"Hell yeah, I need to see if this is legit!" Jace said, before laying down on the chaise again.
Today, in his role as Jace's social director, Tom sent some texts and gathered information about the bash being held at Sage Winslow’s place. He learned that it was supposedly invitation-only, but no one in the history of ever had turned Jace Ericsson away from a party.
Jace timed their arrival for the greatest impact, roaring up to the Winslow mansion in his silver Lamborghini precisely at sunset. He climbed out of the driver’s seat, removing his leather driving gloves, his sharp gray suit chosen specifically because it coordinated with the car’s paint job. The fireball sinking into the ocean on the western horizon was reflected in Bennett’s mirrored sunglasses and brought out a shimmering glow in his casually perfect hair. He snapped the glasses from his face and cast his baby-blues on the crowd. A murmur rippled through the crowd as word of his arrival spread. Jace got semi-hard just knowing that so many people were buzzing about him, and he became even harder when he noticed people’s eyes drifting down to the semi-hard bulge in his pants, which in turn made him harder still.
In related news, Tom got out of the passenger side, wearing something.
Jace strolled through the front door, maintaining his typically detached demeanor. Tom trailed behind, nodding or saying words of greeting to the few people he knew, but never straying far from Jace's side. Tom remembered that he and Jace had visited the Winslow mansion on several occasions as kids, when the wealthier families were trying to encourage their children to socialize together. After a few visits, Jace was banned from the house for decreeing in front of Mr. and Mrs. Winslow that Stanley was “a big poopy turd”. Tom had to choose between his loyalty to Jace versus the chance to continue hanging out with other kids. Establishing a lifelong pattern, he sided with Jace.
Despite its location on the beach, the Winslow house had always seemed unbearably stuffy and old, with antique furniture and marble busts and gold-framed portraits of long-dead aristocrats. But all the walls were now painted with black enamel and early Beastie Boys was cranked to eleven throughout the house, making it clear that the joint was under new ownership, and it was bangin’. The parquet-floored library had been converted into an indoor basketball court where an intense three-on-three game was currently underway. The plushly appointed den was now a video arcade with vintage Ataris and pinball machines, as well as giant screen TVs for playing the latest games, and an exotic aquarium embedded into the floor.
Beautiful young people packed the house from wall to wall, barely able to move. Jace shouted to Tom as they squeezed toward the bar, “What did he do, buy out a modeling agency?” Jace had hoped to stump the bartender by specifying the most obscure gin he could think of, something Winslow couldn’t possibly have on hand, but every brand that came to Jace's mind was there on display behind the bartender. He decided to go to the opposite extreme. “Give me a Corona.” Tom nudged him. “Make it two.”
They forced their way outside to the huge redwood deck which overlooked the Pacific. Out there, it was slightly less crowded, the temperature was twenty degrees cooler, the music wasn’t as ear-bursting, and the stars overhead were just switching on. Jace shook his head and mumbled, “Can you believe all this belongs to a stumpy little weasel like Stanley Winslow?”
Before Tom could reply, a deep male voice cut sharply through the crowd. “Oh. My. God. Do I see the great Jace Ericsson honoring us with a visit?”
Jace and Tom's heads turned toward the hot tub where the voice had originated. In this bubbling cauldron were several large-breasted women in various degrees of undress and one dark-haired musclebound man. Jace thought the guy looked vaguely familiar, in the way that you might slightly recognize some former teenage star from a show on the CW that you never watched. Tom, on the other hand, placed the face immediately, even if it didn’t match the body. “Sage?”
“Oh, hi, Tom. Hadn’t noticed you back there. Welcome!”
Although he could now see that some of Stanley Winslow’s features were still recognizable amid the now rugged face, Bennett had trouble getting his brain around the notion that doughy, crayon-eating Stanley had evolved into this guy. He probably hadn’t seen Stanley in six years, but still, how could someone change so radically?
Sage stood up, revealing a powerful body with abundant body hair clinging to his skin. His long black hair was slicked back on his head and a heavy five-o’clock shadow darkened the skin below his prominent cheekbones. As he walked toward Jace and Tom, he was drying himself off with a plush towel that he dragged through his legs as if flossing his crotch, drawing attention to his skintight black Speedo and the sizeable monster contained within it. Sage took obvious delight in Jace's stunned expression.
“What a pleasure to see you boys again,” said Sage, his delivery as fluttery as ever, even if the pitch was a good octave lower. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” Tom joked, just as amazed as Jace.
