can’t.
He can’t bring himself to do it.
“I...” Eli lets his hands drop from the jumpsuit.
“What are you waiting for, cutie?” The man’s voice is so much clearer in the privacy of the bathroom.
“I, uh... I’m trans,” he whispers. Not what he meant to say, but it’s—unfortunately—pertinent information. Normally he
couldn’t be bothered to out himself, to “warn” the guy, but he doesn’t want to set an expectation that might lead to him getting
hurt if it isn’t met. He’d already taken the time to formulate an escape plan if one was needed, noting that the door would