West of Hollywood, Part II
Part I | Part III | Part IV
October 2010
Anže waves his arms, shouting, “I’m open,” then “Jag är öppen,” in Swedish. It’s the language they let the world know that they speak with each other. Hearing it and grinning, Sasha passes the ball and Anže dribbles closer for an easy lay-up. Sasha whoops and gives him a high-five to the groans of their friends.
“You’ll get us next time,” Sasha tells them cheerfully, dribbling the ball as he jogs over to grab his bag from the edge of the court.
“Yeah, right.” Sam scoffs, clapping Anže on the back and shaking his head. “Your friend’s good enough to be with the Lakers.” He’s grinning, though, as he looks at Sasha and it’s not the first time Anže’s noticed the look. “We’re heading to Joe’s for a drink.”
Anže shakes his head, shouldering his own bag. “Sorry, we’ve got plans for tonight. Next week?”
“Sure.” Sam looks regretfully ahead of them and Anže waves apologetically as he jogs to catch up with Sasha.
It’s still pretty warm in LA in October, and the courts are part of a public park in walking distance of their apartment, so they don’t bother with a cab. “You could stay,” Anže suggests gently as he catches up then slows to match Sasha’s pace.
Sasha shrugs, his shoulders curled inwards and his chin tipped down towards his chest. Anže bumps his shoulder against Sasha’s. “Sam asked after you-”
“I’ve got a job tonight,” Sasha interrupts distractedly, looking sideways at Anže. “Do you miss it?”
Anže’s not sure if Sasha means having a boyfriend or playing hockey, but he swallows. “Everyday.”
He still hasn’t told Sasha about his late-night break-ins at the Staples Center. He’s been almost every night over the past month and he doesn’t know if he could stop now. Back in Slovenia, before he was branded and forced off the ice and into the bed of well-connected Swedish businessmen, hockey had been all he ever thought about. These nights, when he stands at center ice and closes his eyes, he can still remember what it was like to dream of break-away goals and Stanley Cups, and it feels amazing.
“Yeah.” Sasha suddenly grins, immediately snapping out of his mood and straightening his shoulders. “Hey, the Canucks are in town tonight.”
Anže laughs. “Keeping tabs on the Kings’ schedule?”
Sasha shrugs. “It’s the highlight of the month. He call yet?”
“Last night,” Anže admits, and he can’t help smiling, because Sasha’s right. Of all the well-known regulars they both have, ranging from B-level actors to well-placed Eastern European businessmen, Ryan Kesler is Anže’s favorite. They met a couple of years ago, right after Anže arrived in LA, introduced by a series of complicated relationships between Kesler’s PR agent and Anže’s first client. Anže had still been nervous and inexperienced then, but Kesler had been easy and fun and, most importantly, Kesler was the closest Anže thought he was ever going to get to playing hockey.
Sasha drapes an arm over his shoulders, jarring Anže out of his thoughts with a grin and a loud kiss on Anže’s cheek. “Make sure you shower first.” Sasha wrinkles his nose and Anže pushes him away as they reach their apartment building.
“Magarac.” Anže chuckles, jogging up the stairs to beat Sasha to the shower.
Translations:
Jag är open = I’m open (Swedish)
Magarac = jack ass (Bosnian)
***
Anže is showered and dressed in time to catch the end of the Kings-Canucks game on the TV in Kesler’s hotel room. The Canucks lose 4-1, and Kesler’s never in the best mood after a loss, so Anže makes sure to order steak and beer from room service so that it arrives at about the same time Kesler does.
“Did you watch the game?” Kesler asks as he dumps his bag next to the bed and joins Anže at the small table by the window. He picks up the beer that is already open and waiting for him, finishing half of it in one sip.
“Saw the end of it.”
“Good game, eh?” Kesler shakes his head, and finishes off the beer. He grabs another one from the mini-bar.
Anže shrugs. “Your passing was off.” It’s accurate, if vague. While Anže assumes that Kesler keeps hiring him more because of these hockey talks than the sex, he’s still reluctant to talk too much hockey strategy in case Kesler grows suspicious.
Kesler grumbles. “We were never in position tonight.”
Anže nods. “You need to work on your backchecking.”
Kesler finishes off his second beer and takes the lid off his steak. “Mmm, this smells good. For hotel steak, at least.”
Anže takes a small bite of his own and nods. “I flirted with the chef when I called.”
Kesler laughs, his mouth full, and points to the corner of the room with his knife. “Your envelope’s in my bag.”
