12Dylan
As much as Dylan longed to go after Callum, he knew it was the wrong thing to do. Tattoo Boy clearly still needed to sort his head out and, as much as he wanted to, Dylan couldn’t help with that. His worry was that he’d made things worse by making cracks about Callum pulling women and dancing with a guy himself. A guy who, at any other time, he’d have probably taken home and fucked. But he’d barely felt a passing interest in the man, because he’d been too busy being consumed with jealousy as Callum had danced with the girl. When he’d kissed her, Dylan’s insides had spun around like they were in a tumble dryer.
Callum might have been confused, but so was Dylan. He didn’t get these kinds of thoughts about anyone. He either had friends that he didn’t sleep with, or guys he slept with that never became friends. But with Callum, he wanted both so badly he thought he’d combust. What was wrong with him?
Even on the level of ‘just being friends’, Dylan wanted more with Callum than he had with any of the guys at Heaven and Hell. He wanted a confidant and a soulmate; someone he could open up to and truly be himself around, and it terrified him. He couldn’t have that ever; let alone with a guy he barely knew. That was the stuff of fairy tales and romantic comedies, and his life was a million miles away from being either. His chin trembled as he realised the same was true for Callum. They were both screw-ups—beautiful, outwardly strong, internally fragile, screw-ups.
Speaking of fairy tales and romantic comedies, the idea of going home and putting on a slushy movie was more appealing than staying at a night clubnotpulling anyone.
He finished his drink, said goodbye to the guys that had made their way back to the table, grabbed his leather jacket from the cloakroom, and headed out. It was a crisp, cool night. The hot weather they’d enjoyed on the boat on Monday seemed like an oddly distant memory. Had Dylan really confessed that the life story he told everyone was an outright lie? Yes, yes, he had, and Callum hadn’t been angry about it.
The streets were fairly busy as groups of people either made their way home or moved from the pubs, that were starting to kick out, to the nightclubs that would be open for several more hours. He was aware of a group behind him, all men from the tenor of their voices. From the sound of it, they were drunk; he didn’t glance back to check.
He draped his jacket over his shoulders and held it in place with his fingertips, his arms crossed over his chest. His heels clicked over the pavement as he walked at a leisurely pace, making his way to the bus station. It had been a while since he’d left a night club early enough to catch the last bus home.
A hand struck his arse in a slap before pinching him. Scowling, he turned round and glared at the muscular man that had dared to touch him.
“Hands off,” he spat.
“It’s a guy,” one of the group of men said, scoffing as he jostled the man who had touched Dylan. “I didn’t know you were into guys, Rick.”
Rick’s face became stormy. Dylan’s stomach sank.
“I’m not a fucking queer,” Rick blustered. “I thought he was a girl.”
“Why?” Dylan asked, crossing his arms.
Rick opened and closed his mouth, and then pointed at Dylan’s heels.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that heels were a sure-fire way of checking whether someone was worthy of you groping them or not.” Dylan pressed his finger to his lips, thoughtfully. “How about you make sure before you grope next time? Or, better still, don’t grope someone without their fucking permission.”
“Men don’t wear heels,” Rick growled.
“Clearly, you’re wrong.” Dylan pouted. “I’m sorry if that offends your masculine sensibilities, but I, and every other male on the planet, can wear whatever the fuck we want. We don’t need a permission slip from jerks like you.”
The guys with Rick laughed and jeered.
“Are you going to let a queer talk to you like that?” one of them asked.
Dylan hoped he wasn’t visibly shaking as he lifted his chin. Sometimes he hated being short.
Rick pointed at Dylan, his finger only a millimetre away from his face. “You should show more respect.”
“Says the man who slapped and pinched my arse.” Dylan rolled his eyes. “When you showanyonerespect, I mightthinkabout showing you some.”
Rick’s face twisted, so of course Dylan opened his mouth again to rub salt into the wound.
“Hasn’t anyone told you the Neanderthal act isn’t in vogue anymore, darling?”
“Did he just call you darling?”
“I think he called you stupid.”
Rick raised his fist. “I’m going to fucking flatten you for that, queer. Teach you a lesson.”
Knowing he couldn’t outrun anyone in heels, Dylan braced himself to get punched.
“Touch him and you’ll have me to deal with.”
