by Ker Dukey
I can’t believe we fucking fought.
In front of everyone.
I don’t deserve them. They’d do so much better with a more responsible front man. One who isn’t so fucked in the head. One who doesn’t hate himself and the life he’s graciously been given.
My mind drifts to Asshole Cop, otherwise known as Blaine. He gets under my skin like Ronan does. But where Ronan flips his shit and wants to explode on me, Blaine acts like he wants to possess me. His dark brown eyes don’t just look at me, they look into me. Through me. Inspect every cell inside me. It’s intrusive as fuck. I hate that he has that ability.
I don’t want to be seen.
Yes, you do.
What I hate more is the way my body lights up like the flame from my Zippo. Instead of scarring my flesh and grounding me, he burns me from the inside out, incinerating my very being. It’s fucking maddening.
I can’t help but remember the way he grabbed my throat and pushed me against the wall. If I were smart, I would’ve been intimidated by his sheer strength and size. The dude could break me with a snap of his wrist.
But he didn’t break me.
He held me in place, his body heating mine and eyes penetrating me. They made promises—promises I had no hope of interpreting. Threats and warnings. If I kept my shit up, he’d make me behave. My dick jolts in my jeans and anger surges through me.
Fuck him.
He’s not my dad.
He doesn’t sign my checks.
The guy’s a fuckin’ cop with an attitude. Probably goes home each night and jerks off to videos of me singing. He doesn’t get to touch me or mold me or fucking tell me what to do. I’m not his, nor will I ever be. His eyes told a story—one that said he’d love nothing more than to bend me over and take my ass. Gay was written all over the way he pinned me in a dominating way. Well, motherfucker, too damn bad. I bat for the other team. I’m into chicks with fat tits, slick cunts, and tight leather molded to their round asses. I like hair I can grab onto and a perfumed neck I can suck on.
I don’t want muscles and scruff.
I don’t fucking need a cock. Already got one.
And still…I can’t get it out of my head—the way he pinned me—the control that radiated from him—his desire to possess and own me.
He had the power to do it too.
“Let’s get this shit over with,” I bark out. “I’m ready to get drunk, and you assholes are coming with me.”
We’re at some swanky as shit bar our dumb asses don’t belong in. Stirring up trouble. It’s what we do. These fuckers are rich as hell. Like us. But they don’t think we belong here.
Their wives fucking do.
I wink at a blonde with huge tits spilling out of her expensive red dress. She has her hand around her wimpy husband’s bicep, but her cheeks redden when our eyes lock. I make sure to eye-fuck her tits so she doesn’t misinterpret my intentions.
Yeah, sweetheart. If you want a good time, follow us to the VIP lounge.
She bites on her plump red lip, considering my silent offer, but her husband drags her in the opposite direction, spoiling my fucking fun. Too bad. I’d have let her suck my dick. I’d have let her husband watch too. He looks like the cuckold type. Fucking pansy.
By the time we reach the roped-off VIP section, both Owen and Seth have collected women along the way. Riley hangs back with me, shrugging off the advances of a few women. It makes me wonder if he’s gay. He doesn’t get with women a lot. I’ve never seen him with a man, though.
Why do I care if he’s gay?
I don’t.
He can be whatever the fuck he wants to be as long as I don’t have to watch him dick it to some dude. What would Owen say?
As soon as we make it into the private space, I head for the bar. The bartender is a guy close to my age. He grins when he sees me.
“Berlin Scandal,” he says. “No way. You guys are my fucking idols.”
I smile back. “Oh yeah? What’s your favorite song?”
His green eyes drop to my lips for a moment and he leans forward. “‘Into the Fire.’ The lyrics are amazing.”
“Into the Fire” is one of my favorites. It’s a tribute to Lex.
“Good choice,” I agree. “Get me the good shit. I’m getting fucked up tonight.”
His smile goes wider. “I’m Devon. Whatever you want, I can get it. Anything.” A knowing smirk plays at his lips. “All you have to do is ask, Xavi.”
I like this guy already.
