The Best You Ever Had
Eric knew it was his own damn fault—he hadn't been there to yell Vince out of it when Turtle asked if he could have the release party for his new client's CD at the house. The music was so loud the goddamn decorative vases or urns or whatever the fuck that Kerri Carlson had installed all along the marble stairs went jittering until they fell over and cracked, and you could feel the entire neighborhood getting pissed off behind their iron gates and stone walls. The only reason the cops weren't on their asses was Eric started making phone calls about thirty seconds after the first pair of two-man speakers came in the front door and didn't stop for a good two hours into the party, apologizing to some people and making promises to others. The fruit baskets or whatever shit they were going to have to send out to make peace up and down the block was going to cost Vince another ten grand when it was all over.
"Fuck it," Eric said, after watching yet another pomegranate Cosmopolitan go in for a landing on the sofa. He closed up his cell phone and grabbed himself a beer and an escape route, through the kitchen and outside. Turtle was holding court with Chamillionaire and Drama on the pool deck, right under a pair of the biggest motherfucking speakers, so Eric skirted the crowd and headed for the lower garden just to get some relative quiet.
But "Eric, my man!" Turtle yelled, before he actually made it clear, and then he got dragged in to a lot of handshaking and backslapping, and then his beer was gone and somebody handed him a martini shaker—as much ice as vodka, but what the hell—and somebody else passed him a joint, and there was a girl from the latest Black Eyed Peas video with her hand on his shoulder and her bare thigh pressed up against his leg and a bikini top that was seriously falling down on the job. Somebody got Chamillionaire standing on the poolside table to belt out one of his songs and turned the volume up even more, each beat practically smacking you in the face.
Everybody was dancing, some of the girls doing a bump and grind, practically making out with each other. Turtle was standing on a chair doing his two stupid moves but grinning so wide he almost looked cool anyway. Eric was watching him, shaking his head and laughing, when Vince came up from behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him back and forth to the beat a couple times, then he came around to Eric's side and slung a loose arm around his neck. Eric grinned back and put his arm around Vince's waist to steady him.
It was too loud to say what they were both thinking, That's our Turtle, man, can you believe it? so they just looked it at each other and started laughing, and some guy out of Chamillionaire's crew leaned across and held out his palm to them with a couple of little gold-foil-coated pills. "What the fuck is it?" Eric yelled as loud as he could; the guy yelled back, "The best you ever had," drew an X in the air and gave him a thumbs-up; Vince shrugged one shoulder at him and popped one in his mouth. Eric rolled his eyes, Jesus, but what the fuck was he going to do, let Vince go tripping alone, so he took the other.
It didn't hit for a while, and then suddenly he was sweating like a pig. He shoved his way out of the dancing, jumping crowd, dragging Vince after him by the wrist. They got bottles of water from the bar set up at the end of the pool, abandoned by the bartenders, and stumbled over to the big stairway to the gardens and sat down on the steps. "Man," Vince said, panting, after he'd sucked down half the bottle, and then he crawled-fell the last few steps down to the ground and went rolling away over the thick wet grass until he came to a spread-eagled stop, eyes shut, half-smiling with relief.
"Yeah," Eric said, and staggered down and across the lawn to join him. They lay side by side, watching the purplish clouds go scudding across the smoggy-pink L.A. night sky with the bass notes thumping through the ground, people yelling and cheering up on the deck, everybody having a good time, the best time, and he just felt so fucking happy.
Vince propped himself up on an elbow grinning down at him. "Seriously, man, could our life be more cool?" He laughed out loud.
"You are so stoned," Eric said peacefully. He had one leg pulled up and his hands laced over his stomach. Vince hadn't had a haircut in almost six weeks, blowing it off as long as he could because Shauna wouldn't try to book him for photo ops until after, and that big fluffy curl that his stylist would never cut back far enough was grown out and hanging over his eyes. Eric reached up to push it back.
"So are you," Vince said, and ducked his head into Eric's hand.
"Yeah," Eric agreed, stroking the curl back. It kept falling back down, but he didn't mind, it felt so great to just run his fingers through Vince's hair, and after a little while Vince pillowed his head on Eric's chest to let him keep doing it, which probably was kind of weird, but Eric just couldn't seem to care; he kept petting him.
"Mm," Vince said, and shifted so he was halfway draped over Eric and their legs were tangled up. He was breathing on Eric's neck. Eric laughed—okay, it was kind of a giggle, what the hell, it tickled.
Vince sat up and peeled his t-shirt off over his head. Eric unbuttoned his own shirt the rest of the way. It had come untucked anyway. Then Vince lay down on him again, skin to skin, and Eric put his hands on Vince's sides, lean and smooth and hard. "I can feel your ribs," Eric complained. "You're not working, it wouldn't kill you to eat a little. Your mom is going to kick my ass next time she sees you."
"I feel great," Vince said, rubbing his cheek against Eric's collarbone, scratchy with beard shadow coming in. "It's more of a hassle to go off diet."
