THE DECLARATION

 “Caleb Doherty does NOT bottom!” Everyone choruses right before falling into fits of drunken laughter. Trying and failing to wipe the smug smile off my face, but it’s difficult. That line is utterly ridiculous in our line of work– well, this new line of work. But it is the line that bought me a ticket to train with the best strip club in the whole of Brighton Falls.

 The guys and I are still reeling in the shock that we got accepted into Devil’s Playground’s male entertainers.

 Well, training first, if we do pass the training after three months, we’ll officially be the Devil’s playthings.

If you know anything about Brighton Falls, you don’t need me to tell you that Devil’s Playground is the literal power house of our beloved city. The pay is exorbitant, the respect even more, but what really seals the deal is the fact that I’ll finally– and I mean this with the weariness of a CIA agent who had to learn to do a split– kick start this mission.

Anything for the job, right?

“Honestly, how did you even think to tell them that?” Danny, one of my fellow trainees, asks, his blue eyes glittering under the strobing lights of the club.

I shrug.

When the interviewer had gone straight to the point and asked us,

“Our VIP’s expect VIP treatment, of which you’d be duly compensated. What would you say to that?”

 I knew then that question was the reason we signed non disclosure agreements and had our phones confiscated.

 “I’ll show them a good time.” I had said with an easy grin, taking extra measures to flash my dimples, I hear they do wonders for my charm.

“What if they wanted to show you a good time?” The interviewer asked, unperturbed by the dimple attack. She was very professional, I always respect that, but not when my job hung on the line.

 “Caleb Doherty does not bottom.” I had said and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. My comrades all gasped. The interviewer’s eye twitched.

I couldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t.

 Some things are off limits for the job it seemed.

I was sure my chances were shot, the CIA would put someone else on the job but it would take months before they hired again– Devil’s Playground is not easy to get into. My mind worked out how to get in, even if recon had done all that painstaking work and found no other means to join the company but this way.

  Imagine my surprise when with the rest of the guys that applied with me, the ones that actually wanted to work here, I got the envelope stating I was in.

 Now, I give an alcohol slowed shrug, with an easy grin.

“I was being honest. I don’t bottom.”  And that’s the honest to god truth. I’m still figuring out the lying about your identity part of being an agent.

They whoop and cheers again. More rounds for everyone. We made it. After the countless rounds of interviews, those splits, the dance routines, everything was worth it in the end.

 Best of all, I’m in.

When I was assigned this case, a rookie, fresh nosed, it gave everyone a whip lash. Not to brag, but I graduated top of my class. Even then, this case is too large of a scale for me, I know it, everyone knows it. Our director, Rita Montgomery– my hero and idol– explained that my fresh face is exactly what they need since management of Devil’s Playground always managed to snuff out the best of our people before they even stepped inside.

 She was right, like she always is.

I’m in.

The first CIA agent to breach the great Devil’s Playground.

 A rush run down my spine.

“You alright?” Lawrence asks, hand on my back as he looks at me intently.

He’s my age and was the first person I searched for once I got my envelope.

 I grin at him, he grins back.

“More than alright. We’re getting plastered tonight.” I shout over the loud music.

He laughs, the sides of his eyes crinkling. He shouts for the guys to order more, since I’d be paying.

 It’s for the mission, nothing else. I’m only doing this so I blend in with the guys, so nobody suspects me down the line.

 However, I haven’t done this… never had the time to just drink and celebrate.

I’d only allow myself this one night.

Nothing more.

 After all, I’ve just infiltrated a place the best spies could never. All that’s left is to find the one they call The Devil.

 That should be the easy part.

You can’t miss a devil. Not with his horns, tail, and pitch fork. He’d be ugly. He’d look exactly like you expect him to.

 No mission would be easier.

One drink after the other. The guys help me home. The lights are blurry, I can barely stand straight, a soft giggling sound coming from somewhere around me. I’m not sure who’s doing that, but I would be grateful if they stopped.

 “Holy shit. You weigh like a whale.” Zachary groans.

“Are you calling me fat?” I slur as he helps me into my cramped apartment. I had a misconception that CIA agents were given the best resources, but you can barely stand between my bed and my dresser.

 “No. I’m saying you eat muscles for breakfast.” Zachary pants, dropping me on my bed with the loudest oomph, he groans, pulling himself up.

I try to say something, but I’m being pulled under, my words slurring further, the world blurry completely.

 Faintly I hear the sound of the front door twisting, I can’t confirm it though, I’m on the edge of sleep.

Tossing and turning fitfully in my sleep, uncomfortable and hot and sticky.

My fingers fumble with the buttons of my pants, huffing when I’m unable to get it right, still unable to peel my eyes open.

 Hot, I mean blazing hot fingers swat my fingers away, undoing the buttons and pulling my pants off.

 A sigh of relief slips through me.

“Thank you.” I murmur as cool breeze touch my hot legs. I stretch them out, loving the feel of the cool sheets against my skin.

 The hot hand pulls my socks off, a soft sigh of relief is the reward they get.

They must have liked the reward, because the hand slowly circles around my ankles, touch feather light.

It’s hot. I’m hot. The touch is hot.

Yet, I chase after the hot fingers.

They do a slow, almost lazy crawl up my legs. My body shivers despite the heat. It feels incredible.

 Blood starts to rush downward. Which is weird.

I try to peek, but my head feels too heavy, the touch feels too good.

The fingers keep inching upwards. Towards my thighs. My nerves sing, anticipating the touch, craving it.

 Until I’m not breathing, small whimpers keep falling out of my mouth as I almost plead for the touch.

 “I thought Caleb Doherty never bottomed?” A deep gravel voice asks, breaking the spell.

Pushing myself off the bed, my head rushing from the alcohol sloshing around in my system. I squint through a massive headache.

 There’s nothing in the cramped room but shadow.

A shadow.

I don’t see much… other than the piercing green inside the shadow.