Malachi's Wish: Four Corners Series (The Four Corners Series)

by J S Grey

  “I’m not going to last long,” I groan into his back as I feel my balls start to tighten up, my climax barreling up my spine at breakneck speed. Before I have a chance to slow down, he pushes back hard and cums into my hand with a scream. This sets my own orgasm off as I pump load after load inside him. I feel wrung out dry, like I might fall over if he is not here to keep me propped up.

  After a few minutes, I realise that I’m leaning my entire body weight over his as he slumps against the metal surface. “Oh shit, I'm sorry,” I say, kissing his back and preparing to move away.

  He reaches and grabs my hand, pulling me so I slide back inside him. Maneuvering us awkwardly to the ground, he lays on his side, pulling my arm around him. “Can we stay like this for a moment?”

  I rest my forehead against him, finally sure I am where I’m supposed to be and with who I’m supposed to be with.

  “We can stay here like this forever, Niall,” I smile, pressing kisses against his warm skin.

  “You promise?”

  “Forever and ever, baby.”

  Epilogue

  Niall

  One Year Later

  What a year it’s been. When he said forever, that fucker meant it. We dated for a while; well, I’m not sure you can call it dating when the guy moves in after two weeks and then you spend every possible moment together either fucking, running the bar, performing on stage, or spending time with our friends.

  Blake called the bar to a halt one night. Asked me to come up on stage. He gave a speech on how much I had done for the community, offering food parcels to the homeless, working with local LGBT shelters, offering funding, opening the bar during daytimes for senior classes, and all the other things he had catalogued. He then went into a speech about Malachi, how he had founded the bar, bringing a slice of our Irish home to the States: the hospitality, the warmth, and the welcome. He thanked Malachi for bringing me into his life which just about brought me to my fucking knees.

  Then when I looked. He was on his fucking knees. In front of the people at the bar, in front of Cinder Faith, in front of all of our friends, and asking me to marry him. I felt a rush of warmth at my back, I felt Malachi there with me, I felt a move forward. So I said yes, with no hesitation.

  Not long after that, things started looking up for Cinder Faith. A local city tour became a state tour, which in turn became a multi-state tour. We hated being away from each other, but we both knew he had to do it for himself and the band. Then came the call for a tour of the UK. He’d be gone for twelve weeks, which was about eleven weeks too long for me. I moped around for a while, until Lisa intervened and said she had hired a new bartender and that she would be assuming the role of manager.

  I asked if I had any say in what happened in my bar. She said I totally did, but as the manager, she would overrule me and I could ‘get to fuck’. She told me I had to go be with my man and fight off all those groupies that wanted to ride that D. That was all she had to tell me before I was letting his management know to book one extra seat on that flight.

  Three weeks into the tour and I’m about ready to let the groupies have that D so I can go back to the hotel and sleep.

  “You ok, babe?” Blake presses a kiss against my forehead, stroking the side of my face. “We’re here.”

  “We can’t be, we only just left London! Manchester is four hours away!” I yawn sleepily.

  “Yeah, that was four and a half hours ago.” He laughs lightly, his lips meeting mine. His trick for waking me up is to give me just a taste of him; I always wake up begging for more.

  I move my head up, but he moves his back too. “Fucking tease,” I pout.

  He laughs before pulling me to my feet. “It’s just a local bar tonight, no massive stage, so no big set up. Very local, very homey I’m told.” Grabbing his wallet and keys from the table on the tour bus, he walks down the steps onto the street.

  Manchester, eurgh! It’s so cold! It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to the UK. I look out of the window to see the brightly lit bar, glowing neon pink sign hanging outside.

  The Desert Rose.

  Sounds like a biker bar.

  I trot down the steps, wrapped in a huge winter coat, the pedestrians passing the bus in shorts and tight t-shirts since the rule in the UK is ‘sun’s out, guns out’ no matter the temperature. I snuggle up against Blake's back. “As soon as this gig is finished, you are taking me to a swanky hotel and you’re gonna fuck me until I pass out, okay?”