“Let’s start with a round for my band. And then you can show me the top shelf stuff a little later.” I nod, dropping a credit card on the bar and sliding it toward him. “Have one yourself, yeah? Or two.” I wink, knowing full well if I worked here with the rich bastards flashing their credit cards I’d be skimming a nice tip off the top.
His eyes widen in surprise. “Thanks…I’ll definitely show you the good stuff later.” He smirks.
I bet they keep some special shit in the back they only bring out when the real famous people show up.
He leaves me to go make a drink. When he comes back, his entire demeanor has changed. Sliding the shot my way, his stare lingers, dissecting me.
Green eyes flicker with interest as he darts them to my mouth. “You want the good stuff? I have some really good stuff. If you’re still standing later, I’ll bring it?”
Sounds like a goddamn challenge. I don’t ever back down from those.
“Oh, I’ll be the one still standing later.” I knock back the shot and slam it on the bar. “Keep these coming, Green Eyes.” What the fuck did he say his name was again?
He rewards me with a wide smile. “You got it.”
After about the sixth shot, I glance around to see what my brothers are up to. Riley is in a heated discussion with a couple dudes in suits. Seth is telling a loud ass story, his voice traveling above the music. Owen has his tongue down a redhead’s throat. Business as usual.
“I get off at two,” the green-eyed bartender tells me, pushing another shot my way.
So?
Do I look like I need a play-by-play of his schedule?
“Cool, man,” I utter, sucking down another shot. He was right, this shit is good.
“We could continue this party later. At my place,” he offers. His palm opens, and a couple familiar happy pills smile back at me.
“Thanks, er, Deacon?” I take the pills from him and swallow them dry. “As long as Owen can bring his bitches, he’ll go anywhere.”
“Devon,” he corrects with a grin. His attention slides over to Owen before darting back to my mouth. Seriously. What the fuck? Do I have some shit on my mouth?
“He can have his women, so long as I get you all to myself.” He walks away to serve another drink, and I stare at him in confusion. When he senses me looking, he turns and winks at me.
Wait.
Is this fucking guy into me?
I’m backpedaling at warped speed as I look at the entire night with new eyes. This fucker’s been flirting with me. I didn’t even realize it. Hell, it could be misinterpreted that I flirted back. The E is buzzing through my veins, and my dick is thickening beyond my control. I check out the tattoos on Devon’s neck, and Blaine the party pooper pops in my head. I rake my gaze down over him. He has a solid back like Blaine, leading down to a firm ass in his black pants. Holy fuck. No. No! What the fuck am I thinking? Fuck! There’s something wrong with me.
Devon saunters back over to me and pours another shot into a glass. I reach for the bottle instead. His grip on it is tight, so my hand just holds onto his.
“I could lose my job if I give you this bottle,” he says, frowning. “Just let me pour you a drink and I promise I’ll take care of you better when we get home.”
I jerk back my hand, heat burning through me. Anger. Rage. Fury. Shame. Lust. Fuck no. Fuck no. Fuck no.
“I gotta take a piss,” I slur out, eager to get away from him and the wrong as hell impression he has about me. I down the shot, then
stagger away.
As I push into the bathroom, someone follows me in. I swivel around, ready to whip some ass, but stop short. It’s Devon. His eyes are on fire as he closes in on me. Shock paralyzes me as his hands grip my face and his lips press to mine. Because of the E and the fucking alcohol, I stand stock-still while his tongue prods at my mouth to open for him.
But my wrecked mind goes fucking crazy.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snarl with a shove, sending him stumbling back. “Do I look fucking gay to you?”
His green eyes widen. “You flirted with me all night, man. I caught you checking me out. Of course I thought you were fucking gay.”
“I wasn’t checking you out,” I bellow, charging for him. “I’m not gay, asshole.”
I shove him again, and he shoves me back.
“I fucking idolize you, dude, but not this. I don’t need this shit in my life,” he mutters, shaking me off. “You need to take a hard look at yourself, Xavi. What you see is not what everyone else sees.”
