Chapter Five
When Deacon arrived at the Alpha Delt castle’s front gate, the lawn was crammed with shirtless guys in cowboy hats, girls in bandanna-patterned tube tops and cowgirl hats, several people in overalls with no shirts underneath, and a small, flimsy wooden shed painted to look like a red barn with the words Kissin’ Shack on the front.
A shirtless guy with a beer belly went by on a “horse” composed of two people—one costumed as the back end, another as the front. He was holding the front end’s reins in one hand and singing drunkenly.
This was like a state fair gone horribly wrong.
Country music blared from a huge speaker system, and Deacon winced. He reached up and adjusted his mask. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything genius on short notice. Just his black work clothes and a cape James said was a Halloween costume, but that Deacon suspected might be related to Comic-Con. Then a cheap mask he’d picked up at a discount store and a mustache drawn with eyeliner he’d borrowed from Matt’s girlfriend.
The mustache helped disguise Deacon better than the mask. Plus it was dark out, and the party was crowded—he didn’t really think he’d be found out. And if he was, well, Phi Sig would have to watch its back for the next couple of days.
There didn’t appear to be a bouncer, and the gate was open, so Deacon walked in. From the backyard came a cheer even louder than the few Deacon had heard over the last forty-five minutes. He’d shown up fashionably late to help himself slip in unnoticed, but he’d been able to keep tabs on the party pretty well from next door. From what he gathered, when someone fell off the mechanical bull, you cheered, and when someone stuck a ride for eight seconds, you cheered louder. And if someone fell off and appeared to be in serious pain, you cheered loudest of all.
A guy and a girl stumbled out of the Kissin’ Shack together. The guy was leaning on the girl, and when she put her arms up to yell “Whoooo,” he fell over. She paused, tucking her hair behind her ears, and yelled down at him, “Are you okaaaayyyy? Are you okaaaayyyy?”
How the hell was he supposed to find Mark in this mess?
On the front porch, a girl in cutoff shorts that barely covered her crotch and a flannel shirt tied just under her breasts was twirling a lasso and trying to snare a blond guy standing in a huddle. Deacon pushed through the crowd and went around to the backyard, where the mechanical bull stood in all its glory. It actually looked like a bull—brown and white with faux fur and wild, glassy eyes. Deacon wondered how much it had cost to have the thing hauled in, and why anyone thought it was a good idea to place a mechanical bull anywhere near the pool. There was a thick mat on the ground around it, and when Deacon walked up, a guy was lying flat on his back on the mat, clutching his stomach, either laughing or crying.
“Help him up, bitch!” someone yelled.
A girl in a French-maid outfit crouched next to the guy. Nope, wait…not a girl. Deacon blinked to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
It was Mark.
Mark, in a maid’s outfit, helping the bull’s latest victim to his feet. The guy groaned.
“Are you seriously hurt, Greg?” a girl asked.
Deacon looked at Greg’s left ankle, which was swollen.
“I think I…” Greg started, as Mark guided him forward. He tried to put his weight on his left foot and gave a shout.
He was leaning too heavily on Mark, and they were both about to go down. Without thinking, Deacon got on Greg’s other side, placing his arm under Greg’s and hoisting him up. Deacon saw Mark glance at him, saw an expression of gratitude quickly replaced by one of surprise as he recognized Deacon.
Together they dragged Greg over to a nearby hay bale and sat him down. Deacon knelt to get a better look at the ankle. A few people crowded around, but most of the spectators stayed back, as if they expected Deacon to perform some kind of healing miracle. Or like they were too drunk to understand what was going on. Somebody else had already mounted the bull, and the bull operator started it up.
Greg whimpered as Deacon pressed lightly on the swollen skin.
Deacon turned to Mark, trying not to look up his skirt. “We need some ice,” he said.
Mark nodded and left to get some. Deacon addressed Greg. “How bad is it?”
