“You’re right about that,” Treston said. “We all have our flaws and I’m at least willing to admit mine. But don’t expect anything emotional from me. In spite of your blue eyes and sexy silver streaks, and everything else about the way you look, I know a guy who is up to no good. And if you do get into my pants tonight at some point, as you so crudely put it, it’s because I let you get into my pants and it’s because I do like dick. I’m not afraid to admit it. It’s a choice I made because I wanted to do it, and not because you wanted me to do it, pal.”
“You’re trouble.”
“Ha. You make me smile.”
Chad looked into his eyes. “Did someone really take your money and leave you naked at Lake Mead?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. What’s done is done.”
“You’re wrong about one thing,” Chad said. “I really do worry about getting older and I worry about that day when I’ll be too old. I know I’m only hanging on right now by a thin thread. One day soon I’ll wake up and be too old. And guys like you will only be with me for the money, not the dick. No one likes tea-bagging an old man’s nuts unless there’s something fundamentally wrong with them. And it’s damn scary when you’re on a twenty-four-hour cycle.”
“What’s a twenty-four-hour cycle?”
Chad pointed to his crotch. “I used to be able to get it up every twenty minutes, then it turned into every two hours, and now I’m on a twenty-four-hour cycle. It sucks.”
Treston wished he could feel sorry for him, but he couldn’t forget all the times men like Chad had screwed him over. The best he could do was squeeze his hand and say, “Welcome to the club, Mr. Pratt. We all worry about that.” Treston figured he had worse problems than a sexy billionaire who could get anything or anyone he wanted, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear Chad’s lame complaints.
Chapter Seven
The driver pulled up to a small restaurant hidden between two high-profile casinos Treston had heard about from a few of his wealthier clients at the strip club. It was one of the few discreet places in Vegas that didn’t cater to families and tourists with early bird specials. There was nothing Disney World about it. You couldn’t just walk in and get a table on a whim. They didn’t open the door until nine o’clock each night. And because it was so small and so exclusive, they only took reservations a month in advance.
They did take a few people in without reservations or questions, and Chad Pratt was one of them. When the driver pulled up to the door, Chad grabbed Treston’s hand, pulled him out of the backseat, and led him into the restaurant. They sailed through the front door, where Chad and a man in a dark suit exchanged a quick nod. The moment they entered the main dining area, a handsome young man in white pants and a black shirt escorted them through an indoor container garden of tall palms in gilded cache pots to a small private table at the back of the restaurant. The Louis IV chairs had fruitwood trim and had been upholstered with a soft snow leopard print.
Though it was one of the smallest most private restaurants Treston had ever seen, he had a feeling if he spoke above a stage whisper everything he said could be heard from one end of the room to the other. Aside from the low-pitched murmurs coming from the people at other tables, the only sound Treston heard was a soft jazz version of an old song called The Glory of Love. He knew the song because it had been featured in one of his favorite old films, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, with Katharine Hepburn. Although he wasn’t huge fan of jazz as a rule, the familiar melody calmed him and helped him concentrate on not making a fool of himself in a place where he never imagined he would be dining a celebrity billionaire.
He watched as Chad sat down, opened his white linen napkin, and set it on his lap. He did the same thing, but almost knocked over a wine glass in the process. Chad grabbed it just in time. He sent Treston a look and said, “I’ll order for you. The pate de foie gras tout court is phenomenal. And for a main course we’ll have the escargot. I hope you don’t mind. I prefer ordering two appetizers instead of an appetizer and a main course. I’ve learned how to eat less in order to maintain a halfway decent body at my age.” He laughed and shook his head. “I’m a little quirky when it comes to food, but I’m holding on to the remnants of the body I had twenty years ago by a very thin string. Younger men never seem to get this.”
Treston thought it was interesting the way Chad could be so selfish and arrogant, then say something so self-deprecating. So he smiled and said, “I’m fine with that. Order whatever you want.” He leaned in closer so no one would hear him. “I watch my diet, too. Trust me, honey, when you have to take off your pants and shake your ass around to make a buck, the last thing you eat is too much garlic bread with your pasta fagioli.”
Chad laughed. “At least you have a sense of humor.”
Treston shrugged. “Why would you think I didn’t? I’m always making jokes. Everyone who knows me loves my sense of humor. Just the other day…” He stopped talking and sat back.
“What’s wrong?” Chad asked.
“I have this tendency to talk too much sometimes,” Treston said. “My ex-boyfriend, Harlan Rocks, the one who left me stranded at Lake Mead, once said the only way to shut me up is to stick a dick in my mouth.” When he realized what he’d just said, he stopped talking again and frowned. “See what I mean? It’s something I’m working on. I not only talk too much, but sometimes I say inappropriate things without realizing it.”
Chad smiled. “I’ve been told I don’t talk enough. It’s something I’ve been meaning to work on when I get around to it. And for the record, feel free to talk all you want and say anything you want. It’s impossible to shock me, and I learned how to tune out years ago when I worked for a director who wouldn’t shut up. Half the time I don’t listen to anyone anymore.”
Another waiter walked up to the table and set two extra-large martini glasses in front of them. Without even asking for a menu, Chad ordered for them both, in French, and told the waiter to bring their best bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse. Before the waiter left, he glanced at Treston and asked, “Would you like anything else?”
Treston had just taken a sip of his martini and he’d been caught off guard. The martini went up his nose, he started choking, and managed to say, “I’m good, thanks.” He had no idea what Pouilly-Fusse was and didn’t dare try to pronounce it.