Mardi Gras Mambo (5 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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“Hey!” I said.
They broke apart and grinned at me and beckoned me to join them. I undid the buttons on my fly and sat down right in between them. Almost immediately, they started kissing my neck, which drives me absolutely insane with desire.
Life is so fucking good.
And did I mention the sex is even better?
CHAPTER TWO
The High Priestess, Reversed
a life of indulgence and outward show
 
 
 
At precisely eight o'clock on the dot I rang Misha's doorbell.
The sun had gone down around six o'clock, and the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees. The wind had picked up, too, grabbing hold of my cape and blowing it out and away from my body. I shivered and grabbed hold of the cape, trying to wrap it around my torso as some protection against the wind. It was pretty thin, so I was still cold, but at least my skin was not as exposed. The air also felt damp, which might mean rain later. I looked up at the sky, which was covered with billowing clouds reflecting the neon of the Quarter back down. Yeah, it was definitely going to rain at some point, and I just hoped we were inside the parade and dancing when it started. There's
nothing
worse than being caught in a cold rain when all you're wearing is a cape and tights. I was wearing my mask, and one of the longer feathers was making my left eye itchy. I sighed and shifted it a little bit. That's the problem with masks: the more elaborate they are, the more annoying they can be. I knew I'd probably discard the mask later on the dance floor, after I started sweating.
I'd walked into the Quarter with the boys, leaving them at Lafitte's while I made the drug run. A lot of people were out—a glance down to the straight end of Bourbon Street showed an almost endless sea of bodies—but not as many as there would be later. Endymion was still rolling, which meant at least another 40,000 people would descend on the Quarter after the parade ended. Lafitte's was already packed with revelers—the balcony was crowded full of men leaning over the railing and waving beads at the crowd below, trying to get some unsuspecting guy to whip his dick out or drop his pants and moon them. There were also enough people roaming the streets to keep Frank, Colin, and David entertained until I got back.
Misha lived on Burgundy Street right off St. Ann. I rang the doorbell and looked around. From his front steps I could see Rawhide on the corner. There was already a crowd of leather men out there milling about and drinking. The doorman was precariously perched on a stool checking IDs. Rawhide's management was a lot more cautious and careful than it used to be. The bar had been raided a number of times, which had caused a decline in its popularity. There's nothing like a raid to drive off a bar's clientele. During specialty weekends, a trip down there used to be a requirement of the evening. The place would be packed full of men, and it had always seemed warm and muggy from all the body heat. I hadn't been in there in over a year, and as I watched the long line of men move slowly forward as IDs were checked, I wondered if I should take the boys there later.
Might as well give them the whole Carnival experience,
I thought, grinning as I imagined Frank's reaction to what went on in there.
He really does need to lighten up some.
My eyes scanned the street, and I noticed a guy standing on the corner on my side of St. Ann, but on the other side of Burgundy. He was casually smoking a cigarette, but he looked out of place. When he noticed me looking over at him, he looked away. He was wearing loose-fitting jeans, a flannel shirt under a black leather jacket, and a black and gold Saints baseball cap. I stared at him.
Why does he seem out of place?
I wondered. He was dressed like most of the guys in line at Rawhide, and the guys just hanging out in the street. What made him different from everyone else?
He's up to something,
a voice whispered in my head.
Better to keep an eye on him, Scotty, or you might be sorry.
As I mentioned before, I'm a bit psychic. I'm not sure how it all works, but sometimes I get messages that I assume come from the Goddess. I stared at the guy some more, as he crushed the cigarette out under his tennis shoes and lit another one.
That's it,
I realized.
He's wearing sneakers, not boots.
No self-respecting leather guy would ever wear sneakers with a leather jacket. It just isn't done.
I felt a chill run down my spine that had nothing to do with the wind.
I had just about decided to go over and talk to him, try to see what he was up to, when I heard footsteps coming down the hall toward the door.
“Who is it?” Misha asked through the door.