Greg groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Deacon didn’t think his ankle looked broken, but it was a bad sprain. Deacon turned to the bystanders. “He should probably go to the ER,” he said. He realized he was looking right at Rob “Bengal” Stowe and lowered his head, not wanting to be recognized.
“We need a pledge to do an ER run,” Bengal called.
“They’re all dressed like maids,” someone else said.
Bengal muttered something and headed into the house.
Mark returned with ice and someone’s discarded shirt, and he and Deacon started to pack the ankle. When they finally stood, the people who hadn’t yet wandered away cheered. “Zorro saved Greg!” yelled the girl who’d asked if Greg was really hurt.
“Fuck yeah, Zorro!” yelled someone else.
A chant started up of “Zorr-o, Zorr-o,” which caught the attention of the rest of the backyard crowd, most of whom had no idea what had happened. Soon everyone was chanting out of sync.
So much for sneaking into the party, Deacon thought.
Bengal pushed through and announced a sober ride to the ER had been found—some guy named Blake, who wasn’t allowed to drink because he was on the football team—and Mark and Deacon helped Greg to the front and into the car. By the time Greg was carted off, most of the partygoers had lost interest in the incident, and Mark and Deacon were left standing in the drive.
“Nice costume,” Deacon said.
“Shut up,” Mark replied.
“Did they have French maids in the Wild West, or…”
Mark cracked a half grin and elbowed Deacon. “I said shut up.” Mark was wearing sneakers, at least, not stilettos. His legs looked incredible in those stockings—calf muscles firm and well-defined. “Can’t believe you actually dressed as Zorro,” Mark muttered. “Can’t believe you showed up, and I’m dressed like this.”
“You look good. I prefer schoolgirl costumes, but this’ll do in a pinch.”
Mark snorted with laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Deacon had a vision of Mark in a schoolgirl costume—kneesocks and a plaid skirt—that didn’t seem at all ridiculous. Well, maybe a little ridiculous. But definitely hot. Deacon blinked to bring himself back to the present before he delved too deep into that particular fantasy. He was into that now? Who knew?
Mark’s grin was still embarrassed. “Will you stick around for a while? Maybe help me get out of my stockings at the end of the night?”
“Yeah,” Deacon whispered, that image pushing the schoolgirl right out of his head. “Hell, yeah.”
“Good,” Mark said. “Because I really want—”
“Pledge bitch!” Bengal bellowed from the front stairs of the house. “Get your frilly ass back here and dance for us, bitch!”
Mark rolled his eyes. “Fucker.” He shot another look at Deacon. “See you later, then.”
Deacon watched as he jogged up the stairs, his frilly skirt bouncing around his lean ass. That was way more distracting than it should have been.
By the time he went around back again, a space had been cleared by the pool, and eight pledges in French-maid costumes were dancing very unenthusiastically to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman.” As Deacon watched, one of the Alpha Delts leaped in with them, grabbed one of the pledges by the hips, and began to gyrate against the kid’s ass. The kid looked terrified.
“Hey!” Mark pushed him away from the kid.
The guy, drunk, stumbled and went face-first into a bale of hay.
Everyone cheered. It was that sort of party.
Mark took the other pledge by the wrist and pushed him into the back row of dancers.
Deacon shook his head. Really, he shouldn’t hang around. He could slip next door for a few hours and come back when things were winding down a bit. At least that way he wouldn’t have to watch this unmitigated display of drunken douchebaggery.
He became aware that the attention had shifted off the dancing pledges and onto a new spectacle. Deacon turned to look and saw two Alpha Delts leading a dog into the party. Anabelle the Lab.
“Phi Sig’s bitch was crappin’ on our lawn again!” one of them announced. “So we kidnapped it!”
Cheering and whooping, and suddenly Anabelle was getting sprayed with beer. She tugged at her leash to get away, but the guy holding it yanked it back, dragging her across the lawn.
Deacon elbowed his way through the crowd. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded. “You don’t treat an animal like that!”
“Zorro!” one of the girls shrieked. “Zorro’s going to save the puppy!”
