Easy Money // Larry Stylinson Smut

Easy Money

Louis lunged for the bottle, ripping it forcefully from the hands of the half-naked Latino. The man growled like an animal, muttering to himself in his mother-tongue. Louis rolled his eyes, tipping the bottle upside down. The liquid dribbled out onto his open palm. He raised his hand to his naked chest, lathering his torso with the oil. He was located in front of a mirror, and as he watched himself, as he watched his hand glide over his slick, shiny skin, it was then he realized what a fųcking mess his life was. The minuscule lightbulbs dangling above the mirror caused Louis' face to glow a subtle orange hue. His eyes glistened, flesh lubricious and bronze. He sighed to himself as he reached for his black, silk tie and wrapped it around his neck half-heartedly. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead, gelled into a sleek quiff.

He heard the music from beyond the dressing room begin to play. The pulsating, migraine-inducing shít that was hammering through his skull played all night, every night.

"Almost show-time, Tommo." Louis watched his friend, Liam, approach him in the mirror. A police hat was placed on his head, tipped sideways in a haphazard manner. He donned a police uniform, open to reveal his torso and defined abs. A small cluster of hair was sprouting from his chest. Louis glanced away from his friend's body and met with his warm, mahogany eyes instead.

"I hate it," Louis responded, ice frosting his voice.

"I know you do. But cheer up, lad, it's not that bad! Easy money, init?" Liam grinned, flicking Louis' nipple. Louis giggled and swatted his hand away.  

"Yeah, I guess. But...the exploitation! They just have no respect for us, y'know?"

"You think they exploit us? Babe, who're the ones getting paid over three hundred quid a night, huh?" Liam's eyebrows rose questioningly. "Anyway, we open in five, so you better get out there. Paul says you're managing drinks tonight."

Louis nodded, fastening his tie and retreating out of the dressing room. He headed down the hallway and into the main room. A stage was located at the front, drinks bar directly opposite at the back. Chairs, tables and sofas were scattered everywhere. Poles on platforms sprouted from random areas in the room like litter and directly ahead of Louis was the red curtain. The red curtain in which he had never been beyond. It was where the rich totties lurked, requesting specified workers of their choice to go in for a private session.

Louis sighed, approaching the bar. He sat on a stool, resting his head on his fist. All that occupied his thoughts at that precise moment was the fact that the leather hot pants adorning his lower-half were suffocating his balls to an almost unbearable state. The option of having kids in the future was probably off the table.

"Hiya, Lou!"

Louis jumped, head shooting up to face whoever had addressed him. It was the bartender; a happy little blonde with a smile like sunshine and eyes that laughed along with him. He was too sweet – too innocent – to be working in a place like this.

"Hey, Niall."

"I hate to be a bother, buddy, but would you mind grabbing some ice from the freezer downstairs? We open in," he lifted his wrist to check his watch, "...two minutes ago."

Louis ground his teeth as the first customer came slithering through the door.

"Shít."

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Louis' behind had been slapped nineteen times in approximately one hour of the club being open. He'd wanted to spit on every man that had initiated contact, but that would result in his manager, Paul, firing his sorry ass. So he didn't.