  He shivers and bends his head, kissing me deeply, sliding his tongue into my mouth. “Thank you for the stage boner,” he whines, pushing his hand against his crotch. “We need to go meet the owner of the bar, they said she’d be waiting in the office out back. Come with me and I can ask her if I can set you up there if you don’t wanna sit in the crush tonight.”

  I nod happily, making plans to read a book or catch up with emails while he does his thing.

  He pushes the door of the bar open. The other members of the band are setting up their gear along with the roadies and some of the techs. He indicates for me to follow him to the back, asking one of the staff if the manager is in. They gesture to the rooms leading from the back of the bar.

  Blake stands in front of a door that is slightly ajar. Giving it a light tap, he pushes it open. “Hey, I'm here to see the… wait.” He suddenly stops, “Oh god.”

  “Hey, I’m Dawn McCullough. You’re Blake right, from Cinder Faith?”

  A cold sweat breaks on my forehead, I drop my coat and bag to the floor. I’m frozen in time, panic and fear flood my system. I want to move, but I forget how. “Dude, you ok?” my sister asks my fiancé.

  “Erm, you might wanna…” Blake says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at me in the narrow hallway. He steps into the office past her. I catch her frowning at him before she turns her head back to face me.

  Her eyes bulge wide, tears immediately springing to her eyes. A harsh sob breaks in her throat. “Niall?” she squeaks incredulously. I somehow manage a nod, unable to do anything else. She stands there for a moment as motionless as me, until her shriek pierces the silence and she throws herself into my arms, her face pressed into my neck as she cries my name over and over. Her agony breaks me out of my trance. I wrap my arms around her, taking us both to the ground. My tears match her own as I kiss the top of her head and try to get her to calm down.

  I look past her to my fiancé, the man I love. I know there, and then my life is about to begin again for real.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  J S Grey lives in Warrington, North West England with his husband, son, and Black Labrador. Having always wanted to write M/M romance, he spends his time reading M/M romance novels and watching awful TV shows he secretly loves.

  He spends far too much time on social media recently, reading reviews Tammy has told him not to read and writing using small i’s when they’re supposed to be in capitals.

  To learn more visit:

  Join my reader group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/greysgrinders

  Website - http://www.thejsgrey.com

  Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJSGrey/

  Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/thejsgrey/?hl=en

  Linktree: https://linktr.ee/JSGrey

  If you enjoyed Niall & Blake’s story you might enjoy the full-length novel these characters are based from.

  getbook.at/ConsumingRedemption

  Consuming Redemption

  Love in the North

  1st Chapter on the next page

  CONSUMING REDEMPTION - CHAPTER ONE

  Tyler

  2001

  The shrill sound of my alarm screeches next to my bed. The sharp chill of winter bites in the air; my mother, always trying to be as green as possible shuts off the heating last thing at night. The covers, still pulled over my head, only dull the sound slightly. I know I have moments before my mother, in her booming voice, starts telling me to shut the damn thing off.

  I reach out from un
derneath the blankets, the frigid air raising goosebumps along the length of my arm. As I now have this practiced down to a fine art, I’m able to take one quick swipe at the gold-coloured bell alarm that adorns my bedside table, knocking the thing under my bed and silencing the demon device. The quiet gives me the moments of peace I need to fall back into a dreamless sleep. I pull the blankets back over my head and snuggle into their delicious warmth.

  “Don’t even think of going back to sleep Tyler!” my mother calls from the next room.

  “I’m not!” I yell back through the wall.

  “Then why are the covers back over your head?” I pull down my duvet looking around to see if somehow she has managed to creep into my room unnoticed. Seeing I’m alone in my room, I frown at the wall.

  “That’s better,” she calls. My eyes widen as I stare at the adjoining wall.

  “Gotta be a witch,” I mutter to myself. Swinging my legs off the side of the bed I give myself a moment to contemplate existence as I stare into the middle distance, my brain now fully awake.

  Suddenly the realisation hits me: “It’s not Saturday, it’s Friday!” I groan, falling back onto the bed. Another day at that god-damned place before the sweet precious release of the weekend.