“Ha! Yes, I guess I was a late bloomer. Well, better late than never. Come, let me show you what I’ve done with the rest of the house.” Sage took the arm of one of the female guests, seemingly at random, and they kissed hungrily.
Jace had to yell to be heard by Tom, but was sure that, with all the other noise, Sage couldn’t hear him. “What is the deal with all these chicks hanging all over him? I mean, he’s always been such an obvious fruit.”
“‘Fruit’? Don’t be so homophobic, man,” said Tom.
“I’m not homophobic. I’m just, what is it, fructose-intolerant?” Jace said with a cocky grin. Tom just shook his head.
Sage left his arm candy to mingle among the rest of the guests while he led Jace and Tom upstairs to his bedroom. “In here is where the magic happens,” Sage said as he swung open the doors of what used to be his parents’ tasteful master bedroom. The enormous room was now dominated by a huge square mattress with a red velvet bedspread, suitable for an orgy, and a mirrored ceiling above it. Seventy-inch high-def TVs hung on three of the walls, currently showing a simultaneous triple-feature of Natural Born Killers, Behind The Green Door, and My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic. “Fun for all ages,” Sage declared.
On the other wall hung a massive oil painting, much like those that Sage’s parents had preferred, only this was a painting of Sage himself, done in the style of the Old Masters. Against a backdrop of ancient ruins, Sage looked very contemporary, his broad hairy chest on display through an open San Diego Padres shirt. On his legs were ripped jeans and biker boots, and his long hair was blowing in the breeze. One centerfold-worthy naked woman was clinging to his left side, licking his earlobe, while another sat on the ground to his right, arms clutching Sage’s leg as she stared hungrily at his bulging crotch.
“Very tasteful,” said Jace.
Sage grinned. “It was a pleasure to pose for. Of course, you know all about posing, don’t you?”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“Oh, really?” said Sage. “I’ve always thought that you never stop posing.”
Tom stepped in to deflect the direction the conversation was heading. “I can’t believe how good you look, Sage. You’ve really packed on the muscle.”
“Yeah, well, if you want something enough, you find a way to get it. Guess I was just tired of being…what was it? A poopy little turd?” He cast his green eyes on Jace.
Jace asked, “So what’s the deal here? Are you trying to set a world record in blowing through your inheritance?”
Sage didn’t look worried. “Are you kiddin’? My ‘rents were sick rich. I’d have to be some kinda idiot to go through it all.”
A confused-looking middle-aged man wandered past the open bedroom doors, clearly out of place at this party. He spotted Sage and asked, “Où sont les toilettes? The bathroom?”
Sage gestured frantically. “Guillaume! Come in and meet my friends!” The wiry Frenchman shambled into the bedroom, wearing a wool suit and slippers. “Guys, this is the wizard behind my portrait. Jace Ericsson and Tom Laporte, this is Guillaume Dupuis.”
The peculiar Frenchman said, “‘Allo,” and kissed Jace's hand, then Tom's, before turning urgently to Sage. “Please, m’sieur, the toilet?” Sage pointed toward a door at the far end of the bedroom. “Merci! Merci!” shouted the painter as he scooted his way across the room, his knees held close together.
“I know he seems a little odd, but he’s a very powerful artist. You know what, Jace,” Sage said, pointing to the painting, “you should ask Guillaume to paint one of these for your house.”
“Not sure why I’d want a big painting of you in my house.”
“Not of me, you dope,” Sage said, taking a swat at Jace. “Of yourself. I would love to see what Guillaume would do with you. And I bet Guillaume would just love to do you.”
“Oh, I bet he would love to do me too,” said Jace. Behind Sage’s back, Jace winked at Tom, to make sure he caught the innuendo. Tom nodded. Jace was strictly a slow-ball innuendo pitcher; they were always easy to catch.
Guillaume exited the bathroom, greatly relieved. Sage gestured him over. “Guillaume, don’t you think my friend Jace here would make a wonderful subject for one of your paintings?”
Guillaume studied Jace's face, inspecting the way the light fell on the various planes formed by his bone structure, taking Jace's chin in his hand and shifting it to the left and to the right. Jace usually got off on having people check him out, but this little French goofball wasn’t exactly his type. “A beautiful face,” Guillaume declared. “It can hardly be improved upon.” He stepped back to take in Jace's full body. “Oui. An excellent subject! Such potential.”
Jace appreciated the compliment. He took another look at the painting of Sage. He wasn’t any big art guy, but from what he could tell, the painting was well done. At the very least, its size was impressive.
Sage clapped Jace on the shoulder. “You should go to Guillaume’s studio for a sitting. He really does amazing things with his paint.”
Jace...