Authors: Cara Dee
Public Display of Everything
Copyright © 2014 by Cara Dee
Lisa A. Hollett
Disclaimer: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. All references to ancient or historical events, persons living or dead, locations, and places are used in a fictional manner. Any other names, characters, incidents and places are derived from the author’s own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.
This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature between two men and is intended for adults, 18+. Characters portrayed are 18 or older.
Special thanks to Lisa, L2, Deb, and Ceci. You've all helped me so much with this story, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Thank you, ladies!
I've tried calling you, but your number's been disconnected, and I don’t have your new address. Creating a Facebook account was all I could think of. Please get back to me. I need to apologize.
Hope you're well,
Dumping my duffel bag next to the barstool, I take a seat and let my forehead meet the bartop. My fake Ray-Bans fall down off the top of my head and onto the counter.
"Cory! Happy Friday—Uh-oh." Tammy heads my way. "Fired again?" I don’t answer. She knows I got fired. I always fucking do. She sighs, audible even with all the other people around. Lunch rush and all. "What can I get ya, sugar?"
Without looking up, I lift two fingers. "Two shots of vodka."
I tune out everything else while she gets cracking. Others have probably waited longer for their orders, but I'm special. Tammy and I have bonded good and proper in the past three years over her inability to keep a boyfriend, my inability to keep a job, and the fact that we're both Americans living in London.
Tammy, England's most social butterfly, has made this place popular for Americans with her menu changes. It's basically a Yankee hangout these days. The pub's owner is like a pig in shit 'cause it's been proven that those who are homesick are willing to pay extra for their hot wings and American beer.
It's a slice of home near the British Museum, at the south end of Tottenham Court Road, and the irony isn't lost on me. The last place I wanna go is home, but I guess we Americans stick together. Although, I'm in between, seeing as I have dual citizenship.
"That kid is here again." Tammy is back with my shots, a reason for me to straighten in my seat. My good friend is frowning in the direction of the door, but I'm too busy setting my throat on fire to pay attention. "I wonder what his deal is. He always appears to be lookin' for someone."
"Ah, fuck." I grimace and rub my chest as the vodka slides down. Pushing the shot glasses away from me, I squint at Tammy. "Quit it with the bitchface. Makes you ugly."
"Fuck you." She snorts, then laughs. Another bartender passes her before she speaks again. "I could never be ugly." She winks and shimmies away.
I shrug to myself, knowing she's right. Born and raised in Texas, the size of her ego is as big as her home state, but she's also a sweetheart. A gorgeous one. Half Mexican, half African-American, half Caucasian. No, wait. You can't be half something of three things. Whatever. She's a cocktail.
Twisting my upper body, I survey the establishment, spotting the kid Tammy bitched about earlier sitting three barstools away. And he's not really a kid. Tammy and I are both thirty, so that makes everyone under the age of twenty-five children. That guy is at least over eighteen, though.
"Still cute as fuck," I mumble to myself before facing the bar again.
Tammy keeps the booze flowing, and I tell her I love her when I notice she's monkeying with my tab. Only a third of what I drink ends up on the bill.
By the time the lunch crowd thins, I've got a good buzz going on, and Tammy joins me to shoot the shit for a while. She inquires about my job—this time in construction—and why I lost it. Same old, same old. Either I suck at what I do, or I oversleep, or I fall into something, or I punch someone in the face.
My first job in London…shit, seven years ago—time flies—I was a personal assistant and my boss was a douche. So, when he asked me to send his wife
his mistress flowers, I got the cards mixed up on purpose. That’s how I met Tammy; she was the wife's friend who barged into the office to give Douche Boss a right hook before I got the boot.
Today was different.
We were working on a house façade—'cause, what else is there to work on in London?—and I tripped and accidentally pushed another guy into a pool of wet cement.
He got pretty upset.
"Were you hurt?" Tammy's face flashes with concern.
I shake my head no and finish my second beer. "Nah. And you know, it wouldn’t have happened if it weren't for that goddamn…" I make a face and wave a hand. "I think it was a jackhammer. On the floor."
"Oh, Cory." She giggles. "Time to take the hint: construction ain't for you." Reaching over the bar, she pinches my cheek. "We can't have you ruinin' this pretty face now, can we?" I grunt and pull away, irritated.
. "I have said it before, and I'll say it again."
Here it comes
. "You should try modeling."
Except, I'd fall off every runway they put me on. I'd also ruin every one of those white backdrops in the world. The ones photographers use as background? Yeah…
"I'm not that hot," I point out.
, that’s what you are!" She throws up her hands. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?" Fucking hell, she's back to grabbing my face. "You're like a brunet, brown-eyed James Dean, and you're what, six three?"
"Six one." I back away again and rub my sore jaw. She squeezed it pretty good. "You hurt me." I scowl.
She mock-pouts. "How 'bout a drink on the house?"
Yeah, okay. I nod.
When she returns, she fires off the next question. "So, what's with the bag?"
Luckily, before I can throw out a bullshit answer, a large party of guests streams in and wants to order right away. So I smile and wave Tammy along.