What the hell does that mean?
I swing at him, but he ducks out of the way before storming out of the bathroom. I’m a raging bull and slip into one of the stalls to calm my thoughts so I don’t destroy the entire club. My first instinct is to check social media. To see if he’s telling the whole fucking world I’ve been flirting with him. I fucking wasn’t…right? Panic seizes me as I fly through each account, searching for any hint of my encounter with Devon. On Twitter, I find a picture someone took of me at the bar smiling at Devon with the hashtag #IWantInOnThatSandwich.
I screenshot it and text it to Ren. That shit freaks me out. People will run with it, and then what? What the hell happens?
Me: Make this go away.
Ren: What?
Me: This gay bullshit!
Ren: You’re having a drink at a bar. There’s nothing gay about that. You okay?
Me: When I kick Devon’s ass, there’ll be something wrong with that!
Ren: Xavi, calm your shit. Who is Devon?
Me: The guy in the picture.
Ren: The bartender? There’s a million pictures every day of celebrities propped on a bar, Xavi. Why are you freaking out? Stop self-medicating on pills. It’s making you paranoid.
Whatever, man.
I storm out of the bathroom and down the hallway to the alley around the back of the building. As soon as I’m free of the suffocating confines of the club, I suck in gulps of air.
I’m going to beat Devon’s ass.
Punch his pretty boy face in.
Fuck, I’m a dick.
It’s not his fault.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
My phone buzzes, and I swipe it open to find a text from Blaine. Blaine? When the hell did I get his number and put it in my phone?
Blaine: Ren says you’re having a meltdown.
What the fuck?
Me: Some guy just tried to make out with me in the bathroom. I’m going to kill him. Oops, probably better not to admit that to a damn cop.
Blaine: You’re not going to touch him.
Anger explodes inside me. I kick the dumpster, letting loose a roar of frustration.
Me: You’re not in charge of me!
Blaine: Stop being a brat and listen. You’re going to sit your ass down right now and wait for me.
Heat chases away the anger, licking at my balls like a horny bitch.
Me: Fuck you.
Blaine: Don’t say things you can’t handle.
I blink in shock.
Me: I’m not into men, asshole.
Blaine: And I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit, boy, but here we are.
Me: You’re really coming here? To do what? Handcuff me?
Blaine: For as much as you throw that in my face, I’m starting to think you want it.
Me: Fuck you.
Blaine: Keep it up, boy. Keep it the fuck up.
My cock jolts at his words. It’s certainly up all right.
Me: I don’t need you to come solve my problems.
Blaine: You sure as hell can’t handle them on your own. Address. Now.
God, he’s bossy as fuck. I want to fight him on this, but mostly, I want to get the hell out of here. If I go back in there, I’m going to punch Devon and ruin everyone’s night. I already ruined last night. I sure as hell don’t want to make a habit of this.
Defeated, I give him the name of the club and tell him I’m sitting in front of the dumpster. Like trash. How fucking appropriate. I lean against the metal and pull out my Zippo.
Flick. Burn.
Flick. Burn.
I open and close the lighter, staring at the flame. In the dark, alone, with the fucking Calvary on its way, it flames brighter and hotter. I pinch the orange flame with my thumb and finger, hissing at the sting. Snapping the lighter closed, I lick my wounded fingers.
I can’t believe I just told a cop where I’m at. I’m wasted, fucked up on E, and pissed as hell—and I gave him directions to come to me. If that’s not the definition of stupid, I don’t know what is. If Lex were here, he’d thump me in the head and call me a dumb shit.
Fuck.
Why Lex?
Why’d you have to leave me?
You were my best friend.
My chest aches. Would we have stayed best friends, or would it have evolved into more? If Lex would have kissed me, would I have let him?
I don’t like analyzing that shit. It’s in the past, and it doesn’t matter. He’s fucking dead. I can be gayer than a bucket of rainbows, but it still won’t raise him from the dead so I can lock lips with him.