“Dude,” the drunk with the leash said, “we’re not hurting it!”
“Give me the dog,” Deacon said. And Anabelle, who had always been standoffish with Deacon, must have recognized a familiar voice. She strained toward him.
“Dude, what’s your deal?”
And then Bengal was right there, right in his face. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“He’s Zorro!” the same girl shrieked.
Bengal glared at him. “He’s fucking Phi Sig!” He knocked Deacon’s hat off. “Fucking Phi Sig has crashed our party!”
Deacon shoved his mask up. No point pretending otherwise. “Give me the dog, Rob.”
“Give him the fucking dog,” Bengal said, shoving Deacon in the chest. “And then get the fuck out. It’s on now, asshole. It’s on.”
Deacon resisted the urge to punch him in the face. He took Anabelle’s leash instead and drew her toward the exit. He cast a look back over at the pledges and saw that Mark was watching. Well, Deacon would find out now how much of an Alpha Delt Mark was, wouldn’t he? Rumor had it that the Alpha Delts swore eternal hatred of Phi Sig in their pledges, because that was just how juvenile they were. As though a fraternity actually devoted to study and community service was the North Korea of Greek life. When in reality Phi Sig couldn’t give a flying fuck about Alpha Delta, as long as they occasionally turned their music down to a dull roar.
On the front lawn, he met James, who was being restrained by a bunch of Alpha Delts who were not listening at all to his threats to call the dean’s office if they didn’t give him back his dog. James gaped when he saw Deacon emerging from the party. “Deke?”
“Let’s go,” Deacon said. “Anabelle needs a bath.”
James shrugged the laughing Alpha Delts off him and fell into step beside Deacon. “That’s why you wanted my cape? To crash an Alpha Delt party?”
“Yeah,” Deacon sighed. “Sorry, but apparently it’s now on.”
“What is?”
“The hell if I know,” Deacon said.
James shook his head. “Look, I don’t care what you did. If you hadn’t been in there, who knows what they would have done to Anabelle.” He looked at his watch. “Is it too late to call a house meeting? We should probably give everyone the heads-up before the Alpha Delts start their shit.”
Great. So instead of going to a party and hooking up with a cute guy, Deacon had managed to start a fraternity war instead. It was going to be a long semester.
* * * *
Bengal was pissed off. Really pissed off. He was so pissed off that Mark hadn’t even volunteered the fact that he’d invited Deacon to the party. He had the impression that if he did, this Wild West party would end with a good old-fashioned lynching. As it was, Bengal was already mad enough at Mark for pushing Logan White over when he’d grabbed Brandon like that. Fucking Logan. Grinding against Brandon’s arse like it was the funniest thing in the world.
“And you, pledge bitch, can clean this whole fucking yard up by morning,” Bengal told him once the party had wound down. He glared at the other pledges. “The rest of you, fuck off. If I find out anyone helped this piece of shit, you’re out.”
Brandon looked like he was going to cry, so Mark winked at him to try and cheer him up. Then, once the others had left, Mark took a garbage bag, turned off the stereo, and began to pick up beer cans.
It was three a.m. So much for classes in the morning. He’d be lucky to be finished by noon.
As he worked, Mark looked over at the Phi Sig house. A couple of lights were still on, but mostly it looked quiet and peaceful. Mark didn’t know anything about the Phi Sigs, except they were the sworn enemies of Alpha Delta. Because they liked books, or something. Blake, whom Mark had asked, had been sketchy on the details.
And Deacon was in Phi Sig. Rescuing that dog had been pretty cool. Calling out the Alpha Delts on their arsehole behavior was even more cool. Mark hadn’t known Deacon was in a fraternity. Mark hadn’t known Deacon was even in college, although he’d assumed it when Deacon had told him about frats the day they met. And he’d said something about Phi Sig then, hadn’t he? But not that he was in it. And Mark had figured frat boys didn’t have jobs. That shit just got in the way of drunken parties, right?
