Old Enemies... (S/X)

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Part 4
"Go ahead, buddy," Harris said, smiling just a little into the glass of scotch he was holding. "Seriously, I'm not in the mood to hang around with a bunch of fags and queers tonight." He winked at Elliot, knowing his friend would understand his meaning.
Elliot shook his head and finished his drink. "If I didn't know you swung both ways, that'd almost be insulting," he teased. "There's no law that says you have to get yourself picked up, you know. Come on, Harris. Have a couple drinks, dance a little... it'll be fun. God knows you could use some fun. You've been all 'work-work-work' for the last eight months. Now the book is in, it's coming out tomorrow, and it's time for all good little one-eyed money-makers to shake their thing and cut loose."
Harris laughed loudly and shook his head again. "Maybe tomorrow, El. We can make a night of it." He waggled his brow suggestively and tossed a cocky grin out there. "Maybe I'll even put on the leather," he added, sealing the deal.
"Oh, good," Elliot nearly purred, "I have my collar and leash in my room."
The brunette chuckled and downed the last of the scotch in his glass. "I figured, buddy," he said as he stood. "You give whole new meaning to the phrase 'don't leave home without it' when it comes to your kinks." He winked and ruffled the short blond hair. "Don't stay out too late, and NO riding bareback, no matter how safe you think the guy looks."
Elliot tried to look offended. "Who says there's going to be any riding at all?"
Harris snorted. "Try selling that one to someone who doesn't know you. Now go. Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."
Elliot sighed softly, still smiling as he watched his friend make his way across the lobby to the elevators. He was going to hold Harris to his promise of going out the next night. The guy needed to decompress seriously badly. He could tell. And if that meant he got to wear the leash and eventually be ridden like a pony, then so be it.
He grinned hugely as he went outside to hail a cab.
* * * * *
Elliot leaned against the bar at the club he privately called "Homo Heaven". His first margarita had gone down quickly but now he was nursing the second. He could afford to be either tired or hungover in the morning, but not both. Tired would be more fun, anyway. It would mean he'd gotten lucky and laid.
Of course, standing at the end of the bar wasn't going to get it done, so he pushed away and started circulating, catching bits and pieces of conversation as he roamed.
"Oh, please!" he heard one reasonably attractive man saying to another of the same sort, "He SO wants to be Spark! I mean, just LOOK at him! The eyes, the hair, even the clothes! It would be sad if..."
"If he didn't do it so well," the second guy yelled back in agreement. "Do you think maybe he IS Spark? I mean, the guy he's based on?"
Elliot moved closer and saw the first man roll his eyes. "Honey," the first guy replied, "Look at him. He's WAY too young. Harrison started writing the books like six years ago, right? THAT guy would have been like sixteen and that's just... wrong." He shivered. "No, the Author would never lust after a kid. He's a good guy from what I've read."
Elliot chuckled to himself, leaving the two men to their discussion. 'The Author' he repeated silently. Harris would get a kick out of that. The guy was right, though. Harris would never even think about someone that young. Not even six years earlier. His friend had always gone for older men. A little older, anyway. Of course, he still wanted to check out this guy who supposedly looked like his friend's most popular character. Who knew? Maybe he could get the guy to do some public appearances to promote the new book, assuming he lived up to the hype.
That was when he saw him, and... oh, boy.
His eyes raked over the long, lean body, fascinated by the black denim and the t-shirt stretched tight over lithe, cat-like muscles.
The guys he'd overheard had been completely right, he realized. If there ever was a Spark, this guy could have modeled for him.
Pale, smooth skin, high cheekbones, strong jaw... eyes just the right shade of vibrant blue-- at least he thought so, considering the questionable lighting. The hair platinum and swept back from a high, almost creaseless forehead but for the one small curl that had come away from the rest...
He watched the man for a few minutes then waved over a scantily clad waiter. "The blond," he said, passing the guy a twenty, "Get him a beer on me. Whatever kind that is he's holding. And give him this, too. Tell him I might have a job for him, if he's interested." He handed the waiter his business card then leaned against one of the tall columns going from floor to ceiling. It was as good a vantage point as any.
