Page 36 of Built To Perform

Chapter Eighteen

“I was fifty-fifty on whether you’d show.” Harvey’s grin was more of a leer, the sort you had to steel yourself so as not to recoil from.

“Hopefully you’re pleased I did, not disappointed.”

He thumped me in the arm, which I figured was meant to be camaraderie.

“Picked an easy one for you, tonight. Just to get your feet wet, y’know?” He jerked his chin at my bag. “Got anything sporty in there? Athletic stuff, yeah? Doesn’t matter if it’s clean. In fact, I think they’d prefer it not to be.”

A laugh, no more pleasant than when we’d spoken on the phone.

“So... more than one person?”

He nodded. “Some old friends. Guys whose tastes I know pretty well. Like I said, I picked something easy, since you’re... fresh.”

Hard not to picture someone squeezing ripe fruit, the way he said it. Squeezing it until it pulped.

“And I just dance?”

His expression was flinty. “You dance, and you make conversation, and if they want to see you get off, they see you get off. Is that gonna be a problem, kid?”

My brain had replayed that glimpse of Coach’s face so many times, it took no effort at all to summon it again. Horror and what I could only read as disgust: at what he’d just seen, and who he’d seen do it. As long as I never had to see that look again, I felt like I could do anything.

“No problem. I was just asking.”

The smirk was back. He slung his arm around my shoulders, nodding at a door with a shabby “4” tile nailed onto the frame.

“Go get changed and get on with it, then.”

#

Like I’d warned Jefferson, there was no dressing room. Just a tiny restroom at the back of the club; a depressing, windowless space that clearly doubled as a janitor’s closet. Ancient-looking mops stood up in dented, rusted metal buckets, and a shelf full of bleach bottles. Not exactly the most inspiring place in which to find motivation to perform.

Still, it was easier focusing on the shelves of caustic-looking chemicals than it was catching my eye in the mirror. That was about as much scratch as it was reflective glass, but still showed enough of my face to see how guilty I appeared.

Gritting my teeth, and looking resolutely in the opposite direction to the cracked sink and the mirror above it, I pulled the jock strap up my legs.

Inspiration had failed me - or, more accurately, inspiration had been Adam’s territory, but obviously I couldn’t ask him - so I fell back on familiar ground. Knew how good my teammates looked in a jock, and hoped I could maybe channel some of that appeal myself. Paired with shorts and a muscle shirt that hugged me like a second-skin.

I stuffed my other clothes into the bag with my phone, as I steeled myself for my reflection.

If I ignored the guilt, and the nerves, and lowered the volume on the little voice which always insisted on cataloging where there was room for improvement, I didn’t think I looked bad. The dark blue shirt caught the light, even from just the bare bulb in the dingy little closet, scoring the curves and ridges of my muscles into something almost like armor. Taking a step back, to try to see more of myself, the shorts caught snugly around my crotch. Tight enough around my ass to show the pull of each strap, as the elastic fought against the swell of my cheeks.

I could be sexy, I knew I could. If only because my big bros had told me that; if only because I’d seen myself through their eyes. Glimpses each time, but sometimes glimpses were enough. Eoin could be a work-in-progress still, and yet also attractive and appealing and downright fuckable.

I raised an arm, clenched it until my bicep swelled. Fat and ripe, until the ridiculousness of the whole thing caught up with me. Sneaking out to a club - underage and knowing your Coach and your friends would tell you it was a terrible decision - so that you could perform for strangers.

Well, fuck. If you were going to make terrible decisions, at least commit to them. I’d danced on a stage already - twice, in fact - so how much more different could it be in a room?

#

Harvey jerked his chin at door “4” when I walked back down the hallway. His “get on with it, then” body language was unmistakable.

I resisted the urge to knock, knowing the music inside would be too loud for anyone to hear it. Turned the handle instead, the sound washing out like a wave.

It was a small room, but someone had made a little effort to have it look more welcoming than the dingy club outside. An L-shaped sofa crowding the space; drinks already on the low table. The TV on the wall was muted. I blinked, as I realized it was playing gay porn. I hadn’t realized my performance would have competition.

With all my nerves, I’d not really thought about who the clients might be. “Some old friends,” Harvey had said, which - given the nature of the club manager - wasn’t necessarily a glowing recommendation. I tried not to be too obvious in my assessment of the six or so men, even as I felt their attention rake over me with far less restraint.