There was a girl passed out in the Kissin’ Shack. Mark checked that she was breathing, and took her phone out of her hand. He checked her messages. There was one unsent: Hey bitch come get meejjidsj. Mark backspaced through the typo, added from Alpha Delta, and hit Send.
Then he went back to collecting beer cans.
Half an hour later, when he was still working his way around the side of the pool, three drunk girls wandered in, collected their friend, and wandered out again. Mark wasn’t even sure they’d noticed him.
He found himself glancing more and more at the Phi Sig house. Then he took his phone from his corset and texted Deacon.
Are we like Romeo and Juliet?
He wasn’t expecting a reply, but Deacon must have been awake still.
I call dibs on Romeo.
Mark grinned at that.
A light came on in the Phi Sig house, in the corner room on the second floor. Then someone stepped out onto the balcony.
That u, Romeo? Because if ur on the balcony, we’re doing it wrong.
The figure raised a hand and waved slowly, the glow of a screen moving back and forth.
But ur the one in a dress.
Mark snorted. He dropped the bag of cans and leaned against the mechanical bull.
Maybe I should take it off then.
Deacon’s reply came almost instantly: What if I like it?
Oh, now that was interesting. Mark held his phone in his left hand and reached under his ruffled skirt with his right. He rubbed his cock through his frilly knickers and wondered if Deacon was actually getting the hang of sexting.
I am so hard right now. Not even kidding.
Pic?
Oh fuck yeah. Mark stared up at Deacon on the balcony and pushed his knickers down. He pumped his cock a few times, then, holding the skirt out of the way, took a photo of it and hit Send. He was debating whether to pull his knickers back on or just rub one out right there in the backyard, when Deacon’s reply came through.
Wait there, Juliet.
Mark crossed to the pool and washed his hands. Better to smell like chlorine than stale beer. Then he went back and waited by the mechanical bull. Deacon had vanished from his balcony. Any second now, and he’d appear.
Mark’s gaze fell on the controls for the bull. Seized with a brilliant idea, he turned it down to its lowest setting and climbed on. It rocked gently, just like the swell of the ocean. Mark closed his eyes.
“You look so fucking hot up there,” Deacon said quietly.
Mark’s eyes flashed open. “Wanna ride ’em, cowboy?”
Deacon climbed up behind him and settled his hands around Mark’s hips. Mark leaned forward, pressing his cock against the hide of the bull and showing his frilly arse off to Deacon at the same time.
“Oh yeah,” Deacon whispered. He slid one hand up Mark’s skirt and smoothed it over Mark’s arse.
Mark didn’t speak. He felt like he ought to make some clever comment—he was in a French-maid uniform, riding a mechanical bull with a de-caped, unmasked Zorro. But it didn’t feel as funny as it should have. He liked Deacon touching him. He liked that it was quiet now, that the pool glowed, that the night was warm, but every now and then a light breeze came through and rustled the trees, which were black against the dark blue of the sky. In Bundaberg, spring would be starting. Here it was almost autumn.
He was saved from a moment of homesickness by Deacon, who moved his hand to Mark’s front and stroked Mark’s cock through his knickers. Mark let out a soft breath. Deacon found the waistband and slipped his hand underneath, and suddenly his palm was on Mark’s dick, pushing lightly. The bull rocked them forward, and Mark ground against Deacon’s hand. They rocked back, and Deacon made a loose fist around Mark’s shaft, fingertips ghosting his balls. Forward, and Deacon’s thighs slid more firmly against Mark’s. Mark, with his skirt lifted, could feel how hard Deacon was.
Back, and Mark lifted off the bull, sitting down again right on Deacon’s crotch. He enjoyed Deacon’s little gasp. Forward, and Mark slid off, and Deacon leaned to place a kiss on Mark’s shoulder. Then Mark’s neck. Then the hand that had been on his hip moved up his side and drifted over the front of his corset. Mark reached back and took ahold of Deacon’s arse, pulling Deacon more snugly against him. He gripped the bull with his legs and rocked into Deacon’s fist, his breath coming faster and heavier.