  The weekend is a place of solitude and peace where I can be whoever the hell I want to be without the constant worry that I’m going to run into him. School would be fairly enjoyable if it wasn’t for him. I get along well with most of my teachers, and when I am given the time and space to concentrate during class I get good grades. All of that changed though the day Lukas Ford came into my life.

  Forcing myself to stand, I stumble past the discarded clothes I had left on the floor the night before and head towards my bathroom. I stop along the way to open the dark wooden slats currently blocking the rising sun’s rays from entering my room. Flicking on the bathroom light, I rub away the remnants of slumber from my eyes and gaze at myself in the mirror. The thick blonde neck-length hair that normally falls quite nicely and frames my face has rearranged itself into quite a decent-looking bird’s nest on top of my head. I run my long fingers through the messy mop, before resigning myself to the fact that I’m going to have to wash and dry it into some type of style. I give myself an appraising once-over. My light blue eyes stare back at me tiredly, the threat of dark circles under my eyes trying to make themselves known on my slightly tanned complexion.

  There were times when my self esteem was affected not only by him, but by what I perceived to be the shallowness of my own thoughts. I had looked at myself in this very mirror previously and thought to myself, But I'm actually quite hot, shouldn't I be popular?, before giving myself an internal bitch slap for sounding like a dick. Shallow me wasn’t wrong though, I am not a bad guy to look at: nice full lips, a dimpled chin that reminded me of Clark Kent from old Superman comics, sunkissed skin that gave the impression that I had either spent a lot of dedicated hours at the beach, or had made regular visits to the sunbed, when in fact I had my mother’s Italian heritage to thank for my naturally olive skin.

  Whilst our surname might be Dane through my father’s side, my mother's original surname had been Fiorentino, which I thought was just awesome. She had not been convinced when I had begun high school to let me use her maiden name instead of my father's name. So I’m just plain old Tyler Dane.

  After taking a quick shower and pulling on what I think will be acceptable wallflower attire I make my way downstairs. My mother has beaten me to it; she’s standing at the stovetop pouring pancake batter and blueberries into a skillet.

  “I’m going out on a limb and saying I think it’s a pancake kind of morning,” she says, craning her neck around the corner to give me a small wink.

  I hand her a small dish and nod. “Load me up please; that bacon as well,” I say, pointing to the stack of crispy streaky bacon piled on a greasy kitchen towel next to her. Letting out a small breathy chuckle she nods and puts a few rashers on the plate. “Syrup?” I ask in a more accusatory tone. She purses her lips and reaches onto the shelf next to the stovetop, pulling down a small white jar of maple syrup. Pouring on what could arguably be called a drip onto my plate, she hands it to me. I move across to a small dining nook on the far side of the room and take a seat at our old country style farm table.

  “Your teeth are going to fall out you know?” she tells me matter-of-factly, “Also it's really not fair how you can eat that much food and still stay in shape.”

  “Curse of all this beauty,” I say, gesturing from my face down my body with a flourish of my hand. My mother smiles wide and nods.

  “So what’s the plan for today?” she asks.

  My mood sours almost immediately. She picks the paper up from the worktop and comes to join me at the table, taking a seat on the bench opposite me. The gleam in her eye fills me with a morose sadness, she is likely hoping against hope that I've sprung some kind of social life overnight and that I’ll tell her I’m going to a party or meeting some friends and getting drunk in a park somewhere.

  “Just school then home.” I try for a bright smile, but from the look she gives me I can see she isn’t buying whatever it is I'm trying to sell her.

  “My handsome boy, I know things aren't great right now, but I promise you, just hold on and things will get better.” She reaches across the old wooden table and rests her hand over mine.

  “They have to,” I smile. She bites her bottom lip and looks down at the paper, the pain tangible on her face. “I’ll be ok, but only if I get going now otherwise I’m going to be late,” I say, glancing down at my watch. My mother loves me, of this I am very sure, but part of me hates myself for making her worry about me. I wish I could be normal like everyone else and not weigh her down with the burden of having me for a son. Running back up to my room, I grab the last of my things and head out the door towards school.

