Alluring Passion: A MM Contemporary Bundle

by Peter Styles

  Holes riddled the walls of the establishment. The tabletops were grimy, etched with knife marks and scrawled over again and again with liberal amounts of ink. Somehow, the floor managed to be even grimier. Chance could hardly walk, his shoes kept sticking to the tiles. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs that proclaimed a love for guns and drinking, interspersed with dark interpretations of bible phrases. This was a place for hot-blooded, straight, white, American-to-the-core men.

  And Rocky was loving it, greeting people they passed as though they were the best of friends. He already seemed drunk somehow, intoxicated by the spirit of those around him. His staggering walk took on a wobble, and he flopped into the first available booth as though it was the first time he’d sat down in years.

  Following a little more gingerly, Chance tried as hard as he could to float so that he wouldn’t have to plant his ass on the sticky bench. Naturally, he didn’t float. Something underneath him squelched and shifted, and he swallowed hard to try and hold back a gag.

  “This is it, kid,” Rocky grunted, digging around in his wallet. “This is the life. This is what it’s all about.”

  “Um…what?”

  “This.” Rocky stopped fiddling with his wallet for a moment to gesture all around them. “Hard work. Believing in it. Enjoying yourself afterwards.”

  Looking at the holes in the wall, the broken table edges, Chance wondered just how much enjoyment actually occurred here. This looked more like a breeding ground for fights than anything else, a way to blow off steam for these farmers who couldn’t all be satisfied with their lives. And he was sitting right here in the middle of it, practically begging for trouble to come his way.

  “Here, take this. Go get us a round.” Suddenly, Chance found his hands pressed full of crumpled bills. “My hip aches and you’re younger.”

  “Sure,” Chance said. “What do you want?”

  “Just ask what’s on tap, kid.” Rocky gave him a weird look. Feeling as though he’d accidentally done something stupid, Chance nodded and stood up. He took a moment to steel himself for the long walk, squaring his shoulders and lifting up his chin to face down anyone who might look at him funny.

  And the first person who looked at him, whether they were actually looking at him or not, made him instantly deflate in on himself. He tucked his shoulders back in, dipped his head down, and scurried on through a crowd of huge, bulky male bodies,

  As he walked past the door again, it popped open. The bell jangled, a warning omen.

  Chance yelped and flinched, pulling back away from the sudden noise. His head snapped around, aiming to apologize for getting in the way. His mouth opened, and then unhinged itself entirely.

  Standing there with a cocky grin, no more than two feet away, was Angel.

  They hadn’t been so close before. Their eyes locked. Chance looked into those eyes, caught off-guard by their soulful depths. They were oaken and strong, smooth and sweet like the last sip of coffee at the very bottom of the mug where sugar gathered. Set deep in tanned skin, framed by a powerful face and complemented by a head of dark, messy hair…

  The phrase tall, dark, and handsome came through his mind like a bullet train. Oh, he hadn’t realized how tall Angel was until now. Six feet at least.

  He felt small. Very, very small.

  “You didn’t strike me as the drinking type,” Angel said. His smooth voice cut through the chaotic din of the bar, literally music to the ear.

  No sound would come from his throat. It had seized up entirely. What was there to say to this ghost that haunted him even here?

  A flicker of something danced across Angel’s face. “You okay?”

  Wordlessly, Chance nodded and finally managed to close his mouth.

  “Right.” Understandably, Angel didn’t seem to believe him. “Well, I’d love to stick around and chat, but seeing you here was just a happy accident. I have a manager to talk to.”

  And with that, Angel strode on past him and dove into the sea of rough men as though he was one of them. He most certainly was not as odd glances were flung his way by everyone he passed, but if he noticed he clearly didn’t care.

  I wish I could be that way, Chance thought with a grudging admiration. Being so content in his own body and purpose would be a fantastic thing. I wonder why he has to talk to the manager though?

  “Move,” a voice grunted from behind him.