Nodding, Anže pushes back from the table and finds the envelope in the outer pocket of Kesler’s bag. He grabs his own bag and heads into the bathroom, giving Kesler the time to finish eating and calm down from the game, and himself a chance to clean up and count the money in secret. Satisfied, he puts the envelope at the bottom of his bag and strips for the shower.
He takes the time to stretch himself to three fingers, knowing from experience that the beer and the game will make this a quick night. When he feels loose and comfortable, he steps out of the water and wraps a towel around his hips, not bothering with clothes.
Kesler has stripped down to his boxers when Anže steps into the room. Anže can see that he’s already hard and when Anže steps close enough, Kesler reaches out with his free hand to undo the twist that’s holding the towel together and it falls to the floor. “I may have been thinking about this for a couple of days.”
“Is that right?” Anže asks.
“Mmm.” Kesler turns them around and pushes Anže onto his knees on the bed, pausing to run a hand over Anže’s ass appreciatively. “You know, you have a hockey player’s body.”
“Is that why you like fucking me so much?” Anže asks as he turns his head to glance at Kesler. Kesler nods distractedly, fishing on the bed next to him for the condom. Anže closes his eyes and settles his weight on one elbow, reaching back to push three fingers into his ass.
“Fuck,” Kesler groans, climbing onto the bed and hitting Anže’s hand out of the way as he presses in in one thrust. “Fuck, yes,” he repeats, grasping at Anže’s hips and setting a fast, hard rhythm.
Anže presses both hands to the mattress, using the leverage to push into Kesler’s thrusts. Kesler murmurs, “Jesus,” and then the room is filled with grunts and moans and the slick sound of skin on skin. As he gets close, Kesler leans forward, nipping at the skin of Anže’s spine and biting down, once, on his shoulder blade as his body shudders and he comes.
Kesler rolls onto his back, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I needed that.”
“Anytime,” Anže grins, turning onto his back and brushing the back of his hand along Kesler’s softening dick.
Kesler shivers. “Jesus, Aron.” He bends his knees to roll into a sitting position. “I’m too old for this shit.”
Anže raises an eyebrow. “Hockey? Or fucking?”
“Both.” Kesler reaches over to trace the bite on Anže’s shoulder. “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”
Anže shrugs. “It’s okay. I expect it from you.”
“Asshole,” Kesler laughs, getting off the bed and picking up the towel Anže dropped there earlier. He throws it at Anže’s head. “I’ll be back in March.”
Anže nods. He had checked the calendar before coming tonight. “You have my number.”
“Yeah.” Kesler flashes him a grin before disappearing into the bathroom.
Anže cleans himself as best he can with the towel, takes a large bite of the cold steak that’s only half-eaten on the table, and is gone before Kesler gets out of the shower.
***
“Maybe he has a criminal record.” Jon muses as he collapses into the seat next to Dustin.
“Mmm.”
“No, just listen.” Dustin nods without looking up from his phone. “You can’t be drafted if you have a record, right?”
“It may amaze you that I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” Jon pulls out his phone to run a Google search, but he’s getting iffy service and he has to turn his phone off before he can get an answer. He leans his head back and closes his eyes for take-off. The minute they reach 10,000 feet, he turns to look at Dustin again. “Maybe he robbed a bank, or shot his step-dad or something.”
Dustin reluctantly opens his eyes. “You’re not allowed to watch any more Lifetime movies.”
“That one with the abused girl was pretty good,” Jon argues.
“Do you hear yourself?” Dustin asks, raising an eyebrow.
But Jon’s looking pensive again. “Maybe he’s getting over psychological trauma.”
Dustin groans, hitting his head on the back of the chair and frowning when Drew Doughty kicks him in the back. “Hey,” Dustin complains as he turns around to glare at Drew.
“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to nap.” Drew frowns at them and Jon sighs, turning around in his chair and lowering his voice.
“I just need to know.”
“There’re nothing we can do until we get back to LA,” Dustin reminds him, before closing his eyes and turning his head towards the window.
Jon sighs. Dustin’s right. They’re three games into a five game road trip, and Jon really needs to focus on his game. He let in four goals in both Phoenix and Colorado, and his two-goal effort against Minnesota last night had much more to do with his defenseman than any spectacular play on his part.