Aching pain radiates inside me, killing the only parts left living. One day, I’m afraid it’ll consume me altogether. I don’t know what happens then. It’s fucking terrifying.
Needing a break from my inner turmoil, I flip open my Zippo again.
Flick. Burn.
The flame sizzles my arm hair as I hold it against my forearm. It hurts, but steals my focus. All my thoughts and emotions are erased as I harness the pain and get high from it. When I can’t take it anymore, I close the lighter and lay on the gravel. The world spins around me, so I close my eyes. My forearm throbs, and I let it beat through me like the cadence of Riley’s drums. In my head, I make up lyrics for it. Move around the words attached to feelings and string them up in a pattern. No longer chaos inside, but music. A song. A reason. My deep voice rumbles as I hum along the notes forming.
The chaos is all-consuming.
One day, if I can’t latch onto it and make it work for me in the form of music, what happens? Do I go fucking crazy from all the maddening thoughts? If only Lex could see me now, curled up on my side in front of a dumpster, humming a song only I know while praying for motherfucking peace.
I’m pathetic.
Twisted and lost.
I need help.
Shakily, I lift my Zippo.
Flick. Burn.
The flame scorches my wrist until a hot tear leaks from the corner of my eyes, forcing me to drop the Zippo.
I need fucking help.
Hush, a sex club owned by a good friend of mine, is where I come when I need to let the beast loose. Willing playmates line up to sate my dark cravings here. Yet, tonight, I can’t seem to get myself in the right headspace. I’m preoccupied with a particular fucker who just happens to be blasting through the stereo system with his new song flying high in the charts right now.
I hate that I know that. Know what songs are his, how well he’s doing, what he’s doing, where he’s doing it. Am I the hunter or am I the fucking prey?
I should be focused on my new case, but I’m far from fucking focused lately. My mind is storming like a raging ocean ready to crash to shore to see if a certain boy can handle the wave I’m ready to drench him in.
The lyrics croon from the room, teasing me, his voice caressing the place in a sexy undertone, setting the mood. It reminds me of the pumping of my pulse after a rough fuck, and I can’t stop thinking
about having that boy pinned against the wall.
His broken, self-destructive attitude speaks to the healer inside me—to the detective driven to dissecting and finding a satisfactory resolution. But that fucking smirk and disobedient spark speaks to the Dom I am. Makes me want to cuff him, teach him all the ways I can bring him to his knees and make him beg for my firm punishment.
“Another?” Ren pipes up, reminding me I’m not alone.
I tip my beer bottle to my lips and drain the last of the liquid. “Nah, I want to keep a clear head.”
He’s fucking smirking. I can feel it in his tone when he says, “Big plans tonight? Levi has been eye-fucking you since you sat your ass down.” I follow the path of his gaze to Levi, the bartender who has been trying to get me in his pants since the dawn of time.
I don’t like to fuck around with Joshua’s staff. It’s disrespectful to him and will always lead to drama. Levi would no doubt be a good fuck, but that’s all I’d want from him—to ruin him for other men. I know he would be one of those clingy guys thinking they have what it takes to keep me tied to one man. That is not something I’m entertaining right now.
The seat next to me dips as Joshua joins us, placing another round of beers on the table before slinging his arm over the back of my seat. He nods to the bar where Levi is still looking over here. “You’re distracting my bartender again,” he teases.
“What can I say? I’m appealing.” I shrug, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension building there. It’s not Levi I want. I need to get this kid out of my fucking system.
“So I wanted to talk to you about something,” Joshua announces, leaning forward, arms coming to rest on the table, head slightly bowed.
I raise a brow, intrigued. Ren leans in from my other side, curiosity summoning him. “Let’s say a female’s kink is a role-play scene…fantasy rape,” he whispers, like anyone would frown upon that shit in here. “What’s the protocol for that sort of thing?”
I hold up my hand. “As long as you have consent, it’s fine.”
“That’s not something you offer here though?” Ren clarifies, posing it as a question. If it is, it’s not something we know about, and considering we’re his best friends and have been coming here since the place opened, I think we’d know.