"Yeah, whatever," Eric said, and caught Vince by the belt and tugged him up farther to make him stop.
It was weird; he wasn't messed up, his head was totally clear, he wasn't even feeling the vodka anymore. He knew this was seriously fucked, even before Vince started kissing his neck. Eric started running down the damage-control checklist in his head even while he was getting Vince's belt open so he could slide his hands down inside Vince's loose waistband. The problem was his gut kept telling him that this was the best fucking idea he'd ever had, and he'd gotten used to trusting his gut.
"Oh, yeah," Vince said, against his mouth, and kissed him again, sucking on his lip.
"Shauna's going to fucking murder both of us for this," Eric said and opened his mouth and kissed Vince back. Vince tasted like really good pot smoke, and Christ, could he kiss. Eric spread his hands over Vince's smooth bare back.
"Tell her it was all my fault," Vince said, nipping at Eric's ear, down his neck, along his jaw. "I'm just too irresistible. You couldn't keep your hands off me anymore."
"You know, if you and your ego need a private moment together, I could leave," Eric said, and tipped them over onto their sides so he wasn't getting squashed anymore.
He wasn't all that charged up—okay, scratch that, he was as charged up as he'd ever been in his fucking life, yeah, but it wasn't urgent, he just felt like he could hang out doing this all night long, Vince's long leg hooked over his hip and their dicks rubbing up together through their boxers and Vince's mouth hot and warm on his. He kept running his hands over Vince's skin, long slow gliding strokes down his back, his sides.
Vince sighed contentedly against Eric's neck and settled in, rocking against him, his hand warm on Eric's hip; he'd shoved Eric's pants and boxers down partway so he could get his hand on bare skin.
They kept making out like that for a while, and then some guy stumbled to the railing of the pool deck and started puking over the edge really loudly. "Nice," Vince said, and Eric said, "Come on, let's go inside, I'm getting soaked anyway."
There were a couple of people in Vince's bedroom making out on the giant waterbed, so they ended up in Eric's room: he'd locked it before going downstairs. Getting it open again was a problem, though, both of them cracking up while he fumbled the key, and Vince laughing against his neck and sliding his hands into Eric's pockets from behind. They overbalanced when the lock finally gave and stumbled into the room.
Eric shut the door behind them and threw the lock again, and the sound of the party got muffled and soft and far away, by comparison anyway, just the throbbing of the bass still coming through the walls. He turned around from the door. Suddenly it all felt weird, crazy, like it hadn't before. They were in his bedroom, that was his bed, he'd just locked the door. Vince was standing there in the middle of the room, his shirt off and his pants slipping down his hips, and Eric didn't know what the fuck he was doing.
Vince shifted a little under his look, his shoulders slouched and a little gangly-awkward, a couple bits of grass still in his hair; he was holding his pants up mostly by the tilt of his hips. "So are we doing this or what?"
If he called it off, if they went downstairs now, Vince would probably end up banging a girl on the couch in the living room; TMZ would still have the story by tomorrow morning, but it wouldn't have legs, not like it would if half the party said they'd pulled a disappearing act before fucking midnight. Worst-case scenario, somebody would catch Vince at the right minute, he'd pull his fuck-the-press attitude and refuse to deny it. The offers would dry up and the paparazzi would be parked outside for months, following them around, and they'd need security guards to keep them away from the windows.
"Yeah," Eric said. "Yeah, we're doing this," and Vince broke out into that fucking million-dollar smile, the corners of his mouth just curling up, and then he sort of sauntered backwards towards the bed and sprawled on the mattress, one hand slid behind his head and his legs stretched out.
Eric just laughed, shaking his head. "News flash, seventy-five percent of the world already agrees, you're hot." He took his shirt off and threw it over the chair.
"Hey, I work hard for this," Vince said, kicking his shoes off onto the floor. He put his arms behind his head and lay back against the pillows, stripes of light coming in from outside criss-crossing his chest. "Might as well enjoy it."
"Oh, I'm planning to," Eric said. It came out a little hoarse, and Vince went kind of bright-eyed and intense and flushed. It looked seriously fucking good on him, not like there was anything that didn't. Eric climbed onto the bed and lay down next to him and they curled up into each other and started kissing again, slow and easy, while Eric put his hand between them and found the button on Vince's pants blind. Then he pushed Vince over onto his back and pulled the zipper down. He didn't really have to, they'd've come off without it, but he liked doing it, liked the way Vince arched up into his knuckles. He slid his hand down Vince's belly and tucked his fingers just under the waistband of his boxers.
"Come on, E, don't tease," Vince said, twisting under him, and Jesus, it was a turn on how desperate he sounded, so Eric settled in to tease him a whole fucking lot. Anyway he wanted to do all this, kiss Vince's jaw and his neck and figure out what got him hot, that he liked it when Eric breathed into his ear and squirmed when Eric touched him at the waist and whined when Eric put his hands on—
"Eric, you're killing me, Jesus," Vince said, "come on, come on, give it to me," and he was starting to make Eric have to work at it to keep him down.