He’s distracted. Has been since they left LA. He feels tired and achy, like there’s something just there, something that he can understand if he just tries a little harder. When he sleeps, his dreams are filled with kisses and hoisting the Stanley Cup, images that feel so real that they have him gasping and shaking when he wakes up. Most of the time, though, he doesn’t sleep. He lies awake, listening to Justin Williams’s snoring late into the night.
During every free moment, he’s iPad hunting for something, anything, that points to a brilliant hockey player that was never drafted. Jon knows he’s being obsessive. It’s part of his personality, the same part that makes him a good, dedicated, athletic goaltender.
“You’re thinking too loud.”
“Sorry,” Jon grunts, closing his eyes and trying to clear his mind for a short nap before they land in Chicago.
***
Jon’s lying on his bed, halfway between finishing his post-flight nap and searching on his iPad, when there’s a knock on the door. Justin mutes the TV as he scoots off the bed to open it.
“Captain says we’re going out.” Drew grins at them. He’s dressed in jeans and one of those artfully-expensive t-shirts.
Justin looks back at Jon, who hasn’t moved from his bed, and shakes his head. “We’re kinda tired. Gonna stay in tonight.”
Drew shrugs. “Cap says it’s not optional. Be in the lobby in 15 minutes. And be dressed.” He says the last to Jon, who grumbles as he rolls off the bed and steps into the bathroom.
A shower, a beer, and twenty minutes later, Jon is in the lobby with most of the team. He’s about to join JJ, Stollie, and Richie in a cab when a hand grips his shoulder, holding him back. Jon rolls his eyes, stepping back onto the curb and slipping his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.
“I’m not going to run away,” he promises.
Dustin laughs and pushes Jon into a separate cab with just the two of them. “I want you to have fun tonight,” he tells Jon, all serious and noble, as if he’s telling Jon to do five more sets of sprints.
“Whatever.” Jon glances out the window to watch the lake as it flies by. “We have a game tomorrow.”
“I know.” Dustin raises an eyebrow at him. “You need to relax.”
Jon spreads his arms. “I’m relaxed.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Dustin eyes Jon’s dress pants and expensive shirt and nods. “You clean up nicely, too.”
Jon rolls his eyes. “Your wife picked ‘em out.”
The taxi rolls to a stop and Jon climbs out as Dustin laughs. “Mine too. We’re probably wearing the same pants.”
“Fuck, I hope not.”
“Language, Quickie.” Jon turns and finds himself in a tight hug with Patrick Kane.
“Kaner,” Jon laughs. “Should have known you were behind this get-together.”
Kaner punches his shoulder. “Answer your texts, fucker, and you would have already known that.”
Jon pulls his phone out of his pocket and sees that it’s off. “Probably never turned it on after we landed.”
“Asshole.” But Kaner’s grinning at him, clapping his shoulder again and pulling him towards the club. “Follow me. Sub 51 is one of the best places in town, and we’re on the list.” He grins, as if he’s still a little awed by his high-profile status and Jon has to smile at him.
The club is nice, intimate, with pulsing music and strong drinks, and Jon finds that Kaner’s energy is infectious. He allows himself to be pulled to a table with Brownie and JJ so that they can reminisce about their run to a silver medal at the Olympics last February. Reminiscing consists mostly of Kaner reenacting his game-winning goal in the preliminary round, standing and twisting his hands as if he’s dekeing and they all have a good laugh remembering Loungo’s face until Tazer leans over from the next table and whispers in Kaner’s ear.
Kaner blushes and flashes his cup ring at Tazer. “Whatever, fucker, I’ve got the one that matters.”
Tazer laughs, grabbing Kaner’s flailing hand before he can hit their waitress. His eyes are sparkling. “I’ve got one of those, too, asshole.”
“Right.” Kaner looks crushed for a moment, as if he really hadn’t remembered that fact, until he brightens up and leans forward to whisper in Tazer’s ear. It’s Tazer’s turn to flush, and he claps a hand over Kaner’s mouth.
“I’m never letting you out in public again.” He drops his hand and stands. “Dance floor?”
Kaner grins, grabbing JJ’s hand and following Tazer with a quick, “don’t get into too much trouble without me,” thrown back at the table.
Jon’s still grinning, his cheeks a little sore from it, when he feels Dustin put his hand on Jon’s knee to steady himself as he leans closer. His breath smells like the whiskey he’s been drinking as his breath brushes Jon’s face. “I want one of those.”
“One of what?” Jon teases, glancing at Kaner’s deserted drink. “A martini? Have Kaner’s. He’ll never notice.”
