Cal has water, not wanting to risk that the bartender will interpret iced tea as a beverage that should hail from Long Island. Anya and Zac order rum—the one spirit Cal actively loathes the taste of—and are very clear with the waiter that if they’re not there to immediately drink anything put in front of them, he’s not to leave anything on the table at all.
Cal wants to tell them that it’s all unnecessary—he’s okay, he’s stable again, he’s used to it—but there’s a warm flush of pleasure in his chest at their concern.
Even so, they don’t get trashed, not the way they would’ve if Cal wasn’t with them. They stop after a couple of shots each, and Cal has to work hard to convince them to have another round. Yes, it sometimes unsettles him to see other people getting drunk, but he’d rather they get this out of their systems now, while he’s available to take care of them, than on their own, when they might be tempted to do...well, whatever it usually is they would do.
Zac’s always laid-back and filthy when he’s drinking, loose and languid, his long limbs draped over anything that’ll stand still. He’s warm and inviting and his heavy-lidded gaze has a soft buzz of electricity humming through Cal’s body. Cal’s used to that. By contrast, Anya is bouncy, loud and giggly, her long tawny hair going every which way, hiking her skirt up to show him a bruise on her thigh where she banged her leg on a drawer the other day. Cal’s not remotely used to that, and his cock is half-hard long before she climbs into his lap to whisper something in his ear that he can’t make out over the music. She bursts into laughter when he gives her a confused look.
Finally she resorts to yelling: “Dance with me!”
Cal’s better at waltzing than he is at grinding, but he agrees. She’s all over him on the dance floor, hands in his hair, her hips rubbing against his own. He’s practically granite in his pants but he can’t relax, too worried about cell phones that might be taking grainy video of Hyde’s bassist rubbing his dick against his bandmate’s wife. Anya releases him with a teasing pout when the song ends, and Cal turns to see Zac approaching, shaking his head knowingly as he eases into the space Cal leaves behind. Cal retreats upstairs to their private alcove and drinks his ice water. The song playing is a good one; he closes his eyes and lets himself relax into the music.
It’s not so bad. He can do this. He isn’t exactly comfortable, because he didn’t like clubbing even when he was young and drinking heavily. He doesn’t dare let his guard down—he refuses to acknowledge that the empty shot glasses on the table even exist—but it’s fine. He’s not going to break, and seeing them enjoy themselves even makes it a little bit fun.
When he feels steadier, he leaves the booth and goes to stand at the metal banister overlooking the dance floor. He leans on the railing, watching Anya twist in Zac’s arms to the beat, her shiny red dress reflecting the strobe lights so that Cal never loses track of them. For all the shit they give Zac about dancing like he’s fucking ghosts, in the right time and place, it’s hot. He can do things with his hips that are obscene, and Cal keeps thinking about Zac’s body moving the same way as he fucks his wife.
What it would feel like to have Zac move like that against him? Inside him, even. Maybe. Cal’s never done that, never realized he might want to. His mouth goes dry. He can’t stop watching them. Not like a creepy stalker. He’s just watching them because they’re beautiful, and so he sees it when both Zac and Anya cue in on the same man: a lean blond dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket. Cal can’t make out much of his face from up here, but he’s definitely looking back. He tips his head to one side, a question. An invitation.
There’s a hiccup of time, a stalled-out half motion of hesitation. Cal’s heart clenches like a fist, and then Anya and Zac turn, virtually as one, and start toward the edge of the dance floor even though the song hasn’t ended. They make their way to the stairs and start climbing.
Cal fades back into the shadows of the VIP area, his throat tight, some strange mixture of jealousy and trust and gratification tied up in a knot in his chest. They’re taking care of him, giving him what he needs even when they think he won’t see, and that’s so—hell, that makes him warm all over. But he also knows they need it, that saying yes to a man like that blond is as intrinsic to them as their need to party like this, to get lost in the whirl of alcohol and strobe lights and the crush of unfamiliar bodies all moving to the same music.
He doesn’t know what to do; he can’t extinguish that restlessness with a club.
Zac settles onto the couch beside him while Anya climbs back into Cal’s lap, sitting sideways. Her ass is round and soft, and when she wriggles a little—possibly to get comfortable, more likely to tease him, judging from the smirk on her face—he can’t help pressing his cock up against her. Her long legs are extended, propped up on Zac’s thighs, her slim ankles cupped in Zac’s big hands, and Cal can smell both of them, sweat and perfume and cologne and the scents of their bodies, familiar to him now. He’s so hard, both from watching them rub up on each other on the dance floor and from their nearness now. Anya’s breath is on his throat. Her lips brush his ear. He shivers.
Cal can imagine a different world in which he’s a different version of himself, the kind of man who would take her hand and lead her to the VIP bathroom, where he’d help her onto the counter and fuck her there, pushing her back against the mirror, capturing her soft cries with his kisses, holding her in place for his thrusts, getting her wet and needy until she clenches around him as she comes. Or maybe he’d take Zac into the bathroom and suck him off. That other version of Cal wouldn’t think twice about it—that version of Cal would’ve fucked Zac weeks ago, never would’ve fallen into this bizarre will-they-or-won’t-they with Zac in the first place.
He wishes he could be that Cal. But even when he used to drink, he was only ever himself. And this Cal has no excuse when he asks, “So how would it work?”
“How would what work?” Anya asks, and licks his earlobe into her mouth.
He shudders. “Taking home a stranger. How would you do that?”
She sits back abruptly. He feels stupid and wishes he hadn’t said anything, but at the same time, there’s an antagonistic heat building in him that he can’t ignore. He wants to know.
Anya peers around him at Zac, who has a pissy look on his face.
“Really, man?” Zac asks.
“I’m not going to be a dick about it.” Cal hopes he’s not lying. “I’m curious. If I wasn’t here, you’d do it, right? You’d pick someone up? Like that blond guy downstairs?”
Anya and Zac are doing that thing again, the married-people thing where they have a whole goddamn conversation in a single look, and they might as well be speaking in a foreign language right in front of him for all the accessibility it gives him.