"Yeah? This what you want?" Eric said, and did it, cupped Vince through the boxers, feeling his balls, his cock lying full and stiff under his hand, and he stroked it up and down. Vince just moaned. "So what's in it for me?"
Vince was jerking up into his hand, biting his lip; he looked like he was almost in pain. He let his head fall to the side, so fucking gorgeous, and he said, unsteadily, "You—you want to fuck me?"
Eric shut his eyes and put his forehead against Vince's shoulder. "Vince, Jesus." He kissed Vince some more and then he shoved Vince's boxers down and put his hand on Vince's cock, and it was fantastic, hot and silky and gorgeous, like driving the goddamn Maserati, Vince clocking two hundred miles an hour under his hands.
"I want—I want you to," Vince said, panting, breaking up, "Eric, I want—"
"Fuck, oh fuck, shut up, Jesus," Eric said; he thought he was going to come just thinking about it, just from Vince being so crazy for it, the way Vince was practically fighting off his own orgasm, clenching into the sheets—"For Christ's sake, you stupid fuck," Eric said then, figuring it out, "this isn't a one time only offer."
"Oh, God," Vince said, and came over Eric's hand in hot jerking spurts, and went limp and blissed out against the pillows.
Eric grabbed for the tissues quick before it went everywhere and mopped up; Vince just lay there with his eyes almost closed, smiling and lazy. "I'm still going to fuck you, though," Eric said, "so don't think you're getting out of it."
Vince flopped a hand at him languidly. "Hey, bring it on. You know, if you're up to it."
"Man, you are asking for it." Eric rolled his eyes and got up and went to the bathroom. "Roll over," he said, tossing the lube and condoms on the bed, trying to sound like he had a fucking clue, and Vince, dumbass, just did it, rolled right over for him and cuddled up to a pillow, spread out on his stomach taking up pretty much the whole bed, naked and golden with the light coming between the window blinds painting him in stripes. Eric swallowed some things that he couldn't say without sounding like a complete pathetic loser, and that Vince totally didn't need to have feeding his ego, except Vince looked over his shoulder at him, grinning like Eric had said each and every one of them.
"Yeah, whatever," Eric muttered, and grabbed the lube. He'd never been so fucking grateful in his life that Kristen had been a prima donna who needed serious warm-up time and wasn't shy about telling him when he was doing it wrong, especially in the backdoor department. Vince didn't say a word, but he got tense and quiet after Eric slipped him a couple of fingers. Eric could hear him breathing hard, and he was unbelievably tight. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Vince said, but Eric just hung out for a while, rocking his fingers slow and easy. He'd put a condom on them so he wouldn't catch Vince on his nails, and after a while Vince started going with him a little, hips moving, and Eric worked him a little faster and deeper. "Huh," Vince said, suddenly, and kind of shivered.
That had to be a good sign. Eric pulled him onto his side and went for it, still taking it slow. Which was killing him, but he didn't mind, he was trying so fucking hard to stay cool. Then he was all the way in, tight up against Vince's back, and it was incredible, except it was Vince, and all of a sudden Eric was scared shitless, even though he was already doing it, moving. He couldn't help it, Vince was making these gasping noises every time. "Jesus, Vince. I still can't believe you're letting me do this."
"Neither can I," Vince said. "You're the one who's supposed to stop me when I do crazy shit. Oh, fuck, Eric," and he grabbed at Eric's hand where Eric was clutching at his hip, and they were going. Eric pressed his face between Vince's shoulderblades and worked him. Vince was headed for round two, hard again, and he turned his face into the pillow heaving for breath, gripping Eric's hand so tight it hurt.
"Let go, let me," Eric said, gritted, through his teeth, he wanted, he had to—he got his hand on Vincent's cock and stroked it, and Christ, he was doing this to Vince, he was making Vince—
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Vince said, his hand digging into Eric's thigh, coming again, and thank fucking God, because that meant Eric could come too.
"Man, we're screwed," Vince said eventually.
"Yeah," Eric said, muffled against Vince's shoulder. He dragged himself out of bed to ditch the condom and get a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.
"You think anybody saw us?" Vince said, taking the bottle of water. He drank half and handed it back to Eric and let his head sink back against the pillows.
"We were making out in the backyard, I think half the fucking party saw us," Eric said, flopping down next to him. "Anyway it's not like Turtle and Drama are going to keep their mouths shut about this."
They lay there a while contemplating the ceiling.
"You think mom's going to take it bad?" Vince asked.
"Your mom? We're on the other side of the country and she's scared to fly," Eric said. "Worry about my mom. No, better yet, worry about Ari. He's going to kill us before they get the chance."
"No," Vince said, just a little smugly. He reached over and patted Eric's cheek. "He's going to kill you."
= End =
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