“Not-” Dustin shakes his head, exasperated. “A cup ring, Jonny.”
Jon stretches back in his seat, taking a long sip of his Bacardi. “It’s all I think about.”
Dustin shakes his head. “It’s not. You think about-” He waves his hand and frowns. “He needs a name.”
“They’re related. Him and a Cup. Like you said that first day, we’re so close.” Jon catches Dustin’s eye. He’s been thinking about this for over a month, since the first time Dustin took him to the rink late at night. He’s tried to talk about it, but Dustin’s been focused on the new season and Jon knows he’s probably been talking about it too much but, “I see him, Brownie, when I close my eyes, I see him.”
“You’re obsessed.”
Jon shrugs. “Maybe.” He leans his elbow on the table, putting him even closer to Dustin. “But what does it matter?”
Dustin looks at him for a long moment. “I don’t know if I trust your motives,” he says softly, before tipping his head back and finishing his drink.
Jon frowns. Dustin’s made similar intimations over the last few weeks, hinted at things as if Jon’s supposed to know what they mean. “I don’t know what-”
“You really think this guy is it? He’s the one?” Dustin interrupts.
Dustin’s gazing at him again and Jon can’t shake the feeling that he’s still missing a huge piece of the puzzle, a piece that Dustin knows but is refusing to share. But Jon nods. “I do.”
“Okay.” Dustin sits back, looking much more sober than he did a minute or so ago. “Okay. When we get back to LA, I’ll help in whatever way I can.” He pushes his chair back and stands before Jon can say anything. “But tonight we’re gonna have fun.”
Jon can’t help but feel like this moment is important, as if something monumental has just passed between them, but Jon doesn’t know what it is. The music is reverberating through the club, Drew and JJ are dancing with Kaner and Tazer out on the floor, and when Jon glances over Kaner ushers for him to join them. Pushing aside the feeling, Jon finishes off his drink and follows Dustin out onto the dance floor.
***
Jon feels better after his night in Chicago. He feels comfortable and relaxed in the net in a way he hasn’t all season and, although they lose the next night to the Blackhawks, they go on to beat Dallas in their last game of the roadtrip.
While Jon’s on-ice play has improved, however, he hasn’t been able to get his conversation with Dustin out of his head. He knows that they made a decision that night, a decision he has to follow through on now that they’re back in LA. So, when they have nothing but a light skate on the day they get back, Jon has no excuse not to go to the Staples Center.
He doesn’t know if he wishes to find Anže there or not. But, when he sees Anže, on the ice, looking comfortable and fluid and so good, Jon feels an ache that he can’t really explain. He doesn’t even question his actions as he follows Anže as he leaves the rink.
He does wish, however, that he had watched a James Bond movie or two as he follows the beat-up Jeep onto the 110. It’s harder to trail a car than he thought it would be, although Jon supposes that Bond never had to contend with LA freeways in a conspicuous Mercedes. Not for the first time, Jon wishes that he had been a little humbler with his car purchase, but he had bought it after signing his first pro contract and the sleek elegancy of a status symbol had been too hard for a twenty-one year old to pass up.
Thankfully, LA traffic is horrendous on Friday nights, even at midnight, and it’s easy to let himself fall a couple of cars back from the Jeep. Which works perfectly, until he has to take a quick exit onto the 101 and almost misses when the Jeep turns onto Melrose Avenue. They drive a couple of heart-wrenchingly empty blocks, but as they get closer to West Hollywood, the lights and the people pick up again and Jon lets out the breath he’s been holding.
The Jeep stops in front of a non-descript building. Up the street, there are bars and nightclubs and Jon can hear the laughter and screaming of a late Friday night filter down the block to where he is parked. This building, however, is not marked by anything but an old Jabell Enterprice, LLC sign and a couple of street lights.
Jon hesitates for only a moment before jogging down the stairs and pushing open large, strong doors. He’s immediately assaulted by two bouncers who eye him up and down, and Jon’s glad that he decided to dress in the same expensive, presentable dress pants and shirt that he had worn in Chicago earlier that week. He fishes his license out of his wallet, but the bouncer to his left shakes his head.
“You’re Jonathan Quick. Of the Kings.”
It’s not really a question, but Jon nods. “I’m meeting a friend.” It’s vague and, to Jon, it sounds suspicious, but the other bouncer just nods his head and holds open a second couple of doors for him. Jon nods his thanks, slipping him a $5 bill as he passes into what appears to be a typical dance club.