  Letting out another yelp, Chance flung himself to the side and let a burly man push past him on his way to the bar. After a moment, Chance followed.

  There were two bartenders, both of whom resembled their patrons. The only thing to separate them was their uniforms, and the names on the tags. “What you want, kid?” one of them grunted at Chance.

  Chance dared to look up for only a moment, long enough to catch a glimpse of an unfriendly sneer on heavy lips, and then he stared back down at the bar. He didn’t belong here. He was out of his element, and it was stupid to come.

  “Whatever’s on tap. Please.”

  After a moment, the bartender handed him a frothing glass with damp sides and a greasy bottom. Chance flung over the correct amount of cash and then hurried back to where Rocky sat.

  “Here,” he said, pushing the drink across the table. “And here’s the rest of your money.”

  Rocky paused in reaching for the glass. “None for you?” He sounded almost accusing, as though wondering why Chance wasn’t going to participate in drinking.

  As it was, he felt too nervous to even swallow. And if he did swallow, alcohol on an empty stomach seemed to him to be a recipe for disaster.

  “I thought I could Rocky, but I really just don’t feel great right now.”

  The old man took a deep draught of the foaming liquid in his glass, throat working. Out of the corner of his eye, Chance caught a blur of motion and he turned to see Angel had reappeared and was standing in the corner talking to what could only be a manager. The manager seemed to be listening intently.

  “I understand.”

  Oh.

  Pulled back to the conversation at hand, Chance looked back at his coworker. Real concern glistened in his eyes. “You should get on home, then. Hell, call off sick for a few days if you need to. No need to make yourself sick trying to do what you can’t.”

  “I guess not,” Chance said. “I think I just want to go home and go to sleep.”

  “Sure, sure,” Rocky agreed, waving one hand. Whatever he drank must have been strong because his voice was already slurring and his eyes had gone unfocused and heavy-lidded. “Maybe go for a walk. Get some muscle on those chicken bones of yours.”

  Chance let out a small laugh. “Sure. Hey, don’t drive home, okay?”

  And now it was Rocky’s turn to scoff.

  As Chance headed for the door, he couldn’t help but to glance back over his shoulder.

  Angel stood in the corner of the room, grinning and nodding as he listened to what the manager was saying. Then, he noticed he was being watched and stared right at Chance. If anything, his smile only seemed to grow larger.

  Disturbed, intrigued, bothered, and a number of other things not as easily labeled, Chance averted his gaze and went on home.

  Chapter 5

  Unlike literally everyone else in the whole entire world, Chance enjoyed cutting grass. The cemetery was too cluttered for a riding mower to be practical, plus those often left behind edges of grass in the corners that looked just plain unsightly. A push mower, small, compact, and powerful, was far better even if it meant the process took up an entire day in and of itself.

  And he didn’t mind, not one bit. Seven solid hours of working as he pleased, undisturbed by anything, was what he preferred. He went at a steady pace, taking frequent breaks to rest in the shade or get a drink of water. The sun warmed his back, easing the tight pull of his sore muscles even as the pain accumulated. Eventually he shed his shirt entirely, although that necessitated extra pauses just to keep reapplying sunscreen.

  The scent of flowers both n
ew and old, musty and sharp all at once, mingled with the vibrant aroma of the cut grass. The world narrowed down to nothing but slow progress, heat, pleasant tiredness, and the motion of his feet.

  He thought about nothing, certainly not entertaining any thoughts at all of Angel. His mind was clear. He thought he might even be humming beneath the drone of the mower.

  And then, suddenly, he stopped. His shoulders tensed. The mower complained, tugging against him as it tried to continue moving off without him.

  He wasn’t humming, but someone clearly was.

  He knew who it was even before he turned the mower off and turned around, not at all surprised to see Angel standing there with his perfectly messy hair tumbling down over his forehead.

  “Hey,” was all Angel said.

