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This is by far not the worst idea Malcolm’s ever had.
Not even fucking close.
There are multiple suspects that work at this particular club, all four of them fit the profile rather nicely but there are gaps. He needed to get closer, get in and get to know them a little.
Luckily, he’s got an in.
Not that he’d told Gil that. Or Dani. Or JT. Honestly it’s just really better if none of them ever find out how he got his information once he’s done with this case. Maybe he’ll just say he went as a guest, an audience member, and weaseled his way backstage somehow.
Yeah.
That’ll work.
“Ladies and gentlemen and everyone into hot, collard twinks…” The announcer has a classic radio DJ voice going on and Malcolm rubs his hands together while he speaks and the crowd gets pumped up. “Tonight, we have a very special guest for you. From right here in New York city, a three time Gold Medalist in the World Championship Pole Dancing Competition, please welcome Bright Eyes!!!”
Malcolm takes a deep breath…
And steps through the curtain.
It’s warmer out here, in the spotlight. It always has been. No matter what stage, what venue. A mix of the bright light and the heat radiating off the crowd of bodies. Even wearing only tight black boyshorts and leather cuffs on both his ankles and wrists and a collar around his neck he doesn’t shiver. Even with the butterflies in his stomach and the anticipation from the roaring crowd.
He puts on his best grin as he gets into place, making sure to give salacious winks in various directions towards the throngs of over excited men and women.
Slowly, still making eyes out into the audience, he takes his place center stage, getting onto his knees, and entwining his fingers behind his back. He nods to the DJ, then leans his head back and a little to the left, exposing his neck, slipping into the caricature of submissiveness.
It’s not too difficult for him, as it tends to be a natural state.
When the music begins his smile disappears, replaced by a sultry, half lidded gaze and he begins to move.
It’s soft to start with, steady, slow movements of his arms and his torso, twisting and writhing in time to the beat. But then it picks up, and he begins to move in earnest across the floor. He works his hips and the crowd shouts in excitement. His hands still appear bound, and he twists, putting his hands out in front of him up in the air, presenting them for an invisible master as the beat continues.
Just before the lyrics begin, he’s made his way to the base of the pole, staring up, and yanks his hands apart on a heavy note.
He grabs the cool metal, and lifts himself with just his upper body strength, upside down with his legs spread wide instantly.
The crowd goes wild.
Malcolm loses himself to the music, to the rhythm. The notes caress his skin, sending a thrill down his spine with every movement. It’s an old routine he knows by heart and could do in his sleep. His favorite. The song has always spoken to him on some deep, intrinsic level of who he is. Even though it’s something he’s never shared with any one he knows outside of the BDSM clubs he belongs to - as in, real fucking life - here, he gets to be himself. He gets to curl his body around the pole, gets to move in a way that’s enticing to those he would want to be desirable to. There is no shame on the stage, no embarrassment. The pole moves and he moves with it, spinning, rolling his hips, walking through the air to much shouting and screams of excitement. While he rolls his shoulders or spreads his legs wide while he spins he’ll wink out in the audience, give them a sultry, slutty grin.
Any time his hands aren’t on the pole, they’re on his body, used to frame the curl of his hips, the sway of his chest to the music, down over his covered cock and along his thighs as he completes a split during another piece of floor routine.
The music ends while he has his hips held high in the air, knees apart, shoulders on the ground and arms close together at the small of his back once more, ready for someone, anyone, to claim him.
His ears ring with the cheers and cat calls from the crowd.
But Malcolm’s heart stops.
Standing at the bar next to the owner, is Gil.
His face is unreadable, and Malcolm has to shake his head to force himself to look away, to focus on his adoring fans and give them a bow and a few winks before disappearing behind the curtain.
Preferably to die.
But there’s adrenaline coursing through his veins taking over the shock and fear. He’s high on the excitement of performance, on the rush he gets every time he loses himself in a song on the pole. More than just the audience feedback, though that’s definitely a bonus.
So when he gets back to the dressing room they let him use as a visiting dancer he’s not as shaken by Gil’s presence.
Though he recognizes that he absolutely should be.
Malcolm’s never been known for his good decision making skills.
“What the hell are you doing, Bright?” Gil rounds on him immediately but Malcolm doesn’t back down.
His chest heaves in excitement, heart racing so hard he can feel it. “We needed an in, needed to get backstage to talk to people, to get more information on who could have -”
“So you decided to try pole dancing?” Gil interrupts him, brows furrowed, eyes bright with anger. “For shits and giggles?”
Though Malcolm isn’t backing down, Gil is crowding in his space. So he shifts, lets himself be led back against the wall where Gil is still close. Close enough Malcolm can feel the warmth of his breath.
“Did that look like I just tried it out for the first time today?” Malcolm asks, voice low, looking up at the older man through his lashes.
Gil swallows. Malcolm watches the bob of his throat, smirks at the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
Malcolm is hyper aware that he’s all but completely naked while Gil is almost pressed up against him in a dark, turtleneck sweater and his favorite wool coat. He presses his hands against Gil’s chest, let’s them rest there a moment, feeling the soft knit fabric beneath his palms. “I needed to talk to these people, needed to get close to them to see subtle things that might fit the profile.”
“That’s what a warrant is for.” Gil nearly growls out. His breathing has picked up too, and Malcolm doesn’t miss how his eyes wander, how he doesn’t stop at any one place on Malcolm’s body.
“It’s not the same. This way they open up to me in a different way. I’m one of them, and I can get to see things like this that I,” he pauses, realizing that what he’s about to say is true for more than just the case. “That I’d never be able to see otherwise.”
Gil inhales a shaky breath as Malcolm’s hands move. He slides them up and over Gil’s shoulders, pressing his bare chest against the older man’s. Their lips are close. Too close. So close that Malcolm can taste the hint of whiskey on his breath, the oakiness and hint of sweetness.
“And what did you see, Malcolm?”
“Things I never realized I wanted.”
Malcolm is pushed back hard against the wall and he groans, feeling Gil’s hard cock pressed against his own. He tilts his head back and to the side, just like he had done on the stage and Gil doesn’t disappoint, moving in close to slide his nose up along the long tendon of Malcolm’s neck, inhaling deeply. The brush of his whiskers sends sparks of electricity through Malcolm’s skin, a shiver down his spine that lights his entire body on fire.
“Get what you came here for,” Gil whispers against his pulse point, lips barely brushing the skin. “When you close this case, we can finish this conversation.”
And then he’s gone and Malcolm has to remember how to breathe again.
Once he does, he throws a robe on and nearly runs to the main group dressing room.
He has a case to solve and one hell of an incentive to do it as quickly as possible.