“It's me, Scotty. Let me in! It's freezing out here!” I replied, shivering as another gust of wind grabbed the cape out of my hands, making it billow out around me. Fuck!
I turned to look back at the guy, but he'd gotten into the line waiting to get inside the bar. Maybe it wasn't anything after all. Maybe he was just newly into the leather scene and hadn't figured out all the rules yet.
I heard the deadbolt click back and the chain come off. Then the door swung open and there was Misha grinning at me. He was wearing only a pair of green army fatigue pants with the button undone to reveal the waistband of a cheap pair of white briefs. A pair of dog tags hung around his neck into the deep cleavage between his massive pectorals. Some razor burn glowed red just above the dog tags. His skin was milky white and soft looking. His brown hair was cut short in a military-like style, and his bright blue eyes sparkled as he grinned at me. He had really nice straight, white teeth and full red lips. His stomach was flat, and his broad shoulders narrowed down to a slender waist. He could have been any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. He was about six feet tall and had to weigh at least 230 pounds—all muscle. He's
huge.
He threw his big arms around me in a bear hug and squeezed the breath out of me. I thought I heard a rib crack, but it was probably my imagination. I swear sometimes he doesn't know his own strength. “Happy Mardi Gras!” He lifted me off my feet without any visible effort.
I gave him a kiss on the cheek as my feet dangled in the air. “Back at ya, darlin'. Now put me down, please?”
“Of course.” He set me down like I weighed no more than a feather. “Come in, come in!” He stood aside, and I walked past him into the living room. In one corner a weight bench was set up, with weight plates scattered all over the wooden floor. There was nothing hanging on the dingy yellow walls—they had probably been white originally sometime in the distant past. The room was also sparsely furnished; a coffee table, a couch, and a reclining chair were all pushed into the center of the room, which made it look even bigger and emptier. The furniture all looked new. The last time I'd been there, none of it had matched and it all had looked as though Misha had liberated it from the city dump. A couple of empty water bottles, some change, and a black jock turned inside out were scattered over the coffee table. He walked over to the wall and flicked a switch. I sat down on the couch.
“Are you having a happy Carnival so far?” I asked, shivering a bit. It was almost as cold inside as it was out, but at least I was out of the wind. Being from Russia, this cold was probably nothing to him, but to me it was like being on an Arctic expedition.
“I love Carnival.” It sounded like
I luff carny-full
. He beamed at me. “Is so much fun.”
I'd actually met Misha two Southern Decadences ago. My then-dealer had sold me a really crappy hit of Ecstasy the night before—it was more like Tense and Bitchy than Ecstasy. I decided not to waste my money on his crap anymore, and I was prowling the bars looking for a new dealer with different—and hopefully better—stuff. I hate looking for drugs in bars; you never know what you're going to get, and there's nothing worse than walking up to happy-looking people with dilated eyes as they bounce in place shaking their water bottles and saying, “Know where I can find some X?” Ugh, I
hate
doing that. I was getting close to deciding just to do without when I'd walked into Oz, pushing my way through all the pretty boys. A bunch of thickly muscled guys were dancing on the bar in white boxer briefs that glowed in the black light. The dance floor was packed with guys in jeans with their shirts off. The stage was also crowded. A great song was playing, a remix of Faith Hill's “Breathe,” and I felt like dancing, if I could only shoehorn my way onto the dance floor somehow. I got to the edge of the dance floor and was looking for an opening when I looked up at the stage and caught my breath.
