CRY WOLF
The Wolves of Wall Street
By
Jay Ellison
Copyright © 2014 Jay Ellison
Published by Courtesan Press
http://courtesanpress.wordpress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be distributed, shared, resold, posted online, or reproduced
in any electronic or hard copy form.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
This book contains adult content and is intended for a mature readership. All sexual scenarios depicted in
this book occur between consenting adults over 18 years of age.
Cover art design by Courtesan Press
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CONTENTS
Cry Wolf by Jay Ellison
Previews & Excerpts
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CRY WOLF
by Jay Ellison
Chapter One
The hot, longhaired man at the end of the bar was watching him again.
Kevin Sullivan finished mixing the dirty martini for the middle-aged out-of-towner in the blue business
suit and slid it down to him on a paper napkin before making his way down the bar to the stud with the
long hair. Kevin smiled because that was the way he did things in his job as barkeep at the Barracuda, one
of the more popular gay clubs in downtown Brooklyn, but it was a guarded smile, as always.
The man watching him was tall and slender, a sleek body in a tailored black suit. He had chiseled,
vaguely Euro-fine features, and long, straight black hair to his waist that he kept back in a tight ponytail.
His snug Brioni tux made Kevin think of a younger version of James Bond. It was pretty obvious that he
was moneyed and from out of town like so many of the men who frequented the club.
He certainly was a tall, cool drink of water, Kevin thought. And he smelled sweet and slightly wild. But
Kevin told himself he wasn’t in the market to pick up anyone tonight. Not tonight of all nights. It was the
first warm night of the year, and the moon was gravid and clear. It was his night to run. “What can I get
you?” he said, wiping his hands on the bar mop he kept tucked in the waistband of his dark uniform
trousers. “Martini? Shaken, not stirred?”
The man looked momentarily confused, then smiled, showing strong white teeth and incisors that were a
hair too long. My, Grandma, what big teeth you have. “Manhattan.”
“I haven’t had an order for one of those in a dog’s age.”
The man smirked in a playful, sexy and perhaps slightly dangerous way. “I’m a bit old fashioned, I’m
afraid.” He spoke in a soft, lilting British voice. “What does the young crowd drink these days?”
“Julius Orange, the Latte, Odyssey Number Ten. I can make you anything you want.”
“What if what I want isn’t on the menu?”
Is he flirting with me? Kevin wondered. “Try me.”
The man with the ponytail gave him a sly look. “I might just do that, young man. But for now a Manhattan
will do.”
Kevin’s cock twitched in his pants. “Manhattan it is,” he said as he reached for the whiskey, sweet
vermouth and bitters.
The Barracuda was pretty laid back on the weekdays, but on Friday night it turned into one huge pickup,
mostly randy undergrads from CUNY or closeted businessmen from uptown looking to cheat on their
wives. The place was low and packed tonight, the lighting intimate and slightly lurid. The poorer students
were drinking on the edges of the room, the guys with money to burn sitting down by the stage where a
number of handsome, well-muscled, oiled male strippers were strutting their stuff onstage. Synthpop and
house music beat at the walls of the club like the wings of giant, invisible moths.
Kevin delivered Ponytail’s drink, two cherries in it. Kevin didn’t know why he’d done that; in the
Barracuda, two cherries or olives meant a guy was interested. He shouldn’t be doing that, he chastised
himself, not tonight of all nights.
Ponytail sipped his cocktail, sucking a cherry playfully between two fingers, his eyes never leaving Kevin
for a moment. “I expect you see your share of trouble in a place like this.”
Kevin started mopping the bar, not bothered by Ponytail’s obvious advances. Most guys thought he was
cute, and he got at least one or two propositions in a night. He was inured to it all. If he’d wanted to get
offended by every guy who’d ever leered at his ass, he wouldn’t have been able to hold down this job for
going on seven years now. “Not really. The regulars are pretty well-behaved. Sometimes the mucky
mucks get rowdy, but only when they get too much drink in them.”
“Mucky mucks?”
“I think you Brits call them Lord Mucks? The execs and CEOs.”
“Ah,” said Ponytail. “And what do you do with the mucky mucks who get out of hand?”
“I show them the door.”
Ponytail looked impressed. “You don’t call a bouncer?”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
It was one of the reasons the club owner, Jolene, had hired him in the first place. Seven years ago he’d
been just like one of these young undergrads working his way through college. Back then, he’d had a lot
more misdirected anger and hadn’t minded busting up a few troublesome customers. Even now, when he
wasn’t tending bar, he often walked the floor, keeping an eye on the dancers. Two years ago he broke a
man’s arm in two places when he tried forcing himself on one of Jolene’s boys. After that, most folks had
come to respect that the dancers in the Barracuda were here to be seen, not touched.
Kevin wasn’t much to look at, he knew, but Jolene said he had “mad ninja skills” when it came to taking
out the trash. He was tall and lithe, with good reflexes. He was a pacifist by nature, but having grown up
in Brooklyn, he knew how to fight when he had to.
Ponytail was watching him again. He was definitely interested, and any other night, Kevin would have
taken him home, banged him good, bought him breakfast, and then explained in no uncertain terms that he
wasn’t into committed relationships. But tonight was not a good night for company. It was almost two
weeks since he’d last let the wolf off its leash, and he knew that if he didn’t let it run soon, he’d risk
shifting in front of a human.
“A man gets pushed into a corner, he comes out fightin’,” slurred Ron, a local barfly and permanent
fixture in the club. By day, he was an exec with two ex-wives, alimony, child support and chronic
depression. By night, he was a drunken philosopher and straight man who only felt safe in a downtown
gay bar.
Kevin smiled at Ron and started polishing some glasses.
“The weekends here must be interesting,” Ponytail persisted.
“I don’t work weekends anymore. I have an assistant now,” Kevin said, referring to Allison, his protégé.
“So your weekends are free, then?” Ponytail inquired.
Kevin didn’t answer. Normally, he wasn’t a grumpy type of person, but something about the man was