  Chance crossed his arms, scowling. Self-consciousness raced through his whole entire body, making his stomach tingle. Never before in his whole entire life had he been more aware of his own skin and how awkwardly it clung to his frame. Unattractive was his middle name.

  And he was astonished beyond words, beyond comprehension, when Angel glanced at him up and down with a sharp gaze that missed absolutely nothing. Where that gaze touched, Chance felt as though a warm hand stroked him. From his face to his shoulders, down his stomach, to the space between his legs. Nothing was missed. Everything was touched. Warmth opened up inside his stomach, gathering in intensity.

  He had never felt anything like it before.

  “Hi,” he squeaked out. “What do you…what do you want?”

  Angel looked away, and Chance could have cried out at how suddenly the exhilarating warmth inside him was taken away. He felt suddenly empty, aching to be filled again.

  What’s happening to me?

  “I came to apologize.”

  Chance started. Had he heard him right? “Excuse me?”

  Angel shrugged, color rising up in his cheeks. His lips curled into a grimace that was halfway between a smile and a frown, clearly uncomfortable and trying to fight against showing it. “I acted like an idiot. Running at you and throwing a rock at you. It was dumb. Childish.”

  “You’re right, it was.” Chance hugged his arms tighter around his chest, squinting at the other man through the bright sunlight. “So why did you do it? And do you really think I’m going to accept your apology?”

  He waited for the inevitable, smug answer.

  It never came.

  Instead, Angel’s tall frame seemed to shrink in on itself slightly. “I don’t. You don’t really have a reason to, do you? You don’t have to forgive me. I just needed to apologize.”

  There’s something here.

  Chance looked closer. Angel peeked at him and their eyes locked again. And now he understood.

  Here was someone just like him. Someone who was an escapist. Here was a kindred spirit.

  “You did it for the thrill, right?”

  “Yeah,” Angel admitted, looking away again. His shoulders slumped, making Chance’s chest ache for him. “And because what else was I supposed to do? Stroll out and ask you to tell me your life story?”

  “I’m not sure which would be crazier, honestly,” Chance replied. Incredibly, he realized that he felt…relaxed. He understood now, that for all Angel’s prior talk of stories, Angel himself had a story. “But, uh, really, I forgive you. It’s okay. Just, stop haunting me?”

  Angel flashed a tentative grin, already back in the game. “You’d rather I talk to you like a normal person?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Angel laughed and shook his head, grinning wider. “Fat chance of that happening.” He laughed again at his own choice of words.

  Chance leaned back against the lawnmower, thinking fast. Their conversation had taken a turn for the comprehensible. He needed to keep it going like this, before this guy slid back into his vague way of talking. “So, are you really a musician?”

  “Of course! Don’t I look like one?”

  You look like someone in his late twenties trying to pretend that he still knows how to use the words that the kids say.

  “I guess I’ve just never seen a real musician before.”

  Angel pulled his face into a grimace, crossing his arms in imitation of Chance as though he was offended. “It’s not like I’m a bigfoot or anything. I told you before, I travel around. Play music. It’s the life.”

  “Being a drifter is the life, huh? I have a friend who would say differently.”

  “My life isn’t his life,” Angel countered. “We’ve all got our own versions of that. You can’t really say much yourself, can you?”

  No, Chance had to admit, he couldn’t. He looked around the graveyard, suddenly feeling a little defensive. “Maybe being a caretaker is my life. You don’t know.”

  “Caretaker?”

  “Instead of gravedigger,” Chance explained. “It sounds friendlier. Family members want to think that their loved ones are…being taken care of, basically.”

  “Hmm,” Angel murmured. It sounded almost like a purr. “It’s pretty cute that you’re getting defensive.”

  “I’m not defensive!”

  “You are.” Angel let out another soft purring sound. “But that’s okay. Like I said, it was cute.”

  He’s calling me cute.

  Was Angel gay? Chance’s gaydar was terrible. More importantly, was this flirting?

