Shepherd Marlowe (7) Happy Birthday Douchebag

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Hunter Jacobs, my assistant and long time best friend, was a smug son of a bitch. Mostly because he was just a few months older than me. That meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Of course, you couldn't convince the american born idiot of that. There was something superior about being born first. When I personally handed him next week's paycheck, we'd see who was superior.

Matteo was two years younger than both of us. With his arms over his chest, he currently sulked. Mostly because we'd teased him about being the baby of our bunch. Mr. Pissy Pants was not happy with being the butt of our jokes for the past twenty minutes. I was happy with it. Hunter was more than happy.

He was enjoying his night of celebration, although slightly disappointed not all of our friends could join us. I fully planned to enjoy this night, as well. My doctor informed me a week ago that there was no danger of a sore or equally nasty infection popping up. Then he gave me a thirty minute lecture about being sexualy premiscuious.

It wasn't as if I was falling into bed with every creature on two legs. In fact, my number of sexual partners could be counted on one hand. For the past couple of years Olson had been the only person climbing in my bed. The last time that mistake had occurred was nearly four weeks ago. I wasn't looking to repeat it any time soon.

The point of tonight was to celebrate Hunter's birthday and find someone new to roll in the sheets with. If Olson was hanging around, I wouldn't be doing either. He was like a drug I couldn't say no too. I knew the man was bad for me. My common sense always screamed run in the other direction when I saw him. But he was a good lay. And I hated being lonely.

Tonight, I wouldn't be lonely. There would be someone worth inviting home tonight that wasn't a red haired green eyed devil. With luck, Olson wouldn't even be in my prefered place of entertainment tonight. The Boom Boom Room was an upscale New York club. His kind of place but not his kind of price.

Olson wasn't made of money. In fact, he was just a small time lawyer riding on his father's coat tails. Being a Senator's son meant he had the kind of connections that would get him through the door though. The only way anyone had a chance in hell of even getting through the door was by knowing someone already on the inside or being on the guest list.

A guest list that was currently being scanned by the doorman. Waiting wasn't exactly my strong suit. The guest list was long and he had to be thorough. How hard was it to find Marlowe, party of three? By the time being taken, I was guessing hard enough. Repressing a sigh, we continued to wait.

"There you are. Sorry for the wait, Mr Marlowe. Go right in." The doorman finally stepped to the side, allowing us into the area. Matteo stopped standing like a stick was up his ass. He finally uncrossed his arms, and clapped Hunter on the back. These two were like kids in a candy store. Probably because tonight was on me. Cheap bastards.

"Tonight we get drunk and we get laid. Not necessarily in that order. Well . . . maybe for you Shep." It was no secret among my closest friends the mistakes I made.

When I got a sore on my member, the first person I called after my doctor was Hunter. Mostly to accuse him of having experience with prick sores and the knowledge to tell me what it was before my doctor could. Matteo had been second. Simply because if I didn't call Hunter would and the Italian would never shut up.

"Your sisters aren't here so neither of you will be getting laid," I teased both of my friends, tossing my arms over their shoulders. Hunter elbowed me, shoving away while Matteo wrapped his arm around my waist and patted me on the chest with way too much excitement. I recognized the signs of his insanity.

"Un altro americano morto non è un grosso problema," One more dead america is no big deal.

Hunter laughed and I shoved Matteo away from me. He was still a crazy bastard. When we were children he was always saying and doing the most fucked up shit. One time he got his ass beat by William Wicker because of it too.

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