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Rusty Ryan is a hustler, in every sense of the word, and Danny has always liked to watch him work.
Sometimes he forgets how much.
From where he’s sitting at the bar across the room, he has a clear view of Rusty and his mark in their booth, and he can see the way Rusty leans in with a slow, crooked smile, saying something that makes the man opposite him laugh even as he rests his elbows on the table, shifting closer as if drawn. It’s the purest form of magnetism.
The bartender brings Danny his glass of single malt, and he glances up, catches her eye as he nods his head in thanks. She smiles at him, warm and pleased, just this side of inviting, and yes, he has his own brand of charm, enough to reel most people in, enough to be the best at what he does. It’s not the same as what he sees in Rusty.
He shifts on his stool, leaning an elbow back against the bar, sipping his whiskey while he lets his eyes survey the room. Or, well, it looks as though he’s taking in the room - casual, bored, another American business man with nothing better to do at night than have a drink in the hotel bar. In reality, his attention is entirely in one place, and there’s nothing casual about it.
He’s been in Hong Kong only a few hours, and he knows nothing of the sting as yet. This is Rusty’s operation, something he’s planned on his own, and Danny is happy to hang back and watch until he knows the score. Rusty wanted him here, tonight, in this hotel, left him a note at the reception to take a look in the bar. Get a look at the mark before he steps into the game, which never hurts, but Rusty knows him too well; the mark isn’t all he’s offering a view of.
They haven’t worked together for months, almost half a year, and Rusty likes to remind him of the things he sometimes forgets. It took him a while to figure that part out, but by now he knows Rusty as well as Rusty knows him.
Rusty sent him cookies in prison. The brief note at the bottom of the tin made sure he remembered lots of things. Like why he should always come to Rusty first. Nowadays, he rarely needs to be reminded.
Still, he’s getting his memory refreshed tonight.
The mark is middle-aged, slim, not unattractive in his discreetly tailor-made suit. A man with style, projecting a certain authority. Probably not more starved for company than he wants to be. There’s no doubt, though, that the only company he wants right now is Rusty Ryan’s. Rusty tends to have that effect on people.
Full lips curving around the rim of his glass, lingering just long enough to be suggestive, blue eyes shimmering beneath half-lowered lashes, heat tangible in every movement of his body, a show of seduction, and Danny can’t see the effect on the mark from where he’s sitting, but he can feel the shiver up his own spine.
The pull of magnetism.
Then Rusty leans back in his seat, arm slung along the back of it, the silver-blue silk of his shirt pulling tight across his chest, and Danny has to catch his breath, take another nonchalant swig of his drink to cover. The mark shifts further forward, hungrily.
Danny knows he can charm almost anyone; he can make people want to please him, want to be under his protection, with barely any effort at all. He’s a man people find themselves wanting to follow, and often that pull is more than a little sexual. But he also knows that there are limits to his ability to seduce, some things he just can’t offer, certain tastes he’ll never fit.
Rusty, though… Rusty can shift himself, change himself, become what anyone wants. Whatever your deepest, darkest desires may be, Rusty can lean back like this - open, enticing, beautiful - and make you believe, make you feel in every place that matters, that he can fulfil them all. That you want him and no one else to fulfil them.
It’s a gift, and it’s no secret that Danny enjoys watching him use it. He always gets a kick out of seeing skilled professionals work. In a way, this is no different than watching Linus lift a wallet or Basher set the charges on the door of a vault.
Or that’s what he tells himself, up until the moment when the mark turns to signal a passing waitress for another drink, and Rusty looks up, looks straight at Danny, and smiles.
It’s warm, seductive, inviting, more than a little amused, really no different from the smiles he’s been giving the mark all night. And Rusty is a hustler, a con man, one of the best in the game; it shouldn’t be so easy to tell that this is the genuine article where all the others were fake. It stops Danny’s heart that it’s so easy, and he never knows if that’s desire or fear. In this line of work, transparency is something you just can’t afford.
He doesn’t smile back, doesn’t do anything, and then Rusty turns to the mark again, just as the guy is done with the waitress, somehow creating the illusion that his eyes have been glued to him all along, the illusion that he doesn’t want to look anywhere else. When the tip of Rusty’s tongue slides out to wet his lower lip, it’s that perfect detail that seals the deal.