It’s loud and semi-lit and Jon makes his way over to the bar for a beer and a place to catch his breath. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but after weeks of speculation he had started to believe his own wild tales of medical experimentation or Eastern European mob ties. Instead, when he finds his target, he’s on the dance floor pressed against someone who looks vaguely familiar. In fact, most of the people here look vaguely familiar, and Jon blinks as he looks around, taking in the large M Cat 67 neon sign above the entrance and it clicks into place.
The first year Jon had made the Kings out of training camp, he’d been pulled into GM Dean Lombardi’s office and handed a packet. Lombardi had patted his shoulder with a, “we’re hear if you ever need anything, kid,” and then sent him on his way. Later that night, he had locked himself in his bedroom at Dustin’s and spilled the contents of the envelope onto his bed. It contained a number of things, most importantly the phone number of the Kings’ PR team, a key to room 1607 at the Hilton Downtown, and a list of what Jon could only guess were clubs for the LA elite and closeted.
Before Jon had been able to pack it all away, Dustin had opened his door to invite him down for dinner, stopping when he saw the papers. “They gave you the packet, huh?”
“You-” Jon had been shocked. “You know?”
Dustin had just shrugged. “They’ve been watching you for a long time, Quickie. They just want you to be happy here and, well, I’m in charge of your well-being. For now.”
“You won’t tell?”
“’Course not.” Dustin had just smiled at him, shaking his head. “Dinner’s ready. Nicole made pork chops.”
And that’s the last Jon had ever heard of it. He had packed the information away at the bottom of his underwear drawer and had never looked at it again. Jon threw himself into training and redefining his goaltending style, Dustin never mentioned it, and Jon had almost forgotten about the whole embarrassing incident.
Except, M Cat 67 tickles the edge of his memory, and now Jon remembers that it had been at the top of that list and all of this makes a little more sense. Why the bouncers had let him in after simply recognizing him, why the club’s sign is inside rather than outside the building, and why everyone here looks familiar. Because they are, from the cover of Entertainment Weekly and Rolling Stone and Wired and all the other magazines that Jon reads when he’s bored at LAX.
Jon motions to the bartender for something a little stronger than a beer, dropping a $20 on the bar and moving onto the dance floor with the drink in hand. He feels a hand at his hip and he turns, a few feet away from Anže, stepping into the hand. The guy is tall and blond, smiling at him. He isn’t exactly Jon’s type, but he’s attractive and here and much better than Jon’s original plan to stand in the middle of the dance floor alone, until he was noticed.
The blond doesn’t say anything when Jon places his free hand on his shoulder and turns them around, and Jon’s grateful for the anonymity of a place like this. From this angle, if he bends his knees just right, he can see Anže’s face, clearer and stronger than he could from fifteen feet above in the stands at the Staples Center. He’s incredibly tall, with hair to his shoulders and strong forearms under the black button-down that he has rolled to his elbows. His jeans fit perfectly and Jon feels his dick twitch in his pants.
The blond raises an appraising eyebrow. “Jake,” he says loudly, over the music, and Jon just nods without looking away as Anže raises his head. His eyes are crystal blue, intense and powerful, and when they settle on Jon, Jon feels as if he’s the center of Anže’s world. Without thinking, he pushes away from Jake and moves forward with a quick “Sorry” for Anže’s previous dance partner.
Anže laughs, his eyes glittering, and he leans forward to whisper in Jon’s ear. “You’re new.”
“Yeah.” Jon shakes his head. “Obvious?”
“Yeah.” Anže laughs again, leaning forward to take a sip from Jon’s glass. “I’m Aron.”
Jon swallows, his eyes not moving from Anže’s lips. “Jon.”
“Mmm.” Anže lightly touches his hips and pulls him closer, and Jon feels that they’re both half-hard. “Do you want to take me home, Jon?”
Jon swallows the rest of his drink and reaches over to place it on a passing tray. He knows this is stupid, and not at all how he expected this night to go, but he’s feeling reckless and not a little bit turned on, so he nods. “Yeah. Please.”
Anže nods and pulls his hips back. “$600.” Jon has the insane urge to pull him close again, but settles on resting a hand lightly on Anže’s lower back, drawing circles, until Anže’s words register.
“What?”
Anže shrugs. “Thousand for the night.”
Jon’s whole body freezes and he feels dizzy. It’s a combination of the alcohol and the sudden answer to the one thing that’s been bothering him for weeks and the hundred new questions that come spilling out with that one answer.
