He wasn’t the most twinkish of twinks I’d ever seen, though I am sure he would have been right at home talking into a camera about how he hadn’t really tried anything with a guy before, but he was willing to give it the ol’ college try, and then somehow deep-throating the cock the minute he takes it out of his scene partner’s cargo shorts.
He wore tight black jeans and an even tighter white button-up, the buttons of which were undone, revealing a tanned and toned chest. Even from across the patio, I could see the flash of perfect teeth, the perfect cheekbones, the perfect head of dark hair that was messy on purpose. He had the beginnings of a beard and thick glasses that were probably just for show, not prescription. He was lean, but there was strength in his arms. He had a bit of a wicked smile and it was directed right at Darren.
It was even worse than I’d thought.
Because it wasn’t just a normal twink.
No.
It was the dreaded hipster twink.
He probably recycled his own poop to make compost.
That asshole.
Darren, for his part, wasn’t even looking at his admirer, who didn’t really seem to understand the concept of personal space, given that the twink might as well have been climbing him like a fucking tree. No, Darren wasn’t looking at said twink, though he wasn’t doing anything to push him away, either.
Darren was looking directly at me. Normally his look would have been nothing but a blank mask, vague and cool disinterest, but I’d spent too much time with him over the past weeks to be fooled by that anymore. I could see right through his cocky bullshit to know that he was doing this to get a rise out of me. He was challenging me, for fuck’s sake. Trying to see what I’d do. Whether it was planned or not didn’t really matter. Whether or not he’d fucked the twink didn’t really matter (or, at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself and my jack-rabbiting heart).
The only thing that mattered was that Darren Mayne had made a fucking egregious mistake thinking he could come in here, to my club, and challenge me.
That poor, naïve little boy.
(And, if I’m being honest, my reaction was motivated, in part, by the roaring jealousy that crawled through me, infecting every nook and cranny it could find. There was a moment when everything was razor sharp on that little boy who thought he could touch what belonged to Helena, his fingers that for some reason trailed along Darren’s bicep like he had permission to do so, like they were familiar enough to do that. It hadn’t been like that with that stupid little waiter who flirted blatantly with Darren in front of me. I hadn’t cared then. But you can sure as shit bet I fucking cared now.)
There was a problem, though.
I felt slighted.
It was one thing if I’d been knocked down while I was Sandy.
I would have closed off, forced a smile on my face, and licked my wounds when no one was looking. Because that’s just what I did.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that I wasn’t Sandy.
I was Helena.
Darren had decided to fuck with a queen.
And Helena was going give back just as good as she got.
Darren must have seen something cross my face because his eyes narrowed.
I wiggled my fingers at him in a little wave.
“Oh no,” Paul said.
“What?” Vince asked, confused.
“Helena,” Paul said simply, because it explained everything.
“Oh no,” Vince breathed.
I began to move toward the homo jocks.
“Charlie said to not be stupid,” Paul said.