Bacon put them on, and he had to admit, the little silver dots did complete the look. He was transformed, the hardened military operator replaced by a club rat. “I look like Captain Hook on the make.”
“Oh, you would make a sexy pirate,” Spencer growled as he pulled him close. “I’m tempted to mess you up, make us late.”
“I’m not opposed.” Bacon gave him a quick kiss. “But I like anticipation too. Keep thinking of what dirty things you want to do to me afterward.”
“Many.” Spencer nipped at his freshly shaved jaw. “So damn many things. But now we eat.”
Bacon perched on the bed to eat and used the opportunity to ogle Spencer, who was in a simple black T-shirt and black leather jeans ensemble. Each piece was top quality, from the shirt that hugged his lean frame to the narrow leather belt to the polished boots, giving him a very expensive, in-control air.
“You sure this isn’t a sex party? Because I’d totally blow you in public in those pants. Just saying.”
Spencer coughed around a mouthful of food. “Noted. Now behave and eat.”
After they finished the food, they took a taxi to the private club hosting the party, Spencer not wanting to have to worry about parking or drinking and driving. The drive took them out of downtown LA to a side street in West Hollywood and an unmarked building that looked more like a weathered warehouse, not a glitzy club. Spencer spoke to a large man near the entrance who waved them in.
“I’ve thought saying ‘I’m on the list’ only works in movies.” Bacon laughed as he followed Spencer to an old freight elevator that carried them to an upper floor where pulsing music drifted down the corridor.
And then they were in...well, Wonderland was the only word that came to mind. A darkened space broken up with strategic spotlights on performers on platforms and on lavish decorations giving an air of a depraved carnival or circus—hot dancers in tiny lion-tamer outfits mingling with kissing tightrope walkers. Further into the room there was even a trapeze floating above the crowd. And off to the side was an honest-to-god giant gold throne manned by a small man in what appeared to be a ringmaster’s costume.
“Welcome, welcome,” he called to people passing by, and then a more animated, “Spencer, darling, I see you. Come say hello.”
“Flor. Happy birthday, you old—”
“Hush. I’m not old. Just vintage.” The man, who made Spencer look towering, gave him a quick hug. “And who is this delectable young thing with you? A present for me?”
“Ha. This is my friend, Del. And, Del, this is Flor.”
“Oh, Del. Darling, where do you work out? I need your trainer on my speed dial.” Flor made a big show of squeezing his biceps.
“Uh—”
“Del’s up from San Diego,” Spencer said smoothly as he removed Flor’s hand.
“But you come up a lot, yes?” Flor had a trace of an accent—maybe Italian or some other Mediterranean country. “You should let me photograph you. I have a dancer—Tavio—who would look gorgeous next—”
“You’re not photographing Del,” Spencer said far more firmly than Bacon would have thought possible. Was he jealous? Why that thought made his stomach go warm he couldn’t say. But he liked the bossy tone and the possessive hand on his back.
“Darling. I will give you prints. You can be right there, do that growly thing. Rowr.” Flor mimed cat claws. “You’re adorable all fierce.”
“You’re the only person in the world I’d let call me adorable,” Spencer grumbled. “Well, you and Oscar.”
“Oscar, yes. I was so sad that he didn’t feel up to coming out tonight.” Flor made an exaggerated sad face.
“Oscar’s my former boss,” Spencer clarified.
“I have a friend who might pose for you,” Del said to Flor, thinking of Rooster and his love of the camera.
“Oh? Yes, I like this one already.” Long top coat swishing as he moved, Flor linked arms with him and herded him toward the bar, Spencer trailing behind them.
“How do you know Spencer anyway?” He was curious about what was obviously a friendship with a great deal of affection—they had that sort of eye-speak that only long-time friends could pull off.
“Once upon a time, he was the arts-and-entertainment writer for the paper, and I was the photographer they most often sent to work with him. I was, of course, but a child then.”
Del would put money on Flor turning fifty with this bash, but he nodded anyway.
“Then he got promoted to features, and I got my first gallery show—thanks in part to his father’s connections, for which I am most grateful—”
“Nonsense.” Spencer clapped his friend on the shoulder. “My father has always liked you better than me. He loves brokering deals for you. You’re one of his biggest success stories.”
Flor’s demure blush was in stark contrast to the larger-than-life personality. “Yes, well, I try. Now, darlings, what are you drinking?”