Some Strings Attatched
Hayden's Harley – or "Big Daddy" as his older brother, the previous owner, used to call it before he had to abandon the thing when he left for college – purred to life with a healthy, satisfying rumble beneath him, and he grinned like he'd made it to third base with a cheerleader. This thing was wicked.
"And oh, the sex you're gonna win me," he teased aloud, half giddy, 'cause anybody who was anybody knew: nothing was sexier than a motorcycle.
That thought firmly in mind, he kicked off the stand, hit the gas, and was off. Birds, he was sure, would have envied the feeling if they knew. Crisp, fall winds nipped at his cheeks – too warm still to be uncomfortable yet – sweeping his brown hair back from his face and lifting his jacket at the same time, like a cape, until they were both whipping behind him. Fellow vehicles paled in comparison as he sped past; no one could top him. Hayden Worchester was God.
He snickered, though audible only to himself, and wondered what Addison would say if she saw him like this. Regret for bailing on him, for one, that was for sure.
'Oh yeah,' he thought, 'who's the "punk loser" now?' He snorted at his own mental fantasy, imagining her face, maybe himself with someone else already by his side.
Then again, she was just a prep – too snooty for her own good and probably not worth the lay, besides. Girls like that were never good for much, not to mention way too expensive for Hayden's budget (think: broke). Which was probably why she dumped him, come to think of it. He frowned.
Anyway, for all his talk, what Hayden really wanted, as fucking lame as it sounded (and he would never admit it, on pain of death), was to give himself to someone who meant something to him. It didn't have to be for life – actually, scratch that, hell no, he didn't want it to be for life – or even for some deep romantic thing, but he wanted it be…important. At least the first time.
Unintentionally, that line of thinking – as it unfortunately often did – brought to mind soft, hay-barrel-blonde hair, milk chocolate brown eyes, and the prettiest set of lips God had ever put on a boy, namely: his best friend, Ferris Tanner. And okay, so, yes, Ferris was a guy – Hayden had gotten over that a while ago; he liked guys – but there were bigger problems at stake with his frustrating little man crush. Among the top few were: a.) Ferris was gorgeous to the "way out of Hayden's league" standpoint, despite the fact that Hayden didn't consider himself bad looking – just not model type, b.) Ferris had been his best friend since practically day one and Hayden knew better than to go around fucking that up, and c.) Ferris thought he was straight.
To be fair, Hayden could only really blame himself on that third one. He just wasn't quite ready to make his interests public yet. Some people took that kind of information pretty scarily seriously in a not-so-good-at-all I'm-gonna-beat-you-to-death-with-a-crowbar-now kind of way, and Hayden didn't want to deal with that. Actually, he wasn't even positive that Ferris liked guys – though he was pretty damn sure. He was just "that kind" of guy. You know, the kind who loved to shop, fretted over his hair, had more shampoos and body lotions than Hayden had deodorant, and knew the difference between this season's and last season's styles, ect.? Yeah, that kind.
He was also loaded enough to buy Hayden's house thrice over without a breaking a sweat.
Point of fact, though: Hayden liked him. Where 'like' used in this case meant 'really, really, really, really liked way more than he should have,' especially considering they were friends – guy friends, at that – and a "friend" wasn't supposed to spend half their day or more wondering what it would be like to dip their tongue into your mouth, or maybe run it down your neck and see what sorts of noises you made with lips around your cock or fingers up your-
Hayden almost squeezed his eyes shut—only to remember at the last possible second that he was supposed to be driving—and he groaned, swerving back in line on the road with some degree of frustration. The combination of a fresh boner and the heat and vibrations of his motorcycle was not helping him wrestle in control of his over-active imagination.
He needed a distraction. Something, something, something…
Then, spotting a flashing neon, "Love House" billboard add, it hit him, and in a moment of daring, he took the next turn off.
It wasn't as if he had any intentions of actually stopping anywhere – as if he had the money to spare – but as a legal adult (eighteen years, three days, and proud, baby!), he figured he had every right to at least check out the scene and "window shop," so to speak. So, he did just that, steering his bike off, down, and into that section of town.