Deacon kissed him again, just behind his ear, teasing Mark’s earlobe with the tip of his tongue. Mark closed his eyes, feeling the motion of the bull, the heat of Deacon’s body against his, the fabric of Deacon’s pants as he kneaded Mark’s arse. The cool dampness of Deacon’s lips. The pleasure of being around someone who didn’t have it in for him. Whom he didn’t have to fight against or strive to please or look out for. Deacon was quiet, steady. And after weeks of noise and feeling off balance, this was welcome.
“Gonna come?” Deacon whispered against his neck.
Mark gladly would have, just let go and flooded these stupid frilly knickers, except a light went on in the kitchen, and the back door opened.
“Shit!” Deacon hissed.
Mark and Deacon dived off the bull at the same time, landing in a heap on the mat. There was no time to turn the bull off; they raced to the shadows at the side of the house. Mark stopped to look back at the bull, still bucking slowly in the light from the house.
“Hey, pledge bitch!” Bengal shouted.
Mark snickered.
Deacon swatted his side. “You’d better get back there.”
“No.” Mark turned to him, his grin gone. “No. Absolutely not.” Deacon stared back at him, his face younger, softer than it looked in the bar. “I don’t come when I’m called.”
They both moved forward at the same time, their bodies crushing against each other as they kissed furiously. Mark wrapped his arms around Deacon and squeezed, and Deacon sifted through the layers of tulle in Mark’s skirt until he found Mark’s arse and cupped it.
“Do you come when you’re fucked?” Deacon whispered.
Mark grinned and eased Deacon steadily backward, to the front yard. “Let’s find out.” He spun Deacon and gave him a little push, then took off toward the Kissin’ Shack. Deacon followed him in, laughing.
It was completely dark inside, and once Mark was situated on the straw-covered floor, he reached out and found Deacon, pulling him down.
They kissed for a while, their body heat filling the small space. Deacon kicked off his shoes, and Mark followed suit; then Deacon helped Mark undo the corset. Mark wriggled out of the dress and pushed the knickers off while Deacon removed his pants and shirt.
“If we get caught…” Deacon whispered, settling his body on top of Mark’s once more.
“I don’t care,” Mark whispered back fiercely. He was struck by a feeling he’d had several times since moving to America, like he was strapped too loosely into a roller-coaster cart, like all that kept him from falling were the sagging straps of his bravado. There was no real refuge to be found in a perpetual fuck-you to the world. In keeping himself aloof from and above the Alpha Delts and the other pledges and the students who actually did the readings in his lit class, and tight-arsed Jackson and overly optimistic Jim.
But he wasn’t looking for a refuge; he was just looking for a way to live without having to think too hard about what he wanted. If he stripped away any negative memories of his home, he was left with a flat, idyllic image of a place where he’d been happy. Surfing and hanging out and having a good time. He could long for it because it wasn’t this place—wasn’t real and immediate and demanding that he know what he wanted to do with his life, what he planned to make of himself.
He wrapped his legs around Deacon and pulled him down for another kiss. Pushed Deacon onto the floor and straddled him so he could learn Deacon’s body even though he couldn’t see a damned thing. He used his lips, his tongue, his hands to trace the muscles, to find the places where Deacon had a little bit of hair—between his pecs, around his nipples, and under his navel—and to make Deacon gasp, or tense suddenly, or sigh. Each time part of him brushed Deacon’s cock, he was filled with a wild need. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He scooted down and kissed the head of Deacon’s dick, licking up some of the fluid leaking from it. Then he stretched out on the straw beside Deacon, hoping Deacon would take the hint and fuck him.
“Mm. Shit. My dress didn’t have pockets. You got a condom?”
“Grabbed one on the way out,” Deacon murmured.
“Good thinking, Romeo.” Mark rolled his shoulders, enjoying the scratch of the straw against his back. “It’s going on you, by the way.”