  Six hours after I arrive at school I stare out of the classroom window, watching the icy rain pelt against the windowpane. The clouds were already dark, growing thicker with each passing hour. The noise of the water hitting the glass distracts me from listening to our History teacher trying desperately to make the Industrial Revolution interesting to a group of 16-year-old high schoolers on a Friday afternoon. The battle had been lost before it had begun; she knows it, the students know it, but pretenses must be kept up. So, on the lesson goes.

  “Can anyone tell me firstly, what a Spinning Jenny is, and secondly, how its invention is mirrored in automation today?” Miss Allen stares out at the sea of blank faces, I glance around at the looks of confusion on the faces of the other students as they suddenly realise that they have been asked a direct question. “Does anyone need me to repeat the question?”

  I stare around the classroom, looking from person to person in hopes that one of them had the answer stored somewhere in their subconscious. I know from experience that if someone doesn’t come up with an answer fast then Miss Allen will ‘call upon someone at random’, meaning she will ask me directly, for the answer. Gazes avert to the floor, the ceiling, out of the window, staring desperately at the person’s head in front of them… anywhere but directly at Miss Allen.

  “Any takers?” I can already feel her eyes searching the classroom for me before she finishes asking her last question. “Ah, Mr. Dane, would you care to enlighten us as to the use of the Spinning Jenny?”

  I can feel the tension leave the rest of the students around me, and the clear joy at not being asked the dreaded ‘gotcha’ question. Their lizard brains seem to wake up though, noticing that the socially weakest among them has been highlighted for the kill. Whispers shoot up around the classroom.

  My brain quickly tries to access the stored knowledge that I know is hidden somewhere in there. We had talked about this in the last session. Something about….GAH! The correct answer hovers on the periphery of my brain but refuses to come clearly into the light of day. Each time I think of the phrase ‘Spinning Jenny’, my brain becomes very adolescent and thinks of mo
st perverse answers. I look to Miss Allen desperately, my eyes pleading for a reprieve, one which I know will not come. Miss Allen smiles at me, waiting for my response to her ridiculous question posed at 2pm Friday. Does she not know school finishes in two hours? What is the reason for this torture… education, that’s it.

  Suddenly the fog lifts, and my brain lights up and has a eureka moment. “I think the Spinning Jenny was a multi-spindle spinning frame?” My eyes shoot down to the table immediately, hoping to miss the disappointment on my History teacher’s face or the looks of vicarious embarrassment surely plastered on my classmates’ faces. The answer suddenly seems not so correct in my head.

  “Thank god one of you actually pays attention. You all could learn something from Mr. Dane here. You don’t have to go out partying every weekend to have a good time, sometimes the quest for knowledge can be just as exhilarating!” I wonder how long it would take for me to will myself to burst into a ball of flames to destroy all evidence of my body and my shame. My face is surely hot enough to make this happen.

  I feel the heated glare of people staring at me with a mixture of pity and hatred. I am by no stretch of the imagination popular. Actually, that’s incorrect; if by being the go-to guy for someone to beat up, or dump their lunch or drink over, or shove into the bushes, then I am definitely very popular. Being the only confirmed gay guy in a high school in the North of England will generally have that effect.

  I have never openly admitted to my classmates that I was gay, but it’s clear for the world to see. My thin frame, clad in skinny jeans and colorful graphic t-shirts confirms everyone’s suspicions. Given that every other male 16-year-old in the school wears solely track suits and sneakers, the one kid daring to wear something other than the socially approved attire means only one thing to these guys… gay.

  I’ve known I was different from the first time I watched Interview with the Vampire and Brad Pitt had exploded my world. The feast of flesh on screen from the many beautiful female actors had not once prized my view from Louis the Vampire: his long dirty blonde hair, the full pouting lips and those broad perfect pecs. Maybe the term gay hadn’t felt right at that point, but I had known then that something was different about me.