The whole flight from Atlanta to L.A., he's pissed the fuck off. He doesn't sleep, and the movie's fucking bullshit, some stupid family movie starring Kurt Russell or something. The stewardess smiles too much and the fucking food's shit, and what the hell is with airport food, anyway? He's paying enough for first class, Jesus Christ. At least he gets free alcohol out of the deal, but four bloody Marys still don't make up for the cesspool his life's become. He gets to LAX, and it's only then that he realizes that what he's pissed off about, what's really turning his crank, is Kenzie. Not at Kenzie, because it's not her fault, she's just some dumb, sweet kid. She's just part of the baggage he has to tote around now, but he's pissed about her, that she ever has to exist at all. He hits Jared's number on speed dial and fumes. "Hey, man –" is about as far as Jared gets before Chad just erupts. "Where are you, and don't fucking tell me that you're too busy with Jensen because I don't want to fucking hear it." "Well, a'ight, I won't." There's a slight pause, and Chad can hear noise and music in the background. "What is it?" "Not here," because Chad doesn't really want to talk about anything at all, but he really doesn't want to talk about it on his goddamn cell phone in the back of a fucking taxi cab crawling along the 405. "Just tell me where you are." "At the Troub," Jared replies. "But I am with –" "Don't care," Chad snaps. "I'll be there in thirty, don't fucking go anywhere." He snaps his phone shut and offers the driver an extra hundred if he can get Chad to West Hollywood in less than thirty minutes. *** There's a line down the block to get into the Troubadour, but Chad bypasses it by virtue of the fact that he and Matt, the head bouncer, go way back, from when Matt was barbacking at the Roosevelt. Good times, man. Although Chad still thinks he owes Matt for keeping him out of jail that one night with the redhead and the bodyshots. Really, though, how the hell was he supposed to know she had a jealous rap star for a boyfriend? The noise inside dimly-lit club is deafening – there's some Asian-fusion band onstage, with a lead singer that can't be more than 5 foot in her platforms, shaking her pleated skirt and wailing about...something, hell, who knows with Asians, although she might be Indonesian, but Chad thinks that's part of Asia anyway. The rest of the band look like rejects from 'Reservoir Dogs' in their crisply pressed suits. He can't see Jared anywhere in the crowd, which just pisses him off even more. He jams his baseball hat lower on his head (just in case, because this is WeHo after all) and starts sliding through the press of bodies towards the bar, because he's not going to fucking chase after Jared (not that he should have to chase Jared at all, cocksucker) unless he's got a fuck of a lot more alcohol in his system. He glares around him as he slams his first double shot - tequila, because he's in a mood for mean - and the scowl turns ugly when he hears a familiar, booming laugh off to his right. Jared. And Jared only laughs like that for three people, and his Mom's nowhere near L.A. and Chad's sitting at the bar. Which means that Jared hasn't gotten rid of Jensen yet. Cock fucking sucker, what the fuck. Really, Chad loves the guy and all, but sometimes he thinks Jared wouldn't know a clue if it smacked him upside that big ass head of his. He hears the burst of laughter again, and, suddenly, the very last person he wants to see right now is Jared, let alone that seeing Jared had been his only thought for the last six hours. Fucking Jared, who'll be all bright-eyed and half-lit, with those damn crinkles in his eyes that won't be because of Chad or anything Chad's said, trying to introduce him to Jensen for the umpteenth millionth time, and Jensen'll just be smirking at him from behind his beer glass like the pretty pussy bitch he is, and he really isn't in the mood to deal with this shit. Fuck Jared anyway. Chad shoulda known better. He glares out at the crowd again, trying to figure out a way to leave without alerting Jared to his presence, because it would be just his luck if Jared sees him now and drags him over for a drink where he'd have to play polite and smile like he doesn't want to break shit. And he sees a young, hopeful thing staring at him from across the bar like Chad's God or something. It soothes his ego a bit – at least someone's happy to see him – and he gives the kid a once over while slamming his next shot. Pretty, pouty, and emo-chic with tousled hair and kohl-rimmed, come-hither eyes, and why the hell not. Fuck, isn't like Jared's gonna peel himself away from Jensen long enough for anything, and he's not in the mood for Jared's idea of a make up session. It's bullshit, but then, so's his life. He doesn't even play that this is something it's not. He just throws a fifty on the bar to cover his drinks and heads back to the bathroom, knowing Pouty Boy will follow. And, sure as Chad knows that this is a bad idea and that his sister is allergic to eggs, he feels the warm press of a body (the wrong body) against his back and a deep voice (but the wrong deep voice) against his ear. "Hi, I'm –" "Don't care," Chad replies, not in the mood for names or foreplay or small talk or any of that shit. He grips the edges of the sink to steady himself, then turns, pressing against a slender chest, and places his hands on both of Pouty Boy's shoulders. "Let's just get on with it already." Pouty Boy shrugs and obediently sinks to his knees, and it's clear from the start that he's done this sort of thing a lot, because it's no time at all before Chad's fly is open and his cock is being deep-throated with exceptional skill. Chad closes his eyes on the slurping noises and cups the back of Pouty Boy's head, slamming his hips forward, not even pretending. Thankfully, he's lucked out in his choice of pickup, because this guy has no gag reflex at all – he just tilts his throat and takes it, hands braced on either of Chad's thighs for better leverage. The door ricochets open and Chad's eyes open to slits as he glares down whatever asshole's decided to try to crash the party. Thankfully, it's not Jensen or Jared, because that would probably wind up in bloodshed. "Jesus, I, uh..." "A little busy here," Chad snaps out, hips still thrusting, and spit-slick lips are still moving over his cock like a pro (which he probably is), and the intruder backs out, hands held up, taking the noise from the band and the crowd with him. Even with the dim lighting and Chad's hat pulled low, he'd thought he'd seen the glimmer of recognition, and the thought that this'll be all over the fucking internet tomorrow is enough for him to forget even any semblance of politeness. He tangles his hands in thick hair and pistons his hips, cock ramming in the back of a too-willing throat. Pouty Boy doesn't even blink or gag when Chad comes, cursing Jared's name.
|