Deacon laughed quietly.
Mark heard the rip of foil, and his cock got harder in anticipation.
“Do you prefer to bottom?”
“Sometimes,” Mark said. “I do tonight. Must be the stockings.”
Deacon reached for him in the darkness, running a hand up his leg. “Fuck. You’re still wearing them.”
“Want me to take them off?”
“No.” Deacon’s voice was low and strained.
“Wish we were still on the bull,” Mark whispered to him.
“You like having something to ride?”
Mark groaned as Deacon pulled him closer, Deacon’s cock leaking all over the frilly material of his suspender belt. Okay, so Deacon was pretty bad at sexting, but he could sure as hell talk dirty when it counted. “Yeah, I do.”
“Come on, then.” Deacon got onto his back, and Mark straddled him again. Deacon’s cock pressed against his arse, and Mark shifted so that he could feel his balls dragging across it. Back and forth, just like on the bull. Then Deacon gripped his arse and tugged his cheeks apart. His fingers were slick. He’d grabbed a condom and lube. Those Phi Sig guys really were smart.
Deacon’s slick fingers pushed at his hole, and Mark shuddered.
Mark reached behind him and grabbed Deacon’s cock. He angled it as he rose onto his knees, then sank back down slowly. Fuck. That burn. He loved that burn. Knew guys who wouldn’t let a cock near them unless they’d done the whole one-two-three-fingers thing first, but Mark wasn’t one of them. The problem with getting fingered like that was it made him come so hard he lost all interest in the main event.
Deacon’s breath shuddered out of him as Mark lowered himself. “Oh fuck.”
Mark stayed seated for a moment, closing his eyes as his arse adjusted to Deacon’s cock. Then he started to ride. Gently at first, like on the bull. Rocking himself on Deacon’s cock. Deacon’s hands slid to his waist, to the frilly belt that Mark had thought was ludicrous when he’d first put it on, but now didn’t seem so stupid. Deacon’s thumbs glided over the fabric in small, tight circles. Then he shifted his hands to Mark’s thighs, running them along the stockings. His breath hitched.
Mark should have left the corset on too. Hell, he should have left the fucking skirt on too. Would have, if he’d known Deacon would be so hot for it.
Mark began to move faster, his thighs burning. Deacon moved with him, thrusting his hips up every time Mark pushed back down, working in counterpoint. Mark’s balls were already tight, and his cock was aching for release. He resisted the urge to grab it. Instead, he put his hands over Deacon’s and laced their fingers together.
“Fuck me, Deacon,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck me.”
“I’m gonna come,” Deacon said, his voice straining. He pulled his right hand free from Mark’s and reached for Mark’s cock.
One firm stroke was all it took, and Mark was shooting everywhere. Like, everywhere. It was too dark to be sure, but he was fairly certain he’d hit himself in the chin, and he bet he’d made a mess all over Deacon as well.
Except Deacon, who was jerking his hips quickly as he came, probably hadn’t noticed.
Mark gasped for breath, leaning forward and resting his forehead on Deacon’s shoulder. Fuck, his legs would be like jelly in the morning. After running all those laps for Blake, and then a very different kind of marathon with Deacon. Which had turned out to be a sprint in the end.
Deacon stroked Mark’s back. “Oh…wow.” He tugged at Mark’s suspender belt.
“Kinky fucker.” Mark grinned into his shoulder.
“You or me?”
“Both of us,” Mark said.
Deacon laughed. “Yeah, probably.”
“We have got to do this again sometime,” Mark said, rolling off Deacon. Which should have been his cue to get dressed and leave, but he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him at the moment.
“We do,” Deacon agreed. He leaned over Mark and kissed him.
That was unexpected. And nice. Not at all the sort of kiss you used to get the blood pounding. Something much softer. Sort of sweet.
Mark liked it.
He liked Deacon a lot.
Kinky fucker on one hand, and sort of sweet on the other. He could get used to that.
Suddenly college life was looking up.