Red Light |Virgato|

Chapter 13

Joel just about paces a hole in his floor that night, both hands raking his hair back over and over again, shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and cursing himself the entire time.

Because, oh no, he's gone and done it this time. He can't stop thinking about the position he put Chris in to do that and it makes him feel sick. Chris is a human fucking being. It doesn't matter what Erick said. Chris isn't a doll Joel gets to make sit in his lap and rock until he comes on himself. He's a human fucking being. And Joel just treated him like he wasn't one.

He should have been able to keep himself from doing that. How did he fucking do that? He's better than that.

Which is why it's so important he apologizes to Chris the first chance he gets, which isn't until the following weekend.

Erick has noticed something is wrong, but no matter how much he presses, Joel won't tell him. Because there's no way he can admit he's attracted to a stripper in a way he shouldn't be attracted to a stripper.

Because yes, Chris is hot. But Chris has the most adorable laugh, and he keeps having these moments where he slips up and drips his register when talking to Joel, when he acts like maybe it's not all a performance. When he smiles so sincerely at something Joel has said. When he seems to press closer to Joel than he does to other men. When he seems almost disappointed that Joel isn't touching him.

He likes Chris. As a person, not as a body. And he wants to know Chris like he is a person. So the fact that he fucking came in his pants while Chris was sitting on him and then paid him for it... It's enough to make him want to scratch his skin off.

He reminds himself that Chris is, in fact, a fucking performer about a hundred times. It doesn't matter what Chris might be leading him to believe with the way he acts; he wouldn't be doing any of this if Joel wasn't paying him.

So Joel is going to the club, he's going to look Chris in his pretty brown eyes, memorize their color and their expression, and he's going to give Chris a very sincere apology, pay him extra for all his trouble, and promise to never see him ever again because this is so bad for Joel.

This is so bad for him and he knows that. Having these stupid thoughts about Chris is bad. Entertaining the thought of seeing Chris under something other than red lights. Of seeing how bright his brown eyes are in other contexts.

He'd die to see what Chris looks like when loved without lucre.

And then he reminds himself that he doesn't even know Chris's last name. And that Johann would look at him now and tilt his head in pity and say, 'Oh, Joel, sweetheart, look at you now,' and Joel knows - for himself and his easily broken heart - that he has to stop.

Which is how he finds himself dripping with red lighting as the club's music swallows him up, making him squint his eyes. He doesn't go to the bar to get his whiskey. He has one goal in mind and he spends his time picking through the crowd, trying to find brown eyes beneath the red glow.

The body heat around him and the stench of cologne is starting to grow overwhelming for no reason as he squeezes past two people, grimacing. He keeps noticing the vacant expressions that dancers have chiseled into stone features as they press themselves up against men. Let themselves be pulled and pushed and prodded, fingers dragging over thin clothes, smooth skin.

It makes Joel squirm, taking in a sharp breath that only fills his nose deeper with the thick scent of sweat as he tries to find Chris.

It takes a good fifteen minutes before he catches sight of him, in a darker crevice of the club on a couch. Or, there's a man on the couch and Chris is on top of him.