  “We do more than just dig graves,” he blurted out. The words seemed to spill from him uncontrollably as he listed all his duties for this stranger to hear and judge. Talking was better than standing around and wondering if he was being flirted with and if that flirtation was genuine or not. Who in their right mind would have any interest in him? This had to be some sort of cruel joke.

  If it was a joke, Angel gave no inclination of it. His mouth was shut, an intent look upon his face. Probably gathering material for a song or whatever it was that crazy musicians did, but this was a rare opportunity. It was not often that people actually sat down and listened to Chance talk, especially when he was in the middle of one of these blabbering phases.

  He realized he was repeating himself and slowly ground to a halt, pulling in measured breaths. Angel waited for a moment to see if he was done. “I guess I never really thought about all that. It’s interesting. You’re interesting.”

  “And you’re weird,” Chance countered, a moment before he wondered if that might not be a compliment.

  But Angel just laughed. The sound ran a bit on the husky side. “I am. But that’s show business, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “So, you should come see me perform sometime.” Angel’s expression turned serious. He gestured with one hand. The muscles in his forearm flexed, the sunlight dripping off his browned skin like drizzling honey. “I’m still going to be here for a few days. I haven’t really made enough to move on yet.”

  “Did you think you were going to?”

  Angel shrugged. “Sometimes? But not here, not really. I’m going to stay another few days and then cut my losses.”

  For some reason, Chance didn’t like that. He leaned forward slightly. “Where would you be going after this?”

  “Wherever the wind takes me.” Angel’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Isn’t that what drifters do?”

  Chance laughed a little, turning his head slightly because he couldn’t bear to hold that intense gaze any longer. As he did, Angel followed his line of sight as though he thought they were looking at something in particular.

  As luck would have it, they were. A mud-splattered red truck pulled up around the corner and began to shake and shiver its way down the road towards the cemetery.

  “Oh, shit,” Chance said. “That’s Rocky.”

  “Rocky?”

  “My co-worker.”

  “Oh.” Angel tilted his head. “That old guy you were sitting with at the bar.”

  Chance nodded, a tight glow of warmth folding in on itself in his loins at the thought of having been watched by this stra
nger. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  Angel looked at him, a slight frown curling on his lips. “I didn’t like the idea of you being in that bar with someone.”

  What the hell does that mean? But, no. There were more important things at hand, like the fact that Rocky would be incredibly displeased if he thought Chance was screwing around when he was supposed to be working.

  “I’m getting the feeling that I should go.”

  “Maybe,” Chance admitted. “It’s not like I want you to, but…”

  Angel held up one hand. “Please. I get it. You’re working. Just hit me up at the bar tonight or tomorrow, okay?”

  And now the truck pulled up to a stop near Chance’s car, and Rocky started the laborious process of getting out. Chance turned to Angel, to ask him to leave faster, but the musician was already gone.

  Chapter 6

  I think I would actually miss that kid if I left.

  Angel headed back to his hotel room, thoughts churning in his mind like a brewing storm. At some point the thrill of teasing Chance had turned into remorse for doing so, and now he felt almost as though he should try to make it up to him. How that could be done, he didn’t know. But then he’d talked to Chance while he was shirtless, and the remorse had become a thrill once again. A drifter’s first priority in life was survival, not sex, which meant he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had some fun. He had to fight not to show any of that around the younger man, although what he couldn’t express with his body had come out in his words; however, Chance hadn’t even seemed to notice he was being hit on.

  Maybe his instincts were wrong and Chance wasn’t gay? That seemed highly unlikely, however. Angel knew a kindred spirit when he saw one.

  There was nothing to do until later, when he was playing at that nasty bar again, so he headed inside the hotel room and flopped on the bed to take a nap. His eyes wide open, arms folded behind his head, he watched the faulty ceiling fan turn in lazy circles above him without even enough power behind it to create a slight breeze. He got up and opened the window, rewarded by a hot blast of summer air straight to the face. Snapping the window shut again, he went back over to the bed and turned the pillow over so that the cool side was facing up.