The van's engine rumbled to life, the sound rattling through the busted window and vibrating up through the floorboards. Mort was still muttering under his breath about the glass, about insurance, about how he was going to find that Davion guy and shove the repair bill so far up his ass he'd be coughing up receipts for a week. Corey had migrated to the passenger seat, one leg tucked under him, his hand resting on Mort's thigh with the casual possessiveness of someone who had zero concept of personal space.
"Kota!" Corey called over his shoulder, his voice carrying that teasing lilt. "Get your ass out of the front and come hang with the cool kids in the back. We've got some things to discuss."
Kota groaned, his body still aching from the fight, his nose throbbing, his balls tender. He had just gotten comfortable in the passenger seat, his head resting against the cool glass of the intact window. But the promise of an actual conversation that might explain what the hell had just happened was enough to make him move. He unbuckled his seatbelt, crawled awkwardly between the two front seats, and tumbled into the open trunk space where Toby had been bouncing on his dildo what felt like a lifetime ago.
The trunk space was cramped but familiar. Gideon was seated in the far corner, his impossibly long legs folded gracefully beneath him, his leather bound notebook open in his lap. He didn't look up when Kota entered, just kept writing in that slow, deliberate script. Toby was curled up against a pile of blankets, still naked from the waist down, his plump ass wrapped in a thin sheet that did nothing to hide the curves. His freckled face was peaceful, the earlier anxiety completely melted away.
And then there was Mort. Mort was sitting rigidly against the side of the van, his arms crossed tight over his chest, his blunt bob haircut perfectly still. But his face was bright red. Not the angry flush Kota was used to seeing, the kind that preceded a ball punch or a death threat. This was different. His cheeks were burning with a deep, unmistakable blush that spread all the way down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his skull graphic crop sweatshirt. He was looking away, deliberately avoiding eye contact with everyone in the van, his jaw clenched tight.
Corey was draped around him like a contented cat. One arm was looped through Mort's, the other resting on his knee, and his head was tilted against Mort's shoulder. Mort wasn't pushing him away. Mort wasn't telling him to fuck off. Mort was just sitting there, blushing furiously, letting Corey cuddle up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Kota blinked. "What's going on? Did I miss something?"
Corey's grin widened. He nuzzled his cheek against Mort's shoulder, his white hair falling across Mort's black crop sweatshirt. "Well, cutie, here's the thing. We're flat broke. Completely. The venue gig was free, sure, but we didn't make any money from tickets because nobody bought tickets. Everyone who showed up was either someone I fucked or someone who snuck in through the back. We've got about fifteen dollars between the four of us and that's going straight into the gas tank."
"Okay," Kota said slowly, settling onto a crate across from them. "And what does that have to do with me?"
Corey's eyes sparkled. "You. Fighting that random guy. Getting recorded by fifteen different phones. That's going online. Probably already is online. People are going to see it. People are going to talk about it. And if people are talking about the mysterious bodyguard who protects Pure Despair, then people are talking about Pure Despair." He squeezed Mort's knee. "If we can stage another fight at our next show, San Antonio, make it look real dramatic and dangerous and sexy, we might actually become niche instead of nobodies."
"What's the difference between nobody and niche?" Kota asked, genuinely curious.
Corey sat up a little straighter, slipping into his storyteller voice. "A nobody artist eats instant ramen for dinner. Every single night. No exceptions. Maybe they get lucky and find a packet of soy sauce that didn't explode in the bag. That's a nobody." He paused for dramatic effect. "A niche artist eats TWO instant ramen for dinner. Plus a snack after. Maybe some chips. Maybe one of those little packaged cakes from the gas station. That's the difference. That's the dream."
Kota stared at him for a long moment. "So the ultimate goal is... snack money."
"Snack money is everything," Corey said solemnly. "Snack money is the gateway to real money. Snack money means people are paying attention. Snack money means we're not screaming into the void anymore. Snack money means San Antonio might actually have people in the audience who aren't just there because I promised them a quickie after the show."
"Alright," Kota said, sighing. "I'm glad you guys might get some views out of this. Really. But I kinda need to get my ass home. It's been a long night and my dad's probably wondering where I am."
Corey and Mort exchanged a look. It was quick, barely a flicker of eye contact, but Kota caught it. Mort's blush deepened impossibly further, spreading to the tips of his ears. Corey's grin turned sly, knowing, and he nudged Mort's side with his elbow.
"Go on," Corey murmured, his voice dropping into that syrupy purr. "Tell him. You promised."
Mort's jaw worked for a moment, like he was physically chewing on the words before he could spit them out. His hands, still crossed over his chest, tightened into fists. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and defensive, but the blush betrayed everything.
"Since you're the reason we might not be flat broke after the next show, I decided I want to reward you. Don't read into it. It's not a big deal. It's just... transactional. You helped us, so I'm helping you. That's all."
And then Mort started stripping.
His hands, still trembling slightly, uncrossed from his chest and moved to the hem of his crop sweatshirt. He pulled it over his head in one sharp, aggressive motion, the skull graphic disappearing into a crumpled heap on the van floor. His chest was pale and smooth, the faint definition of his ribs visible under the skin, his nipples already hard from the cool air. The blush had spread down his neck and across his collarbones now, painting his entire upper body in shades of pink.
Kota's mouth went dry. "Mort, you don't have to—"
"Shut up," Mort snapped, but his voice lacked its usual venom. It was almost breathless. "I said I want to. Don't make it weird."
His fingers moved to the waistband of his shiny black parachute pants. He hesitated for half a second, the fabric bunching under his grip, before he shoved them down over his hips. The pants pooled around his ankles, revealing the tight black briefs underneath, the ones that hugged his plump, perfectly shaped ass and the small bulge of his cocklet. He kicked the pants aside, his compact, toned body now almost completely exposed.
Corey watched with obvious delight, his chin resting on his hand like he was watching his favorite show. "Look at you, Morty. All blushy and eager. Never seen you like this. It's cute."
"I will bite your dick off," Mort said automatically, but his heart wasn't in it. His eyes were locked on Kota, dark and intense, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs. The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, the smooth curve of his lower belly, and finally his tiny cocklet, already hard and leaking, the tip flushed a deep, needy pink. The briefs joined the rest of his clothes on the floor, leaving Mort completely naked in the dim light of the van.
He stood there for a moment, his compact frame trembling slightly, his massive ass clenched tight, his cocklet bobbing with every rapid heartbeat. He looked vulnerable in a way Kota had never seen before, stripped of all his armor, all his sharp words and death threats and ball punches. Just a short, angry femboy who wanted something he didn't know how to ask for.
"Well?" Mort demanded, his voice cracking on the word. "Are you just going to sit there staring, or are you going to do something?"