It’s really nothing like watching Linus lift a wallet at all.
And Danny loves this performance, he always does, but what he loves most is knowing exactly how far Rusty is willing to take it, the fact that when the mark brushes Rusty’s hand with his knuckles and bends close to whisper something in his ear, he knows before it happens that Rusty will shake his head, a polite refusal.
He can’t hear what Rusty says, but he can see the messages his body sends: another night and soon and I’ll make it worth the wait. Promise after promise after promise, and he knows they will never be fulfilled.
Rusty’s performance entertains him, turns him on. This is the part that makes him hard.
When the mark grabs his briefcase and Rusty walks him out into the lobby, Danny knocks back the last of his whiskey and orders another. Only when that glass is empty does he head up to his room.
There is no sign of forced entry on his door, but he isn’t surprised to find Rusty waiting for him when he steps inside.
The curtains are pulled back to reveal the full expanse of the window, wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, and in the dark room, Rusty is a sleek shadow outlined against the distant lights of the Hong Kong skyline. There is a glass of something in his hand. He’s got his back turned, facing the city.
“Have a nice flight?” he asks.
Danny drops his key card on the dresser, slips out of his jacket and drops it on the bed. Moving closer.
“They showed a Harry Potter movie,” he says. “I like the books better.”
“You would. I keep meaning to get you a library card.”
The silk of Rusty’s shirt is smooth as water, shifting frictionless beneath Danny’s palms as he runs them over his shoulders.
“I keep meaning to get you a fashion sense. Somehow I always forget.”
Rusty tilts his head a fraction to the side, and Danny takes it for the invitation it is, brushing his lips against the side of Rusty’s neck just above the collar of the shirt.
“Getting old,” Rusty says. “I should be glad you remember my name.”
He leans back against Danny’s body, and Danny wraps an arm around his waist, pressing them together. His cock lengthens against the warm curve of Rusty’s ass.
“I haven’t used your name, yet,” he says, dragging his tongue up to lick at that spot behind Rusty’s ear.
Rusty draws in a sharp breath, and the ice in his drink chimes against the side of the glass.
“Good point,” he concedes. His voice has dropped low, rough and wild around the edges.
Danny splays his fingers over his stomach, savoring the sensation of silk over firm muscle. His other hand reaches down, cupping the thick outline of Rusty’s dick through his designer pants. When he squeezes, Rusty grinds back against him, rubbing himself over Danny’s erection. He feels liquid in Danny’s arms, slippery as the fabric of his shirt, all heat and motion and deceptive shadows, and none of this is ever part of any performance, he knows that, but it’s too easy to forget.
“Remind me,” he says, harsh whisper across the shell of Rusty’s ear, not asking but demanding.
And Rusty’s hand comes up to wrap around the back of his head, keeping it in place as Rusty twists his neck and presses their mouths together.
There’s no finesse in the kiss, nothing calculated, just want and need and hunger, just Rusty pushing inside and taking what is his. It’s vodka in the glass that Rusty's hanging on to, and the taste of it is clear and crisp and tingling on his tongue, another buzz to go with the moan Rusty makes into his mouth when Danny slides his zipper down, the raw, naked shudder when he takes his cock in hand.
Danny squeezes, pulls, rubs his thumb through the wetness leaking from the tip, loses himself in the feel of the cock filling his hand, the tongue filling his mouth. When Rusty comes, staining the window, blotting the perfect night time view of the harbor below, his convulsions travel the entire length of Danny’s body. They don’t stop kissing until every last tremor is gone.
He releases Rusty’s cock almost reluctantly, but then Rusty twists in his arms until they’re face to face, his hand slipping through Danny’s hair to give his neck a friendly squeeze.
“Remember my name yet,” he says, “or do you need another reminder?”
But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just sinks to his knees with lazy grace, setting the vodka down on the floor beside him. He doesn’t appear to have spilt a single drop.
Danny reaches out, cups his face in his hand, shivering as Rusty’s hands run up his thighs. Arching into the touch of Rusty’s thumbs along his cock.
Rusty gives him a slow, teasing smile.
Danny smiles back down at him, no fear at all.
It’s the genuine article. It’s everything else that’s the con.