He snorted.
“He begged one guy to just end him. He was so drunk, but if that’s his kink, whatever. One of the lads said he was crying and begging for forgiveness from some dude named D’Artangnan. He’s got a book fetish, clearly.”
Michael’s heart thumped out of control.
Oh, Jesus.
He was trying to die because of what happened between them. Callen had said that, but this was more confirmation.
The Scottish man pointed.
“If you need to get a hold of him, you can go into that stall there, and get his number,” he stated. “He don’t give a shit if you’re straight or gay. He wants a daddy to give him what he needs. Someone has men issues.”
The two men laughed.
Only, Michael wasn’t amused.
Not.
At.
All.
As the men headed out, he went into the stall they’d told him the name and number were, and inside, he closed the door.
That’s when he saw the number.
Above it was Graham’s name.
His full name.
Oh, Jesus.
‘Call for a good time. He’s a cum dumpster and a faggot. He’ll kneel for beer and abuse.’
Under it was comments from all the men who used the number, rating him. They ranged from ten to eight, and all had disgusting comments about Graham, his body, and his ass.
Immediately, it sent his blood pressure through the roof.
Some of the things that were there…
It was disgusting what they’d done to him, and worse, what they wanted to do to him. They were making plans to grab him off the street and assault him.
Oh, hell, no.
Taking out his knife, he started scraping the paint from the stall wall, and removing Graham’s name and number.
Would it solve the issue?
No.
But it made him feel a little better that he’d not left it there. The man was a human being, and the bottom line was that he deserved at least basic decency.
What they were saying about him as a gay man, while using the gay man, was foul.
Not on his watch.
It was clear that someone didn’t care about his well-being anymore. That was definitely rock bottom, and for some reason, that made Michael’s rage soften.