He takes a deep breath. “You’re a- a- prostitute?” Jon cringes at the crude word, but Anže just shrugs.
“Escort.”
“Right.”
“It’s more accurate.”
“Okay,” Jon nods, as if he’s done this before and he knows the differences between a prostitute and an escort, as if it doesn’t all boil down to the same damn thing.
“I’m-” Anže steps back, his eyes losing their luster and he looks a little disappointed. He tilts his head towards the bar. “I’m gonna go.”
“No,” Jon says, before he knows he’s saying it. All he can think about is how his body aches now that Anže’s a foot away and, suddenly, Jon remembers Dustin telling him I don’t know if I trust your motives that night in Chicago. Jon hadn’t gotten it then, but now it all makes a little more sense because Jon doesn’t just want Anže on the team, Jon wants him for himself. Has since the first day he saw Anže skate.
Anže looks uncertain, but Jon wraps his fingers around Anže’s wrist. “I mean, yes. A thousand, right?” Anže nods. Jon swallows. “I can do that.”
“Okay,” Anže says, slowly, his eyes still shuttered, and Jon steps forward, his hands going to Anže’s waist and pulling him in for a bruising kiss.
Jon feels himself falling into it, and he pulls away quickly. “Okay,” he whispers, his lips feeling warm and wet and he wipes them with his tongue. Anže’s eyes follow the movement, and Jon groans. “We’re going. Now.” He grabs Anže’s wrist and pulls him out of the club and into the street.
As they reach his Mercedes, he lets Anže go so that he can climb into the driver’s seat. He sits there for a moment, his mind racing as he realizes that he can’t take Anže back to his apartment above Dustin’s garage.
“Nice car.”
Anže’s voice makes him jump, and Jon gets an idea. He smiles as he puts the car in drive. “I’m a hockey player.”
“I know.”
And Jon can’t deal with that right now, so he reaches over to fiddle with the radio until they pull up in front of the Hilton. He tosses the keys to the attendant and glances over at Anže. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Anže nods. “Okay.” He leans against the edge of the check-in counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and Jon has to tear his eyes away to focus.
“Um, I need a key to room 1607. I seem to have lost mine.” Jon flashes a smile, pulling out his ID and thinking of the key still stashed away in his underwear drawer. The receptionist smiles and hands him a key without question and, for the first time, Jon is grateful for the organization’s PR people. “Thank you,” he accepts the key and slips her a tip before motioning towards the elevator bays.
They stand in silence as they wait for the elevator, Jon strumming his fingers against the wall and trying to calm both his mind and his dick. When the elevator comes, he leads Anže into it and doesn’t remove his hand from the small of Anže’s back as the doors close. He hesitates, then, because he can, he slips his hand into Anže’s back pocket. It feels sexy and forbidden and Jon has to remind himself that it’s okay. He’s paying for it. Literally.
Anže glances sideways at him. “You were watching me. Tonight.”
Jon nods. “I don’t have many, ah, opportunities like this.”
“Been a while?” Anže smirks and grasps Jon’s dick through his pants. Jon can’t help the little buck of his hips into Anže’s warm palm. He’s harder than he ever remembers being, and he has to glance down to make sure that he hasn’t popped the zipper on his jeans.
“Oh god,” Jon whimpers, protesting when the elevator bings and Anže pulls away. He takes the key from Jon’s fingers, leading the way to the room and pushing Jon into it. The moment the door shuts behind him, Jon grabs Anže’s wrist and tries to pull him close, but Anže resists.
“I’m going to freshen up. Put the money on the table.”
Jon watches him disappear into the bathroom, and fishes out his wallet. He’s thankful that Dustin’s insane and worried that there’s going to be an apocalypse or something every time they leave LA and makes everyone carry cash on road trips. Jon hasn’t emptied his wallet yet, so he has an obscene number of $100 bills that he pulls out and dumps onto the dresser.
He glances around the room and he feels his erection wilt. It hits him that this is exactly what the team has this room for, and he can’t help wondering how many of the other guys use it, and whether they have mistresses or girlfriends or whether anyone else thinks it’s a good idea to hire high-priced gay escorts. He’s halfway to panicking when the bathroom door opens and Anže steps out, placing a condom packet and a bottle of lube on the bedside table. Any softness in his dick is gone in an instant and Jon sways from the heat rush.
Anže moves towards him. “This your first time?” He asks as he toes out of his shoes and pushes Jon onto the bed.