The waiter sighed and walked towards the bar. "Hey, Mike," he called to the bartender, "Another Beck's Dark for the mystery man." He rolled his eyes.
Mike chuckled and passed him a bottle of the beer. "You're just jealous, sweetie. Nobody's even noticed your new outfit, right?" He chuckled again when the waiter stomped off. Yeah... Sammy was jealous, all right.
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"Oh, bloody hell," Spike growled softly as yet another waiter came over with yet another beer. "Look, mate," he said seriously, "If you an' your lot keep interruptin' me, I'm never goin' ta get anywhere with this bloke, am I?" He tilted his head to indicate the tall, good looking brunette he'd been chatting up. He rested one hand on the prospective 'date's' waist, cocking a brow.
The waiter grinned a little, even as he handed the blond the beer. "Honey, I think you've got a shot at getting EVERYWHERE with that one." He winked saucily. "Besides, as long as you stand around in here, you're gonna get interrupted. You're the best looking thing to walk in here in... weeks. Deal with it."
Spike laughed. "Why, you cheeky bugger! Off with you!" He chuckled loudly as he swatted the waiter on the ass. "Nice pants, by th' way. Where'd you find purple PVC with lace-up sides, anyway? An' do they come in black?"
The waiter grinned even more. "Reversible," he announced, cocking a hip towards the man. "Want to find out?"
Spike shook his head, pulling the brunette he'd been talking to just a little bit closer. "Sorry, mate. Got a thing for tall, dark an' handsome at th' moment. An' I don't rightly care much for a Prince Albert." He nodded down at the obvious thick ring outlined against the front of the tight purple pants. "But thanks for bringin' th' beer."
The short blond waiter sighed softly, then shrugged. "Just doing my job, mister man." He winked again and started to turn away then remembered. "Oh, I'm supposed to give you this, too. From the same guy." He handed over the business card with a sheepish grin. "He says he has a job for you if you want. Um, he seemed to mean a real job, not anything... weird."
With that, he sauntered off, glad someone had actually noticed his pants, even if it was the guy who had everyone so distracted.
Spike shrugged and slipped the card into the pocket of his jeans. He'd look at it later. Right now, though... he cocked his head a bit and looked a couple inches up, meeting the wide brown eyes of the young man beside him. "So, pet... Trevor... what do you say? Care ta spend a night all... tied up, so ta speak?"
Trevor laughed breathlessly. "I, uh... think I could go for that, but... uh, is the eye patch
Spike frowned. "'s just a thing of mine, mate. If you don't want ta, I won't make you... but I think you'd like it and I'd bloody well appreciate it, myself..."
The young man frowned. Even though the blond looked about his own age, he talked... older, somehow. And his eyes... oh, his eyes were anything but young. Lot of baggage there, Trevor realized. More than he wanted to mess around with, anyway.
"I... okay. Eye patch it is." Trevor's smile was a little weak but he doubted the Englishman noticed. "Just... the tied up is metaphorical, right? I mean, you don't want to actually... tie me up, right?"
Bloody hell, the bloke was almost more trouble than he was worth. And surprisingly vanilla, apparently, the whole wanting to take a bloke's cock up his bum thing aside. He was still bloody attractive, but... somehow knowing the kid didn't really know how to play was putting a damper on things for him.
Spike sighed and shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "You know what, mate? I think I might be a bit too much for you. What say we finish our drinks an' our chat an' just move on, 'ey? Think it might be best for th' both of us."
There was a time when he would have lied to the kid and gone ahead and done whatever he wanted once he had him alone and away from any help. Of course, there was a time when he would have fucked him then eaten him and fucked him again, too, so... Spike shrugged and tried not to laugh at the relief pouring in waves from the kid. "Right, then."
They talked about art for a little while, debating the Italian Masters versus the French. Finally, though, their drinks were finished and Spike turned away. "You might consider chattin’ up that last waiter, Trevor," he said in parting. "Think he might be a bit more your speed."
William the Bloody, matchmaker for gay humans. The thought alone pulled a somewhat disgusted snort from him. But the kid was okay. He might have had the look but he for damned sure didn't have the guts of the one he remembered from good old Sunnyhole-in-the-ground.