Don't Look Back - 11. Chapter 11 (3.1)

Despite Lee’s warnings—or perhaps because of them—Marshall spent the entire day breaking in his new boots in preparation for the trip to Partners. As added protection, he placed a band-aid on each heel. Better safe than sorry. They surely were beautiful boots. He admired them in his and Lee’s full-length bedroom mirror, twisting and turning to catch the whole effect. Hand-tooled black leather, they fit perfectly and looked great. So did the black cords he wore, the ones that molded themselves to his ass. In one ear, a silver hoop glittered.

Roy had met them at the house. They were all going in Lee’s sedan, as having the most comfortable ride. Roy had teased Marshall about his new black Western-style shirt. “Aren’t you fancy?” He ran his fingers along the silver piping that contrasted with the darkness of the shirt. “Are those real pearl?” He indicated the snaps.

“Yep. Got this last time we were in San Antone. Like it?”

“Sure do. You’re lookin’ real fine.” Roy flashed him a grin. “Betcha the guys line up to be your dance partner.”

“Betcha you’re right,” Marshall agreed.

Lee rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage the boy, you’ll give him a swell head.” Lee swatted Marshall's ass when he bent to climb in the car, and Marshall warmed to his touch. After Roy hopped in the back and Lee slid behind the wheel, Marshall added, “You don’t look half bad yourself.” But the open admiration in his eyes was a closer indicator of just how hot he thought Lee really looked.

Partners was pretty well hopping, but then again it was Western night. Wall-to-wall men of all sizes, shapes, and colors made for an interesting landscape. A large number of them were stuffed into the game room, and their triumphant cries and moans of defeat punctuated their activities.

The dance floor was awhirl with bodies in motion, gyrating energetically to the throbbing rhythms that thump-thumped through the mega speakers situated strategically throughout the club. Marshall’s feet were begging to be taken in that direction, but he curbed his enthusiasm and followed behind Lee as he threaded his way through the club in his quest for a table, telling himself it wouldn’t be long now, Roy bringing up the rear.

On Western night, servers wore wrangler jeans, boots, cowboy hats, and leather vests that revealed bare skin beneath, with scintillating glimpses of nipples calculated to make a horny man’s mouth fairly water with desire. These guys gave new meaning to the phrase “ride’em cowboy”.

Marshall almost ran into Lee when he stopped without warning, grabbing his hips, as he felt Roy bump into him from behind. One of the cowboy servers stood before them, a tall slender blond with hair that fell Rapunzel-like down his chest. His cowboy hat was studded with rhinestones and purple feathers.

“Hey sexy, looking for a table?” the server purred. “I think I might be able to squeeze you in.”

Marshall noticed the server’s eyes weren’t exactly looking Lee in the face, and it didn’t take a mind-reader to guess just what he was scoping out in that southerly direction his glance had just taken.

“You do that,” Lee drawled. “I’d be much obliged.”

“Walk this way, sugah.” The blond batted his fake eyelashes, before turning and sashaying away with mincing steps, Lee close behind. Marshall threw one hand backward, into the air, and swung his hips in an exaggerated copy of the server’s gait. Roy guffawed, even as he poked Marshall in the back and told him to behave himself or he’d tell Lee.

True to his word, the server managed to find them a four-top that had a decent view of the dance floor, and wasn’t situated too close to the speakers. There were two seats on either side. Lee chose one side, Roy sat on the other, but when Marshall tried to claim his spot beside Lee, the server blocked his way, leaning in toward Lee in a confidential manner, under the pretense of making himself heard. “What would you like this evening?” he asked, his voice filled with a whole lot of innuendo.

Lee ordered three drafts and three shots. If he was aware of the blatant invitation behind the blond’s words, he gave no indication of it. Once the server had gone to fill their order, a disgruntled Marshall took his seat, scooting his chair a tad closer to Lee’s. Lee arched a brow but said nothing.

Roy was scoping out the dance floor, but he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “The evening’s young,” he commented. “Maybe later, when the line dancing begins. That seems to bring the ladies to their feet, especially the unattached ones.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, in sync with the music, his big body swaying back and forth.

A shadow fell across the table. Marshall glanced up, prepared to defend his territory against the predatory waiter. But this was a brunet, early thirties, neatly trimmed goatee, tight black T-shirt, and form-fitting leather pants.

“Want to dance?” There was no mistaking this man’s intentions; his focus was clearly on Marshall. Not uncommon when they came to Partners. Marshall drew his fair share of attention, even though he did nothing—at least in his eyes—to warrant it.

He and Lee had an agreement—Marshall was free to dance with anyone, provided he received permission. And with the strict understanding nothing else would occur, there or anywhere else. Not that Marshall wanted anything or anyone else, but those were the rules, and he followed them. It wasn’t that Lee couldn’t keep up with Marshall. It was more a matter of giving Marshall his own space, Lee called it. A question of trust.

Marshall automatically glanced at Lee.

“With your father’s permission, of course,” the man added.

Marshall snickered, just before Lee pulled him close and laid a liplock on him that took his breath away.