Jon frowns as he sprawls on the bed. “No.”
Anže lays over him and whispers into his ear. “Liar.” Anže’s breath is warm and Jon groans, arching his hips and throwing a questioning look towards Anže. He shrugs, reaching down to grasp Jon in his pants again. “You’re easy to read.”
“Hmm,” Jon whispers, but anything else he’s about to say is cut off as Anže’s fingers tease at the edge of Jon’s t-shirt. Jon’s skin feels warm and tender, almost painful under Anže’s questing touches. Anže moves slowly, as if sensing that Jon’s way over his head here, inching slowly up Jon’s chest and urging him to lift enough to slip his shirt up and over his head.
Jon lies back down, and Anže bends his head to nip at Jon’s left nipple. Jon lets out a grunt and almost bucks Anže off the bed. The sensation is too much and he’s worried he’s going to come, right now, without more than a touch or two to his dick. The thought is embarrassing, and Jon blushes as he reaches down to open the button on his jeans and push them halfway down his thighs.
It’s forward, more so than Jon’s ever been before. But it’s either give Anže the hint of the century, or this will be over way too soon. Anže doesn’t seem to mind, anyway, just smirks up at Jon as he shimmies down Jon’s body. Anže’s weight is heavy and comforting on Jon’s legs as he slips a condom around him and doesn’t hesitate as he takes Jon into his mouth.
It’s warm and wet and amazing and Jon has to close his eyes and think of Teemu Selanne to keep from blowing the moment Anže’s lips touch his balls. Anže loosens his throat and takes Jon in deep, measured swallows and Jon’s fighting a losing battle. His dick throbs in Anže’s mouth and he pulls at Anže’s hair in warning before he cries out and comes in long, pulsing thrusts down Anže’s throat.
He’s still shaking, his hips moving in restless little thrusts. Anže keeps a reassuring hand on Jon’s hip as he pulls back, wiping at his mouth, and reaches towards the glass of water on the bedside table.
“Sorry. Fuck.” Jon’s voice is hoarse, and he turns his head on the pillow to gaze at Anže through half-closed lids. “I meant to last a little longer than that.” It’s meant to sound apologetic, but Jon can’t keep the lust and heat out of it.
Anže laughs, leaning back on his heels and lifting his shirt over his head. “Next time,” he promises, and Jon believes him. Jon would believe just about anything Anže tells him at the moment.
Now that the edge is off, Jon peels off the condom and takes the time to look at Anže, to take in the way he’s built perfectly for a hockey player. Jon wants to ask him why he’s giving blowjobs for money rather than playing, but Anže said ‘next time’ as if that was a real possibility and Jon isn’t noble enough to give up the opportunity to touch him. He feels a stab of lust and he sits up slightly, pulling at Anže ‘s shoulder until Anže stretches out along his body.
Anže is solid and heavy and hard, and Jon bucks up into him, his sensitive dick rubbing against the hard denim of Anže’s jeans. He whimpers, and Anže rolls to his side, but Jon rolls with him, catching Anže’s hand and stopping him. “Let me,” Jon whispers.
Anže hesitates, but then he nods and lays back and only flinches for a second when Jon runs a hand along his collarbone. Jon knows he’s being ridiculous. Anže’s a prostitute, he’s probably touched like this all the time, and the thought makes Jon furious. He gets onto his knees, nudging in-between Anže’s legs and leaning forward to press his nose into the bulge between Anže's thighs.
Anže grunts. “God, Jon, you don’t have to-”
“Mmm,” Jon murmurs against the cloth, parting his lips and breathing warm, moist air against Anže ‘s fly. Anže’s hips press off the mattress and into Jon’s mouth. Jon lifts his head. “I get to do what I want, yeah?”
Anže nods, as if he doesn’t know what to say, and Jon wonders if maybe this isn’t how he’s supposed to treat an escort, but when he gets his hand onto Anže’s dick and Anže’s head hits the mattress with a genuine gasp of pleasure and a “fuck, yes, så bra,” Jon can’t imagine not touching him.
Jon pauses with Anže’s jeans halfway down his legs. “German?”
Anže peers down at him and they’re that same clear, piercing blue that they were the first time he looked at Jon in the club. “Swedish.” He kicks his feet so that his jeans fall to the floor and Jon forgets what he was about to ask because Anže isn’t wearing anything underneath and he’s spread out on the bed, bare and open and Jon swallows.
“Can I?”
