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Tristan plopped himself down on the tiny two-seater couch and patted the spot next to him. “What did Wei give you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” Leo sat down next to him, doing his best to ignore the way their outer thighs were pressed together in the small space, and opened the book.
It was a photo album.
The first page didn’t contain a photo, though. Instead, it housed a ragged newspaper clipping. Leo squinted to read the faded print. “It’s an article about a gay march and…an arrest list?” He looked closer. “Uncle Jimmy’s on there.”
“Yeah,” Tristan said, his mouth giving a rueful twist. “This must be from the first Mardi Gras. It was a protest march. Did you know that? Figures Jimmy would have been involved. And they published the details of everyone arrested.”
Leo swallowed convulsively, trying to imagine how he would have coped with having his personal details plastered all over the paper for the crime—because it was a crime, back then—of being gay. He took a shaky breath. “Shit,” he said softly.
Tristan raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah. Can you imagine,” he said quietly, “being outed by the bloody Sydney Morning Herald?”
Leo shook his head, mute. He turned the page to find a photo of a handsome man who was already edging into silver fox territory, his good looks marred by a bruised cheekbone and a split lip. He was grinning despite the injuries, and had his arm draped around the neck of a younger, stockier man. Scrawled underneath was “Bailed out! Jimmy and Brett, 1978.”
Leo looked closer, and recognition flooded through him. This was Uncle Jimmy in his heyday—even through the years, Leo could spot the twinkle in Jimmy’s eyes that promised a good time, or at least an entertaining one, and the familiar insouciant grin—the one his mother had always pursed her lips at the sight of.
Tristan was right, was his initial reaction. He was hot. He recoiled from the thought, backing away like he would from a cockroach on a buffet, horrified at himself.
He glanced up to see if Tristan had somehow read the wrongness of his thoughts and was about to mock him for it, but Tristan’s gaze was firmly fixed on the photo, a fond smile on his face. It was different from his usual self-assured expression—softer, somehow. It suited him.
Leo flipped the page and there was Jimmy again, part of a crowd this time, marching and holding a placard. “1979. No mugshot this time” the scribbled caption read.
“He went back,” Tristan mused. “How brave would you have to be, hey?”
Not only had Uncle Jimmy gone back in ’79, he’d gone back every year since, and these were the photos to prove it. They flipped through the album, and Leo felt like he was walking through history. As the years passed and the photos got less blurry around the edges, he could see the nature of Mardi Gras changing too, morphing slowly until it was less about protest and more about celebration.
And every year Jimmy was there, front and centre. The costumes varied, from G-strings to leather harnesses, angel wings to sequinned booty shorts—and, one memorable year, something made entirely of balloons—but the one thing that never changed was Jimmy’s devil-may-care grin, the one he wore whether he was planting kisses on the cheeks of the pretty young things tucked up against his side or waving a flag from the back of a parade float while wearing nothing but a chest harness, tiny shorts and army boots. He looked like he was living his best life, and Leo envied him.
He peered at the picture of Jimmy wearing a leather harness and short shorts and pointed to the drag queen who was kissing his cheek. “That’s Miss Jenny!”
“Miss O’Jenny, darling. She gets very upset if you ignore her O,” Tristan said, waggling his eyebrows.
Leo wasn’t sure what possessed him to say, “I don’t think I’m qualified to provide her with one of those.”
Tristan’s mouth dropped open. “Leo Fisher, did you just make a sex joke?”
Leo felt his cheeks heating. “Maybe?”
“I’m so proud! It must be my freeing influence!” Tristan beamed at him, his delight obvious. He was all dazzling perfect teeth and delicate features, and the shaft of sunlight dancing across his golden hair looked like some sort of halo, even though Tristan was about as far from angelic as you could get. But Leo didn’t care. All he could think, looking at him, was that Tristan was irresistible, and Leo wanted him in a way he’d never wanted anyone before. He ached to touch him, taste him, feel the strands of his hair between his fingertips, and he was seized with a sudden surge of his own kind of bravery. Before he could talk himself out of it, Leo leaned in, wrapped a hand around the nape of Tristan’s neck, and kissed him.
Tristan froze for a moment, huffing out a surprised breath against Leo’s lips, but before Leo had a chance to regret every life decision that had brought him to this moment, Tristan moved. He stood, dragging Leo along with him, and curled his fingers around Leo’s hips, tugging them closer together. He opened his mouth into the kiss, sweeping his tongue against Leo’s bottom lip before sliding it into his mouth to touch Leo’s.
It was like electricity. If they’d been at the decrepit terrace house instead of here, Leo might have thought they’d stumbled across a live wire. But no, apparently Tristan was just that good at kissing. Leo tried very, very hard not to think of why that was the case, because this kiss was magical and he didn’t want to break the spell by thinking about all the people Tristan had kissed in exchange for money, and?—
Too late. His brain had ruined it.
He pulled back, a little breathless, his face burning. “Um.”
Tristan grinned at him, swaying his hips, and pulled Leo into something that was almost a lazy dance. “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you, Leo Fisher?” His grin grew, and he released Leo’s hips. “I like it.”
Leo’s heart hammered in his chest as he sorted through a tangle of emotions. He liked it too, and he wasn’t sure what that said about him. Because on the one hand, Tristan was gorgeous and sexy, and Leo wanted him. But on the other hand, Tristan was a rent boy. On the other other hand, if Leo really meant what he told himself about there being no shame in sex work, why did he care? Then again, on the other, other, other hand—hell, Leo couldn’t think straight. He had too many hands, lips that still tingled from an amazing kiss, and a gorgeous man in front of him—and really, did any of it even matter?
No, he decided. It didn’t. He was sick of second guessing and overthinking. He put his hands on Tristan’s hips, pulled him close again, and went in for another kiss. It was just as good as the first one, and Leo let his eyes close as he soaked up the taste and feel of Tristan’s soft lips against his, the flicker of a tongue seeking entry, the hand that slid round to his arse and squeezed gently. He moaned into the kiss and felt Tristan’s mouth curve into a smile before he pulled back and they broke apart.
Leo was about to object when Tristan ran a hand over the bulge in Leo’s jeans where he was half-hard—more than half, actually. He was well on his way to a full hard-on. Leo rocked forward into the touch without even thinking about it. Tristan let out a soft laugh, then leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Can I blow you?”
Leo froze for a split second, then he found himself nodding, agreeing before he gave himself a chance to back out. Just for today, he decided, he was living by WWJD—What Would Jimmy Do? And what Jimmy would do in this situation, he was almost certain, was make the most of it. “Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking with nerves.