Misha was dancing in front of a bunch of other guys on the stage. His shirt was off, and he was wearing a pair of skintight 501s, damp with sweat. His arms were up over his head as he danced, his lat muscles fanned out and his arms flexing. His pale skin glistened with sweat. He was a big guy, but, unlike most guys his size, he was light on his feet and could move. He obviously was into the music; he was moving to the backbeat, something a lot of guys don't do. My first thought was, “Mary Mother of God! What a stud!” My second was, “Must be a tourist—never seen him before,” and the third was, “He's rolling.” I pushed my way through the crowd on the dance floor, touching, getting touched, exchanging smiles with sweating, happy boys until I reached the foot of the stage. A couple of muscle guys in their early twenties reached down and held their hands out and helped boost me up onto the stage. I kissed them each on the cheek to say thanks, took off my shirt, and tucked it into the back of my pants. I moved down the stage until I was dancing next to the big muscle god. We looked at each other and I grinned. “Hey.” I winked at him.
“Hello,” he shouted over the music. “Is good music, no?”
I didn't recognize the accent as Russian then, but I knew he was foreign. “Yeah, it's great! My name's Scotty.”
“Is very nice to meet your acquaintance.” He started giggling, then danced around so his back was to me. I noticed the acne scars from steroid abuse scattered over the thick muscles of his back but was soon distracted by his beautiful butt. His jeans had crept down a bit so I could see the elastic waistband of his Hanes underwear. There were some great big zits on his lower back, but it was still, all in all, one of the most beautiful backs I'd ever seen. He spun around and winked at me. “Would you like some Happy?”
“What?”
He held his hand in front of my face and opened his fist. A small blue pill inside a tiny baggie was in his palm, and then he closed his hand again. He winked again. “Want some Happy?” He gave me a huge smile. His piercing blue eyes were half shut as his hips swayed back and forth as Faith could feel us breathe, watching over her, and suddenly she was melting into us.
“Ecstasy?” I asked, hoping against hope.
Gorgeous and an X dealer? Thank you, Goddess!
“How much?”
He grinned. “Yes, Ecstasy. Is gift from me to you because you pretty.” He stroked the side of my face with his other hand. “You very pretty.”
Well, why the hell not?
I nodded and took the baggie from him, tearing it open and popping the pill into my mouth. I washed it down with a swig from my water bottle. I kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you!” Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Half an hour later I was practically hanging from the ceiling. It was the best Ecstasy I'd ever taken, and believe you me, I'd taken some good stuff before. I couldn't stand still, and sweat was pouring off of me. Every song the deejay was playing was better than the one before, and I was flying. The music was inside of me, and I was dancing like a maniac. I was waving my arms over my head and flirting with every single guy I could make eye contact with. I kissed a few, touched some bodies wonderingly—apparently the most beautiful men in the world had all converged on Oz that night. Misha and I danced together, laughing and joking and talking some more. He told me he'd just moved to New Orleans from Russia, and if I wanted more Ecstasy, all I had to do was ask. Sexy as he was, though, we didn't kiss or do anything. I touched him a few times, mainly tapping him on the back when he had his back to me. As crazy as it sounds, when you're on Ecstasy that feels incredible. But Misha didn't touch anyone, didn't spoon dance with anyone; he just stayed in his designated spot, dancing and smiling a lot. Sometimes a guy would come along and touch his muscles, and he would smile at him, but after a few minutes he would gently push him away. After a few times, I realized, through my fogged brain, that I wouldn't be going home with him, but I didn't really care. I just liked talking to him, being around him—he had this amazing energy I enjoyed. At some point in the night, Misha gave me his phone number before disappearing into the crowd, never to be seen again that night. I felt a little pang when he left, but before long I was dancing with a tall, lean drink of water from Tampa—at least I think that's where he was from—and I wound up leaving with him later when the drug wore off.
Misha had been my dealer ever since. He never failed me, and he always had good stuff. He was always very affectionate to me, hugging me or giving me a friendly kiss on the cheek, but never in a flirtatious way. At first, this kind of bothered me—I'm not that used to disinterest—but I got over it soon enough. Attraction is a matter of taste, and apparently I wasn't to his taste that way. But I'd never really seen Misha with anyone; he was always by himself, dancing in his own little world. And besides, it's usually not a good idea to have a sexual relationship with your drug dealer. That just leads to problems. Believe me, I know.

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