Anže grabs the lube off the bedside table and pushes it into Jon’s hand. Anže’s thighs are loose and relaxed under his palms, and Jon has to close his eyes for a moment and count to ten to get himself under control. When he opens them, his fingers are shaking as he squeezes lube into his palm and, to distract himself, he licks the head of Anže’s erection as he slips the first finger in.
“Jon-”
Anže’s voice is tinged with something that Jon would call amazement, and when he pulls off and glances up, Anže’s eyes are following him, wide and open. Jon grins at him, adding a second finger and scissoring them slowly, before pressing in and searching with his fingertips until Anže gasps and arches his back off the bed, fingers scrambling at Jon’s shoulders.
“There, huh?” Anže nods and Jon presses again. Anže cries out, his back arching and his hand grasping wildly for another condom on the bedside table.
“You paid for your pleasure.”
Jon pulls his fingers out and leans up to whisper against Anže’s lips, “I enjoy pleasing you,” before catching him in a kiss. Anže responds, catching Jon’s tongue with his and he finds Jon’s hand and presses the condom into it. Jon pulls back, chuckling, but he tears open the packet and takes a deep breath before putting it on. “Ready?” He asks.
Anže shakes his head as if he’s bewildered by the question, but whispers “Ja. Vänligen,” and Jon assumes that’s ‘yes’ and hopes that it means ‘please,’ because Jon’s not strong enough to ask twice.
He wraps his arms around the backs of Anže’s knees, hot and sweaty, and brings them to his shoulders. Slowly, with more control than he ever thought he had, he presses in until his balls hit against the warm, smooth skin of Anže’s ass. It’s warm and wet and tight and perfect. He lets out a low, guttural groan low in his throat.
“Fuck, that’s good.” Jon grunts, resting there, waiting to get his breath back and for Anže to loosen around him.
For a long moment, the air is filled with shallow breaths and the thick smell of masculinity, and then Anže reaches up to lay his palm flat against Jon’s chest. “Fuck me.” Anže twists Jon’s nipple between his fingers and Jon growls, surging forward to press a blind kiss to Anže’s chin.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jon murmurs and, when he’s reasonably sure he can move without coming immediately, he straightens his back and pulls out a short ways. He stops, gazing at Anže, who bucks his hips in invitation and that’s all Jon needs.
He sets a fast rhythm, snapping his hips and angling his thrusts so that he can rub against Anže’s prostrate over and over again. Each time, Anže growls and squeezes Jon’s cock, arching his hips and begging Jon to go faster, harder. Anže’s dick is red, jumping and bobbing between their chests and Jon leans forward so that it’s trapped between their bodies, sliding in the slick of their sweat.
Jon’s never felt like this before and it’s only a matter of minutes before he loses all sense of rhythm or decorum and he digs his fingers into Anže’s calves and grunts with the exertion of building orgasm.
Anže’s calf flexes and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Jon registers that their chests don’t provide enough friction for him to come. He drops Anže’s legs to the mattress, pressing one hand next to Anže’s head to hold his weight and grasping Anže’s erection with the other. Anže makes a sound of protest, but Jon kisses him, their lips red and swollen and salty, and Anže gives in, wrapping his legs around Jon’s waist and urging him closer and faster.
Jon feels it as Anže’s entire body flexes and shakes and then he’s pulling away from Jon’s mouth and coming in Jon’s fist with a cry of pleasure that Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. He flexes his own hips, barely holding on, and it’s only a few thrusts before he buries his head in Anže’s neck and his hips stutter and he closes his eyes as he comes.
“Jon?” Anže whispers, sometime later, and Jon groans, lifting his head and pulling away. Anže groans as he stretches against the mattress and Jon’s dick twitches as if wanting to show his appreciation, and Anže chuckles. “Again?”
Jon shakes his head regretfully. “Not tonight.”
Anže gives him a quick look, and Jon wonders if he said something wrong, but then Anže is moving off the bed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Mmm,” Jon mutters into his pillow. He’s dozing when he hears the door to the bathroom open and he glances up to see Anže completely dressed. He takes the money off the counter, pushing it into his back pocket, and Jon frowns.
Anže leans over the bed to kiss him gently and Jon catches his hand. “Next time, eh?”
Anže nods, and he’s giving Jon that look again, but Jon’s already falling asleep and he doesn’t remember watching Anže leave.
Translations:
så bra = so good (Swedish)
Ja = yes
Vänligen = please
Part III