Lost and Delirious
Summary: Lindsey gets found when he doesn’t want to be.
Somewhere on the way out of LA (glam-trash-glitter-evil city), I got lost, the way I always get lost, at one of those dance clubs on Santa Monica Boulevard (rotten no-good delay-encouraging mecca). As usual, I hated myself for doing it and threw myself into the club with such abandon that I ignored who I was dancing with (not-my-type flamboyant limp-wristers) and danced, fueling my self-destruction with Jack Daniels and the pleasure of being wanted by every living (as in, not undead) thing in the place.
Then he had to cross my path and ruin everything.
Apparently, when people (beloved, heckling, who needs enemies? friends) aren’t watching, he sheds the frightened nerdy awkwardness, and becomes this roguish, daring, sexy beast who can turn the world on with his smile. He had the posture (attitude, vibe, might as well have been a blinking neon sign around his neck) of a regular, a prince among men, something to aspire to. I stopped mid-gulp and gawked, trying not to choke.
How dare he appear when I was trying to disappear?
If I’d just gone away, it would have been fine. But I had questions. I had things I needed to know. Why was he here? Did he come (go, appear, whatever) to get HIM (dark-eyed asshole irresistible creature) out of his head? Was everyone infected by the same desire when HE walked into your life?
Such a sexy beast, though. Remarkable that I hadn’t seen it before.
He was laughing when I got into his face. I was looking for confrontation and damned if I didn’t find–well, a little.
“I thought you were gone,” he said.
“I got lost,” I screamed (shouted, announced) at him. “Why are you here?”
“Same reason as you are,” he said, eyes flashing. “Now fuck off.”
I could never resist a challenge–and instead of being some pussy (prissy, lame, Niles Crane-esque) schoolboy with a pathetic habit of following HIM around like a puppy, he was someone with an evil (hot, dangerous, delectable) glitter in his eye and a sneer on his lip.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” I offered.
“Gin and tonic, double,” he agreed.
I came back and he took his drink and slammed it down, watching me watch him close his eyes and feel the alcohol swirl around in his brain, rendering him slightly crazed (delirious, mad, wacked-out, drunk) and willing to forget that I was supposed to be gone.
He set the drink on the railing next to him when he was done and looked me up and down like I was a toy surprise in a Cracker Jack box. I was feeling more than slightly crazed (dazed, confused, horny as hell) when he grabbed my hand.
It was the best offer I’d gotten all night.
“What the hell.”
We found ourselves crushed in a world of hot, sweaty bodies and thick, heavy beats that rendered the entire experience into a throbbing (pulsating, convulsing, beating) prelude to a different sort of dance altogether. I kept trying to figure out what was hidden behind his eyes. How could he be the same effeminate nonentity I’d seen? Why did I give a fuck that he was looking at me with a strange curve to his lips?
Why did I want to shove my tongue down his throat (move closer, slam him against the wall, grind up against his ass)?
It took me three songs to figure it out. It was the emotion sliding across his face when he wasn’t amused, aroused, or annoyed. He had the sick mixture of desire, pity, and disgust that moved across her face, or HIS when he was beating hell out of me. Sick to think I got off on being denigrated, especially by a mere mortal (human, person, everyday lame-ass bookworm wimp).
I couldn’t stand the idea (notion, fantasy, sick psychotic hope) and so I grabbed him and pulled him close.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmured into his warm and waiting ear. “I know what you want, same as me. And you’re not gonna get it either.”
His only response was a rough and lazy press of his hips into mine that matched the sudden scream of a siren over the increased beat. I wanted to fasten my hands (evil or not) around his throat, but instead I did the only thing I could. I drew him closer and found his mouth pressed against my ear, nibbling on the lobe.
“Are you certain?” he asked (challenged, insinuated, inquired) as every muscle in my body tensed up.
“He doesn’t want you.”
Another slow and cruel twitch of his hips was the reply. Somewhere in my delirious mind, the answer became words. I could have what I wanted. It wasn’t a forever want, or even a tomorrow want, but tonight was tonight and tomorrow–
I’d be gone.
“It’s not about him,” he said, confirming what my brilliant lawyerbrain (the reptilian amoral intellect) had already figured out. “At least not directly.”
His breath was very warm against my neck.
“Not. Right. Now.”