Disappointingly, it didn't take long to discover it wasn't all he expected it to be. A thin gloss covered mostly grit, the lights painting an odd, cheap, surreal look on everything – like a fog of nearing on sickly pink in some places – and even the newest buildings were poorly maintained. The entire area reminded him of a bargain-price porno or dollar store lip gloss, and after the third woman at least half a decade older than him with breasts practically falling out her front made a pass at him, he moved his foot for the gas, fully ready to hit the speed and get out when-
He almost crashed, barely catching himself in time and then slowing immensely. Surely, it couldn't be—could it?
Blonde-as-the-sun hair, body of a dancer, and the ass of a-
Who the fuck was he kidding?
Hayden shook his head abruptly and brought his bike to a halt, calling, "Ferris!" without a thought to who might stare. No response. Maybe it wasn't him after all? "Ferris!"
His friend turned, and Hayden thought for a second he might swallow his tongue. Just: wow. No freakin' way the kid was serious; someone must have put him on a dare. Who, Hayden couldn't think to imagine, but by damn he wasn't about to complain. If he thought those legs went on forever in pants Ferris normally wore…
"Hayden?" Ferris looked—hesitant? Confused? Embarrassed?
Hayden waited, and after a moment, curiosity apparently over-ruled the embarrassment (for being caught in whatever dare someone had conned him into, Hayden assumed), and Ferris approached. When he made it within earshot of a normal tone of voice, Hayden grinned.
"Hey, fairy Ferry…mind telling me who-"
"Hayden, what are you doing here?" Ferris snapped, ignoring both Hayden's teasing title for him and the question, and Hayden blinked, startled by his friend's uncharacteristic brusqueness.
"Uhhmm…" As such, it took him a moment to formulate what he hoped to be a suitably mature, self-confident response. "Browsing," he said, trying to lace his tone with suggestive implications and hoping it didn't come off sounding retarded.
Before he could open his mouth though, Hayden cut him off, adding, "I could ask the same of you…" and the way Ferris's cheeks warmed made him immediately regret wearing his tighter pair of jeans.
"What does it look like, Hayden?" Ferris asked, surprising him with the serious glint in his eye, and Hayden worked hard not to swallow. Okay, if they were going to play that game.
He reached out, proud that his fingers didn't shake as he brushed a silky strand of blonde from his friend's face, letting them trail down after that, along the baby soft curve of his cheek. "Really?" he asked. "A pretty, rich boy like you?"
Ferris's lashes sank a quarter inch, but Jesus Christ they were long – the sort girls would kill for, Hayden knew. "Things change…there's a lot of stuff you don't know," Ferris said, his words startlingly hushed, but Hayden let it all slip as part of the silent game of chicken.
Who would break first? Who would take the first step back and say 'Haha, kidding!' to assure that they blew it all off? Not Hayden.
"Hmm…I suppose I can't leave you out here for just anyone, then, can I?" he asked, his fingers just brushing Ferris's neck now, and he still couldn't quite believe he was getting away with this. Any second now, Ferris would shove him off and let him in on the gag. Not the kind of guy to pass up an opportunity, though, he let his thumb drift back up, tracing the line of his friend's jaw; had he mentioned yet that the guy's blush was beautiful? "How much?"
When Ferris shut his eyes, Hayden figured it was over – it, no more, done, the end, zip, hasta la vis-
Then, he opened them again—and damn him for those eyes. Who the hell wouldn't jump in front of a train for those things? How the hell was Hayden not supposed to dream about them? Wrap his hand around his own cock to thoughts of them? Get his sheets damp and messy with-
"That depends," Ferris said, and Hayden felt his pulse jump, like an over-excited frog in his throat. "Do you want to pay for the night, or by the hour?"
He felt proud of himself for not falling off his bike. "Y—duhhhmm…oh…the, uhh…" Was he serious? He actually wanted to have sex with Hayden? Maybe he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming—or maybe he'd crashed and died and gone to heaven and-
'Right, right, right,' Hayden thought, mentally shaking himself back into the world where Ferris was standing in front of his motorcycle with more skin showing than not, openly offering to put a price tag on his body, 'umm…' "The…night…?" he said, and Ferris gave him his first, small smile of the night.
"Alright," he said, "so…where to?"
A/N: Ahem. So, I wasn't going to post this here until I finished with both parts, seeing as this is already lingering in one other place on the net unfinished (and has been for quite some time, I might add); however, I've recieved more than one request to have this put here and I do still intend to finish it up eventually, so...here it is. Who knows when I actually will finish it, but I hope you enjoyed what's here anyway (my apologies for the sloppiness), and...here's to hoping I wrap it up soon. =)