I don’t want to admit I got kicked out of the room I was renting in Marylebone this morning. That’s what you get for being late with the rent two weeks in a row. But fuck it. The place had bedbugs anyway.
Grabbing my shades, I slide them down into the chest pocket of my open flannel shirt. My white wifebeater has a mustard stain on it, but if I don’t even know where to spend the night, I'm sure as hell not gonna bother with doing laundry. The city's packed with hostels, though. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find a bed, and I have a hundred or so quid left.
There's a soft tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see that kid. Up close—for the first time. All right, so maybe he's a lot more than just cute. Maybe he's also older than eighteen. I didn’t exactly ask Tammy when she carded him a few months ago the first time he turned up.
"What's up?" I plaster a polite smile on my face, hoping I don’t come off as the Loser of the Day.
"I couldn’t help but overhear…" He trails off, looking over to where he's been sitting.
Loser of the Day, it is. With a mustard stain.
There's no mustard stain on the kid's long-sleeved shirt. Fancy brand, to boot. It's got that crocodile logo on it.
He clears his throat and wipes a hand down his gray slacks, then extends it. "I'm Flynn Wright. Nice to meet you."
I shake his hand firmly.
. Nice, long fingers. "Cory Matthews." My smile feels a little more genuine now. The kid—
…may be the hottest nerd I've ever seen. "You mentioned something about
"Correct." He blows out a breath and pushes a few locks of his dirty blond hair away from his forehead. "I'm aware of the fact that this topic doesn’t fall into social norms, so I apologize for any awkwardness on my part." A stiff smile. "I only caught the gist of it, but are you looking for work?"
"That’s right," I admit reluctantly.
"Okay. Okay." He nods shortly, puffing out a breath. "Do y-you have high standards?" A small bead of sweat trickles down his temple, distracting me. It's a hot July day, but the bar is air-conditioned. "Or high morals, for that matter." That last part was mumbled.
I furrow my brow, repeating his words. What the fuck? Glancing around me, I chuckle. I can feel the crease of confusion forming on my forehead.
"I wouldn’t have sex for money, if that’s what you mean." I cock my head as he averts his green eyes to the floor. "Kid, if this is your idea of small talk, I'm afraid it needs some work."
His gaze snaps up again, eyes wider. For some reason, his face falls slightly before it's back to composed. "
." Or as composed as he's capable of. "Oh, okay. Right. Yes. I see."
. He scratches a point above his eyebrow. Then he squeezes his eyes shut for a single second. He's clearly struggling with something. "I'm g-going to ask anyway, and then we c-can forget all of this once you've said no." He speaks in a rush. "I have a job offer, but it's not for everybody." He sucks in a quick breath.
I blink. I'm not fucking slow, but this Flynn guy is a handful. I'm kinda worried he's gonna have a stroke, and he's way too young for that.
"What kind of job offer?" I've had some seedy gigs before, so I'm not gonna say no before I know what it is he's proposing.
"It's, um… Is there any way we can speak in private?" He gestures to a table in the corner. "It's better if I show you."
I look over to where Tammy is, preferring a second opinion right now, but she's busy with customers.
. I have nothing to lose, so I agree and grab my stuff before I follow Flynn to his table.
My eyes trail south on the way, and I stifle a sigh of longing at the sight of his tight ass.
It's been too fucking long
Too bad I'm a chickenshit and can't bring myself to get back in the dating game.
Flynn sits down and pulls out a tablet from his messenger bag, quickly powering it up while I get comfortable.
"I run a website," he explains, tapping away on the touch screen. "It's about, ah, exhibition—just to warn you."
I grin, a little nervous myself now. "I
porn, but I have no interest in starring." It's been ages since I had the opportunity to watch, though. It's not like I have constant access to the internet. Or a computer.
"Okay." He swallows hard, and his hand is trembling as he slides his tablet to my side of the table. "This is the site."
Resting my forearms on the table, I lean forward and focus on the screen. Public Display of More dot com. I peer up at Flynn real quick before the screen has my attention again.
"Is there a voyeur inside you? Or are
the one who would like an audience in the bedroom?"
It's a website about voyeurism?
This guy doesn’t strike me as…kinky.
The simple design, mostly white and gray, makes it look classy. Nothing seedy about it.
At first glance, it appears to be a regular community site—but about, yeah, voyeurism. There's a forum part, a chat part, a…um.
"What's this?" I point to the tab where it says,
"Come and See."
Flynn leans close and keeps his voice low. "It's where people can let others know when and where they will be intimate. So people can go to their location and watch."
. He looks around us, making sure no one can hear. "There's a monthly fee to add yourself as a voyeur, but those who offer, um,
, for lack of a better word, get free memberships. They have to list at least one event a month where they either pleasure themselves or have intimate relations with others." By now, he looks extremely uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, I'm intrigued as hell. Wary too, but I wanna hear more. It's one of those moments where I wonder why I couldn’t come up with something like this. Seems like a gold mine to me.
"I apologize," he adds. "I always try to stick to safe topics when I interact with people, but I need help, so I'm afraid I can't get out of this one. Therefore, I'm nervous."