We stumbled out into the night air, the fresh, low-humidity Los Angeles air that’s pregnant with brain-killing carcinogens. I kept falling into his warm (not cold, still breathing, still human) body, unable to explain anything.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“Where’s your truck?”
Again, the revelation lights (like a cartoon character’s shiny bright idea bulb) went on. Oh. We had to get someplace dark. Someplace that it wouldn’t be easy to see.
“Not very comfortable.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
The truck was around the corner and I was out of my mind with needing something to survive the night. But all the alcohol and fear and anger (put me on the couch, Dr. Freud) was doing things to my head and I could only think in rhyme.
I would fuck him on the docks, I would fuck him on the rocks, I would fuck him, oh yes, ma’am, I would fuck him, Sam I am.
His eyes met mine again and the same thought crossed our brains–what the fuck were we doing? But then the pain of logic and sanity went sailing out of the window and we were alone and together in the wicked world of Los Angeles, looking for somewhere dark and protected to find tonight (hot, sweaty meaningless sex in an alley or the back of a pickup truck).
I shoved him against the all-American metal frame of my truck. He arched his back and gave me a look straight out of one of those bad pornos (sweaty late-night jack-off fodder) and I realized this probably wasn’t the first time a near-stranger had pulled him out of the club with the intent to find the nearest dark alley.
“You’ve got a death wish,” I growled, my evil hand slipping under his Eurotrash silk shirt. “I find that disturbing.”
“Apparently not that disturbing,” he said, noticing how suddenly unbuttoned he was. “Do shut up.”
So I shut up (pulled his lean, sweaty body up against mine and sucked his lip into my mouth). This was a good thing. Electric in a no wonder random strangers wanted him sort of way.
I couldn’t connect things in my head. I was rubbing and sucking and licking and kissing, and my shirt was getting unbuttoned. It was crazy (wrong, dangerous, wasn’t I supposed to get the HELL out of Dodge already?), but I didn’t care. I wanted to slam him against the cold, uncomfortable metal of the truck bed and listen to him moan as I fucked him raw.
Of course, I wasn’t really prepared for that. But I didn’t actually care. I licked his neck and he slipped a warm, slightly sweaty hand into the waistband of my pants, pulled out my shirt, undid the top button and slid the zipper down.
Then he grabbed my shoulders, flipped me around, and suddenly I could feel the truck hard against my back.
“Aw, fuck,” I gasped. He looked up at me, gave me a sickly (patronizing) smile and slid pants and underwear down my hips to where it was almost obscene.
“Mm-hmm,” he said, slipping his hand under the band of the underwear (respectable dark-blue cotton boxer shorts) and using one finger to trace down the length of my cock. My knees almost buckled. When he did it again, I braced myself against the hard metal of the truck and let him ease pants and boxers to my knees.
He was rough, but I needed rough. I closed my eyes and let him jerk me, hard, quick, and graceless. Didn’t realize until I was out of my mind, pumping my hips like crazy (like a complete brain-dead slut) that he was talking to me.
“I think you’re the one with the deathwish,” he said, obviously in midsentence. “You like the pain. The ugliness. When you close your eyes, you add a pair of fangs to any mouth next to yours.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
I was going to go insane if I didn’t come soon. He started moving faster and the friction was killing me, being next to another warm body, someone who got it (wanting to feel cold muscles on top of yours, being afraid of it, getting hard on it, getting off on it, hating yourself for it), someone who didn’t romanticize it–
But it wasn’t a good fucking time to think. Not in real words. Just in demands (Oh. fuck. Yes. Like that. Fuck me. Give it to me. Yes!) until I practically tore my own throat out moaning in satisfaction.
He let go and I pulled up my pants before trying to undo his, thinking reciprocation (turnabout, tit-for-tat) was the name of the game, but instead he pulled me close, hot as hell and seeping want from every pore, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Get out of town,” he murmured, pulling away. “Get over it. Whatever’s curled inside your brain keeping you here, forget about it.”
I couldn’t manage a snappy comeback.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Someone who doesn’t play games when the end of the world is on the line,” he said, his breath suddenly too hot and stale against my face. “Go find yourself somewhere he’s not. He doesn’t need you.”
He pulled away and my brain found a relevant thing to say somewhere in a dusty corner not overheated by sex.
“But he wants me.”
His answer chased me down the highways that led into the depths of the California desert and all the beautiful desolation of America.
He walked away without saying a word.