?Chapter Three
Cherry
This is everything.The words looped in Cherry’s head, a mantra sinking deep as the kiss burned hotter. From a tentative brush to a wildfire, it scorched through him, setting every nerve ablaze.Everything.Bodies jostled them, and he shuffled closer, plastering their chests together, cursing the layers of fabric keeping skin from skin.
Suit Guy broke away, eyes sparking as he grinned wide. “How about somewhere more comfortable? A lot more private.” Those lush, sinful lips beckoned, but he dodged Cherry’s dive for more. “Easy, gorgeous. Let’s walk.” Fingers laced, he tugged Cherry towards and through the exit, the club’s chaos fading behind them.
Outside, the night air hit like a slap, cool against the sweat beading his face. Suit Guy steered them down the sidewalk, leaning close, cheek brushing Cherry’s temple. The height difference registered then, funny how he’d missed it in the haze. “I’m just down here,” Suit Guy murmured, voice a low hum. “Got lube, condoms, couple of cold beers in the fridge.” He slowed, steps faltering. “If that’s not your speed, no sweat. We can crack a beer and just talk shit, blow off steam that way.”
“Beer’s a start,” Cherry said, pouring steel into his tone. “We’ll feel it out from there. I’m in.” He tipped his head up, catching that easy smile, and surged onto his toes for a kiss. Suit Guy met him halfway, deep and sure, and their steps stuttered to a stop. Cherry’s fingers skimmed the man’s jaw, trailing down his neck, every scorching touch stoking the ache coiling tight in his gut.
“Let’s keep the PDA PG,” Suit Guy teased, stepping back, one hand slipping free. He swept an arm towards the steps behind him. “This is me.”
***
The stairs were solidunder Cherry’s boots, each step a deliberate thud that matched the hammer of his pulse. Suit Guy, who was still nameless, still almost entirely a mystery, led the way, his broad back filling his jacket, pulling tight across shoulders that promised strength. Cherry’s eyes snagged on the flex of muscle, the way the fabric draped along his frame, and he swallowed hard, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out. It was too soon, and his nerves were too raw. Plus, this wasn’t his turf, and he wasn’t about to stumble like some green prospect on his first ride.
At the top, Suit Guy fished keys from his jeans, the jangle sharp in the quiet night. He glanced back, lips quirking. “You good, Tattoo?”
Cherry nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Yeah, man. Solid.” The lie burned and left his gut a tangle of want and nerves, but he’d be damned if he let it show. He’d faced down far bigger threats than this. So many times. In a war-torn countryside, barroom brawls, brothers gone rogue, and even the endless grind of keeping the IMC’s Baton Rouge chapter in line. This? This was just a man, a beer, and it was simply one night. Except it wasn’t. It was everything he’d buried for so many years, the emotion and anticipation finally clawing its way free.
The door swung open, spilling warm light onto the porch, and Suit Guy stepped aside with a mock bow. “After you, gorgeous.” Cherry snorted, brushing past, their shoulders grazing just enough to spark another wave of heat up his arm. Inside, the place was simple but lived-in with dark wood floors, a smart leather couch, a bowed window seat tucked in one corner. A framed photo on the wall caught his eye: Suit Guy in a sharp suit, arm around an older woman with a grin that matched his own. Family, maybe. Roots and ties that Cherry didn’t let himself linger on too often.
“Beer?” Suit Guy was already at the fridge, pulling two bottles, the clink of glass a tether bringing Cherry back to the moment.
“Yeah, hit me.” He took the offered bottle, cold and sweating against his palm, and popped the cap with a twist of his wrist. The first swig went down sharp and bitter, the hops scent helping ground him. He leaned against the counter, watching Suit Guy mirror him on one side, hip cocked, eyes steady.
“So,” Suit Guy started, voice low, “you said you’re green. First time out?”
Cherry’s laugh was rough, half-caught in his chest. “First timehere, yeah. Not my usual haunt.” He took another pull, letting the silence stretch, then met those eyes head-on. “Been thinking about it a long damn time, though. Too long.”
Suit Guy’s gaze softened, just a flicker, but it hit Cherry like a punch. “Takes guts, man. Owning it. Acting on it.” He tipped his bottle in a quiet toast. “Respect.”
Cherry clinked his bottle against it, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Guts or stupidity. Jury’s still out.” He smirked, but it dropped quickly. His free hand drifted to his chest, ghosting over where his vest would’ve sat, the weight of his colors a phantom ache. “Got a lot riding on keeping things tight, you know? Where I’m from, this”—he gestured between them—“ain’t exactly standard issue. There’s understanding in my circle, I’ve made sure of that. But I’ve held my silence about myself.”
“Fuck standard,” Suit Guy said, grin flashing. “You’re here now. That’s what counts.” He stepped closer, bottle dangling from his fingers, close enough that Cherry caught the faint spice of an earthy cologne over the beer. “And for the record, you’re doing fine so far.”
Cherry’s breath hitched, but he held his ground, letting the tension coil tighter. “Yeah? We’ll see.” He tipped his head back for another swig, throat working, aware of those eyes intently tracking every move.
***
Denis
Denis watched Tattoo, the guy still had no name, but damn if the moniker didn’t suit him, down that beer like it was a lifeline, and fuck, the man made every moment look good. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed, the flex of ink-wrapped muscle under the dim kitchen light was a show, intentional or not, and Denis was his willing and eager audience. He took off the suit jacket and tossed it to the surface behind him, then leaned back, elbows on the counter, letting the moment simmer.No rush. Not yet.
He’d clocked the nerves the second they’d hit the sidewalk. Tattoo’s tightening shoulders, the flicker of hesitation in his gray eyes. “Green,” he’d said, and Denis believed it. Not wet-behind-the-ears green, though. Public green. Lack of opportunity meant this guy carried something weighty, a hardness that said he’d seen shit, bested it, and survived it. The kind of man Denis usually found in courtrooms, not clubs, all swagger and scars with everything soft buried deep.
“You’re staring again, Suit Guy,” Tattoo said, voice rough-edged, breaking the quiet. He set his bottle down, empty, and crossed his arms, tattoos shifting with the flex.
“Caught me.” Denis grinned, unrepentant, and took a slow sip of his own beer. “You’re worth it.” He let his eyes roam over every part on display, Tattoo’s chest, arms, that jawline begging for teeth. The man didn’t flinch, just held his gaze, steady as stone.Good.Denis liked a challenge.
“Flattery’ll get you to all the places,” Tattoo shot back, a smirk tugging his lips. “What’s your story, then? You don’t strike me as green.”
Denis chuckled, rolling the bottle between his palms. “Not green, no. Been around this block a few times. I’m a lawyer. These days in the private sector. Days are long, and even in my own practice the cases are shit half the time. But, at the end of the day, I’m damn good at my job.” He shrugged, casual, but pride laced the words. “Today was a win, though. The good guys triumphed, my client walked, and I needed this.” He gestured vaguely...club, beer, Tattoo...as if it explained everything.
Tattoo’s brows lifted, impressed or surprised, hard to tell. “Lawyer, huh? Didn’t peg you for a legal eagle.” He nodded at Denis’ shirt, unbuttoned just enough to ditch the polish. “Guess you can shed the suit easy enough.”
“Gotta breathe sometime.” Denis stepped closer, closing the gap, voice dropping low. “You shedding anything tonight, Tattoo?”
