In 2089, a man returns to his old team, greatly annoying his former partner. Time travel is not an easy matter, especially if you cannot trust the man beside you. Now they have to work together again, awakening feelings that should have died with th...
The quote, unquote club was a series of large tents along the beach. The dancers for the Saqeel tent congregated in a smaller tent beside it. Soon they'd enter the main tent to show off their assets in dance routines and possibly escort their wealthy clients from there to more intimate activities later on. Twenty men in different stages of undress prepared for the night, helping each other to accommodate jeweled armbands, ankle and wrist bangles, studded leather vambraces, cocks in pouches, chains of precious metals around their necks, and other myriad things to enhance their muscular bodies.
Strangely, they didn't oil themselves because they were supposed to only smell of manly sweat. Quinn was fine with that; he wasn't a big fan of being slippery without a purpose. He did notice some of the guys applying oil to their assholes, perhaps to ease the customers' trial of the goodies. If Veer hadn't appeared back in his life, Quinn wouldn't have had any problem trying some of those goods himself. This was a fine lot of prime meat.
The dancers were scheduled to enter the tent first one man, then two, then a solo act again, and so on until the last two routines were both paired dancers. As agreed with the club owner, Veer and Quinn would be the sixth act. Ramsey, Jagger, Russo, and Hollander should be in place by the time they came out of the thick velvet curtain separating both tents.
A tall and brawny, very tanned man, Quinn had nicknamed Ringmaster, entered their tent and clapped his hands, calling for attention. "Ten minutes to go." He spoke to the group at large in heavily accented French then focused on the first dancer. "Akham, you ready? No hashish, right?" Akham, who wouldn't have been out of place in a Turkish oil-wrestling match, shook his head. Ringmaster narrowed his eyes but said, "Good boy." He walked about the men with intent, checking the guys' readiness and asking questions to some of them. He gave Veer a particularly nasty leer and straightened some of the chains falling over his chest. Nodding, he added, "Nice. Very nice."
It took every ounce of control in Quinn not to lunge and hit the son of a bitch. Clenching his fists, he reminded himself that worse things would probably happen once they were out among the gentlemen who had come to see the Saqeel dancers- the men of "the strong" tent.
Music started outside. Applause immediately followed. Ahkam positioned himself by the curtain opening, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck; he jumped a little in place. From Quinn's time perspective, one would think Ahkam was about to perform a gymnastics routine at the Olympics, not play stripper for a bunch of lusty men. On cue, the totally waxed but still bearded man opened the curtain and was swallowed up behind it amid roars, cheers, and whistles.
Quinn wanted to peek through the curtain to see if his teammates were already there. The dancers did fifteen-minute sets with brief intervals, so Veer and Quinn would have to wait a little over an hour and a half for their turn. The men who left the tent didn't return because they were encouraged to mingle with the customers. The smell of the ocean and the roasting meats outside the tent threatened to do a number on Quinn's stomach. The minutes trickled impassibly. Somehow, they were finally standing by the velvet curtain.
"You good?" Veer asked Quinn as they both did their own shoulder-rolling beside the curtain.
"I'm pumped," Quinn grunted.
"So am I," Veer grunted in kind.
"We got this." Quinn's restlessness eased a bit. The original assassin had been sent out of Algeria with his family, his teammates were surely outside, and, even if he hated Veer's guts, Quinn knew they could depend on each other.
Their music started. They pulled the curtain aside. They advanced with grinding pelvic thrusts toward the low, circular stage. Fifty or so lavishly dressed gentlemen surrounded the stage, reclined on fluffy, ornate cushions. Quinn gyrated to the right, Veer in the opposite direction. The hubbub of the tent quieted as they embraced their routine. Soon it was only the music, sensual and tormenting. All eyes trained on them as if they were otherworldly visions. Furthermore, the previous seven dancers (now sitting on men's laps or reclining alongside them) watched with a mixture of envy and awe. Undulating, gyrating, twisting, Quinn let the seductive voices of mizmar, tabla, and riqq guide his body. Still, his mind remained alert, assessing his surroundings.
Veer danced in front of Jean-Luc Bilodeau, and the man was frankly on the verge of drooling. A pang of jealousy almost doubled Quinn over, but a hand pinching his ass startled him.
"Zut Alors! That's hard," a gruff, manly voice roared with laughter.
Quinn spun around, ready to punch the offender, only to discover it was fucking Jagger.
Two can play that game, asshole.
Instead of dancing away from Jagger, Quinn (armed with a sultry grin) backed and crouched down until he was in Jagger's lap, moving as if Jagger was fucking him, drawing cheers and applause from the men around them. He even brushed lips with his teammate before returning to the circular stage, leaving Jagger with ninety shades of red on his stupid face and an unquestionable boner between his thick legs.
Their set neared its ending, but their target was already hooked. Bilodeau stood by the edge of the stage (which was really just a round wooden platform rising six inches from the ground), clapping with the stupidest, most loving smile a man could muster. The music climaxed with a bang. Cheers, wolf whistles, and catcalls exploded from the crowd. Veer and Quinn bowed in the center of the stage. They had a five-minute interlude before the next number to allow them to approach customers and stay with them if prompted.
Bilodeau jumped onto the platform and held Veer's hand, resulting in more wolf-whistling and catcalling from the excited gentlemen. He whispered something in Veer's ear. Veer's laughter came out deep and teasing- like syrup slowly spreading over pancakes.
Fuck.
"Mark," Veer called Quinn. They weren't using their real names. Quinn was Mark, and Veer used the assassin's name, Aarzam.
Quinn neared his partner and their target with his most becoming smile. Veer put his hand on Quinn's shoulder and stroked it. Thank goodness for their training because Quinn inwardly became a frigging puddle of need. "Monsieur Jean-Luc wants us to go home with him," Veer purred in Arabic-accented French. One hand trailed down Quinn's arm; the other did who-knows-what behind Bilodeau.
"Is Monsieur sure he can handle the both of us?" Quinn traced one finger along Bilodeau's chiseled jaw. He had to admit the man was striking. That helped because it was really hard to keep himself from looking sideways to find out what Bilodeau's hand was doing behind Veer.
"I'm extremely capable, handsome." Bilodeau gave Quinn a disarming wink.
"Then let's have some fun then," Quinn exclaimed merrily. The three laughed, descending from the platform.
A new round of catcalling, cheers, and even applause this time followed them as they exited the Saqeel tent.
Quinn wondered if he would be fired for screwing up the mission by killing Bilodeau instead of saving him.
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